my whole life is on the tip of my tongue

Hissy Fit

2012-01-31T06:45:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning we noticed something was missing. It was the sound of claws pattering across linoleum and insistent squeaks as I poured myself my first cup of joe. The cat was not following routine. Her food from yesterday sat in her dish, uneaten.

I left for my run, driven by denial but taking my phone along, as I feared what husband and daughters would find while I was gone. Though she doesn't look it, Koshka is old. Almost fourteen.

Armed with flashlights, bait, and determination, my search-and-rescue team found our angry hunger-striking feline under the wardrobe in our bedroom. When I got home and peered beneath the armoire, she hissed at me. She's not the friendliest cat, but something wasn't right.

I eschewed analysis and went straight to action, sensing that our little family needed to err on the side of caution as it relates to mortality of loved ones right now. I borrowed a cat carrier from a friend, managed to wrestle the cat inside, and headed off to the ~~money pit~~ emergency vet.

"Make sure she doesn't die," admonished Big Sis as I drove away.

The vets were kind and knowledgeable. Koshka was probably dehydrated. She might have pancreatitis. She could have heart failure. Perhaps she was constipated. They would check her, both inside and out. For an extra $300 I could get blood work results back in an hour. I went for immediate IV fluids and slow lab analysis. The vet promised to return shortly with an estimate.

Alone in the exam room adorned with photo tributes to passed pets, I prepared myself. A thousand bucks, I thought. I'll plan on a thousand, so the $500 they come back with won't sound bad. I gulped, and waited.

Thirteen hundred dollars would be the known amount, I was informed, with an upper end of four hundred smacks more, depending, you know, on possible other stuff*. I signed on the line, doing the math in my head that our up-till-now healthy cat was really only costing us a hundred dollars per year of her life. Worth it, I sighed, and headed home, trying not to equate that amount with mortgage payments, plane tickets, and the cost of replacing our broken clothes dryer.

But you can't quantify how badly you want your pets to live forever.

We missed our cat all day. So we went back for a visit in the afternoon, as we were invited to do. "Ahh, yes, Koshka..." The woman at the front desk raised her eyebrows. "She's not being very nice to us."

They took us to "the back," where the vet pointed out our wide-eyed and wrathful cat, outfitted with an IV and cone around her head. She crouched in her cage, which was emblazoned with orange stickers warning "Caution: Will Bite." A quick look around the room suggested she was an outlier on the aggression spectrum. She allowed us to pet her and scratch her behind the ears, but she wouldn't look at us. We left her to stay overnight for more fluids and observation.

"That's mean, Mom," Big Sis frowned as we walked to the car. "'Caution: Will Bite'," she scoffed. "It's Koshka!"

"Yeah," chimed in Little Sis. "She didn't bite us!"

"Hmm, let's think about this for a moment. I wonder what the doctors write on your charts about how you behave when you're getting shots?" I nodded at Little Sis, recalling one harrowing well-child visit when she turned five.

"Caution: Will Scream," offered Big Sis ruefully.

"Yeah, and that's before we even went into the exam room!" We laughed.

The vet called that evening to say that one of her electrolytes was off; they were supplementing it. Final word yesterday morning was that they couldn't find anything wrong with her; husband could pick her up. He waited an extra hour and invested a supplemental *$55 for sedation because our 6-lb. hellcat wouldn't let the vets take her IV out. I think they told her not to let the door hit her in her perfectly unconstipated rear as we escorted her out.

Guess who bounded up the couch, purring, to greet me at the door when I came home from work?

That Darn Cat.

In Case You Don't Recall

2012-01-27T20:10:00.000-08:00

My book club's pick this month was S.J. Watson's Before I Go to Sleep, a novel in which the main character, Christine, suffers a form of amnesia in which she wakes each morning remembering nothing of her prior life. As she gathers information about herself she begins to keep a journal she can consult every morning and add to every day, before she forgets it all again as she sleeps. The novel is a page turner; one morning she discovers she has written to herself, "Don't trust Ben [her husband]."

My fellow book club members and I engaged in an intriguing discussion about the arbitrary nature of memory (why have I held on to the characteristics of drumlins from 9th grade geography class, but can't remember the name of a student who graduated last year?), about the importance of perspective in recalling the facts of an occurrence (five siblings' recollections of a singular family event are a fascinating case study), and the strengths and weaknesses of our own abilities to remember (I can conjure details--even outfits I wore--from when I was eight years old, but not many from when I was 34?). It's clear that my memory has muddied; I rely more and more on notes, lists, and calendars (and a daily fear of flaking). I suspect, however, that my life, now that I manage my own as well as my children's schedules, has grown more complex than it was even ten years ago.

Also, there are more passwords.

The question arose at our meeting, "What would you write down today if you knew when you woke up tomorrow you would have no prior knowledge of yourself?" Our minds turned at once to cherished memories that would beg recording. Reminders of people important to us, near and distant, living and passed. Explanations for how things came to be, decisions that were made, and key influences on our character.

But I began wondering, what could I convince myself of, under the circumstances of having no memory, that I would otherwise know better? What might I delude myself into believing? What should I warn myself about (while I am thinking of it--allergy to shellfish!)? About which aspects of my life would I be tempted to gently persuade myself, or steer myself clear?

How could I change the course of my life by carefully considering the way I talk to myself?

So I decided to try writing to myself, thinking that more important than telling myself about my life would be to tell myself about me.

Dear Fer,

You're confused, I know. It's like the confusion you feel when you wake up in an unfamiliar place and for a few moments wonder where the heck you are and how you got there. Except you're also wondering who the heck you are. Read on, because I am going to help you [ed.: And there, I've already forgotten to try and impress myself with witty or deeply insightful writing...].

You'll understand the basics soon enough--that you have a husband and two daughters, and lots of extended family...I'll save those revelations for the characters who will inevitably show up (if they haven't already! Is it past 6 AM?) and prove themselves to you. My job is to let you know some of the things others might not tell you. Maybe even some of the things they don't know. You're going to have to be patient and refer to that magnet on the fridge which reads, "What if we just acted like everything was easy?" You aspire to do this everyday, with varied results.

It's tempting to tell you that you're more than capable of things you've considered or attempted: publishing your writing, having a third child, moving your family abroad, taking on a new leadership role, feeling good about your contributions to the world, friends, family. But you'd see through me soon enough, recognize the insecurities. It might be that the nagging doubts keep you balanced and realistic. Perhaps they also help you identify what you're truly passionate about.

I'll start with what's easy for you, Fer: Making a meal with whatever is in the house. Getting ready to go in the morning. Coming up with ideas. Proofreading. Going for a run. Managing a lot on your plate (both digestively and figuratively). Worrying. Working with children. Teaching. Talking. Traveling. Crying. Apologizing. Being goofy. Feeling guilty. Getting on board. Spending money at Target. Making piles of papers. Giving yourself permission. Being vulnerable. Putting up with broken stuff. Contemplating change.

Here's what's tougher for you, Fer: Putting your clothes away. Remembering to let go and relax sometimes. Not interrupting. Driving long distances. Managing a lot on your plate (figuratively). Tolerating chaos. Eating less cheese. Climbing things. Discussing tough family or relationship issues with the loved one in question. Being vulnerable. Fixing household items without making them broken in a new way. Experiencing change.

As for parenting, it belongs in each category at different moments. No other role you've assumed can make you feel as wonderful and as low. Perhaps it's best to approach it with a fresh outlook each day. You've got that going for you!

Maybe you're just like anyone else in this regard, but your best memories are of deep conversations and revelations in both simple and exotic places. Stargazing with your husband in Belize. Sleeping on the train with your daughters. Long runs with good friends. Family meals. Moments of mutual admiration and appreciation.

Now for some advice. Go easy on your husband, who is an incredible father and partner and often the brunt of your bad moods.

Big Sis is old enough now to hold up a reasonableness meter to your responses and reactions, and for now, she does it politely. Listen to her; she's going to help the whole team with her gentle guidance.

There isn't too much time or attention you can bestow upon your family. You've understood this all along, but you really get it now.

Finally, you're always working on the balance, on the feeling good about your time and attention to family and friends, to work, and to yourself, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. The neverending adjustments are, well, neverending, so I can't help you settle the deal for once and for all. But Fer, you're good at the checks and balances. You know when something is off. Trust yourself.

Maybe that's the most important wisdom for me to pass on to you...me. Trust yourself; I trust you.

See you in the morning.

"Beyoncé a Wonderful Mom, Pals Say"

2012-01-18T07:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Beyoncé,

Congratulations on your new baby! I am wishing you deep sleeps, lots of family snuggle time, and some moments for yourself, too.

And to be granted space from prying eyes and cameras. I recall so many long afternoons with nothing to do but just be with baby Big Sis. We'd lie on the living room rug and chat and play and sing to the new Sarah McLachlan album. I'd watch the shadows lengthen across the room and neighborhood folks come home from work and think about how my days were different now.

But goodness did that headline about you on CNN.com fire me up for a whole day before I clicked on it for details. Partly it was the suggestion that we were all waiting to hear if you could hack your new role. I am trying to relate to your situation, while understanding that the news media is generally uninterested in my children and parenting. So I imagine a scenario in which my friends are prompted by Facebook to rate my mothering, with the verdict of (phew) "good." Thanks, guys.

I think.

It's the notion that parenting is black and white, good or bad--or that there is even a spectrum including "wonderful" that we exist on--that chafes and makes me want to reach out and reassure you. For one thing, that designation can feel like a big pile of pressure to maintain some level of parenting awesomeness. What's the rubric for mothering, anyway, and who created it? How do I know a wonderful mom when I see her, particularly when she has a brand-new infant? Do wonderful moms smile all the time? Do they breastfeed? Do we measure a mom's wonderfulness by her ability to hold it all together? By her claims that she really, really loves every part of this whole game-changing, irrevocably life-altering, amazing but scary-ass gig?

In defense of your friends Kelly and Michelle, who are just trying to be wonderful pals, it's the news media I want to scream at to SHUT IT ALREADY, particularly when they drop analytical gems like, "motherhood...is as natural for the pop star as dancing in stilettos and a leotard."

Wow. Deep breath.

You do rock the stilettos and leotard. But I have to wonder if that's like me rocking my safety vest and emergency backpack as a vice principal on a fire drill. It's part of my work uniform, and by far not the most natural or wonderful thing about me and the job that I love.

But let's examine natural. Natural moms I know cry a whole lot--or not, feed their babies in the best way they can, need help, are a little scared a lot of the time, trust their instincts, second-guess themselves, rely on others' wisdom, try and fail and attempt something else, feel frustrated and triumphant, and bask in times that feel good.

Natural mothers sometimes experience post-partum depression. Kids of natural moms may need daycare. Mothers who are naturals might allow their children to jump on the couch or forbid their kids to watch network TV, because natural parents do what feels right and comfortable for their families. So go with what works for you. And sometimes you find out what works for you actually doesn't, because parenting is a heck of a tough career, and all the important learning happens on the job.

The good news is that there are no Billboards charts for parenting or record sales to top. There's just you and your little family, making do and doing your best in your own way.

To be the very best parent you can be, you need to take good enough care of yourself to take good care of your children. And put your children's health and safety above all others'. Parents check their priorities from time to time, recalibrate, make adjustments. And even get help when they're losing it. Don't be afraid of that; be afraid of being dishonest with yourself and with the people who love you.

I hope you feel wonderful, Mama. And when you don't, that's okay, too. We get it. Kelly and Michelle will get it, too, as they support you on this new journey.

Surround yourself with loving friends and family, and go easy on yourself. No matter what kind of mom you feel like, or the media declares you are, you're some kind of wonderful, for certain.

Hugs,

Fer

Mommy, I Went to the Nurse's Office Today

2012-01-14T11:36:00.000-08:00

"Oh, really? What was wrong?"

"My forehead hurt."

"So, what happened?"

"I stayed there a while. I drank some water."

"And...?"

"And then I remembered we were having a Popsicle Party, so I asked if I could go back to my class."

"How are you feeling now?"

"Pretty good. Can I have some chocolate cake?"

Hoarders

2012-01-12T06:15:00.000-08:00

Here is our fridge:

It is resembling a vertical form of the Pile of Denial.

Help me, 2012!

Cupcake on a Plate

2012-01-06T20:30:00.000-08:00

On Black Friday in November we were invited to the home of some friends who host a "Make Something" Day in lieu of "buy something." The girls and I baked an apple tart to contribute, and spent the better part of the afternoon gabbing and creating in the company of lovely friends. The girls drew, cut and glued, and painted on canvas. Big Sis made a painting for Grandma Shirley, and we hung it in her room at the care facility and then on her sideboard when she returned home.

Yesterday we brought home some boxes of Grandma's things, possessions she had designated for us and for the girls, and other items family members thought we would appreciate having. Nestled in the boxes were Christmas gifts our niece chose for the girls, gifts Grandma would have endorsed.

We inherited much of Grandma's Beanie Baby collection, including outfits, and when I returned home from stepping out with a friend for a glass of wine, they were lined up on the couch, tucked under a blanket.

Photo albums Grandma kept of Husband and our family were among the books and treasures to remind us of her: a ship on driftwood, a mermaid figurine, a porcelain clown. A beautiful cookbook self-published by her cousin, an artist, caught my attention. This morning, I reflexively reached for my phone to call Shirley and tell her how much I love it.

Grandma kept lists of the gifts she'd been given over the years, with directions to return them to the givers someday. That day was yesterday for us, and we found drawings and jewelry and framed photos once selected or created for her. Big Sis discovered the painting she made for Grandma, "Cupcake on a Plate."

"Mom, this is Grandma's! It's supposed to stay in her house." She looked puzzled.

"Oh, honey; she's not living there anymore. They're cleaning everything out..."

"It's not going to be her house anymore? Ever?"

I shook my head. "No, it's not...someone else will live there."

Big Sis clutched the painting. "But, Mom, this was supposed to be with her forever--it was for her." Her eyes welled up. "It's not ours. Why didn't they just burn it up with her?"

I gulped. "I hear that you want it to be with her always, honey. You don't want it back, do you?"

She shook her head.

"We can burn it, sweetie."

"And can we put it with her, when we spread her ashes in the water?"

"Sure, honey. Sure. We can do that."

New Year's Tribute: My Husband

2012-01-04T06:56:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of artists honoring the role of their patrons in the form of a New Year's gift, I offer my annual New Year's Tribute to a man who has made my life's work possible: my husband.

Being a working parent is difficult. Being a parent and a self is difficult. Being a working parent and a self and a partner and friend is also difficult, but my husband takes it all in stride. He makes those roles easier for me to balance, too.

When I met my mate and we decided to marry, we didn't forecast how our careers would mesh; we didn't consider the logistics of raising children. We were in love, and the rest would work itself out. We had a teacher's salary and a sailing coach's pay, yet we felt rich. We'd already bought a house, hey!

And what do you know, the rest has worked itself out, in large part because of my husband's patience, clear eyes, and can-do attitude. We didn't know then I'd become a vice principal shortly after giving birth to our second daughter, and I'd trade weekend grading for Friday night football games and weeknight meetings. Husband's weekends coaching regattas mean he's often away, but our work lives mesh well; though we often pass the kids like batons in a frenzied relay, more often than not, we eat dinner as a family. What's the best part of your day? we ask one another. This, I say. Having this.

My husband's gift to us is uncomplicating things--or not complicating them in the first place. For every sense of overwhelm I conjure or fall prey to, Husband walks into the house with a happy sigh and smile to remind me it's all good. "We need to not worry," he suggests. "We need to have fun," he reminds me.

And there's the confidence I have that he's behind me no matter what. I could quit my job, run for President, or move us to Africa, and he'd have few queries before he got with the new program. He never questions my need to go running, attend Book Club, fly off for a writing retreat, see friends, take a break. All that, and he even sets the coffee maker each evening, makes breakfast and wrangles the girls through their morning routine, attends doctors' appointments, and vacuums while I am out jogging.

Thank you, honey, for making not only the day-to-days but the dreams possible, too. I sense the winds of change blowing in 2012, but feel good knowing you'll make it all seem easy, somehow.

This Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T18:16:00.000-08:00

She passed away peacefully today while we played at the beach with our cousins. We were with beloved family members as was she.

***

Grandma came home last Thursday for good and family members decamped to her apartment--a title for her home which inadequately describes the place we celebrated holidays and birthdays and ate summer dinners and congregated, just to chat and check in.

Husband and I hadn't discussed how we'd talk about the plan for his mom with the girls. Big Sis overheard us talking about her going home, though, and her eyes lit up. "She's going home!?"

Going home. A sign that things were better. A sign that we understood her wishes. A metaphor: so many meanings, contradictory and synonymous.

Husband was ready. I was more conflicted. The week prior, the week it was decided, I was angry, not about how this would go, but that she was robbed in the first place. That a stroke turned her life on a dime, irrevocably. Going home should always be good. Instead it felt portentous, momentous, and ominous. What I didn't understand--know then--was that her homecoming would be good, beautiful.

And so Big Sis overheard us talking about her going home, while we were still processing what it meant, what it would look and feel like.

"But it's your Mom!" she pleaded, crying, eyes wide at her dad. It's your Mom."

***

When a family member is ill, in the hospital or convalescing for an extended period, there's an emergency mode you enter and in which you dwell, on a precarious perch bound in part by unceasing worry and also the reassurance of rules, protocols, and safety measures.

But when hospice is in place, practical matters once significant become irrelevant, like her failed swallow tests. Grandma tasted ice cream, apple pie, some margarita with her family.

Other practicalities take on new meaning. She had her hair cut on Tuesday night, because it would feel good. There's a lovely clarity of purpose we too often lack in our everyday lives: comfort, simple pleasures, being with loved ones.

Her eldest son's family, wife and three grown children, were all together for the first time in ten years. They walked Grandma to the beach on Monday.

***

We spent hours each day with family members at her apartment, sitting in her office chair, her beloved blue chair, and on folding chairs and lawn chairs. Temporary relationships were struck with nurses, the chaplain, case manager. Her neighbor and best friend did laundry, dropped off breakfast, lunch, and unexpected snacks. Stories were told. The girls played Go Fish, drew, watched TV, played with Grandma's Beanie Babies. They held her hand and talked with her.

There was time, too, to cook, work, answer emails and phone calls, update Facebook. I imagined ancient cave-dwelling people doing then much like we were: tending to daily life while keeping vigil over a loved one passing through in close, safe, reassuring quarters. It felt so very right.

During a quiet moment, girls drawing, Grandma sleeping, nurse recording notes, Big Sis paused. "I miss Grandma," she shared, and then resumed coloring.

***

Cousins and siblings and aunties and uncles and nieces and nephews reacquainted and connected at Grandma's side. Family members gave what they could and how and when, in a seamless ebb and flow of being with her and together. Sides and strengths of personalities, in many cases dormant for having not yet endured this, emerged and developed. Admiration, love, and respect for one another grew.

***

So few relationships in our lives are unfettered by titles and hierarchies, history and unforgiven deeds, our own selfishness and demands and obligations. Jealousy, mistrust, and hidden agendas. My mother-in-law gave me and us a simple uncomplicated and unconditional love of no demands. Without question, negotiation, or agreement, our family's relationship with Grandma Shirley was organically good, always. I loved her so easily.

***

Our family's holiday traditions include taking Grandma to the Hotel del Coronado to view the giant decorated tree and ice skaters and have a holiday drink and appetizers. We dress up and take pictures. We eat spicy nuts and toast with our hot chocolates and martinis. To enduring love, to family, to little luxuries to count on.

All the things we are appreciating so much this year.

We love you, Grandma. The girls will have your hands in theirs at the Del this season, and forever.

Grandma Shirley

2011-12-18T19:32:00.000-08:00

My Mother-in-Law

Shirley who is the anchor in a bustling port
And writes "Hiya" in the subject line
Who is coral and clowns
Who is pelicans and pastels
Whose home is never too small
Is scrambling some eggs
Who tells us we're wonderful
Who tells us not to worry
Whose blue eyes are glistening
Is letting us off the hook
Remembers Little League and sailboats
Is making lists
Is an album of pride and memories
Is grinning tell her a story
Has brought us all here
Who saved it for you especially
Is ornaments and white wine and mysteries
Who validates and cajoles and disagrees and chuckles
Is the forgiving ship in the family fleet
Asking how will you grow from here
How will you grow how?

'Tis the Season

2011-12-13T22:22:00.000-08:00

I'm appreciating my Facebook Friendships with former students lately. My page is full of college kids counting down days till they return to our hometown, snapshots of the bridge to our small city, and taggings of old friends with new: "I wish you could meet my roommate/high school buddy; you two would love each other!" Ahhhh, it makes me nostalgic.

'Tis the season for lamentations about finals, too. And I have some sympathy for my modern-day earnest scholar-friends. I mean, it was hard enough to study in college during the age of doors with dry-erase boards and landlines, the time of no cell phones or computers. Can you imagine the distractions these days? The texts? The TV shows and movies downloaded to the device sitting right there on your desk? I can't! Even without those temptations I managed to distract myself in the library, making new friends and talking to lampshades if all else failed. But I also can't imagine how I found my friends on weekends in college, without phones and "check-ins" and such, what with the whimsy of "maybe I'll hit up that frat party...no wait, I changed my mind; I'm gonna go to the improv show instead." Nevertheless, I somehow managed a healthy serendipitous social life.

But I remember final exams. I remember that when I made my airline reservations in the fall with a return ticket at the end of the semester, I'd always have to book my flight on the last possible day of finals, just in case one of the courses I chose scheduled a final for that 2:00 PM slot on December 22nd. Most of the time, I had a day or two post-exams to pack and languish in the dorm with the few folks stuck studying, but fall semester junior year, I had the last final on the last day, with a flight out early the next morning. I would be studying abroad in Italy during spring semester, which meant I had to pack All My Stuff and haul it into the basement that night after my final, where it would await my return fall of senior year.

I wasn't looking forward to this packing and hauling at all. I wasn't looking forward to saying goodbye to my boyfriend for an eight-month separation. The only thing I was glad about was being done with my History of China final, which I thought I had rocked. That class was my favorite thus far; I had actually read the whole book my professor wrote along with associated readings, and was fascinated by the twists and turns in Chinese politics juxtaposed with the constants of its culture. To celebrate the end of finals, I planned to enjoy a leisurely Last Supper with friends in the dining hall and then burn the midnight oil packing.

There's a joke that circulated during finals about a kid taking his exam who didn't heed the warning to turn in his blue books immediately when the exam session was over. He sat, instead, at his desk and continued to write, even as he was threatened by the proctor that his exam would not be graded. When he finally finished, he carried his blue books to the front of the lecture hall, where the exasperated T.A. stood beside a table stacked with completed exams.

"Do you know who I am?" he challenged the T.A.

"No...?" replied the T.A.

"Good," said the student, as he shoved his blue books into the middle of the pile of exams. "Have a great holiday!"

Turns out I would have my own blue book mishap, no joke. After dinner, I returned to my dorm room with my backpack to begin sorting, packing, cleaning, and lugging. I emptied my backpack first. I had a habit of grabbing extra blank blue books and using a few for notes or outlining while I was taking exams. I had turned in the essays and answers and thrown the blue books with notes into my backpack. Or so I thought. I recall my gut turning over and blood draining from my face as I realized that instead, I had taken my exam books with me, and turned in my notes. On the last day of finals. By this time, hours had gone by, hours in which classroom buildings were being locked, T.A.s were loading up cars and heading home for the holidays, and professors were long gone. Hours during which I, conceivably, could have been writing exam answers in my room with my course books open, only to claim later that I accidentally turned in the wrong blue books. I felt completely, hopelessly, irrevocably screwed.

When I was finally able to stop flapping my arms, pacing, and hyperventilating, I did the only thing I could do: call my T.A. She was my discussion section leader, and we had made conversation after class a number of times. I admired her; she was wise and organized and kind. She would actually know who I was. Maybe trust me. If I could find her.

Her number was listed in the phone book, miraculously, and I left a long, rambling, and desperate message on her answering machine. And then commenced worrying and packing and bemoaning my plight and stupidity. By the time she returned my call I was resigned to failing the class, the class I loved with the professor who was legendary and my cool T.A. But she returned my call, and she listened to me and believed me and we made arrangements for me to leave my exam books in her grad school mailbox. I had probably never felt more relief and gratitude combined before.

Ah, that T.A. with her mercy and trust in me. Now an educator myself, I've never forgotten the value of those two gifts in my work with growing and developing humans. But the real moral of the story lies in relationships. Had I not connected with my T.A., and had she not made herself available to students, I might have had some insightful but worthless essays, short answers, and identification pairs to take home for the holidays, as well as a bad grade in that awesome history class.

So, my Facebook friends with finals, make yourself known to your professors, T.A.s, deans, and R.A.s (in all the right ways, of course). Stay connected with old friends (and teachers!) and bring your two worlds--former and current--together when you can. Pay forward the strong connections you've cultivated by reaching out to underclassmen and younger siblings. Share your wisdom and mercy. Be honest. Don't forget to double-check your tests and exams and slow down a little.

And while I am dispensing free advice, I'll throw in one more helpful hint: If you happen to enroll in a class in which the professor announces on the first day that your grade will be based on either the midterm and final, or just the final exam--your choice!--TAKE THE MIDTERM, PEOPLE. It turns out you can't read all the books about U.S. History from 1900 to 1950 in a week. Trust me on this one.

Good luck! A full night's sleep is right around the corner.

The Write Gift

2011-12-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

I received former student Lindsey's holiday card in the mail yesterday. Along with being a gifted poet and person, Lindsey creates and sells handmade paper products. Her card was hand-stamped (read her process here) and included a postage-stamped postcard to tear off and send someone (Lindsey, by the way, was the inspiration behind my post about postcards earlier this year). How wonderful is a gift which comes with a gift you can turn and send someone? Pretty niftily wonderful, I should say.

So I thought about gifts of writing and their value. And about how low cost they are but also how difficult they can be to produce. Which, nevertheless, should not deter you (despite the fact that I haven't been able to write here on this blog for the past week and a half, due in part to my obsession with Friday Night Lights, and to various and sundry life events alternately inspiring stress, relief, and mental zombiehood). Creativity often requires a nudge, a nugget. Thus I am offering you an idea for writing to and for someone you love.

Personally, I feel a personal letter written on weighty, significant, or beautiful paper with a pen you love, and stamped and sent, is a simple, lovely, and all-too-rare gift.

Poems win, though. And one of my favorites to use as a template for writing a tribute to someone is Sandra Cisneros's "Abuelito Who." I once posted my own version about Big Sis on her birthday, and here is an example I wrote about a former student:

Jared

Jared who is a silent redwood in a willow forest
And asks who is a true friend
Who is songs and docks
Who is camp and a green jacket
Whose smile is genuine
Is writing a story
Who tells us to listen
Who tells us be gentle
Whose eyes are pleading
Is making friends
Remembers summers and boats
Is hopeful
Is a cathedral of joyful voices
Is sad give him a hug
Has moved one time too many
Who hears chords in his head
Is adjectives and verses and tenors
Who soothes and serves and serves and soothes
Is the teaching tree in the listening forest
Asking who is a true friend
Who is a true friend who?

Try it. I know I'd much rather have a poem (like my husband's wedding vows to me, which are framed and memorialized) than a new water heater.

Don't Stop Believing

2011-11-28T09:25:00.000-08:00

Big Sis clearly wanted to talk with me about something. She was looking at me intently, wrinkling her nose, and "ummm"ing.

"Mom, I just don't see how parents could be Santa...so I still believe in Santa, even though kids at school make fun of me about it."

I sort of saw this coming. I'd been warned that 3rd grade was the end of innocence. And though I figured the demise of my little fairy follower's naivete wouldn't come easily, I anticipated playground chatter and our daughter's subsequent speculation.

"Really, honey? What do they say?"

"Some people say they know Santa is their parents. And that I am dumb for thinking Santa is real. But, if Santa is parents, then you'd have to set an alarm clock to get up in the middle of the night? And that would wake us up, too...so I don't think so. Also, I think I saw Santa once when I got up to go to the bathroom. When I was five."

"I remember when I was a little girl I heard Santa's sleighbells above our house, right as I was falling asleep. It was one of the happiest sounds I've ever heard."

"It's the Easter Bunny I really wonder about, though...I mean, how can one bunny hide all those eggs and deliver all that candy?"

"You know we're talking about magic, here, right? The Easter Bunny is probably not like Spot. Or...you know? Maybe he is? How do I know?"

"It would be so cool if Spot were the Easter Bunny."

"Here's the thing, kiddo. You're not going to feel sure about Santa until you're a parent yourself, and you realize Santa really does happen. And Santa doesn't care if you believe in him or not; he comes anyway. So kids can go ahead and talk about how he's not real...but not believing? How is that fun?"

"I love you, Mommy."

Note: keep your cynical, unbelieving kids away from my ingenue, willya?

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

This year we ate on Wednesday; today is reserved for visiting Grandma and delivering desserts to Christie's Place.

I went on a long run yesterday morning and thought of what I'd say when it was my turn to contribute my words of gratitude at the dinner table. I concluded that I most thankful for my deep sense of fulfillment and contentment. And for the relationships in my life which have strengthened. To have a rich and meaningful life...? 'Nuff said.

Yesterday was spectacular, despite missing our far-flung family members. We watched a few first-season episodes of ALF (oh my gosh; still so hilarious!), gobbled turkey prepared three ways, played Catch Phrase, and chowed pumpkin cheesecake.

I brought a squash dish, and the epic battle between me and tough-skinned gourds was worth it (it's a whole lot easier to cut a squash in half and bake it than it is to peel and dice, yikes).

Here's the recipe:

Roasted Squash and Sweet Potatoes

Ingredients:
1 each: kabocha, butternut, and acorn squash, peeled and cubed.
3 small sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed
3 large leaves swiss chard, finely shredded
1 onion
1 tablespoon butter
1/3-1/2 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon garam masala
1 teaspoon pepper
dash cayenne pepper
1/3 cup pine nuts

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Arrange squash and sweet potatoes in a shallow baking dish. Add swissh chard, and toss with olive oil and kosher salt.

Saute/caramelize onions in butter, garam masala, and sugar until just brown. Add to pan, mix.

Roast; toss squash intermittently. Dish is done when squash is soft and bubbly.

Toast pine nuts in a skillet and sprinkle on top before serving.

Have a beautiful Thanksgiving.

List: First-World Burdens (for Which I Am Ultimately Grateful)

2011-11-21T13:58:00.001-08:00

1. I ordered $200 of groceries from Vons.com, including free home delivery and a free turkey, only to have my credit card fraud department cancel the order (seemed suspicious, all those groceries).
2. The duvet cover tumbling in the dryer: swallowing socks, sweaters, and skirts, and necessitating its unrolling every ten minutes. Drives me a little nutso.
3. Songs by Adele and One Republic overplayed on the radio: It's gonna be a good life when she finally finds someone like you.
4. The kids keep needing feeding.
5. Our freezer is overfull and something cold and hard falls out and onto my toe each time I open it.
6. The remote for our (non-flat-screen) TV no longer turns the TV on and off.
7. Marcona almonds are pricey.
8. Pretty sure I can't drink a pint of IPA and drive.
9. The Jason Mraz concert is sold out.
10. One of the sliding doors of our van fills with water every time it rains. Slosh, brake, sloooooosh.

On the flip side, I'm able to buy $200 worth of groceries; own a clothes dryer; can listen to the radio (and turn it off); have ample food for my kids ($200 worth, for now), a full freezer (see groceries), and a TV; can splurge for Marcona almonds and enjoy an IPA at home; saw Jason Mraz live with Colbie Caillat last month, and drive a minivan.

It is a good life, One Republic.

We Belong...We Belong, We Belong Together

2011-11-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

Here's how I entertain myself in a minivan with three girls in the back rehearsing a Taylor Swift song:

Girls: "She wears short skirts; I wear tee shirts...she's cheer captain and I'm in the bleachers..."

Me: "I just don't understand why she wears shark shirts. Why not a dolphin shirt?"

Big Sis: "SHORT skirts, Mom! Short SKIRTS. C'mon, let's keep going."

Girls: "Dreaming 'bout the day when you wake up and find that what you're lookin' for has been here the whole tiiiiiime...If you could see that I'm the one who understands you, been here all along so why can't you seeheeheeeeeeee you belong to meheeheeeee...you belong to me."

Me: "I think it's 'Why can't your sleeves belong to me'."

Big Sis: "No, it's not. It's 'WHY CAN'T YOU SEE YOU BELONG WITH ME'."

Me: "But maybe she really likes his sleeves."

Big Sis: "Pfft. Let's do it over again, and everyone remember their solos."

Girls: "She wears short skirts; I wear tee shirts...(la la la)...why can't you seeheeheeeeeeee you belong to meheeheeeee...you belong to me."

Me: "Maybe it's 'Why can't you sneeze'?"

Big Sis to Girls: "She's just joking. Let's start from the top."

Girls: "She wears short skirts; I wear tee shirts...(la la la)...why can't you seeheeheeeeeeee you belong to meheeheeeee...you belong to me."

Me (parking): "I know what. It's '...your belongings are with me', like, don't worry, they're not in the Lost & Found."

Big Sis: Sighs of exasperation.

Little Sis: Giggling. "Or, Mom, it could be '...your artichokes belong with me...'"

Check-In

2011-11-12T15:26:00.000-08:00

Six weeks ago I entered NPR's Three-Minute Fiction Contest. I didn't win! But I am not fazed; I've entered several contests over the years and I am grateful for the challenge and incentive to write. I once entered an edited version of this blog post in a Real Simple magazine essay contest, and I was a finalist in this blog entry contest.

The premise of NPR's seventh contest of this nature was to write a fictional narrative of less than 600 words featuring one character coming to town and one leaving. My story is not autobiographical, but inspired by a time a friend left me his car at the airport.

Check-In

The car was right where she said it would be, on the fourth floor of the parking garage, midway down the third row from the elevator. My heart skipped with surprise and satisfaction that our wacky plan worked. Now, for the key. She’d duct-taped it inside the right rear wheel well (“Say that 10 times fast,” she texted with a smiley face).

She’d written directions from the airport to my hotel and folded them over the top of the steering wheel (“In case you’re as GPS- and iPhone-deprived as I am”). Back in the day, she’d refused to use the microwave.

She was the first thing I thought of when I read the wedding invitation. I hadn’t been back in years—five, to be exact, since things ended badly, with both of us ready and not in our own ways. I’d moved away. Meanwhile, she remained in our college town, working as a post-doc in a lab at the university. That much I could tell from Facebook, where we were friends but not correspondents.

Still, I could call her, I thought, for coffee. I didn’t not want to. So after I booked my flight I found myself leaving her a message in a cheery, nervous voice: “Hi! How are you? My old roommate is getting married…remember her boyfriend of forever? They’re finally getting hitched, and I will be in town…anyway, I thought maybe we could get coffee, or something…call me if you want.”

She called back within the hour: happy to hear from me, disappointed that she, too, would be at a wedding that weekend, out of town. When we established that our respective flights left no overlap time, she thought of something. “Wait! If your flight arrives after I leave, and you take off before I return, I could leave you my car at the airport…” Before I could protest, she continued, “You would save me finding a ride or taking a cab, and I would save you a rental car…I mean, unless you’re traveling with someone?” “No…” I replied, adding, “And you?” before I could think better of it. “Nope…This is perfect! Parking will hardly cost anything because our flights are close. I’ll just text you the car’s location after I park and you do the same!”

Over the next eight weeks we conversed regularly over Facebook, mainly idle chitchat about my running and her biking and inquiries about our families, and then confirmations that our plan was still a go. Now here I was, in the driver’s seat of her familiar car, turning the key and hearing the CD of a favorite chanteuse in her player. I peered around for evidence she’d changed irrevocably. She still drank Starbucks soy lattes; she still stored bike jerseys in her car.

The wedding events were a blur of reunions and hugs and how-have-you-beens, of helping bride and bridesmaids with hair and having reasonably interesting conversations with other solo guests once or twice removed from the bridal party.

She texted on Saturday to ask how the car and I were doing. “Still running!” I replied, and “Giving myself a dollar for every time someone asks if I am seeing someone.”

“Weddings,” she texted back. “So awkward.”

On Sunday I left the post-wedding brunch early to have her car detailed. At the gas station I popped open the fuel tank door to find a note taped inside: “Thanks for reaching out.”

As I put on my shoes at the end of the security area I realized that if I accidentally missed my flight, I could probably meet her at her gate.

List: Things That Give Me the Heebie Jeebies

2011-11-07T21:00:00.001-08:00

1. Used sofas left out on curbsides for free.
2. Crawl spaces under houses.
3. Proximity to fluids I shouldn't but could accidentally drink, like a cup of water soaking dentures, or a retainer.
4. Cars parked in strange places with someone sitting in them, doing...I am not sure.
5. Undergarments abandoned in public spaces.
6. Strangers who stare.
7. Organs as food.
8. The thought of having my palm read or consulting a psychic.
9. The certainty that I am about to encounter a Bad Smell.

On Behalf of Her Client

2011-11-03T08:38:00.001-07:00

I received a voicemail at work from Elder Counsel this morning:

"Umm, Mommy, Little Sis really REALLY wants to wear her sparkly shoes to school today. So can you just let her...? Errr...can you call us back and let us know? K? Love you; bye!"

I called home. Big Sis answered.

"Hi. May I please speak to the lawyer for Little Sis?"

(Giggle). "It's me!"

"Did you call to ask me if Little Sis can wear her sparkly shoes today because I told her they're not school shoes?"

"Wellllllll, she asked me to..."

"Uh huh. So she sort of hired you to be her lawyer."

(Giggle). "Yes."

"Can you please ask your client if today is P.E. day at school?"

(Muffled): "Mommy wants to know if you have P.E. today."

(In background): "I don't know."

"Mom, I don't think she has P.E. because today is a short day."

(In background): "Yeah, I don't have P.E. because it's a short day."

"Please tell your client that she can choose one day of the week to wear her sparkly shoes, and if she wants it to be Thursday, great, but she can't wear them on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Friday. Okay?"

"I will tell her."

"And, are you wearing your running shoes today?"

"I can't find them. Do I have to wear them?"

"Your boots are giving you blisters."

"But, Mom, that was because of the fishnet stockings I wore with them for my costume."

"Still, I think you shouldn't wear your boots every day. Did you look for your shoes in the basket? In your bedroom?"

"Yes, they're not there!...(pause)...Okay, I will look harder."

"Good idea."

"Thanks, Mommy! I love you!"

"I love you, too. Tell your client the same thing."

Driver's License

2011-10-26T06:57:00.001-07:00

It wasn't until I was safely out of my self-involved twenties that I recognized just how terrifying it was for my mother that year I spent in Africa. I knew then that she was often frustrated that I was far away and unreachable by phone or any other means much of the time. I know now that despite their uneasiness, my parents admired my independence and choice of "the road less traveled by."

And now here I am, just a little terrified of the idea of Big Sis riding her bike somewhere, someday soon, by herself. Somewhere that would necessitate her crossing streets with actual cars on them.

But Big Sis can sail her own boat now, on a bay with actual deep water. Watching her sit confidently on that rail, pull in her sails, and duck under the boom gives me shivers of fear and pride. And glimpses of what it might feel like later, when she boards a plane by herself, buckles herself into the driver's seat of the family car, and moves out and checks in at the freshman dorm.

This is what it's all about, right? Providing our children the training and tools to launch themselves and steer around obstacles in the wide world. Even go places we wouldn't, and with more confidence.

I try not to fixate on the potential crashing and capsizing.

It sure is exhilarating (wince) to watch them fly.

Pumpkin Pizza

2011-10-23T11:19:00.000-07:00

We invited some friends for dinner last night, and I wanted to make something seasonal. I love cooking with pumpkin, but my go-to dish, Ravioli with Pumpkin Sauce, wasn't inspiring me. I had pizza dough, though, and thought, what if...pizza with pumpkin sauce instead of tomato?

It was yummy (phew).

Here's Pumpkin Pizza with Sweet Italian Sausage, Shaved Parmesan, and Arugula:

I used pre-made dough, which I bake a little before heaping with toppings to avoid soggy pizza in the middle.

For the sauce, I reduced a cup of port wine (try sherry or marsala) with a teaspoon olive oil, minced garlic, and pinches of sage and garam masala. I added a can of pumpkin, a tablespoon of rice vinegar (optional), and simmered the sauce for ten minutes. (You can make the sauce sweeter, if you like, with the addition of some apple juice or maple syrup).

I spread the sauce on the already crusty dough, layered the shaved parmesan, and then added dried thyme leaves, cooked sweet Italian sausage, and arugula. I baked the pizza for about 15 minutes at 425 degrees.

We munched on pumpkin pizza and slurped asparagus soup. A nice autumn meal!

Hallowinning

2011-10-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

People, it's barely halfway through the month, and I am proud to report that we have halfway decorated our home and have two complete Halloween costumes waiting to be worn. They're being worn every day, as a matter of fact. We have a witch and an Alice in Wonderland, and there will be No Changing of Minds. Instead of changing their minds, our spooky duet is simply planning costumes for 2012 and '13.

Mama was saved this year from the financial black hole which is Homemade Costumes. I mean, I was proud of the mermaid costume I sewed in '09, but it wound up costing the equivalent of a prom dress (and I have enough leftover fabric to make one) and my relationship with the sewing machine. Little Sis already owns a blue dress the perfect hue and style for Alice; however, when I researched "ruffled white apron" online, I found that the whole Alice costume shebang, which includes a plastic noggin-hurting headband, was cheaper than the apron. And Big Sis can wear her black shirt, black skirt, and black boots post-Halloween. Or tomorrow, which she is dying to do.

Meanwhile, "krackle" nail polish is all the rage at high school. I learn about the latest in accessories and hair styles at long work meetings when my observational skills sometimes shift to the characters in attendance. A colleague was sporting this spooky lacquer combo, and I had to get me some. You can layer any color underneath, and the "krackle" polish splinters upon application. Check it out!

Not cracking under the pressure of Halloween planning

Insides, Out

2011-10-09T21:03:00.000-07:00

There's a children's book I loved called The Man Who Took the Indoors Out. "The Man" of the title, or "Bellwood Bouse," feels sorry for his belongings, who aren't free to frolic in the sun as he is. So he beckons them outdoors. I'm not sure what drew me to this book as a child, but I believe it was a combination of fascination with his parade of furniture and knickknacks and recognition that an opportunity to survey someone's entire catalog of material possessions is both rare and provides a voyeuristic thrill.

I recall walking by an apartment building in Washington D.C. when I lived and worked there in my twenties as a woman threw what I assumed were her ex-partner's belongings out of the window and onto the grassy front lawn below. That was a rather cringe-worthy instance of perusing another's belongings, one flung boxer short and CD at a time. Not to mention that there were tangible as well as emotional "insides" being turned out on this occasion.

Blogging, perhaps, is its own form of "open house"--the spilling outward of interior contents, with the aim that a reader may recognize she, too, owns those drapes, or that she may disagree altogether with the matching of sofa and chair but respect the writer's choice nonetheless.

We had occasion last month to tear out the carpet in our hallway and bedrooms, the very carpet that has tormented me for the ten years we've owned this house, what with its exacerbation of Big Sis's allergies and its designation as the favored site of Dog's and Cat's gastrointestinal adventures. We felt real fear of what lay beneath, imagining either unfinished hardwood floors or no hardwood floors at all, both requiring financial outlay which never felt like a priority, despite the fact I've whined here about our carpet not once, but twice.

What we never did was pull up a corner of the carpet to, you know, just peek. Not once in ten years until The Bathroom Flood. The Bathroom Flood necessitated hiring a Restorations expert, who charged us a billion dollars to tear out a section of hallway carpet and leave us with mind-numbing dehydrating fans for four days. But our prize? The revelation of gleaming hardwood floors (with no refinishing required!) from beneath that area of stinky carpet. Worth a billion dollars: we had only to move all our furniture and tear out the rest.

So we summoned out our two bedrooms' innards, and stacked and piled and heaped the contents in the living room, dining room, and kitchen. I admired the bare floors, the clean empty rooms, and promised them more order. Like Bellwood Bouse, I took stock of all we have, and vowed to use this boon--the rug pulled out from under us--to sift and sort. To appraise and consider and prioritize and purge.

Sometime amid this process--the slow return of things that matter to their place, the packing away of items in limbo--I discovered I was pregnant. An earnest yearning of three years or more unexpectedly satisfied at the eleventh hour, the last month we were to try.

Suddenly sorting and sifting had new objects. Information: sobering risks and statistics associated with pregnancy at 40. Habits: out with alcohol and caffeine, in with the low-carbohydrate diet. I congratulated myself for having squired away the crib, car seat, highchair. I resumed tidying with the aim of establishing order in the face of potential new chaos.

But perfect timing, best efforts, and cautious optimism are no match for What Will Be. And this would not. Before hope could implant more than its gentlest of tenterhooks in me, Nature commenced her own sifting and sorting. Engorged breasts turned numb. Queasy fullness subsided to an empty ache. My body knew first; my mind adapts.

As my womb cleanses itself I shed layers of my own expectations, ways of thinking, imaginings. Hope forgets the truth at times. My body is turning its insides out, symptoms I can't ignore, but I examine more closely my reactions.

I recall a favorite scene from the film A Fish Called Wanda, when Kevin Kline's character, expecting to unlock a safe full of diamonds, finds it empty. "DISAPPOINTED!" he yells, in a moment of comedic anticlimax.

Empty. Disappointed. A bit inappropriately angry, in a car-kicking kind-of way.

I stake no claim to tragedy, lining up among the ranks of those who've had hopes dashed. My happy, healthy, blissfully unaware daughters kiss me, hug me, pause to hold my hand.

I write. I resume the act of rearranging, resist the urge to throw it all out. I take stock of all I have.

My womb has bare floors, but my life is full of promise.

Lanyard Love

2011-10-02T19:01:00.000-07:00

Big Sis went to summer camp and came home full of camp cliches--three-legged races, corny and nonsensical (still trying to solve the mystery of Princess Pat and her "ricka bamboo") songs, and lanyards. Oh, the lanyards! We invested in some plastic lanyard cord and metal clips for endless braiding and looping and weaving. We have lanyards as "flair" on backpacks, in the hair-tie basket, and under the couch. Alas, Little Sis's fine-motor skill development to date prevented her from much success with sophisticated lanyard-weaving.

Enter the Creative Weavers' Guild. We encountered them at a weekend art walk, where they were weaving as well as giving away kits for making cool yarn lanyard-y thingies. The handy little craft was ingeniously simple and somewhat addicting: my daughters and their friend spent the rest of the day weaving away. To fashion the kits, a guild member cut a hole in the center of a foam square, and knotted seven strings of yarn and fed them up through the middle with the knot underneath. Two slits were cut in each side of the foam square, and one string of yarn pulled through each notch, leaving one empty. To weave the lanyard, one simply counts to the third string to the right (or left--it's only important to remain consistent with direction) of the empty slit, pull that third string out, and pop it back into the empty notch, leaving a new slit vacant. And over and over again (it's important to run one's fingers through the strings on occasion to keep them from tangling). A neato braid appears below the square. We finished the yarn weavings and then made a few out of plastic cord, too. I imagine these braids could be made from more than seven strands, too, by just cutting more slits in the square. It's a perfect activity for long car or plane rides...a birthday party or holiday craft...add beads or bells...

Keeping Them Busy, One Braid at a Time

And what do you know? I even stumbled upon a lovely poem, "The Lanyard," by one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins. Enjoy.

The Premiere of Our TV Drama

2011-09-22T22:53:00.000-07:00

This new series brought to you by an obscure network on a channel you only happen upon in the middle of long sleepless nights has been reviewed by test audiences as presenting a realistic view of family life--with moments of comedy--but relying too heavily on the whiny kvetching of its protagonist, "Mom" (who is no Seinfeld). The season premiere has a postmodern approach: it's a TV episode about...TV, or lack thereof. Despite the likability of "Dad," the pilot ultimately fails to capture its viewers, with the outcome of the episode's central dilemma elusive and an unsettling sense that no real lesson has been learned. Critics wonder if this show will continue to revolve around appliance mishaps and misbehaving children, in a kind of Super Nanny meets Repo Man.

The series is set in the suburban bungalow of a family which Still Does Not Own a Flat Screen TV. In the pilot's opening scene, Dad is depicted changing (again) the batteries of the TV remote, which by now he should recognize is almost assuredly broken. He waits to call the cable company during regular business hours and is promised a new remote by mail.

Coincidentally, the daughters' elementary school is celebrating TV "Turnoff Week" with a variety of activities, beginning with a family picnic on Monday evening. Dad and girls attend; Mom stays home to watch TV. Just kidding! Though it does cross her mind, she admits to the viewing audience: she always has the last fifteen or twenty minutes of some DVRed show to watch--the part she views with eyes closed, snoozing on the couch. The parts best watched when no one else is around to register his impatience.

To be real, while Mom expects her family to take advantage of organized "Turnoff Week" activities she is not intending to actually exile the TV. Husband is portrayed as a guy who likes to have the TV on when he folds laundry, when he's walking through the living room, when he's "turning his mind off," and when he's got a spare couple of minutes and the newspaper is read and the gardening is done. There's hardly a sport not worthy of his attention. Meanwhile, Mom grew up in a family in which TV Time was a rare, controlled commodity (a deprivation to which she attributes her weakness for The Bachelor series).

It appears the kids are too busy for evening TV except on weekends. In the mornings, however, because their school starts at 9 AM and they wake up somewhere between 6 and 7 o'clock, they are permitted to meander sleepily from their beds onto the living room couch to watch a show or two. They've been hoodwinked into thinking the DVRed list of PBS shows is the range of programming options, so viewers watch them choose between Electric Company, Word Girl, and Maya and Miguel. Mom maintains that for the most part (her penchant for reality TV notwithstanding), TV and computer time are not issues worth tackling in the household.

Imagine Mom's surprise, then, when after picnic and baths and books and the girls are tucked away asleep on Monday evening, Husband grabs a book and heads into the bedroom to read. Mom freezes on the couch, malfunctioning remote pointed at the TV.

"Wha-?"

"It's 'No TV Week', Hon," he says over his shoulder.

"Really? We're doing that?"

"I am," he declares.

Mom turns begrudgingly to her iPad and Words With Friends.

The next morning, as Dad slumbers and Mom prepares to leave for work, the girls shuffle off to the couch and their shows as usual.

Husband calls Mom at work a few hours later.

"In case you get home and wonder where the TV is, I put it in the garage."

"Okay...?"

"I had trouble getting the girls to follow through with their chores this morning, and I had to lay down the law."

Hmm, thinks Mom, applauding her partner's follow-through while noting internally that unplugging or hiding the unreliable remote were other strategies he could have employed, and then imagining the dramatic moments around Husband unplugging and lugging the not-a-flat-screen tube out the French doors as daughters stand by.

"All righty then," mutters Mom, beginning to feel like collateral damage and recognizing that removal of the entire TV means she can't even set the DVR to record some series premieres this week. Who planned TV Turnoff Week to coincide with Fall season premieres, anyway? Humbug.

Tuesday night is Mom's Book Club, and as she departs for her meeting, she half-jokingly suggests to Dad, "I won't be too disappointed if I come home and find the TV back where it was!"

She returns home to find the same empty space where the TV used to be and Husband curled up in bed, ear to the radio sports station. I can't very well listen to The Daily Show, though, can I? she grumbles, pouting as she cracks the novel at her bedside.

On Wednesday the new remote arrives in the mail, which Mom observes is just as impotent under the present circumstances as its predecessor. That night she plops on the couch and wryly notes to Husband, "Look! Still no TV!" to which he replies, "Uh huh. I kind of like it."

She raises her eyebrows and scrolls through Facebook, commenting on friends' updates about the Glee and Modern Family season premieres: "Still. No. TV." "What happened to it?" responds a friend and victim of Facebook's new feed.

On Thursday night:

Yep. No TV.

Daughters kiss Mom goodnight and ask her to wake them if they're still asleep before she leaves for work so they have the maximum amount of time to draw and read before school, activities they've been enjoying in lieu of PBSKids. Mom feels a little proud and little like she might vomit.

Dad, on his way to bed, suggests that the TV just might return to its regular slot in the network lineup on Friday.

Why now? Mom mumbles, with the novel in hand that has gripped her attention and the unanswered question of whether or not this week's season premieres are available online...

The pilot ends with a preview of next week's episode, in which the family's ten-year-old laptop dies, and Mom considers sharing her iPad.

Snugglenesters

2011-09-14T21:47:00.000-07:00

They were already fighting by the time they found me waiting outside school at the end of the day. Third Grader had insulted Kindergartner outside her classroom. Kindergartner had falsely accused Third Grader. Kindergartner was crying and Third Grader was outraged. 19th grader, or Lifelong High School Student (as I seem to be), commenced the eye rolling and deep sighs.

They stepped on each others' feet getting in the car, where they took more than their fair share of personal space and argued over grapes on the way to soccer practice. Little Sis deliberately irritated Big Sis. Big Sis overreacted. Mom gripped the steering wheel.

Sibling Nonsense. It's the parenting challenge du jour.

And yet, every night for the past few months, after quite possibly another long day of quibbling and quarreling, they crawl into the same bed together to sleep, Big Sis's empty bunk above them.

They giggle, scheme, roll around, read aloud, shriek, tickle, confide, sing, confess, kick, snuggle, and snore in there, in tandem. They talk in their silly voices, doing "The Frank and Toaster Show" or "Hairy Joe," their own homegrown shticks, cracking each other up. Most often, Little Sis succumbs to sleep first, and Big Sis reads on beneath the star lights.

One day they'll abandon this practice, with or without fanfare, but I will never forget it and I hope they won't, either. Despite the demons outside their doors, despite their mean and nagging parents, despite their own differences and disagreements, they have each other.

Sweet dreams, sisters

Blackout Notes

2011-09-09T21:09:00.000-07:00

Southern California experienced an unprecedented and unexpected 12-hour blackout on Thursday and it seems everyone's talking about what they learned. For example, we learned blackouts can be fun if they're not associated with hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, or terrorist attacks. Our fun was tempered by the knowledge that Grandma was in the ICU in a hospital running on a generator, and the awareness that there were likely many elderly people alone in the dark and late summer heat. There are more than enough reasons right now to appreciate first responders as well as the medical personnel who stayed at work long past their shifts were over to help our loved ones.

The blackout was over soon enough for most danger to be averted, but lasted long enough for folks to come out of their homes and bond with neighbors over resources, barbecues, bright shiny stars, and the eerie sense of calm and quiet in the absence of electrical hum.

It helps to be a camping family, we learned. We have a propane stove and several LED lanterns, as well as flashlights in various stages of battery readiness. Funny how the brain works; husband and I were so preoccupied with battery, lantern, and flashlight inventory that it was a good thirty minutes before I remembered hey, we have candles all over this house. Duh.

I figured we'd better grill the chicken in the freezer, which was still frozen solid with no microwave or hot water to assist with defrosting. In retrospect we were probably better off eating leftovers from the fridge.

I noticed folks outside in their cars, reading, listening to the radio...and here's where I will admit it would have taken me a long time to figure out I could charge my phone in the car.

Kids are only slightly less enlightened than adults in a blackout, thinking of plugged-in activities and then recalling that they're out of the question. My favorite moment was when Little Sis excitedly announced, "I know! It's super dark; let's play with Lite Brite!"

We ended our evening in the girls' room, huddled under the bunk bed reading Harry Potter by lantern light. Power returned around three o'clock in the morning, but much to the dismay of Big Sis, schools remained closed. The high schoolers I work with? Not so sad about that.

Beans 'n' Rice Night

2011-09-07T21:15:00.000-07:00

We are going to lighten things up around here with some dinner dialogue. Specifically (and all "paleo" diets aside), we've been eating a lot of beans lately. Because beans are good! How about them white beans--Great Northern beans? Cannellini? My goodness, those are yummy. Saute them in oil with some greens and garlic and pour over pasta. Or mash them into hummus. Make soup!

My kids love beans, too, which has encouraged me to keep the cupboard stocked with pintos, chick peas, black and white beans (I'm not a fan of the kidney bean, a result of too much exposure to yucky three-bean salad in my youth). One of our daughters' favorite dinners is Rice 'n' Beans Night. I wish I could recall which friend's friend inaugurated this tradition so I could give credit where it's due, but we adopted the idea ourselves, with rave reviews from the Peanut Gallery every time.

Beans 'n' Rice Night is the perfect solution for evenings when the fridge stores are running low; for when you need to feed 'em, fast (as fast as rice cooks); for when you're tempted by take-out but want to save some cash; for when a hearty or warm meal is in order; for when you're in charge of a crowd. Here's what you do: cook some rice. Warm up some beans. I like to mix pintos with black beans and add a tablespoon of salsa and some cumin to give the beans a little more dimension. The rest of the excitement is in the condiments. Depending on what's available, and the extent of your planning ahead, you can top your bowl o' rice 'n' beans with shredded cheese, salsa, diced green chilis, scallions, sour cream, chopped tomatoes, avocado, shredded lettuce, olives, crunched tortilla chips (or serve with warm tortillas).

Easy, peasy, crowd pleasy!

Catching Our Breaths in a Clearing

2011-09-02T23:35:00.000-07:00

I finally felt it yesterday, that irritating and self-righteous sense that the world is full of petty dramas, complaints, and bullshit. I knew it was coming; it's a phase one passes through on the Roller Coaster of Life and Death Matters. No one but family and close friends understand that nothing else matters right now except Getting Through This.

Monday was my beloved mother-in-law's grave health emergency, and since then, she's moved out of the ICU and into the realm of hope for full recovery. Rehab and her increasing understanding of her new reality as well as financial, legal, and insurance wranglings await us. But we've left the deepest, darkest part of the woods and are catching our breaths in a clearing.

And the clearing is where we lift our heads and see the rest of the world going merrily, pettily, ignorantly on. There's at once the grim satisfaction of having one's priorities realigned with clarity and the frustration of feeling No Else Gets It.

I remember the drive home from the hospital when I had Big Sis. It was the Monday of Labor Day Weekend, and perhaps the Baby Blues were already setting in (and maybe that terrible case of post-surgical constipation), but for sure I had a sense of my life never being quite the same. There was no tragedy--things could hardly have been more wonderful, really--but I recall my head turning this way and that, peering through the window of the car at the Those People who were blithely enjoying their holiday weekend as if the world hadn't suddenly turned completely upside down. There was the Rest of the World, and then there was I. We were strangers for that moment.

After you've spent the night wringing hands, weeping, and worrying in the ER, you might return to work the next day, at least momentarily, to take care of unfinished business or tie down loose ends. Your red-rimmed eyes are a giveaway to colleagues who know not you're not quite yourself. You might break down and explain yourself when asked. But over the course of days you don't owe it to everyone, nor yourself, nor your family, not even Grandma, to retell the tale to everyone you meet. You're somewhere else for a reason, anyway--to work, to spend time with your children, to support someone dealing with something completely else. And even in this Age of Facebook, you don't need to broadcast every detail and every moment of everything, particularly those things that don't completely belong to you.

So life goes on. And while you're tired, and distracted, and likely a bit impatient, it's not their fault that they are right where they are, needing what they need, complaining their complaints, sharing their cheery triumphs. Schmucks will flip you off on the freeway, even steal the sunglasses out of your shopping cart, despite your pain. This hurtling forward with normalcy, with the endless parade of minutiae, and even with the mild cruelties and annoyances, are part of the gorgeous beauty of living.

We're approaching the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and I can re-imagine what I envisioned as an epicenter of grief emanating outward from New York City in the days after the tragedy. We were all affected, but certainly in sunny San Diego, far across the country from the sounds, smells, and sights of those jets, buildings, and lost lives, the rawness was blunted for many. To what extent and how Americans reacted to the growing comprehension of 9/11's events was differentiated in part by our own experiences, degrees of separation, as well as our individual ways of handling things in general. Our tolerance for demonstrations of levity were variable, too. People proceeded with birthday parties, with laughter, with births, and deaths of other causes. But the calculus of What's More Important--attending to the sobriety of mournful occasions versus attending to the needs of the living--is often lost in the reality of forgetting oneself in the moment. We catch ourselves giggling, performing meaningless tasks, buying something frivolous in the midst of such significance. Thank goodness for that.

Last weekend, as we approached the hotel we booked in L.A. for our Taylor Swift Concert adventure with the girls, we noticed a woman in her car partially blocking the hotel's parking lot entrance. Husband exasperatedly pulled around her and parked. Emerging from our car, we watched the woman get out of her own and begin pushing it from behind. Husband sheepishly assisted her in moving it around the block to a parking space. We didn't figure she was broken down. In our impatience we often fail to imagine the possibilities, and practice forgiving.

The world won't stop for us and our troubles; the world won't always know or understand; in this way, the world propels us all forward.

But I'm thinking we're better served considering one another as fellow commuters, muddling through in our near-broken-down autos, driving to the hospital to visit Grandma, who's still in critical condition but getting better everyday. We don't have to know to understand.

Eight is Great

2011-08-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Muggy Moo,

Yesterday you marveled, "sometimes I think that I am only dreaming myself and this life. But then I remember you have to be real to dream, so I think I really am alive."

You are eight today, and about to enter third grade, the grade they tell me marks the loss of innocence. The grade they tell me when "kids change." I squint my eyes and hunch my shoulders and flinch at the possibility that fairies and magic and wonder and pigtails will be abandoned at the side of the road of your growth and evolution. Yet, because you're you, and always will be (part of being you is your trueness to yourself), I believe in your enduring sense of enchantment with the world.

You're our "game" girl, up for almost anything: hiking, bike rides, sailing your own sabot, cooking, gardening, researching, exploring. You'll balk at the beach with its pesky sand, but at the end of the day you beg to go back. Your curiosity is among your most gratifying qualities. We had to pull you away from exhibits at the science museum yesterday; you introduced us to plant species you recognized during a hike in the desert last month. This summer you learned to dive, weave a lanyard, swim backstroke, play piano, Google, hold your breath (sometimes) before barking at your sister, scramble eggs, and catch and throw a ball with a lacrosse stick.

We love you for your loyalty to friends and family--you seem to enjoy nothing more than being with your grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles. You show them how important they are to you. You are forgiving and generous with the benefit of the doubt; we hope you sustain your reluctance to disparage people (besides, ahem, your little sister). No one can make you laugh (or fume) like your Little Sis. But lately you've been reading books with her aloud at night, snuggling and giggling and sleeping under the star lights together.

For everything you share out loud, you keep a lot inside, craving time to yourself to read, draw, and play with your dolls and animals. You enjoy making tea in the morning. You won't wear a skirt or dress without leggings. You love soup, mangoes, soft bread, pickles, and tomatoes from the garden.

If someone asks, you say you want to be an artist someday. You already are, our little birthday girl. Dance on, sweet dreamer.

Facebook Followers

2011-08-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

What's on your mind?

Just because I don't copy and paste or repost status updates doesn't mean I don't love my mother, breast cancer research, our troops, gay marriage, children with special needs, my beautiful daughters, my friends, the USA, my husband, the earth, baby seals, or you. I love recycling but not as it relates to posts. Let's see who truly reads my status. If you comment, you MUST post an original, authentic sentiment as your own status. Don't spoil the fun! 93% of you will ignore this and do your own thing. Are you brave enough to be in the 7% that follows instructions?

List: Bookstores I Have Loved

2011-08-17T22:25:00.001-07:00

Jon Stewart did a segment on the closing of bookstore chain Borders' retail outlets last night on The Daily Show. It was funny, of course, but more like a satirized memorial to an endangered species. Once vilified, even the mega-bookstores aren't immune to consumers' shifting focus to electronic media. And while I am increasingly "guilty" of downloading books to read on my iPad, I can't imagine a world without bookstores. Feeling bummed about the closing of our nearby Borders, where the girls and I often went for afternoon field trips of perusing books and selecting birthday gifts, I thought about the bookstores that have been there for me through my various stages of development.

1. Perkins Bookworm: The bookstore in my hometown growing up. We could bike there and grab Baskin Robbins on the way home. Perkins also sold tapes and records, but the kicker? The bookstore was a Ticketmaster outlet, making it the site of my first concert ticket purchase, for a UB40 show.

2. Upstart Crow: The bookstore "across the bridge" that my best friends and I frequented in high school. With a cafe and tables in sweet nooks scattered around the shop, it was a great hangout for chatting, conspiring, and journal writing.

3. Atticus: The bookstore/cafe in my college town that I loved so much I thought I wanted to work there. After a few months of 4 PM-to-midnight shifts on Fridays my freshman year, I reclaimed my social life. Lesson learned: don't ruin a favorite haunt by working there.

4. Kramerbooks & Afterwords: The iconic Washington, D.C. bookstore in Dupont Circle was a mile-walk from my house and convenient stop on the way home from a night out. Who can't like a bookstore that serves beer? If Kramer's ever closes, it will mean the world is ending.

5. UCSD Bookstore: A huge store with awesome school and office supplies and an amazing selection of books. My favorite bookstore for poetry volumes. College bookstores feature arcane academic works, too...fun to browse.

6. Bay Books: My local bookstore, where I order our book club selections and they sell them at a discount. Where my former students work. For a relatively small store, it boasts an impressive magazine selection. Staff recommendation cards there have led me to some terrific reads.

7. Yellow Book Road: A perfect name for a perfect children's book store. Authors hold workshops for children, and the shop offers summer literacy camps.

8. Used Bookstores: My favorite places to peek when I am traveling; I relied on one to keep me busy reading in Florence when I studied abroad in college. Used bookstores have rare treasures and represent the culture of their environs. I chuckled as I watched the clerk at a shop in Half Moon Bay this summer transcribe the titles of each book I purchased into a black-and-white marbled composition book. Time stands still in used bookstores.

9. Borders: I know it's a major chain store, but I will sorely miss our local Borders Books. The franchise connected with the community, holding kids' poetry readings and hosting local musicians. I loved the music section, with a wide variety of CDs to sample through headphones.

Ultimately, bookstores support libraries and communities of reading, and I predict individuals will have a more narrow exposure to new works available without them, as our electronic media preselects readings based on our interests. Bookstores' book displays and groupings entice us into new worlds in a way online browsing never will. We do judge books by their covers, and jackets, and heft. Bookstores gave us permission to sample and fondle the goods.

I don't think there's any other kind of retail experience more satisfying.

On Belay

2011-08-13T10:06:00.001-07:00

The last time I was strapped into a harness, I cried. I had spent three years teaching in Washington, D.C., and had returned to my hometown from a year in Kenya. I scored a new job at my own middle school and the staff development "bonding" activity was at a ropes course. Adventurous Me was up for anything. Afraid of Falling Me was excited to conquer her fears. Meeting New Colleagues Me wanted the impression I made on others to be Fun Team Player.

But wasn't long before I would be lowered face down into the wood chips below, trembling and simultaneously sobbing and laughing after freaking out on the Team Tightrope Walk. I was never so happy to be lying on the ground, where I remained limp for a good five minutes, kissing the dirt and recovering from one of the greatest frights of my life.

A manufactured fright, with no real danger, mind you. No amount of that awareness, Mind Over Matter, or desire to not make a fool of myself was making it better, however. Turns out I am pretty good at freaking myself out, and an expert at it when there's a potential to fall down.

I am famously reluctant to stand on chairs or ladders, walk down stairs without clutching a railing, or climb over fences. The latter presented real challenges in college, when our freshman quad was locked up at midnight, leaving early-morning revelers to scale the scarily spiky Gothic wrought-iron gates. I required a team of supporters, boosters, and spotters to make it safely over, and perhaps the assistance of the residual effects of the reasons I hadn't made it back to campus on time in the first place.

Then there was the time more recently when I went running a little too close to a rocky border on a paved path. I fell down and skinned my knees and hands. About a month later I ran the same route, and approaching the spot of my recent fall, I thought to myself, Hey, that's where I fell down! And then I tripped and fell down. Again.

I sort of come by my fear of falling honestly, though I know that it is often my anxiety which precipitates shaky legs and bad balance. And I try mightily not to project my fears on my daughters. Last weekend while camping, though, I had a minor Freak Out when the girls were climbing rocks too close to a scary ledge.

You can imagine my surprise that I scaled a rock-climbing wall on Friday night. It wasn't technically difficult, but it was tall. I didn't freeze and I didn't lose it. I think it had a lot to do being strapped into that harness and feeling the reassuring tugs of my belayer. If I let go, I wouldn't really fall. I trusted that and him implicitly.

I trust myself in the real world less.

So while I am excited to go rock climbing again, I retain my fear of falling. The real world doesn't reassure us with an encouraging "Climb on!" and there are no padded floors and tight knots and safety harnesses. When we take risks, we often fall down, and it hurts. And some risks aren't worth it.

At the climbing gym, we watched a woman practice deliberately not clipping in her harness at the top of the wall, and letting herself fall. She screamed the first few times.

I suppose this is what we do with our kids--gradually loosen our reins and challenge them to take the safer risks, while talking them away from the scary ledges. Avoid freaking them out with our own phobias.

And hope they'll keep letting us know when they're "climbing!"

List: Signs of the Times

2011-08-09T19:37:00.000-07:00

I was watering the backyard the other day noticing the artifacts of childhood abandoned here and there, and thought to myself, there will be a lot to miss about this special time.

Among the clues that little imaginations are hard at work here:

1. Colorfully-painted nasturtium seeds among decorated pebbles and twigs outside
2. Plastic horses with folded-fabric saddles rubber-banded to their backs
3. Complex ribbon Polly Pocket pulley systems hanging from bookshelves
4. Track numbers from the Taylor Swift CD, listed on scrap paper in order of performance in the most recent "show"
5. Cups of food-colored ice in the freezer, "for a frozen castle, Mommy"
6. Paper-clip chains
7. Half-assembled forts
8. Drawings, paintings, doodles of fairies and mermaids
9. Habitats featuring an amalgam of Legos, dollhouse furniture, and Little People accessories.
10. Strings of letters spelling gibberish, diary entries, love notes to parents, menus, and recipes.

Squinky Village

Summer Ain't Over

2011-08-03T07:19:00.000-07:00

I head back into the office next Tuesday whilst my children wait another month for their new school years to begin. Some of you have weeks remaining of travel! Entertaining children! Sunburns, late-to-beds, sibling squabbles! Family get-togethers! I am vowing not to let work kill my summer mojo. Summer shall simply commence each day when I drive away from school. Plenty of daylight hours left for sandcastles, picnics, zoo trips, sails, and cartwheels in the backyard.

We've traveled quite a bit this summer and made it a goal to be out and about in our hometown. But some quieter days at home have been an important part of free time, too. We've made pies. Forts. Elaborate fairy jungle gyms. Mostly, we've painted: rocks, glass stones, paper, shells, faces, and ourselves.

If you have some summer left, I recommend getting the paints out and letting your kids decorate a cardboard box/house. I splurged for the castle (below), but my mom had a box at her house that lasted months of kids drawing on and playing in it. Even the nine-year-old nephew had a piece of that timeshare. Everyone can claim a side and be design king of that section.

What projects are keeping your kids busy?

The World is Too Much with Us

2011-07-23T16:36:00.001-07:00

So much sadness recently: a massacre, a young woman's talent and potential wasted, unexplained deaths, children killed in horrific ways. Summer is the time I spend almost every waking hour (and many sleeping ones, especially when we travel), with my children, and I invariably begin to feel that looming fear and lack of control as we prepare to go our separate school ways in August. A spate of highly publicized bad news presses in on the fragile membrane of every family's bubble of bliss, reminding us that of course these tragedies remain possible. The fears of threats to my people spike and wane in cycles, with the occasional wide-eyed midnight waking hours worrying about kidnappers and car accidents. But mostly I feel safe.

I am much more susceptible to the dull ache of daily reminders that we've still got work to do to keep hopelessness at bay. I was recently reading an essay by Poe Ballantine in The Sun in which he describes a familiar and discouraging landscape:

...families were divided, parents divorced, children drowning under waves of chemical pleasure like flies in syrup. Why were the mom and dad drunk? Why did they seem not to care? Why did they molest and beat their daughters and sons or, at best, leave them unattended? Why didn't someone clean the kitchen, fix the heater, mow the lawn, have that broken-down car towed away? Why did everyone give up? What was the source of all this anguish and despair? Why, in every house, was the television always on?

Children without adequate resources for enriching camps and family field trips often languish during these long summers and then return to school each fall, where a free public education attempts to provide an equal opportunity for all, despite unequal advantages and privileges. I often feel daunted by the task before us.

I'd pay more taxes if I knew we could ensure good jobs, clean dwellings, childcare, medical care, rehab programs, counseling, and healthy food for all.

I spoke with a fellow educator about this phenomenon of recognizing our impotence in the face of enduring cycles which provide challenges in our work: poverty, families in crisis, addiction, illness.

He reminded me of the Buddhist practice of acknowledging reality and recognizing one's limitations, without giving up or feeling helpless (or unhelpful).

How do you cope with and reconcile the realities around you? How do you stave off fear, panic, and the gloom of enduring poverty, famine, and depravity? Escape? Assemble an earthquake kit? Install an alarm system? Plant a garden?

Cultivating connections with my people helps, starting with, of course, my inner sanctum--the four of us and critters. When I feel us spinning out--over-scheduled and overtired--I tend to close our doors and protect our time together. Family dinners, family walks, and family movie nights, as simple (and cheap) as they are, instill some confidence in me that all is right with my world, and that I am capable of affecting the greater one as well.

I am reading The Future of Success (Working and Living in the New Economy) by former Labor Secretary Robert Reich, who argues that "one way to better social balance might be through a great moral and spiritual 'reawakening' in which people rose en masse to renounce the excesses of acquisitive individualism." Acknowledging, however, the difficulty of channeling "moral fervor" in any one agreeable direction, he advocates for a balanced society which would help "cushion people against sudden economic shocks," "widen the circle of prosperity," "give caring attention to those who need it most," and "reverse the sorting mechanisms" which create distinctions between the qualities of neighborhoods and schools. I know many would argue that as an American I ought to be focused primarily on my own bootstraps, but I've come to recognize my sense of well being as highly affected by the well being of those around me.

In the meantime (while waiting for the revolution), I'll keep on keepin' on: Work on my personal health and the health of my family. Assist our neighbors. Offer a meal. Donate a little. Give some time.

What does Sarah McLachlan say? "The world is on fire/it's more than I can handle...I'll tap into the water/bring what I am able."

Follow-Through is a Bitch

2011-07-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

Not to mention that it makes me feel like one, too.

The thing about parenting is that it is fraught with threats. The threats start in the womb, what with the threat of miscarriage and then of developmental disabilities, which give way to threats of catastrophic injury, kidnapping, and cancer. Heck, I was just trying to convince myself the other day that I could probably start relaxing about drowning, when I recalled that a local college student recently drowned in a river while studying abroad.

While the threats may dull, they never fade away completely. And underpinning these fears is the threat of failing at parenting. Whatever 'failing' is.

Which is part of why we invest so much energy in trying to do it right. Whatever 'right' is. Understanding we can't control the perils of the world and their potential effects on our offspring, we wrestle ourselves instead. Naturally, that desire to control an unruly, entropic universe translates into urges to control our children. Metaphorically speaking, we wrestle with them, too. And some days they tap out more readily.

I've been reminding myself and emphasizing that my job as a parent is to promote the health and safety of my children and help them be the best 'themselves' they can be. When I focus on these goals, my priorities are intact and I keep my controlling tendencies at bay. Nevertheless, while eating on the couch is not a threat to health, safety, or good character, I can't let it be okay. I don't want to have too many rules, but what can I say. I have some rules.

This summer our daughters and I have spent a lot of time together, traveling, out and about, and at home. A month in, as I realize that most of time my time has been devoted exclusively to them and their needs, I recognize some signs that helping the girls be their best selves means a little humility training. These signs include you put the wrong kind of jam on my sandwich, Mom; this isn't the bathing suit I wanted to wear, Mom; why can't we do it right now, Mom? Okay, how about now?; and, but I don't want to go!

Naturally, ungrateful attitudes and senses of entitlement have been met with the cliched allusions to children without such luxuries as organic jam, swimsuits (and places to swim), available mothers, and fun destinations (not to mention the car we use to get there). And threats. Threats, of course! The threats. Threats of Time Out, toys in solitary confinement, withholding of privileges.

Years ago, a colleague and parent of two described to me the sad conclusion of a family night out to dinner when his kids were in high school. Apparently brother and sister were quibbling in the backseat en route to the restaurant, squabbling and being unpleasant as they took their seats and surveyed the menu. My coworker and his wife looked at each other across the table and asked, "Do you want to be here right now...with them? Like this? And pay good money for it?" No, they didn't. So, despite having drinks and appetizers on the way, they paid for their order, and calmly left the joint with their kids in tow. Their children were aghast. But the parents made their point: Be nice. Be pleasant. Or else.

And I know someone told me about someone they knew who turned the car around on the freeway halfway to Disneyland because the kids were acting like (as my father accused his five children from time to time) ungrateful pigs. I thought that was big. I thought that was a real parenting humdinger. Assuming the parents really wanted to go to Disneyland, too.

Like we wanted to go to Soak City yesterday. Husband had the day off...a day off in common with me in the summer, a rarity. And we planned to take the girls to the local water park for a family adventure. But the morning was a struggle with general lack of cooperation and good cheer, chores were neglected, requests for ponytails and toothbrushing were ignored or met with indolence, and we loaded in the car feeling exasperated instead of excited. After ten minutes in the car, daughter decided her swimsuit wasn't suitable for a day on the water slides--the same suit I earlier suggested pairing with shorts--and then wouldn't accept her reality and adjust her attitude, OR ELSE, as we threatened. We watched in the rear view mirror as the car hurtled closer to Splash Nirvana. Tears were rolling. Pouting was not concluding.

So we turned the car around.

As a friend who is reading Scream Free Parenting quoted to me later in the day, "Parents, watch what you threaten. Be prepared to live with it."

Because wanted to cry too. We pulled up at home, downcast but resolved, with apologetic yet defiant daughter. We all needed to retreat to our corners, husband with a magazine, I with cleaner and sponge, daughters to the fairy garden in the backyard. After some time regrouping, we salvaged our Family Day, which was not to be sacrificed. We had a picnic and a swim, and everyone was happy, despite the unspoken recognition that we could have been floating together on the Lazy River.

The moral of this story? I am not sure. I did not feel the triumph of Ultimate Parenting Follow-Through (there are no prizes for sweeping the family out of the restaurant or canceling plans), wishing instead for a lesser victory earlier in the day, resulting in cooperative, cheerful children and the day unfolding as envisioned.

Were our daughters ultimately contrite and conscious of their choices and consequences? Yes. Will they continue to test limits? Invariably. Will they believe us next time we threaten to call their bluffs? Surely.

But here's to not getting there again, anytime soon.

I'm off in search of a mutually agreeable jam for sandwiches. But ultimately, you'll get what you get and you won't throw a fit.

A Piercing Dilemma

2011-07-14T07:36:00.000-07:00

I had my ears pierced at 13, but I don't remember feeling like I was the last of the hole-less ears to be impaled on my block. Big Sis, however, is fairly surrounded by friends, neighbors, classmates--and now relative, as her cousin just got hers done--with pierced ears. Our little girl who was formerly a little frightened of the process is suddenly feeling very left out.

But I don't want to budge on making her wait on this "milestone." Actually, I already budged. In a knee-jerk compromise, I promised she could have her ears pierced when she finished elementary school. She'll be...eleven? Twelve? That's less than thirteen, our original threshold, after all...

Nevertheless, I find myself examining my rationale for delaying the inevitable. It's not a moral debate. I don't think ear-piercing is dirty or inappropriate or scandalous or that she can't take care of her ears or earrings. My reluctance comes from deep in my gut...from the same place that spawns overwhelming urges to scoop her up and hold her tight and stunt her growth, somehow.

I just don't want my child to have holes in her skin...yet. She's my child...still a child. There's only so much time for being one, and for looking like one. For sporting kids' clothes and flat shoes and pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. She feels too little and unmarred for now. I can't want her to have earrings.

I am very comfortable upholding and maintaining parenting stances that go a bit against the grain, even if everyone else is doing it, Mom! And I know my daughter will accept the limits we determine.

Still I can't help asking myself if this is more about me than about her. About ideals of Peter Pan and elusive innocence I am transferring to my daughter. Is this a hill to die on, especially when Big Sis has already packed up her big guns in favor of silent longing? Should there be a reward for sweet acquiescence?

Your thoughts are welcome; I'm all ears (with five holes).

The Beer is Nice in Oregon, and So Are the People

2011-07-07T17:23:00.000-07:00

I just blogged about preferring to crash at your place, didn't I? Be glad we didn't land on your doorstep the other night, when we derailed from our overnight train (Portland--->Oakland) in Eugene after Big Sis lost her lunch on the seat next to her, and in the aisle, and on her shirt and on my jacket AND in the plastic Amtrak kids' goody bag with the box of crayons remaining inside.

No one on the train even looked horrified. Or made that face of ewwww. I don't care where they were from; I am giving the credit to Oregon. Because besides the guy on the road who flipped off my sister, everyone in Oregon has been remarkably kind. Not disingenuous, sticky-sweet ingratiating, but nice. Like it's normal to be concerned about people and willing to go out of one's way. Even the strung-out looking woman we encountered today near the "Parole/Probations" building who was fighting with her boyfriend thoughtfully shushed him with a "there are little kids!" when she saw us coming.

When it seemed a better solution for everyone concerned that we get off the train in Eugene and hope that the 24-hour waiting period wasn't the same as incubation for next kid's bout of flu, the conductor helped reserve us places on the next night's train, and a helpful man at the depot pointed out that the Hilton was within walking distance. "It might cost you $50, though," he warned me.

If only! At least Big Sis thought the joint was "like the Disney Hotel," (where we've never stayed), and she could have a bath and throw up somewhere with towels and laundry that doesn't belong to any of our friends.

We woke up in Eugene the next morning feeling A-OK and with a day to explore before we re-boarded the train. More Oregonian helpfulness: when the hotel manager saw me plugging my cell charger into every available outlet before determining it didn't work, he promised me a functional one from the hotel's stash of left-behinds. And the bellhop offered us a ride to the train station, only three blocks away, but saving this Mama/Sherpa the agony of three blocks of whining as my daughters dragged their suitcases.

Which reminds me of a story about when I travelled to Morocco and joined a truck camping tour. Our group mates were to meet at the Iqbal Hotel after taking the plane or train to Casablanca. I arrived by air and caught a cab to the hotel. In the hotel bar that evening, members of our tour got acquainted and compared travel stories. Our Canadian friend Matt shared that he had arrived by train and hailed a taxi outside the station. His driver pointed out various Casablanca landmarks en route to our hotel, conveniently located...across the street from the train station.

"Hey...!!" exclaimed Matt to his cabbie, when he looked outside the taxi and noticed both the Iqbal and train station in his line of sight. "You didn't tell me the hotel was across the street!" The driver shrugged and demanded his fare.

Sometimes the ride is worth it (and the story to tell, too).

So glad we didn't drive to Oregon. So glad we waited a day to sleep on the train. So glad to be on this trip with my daughters.

Even if the unexpected costs of this trip make me want to throw up a little.

Hotel "Your House"

2011-07-03T22:06:00.000-07:00

Oh, there are so many reasons I would rather crash at your house than stay at a hotel!

First, there's the check-in: The warm, personal greeting accompanied by a sincere "We've been waiting for you!" The kids run off to play and you offer me a drink. I can leave the luggage by the door for now. I know you cleaned your house for us because places in your home (floorboards, windowsills) are spic and span in a way ours have never been. We'll help you mess things up in short order, starting with leaving our shiz all over the place.

Oh my goodness, you have an ice maker. Your water tastes better than ours. Your toys are cooler, too. Hotels don't have toys. Lame! We are so happy to be here! Especially because the long drive up here gave us hemorrhoids and headaches.

I love your towels--so soft and fluffy! I check their brand on the tag, just in case I actually replace the towels we use that my mom sent me in college. Can we talk about your detergent, too? It smells yummy in here. I think our washer must suck. Our laundry is not capable of harboring such good scents.

You welcome us to all your food and snacks. No mini-bar, this is real life and it's awesome. The kids agree you have better bread; your vegetables are fresh and you make some wicked chicken. I become convinced I need a rice cooker (which I can't afford when I get home and buy new towels and mattresses and detergent) and then your other dinner guest teaches us her fail-proof tips for preparing perfect rice. Not gonna learn that in a hotel.

I realize most people don't have as many dishes and silverware as we do (why we don't have to empty our dishwasher daily, and why our cupboards and drawers are overstuffed). We try coconut milk and almond butter sandwiches. You sprinkle brewer's yeast on popcorn. Brilliant!

We read your books (and you recommend some); you introduce us to a new kids' science show, light sabers, and spray bottles.

You have a flat-screen TV. You help me with my iPad--two fingers on the screen to scroll in a text box! Thank you.

I marvel at your functioning toilets (You have more than one; take that, hotel!). You offer to watch the kids while I go for a run, and your hills are forgiving and the air tastes more oxygenated. Your shower is hot and stays so; the water pressure makes me sigh. I try your shampoo. All natural. Not the cheap kind. Goat's milk soap! Luxury.

We take in tourist attractions and fit in a few errands; I admire your efficiency. We feed kids, bathe kids, read to them, let them watch a show so we can chat. I watch your parenting and am alternately inspired and validated. I feel at home in your house, so much so I fear I didn't leave things neater than I found them. I sacrifice tidying for talking with you. I take for granted you'll forgive us when we leave a wake.

No mints on our pillows, but you offer chocolate-chip-loaded graham crackers and the best ice cream in the world, you swear. I snuggle with my kids in bed and read my book to the flashlight you find for me. We sleep in because the sun sets later here and we're tired from the laughing and playing and shouting and shrieking (ssshhhhh!) and running around and driving around and love, love, love. Your kids are my kids now, again.

And you are giving us all your space and time and we don't want to leave. Except we have to, so that we can come back again welcomed with open arms and so we can check in at the next Somebody's House, before we return to our own home which is a little bit more boring than where we've been this trip. But we hope you won't think so the next time you come by.

I might have new towels by then.

Roadtrippin'

2011-06-27T21:37:00.000-07:00

The girls and I are driving north to Oregon to visit my sister and her family; husband will fly up to meet us. We are staying over in the Bay Area en route and back. Do the math: the three of us in a Honda Civic for at least four 8-hour stretches. I don't completely mind road trips, but I'd rather be the passenger than driver. When I am driving, particularly on long stretches, I take my and my passengers' mortality seriously. As if we are headed into the Death Star in a TIE Fighter, I feel very responsible for (and not completely confident about) getting us back alive.

Have I mentioned that I am really good at worrying?

I thought maybe if I enumerate my fears I could ceremoniously cyber-burn them prior to departure and thereby purge the phobias:

1. Fear of freeway work that necessitates those concrete barriers which narrow the lane and make me nervous car will scrape along the side.
2. Fear of having heart attack while driving in the middle of nowhere (like near Fresno, with only cows around).
3. Fear of dog dying while we are gone.
4. Fear of tire blowout.
5. Fear of snacks running out in the first hour.
6. Fear of getting lost.
7. Fear of having to go to the bathroom every hour (very possible reality).
8. Fear of passing trucks.
9. Fear of daughters falling out of car.
10. Fear of foot getting stuck on accelerator or not being able to brake on time.

Obviously the Mother Fear is crashing of any kind. And I am most fearful of causing a cataclysm myself, not of other crazies on the road. Gee, I know you are all excited to jump in the car with me now!

***

Here we are in Oakland, safe and sound but not so triumphant. The girls were great, but I managed to psyche myself out on The Grapevine...tunnel vision, mild anxiety attack...I fantasized about pulling over and refusing to drive any further, toddler-tantrum style. People, I had to pass a HOUSE (well, half a house) being hauled in high winds. The soul-sucking landscape added to my angst.

I pulled it together, however; rallied (Baja Fresh chicken taco helped), and we made it in good time.

But I got out of the car and priced airline and Amtrak tickets between here and Portland.

Stay tuned.

Dear Me, You're All Right

2011-06-22T14:02:00.000-07:00

When I cleaned out files and binders in my office at the close of school, I found a legal envelope with letters written by my seventh grade students in 1998. It was May, nearing the end of the year, and I had asked my classes to write letters to themselves, imagining they would be reading them ten years later. And that was my promise to my students, that I would find them and return their letters when they were 23 years old.

Alas, I missed my deadline; it's been thirteen years since those thirteen-year-olds confided in themselves. But I got busy right away, tracking them down. Thanks to Facebook and its spider-web networks, discovering one former student led to finding three more, and on...and once students got over the creepiness of receiving a cryptic message from an old teacher ("Hi! I have something to send you...can you me message me your address?"), I began hearing back from them.

The letters I returned, which I sent along with a new one from me and my Directions for Living, were variously deep and superficial, with tones influenced by the mood of that moment in May. My middle schoolers chronicled fallout from divorces, arguments with friends and parents, and fears (including being kidnapped and becoming fat). They included diagrams of their bedrooms and drawings of their favorite clothing. They gave shout-outs to the Back Street Boys, South Park, Delia's, Jack Purcells, Wet Seal, Dawson's Creek, and the Titanic movie. Many demonstrated admirable self acceptance, though they also wished they didn't have as many pimples. And one of my students grumbled that he was "wrighting this for Ms. M (mean teacher)."

The best part of reaching back thirteen years and into the present of these people with whom I shared three hours a day for nine months is the responses they've had to themselves.

A former student shared on Facebook, "Wow. Just received a letter from my 7th grade teacher written by my 13 year old self to my future self. Cars still don't fly and I did not become an actress but... life is good. :)"

Another wrote to me, "Thank you for believing in me even when all the other kids thought I was a weirdo."

One woman sent me this moving reflection (and permission to include it here):

"When I saw what this was and before I read it, I have to be honest I was really nervous. I'm not sure why...maybe that I was completely different now, that I didn't become what I had envisioned, that I wouldn't like the way I sounded/what I though as a kid, I don't know. But as I read it I actually liked this 13 year old girl a lot. It's amazing how little I knew, how much has changed, how the big things then are the little things now and little things then are the big things now. So bizarre, and wonderful.

If I wrote a letter today to my 13 year old self, it would say in it that I am doing exceptionally well and I am happy, healthy and thriving. That I would eventually find confidence in my looks but more importantly in my brains, my talents, and my ability to be independent.
And that I would go through heartbreak, disappointment, rejection with friends, lovers and employers, that I would make mistakes. But it would lead me to where I wanted..."

How eloquently put by a once-amazing thirteen-year-old and now confident, accomplished woman.

I feel similarly, that I love myself so much better, more deeply, and authentically now than I did at that awkward age.

In honor of my students from 1998, and of accepting and embracing our inner middle-schooler, I transcribe here an entry from my 8th grade journal: February 14, 1985.

The Two Sides of My Personality

One side likes Mike so much she daydreams constantly. The other side distorts this into a a silly, giggly boy chasing teenager.

One side of me is crazy, wild, show-offy. The other side is always trying to be neat, wants to be an athlete, tries to exercise and be perfect.

One side of me is nice to people all the time, the other side acts snobby sometimes.

Both sides of me try to outdo myself and other people in sports.

One side of me tries to (tell) make myself that I'm great, attractive, etc. The other side convinces myself that I'm not so great, that I'm selfish, ugly, fat.

One side is sad, actress-like, the other side is usually cheerful.

There are more sides of my personality, I'm sure. But I'm not sure what side I'd like most people to see.

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-18T21:16:00.001-07:00

I spent a good part of the afternoon cleaning up (and cleaning out; hello Garage Sale!) the girls' room. Amazing what I find during these excavations: 332 1-cm. plastic doll accessories, notes between cousins transcribing adult conversations as they spy on the parents, toy horses with doll pillows rubber-banded to their backs, baskets tied with ribbons to bunk beds in a jury-rigged pulley system.

And stuff Big Sis has saved, including a note written by her dad on an index card and slipped into her lunch box on the first day of her first year of standardized testing (about which she was freaking out a little):

WE LOVE YOU

DO YOUR BEST

RELAX

He wrote it; she saved it. I think that says a lot about their relationship and the kind of father my husband is.

Happy Father's Day to kind, empowering, thoughtful, and awesome dads everywhere.

What You Need? Baby, Go Get It

2011-06-11T17:14:00.001-07:00

I'm watching the kids swim and waiting for the trophy awards and closing ceremonies for a regatta my husband has been competing in this week. He won't win a trophy, but it doesn't matter; he is proud of his crew's showing and that he fulfilled his dream of skippering a boat in a world championship race.

Before I met my husband, he travelled the world, racing sailboats professionally. When we met, we had both returned to our hometown to work with kids in the programs and schools that launched us; he coached sailing at the local yacht club and I taught middle school at my alma mater. He negotiated time in his work calendar to continue to pursue professional sailing opportunities and I was starstruck, following his progress in world championships and awed by my boyfriend's fame in the subculture of sailboat racing.

Last week's six-day, nine-race regatta was the culmination of a year of preparation, including weekends practicing with his crew--weekends he fit in around work and the demands of family (and his wife). But as I followed his progress hourly on the Etchells Worlds twitter feed each day, the pride and admiration I felt for him when we were newly in love was rekindled. And I was reminded how important it is for us to pursue our passions and to encourage our partners to do the same.

One of the lessons I learned early on in my relationship development--from my wise father--is that a relationship isn't a thing (a tangible object) like the two individuals in it. And each individual has needs which may be completely unrelated to the other person. In other words, as my father put it when I was suffering college-relationship heartache, "Everything he does isn't about you."

I think about this a lot lately, as I watch my husband and myself and our friends in similar life phases wrestle with tending to our own needs in the context of busy parenting and working lives. Of one thing I am certain, though, and I will shout it from the rooftops: To be a healthy partner and parent, one must be a healthy person. And if you want a healthy partner and co-parent (as well as a healthy relationship), tend to your own and your partner's health. That means requesting space and time to devote to your true self, and granting it as well. There may be nothing more important.

Ten years ago my husband raced sailboats in South America and I ran marathons. Today, he's happy to race locally and I am More Than Fine with 10Ks. Between now and then we learned to ask for what we need--a sleep-in here, an hour run before he leaves for work there, the occasional afternoon of fishing or night out with friends. Still, we get off balance at times.

Last May when I was feeling frustrated and bogged down at work as well as slightly disconnected from myself, I whined and pouted for a while, and then I called my husband to clear a weekend in October and signed myself up for an adventure. Anticipating an October writing retreat gave me a special lift through June, July, August, and September, not to mention the effects I still feel from treating myself to three days of writing among strangers in a magical setting.

It's important to report that scheduling these events (regatta, retreat) wasn't without its challenges. In fact, a practice regatta wound up conflicting with the writing retreat, and husband and I had a bit of a "Me Time" showdown as we discussed the terms of pursuing our interests that weekend, making sacrifices on the other's behalf, and keeping our daughters in the center. Thanks to friends and family who offered childcare, we raced and wrote that weekend, but learned that negotiation and careful calendaring help with harmony.

We've gotten good at the give and take, but it means shedding the martyr mantle, bringing hidden agendas to the fore, and recognizing when your own or your partner's equilibrium is off. Because it's easy to fall into a routine--or to actually feel dragged around by the routine--of work, school, extracurricular activities, homework, laundry, cleaning, feeding people, shopping. Meetings. Appointments. Add in a crisis or two and you have two parents, backs to each another, digging trenches independently, barking orders and cussing under their breath. Sweaty, exhausted, cranky. Maybe stopping occasionally to lean on shovels and wave faux-cheerfully at neighbors. Who, us? We're great! See you at the next kids' birthday party! You betcha.

It's a slippery slope, so next time you bump rears with your digging partner, stop and offer her a drink. Tell him you're going for a walk, and he can take a break next. Schedule a date night. Then go sign up for a hip-hop dance class; join a book club; dig out the fishing gear or oil pastels. Of course you're tired after digging all day. Make yourself do it. Encourage and applaud your partner for doing the same.

I've enjoyed watching friends and family members reclaim their passions. I know a husband who paints and a wife who rows outrigger canoes. I know a wife who just dusted off her sewing machine and a husband who gets up in the wee hours to bike. I know a husband who just built a rail rider out in the desert and a wife who attended a week-long artists' workshop. I know couples who get sitters so they can run or hike or yoga together. I have a friend who took a cake-decorating class and a colleague who just became a master gardener. Averting the destructive tendencies of the mid-life crisis, these friends nurtured their interests with the support of their partners. And their kids are watching.

If you can't remember who you are or what a hobby is, look back ten, fifteen, twenty years at what you loved to do. And if you're like me, and you aren't feeling the marathons and poetry, evolve a little. Run and write differently. Or find something new: Raise chickens. Design tee shirts. Volunteer.

Being proud of yourself is attractive; being proud of your partner is awesome. Husband came in 26th out of 80 boats this week, and I think that's hot.

A Little for a Lot

2011-06-07T22:07:00.000-07:00

Parents from our daughters' local preschool held a fundraiser on Saturday night. It's the second year we've applied the "keep it simple, stupid" philosophy, understanding that at this time of year, families are both worn out from organizing and attending events and likely running low on funds. One kind family agrees to host the party at their home/in their backyard, and the obligation for guests is to bring a beverage, hors d'oeuvres, item or service to donate, and a willingness to spend $25-$100. Preschool teachers offered babysitting services at the preschool from 4 to 7 PM, and approximately twenty couples in attendance raised over $2000.

It occured to me that this formula is a winning way for a small group to raise quick funds in a community-building atmosphere for a variety of purposes: a common cause, a family in crisis, a community project.

The best part was the modesty and creativity of the donations. Folks offered babysitting, handmade pottery and jewelry, landscaping consultations, favorite craft beers and wine, a ready-for-kindergarten kit, and I donated a curry dinner.

Also the food: no Costco contributions anywhere in sight. Someone brought bruschetta with Sicilian grandpa's homemade sausage; there were frittatas, orzo salad, and pizzette. My caprese-salad-on-a-toothpick was not particularly inspired, though the pancetta was a nice addition:

And now, our preschool will have an updated art room!

Headlights Required

2011-06-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

Parenting certainly has its ebbs and flows, its peaks and valleys. Its barbed-wire fences, its muddy ditches to slog through. Its daisy-filled meadows with sweet breezes.

And then there are the foggy days, when no one sees clearly straight ahead, behind, or beside. When we spend more time bumping into one another than making progress.

We've had some foggy, naggy, muddled times recently. It's the end of the school year; it's the cusp of transition. We are all a little edgy, busy, and sleep deprived. There are days when I wonder if I've said much of anything positive, to anyone, in my household. When I screech at a child who's jumped off the curb at a busy intersection; remind the preschooler for the nth time to say please, please; mutter under my breath about tone of voice and HEY! YOU DON'T YELL AT YOUR PARENTS and SINCE WHEN IS THAT ALLOWED FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

The thing is, I think I have a point. A point which can be found somewhere in my own shrill admonitions. I believe my parenting instincts are founded in some key philosophies, skills, and qualities I want to instill in my children. But they've been lacking an anchor--a practical, understandable, unemotional mooring to which to attach what I'm trying to convey to my daughters.

I thought about this the other night as we embarked on a Family Walk, as Big Sis and I recovered from an episode in which I corrected her and she reacted defensively and we failed to fully comprehend each other's positions on the issue.

"I'm thinking," I told my husband, "that I need to frame what I'm doing when I reprimand or redirect our kids around what my job is as a parent."

And the more I thought about it, I determined that I parent with two fundamental goals in mind:

1. Promoting my daughters' health and safety, and
2. Helping them be the best of themselves they can be.

I mulled these two intentions over, recognizing that if what I'm doing or advising or how I am reacting to my children--or modeling for them, for that matter--doesn't align with those two missions, then I should question myself, too. The idea was making more and more sense, especially since I could see both goals relating to my work with teenagers.

During a calm moment with Big Sis, we discussed my job as a parent and how it relates to our interactions.

"I need to do an excellent job as a parent, and there are two parts to that," I let her know (after we established that going to work and making money was not my first job as a parent). "So, that means when I am warning you or scolding you or giving you a consequence, it's because I am needing to help you stay safe or reminding you to work on being the best you you can be."

She nodded, and we imagined some scenarios when I would need to do my job as a parent: when sisters are saying, "No, YOU'RE dumb" to each other, when Big Sis is climbing on the counter to get something out of the cupboard, when Little Sis is yelling from the living room for me to bring her some cereal, stat.

Last night we had an opportunity to deploy the new anchor, and after we endured the cycle of my admonishment-->her outrage-->my explanation-->her blame-shifting-->my encouragement of accountability-->her pouting, Big Sis came to me with an apology and hug. She admitted she wasn't being her best self, and I reminded her of my job. I also pointed out that how parents keep their kids safe and help them be their best sometimes needs improvement, too, and we'd keep working on that.

It's a foggy, trial-and-error enterprise, this parenting gig. I'm grateful for each moment of clarity, wondering how long it will last.

Bad Snare Day

2011-05-23T21:03:00.000-07:00

I tend to characterize myself as a very well-behaved girl growing up.  My childhood resume provides foundation for this thesis: I am the first-born of five children, with a predictable sense of responsibility and Type-A personality. I wasn't allowed to eat sugar cereal or watch cartoons and my favorite TV shows (which had to fit in a 1.5 hour per week allotment) were, at various stages of childhood, 3-2-1 Contact, The Electric Company, Donny & Marie, The Muppet Show, Little House on the Prairie, Father Murphy, Alf, and Murder, She Wrote. My parents keenly sniffed out my natural penchant for guilt and never gave me a curfew. "You know when it's time to come home," they assured me confidently. Darn it if I didn't exceed their expectations 99.9% of the time. I was also good cover, apparently; I learned at my high school reunion that several classmates told their parents they were going to my house when they were planning to be elsewhere, partying.

Despite my upbringing and internal regulator, there is a little streak of naughty inside me I indulged from time to time, mainly at school. My friends and I engineered a variety of pranks on our teachers in middle school, including sending notes around the classroom with a time and activity ("At 9:23, stare up at the ceiling," "drop your pen on the floor," or, causing a cloud of dust to rise up from the carpet which enveloped the class: "stomp your feet"), and taping notes to our teachers' backs. I once earned myself a phone call home from my teacher for chatting in sign language with my BFF across the room in math class.

In high school we moved the desks in our history classroom into the teacher's office and sat on the floor in their places, where the teacher found us when he entered the classroom. We turned our good-natured history teacher's posters upside down and lit incense and stuck it in the pencil sharpener. We also "forked" the lawn of a boy we liked and hot-dogged his tree. On the last day of class senior year, I asked my beloved physics teacher if he was as dumb as he looks (no good answer to that question, haha!) and he responded by gleefully sending me to the vice principal's office with a referral.

But my favorite story of my own malfeasance is the time a bad hairdo was the undoing of me and some members of my cross country team.

It was the 80s, when neon colors, acid wash, big bangs, plastic earrings, and perms were "in." And there were times when I sported all of these trends in one totally awesome ensemble.  The summer between freshman and sophomore year, I decided to have my hair permed. I saved money and rode my bike to the Navy Exchange Salon on a Friday for a late afternoon appointment. I was the last appointment, and I remember it being one of the longest one of my life. Because as my hair was trapped in very narrow-barrelled curlers and I was captive beneath a hood dryer, my hairdresser cleaned the salon thoroughly and forgot about me. "Oops!" she exclaimed, finally noticing my feet by the broom as she swept the floor. I smiled at her weakly, chemicals burning my eyes. "You've been under there for quite a while!" Her nervous good cheer was belied by the speed at which she yanked those rollers out and her suggestion that washing my hair often would relax the crazy curls.

I rode my ten speed home, horrified and resigned. I wanted curly hair, and boy, did I have it.

There was no hiding my hair, so I rocked it. And that perm lasted months, through summer and fall, into Homecoming:

as well as cross country season.

Daily athletic practices in high school are exhausting, but cross country practices are a particular grind. Everyday, we ran. And running is tiring. Even though we experienced a variety of workouts, including running sand dunes, running intervals, running hills, running fartleks, and running through the neighborhood, it was still, always, running. We loved running--we chose cross country as a sport, after all--but we loved to complain about it too.

There were some days when we just didn't feel like it. Those were the days we'd beg to cancel practice, cajole our coach into going light on us, and turn the whining up a notch or two. And on some occasions, we'd show up but skip practice altogether. The beauty of cross country practice was that unless we were running around the track, we were generally running away from and out of sight of our coach. Under these instances, he would ride his bike along our route to encourage us (i.e., keep track of us).

One long-neighborhood-run day when we weren't feeling it, a group of us conspired to jog off as if we were embarking on the workout, and then duck around the block, jump in Scooter's car, and head to Baskin Robbins. Not only were we not going to run that day, we planned to eat ice cream. We would park a block or two away afterwards, and run back to the track as if we'd just put in five miles.

We piled in Scooter's car as planned and drove a route to the ice cream shop we thought wouldn't cross the path of our honest teammates and coach. We miscalculated, however, and Scooter turned left and merged right into the path of our coach on his bike.

"Duck!" he yelled, and we attempted to hide ourselves in the backseat as Scooter drove his car without looking. I was a little slow on the uptake and piled myself atop a friend who was giggling into the upholstery. We hit Baskin Robbins as planned, believing we were home free, and faked a sweaty exhausted return to campus.

Our coach logged our return on his clipboard and then called us over, hands on his hips, as we dramatically panted.

"Not only did I recognize Scooter's car," Coach pointed out, "but I could see Fer's curls flying in the air through the back windshield."

Busted.

And that's how my hair got us in trouble--and earned us some extra sprints.

Baskin Robbins' Chocolate Mousse Royale made it almost worth it.

Hair: too big to hide, and big enough to hide behind

A Dream of Spring

2011-05-18T05:47:00.000-07:00

I've had hopes dashed, but none so profound as loss of what was mine.

I wrote this poem many years ago for a friend who suffered a miscarriage. I post it today for a friend enduring the letting go of great anticipation, a woman who is already a mother in so many ways.

miscarriage

Once,
when you weren't looking,
my fingers slipped into your pocket,
finding it warm--
the womb of a baked potato,
heating the hands of a child's
snowy trudge to school.

They could linger there,
my fingers--
nestled amongst your syllables waiting to be worn
the next time,
nourished by the umbilicus of your kindness,
welcomed by the proximity of your beseeching eyes.

Lullaby, and Goodnight

2011-05-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like a hostage in your own home at your children's bedtime? I'm wagering that there is no other parenting frontier--dinnertime, perhaps--upon which kids launch stealthier and more concerted attacks. The range of tactics employed--including stalling, faking, sleights of hand, and feigned injury--and the rate at which they're changed up make me think even the Navy Seals could learn a thing or two from the Kids' Bedtime Ops Manual.

I respect parents' discretion in determining how they put their children to bed; some moms and dads I know enjoy spending an hour or more reading, snuggling, tucking, singing. Before we were parents, we were invited for dinner at the home of friends with small children. When we noted that our friends spent much of the evening tag-teaming putting their children to bed, husband and I vowed not to let bedtime rule our roost. Oh, how much more easily said by the childless than done by the besieged! We have to remain on high alert just to keep the list of pre-sleep tasks confined to a reasonable number.

Big Sis is, for the most part, past the shock-and-awe stage of attention-getting at bedtime. She will employ the I-can't-sleep-will-you-rub-my-back technique or I-can't-stop-thinking-about-people-in-our-family-dying ploy on occasion, both of which tend to draw us to the bedroom to dole out the TLC.

Little Sis, on the other hand, is a masterful and creative staller (read here for her antics from two years ago) for whom we have limited sympathy. Her latest and favorite strategies are the Come out of Bed to Ask a Random Question ("Hi. Where am I going tomorrow?" Eye rolling. "School." "Oh yeah! I forgot!") and the Identify a Fatal Wound to Report (Crying: "Mooooooom, this morning at school I got sand in my eye and now it really really REALLY stings..." "Sorry. Get in bed.").

The other night at the dinner table we were reviewing our scheduled activities for the week. I explained that Dad was at a meeting tonight and would be home after bedtime; I would be at lacrosse and volleyball games tomorrow evening. We cleaned up the dishes, finished homework, and began getting ready for bed.

Little Sis gets to choose three books to have read to her each evening, and then Big Sis joins in for the read-aloud book (currently Grace Lin's Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, which I highly recommend). Teeth are brushed, and then it's climb-into-bed time. We turn on the hall light and the flower light, as well as the star lights under the bunk bed. We kiss and hug and sometimes sing or tell a brief tale. The girls read books in their beds for a bit before they fall asleep. And then all lights are out.

Big Sis has a book box attached to the side of her bed; Little Sis piles her books beside her bed. At some point we added to her tasks in the morning that she needs to reshelve her books from the night before, or we don't bring her new ones. But we're softies. Or, at least one of the parents is a softie. Which is why I was called out on Tuesday night.

"Moooooooom, can you bring me books? Can I have cold water?"

"I think you can get up and get your own books," I responded from the couch. "And if you want cold water, you need to remember to get yourself some before you get in bed."

"Oh yeah? How come Daddy always brings me books and cold water? You never bring me books and water."

"Are you saying I am a mean mommy?"

"Well, Daddy always brings me books and cold water. He never makes me get them myself."

I sighed, relenting, not cherishing the distinction of cold, unloving parent. I grabbed some books off the shelf and brought her fresh cold water. "Okay, I am giving these to you tonight, but tomorrow night you need to remember to get them yourself."

"Umm. Mommy. Tomorrow night you're going to be at a lacrosse game."

She smiled sweetly. "Can I have a kiss?"

My Mother Mentors

2011-05-07T23:07:00.000-07:00

I admire you, moms, because...

...you parent each of your children as individuals, nurturing them into the distinct human beings they are.

...you lost your only child, and you cheerfully tend to ailing family members, never asking for anything for yourself.

...you spent countless afternoons in the backyard playing catch with your son.

...your house may not be clean, but it abounds with love.

...you sat beside your son in the principal's office as he took accountability for his actions and faced his consequences, not making excuses for him, but guiding him, loving him, and forgiving him.

...you teach your children that smaller bellies and needier ones eat first.

...you parent alone or in the absence of your partner.

...you adopted your children.

...you've watched your child suffer and helped her endure.

...you made a difficult choice on behalf of your family.

...you teach your children the value of community service, hard work, and reflective practice.

...you accepted your child before and after she came out to you.

...you open your mind and heart when your child has something to teach you.

...you maintain a healthy relationship with your ex and honor the relationship your children have with your former partner.

...you tend to your own health, needs, passions, and dreams, and demonstrate that a balanced individual is a better parent.

...you exercise/play an instrument/sew/create/build/cook/play/work with your child.

...you are tough when you need to be.

...you talk frankly with your child about sex.

...you apologize to your children when you're wrong or out of bounds.

...you have no children of your own but care for them as if they're yours.

...you have one child or many; you work outside or inside the home; you breast- or bottle feed; you cloth- or disposable diaper; you public or private school; you buy all organic or not: but you follow your instincts and do what feels right to you without judging others.

Thank you for inspiring me.

The 'Moving to Africa' Strategy

2011-05-02T20:47:00.000-07:00

We have a fantasy (or dream--we haven't yet determined which label applies) about moving to Africa for a year sometime before the girls are in high school. You know, get off the grid. Expose them, and us, to another culture's ways and means and sense of community and time. Defy all notions that retirement accounts, bank accounts, mortgages, obligations, careers, loyalty, and inertia stand in the way of such an adventure. Nevertheless, they do. And fear creeps in.

But I was imagining last week that we were relocating to Africa for year or two or three, with a little prompting from hints of a possible opportunity. The mind reels. Then I gained an objective view of what I would think and do if we were leaving in months for a sojourn abroad. And I recognized the value of living in an "Africa imminent" state for a while. I recommend it, even if you are not planning to budge.

First thought: We have too much stuff. Let's sell it all. But seriously; what would we keep? The list proves surprisingly short (and most of the objects to which we're attached are small). For example, a couch is a couch, after all, and replaceable. Save a few antique dressers, most of our furniture merely functions versus delights. Some of it is questionably functional, actually (see "glue gun"). And the rest of our tchotchkes? I'm asking myself, if I would ditch them for Africa, why am I saving them now?

Also: I considered all the services we'd have to cancel, including bottled water and cooler, organic veggie delivery, museum memberships...tallying them helped me take stock of what's truly appreciated and what may be frivolous or underused. (Note: water cooler and cold fluoridated water is a worthy budget cut, but the CSA box would only be axed under dire circumstances or an actual move across the Atlantic).

Next: If we were readying our house for rental; it's time to fix some stuff. A great way to prioritize tackling deferred maintenance is to consider what someone else living in your home shouldn't have to put up with, namely the hole in the garage roof, the toilet prone to clogging, and the part of the living room wall which I believe may crumble at any moment. Meanwhile, the spendier schemes, like room additions and new kitchens, suddenly seem less relevant and compelling.

And then: Nothing curbs the gimmies like supposing the object of your material desires will have to be packed, sold, or shipped. Next time you shop at Target or Costco, curb your spending by considering how useful or necessary the items in your cart are if you're headed off the continent.

Finally: If family and friends are about to be halfway around the globe and an expensive flight away, time with them is at a premium. Less morbid than to live "like you're dying" is to live like you're embarking on a prolonged walkabout. Linger over dinner; go on long walks and talks; invite folks over; make yourself available.

When someone you know is contemplating a courageous endeavor, nudge them off the grid. Promise to visit them in faraway lands. Remind them that stuff is stuff and people will be here when they return, enriched by experience. Honor the fact that you wouldn't make the leap yourself; live vicariously.

And then head out of town for a spell (like a week, or even a weekend)! What a relief to know that not all adventures require as much advance planning, deep breaths, and sacrifices as a move to Africa. Use the money earned at that garage sale and saved from curtailed spending.

Stay away just long enough to appreciate home again.

Catapult

2011-04-22T15:24:00.000-07:00

Last night Big Sis's elementary school hosted a Family Science Night with assistance from the local Science Museum. Our school's teachers volunteered to man the tables and demonstrated the experiments, all simple hands-on applied physics concepts.

Among the highlights: constructing an "earthquake-proof" structure out of toothpicks and mini-marshmallows, designing and executing a rollercoaster for marbles using pipe insulation (cut in half lengthwise) and masking tape (we even made loops that worked!), watching coffee-filter chromatography, launching balloon rockets, and constructing catapults.

I enjoyed the fact that this was an event I attended alone with Big Sis; I could focus completely on her and the projects. For once, we had each other's attention exclusively. Big Sis skipped all the way home.

She was excited to explain the experiments to her sister. And lo and behold, when I walked into their bedroom this morning, I found the catapult we made last night, and another that she constructed for Little Sis (these contraptions and some cotton balls would make a great birthday party game, by the way!):

Cork, tongue depressors, plastic spoons, rubber bands. Awesome.

Deduction Reasoning

2011-04-13T20:41:00.000-07:00

I'm doing our taxes. I started yesterday--well, that's not true; I actually started the day before yesterday, when I sorted the Pile of Denial into piles of "Tax-Related Documents" and "Empty Envelopes" and "Other." I then felt accomplished and quit for the day.

Yesterday I began entering our information into the online tax service. I watched the federal and state tickers at the top calculate our progress, consistently yielding a net "owe." There would be no such thing as quitting while I was ahead, so I just quit.

Today I learned that tax day is not actually Friday, April 15, but Monday, April 18. The whole nation just got an extension on their big homework project! Probably everyone else knew this, but it was the kind of news that enables a true procrastinator to forge ahead in not forging ahead: I am now inappropriately confident in my ability to complete taxes by the deadline, and have decided to write about taxes instead of do them today. Winning!

But really, it's hard to not feel like you're losing when you're doing taxes, even when you're calculating a refund. If you're getting a hefty refund, you wonder why. You wonder why you haven't had all that money all year long, and what the government has been doing with it, anyway. You wonder if someone else is getting a bigger refund. Someone with the same salary. Someone with the same number of kids. If you're me, you're inwardly grumbling about the fact that it sure feels like Everyone Else is getting a refund and telling you exactly how they're already spending it.

Taxes and death are the two certain things, and they're two mysterious ones, too. It might also be appropriate to proclaim 'all is fair in death and taxes', since we seem unable to draw clear lines of distinction between what is just and what is not when it comes to how we pay The Man and how we meet The Maker.

I don't want to cheat on my taxes. I appreciate that taxes educate my children, provide my salary, and fix the cracking sidewalk in front of my house. I like that the park down the hill has a new play structure and that the grass there gets mowed, too. And I'd pay more taxes if it meant fewer hungry, ill, uneducated, and desperate and dangerous people in our society.

But as I do my taxes, I recognize that it's hard to know if I'm doing it right, hence a fear that I am "accidentally" cheating. Since I'm filing ours myself I figure it's more likely that I am overlooking deductions that my colleague's so-called "shady tax guy" finds for him. On the other hand, I relish not having to organize myself for or answer to someone else (besides the IRS, of course).

All this relativity reminds me of my visit to Wasini Island when I lived in Kenya. To reach this little island of no cars and roads from the mainland, we had to hire someone in a small boat to paddle or motor us across the channel. I met an American family at some point during the day, and shortly after exchanging information about our origins and travels, the father asked me how much I paid to cross the channel.

"Well..." I explained, "I speak some Swahili, you see, and I have lived here for some months now..."

"Right," the father replied impatiently. "But how much did you have to pay?"

I admitted that I negotiated a fairly small fee with my ferrier.

The father stomped his foot. "I knew I was being ripped off! And we already paid for the trip back!"

I asked him if he felt, as an American consumer, that the cost of his trip across the channel was worth the experience he was having. He conceded that it was, but that it chapped his hide to know that others were getting a "better deal."

I hoped that the gentleman would not blame the ferryman, when, in fact, he had agreed to a price and paid it. I was reminded of the inconsistency in airplane ticket prices, in the cost of a gallon of gas, in the value of a shirt on sale at full price today and on clearance next week. I think we're only ripped off when we don't have options, and when what we're buying is something we truly need. Most of the time, we choose to value commodities and services by what we're willing to pay, or by the research we're willing to put into competitive rates.

And value is relative. When I traveled to Morocco with a friend in the late '90s, our truck driver shared a story of delivering a safari mobile across Africa with a tight deadline and dwindling resources and cash. On a day when they were almost out of fuel and in the near-middle of nowhere, they came to a river with only one bridge across for miles in either direction. Two men stood at the base of the bridge to charge a toll for crossing vehicles--a rare but lucrative occurrence. Our driver and his colleague knew the bridgekeepers could name their fee and the drivers would have to pay.

The bridgekeepers conferred while our drivers calculated the potential damage. They had a few hundred dollars between them and weeks of travel ahead; they estimated they could part with up to $200 and retain enough to make it to the next town for reinforcements from their company.

Finally, the bridgekeepers approached the truck, trembling in anticipation of their windfall.

"Give us $10 to cross," they implored. Almost laughing in relief, our drivers handed them $20 and barreled over the bridge before they changed their minds.

Was $10 to cross a rickety bridge a swindle? Perhaps, but it felt like both a bargain and a boon at the time. Winning! It's all about perspective.

Which is why I am ultimately content to do my taxes with an understanding of the grayness and subjectivity inherent in the system. And yet, I am befuddled enough by estimated sales tax and what we can and cannot claim as business deductions to seek outside assistance next year.

Not to mention, I hear I can write off the cost of tax preparation...

#blog4nwp: Writing for our Students, Ourselves

2011-04-05T15:49:00.000-07:00

#blog4nwp is a grassroots effort to show support for the National Writing Project. The goal is to reach 1,000 posts by April 8 to raise awareness about federal funding cuts to The National Writing Project. I have chronicled the effects of the Writing Project on my career as a teacher and on my students in prior blog posts. Today I am posting a letter I sent Congresswoman Susan Davis when the Writing Project was threatened by budget cuts years ago. Worthwhile professional development for teachers, I argue, is worthy of our time and taxes.

Dear  Representative Davis:

I once had the pleasure of sitting next to you on a Southwest Airlines flight. At the time I was a young teacher fresh out of Teach for America in Washington, D.C., who had come back to San Diego to be near my family and teach in one of the schools that launched me to Yale College and into what I will characterize as my successful career in public education. I shared with you my excitement at being involved in the San Diego Area Writing Project, a professional organization which had provided me with inspiring mentors and a desire to be an educator dedicated to continual improvement of my craft. You asked me thoughtful questions and I felt listened to and encouraged by you.

Today I am an assistant principal in the high school from which I graduated. I continue to be active in the Writing Project, but more importantly, I have seen how involvement in SDAWP has transformed colleagues' views of themselves as professionals, and how their willingness to share innovative instructional strategies and sound educational philosophies with our staff has created an exciting professional learning community right here on our campus.

We are watching as continued budget cuts devastate the programs and services we provide to our students and increase our class sizes, but as long as inspired educators are among our ranks, we have some hope of continuing to provide relevant, research-based professional development to one another, even as funding for outside support dries up.

The Writing Project has been the single most influential provider of professional development--sought both by our school as an institution and privately by individual teachers--to our staff.

I am writing to urge you to support the National Writing Project as it faces losing its federal funding. The NWP has 37 years of success in improving literacy among students by supporting the development of their teachers.

Rep. Davis, I want to thank you for your time and your support, and for that serendipitous plane ride which provided the opportunity for me to talk live and in person with an elected representative I admire. I appreciate your work in our community and support of education.

Sincerely,

Fer

Make You Feel My Love

2011-04-02T22:15:00.001-07:00

"Our love story may not be traditional, and some people may never understand it, but to me it is a fairytale."

The wedding we attended this evening was magical.

I struggle with being witness to such abundance of love and to a society which denies its legitimacy. Nevertheless, hope, too, abounds that our children tearing it up on the dance floor tonight will know another way.

For A&E

Between you

there is no thing;

there is only

you and you.

There are

you.

Tend the garden beneath

her branches.

Water the base of

her trunk.

Fertilize the soil

within which

the roots of

your strong trees

intertwine.

In Which I Capsize in a Lake Full of Hippos, and Run with the Wildebeests

2011-03-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago a good friend of mine posted on Facebook that she was surprised to learn that hippos were dangerous. I won't tell you where she learned this, but it was ~~The Bachelor~~ not the Nature Channel. I commented that hadn't I told her about the time I was afraid for my life having capsized a sailboat in a lake full of hippos? Actually, the hippo part was not the most frightening aspect of my misadventure, which involved Brian, a friend visiting from London. But anyway. No, I hadn't told my friend that story, nor the other friends commenting on ~~The Bachelor~~ hippos, and I've been meaning to tell this tale of adventure from my time in Africa, so here is a transcribed entry from my Kenya journal, June 1997:

...we arrived at Lake Naivasha around 4:00 and set up tents near the surprisingly nice Naivasha Yacht Club "lodge" on a grassy knoll overlooking the notch of the lake where the yachties sail their Lasers. Suzanne and I went on a short run near some water buck down by the road. Later, we had a pizza appetizer by the fire, a spaghetti dinner, and an early to bed, as we were all exhausted.

We got up early the next morning to scrub my friends' neglected Laser 2. We shoddily rigged it and Randy and I went for a virgin sail. I sat ashore while he sailed with Suzanne; then he came in and "handed me the helm" to take Brian out, which I did, skeptically, as my most recent sailing experience was years prior--a season on my college sailing team, as crew, never skipper. Jokes were made about Brian losing his money (which--foreshadowing alert--was in his wallet in his pocket, but also LUCKILY attached to his belt).

We had a nice sail, but I was a bit nervous and too harried to effectively tell Brian how to assist. I became REALLY nervous when I realized a boat race was starting and we were poised to be in the middle of it. In a moment of gusty wind near the shore, too much attention to the helm and not to the sail, or vice versa, I capsized the boat. I saw it coming, failed to warn my friend, and sort of stepped out onto the sail and then into the water. Without a life jacket.

I think I started laughing then. Poor Brian. He had a hat, sunglasses, Tevas, and poor swimming skills to contend with, along with the shock of being dumped into the water.

The boat turtled soon thereafter. I was momentarily clueless about what to do, and then a passenger in the first boat which passed us reminded me to stand on the centerboard to right it. I stood on the edge of the boat and pulled on that centerboard with all my strength. Brian helped. The boat finally came over, and then came all the way over again, in a scary tumble of sail and mast and finally boat coming right at us. I believe this sequence of events happened twice, as Brian struggled to keep his sandals on. But the thought of hippos below us, nipping at our heels, encouraged our efforts to get ourselves back on the boat.

The following time I attempted to right the boat, I relaxed myself, and realized I was trembling all over from fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion, and that I had swallowed a whole lot of (hippo pee) lake water. I also realized how capable people drown in these circumstances, and why people wear life jackets. Pulling that centerboard had done a number on my arms and quadriceps. Finally, a passing sailor asked if we wanted the rescue boat and Brian and I, lacking any remaining pride, adamantly affirmed we did.

The rescue boat appeared with Suzanne and Randy in it, as well as Brian's and my cameras. They circled us like shark photographers, and we couldn't help laughing as we begged for assistance. With proper coaching, Brian and I successfully righted the boat. By that time I was not only tired, but feeling embarrassed and sorry that I had overturned my friends' vessel. I knew I did not want to sail it to the dock. Randy took over and I joined the rescue boat and "recovered."

Back on shore, I ate the remaining cold spaghetti and took a hot shower. We made a short trip to town to Elementaita Weavers, where I bought a handwoven blanket and pillow, and returned to the Yacht Club veranda with apples and our books for a lazy afternoon.

Just after I had stretched and expressed the desire to Go Take a Nap, an interesting young man I had met earlier--Mark, a Peace Corps volunteer--came up and asked, "You can sail, right?" I looked sidelong at Suzanne and laughed. I thought he was joking.

"My crew is leaving before the next race. Do you want to sail with me?"

I told him he might really regret his choice (although I was vindicated by seven other sailors who capsized that morning), but Mark seemed determined.

I was put in a harness, a new experience for me, and we practiced flying the spinnaker once; the next thing I knew we were racing. I will admit that I had no idea where we were on the lake or the race course the entire time we sailed. I was simply concentrating on doing the right thing at the right moment. And hiking out, along with tacking and trimming the jib, required more strength, grace, and agility than I appeared to have remaining.

Nevertheless, Mark was great to sail with, and an odd skipper: he didn't give orders, nor get frantic and shout, and was just as interested in talking to me as he was in sailing. I was enjoying myself. Then we capsized. But before I could panic or become hippo fare, we were back in the boat.

Next, "we" somehow screwed up the spinnaker, and as I was attempting to fetch it out of the water, I fell out of the boat so that I was dangling backside down by the rubber band attached to my harness, laughing and yelling, "I'm gone...I'm out...I'm Not In The Boat!" To which my calm skipper replied, "Yet strangely still with us," as I was dragged alongside the racing boat. He made a deft turn which boomeranged me back aboard, and Mark admitted to me it was the first time he'd lost his crew without capsizing.

Being outside the boat over the water in a harness (the right way), virtually flying, was exhilarating and probably the best of any sailing experience I'd had. When I thought my thighs could take no more, the races were over.

Just in time for confirmation that the crowd on shore had witnessed my sidecar excursion, and for a promised run with Suzanne. We headed over to Crescent Island, taking off our running shoes to wade across the gully. We ran down the airstrip with an amazing view of Mount Longonot. It was not long before we saw herds of zebra, water buck, Thompson's gazelles and finally, wildebeest, in the fields ahead. We had to negotiate where to run without unwittingly causing a stampede.

The run was spectacular: fever trees along the lake, a gorgeous sunset, zillions of pelicans set to flight by our thoughtless feet, and plovers dive-bombing us as we headed out, perceived threats to their nests. We ran for over an hour, I on the fumes of adrenaline from earlier adventures, and returned to camp for lentils and drinks with Randy, Brian, and Mark.

I slept soundly that night with bruised legs, beers in my belly, and a deep sense of self satisfaction and relief that it wouldn't be death by drowning, or by hippo, today in Kenya.

List: Nine Years

2011-03-23T15:52:00.001-07:00

Husband and I have been married nine years today!

Nine of the amazing memories we've amassed:

1. Lying in the sand outside our hut on our honeymoon in Belize, watching the stars and talking.

2. Taking Big Sis to dear friends' wedding in Guatemala over Thanksgiving when she was just over one year old. We felt adventurous and had a magical time.

3. The Lilith Fair concert last summer, dancing and singing with our daughters.

4. Overnight at a hotel in La Jolla a few years ago...a luxurious gift from my brother and sister-in-law, who watched our kids, too.

5. Weekend snugglenests with the girls, curled up on the floor or crowded on the bed or couch, watching movies.

6. Camping trips to Palomar Mountain: fishing, hiking, sleeping in a tent.

7. Husband sleeping on the floor next to my hospital bed, where I lay awake and cuddling newborn Little Sis.

8. First time skiing together, Mammoth, California.

9. Our wedding: fish tacos, Sade, dancing like mad, family, friends, a little bit of rain, sailing into our next chapter together.

Talkin' 'bout the Generations

2011-03-17T20:45:00.000-07:00

I love our block in the neighborhood because it seems a little slice of our nation's culture: we are single people, divorcees, married folks and gay couples; big families and small; hoarders and horticulturists, teenagers and toddlers; renters, heirs, and homeowners; bi-racial families, adoptees, and immigrants; young people, middle-agers, retireds, and senior citizens.

Our children have grown up with their neighbors and relationships with them have shaped our daughters' understanding of the world and of life.

Two doors down from us lives J, an elderly woman, whip smart and witty. She's the kind of resident who tracks the comings and goings of her neighbors, alerts us to suspicious occurrences, and bends the ear of frequent passers-by. She'll treat you to a finger-wagging if your parking, driving, dog-walking, or general manners defy her sensibilities.

For years she held weekly yard sales, which was how we came to know J so well; she was often outside in the Southern California sunshine, surrounded by the treasures with which she was willing to part--but not for a steal. On more than one occasion I've found myself bemused, wondering if I'd been had, walking home from J's with an item I didn't know I needed for a questionably reasonable price. But she was also known for slipping Big Sis a toy for free now and then, like the stuffed Santa which remains a favorite of our holiday decorations.

Since she could walk, Big Sis has loved to dash down the block to knock on J's door and chat her up. And while the habits of her neighbors have sometimes raised her brows, J has infinite patience for our daughters, delighting in hearing their news and admiring their outfits or haircuts. In turn, they write her notes and paint her sidewalk with flowers and hearts. It's a case of mutual adoration and affection.

When J was hospitalized two years ago, my husband took the girls to visit her with gifts of drawings and flowers. She is finally home again now after an extended convalescence across the country with her family, and we're watching J regain strength as we get to know her daughter and son-in-law. She has a chair and side table set up in her front yard where she assumes her post as neighborhood watch and greeter. Her daughter snapped this photo of J and Little Sis the other day, and shared it with me as we talked about the importance of their relationship with each other.

Our children benefit greatly from the wisdom, interest, and care of grandparents and their surrogate grannies too. All children should have these opportunities; in other cultures' family structures sharing the home with elder relatives is the norm.

My mother-in-law shared that she had a neighbor named Mamie to whom she'd escape when she "ran away" from home. When Mamie found her little protege on the front doorstep, she'd silently pull down the tea set from the top shelf and set about listening until my mother-in-law's father came to fetch her.

My honorary granny was Elise. She was the mother of my father's college roommate, and when I was a child living in Connecticut we were invited to Captain Jack and Elise's house (with barn and horses) for weekend afternoons and dinner. Their "Mini Manor" was old and grand, with a basement full of international artifacts and funky treasures, including a mink stole which alternately fascinated and horrified me. Elise was the daughter of a diplomat; she had grown up traveling the world and regaled me with tales of horseback rides across the Arabian desert and proposals from princes. Elegant and lively, Elise was a genteel Navy Captain's wife with a mischievous glint in her eye. My relationship with her spanned decades; when I was in college and working on the East Coast and she was widowed and retired to Annapolis, I'd visit her on weekends, often bringing friends who were equally charmed by her and tempted to take her out dancing with us. I dearly loved and admired her and we gave Big Sis's middle name after the woman with qualities I hoped a daughter of mine might have too.

Watching our daughters with J, and with their middle school babysitters and younger cousins, reminds me how important our relationships are with generations ahead of and behind ours. I remember the women older than I who, when I gave birth to Big Sis, looked me in the eye and honestly confided, "This may be the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to you, but it can also make you feel more miserable than you've ever felt. Reach out; we're here." As a teacher and administrator I relish that my role includes advising teenagers and younger professionals, validating their feelings and reassuring them that this, too, will pass. My husband's nickname at the local yacht club growing up was "Barnacle," because he'd stick himself to any boat with older sailors willing to teach and mentor him. Now he nurtures another generation of barnacles.

I find hope and inspiration in my older friends' accounts of their retirement, renewal, recovery, and rediscovery of abandoned passions. My daughters' visits with neighbors up and down the block emphasize the significance we have in one another's daily lives. And there's a lovely symbiosis in the patient audience our elders and youngsters provide for one another...a mutual sense of belonging, a sense of context, a sense of infinity.

This I Believe: The Fun Party Shirt

2011-03-08T19:37:00.000-08:00

I believe in the Fun Party Shirt.

It's customary on our high school campus for athletic--and academic--teammates to wear matching tee shirts, sweatshirts, or uniforms to school on competition days. In a slight twist on tradition, last week the members of the boys' lacrosse team all donned Hawaiian shirts. None of them matching, the shirts were a panoply of color, cheer, individuality, and team camaraderie.

Hawaiian shirts as a genre have evolved beyond simple floral or tropical themes; some of them almost tell the story of an experience or place. Many are outlandish in color and detail. The lacrosse boys' outfits reminded me of the power of the Fun Party Shirt. I can't remember when it was--high school, maybe, or college--when I bought the embellished or bright or ruffled shirt I dubbed the original Fun Party Shirt. My family soon came to recognize and anticipate me and the Fun Party Shirt in attendance at social events.

The Fun Party Shirt is an item of clothing you don't think you need. Sometimes trendy, often outdated; found on sale, in a thrift store, or inspiring a splurge, the Fun Party Shirt is always fancy. It's a departure from one's usual style, an attention getter. It's the textile version of a huge grin.

Cultures with their own versions of the Fun Party Shirt include the Philippines, with the barong, and Latin America and the Caribbean, with the guayabera, which appear to be influencing American men's fashion: lately I see men wearing embroidered long-sleeved Fun Party Shirts (with varying levels of comfort and often at the suggestion of their significant others).

To me, part of the beauty of the Fun Party Shirt is that it involves taking risks with both one's personal wardrobe and social conventions. I think it's a worthy alternative to wearing--or buying--a dress or tie to a semi-formal occasion. And then there's the beauty of the Fun Party Shirt itself, because by definition, it exudes joie de vivre, dabbles in iconoclasm, and boasts some form of bedazzlement, embroidery, or ruffles. It distracts from pimples and bad hair days.

It's a beautiful thing to see someone rocking a Fun Party Shirt, someone feeling good and therefore looking good. Someone planning on a good time. I want to high-five my friends in Fun Party Shirts.

But there's a line, of course, between Fun Party Shirt and Outrageous Fashion Disaster (cue Seinfeld's Puffy Shirt, which was more fun for everyone else). One should generally choose one's own Fun Party Shirt, with encouragement, not bullying, from a friend. And then step lightly into the arena in which one's fashion calls attention to oneself. I recommend an occasion for the Fun Party Shirt where the shirt itself is in attendance to honor the occasion or host. This is how the Fun Party Shirt makes friends and spreads good cheer. I believe sporting a Fun Party Shirt to dinner or a friend's birthday imparts special meaning to the event. Casual Friday at the workplace? The Fun Party Shirt with jeans shouts "TGIF." An unexpected Fun Party Shirt suggests that any day is going to be a good day.

And I believe in wearing a Fun Party Shirt to memorial services, though I'm not always brave enough to slip one on. Memorials leave me inspired with better ways to live, communicate, and acknowledge the people around me. Loved ones who've passed have lessons to impart, and that's cause for celebration for the rest of us; we live better for their having lived. I wear my gratitude with optimism and resolve to appreciate all that I have. The Fun Party Shirt declares I'm alive.

But if the Fun Party Shirt doesn't feel right, isn't an extension of you, consider Fun Party Jewelry, or the Fun Party Tie. Try Fun Party Shoes, too. When in doubt, though, the Fun Party Smile suffices, because ultimately, "it's what you wear from ear to ear, and not from head to toe, that matters."

The Scarlet Pimple

2011-03-01T21:20:00.001-08:00

Big Sis has a pimple on her nose. It's notable, right smack dab in the middle of her allergy-induced nasal crease.

She had a pimple last month, too, on her cheek. So when I saw this one, I groaned inwardly. Really? Already?

My dismay comes in part because I am forty, still with pimples and now with wrinkles, wondering why I couldn't trade one phase for the other inevitable one. I wish for my daughters the clean-palette skin of a fresh-faced Noxzema model, the complexion I never felt I had, despite the mildness of my acne for most of my life. My pimples were enough of an issue in my teen years to garner the attention of dermatologists and the then-new technologies of Retin-A and topical antibiotics, but nothing worked better than letting my skin just be: washing it, drying it, and then liberating it from my nervous, probing fingers. My daily routine of wearing makeup now is a function of my lack of confidence in the beauty of my own bare skin. I shudder that I might project "skinsecurities" on my daughters.

I don't want to make a mountain out of a whitehead. But I found myself cringing at the possibility that little boil atop Big Sis's nose represented the frontier between worlds of innocence and confidence and of peer ridicule and self-consciousness.

Lo and behold, she came home from school yesterday reporting that two boys pointed out her pimple in class. She promptly but unemotionally tattled on them, and they were scolded by their teacher.

No one, my daughter observed, makes fun of the boy in her class with a birth mark, though, or the girl in class with a skin condition. I would hope not, I told her. We often can't help how our bodies are--tall or short, slight or ample, clear-complected or blotchy, including all parts or missing some.

My second grader, who wears unmatching socks and prints, patterns and florals, with hair loose and unkempt or in wacky braids or pigtails and who has a refreshing sense of her own style, is too young for pimples. She is too young to worry about her appearance and to wonder what others might think or say.

And in not so many words, she reassures me she is too young to worry about pimples. Because she isn't worrying. As tempting as it was for me to squeeze both the pus and potential insecurities (most of them mine) out of that zit, we taught her to clean it with soap and leave it alone. She has. She's even, I daresay, forgotten about it.

Because other things are more important to her, like Pajama Day at school tomorrow, and what we're having for dinner. A fourth wiggly tooth. Her latest drawing and her little sister's kindergarten shots.

Pimples, she convinces me: easy come, easy go.

Bring Your Updog

2011-02-23T20:41:00.000-08:00

"What's 'updog'?" you ask.

I don't know! What's up with you?!!

I revive that silly joke every couple of months with the girls, because it never seems to lose its hilarity with the elementary school set.

What's up with this dog, though? I know; I haven't written in a week! I've been cooking curry, building more sandcastles, running, getting to know my newly-minted five-year-old (geez! Five comes in like a lion!), having sleepovers, connecting with former students who need a little TLC, and, well, doing laundry and emptying the dishwasher.

Speaking of emptying the dishwasher, I thought about writing about Marital Stalemates this week. You know, the silent detentes that occur when neither partner cares to complete a task and both parties passively/aggressively work around it?

For example, my husband will wash many dishes rather than empty the dishwasher and reload it. And, on occasion, I will pile on. Eventually, someone breaks (or occasionally a dish).

There's something more reassuring than annoying, I've decided, about recognizing the silent dialogues which occur in the context of a marriage. The paper towel roll, for example, placed next to but not into its holder, utters a familiar refrain. As does the pile of clean laundry I shove back in the dryer versus fold when friends come over. The lone beer bottle in the fridge...or the last beer taken. The reusable grocery bags waiting by the front door to return to the car trunk. The dog needing to go out and the child awake in the middle of the night. My parents employed rock-paper-scissors for diaper changes, etc. Tag, you're it, we mumble as we roll over or lie still, feigning sleep. While the other sighs and gets up.

The whisper of exasperation but ultimate patience we have for each other is actually...wonderful.

That's all!

Happy Birthday, Boodles

2011-02-15T21:41:00.000-08:00

My baby, you're five today. Five! A whole hand. Take that in your face.

Five means kindergarten. Five means no more toddler bed. Five means reading and writing. Five means a fistful of minutes, hours, and days you clutch as you wriggle and leap from my grasp.

This year I watched your babyhood fade and the big girl grow, your legs longer and leaner, your senses keener, your observations more insightful.

You asked for these footy panda pajamas for Christmas because you know how they make you snuggly and still young, which you will always be. But each night, like clockwork, you yell from your bed that you're hot, and I yell back the same suggestion: take your jammies off. And so you do. Only to wiggle into them again in the morning after you emerge from your bedroom, half naked and bleary eyed, to give me a hug.

We claim that you're delightfully easygoing, our go-to gal for going with the flow. But when you're grumpy, watch out. You still know how to throw a cringe-worthy tantrum and you're no fun on too little sleep.

There's a certain self sufficiency to you that catches us off guard. You put your stuff away. You know where to find things. You taught yourself to tie your shoes, to ponytail your hair, to fold your clothes. And then you ask us to brush your teeth, in case we're wondering if still you need us.

You kick our fannies at concentration games (how do you DO that?); you are the master of goofy faces; you're a sweet caretaker of children younger than you; you know just how to push your big sister's buttons.

You love penguins, pizza, sweet stuff, dolls, "flatted" blankets, tunafish, shoes, leggings, your cousins, holding hands, and poring over family photo albums.

You're a loyalist at heart, dear Bear--forever ours, but already your own.

We love you. High five!

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T06:37:00.000-08:00

Don't be afrayed, strong heart.

"Let yourself be silently drawn by the pull of what you really love." --Rumi

Card Someone

2011-02-08T20:38:00.001-08:00

A former student of mine sends me (and others) postcards now and then as part of her own "Postcard Project." Sometimes the brief message is a non sequitur, sometimes it's a sweet greeting, and sometimes it's an update on her life or inquiry into mine.

My creative friend is a poet, editor, and "stationer"--see her line of cards and paper here. She's inspired me to send her some postal love in return, so before the holidays I bought a set of 100 "Postcards from Penguin," featuring book covers from the publishing house. I am setting aside a few minutes--on Monday mornings in particular--to send off a couple cards each week.

To initiate your own postcard project, you need only a roll of postcard stamps, a stack of postcards (you may even have some squired away somewhere), and an inclination to snail mail someone from time to time. It feels good, I tell you! And it's cheap and easy. I've enjoyed looking for the right card to match the right sentiment for the right person (for example, the postcard featuring the cover of the novel 1984 went to my best friend, with some thoughts on what "Big Brother" might have seen if he were watching us back when we were in 7th grade).

If you need more immediate gratification than sending postcards to friends and hoping they'll respond in kind, check out Postcrossing or The Postcard Project. My former student introduced me to Postcrossing, and in high school she was one of the students intrigued by PostSecret, a website which publishes postcards created and sent by anonymous contributors revealing secrets (watch out: it's a voyeuristic window into rooms that are usually locked...).

If you're feeling really crafty, make your own postcard and mail it. And if you're feeling creative, go all metaphorical and "send" a postcard from a figurative place (as I had my creative writing students do). Think about where you are right now, and where you could write from (for example, to my forty-something self, from my self in college). What would you tell your now self from your then self? What would your now self tell your future self? You could also write from inside your brain or heart, from "in limbo," from dire straits, from the crossroads...

Anyway, I would keep some postcard stamps handy. Just sayin'.

Forty!

2011-02-04T17:02:00.000-08:00

No longer fumbling, I am firmly forty today. I'm rocking a head cold, a sequin shirt, some grey roots, and a lucky-to-be-me attitude. Because I still feel 32.

To prepare for the transition, I ditched the lipstick brush and Pilates videos, but piles of papers and clothes await my attention--a testament to the fact that I'm really still me, whether I'm 22, 35, or 40 years old.

Tonight, I'm going home to have dinner and a movie snugglenest with my husband and daughters; I can't imagine a better way to celebrate the passing and beginning of another year of my life.

Here's to not fearing my forties. Happy Birthday to me!

(and many more)

Race to Nowhere: On Choosing a Route and Destination

2011-01-31T19:24:00.000-08:00

I wrote last week about my thoughts on homework's role in education in response to our community's showing of the documentary film Race to Nowhere. Tonight, Big Sis's homework was some simple experiments with weight distribution--trying to pick up an object with heels against the wall, and determining if her body was more stable standing or sitting.  Her assignment was fun and easy but encouraged deeper thought and some "Aha!"s.  It didn't require glitter or popsicle sticks or a parent's master's degree: that's what I'm talking about.

But the film Race to Nowhere is about more than homework; it argues that "the whole culture needs to revise what is important and what is not." So this week I explore the role of families in helping kids define What Is Important, and how our schools can support healthy options.

Posted on the bulletin board at Little Sis's preschool is an article titled "Want to Get Your Kids into College? Let Them Play."  The article's authors, an early childhood teacher and professor of medicine and sociology at Harvard,  allude to a study which shows that more opportunities for imaginative play in early childhood (particularly in groups) yield greater chances of success in school and beyond. Make-believe activities support the development of self-regulation, and self-regulating individuals are less likely to drop out, commit crimes, and abuse substances. It turns out that our daughter's preschool, with its multi-age classroom and fairly unstructured curriculum, allows ample opportunity for free playtime.

Big Sis attended this neighborhood preschool too, which I confess we chose primarily for reasons of convenience and because relatives' and friends' children were happily enrolled there too. But on Big Sis's first day of kindergarten, when she placed her backpack over the chair at her tidy new desk, sat quietly on her designated square on the mat, and brought home her first official homework, I was grateful for her preschool in all its free-flowingness. On that first day of kindergarten I could see the remainder of my daughter's life stretching before her, with playtime coming second to All The Important Work She Had to Accomplish.

At various times I had my concerns about the fact that our daughters' preschool didn't emphasize learning letters, numbers, and sounds. Some neighbors opted to enroll their children in more academic preschools. Our kids stayed, though, and not because we thought our preschool was "the best," or even "better" than others nearby. Our daughters, while different in many ways, have in common that they're hardwired for traditional public school: content to sit still and focus on one activity for relatively long periods. My daughters could benefit from a less structured learning environment in preschool. In a similar setting, we can appreciate that different children might be bored or stressed. The key is understanding the needs of your own child.

Race to Nowhere suggests that our current system of schooling, with its perceived emphasis on test scores, GPAs, athletic scholarships, competitions, and college acceptances, is sapping the souls of our students and we've got to fix it. But many of us educators and/or parents derived a common conclusion from the film: what's most important in navigating the stresses of school is knowing your own child, and how his strengths and challenges will be enriched or exacerbated by choices you help him make. The more that schooling is viewed as an individualized journey advancing each student's unique interests and goals, the less it can be characterized as a "race." If winning is getting into Harvard, most of us are going to lose. If winning is developing into self-sustaining, contributing, and satisfied members of society, most of us can win. Redefining achievement and success in our culture has to be part of the dialogue. And families can begin with how they talk to their children.

A mother in the film acknowledges that "even though we know better, we push (our children). I want them to have choices."  Choices aren't a prize at the end of teenagehood; children should be guided in making wise and meaningful choices for themselves all along. Tiger Mom Amy Chua's children are likely to have the choices of "top" colleges--she has pushed them to excel academically and musically--but they aren't permitted to choose their own extracurricular activities nor an instrument besides piano or violin to practice. There's got to be a happy medium between allowing one's child to choose to do nothing and prescribing one's child's interests--and scheduling his time--for him. Knowing your child means understanding if you are parent to a child who pushes himself (even too hard) or to a child who needs encouragement to stretch himself. You adjust accordingly, for the sake of your individual child's health and well being.

It has occurred to me, as I cook dinner and set the table while my daughter does her homework, that we might shift the focus of our pushing and pressure to our children's acquisition of independent living skills, and spend more time teaching them to make a meal, assume responsibility for their belongings and environment, and interact politely and assertively with others.

As parents we also have to acknowledge that we're the consumers in the system we decry. It's easy to claim we have no choices: "Everyone is playing year-round soccer; if my son doesn't, he won't make the team," "Our daughter has to take an SAT prep course or she can't compete with her peers," and "If we don't start ballet now, she'll never have a career as a dancer..."

Reflexive sign-ups result in students who are overscheduled and overburdened with AP courses and activities that may be inappropriate for them, or just...pointless. When the passion for soccer wanes, when the SAT scores don't rise, when the ballerina wants to draw pictures at home instead, it's time to reconsider how we're spending our time (and money). The race is to nowhere when a child--and her family--can't meaningfully link who she is with what she's doing and where she's supposedly heading. How sad to look back at hours of time on a soccer field (working with a team, strengthening one's body, negotiating success and failure) and determine it was all a waste if there's no college athletic scholarship awarded. How sad to look back at experiences in advanced high school courses (critically analyzing topics, pushing the limits of one's cognitive skills, negotiating time and demanding studies) and determine it was all a waste if there's no Ivy League college acceptance.

How sad to recall one's former teacher asking, "You did all that work to go to an Ivy League college and all you want to be is a teacher?"

Childhood and its experiences aren't means to an end; they are stages in a human's development. Throughout childhood children develop their abilities to identify and choose meaningful activities and pursuits, manage stress, balance work and play, build skills, advocate for and support themselves, and collaborate and coexist, with the guidance of their families and schools. And therefore we owe it to our children--and this society--to recognize, embrace, and nurture the gifts of individual children and their application to becoming satisfied and self-sufficient adults.

We're surrounded by friends, family members, and neighbors who pursued individual paths and defined success in a variety of ways, but we often forget about them when we dream for and then design traditional routes to success for our own children.  As individuals we value the artisans, technicians, inventors, mechanics, chefs, assistants, landscapers, and builders whose work we appreciate and admire. We will value them more as a society when families increasingly validate their children's diverse dreams and schools offer more programs and electives to nurture interests and talents in those areas.

Race to Nowhere focuses in part on a family whose thirteen-year-old daughter ended her life, ostensibly as a result of the pressures of performing in school and a disappointing math grade. When I shared with my seven-year-old that I watched a movie about a girl who hurt herself after she did poorly on a test, my daughter nodded. "I understand, Mommy! When I got 'basic' on a test, I slapped myself in the face." Jaws dropped and my husband and I were stunned for a moment. This will be the first year our daughter takes state tests, and there is pressure on schools and teachers--and, oops, students--to perform. In our family we quickly activated Operation Do Your Best and Do Not Stress. Schools, too, with the support of the state and the media (responsible for reminding us how unfavorably Americans compare to other countries' students), need to put testing in its proper place, and use scores as diagnostic tools to support students needing development of basic skills.

Perspective is what we can offer our children as they navigate the choices and pressures of school and activities. Neither we nor our kids are expected to "do and achieve everything," and if we work under that assumption we ought to take a good luck at who is responsible for setting those expectations: most often, ourselves.
Few of us, I suspect, pursue in adulthood the activities which "got us into" college and our current careers (heck, I'm not even working in the area of my college major). For most of us, those sports and activities have been replaced by joyful pursuits for which we require little recognition: gardening, cooking, photography, travel, reading, writing, sewing, fishing, collecting, entertaining, yoga, hiking. Shouldn't our children have opportunities to invest in activities for which they may not receive "credit" but may achieve personal fulfillment?

Let's teach our children to be who they are, versus enlist them in an army of aspiring varsity athletes and 4.0s. We need club founders and joiners and community volunteers and quiet artists and "average joes" who draw people to them. There have to be times, while our children are safe in our nests but growing their wings, for quitting, for starting over, for failing, for obsessing, for taking risks and time-outs.  For dusting off and bouncing back. For taking roads less traveled by or hanging in the slow lane.

Our daughters have both said yes to dance class and no to Little League this spring. We're disappointed; we love balmy evenings at the ball fields. We want our daughters to catch and throw. And there's the possibility of discovering a daughter's innate talent or love for the sport.

But we're listening to them this season. I need to remember to sign them up for dance; for now, we're enjoying the free time.

Homework: Not a Failing Grade

2011-01-26T21:07:00.000-08:00

There I am in the 2004 Yearbook, posing beside the AP Chemistry teacher on the "Staff Standout" page above the caption "Most Likely to Give Homework Due After a Break."

Guilty as charged. I was teaching AP and IB Literature to high school seniors and often assigned reading over holidays. I wasn't dismayed by the student-determined distinction; I felt secure in my relationship with students and confident that I was a good--not oppressive!--teacher. I was even voted "Most Helpful" the year prior.

All this was before, of course, I became a parent of a homework-doer myself. Before I fully understood that for every novel I assigned, a number of students were not reading it. Before I became an administrator and spent hours at high school sports matches, performances, and competitions--the same hours my students were spending before they went home to eat dinner and do homework.

My perspective has changed. I've thought about that often over the years since I took this job as vice principal, with its more global view of students' daily lives. It was easier to forget, as my students' English teacher, that my students were also students of math, science, art, history...with teachers who valued their disciplines and their students' investments in them as well.

I wanted my students to love books as I did, to love our discussions about characters, and to love writing, too.  In order to love literature, I knew they had to understand it. To understand it they had to know it. To know it they had to read it.

So I required that they read, and they had to read a lot--almost as much as I had to read in college English courses. But this was a college English course, you see: it was an Advanced Placement English Literature course, which earns students a weighted grade and college credit if they pass the end-of-year College Board exams.

And, my students were practicing for college, by not reading every book assigned.

But high school students are not college students. Students in high school traditionally attend all their classes every day and complete daily homework for each course. Colleges generally offer some flexibility in scheduling; students enroll in fewer classes which meet less often than students are accustomed to in high school.

The daily grind of high school, overscheduling of children, and competition for college--along with parents and schools who are perceived as promoting and perpetuating these problems--are the subjects of recent dialogue. "Tiger Mom" Amy Chua, profiled in The Wall Street Journal's article "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior," has elicited outrage and a slew of responses.

Meanwhile, parent groups brought the documentary film Race to Nowhere to audiences of educators and community members in our city, and it has prompted daily discussions and proposed policy changes in our school district. Whom the film targets in its portrayal of the stresses wearing down our kids depends on the opinion of the viewer. But there's no doubt that homework is cast as an antagonist.

Homework is an easy target. It's a universal enemy, as it represents the tasks imposed on us which we're obligated to perform, in seemingly Sisyphean ritual. Even now, domestic duties--bills, laundry, cooking, dishes, assembling school lunches--loom each evening as forms of parental "homework," enjoyable sometimes, but often inspiring take out and piles of unfolded clothes on the couch.

When I was an English teacher I recall the various ways I both avoided and negotiated the burden of grading homework--by assigning myself nightly apportionments, by dedicating chunks of hours to the red pen on weekends, by doubling up so I could give myself a night off. Under duress, under a serious time crunch, I would render inconsequential a pile of reading questions or vocabulary sentences on occasion. My subsequent guilt reminded me to vow to assign only what I could humanly assess and give credit.

But therein lies the rub. Athletes, musicians, artists, writers, chefs, technicians, scientists all practice their craft for hours in excess of the moments--or performances--on which they are assessed. It's not unreasonable for coaches and teachers to encourage their charges to practice, and to do so without the expectation of points or credit or reward. It's possible that mastery requires more work than a coach or teacher can observe, assess, or comment upon. Therefore it falls upon not only the teacher, but the student and/or parent, to determine when enough is enough.

A senior approached me at lunch today to ask me if I would distribute "homework passes." "To all students?" I asked him. "Yeah..." he nodded. "Or just me...I had a game last night, and then I was tired, and I didn't do my English homework."

"What you need to do is own it; be honest," I suggested. "I pay bills late once in a while. One late bill is no big deal, as long as my other bills are on time. But if I continue to pay them late, my credit score will suffer. Tell your teacher you chose not to do your homework last night, but you'll do it from now on. And then...do it."

He looked at me. "Ms. M, you are no help."

Maybe putting homework in perspective is what we all need to do, in an effort to stem the fear, the drudgery, the shortcuts and copying, the shame, the excuses, and the overemphasis on it. As I've chronicled, homework has the potential to hijack our household, and there are nights we set it aside. But I wouldn't argue for getting rid of it altogether.

Here are my reasons why:

1. Homework connects families to what children are learning at school. If Big Sis didn't have second grade homework, I wouldn't know that there are better methods for adding and subtracting than borrowing and carrying. Observing your child doing homework provides clues about how your learner approaches problems and what your learner finds easy and challenging.

2. Homework reinforces prioritization. There are nights when homework should take a back seat and the consequences of missed points and credit are worthy prices to pay. Having Something You Have to Do, though, around the Things You Want to Do, is simply a function of Real Life. The extent to which one wants one's school--or work--life to infringe upon the rest of one's life becomes one's own discretion. With consequences, of course.

3. Mastery Requires Practice. And learning a topic in depth often requires reading outside class time. We don't eat all our food in restaurants (or the dining hall) (I hope). We eventually have to go out, gather ingredients, mix them up, work it out, hopefully eat. That's real life. We do better when we've had independent practice. It can't all be served up on a platter.

And here are suggestions for more wholesome, healthy (dare I say happy?) homework:

1. Advance Planning. In college, professors hand out syllabi for their courses on the first day of class, with due dates and exams calendared. In elementary school, students often get packets for the entire week. With this kind of information in hand, a student and family can plan ahead and around major events. We enjoy nights of no homework--evenings for dinner out or with friends or for Family Games. Having it all up front and the chance to get ahead helps.

2. Creative Approach, and Choices. One of the functions of homework is to assess mastery. But where practice isn't the purpose, assessing critical thinking skills should be, and inspiration can reign. Not all homework will or should be exciting, but proof that students read the chapter can take many forms, and options for students improve motivation. When I experimented with genres and allowed students to write essays as dialogues between characters, writing literary analyses became more intriguing to students, and grading them more fun for me. Educators must vow to fight fiercely associations with "busywork." As Lily Tomlin said, "I like a teacher who gives you something to take home to think about besides homework."

3. Balance. How much homework is too much depends on many variables, including an individual student's preparation or capacity to tackle the material and how efficiently he/she works.  An educator's healthy practice includes reflecting on assessments and their volume, purpose, and necessity. If homework functions, in part, to determine what and who needs more attention in the classroom, then balance means not assigning or grading so much that careful feedback isn't possible.

Parents can do their part by recognizing that a rigorous and challenging curriculum isn't measured by the volume of homework in their children's backpacks. In my AP Literature course we moved through novels at a steady clip that required outside reading, but I acknowledge that I sometimes assigned homework to maintain the daily habit and routine. I recognize now that as a collective team, my colleagues and I were providing students with the discipline of daily homework. As individuals, we shouldn't feel compelled to pile on because of the unspoken expectation of daily homework in every course.

Balance ultimately means putting homework in its place as only one seat at a table reserved for a large party of aspects of a child's education.  Schools must continue to determine ways to level the playing field for those students without the benefit of parents who supervise homework or a home environment that fosters learning. Schools can help by providing supports for students who struggle to meet standards, who don't complete homework, and who fail. Teachers can help by continuing to reflect on the value of homework in achieving their courses'--and individual students'--objectives.  Parents can help by reinforcing healthy approaches to schooling at home and honest accountability for schoolwork, both finished and incomplete. Students can help by offering teachers respectful feedback on what they find valuable and meaningful, and by acknowledging the role of their own efforts and investment in their education.

Trolls Under Every Bridge

2011-01-23T10:20:00.000-08:00

I once wrote about street artists on this blog, and about a former student who was inspired by them. And then this fall, Shepard Fairey participated in the "Viva la Revolucion" show at the Museum of Contemporary Art, and painted an incredible mural in the neighborhood adjacent to ours. (Read here about one of Fairey's San Diego murals which was vandalized during the exhibit).

So I was excited to see this article about another former student in today's paper. Kyle has transformed himself from an angry, disconnected, and illegal tagger, and he is channeling his talent productively. While his tagging didn't appear to have had political messages or the aim of raising social awareness, there's something fascinating about the public attention-getting that inspired it. Certainly taggers and "legitimate" street artists have that in common.

What I was not excited to see were the comments left by readers after the article, many of them mean and dismissive. Most of them don't know this young man and his journey, struggles, and true character. The commenters who know him signed under screen names. I am more and more dismayed by the audacity of readers operating behind the mask of anonymity, or the likelihood of never seeing their target again.

At least the Westboro Baptist Church stands behind its vitriol.

Goodness, people, have your opinions! Please, have your opinions; the world is richer with opinionated people. But consider the vehicle you put them in and how you drive it. It's okay to leave that Hummer in the garage sometimes.

Speaking of driving, yesterday I made a rather bold left turn into parking lot traffic at Ikea, inspiring a man to snarl, "Nice driving!" at me as he passed my minivan. I had to explain to my daughters that it wasn't my smartest nor safest move (although, in my defense I'd say it's a stretch to suggest I cut anyone off or caused more than a tap of brakes). Honestly, that guy kind of bummed me out; I'm not so good at shrugging off negative commentary. It's not that I don't have my own internal growling at fellow drivers running in my head. I just think in your head is a good place to keep it. I'm guessing the woman who gestured angrily at me in an intersection several years ago wishes she had kept her frustration to herself--after she realized I was her daughter's teacher.

I once left a comment about my experience with professional development after an article about the International Baccalaureate Program in our local paper. When someone personally attacked me and my benign response, I identified that "someone" as a woman from another state with a website and mission to "reveal the true facts" about IB. Though I happen to be a fan of the IB curriculum, I am interested in hearing why others are not. But when "dialogue" opens with a detractor making broad assumptions about me and my livelihood and motives, I quickly lose interest in discourse. Even being defensive isn't fun when you're caught in an endless loop of reprisals; I just pack up my bat and ball and go home. It isn't even ironic that the anti-IB website has a page dedicated to bemoaning the hateful responses in defense of IB that the site has inspired.

The Internet has provided us with an immediate outlet for our strong opinions and proclivities for spiteful backlash. We no longer have to type, print, lick and affix stamp (steps which provide opportunity for reconsidering one's thoughts), mail our commentary, and wait to see if it's published. We can watch the drama unfold minute by minute as we react and our responses spawn retorts. I try to imagine the "trolls," the anonymous and often irrational Internet instigators, in their homes, at their computers. Who are these people? Do I work with them? What would they say to my face? Collectively, I suppose they represent the pettiest, meanest, nit-pickiest, and most biased and judgmental parts of ourselves.

I have to wonder what happened to wondering. To inquiry. To thoughtful probing, followed by listening. Reasonable and respectful expression of thoughts and opinions ought to beget similarly rational responses.

Let's go back to acknowledging no one is right all of the time, that being right doesn't matter all of the time, that we're all busy trying to figure it all out, anyway. Muddling through.

As my grandfather loved to quote, "I never make mistakes. I thought I did once, but I was wrong."

A little humility, I think, is what we need.

Feel free to disagree.

Fumbling Toward Forty: To Grey, or (Not) Too Grey

2011-01-18T19:53:00.000-08:00

My plunge into school administration coincided closely with the birth of Little Sis almost five years ago. So closely that I spent the first year of my vice-principalship attempting to block the three doors to my office while I pumped breastmilk. So closely that I struggled to determine the greater source of my stress and sleeplessness: new job or new baby? So closely that I suspect hormones played a role in the crazy nightmares I experienced shortly after assuming my new role, most of which featured me drunk driving and subsequently ruining my career. Forever.

So I had my irrational moments that first year of being Mom of Two and Vice Principal. These days I am clearer thinking but grey haired. I suppose I will never know if my greyness is purely a function of my age, or if the foggy haze of Little Sis's infancy combined with wondering what the heck I was doing in my new office burned additional brunette-producing follicles at the root.

I swear my mother was not this grey at my age. In fact, at my age, she sported few enough greys to name each hair as she plucked it, thereby preserving her visage of youth: This one is for that "boyfriend" you had in tenth grade; this one is for when you burned up the engine in the diesel Rabbit...

To achieve the same objective I would have to shave a stripe at each temple, and attribute them to Things I Shouldn't Have Worried About.

Mind you, I don't think I am prematurely grey; you should see my husband, Silver Fox. I long, in fact, to grey as early and gracefully as the members of his family. Or just go grey later. Instead, I am almost 40, I think I am 32, and this issue is black and white to me: I don't feel grey.

The first time I dyed my hair (excepting some timid experiments with peroxide and sprays of lemon juice at the beach in high school), I was studying in Italy during my junior year of college. An Italian friend suggested strisce di sole would suit me, and with Superga sneakers and more navy blue and lime geen in my wardrobe, I could pass for Italian. Still obviously American, I came home to California the following summer blonder than I've ever been.

I didn't color my hair again until I was 26 and living in Africa. A Kenyan friend suggested that henna (all natural!) would perk up my brown locks. I grew fond of the musty-smelling mud and the orangey-auburn tint it left in my hair and brought several packets of henna powder home with me.

Then a former student's mother became my hairdresser and she'd occasionally highlight, or "lowlight," my hair when I had the patience for the almost-two-hour appointments.

Since having kids, though, I've practically given up on getting my hair cut. I confess that after needing to cancel a salon appointment before the holidays, I went ahead and trimmed my own hair (don't look too closely...). The upside is the money I am saving and also the time. No to mention the possibly horrific outcomes. The downside is new day, old 'do. Nothing doing.

A couple years ago I started dyeing my own hair to mask the emergence of those wiry tell-tales. The truth about grey hair and wrinkles (all those creams and serums notwithstanding) is that they don't stop coming. I'll never be less grey or wrinkly. But I can hide the greys. At about $6.99 for "Root Touch-Up," I'm not breaking the bank, and I have found a hue that doesn't inspire too much commentary. I'll admit that drugstore hair dye does seem to make my scalp "crust" or "scab" (a wee bit) and my ears burn (a tad).

Honestly, I should embrace my grey. It's just that it's not...huggable yet. My every-other greys mouse up my browns, making my hair look tired. And my hair has no excuse to be tired, seeing as how it never gets a workout at the beauty shop, and I only wash it every other day (or two) and blow it dry maybe once a week.

I want the grey hair of the women I admire, women with all-white or silvery tresses. Women who suddenly look great in jewel tones and robin's-egg blue. Women who dress and wear their naturally gorgeous hair confidently.

On the cruise, we played a game called "Things," and one of the categories was "things you would ask a fortune teller." I wrote, "Should I go grey naturally?" and eventually a family member guessed the question was mine. My mother, my personal clairvoyant, shook her head. "Nope. You're too young."

I tend to agree. I'm turning forty in a few weeks, but I plan on remaining virtually 32 for a while longer. I can always reassess in a few years, as my virtual age creeps closer to 40 and my actual age becomes less and less relevant to me, along with my looks.

In the meantime, I think I'll make an appointment and keep it. I think I'll treat myself to a cut and color.

January, Joy

2011-01-17T17:08:00.000-08:00

Our cousin from (snowy) Colorado is visiting and we spent a glorious day at the beach today with him.

Truly, does it get better than this: watching kiddoes play together, outside, on a beautiful day?

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

A Part of the Main

2011-01-12T19:45:00.001-08:00

Big Sis came home on Monday talking about heroes, just in time for the commemoration of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday next week. Her class is researching heroes for group reports, and her trio of second graders chose Florence Nightingale. She mentioned other heroes they're learning about, including Marian Anderson, the Wright Brothers, Cesar Chavez, and Rosa Parks. Tonight, with Obama's speech at the Arizona memorial audible in the background, Big Sis expounded on Ms. Parks, exclaiming, eyes wide, about how "rude" the people were who commanded her to get up out of her seat on the bus. We talked about the segregated drinking fountains and restrooms of Jim Crow. She shook her head. "Those are the dumbest ideas I ever heard of."

We were reminded this week that dumb ideas aren't dead sixty years later, though fewer of them are written into law in our country.

Our high school's production of the play The Laramie Project enters its second weekend this Friday. The play depicts the reactions of the townspeople of Laramie, Wyoming following the 1998 beating and subsequent death of gay college student Matthew Shepard. Since its debut ten years ago, the play has sparked dialogue where it is produced, and at times, controversy. It's an ambitious endeavor for high school theater. Ours is the only high school in a relatively small, conservative community with a population about the same size as Laramie's. There are mature themes and language in the play, and our actors explained the script and their experiences reading and rehearsing it at an information forum for parents and community members prior to the play's opening. Its messages of healing and hope have inspired the players--who represent the high school, alternative school, and middle school--as well audiences who attended showings last weekend. Our student body viewed the first act during assemblies on Monday and sat rapt. The Laramie Project is a timely and appropriate centerpiece for ongoing dialogue on our campus about bullying, harassment, and discrimination.

The shootings of a Congresswoman and a score of others in Arizona on Saturday morning provided a grim reminder that hate and extremism in America continue to claim victims. The accounts of heroism and hope which quickly emerged from the tragedy wove a thread of immediate relevance connecting our production to events in Arizona.

And then the Westboro Baptist Church formally linked us as targets of their hateful, irrational, and deeply offensive demonstrations. They are calling on followers to picket our Saturday evening performance of The Laramie Project, following their protest at the funeral of nine-year-old Arizona shooting victim Christina Green on Friday afternoon. Westboro Church founder Fred Phelps picketed Matthew Shepard's funeral, and he is portrayed in the play; he has a history of picketing its performances. Despite rationale provided by Westboro Baptist Church on their website, the picketing of an innocent little girl's memorial remains incomprehensible.

We learn that hatred begets tragedy and that tragedy often begets hope and healing, even art and enlightenment. When hatred turns and nips at the heels of tragedy, seeking to undermine hope and healing, we are confounded.

The news that Westboro Church members would protest our play triggered swift and strong reactions from a variety of our students, all interested in standing down hatred. The threat of detractors has galvanized students to organize peaceful counter protests.   We are watching groups of students and individuals uniting to support one another and their rights and to represent values of respect, acceptance, and love. The community is rallying in kind; we have received messages of support from parents, former students, community leaders, the Anti-Defamation League.

Presenting a profound contrast with the "church" followers planning to condemn us, members of our own city's Council of Churches sent a letter of support to our school district. They are inviting the community to stand with them against "unmitigated hatred" and members of their congregations to attend Saturday's performance "as a sign of solidarity with the students involved" in the play.

Local media outlets are reporting on the potential protest and counter demonstrations, interviewing and quoting our students: "They want one of two things from us--a reaction, and for us to get mad and in their faces. Or for us to do nothing and make them feel like they won, and we're not going to give them either."

Whether or not Westboro representatives materialize on Saturday, our students remain at the center of a powerful learning opportunity.   Beyond the critical examination they may be giving their own beliefs, thoughts, and biases, they are exploring the First Amendment and researching city ordinances. They will balance expressing offense and outrage with tempering their passions. They are walking a path cleared by the likes of Rosa Parks.

Concerned for our students' safety, our principal sent a message to parents this week: "While we believe that an act of solidarity would be a powerful exercise, we are asking for your support in reinforcing the difference between peaceful demonstrations and engaging and interacting with others as they exercise their rights...we balance protecting our students' rights with demonstrating our respect for the rights of citizens of our country."

Appropriately, President Obama urged us in his speech at the Arizona memorial tonight:

...at a time when our discourse has become so sharply polarized--at a time when we are far too eager to lay the blame for all that ails the world at the feet of those who happen to think differently than we do–it’s important for us to pause for a moment and make sure that we're talking with each other in a way that heals, not a way that wounds.

Our production of The Laramie Project--the attention it has garnered, dialogue it has inspired, and our community's embrace and support of our students' courage--represents a crucible of discussion and events occurring across our nation. At the core of the play, and of the shootings of innocent citizens by an angry young man in Arizona, are questions about how we treat one another, about how we prevent violence borne of ignorance and hatred. Our students, our community, and our nation are called by President Obama to "use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy, and remind ourselves of all the ways that our hopes and dreams are bound together."

How appropriate that the weekend before we honor the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr., our students stand poised to demonstrate that "darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

Yes, 2011

2011-01-10T21:10:00.001-08:00

I'm going to start off by noting that there appears to be a certain cynicism with the changing of the year. 2010, like so many years before it, gets no love in the retrospective reviews. Even Jon Stewart told it not to let the door hit it in the rear.

What does it mean to look back at a year and say, hey, that wasn't so bad? Does it mean you're insensitive to the tragedies faced by others?

I wonder about the value in characterizing a year anyway. The beginning and end, after all, are arbitrary moments in time. Maybe a year is too much to average. Perhaps we should work month by month...or day by day. Was today a good day? Geez, even a day has time to start out great, go haywire somewhere in the middle, and then redeem itself.

We have a nightly ritual at the dinner table of sharing, in turn, the best part of our day. Often, for my husband and myself, dinner with our kids and sharing the best parts of our day is the best part of our day. Maybe at the end of the day what matters is being able to recognize that this moment, right now, is wonderful. Who cares what came before it.

Determined to seize more pleasurable moments, I am going into 2011 avowing to say "yes" more often. I had some practice in 2010, what with taking off my clothes in front of strangers, agreeing to knock on strangers' doors, and entering a contest or two. Don't get excited; though that little list makes it sound like I'm ready to audition for Big Brother, my intent is to focus my affirmations on my friends and family.

I want to work on my knee-jerk NOs. Truth is, I like me some control. (In my defense, I think I come by it honestly: I'm the eldest sibling of five; I'm a vice principal). I'm often the mom that shakes her head no to spontaneous sleepovers (the aftermath is ugly). I'm the mom admonishing her daughters to get down off that, to stop running around, to lower voices. I generally say no to requests for "just one more" or "five more minutes."

And I think sometimes I'm a little unreasonable.

My daughter's Christmas gift to me is a reminder that times I've said yes (to coaching soccer, to chaperoning field trips, to building fairy houses) haven't gone unnoticed.

So I will try to say yes to more messy projects, however maddening. I'll consider requests for one more book or clementine, even when it is almost bedtime, even when teeth are already brushed. I'll look at what's really at stake when the girls are loud and rambunctious. I'm going to examine more closely my motives behind "no." Sometimes, I am convinced, it's just as easy and more enjoyable to say yes.

I'll continue to roadblock the excesses that wear down what seems to matter most: buying more stuff, watching more TV, treats, treats, and more treats.

But to my husband, I say yes. You're my model, agreeable mate.

Where the rest of the world is concerned, I want to say yes when I really mean it. I stopped myself--actually deleted the email before sending--from volunteering to coach soccer this spring. Although I had a blast last season, I am not yet excited for the next one. Saying yes less out of obligation means saying yes more often to friends. Yes, I am available. No, I am not too busy.

I'm saying yes to running and writing this year, too. So if my kids, my body, and some as-yet-unidentified publications all say yes, too, I'm thinking 2011 could be a banner year.

New Year's Tribute: WWKD

2011-01-08T17:45:00.001-08:00

Last new year I wrote a tribute to my sister-in-law after I learned New Year's gifts from artists to their patrons were meant to honor the role benefactors played in making artists' work possible.

I quote myself from last year in asserting that anyone could credit someone with making his/her current life's work possible, if not easier. In my case, there are many people I could thank for allowing me to raise a family and pursue the career that has felt just about right at each turn and trajectory.

This year, I am honoring the principal to my vice-ness, K. We are in the midst of our fifth year together as high school administrators, and I owe him the sharp turn I took down this path, as well as how relatively un-bumpy the road has been.

When you work closely with someone who is unfailingly honest and who has high ethical standards, it shapes how you work and view the world and relationships. While I consider myself an ethical person, I won't ever know what I would be like if I learned to be a school administrator under anyone else. I just know that I am very fortunate to have his model.

In school leadership, and perhaps in other leadership roles as well, it's easy to succumb to the path of least resistance, paved by passive aggression, white lies, and deferred maintenance. Poor school leaders enable poor school teachers, and inconsistent enforcement of policies and standards breeds lack of trust among students, staff, and parents. It takes guts, and some heartache, to do the right thing. I've learned this along the way through challenging circumstances, but the ultimate responsibility--the hardest conversations, calls, and decisions--fall to the principal.

I've joked that I often ask myself (particularly when I can't simply walk through the doors adjoining our offices and directly consult him) WWKD? But in fact, I am perfectly sincere. At the back of my first-year vice principal notebook I kept a page of lessons I learned from my principal, partner, and "work husband."

Among them:

1. You tell the truth because the truth is bigger than you are. The alternative, lying or failing to confront the issue, is seductive because it's less painful for you, and seems easier on the other person. But the job is not about you nor the other person; it's about 1100 students and their best interests. Don't save yourself; do right by them.

2. Don't use a convenient excuse in exchange for the truth. Sometimes we are "saved" from having to deal with a situation because it changes or circumstances arise to smokescreen the real issue. People deserve the straight scoop, even if it has become irrelevant.

3. Letting frustrations fester is unhealthy for the entire community. As someone uncomfortable with confrontation, directly addressing people who offend me or going back to people with feedback after the fact is not a natural impulse. But I have watched relationships on our campus grow in a culture of honesty--in which I can tell you I feel disrespected by your response or behavior and at the same time communicate to you the importance of our relationship to me. Done properly, confronting true feelings defuses rather than breeds conflict.

4. Consistency. "We hang our hats on consistency," my principal says, and there is probably no approach more important. Students, parents, and staff need to know there are no "back-room deals" nor special favors. We've built a compendium of past practices and precedents, and consult them when there are judgments to make. Foolish consistency, however, prevents an organization from evolving and progressing. At times, we've changed our minds, reconsidered, and slowed down. Ultimately, you listen to your people, and you listen to your heart.

5. Trust, Value, and Respect. These are the values underpinning relationships on our campus--the triad my principal invokes often. There is trust among colleagues to make good decisions in the best interests of our students and school community; the work of staff members is valued; respect is implicit. Our staff members are unusually close to our student body, and the trust and respect we have in and for students (and vice versa) affords them rare opportunities and makes our school a safer place.

6. Be True to Your School. Blind loyalty is no good. But when you have built an organization upon a foundation of honesty, consistency, trust, value, and respect, then you have a community in which members go to bat for one another, advocate for one another, and refuse to throw one another under the bus. Our leader models this by putting our high school's needs first, always. It's a tremendous responsibility. When bad things happen, though, we know how to take care of one another.

Finally, I am fortunate to work with someone who views me as his friend, as his family, and as his administrative partner, despite the difference in our titles. We are both raising small children, and there's no question of where both our priorities should lie. He and I have shared the responsibilities of supervising games, dances, and performances in a way that has made the demands of a stressful job manageable, in a way that has allowed for some balance--for us to coach our children's Little League and soccer teams, and to drop our kiddoes off at school some mornings.

He understands that I cry when I am tired or frustrated; his sense of humor and love of a good prank have lightened dark days; he has encouraged me to invest in and grow my personal and professional selves.

I have great awe and admiration for the demands--on heart and soul--of being a high school principal; I don't know that I will ever be ready or willing to shoulder them myself. But I do know that I have a philosophical foundation and tools to take with me wherever I go. Thank you, K.

Styrofoam Peanuts to My Soul

2011-01-05T19:49:00.000-08:00

I once created a "found" poem of lines written by my high school students in their letters of introduction to me at the beginning of the school year. I discovered the poem today as I perused files on my hard drive.

It's a glimpse into the young people I learned with almost ten years ago. Each line is by a different author.

Struggling with his death shaped me into an entirely different person.
When I get older my goal is to become a lawyer so I can knock some sense into people discriminating…
There is only one other place that comes close to the place I call home, and that is camp.
My fear is being in front of a big audience, but sooner or later that fear starts to burn off.
I have found a new love for waterfowl.
I probably turned out so open-minded and know so much more about what is actually out there due to what I experienced with my brother.
Sometimes I can have a major attitude problem and just want to be left alone.
Hobbies would be playing air guitar and acoustic guitar.
Ever since I can remember I have had the habit of opening the fridge without needing anything from it.
I don’t want to be around pot smokers or people that drink.
We moved down here on the boat we live on.
I have had a paper route before and it was one of those things that taught me about responsibility.
I don’t have much insecurity, but I absolutely hate it when people talk about me.
I also wish people could fly; that would be cool.
Now I volunteer at special needs camps and the Special Olympics.
I am a walk through a silent graveyard.
I pretty much hold my tongue for no one and my language would put a sailor to shame.
I like to paintball, surf, body board, body surf, jet ski, and swim.
I grew up with a family of many different races, so I don’t accept crude jokes or name calling.
My biggest fear is the consequences of trouble. I’m not exactly scared of doing the trouble; I’m scared of what it might end up becoming in the long run.
I like to draw and do so frequently… Doodling is just something my hand does on its own.
I pulled off my first political maneuver; we were both elected, and my interest in politics was solidified.
I have a birthmark on my stomach and my sister says it looks like a heart.
I am terrible at finding things that I have lost, even if it is right under my nose.
I believe in honest work, I am a good friend, and I am a perfectionist!
I don’t have a million friends, but the ones that I have are trustworthy and kind.
Whenever I see a bee or a fly I freak out.
I have built so many weird creations in my backyard it could have a history of its own.
I love to skateboard because I find it difficult to learn new tricks.
My general nature is doubtful…when there are thousands of pieces of evidence saying yes I still think no and I can’t help it.
I didn’t realize birds were so much fun.
When I go to sleep I need walls of pillows around me, my room to be freezing cold, and a movie on my TV.
I’m scared of heights, just because I always think of what will happen if I fall.
I’m also a big video gamer (it’s kind of nerdy).
I procrastinate sometimes and I am trying to overcome lying for my benefit.
The thing that I fear most is dying.
I have only one fear in my life, disregarding kidney stones.
I have broken my arm, popped my elbow out of place, torn my hip flexor, had a bone bruise in my knee, and many bumps and bruises.
I’m not embarrassed to speak my mind, or to raise my hand when no one else will.
I am very lucky to have my parents together and happy.
A couple of things that interest me are piracy and 18th century European fashion.
My favorite colors are blue and red.
It’s strange to me how just by hearing a sound one can feel sadness or happiness.
I realize it’s a very exciting thing to bring a new life into this world but part of me is considering adoption.
I also believe that many of the world’s religions that are seemingly in conflict actually exist side by side and fit together in a grand puzzle.
I am hoping to come close to or break the school record this year.
I have a great love for my friends; they are the Styrofoam peanuts to the poorly packaged cardboard box of my soul.
The single largest reason I am so ready to go to college is to get away from the hate and constant pressure that is put on me.
I spread my message to the chauvinists that women have rights and you best respect them…
I’ve taken up sailing and once my dad gets home I’ll have my rock-climbing partner back…
I learned that immigrating into a different country was not as easy as it seemed.
I don’t have a very loud voice, and I really don’t like raising my voice to be heard.
Confused, perplexed, ready, willing, eager, enthusiastic, prepared. Through all my parents’ biases I have learned to have almost none.
I have more respect for officers of any kind because it is hard to enforce rules, especially to your peers.
My father, who was experimenting with Zen Buddhism, wanted me to have a truly meaningful name.
I kind of think of myself as a walking contradiction.
I am still completely addicted to chess.
I fall asleep with music on, cuddled up with my cat.
I really enjoy gardening, fishing, studying, raising, catching, watching all life, especially bugs.
I am weird, but I am who I am.
Most people in school that lack responsibilities don’t think about how much they get from others.
This girl wants to know.
First, be goofy, funny, loud, and have fun.
I am easily intimidated.
I want to make an impact.
Nothing stays the same and that’s okay.
I’m not the type of girl that beats around the bush.
My best friends are drug free and so am I.
I am a writing fiend.
I love spending time with my parents.
I have ADD but have learned to control it.
A miracle is not water turned to wine; a miracle is when a kid says no to drugs.
I would say that I’m navy blue.
She does not allow animal-tested products in her house.
I’m also in a band with my friends.
I hope to be a movie star.

Cruise Chronicles

2011-01-03T16:56:00.000-08:00

We spent the last week virtually internet- and cell-phone free on a cruise to Mexico with 22 extended family members, special thanks to Mammom and Bampa.

As I type, the room is rocking...

Monday, December 27

Last night I could not sleep as I anxiously conjured visions of children falling overboard. My mind played out the entire grim scenario, vividly, repeatedly: the plunging, the flailing, the ship speeding away, the hopelessness and helplessness...

Feeling only slightly more rational this morning, I checked our kids into Kids' Camp (no balconies or railings in sight), lost my party, and lounged alone by the pool reading The Sun. I caught only snatches of dialogue from the family sitting ahead of me but my ears perked up when a woman mentioned that "statistically, on an eight-day cruise of a few thousand people, someone on board dies."

Great.

Tuesday, December 28

I figured out why cruising is not my ideal vacation. It's not the crowds or claustrophobia--there are plenty of perks to make up for those relative cons. It's the lack of living things, like plants. I've come to equate vacation with escape to beautiful natural surroundings or exotic locales. From the cruise ship, one experiences nature and foreign countries sort of like through museum glass.

Wednesday, December 29

I almost exclusively run outside and rarely work out in a gym. Today I exercised on an elliptical machine and on a treadmill while on the cruise ship. Then I fell down the stairs and almost took out a woman doing weights.

Thursday, December 30

Old Mazatlan reminds me of Guatemala. I love it.

We brought a game called "Things" which entertained us in the pre-dinner hour. Everyone writes answers to a category ("things adults wish they could still do"), answers are read ("breastfeed," "pee in my pants," "throw a tantrum," "believe in everything"), and then guesses are made about which responses are whose. The game is great fun (don't get bogged down in the scoring).

Friday, December 31

Cabo San Lucas and fish tacos.

Last time we cruised I won $100 playing blackjack and bought my husband a massage. That must have been beginner's luck; this cruise, I focused on maintaining my "allowance" for the week. I made it to New Year's Eve. And then, thankfully, I knew when to walk away (particularly after watching a fellow player lose $1000 in fifteen minutes).

Big Sis and her cousin rang in the New Year dancing with their Mammom and Bampa. Toasting my siblings, kissing my husband...almost all my family members in one place: a great way to start the new year.

Saturday, January 1

In keeping with my resolution to eat better, I started the day with an egg white omelet with veggies. Then I ate more fish tacos. Then we went to the Steak House for dinner.

At Guest Services this afternoon I stood in line behind a man and his teenage son; the tension between them was palpable. As Dad approached the desk he announced, "Let me introduce you to my son, who decided to drink too much champagne last night, and got sick all over our cabin. He'd like to pay for the cleaning."

Sunday, January 2

A windy, wind-down day.

Little Sis entered herself and a friend in the Kids' Camp Talent Show. They sang the ABC Song.

If I thought any part of my personality was "cruise director," Stu's ebullient and superfluous use of the word "splendid" over the loudspeaker and the course of the week set me straight.

Today, he declared, was "crackin'."

Monday, January 3

Last year, when our family booked a short cruise to Ensenada over Thanksgiving week, I forgot to wonder if one of students might be on the same ship, until we watched passengers boarding behind us from my parents' cabin balcony: perfect timing to catch a former student heading toward the gangway. This year, I was slated to share my vacation with a current 11th grader, but our ship's engine burned up and the cruise was cancelled. Our families rebooked on a new ship--the same one! But we disembarked the ship this morning, and he's boarding this afternoon.

Best Gift

2010-12-25T21:49:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago Big Sis was working on something in her office, something she'd scramble to hide when I approached. She rolled it up, wrapped it, labeled it from her to me, and placed it beneath the tree.

I opened her present this morning: a kaleidoscope drawing of some of the special things we experienced together this year.

She included representations of her soccer team that I "coached," the fairies we attracted to our backyard, the Jolly Rancher ornaments we made over Thanksgiving, and her second grade field trip to the pumpkin patch I chaperoned.

Ultimately, time is what we crave most, despite all the items money can buy. I remain convinced that the most valuable gifts we bestow upon one another are time and attention.

My daughter's little present tells me she too recognizes and cherishes our time. And she's wise enough to know that acknowledging and honoring our time together would be a most precious gift.

If they weren't clear already, priorities for 2011 are even more obvious now.

Meaning

2010-12-22T20:33:00.000-08:00

The holidays are here and so are the stresses and tensions of being joyful and grateful and reflective and excited about the new beginnings represented by the turn of the year.

If your life is in order and you're simply marking traditions and time passing, it's safe to whine about the weather and items to accomplish on the to-do list before each holiday event and happening. In this case, happiness abounds, particularly when you lift your head and count your blessings.

But if life has come skidding to a sudden halt or floats in limbo--if someone is in the hospital or far away, if you're losing your house or your marriage--then it could be the 22nd of December or the 3rd of January for all that date and time matter.

I think about this sudden convergence of what truly matters when bad things happen. I think about the cookies I'm baking and errands I'm running and cards I'm addressing and stamping and old friends I'm seeing and gifts I'm buying and making and bags I'm packing, and how luxurious all that is.

I think of those for whom the holidays are on hold or not happening this year. Or for whom they're different.

We're out of school and removed from the tangible grief of our students for their classmate. Removed from his name on our rosters and his family's home, not ten blocks from his math and English classes. I am getting ready for Christmas. But I am conscious that his family, cookies baking or not, holiday traditions maintaining or not, is still mourning. Forever, in some measure.

The significance of the passing of a member of one's community is aply captured by an anonymous student who signed the butcher paper stretched on our cafeteria tables in the hours, days, and weeks after his death in honor of D, our lost classmate.

Without the explicit permission from their author, I share these words. They resonate.

I didn't know you.
I never met you, spoke to you, saw you. But you were one of us. A classmate. A friend, a son, a person.

The loss of any life is heartbreaking.
Even though we never met. Never talked.
Never waved at each other from across the hall.
Never made a private joke about one of our teachers.
Even though none of this happened between you and I, doesn't mean it didn't occur. It doesn't make you unimportant in my eyes simply because I never met you.

I am so, so sorry. Your life is lost,
and that is unbelievably sad. And even
though I never met you, I'll miss you. I'll
remember you. You are important. You
may be lost, but you will live on in
memory. Memory of a smile. An inside joke.
Your friends and family miss you,
and I'm sorry for their loss.
Please be in peace,
wherever you are.
Please stay in our memories.
I never met you,
but I love you.

Present Previews

2010-12-18T07:30:00.000-08:00

Before Wednesday's late-night wanderings through the aisles of Target, I had managed to do very little shopping for gifts, particularly for the girls. I had, however, found some handmade dolls' clothes at a craft fair a few weeks ago, thinking Santa might want to dress their American Girls in new duds for Christmas morning.

I was excited about those outfits, cute and unique. And I was proud that I had the beginnings of a plan for December 25.

Imagine my dismay when I walked through the front door after work on Monday evening and found the little garments on the dining room table. Husband looked at me sheepishly. Daughters gathered around me, hopefully.

"Hey, Mom! Are those for us???"

"AAAAAAHUUUUAURGGGH!" I clenched my fists and headed to the kitchen to express myself briefly and in less appropriate terms.

"I was afraid of that," Husband mumbled regretfully.

I could only be irritated with myself, as I had haphazardly stored the bag containing the presents on the floor beside our bed. Not exactly hidden. In their defense, the girls are a little young yet to be serious snoopers.

I was reminded, though, of the year my brother and I were caught trying to peek at Santa's stash in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

I must have been in fourth grade; it was the year I asked for a ten-speed. We lived in a tract home with a loft on the second floor overlooking the entryway and living room. Our bedrooms opened onto the loft. My brother and I, even when we had our own rooms, traditionally slept together on Christmas Eve. That night we hid flashlights in his bed so we could spy on the haul below from the loft above at the opportune time.

We waited and waited until our parents went to bed after Christmas preparations, till they securely shut their bedroom door to the left of the loft.

We made our move shortly thereafter. Flashlights pointed and hissing excited directives and warnings to each other, we crept out of my brother's bedroom and out onto the loft to peer over the edge and onto the bounty below.

Foiled!

Santa's minions had tucked the goods safely out of view in the dining room underneath the loft. We let out a collective sigh of disappointment and attempted one more neck-craning survey of the scene. Just as I was exclaiming to my little brother that I could swear my flashlight caught the glint of what could only be spokes of a ten-speed bicycle, my parents' door flew open and we were chased off to bed. Our flashlight beams, my parents claimed, swept the crack under their bedroom door and they thought we were robbers, stealing the presents.

Our disappointment was that we were not only sloppy "thieves," but thieves with no proper glimpse of what there was to steal, all hopes for wishes come true notwithstanding.

Suffice it to say, the ten-speed was a valid surprise the next morning.

I also recall the season years later when I deliberately peeked at my presents squirreled away in my parents' room. The revelation was how I imagine the high of a powerful drug feels: the thrill of discovery and nervousness accompanying it was intense but short lived. My guilt and dismay at ruining my opportunity for genuine gratitude sustained itself past Christmas. That Christmas morning I kept hoping for something unexpected and was duly disappointed; there was no joy in knowing what I was getting before I actually got it.

But at some point in my life the excitement of anticipation switched from surrounding those gifts I might get to those I was giving.

Each year, there is a gift that absolutely hits the mark: the one not asked for but which reveals the giver "gets" its recipient. The one he doesn't know he wants, the one she thought didn't exist. The one worked on, made, or found. That kind of giving and getting is the Real Santa of Christmas.

And those gifts are the secrets not to spoil and the "reveals" to protect. My little girls' discovery on Monday reminds me to get my game on, to preserve the magic and excitement and wonder with a little more determination.

So, in that spirit: Stay out of the trunk of my car, people!

A Little Bit of Love

2010-12-17T07:00:00.000-08:00

Last night I gave Big Sis a stack of our holiday postcards so she could give them out to her teachers. I thought she'd simply sign her name, but I caught her writing out thoughtful notes to her "princible," P.E. coach, music teacher, and second grade, first grade, and kindergarten teachers too.

Heart, warmed:

Blossoming Books

2010-12-13T20:24:00.001-08:00

Our daughter has her own Piles o' Stuff accumulating. I'm a little concerned we're growing a hoarder. On Saturday she and her cousin broke the plastic tee into six pieces while hitting lemons off it in the backyard, and I directed them to throw it away. Big Sis responded in what's becoming a familiar refrain: "But, Mom, I could use the pieces for something."

For a while she had a candy wrapper collection. Her backpack...eeeeeek. I think we'll plan on cleaning it out over the holidays. Last time I peered inside, I found a morass of silly bands, pebbles, small coins, loose tissues, string, bottle caps, dried flowers, and pencil nubs and useless erasers. She has stashes of "treasures" just about everywhere I look.

The tower of books by her bedside became our latest challenge. She sleeps in a top bunk and stacks her readings and journals on the adjacent dresser. On more than one occasion her hill of books has tumbled over onto the head of an unwitting victim sitting on the carpet below. She knocks her water over weekly.

I had heard somewhere the idea of mounting a window box to the side of a bunk bed to store books (and other trash), so this was our project tonight:

Because no project I undertake is done properly, you will note that the window box ledge-bracket-thingies stick out a dangerous distance from the bottom of the window box. Not the right size box or brackets. Oh well; we installed it anyway. But placed it over the dresser so no one pokes an eye out.

I'll save the eye-poking for myself, for when I clean out another of her stashes and risk the wrath of Big ~~Hoarder~~ Sis.

What's Cookin' This Christmas

2010-12-08T20:00:00.000-08:00

Let's pretend you asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I would reply that I have everything I want. Which I do. Especially considering I have my job, my healthy self and family members, my unforeclosed house, my amazing friends.

But then you would press me, and I would ask, "Okay, you mean, besides this?"

You would nod. And for a moment I would think about how I wrote that post a year ago, and here we are a year later, carton of contentment and everything. I will concede a little bit of longing. But just a healthy dose, the curable kind.

Tell me something tangible, something material you desire, you would prod.

Okay. Okay? I'll tell you what I want. I want another bedroom on this house. And a half-bath. Just one more toilet would make it so no one has to run outside for a Nature Pee during rush hour. And if Santa wanted to throw in a jacuzzi tub with the deal, who am I to argue?

But Santa has other plans, it seems. Santa, rumor has it, is giving us a new water heater this season.

So not sexy, a new water heater! No one will come by and comment on its color to justify the money spent. There's just no bang for your buck on a new water heater. It's an invisible expense.

Nevertheless, if I had to choose between room addition and water heater, I'd have to go with the heater. Invisible it may be, but under appreciated it is.

When I spent a year in Kenya, I lived in a very modern house almost the size of our current one and with a water heater. The fact that I had to set an alarm each morning so I would wake in time to turn on the heater so the water for my shower 1.5 hours later would be warm but not Too Hot, and the fact that I had to occasionally replace the propane tank that fueled my kitchen stove (much like we do for our barbecues) reminded me that gas lines and water heaters are too often taken for granted in our First World. Most of my neighbors in Africa had neither.

So we're gifting ourselves a new water heater, because we'd all be huddled in one bedroom after bathing in cold water without one. And if going with the tankless water heater option means that we gain some cupboard space for at the very least, a broom, then Santa is our hero.

We'd also love to paint our kitchen cupboards--that is, with any funds leftover from the water heater allotment. How likely are we to have funds leftover? Not very likely. It's more likely that our kids' play kitchen gets a remodel.

To that end, I am at Gearhead Mom again this week, reviewing the upgrade of our kids' play cafe. Talk about bang for your buck: a play kitchen is all play and no clean-up. For the children, anyway! You feed them while they pretend to be cooking and eating and serving others. A brilliant investment. Way cheaper than a room addition, a water heater, AND a coat of paint on your kitchen cabinets.

Stealth on a Shelf

2010-12-07T20:21:00.000-08:00

Last year we adopted our own Elf on the Shelf. "Icicle," who was a mere "Snowflake" (oops) last year, perches somewhere in our home to keep an eye on the kiddoes by day and then flies back to the North Pole each night with a report for Santa on our behavior. She returns to a new spot in the house by dawn.

She has a lot to remember, that elf. Of course, there are the daily details of naughtiness (was it yesterday or today when Big Sis threatened Little Sis? How many times did Little Sis say "NO!" to her mom?). Then she has to remember to find a new secret yet conspicuous roost each morning. How easy it is for her to accidentally wind up in that same comfortable nook she inhabited yesterday...

Our daughters aren't expressing concerns about Icicle witnessing their infractions and reporting them to Santa, nor does the elf's presence seem to deter misconduct. The sisters are rather boldly confident in their positions as non-coal recipients.

Me? I am not so sure.

Nevertheless, the daily hunt for Icicle is a first waking thought. Where she'll be each morning, and whether or not she has the power to direct Big Sis to her missing iPod are pressing concerns (Big Sis has left her a note requesting this service).

And then there is the issue of her proximity to Little Sis.

Big Sis sprung from the womb a lover of costumed characters and mall Santas. At two years old, she ran through the gates of Disneyland and into the arms of a six-foot furry Tigger.

Little Sis, on the other hand, is having none of it. She's skeptical of strangers both costumed and plain and warms slowly even to family friends. She loves fairies and elves, but Not In Her Room. Meanwhile, Big Sis would like nothing more than to find Icicle snuggled under her covers one morning.

Hence, it is an unspoken agreement that the girls' room is off limits to Icicle. Little Sis is clear on the fact that no sleeping will occur if the elf's beady little eyes are focused on her.

Fair enough. That leaves Icicle five other rooms from which to choose as she alights in our house each morning. Big Sis sent Icicle this heads-up in the form of a note tucked info the elf's little arms the other night:

Note the extent to which her compassion has its limits.

Santa, if not the elf, is watching!

Sticky Stained Glass

2010-12-05T07:18:00.000-08:00

Check out Gearhead Mom, where I am making "stained glass" ornaments out of Jolly Ranchers with the girls.

Happy Sunday!

Trading Perspectives

2010-12-03T21:33:00.000-08:00

Dinnertime was a battlefield this week (as I may have mentioned). I waged war on Big Sis's aversion to locking her lips while chewing (AKA "smacking," as my own mother unaffectionately calls it), and she fired back on the quality of my cuisine. Playing the "What Was the Best Part of Your Day?" game at mealtime had us all answering internally, Duh...not this dinner hour.

Big Sis has required some extra attention lately. It comes in waves. Sometimes, Husband and I look at each other with the unspoken high-five, the our-kids-are-so-darned-great (scratch wood) agreement. Then we get our comeuppance. We've added new responsibilities and requirements in this latest round of Reality Check with second grader. Among them, Child Doesn't Eat Breakfast Till Rabbit Gets His Kibble, and Towel Meets Doorknob (Not Carpet).

We have been harping; seven-year-old has been crying.

Meanwhile, this evening families, friends, and community members gathered on the beach and watched the sunset in memory of our student who passed away last week. During the reception afterwards was an opportunity to share thoughts and memories of the young man we all miss.

His father spoke, taking deep gulps, his voice cracking. "I believe there will be ripples which will spread as a result of this tragedy.

"I tried to emphasize the important things as I parented my son: honesty, integrity, love, and loyalty. He and his friends have taught me more about them this week.

"His death has reminded me what's important, and what's not important.

"To all the parents out there: stand like a rock on the big stuff, like honesty and integrity. Don't sweat the small stuff, like towels on the floor."

I thought about Big Sis. About our new towel rule. About my pursed lips at each bite she chewed with her mouth open. About unhappy moments in our household this week. I gulped too.

"Your kid coming home with ears pierced and tattoos?" He nodded at his son's friends. "Those aren't deal breakers."

I went over to give our student's mom a hug before I left the memorial to head home to my family. "I'll always remember you telling me," she gazed at me, "as he racked up the tardies, 'Let's keep this in perspective.' And also, 'You know, he actually has a philosophical reason for being late.'" She smiled, and I suddenly remembered my attendance conversation with her son and my follow-up conversation with her. He had charmed me with his reasoning. But he had also reminded me, Minder of Attendance, of what's important.

And his mother and father reminded me how often it is easier for me to be understanding and forgiving of my students than of my own people.

Being on time can be important; eating politely can be important; being responsible for things, including towels and carpets, can be important.

But being real, being loving, and being generous with one's time and one's energy are important, always.

That's the lesson he left his friends and family, and that's the lesson I took home tonight.

Thank you, D.

The Last Supper

2010-12-02T20:40:00.000-08:00

It's been a rough week for dinner in our household. Perhaps I am a bit spoiled by my daughters' general enthusiasm for meals, even those including swiss chard, kale, and mushrooms. I certainly didn't see the gag reflexes coming on Monday when I made stuffed chicken breasts with quinoa and spinach, and on Wednesday when we had meatballs with pineapple and rice. The spinach wasn't like normal spinach, apparently. And the meatballs were "too peppery."

The complaining, and sighing, and retching were a bit much for me last night. I threatened to quit.

"No more cooking," I declared.

"I will serve only carrot sticks and sliced turkey from now on," I promised.

Ears perked up. "Or how about macaroni and cheese?" Big Sis suggested. So Not Getting The Point.

This evening, as I headed home with both girls in the car, the inevitable question arose.

"Mom, what are we having for dinner?"

"Something you don't like."

Silence.

And then, Little Sis: "Mommy, I don't want to have something I don't like for dinner."

"I want to have something I like."

"Is there any leftover macaroni and cheese?"