Sunshine Soup

When I have someone in my life who is enduring something tough, just like you, I want to do something for them. With food a universal currency of comfort, I've made what I call "Sunshine Soup" my new offering. I prefer savory to sweet, and this soup is a unique alternative to baked goods or casseroles. It's a simple labor of love, easily deliverable, unexpected, and unencumbered. This soup is healthy and safe for gluten free and vegan friends; it's easy to cook in about an hour; and it's like a sunshiney warm hug. 

The recipe below is the vegan version of a carrot ginger soup with potential substitutions in parentheses.  I tend to adjust quantities as I cook, but I know these ratios below make a wonderfully smooth and creamy soup. Make your own soup thicker or thinner, tarter or sweeter, milder or spicier, etc... The recipe can be halved to make less than a full pot.  Adding curry powder or yellow Thai curry paste would easily make a Curry Carrot version (yum). This soup tastes great hot and even lukewarm--a winner for all seasons.

Sunshine Soup (Carrot Ginger)

Ingredients:

• 3 lbs of whole carrots, peeled and chopped in chunks
• One white onion, chopped
• I added two small sweet potatoes to today's batch, peeled and chopped, but this is optional
• A bunch of garlic, chopped
• A sizeable knob of ginger, peeled and chopped--I prefer light ginger, so add more at this stage if you want "ginger forward" flavor
• One seeded and chopped jalapeno or Thai chili, depending on your/friends' spice tolerance
• Coconut oil or olive oil--enough to saute onions and garlic (substitute butter if desired)
• A carton of vegetable broth (or chicken if desired)
• Two cans of coconut milk (milk or cream if desired)--Note:  this soup can also be made WITHOUT coconut milk if that's not your jam--to keep it vegan, add more broth to reach desired consistency at the blender stage
• Salt to taste
• 1TBS turmeric
• 1/2 to 1 cup citrus juice--I squeezed orange into the soup initially and then lime and lemon into later to taste, making it "brighter"

Making the Soup:

• In a sizeable pot, saute onion, garlic, ginger, and jalapeno in oil until onions are tender/translucent
• Add carrots (and optional sweet potato), turmeric, and juice; saute for a bit and then add broth
• Bring vegetables in broth to a boil and then simmer on low for 15-20 minutes until carrots are soft/easily cut through with a spoon
• Remove pot from heat; add a can of coconut milk and stir
• Blend with immersion blender (or in portions in a blender) until smooth.  My soup was too thick without the second can of coconut milk and was perfect after I added it.  Blend until smooth and creamy.  At this stage I added more citrus in squeezes until the soup tasted just right (IYKYK--and it's your own taste buds that know :))

Possible Garnishes/Toppings:

• I like a little dash of carraway seed with my carrot soup--pictured above.  Crunchy roasted chick peas are also awesome
• A friend who received this soup added her own seed mix on top for some crunch/texture, including pumpkin, sunflower, chia, and hemp seeds (this friend also claims the soup makes a great salad dressing!?)
• Cilantro (or a dollop of cilantro lime pesto?) would be delicious too, along with some sour cream/yogurt
• French fried/crunchy onions

Warm sunshiney hugs come in many versions and forms.  I hope you give and receive many!

Eulogy: Sandy Ferguson 1947-2019

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My 11^th grade daughter frequently reminds us that she loves every single one of her teachers this year.  It’s  wonderful to know your child is inspired, loved, and motivated by her teachers.  In turn, she has genuine interest in who they are as people and thinkers.  I, like her, felt that extraordinary connection with my teachers at Coronado High School, and the idea that I could be part of the kind of relationships these giants in my life inspired is why I am an educator today. 

Sandy Ferguson, or “Ferg,” or "Fergie," and yes, we once dedicated the song "Fergalicious" to him at a Homecoming dance late in his career, was my teacher in 9^th and 10^th grade history and then for half of my classes in 12^th grade (for history, ASB, and then, well, I signed up to be his TA too).  I spent half of my school days my senior year with this man who was kind of like my dad at school.   I admired his humor, his expressive eyebrows, his handwriting, his VW bus, the tee shirts whose life he stretched past viable structural integrity, and that he ran on the beach. In turn, I felt smart, funny, capable, challenged, talented, understood, and real around and because of him.

Sandy Ferguson met each person he encountered, adult and child, with humanity first—not with authority, not with superiority, despite his intellectual prowess and vast funds of knowledge. Instead, it was as if he set out to demonstrate that taking mutual respect for granted actually made it happen.  He treated us like adults but understood that it was in our adolescent nature to test boundaries. He figured we’d learn from navigating them in the context of safe and trusting relationships with adults. He gave us independence and freedom as both students and leaders of our peers, saying yes more often than no, but challenging us to figure out if we got it right. A master of mischief himself, he tolerated our incessant pranking (we turned his posters upside down, moved classroom furniture to his office or the hallway--capers made possible by his often late arrival to class).  

He was also the teacher who called my parents in spring of senior year when I’d been accepted to college and was blowing off notes and assignments (after giving me fair warning). His manner of intervention was inspiring you to reflect on your own behavior, as if your choices and their consequences were a discussion you needed most to have with yourself. He taught us about geographical features like drumlins and all the rivers of South America, and then pushed us to think critically about history and politics and brought back former students to talk passionately about what they were learning in college.

Because I came back to Coronado to teach, I had the privilege to be not only Sandy’s student, but his colleague, and then his administrator, both supporting and feeling daily gratitude for his devotion to CHS and district athletics and facilities.  You can imagine how poignant it was when, after Sandy retired and Alzheimer's was affecting his acuity, he would stop by CHS from time to time and implore me to put him to work in any capacity.  I need to be here, he’d plead, I need to work with you all. And we made plans for him to come back and help, but it would be weeks or months before he returned.  And perhaps he might have regretted that it seemed too late for him.   And though his illness robbed our brilliant friend of many productive years, what I’d really like to say to Ferg is, you achieved it all in the time you had with us, and you, my mentor, also achieved Ralph Waldo Emerson’s definition of success:  "To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."

Thank you, Sandy Ferguson. 

Friends and Stuff

Ornaments of 2001

I began cleaning up Christmas with the plan to sort, weed out, and reorganize our decorations. I hoped to resent the Post-Holiday Fer of 2019 less than I did the 2018 Me when I opened our haphazardly and hastily packed boxes of decorations and ornaments this season.  I imagined myself testing for sparks of joy a la Marie Kondo to determine which tchotchkes to keep and which to discard.  I pictured fewer bins of decor in the garage.  I visualized a minimalist Christmas this December.

I enlisted Middle Sis, Tootsie, and her cousin to de-ornament the tree and my grand plans were quickly abandoned when one by one, the ornaments some of my oldest friends sent to me back in 2001 were plopped in my lap. 

In 2001 my then-fiance/now-husband and I bought our first house.  Amidst counting pennies from our change jar and trying to believe we'd "grow into" our mortgage (as our broker cheerfully reassured us we would), we packed boxes and piled them in the carport for ferrying across the bridge to our new (old) house and neighborhood.  The rental house we were leaving opened onto an alley, as do numerous rentals in the town in which we grew up.  Alleys in Coronado have their own characters, stories, and rules to live by.  Everyone knows that furniture and discards placed along the alley are up for grabs.  And nothing abandoned in an alley lasts long.

But my boxes of Christmas ornaments were stacked temporarily at the top of our carport driveway, nestled against our storage space attached to the house (in lieu of a garage).  Inside those boxes were the ornaments my parents had given me each year of my 30, often with a theme matching a family trip or significant event.  It's safe to say that those ornaments were probably the first, second, or third items I would grab in the event of fire, along with photo albums and some sentimental jewelry.

Needless to spell out, during the short time I and my fiance were away from the house, those boxes were taken.  All my ornaments.  I was crushed.

But because those were the only boxes left there, I figured whoever took them was likely disappointed or at least not interested in the contents and might return or discard them after recognizing their sentimental value.  It was 2001, so I placed an ad in the local paper with a passionate plea for their return, to no avail.  I lamented their loss to everyone I knew.

My parents, it turned out, had some duplicates of our annual ornaments which they gave me.  Family friends and students presented me with new ornaments. 

And then my high school friend group organized to send me ornaments from their current homes across the US.  The dolphin from my friend's annual holiday Hawaii trip is missing its tail, but the significance of not only the ornament, but those annual family trips which don't happen as frequently, sustains.

I learned in 2001 that beloved ornaments, like so many other material things, are just "stuff."  And while seemingly irreplaceable, if those ornaments my buddies sent me 18 years ago were to disappear tomorrow, I'd know that my friends, who remain true and present today, would come through. Instead of new ornaments, their enduring friendship is all I really need.

So sorry, Marie Kondo, this isn't the year for tossing ornaments.  And cheers to lifelong friends, true sparks of joy.

Eagle Ey

Our Tootsie earned herself a new nickname last weekend, "Trauma, Eagle Ey."

Tootsie trained her Eagle Ey on a dog at Concert in the Park on Saturday, and when she reached out to pet him, he reacted with animal instincts. To make a long story short (and to avoid the accompanying "control your child vs. control your pet" debate), I'll simply share that Tootsie required some exploratory surgery to rule out vascular damage and to stitch up wounds on her head and neck. She has minor (unnoticeable to the untrained eye) nerve damage to her face, but she's otherwise fine, acting like a typical toddler, alternately charming and defiant to her doctors and nurses and Mom and Dad. We remain in the hospital only to get comfortable with the PICC line and antibiotic infusions we will take on after discharge. 

Every event in the hospital leaves us bowing with gratitude for how fortunate we are: Only one more inch to the right, and then...only one centimeter deeper bite, and it could have been...

 We are thankful.

We are scheduled to leave for Boston and Maine on July 14. Need I mention that Tootsie got close to hijacking another Boston/Maine trip? Geez! I should probably knock wood until we are on the flight there...and BACK, as planned.

 So here I am again, rooming in the hospital under unusual circumstances with my third baby. This time, though, she's mobile. This time, I'm not allowed to leave the room unattended. Last time the two of us were confined to the hospital, she was a baby in a bassinet. I could leave her there for an hour in the care of her nurse and venture forth into the sunshine. This time, the one time I defied the nurse and went to the in-room bathroom without putting her bed's side rails up, she bailed out, stretching her IV cords to painful limits. Last time, each moment I breastfed her I was triumphant that my preemie was latching on and taking advantage of my rich bounty. This time, I'm wondering how we got to almost-two-years-old still breastfeeding. AFTER THIS, I swear, WE ARE WEANING!  

Not unlike last time, I'm at peace with our present and future. Once the paramedics arrived at the park and assured me our baby would live, I figured we could handle the rest.

So our two greatest challenges on the current horizon appear to be: 1) helping her kick her popsicle habit (averaging upwards of four a day plus lollipops), and 2) reaching consensus on a hairdo strategy (she's currently rocking the Rihanna).

Meanwhile, in typical Tootsie fashion, she's commanding the attention of the floor by doing laps in a push tricycle while declaring, "Ooooh; I like this!" and showing off how she administers her own oral meds via syringe.  She's also seizing the opportunity to potty train herself.  Why not?

In the ER at Children's Hospital, before formal names are established, patients are given "trauma names," established by alphabet much like hurricanes. Our Tootsie is "Eagle Ey" on my bracelet and hers. Which is just a new moniker for the same indomitable spirit which inspires us.

Hearty thanks to all those community members, neighbors, and friends who came to Tootsie's aid at the concert and who have provided support for all of us since. 

And we send our healing energy to the dog's owners, who were devastated by the events, and as we can only imagine, feeling helpless and hoping for the best.  We assure you we are well.  

List: Tootsie's Gifts

After my sister traveled from the Pacific Northwest to visit me and our baby, I wrote her to say how much I loved all our conversations while she was here.  She wrote back, "Me too.  Grateful for the one-on-one time.  It's rare...a sweet gift from Tootsie."

I had the epiphany then that my sister recognized something important about this six-week experience I've had with my new daughter:  it has strengthened relationships, given me time with people who are very very important to me, given my daughters time with people who are important to us, and facilitated some chance encounters with local friends with whom I wouldn't have otherwise caught up.

A dear friend and colleague wrote me an email suggesting that our journey (as chronicled here) may have influenced others as well.  "Pound for pound," he wrote, "Tootsie is having quite an impact."

We haven't endured a tragedy; I would not characterize our baby as a "miracle" unless we all are miracles in some form; the magic is in the reaching out and creating community, which she has encouraged me to do.

Tootsie has offered other gifts as well:

1.  Boston:  I thought, before we arrived in July, that I was more familiar with Boston.  It turns out that attending the Harvard-Yale game in 1990 (I mostly remember a discotheque called "Spaghetti," the tailgate area at the stadium, and the rocket MIT pranksters launched from a field goal post during the third quarter) and running the marathon in 1996 did not afford me many memories of the city itself.  My recent time here has, though, and I've joked that the little girl who brought us to Boston is still the only family member who hasn't gotten out and about in the city yet.  Massachusetts General Hospital is conveniently located within walking distance of just about everything.  While visitors were here, we used time between every-three-hour feedings to make field trips to the Inner Harbor, North End, Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, the Esplanade, downtown, Long Wharf, Beacon Hill, and Back Bay.  The other day I even gave directions to a tourist on the street.  I loved the city from the start, with its parks, family-friendliness, safety, incredible infrastructure, history, and warm people.  We will return here someday as a family to visit Tootsie's birthplace and all it has to offer.

2.  Empathy:  When Big Sis had surgery for kidney reflux six years ago, I wrote on this blog that one generally comes away from hospital visits feeling grateful and fortunate. This experience is no different.  Though we endured a scary time early on when Tootsie's meningitis was raging, she began showing remarkable signs of recovery and strength very soon, and continued her upward trajectory fairly consistently.  We are surrounded in the NICU by more sober stories--babies born earlier and with more complications.  I met two mothers during dinner in the lounge last night, both of whom gave birth to babies under one-and-a-half pounds at birth.  Both babies have serious lung complications and tracheotomies.  Both parents have already endured months in the NICU.  Both expressed empathy for me when I explained that we were from California.  There's no competition among difficult experiences, only empathy and understanding.  There's struggle, hardship, endurance, and hope.  We all feel it, and living with Tootsie here on the NICU has deepened my sense of empathy for all of us on our journeys, wherever we are.

3.  Patience:  While I've felt anxiety and stress and the desire to get home, I've practiced patience in new ways during the past six weeks.  My initial hospital bedrest foisted patience upon me:  there was nothing to do but wait and accept my circumstances.  And because I was no longer in control, I was able to do so.  No amount of yearning to be home with my children and husband made me want to accelerate our baby's exit from the NICU against better judgment.  She's been the captain of our ship, and I've been the patient first mate.  I feel a remarkable inner calm and lack of urgency now.  We will get home.  The next chapters of our life will unfold.  I am not pushing.

4.  My Littlest Sister:  After living on the east coast for seven years after college and teaching abroad in Kenya for a year, I made the decision to return to California and my family.  My youngest brother and sister were still in middle and high school--I'd left home when they were eight and five.  I have always been glad I made the choice to come home; I credit that decision for my close relationships with those two siblings (now my brother's wife is even my colleague!).  The plan for this trip was that the girls and I would spend time with my sister and her husband before and after a week in Maine.  Instead, my sister spent nights with me in the hospital and was by my side at Tootsie's birth, and I've shared weeks of meals and conversations with her and her husband.  I'm able to more closely admire the life they've built together, their marriage, and their generosity.  And this week I'm here for my sister as she copes with unexpected bad news.  I wouldn't have been otherwise.

5.  Letting Go of Control:  I'm a planner and organizer (though my home and desk don't suggest so) and like to have a firm sense of what's coming.  2013 has been a year of unexpected events:  pregnancy (though wished for, not counted upon), a new house, and a new job.  I must be honest and admit that I've wondered if I could manage it all.  I planned to open the school year with enthusiasm and a little trepidation.  I hoped I'd resume parenting an infant with relative ease.  But I wasn't sure.  To cope with some anxiety and insecurity, I began carefully planning, mapping out the six weeks I'd be back to work in August and September pre-baby with to-do lists and calendars.  And then Tootsie disrupted my scheme--and my worries about "the other stuff."  I wasn't at work in July and August to hire new staff, to set things up and train folks.  I'm not there now to set tone, model, and represent our high school as its leader.  Because I'm not in control, I can only worry so much.  Instead, I focus on the tasks I can actually accomplish from afar, the ways I can help, the reassurances I can give, the questions I can ask on behalf of others, and the decisions I can make.  I feel trust in the team.  I feel confidence in our community.  I know that if I were there--if this hadn't happened--I'd be running on a few more cylinders, spinning out a little, perhaps.  And maybe that spinning is why our top landed here, idle for the moment.  I suspect returning to my job later this fall will be easier with my new perspective and acceptance of the unexpected.  We will see.  But I am grateful to Tootsie for helping me let go and be right where I am.

6.  Time:  Between the waiting upstairs and the pockets of time between infant care and long snuggles now, I've had time to read books, write, and think.  No house to clean, meals to prepare, others to care for except sweet baby girl.  Time, even alone with one's thoughts, but particularly with an infant, is a luxury indeed.

7.  Bonding:  I fell in love with our baby the moment she raised her arm high in birth and made the reassuring squawks announcing her debut.  I felt I could pick her out of a lineup after a few hours.  I believe I know her and her little personality--as tenderly developed as it is thus far--intimately well.  She takes long to awaken, grunting, stretching, wagging her head back and forth, sometimes for half an hour.  She rarely cries, but when she does, it's a sweet "ewww WAH" followed by a longer "WAAAAAH."  When she starts to breastfeed, she often stops to take in the view and contemplate her surroundings and task.  She stops everything when I sing to her, save for furious chomping on her pacifier.  She is "stingy with her burps," according to the nurses, but noisy when one is on its way.  She's alert and watchful and remarkably calm.  She can raise her torso by planting her feet on her bed and pushing upward.  She's learning to put her fingers to her mouth.  She makes the "ooh" face for which her older sister was known.  We've had precious bonding time--almost as if we were relegated to a cave together.  And because I don't live in the Boston area, I've had nowhere else to be and a laser focus on nurturing Tootsie's growth here in our NICU "home."  I suspect we'll long reap the benefits of this unique time together.

8.  Gratitude:  I've always preferred giving to getting, more comfortable offering others assistance than receiving it.  But circumstances sometimes dictate being open to the love and warmth of others without guilt, obligation, or anything but deep gratitude.  The doctors, nurses, therapists, and support staff have offered us such personalized, tender care.  I have been overwhelmed by the unwavering love and generosity of my family members, willing to fly far to be with me and our daughters.  Anything I've needed has appeared, or been offered or procured without question.  Friends and colleagues have sent messages of love and encouragement and thoughtful gifts, and cared for our daughters.  I've been particularly moved by those who've shared their stories of childbearing and parenting with me, memories and anecdotes unearthed through our own storytelling.  We feel so incredibly blessed, nestled in a nurturing cradle of community.

9.  Tootsie, Herself:  She's a caboose of a kiddo, with siblings seven and ten years older than she, but I can feel already the joy she's bringing into our lives.  I look forward to discovering all the other ways she will influence and enrich us.

Thank you for the gift of your presence, sweet baby girl.

Buckle Up: Minivan & Mini Cooper

There are so many joys to a nice long winter break; topping the list is time with family and friends. 

On Friday night I spent A LOT of time with some high-school buddies, whom I met for a drink after our high school girls' soccer game.  Spoiler alert:  I got home after 2 AM.  And what's even more perfect:  Husband and I and the kids were staying at my parents' house while our kitchen cabinets were being painted.  So I not only stayed out WAY LATE, but I had that weird guilty feeling of coming home to mom and dad's in the wee hours of the morning, sneaking in quietly-ish and trying not to wake anyone. 

Another spoiler alert:  it was more a night of hilarity than a night of debauchery.  But it felt really great to crack up with old friends and even shut down a few bars in our sleepy, touristy home town. 

We occupied ourselves for much of the time with a game of Who's in Your Minivan?  A colleague introduced me to this mental exercise back in 2008, which involves populating your vehicle with well-known folks you wouldn't mind sharing a long road trip with, based on your own criteria:  crush-worthiness, entertainment value, navigational abilities, snack provisions, etc. 

Note:  you and your friends can spend a long time debating and discussing criteria alone, and whether or not your passengers have to be currently living, and if you're driving a Honda van with eight seats or mini-er version with seven...

I had Lenny Kravitz in my 2008 Minivan, which led us to an analysis of his maintenance of the "It Factor," and the recounting of the time one of my friends inadvertently crashed a party he was hosting. 

Salma Hayek and Stephen Colbert emerged as popular choices.  I was talked into dropping off Matthew Fox, Brad Pitt, and Hilary Swank at the next rest stop, but I'm keeping Jon Stewart in shotgun and Brandi Carlile at an audible distance in my van.  I'd have to add Eddie Redmayne from Les Mis and Dax Shepard from Parenthood, as I am charmed by the passion of the former and goofiness of the latter, and the earnestness of both in their respective roles.  Robert Redford will round out my crew for obvious reasons, including his dedication to environmental issues and the possibility I'd get a discount for the Sundance Catalog. 

Let's face it; I could probably fill two minivans (Hey!  Who's in Your Caravan!), particularly if I expanded criteria beyond more superficial rationale and included the many figures I admire.  Okay, not that kind of figure--I meant people.  Sheesh.

Our discussion grew more serious when a friend challenged us to name "the one that got away," or the "what if" or "sliding door" people with whom we'd had brief encounters or missed opportunities.  We dubbed these revelations as "Who's in Your Mini Cooper?" acknowledging that most of us were unlikely to rattle off a long list of fish that got away.  There were high school sweethearts, college buddies and post-college people to consider as we pondered the might-have-beens. 

Spoiler alert:  there will be no great revelation of the occupants of my Mini Cooper.  Ha!

But who's in your minivan?

List: Christmas Wonderfulness

1.  Friday was the first night of Winter Break, and we grabbed an auntie and headed to the mall to sit on Santa's lap, eat dinner at a restaurant where you order food with an iPad, and do a little shopping and a lot of soaking up the spirit and songs and window displays.  We started the evening with rockstar parking and ended it by finding a few funny gifts for friends.  It was the perfect start to some time off with family. 

2.  BFF Missy and her kids established an assembly line of toiletries and snacks at their house to make sock care packages for folks who are homeless. Big and Little Sis got to participate in the creation of a few of these stockings and we gave them out to brothers and sisters camping out under the freeway by our house. Thanks for the inspiration and opportunity, buddy.

3.  We came home from our annual Christmas Eve dinner tradition of red and green soups at Mammom's and Bampa's (minus Mammom and Bampa, who are with my sister and her husband and their three boys in Oregon) and I headed down the block to drop off a gift at our neighbor's house.  "Come back in ten minutes!" my neighbor/coworker exhorted us.  "You'll be just in time for Grandpa to play the accordion and our Christmas singalong!" 

I'm not one to turn down an accordion occasion, and it was as awesome as I thought it would be, with Grandpa accompanying and shouting out cues before various verses, "All the ladies now!" and a house full of family and friends.  Just when we thought the festivities were over, The Talent Competition was announced.  The first act was a family of red-nosed reindeer playing "Rudolph" on a keyboard.  Big Sis stepped up to be the second and last act, and won the competition with "If I Only Had a Brain" on the keyboard.  The prizes were scratch-off lottery tickets, and our neighbor host promised instant cash-out.  Big Sis walked away with $11 (from a party we crashed), while the second-place act reminded us that if it weren't for their keyboard...

4.  And then we returned home for construction time.  Christmas Wonderfulness features the cooperation and enthusiasm of determined Auntie and Honorary Auntie as well as Husband in the assembly of a key Santa gift, which we completed at midnight.  And note:  Honorary Auntie had already assembled one of these items in her own workshop at home the week prior, before we determined it was too big for the girls' bedroom.  And she still agreed to assemble one desk more.  Love.

5.  Big Sis has been asking for her own room.  And though we contemplated making a move to a different house this year, it wasn't meant to be (and wouldn't necessarily result in "own rooms," either).  Though she asked for a Kindle, Big Sis got "room of her own" for Christmas this year, in the form of a desk, lamp, blotter/calendar, bulletin board, and retro-refurbished chair set up in a corner of the bedroom which is now all hers.  I haven't been so excited about a gift in a long time. 

6.  Big Sis and Little Sis independently thought of and chose very thoughtful gifts for each other, and it made me teary to watch them exchange presents and observe their reactions.

7.  We spent mid-Christmas Day with Husband's family at our niece's house, where she hosted a scrambled-egg-and-bacon breakfast a la Grandma Shirley.  In keeping with tradition, we were packed in a small house and spilling out of doors, where there was scooter-riding, remote-control-helicopter-flying, and all combinations of relatives sharing conversations and love. 

8.  One of the coolest gifts received this year was for Big Sis--a set of juggling sticks from our niece.  Our niece demonstrated her crazy stick skills, inspiring Big Sis, who spent a good part of the morning practicing until she could catch one after flipping it in the air. 

9.  My dad's sister, Auntie, has stayed at our house this year--on the futon couch in the living room as that is the only "guest room" we've got.  That puts her front and center for all our goings-on and it's been great to have a guest so game.  Also, we went for a jog her first morning here...and she kicked my tail.  Note to self:  be fit like her when I'm 62. 

10.  We headed back to Mammom's and Bampa's for Christmas Dinner, which was actually breakfast made by my chef brother:  waffles, apple-cider doughnuts, and the family tradition of huevos rancheros (with fresh avocado).  We ate till stuffed, exchanged gifts, and then played Catch Phrase with the kids.  We came home with hearts and tummies full. 

Though our families couldn't all be together, we felt a special appreciation for the efforts of everyone near and far to create connections and continue traditions. 

And...another year of believing:  Magic.

One Is Silver and the Other Gold

I met a friend at a charming little neighborhood wine bar tonight and departed feeling so satisfied with the wine, our conversation, and our friendship which is relatively new.

Earlier today the girls and I visited one of my oldest friends, and I left feeling similarly content.

We talked about Santa, our parents, fourth grade, husbands, our kids' behaviors and natures, food and cooking, our latest projects, parenting, exercise, stress and overwhelm, friends, movies, Thanksgiving, fundraisers, puberty, electronic devices, lice, work, and family time.

I love family for the ways they make me feel like myself, how I feel at home.

But I love my friends for the ways they make me feel normal.

No matter a friend's background or beliefs, I find myself in each.

Finding self + feeling normal = fundamental to happiness.

Thank you, friends.

Black Friday, Move Over for "Make Something" Day

Last year on the Friday after Thanksgiving we took some friends up on their offer to visit their house for "Make Something" Day.  We ate and crafted and had a truly wonderful time with neighbors.  Alas, at the end of the summer, our friends moved to the East Coast.  And though I wasn't prepared to host a neighborhood party this Black Friday, I was determined to shun the malls--and even online shopping--and embark on a creative project with the girls.

We knew we would want to share our made goods.  But what could we make that wasn't sweet, which capitalized on resources already available, and that others would appreciate?

Succulent bowls:  we have a surplus of ceramic bowls and planters (from good causes!), plus, we could hit up two local businesses for the soil and plants we needed.  We stopped by the awesome flower shop where Cousin Travis works, and our favorite nursery/landscaper friend's neighborhood outpost.

While I set up our succulent assembly line, the girls launched independent projects:

Little Sis painted and tiled a wooden box

Big Sis sculpted oven-bake clay "charms"

Then, together we put together twelve little planters to deliver to neighbors and friends.

Re-purposed container, soil, plants, rocks, and glass "stones"

Complete with a note explaining our mission.

Little Sis hand-wrote twelve of these!

Here's where I admit we could use a new computer (ours keeps shutting down at inopportune moments), and I'm sure I'd be tempted by deals to be had on flat-screen TVs (we still have a box).

But today, we had a great day despite their absence.

Happy Leftovers (and Make Something) Day!!

Oh Beautiful Day

Feeling so grateful for where we live, and for how we live.

We had a wonderful family day at the beach with friends:  frisbee, sandcastles, rock climbing, tidepools, sand-bombs-against-rocks throwing, chasing, basking, dancing.

Thank you, veterans, for this day of being free and together. 

Braised Pork Paired with Peach Pilsener

Once upon a time, a dear, dear friend brought some Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer over to my house. First, I'm kind of an omnivore with a willingness to try stuff, and second, the cherry beer was also known as "Free Beer," so it tasted exceptionally good to me that evening.  I'm sure I expressed appreciation for the beer, and for my friend, whom I love. 

Somehow, though, fruity beers made their way into a conversation at a neighborhood gathering some time later, and I was outed for loving them.  It was that little awkward moment where I could have disavowed all enthusiasm, like a high schooler might loudly exclaim, red-faced, "What?  I am SO NOT a Justin Bieber Fan!" but truth is, though I prefer IPA, I won't deny an offer of Raspberry Hefeweisen. 

But here's the deal.  I've been to a party or two now where a helpful host has bought some fruit beer "just for you, Fer."  Another generous friend saved the bottles of fruit beer (someone else brought to their house) just in case I come over. 

It's time to come clean about fruit beers and Fer:  there's just too many other tasty beers to drink. 

I was in a teacher's classroom today admiring his socks (yep, that's how we evaluate teachers at our school), and then realized I've complimented his socks before.  He admitted to having a "socks thing."

"It all started one Christmas," he explained, "when I put socks on a few too many gift lists."  The socks keep coming.  And he rocks them. 

Another teacher mentioned that she's awash in rubber ducks since once offhandedly remarking on their cuteness.  Her dad now makes it a mission to find one for her every time he travels. 

The third colleague in the room has a problem with braised pork, and the problem is that too many people think it's his favorite food.  People push the pork at family dinner parties; they make extra Just For Him.  He doesn't have the heart to let them down, so he chokes it down. 

The climax of the conversation occurred when our extraordinary-sock-sporting friend admitted he also went through a Thomas Jefferson Phase.

"I think you already know that I can be obsessive.  I was really into Thomas Jefferson." He shrugged, "Now I have about five books about Thomas Jefferson, which other people gave me, on my shelf."

I've been to the homes of people who whisper  a little too loudly that they have a penchant for pigs, baskets, shot glasses, angels, or old license plates.  Sometimes we grow out of our interests (though I wish I still had some of my Miss Piggy paraphernalia), but the world won't let us forget them.

One of the teachers predicted better results by expressing great interest in things like expensive wine, or cash. 

"You know me!" he joked, "I really appreciate a pricey Pinot!  And I collect it, you know, in case you have any cases lying around." 

Socks, fruity beers, rubber ducks, braised pork, Thomas Jefferson:  from which fan club do you need to unsubscribe yourself?

"Beyoncé a Wonderful Mom, Pals Say"

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

'Tis the Season

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.

Hotel "Your House"

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.

Talkin' 'bout the Generations

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.

Yes, 2011

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.