Commencement Speech 2018

Yesterday was likely the last time I'll deliver a high school graduation speech for a while! I am making elementary school my new professional home.

It was my honor to deliver the keynote address for the Class of 2018 last night:

Dear Class of 2018, thank you for inviting me to speak with you and our guests tonight.

We are going to start with a little experiment. I am going to say some words, and you are going to listen and pay attention to what you hear.  

Yanny.

Laurel.

Jenny.  

Laurel.

Maybe you heard me say Laurel.  Maybe you heard Yanny.  I sneaked a Jenny in there too, in deference to the fact that many of you will start calling me that at about 9:00 tonight if you haven’t already.  

Recently, the internet introduced us to this Yanny/Laurel sound file, and mysteriously, most of us could only hear one of those words when it played.  This prompted an online debate reminiscent of the photo of the famous dress that circulated in 2015, which people declared to be either blue and black, or white and gold.  We now know that hearing Yanny or Laurel depends on the frequencies your particular ears hear, and the color of the dress is related to how your brain processes ambient light.

When I was a teenager I copied quotes from song lyrics I thought were deep or relevant or really spoke to the devastating romantic moment I was going through, and I would share them with my best friend who was like, you listen to the lyrics?  I listen to the guitars.  My mind was kind of blown.  To me songs were mostly about their meaning.  To her, they were about music.  We were both listening to Oingo Boingo and hearing different parts.  

So what I find fascinating about our reactions to these internet debates about words and dresses is our absolute certainty that what WE perceive is the THE RIGHT ANSWER:  “It’s Laurel, and the rest of you are crazy,” “the dress is blue.  There is no white.”  WHY is it  so shocking to be confronted with evidence that we see and hear things differently from one another?   After all, there are people who like pineapple on pizza and who enjoy the smell of gasoline, and who can even walk on burning rocks without flinching.  Some of us are warm tonight, and others are cold, and you cannot tell someone they’re not cold. We see, hear, taste, smell, and feel things differently.   We also find different things beautiful, and funny, and gross, and sad, as well as easy and difficult.  We believe differently too. 

Thank goodness, by the way.  I enjoy having friends with houses of different styles and colors and eating dishes other people cook and I’ve appreciated YOUR unique approaches to fashion and differing preferences and viewpoints and influences.   I’m urging us to move beyond it HAS to be Laurel, it’s ONLY EVER a white dress, Crocs are universally ugly, and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches can never be good.  How about a different approach, like OMG, you love crocs?  Please tell me more about this affection you have for wide plastic shoes!  And then, we listen intently instead of shaking our heads in an inability to understand and ACCEPT that some people enthusiastically rock crocs.  Last week my daughter asked me to put diced apples in her tuna sandwich and I was like ewww, okay.  And then I was hungry, and there was extra tuna, and I tried it.  You guys.  This could be a new thing, like chicken and waffles, or bacon with maple syrup.  

We could stop replaying the Yanny and Laurel loop in search of hidden syllables (or to prove ourselves so very right about what we hear), and instead seek to understand one another a little more--how others’ backgrounds, experiences, and influences affect THEIR RESPONSES to the world and how things makes them feel--so often differently from ourselves.  I believe that’s one of the valuable lessons from Anthony Bourdain, who found no cuisine, from a villager’s daily porridge to the most expensive dish at a high-end restaurant, unworthy of his exploration and our attention.  Similarly, he valued the stories of the people he met, both humble and famous, and championed the challenges and contributions of dishwashers and executive chefs alike--as all essential members of culinary teams who feed us.  

Ms. Bice and I talked recently about how critical it is for everyone, regardless of age and experience, to feel they have stories to tell worthy of others’ ears.  She and your teachers have obviously had the purpose of teaching you, but the essence of that purpose has been to prompt and elicit your OWN analyses and understandings of what you’ve heard, read, seen, and experienced.  Our jobs are made joyful by the fact that WE KNOW your stories already matter, and that they’re important and instructive.  

We have much to learn from generations before and after us, if we don’t condemn them for lack of relevance or experience.  We are watching the elders in our society grow in understanding that high school students can be the greatest experts on topics which affect them most acutely, and when they speak up and demand to be heard.  Millennials are teaching our parents and my generation that money is best spent on experiences vs. things.  It’s wise to to befriend and consult older folks, too, particularly as you cross thresholds of life--we elders can empathize and share our own experiences of self doubt, of loves lost, of career pivots, and generally make you feel like you can get through, too, as we have before you.  

Class of 2018, you’ve already demonstrated the depth of your awareness and ability to listen carefully and perceptively not only to each other, but to members of your community.  You’ve paid attention.  It’s  a quality of this class we admire and celebrate.  You’ve honored contributions of all types of people who’ve supported you through your recognitions and recent notes of gratitude to teachers, coaches, youth group leaders, tutors, office staff, security guards, administrators, and substitute teachers.  

And on this journey we’ve all shared together students, staff, and families, we’ve listened to one another debate, play, sing, shout, joke, lecture, present, recite, whine, plead, argue, laugh, cry, apologize, and congratulate.  These are all sounds of being human, recognizable no matter what frequencies our own ears hear.  I’m grateful you and I were human here at CHS together.  Graduates, keep your eyes and ears and minds and hearts open, seeking to understand more about this rich, diverse, and fascinating world you’ll help shape.  Thank you, and love you all. 

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.  

33rd Street: June 2001-April 2013

We left our little bungalow behind last weekend, moving the last remaining items out as our excited buyer began spackling, painting, and making plans for her new abode. 

This was the first house we ever bought, the one whose mortgage we were promised we'd "grow into," as we dumped our change jars and counted every penny.  It's the house with dear neighbors, our amazing Apello pine tree, the yard where fairies fluorished, and rooms which welcomed us, newly married, and our babies. 

We're between houses until wood floors are installed in The New House and kitchen cupboards are painted.  Meanwhile, we've established temporary residence at my parents' house. 

The new house is still The New House.  Soon it will feel like Our Home--but not yet.  Now empty and echo-y, it waits for us to fill spaces and establish new routines, acquaint ourselves with neighbors, and create comfort. 

The girls said their own goodbyes to our beloved home and gardens; their tributes will be featured in a longer, forthcoming post. 

Farewell, sweet habitat. 

List: March Madness

If February was Morning Sickness Month, then March is A Little Bit o' Madness Month with hopes that April is Moving Month.

We found a house we love.   A house with more space.  A house on a canyon (surely with fairies) and cul de sac, with a front yard and raised garden beds for my green-thumbed husband and with a decadent deck (a deckadent!). 

The offer we made on the house was initially rejected.  But I couldn't stop thinking about it, and neither could the kids.  So when the call came last Wednesday that the other offer fell through, we jumped at the chance for another chance.  We'd have to sell our dear bungalow quickly.  We called our friends with a mobile storage company and ordered one to be delivered the next day.  And we (well, mostly Husband, with the help of our dear neighbors), loaded that thing up on Friday with half of our shizzle so that our house was "staged" for professional photographs on Saturday (staging which includes litter boxes and baskets of shoes and a few dust bunnies). Open House on Sunday.  Offers on Tuesday.  Counter offers on Wednesday.  Accepted counters on Thursday.  And I'm reluctant to say more than there's hope we have a new home soon, but there's hope! 

In the meantime we moved the dog and ourselves (so sorry, Bunny and Kitty) into my parents' home so our house stayed reasonably clean for folks taking a look.   There's been driving back and forth, meetings with inspectors, appointments at the city, finding and faxing and scanning and signing of documents, phone calls from realtors, and minor cliffhangers about financing and offers and inspection reports and disclosures. 

But we're so darned lucky that it's all happened so fast (knock on wood).  I'm feeling a lot of respect for sellers whose homes are on the market for months, enduring long stretches of keeping their houses clean and hoping it will all work out. 

Here are a few conclusions I've drawn from our experience thus far:

1.  Mobile storage containers are ingenious. 
2.  I'm going to hate myself when we unload that storage container.  Because we were so desperate to move things out of our house post haste, I packed many unlabeled boxes of random stuff worth nothing, which we then threw willy nilly into the container.  Many of you have commented that I'm likely moving my Piles of Denial to a new abode.  Indeed. 
3.  One should not pack last year's tax returns into the storage container.  I believe it was only a few hours after the storage container drove away that I received the email asking me for our 2010 and 2011 tax returns.  I actually know which box I threw those folders in, along with some of the girls' schoolwork from kindergarten and a few framed photographs and art. Maybe a few Polly Pockets. 
4.  Packing a house and a storage container provides rich fodder for spousal squabbling.
5.  A fish can survive many things, but not our hectic week.  Also, I changed the water in its bowl.  Let's call this a science experiment with a clear conclusion.
6.  I appreciate him, but I don't want to be a realtor.  I've watched ours work very hard, as well as be available to us at all hours. 
7.  It's wonderful to live close to my family.  I do not take it for granted. 
8.  If you're grabbing outfits one day at a time, you're bound to forget a key component.  On Monday I was glad I had flip flops in my office at school.  On Wednesday, I wore a jog bra. 

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!!

Snapshot: Sunday at the Park

Today was a hot November day in Southern California.  Just when I think we're finally gaining reprieve from fans and dress code violations, unseasonably warm weather returns.  We thought about swimming, but the allure weakened when the girls learned that the diving board was closed for fall and winter.  Off we went to the park instead, with scooters and helmets in hand.

I love going to the park to people watch.  And when I say people watch, I mainly mean parent watch.  I mean, kids are fun to watch too--kids eating sand, kids flying off the spinny thingamajig, kids awkwardly approaching one another to play, kids sighing and rolling eyes at kids (okay, at my daughter) when they (she) doesn't wait her turn for the monkey bars--but I watch parents, in part, to watch various versions of myself. 

I know a nanny who loves to post photos of moms at the park on Facebook:  moms who sit on a bench to the side while their children play.  She doesn't approve.  I confess that I'm one of those moms, most of the time, until my children enlist my involvement:  push me on the swing, please, Mama.  Lift me so I can reach the monkey bars.  Watch me!  Watch me!  Watch me!  Once in a while I want to climb the rock wall, or prove to myself that I can't do monkey bars.  Otherwise, like yesterday, I prefer to lie in the grass and in the cool breeze and enjoy my children enjoying themselves.  And watch and listen to parents.

I eavesdropped on a dad sitting with another mom, talking politics:

"I mean, you've got to vote based on your current circumstances.  You can't vote on some unlikely possibility you're going to be some millionaire someday..."

"I just think it's kind of selfish to have that view..."

And, as they parted:  "I think you're actually more conservative than you think you are..."

"Oh, no I'm not!"

I cringed at the Shrill Mom censuring her son from across the park.  And then I realized all four of those boys seven years old and under were hers. 

Over by the swings, I struck up a conversation with a mother of two, one of whom has Down Syndrome.  We talked about school and teachers and classes for students with special needs. 

"I just want both my kids to be happy," she sighed. 

A sweet, teary little girl and her sister approached me when I flopped back onto the grass. "Where's my mom?" the eldest sniffled. I looked for a childless parent, and found my doppelganger, lying in the shade of a tree past the slide.  She lifted her head and waved. 

Meanwhile, in the burnished slanty sun marking the end of Daylight Savings Time, my girls and a friend made the most of the park, chasing each other, racing on scooters, sliding, climbing, swinging.  Laughing. And doing the spider: 

When we got in the car, I turned to the three girls with cherry-red cheeks in the backseat and said, "You know what it smells like in here?  It smells like sweaty kid."  And off we went for ice cream.

Sugar Crashing

This morning, still woozy from sleep and high blood sugar, Little Sis grabbed her bag of candy and snuggled with it on the couch, brandishing a full-sized Kit Kat with wonder and anticipation.  On my way out the door for work, and in the gentlest way possible, I let her know we'd be talking this evening about our plan for Hallo-wean-ing ourselves off an entire cache of candy. 

Last night Little Sis was an adorable Dorothy as promised, with only a little concern about my braiding skills (she likes them tight; I confess that I am a loose plaiter).  Big Sis, who planned to be a veterinarian, had an alter-identity crisis ("But, Mom!  No one is going to be a job for Halloween!") and effected a late-in-game switcheroo to "Island Princess," which, despite my shallow experience with the genre, I believe she pulled off tropically and triumphantly (if not, at first, tearfully). 

Note:  one costume I won't ever try to make myself:  Fourth Grader. It's far too shape-shifting. 

I went as a bat.  Or as a cat, or a witch, depending on your interpretation and commitment to scrutinizing my accessories.  It was another year of raiding the children's costume crate, so my bat wings extended only to my elbows. 

Grandparents and aunts and uncle joined the trick-or-treating entourage through our friendly neighborhood.  We came home with only 45 minutes or so left of peak scavenging left, but threw ourselves wholeheartedly into giving the older trick-or-treaters a hard time while the girls sorted and sifted their bounty.

When a teenager wearing street clothes and a gratuitous mask approached the porch, my brother greeted him.  "That's pretty weak, man," he nodded at the kid's mask.

The young man shrugged as he held out his candy bag.  "Oh yeah, well, it's the recession."

P.S.  We told the girls they could choose 10 pieces of candy to keep, and we'd give them $10 for the rest.  How do you negotiate the gobs of gobstoppers and gummies?

Sleepless--and Fortunate--in San Diego

The girls are fast asleep tonight in their beds, easy targets after a night outside in sleeping bags on cots under the almost-full moon in honor of the homeless, and then a day of outings and parties.

On a late-night whim two weeks ago, I signed us up for the Sleepless San Diego experience.  It's been two years since I posted about Little Sis's optimistic appraisal of a homeless encampment near our neighborhood; in the meantime, the encampments have expanded as the effects of the struggling economy and our daughters' curiosity and concern have grown.  Over the summer, Husband and the girls harvested vegetables from the school garden and delivered them to a local shelter and soup kitchen.  Sleepless San Diego seemed like another opportunity to immerse our daughters in a memorable educational experience about the plight of people who are homeless, the resources available to assist them, and how we, too, can help. 

The girls and I registered as a team, with a minimum fundraising goal of $25 each, and sought  sponsors through Facebook.  On Saturday evening, armed with sleeping bags, pillows, and hats and jackets, and the donations of generous friends, we joined 700 other folks and a host of volunteers from the San Diego Rescue Mission at a local park.   We staked out three cots and then got busy circulating among resource booths, where Big and Little Sis learned about various ways groups and organizations are providing for the homeless in our city.  The girls helped decorate paper bags that would be filled with food and distributed to local school children the following Friday for their families for the weekend.  We learned that children of all ages can volunteer at Feeding America warehouses. 

There was an incredible spirit of jubilance and camaraderie among the participants and volunteers.  Across from the resource booths were games for children and face painting.  As the line for the balloon man grew longer, a group representing a church's "Ladle" service tried to draw attention to its free samples.  "Hey," yelled a witty volunteer, "we have soup in the shape of balloons over here!"

Part of the experience is the opportunity to build a cardboard "shelter" out of boxes and duct tape, and we watched several groups create elaborate roofed habitats (props to the boys "next door" to us!) before we set up our own walled (and cozy) structure.  This activity was more of a fun fort-building challenge than a lesson in resourceful survival; as this article in the San Diego Union Tribune asserts, the aim of the Sleepless program is not to simulate actual homelessness, but to raise awareness and dedicate one's thinking, community, and sleeping time to the cause for half a day, and then hopefully more. 

After a $5-each dinner of burgers, chips, and drinks, the girls and I joined throngs of teens from local church and school groups down at the stage for dancing and performances from musical troupes including a steel drum band from a downtown school serving students impacted by homelessness, and a youth percussion group making rhythm with garbage cans, tether balls, water bottles, and brooms. 

When the girls grew anxious to snuggle back in our cardboard-and-cot nest, we headed back to our spot, burrowed down in our bags and listened to documentary and live testimonials of formerly homeless teens, individuals, and parents, many of whom struggled with addiction and untreated mental illness.  Big Sis, in particular, was riveted. 

Little Sis slumbered sweetly.

I slept on and off, thinking about the role of faith and community in healing people who have experienced abuse, rejection, and the degradation of homelessness, and was particularly moved by a 31-year-old mother's story.  "There but for fortune go you or I," I acknowledged silently.  She could be the parent of my student.  My former student.  My friend, my neighbor.

The next morning a high-decibel blaring of Jimi Hendrix's "Star-Spangled Banner" roused us at 5:30.  Our cardboard casa had collapsed, and our pillows, bags, and cots were soggy with dew.  We visited the porta-potties, I fueled up on Starbucks-donated coffee, and we joined the ant-like participants efficiently dismantling the encampment and cleaning up.  We were ready to go home by 6:30.  Ready for soccer pictures, playdates, birthday and dinner parties. 

Many of us wonder how we should respond to people who are homeless among us, how we can help.  We have friends who make sandwiches for the man who camps at the intersection at the bottom of the hill; we have friends who regularly volunteer at food banks and soup kitchens.  Our neighbor has made ministering to the homeless and impoverished her mission.  One small step is to treat our fellow citizens with the dignity we all deserve. 

Here's a video with some suggestions--and perhaps you'll join our team for Sleepless next year...!

The Enchanted Canyon

When I was between the ages of four and eight and my father was in medical school, we lived in Connecticut in a condominium complex. While the homes were brand new in the 70s, featuring shag carpeting, bold wallpaper, and orange and olive-green appliances, the surroundings seemed untamed and enduring. We had a salamander-stocked creek trickling through the backyard shaded by willow trees, and our little neighborhood abutted a wooded hillside.

As kids we had free run of the place, riding our big wheels up and down the cul-de-sacs and winding paths between buildings, traipsing in the stream, and venturing into the woods, unsupervised and en masse, to explore, collect artifacts, and play imaginative and elaborate games. I remember half-building forts and abandoning them. I have a scar on my knee from when my brother and I doubled on his tricycle and tumbled headlong down the hill, and where the tire swing up in the woods hit that scab repeatedly. I couldn't stay away long enough to let it heal.

Those years in Connecticut comprise my most magical childhood memories. We were a tight-knit community of young families, and despite the fact that we moved away when I was merely eight years old, we remain in touch with several families and Facebook has brought me and my Hampton Park buddies back into one another's orbits.

Our daughters are now the same age my brother and I were when the woods of Hampton Park were our stomping grounds.  Living as we do now, however, in a semi-urban environment and in different times, our girls aren't as free to explore the streets of our neighborhood, largely due to our own discomfort and fears for their safety.  But we've found an enchanted canyon--a glorious escape nestled in the neighborhood--and it's become part of (what we hope is) our daughters' magical childhood. 

The canyon has become our place to go when friends come over to play.  We picnic in the canyon. When there's time after homework and before sunset, we head to the canyon.

We gravitate to the enchanted canyon when we need a breath of fresh air.  We visit the canyon to hear the sound of the wind and creaking tree boughs.  We explore the canyon with our dog:

Fairies live in the canyon. We know it because they leave their sparkly dust in trails, so we venture down there for fairy hunts:

We love the canyon for the thrill of an exhilarating swing from a tree and down the hillside:

Where was your magical childhood escape? 

Come visit, so we can share the canyon with you. 

Blackout Notes

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.

A Little for a Lot

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!

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.

Snapshot: Tuesday Evening

Why don't you take the dog for a walk, he suggests, knowing I am tired. Not grumpy. Quiet tired.

Who wants to go with me? I ask on my way out the door.

I don't, chirps Little Sis.

I do, counters Big Sis, slipping on flip flops.

Why can't I go? Little Sis whines.

Big Sis laughs. You can go, Silly.

Fingers intertwined with her sister's, Little Sis shouts, Let's go look for peaches on the corner! They skip down the block in search of grounded fruit. But peaches are done for the summer.

Oh well, says Big Sis. She takes the leash and lopes along the sidewalk with Amani, whose puppy grin and prance celebrate our walk, her life's simple pleasure.

We hold hands and cross the street, waving at neighbors and pointing at the moon and thunderclouds to the east.

Do they have thunderstorms in Colorado? asks Little Sis.

Yes, I answer.

But we can't see Colorado from here, adds Big Sis.

Do you have to take an airplane to Corolado? asks Little Sis.

Yep.

We did that once! We went to a wedding in Colorado, remembers Big Sis.

We stop to examine unusual flowers. We chat about sunburns and camp buses and friends.

I offer Little Sis the leash. Our dog, a jumper and feline-chaser, trots blithely past a cat sprawled on a table and Big Sis celebrates.

Good, GOOD DOG, Amani! she shouts.

She is a good dog, I agree.

And we are almost home again.

I am so happy, Big Sis sighs to herself, and to the sky, and to the neighborhood.

And I almost respond.

But instead I pause and take this picture.

Growing Humanity in Bureaucracy

In the spring as I was driving up the winding hill that is part of my weekly running route, I noticed someone planting rose bushes under an oak tree just on the other side of an old stone wall.

On my next run I stopped to survey the little garden that was establishing itself behind the scarred tree. Crumbled portions of the wall a car's width apart supported my suspicions that someone had driven off the road and into the tree, and had most likely died. With a lump in my throat, I admired the flowers and honored the effort and sentiments behind them, paying respects to the planter and his or her loved one.

A few weeks later as I jogged down the hill I spotted two rocks piled amidst the plantings, with a paper tucked in between. Curiosity got the best of me, and I read the note, which was from the City. "If you are the person who planted these flowers, can you please call me? Thank you," read the handwritten missive. A Parks and Recreation worker's card was inside.

I figured there must be rules about planting flowers along public roads, but was glad to see that the rose bushes weren't simply torn out. I wondered what would happen next--where the need to consistently enforce city policies would meet the wishes of a grieving relative to honor his loved one. The note gave me hope for an amenable solution.

This morning on my run up the hill I found two City workers digging up the plants and gently placing them in pots. "You have to remove them, huh?" I stopped to ask.

"Yes," replied one of the men regretfully, leaning on his shovel. "We're putting the flowers in pots and he will pick them up later. This is a historic oak grove," he explained, "and we have to protect the plants. But we will be placing a dedicated tree here instead." He pointed to a spot a few feet away, near the wall.

He told me that one night in the spring an elderly woman had driven off the road, over the wall, and into a tree. She passed away from injuries sustained in the accident and from other preexisting medical conditions. Her son had planted the little garden at the base of the tree.

I admitted I had been interested in the fate of the memorial and appreciated the compromise as well as the respect shown for the feelings of her mourning son.

I learned our city has a dedicated tree and bench program worth knowing about, and there are caring people working in its departments.

I'll be looking for the tree in that sacred spot on my run.

New Year's Tribute

Earlier this fall, a friend and I attended a behind-the-scenes tour of a joint exhibit of Calder's jewelry and Miro's works at our city's art museum. I learned a ton, including that most of Calder's jewelry would be unwieldy to wear, albeit beautiful.

Our tour guide shared that Calder gifted many of his works to his wife, on birthdays, anniversaries, and on New Year's Day, when kings and their artists typically exchanged gifts. New Year's gifts from artists to their patrons were meant to honor the role benefactors played in making artists' work possible.

That tradition struck me and stuck with me. I am sure 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.

But it's easy for me to identify the person who has enabled me to be the mother I want to be and the professional I need to be. My sister-in-law has made it her work--at this life juncture at least--to raise her children and assist in the caring and loving of mine (and numerous others') as well. She does this with an ease and generosity of spirit that is unique and extraordinary and far surpasses the role of "Auntie."

My sister-in-law does more than pick up my daughter from school, ensuring that her backpack and lunchbox are in order. She does more than make sure our daughters can be involved in extracurricular activities while their parents are at work and does more than make herself available for emergencies and more than saves us additional daycare costs on Fridays and vacation days, when she welcomes our daughters seamlessly into her fold.

She helps develop them into considerate family members. She teaches our daughters to be compassionate, empathetic members of a community of children and neighbors on her family's busy block. Having grown up among the dynamics of a loving extended family, she has taught us and our daughters its infinite value.

On a personal level, my sister-in-law has afforded me precious and invaluable commodities. She has reassured me that my children will be okay while I work. She has offered unconditional friendship, love, and time. She respects my life and work choices, expecting only that I do the same in turn for her. She absolves me of the guilt of indebtedness.

And so we appreciate and honor one another, in a relationship that is surprisingly uncomplicated and mutually admiring.

I know few people who benefit from the support of family members so close by. I know even fewer who live only three blocks from the treasure we've come to count on: cousins, caring, and Auntie K.

I owe many past pleasures and successes in part to you. I look forward to many more shared adventures in the next year and decade.

Happy New Year; I love you.

Home Alone

I'm at home sick today, and therefore faced with the surreality of being in the house when No One Else Is. So many possibilities! If you're not feeling crappy, that is. One voyeuristic opportunity I realized shortly after the other three human inhabitants blew out the door this morning and silence settled in was that I would have a sneak peek at the secret life of our pets.

Which so far has consisted of them following me around and lying down where I do.

Being away from school, that living, breathing city of 1000+ people, on a day when it's functioning without me always feels strange. I will acknowledge that, as someone who works in an educational setting, I am plenty accustomed to days off. It's days off without my children and anyone else's that seem eerie. When I finally pried myself from my bed and the gripping novel I was reading to take a shower and hit the pharmacy and post office, I marveled at the child-free world I momentarily inhabited. I finally passed a teenager in the cosmetics aisle, and as we made eye contact, I thought, You should be in school, girl.

So should you, Vice Principal, I reminded myself. We probably both called in sick.

We grow accustomed to seeing the usual characters in our daily dramas, as routine and cyclical as soap operas. In the meantime, there are other worlds whose residents we rarely meet. I was several months into my first year of college before I realized it had been a long time since I'd seen a dog or a baby: my world was professors and twenty-somethings. Now it's mainly teenagers and other parents of young children. I rarely escape from campus during the school day to run errands. And I avoid them on weekends with my daughters, save the requisite Costco or Target run.

So I was in the post office today for the first time in I can't remember how long, standing in line with no clerk in sight thinking, I am in the post office, in the middle of the day! Who are these other people? What are their jobs? Are they on lunch break? And then a man, frustrated over the wait, grabbed the box he'd chosen from the shelf and packed but hadn't paid for, and left. I was glad that he opted not to go postal, and also that I was not Vice Principal of the Post Office.

Back home I kept the TV and music off and listened to the weekday sounds of my neighborhood in concert with my snorting, sneezing, sniffling, and coughing. Cars passed, dogs barked, birds chirped. I was home to lend a neighbor the weed whacker and when the Arrowhead deliveryman arrived.

Of course, what I truly desired--and what everyone deserves--was a (healthy) day off of work (or child rearing) alone in my house or out exploring those other foreign mid-week worlds.

Like, I wonder what dramas unfold in spas on Wednesdays?

Maybe someday soon I'll find out.

Neighborhood Night

There's something magical about walking through the neighborhood at night. Houses look different. Landscaping I notice during the day gives way to lifescapes revealed by lighted interiors and open windows.

Tonight I was invited to a party several blocks away, and though my husband is out of town, I decided to hire a sitter and venture out alone. Our first grader has been in Art Camp with a former student and he graciously agreed to come over and put the three-year-old to bed forty times.

Perhaps he didn't know that was the bedtime routine.

I seized the opportunity to throw on a Fun Party Shirt, bid adieu to our dauntless sitter and my curious daughters (dialogue as I left: "But why don't you eat meat?" "Because I don't like to." "Okay...but do you eat macaroni and cheese?"), and swing by a few fiestas in the neighborhood, solo.

First stop was across the street, where I was treated to a glass of wine and a hug from a most cheery 11-month-old.

I cruised by my favorite local market for a bottle of wine and a Diet Dr. Pepper (where have these been all my life?), and then down to the party celebrating my daughter's classmate's parent's retirement and bon voyage on a six-week cross-country family adventure in a Westfalia named "Rusty."

The featured drink at the party was the "Rustini," and I swapped some VW van stories with Rusty's skipper, especially the one about my brother's friend puking in the plastic storage bin in the family Vanagon and my high school buddy's VW "Snotmobile" with the loudspeaker, with which he would summon me from my house as well as harass younger kids on bikes and skateboards ("You, on the red bike. Yeah, you. Go home! Your mother is calling.")

I met some nice folks with kids at my daughter's school and ate some fantastic food (the theme was "camp food," but camp food never looked this gourmet--or healthy!).

Only four blocks away was a party I discovered only hours before it started, on Facebook of all places. (As an aside here, I will give a nod to Facebook for bringing people together--its greatest virtue.) A mom I volunteered with on the elementary school's craft fair was hosting an art show with her husband in their amazing old craftsman home, a restoration in progress. There was a band in the backyard, sangria, and inspiring paintings hanging on the fences and walls. Fifteen percent of all proceeds from art sales benefited Plant with Purpose, an organization promoting environmental restoration in developing areas across the globe.

I left with half a glass of sangria, a sweet little painting titled "Hope," and a ten-block walk home on a balmy July night.

I passed a few Pride Parties in progress (Cheers!) and eavesdropped on some live piano from one house and an impromptu dance party.

I felt safe, not too warm and not too cold (mostly San-Diego-ish), and very grateful for living where I do.

And when I reached home, the sitter was still standing; the kids were not.

Playing Possum

When some friends moved to our neighborhood from the coastal area of Northern California, they frequently commented on how "urban" our part of the city is, what with the occasional drug deal, sirens, and police helicopters flying overhead. Mostly on their street, of course, one block away from our placid thruway.

If this is The Big City, though, no one told the animals. Undaunted by any metropolitan characterization of our habitat, the critters have been around this year. We've had the skunks, twice; ants, too many times; bees, (see "ants"); a dead rat who appeared to have fallen to his doom from our palm tree; raccoons making a crime scene of our fish pond; and coyote sightings in the canyon. It's been enough of a zoo around our house that I'd even like to challenge my former neighbors, who have moved back to "the country," to a Wildlife Encounters Match. How many ailing opossum have transformed your front yard into a convalescent home, huh? How many dead rodents have inspired lectures on the Circle of Life? And by the way, dolphins which you can spot diving in the Pacific waves from your bedroom window do not count.

Our latest animal adventures began last Saturday morning, when I spotted a spreadeagled squirrel lying in the middle of the road smack (ha! punny!) dab in front of our house. We have a huge pine tree in our front yard which serves as a Squirrel Condominium Complex, so it's not inconceivable that rodent dramas would play out, such as high-speed chases along the length of our roof, strange squirrel mating rituals, and the occasional tragic accident. And it's possible a fed-up Mother squirrel, who had Just About Enough of her children's whining, decided to stomp across the street for a happy-hour glass of wine with the neighboring mommy squirrel across the street. I've made that journey myself, but I haven't been hit by a car en route, thankfully.

My children and I examined the sad squirrel, who suffered from a bloodied face and one popped-out eye. We discussed what happens to dead things (decomposition, burial, cremation), and what the circumstances of that particular squirrel might be (note: I did not offer up the Happy Hour scenario above). For lack of a) the guts (haha! Another pun!), and b) a plan, I opted to leave the squirrel right there, after pointedly showing it to my neighbor as passing cars drove over it slowly. The next time we looked out the front window for a Roadkill Check, it was gone. I figured someone called Animal Services.

But the next morning, as my husband went back and forth to the car with gear for work, he noticed the squirrel in the former resting place of the rat: beneath the palm.

"Did you see the dead squirrel?" he whispered so the children wouldn't hear.

"What dead squirrel?" I asked. "WAIT. Another dead squirrel?" He brought me out to show me the little corpse, which had the familiar flayed-out limbs and extruding eye of yesterday's squirrel.

"It was dead in the middle of the street on Saturday," I explained to my husband," and there's no way it walked over to our tree or a passing car chipped it onto our property."

So someone tossed it into our yard, thank you very much.

My husband left for work.

Then he came right back, running inside with a similar whispery breathlessness, pointing to the patch of curbside space where the car had been parked in front of our driveway. There was something smallish and furry huddling there.

"What is it?" I hissed.

"It's a possum!" my husband exclaimed. "I'm not sure if I ran it over or scared it or what...it must have been hiding under the car..."

We went outside for a closer look. The possum looked stunned, with a little dried blood on its head, drool leaking out of his mouth, and a certain feebleness about him that was both disconcerting, mildly cute, and suggestive of imminent death.

I called Animal Services to inform them that we had both a dead squirrel and an injured possum on our hands. Then I brought the girls out and we spent some time staring at the fairly immobile creature. They eventually grew tired of the actionless performance and drifted into the house to play. I sat on the curb, waited for Animal Services, and updated my Facebook Status.

Gradually, the possum began turning his head and surveying the scene. He appeared to be pondering a foray into the street, which I silently warned him against. And then, inexplicably, he stood up and began ambling toward our driveway gate. Hmmm, where are you going, Little Fella, thought I, as I imagined him moving permanently into our backyard. But finding our gate closed, he discovered a dark damp spot beneath a bush under our front window and settled down for a diurnal nap. Thinking he looked comfy and unlikely to bust any new moves, I slipped into the house for a quick shower and told the kids to get me if Animal Services came.

But they didn't come. And we needed to get on with our day. So I wrote a note describing the locations of the fauna needing attention on our property and duct-taped it to the front of the house: Over here, injured possum. Over there, dead squirrel. Unsmiley face.

We came home from many hours at the beach to find the sign, the squirrel, and the possum exactly where they were. And a message on the machine from Animal Services saying they couldn't find our house. I called them back.

Ms. Animal Services arrived and promptly told me dead squirrels were our business, not hers, and that dumping the rodent in the trashcan was an appropriate burial.

She inspected the possum, still curled up but willing to lift its head when poked.

"Oh yeah," she nodded. "It has distemper. See it trembling?"

Pictures of Old Yeller popped into my mind. "You mean rabies?" I asked.

"No, distemper."

Right, I agreed, thinking, I don't know what that is, exactly, and, that diagnosis might apply on occasion to Yours Truly.

"I'm going to euthanize him right here," she informed me. "In case that makes you uncomfortable..."

I shook my head. "Nope; I feel sorry for the little guy, but he shouldn't suffer any longer."

She threw a towel over our adopted invalid, pinned him firmly to the ground with what looked like trash pincers, and with a sort-of-free hand, pulled out a syringe. She attempted to yank off the top of the syringe with her teeth. Only it wasn't the top; it was the plunger part. I watched Deadly Euthanasia Stuff drip down the side of her face, and thought, Lady, please don't euthanize yourself here.

"Oops," she mumbled, "I hope I have enough left for this guy..."

And then it was over: injection complete, deceased towel-enshrouded possum in trash bag, farewell to Animal Services.

As for the dead squirrel, I surmised she would fit quite nicely in that there trash bag, and there was room in the Animal Services Truck.

But instead, I put her disposal on the "honey do" list for tomorrow.

Blank Slate

Tonight was our third Parents' Book Club meeting at the high school. The Club was conceived in part from a sense that as our children grow, we have fewer opportunities and forums for sharing the triumphs and travails of parenting, despite having just as many questions about whether or not we're doing it right.

As a parent of young children, my husband and I have numerous occasions to touch base with other parents: at school drop-off and pick-up, at the playground, at sports games and birthday parties, and in front yards in our neighborhood as our kiddoes zoom around on scooters and Big Wheels. We also still feel some license to discuss our children's habits and peculiarities; we've bonded over the vagaries of poop, pee, and vomit.

But at some point it won't be cool for us moms to talk about our kids and how and when they go to the bathroom. As our children grow into independence, boundaries between adult and child grow more distinct. Trust and respect between us and our children will be predicated upon appreciating their needs for privacy.

But we can't parent in a vacuum; we will still need our village. We will still need reassurance that we're not completely crazy, unreasonable, and unfit parents. We need comfort in knowing that our peers will supervise our children in their care--not so much so they won't run in the street or use the sharp scissors, more so they don't raid the liquor cabinet or initiate a game of strip poker. We will still need strategies, insights, and warning signs.

Parents' Book Club seemed like a non-threatening way to bring parents together to provide one another with listening ears and support. So far this year we've read Michael Riera's Staying Connected to Your Teenager, Kindlon and Thompson's Raising Cain and Wiseman's Queen Bees and Wannabes, and Hurt: Inside the World of Today's Teenagers, by Chap Clark.

Our discussion this evening was on Clark's book, a sort of anthropological look at adolescents. Feeling like I take an anthropological look at teens on a daily basis, the book held few surprises but confirmed much of what I've learned over the years, particularly in my role as vice principal. And one major conclusion I've drawn (true, arguably, for kids any age) is that teenagers want adults to demonstrate genuine interest in who they are as individuals, and they want to be taken seriously.

Four years ago Vanity Fair magazine sponsored an essay contest on the topic, "What is on the Minds of Youth Today?" Feeling fairly qualified to expound on the subject, I submitted an entry. My thesis was, essentially, we should ask the kids what's on their minds; we spend too much time and money (marketing to teens) making assumptions about their thoughts and concerns.

I didn't win, darn it, but as consolation I humbly published my own essay in newsletter/journal of which I am co-editor, ha ha. You can read my essay here in The Dialogue, the publication associated with the San Diego Area Writing Project (educators' professional development organization).

I haven't officially parented any teens yet, and I've struggled mightily enough with my own five-and-unders. So I will continue to seek all the help, advice, and support I can get as my children grow.

It is impossible to quantify how grateful I am every day for my "village."

Not the Smartest Bears in the 'hood?

This morning as I was getting ready for work our cat joined me in the bathroom. I applied mascara and then watched as the cat appeared to settle herself down on the bathmat to my left as I stood at the sink.

Settling, settling...no, wait, that's CROUCHING. Mascara wand in hand, damned if I didn't helplessly observe my feline lift her tail and spray urine all over the alley between the bathtub and vanity, covering the shower curtain, the tile, the side of the cabinet, and the bathmat. Her litter box lay pristine only one foot away.

I should have known right then that today might be a pisser.

Flip ahead to 10:35 PM. I've survived a workday of solving problems, supporting staff, nodding agreeably at angry parents, and suspending students. I carpooled to the admin. staff party and back and I have poured myself a glass of wine. The cat is perched on the arm of the couch to my right; our neighbor's daughter and mine are asleep on the floor in the living room; youngest child is tucked in; husband is contentedly flipping through the newspaper on our bed.

All appears calm at the ranch. But if you lean in close for a sniff, you'll smell the skunk.

I'm talking about the skunk who lives under the next-door neighbors' house. The skunk whose cute little babies sprayed our dog this summer. The skunk who regularly digs in our garden. The skunk who has made us wary of letting the dog out at night. The skunk I forgot about tonight.

Until that familiar scent wafted through our window.

"Where's the dog?" asked my husband, nose wrinkled. "Is she out?"

I gulped.

He let her in. The three children in our house began wailing: "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

"Yep," Husband shook his head. "She got sprayed."

Last time this happened it was 5 AM and it was summertime. We accidentally, sleepily, let our pooch into the house and discovered her malodorous state too late. Then we sequestered her until we could take her to the Dogwash, where I knew they would have a skunk solution. They did; I swear our dog never smelled so fresh.

But this time it's Friday night at 10 PM and it's cold outside and I'm tired and I already cleaned up cat pee once today. I can't put the dog back out to duke it out with skunks all night. THE SKUNKS WILL WIN.

So that is how our dog wound up in the shower tonight. And why, for lack of better ideas, we doused her with Target-brand body wash and the one little can of V8 we had on hand. And then sprayed her with hair detangler. That is why we have a cold, wet, still-smelly dog curled up on her dog bed, looking gloomy and sheepish.

As for me, I am done with wildlife for the day. Even though I smell like a second-class skunk (with detangler).

***

I'm back! With an update from 4 AM:

Dog begged to be let out. Husband's good idea was to go out in the backyard with her to ensure her Safety from Skunks. Husband watched dog doing her business...and then, unbelievably, WATCHED A SKUNK STREAK UP TO HER AND SPRAY HER IN THE FACE.

All three of us trooped back into the bathroom, where we did a 3:45 AM job of cleaning the dog. We had no more V8. Husband produced a mega can of diced peeled tomatoes. It was O'Dark Thirty. We were both grumpy. I looked at him incredulously, and asked, "Really, honey? In the shower? Tomato chunks aren't going down the drain." His only feeble defense, poor sleepless, skunk-victimed man, was, "I thought I'd ask."

So dog still smells terrible. Whole house reeks. No adults could sleep.

Now it's morning; the kids are well rested and curious about the stench.

As for me, I've become one with skunk. I am past the point of caring.

Which means you probably don't want to come over.