I See You

Anyone else out there feeling vulnerable?

Coronavirus, and not knowing for sure what's next or right or reasonable in preparing for, preventing, and managing it, is our new shared, global, collective anxiety.  COVID-19 has also become part of the greater preexisting web of things we worry about, while expanding and exposing our already tender underbellies.

Quarantines and social distancing and closed schools and businesses are conspiring to keep us apart for our own good.  And yet, we need one another.  Because underlying This Big Worry are all the other stressors and circumstances, short- and long-term, big and small, which existed before and many of which will still be around after Coronavirus has peaked and then waned.

Maybe it's Daylight Savings.  Lack of sleep?  Elections.  Tragedy.  There's menopause.  Cancer diagnoses and treatments.  College applications, acceptances, and rejections.  Grades.  Finances.  The stock market.  Depression.  Parenting.  Providing.  Trying to make a doctor's appointment.  Your child's behavior.  Being a good __fill in the blank__.  Death in your family.  Fear of death in your family.  Taxes.  The news.  Accidents.  Social media.  Anxiety.  Report cards.  SAT tests and scores.  Being responsible; is this what it means to be responsible?  GPA.  Insurance.  Deferred maintenance.  That pit in your stomach. Your children. The Joneses. Marriage.  Dating.  Your appearance.  Driving.  Climate change.  Being left out or feeling left out or FOMO.  Natural disaster. Your to-do list.  Your job?  Mortgages, or rent.  That thing you said. Also that thing you didn't say.  Your carbon footprint.  Panicking...or not panicking?  Your parents' health. Missing your parents.  Your relationship with alcohol. Someone else's relationship with alcohol.  Your relationships.  Do you need therapy?  Therapy.  Passwords.  Travel.  Real ID. The DMV.  Copays. Aging.  Being dead. Suicide.  Living up.  Being there.  Being there when you can't be.  Nutrition.  Clean water.  Regret.  Wildfires.  Preparedness.  Helping others.  Doing your part.  Maintaining perspective.  Being aware.  Not overreacting. Putting your phone down.  Laundry.  Doing enough.  Organic food.  Charitable contributions.  Forgetting.  Animal rights. Violence.  Retirement.  Healthcare.  Job performance.  Balanced meals.  Landfills.  Recycling.  Faith.  Teenagers.  The cost of oil.  War.  Feeling accepted.  Feeling seen.

Vulnerabilities are normal and natural and every day; they accentuate our humanness and connect us with others.  They're why we innovate and why we experiment and create; they're why we write novels and poetry and plays and songs and make music and paint and sculpt and reach out and act courageously and help and represent others.  Sharing our vulnerabilities and connecting with others' fears and insecurities helps us feel less lonely.

Our vulnerabilities can also spotlight our least desirable tendencies; they're why we manipulate and hoard and judge and fear our neighbors and develop addictions and point fingers and lash out and isolate ourselves.

And we're all vulnerable right now in our new shared reality.  Social media posts would suggest that we are asserting or seeking validation that our own approaches to current circumstances make the most, best sense.  Despite our links to experts' advice and testimonials, most of us don't really know the actual best way forward.  So we muddle through, collectively, along both parallel and intersecting paths.

At the height of his own fearfulness, Scaredy Squirrel, a Master Paranoiac and Overreactor, fell out of his seemingly safe tree sanctuary and serendipitously discovered he could fly.

But it's not a great time for us to venture forth into the Great Unknown.  We are likely to be having to hunker down (or up in our trees) soon with our nut supply and a limited view.

If elbow bumps are the closest safe contact, hugging and helping become rare gifts.

And that's why it's more important than ever to poke our heads out of our trees, acknowledge one another from a safe distance, and share more than our excess toilet paper, as our other struggles appear to recede in significance in the face of this pandemic.

Because Coronavirus isn't our only reality.  It's not our only vulnerability.

I see you, parenting a child with disabilities.  I see you, cutting corners to make ends meet.  I see you, in charge of making the tough calls in times like these.   I see you, unable to visit elderly loved ones.  I see you, worried about a family member's mental health.  I see you, mourning the death of your parent(s).  I see you, minimizing your own stress while maximizing your availability for others.  I see you, wondering if you/he/she will graduate.  I see you, worrying about test results.  I see you, struggling to speak up.  I see you, researching resources to help yourself or someone else.  I see you, wondering if anyone notices.

I see you. 

I see you, trying hard every day.

Acknowledging the journeys of others, unfolding before us even from a distance, might be what keeps us best connected in these unprecedented but also normal times.

I see you, searching for meaning.  Whom can you help be and feel seen?

Life of I

Rally the family for a morning hike at the State Park by the beach.  Forget snacks.  Feel properly vindicated by signs at Park which read, No Food or Drinks:  Fragile Habitat.

Force hikers to add loop down to beach despite protests.  Feel natural high of Fun Family Time. Cheerfully encourage tired shorty hikers back up the hill to the car.

Host one friend each for daughters' playdates.  Facilitate painting, snacks, clay baking, fairy house construction, snacks, rabbit holding, rock tumbling, snacks.

Nix TV during playdates.  Nix hide-and-seek in the house.  Remind Little Sis about Tone of Voice.

Commence holiday photo-card project.  Upload photos.  Choose design.  Forget to save project.  Start over.  Determine wording for card.  Recognize that square card requires additional postage.  Consider:  start over or who cares?  Save project and decision for tomorrow.

Send Husband and girls off to deliver playmates to their homes.  Think about date night and movie which will start at 8:20.  Wonder who will stay awake.  Wonder if there will be parking at the mall.

Enlist Little Sis, who is harassing Big Sis, to help make pizzas and salad for dinner.  Lose help to a sibling game of Battleship.  Be impressed with Big Sis's tutorial and patience for Little Sis.

Change some clothes for date night.  Marvel at fuzzy and greying hair and how marriage comfortably endures such realities.

Find the mall and its throngs of shoppers festive and uplifting.  Find smell of Abercrombie and Fitch store disturbing and possibly poisonous.

Learn there's a 40-minute wait at new restaurant.  Spot two seats at the bar and high-five.  Order food and drinks on an iPad.

Scurry through Anthropologie while Husband waits outside.  Exit store unscathed, notice how handsome Husband looks.

Find out it's a 3-D movie.  Grab glasses out of recycle bin.  Express disbelief at number of previews.  Nudge Husband awake, twice.  Cringe and writhe in seat during storm and sinking ship scenes.  Remind self that greatest fear is lost at sea.  Note that most of movie features struggle to survive at sea. Vow not to see Unbroken, the movie, should there ever be one.

Appreciate Pi's remarkable life, the author's clever allegory, and how people choose the story they prefer:  "So it goes with God."

Drive home and find two slumbering sisters and drowsy, generous neighbor/friend who offered to  hang with the girls.

Go to bed too late, glad for one more day of break.

Oops, Green Monster Does It Again

I often remind the girls in my care--my high schoolers, my daughters--that feelings like anger, insecurity, and envy spawn bad kinds of behavior.  Particularly between women.

I point out that while they often come from very dark places, those emotions are normal.  It becomes, however, our responsibility to identify when we're feeling them, determine their origins, and work through our anger, insecurity, or envy.  Or Think Very Hard before acting upon them.

Most hurtful emails; most damaging Facebook and Twitter posts; most passive-aggressive and petty acts stem from that Green Monster Envy or her cousins Jealousy, Covetousness, and Insecurity.  Most spontaneous bitchy behavior, in fact, can be traced back to those demons. 

And while none of us is immune, the hope is that we've learned to manage the monsters sometime between middle school and middle age. 

And yet, we've got the Real Housewives reality TV series to demonstrate that adult women can behave like sixth graders. 

Oh, and there's Paula Broadwell.

See, it wasn't exposure of her extramarital affair that brought her down.  It was that she had to go and send anonymous "harassing" emails to a woman she perceived as competition, asserting, in effect, "You'd better back off my (ex-)man."  And because they were "anonymous," an investigation ensued. 

Let the wincing commence. 

We do dumb and hurtful stuff when we're infatuated and obsessed (like have an affair), but we often do forehead-smackingly lunatic stuff when we're jealous and insecure (like write "anonymous" emails from multiple fake accounts).  Paula needed a friend to talk her down from the keyboard, at the very least. 

Nevertheless, I think many of us could own up to some ugly behavior birthed by envy. 

Okay, I will start.

It was sixth grade.  I had a hopeless crush on a guy who paid me no mind except when he was making fun of me and my friends in a way only middle school boys can (and I and my friends endured the mistreatment in a way only middle school girls can).  I knew deep down that this was destined to be unrequited love, but I was reassured by the fact that though he wasn't "going out" with me, he wasn't "going out" with anyone else I knew either. 

But then came Sixth Grade Camp.  Sixth Grade Camp is a rite of passage in our parts.  It involves spending a school week in the mountains with sixth grade peers from your school and Another School.  The "Another School" in question back in 1982 brought a girl who within a day purported to be hot for my love interest.  And I knew this because girls from both schools slept in a huge room of bunkbeds together, and my friends told me they heard her friends say that she liked him. 

I clearly remember the moment when a pack of my buddies approached me with this news, pointing out the girl in question, over yonder, and awaiting my response. 

A mild but territorial outrage tinged with green envy crept over me.  But I also felt safe among my "supportive" peeps, and emboldened by the independence of being at sleepaway camp.

"She's kind of a dog,"  I offered. 

And then the next part happened.  Either one of my friends told her or one of her friends the gist of what I said, or one of her friends overheard me.  All I know is that soon enough, I was surrounded by a group of her peeps, who were accusing me of calling their girl a "rag." 

"I did NOT call her a 'rag'," I asserted confidently, while sheathed in a cold sweat, relieved that one factual lapse saved me from lying, at least. 

"She wants to fight you," they added.

"Well...I didn't call her a rag..." I repeated, weakly, and walked away, in search of my friends. 

And that was that, as far as I recall.  I have vague memories of sanding a piece of Manzanita wood and being freaked out by counselors' ghost stories.  But mostly I remember that I spent most of Sixth Grade Camp living down that I acted like a mean girl and got called out. 

So, that was a low point.  In retrospect, I am so very glad I couldn't text or tweet or post my thoughts about that girl.  Because I might have. 

And though the scandal in Washington (and Virginia and Florida and North Carolina) is a hot, hot mess (the latest:  emails with shirtless photos from an FBI agent??  That poor choice is inspired by another kind of age-old monster...), there's something we should all recognize, amidst the snickering and judging: 

You can be valedictorian AND homecoming queen AND fitness champ AND Harvard grad AND bestselling author AND...Still.  Feel.  Insecure.

Whatever it takes for us to love ourselves a little more, or enough, it sure isn't having an affair with a four-star general.

It's an elusive elixir, and I hope Holly Petraeus has quarts of it in stock. 

List: Election Musings

1.  Heading to bed knowing who our next President is. 
2.  Heading to bed wondering if Proposition 30 will pass, and if we'll lose another two weeks of school for our kids. Shame on you, state.
3.  Heading to bed suspecting that we will continue to exercise the death penalty in California, despite my vote to the contrary.
4.  Heading to bed unsure if GMOs are bad or good or a little of both.
5.  Heading to bed wishing I'd taken government class in high school and trying to remember how that requirement was waived.
6.  Heading to bed sympathizing for the "only one person" in Little Sis's class who voted for Mitt Romney in her 1st grade class election.  Tough to stand alone.
7.  Heading to bed cringing at my Facebook feed.
8.  Heading to bed wincing at Big Sis's soccer teammate's comment as we walked to the car after practice, about Mitt Romney hating Mexicans, and reminding myself that people's perceptions are their realities.
9.  Heading to bed celebrating more states valuing individuals' rights to marry regardless of gender. 
10.  Heading to bed hoping that things will get better, better, BETTER for human beings over the next four years:  locally, nationally, globally. 

New Year's Tribute: My Husband

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Premiere of Our TV Drama

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wha-?"

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

"Really?  We're doing that?" 

"I  am," he declares. 

Mom turns begrudgingly to her iPad and Words With Friends.

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

Husband calls Mom at work a few hours later.

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

"Okay...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Thursday night:

Yep.  No TV.

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

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

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

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

What You Need? Baby, Go Get It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make You Feel My Love

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

The wedding we attended this evening was magical. 

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

For A&E

Between you

there is no thing;

there is only

you and you.

There are

you.

Tend the garden beneath

her branches.

Water the base of

her trunk.

Fertilize the soil

within which

the roots of

your strong trees

intertwine.

List: Nine Years

Husband and I have been married nine years today!

Nine of the amazing memories we've amassed:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8. First time skiing together, Mammoth, California.

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

Bring Your Updog

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

I don't know!  What's up with you?!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all!

List: September is the Month...

1. ...when blog post seedlings, normally regularly tended to and watered, instead sprout, and then dry up due to neglect.

2. ...when "sleeping in" till 7:00 all summer makes waking up at 5:30 hurt real bad.

3. ...when summer and fall converge, and the simultaneous holding-onto-summer and cringing-at-the-onslaught-of-fall causes us whiplash as well as over scheduling. Because (waaaaah) we still want to sail and swim and ride the roller coaster after school, but we've got homework and soccer practice and meetings cramping our style.

4. ...when I forget to pay the bills. We are also happen to be refinancing our house, which means I am forgetting to sign important financial documents.

5. ...when I lose touch with friends. And with my husband. And with my keys, my cell phone, and my mind.

6. ...when I begin longing for cooler weather, shorter days, and Halloween decorations in neighbors' yards.

7. ...when the sight of Christmas decorations stresses me out.

8. ...when I spend Friday nights at the football field.

9. ...when I run for exercise less, and run ragged more.

10. ...when I "try to remember the kind of September/When life was slow and oh, so mellow"?

Yeah, I think I can't remember that.

Chocolate for Everyone!!!

It's official: No one can control who eats chocolate, and when, or even why. Yummy for California!

Turns out, getting in the business of other people's chocolate is unconstitutional.

Duh, we knew that.

Heartbreak Warfare: Me and Myself on Our Better Selves

"Once you want it to begin, no one ever really wins...in heartbreak warfare."

Me: I just finished reading Nick Hornby's How to Be Good.

Myself: I really enjoyed it, even though it was sometimes like stabbing myself in the eye. It's the chronicle of a marriage in the trenches, and like the opening scene of the otherwise comedic Date Night: sometimes a little too real.

Me: There's something I appreciate about raw portrayals of everyday lives. I think I come out feeling more normal. But the few close friends I asked who've read the book either loved it or hated it. I am curious to hear the analysis of my fellow Book Clubbers at our discussion next week...

Myself: It's painful to read the honest revelations of a dissatisfied wife in a wretched union, albeit fictional. For example: "There have been times recently, since the beginning of our troubles, when the sight of David awake, active, conscious, walking and talking has made me want to retch, so acute is my loathing of him..."

and,

"Phone calls like ours only happen when you've spent several years hurting and being hurt, until every word you utter or hear becomes coded and loaded, as complicated and full of subtext as a bleak and brilliant play."

Me: Ouch. I spent a good portion of the book hoping to never resemble those remarks too closely. However, it's Nick Hornby, and therefore there's humor, as well as glimmers of hope.

Myself: The book is partly about making peace with the lot you've both been dealt and chosen, and partly about how simple it is, ultimately, to be little more good...a little, dare I say, nicer.

Me: I could relate a little to protagonist, Katie, a doctor who gives herself "goodness" credit for having chosen a helping profession. But she admits she's not always nice to her patients...

Myself: I am definitely guilty of wanting to be a nice person.

Me: "Guilty" of it, haha.

Myself: Well, I think that's a little at the heart of what this book explores. Goodness for the sake of sanctimonious purity is not all that pure, after all.

Me: If you're shoving it down others' throats, or being superficial, certainly. Goodness isn't a competition. One of the questions Hornby asks is do we strive to be good for our own sakes, for others close to us, or for our audience (society/community)? And what about people who totally reject the notion that we should be good, or nice?

Myself: I think it would be interesting to live without conscience for a day or two. I analyze too much.

Me: Goodness shouldn't be driven by guilt.

Myself: I know. I feel guilty that sometimes I think my goodness is driven by guilt.

Me: This book makes me think that maybe in a marriage, no one should be measurably "gooder" than the other.

Myself: Actually, I think no one should be measuring. When someone starts measuring, that's when the trouble starts.

Me: Yes!

Myself: Hornby sets up this awesome juxtaposition with Katie and her husband to explore these questions. Husband and wife are in cycle of hatefulness; Katie has a brief affair; Katie confesses such to her husband. She just about brings her marriage to its knees, except for the fact that her husband won't agree to divorce her, and then consults an alternative healer and becomes a Really Good Guy. Perhaps too good: Katie evolves from being annoyed with her generally pissed-off spouse to being annoyed with a mate who not only refuses to fight with her but wants to shelter homeless people in their house.

Me: Her husband turns everything upside down, and the change is abrupt, as Katie observes: "We are the ideal family. We eat together, we play improving board games instead of watching television, we smile a lot. I fear that at any moment I may kill somebody."

Myself: Imagine having all of your values and ways of life evaluated not only by your newly philanthropic husband, but also by a live-in Spiritual Guru named GoodNews.

Me: I love the dialogue between GoodNews and the family members. In one of his first scenes, GoodNews explains to Katie that he doesn't like beds: "I just think they make you soft. Take you further away from how things really are." When Katie asks, "And how are things?" she gets, "That's a big question, Katie...and I don't know if you are ready for the big answer."

Myself: Katie balances coping cynically with the changes around her with trying to participate genuinely in a search for goodness. She goes to church. She reinvests in some relationships she's neglected. When GoodNews suggests "Reversalism," ("If you stole something, give it back...if you were horrible, you have to be nice"), Katie gamely invites her least-favorite patient over for dinner.

Me: I love that part--"Barmy Brian" is such a tragicomic character.

Myself: And he too almost moves in with the family, along with homeless teen "Monkey" and GoodNews.

Me: The Reversalism idea is the straw that breaks the back of this journey, though.

Myself: Well, really--would you want someone who wronged you in the past to call you up and invite you to dinner or make some charitable offering, all with the purpose of making their own self feel better?

Me: I would probably go along with it to be nice. And out of a sort of curiosity.

Myself: It's a turning point when both Katie's husband David and GoodNews call up people they've detested to make nice and despite themselves, find they still detest them.

Me: You can feel Katie's little sense of glee when these schemes GoodNews and David come up with falter.

Myself: Well, because it's a novel portraying extremes: extreme unhappiness attempting to be remedied by extreme lifestyle change.

Me: Kind of the definition of mid-life crisis.

Myself: Ultimately, the answer lies in the middle somewhere. Perhaps starting with agreeing not to use sarcasm, contempt, and blame as the commerce of your relationship.

Me: I have to bite my lip sometimes to stray from the script. A gift I can give my husband is often simply not saying what he expects me to say in response to whatever annoying action I expected him to do. One annoyed person who can tell herself to get over it is better than two annoyed people locked in detente.

Myself: More John Mayer lyrics: "I swear to God we're gonna get it right if we lay our weapons down..."

Me: At the end of the novel nothing is really better. There's still a marriage that requires work and a family in need of healing.

Myself: Which leads me to what I think is the other message of the book--one that newlyweds and idealistic unmarrieds don't want to hear, perhaps: That sometimes happy marriages rely on the conviction that This Life I've Chosen is quite good, actually, despite not matching up with Hollywood standards. "I can do this," Katie concludes, "I can live this life."

Me: I think she should summon up a little more enthusiasm. Maybe sign up for a class or exercise more often.

Myself: Look inward.

Me: Right. It seems to me that dissatisfaction with a marriage, or one's life, is usually about dissatisfaction with oneself. Before looking outward--blaming others, having an affair, charting a path of self-destruction--one should explore small changes to one's life.

Myself: And be hopeful and optimistic.

Me: And nicer.

Myself: But not necessarily to be better. To feel better, to live better.

Me: Amen.

Groundhog Day, Crabby Version

You may not know about this reality show on the Discovery Channel called Deadliest Catch. I too would be ignorant of this epic portrayal of Alaska crab fishing were it not for the fact that whenever my husband has the remote, he seems to find this show. Hence our conversation tonight:

Me: Honey, is it the same boat and the same crew and the same storm every time on this channel?

Him: I know it seems like it. But it is always probably a new storm.

Me: (laughing) Always probably?

Him: Always probably maybe for sure.

In Medias Res

I've been thinking about how the flapping of my butterfly wings at work and at home is capable of generating tornadoes or soothing breezes.

There are the events I know about--tornadoes that make the news and gentle puffs for which I am thanked. I receive some feedback on a daily basis, what with the flipped fingers on the freeway and the occasional nasty--or grateful--email.

But I am left to imagine just how many tropical storms actually die out over the ocean before they're detected on my radar. And how many full sails lead ships to safe havens. At least in part, because of me.

When I have been in a meeting at work with contentious factions, felt the stress of the participants, and then played a role in successfully mediating a productive outcome, I can't help asking, "I wonder what would have happened if I weren't there?"

But I also go home and question the collateral damages my children suffer as a result of being...well...my children.

In my first year of teaching (oh, the innocence!), I once woke myself up in the middle of the night recalling that a child had asked me earlier for some tape, and in the chaos that was my classroom (not a theory!), I told him to wait a minute and then, forgot. I forgot to give him tape, and he was the kind of kid who would have waited, silently and patiently, until 12th grade.

He's currently adhesive-deficient, and he's out there somewhere coming unglued.

Honestly, I don't give myself that hard a time, but, like all of us, I muddle along without the benefit of an omniscient judge chiming in with appraisals like, "Congratulations, you have gracefully managed to avert disaster at a crucial juncture in a young learner's life! He will go on to confidently manage a company of 300 satisfied employees because of your wise intercessions," or, "Your angry outburst and the Time Out you prescribed Little Sis effectively isolated her and weakened her confidence. She will ultimately regain her self esteem, but will suffer from post-traumatic stress in her twenties and an aversion to seats in the style of the Naughty Chair."

So I rely on my own sense of confidence or lingering guilt as a barometer, and continue to suppose I could have just really mucked that whole thing up. Or, alternatively, made someone's day.

When I was a kid, I loved the Choose Your Own Adventure series. The books were usually set in exotic locales, with the plot lines interrupted by crossroads for the reader to contemplate: "If you decide to take a rest in the shady grove and drink water from your canteen, turn to page 10. If you decide to follow the green dragon into the deep abyss, turn to page 99."

It didn't take a genius to figure out that choosing the lower-number page usually meant prolonging one's "life" in the book. But the true fun of choosing "Your Own Adventure" was that you could go back time and again and assess all the possible outcomes of each fork in the road. Hindsight was truly 20/20: twenty pages of different endings. Choose the most favorable.

Wouldn't that be nice?

A friend of mine characterizes those big "What Ifs" in her life as Sliding Doors moments, a reference to the movie starring Gwyneth Paltrow. The film demonstrates how one moment at a subway stop and one variable--missing or catching that train--creates two possible and divergent life paths for the protagonist.

The big What Ifs are pretty darned scary. You've got the "What If I Had (or Hadn't)"s and the "What if I Now"s, and the consequences of exploring either can be daunting. "What If I Hadn't Taken This Job" can sometimes inform "What If I Now Jump This Job Ship," but we don't get to turn to page 39 or 56 to preview the ramifications.

We all really just want to know if, on the last page, we're gonna be happy.

How I would love to peek at the pages after "If you attempt to have/adopt a third child..." and/or, "If you decide your life is fulfilled with your husband and two daughters..." Just how upset would become our apple cart? Or how augmented? What other unforeseen upsets is our apple cart subject to? And/or which enhancements?

No crystal ball, alas.

I'm connecting the dots, instead, between the minor adventures I choose on a daily basis, and my own happines and the happiness of others.

In the adventure series written about life in our family, the plot line in which I am the protagonist can sometimes sound like this: "Your daughter is whining incessantly about various injustices. Your husband is going out of town but forgot to do this, that, and the other thing before departure. If you decide to hiss at your daughter to knock off the whining and give your husband a silent guilt trip, turn to page 82. If you decide to step out outside and take the dog for a walk, turn to page 41."

I am coaching myself to choose Door #2 more often.

"If you decide to take on more than you can handle and become exhausted and stressed out, turn to page 76. If you decide to be honest about your limitations and offer genuine help where you can, turn to page 24."

"If you decide to blame your job for your poor eating habits and lack of time to exercise, turn to page 101. If you decide to work on balance, and make time for exercise and stop eating all that junk, turn to page 16."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that choosing the lower-number page probably prolongs my life, even if there are no guarantees or sneak previews. And decisions that make me happier likely make others happier, too.

Ultimately, it seems like: if you're willing to forgo instant gratification, well...keep reading.

Bark or Bite

By now, New Moon fever has dulled to a faint howl, but the books and movie are still coming up in conversation. I saw the second film in the Twilight series two weeks ago and at least a couple of hours before most of my students due to free tickets to a special screening with friends. The movie was fabulous entertainment, as was the audience, cheering whenever Edward the Vampire or Jacob the Werewolf appeared on screen, shirtless.

So, there was a lot of cheering. And I felt slightly dirty the next day when I discovered that Taylor Lautner, the actor who plays Jacob, is only 17 years old. I could write about the sexism double standards at play here, and I thought about it...

But the real debate is Team Edward versus Team Jacob.

Now, before you log off your computer in disgust because you, like a friend or two on Facebook who have joined the group, "Team Edward or Team Jacob? How about Team Shut the F*** Up?" let me clarify that I am not entertaining the notion of which hottie is hotter. The point to ponder is what a friend's wife called "The Age-Old Conflict in a Woman's Soul."

Early in New Moon, elusive, often emotionally inaccessible Edward leaves heroine Bella, with the parting words, "You're no good for me." What he means literally is: "You're a juicy steak I want to bite into all the time." But that's just vampire speak for "It's not you; it's me," so we can relate as Bella pines for him while the seasons change. Seasons in Forks, Washington, by the way, are marked by either Rain or Snow (symbols, respectively, of tears and frozen hearts?).

I spent the first portion of the book annoyed with Edward and impatient with mopey Bella, but just before we are ready to give up on this sob saga (set to an appropriately emo soundtrack in the film), Bella does the expected: dusts herself off and finds herself a worthy distraction in the form of Jacob. Jacob is a brooding long-haired boy/man living outside town on the reservation. Bella and Jacob become close friends--but just friends. And not for lack of trying on Jacob's part.

I suppose we're supposed to feel the sexual tension between Bella and Jacob, but she pretty consistently dogs him (mastering the last-minute head-turn) to avoid being unfaithful to Edward, who has bailed on her. Nevertheless, this is meant to be a conflict, and Jacob is her bird in the hand. Except, we discover, he is actually a wolf in the woods. Which totally fits, since he plays the puppydog so perfectly. The faithful pooch. Loyal to his pack, to Bella, etc.

So now Edward and Jacob have something besides Bella in common: they're both monsters (albeit, monsters locked in an archetypal rivalry between their "species"). But Jacob is bound to lose the battle for Bella's heart, and he knows it: "I’m so sorry that I can’t be the right kind of monster for you, Bella. I guess I’m just not as great as a bloodsucker, am I?"

Jacob can be petulant and whiny, but he's always there.

Though Bella makes it abundantly clear whom she chooses, the 'Edward or Jacob' conundrum persists nevertheless as allegory: Who's your Jacob? Where's your Edward? Did you marry your Wolf or your Vampire?

We can imagine that Edward symbolizes passion, intrigue, the tortured poet, one's "soulmate." Dangerous love. The kind that might come back to bite you.

Jacob, on the other hand, represents safety. Dependability. He's an adoring friend and he'll stick around, put up with your moods. More the shaggy dog than wild hound.

If I ventured a guess, I'd bet that most of my friends committed to their wolves. Maybe after being once bitten. Or even twice.

But who doesn't want her Wolf and Vampire too? Is it possible? When a friend of mine pressed his wife to reveal if he was her Vamp or Dawg, she cleverly convinced him that her Vampire had become her Wolf. Graceful move, Sister.

The Twilight series, for the record, doesn't help us ground our expectations. After all, for Edward and Bella to work, she needs to join him in the Vampire World, so they'll both be young and immortal, forever. Frozen in time. Implicit is that their youthful passion for each other sustains.

In reality, we're graying and so are our mates. And retaining our youth is not as simple as saying to one's lover, "Bite me."

The danger is having your Wolf in the den and imagining one's Vampire is still out there, at large. The one that got away.

Maybe that's the allure of Twilight for the demographic say, above the age of 18. Edward Cullen is a safe fantasy (and he's not a minor in real life, either).

Bur offscreen, and at home, the challenge is not letting our long-term relationships suck the lifeblood out of us.

So here's to keeping it hot in the doghouse.

Woof!

Forty Years, and Four Days, of Family

My parents, according to legend, met during middle school biology lab. My mother's version of the story has my father as her lab partner and trying to take over frog dissection, thinking she would be squeamish and amenable to simply observing the process. Mom was having none of that and, baring her scalpel, vied for vivisection rights. The rest, as they say, is history. They finished middle and high school together, endured four years on opposite coasts during college, and married promptly after my father's graduation in 1969.

And miraculously, while other couples of their generation set new records for American divorce rates, they persevered for decades.

A few years ago our parents (of five offspring and by now eight grandchildren), declared that we would be celebrating their 40th anniversary with them on a trip, somewhere, sometime in 2009, and we should make ourselves available. We're there! we declared.

Plans narrowed to a Mexican Riviera Carnival Cruise out of San Diego during Thanksgiving week. We marked our calendars and watched as the economy shortened our cruise to four days, three nights: round trip to Ensenada and back. But we didn't care; we'd be together, in cabins down the hall from one another, and who knew what capers would transpire.

And that is how it came to be that a Mammom and Bampa and their four kids and their spouses (minus the pair who gave birth to Grandchild #8 just three days before departure), along with six grandchildren plus a mother-in-law and cousin boarded the Carnival Elation for a 40th Anniversary Adventure last week.

Our party of 18 was rarely all together in one place, except the day we conspicuously navigated the streets, shops, fish tacos, and margaritas of Ensenada. In various groupings and combinations we swam, mini-golfed, water-slid, toasted, gambled, spa-ed, buffeted, feasted, napped, exercised, and ate some more. My husband figured out on the second night of dining (rather coincidentally on "Elegant Night" when they serve lobster and prime rib), that no one will stop you--or more importantly, CHARGE YOU--from ordering two entrees. So he did. Steak AND lobster. And then several of my family members followed suit.

My generous parents provided the opportunity for us all to come together and celebrate, in effect, our very existence (and closeness to one another), thanks to them. In foresight, in the moment, and in hindsight, it was an exquisitely unique and special time.

Some other cruise highlights:

Delayed Departure: Our family's strategy was to board the ship as early as allowable, even if it was going nowhere. Our excitement began in various lines at 12:30 PM on Monday, but it wasn't long before we were enjoying reggae music and Mexican Mamas ("$7.50 for the first one and ALMOST one dollar off for a refill!") poolside. I believe the ship was meant to pull out around sunset. But alas, some of our fellow passengers were running late, and "because Ensenada is an easily reachable destination," Carnival announced that we would be extending our truants the courtesy of delaying departure.

Our entourage, along with most other passengers, was gathered on the top deck, anticipating the casting off of lines. My husband and brother-in-law discussed the possibility of mooning our comrades when they finally made it aboard. But we eventually decamped for dinner preparations, and the boat started moving, and then my sister-in-law got seasick.

Club Carnival: I just assumed any childcare on board was costly and questionable. Instead, it was FREE and AWESOME. So awesome, in fact, that 1) Daughter #1 was angry with us when we picked her up "early" at 9:45 one evening, and 2) after their first time, both girls begged to go back. We spent our days with the girls but took them to "Kids' Camp" each night so we could dine with the adults. As a gift to Daughter #1, we left here there until 11:30 on the last night. That's how much we love her.

The Coca Cola Scandal: Giddily relating her first Kids' Camp experience as she and her dad made their way back to our cabin, our First Grader admitted that, "Dad, you're probably going to fire me. In fact, yep, you're definitely going to fire me." The fire, though, was the glint in her eyes as she confessed that when the counselors gave her the choice to have water or Coke with her dinner, she totally went with Coke. "But Mom," she explained later, "It wasn't my fault. They gave me a CHOICE."

"And," she added, "I love Coke."

The Hairy Chest Contest: Taking for granted that this cruise would be a true escape from work and regular routine, it only occurred to me two days prior to our departure (from our own city's port, natch) that it was Fairly Likely that one of my students would be on this cruise. As we converged upon my parents' stateroom on the first afternoon before leaving port and watched our fellow passengers and family members board below, I spotted two former students on the gangway.

Well, I figured, former students are in a different jurisdiction from current students (and then there's international waters to factor in, ha ha!). Out of respect for the fact that these young men were in the less desirable position of having their former vice principal on their vacation, I avoided crossing paths and making direct eye contact.

However, my daughters and I did walk through the pool area as one of our alums was competing in the ship's Hairy Chest Contest. Daughters wanted to stick around. I did not.

Blackjack: Like so many of the things I do, I gamble one-dimensionally. What I mean by this is I know the simple aspects of one game, ignore the complicated stuff like buying insurance, etc., and then make up my own guidelines to keep me safe. I apply the same strategy to my sewing machine, for example. I know how to stitch in a straight line and I can sew stuff. Don't talk to me about button holes.

Guidelines that keep me safe in blackjack include agreeing how much money I will put out initially, and then how much I am willing to lose. At some point I decided I wanted to win enough to pay for the massage my husband kept hinting he'd really appreciate. Following the old "quit while you're ahead" maxim, I walked away from the table on the third night $100 up. And still not totally understanding the finer points of gambling.

Shane: So much to say about Shane. I'll try to keep it brief and stick to the best parts.

On our last night aboard the Carnival Elation, various adults gathered in my parents' cabin for a pre-dinner drink and Together Time. Door propped open, I happened to make eye contact with the resident of the cabin across the hall as he headed unsteadily out of his stateroom, drink in hand.

"Cheers!" I lifted my drink, and he responded in kind, peeking into my parents' "well-appointed" stateroom (certainly in comparison with his interior windowless room).

"Wow," he murmured, "This is a nice room! Where are you guys from?"

"San Diego," we answered, "What about you?"

"Well, have you heard of Riverside?"

We all nodded.

"Yeah, well. Actually, I'm from Hemet." (A town slightly more remote...)

He paused a moment, and then opened up.

"You know how the boat was delayed?" We nodded. "Ha! That was me and my buddy. It was his birthday last week, so we went to Vegas, and then it was my birthday this week, and we scheduled this cruise. We got here and realized we forgot our passports. We had to drive all the way back to Hemet. But we remained in contact with Carnival the whole way, and told them 'Don't worry; we're here! We're parking.'" He shook his head ruefully and took a swig of his drink.

"We were actually still on the freeway, like fifteen miles away."

My brother-in-law mentioned that "someone" had talked about mooning the late arrivals. Shane laughed, loving that he had achieved some shipboard infamy.

"Anyway, I figure we saved the boat four laps outside Ensenada."

We all drank to that. Our ship had spent an entire day "at sea," basically idling outside our one Mexican destination.

Shane, we learned, was a divorced surgical tech and dad living with a divorced roommate and planning to start a Physician's Assistant Program. "Life has been great since my buddy and I moved in together...we have so much fun."

It was only one sentence or so later before we learned that Shane's "buddy" and roommate was his sister's ex-husband.

You can't make this stuff up.

He asked us if we had encountered a group of now-infamous Bachelor Party guys on the cruise. In Speedos? With the Bachelor wearing an obligatory crown everywhere he went? Yep, we'd seen them.

"Well, we saw them in Papas & Beer in Ensenada." (Ed.: But of course!)

"I asked them if any of them had gotten laid."

He took a sip of his drink as we waited in anticipation for the answer.

He shook his head. "They didn't."

It was the perfect non-story to make us all raise our eyebrows and look around uncomfortably.

Proving, folks, that while the drinks ain't cheap on a Carnival Cruise, the childcare and entertainment is.

Here's to my parents, and 40 years of traveling, living, and loving together. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for a wonderful time, then and now.

Crossing the Line

I was thinking tonight about the poem I wrote for Almost-Not-My-Husband more than ten years ago in a rather desperate attempt to win him back after suffering temporary delusions (you can read about my uncomfortable epiphany--#9--here).

I remember the stereo turned up high with a mix of significant-song CDs on shuffle play as I handwrote my verses on papers and glue-sticked them to a large-ish piece of cardboard. I drove that cardboard plea over to his apartment and propped it against the front door.

I'm still not sure why I constructed a billboard of my ode instead of slipping a folded piece of paper beneath his door, although I suspect that it was clear at the time that this was a Dramatic Moment deserving of bold print and edification. I'm grateful I was gutsy enough to unleash some dramatic flair, because here we are surviving our seventh year of marriage.

I recalled the poem tonight as we sailed our boat in the Wednesday night Beer Can Races. The notion of a starting line in sailboat racing has always fascinated me. Certainly there is a line. You just can't see it in the water, of course, though it's defined like any other line by points. At our Yacht Club, Beer Can Races start between a flag in the water and a black-and-white-striped stanchion on the docks. Determining where a boat is in relation to the line requires looking back and forth between the flag and stanchion. So much depends on your position relative to that line. And your line of sight. Meanwhile, you're constantly in motion.

The start of a sailing race is about getting to the starting line at the start of the race, and not before, and not too late. Boats that are too far ahead turn around in front of yours and everyone angles for a spot between those two points. I guess it would be as if everyone in a running race had to be jogging toward the line--from different directions--intending to cross it right as the gun was fired. It's exciting and chaotic, with potential for near misses and collisions.

Tonight, and when I wrote the poem, I recognized how many starting lines are largely symbolic. A sailboat officially enters the race when it crosses that invisible line, but it's been racing toward the start long before the horn is blown.

The lines in our lives are often blurrier. It's hard to say when, exactly, I stopped being "young," at least in the minds of others. Where my private and my public lives diverge. As always when I return to work after a break, I struggle with the line between Working Mom and Mom. If each of my roles--Mom, Wife, Daughter, Sister, Friend, Neighbor, Vice Principal--are lines of my life, they intersect, run parallel to one another, and sometimes feel perpendicular. I'm pretty sure I'm straddling a line between "getting started" and "all done," particularly when I'm considering how much is enough. And I find it's the seamlessness, when one line merges imperceptibly into the next, that breeds contentment.

Drawing lines in the sand, it turns out, accomplishes only philosophical stands: the temporary definition of a status quo, subject to shifting winds and whims.

And on winds and whims, in my poem I acknowledge that I let myself be blown off course for a time before I recognized where I truly belonged. When the line between beginning and ending came sharply into focus.

Eleven Minutes

The starting line is a blur
of lapping waves and churning water
much like us I’m not sure when exactly
that moment was when we started
but we were ahead
before we knew it.

Winds blew;
You adjusted sails when
shifts caught us unaware.

No expert sailor
nor navigator,
I steered us to the end*.

*My husband would like me to mention that the ending of this poem left him unsettled. Given the fact that I, in fact, altered course before the finish line, we're now revising the last line of this poem to read, "I steered us around the mark."

A Dry Spell

I am in a bit of a writing drought here.

This week I went back to work. With no kids, no controversy, and no one but the principal and three other staff members around, I mostly stared at my computer screen (minus the Twitter and Facebook tabs), changed my Pandora station every couple of hours, called some people, filled my cup at the water cooler, wrote some emails, and updated some forms.

My job, alas, is mostly reactive. And there's only so much preparation for reaction one can do.

Speaking of droughts, though, we're officially on a Water Shortage Emergency in this county. Since the beginning of June, Mandatory Water Use Restrictions have been in place and we are tasked with reducing our average usage or face penalties.

Problem is, our H2O usage at home dropped dramatically in the past year. Mostly because we've been responsible citizens way too busy to water our yard (plus, it rained once in April) and also too busy too fix the clogged kitchen faucet which reduced our flow to very gentle stream. I became a little stressed about the specter of fines for not conserving further; I mean, how low can you go? I whined inside, while others wrote impassioned letters to the city and the paper bemoaning this plan to punish the people who've been good all along.

Right before the restrictions came to pass, however, my husband saved the day.

One May morning I awoke to the sound of a peaceful river flowing in the backyard outside the bedroom window. When I groggily opened the back door, I discovered water gushing like Niagara Falls over the cement retaining wall leading to the crawlspace beneath our house.

Heroic husband had left a hose on, watering the peach tree in the backyard, All Night Long. Which turned out to be, you know, overkill.

I won't explain how much money it cost to pump out the moat we created beneath our hardwood floors, and to pay the company to generously plug in and leave their mind-numbing fans blowing on all sides of our house for four days straight, because I am sure we are going to recoup the cost in our water bill savings over the next year, seeing as how that month's usage alone, averaged in with the other months of conservation, gave us that nice little cushion to go ahead and cut back.

Oh, and we also stopped bathing our children in July. What? C'mon, they went to the beach or the pool almost every day! At least once a week.

I'm pretty sure the City Treasurer is going to give us a gold star for our efforts.

Our Better Selves

It's been hard to ignore the character who's been getting all the press lately, who's been dominating the tabloids, who's been taken to court, whose reputation is at stake, over whom Americans are fighting for custody: You know, Marriage.

That poor institution. As gay couples fight valiantly for the right to adopt it, well-known heterosexual pairs are abusing and abandoning it (and claiming, in effect, that homosexuals wouldn't be fit guardians). Sheesh.

But I've said my piece about gay marriage. It's Generic Lifelong Commitment that I want to riff on today.

You would have to live in the Unabomber Shack to miss all the gibber about South Carolina's governor Mark Sanford, as well as Jon and Kate, and I have been thinking about them...mostly about the governor, since I haven't watched our generation's reality version of Eight is Enough (enough already?), and Mr. Sanford appears to be unable to muzzle himself on the issue of his "glorious" mistress.

And to bring Love and Marriage even more to the fore, I've been faithfully watching (I'll confess: faithfully! With nary a dalliance!) The Bachelorette this season; last night I went out with my sister to see the film Away We Go; my husband and I had a wee row one week ago. Someone's telling me something, and I think it is: It ain't easy, sister. Persevere.

Perhaps we could all use the reminder. Away We Go's main characters, expecting a baby and anchorless, head out in search of a new hometown and a family to model their own burgeoning one after. In one of the more poignant moments of the movie, the couple is sharing a meal with some old friends who have adopted four children. The father explains to his visitors that it takes more than shelter, parents, child, to create a home. In what has the potential to be a sickly sweet scene, he pours syrup over his makeshift pancake shanty to demonstrate how love binds it all together. But, he emphasizes, marriage--and parenting--takes "patience, consideration, and our better selves." His wife sighs, adding, "You have to be better than you ever thought you could be."

There are plenty of wedding vows which expound on the notion that one's partner makes one a "better version" of oneself, but the responsibility really lies within ourselves to figure out how best to be our own best version. On The Bachelorette last night, independent, self-possessed Jillian verbalizes her sense that amiable contender Kiptyn might just be a little too...nice for her. Citing her parents' marriage, in which her mother "wears the pants a little too much," she prods him, "I need to be sure that you wouldn't let me get away with whatever I wanted. That you would tell me when I am offside." Kiptyn seems to get it: "You need someone to call you out."

The question remains, would Kiptyn (you know, back in the Real World) tell Jillian to back off when she's overbearing, or would he shrug her off and shrink away, a la Jon Gosselin? And who's to blame when it all falls apart?

This is familiar territory for me, as I myself married a Nice Guy. And I will maintain 'til death do us part that he's the man I need, but I will also maintain that there are times I could use a swift kick in the rear and I don't get one from my good-natured husband. I can be a bossy sort, you see, albeit one who responds well to behavior modification. But I too was shocked and awed when my husband called me a "ballbuster" last week (I can't even capitalize it; that's how ouch it was). Okay, but as much as I wish he would nip my bossy in the bud, versus allowing it to build up to blurting that archetypal bitchy wife appellation, the point was not lost on me: Be nicer, Fer. Chill.

So I try.

Because I love my husband, and because I want to be a better version of myself. Because this is as good as it gets--I know, I know...some people divorce and remarry and are much happier, healthier, "righter"...okay. And if you're abused and you're a shadow of your former self because your partner does not let you grow, and you've tried...you know? I don't know. I don't know any marriage besides my own, but I think trying is what most of us have to do: Keep trying.

Because, frankly, I am fearful. And fear is what I fear too few of our fellow marrieds feel when they philander. I have a healthy fear of losing All This, and of Hurting All of Them. Why politicians don't feel that fear of losing All This That is Family, and then furthermore, don't fear losing All This That is Career, I just don't get.

I don't drink and drive because I fear killing people, but also because I fear (excuse the language, but it seems appropriate here) Fucking It Up. At what selfish, stupid point do people stop fearing Fucking It Up? At what cost? Yikes.

I think the Indigo Girls said it best: "All the shiny little trinkets of temptation/something new instead of something old/All you gotta do is scratch beneath the surface and it's fool's gold."

No one said it was easy; no one said it would be this hard. But I'm convinced it's worth it.