Twilight

I don't understand the argument against letting tweens read the Twilight series or see the movie.

It's not so much that I don't understand their arguments. I'm just surprised at them. And I don't agree with them.

We took our son, who will turn 11 next week, to see it last night. My husband, my son, and I have read all four books in the series, and we'd been looking forward to seeing the movie together for a long time. (It just took us a while to find a time when all three of us were available to go, and without the younger twins.)

At brunch a month ago, when three of my girlfriends were headed to see the movie afterward (among the three of them, they have four children my son's age), I was surprised -- no, shocked -- to hear how vehemently they were against allowing their children to read the stories. And I would not consider these parents to be typically ultra-conservative regarding movie selections for their children. Yet they absolutely would not let their children see this one -- no way, no how.

Yes, I see that the primary conflict is over sex (and its trade for immortality).

But what, in today's culture, is not about sex?

In contrast to much of what kids see in movies, even on TV, the sex conflict in this series takes place within a long-term, committed relationship. These characters have arguments, but they don't just end the relationship. Well, not permanently, anyway. Sometimes breakups and reconciliations are part of the process of learning to navigate a relationship. They communicate, they resolve their differences. Sometimes the resolution takes longer to achieve, but they work it out in the end.

Isn't this what we want our children to learn?

Frankly, my only disappointment with the love story is that Edward's sticking point is marriage. I don't want my own children to turn to marriage at such a young age (Bella is 17 when the story begins) just so they can have sex. Yes, I truly hope my children will be in a meaningful relationship when they feel the "time is right," but I don't believe the decision to marry should be based on hormonal desires.

Now that we've read the books and seen the first of the movie installments, together as a family, I hope we can use the love story as a vehicle for communication with our son about love, sex, commitment, relationships. When the sequel is released next year, he'll be nearly 12 years old. I assume he'll be 13 and 14 when the final two films are released. Over these years, he'll become interested in girls, and I hope he'll talk to us about the emotional and hormonal desires and fears this interest will bring.

I hope he'll see that the desire to have sex is normal. I hope he learns that it's not a "bad" thing that's off-limits until marriage. Instead, I hope he'll learn to manage these desires. I hope he'll learn that sex is part of a relationship -- just one element of it, in addition to mutual respect, healthy conflict, communication, discovery of the whole person.

If we, his parents, stay out of it altogether, or simply present sex as an all-or-nothing proposition, then he will be forced to learn all he can from his peers. And they don't know any more than he does!

It's our job as his parents to help him understand relationships. And if we can have a little fun while we're at it -- such as sharing a night at the movies -- then all the better.

Finite

"Life is not always a beautiful thing," he told me.

My father-in-law and I were the only two people left in the dining room after we'd finished our pie. He's 87. He's a wonderful man: intelligent, loving, kind, a good listener, attentive, a good socializer, and more.

As he ages, the process affects him profoundly. He's a good listener and attentive, but he now has so much trouble hearing that he sometimes "checks out" of conversations. He enjoys socializing with family and friends, but his failing heart and broken hip limit the number and extent of his visits. He loves his family, but his aging body becomes exhausted and he excuses himself to take naps.

We all recognize these facts as fairly inevitable effects of aging. Knowing that the human body has a finite number of years in which to remain active, at some point, something has to give. Even though we love Bill regardless of his physical condition, he is quite frustrated by it.

Bill's perspective is that, after the age of retirement, many people enjoy their 60s and 70s with the benefits of freedom, financial comfort, good health, and energy. But by the time we reach our 80s, the body begins to fail. Of course, there are always exceptions. But from what I've seen of older relatives, I think he's generally right.

I've seen some relatives whose minds weaken before their bodies. And others whose bodies weaken before their minds. It has led me to wonder which I'd prefer. Sometimes I think I'd prefer for my body to weaken first, because at least I'd still have my mind. I'd be able to enjoy conversations with others, think for myself, be aware of who I am. Yet I might feel that I'm living in my own personal torture chamber, a viable mind confined by a body that can't keep up. Bill is aging this way.

Then I think I might prefer for my mind to weaken first, because at least I wouldn't be very cognizant of it. I'd be in my own world, oblivious to my own failing state. But my relatives wouldn't. From watching spouses and children take care of their loved ones with Alzheimer's or another form of dementia, it's hardest on the families. My grandmother, who is about my father-in-law's age, is currently aging in this manner.

The mental exercise of determining a preferable method of aging is moot, of course. I will do whatever is in my power to keep both my mind and my body active, but in the end, the decision is not mine to make. Genetics plays too large a role, and it reveals itself slowly.

In the meantime, life is a beautiful thing.

Know Thyself

After two days of Christmas celebrations, my twins were at each others' throats today. They insisted on being with each other, even though they irritated one another to no end. They needed time apart, but wouldn't separate.

I was worn out from the celebrations myself, but I didn't want to hang around here listening to them fight all day. So, since my husband had plans with "the guys" tonight, the kids and I decided to see a movie. We quickly settled on Marley & Me. Well, most of us did. Surprisingly, one of the twins -- the one who usually loves to see movies -- said she didn't want to go. Also surprisingly, the other twin -- the one who typically hates seeing movies -- was adamant that she did want to go. My son is always up for any plans, and he stayed true to character.

I figured the naysayer would change her mind (she often does, as she typically avoids conflict in favor of accommodating others). But she stuck to her guns. No movie for her. A quick call to my parents remedied the situation: she'd hang out with them and the other two would go to the movies with me.

Throughout the afternoon, everyone held firm. Especially my little one who was brave enough to be different. (Remember, she's a twin. I don't know about other twins, but my twins do everything together. For one to break off from the other is highly unusual.)

So we dropped her off at Mom and Dad's on the way to the movie theater. She cheerily waved good-bye to us as she walked up the driveway to the house, holding my dad's hand.

My other two and I saw the movie. We loved it: we laughed a lot and cried some, too. (Turns out it was probably best that the one daughter missed the movie. She's more emotional than the others, and the movie probably would have been tough on her.)

Afterward, my daughter opened the door for us with a warm greeting. She filled us in on everything they'd been up to while we were out. She seemed relaxed, content.

Although initially I had hoped she'd change her mind and join us at the movies, I was so proud of my daughter at this moment. The one who likes to please others pleased herself this time. She was in touch with her own needs: a quiet evening at home.

Known

I know Christmas has become completely commercialized, yet I am not ashamed to say that I enjoy giving and receiving gifts.

Humans have given gifts for thousands of years. Reciprocity, in fact, is one trait that is inherent to humans. It's natural for us to want to give to others, as others give to us. Give-and-take: whether we shroud it in the custom of Christmas, birthdays, or any other religious or secular celebration is moot. We look for opportunities to gather, celebrate, give, and receive.

In our family, the parents exchange gifts just as the kids do. And the kids give to the parents, not just the other way around. Children are showered with gifts aplenty; I think it's healthy for them to see the adults participating in the experience, as well. And when children give gifts to their siblings and to their parents, they are allowed to experience the joy of giving, in addition to the pleasure of receiving.

For this reason, I don't favor the practice of buying a gift for oneself and just "telling" the spouse what he or she bought. Or in the parents forgoing gifts for each other entirely. When this occurs, the potential giver is deprived of the experience of thinking up and hunting down just the "perfect" gift, anxiously keeping it a secret until finally Christmas morning arrives! (In fact, I was absolutely giddy over a gift that I spent a great deal of time researching and tracking down for my husband -- a gift that he hadn't asked for and didn't expect me to get him, but that he wanted very badly. How different Christmas morning would have been had he just gone out and bought the item for himself.)

Part of the joy of gift-giving is in the careful consideration of a gift, based on knowing the recipient's hobbies, personality, taste, needs, and more. To have selected a gift thoughtfully, painstakingly wrapped and adorned it, and presented it to someone we care about has the potential to bring the giver great joy. And to receive a gift that's been selected thoughtfully, painstakingly wrapped and adorned, and presented by someone we care about has the ability to make the recipient feel so appreciated, loved, and known.

In my mind, expense is not even a factor, other than to not spend more than one can comfortably afford. Gifts may be extravagant, homemade, thrifty, or expensive. On sale or full retail. The cost doesn't matter. But the specificity of the gift to the recipient can mean everything. One of my daughters' favorite gifts was, in fact, homemade by my son. The cost of materials was much, much less than the cost to purchase the item ready-made. But he put hours of love into it. I still can't tell who was more excited over this gift -- him for creating it for them, or them for knowing that he cared enough to make the perfect gift for them.

This Christmas, we heard many squeals of delight. Some of them from me! I was so pleased to realize that my family really knows me. Whether the gift cost $15 or $500 didn't matter. What mattered to me is that they took into consideration my interests, my hobbies, my goals, in selecting just the perfect items for me. Their thoughtfulness is what made me feel so appreciated -- much more so than the gifts themselves.

I hope my gifts to others caused them to feel as appreciated and as known as they made me feel. That is one of the joys of Christmas.

Hooked Up

I don't view myself as a soccer mom. Despite the fact that I'm a married, white, middle-class mom living in the suburbs. The thing is, I don't drive a minivan. Not that there's anything wrong with it. I mean, I have owned minivans in the past. When my kids were babies/toddlers/preschoolers, I couldn't imagine any vehicle better suited for transporting three little ones and all their gear.

But as soon as they were old enough to buckle themselves in their seats, I switched to driving SUVs. My current one is my favorite -- midsize; hybrid; drives like a car, not a truck. It just feels more like "me."

But here's the thing... No one likes taking it on long drives. It's comfortable, but it just doesn't have the configuration desired for settling in over the long haul, along with coolers, luggage, stuff to keep the kids busy, and the dog.

So, for a couple of upcoming trips, we've decided unanimously that we want to rent the Chrysler Town and Country minivan -- the one with the swivel seats and the fold-up table. In the commercials, it looks like a family room on wheels: everyone is smiling, facing each other, playing cards, having a great time. We want that!

So I spent an hour on the Internet and phone this morning, checking with all the local rental car agencies, as well as with our local Chrysler dealer, to try to rent a Chrysler T&C. To no avail! No one has them available for rent, and the dealer didn't really know how to help me, either. Who knew that a rental minivan would be such a hard-to-find commodity?

After all this research, one would likely reach the conclusion that this particular vehicle is simply not available for rent in our city. Except ... wait ... my neighbor rented one last year. Hmmm.

So I called the neighbor to ask what's up. Evidently, getting the T&C is a matter of pulling strings, knowing the right person, working the connections. My friend said he'd be happy to hook me up. I feel I've just made some grand coup!

Kind of sounds like we're involved in some illicit transaction. But no, it's all on the up-and-up. Nothing illegal or improper. Just playing the connections game. All over a minivan!

Getting connected with the right rental agent completely made my day. I'll definitely win points with the fam!

But I will be shaking my head in disbelief all day: a minivan as a rare commodity? I just don't get it.

Teacher

It is said that we can learn much from children. Maria Montessori, in fact, designed her schools around multiple-age groupings, with the intention that the children learn from one another. Is the following "teachable moment" what she had in mind?

Her parents were late in getting to the bus stop after school, so the driver asked if the 5-year-old could get off with my girls.

Despite the four-year age difference, she was having so much fun playing with my daughters that I told her parents there was no need to rush over here to pick her up.

So I gave them a snack. While they were eating at the kitchen counter, I went to the other room to get a bottle of water for myself. After having been gone for less than a minute, I returned to overhear a single-track conversation. Rather, instruction:

"Ass," she said. My girls dutifully repeated, in unison: "Ass."
"Ass," she said again. My girls again repeated: "Ass."
And they said it all over again.

Surprised at what I was hearing, I asked: "What are we talking about?"

The five-year-old said, "Ass is a bad word."

"Yes, it is. But why are you saying it?"

"Well, I was just telling the girls."

Sigh... Yes, even [my] children have so much to learn from the young.

The Time Is Right

NOW the house is ready for Christmas.

Like the tension between a man and a woman who want one another, to give in too soon can destroy the desire, and to prolong the inevitable can cause unnecessary frustration.

Today, we were just ready.

Social Moth

Friends who know me well at this stage of my life are sure I'm guilty of hyperbole when I say that, in high school, I could literally go an entire day without letting one word escape my mouth. I mean, not one word. But I assure them that this is fact, not exaggeration. I was really that shy, at least during my first two years of high school. Painfully shy.

Thankfully, I've since come out of my shell (or, shall I say, cocoon?). Now, I am quite comfortable in a crowd, with small talk, deep conversation, humor, even a little harmless flirting among friends. In fact, I've come to greatly enjoy socializing with friends, strangers, whomever! Still an introvert at heart -- I get my "charge" from quiet time at home, not from a big crowd of people -- I look forward to evenings out, mingling and laughing with others.

But I wouldn't quite describe myself as a social butterfly. Maybe a social moth is more apropos. I mean, I can fly through the room and do all the things a butterfly can do, but perhaps with less beauty and finesse.

Last night, we hosted our second annual company holiday party.

(OK, digression here... It's hard for me to write, think, or say "holiday party." I'm Catholic, and to me, it's a "Christmas party." But we need to be politically correct. And you've heard the soapbox arguments before on the whole "holiday" vs "Christmas" thing. So just insert that little rant here. Back to the story...)

We hosted the holiday party. Last year, we had the party at an upscale restaurant. We all dressed up, ate expensive steak meals, had great conversation around one big table. Of course, there were only about six employees and their spouses who attended, conducive to that type of intimate event.

This year, we have fifteen full-time employees, all of whom attended. Most with spouses. So the party was bigger. We chose to hold the party in a more casual restaurant, in a private room with multiple tables, a buffet, ping-pong and pool tables, and less structure -- more conducive to games and free mingling. Oh, and an open bar.

It was a great evening! My husband is more the butterfly than I am, so he flitted from group to group easily. I made it to just about everyone, but I do prefer longer conversations over the small-talk quick hits, so it took me longer to make my way through the crowd. Sometimes I like to people-watch, so I took a few short "social breaks" throughout the night to just watch others interacting.

Watching others socialize is really fascinating to me. Especially when there's an open bar. After a few drinks, some of the more introverted, socially cautious people open up a bit or a lot, allowing a glimpse into their true personalities. Couples tell their stories about each other with a wink and a nudge -- that harmless, teasing, back-and-forth that makes for great entertainment. After a few drinks, the extroverted among us become even more so -- wowwing others with their social flexibility, living large, creating "events" throughout the night. After a few drinks, people who were mere coworkers become BFFs, sharing secrets, planning future social events to enjoy together. After a few drinks, a company party becomes, simply and happily, a party of friends.

Finally, I looked at the time. By 12:30, the party that was to end at 11:00 was still going strong, at least among the last dozen to linger. Alas, we missed curfew -- we called the babysitter to say we're so sorry, but we're not going to be home by 12:00 as we'd thought. How about if we shoot for 1:00?

(Very) Personal Art

My daughter has recently taken to creating paper cutout art while {ahem} using the bathroom. We've been privy -- no pun intended -- well, maybe it was -- to many such artistic creations from her of late.




















I guess the lesson to be learned is that time should never be wasted. Even a trip to the bathroom can be time well spent!

Wishes

The Mega Millions jackpot is up to $170 million.

I'm not usually a lottery player, or a gambler of any type, but when the lottery gets up that high, I have to go for it!

To be sure, I don't need anything material in my life. I certainly have everything I need, and much more.

I don't even really want anything material all that badly.

That's not to say I wouldn't love to see what I could do with $170 million. And besides, it's fun to make wishes, to imagine!

I would:

Pay the college tuition for every kid in our extended family, not just our own children. Actually, I'd pay for any adults in the family who wanted to go back to school, too.

Help out several families I know with special needs children. Expenses to educate children with non-mainstream needs can be exorbitant.

Donate more than we currently do to many worthwhile local organizations.

Buy my mother-in-law the house she really wants.

Of course, even though I don't need anything material, I would make a few changes. I mean, $170 million! Who wouldn't splurge a little?

So, if I had $170 million, I'd sell the suburban house we live in and buy two places: one in the city, and one in the country. (OK, in the interest of honesty, with that much money, I'd probably buy a couple of vacation homes, too: one on the ski slopes somewhere, one on the beach somewhere...) But they wouldn't have to be big places! Big is overrated. But diverse, now, that's exciting.

My other self-indulgent splurge would be to travel a bit more. To places a bit farther away and a bit more exotic.

And the rest? Well, the main thing $170 million would buy is peace of mind. Without concern for the housing market, the stock market, the job market, the cost of college tuition, the value of retirement savings, and more, we could simply pursue our interests, whether they are financially profitable or not.

But these are just wishes. Just flights of fancy. Something to amuse my mind. Isn't it fun to play sometimes?

Ripple Effect

One nice thing about having laryngitis is the ripple effect it causes: My kids unconsciously match the volume of their voices to mine. So we have a generally quieter household all around!

The intense knives-in-the-throat feeling I felt yesterday, as {what I assume is} a virus in my throat was violently working its cruel wonders on me, has greatly subsided to a tolerable sore throat today. My throbbing sinuses are merely achy now. As my friends witnessed the rapid escalation of symptoms last night, I received numerous diagnoses by good-intentioned "Dr. Mom" friends. Their consensus was that I have strep throat and should get to Urgent Care ASAP today for an antibiotic.

But I don't think I will. I survived the night. The symptoms are better, and I'm not prone to strep. The doctors can't help me with a virus.

So I'll loaf around the house today, whispering to my kids. I'll use the loud/raspy whisper, when necessary, to break up any fights.

But mainly I'll enjoy the quiet day. Because when Mom speaks softly, the kids do, too.

Parting Words

"And tell your husband to hand over those keys!" he said as I left the examining room.

I looked back with a smile, "Oh, I will!"

Today, 9-1/2 weeks after being diagnosed with a hip fracture and being confined to crutches, Dr W cleared me for all kinds of activities. Including driving a stick-shift! I've had my eyes on my husband's new car for the past month, so when he gets back in town with it, I plan to take it for a spin!

So, I'm cleared to drive any kind of car.

I'm also cleared to carry the laundry around.

And I'm cleared to go to the gym! Of course, I'll be doing low-impact activities for a while yet, but that's fine with me -- at least I can do something! And as we were going over which specific gym activities are and are not allowed, Dr W warned against moving toward only the high-impact, high-repetition pursuits (which is how I got into this mess in the first place).

His words of wisdom: "Use all the sections of the gym."

(Of course, I drove straight there to have my membership reinstated posthaste.)

This afternoon, my daughters and I had a casting-off-of-the-crutches celebration. The girls were so enthusiastic while helping me discard them. I knew the real source of their enthusiasm was their hope of confiscating my old sticks. "Mom, now that you're done with them, do we get the crutches?"

I laughed. Sure -- anyone but me!

Photographic Adventure

The character Earl Hickey of My Name Is Earl can't seem to keep his eyes open in a photo.











I can relate.

Yesterday, I set out to take the annual photo of my children for our Christmas card. At the ages of 10 (son) and 9 (twin daughters), they're experienced enough to know the photo drill. I figured this would be a breeze.

More like a storm.

I'd picked out the coordinating outfits several weeks ago, and obtained buy-in from each child at that point. The girls were easy: they liked their dresses and the boots. My son was a little skeptical of the scarf, but seemed willing to try something new. The new piano room color scheme happened to match the outfits, so once the furniture arrived, that became our set and we were ready to go.

Instead, the plan began to fall apart.

My son put the outfit on and immediately commenced unbottoning the collar and then frantically tucking it into the shirt. "What are you doing to the collar?" I asked. "I hate the feel of it against my skin!" he said.

No matter. He'd have a scarf on. Which, incidentally, put him near tears."I look stupid in this!"

I thought he looked handsome and stylish.

We got him settled down, although he still maintained a pout.

Once my son was somewhat under control, I went back to curling the girls' hair. One of the twins gave a disgusted sigh and approached tears herself: "There are no curls in my hair!" As I looked at her hair that had curls all over, I didn't quite understand her frustration. She looked truly beautiful. The rest of the clan looked at her with mouths agape. "What do you mean, you don't have any curls? We're looking right at them!"

Naturally, the solution was bribery: all children who endured the photo shoot happily and with smiles would get ice cream afterward. Amazingly, three smiles immediately appeared on all three faces!

Good thing I was shooting with digital. I took about 50 shots and deleted about 48 of them. (To be honest, they weren't all rejected due to the subjects -- several were rejected due to poor photography on my part!)

Witness the gallery of rejects (rejected photos, that is, not children!):




Goofy eyes









Closed eyes










Distracted eyes











Cutesy overkill









Choke-hold on the dog





I started to wonder if our photographic adventure would ever end. But it did, with success. And the winner?




















Still, maybe I'll leave the photography to the pros next Christmas!

Painted Canvas

As of Friday, the transformation of my dining room-turned-piano room is virtually complete.

In August, I emptied the dining room of furniture and the room became a blank canvas on which to create the room I'd envisioned.

Redecorating this room was not a chore for me. Indeed, it brought me great satisfaction. It's emotionally cathartic to effect a physical change in the environment. And it provided a creative outlet.

This style of the furnishings in this room may not suit my friends, my family, or strangers. But it suits me. And my family seems to like it, too. So it works for us.

Just one more thing to be thankful for this season.

Still Too Early

Thanksgiving was Thursday.
I'm still enjoying the moment.
No gifts to give or receive.
Just family, friends, and food.

I still do not have my Christmas tree up.

Anonymity Revealed

It feels strange when the cover of anonymity is removed.

As a freelance editor for a local publishing company, I mark up manuscripts without ever meeting the authors. Therefore, each project is impersonal. I don't think about the person who put pen to paper. I don't worry about hurt feelings or big egos; I'm concerned only with the quality of the work to be published. The anonymity feels comfortable to me.

But once a year, I attend the publishing company's annual book signing/open house event. During the event many of the popular authors meet and greet customers, sign books, and chat with the general public. I am the editor employed by the company most frequently, so the publisher likes me to attend, too.

Many of the authors working with this small niche publisher know one another. Some teach together at the university. Some are members of the same societies. Some are just friends who like to write in the same genre. The annual event is a reunion for them. They enjoy socializing with one another, talking about current projects, catching up on news of each others' families.

They know who I am. I'm the one who scarred their beautiful, perfect pages.

But to me, they are a group of faces that are paired with names that I mentally match to the books they wrote in the space of a handshake. Then I try to remember the extent to which I edited their books, their "babies." As the fuzzy images finally become clear, I think "Yes ... this is the skillful writer who could tell an interesting story and who had a fine grasp of the English language!" Or "Uh-oh, this is the one who was enthusiastic about his subject, but who could barely string sentences together, leaving me to practically rewrite the book." Just as I remember their manuscripts, I know they surely remember my markups. And I wonder what they think of me.

I find the whole event a bit eerie. On the one hand, the authors are all strangers to me. On the other, I feel I know them well through the content they write about and the passion they bring to their work. Our lives have intertwined for a moment in time; their published work, though conceived of and written by them, is what it is through the influence of my red pen. But we don't talk about the books. Anything but. I feel ambivalent about our connected past, and about my anonymity revealed.

However, my ambivalence turns to relief as a current first-time author -- whom I imagine must feel resentful toward me for the suggestions I sent her after reviewing her work -- seeks me out to thank me exuberantly for helping her to see her book in a new light! She's revising and likes the new version better than the original.

Maybe it's not so bad to have my anonymity revealed after all.

Day of Thanks

Three of the people that I'm most thankful for.

Kelly Kelly Kelly Kelly

We don't all have a song written just for us.

Or written just for someone-else-who-has-the-same-name.

But Kelly has a song. Happy Birthday!

Spectrum

Today I chaperoned a field trip. The first-, second-, and third-graders sang to the residents of the retirement center they visited.

Young and old together.

The young don't imagine they'll ever grow old.

Do the old remember having those cherub faces and bright eyes, and being orbs of energy, themselves?

Letters

In recent posts, I've referenced an archival project I've been working on for two years.

Even though I'm very good at saving photos, letters, and memorabilia, I haven't been very good about organizing them and storing them in an easily-viewable format (e.g., photo albums, scrapbooks). So they've sat in boxes.

For this project, I've gathered all such items and relocated them to one place -- our guest room closet -- then separated them into three main categories: photos, cards & letters, and other memorabilia.

Within those categories, I've been filing the contents by date, making note of various occasions and important people recollected with these items. I'm happy to have arrived at the tail end of this organizing phase. Next will come digitizing. Finally, I will store them in labeled photo albums, scrapbooks, and photo boxes on shelves available to the entire family. After all, the reason I've saved these items all these years is not just to be able to claim that I did so; rather, I want our family to be able to peruse these artifacts at will, retelling stories, revisiting old friends or lost family members, remembering vacations, and generally marveling over the evolution of our lives.

Last night, I completed the organizing of old cards and letters that I've saved since elementary school. Although some have been lost or discarded over the years, generally, if someone wrote me, his or her words have been saved.

I've made an interesting discovery: Some of these letters make reference to periods of my life that I actually don't remember. For example, yesterday I read several letters and florists' cards from friends, sent many years ago, with wishes to get well soon. I've been puzzling over this. I don't remember being ill during the time in which the letters were sent. Of course, it could have been a period of emotional distress, not simply a physical ailment. I'm just not sure. It must have been significant enough for my friends to send me letters and flowers.

But whatever it was, as significant as it was at the time, I've clearly gotten over it. Moved on.

However, it moved me to see that, with whatever was troubling me at the time, I had friends who were concerned and who took the time to tell me I was on their minds. That's comforting to know, even if I never remember why I was the subject of their concern.

In the past decade, the number of letters in my archives is much smaller than in the prior two decades. This is despite the fact that my circle of friends has expanded. And despite the fact that I do keep in touch with them, and they with me. The difference is the Internet. These days, we keep in touch more frequently, but more briefly. And even though I save the e-mails, I don't print them out. When I switch from one computer to another, I often don't transfer the saved e-mail messages to the new computer. So, essentially, they're lost.

Since the contents of the letters and e-mails I receive from friends are a reflection of our current lives, they document many events in my life. Some I will remember always. Some I will forget as I move on.

As a saver, I feel fortunate to possess such wonderful correspondence from friends and family. And I feel a bit saddened by the e-correspondence I haven't saved. I can change that, starting now.

But there's nothing like a good old-fashioned letter written in one's own handwriting. I think I'll write some letters today.

Not Yet

I do not have my Christmas tree up yet.

Sexy City Singles, Desperate Suburban Housewives, and Other Caricatures

A few minutes ago I was driving home from my last appointment of the week, feeling a bit of relief and freedom. The mundane task of driving, and the temporary relief from pressing obligations, gave my mind the freedom to wander. So I let it.

Wander with me for a while.

Funny how these mundane moments allow for some of the best ideas. There's a convergence of thought, when all those loose ideas that have been dangling from the folds of the brain all of a sudden find each other and connect in a way you hadn't thought of before. It's that "A-ha!" moment. My husband had one of those moments five years ago -- while mowing -- when he conceived of a new business that he steered to success. (Since that day, he doesn't have a problem hiring out lots of household chores, but mowing he saves for himself.)

I won't go into detail yet about what the A-Ha moment produced for me today (time will tell if it's successful or not), but after that moment, my mind continued to wander.

For some reason, I started thinking about the TV show Desperate Housewives. I was thinking how each main character is a caricature of qualities that we all possess. Specifically, I was thinking which character most closely resembles ME! (It's more fun to shroud myself in some mystery, so I won't say which one it is. But I'll say this: Of the primary four, it's not Gabrielle. Also not Edie!)

Then I wandered to the four female caricatures from Sex and the City. Which one is most like me? Again, not gonna tell you. (But it's not Miranda.)

Continuing along those lines, I thought of the number 4. What other symbolism can be found in the number 4? There's the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, a method of identifying personalities based on four dichotomies. There are four seasons, which also are used as metaphors for stages of life. Four phases of the moon, roughly four weeks in a month, four gospels of the Bible, four sides to a square. Four books in the Twilight series...

What is it about the number 4? Numerologists might give it significance because it's the first composite number. It allows for two sets of pairs.

I think it provides variation without the distraction of too many options. Isn't that what we seek the majority of the time? We like variation to provide respite from monotony. But too many options can lead to a constant spinning of the mental wheels, too much time spent on evaluation of choices, too much chaos. That's fine for occasional circumstances, but not for daily use!

Back to those television characters... From talking with my girlfriends, it seems that most of us can relate mainly to one of the four primary characters in either Sex and the City or Desperate Housewives, although we each possess some qualities of the other characters to a lesser degree.

I know who I am. But who are you?

Nothing

Seinfeld was a "show about nothing."

Today's blog entry is an entry about nothing.

We all have weeks that are busier than others. Commitments involving school, work, errands, parenting, traveling, appointments, and more are like beads strung together and tied around the neck. The tight spaces in between leave room for little else. This has been one such week for me.

Busy periods can be exhilarating or exhausting, or something in between, or both at once. Regardless, they provide fodder for reflection, even if they do not allow actual time for it. Postponed, but not obliterated, reflection comes later.

In the course of the past week, I've considered many events to which I'd like to give further thought. For now, a few scribbles jotted on scraps of paper will need to suffice. I've begun some drafts, though they remain incomplete for the moment. I even tried posting a new blog entry on Tuesday, but it was too raw, too unedited, too ... soapbox, so I removed it shortly afterward. When I have more than just a few moments to spare, I'll be able to synthesize my thoughts, feelings, and observations in a more pleasing form.

I hope that will be soon. For now, suffice it to say that I'm busy living life, participating in the game, observing the people and events around me, and learning all I can. For even in the mundane, the hectic, the everyday world of my life, there is some new insight to be gleaned always.

Soon this nothing will be something.

Purple and Green Polka-Dot Tiger

Whatever you do, do not think of a purple and green polka-dot tiger.

You're thinking of a purple and green polka-dot tiger, aren't you?

My husband teased my son: "Whatever you do, do not think of this as a date."

Thing is, he was already thinking of the night as a date, despite his statements to the contrary.

It all started when my husband and I made plans to go out to dinner with another couple on Friday night. Ordinarily, I'd hire a sitter to stay with our children. But the girls had plans to stay overnight at a friend's house, and our son is almost 11, so it seemed silly to get a sitter just for him. Instead, we invited our friends' 11-year-old daughter, who is also friends with our son, to hang out together while the adults were out. Perfect plan!

So, earlier in the week, I asked my son to clean up "his" room of the basement. That's the area where he and his friends typically hang out because it's stocked with gaming systems, a TV, and Legos. No girlie things -- dolls, stuffed animals, etc -- allowed. I figured the two tweens would want to play video games, but the last time I poked my head in that room, Legos occupied every square inch of the floor, leaving no room for people. Knowing how this clean-up request typically goes, I started early in the week, realizing that it would take several days before he actually made any headway in the room.

Lo and behold, I walked past that room the next day, and found it immaculate! In fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen it that tidy. Hmm.

Then, Friday morning, we noticed our son was spending a longer time in his room than usual. Typically, he needs only a minute or two to change from his PJs into his uniform clothes. Turns out he was making his bed. He never makes his bed! When he joined us downstairs, we asked him why he decided to make his bed that morning. He said, "Well, Mom, you've been nagging me all summer to make my bed! So I was just doing what you've been telling me to do."

"But it's November!" I told him. I'd given up on the nagging for the school year. Interesting.

After he came home from school, while I was busy holding a Girl Scout meeting downstairs, he headed straight up to his room. "I'm just going to clean out my closet, Mom." What???

By now, of course, my husband and I had pretty much figured him out. The friend coming over tonight wasn't just any friend. It was a girl.
A girl. Friend.

He'd told me once that he had a crush on this Girl.Friend when he was in second or third grade, but he thought of her as "Just Friends" now.
Mmm hmm.

So after our friends had arrived with their daughter, and we'd said our good-byes to our two tweens, and we were riding to the restaurant, we adults reviewed the situation. We learned their daughter had changed her outfit before coming over for the evening. She doesn't typically change her outfit after school.

So, evidently, the two of them were kind of thinking of the night as a date. Now, what a "date" means to a 10- and 11-year-old is somewhat unclear. Maybe sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa to play video games? Maybe touching hands? Maybe even a peck on the cheek?

Cute. Harmless. Age-appropriate.

But next time, perhaps we'll have them hang out at the other house. With the older, teenage, high schooler brother as chaperone. Just in case they decide they're more than "just friends."

Expectations

The countdown started one week ago.

Only 7 days! Now 6! 5! . . .

On Wednesday, I told my friend I was so excited that it felt like Christmas Eve.

Finally, 9:30 a.m. on Thursday arrived. I met with the orthopedic surgeon for my six-week follow-up regarding my hip fracture. Bones typically need six weeks to heal; theoretically, my fracture should be healed now. But would it be?

Indeed, the x-ray revealed no sign of the fracture. All signs looked good. Is it too good to be true?

That cautiously optimistic side of me asked Dr W, "But is it really healed? Or are you just saying that because I just told you it feels like Christmas and I'm pretty sure the gift I'm about to open is the one I've been begging for and you don't want to let me down?"

He laughed. "No, it really looks healed."

After a few minutes of my micromanagment and the ensuing discussion about various marks I pointed to on my x-ray, I was satisfied. And excited!

The crutches will be with me for several more weeks as I gradually increase the weight permitted on the injured leg. For the next week, I can place 25% of my weight on that leg. The following week, 50%. Then 75%. When I meet with the doctor in three weeks, it's expected that he'll clear me for 100% weight on the injured leg. Now, that will be an event worth celebrating!

In the meantime, a physical therapist will guide me through exercises that will help strengthen the atrophied muscles in the injured leg.

The past six weeks have forced me to learn important lessons about myself. I've learned that it's okay to rely on a network of caring friends and family. I've learned that I don't have to do everything for my children; when given the opportunity, they will rise to the occasion. I've learned to trust my husband with errands and household tasks that were previously off limits (there's that micromanaging side again). I've learned that sometimes I dive too quickly and too earnestly into deep waters, only to get the bends. I've learned that the cliche slow and steady wins the race, like all cliches, is rooted in a human truth: with patience, I can achieve more over time than I can with recklessness. The list goes on...

Notably, I've also re-learned the importance of setting appropriate expectations. It was not an appropriate expectation for me to run a half-marathon in the time allotted for training. It was not an appropriate expectation that I could resume my pre-fracture activities a mere six weeks after diagnosis. Is it an appropriate expectation that it will take six to twelve months to resume running? And what about my plans to climb a mountain next summer?

I asked Dr. W these questions. Regardless of the answer, I now realize the importance of mentally setting realistic goals and understanding the challenges therein. His answers, based on his professional experience with other patients with a similar diagnosis, lead me to believe that the physical challenges in my Top Ten list are still achievable.

As I begin the slow process of working toward those goals, I celebrate that they're still viable goals. Now, I'll just be a little smarter in working toward them.

Bugs

On Monday, I took my son for a check-up with the pediatrician. On this visit, he was due for a chicken pox booster inoculation. In contrast to my daughters, who have been through myriad medical procedures and handle it all flawlessly, my healthy son is -- let's just say -- squeamish at the mention of anything he considers invasive.

Needles included. (Or especially.)

Well, he got through it with a healthy dose of drama. "Why do I have to get this shot? I don't care if I get the chicken pox!" Well, yes, he would care if he actually got them. I remember my own case of the chicken pox all too clearly. And if he can't handle a simple shot in the arm with a duration of less than one second, then surely he wouldn't be able to handle two weeks of itches that he's not allowed to scratch! No, we don't want those chicken pox "bugs" in our house.

Later, after I picked her up from school, my daughter asked if they were going to get the flu shot this year. I told her I wasn't sure yet. The flu "bug" is one that doesn't cause too much anxiety in our house. No one likes the experience of having the flu, but it's not typically life-threatening. And it's short-lived. And even when we've gotten the flu shot, it still hasn't prevented a new strain of the "bug" to take up temporary residence in each one of us.

That same day, I received an e-mail from the director of a class my daughters attend for one night each week. It turns out a child in last week's class had head lice.

Head lice! That made my skin crawl -- especially since I'd noticed what I thought was dandruff in the hair of one of my daughters over the weekend.

No one in my family has ever had lice, and I've never actually seen a case of it in person, so I had to rely on photos and descriptions I'd found on the Internet. My husband read the descriptions, too, and studied the photos. Then we combed through her hair some more. Is this lice? Maybe. Or is this dandruff? Maybe. Or did she just forget to rinse the shampoo out of her hair? Maybe.

Feeling very ill-equipped to deal with the investigation, we called our friend and neighbor, who happens to be an emergency room doctor. Surely he's seen his share of lice. Fortunately, we caught him on his way to the hospital, so he stopped by our house a few minutes later to check out our daughter.

While awaiting his arrival, I mentally reviewed everything in our house that would have had contact with our daughter's head. Her twin. All their combs, brushes, and hair accessories. All the hats and coats with hoods. Every blanket and pillow. The furniture. The carpet. Their friends. The list was endless! Next I mentally reviewed what the literature said we'd need to do to completely rid the house of the lice. She'd have to stay home from school this week. We'd have to cancel Girl Scouts, and that sleepover. My head was spinning!

Then, the verdict... No, my daughter does not have lice! She's healthy and bug-free! Such relief!

If only there was an inoculation for lice.

13

On that first day, we recite our lines optimistically, with a smile and figurative fingers crossed for a one-sided experience: only the good stuff, please.

in sickness and in health
in good times and in bad
in joy as well as in sorrow

At first, the good stuff is all we see.

A few years later, we glimpse some of the other, and then for a while that's all we can see.

in sickness and in health
in good times and in bad
in joy as well as in sorrow

But then, we see that, like us, these are counterparts to one another. One gives meaning to the other. One places the other in context. Without one, the other loses its significance. They're two halves of a whole.

in sickness and in health
in good times and in bad
in joy as well as in sorrow

The bad stuff cannot be weathered without the foundation of the good stuff to support it. And the joy cannot be experienced fully without the sorrow to give it context.

In thirteen years of sickness and health, good times and bad, joy and sorrow, we've experienced some of it all. I cherish every moment, and especially the one who shares them with me.

Adoptionversary

I never thought I'd own a dog.

But evidently we made a promise to my son (when he was maybe 1 or 2?) that he could have a dog when he was 10. Neither my husband nor I remembered the specific moment we made that promise. But our son did. And a promise is a promise.

So last fall, just before he turned 10, we found Bentley, a 16-month-old bichon-frise.

Today is the one-year anniversary of our adopting him.

And now it's hard to imagine our world without him.

He is cute as can be, loves to snuggle, is serene nearly all the time, is active when the kids want to play with him, is smart (well, as smart as a dog can be), loves us all, and is loved by all. Although I never before imagined wanting or loving a dog, he's brought such joy to our lives, and I'm thankful for that. I'm so glad he's part of our family.

Happy Adoptionversary, Bentley!

The School Game

Today is parent/teacher conference day. I always dread this day.

Although my children certainly have their talents, like all humans, they have their challenges as well. By now, I'm pretty well aware of all of them, and have even articulated them to others, but it's still really difficult to hear any less-than-positive statements about my own children from their teachers.

Uggh!

It's true that sometimes the children don't feel the need to perform to their abilities. Even though we've explained why it's important to learn their math facts or to write neatly or to answer in complete sentences or to turn in their homework on time, sometimes they simply don't care! There's only so much TV you can take away.

When the first-string motivations didn't work, we taught them to play "the school game." It's where you do all the homework and prepare for the exams and write neatly -- not for yourself, because of course you don't feel any of that is necessary -- but to win the highest points in the game and convince all the other players that you care about all those "unnecessary" things.

There are variations of this game, of course: The politics game. The career game. The social game. Et cetera. They'll encounter these sooner or later.

On school conference days, it is I who must play the school game. I smile and take notes and act like their observations (that this child needs to practice the math facts more or that child is too distractible or the other child needs to write more neatly) don't feel like stabs through my heart. "Yes, I see," I say. "What can we do to improve this skill?" "How can we help at home?" And then, "Thank you. We'll work on those. Now, where do you see my child succeeding?"

This is not my favorite game. Only nine more years to play it.

Bridge Reconstruction

"I'm trying not to get my hopes up." Statements like that are usually futile. Whether my hopes are up or down is largely independent of logic or intent.

But still, they're up.

We've started rebuilding that bridge I set fire to a year ago. And so far, we've been able to lay those foundation stones peacefully, without conflict.

Granted, that's just the base. It's essential to the structure, but useless if the bridge ultimately does not span the sides. We'll know in mid-December if the bridge components originating on each side meet in the middle.

With issues regarding the well being and the future of my children, sometimes my emotions overpower my logic. Fortunately, my husband provides the crucial link. With his help, I can see through the fog of emotion to the clarity ahead. And assembling a team of advocates helps tremendously, as well.

So together, our teams will continue to review the construction plans, research the best construction methods, revise and compromise when necessary, assemble the materials and skilled staff, and get to work. When we gather in December, I am hopeful we'll have found the keystone that holds our reconstructed bridge firmly in place for our daughter to cross.

Interpretation

A message for a special person in my life?
A metaphor for the transitional state of our government?
Or simply the status of my front lawn?

The interpretation is yours.
















Sometimes, you just have to stop trying to make it work. Leave behind what once was, plant new seeds, and watch them grow. Although the new seeds might be slow to germinate, they will eventually grow strong and reach upward!

Data Collection

I'm the family archivist. I like to keep track of things. Everything, really.

My husband is not so very interested in organizing or archiving or quantifying or planning. He's more of a live-in-the-moment kind of guy. Not that I'm knocking it! These traits, and more, have enabled him to become a successful entrepreneur. And he's really fun :)

So we balance each other out.

After all these years, he's taught me that I don't have to plan everything. I'm still a planner at heart, but I also realize that, to be happy, I have to be willing to change mid-course if the current plan isn't working. And I think I might have influenced him to believe that occasionally you do have to plan some things. (If we want to go out for the evening, for example, we have to arrange a sitter in advance. Stuff like that.)

Back to the archival tendencies... I keep notes on vacations, down to the room number of the hotel. In addition to photos, I've saved nearly all the greeting cards and letters and ticket stubs and other memorabilia we've collected after all these years. (I'm primarily visual and tactile, so I enjoy seeing and touching objects when recalling specific events.) I've saved all of my old calendars, back to the 1980s. They're sort of a non-annotated diary of my/our lives.

I've tallied how many pieces of candy we gave out at Halloween, and approximately how many children came trick-or-treating. (I know: that's just geeky.)

And now here's an odd one... The other day, as I was changing, I looked at my legs and noticed that one was visibly larger in circumference. To make sure it wasn't just in my mind, I asked my husband if he could see a difference. Sure enough, he could. It was real. Hmm. Remember, I've been on crutches for the fractured hip for 5 weeks now. The left leg has basically just been dangling there, as I'm not to put any weight on it. The muscles in that leg have completely atrophied. In contrast, the right leg has been doing double duty to support my weight all this time. The muscles are taut and firm. Hence, the difference in size.

But just seeing the difference wasn't quite satisfying to me. I just had to quantify the difference. So I got out the tape measure, of course. And I found that there's a 1/2-inch difference between the circumferences of my calves, and a 1-1/4-inch difference between the circumferences of my thighs! (The only thing that would have improved my empirical study would be to have a third leg, a control leg. Alas, I was born with only two. So I could test only the atrophy condition vs the overworked condition.)

To quote from Elton John: Such a sad, sad situation.

Eventually, I'll get back to working out. My strength trainer will help me to gradually improve the atrophied leg muscles so they're even again. It will take many months to accomplish this goal, but I know I'll get there. I'm not bothered by it, as I was a couple of weeks ago. This is merely one chapter in the book of my life.

So. Those are the results of my at-home study. Now I'll get back to organizing and labeling those archived photos...

Halloween Update

I meant to upload these photos as an update to last Friday's post. I guess the weekend was busy, and then I forgot!

This year, we had not one, but two, Hannah Montanas. And a thug :)

Old-Age Romeo and Juliet

"She was my little girl," sobbed the man whom I'd never seen cry before.

My 86-year-old grandfather was devastated when his beloved wife of 44 years passed away. So devastated that he joined her a mere four days later. Is it possible that he willed himself to have that heart attack? Or was his broken heart simply unable to beat without her beside him?

Next April, it will have been 20 years since their deaths. I still think of them so very often. They had been in their forties when my dad was born, so they were a generation older than most of my friends' grandparents. Although their minds were sharp as a tack, they had worked hard all their lives and their bodies had started to become frail and troublesome to them. They may not have been the most physically active grandparents, but they were good people of strong character. I learned much about right and wrong, love, loyalty, and respect from them.

So although it saddened us all to lose both of them virtually at the same time, it wasn't all that surprising that one couldn't live without the other.

In the nearly twenty years since their passing, I occasionally come across stories of other couples who have felt the same way. We are inundated with divorces and infidelities that are reported in the media, but there are those who persevere and who need, love, and want each other despite the tolls of decades.

Ben Folds found just the right words to describe this love in his song, "The Luckiest." Without fail, I cannot help but visualize my grandparents every time I play that song. And when I read stories of others who loved one another so greatly, I can't help but smile that some find a way to stay together, even in the afterlife.

I was young and in college when my grandparents passed away. When I looked at them, I saw the wrinkles and gray hair. But they didn't. To him, she would always be his "little girl," young and vibrant, the way she looked when they met.

Turn On

In a Cadillac commercial, Kate Walsh asks, "The real question is, When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?"

My husband's new car is not a Cadillac, but it's safe to say it passes the test.

I think he's in love. Or lust. With his car.

(By the way, the jilted ex, the former object of his affection, is now looking to hook up with someone new!)

New Cinderella Story

With a metaphorical sweep of wands, the little mice helped clean the house -- banishing the school papers from the fridge, stuffing the file folders and laptop in drawers, erasing the mundane reminders from the chalkboard, relocating the toys and DVDs to their rightful spots out of sight.

More sweeps of the wands, and the appetizers were prepared, the chilled wine uncorked, the evening's signature drinks mixed, the music played throughout the house.

Prince Charming swept the mice off to other mice's homes for the night.

Completing the transformation, Cinderella donned the skinny jeans, the designer top, the makeup and jewelry. The straight hair was curled in tiny ringlets for a "new" look.

Cinderella and her Prince were ready for their guests, a grown-up evening. No pigs-in-a-blanket and juice boxes on the menu.

Enjoying the evening long after the clock struck midnight, and with no familial morning obligations, this Cinderella indulged in the rare luxury of sleeping in. (Other Cinderellas might not consider sleeping until 7:45 am -- 6:45 with the time change -- sleeping in, but this one was satiated!)

After enjoying a lazy morning with her Prince, after the coffee had been drunk and the paper had been read and breakfast had been consumed and the wine/shot/martini glasses had been washed, she looked in the mirror: the fuzzy robe was not luxurious; the slept-on curls no longer looked glamorous, and now felt like an unnatural wig atop her head; she missed her little mice.

A shower straightened her hair. The everyday jeans were slipped on, with a comfy knit top. The school papers were reclaimed. The mice were retrieved. Prince Charming went outside to mow.

Cinderella, her Prince, and their three little mice resumed living happily ever after.

Ghosts of Halloweens Past

OK, in our decade of trick-or-treating, nobody has ever actually dressed up as a ghost. But the title was catchier than "The Costumes of Halloweens Past"!

Yesterday was our 10th anniversary of having moved into this house. And we've been parents for ten years (son is 10-3/4, daughters are 9-1/2). And I've recently been organizing the boxes of old photos stored in boxes in the guest closet.

Hence, the pictorial retrospective:


1999: My little moo-cow's first time
dressing up for Halloween
(at 21 months)

2001: Moving on to other farm animals,
3-year-old son was a sheep;
my little jack-o-lanterns went
trick-or-treating for the first time

2002: OK, I couldn't find a Halloween picture,
but this is close enough. It's one of my favorite
studio photos of my trio.

2003: Two little witches

and a black dog

2004: Jack-o-lantern redux
and a scary skeleton man!

2005: We had a mix this year --
a princess, Dora the Explorer,
and a scary race car driver

2005: Another year of missing
Halloween photos, but another
fall photo I love nevertheless!
(I just love those smiles!)

2006: My son again used his creativity
to create a race car (this version
contained a built-in compartment
for holding candy), a fairy,
and a cow fairy

2007: A bank robber in a vault,
the character Boots (from the show
Dora the Explorer), and a self-designed
orange furry dog with purple ears :)

I'm very much a visual person, so I particularly enjoy the pictorial retrospective. Not only do I love seeing the smiles on my children's faces, but I also love remembering how they've used their creativity, at times, to design their own costumes, or to pull together pieces of two or more costumes to make a unique combination. Childhood can be so full of creativity, even for those who don't consider themselves the artistic or creative type. Halloween provides a way for them to express a different side of themselves each year. In a few years, they will think it's childish to dress up like this... they won't remember how much joy it brings them!

But I will.

Concentration

My children performed in a piano recital yesterday.

I love sitting up close and watching the children perform. Not just my own children. All of them.

Yes, I said watching. Well, I enjoy listening to them, too. But I am fascinated by watching them.

Some of the children approach the piano as though it were a piece of glass, ever so softly yet deftly tickling the ivories. Some of them attack the keys, pounding that beat out. Others seem to appreciate the melody, swaying with the cadence, becoming music personified. Still others are merely indifferent to the instrument, their apathy evident as they dutifully play the notes.

How each one plays the instrument is intriguing, but what I truly love is watching their looks of concentration. Whether they love the instrument or hate it, for two or three minutes during each recital, they are completely focused. Their absorption in the moment is involuntarily reflected through a different combination of tensed facial muscles.

My son has worn the same look of concentration at various moments since he was an infant. Hard to describe to others, it's 100% identifiable by us, his parents. We noticed his signature look when, sitting up at 5 months, he played intently with his Playskool parking garage set. He set the car down at the top of a ramp, then watched it as it appeared somewhere else down below! It's also the look he wears when designing or constructing a great work of architecture, either in drawings or with Legos. And it's what he can't help but show when he's performing for an audience. His mind is nowhere else but here, in the moment. He is not conscious of other people, or his facial muscles, or what he's going to do when the recital is over.

As I watch all the children perform for an audience, I marvel at how their faces reveal their absorption in the moment. That look represents the real reason why I wanted my children to learn to play the piano: it's not the technical proficiency I want them to possess (although developing such skill is certainly of great benefit); it's the discipline of learning a craft and practicing it to the best of one's ability, and then fully experiencing that single moment when the production of that craft is paramount.

For some, this concentration on the moment, combined with enjoyment of the event, results in an experience of flow, as described by Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi. And this is a joy to see in all children.

Cautiously Optimistic

There are times when the fruition of a long-awaited event creates both excitement and trepidation.

When I was 8 years old, my long hair was cut to shoulder-length for the very first time. I'd been begging to have my hair cut for what seemed like forever. But when I turned to face myself in the mirror, after having lost a good six inches of hair, tears flowed past my wide smile.

Nearly 11 years ago, when we brought our first child home from the hospital, we were so full of joy for the growth of our family, anticipation for parenthood, and relief that he was healthy. Yet, once we got him home, we just sat looking at him and each other, not quite knowing what to do next.

Today I met with the orthopedic surgeon for my three-week checkup. Midway through my six-week treatment for my hip fracture (eliminating weight-bearing activities), the x-ray was supposed to reveal whether the fractured bone was healing or extending. Meanwhile, in the last few weeks, I've read many accounts on an online forum of runners who had been diagnosed with the exact same injury: stress fracture of the femoral hip. Many of their stories were not encouraging!

I was quite anxious to see what my x-ray would reveal. Surprisingly, I truly did not have an intuitive sense of how my hip was healing. When my x-ray revealed signs of bone reparation, and certainly no signs of a complete fracture, I felt pleased, yet somewhat disbelieving. When the doctor told me I could advance to "toe touches," the practice of allowing the toes/foot of my injured leg to touch the ground (still not bearing any weight) while walking with crutches, I questioned him extensively.

My reaction rather surprised myself. I'd been wanting to hear that the bone was healing, and that I'm on track to begin putting weight on that leg in three more weeks. I'd been wanting to progress to the next step in my recovery. However, now that it is time to for that next step, I confess that I worry that it is too soon. I certainly don't want to suffer a setback: I now understand the seriousness of the injury, and implications to my mobility.

I am relieved that the fracture hasn't increased or completed, and that my bone appears to be repairing itself. This is good news! However, I also know that it takes six weeks for bone to heal. Until my next appointment three weeks from now, I remain cautiously optimistic!

When Pigs Fly

Did you look up today to find chubby pink creatures with wings in the sky?

No, they're not cherubs. They're pigs.

Pigs flew today: I rode a wheelchair while shopping at the mall.

I didn't expect to ever sit in a wheelchair or motorized shopping cart while enduring this sentence on crutches. But we decided to do some family shopping today. At first, I insisted on using my crutches to get through the grocery store. A guy about our age humorously tried to conspire with my husband to capture me and make me sit in the shopping cart, if I wouldn't agree to the motorized one! I laughed my way through that one, but was relieved they let me make it back to the car on foot.

My husband took it one step further. He knew I was looking forward to this family outing at the mall, and he also knew what was good for me and what I would stubbornly deny. So he played a wicked little game and told me he refused to take us to the mall unless I agreed to let the kids push me while riding in a wheelchair!

Oh, he knew that would get me.

There was no way I would miss out on our shopping trip. And of course I wanted to make the kids happy (especially the girls) by letting them push their mom in a wheelchair. And he was right that too much walking/hopping would not be beneficial for me. So what else could I do but acquiesce?

Reluctantly, I handed over my crutches and sat in the chair. I felt every eye on me (though that's self-absorbed hyperbole ... I'm sure there were some eyes that actually gazed elsewhere). It was the ultimate submission as I gave myself completely to the mercy and control of my children.

The first daughter to give it a whirl was getting the feel for steering. Within the first minute, I cringed as I headed straight toward the legs of two women, obliviously chatting with each other, intersecting my path. Instinctively, my right foot reached out to push the air brakes to make myself stop. Yet I kept heading for those legs! At the last possible second, my daughter saw the ladies and stopped, just as they also saw us and stopped with a smile. Collision avoided!

All in all, our shopping trip went very well. It wasn't so bad to ride in a wheelchair. We were at the mall for 2-1/2 hours, and I'm sure my arms couldn't have held out had they been supporting my body on crutches for that long. I learned to give myself to my children in a way I hadn't before.

And I gained a valuable preview of their maneuverability skills: As the kids took turns pushing me, I realized that the second daughter to have a turn was so very cautious and attentive. I felt very comfortable in her hands.

Then my son had a turn. Yes, he's the oldest, but boy was I nervous with him at the helm. He lagged behind when he didn't need to, needed a sister to help him navigate turns, ran me into the checkout counter, fidgeted with and climbed on my wheelchair, etc. I know he was trying to be careful and trustworthy, but he's just so darn fidgety and distractible! (Perhaps I was a wee bit evil when I told him that being the oldest in age doesn't necessarily mean he'll be the first to get his driver's license...)

We're back home now, safe and sound, enjoying a roaring fire on this chilly October day. I survived -- both emotionally and physically -- my ride in a wheelchair. I felt that I would lose my dignity by agreeing to ride, not walk. But what was gained was the pride of my children as they took care of their mom. And the freedom that comes with letting others lead. Sometimes, you have to lose something to win more.

I'm glad I let those little piggies try out their wings!

Smokin' Starbucks

My clothes used to smell like cigarette smoke after an evening hanging out at a bar. (Even though I have never smoked, myself.) The scent would linger for days.

Now, my clothes smell like coffee long after I've left Starbucks.

Dream

Do you ever have a dream that doesn't seem to end?

Neither a bad dream nor a particularly great one, it just replays over and over and over. And over.

Maybe you're dreaming that you're looking for something or someone, but you keep searching the same places. Or the hostess in your dream is leading you to your table, but it seems like you just keep walking throughout the restaurant, never arriving at your destination. Or you dream you're on a trip, but you never get off the plane!

You're conscious enough of a vague feeling of repetition and boredom, yet you can't seem to make yourself wake up.

Until... "Mom! No one woke me up! I'm late for school!"

Victory

I won a share of the pot of prize money at euchre last night!

It wasn't big money -- wasn't even enough to cover the babysitter's fee -- but the prize amount doesn't matter.

Even though my body can't compete in, much less win, any competition right now, my mind can.

It's good to feel viable and competitive and successful in something.

Small victory, but victory nonetheless.

Costume

I think I'm going to wear a costume this Halloween.

The type of costume an adult wears makes a statement, of course. And once you put it on and step out the door, you have to "own" the statement. Even if you feel ridiculous or embarrassed, you have to wear it with confidence. Do you go for a traditional costume? Or sexy? Political? Witty?

My husband is running in the annual Run Like Hell 5k on the weekend before Halloween, and runners are expected to wear costumes. I had planned on running, too, and we all know that that's not going to happen. But I can still attend the after party! And since this is an adults-only event, we have greater flexibility in the types of costumes we wear.

I found a Borat mankini costume online, which I managed to convince him to wear for the run (over running tights and compression t-shirt -- definitely not au naturel). But his concession came with one stipulation: I had to agree to wear something equally embarrassing and over-the-top. I'm still mulling that over, so I haven't ordered his costume yet.

He suggested I could be a librarian (you see, I have these glasses that he and some of his friends are quite partial to...). But I think the effect will be marred by the crutches. So, along those lines, I thought a nurse costume might achieve the same effect, but with the twist of irony (nurse on crutches). Still not sure if I'm brave enough for that type of costume in public. And I definitely couldn't wear it again around the kids on trick-or-treat night...

Then he switched gears this week and suggested I should be an old woman! I had to agree that I could pull that off easily. I already have the walker. Just add a gray wig, fake droopy breasts, slippers, and an unshapely housedress, and I'm set! (And I could actually wear this one around the kids for Halloween.) So that one is a real possibility...



Then again, I already have a Bat Woman costume from two years ago. As-is, it's good for the adult event; add some black leggings and t-shirt, and it's family-friendly. The superhero theme fits more in line with a traditional costume with which all age groups can identify. But what about the crutches? Do I really want to be a flawed superhero? Still, my kids favor this one...


Switching gears again, I suggested we go as Bella and Edward, of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight vampire series. Romantic, I thought. Too romantic, he thought. So much for that...

We went to a party last year wearing homemade costumes with a more obscure intent. Some people got it, most didn't. When you go with that approach, you have to be willing to explain your costume over and over...

The decision still unsettled, I came upon a new idea this morning, prompted by the current fiasco otherwise known as the U.S. economy. And I was thinking of making the crutches an integral part of the costume, rather than a distraction from it. You see, if I dress as a U.S. dollar, accompanied by my ever-present crutches, then my costume becomes the "Crippled Economy" or "Weakened Dollar." The more I think about it, the more this might be the one...

At least most people will get it, even if they're laughing through their tears.