Here, But Not Here

It has come to my attention that some of you have noticed I've taken a break from blogging during the past two weeks. It wasn't planned, but it sure feels good!

No, nothing's wrong. There haven't been any sicknesses or emergencies. No, I don't have writer's block (I've started lots of drafts). I'm just chillin' with the family over Christmas break.

(Also, I prefer not to spend long periods of time on the computer while the kids are home. And they've been home since 3:30 pm on December 18.)

In the meantime, I hope all my cyberfriends are enjoying the holidays! Looking forward to catching up in 2010!

PS - There will be a new post tomorrow, January 1. I can't let New Year's Day come and go without comment ;)

Offer

This weekend, while finishing up Christmas shopping at the mall, I stopped in a little snack shop. Having not eaten in hours, I was hot and tired and hungry - and the yogurt parfait was calling to me.

Unfortunately, my wallet contained only $2.00 cash - not enough to cover the $3.50 snack. No problem: I was armed with plastic. I laughed with the sales clerk about having to pay with a credit card for such a small transaction.

Just then, the gentleman behind me (maybe 10 years older than I - does that make a difference?) extended his hand, containing $2.00, toward me. That, along with the $2.00 I already had in my wallet, would be enough to cover the yogurt.

Let's stop here. What would you do in response to his offer? Would you accept or decline? Would it make a difference whether you are a man or a woman? Would your age, in relation to his, make a difference? Would the sum matter?

Here was my reaction and my thought process to support it: I smiled and graciously (body language, tone of voice) declined his offer. Although hungry, I could have lived without a snack at that moment if necessary. Yet I didn't have to, because I could pay with a credit card. Silly, due to the size of the transaction, but doable. If I hadn't had an alternative means of paying, and really needed to eat (for example, for fear of passing out due to low blood sugar), then I would have accepted his offer readily.

In that moment, I felt comfortable with my response - politely declining his offer. Yet his response made me wonder if I had done the wrong thing: He slowly and reluctantly withdrew his hand. He didn't smile back at me. He looked confused.

Was it my obligation to accept money from a stranger - money I didn't actually need - in order to make him feel good? By declining his offer - no matter how nicely it was done - did I act rudely? Or was the decision to accept or decline the offer a true choice that I could make freely?

The moment lasted about 30 seconds in its entirety. Yet I've been thinking about it, on and off, all weekend. What would you have done?

Do I Do It or Don't I Do It?

After that disastrous dental procedure in October - the one in which I suddenly and uncharacteristically felt an attack of anxiety - I was not happy to discover that I needed another such procedure. The lower tooth is now perfectly fine. But when I felt an all-too-familiar pain in the upper tooth right across from it, I knew what I was in for. The dentist merely confirmed the diagnosis.

Because of my previous anxiety attack, I asked about taking anxiety medication prior to the second procedure. The dentist's office staff readily agreed to write the prescription. Ask, and ye shall receive. I felt relief just over the thought of receiving relief.

Yet as the date drew near, I began to think again. I didn't take the Valium that was strongly suggested before my Lasik eye surgery four years ago, and I was fine. I didn't have an epidural when in labor, and I was fine. Clearly, I was not fine during my last dental procedure, though. Hmm.

The second procedure was scheduled for this morning.

Up until yesterday, I still didn't know what to do. Then I decided that my indecision was indicating that, deep-down, I didn't want to take anxiety medication after all.

So I didn't.

Yet I wondered whether my reluctance was sign of (1) my stubbornness to receive perfectly acceptable help, or (2) a desire to face my anxiety head-on by finding emotional and mental ways of dealing with it.

By that time, it was out of my hands (no time to fill the prescription). So the answer was anyone's guess.

Before the appointment, I worked out. Exercise always helps to clear my mind and give me positive energy for the day. Then I took a hot, hot shower and put on warm, comfortable clothes. While showering and changing, I visualized the steps of the procedure (which was easy to do since I'd gone through it so recently). I imagined what the dentist and his assistant would be doing during each step, how it would feel (I hoped to feel nothing!), how I would feel about it.

Then it was time to see whether my relaxation and visualization strategies worked.

And did they? you wonder.

Actually, yes - they did! So now, in retrospect, I can label this experience not as stubbornness, but as successful coping.

And I'm not worried about my next dentist appointment. Whenever that might be... Hopefully, not soon...

Promotion

Last weekend, we put up our tree and decorated the house for Christmas. And I was struck by how hands-on my kids were in the process, and how much more fun it was for me.

When my kids were toddlers, my husband and I did everything ourselves. We had to be mindful of little parts the children could ingest or delicate objects that could break apart and hurt them. As the worker bees, my husband and I were exhausted by the time the project was done.

As they grew into kindergarteners and very young elementary schoolers, the kids wanted to do everything. No, they didn't have a sense for decorating. They just put ornaments, figurines, foliage, etc, in the first place they could see and reach (think under 4 feet!). Although over the course of several years we guided the kids into decorating in areas they couldn't easily see, anyone could tell that ours was a home with young children. Still, my husband and I had become managers with a staff of three: we were hands-on, but slightly removed from the labor.

This year, with our children older, my husband and I were promoted to consultants. It's the best Christmas decorating job I've had yet! The five of us formed an assembly line to efficiently move boxes from the attic to the family room. My son and husband put up the tree together. But the kids took it from there. By now, they have a sense of balance, theme, and color when placing ornaments on the tree. And they look up! So with a stepladder and/or our help, we now have an even distribution of ornaments on the tree - top to bottom and around all sides. It's pretty! As for the other decorations, they remembered what we typically place where, and set to work unpackaging items and placing them deliberately and attractively around the house.

The kids knew what to do, and simply consulted us when in doubt or when in need of an opinion. Meanwhile, my husband and I enjoyed a bottle of Artesa. Yes, I like this new promotion.

Get a Room

After my breakdown in confidence the other night, combined with the stress of meeting a deadline (which I did - with 2 hours to spare - yay me!), it felt great to go to the gym today.

I was doing pull-ups when I first heard the sounds of childbirth labor.

Turns out the heavy breathing came from a late-twentyish-looking guy at the machine two down from me. No baby. I guessed he must be lifting really heavy weights. (Now, I know everyone breathes heavier at the gym, including myself. But this was crazy loud and dramatic - not typical.)

Though I wanted to use his machine when he was finished, I didn't want to stalk him, so I skipped to my dumbbell exercises a little farther away.

The sighs floated across the gym about halfway into my second set. They sounded a little better than the heavy breathing, but also more... intimate. Being nosy, I looked around to find the sighs came from - you guessed it - The Heavy Breather.

Well, that's a little unusual, I thought. My curiosity satisfied, I finished my third set and moved to a machine even farther away from the guy.

The grunts were what did it for me. Alone, I know grunts are not unusual in a gym. And heavy breathing is typical in a gym. The sighing - well, that was a new one. But put them all together: it sounds like a porno.

By this time, I was sufficiently creeped out. And I felt like my presence there was an intrusion into a private moment of his.

Like next time, he should just get a room.

Wanted: Thick Skin

I'm curled in a near-fetal position, in writer's agony. At alternating moments I'm thinking, "This is actually pretty good" and then, "No one will ever want to read this."

Both refer to the same piece of work.

I've held the editor's pen enough to know that no one - no one - produces a flawless piece on a first or even second draft. A writer can always find ways to improve her story. The only thing that ultimately stops the revision cycle is a deadline. Logically, I know that review and revision are part of the job.

My reviewers gave both constructive criticism and complimentary responses that are helpful and consistent with the other reviewers. All but one, that is. He just didn't like it - any part of it. So why is his review the one that I replay in my mind? Why is it the one that paralyzes me? Why is it the one that makes me want to crawl up in a ball and whine, "I can't do this"?

Why can't I just brush it off and say, "You can't please all the people all the time"?

It's the fact that my emotional response to his criticism is overpowering my logical response to all the others that is agonizing right now.

But I've got to get over it. After all, I've got a deadline to meet.

Cooked or Instant?

Like most parents, I try to get my kids to eat new things. With more or less - usually less - success.

But do you ever secretly hope your child will hate something new - that you like - just so you can get their rejects?

My husband and I have differing tastes when it comes to chocolate pudding. I prefer the kind you cook on the stovetop, then chill. He prefers instant. But we'll both eat whatever's available.

Usually, he's the one who gets a hankering for pudding, so he makes it, and he chooses to make the instant kind. That's fair.

But the other night, we had only a box of the cooking mix available in the pantry. So he made that instead. {Worked out great for me: The pudding I like, and I didn't even have to make it myself.}

We soon realized the kids had never had this kind of pudding before. So they all tried it for the first time. My son and one of the girls took a small bite, declared they didn't like the skim top, and proceeded to eat the pudding beneath the skim.

I gave them a fair chance - they tried it, they didn't like it - so I asked for their "waste." They gladly relinquished it. Mmm-mmmm!

Second daughter came along a little later, and put a big scoop of pudding in her mouth. That scoop consisted almost entirely of the skim layer.

I watched her with bated breath. Will she like it or not? Will I be 3-for-3 in getting my kids' leftovers?

It didn't take long to find out. From the look on her face, I thought she was going to vomit right there in front of us. She was repulsed, to say the least. It was safe to say that, no, she doesn't like the skim layer of cooked pudding. She gladly handed over what was left of her portion.

Jackpot! I was one lucky mama!

Yeah, I kind of felt bad for hoping my kids would hate a new food, just so I could get more of it.

But not really...

First Love - Part 3

Our children's piano teacher is of Eastern European descent. She speaks with a pretty thick Russian accent in a stern, no-nonsense manner of speaking. She takes the piano very seriously, and expects her students to do the same. If they don't practice sufficiently throughout the week, she knows it. And the disappointment in her tone of voice is crystal-clear. So they practice.

Most children - and some adults - are intimidated by her. Afraid, even.

(Those kids don't realize she has a soft spot and that she actually shows tremendous affection - a motherly love - for her students. But I won't tell...)

Now picture my daughter. She had colic as an infant, and we swear it never really went away. Now, at age 10, she's got a quick temper and likes to always be right. She hates to compromise - she wants it either her way or no way. Once begun, she won't back down from an argument. And she likes to do things perfectly on the first try. When she doesn't (yes, she's human, so of course she doesn't always get it right on the first try), that's when it hits the fan. Frustrated and angry, she "expresses herself" to whomever is nearby. {Oh, but I love this child! She makes life challenging and interesting every day.}

Now put the two of them together. My daughter is not afraid of Zena (she's well aware of the soft spot and uses it to her advantage). All too frequently, I hear Zena's matter-of-fact guidance in the piano room, followed by my daughter arguing and even yelling back at her. I was mortified the first few times it happened but - sigh - it's all too commonplace now. Zena softens, my daughter yells some more, I sometimes step in with an appropriate threat-of-removal-of-privileges, and then the situation is de-fused enough for life to go on.

{I realize you're wondering what this has to do with First Love - but you need to have some background before the punch line...}

So, the other day, in the middle of a lesson and before the yelling had begun, my daughter stops playing and turns to Zena, all giddy: "Guess what? I have a boyfriend!"

Zena: "You do? Tell me about him."

Daughter: (gives details)

Zena: "Well, he sounds like a nice boy! But you know, when you like a boy, you can't talk to him the way you talk to me or your mother. You have to be nice."

I about fell off my seat! Yes, our Zena knows my daughter well.

On the other hand, I don't think I'll ever have to worry about my daughter standing up for herself with a boy. And I think I like it that way.

Because if she can hold her own against Zena, and keep our precious Russian tied around her little finger, then surely she can handle a fourth-grade boy.

First Love - Part 2

Or, Fifteen

My daughter is experiencing her first love (in her mind) - a crush that will likely last just a few weeks (in mine) - at roughly the same time that Taylor Swift's song, "Fifteen," is making its way up the pop charts.

Swift sings about being a freshman in high school, fifteen years old, believing an older boy who tells her he loves her, and not knowing who she's going to become yet but thinking she's got it all figured out.

My daughters are 10, and they're naive enough to believe that a smile and a wave from a boy as he's getting on the bus is a sure sign that they'll get married someday. "For real!" she says.

But this is all in their minds so far, since they're not nearly old enough to date yet.

When they're 15, it's likely they'll be naive enough to believe that a kiss and an "I love you" from a boy is a sure sign that "he's the one." But then they'll be old enough to date. So it will be a different story altogether.

When I was 15, I was that naive. Even when I was 18, I was. And 21.

But that naivete collided hard with reality when I was 23, with a lesson that was painful but pointed.

I'll guide my own children away from naivete and toward reality at a much younger age. Perhaps not precisely at 15, but certainly before they leave my nest.

It'll hurt, and I'll hurt watching them hurt. But it's inevitable, and I'll be here to help them through it. As many lessons as it takes.

Meanwhile, I've got a few more years. We're still in the very simple first phase of boy/girl relationships with my girls. I'm going to simply appreciate watching them experience this cute, harmless, "boy-like" stage while I can. After all, they're only 10. Not 15. Yet.

First Love - Part 1

Excerpt from backseat conversation overheard between Twin A and Twin B, both age 10:

Twin B: "I have two boyfriends I'm going to marry. Evan and Benjamin."

Twin A: "Oooh! Do they like you?"

Twin B: "I think Benjamin likes me, but I don't know. But we both have very neat handwriting in common. I know Evan likes me because he smiled at me yesterday just before he got on the bus. So I know I'm going to marry him. FOR REAL!"

{giggle giggle}

The conversation was much longer, but the excerpt above was the highlight. I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time to overhear it, as we three girls drove home from dinner the other night. Such a precious, unplanned moment.

So, she's had other crushes before - but this one is more serious. She looks for clues to his heart (one boy's more than the other, I think). She talks about them both often - and about Evan every day. She gets that unmistakable grin on her face and that sparkle in her eyes, the way the lovestruck do, when she talks about him.

She doesn't know it yet, but she'll move on to other crushes. These two will fade away or break her heart.

And so it begins...

Now and Then

A new friend, an old friend, and I were out one night recently, and the topic of shyness came up.

My new friend was surprised to hear that, during my first two years of high school, I regularly went the entire school day without speaking to anyone.

Yes. Seriously.

Like many introverts, I wasn't antisocial (I wanted to talk to others), stuck up, uninterested, or uninteresting (although I thought I was). I just was too shy to speak. I started coming out of my shell midway through sophomore year, and developed some friendships during my junior and senior years.

And these days, it's not an issue at all.

In fact, my new friend couldn't believe that I was describing myself. Though I may not be the most gregarious person she knows, I'm certainly not afraid to talk to friends, strangers, anyone.

She looked to my old friend - who has known me since high school - for confirmation. And she got it. No, I wasn't exaggerating or making it up.

Since that conversation, I've thought about how people change over time. Depending on when you knew me during my lifetime, you might have a different view of my personality, tastes, and convictions than someone who knew me at a different time in my life. Because those things, well, change. And the same goes for you, of course.

Being a mom of three, I can't help but look at my children as sociological laboratory rats, so naturally I study them. {OK, "rats" sounds a bit distasteful, but I mean it in the most affectionate way...} And I wonder how much of my kids I really know. How much of what I see in them now will stay with them through adulthood? And what, of all those invisible traits that even we, their parents, can't yet detect, will become essential to their core being later in life?

Guess we'll find out in a decade or two or three.

Someday, they'll have a laugh over cocktails with friends as they share stories about whom they used to be. But whom are they destined to become?

One Step at a Time

I may not have been a straight-A student, but I was a good student.

I just "got" most of the lessons my teachers taught. But when I didn't, I felt extremely stressed and disappointed with myself. I'd get so worked up when I had a big project and a looming deadline. Or a concept that was just difficult to grasp, the grasping of which became most urgent with an upcoming test.

In those instances, crisp & clear logic gave way to foggy emotion. I feared failure, but felt overwhelmed and couldn't see a way to success.

My dad would come to the rescue. Always the patient and logical man, he simply talked me through the problem so I could see a solution. One of the most important problem-solving lessons he taught me was to take it one step at a time.

Such a simple lesson. Yet difficult to remember in moments of stress. He'd work with me to break down a multi-faceted project into achievable tasks. Or the steps of a calculus problem into logical parts. We'd write them down. Then he'd point to the first task, and tell me to work on that, and only that, and to not even consider the subsequent tasks until the first was completed.

Well, once broken down into discrete, achieveable components, any project becomes possible. That lesson has gotten me through many sticky moments in life.

Item #8 on the Top Ten list I created just over a year ago is to cook a Thanksgiving turkey dinner without help from my mother or mother-in-law. When I wrote that goal, I didn't realize my opportunity to achieve it would present itself so soon.

I put it on my list in the first place because I still fear failure and, to a non-intuitive cook like me, Thanksgiving dinner presents a myriad of opportunities for failure. Yet so many other people do it with ease. So I really wanted to overcome this fear in my lifetime. I just didn't realize I'd do it so soon.

You see, about two months ago, I offered to my mother that we could host Thanksgiving dinner this year. I know that she has trouble standing for long periods of time in the kitchen, and I also know from Thanksgivings past that she doesn't delegate much to me when we congregate at their house. So I figured the only way to give her a break was to host the meal at our house.

To my great surprise - and delight - she accepted!

(Except for the pies. After all, she is the family's best - albeit only - piemaker. From scratch. They're really delish. With such a supreme piemaker in the family, I really have no incentive, or desire, to embark on piemaking myself. So she agreed to do dessert.)

I was on the hook for everything else.

Yet I was not without help altogether. My husband really was the turkey master. He partially deep-fried one turkey in the morning, then I stuffed it and put it in the oven for the remainder of its cooking time. With a half-and-half cooking method, we kind of had to "wing it" (no pun intended) on the timing. Then he fully deep-fried a second turkey. The first turkey, plus all the side dishes, needed to be ready to serve when the second turkey was done.

I didn't want to blow it - not with so many of us depending on my timing & cooking skills in order to eat the most important meal of the year. So Thanksgiving became a two-day affair for me. I made a list of what I needed to do, and set about completing it - one item at a time. On Wednesday, I spent 12 hours preparing all the appetizers and side dishes, as well as setting the table. On Thursday, after running the Thanksgiving Day 10k Race with my brother, I came home to one already-deep-fried turkey and the assembling/heating tasks.

As my brilliant husband and I coordinated our cooking responsibilities so that everything would be hot and ready to serve at the same time, I thought of Dad.

(Yes, he was actually present in person at that moment. But I thought back to the Dad of my youth who taught me how to complete a complex project: one step at a time.)

Because of what he taught me, I was able to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for our extended family with almost no stress. {OK, there was that one moment around 6:00 pm Wednesday, but my husband forgives me and it lasted only about 5 minutes anyway...}

As I cross off #8, I reflect on what I'm teaching my kids. I hope I'm teaching them the kind of lessons my dad taught me. The kind they'll remember when they're older.

And kids, here's your first lesson: Don't forget the gravy! You're in for a lot of teasing if you forget to serve gravy at Thanksgiving. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Thankful for Helpers

I teased my daughter the other day with the mock-inflammatory statement, "Why do you even have Wednesday off school? It's not even a holiday! It's just a regular day."

Her defense: "Well, it's the day before Thanksgiving. And there are LOTS of things to do to get ready for it. We have the day off so we can help you!"

I wonder if she'll remember our conversation a couple of decades from now, when she's busy getting the house ready and food prepared for a household of holiday guests, and her precious little ones offer to "help"...





Incidentally, at ages 10, 10, and 11, the kids have been very helpful today. Of course, their help occurs at about 1/3 the rate at which I could just do it myself. And it's accompanied by lots of "Why's" and "Is this the right way's." But they're learning. And one day, when they're grown up, they'll host Thanksgiving at their house and all I'll have to do is show up with one dish in hand, while they've done all the rest. I'll see their lovely decorations and the spread of food and I'll remember who taught them patiently, one Thanksgiving Eve years earlier, about our family's Thanksgiving traditions.

And I'll be thankful for my helpers, as I am today.

In His Pocket

From the category of Strange But True, I bring you the latest (indeed strange) discovery from my son's pocket.

{Long-time readers may recall a post from January in which I revealed some of the very odd objects found in my son's pockets while I launder his clothes.}

So today, after school, we were sitting in a doctor's waiting room. My son was being silly about something or other, and declared, "You know what's missing? Glitter!" He stuck his hand in his pocket. When he pulled it out again, his fingers were covered with blue glitter.

Yes, his fingers were covered with blue glitter. From his pocket.

Allow this to sink in. (It took me a moment...)

Good thing he shared this with me. He doesn't usually feel the need to tell me what he's collected and stashed in his pants pockets. I keep a catch-all bucket near the washing machine for the express purpose of storing these finds... found by me after they've already been through the ringer, of course.

Had he kept this to himself, I would have been irritatingly surprised to find an entire load of the family's clothes covered in blue glitter. Do you know how hard it is to get glitter out of anything? Thankfully, I was privy to his find before it contaminated the rest of the laundry.

Now, excuse me while I quarantine his clothes.

Greetings From Cancun

Thanks to the Zac Brown Band - and their song "Toes" - for providing my anthem for the week...



















"I've got my toes in the water
My ass in the sand
Not a worry in the world
A cold beer in my hand

Life is good today
Life is good today"

Self-Fulfilling

Ever notice that the preparations for a vacation are so exhausting and time-consuming that they actually cause you to need that vacation, simply so you can get a break from planning for it?

By the time I finish:

... painting the kitchen (don't want to leave an unfinished project)
... washing, drying, folding, putting away all the laundry
... cleaning out the refrigerator
... tidying up the house
... packing for the going-awayers
... prepping for the staying-behinders
... creating a "cheat sheet" for those caring for the staying-behinders
... paying the bills
... tying up loose ends for work, school, and other obligations

I'll have bags under my eyes and will be stumbling my way to the airport terminal.

But don't worry: It's nothing that a cool drink, the hot sun, and lots of free time can't cure.

Is It Worth It?

I'm all for a good challenge.
For something that takes time, patience, skill to accomplish.

I try to convince my kids of the same.
(They're still skeptical of anything that is not mastered in about 1.5 seconds.)

But sometimes I undertake a project and later wonder, "Is it worth it?"

My current project - painting the pantry, mud room, and kitchen - is one of those dubious endeavors. I started it last weekend, have painted all week long, and will still be painting this weekend. Initially, I thought the satisfaction of bringing lightness & freshness to the walls would be its own reward.

Now, it brings nothing but loathing. It's the project that doesn't seem to end! (Lots of trimwork to paint, then lots of cutting in to go around the doorways, trimwork, and cabinetry. Very little rolling.)

When lamenting to my husband, he asked me, "So, is it worth saving the couple hundred dollars to give up so much of your time to do it yourself?"

My answer: "NO!"

He laughed. He knew the answer to his question before I'd even begun painting last weekend.

So, in the future, I'll willingly train to climb a mountain, run a marathon, improve my tennis strokes. I'll patiently help my children with homework, make a home-cooked meal, iron all our shirts myself.

But I will never paint my kitchen (myself) again. I'm too slow and too sloppy. It's not worth my time. There are professionals who can do it much faster, and more precisely, and not very expensively.

I've learned that sometimes it's worth the cost to pay someone else to do the job right. In the meantime, I've got to finish what I started. Back to my paint brush...

Reconnaissance

Our neighborhood may be known for having an active - uh - social reputation. But we're also known for our vigilance in protecting one another from delinquents and criminals.

We like to have our fun, but we're serious about safety.

Did anyone see that episode of Law and Order (you know, "Ripped from the headlines!") a few years ago, in which the detectives referenced an Ohio neighborhood that paid a sex offender to move?

That sex offender lived directly across the street from me. My kids were just hitting the age at which I could let them play outside without my watching over them every minute. They'd ride their bikes or play on the driveway, and I'd be just inside the door, washing dishes or getting dinner started. I'd pop outside to check on them every 5-10 minutes. It was age-appropriate independence, a loosening of the apron strings.

Once we found out that our new neighbor was a sex offender, I had to rescind the kids' new freedom and step up the parental oversight when they were outdoors. We were all frustrated, but these precautions seemed prudent. The sex offender literally lived just steps away.

But his wife and child seemed nice enough, and certainly the child was completely innocent in the situation. On the one hand, we wanted to give our legal system, and the sex offender and his family, the benefit of the doubt and let them live their lives. (The crime for which he was labeled a sex offender had occurred about a decade previously.) On the other hand, the recidivism rate for sex offenders is particularly high. Had anything happened to one of my children due to my insufficient parental controls, I would never have forgiven myself.

In the end, the neighborhood, collectively as the homeowners association, offered the new family a sum of money in exchange for their selling the house and moving away. Turns out he was expected in another state for another, more recent charge. So he hadn't really overcome his "problem" after all.

On a day-to-day basis, we simply keep our eyes out for suspicious behavior. Our neighborhood is closed, with no throughstreets. There should be no one "just passing through." Therefore, a van driving slowly through our neighborhood - particularly if it's during the after-school hours and the driver is taking pictures or writing down notes, raises a red flag. Sure, it could be someone not meaning any harm at all. But it could be a predator. These days, we just don't know.

Today, someone driving a van with out-of-state license plates drove slowly through our neighborhood, stopping at various locations and making notes. Another mother and I were curious about this man's behavior. Since she was walking, with no cell phone and two young children in a stroller, and I was in my car with phone in hand, we decided that it would be safer for me to approach the van instead of her. We simply wanted to ascertain (1) whether he needed directions to someplace, or (2) whether he had no viable reason for loitering in our neighborhood. As I pulled up close to him, he stuck his head out the window to look back at me, a concerned look on his face, and immediately drove off.

To be sure, I do not have a threatening physical presence. There I was, a woman alone, in her workout clothes, during daylight hours, in suburbia. I hadn't said a word. I was not driving aggressively. Had the man simply been in need of directions, I would expect that he would have felt comfortable talking with me, and would have waited for me to approach.

But he drove off. And he kept looking back at me to see if I was following.

Which I was.

And as I was following, I felt apprehensive. On the one hand, I felt justified in letting this stranger know that residents of our community are attentive and will not let suspicious behavior slide. On the other hand, I didn't know what I should actually do. He hadn't committed a crime, so there was nothing to report to the police. What would I have done had he stopped and gotten out of his car? (You can bet I wouldn't have gotten out of mine.) And how far was I willing to drive to follow this man? To another state? (No. I have painting to do back in my kitchen.)

So I followed him as far as the interstate. When he pulled onto the entrance ramp, I turned around for home, pulled into the garage, and put the door down.

My neighbor decided to call the police station to report a suspicious vehicle. They'll know if this man has been loitering in other neighborhoods nearby.

I would never want to be an actual police detective. But I didn't mind playing one, for a moment. And I wouldn't hesitate to do it again if a stranger acts - well - strange around my friends and family.

Just call me Detective Kim.

Memory Mall

My son had the day off from school today, so we went to the mall.

Oddly enough, it prompted a trip down memory lane.

During the cold winter months, when all three of my kids were toddlers, the mall served the same purpose as a park: it got us out of the house and around other people. These days, my tween son likes to go there to see, hear, and touch the electronic devices & other gadgets that he wishes he could own.

Once upon a time, Gymboree was a favorite - I loved their children's clothes, and the kids loved the sing-along videos continually playing on the TV in the back of the store. From the front of the store to the back of it was the extent of our separation, yet we were all kept busy and entertained.

On our shopping trip today, the distance of our separation has lengthened. My 11-year-old and I frequently split up to do our own thing in different stores, to meet again later. (He wanted nothing to do with clothes shopping, and I'd become bored with electronics window shopping.)

As I left Everything But Water, I knew I'd find him at Sony across the way.

And there he was, in the back of the store, just like in the olden days. But instead of watching a Zoo Safari video, he was immersed in some PS3 game that he was playing on the ginormous flat-screen, decimating vehicles with his character's superpowers.

I stood there, watching my boy, remembering him as that cherub-faced toddler nearly a decade ago. Isn't it strange how we can walk down Memory Lane in the most unusual of places?

Pain in the Neck

Leave it to me to throw out my neck while sleeping.

Yes, actually sleeping. {Yawn. How boring.}

It's been about two years since I last threw it out, and I'd happily gotten used to living without the pain.

But here it is, back again.

The origin of the pain seems to have been a fender-bender I was involved in when I was in my early twenties. Ever since, my neck has been very sensitive. Turn my head too fast in a slightly wrong way? My neck goes out. Sleep funny? My neck goes out. Use too heavy a weight at the gym while working out my shoulders? My neck goes out.

I've even caused it to go out on me while talking on the phone! {'Course, it wasn't the talking that did it... it was the hands-free way I held the phone between my ear and shoulder that did it. Big no-no.}

Although I'm not 100% certain how I did it this time, I suspect I strained it during a workout at the gym the other day, and then I slept on too many pillows last night, cocking my neck in an unnatural position. I usually try to guard against the pillow injury, but evidently I became too sleepy to notice the situation.

So I look pretty odd today as I go about my business. Can't turn my head without turning my whole body with it. I walk with my back, neck, and head in perfect alignment; any deviation reduces me to tears and excruciating pain.

It'll pass within a few days. I won't be able to run or play tennis or lift weights for a few days, and then it'll I'll do it tentatively for a while. But it will get better. And I'll be more careful for a while.

In the meantime, I'll just enjoy a little downtime. Catch up on e-mails. Read a book. Rest a while. Find a little pleasure from this pain.

Just in Time

Lunches made in the morning before school. Laundry washed when a particular garment is needed for that day. Groceries purchased in late afternoon, about the time dinner needs to get started. Or not purchased at all, resulting in another dinner out. Forms signed and dated the day they are due. Work and papers completed just under the deadline.

A decade ago, the auto manufacturer I worked for was in the process of implementing "Just-in-Time" practices in their supply chain management system. In this practice, members of the supply chain network collaborated to move raw materials, inventory, and finished goods from point of origin to point of consumption just when they were needed, and not before, in order to cut costs and reduce storage requirements.

In recent weeks, I've been operating (unintentionally) under the same principle. And I'm exhausted.

By nature, I am more comfortable with a certain degree of planning, organization, and time buffering. My years as a parent have taught me to be flexible with those plans, in order to accommodate the unpredictable; nevertheless, I like to start with a plan anyway.

But by this past weekend, all planning had flown out the window. Papers were piled on my desk. My e-mail InBox numbered somewhere around 500ish. The house was a mess. We made it to appointments and activities just in the nick of time. We ate quickie, non-nutritious meals most nights. The rings under my eyes darkened due to sporadic and insufficient sleep habits.

I felt very stressed.

Relief came in the form of a Sunday with virtually no plans - a rare occurrence these days.

My husband spent the weekend in the kitchen on a soup-making binge, all homemade from scratch. My body, craving good, satisfying nourishment, was satiated. I sat at my desk, going through every single slip of paper - taking action on some, filing a few more, and depositing the rest in the circular file. My mind felt clearer with every square inch of desktop that became visible. I took a nap both Saturday and Sunday, and the dark half-moons under my eyes became lighter. The cleaning people arrived today to lighten our home of accumulated dust and grime. I made a meal plan for the entire week so that we can fill our bodies with nutritious food, and do so with one organized grocery shopping trip, rather than seven last-minute trips.

There are still numerous tasks, projects, and details to attend to this week. No sitting around eating bonbons for me. (Have I ever?) But with organization and a plan in hand, I feel hopeful about completing the things I need to do.

In time. But not Just in Time.

Act Your Age

For one week, I did not act my age.

I stayed up too late watching TV, and got up too early to do the tasks I should have done the day before. Yes, I completed my essential responsibilities, but not by using my time efficiently...

I ate whatever was quick and easy - regardless of nutritional value - sending my blood sugar levels soaring high too quickly, then plunging way down low just as fast. I had coffee for lunch and popcorn for dinner...

I wore a naughty costume to the Halloween party (don't worry - children weren't present). Although I thoroughly enjoyed going "against type" and having fun with an alter ego, I then had to face those pictures on Facebook the next day...

I woke up often throughout the night, wishing I'd stuck to predictable-ole beer at that party, not mixed drinks. I still can't drink cranberry juice without evoking some scattered, less-than-flattering memories of that night...

I didn't drink enough water throughout the week, which left me feeling dehydrated by the end of it...

After my week of time travel to an age long lost, I walked through campus on my way to class. The irony did not escape me. Surrounded by young adults in their late teens and early twenties, I thought how they're the ones we presume are not eating or sleeping properly, succumbing to vices, doing as they please when they please, not considering consequences. This is their time to answer only to themselves, without grave responsibilities They have the time and the freedom to make right or wrong choices, and to learn from them.

I, on the other hand, have already learned from my choices. Frankly, I should know better.

Yet sometimes (rarely) I forget my age. I ignore those lessons I've learned. I make dumb choices.

Thankfully, however, I suffer more readily from my poor choices, rather quickly snapping me back to my proper place in time before I get too far along.

I had some fun acting someone else's age, but mainly I felt frantic and exhausted. I have gladly returned to myself, and willingly promise to act my age!

Talk to Me

When you see characters on the big screen talking to themselves, don't they appear to have a mental disorder? Or that they're just muttering insignificant gibberish?

But wait a minute, I talk to myself!

I know I don't have a mental disorder. And the talk absolutely is not gibberish.

It's like my own little pep talk.

Some people start their mornings with daily affirmations. My little talks are kind of like that - except they don't take place at the beginning of the day. I have more of a just-in-time approach.

I thought of this today at tennis practice. Though I could fill a book with all the beginner's mistakes I make, an overarching challenge for me is assertiveness: my lack of it. Both my husband and our coach have described my game as "nice." That might be a compliment in everyday life, but on the court, nice doesn't get me anywhere! At least, not a win.

I can hit the ball hard. It's just not intuitive for me yet, so it doesn't happen often enough. But I've found that when I tell myself {imagine gritted teeth here...}, "HIT IT HARD!" - voila! - my success rate improves! Today, an opponent hit a drop-shot just over the net, but I was playing back near the base line. My partner was too far away to reach the ball, and I wasn't even expected to get to it in time, either. But took off running and said to myself {well, I guess I didn't keep it to myself; it came out louder than I'd intended}, "GET THAT BALL!" Then I did. {Imagine big smile on my face. But oops - the game wasn't over yet - couldn't just stand around and bask.} And OK, so talking to myself doesn't equate to success all the time (I've missed that same drop-shot more than I've hit it), but talking to myself definitely helps more often than it hurts.

Later, while mulling this over, I realized that I also talk to myself when skiing down a challenging slope. Maybe it's high and steep and fast, or maybe it's full of moguls as far as the eye can see. Whatever it is, I'm at the top and I have to get to the bottom. So I take a deep breath, and coach myself all the way down by talking to myself.

Our tennis coach has a twist on the talking thing... he says he hums some music to himself during play, and reaches a crescendo right when he hits the ball. He says he just does it naturally, but that it helps him focus on making contact with the ball at just the right moment.

So maybe you'll say I'm crazy, or maybe you'll say my little chats with myself are gibberish, but I realize now they serve me well. So I think I'll keep them in my bag of tricks.

And maybe I'll talk myself out of being so nice all the time!

Geek Pride

{Putting my geek hat on as I write this...}

When I walked in the door yesterday, my daughters handed me a sheet of paper with the following title:

Twins' Christmas List

I thought it was great that they had typed it. And that they had kept it short - just 4 items each. And that they had considered cost, with the prices of their items ranging from $7 to $58. Nothing outrageous.

But what really got me filled to bursting was the correct placement of the apostrophe in the plural possessive in the title!

Do you know how many adults don't punctuate the plural possessive correctly? Lots. But my fourth-graders did. (These particular fourth-graders might not have all their multiplication facts down, but darn it, they know how to punctuate.)

Yep, that's mama's geek pride showing.

{Taking the hat off now...}

Cool to Be Cold

Why do kids - mainly tweens and teens - find it so much more appealing to underdress, and shiver, than to simply dress appropriately for cold weather?

It's not like my kids don't have plenty of outerwear options to choose from. There's an entire closet filled with jackets, coats, scarves, gloves, hats, etc, varying in colors, formality, warmth, and style.

Yet my ten-year-old daughters were reluctant to wear jackets or coats, much less gloves, to school. Until last Thursday, when the weather turned cold enough that they couldn't stay warm during their running club with just a track suit and t-shirt on. Afterward, my daughter said: "My hands felt like they were holding an ice cube. And when the ice cube started to melt, they just picked up another." Her twin agreed.

Needless to say, they both dug out their winter coats & gloves the next morning.Yes!

But my eleven-year-old son is still wearing shorts to school. Despite the fact that there's frost on the ground! In Columbus, Ohio, yesterday, walking around outside in temps ranging from the mid-thirties to low-forties, all he wore over his short-sleeved shirt was a hoodie. Unzipped. He walked around shivering, but hey - at least he looked cool in his attire.

Or not.

I guess it's just one of those battles I have chosen not to fight. But I'm "not fighting" with gloves on. It's cold around here!

13.1

I did it! I successfully met both of my goals for my first half-marathon:

Goal #1: Finish the race. Check.
Goal #2: With no injuries. Check.

And the bonus: I finished at a pace 1/2 a minute faster per mile than my training pace!

I owe much gratitude to my family - for supporting me and cheering for me and just being there with their wide grins and hugs at the finish line - and to many friends who supported me with words of encouragement. Thank you!

Now I'm gonna go eat whatever I want...

Anxiety Attack

An anxiety attack, I've learned, is appropriately named.

One minute, I'm fine. The next, I'm in the middle of a physiological, emotional catastrophe that I didn't see coming.

My body shakes like I'm outside in shorts in temps of 20-below. My mind wills the shaking to stop, but it won't. I'm overcome by a general sense of fear that's undefined yet definitely present. As the blood rushes away from my head, my face becomes pale and I feel lightheaded. I start to sob, uncontrollably and visibly. That's the part I hate the most. The other symptoms I can try to fake. But tears announce, loud and clear to others, that something's wrong.

The first time I ever had an anxiety attack was two years ago, on a 10-hour trans-Atlantic flight. Due to a mix-up with the seating arrangements, my husband and I were separated, with no chance of reassignment, as the flight was sold out. My seat was in the middle of the plane - halfway back in coach, in the middle of a five-abreast row. For nine hours and forty-five minutes, the flight was relatively pleasant. I read an entire book, ate a little, and had just the right amount of conversation with the woman to my left. Fifteen minutes prior to landing, however, I felt an overwhelming urge - no, a mandate - to get off that plane now. If I could have, I would have jumped out the window. I felt I couldn't sit any longer, though of course I had to. I might as well have had arm and leg restraints on my body. I felt lightheaded and sick to my stomach. Those were the longest 15 minutes I'd ever spent. When my husband and I reunited after deplaning, he wondered why I looked so pale. And then the inevitable tears came, though I was now safe from captivity. It was just my body's reaction to the anxiety ordeal. I couldn't control it, though I would have given anything to do so.

I've flown several times since that trip, and haven't had an issue at all. So it's not flying that caused my anxiety. It's not fear of heights that caused it, either. Confined spaces don't typically bother me. It was just a confluence of conditions that triggered the attack.

My second anxiety attack occurred today, again without warning. As I was sitting in the dentist's chair, being prepped for some non-routine dental work, I felt the symptoms begin again: the shaking, the illogical fear.

I know it's common - almost cliche, really - for people to be afraid of the dentist. But I never have been. It's not my favorite way to spend an hour, but it doesn't bother me, either. Until today.

So I excused myself to use the restroom, thinking that the short walk and the time alone would enable me to think logically and pull myself together.

It didn't work.

As the dentist started to work on me, I felt my my creases deepen, my involuntary frown nearly causing my eyebrows to touch. I crossed my arms like a stubborn child, and brought my knees up so I was practically in a fetal position. None of this I did purposefully. My mind ordered my body into protective mode. It wasn't long before the tears started rolling down my face.

I felt like a baby.

And I felt sorry for the dentist and his assistant. They were really doing a fantastic job. Nothing actually hurt; they were moving as quickly as possible; they were trying to make me comfortable.

I felt anxious anyway.

I just wanted to leave that dentist's chair, get to the safety of my home, and huddle under a blankie with my husband's arms around me.

But I'm a grown-up. So when the dentist offered to give me a break, I said no, I just wanted to get it over with. He understood.

And once the drilling was over, I was fine. My mind and my body relaxed as they finished up with the remaining tasks.

Still, the next time I need some major dental work - like, say, a root canal! - I think I'll go for the valium. Because if I'm going to act like a baby, I'd rather coo like one than cry like one.

Hit 'Em Where It Hurts

In this case, my son's wallet.

Yes, the boy is bright, funny, creative, and handsome (oh, indulge me - I am his mother, after all!). Alas, his weakness is organization.

And because he's unorganized, he loses things. All the time.

For years, we've worked with him to help him plan his day, organize his things, keep track of items. Sometimes there's a glimmer of hope, but mostly it appears we still have quite a way to go. So it wasn't really all that surprising when, one month into the school year, he lost the power cord to his new laptop. Of course, none of the power cords for our other laptops are compatible with his computer (despite two of the others being of the same make), so he had to buy a new one. On the one hand, we praised him for going to his school's IT department on his own and obtaining the new power cord. On the other hand, he had to learn a lesson from this incident. We had to hit him where it hurts - no, of course not a literal hit! - and that is his wallet.

Whether or not you believe in Gary Chapman's five love languages (found in his book by the same name), or that there are exactly five, or that these are the exact five that exist, it does give some food for thought. One of his love languages is called "Receiving Gifts," which happens to coincide with our son's appreciation for (need for, really) materialistic things. He's always been this way: objects appeal to him. He can't bear to get rid of the ones he has, and he always has a list of new ones he'd like to acquire. And by extension, he loves money. Because, of course, money is the path to obtaining the things he wants. So, he doesn't like to part with any of his hard-earned money.

So when intrinsic rewards and punishments don't work - and they don't ever work with him - we have to get concrete and materialistic. He had to pay for his own power cord out of his own wallet.

A week later, wouldn't you know it, he lost his English textbook. After running through all the options to locate the book (did you clean out your locker? did you check the lost and found? did you ask your teacher for a loaner copy?), it was clear that his was gone forever and there were no loaners available. He had to have his textbook in order to do his assignments. So on Friday, he came home with a brand-new textbook from the school book store in hand. Great!

Then on Saturday, I looked up the cost of that book. My eyes about popped out of my head when I saw the price: $82.69! This is a lot of money! Mind you, this is not a college textbook. He's in 6th grade!

I gulped, then broke the news to him.
"WHAT?!" he said. "For one book?!"

Yes, he has to cough up the $82.00 (generous as I am, I waived the change...). We were both sick to our stomachs. Yet there was no argument. He knew that, since he was responsible for the book, he would be the one to pay for the replacement. I told him he didn't have to reimburse me until I got the bill from school.

Regardless, he handed me a wad of money a little while later. Evidently, he couldn't live with that kind of debt hanging over his head, so he paid me in advance. I appreciated his attention to paying his debt without argument, rather than hoping I'd just forget about it.

These back-to-back lessons really hurt him where it counted, but they certainly made an impression that he won't soon forget.

Let's just hope we can make it to Christmas before he loses the next big thing...

Helpless

She whispered to me, in breaks and starts, "I'd rather have a bloody nose than be sick like this. Because a bloody nose doesn't last that long."

I agree with her.

Each time a child of mine is in agony with a flu or other virus, I am in another kind of agony watching his or her suffering. Through my daughter's chills, the fever, the pains, the heaving, she suffers slowly and continually throughout the day.

We've endured many traumatic and at least one life-threatening event in our children's lives, and the range of emotions and thoughts that a parent experiences at those moments is inexplicable. But in those moments of despair, there's also a call to action, a rush of adrenaline: save the child, solve the problem, repair the damage. Yet watching a child suffer a common virus makes me feel so helpless for so long. Pain relievers may, well, temporarily relieve some of the aches and pains, but they do nothing to cure the virus. There's nothing I can do but watch, and hold, my child until the battle within her body is over.

Yesterday, my daughter grimaced with stomach and head pain and cried silent tears nearly all day. Her words, when rarely spoken, came out in whispered sentence fragments. If there had been anything I could do to end her suffering, I would. But I couldn't. She had a common virus and it had to run its course.

Today, thankfully, she's better. The fever has broken, her aches and pains are gone. She is simply worn out from yesterday's battle and needs much rest. I will still be here to hold her and make her comfortable. That's what mommies are for.

Hiatus

At 6:15 this morning, I was making preparations for my busy day ahead: appointments, errands, other tasks.

At 7:00 this morning, I started to cancel appointments, postpone errands, rearrange my task list.

The abrupt change occurred the minute my daughter woke up suffering from the flu symptoms that were causing her to ache and hurt.

Likely she will be home from school tomorrow as well. Then, like a chain of dominoes, we'll see who is the next among us to fall.

Sometimes, my second thought after I discover a sick child is, "Now how am I going to get everything done?" But my third thought is, "Nothing on my schedule is so critical that it couldn't be postponed to another day."

So, here I am with an empty schedule and a book, sitting beside my daughter as the battle of the germs vs white blood cells wages on within her body. As we cuddle, I try to give her whatever comfort she needs to fight her battle.

All the rest can wait.

The Game

You know how the subtitle for my blog reads: "Winning some and learning some"?

Let's just say I'm learning a lot lately.

That's Not My Job

Consider these 3 questions, actually asked of me:

1. By my son: "Mom, don't you want to make me happy? I really want the {fill in the blank with the latest electronic gadget}!" This question has been asked of me repeatedly, ending each time with a different electronic or motorized object.

2. By a national modeling agency via a radio ad: "Don't you want to make your child happy? Join us at {specific location} on {date} for your chance to meet modeling and acting agents. Your child could be the next Hannah Montana!"

3. By my friend: "Don't you want to make your husband happy?"

My answer to all: That's not my job! And even if I thought it were, it's not possible to make someone else happy.

No one can make anyone else happy. We all have to figure that out on our own, and pursue our own happiness.

Pleasure, now, that's something different. The latest toy or outfit, transportation to the movies with friends, my husband's favorite meal - those are examples of little things I can do for them, expressions of love, to provide a moment of pleasure. And I do think we all have an obligation to do nice things for one another. But pleasure and happiness are not interchangeable terms. The latest Rock Band system will bring momentary pleasure, but not lasting happiness.*

Regarding my children, my job is to give them a loving & nurturing environment, guidance, and opportunities to find their own way in the world. Through hard work, persistence, and patience, they will pursue paths that bring each of them inner happiness.

I do want them to be happy. But that's not my job. That is work they need to do for themselves.
_______________

* If anyone is interested in research on the subject of happiness, I highly recommend Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. My husband and I both have read this book (written in laymen's language, but based on research in the field of psychology), and will recommend it to our children when they are old enough for such a topic to hold their interest.

Trust

You know that exercise in which your partner stands behind you, and then you fall backward, hoping to land in your partner's arms and not flat on the floor? Whether or not you thrust your hands out to break your fall at the last minute reveals your level of trust in your partner.

Here's another true test of trust: Try walking ahead of a child pushing a grocery cart behind you. You'll be uneasy the entire time, knowing that at any minute the backs of your ankles could become bruised and bloodied. Yet, to continually glance behind to check the cart-to-ankle distance is interpreted as an insult to the child.

So you suck it up and pray that, this time, your ankles will be spared.

** CRASH **

No, that wasn't my ankle. Just the cart of another shopper as it collided with my child's. Loud and jolting, but no actual ankles were hurt in the collision.

Difference Between W and L

Yesterday I re-learned the importance of speaking up for myself.

Because I didn't.

And it cost us an L on our tennis score sheet, instead of a W.

As I've mentioned, I'm on a tennis team. It's a beginner-level team; it's only in the last two years that I've learned to play this fabulous sport that I can't believe took me so long to discover. Ostensibly, the other teams we play are also beginners. Yet that's not really the whole story. Some players are actually new to the sport, like me. However, others are experienced, but choose to stay in our league for various reasons - maybe they don't have time to commit to higher-level play, or perhaps they're recovering from an injury, for example. And not knowing our opponents, we don't know if they're new to the sport or actually quite experienced.

In our match yesterday, the opposing team interpreted one rule of play differently from our interpretation of it. Although we have the right to request a review of rules at any time during play, we chose not to exercise that right. I can't speak for my partner's thinking, but as for me, I thought we were right, yet didn't trust myself. And since I'm relatively new to the sport, I thought it might be possible that we were the ones who had misinterpreted the rules and that they - perhaps more experienced - knew better. And neither one of us wanted to make waves, or to be troublesome. So we deferred to their rule of play without dispute.

And we kept playing, against our better judgment.

That decision caused us to lose at least two games. By losing those two games in the first set, we lost that set, which otherwise we would have won. We easily won the second set, and time was running out. Had we won both sets, we would have won the match with no need to begin play on the third set. We would have scored a "W"in!

However, we didn't speak up. So we lost the first set, and won the second, forcing us to start play on a third set, though we had only a few minutes left of play. We fell just shy of a winning - we "L"ost the match altogether.

I could have kicked myself.

And not necessarily over the loss (though I would have much preferred to win). The kick would have been for not speaking up when I knew I was right. (And I was right - I looked it up in the rulebook as soon as I got home.)

This is such a common theme in my life: I prefer not to make waves, then regret not having spoken up sooner. Well, to be honest, I am much more assertive as a 40-year-old than I was as a 20-year-old. I have learned this lesson before.

Sometimes I guess I just need to learn it again.

Spoiled

Not the milk.
Not the children. (Though that might be debatable, but not today.)

It's the dog.

My parents sometimes watch the kids and the dog when my husband and I travel. There is no dispute that it's an bonafide Law of Grandparenting that they may spoil the children - and, by extension - the dog when the parents are away. That's a fair tradeoff, right? We get to escape for a few days and the kids get treats and special favors while the grandparents are granted full immunity.

Then we - the parents - come home, the grandparents hand the kids and dog over to us, and life goes back to normal. For all of us, that is, except Bentley.

He loves his Grammie and Papa. And he loves their special dog food (that's waaaay better than what he gets at home). And he loves that they'll stop whatever they're doing to pet and talk baby-talk to him. Why wouldn't he expect such royal treatment at home?

So we're going through a bit of a whiny stage with the dog right now. A little bit of retraining is needed.

Never fear: We should have our favorite canine cutie retrained and unspoiled just in time for the next hand-off...

I'm Pondering

... this question: Am I a procrastinator or do I perhaps have undiagnosed ADD?

And the thing is, I wouldn't even be pondering this question except for the fact that I have a deadline of a first draft of a story/novella/book chapter due by midnight Sunday, and I just can't seem to actually write it.

Well, it's not like I haven't done anything. I've worked and reworked the story outline in my mind. Discussed it with my husband for feedback and tweaking. Written an incomplete synopsis of the plot, characters, action, etc.

But the actual story that's due? Nope - can't seem to get that on paper.

Instead of writing today, first I helped man a water stop for a local run/bike race. Then drove my son to appointments. Then did laundry. Ate lunch. Read the paper. Wrote this blog entry...

Which led to pondering the question above: Am I procrastinating? Or do I have some undiagnosed attention disorder that is causing me to be unable to sit and do the work?

DOES IT MATTER?!?!?!

I should take some advice from High School Musical's Troy when he sings: "Get your head in the game!" He is so wise. And cute.

Oooh, maybe I should YouTube that song.

Aaack! It really doesn't matter whether I'm procrastinating or exhibiting signs of ADD. The fact is, I'm a college student again and I have a paper to write. I HAVE to write it.

OK, giving myself a kick in the pants now. Logging off now. Getting to work now. No more fun for me now. So long!

Fish Out of Water

Why exactly did I get the bright idea to go back to school?

I have 2 degrees already. That should be enough. I have a husband, three children, a house, and a dog. They keep me busy enough. But no... I wanted more.

Today was my first day at U.C., and boy did I feel like a fish out of water! I definitely look too old to be a traditional student - yes, I was called "ma'am" at the bookstore by the young cashier - yet I guess I don't look like a teacher, either. Probably most of the young 'uns just thought I was lost.

Which I was. For 40 minutes.

You see, up until now I didn't have a reason to visit the U.C. campus. So the names of the buildings, the parking garages, the side streets - even some of the major ones - are completely foreign to me. I don't have a mental image of the layout, and nothing seems familiar. I guess I fit in with the freshmen more than I thought. Except they probably at least know where the bars are...

And although, under any other circumstances, I would not be ashamed to pull out my handy-dandy map, I was mortified to do so today. I felt totally like a guy in this regard. Sorry for the sexism there. Not that I'm not going to retract it.

So I decided to just head in the direction of my building, feeling sure that signs would lead me to the right building. In my optimism, I figured I had enough time to buy my books (in yet another building of unknown locale) and get to class on time. I had 45 minutes.

44 minutes later, huffing & puffing, I barely made it into my classroom before class started. Without my books. It seems I took the loooooong way around campus. Yep, that's where my hubris and stubbornness got me. If only I'd looked at that map...

Once inside the classroom, I looked around and received visual confirmation that, yes, I was the oldest student in the room. I suspected I was older than the professor, too. Came to find out later we're the same age... so we tied for being oldest in the room. But I still hold the record for oldest student.

In actuality, I enjoyed being in class with all those "kids." They have such optimism and creativity and eagerness to show what they can do. They seem like a great bunch of young people.

Then the professor went over the syllabus. Which, evidently, was e-mailed out last week, complete with a description of our first assignment. That was due today. That I didn't know about because I didn't get the e-mail message and it never occurred to me that I should get an e-mail from the teacher before the first day of class. This student was not off to a very impressive start.

Not to fear: I wasn't the only student in this dilemma. There were three other students trying to get into the class. Since they weren't on the roster yet, they hadn't received the e-mail either. We winged it.

But this is serious stuff! I've been away from college for so long that I've forgotten how complex and time-consuming the assignments can be. Will be. For me. In fact, what am I doing writing this blog entry? I have no time for this! I should be writing my first draft of my first assignment already!

Despite my slight trepidation, I'm so excited to be back in the classroom. The new ideas, the discipline, the deadlines, even the hard work are just what I need right now.

But I'm sooooo glad I registered on the late side and got closed out of two other courses I wanted to take. I think, for my first dive into these waters, one course will be plenty.

PS - After class, I evidently took the direct way back to the parking garage. 7 minutes was all it took.

Compliment of Fear

"I'm afraid of you at the net!"

Considering all the silent berating I'd given myself during the previous 90 minutes of tennis team practice - working myself up into a real funk over every missed ball and every hit "out of the ballpark" - the compliment just made my day!

It was from my teammate: my more experienced, much-better-player teammate who was my opponent at various times during team practice.

I've been trying to become more assertive at the net. So I guess it's working :)

Puzzler

I've mentioned before that I like puzzles. Not jigsaw puzzles, but real-life puzzles.

I affectionately refer to one of the twins as "My Little Puzzle" because her abilities and her needs are so inconsistent and non-transparent at times, requiring Mom & Dad - and teachers, and doctors, and therapists - to really put on their thinking caps to find the most creative and effective ways for her to learn. This puzzle is one I've been working on for 10 years now, with another 10 ahead of us. Did I mention I'm also a patient person?

I enjoy the puzzle of creating a space that is functional yet visually pleasing in my home. Starting with a needs assessment, I then create a "must-have" list and a "nice-to-have" list from that, and then start the fun work of designing or locating just the right construction and objects to meet the goals. Seems I typically have one of these projects going at any given time, and the present is no exception.

But one of my favorite puzzles is that of travel. We like to travel, and we try to vary our trips. We'll plan trips together as a nuclear family, as a couple, with friends, with extended family, or girls-only/boys-only. We mix short jaunts with longer expeditions. Sometimes the objective is simple R&R. Sometimes it's adventure. Sometimes it's educational. Sometimes it's just 'cuz we're curious 'bout some other place.

{Not that we've been everywhere and seen everything - there are many of you out there who nearly have. Far from that, we merely aspire to see and do as much as we can with our budget and time constraints.}

The one thing our trips have in common is that we typically choose independent over organized travel. Not that we haven't done or wouldn't do tours or all-inclusives - we enjoy them, but don't choose them very often. For an excursion to Antarctica or an African safari, both of which I hope to do someday, I wouldn't hesitate to call in the pros.

But for the type of travel we do now, I really get a charge out of piecing together the elements of a trip that work for us! I like getting input from the kids about where they'd like to go next, then embarking on hours and hours of research on the history of a place, transportation options, accommodations, attractions that will keep the kids' interest at their current ages, and more. It's fun to talk to people who have already been or lived there; they always have the most wonderful insight into a place! I do a draft of a trip itinerary, go a little crazy with the details, scratch the whole thing out, obsess over it for a while, then watch the plan fall into place (usually).

{Of course, in typical "Kim" style, I'll work out just about every single detail to a "T" - with alternatives, of course, since it's nice to have choices depending on moods or weather - but leave out something relatively big (like that time when we got all the way to Italy before we booked a hotel room in Rome...). But it all works out in the end, and it's actually more adventuresome to leave a detail or two to serendipity.}

We're starting to work out plans for 2010 travel, and I'm in the sublime state of obsession with one of the more challenging plans. Whereas the task at first seemed too complex and overwhelming (I almost - that's almost - called a travel agent though I'm glad I resisted the impulse), I now have a handle on it and am blissfully able to sort out the "probably yes" pieces from the "not this time" ones. For me, working through a challenging puzzle is so much more mentally satisfying than simply calling in the experts!

OK, now, back to my puzzle...

Addiction

I'm addicted to my running log.

Well, it's more than just a running log. I keep track of all my workouts - running, tennis, strength training, etc - in the online log. Then I can view the data via a calendar display; a chronological list of workouts; a graph of types of runs; summary stats by the week, month, and year; and more. Many people who work out regularly, particularly if they're training for specific events, keep a log of some type. So this is not that unusual.

But I realized today that I actually have an addiction to it. As soon as I'm done with a workout, I feel a compulsive need to immediately go to the computer, log the details of the workout, and then view the historical data. And when I view them in "calendar" mode, I must see an entry for at least 6 days each week. (I do allow myself an "off" day the day before a long run.) Or else I just feel... blah.

Guess I'm just a geek at heart. I like to make lists of things I'm going to do, and I like to keep an archived record of what I've done. And then I like to analyze the data, looking for trends, progress, challenges... Yeah, that's pretty geeky. {But then, those of you who know me well are not exactly shocked by this revelation, are you?}

Yesterday, I cancelled my appointment with my trainer and skipped a short run because I was feeling melancholy. And I was completely OK with that, given the circumstances.

But then I woke up today and felt restless. I had to get outside to run. And I had to see that run recorded on my log.

As addictions go, this one's not really so bad, is it?

Don

Her college graduation, just a few months away.
Her next big swim meet.
His first date.
Her wedding.
His next game.
Their grandchildren.
A seat at the dinner table.
A walk with his wife on a cool autumn day.
Their next anniversary.
Countless other family milestones, big and small.

Three years of pain and struggle and battle, yet today our good friend is gone. He may no longer be physically present at the important and the mundane events in their family, but he will always be there in their hearts.

Taken too young, leaving his high-school-sweetheart-wife and their three children behind, he no longer suffers. He no longer fights for life, for every last shred of hope. He is finally at peace and without pain.

Still, it's hard to see him go. He was one of the really, really good people of the world. A devoted husband, involved father, loyal friend. Always with a smile or a laugh or a friendly word...

Don will be missed.

Win!

I know "it's not about whether you win or lose; it's about how you play the game."

And it's important to learn something about yourself, whether you win or lose.

And that I should just have fun and not worry about the score.

But...

WE WON OUR FIRST TENNIS MATCH TODAY!

Along with all the true stuff above, I have to add honestly that a win is what I'm after, and a win helps me - mentally - feel good about the next match.

I picked up a tennis racquet for the first time just 1-1/2 years ago, and this is my first season on a team. Still haven't quite gotten rid of the jitters. I have lots to learn. I'll get better eventually.

But woo hoo! Our first win! Thanks, partner!