Our Ice Castle

This morning, I awoke to the most beautiful sight! After yesterday's snow, we received icy rain during the night.

I looked out my bathroom window, and the world was swathed in a sleek, shiny glaze. The lights from the neighbors' houses cast long rays across our backyard, softly cutting into the darkness like a dream.

Making my way outside to get the morning paper, once again I stopped in awe. As I gazed down the driveway, it looked like someone had unrolled fondant and laid it before me like a carpet. The texture was so smooth and even that I hesitated to walk on it.


Nature waved her magic wand to slipcover the honey-colored teak furniture with a white crystalline overlay, embellished with ice-sickle ornaments.




Later, as the sun made its glorious and triumphant return, the ice that coated the tree branches glistened and sparkled in the light. The rows of Bradford Pears that line our driveway bowed to one another, forming a glistening ice canopy.


Yesterday, white fluff. Today, crystalline ice. This is the glory of winter!

Play!

We went from 0 to 3 in under 15.

That is, from 0 to 3 kids in under 15 months. Needless to say, things went from neat and orderly and predictable to untidy, unorganized, and unpredictable in short order.

Three kids in diapers, in cribs, on napping and feeding schedules: I don't even remember one whole year of my life. But I do know that I lived in sweats probably 360+ days of that year. And that the sweats had spit-up on them. And that a shower was a luxury. And to actually fix up my hair and makeup after the shower? A grand luxury!

All my tasks back then were based on fulfilling the needs of babies: feeding, changing, clothing, washing, soothing, napping, strapping in car seats, attending to medical needs. They didn't know how to play independently, and they were too young to leave alone, so I was their constant companion. All day, every day.

And that's what I signed up for! I don't regret it. Those days taught me much about unconditional love, responsibility, patience, my own strengths and shortcomings.

But I admit that, as they grew older, I loved their increasing independence. These days, they do their own laundry (well, not all the laundry, but as much as I can get them to do). They choose their outfits and get dressed on their own. They brush their teeth, take a bath or shower, use the bathroom, fix their hair without me. They've started helping in the kitchen. They clean up their own rooms. I rarely need to schedule playdates -- they just head outside and find a friend from the neighborhood to hang out with.

They still have needs. Big ones, like educational placement, medical management, etc. I still work very hard to make sure their needs are met. But that's different. Day-to-day, they don't need or want me hovering.

But, true to form, my kids keep teaching me. Today's lesson: Sometimes I need to play with my kids!

We were blessed with a snow day. All the schools were closed amid a blanket of wonderful white fluff. What a gift!

We made muffins together. We sledded. We made hot chocolate. We made snow angels. We tried to make a snowman (but it wasn't "packing" snow). So we made more hot chocolate. Then sledded some more. And more and more ...


I didn't worry about my To Do list. I didn't make the kids practice their piano. We didn't make our beds.

We had fun. We made memories. We didn't plan a thing.

We just played.

Little Miss Can't Be Wrong

I hadn't heard this Spin Doctors song in a dozen years.

Until now.

I've heard it half a dozen times on the radio in the past four days!

Is Karma trying to tell me something?

St Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Although it is highly unlikely that St. Francis actually wrote the prayer that is attributed to him, it is generally accepted as an embodiment of his beliefs of poverty and obedience. (Whereas St. Francis was born in Assisi in 1182, this prayer can be traced only to 1912.)

As a Catholic and as a recent visitor to the town of Assisi in Italy (well, OK, it was 15 months ago -- is that recent enough?), I was intrigued when my friend loaned me On the Road with Francis of Assisi. The travelogue recounts most of the known events from Francis's life, starting with his years as a privileged youth; his renunciation of wealth and a wild lifestyle; his new devotion to God in his early twenties, and his accompanying vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience; his founding of what is now the Franciscan movement; and the evolution of his followers, from the first devotees during his lifetime to the thousands worldwide today.

Linda Francke wrote the book with a historical slant, rather than a religious one. Readers who are not particularly religious, but would like to learn more about the life of this prominent figure in Catholic history, may find this book an enjoyable read. I count myself among them.

Having traveled to Assisi, albeit during a short day trip from the residence in nearby Todi, Umbria, where we were staying, I particularly enjoyed Linda Francke's descriptions of all the towns she visited, including Assisi of course, while retracing St. Francis's steps. The photo at the top of this page is a view of the Basilica de San Francesco, which we happened to visit during the busiest time of year: the Feast of St. Francis, when thousands of pilgrims make the 13-mile peace (Pace) walk from Perugia to Assisi. (In the background of the photo to the left, you can see the lines of people waiting to enter the Lower Church.)

In the book, Linda Francke also describes in some detail the life of St. Clare, Francis's friend and follower for whom Francis created the Order of the Poor Clares. As was the case with the Basilica of St. Francis, the Basilica of St. Clare (the plain but beautiful pink-and-white striped building in the photo to the right) was not built until after her death. Therefore, though both Francis and Clare were born in Assisi and died near there, they never set foot in the basilicas that were built in their honor. In fact, given their vow of poverty -- extreme poverty -- it's likely that neither would even perceive the grandiose structures as an honor.

As interesting as the journey through St. Francis's life was to read, what I find more intriguing are the simliarities among various founders of religious movements. What they seem to have in common is charisma, drama, and timing. In Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith, for example, Jon Krakauer chronicles the founding and evolution of Joseph Smith's Church of the Latter Day Saints (Mormonism), including its fracture into various sects, including the fundamentalist sect with its history of pluralism and violence. Certainly, there are many differences between St. Francis and Joseph Smith. Yet some similarities cannot be denied: They both founded religions based on their interpretation of "God's message." They both possessed charismatic personalities -- that combination of charm, wit, intuition, and intelligence that draws people to them. They both tended toward the dramatic. They both had the advantage of living in an era in which circumstances that could not be explained by the science, medicine, or logic of the time were attributed to faith-based miracles and directives from God. They both amassed great numbers of followers. But their founding religions also experienced inevitable fracture and dissent in later years.

So, do I believe a man named Francis Bernadone from the town of Assisi lived in the Middle Ages, grew up with all the advantages and luxuries of his day, repented his wild behavior, and became a good man of great faith in God and a desire for world peace? Yes. Linda Francke has researched the biographies of Francis written by his contemporaries and has followed in his footsteps all over Italy and beyond. Many facts of his existence, friendships, and events are undisputed. Do I believe in all the miracles attributed to him? Not so much. But it doesn't matter. 800 years ago, the people did believe in his miracles. People did follow him and turned to lives of peace. Thousands of followers even today perform many good deeds in his name. So miracle or not, the man made a difference in the lives of many.

And now that I've read about this man and all the hermitages he founded and all the cities he traveled to in his lifetime, I wish for one more chance to visit Assisi. This time, I'll spend less time in his basilica, where his remains reside, and more time visiting the places he frequented while living. The simple, small, plain places in which he can really be felt.

Difference: 7 & 54

What a difference 7 days and 54 degrees makes!

It was just one week ago that I blogged about the 3-degree morning, and the revulsion I felt about putting on workout shorts and braving the cold.

Today, by contrast, was fabulous! Although I was busy from sunup to sundown with that magically multiplying To Do list, it was so much more tolerable today.

Here in Cincinnati, the temperature rose to 57 degrees. AND the sun was out! In between work, carpooling, and errands, I put on those formerly-despised workout shorts and got to work with our trainer.

I felt so alive! So carefree!

I've lived in Ohio all my life. I'm used to the seasons, the variations within the seasons. The swings in temperature make for an tantalizing backdrop of life. But of all the seasons, winter is my least favorite. So when Mother Nature teases me with a hint of spring in January, even though my mind knows it's a mirage, my heart can't help but believe.

That mirage was just what I needed to get through the rest of winter.

I'm still sitting here in my shorts, but I'll keep that winter coat nearby.

When Life Gives You Lemons

Last night, while working the concessions stand at my son's school's performance of High School Musical, I ran into my daughter's former teacher.

We were shocked and surprised to see one another, and happily stole a few minutes to catch up.

This person is a beautiful, friendly, smart young woman who just happened to not be ready to teach, unmentored, when I knew her before. A year-and-a-half ago, her teaching contract with my daughter's Montessori school was not renewed (teacher speak for she was fired). Same went for her teaching partner, another young teacher with potential but not enough guidance. Although this was the right decision for the school, and the parents wholeheartedly supported it for good reasons, we couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the girls. They had the potential to become very good teachers; but they were fresh out of school, and they were not given the support and mentoring they both needed.

The firing came as a blow to both of them. This particular young woman was about to get married, and she and her fiance were building a house together. She honestly didn't seem to know what she would do next.

So when we caught up with each other last night, I attempted to come up to speed with the last 1-1/2 years of her life by asking her where she is teaching now and by congratulating her on her new marriage.

Turns out her life hadn't progressed the way I thought it would. After being let go from the school, she and her fiance broke off the engagement. She didn't move into the new house they'd invested so much time in selecting. With no job, no spouse, and no mortgage, she was left with infinite possibilities! She ended up taking a job in Hawaii for year, helping to open a new Montessori school there. She'd just returned to Ohio recently, where she is now working with children with autism. Although she hopes to return to Montessori teaching, she's finding this experience rewarding. Our conversation was cut short as the lights flickered, signalling the start of the show. We parted, each with a smile on our faces.

As she walked away, I was struck by the subtle difference in this young woman since the last time I'd seen her. She'd faced two very stress-inducing and life-changing events head-on. She embraced her unexpected opportunity, and traveled far from home, alone, to find a new path. Although our conversation was brief, she appeared more mature, content, sure of herself.

For that, I was happy.

Years ago, I found myself in a strikingly similar situation. Given my youth and my new freedom, I was willing to take a risk! I remember feeling certain that I would move to Boston. I didn't have a job lined up there, but I'd always found that I could get jobs fairly easily. I realized it might have been more challenging to find a rewarding job in such a bigger pond, with more fish, but I really wanted to try! Ultimately, however, I was persuaded by my father: What if I couldn't find a job? Where would I live? Would I be safe? Would I be happy in a town in which I had no established friends or family? His arguments were logical; how could I refute them? And besides, he and my mom had just helped me get through an unforgettable, heartbreaking ordeal; of course they didn't want me to make what they perceived as another mistake. Looking back, I know now that it was the right time to try something that wasn't logical. I would have been all right. And if I wasn't, I could always just come back home! It didn't have to be permanent.

So logic prevailed and I stayed in Cincinnati. It's a good thing, too, because within six months of that pivotal conversation, I met my future husband. We've been married for 13 years. We have a wonderful home, lots of friends, family nearby, and three fabulous children. Had I moved to Boston -- poof! -- this life would not have existed.

Do I regret being persuaded, by logic, to stay in the same town as my parents? Absolutely not. Would I have regretted moving? Absolutely not. Although that move would have been an emotional and/or intuitive reaction to my life's circumstances, it would not have been a disaster. I'm just not a reckless person by nature.

(My youngest brother, by contrast, simply chose to bypass the "logic" conversation by doing what he wanted, when he wanted, then telling our parents later. He definitely navigates his life primarily on intuition. As a result, he's lived unconventionally, and with great adventure. Still single at age 33, it appears he'll stay that way for a while...)

Back to this young woman: She made a bold decision to move thousands of miles away from all she knew. Her face glowed when she told me about that year in Hawaii. She came back, for whatever reason was right for her. I don't know what that reason was, but now I feel sure that it, too, was right for her.

I feel privileged to have known this young woman, and to have had her share her story of success with me!

The Show Must Go On

When the fire alarm sounded, we commented on how proud we were of the children. They were calmly but steadily heading toward the doors of the building, as they'd been instructed in numerous drills.

Boy, that sound is starting to get annoying. When is it going to stop?

Hmmm. I wonder if we should join them? Do we know if it's "real" or just a prank?

Once we realized that, prank or not, we needed to evacuate the building, we shut down the concessions stand outside the high school theater, grabbed our coats, and headed outside.

Forty-five minutes -- and more fire trucks and firemen than we could count -- later, it turns out it wasn't a prank. But it also wasn't a fire. A water pipe had burst in the library. Probably due to the frigid weather we've had lately.



But, the show must go on!

The middle school's performance of High School Musical went on, albeit 30 minutes later than scheduled. Once we had clearance from the fire department, I returned to my post at the concessions stand and my son returned to his job as usher.

But who knew the musical would be a drama?

Finally, at Peace on a Cold Day

Hot fire. Toasty toes.















Cozy dog.















Plump popcorn.

Final Wish

Thankfully, the skilled pilot of US Airways Flight 1549 was able to maneuver the passenger jet to a "safe" landing in New York's Hudson River yesterday. All survived!

My brother is a pilot for US Airways. One of his regular routes is between New York and South Carolina. My dad called me yesterday afternoon to assure me that my brother was not piloting this flight, and that he was safe.

Took me back to 9-11. The route of one of the doomed flights was one my brother flew regularly. But not that day. All telephone lines were jammed for a while that morning, but I finally got to speak to him. He was sitting in the cockpit of his plane, grounded by the horrific hijackings, awaiting approval to return to the gate. But he was alive.

Indeed, my brother has chosen a high-risk career. Sometimes he jokes that being a commercial pilot is akin to being a bus driver. His day-to-day job doesn't often excite him anymore. But down under, he loves flying. All pilots I've ever met fly because they love it. Just as one doesn't become a doctor or lawyer by accident, one doesn't just "happen into" a career as a pilot. No, one becomes a pilot out of desire -- a need to fly.

My brother has lost friends, fellow pilots, to the heavens. It has crossed the minds of every one of us in the family that we may someday lose him to the heavens.

We hope we don't, at least not anytime soon. At the age of 33, he's got too much living ahead of him.

But as much as we loathe talking about it, the simple fact is that we're all going to die someday. If, when my brother's time comes, he happens to be doing something he loves, I will happily wear a smile for him. Contrary to how this might sound, I do not mean it to be cold-hearted. I will mourn him, as I will mourn anyone who is dear to me who passes.

But for that last earthly experience to be one that brings him joy, one that puts a smile on his face -- that's exactly what I wish not just for him, but for all of us.

Homework and Hard Work

Struggles are tough enough to bear when they're my own.

But when they're my children's? Excruciating.

Yet I know that struggle is so essential to human growth. My job as parent isn't to remove all obstacles for them. It isn't even to show them the path around the obstacles. Well, not every time, anyway.

My job is to model the successful maneuvering of objects in my path. To model coping with the obstacles that just won't budge. To allow them to find ways to succeed despite impediments. And to help them (but not do for them) when they're really, truly stuck.

But, oh, it's just so hard. This is what "they" mean when they say parenting is the hardest job of all. It's not physical childbirth. It's not changing diapers. It's not even choosing whether to stay home with the children or go back to work.

No, the hard part really is allowing them to do the hard work and even to make mistakes. Biting your tongue when you really want to solve their problems for them. Listening calmly and using diplomacy when talking to their teacher, or the mother of their friend, after you've gotten only your child's side of the story. Making them look up that word in the dictionary, even though you could (1) just tell them the definition or (2) look it up for them in just a few seconds. Making them figure out what note that is, instead of glancing at the sheet music and spouting it out. Making them sit down with their friend to communicate what's bothering them, instead of letting them just fume away, or calling the other child's mom to resolve it for them. Letting that D on a test stand without e-mailing the teacher to request a retest. Making them stay up an hour past their bedtime because, darn it, they have to get that homework done, rather than saying, "It's all right, sweetie. You get to bed. I'll explain to your teacher why it didn't get done."

My son has had a tough time juggling extracurricular obligations, social conflict, and homework requirements the past two weeks. I've had a tough time watching him deal with this tough time. There's a fine line between helping him and doing for him. But the fine line is invisible! So, sometimes I cross it. Sometimes I don't get close enough. I hope that most of the time I walk exactly on it. But even that is stressful.

I don't know who is more relieved that today is finally Friday -- he or I. He needs some downtime. I need to see him relax a bit. He's grounded, so he can't play with friends or watch TV. And it's too cold, really, to play outside. But he'll find a way to relax (he always does!).

In the meantime, my hard work with the other two continues. We're in the midst of negotiations with our school district as we seek educational accommodations for one daughter. We're also in the midst of working with medical professionals to figure out why the other daughter had that seizure last week.

Despite all this, I consider parenting a privilege. I'm certain it's enabled me to experience more growth than I ever would have experienced otherwise. And more joy. But I won't lie: It is truly the hardest thing I've ever done, and some days I'm just so tired of it.

But I also know this: There's an ebb and flow to everything (there's that water metaphor again). This is a particularly challenging time in my parenting life, but it won't last forever. The issues will resolve, the schedule will get better, life will return to an easier pace. And that will last a little while before the next parenting challenge occurs.

And it's these hard times that make those light times so sweet.

Swimming or Spinning?

As a stay-at-home-mom, it's easy (and probably natural) to feel a bit stagnated at times.

Actually, I think everyone feels this way at times -- male or female, parent or not, stay-at-home or working. Perhaps I'm just more attuned to these sentiments expressed by SAHMs like me, and so it seems that they're felt more by this sub-group than by others? Or else it's just real.

Anyway...

Although I'm busy with life -- kids, husband, house, varied commitments -- it doesn't always mean I'm moving forward. I can be busy staying afloat while spinning in a swirl of water, or busy swimming through the water toward a destination. But the physical, emotional, and psychological effects of each are very different.

(I guess I'm in to the water-based metaphors lately. First, the tsunami dream. Now this.)

The two-week Christmas break was relaxing and so very enjoyable. The two weeks since then have been the opposite: busy. The spinning, swirling, toilet bowl kind of busy.




On paper, my to-do list reflects the swimming kind of busy, the way I'd hoped these weeks would be. During the relaxing weeks, I'd revisited my goals and written down steps I'd take toward achieving some of them. I thought I'd have made more progress toward those goals by now.

Alas, urgent concerns intervened.

But I think I see a way to get out of the swirl. I'm just gonna stop fighting it for a moment, relax, let it take me where it will for a bit. Think. Then dive down deep and away from the power of the vortex. Reemerge somewhere else. Swim back on track, back to the purpose.

OK, get ready, here I go...

Just Stop

As soon as the kids stepped foot on the bus, I ran -- literally ran -- up to my bedroom to change into exercise clothes so I could make it to the 8:30 pilates class.

Rummaged through my drawer, but couldn't find any long workout pants, only shorts. {I knew before I even opened the drawer that that's all I would find, but I guess part of me was hoping the laundry fairy would have washed, dried, and put away a nice warm pair of fleece sweatpants and they would appear, like magic, in front of me.}

It's 3 degrees outside. Without the wind chill. Yes, I know all you people in Wisconsin, Minnesota, etc., have it worse (I've heard -40 degrees in some parts). But 3 is pretty bad, too, don't you think?

So as I pulled out the comfiest workout shorts I could find, I pictured myself outside in those shorts, sitting on my frigid car seat in those shorts, not ever warming up in those shorts.

So I chucked the whole idea and took a shower instead. A hot, hot, hot shower. Probably used the entire volume of the hot water tank. (But I don't regret it.) Nearly sweated. Aaaaah, now that's more like it.

I hate the cold. I mean, I like it when it's not too cold, and when it's accompanied by the fun stuff: snow! I like skiing, I like building snowmen, I like a beautiful snowfall. But if there's no snow (there isn't any here, not like what you guys in the northeast have received lately), what's the point? There's no fun in being so cold that it hurts to breathe. So cold that, even when you're bundled in three layers, plus the warmest coat and gloves you own, plus boots and a scarf and a hat, you still get numb fingers after just a few minutes and you swear you can feel that "breeze" go right through those layers, straight to your bones.

But I digress...

The real point is that sometimes we need to just stop.

Working out makes me feel good, and I have a plan I'm trying to follow. But really, my body won't fall apart if I miss that 4th workout this week. I worked really hard the other 3 times.

I'm a stay-at-home mom, but I've been at home probably less than 5% of my week so far (the time when the kids are at school and my husband is at work, that is). I've been busy and on-task the entire week, but can't find time to get the at-home stuff done. E-mails have gone unreplied-to, phone calls have gone unreturned, the laundry has piled up again, dishes are still in the sink, that tissue the dog found in the trash is still strewn in pieces on the family room floor.

Today, the plan was to do the pilates class and then have the rest of the day, until the kids come home at 3:15, to catch up on all that stuff. But my son had to go and lose his retainer (2nd time in a month, and no, he doesn't seem to care in the least that it's missing and that his teeth will migrate back to their prior-to-the-$2000-braces state without that retainer). So in a little while I'll go pick him up from school, get him to his orthodontist appointment, and return him to school. I'll get some of my to-do items done, but not as much as was planned.

But that's OK. Really OK.

I've decided I'm allowed to just stop for a while. There will always be laundry, appointments, work, carpooling, errands.

Right now, I'm going to get some thoughts down on virtual paper. This "paper."

If I had more time (and maybe more skill), I'd write a draft, ponder it, revise it, then post it as one coherent thought. Not today. I'm just going to write. Then post. Then write again. Then post. So there will be several entries today, reflecting myriad events and thoughts that have affected my life in the past two weeks.

This is my way of stopping. I've got to do it in order to go again.

And I will go again.

The Pocket Game

Even amid the turmoil and angst from last week's events, life went on as usual. The dishes were dirtied, needing to be washed; bookbags, shoes, books, and toys were left all over the house, needing to be put away; birthday gifts were unwrapped and left out, needing to find permanent homes; and clothes were worn, needing to be laundered.

I thought I'd better catch upon on the laundry today so the kids don't have to go to school in just their underwear.

Leave it to my son to surprise me: I never know what I'm going to find in his pants pockets as I throw them in the washer.

The boy has always worn pants with pockets -- the more, the better. Even when he was barely able to walk, he preferred pants with at least a couple of pockets. At first, he simply liked to practice putting his hands in and taking them out. He graduated to figuring out how to work the velcro, snaps, zippers, and flaps. But then, he he found the pockets useful as repositories for his great finds!

He's like a walking magnet: He just attracts people and stuff.

His mind sees great possibilities for that spring from a ball-point pen on the ground. He sees a fortune in that penny. He can't bear to part with the drawing or notes he wrote on that scrap of paper. It's his next great idea!

(Of course, this explains why his room is always a mess... Too much stuff, no rhyme or reason, underutilized garbage can...)

Back to the laundry. As I pull stuff out of his pockets, I toss the found contents on top of the dryer.

I rarely find anything in my girls' pockets, but I learned a long time ago that I'd better check his. Have you ever tried to get crayon out of clothes or out of the parts of a dryer after it's already been heated and fused into place? The short answer: it doesn't come out. Same with Sharpee marks. And chocolate candy. Paper money sometimes survives intact, but sometimes it doesn't. And, of course, something red in the pocket always winds up in a load of white clothes that soon become a lovely shade of pink.

Since my son gave me a laugh today, I thought I'd share the wealth! Here are some of the items that have come from his pockets just today:

• Two packs of post-it notes
• Four writing implements: mechanical pencils, regular pencil, pen (hmm, this is a "light" day)
  
• Pencil sharpener
• Big eraser
• Tube of slide & cork grease for his saxophone
• Listerine PocketMist
• A squashed ring (looks like costume jewelry) that looks like it's been driven over with a car
  

As I write today's list of great finds, I'm reminded of some oldies but goodies from past washings (some were caught pre-wash; some, alas, were not caught until after they'd already been washed & dried):

• The aforementioned crayons and Sharpee
• Chocolate candy, gum, and a variety of other sugary snacks
• The wrappers of consumed candy, gum, snacks
  
• Money, both paper and coin
  
• GameBoy game
• Six bobby pins (for holding hair in place) attached to a rubber band (OK, I don't get this at all)
• Get this one: a bundle of no fewer than 25 pens/pencils/markers stuffed into one pocket! (Said he found them on the floor of the hallways at school at the end of the day)
  
• Ball-point pen parts (springs, tube, etc)
• Numerous segments of some other type of tube (not sure what they were from, but he had some type of science experiment in mind)
• A hundred other odd objects I've found and forgotten over the years

This habit of his that can drive me crazy some days has me laughing out loud -- alone in the laundry room -- on other days. It's just another manifestation of his personality. He's a person who is always thinking, always creating, always inventing, always finding something useful in what may appear to be useless.

Someday, he'll graduate to driving his wife crazy with all the stuff he finds and saves. But -- whoever she is -- she'll have snagged herself a guy with a great deal of creative energy, a mind open to possibilities, and a store of native intelligence.

And he'll have snagged himself a gal with a great deal of patience and an appreciation for someone who thinks outside the box. One who appreciates The Pocket Game.

One Minute

One minute, the peace of the mundane.
Next minute, the turmoil of trauma.
One minute, safe.
Next minute, vulnerable.
One minute, carpool.
Next minute, ambulance.
One minute, herself.
Next minute, lost.
One minute, all are equal.
Next minute, one is more.
One minute, steady.
Next minute, jolt.
One minute, sure.
Next minute, uncertain.

The earth tilts, and we tumble.

In a minute: change.

11 Years in the Making

Confirmation...










Then a glimpse...
















In the flesh...













What have we created?














Happy Birthday, my son. Wow: 11.

I couldn't have asked for a more perfect son. You delight me in more ways than I can count. You challenge me, you make me stronger, better. You make me laugh. You see life in a new way. You give new dimension to love.

From one of your two greatest fans: Mom.

Description

... she was kept awake another several hours, her fatigued brain snared in the drama of his next breath.

Such is the apt description of Debra
Dean's exhausted main character,
Marina, lying awake, listening to her
uncle's incessant snoring. The Madonnas
of Leningrad possesses an engaging story,
vivid descriptions, and historical details
that I enjoyed thoroughly.


But this line struck a particular chord with me ;)

Tsunami

Haven't had a dream in a while -- not one that I can remember when I wake up, anyway. I think the last one was the night I kept dreaming about my fears of running the half-marathon in October. Turns out that was a premonition, since I subsequently fractured my hip three weeks before the race and had to sit it out.

Early this morning, I had a dream...

I was at the beach with my three children. I had a sense my husband was there, too, but I don't know where. During the day, I'd dabbled in the ocean with the kids, but didn't really let myself go. I watched them play in the water and on the sand, and I'd get in waist-deep to cool off occasionally, but I stayed on the shore mostly. Finally, late in the afternoon, my mind felt free. I unwrapped the striped towel from around my body, revealing the bikini I'd decided to wear -- the first one I'd owned in 15, 20 years. I grabbed my son and we ran all-out into the water, laughing and splashing and not looking back.

After running and swimming straight out for a while, we finally stopped and looked back. Because the water was shallow, we were able to get really far from shore and still the water was only chest-high on me. My son could still touch ground, too, but the water was up to his chin. We saw my dot-daughters happily playing in the sand.

I just felt free, felt happy. I was with my son, and we had no worries. We were just enjoying one another. We were "in the moment" together. We were having fun!

As I turned my gaze from shore and back out toward the expanse of ocean, it took a moment for the image to register in my mind. The world changed as what we saw was a solid wall, straight ahead but extending up and down the coastline, of water.

It was like a movie at first. Something to watch. See what happens next.

But then I realized this was real. I felt the pull of the ocean at my feet.

We couldn't run, we couldn't hide, we couldn't do anything to escape what was headed toward us. We just had to manage the situation as best as we could, using as much logic and reason as we could muster. Rather, I had to manage the situation. I'm the parent. My son must be terrified.

I held on tight to my son as we braced for the tsunami to hit. I told him to take a big breath of air just before the water hit us, then swim upward as soon as possible. Upward. How were we going to figure out what that was? I knew we'd be stuck in a raging swirl of water. But what else could we hope to do? Yes, hope. We had to hope we'd find a way to survive.

The tsunami washed over us as though we weren't even there. Inconsequential little dots in the ocean, we were. I was amazed to find my feet touching sand. Thankfully, that was the clue I needed! With the ocean floor at my feet and my arm around my son's waist, I pushed off and propelled us to the surface. Miraculously, we made it. Gasping for air, we turned and looked at one another. We'd made it through the tsunami.

But then I felt the pull again. This time outward toward the ocean. Of course! It quickly dawned on me that the tsunami would retreat, and here we still were, in its path.

Amid the churn, I told my son to grab another big breath of air. I hoped we could fare as well the second time around, but I knew the odds were against our repeated survival.

A second miracle occurred, as we again made it to the surface as the ocean retreated. We were farther from shore, we were scared, and we were exhausted, but we were alive! We would just swim and swim and swim until we made it back to shore.

To shore... to the girls. The girls! Amid deep despair, I realized they'd probably not survived the tsunami as it hit their playground in the sand. Who was there to protect them? Did they survive? If so, where were they? Did my husband somehow manage to get to them, from where he had been? The tears began to flow as I frantically started swimming to shore.

And then I woke up.

What does it mean? I know my subconscious mind is trying to communicate with my conscious mind. It's been haunting me all morning.

Yet, the meaning is not that complex. Unlike the sudden nature of the physical tsunami in my dream, I know when my figurative tsunami is going to hit: Wednesday morning at 7:50. I cannot avoid it. It will happen. It will hit hard, but I will persevere, survive, and succeed! Still, I fear it. I do not thrive on conflict.

I had finally straightened out some melee in my mind. I had found confidence in a new path, and the confidence gave me freedom! But the road to freedom is rarely smooth and straight. The bumps and curves -- and, yes, tsunamis -- give the road character and meaning.

My husband was not physically present in the dream because I'm the one who has to manage this tsunami on Wednesday. Yes, he'll be there. Yes, he's helped me to see a clear solution. But I'm the one who has coordinated and managed it all. I feel the weight upon my shoulders.

My son was with me because he's the one who is "safe." In the dream, it might not appear so. He had to weather the tsunami with me. But he was right there at my side. My arm was around him. I could talk to him, hold him. I knew he'd ended up OK.

But my daughters... I don't know about them. Did the tsunami take them out to sea? Or did they find their hidden strength and persevere? Did someone else come to their rescue?

Today I have been blessed with a premonition. It gave me a jolt this morning, but perhaps a jolt is what I needed. With my own personal advance warning system, I hope to get my daughters to safety before the tsunami hits.

On Wednesday, we will survive this tsunami. All of us.

Plus One

Happy New Year!

Today is the day when people flip the calendar to a new year and resolve to make changes in their lives.

Years ago, I actually stopped making New Year's resolutions. I tend not to keep them if they're made on or around January 1. Perhaps they're too contrived? Kind of like expressing love on Valentine's Day. Not that I don't appreciate receiving tokens of affection then, but really they're more meaningful when they occur spontaneously at various times of the year.

Similarly, goals I set at other odd times of the year, made with thought and a plan to carry them out, often are quite achievable.

Regardless, I thought today seemed appropriate for a review of my Top 10 list.

(By the way, I see the achievement of at least two goals on the horizon for 2009! Won't say which ones yet, but I'll be sure to post updates.)

In the meantime, I've thought of a Plus One item, bringing my Top 10 list officially to 11.

#11 - Wear a bikini -- in public! This isn't a "body" issue so much as a "mind" issue. It doesn't matter if you're a size 2 or a size 20, if you weigh 110 or 210 lbs, as long as you exude confidence. That's the real goal, of course.






Also, I'm making one revision:

#1 - Add Antarctica to the continents list... To have excluded it because it's not permanently inhabitable is silly. I think to visit it would be an amazing experience.

In the meantime, enjoy the new day, the new year!