Little Girl Big Decisions

If you've been a follower of this blog in the past, you'll know that our twins got off to a rocky start in life, thirteen years ago. And if you start off on a rocky road, you become better than most at navigating rocks, zigzags, and all kinds of obstacles.

They've had eleven surgeries between them: six involving life-or-death imperatives, and five involving significant quality of life decisions (one for hearing, four for vision). Quality-of-life surgeries are often difficult to choose because every surgery carries risk. And though we do not classify being able to hear and see as strictly elective, they are also not life-or-death situations. Therefore, much research and soul-searching goes into such a decision.

Recently, two separate surgeries have weighed on one daughter's mind.

When she was four years old, we made the decision for her to receive a cochlear implant in order for her to hear in one ear whose hearing had regressed to the point of being negligible. For those of you who are aware of the controversy of cochlear implants among the Deaf community, you'll know that not everyone views the cochlear implant as a positive medical intervention. (Note the big "D" in Deaf, which gives it an entirely different meaning from little-"d" deaf. I'll let you Google that on your own if you want to learn more.) But for our daughter, it was absolutely, 100%, the right decision. We know this and she knows this. Since being able to hear speech is crucial in developing the ability to produce speech, and since she was at such a young developmental age when her language should have been exponentially increasing, giving her every opportunity to hear was a no-brainer for us. She continued to use a high-powered hearing aid in the other ear, as her hearing loss was not quite as significant in that ear, allowing her to "preserve" that ear for any future treatments that would benefit her later in life.

Lately, we've seen some evidence of regression in the hearing aid ear, so we've discussed the possibility of a second cochlear implant. However, our daughter is no longer a toddler whose parents must make unilateral decisions for her. She's thirteen, and very much needs to be and wants to be involved in her own medical and lifestyle choices. Although my husband and I were completely in agreement about her first implant, we have differing opinions about a second implant. So when the subject comes up with our daughter, we're able to provide logical arguments for and against a second device. But she's the one who must make the decision. And for her, there's more than just the logical arguments.

There are also the emotional and social considerations. Surgery is risky and scary, even when you've been through it before, and SHE'S the one who must go through it. SHE'S the one who would have to cope with temporary hair loss in the surgical area, not to mention a giant bandage on her head for a few days. (That's a big deal when you're a teenager!) And a big headache for a few days. And having to miss school and make up her homework. And the adjustment to a new kind of hearing once the device is activated a month after surgery. These are real and important considerations for her, and she must weigh the potential benefits with the potential risks and side effects.

She goes back and forth. As with any major life decision, she'll know if or when the time is right. Either way, we're here to support her decision and love her.

The other surgery that's been on her mind lately - maybe even more so than the implant - is for her feet. Both girls have severe bunions. I know, it sounds like an old-lady/ugly feet issue. But in reality, young kids can develop bunions. And it's more than just a cosmetic issue; they're also painful. 

We tease the girls that they've inherited the worst foot genes from both Mom and Dad. Fortunately, they're both cute as a button everywhere else.

This is NOT a foot belonging to one of
my daughters! They would be mortified
if I ever took a picture of their feet
and posted it on online. So I found a
stranger's photo online instead :)

As you can see from this stranger's
x-ray, a bunion is more than a bump
on the side of the foot. The appearance
of a bump actually is caused by a
deformation in the growth of the
foot/toe bones.

Both girls hate their bunions. And now that they're getting older and are attracted to cute, strappy, heeled shoes, the bunions are a cause of both cosmetic frustration and also pain for them. One of the twins doesn't really discuss her bunions too much. The other, however, has been thinking seriously of the bunion surgery that the podiatrist told them about. He was not necessarily advocating the surgery for them at this age - but as an option for the future. And he pointed out that it's very painful, with a slow recovery, so he does not recommend it for anyone except those pulling at their last straw. But she can't seem to get it off her mind these days. So I do see bunion surgery in her future. But she's in charge of that future, and she'll have to let us know when she's serious enough to go through with it.

Again, we can't make this decision for her. Our job is simply to support her decision and love her.  

I'm proud of our daughters and the way they navigate their rocky road with maturity. But there are days when I do wish that their most difficult decision, at age thirteen, is what to wear today. Maybe something cute and strappy...

Fill. Dump. Repeat.

Great Wolf Lodge has this giant bucket that fills up rapidly with water, then just dumps it all at once. Fill. Dump. Repeat. It's crazy fun if you're at a water park.

Perhaps it's the curse of the introvert. I process everything internally.
Sometimes my brain gets full.

But just plain crazy if that bucket is your brain.

Like receiving a call from the school nurse during which she makes social pleasantries when what you really want to know is, Why are you calling me? Is my kid okay?!?!, rest assured that nothing bad has happened: no lightning strikes, no major illnesses, no tragedies. Just "life" stuff, but plenty of them at once so that I barely had time to process one before moving on to the next.

The physical labor of planting the landscape beds was therapeutic in allowing my mind to process whatever it needed to, while my body did something productive and tangible. However, it's hard to write and shovel at the same time, so I scribbled mere phrases here and there. No complete thoughts, or even complete sentences. Yet even if my hands had NOT been busy with tools and plants, sometimes emotions are too strong, too raw, that it's impossible to put a coherent thought together anyway.

So over a period of about four weeks, my mind-bucket kept filling. Inside, I churned through a variety of emotions, plans, and thoughts until I was done. Or full, to continue the bucket metaphor. 

Then it dumped. Once all the thoughts were evicted from my brain, they dissipated and now they're gone. I didn't write enough down, so I look at my cryptic words, dissociated from context, and they have less strength.

So here's the shorthand: I'm at peace with thoughts that were not peaceful, say, a month ago. And now I move on. The thoughts in my mind have resumed their normal ebb and flow, rather than rapid accumulation and dispersal. It's all good.

The Queen's Labors

Most days, I like to be the planner. The orchestrator. The manager. The thinker.

Though I'm also the executor of most of these plans, my favorite part is figuring out how to make a schedule work among many movable parts (people), or puzzling together a challenge, or creatively solving a problem.

Kind of like the queen bee.

But some days, I don't want to be the planner. I want someone else to figure it all out and just tell me what to do.

Kind of like the worker bee.

Case in point: After we moved into our house this past summer, we looked at our outdoor surroundings (aka dirt) and realized we needed to define our outdoor living space (aka needed to not be surrounded by dirt). We hired a landscaper to create beds, put up some retaining walls, and install some stepping stones. Things looked better: we now had an "outline" of our outdoor space. But the lines needed to be filled in.

I got all cheap about it, though, and said "no thanks" to the landscaper doing much more than the basics. Now that the dirt moving and rock placing had been done, I said I could plant shrubs all by myself, thank you very much.

But I'd forgotten that I know nothing about plants. You can't just plop in any shrub in any place and expect it to thrive or look good. We have deer, so I needed plants that wouldn't provide a veritable buffet for them at our expense. We have a pool, so I needed plants with minimal leaf shedding. In the front, we have morning light and afternoon shade; in the back, we have some morning shade but mostly full sun all afternoon. I know a little about cluster planting, but I have no idea when different plants bloom, and how tall they'll get down the road. Then you throw in leaf shape, size, and color; and flower shape, size, and color. And, oh yeah, this is important: It All Must Be Easy for Me to Maintain!!!!

It didn't take long after I sat down with my pictures and my books and my websites to realize I was completely in over my head. Even though I had all these resources at my disposal, my mind was a blank. This wasn't going to work.

Lots of blankness: in the dirt, in my mind

 












Like Virginia, I don't really want to be the queen!

So I called a local nursery. They sent a landscape designer out to do a free landscape plan for my two big beds and two small ones. In exchange for the free plan, I verbally agreed to purchase the plants from them. One week later, I had labeled drawings in my hands! The designer took into consideration all the important factors for me (deer, pool, sun/shade, maintenance), so all I had to do was drive the pick-up truck to the nursery and fill 'er up.

Like a good worker bee, I got busy.

78 plants and 1-1/2 weeks later, I now have fully implemented landscape beds around my house. I was happy to put lots of sweat and muscle into the project, without the stress of planning it on my own.

Most of these pictures were taken on an overcast day.
And, since it's fall, the plants don't have much color right now.
But just wait till next spring!

Sometimes the queen's greatest luxury is to remove her tiara and get a little dirty.

Squishy Ball Parenting

This parenting thing is hard.

And time-consuming.

I could slack off and get selfish. On occasion, I admit, I've taken a parenting vacation. I think, They're old enough now to study for tests on their own. Or, They know that every single weekend they have to wash their laundry - they don't need me to remind them this time. I think, I'm just going to sit here and read this book. Or start a business. Well, those little parenting vacations come back and bite me in the butt. The kids' grades slip and they wonder why they don't have any clean clothes to wear to school. So I get back on the job, nagging guiding the kids so they can get through their childhood with grades somewhat intact and wearing clothes that don't smell.

And now I have three teenagers. They're so awesome at this age - no diapers, no naptimes. Great travelers. Talented in ways I'm not. Really hilarious at times, too. And they have interesting takes on life. That is, when they're around and when they feel  like talking.

Have I mentioned that they're three teenagers? Yeah. So I can't predict when they feel like talking. When that kite sails past me, I just grab on to the tails and see where the wind takes us.

So a couple of months ago, I experienced a rare moment when my teenage son spontaneously spewed forth a soliloquy, and I was his captive audience. Outside, I tried to act all cool about it. Inside, I was jumping up and down, giddy and shouting, He's talking to me! He's talking to me! He'd been away for a week. (Well, technically he had been home all along, but he'd had such a busy social life that he might as well have been in another country.) And when he returned, he had much to say. For an hour, I sat and listened to his stream-of-consciousness philosophies.

Among his spewings were his thoughts on children who make the wrong choices or disobey their parents. I was shocked to hear him say that kids should be punished when they act up or do something stupid. "Like, throw a squishy ball at them," he said.

M'kay. 
 

 











Since then, if he acts like an obnoxious teenager, my husband and I joke that we're going to go find a squishy ball.

We've had lots of squishy ball moments around here lately. (The squishy ball philosophy has caught on around our household, but too bad we don't actually own any. We just invoke the squishy ball name, and the kids get the point...)

There was the time my son refused to take the food I offered him to his cross-country meet across town, and instead left that morning with very little money and no food. Then he called home, whiny and hungry, several hours later, asking me to come get him. What did he spend his money on? Coke and Skittles. Uh-huh. Of course I wanted to hop in the car and save him from his hunger pains. But what lesson did he need to learn: That Mommy will come to his rescue after he stubbornly refuses what I've offered? Or that he should be prepared next time? I told him I was throwing a squishy ball through the phone. (He survived. And yes, he took lunch to the next meet.)

There were the multiple days last week when I wanted to throw a squishy ball at my daughter's teacher, for penalizing my daughter for an issue that's documented on her IEP! (Young teacher. Very sweet and nice, loved by all the students. But she doesn't quite "get" my daughter's learning disabilities and memory/organization deficits.) Yes, I know she requires a little more from her teachers than typical students require. I do as much as I can from home. But c'mon. She didn't choose to have these problems, and she's not trying to make your life difficult. Let's help her, not penalize her. Squishy ball!

 



















There were the multiple tantrums that aforementioned daughter threw when I was being the best advocate she's got, spending hours and hours helping her to actually understand the novel she's reading for school. Yes dear, I know you have eyes. Yes dear, I know you can read beautifully. I just want to help you remember and understand what you're reading, that's all. Sometimes I feel like Rodney Dangerfield: I don't get no respect! Where's that squishy ball?!

Amid all these challenging moments, I often take solace that one of my kids can reliably run on auto-pilot, at least academically. She loves school. She's organized. If she needs help, she asks. She hates being unprepared for class, so she simply is always prepared. But sometimes even the most reliable ones can slip through the cracks. She slipped this weekend, and needed me to catch her, but I didn't notice until it was too late. So what did I do? I gave her a lecture, when what she needed was help and a hug.

Someone throw a squishy ball at ME.

Past Present Future

Stepping out of the shower, I thought carefully about what clothes I'd wear. After all, this was my first day at school and I wanted to make the right impression: for me, that means casual, yet put-together.

But I wasn't the student this time. I am the parent of a ninth-grader, and this was my first parent night at the high school. There will be many more school visits in the coming years, but the first anything is always a more acute experience.

(Of course, I got to drive this time. My last "first time" at high school, I was just fourteen and had to ride the bus...)

I was a little excited to be going to high school, this time as always: as a little girl, even as a teenager, and especially when I took that college course a couple of years ago. It's that anticipation of "what could be" and "what I'll be" along with, in my case, geeky love of learning stuff and taking notes.

So there I was, a parent among a sea of them, searching for my son's classrooms, navigating the crowded halls, balancing a look of confident indifference with eagerness to share a class with friends. (Aside: who thought it was logical to place room 115 not in between 114 and 116, but rather around the corner and 50 feet down the hall?! I really did look like a lost freshman...)

And as I completed abbreviated versions of all my son's classes, I realized that memories and hopes, of myself and for him, had been commingling all evening. Not only was I there, in my son's high school, thinking of how he will grow and change during the next four years and how daunting this building must have seemed on his first day. But I was also thinking back to my own high school days, which many of my classmates will be celebrating this weekend at our 25th reunion.

I thought back to my own high school years. Those awkward, exciting, hormonal, future-defining years. Personally, they weren't the highlight of my life. Eh, I was shy, lacked confidence, lacked curves (yeah, for some of us, those come later...). I just didn't know my style yet, didn't know I had something to say, didn't know it's okay to be smart and interesting but a little bit ditsy all rolled into one, didn't know I was interesting, didn't know my passions, didn't know how to laugh at myself, didn't know there was the real me hidden inside my own good-girl shell, didn't know how to embrace the body I had, didn't know to pluck my eyebrows.

So, part of me would like to go to the reunion. See old classmates and friends through the eyes of an older, wiser, more relaxed, self-confident woman. 

But this older, wiser, relaxed, confident woman is also the mother of three teens. They have busy lives and lots of weekend plans, so I'm skipping the drive to Columbus. I can wait five years till the next.

And in five years, I'll have a college sophomore and two high school seniors. Five years may seem like forever to the kids, but I know better.

When Lightning Strikes

Remember how I mentioned the lightning strike that decided to play a little prank on us just six weeks after we moved in to our new house? In one instant, lightning struck the house, caused a fire and a water leak, and zapped most everything that runs on electricity. {No people or pets were hurt in the fire, thankfully. It's just stuff. Still, it's our stuff...}

Six weeks later, we're still trying to get the house put back together. You know, with everything working. No holes in the walls. No charred parts.

Nevermind the new-house decorating! It's not even on my radar right now. For us, now, progress means simply having things working and looking they way they did on the day we moved in.

So, imagine my delight when my husband came across this little gem last weekend. It's a bottle of Coup de Foudre.

Know what coup de foudre means? I didn't either.

It means "when lightning strikes." Oh yeah, we had to drink this.

  

Yep. Says it right there on the label.

So, we invited our usual accomplices over to help us enjoy a bottle or six.

<clink clink> Here's to hoping lightning
never strikes again!

For those who are interested in an update, we really are on the road to recovery. The casualty list was ridiculously long. But most of the damaged pipes, cables, fixtures, and appliances have been repaired or replaced by now. We were fortunate to have had access to all the professionals who originally built this house just a few short months ago, so we immediately knew whom to call, and they already knew all the intimate details of what's hidden in the walls.

We have just a few things left to repair...

Our range, whose electronic parts now twitch like a nervous cat. Not to mention the persistent click it makes to remind us it's still there and still not working. I'm down to two working burners, from six. That's not horrific, but it is insufficient for most meals. And there are NO working ovens. This is hardest on the girls, who enjoy and miss their baked goodies!

It's difficult to capture the twitch and impossible to capture the
click in a still photo. But trust me, this range is fully personified.
Very creepy.

The vent cover, through which the flames emerged in their hunger for more oxygen and fuel. Instead, they were met by my husband and a bucket of water, thus extinguishing the flames before they could do much further damage. (My daughter and I walked in the door just in time to see flames and my husband approaching them with his bucket. That's when I realized that the smoke detector alarms were not a malfunction - this was a real situation.)

Thankfully, my husband was home at the time of
the lightning strike and was prepared to strike back.

The basement walls and ceilings that now indelicately reveal the the intimate details of our home. At least the firemen and, subsequently, the plumbers and electricians, made the best of the holes and cut out neat rectangles. They could have just hacked away indiscriminately, so we thank them for their tidiness.

This is just a sampling of our basement cut-outs.
Despite how this looks, there is good news here.
Yes, we had a wet basement. But upon examination,
the gas line had a hole in it from the lightning.
Turns out, the only thing that prevented the house
from bursting into flames once it punctured the
gas line was the fact that it first punctured the
copper plumbing pipe next to it, causing water to
shoot into the gas line (and elsewhere), and thus
diluting the gas. At the time, we didn't realize
the potential danger from within the walls.

There are yet a few other problems, which all seem minor compared with the past and outstanding damage.

And as we raise our coup de foudre to toast our good health, at least we have a funny story to tell about the summer we moved into a new house... Cheers! <clink clink>

{Gulp!}

I'm taking a big step today: Yes, I'm posting my blog on my Facebook timeline!

My blog has always been public. But there's a difference between quietly putting it out there and Telling Everyone
About It.

This is a big step for me because, although I like writing and do it best when visualizing an audience (rather than keeping it to myself, as in a journal), knowing that others actually read it kind of makes me nervous: Will I offend someone? {My foot often makes its way into my mouth - never intentionally offensive - I just forget to think before I speak...} Will I spot a typo after I click "Publish"? Could I have phrased that sentence better? Am I revealing too much about myself? Too little? Will people think my musings on life and my little stories are trivial? {Some days, yes, my posts may be about mundane events in my midwestern suburban life. I'll try to make them humorous, at least. But other days, I promise I'll dig deeper!}

I've mentioned that I like to visualize you, my audience. Not in a stalker/creepy kind of way. In a greeting-an-old-friend kind of way. Don't worry - you're always clothed. And taking a break from your own mundane tasks. And paying rapt attention to every word I've written! So for those of you who also like to visualize, here's a picture of my spot.

I'm a little camera-shy, so there's no "me" in this
picture. You'll have to use your imagination.
Oh, and while you're imagining stuff, feel free
to offer decorating suggestions. The walls and
windows of my new office are still bare!

Or I might write from here. Turns out, my favorite
comfy chair is also Bentley's favorite comfy chair.
(And the only one he's allowed on anyway.)
So I usually have to fight him for it...

OK, I'm stalling.

Gulp! Here goes...

Back at It

This is August 2012. My last post was in December 2010 - twenty months ago.

We had so many changes and activities in our lives that I could barely keep up, and this blog was a casualty. But I needed to come back.

{In the meantime, I fear my writing skills have deteriorated from disuse, so bear with me as I work out the kinks.}

Quick update on the last 20 months:

• We tore down a house, we built a new one, we moved in.
• I opened a boutique, became a working mom, then grieved when I closed its doors.
• My kids continued to grow and change, with my son surpassing me in height, and the girls closing in fast. I'm now the mom of a high-schooler and two middle-schoolers.
• We put our "old" house on the market. End of story. Wish I could say it sold.
• We began fixing up our new house after it was struck by lightning just six weeks after we moved in. The lightning not only zapped a lot of our electrical items, but it also started a fire, burned a hole in a gas pipe (yes, we're thankful for the fluke that caused the house NOT to explode), and also burned a hole in a water line, causing water damage. Most items have been repaired or replaced, but we're still waiting on a few. {Sigh} But all that really matters is that no people or animals were hurt...
• I put many enjoyable endeavors on hold (writing, lunches with friends, tennis & working out) while doing all of the above, and felt their absence profoundly.

Thankfully, we're all still here, healthy, and as one family, despite all the upheaval of the last two years. We appreciate all that we have - home, family, friends - and the rest is just "life experience."

One of the things I missed when I was too busy to think straight was writing. I may not be disciplined enough to write every day. But when I do, it's enjoyable for me and it allows me to share and think through the events in my life. Like my friends, I miss writing when it's not present in my life.

So here I am, back at it. Feeling a little rusty, but eager. Those of you who were previous followers of my blog will notice that I've changed the name. Since I'm making so many fresh starts during this phase of my life, it made sense to change the name of my blog, too.

I wanted a name that is a little more whimsical, and that reflects how life is not a linear path. I do appreciate life's zigs and zags (though not always mid-zig!) and how they keep life interesting and push me to learn new things every day.

So, thanks for finding Zigzaggy! This time, I won't stay away so long. But right now I'm going to enjoy a long-overdue lunch with a friend...

Speed

Yesterday, as promised, I was not a fire hog. Nope, we kept busy all day. The kids had their list and I had mine.

We didn't overdo it - I mean, it is Christmas break, after all! It's just that we weren't lazy.

I restarted P90X, and all my muscles are feeling it today! But what a wonderful feeling that is - to be achy and worn out from activity. Proving to yourself you're a living human being and that you're using all the parts you've got. Since being able to resume physical activity in July, I've been playing tennis 3 times a week, and walking regularly, but I was missing the strength training. And running.

Running. Yes, I really missed that. I'm not the fastest in these here parts; nor do I go the farthest distance (my longest achievement is a half-marathon), but it wasn't until running was missing from my life that I realized how much I want to get it back.

I do have to be careful, though. With 2 hip fractures in recent history, I am at risk for for more. The doctor and I have discussed this. I can definitely run again, but if I fracture my hip one more time, we're skipping the whole use-crutches-to-keep-the-weight-off-and-wait-till-it-heals approach and going straight for surgery. Pins may be the only way I can hold myself together.

Yesterday, it was time - time to resume running. My friend and I have a plan to gradually work up to greater distances. Key word: gradually. For now, we do 3 minutes of walking to 1 minute of running. But we'll work up to a majority of running, with scheduled walk breaks. Despite our slow and cautious start, I haven't felt this physically exhilarated in a long time! The intermittent speed felt great. My muscles, bones, joints, and breathing felt right. I was full of energy and enthusiasm and didn't want it to end.

I may never run farther than a half-marathon, despite having the more ambitious full marathon on my bucket list. Perhaps sticking to the 10k distance is the more prudent choice. Whatever my body tells me my limit is, I'll have to accept.

But for now, I'll take my one minute at a time, with a smile on my face and a lightness in my step.

Rejuvenated

Has it really been since November 6 that I've written an entry in this blog?

Didn't mean to let so much time pass.

I guess I really did reach my limit back in the fall. As I've continued to add challenges and occupations to my life - all good things! - other things have unintentionally fallen by the wayside. Like this blog, evidently.

But yesterday, I spent the day sprawled on the family room floor, in front of a nice warm fire, just doing nothing. NOTHING. That's something new. And that's all I was capable of.

Usually I feel guilty or restless if I just sit for a while in the middle of the day. Usually I feel more satisfied when I'm tackling that To Do list.

But some days, the best way to move forward is to stop and stay still. And it was glorious! I spent a couple hours in late morning sledding with the family - kids and adults alike - over at our new property. Afterward, we made lunch of leftovers (nice and easy), and then I promptly planted myself in front of the fireplace. Took a nap, read some of my new book, played around with my new laptop, chit-chatted with the kids as they passed through the room. But all from that spot. I did get up to eat the scrumptious beef stew my husband made - and then I promptly returned to my warm and cozy spot.

Today, of course, I'm back to The List. (I've even created one for the kids, and they're not even out of bed yet.) Rejuvenated from my lazy day yesterday, my list looks to me more like an Accomplishments List than a Chores List. After all, I wouldn't be able to handle two days of nothingness. I'm ready to tackle the revisions to the house plan, some tasks for my new business, some household organizational projects, a fresh start to P90X (bursitis after 2 weeks the last time I started it - but that's another story), and Day 1 of my new running plan with my friend. Maybe we'll fit some more sledding in there, too. Or a movie tonight. It all sounds good to me today!

Whether you're on break from work or school during this week between Christmas and New Year's, or back to the office after a holiday spent with family, I hope your day is off to a great start, too!

Goldilocks

We've "found" our architect!

Granted, it's merely the first of many (many, many, many, many...) decisions that we will make in the coming year as we build our new home. But, as the first big decision, it sets the tone for those to come.

The interview process was very enlightening for me. We chose architect candidates only from among those recommended by friends who had recently built custom homes and who were very pleased with the process and the outcome. So they all were highly competent, experienced professionals - none were selected simply by choosing a name out of the phone book.

Therefore, I felt they would all be so similar that it would be difficult to choose one. But, like the story of Goldilocks, it became clear that one was "just right." For us.

We spent about 2 hours with each architect. They all came to our house. We talked for a while, then took them to the new property so they could see the features of the terrain. The interviews were time-consuming but necessary and valuable.

Unexpectedly, we noticed one important and telling difference among the architects, and we noticed it within the first few minutes of meeting them: Whether they were "me-oriented" or "you-oriented."

For example, one of the architects didn't really ask about how we live, what we're looking for in a home, or what we dislike about our current home. He primarily discussed what he has done and can do. Not that it's wrong to confidently assert your own skills. After all, it's an interview process and we need to know what each architect can do. But it was too much about him.

Another was on the far other extreme. The first thing he said, after the pleasantries of greeting one another, was: "So, show me around your house. I want to know what you like or dislike about this house and what you want to do differently with your next house. Tell me how you actually live." I think my husband and I both fell in love with this guy right on the spot! He wasn't here just to toot his own horn, but to help us create a new home that's perfect for us. It was all about us.

Our Goldilocks, however, was a hybrid of Mr Me and Mr You. While we may not have fallen passionately in love with the guy at first handshake, we felt a connection that would serve us through the long-term process of building our home. He, too, wanted to know how we live, and what we want, and then showed us what he's done for others. But he also said this: "It's impossible to have a relationship with anyone over a long period of time without ever getting mad. You may be upset with me over an element of your project at some point. That's to be expected. But communicate with me, and we'll fix it so that you have the house you want."

Isn't this a fundamental difference among people we meet in all walks of life? Some are simply more "me-oriented," which can make "you" feel left out of the relationship. Some are clearly "you-oriented," but as delirious as the attention can make you feel, it may make you wonder what will happen to the relationship with you hit a snag and the passion fades? The lasting, more satisfying relationships are those built on mutual admiration and enthusiasm for one another, yet that acknowledge that there will be bumps in the road of life. It's how we navigate those bumps that determines the the longevity of and satisfaction with a relationship.

So glad we've found our Goldilocks architect! Next step: finding our Goldilocks builder...

So That's Where My Limit Is

All I wanted to do was add a new exercise regime into my schedule to kick it up a notch.

I've been reticent to return to my prior level of workouts since my injury in late February, and I'm tired of feeling not-so-toned since then. (And yes, you're right - that injury should be old news by  now. But it didn't heal picture-perfectly, so when I finally got clearance in early July to exercise again, the doctor stipulated I ease into my favorite pursuits. I'm back to tennis full-strength. But not running yet - just speed-walking a couple days a week. And I miss strength training.) I'm ready for more.

The program I want to do would be a great way to throw me back into the intense workout habit: P90X. It requires a 60-90 minute strenuous workout 7 days a week, for 90 days.

But I've just reached the awful conclusion that I I've hit my limit! There's no room in my schedule to add a 7- to 10.5-hour commitment to my week, without removing something else.

And I don't have anything else I can remove right now. My two biggest endeavors are (1) building the new house and (2) starting my new business. That's on top of working part-time for my husband's business, running the household, and managing the kids' schedules. And playing tennis.

I mean, I'm already getting up at 5:30 am. By 9:00/9:30 pm, when the kids finally go to bed, I'm exhausted.

{ s i g h }

I guess I have to face the fact that I can't do everything I want to do.

Or maybe I can squeeze it in every other day. Let me take another look at my schedule... 

Almost to the Day

On October 29, 1998, we closed on the house we currently live in. The movers came the very next day, October 30, carrying everything we owned.

Twelve years later almost to the day, on October 21, 2010, we closed on our new property. Yet there are no movers this time around. Not yet, anyway. We won't be ready to move until about a year from now.

It may have taken us 14 years to find our home - yes, this is what we'd been looking for all along, even before purchasing the house we live in now - but we've finally found it. When we heard this place was on the market, my husband and I didn't even need to discuss it. We both knew. We were going to buy this place. When the kids found out about it, there was no hesitation: they wanted to know how soon we could move. When we finally took the dog over after closing, he ran and ran and ran, stopping periodically to sniff the air or explore something on the ground. And when he ran back to us, I swear that dog had a smile on his face.

So it's unanimous: all 5 humans, and 1 canine, love our new home. And even though we have much work ahead in razing the existing home and building a new one before we can move, it does feel like home to us. It's where we belong. It's where we were meant to be all along. It isn't really a choice for us - it is destiny.

Where Did That Come From?

As a young girl, I was not competitive. I loved gymnastics, but did not choose to compete on a team. Same with swimming. I just liked the sports for fun and self-improvement.

In school, I earned good grades, and enjoyed the access those grades gave me to accelerated and AP courses, but I didn't feel compelled to compete for elite status. I just liked learning.

My measure of success has always come from doing more and learning more than before, and enjoying the process of growth. I compete against myself, not against others.

So it feels strange to me, now that I'm in my forties, to feel competitive. And I like this competitive drive! Except when I lose. Because then it really ticks me off. That's new, too.

Take tennis, for example. Having picked up the sport later in life, I'm not exactly great at it. But I'm addicted to it. I love it. I could play it every day and still want more. Last year, my first year on a team, I had a dismal record. Oh, it felt awful. This year, my record is considerably better. And the two matches I've lost so far were quite close. (Yeah, they still have to go in the "L" column, but it makes me feel better to tell you we weren't just clobbered.) I found that losing those matches got to me in a way that losing has never gotten to me before. I mean, I was really in a funk the rest of the day. Not an attractive trait at all. But caring so much about the losses caused me to think through how I play and make adjustments for the next match. So the passion - though negative - serves a useful purpose.

Now I'm preparing to open my business. True, I'm opening later than anticipated. (I'd initially planned to open now - in October 2010. But I couldn't find the right location in time, and I realized I could use some mentoring, so I postponed the opening until March 2011. It's better to start right than to start early.) But I don't consider the postponement to be a failure - just a change of plans. With any business, an owner needs to be able to adjust to present circumstances, so I consider this early decision as part of my training.

Already, I'm finding that competitive drive is very real with this business. In doing my research, I've talked with several business owners with shops of similar size and target market to my own, though with a different product mix. I have been surprised to find that some of them don't care if they make money. One told me it was her "hobby." Well, I like hobbies too (tennis, anyone?), and she's certainly entitled to run her business as a hobby. But I won't! No - I plan to make money. To pull customers away from the existing Cincinnati-area businesses in my market, toward my own. I don't just want success. I expect it. Yes - I expect to enjoy myself, too. For sure. But let's face it, business ownership is really hard work. I want to see a nice payday as a reward for all those long hours.

So I don't know where this latent competitiveness came from. But I hope it's here to stay.

Best Laid Plans... And Changed Plans

I'm in the thick of it with three tweens.

Back when tweendom was a far-off pipe dream, and I was drowning in the life of mothering three babies, then three toddlers, replete with diapers, naptimes, therapies, dirty clothes, dirty dishes, and a dirty house, the moms of older kids told me to "enjoy this time while they're young!" because "just wait until they get older - then life gets crazy!"

Huh? Life was already crazy. Surely, once the Age of Reason hits, my three kids would be easy! and fun! and cool!

And they are indeed fun and cool. But easy? Yes and no. As any parent of tweens knows, it's true you no longer need to feed, bathe, and change the kids. They've definitely mastered those tasks. But now we have negotiations (because, you see, they can talk in complete sentences now - and they've turned their finely-honed skills of argument and persuasion on you), opinions (about what to have for dinner, what to do with their time, what clothes to wear, what you do with your time, what you wear, what you say, etc.), and a social life.

It's par for the course. They're supposed to grow up, move on, look outward, think for themselves, socialize with peers. They're doing exactly what they're supposed to do, and exactly what we want them to do.

Ahhh, but here's the rub: At the ripe old ages of 12-3/4 and 11-1/2, they can't drive yet.

That's where I come in. I'm the chauffeur.

So this weekend was our typically busy weekend. I did a lot for my kids: hosted a sleepover for the twins, took my son clothes shopping (because, you know, when your 12-year-old boy who hates shopping tells you that he needs a few things, you drop everything and head to the mall!), did heaping loads of laundry, spent 2 hours ironing that laundry, took the girls to their riding lessons (that alone took a big chunk of the afternoon), took the girls to get haircuts, hosted friends (OK, that wasn't for the kids - that was for us, and it was so lovely to sit and sip wine with friends), and nagged - oops: "managed" - homework time and piano practice.

But what I really wanted to do this weekend, just for me, was attend the Kitchen and Bath show at the convention center downtown. Today was the last day of the event, and the only day it would fit in our schedule. We'll be building a new house in the coming year, and since it's been 12 years since we moved into this house, I'm in need of up-to-date ideas for the new place.

I even showered early and dressed all spiffy, even though it's Sunday and I usually get up early but hang out in my PJs at least until mid-morning, if not noon, on Sundays.

But, bless her heart, my sweet girl taught me to slow down and appreciate the more important things in life. She accomplished this by passing out right after I came downstairs, dressed and ready to go. The poor thing had been sitting on a counter stool in the kitchen. When I turned to look at her, I saw her hitting the hardwood floor (still not sure if that was her shoulder or her head that I heard). When we rolled her over, she didn't respond immediately. Instead, we were horrified to see her eyes rolling back in her head, her body limp and unresponsive.

When she came to, she had a headache (who wouldn't?) and was clearly disoriented and upset. This particular girl of mine doesn't cry or yell in a crisis: she becomes mute. We examined her body for cuts, bruises, or breaks, and found none. With effort, we got her to speak a few words and discovered the headache and a pretty bad stomachache from the trauma.

Eventually, after she'd been settled on the sofa with orange juice, Tylenol, and the remote control, most of the family members moved on with their plans. My husband and son headed to the football game for which they had tickets. The twin headed to a friend's house. I stayed home with my daughter. There's no place else I wanted to be at that moment.

After about three hours of lying around, she finally started to speak again. And she ate. A few minutes later, she got up from the couch and changed her clothes. The headache and stomachache were gone. I imagine she'll be a little stiff and sore tomorrow, but thankfully she's not seriously hurt.

The Kitchen and Bath show? I missed it. But despite the change in plans, I've had an unexpectedly enjoyable day hanging out with my daughter. While she recovered, I relaxed too. I haven't driven anyone anywhere. I've been here, all day, chillaxing (as my son would say).

Even though I was looking forward to going to that show, my daughter's fainting spell put life in perspective: We'll be able to design the new house despite the fact I did not get to see and touch those tiles and faucets and countertops at the show. There's more to life than kitchens and baths.

Much more, like: the health of my family, spending quiet time with my child, and the restorative powers of a Sunday afternoon nap.

What Kind of Guy?

As you know, yesterday I published a text message I received from my husband while I was away last weekend, and asked for your interpretation of it. In case you missed it, this is the message:

"What time are you back today? The kitchen is a mess"

One might interpret this message to mean that the kitchen is a mess, and that my husband wanted to know when I'd be back to clean it up.

If you know my husband, you know that he just wanted to know how much time he had to get the kitchen cleaned up before I got home! He would never deliberately leave a big mess just for me to clean up. Especially a mess that was made on his watch.

But, if you know my husband, you also know that he's got a great sense of humor and a keen sense for the nuances of language. He composed the message with deliberate vagueness to provoke me. Of course, knowing him all too well, I didn't fall for it. Humored, yes. Provoked, no.

So I knew the kitchen would be cleaned up when I got home. But what I hadn't expected was the degree to which he did the job. The kitchen actually sparkled and shined! Such a lovely way to walk in the door.

And to top it all off, he told me that the kids had spontaneously decided to chip in with the household chores that morning. My son did several loads of wash without being asked to, and the girls tidied up the house so I wouldn't arrive home to things out of place.

Yes, time away is good for us all. It makes us realize how much we appreciate the loved ones from whom we're separated.

Maybe I should go away more often...

Provocative

The text message read:

"What time are you back today? The kitchen is a mess"

Hmmm... How would you interpret this message?

{Shamelessly soliciting your interpretations today - mine to follow tomorrow!}

His Lesson

If you have a tween boy, you know what a Ripstik is. In fact, you probably have one. But for those of you who are scratching your heads, picture a curvy skateboard, split in the center. The front and back boards are mounted on a bar and supported by inline skate-style wheels, enabling them to pivot independently. It's very wobbly and there are no handlebars.

Doesn't sound easy? You're right, it's not. I've tried it. After 30 minutes of practice and approximately 100 attempts, I could finally go about 20 feet without falling off. And it wasn't a pretty sight - arms flailing, I looked like I was going to lose my balance and crack my head at any moment. But the kids make it look soooo easy. My son has had his for nearly 3 years now, and he can go long distances, while multi-tasking(!), without falling off.

Until this week. While rushing home to meet a curfew, he found himself off-balance, causing the Ripstik to shoot out from under him. Instinctively, he put his hands out to break his fall. Instead, he broke his wrist.

Fortunately, it is a pretty "good" break - a simple fracture of his radius that will heal fine.

Some people have asked if I'm going to allow my son to ride his Ripstik again. It's not safe, they say, and his fall proves it.

But how do kids gain experience and test their limits if they're overly protected? I think it's so healthy - indeed, necessary - to make mistakes, in order to learn from them. My son told me that the reason he was careless was because he'd stayed too long at his friend's house, causing him to rush home to meet the curfew. He concluded, on his own, that staying those few extra minutes wasn't worth the short-term pain and long-term inconvenience it caused (he broke his dominant wrist, and the cast he'll wear for the next several weeks extends out to his fingers - so yes, it's mighty inconvenient for him).


Since he's just a few years away from driving, I extended our conversation to include visualizing him as a teenager in danger of missing curfew, but instead of riding a Ripstik, he's driving a car. This week's experience enabled him to see how a similar mistake, but involving a car, could result in a far more serious outcome.

He'll always remember this accident.

It's a reminder that he's not invincible.

And we all need reminding of that once in a while.