The Never-True Tales

Ahoy, Never-True Tales followers!

2010-09-30T12:10:00.000-07:00

As you know, NTT has packed up and moved to WordPress. This is a good thing--nay, a great thing!--but like most great things, it comes with a few growing pains. Namely, the pain in the behind that is Google Friend Connect. Don't get me wrong, I love all things Google like I love all things chocolate, but in this particular case, the feeling's not mutual. If you follow NTT by getting new posts via Google Friend Connect, and subscribed before I bid Blogspot adieu, you'll need to unsubscribe and resubscribe, or else you won't be getting new posts. (Told you it was a pain.)

You can do this right on the main page of the new site at the Google Friend Connect box. If you follow new posts using the RSS feed or email subscription, you should be ok, but might want to to click and double check.

Thanks all!

Didn'tcha hear?

2010-09-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

Never-True Tales has moved to WordPress! If you've landed here, you'll need to update your feed to Never-True Tales and any links to the site you may have. Go ahead, I'll wait. (Sorry to be a pest!)

Then join us over at the new digs!

Trash to Treasure

2010-09-13T06:34:00.000-07:00

I usually have lousy luck at yard sales (mostly because I have no eye for potential beauty or usefulness), but look what I salvaged out of a pile of used books this weekend: fifteen volumes of hardback Reader's Digest condensed classics (1964-1976 editions).

Aren't the covers lovely? And each one is different.

I stopped at fifteen since I wasn't sure I'd have room on the shelf for more, but I should have bought them out. (I left at least half a dozen of these beauties behind.)

Anyway. I just wanted to show you all.

On Running in the Dark

2010-09-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

For me, back to school (and work) means back to running at 5:30 am. (Boy, was the dog excited when the alarm went off that first morning and I reached for my running shoes instead of my coffee cup.)

I'd forgotten a few details about early morning running. Like how quiet the house is as I walk through it gathering my stuff, how loud Sam's paws sound on the wood floors as he leaps around me in his pre-run hysteria. And it's silly, but I'd forgotten how dark it is, how I hear rather than see each slap of my Adidas on the pavement, how mailboxes spring into view only at the very last second (this can be a problem), how motion-sensored porch lights activate at random moments, casting you in a little oval pool of light for the length of a driveway, a parked car, a couple dozen yards. Suddenly what you never saw coming is right before you: the abandoned basketball left on the curb, the neighbor's cat scrambling away, the dew glistening on the freshly cut blades of grass.

And I'd forgotten about the headlights: Sam is...not afraid of them exactly, but he definitely doesn't know what to do with them. When an oncoming car approaches, he sort of hesitates, then awkwardly tries to duck under the beam of their lights as they pass in a weird form of doggy limbo. His head ducks down, low...lower...his eyes squeezed closed, his back flattening slightly as the light washes over us. As the car recedes, he pops back up as though emerging on the other side of a crested wave.

And then there's the raccoons. He lives for raccoon sightings, of which there are many. We usually just glimpse the black mass of their body scurrying across the road before their eyes turn and pierce us with their reflective glare, and then it's on. Sam's tugging at the leash and I'm getting my upper body workout and the raccoon is going, going, gone down the nearest grate in the gutter or irrigation ditch lining the orchards.

The orchards stretch out on either side of the road once we leave the suburbs behind, and at this time of year, most are already stripped of their fruit (Harry and David pears). In the early springtime, however, the acres of trees glow orange in the light of hundreds of torches lit under big fans which blow warm air to keep the fruit from freezing. You can hear the whirrrrr of the fans from half a mile away at least (even with an iPod in use), and if you don't know what you're hearing, it can be disconcerting (like somewhere out there in the dark, a dozen helicopters are lifting into the sky at once). The sight of the flickering torches setting the fields ablaze makes you think you've run smack into some sort of medieval battlement or post-apocalyptic movie set or perhaps stumbled accidentally upon an alien space ship landing. Yes, between the torches and the constant whirrrrrring, it definitely feels like an alien landing, right out of E.T.

But yes. I'd forgotten. All of this, while running daily with sun and heat and blue sky for company. I'd forgotten how wide-open you feel when you look up to see stars, when you look out and beyond to see only shadow. You watch the road in front of you, and you watch your breath fog the air, and finally, you watch the sun rise and you know your time is almost up. That at home, little boys are stirring, and rising, and trying to pour cereal into bowls. And that your blissful aloneness with your dog and the scary headlights and the taunting raccoons is coming to a close. Until tomorrow.

(We're gonna get those raccoons tomorrow.)

We've had words

2010-09-08T06:00:00.001-07:00

gracing the front panel of our fridge for over a year now. (Shout out to my friend Laura who sent them to me a birthday or two ago.) They stick there, scattered nouns and verbs and adverbs in a study of chaos, congested at the top but ever falling, falling, falling like flat, rectangular raindrops right to the bottom of the fridge, where only Toby can comfortably push them around, these words he doesn't yet know beneath his fingertips. And a few times each week, as I'm reaching for the creamer in the morning or the dinner ingredients in the evening, I spot something new. A fresh trail of words someone linked together in a spare moment. Maybe Calvin. Or Nate. (But when it's way up high, all the way up by the top where we store the lunch boxes and the ant spray, I know it was Charlie.) Things like:

my fault I spilled juice that was haunted

and

know the true story

and

open a whale in ancient search

and

ask the alarm to whisper

and...

and...

and.

And between. And beneath. And sentence and spirit and hollow and hello, all floating free on the grimy white surface of the door, lost like satellites out of orbit. Waiting to be noticed, needed, peeled up and placed down, attached to the larger train of someone's thought.

Someone I love. Someone I've just asked to take out the garbage or help himself to a snack or do the dishes. Who has been momentary distracted by these tiny typed offerings lying in wait of some small or large spark of his imagination to seize them. To rearrange them. To line them up in the order they belong.

For today.

This post is part of Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus and You Capture at I Should be Folding Laundry.

Oh, to be a Tween Again

2010-09-05T19:59:00.000-07:00

"Did you know that Justin Bieber and Victoria Justice might be engaged?"

Nate offered this choice tidbit of information between bites of Life cereal the other day. Now, I'm 90% sure he's incorrect, but more importantly, where does he hear this stuff? Does he have a subscription to US Weekly I don't know about? Does he sit around comparing notes with his friends? My god, does he blog?

Imagine my relief when it quickly became apparent that he was catching me up to speed on all things Nick news as an excuse to ask a few follow-ups: namely, why Justin Bieber 'sings like a girl' and whether he does it on purpose. This confusion was reassuring, but the fact remains: the day your kid comes to you with pop culture questions, you know they're growing up.

And that's all I've got on this last day before Nate enters 6th grade.

You know how you're never supposed to discuss money, politics, or religion?

2010-09-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

I'm going to go ahead and disregard that advice.

Today, I want to talk about money and blogging. What's that, you say? You thought money in blogging was just a myth? Well, it is, mostly. If someone tells you they earn an honest-to-goodness living blogging, they're either lying or...well, no, I'm pretty sure they have to be lying.

But if you're in the blogging game, you know that monetization is the hot topic button of the moment. And I don't like to get terribly involved in hot topic buttons...except for when I do. So strap on your seat belts, kids, because here we go.

Product endorsement and promotional advertising is rampant in blogging these days. If you've been blogging for a while and your readership has grown to a certain level, you've been approached about this. As have I. The good news about this is that advertisers are realizing that people read blogs. A lot of people. And they want to reach these people and know that we, the bloggers, are a valuable means to this end. Which we are. The bad news about this is that they think we can be too easily bought. And why do they think that?

Because too many of us can be.

Let me explain. I don't mean that accepting endorsements or putting a price on your ad space amounts to selling out. Not at all. What I mean is that I've noticed some bloggers allowing promotional departments to buy far more than they're entitled to. Advertisers are paying for link or ad space, but coming away with entirely too much presence in the overall content of the blog.

This shouldn't be part of the bargain. Suddenly the blog you used to enjoy reading is all about coupon codes and instant coffee giveaways and it feels very hollow, doesn't it? Stripped clean to the bone of its former structure. And no one wants that. Not the advertisers, because you, the reader, have clicked away. Not the blogger, because once upon a time, she or he had something meaningful to say that's become buried under brands.

But it's such a double-edged sword, isn't it, because bloggers should be paid appropriately for their efforts. And no blogger should have to defend their right to earn a salary from something they've created and carefully honed. At your day job, for instance, no one would consider you a sell-out for accepting your paycheck at the end of the month. But that's because at your day job, your paycheck doesn't have the power to negatively color your work. (At least it shouldn't.) When we accept endorsements on our blog, it too often becomes a conflict of interest. To the writing. To the organic process of posting about what matters to us (which is why the readers the advertisers so desperately want are there in the first place). Vicious cycle 101.

I think this is especially hard for those of us who are in the writing or personal blog niche. Other niches seem to have more ready-made advertising opportunities. If I'm reading a foodie blog, for instance, I expect to see reviews of cooking tools. I want to see them because I benefit from them. On a travel blog (say my travel blog), I expect to see hotel reviews and guidebook giveaways. But on a writing blog? On a writing blog (or any personal blog, for that matter), we're supposed to be above all this, aren't we? We're supposed to be writing for the love of writing and no more, right?

We are. We really are. Which means that when we accept endorsements, they need to fit the entry in question. They need to conform to our style and the feel of our blog, and not the other way around. There are many bloggers out there doing this very well. I'd be glad to point you in their direction. Bloggers with absolutely no advertising at all on their site. Bloggers with tons of advertising on their site. The amount doesn't matter, as long as it jives with the tenor of the writing, the soul of the site, if you will. As long as it's a deliberate part of what the writer intends for her or his readership.

And then, to be honest, promotion and advertising can be a very useful tool. Those of you who blog know how this game works, but for those who don't, here's the run-down: if I do a giveaway or product review on occasion on my blog, my list of subscribers goes up. If my subscribers go up, my readership goes up. If my readership goes up, my Google page ranking goes up. If my Google page ranking goes up, I attract advertisers. If I attract advertisers, I can make a moderate (and I do mean moderate) monthly income. (See the ads on my top right-hand sidebar? Yep, there's that income.) And if I make a moderate monthly income, I can pay for things like website maintenance and decent graphics and the fruit loops I toss Toby's way when he interrupts my writing.

And the whole bloggy world remains free, free, free for all readers everywhere, as it should.

So yes. You'll see me promoting things from time to time, but only if an advertiser's agenda dovetails with my own. And only if I can endorse it while still delivering what you, the reader, expects of me. Because otherwise, I'm pretty sure (although it's yet to be scientifically proven) that a piece of my soul is chipped away horcrux-style with every misguided embedded link and errant ad.

And we can't be having that, now can we?

Hillary Clinton called...she wants her village back.

2010-09-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

Anyone know where it is?

We had it around here someplace...but that was quite a long time ago. I know I saw my mother with it a few times in the '80s, and my grandmother had it back in the '50s. I just need to retrace my steps to when I last saw it...I think Calvin was in diapers and I was in the midst of that desperate housewife phase in which I sported baby puke stains on my shoulder and dropped binkies in mud puddles a lot.

People helped me pretty readily back then, as I recall, and I helped others a lot, too. There was a sort of mutual-need, we're-all-in-the-trenches-together sort of mentality that brought us closer, and I remember many occasions where I babysat friends' kids or dropped off my own and just had the comfort of knowing that at any time, I could pick up the phone and have an extra set of hands or eyes (albeit as tired as my own) come to my aid.

The the problem is, as the kids get older and enter school, as we one-by-one return to work and/or our own projects and goals, this village becomes a bit of a ghost town. Don't get me wrong: the same friends are there for you, or at least really want to be, but now they're on the phone while commiserating with you, not in your living room surrounded by all your dirty laundry, because there's no time to come over before Johnny's soccer practice or Sally's fifth violin lesson of the week, and you end your conversation on the somewhat hysterical (but not very helpful) note of 'Tell me again why I signed her up for the freaking violin?!' And you hang up with the echo of your own need, whatever it was, still in your ears and you think: it's gone. That support...that village...has cleared out and I'm alone in this.

This societal issue (and personal issue...because I know I'm partly to blame, given that I'd rather be water-boarded than ask for help) came to the forefront of my life this week as I prepared to return to work for the school year. I'm lucky enough to work the same hours that my kids are in school, but due to the fact that Toby will attend a half-day kindergarten, there were a few scheduling wrinkles to iron out. Namely, a half-hour time period once a week during which I'm still in class and he's out for the day...with nowhere to go.

Talk about being so close and yet so very far: just one half-hour, once a week, and I couldn't think of a single person who'd a) be available and b) I'd feel comfortable asking to pick him up, which was such a sad commentary on community and belonging that I wanted to bang my head against the wall.

Which sent me looking, actively looking, frantically looking, for any remains of that village, and you know what? I'm finding it. Piece by piece. A cornerstone here, a smudged window pane there. I just needed to re-plot it on the map of my daily life, because it's shifted a bit since my kids' toddlerhood.

I'm finding help in the form of church members who I hadn't even considered for the role of help-me-in-a-pinch (shortsighted, I know). I'm finding it in neighborhood friends I haven't taken the time to catch up with in too long. And mostly, I'm finding it in my husband, who I haven't relied on so fully for this sort of thing in many years, because his job had been so demanding. And in this manner, it slowly took form before my eyes: proof that society isn't quite as broken as I'd thought. And that Hillary is, once again, right about most things.

And finally, that in his (half) hour of need, Toby will be in good hands.

It's almost September, and you know what that means...

2010-08-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

it's almost time to start cooking meals again.

What? Do you people cook in the summer? Because I don't. Not really. Actually, no, I'd have to say not at all. I mean, we BBQ. We make cold cut sandwiches and roast corn and pack picnics and pick up fried chicken (for the meat eaters among us). But the actual oven's been taking its usual extended leave from June-August. (I think this was in its contract when we bought the house.)

Me, circa 1950, doing what I love best.

But in preparation for a revamping of meal preparation (no one can say I'm not domestic!), I've had the opportunity to finally replace the food processor I broke last spring making my famous (i.e. only-thing-I-can-consistently-make-well) veggie pot pie crust. I ordered this Black and Decker 8-cup number from CSN Stores, and it arrived last week.*

I couldn't be happier. It's much more powerful than my old one (which means I'll try to cram much more stuff into it), and easier to clean too (I do clean things). And think about it: now I can make homemade salsa! And hummus! And shred my own cheese so I can save money buying only the blocks. Will I do any of this? Yes! For about two weeks (after which I'll probably forget I have a food processor until the next time I make my famous veggie pot pies). I mean, the next time someone begs me to make my famous veggie pot pies.Which won't be long.

And if you, too, want to be a domestic diva, don't forget about my favorite family meal resource out there, Once a Month Mom. No, this fine lady hasn't figured out how to be a mom only once a month (darn), but she has made it super easy to make meals only once a month (or if you cheat like me, twice a month). Either way, it's way better than staring into your cupboards every day at four pm wondering what's for dinner. (But not quite as good as having your own personal chef. Or so I would imagine.)

But between that and the food processor, think of how much time you'll be saving for important things like reading blogs and sending kids off to school and (not) making Halloween costumes and thoroughly enjoying the new fall TV line-up. Pretty sweet, right? (You can thank me later.)

*What can I say? Every now and then, NTT has to pay the bills. So here's the spiel: as I disclose with any compensations, CSN Stores gifted me the Black and Decker Quick 'N Easy Plus food processor free of charge. This compensation did not come with expectation of a positive review.

Worth Waiting For

2010-08-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

Today's theme for Six Word Fridays is 'wait', which made me ask myself, what types of things are we (everyone, everywhere) waiting for? What's worth waiting for? What isn't? What events, objects, and people mark the time with us as we wait? I'm not sure, to be honest, so while waiting for inspiration to strike, I started this list.

Every day I (you, we) wait...

for the morning coffee to brew
for the school bus to arrive
for the check in the mail
for that right moment to ask,
to call, to take a chance.

We wait for dusk to fall
for the baby bottle to warm
for the kids to fall asleep
for the house to finally settle.

For the paper to be delivered,
for a sign, a nudge, or
the proverbial message in a bottle.

We wait for school to end,
soccer or dance to let out
important phone calls from important people.
Circled dates on the kitchen calendar.

We wait for spring break and
Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's, and Easter.
For birthdays and three-day weekends.

We wait for the seasons to
change, for difficult phases to end,
for favorite book release dates and
television premieres. For dessert and bedtime.
For graduations and coveted first jobs
and for others to remember us.

We wait for apologies and admissions
and the punch lines of jokes.
For secrets to spill over drinks,
for letters and emails and prayers.

We wait for laundry to dry,
for oven timers to announce dinner,
for the sun to come out,
for tears to run their course.

We wait for little legs pedaling,
for soup to cool in bowls,
for fireworks to light the sky.

We wait for company to arrive.
We wait for company to leave.
We wait for reunion and departure
and kisses on cheeks and solitude.

We wait up for teenage children,
for bad news, and for good.
We wait too long or not
long enough or somewhere in-between.

We wait with baited breath and
sweaty palms and bitten nails and
anticipation and joy and resentment and
always, always fear of the unknown.

Soccer Moms Do It Better

2010-08-25T07:35:00.000-07:00

Toby (left), spring kindersoccer league

It took over seven years of participating in organized soccer, but it finally stuck: I'm officially a soccer mom. (And I was going to call this post 'Soccer Moms Do it in Mini-Vans', to emulate a bumper sticker I saw recently, but didn't quite have the guts.) I denied it for a long time, but the evidence becoming hard to ignore: after all, I do have a minivan. And a car pool. And piles of cleats and jerseys sitting on the washer. Need I say more?

Yes? Fine. Here's the proof:

I now drive six routes to or from practices per week (that'd be 3x for Nate, 2x for Calvin, and 1x for Toby).

I have three seasons of kindersoccer coaching, two seasons of rec coaching, and five seasons of snack coordinating under my belt.

I own one of those wipe-off clipboards featuring a diagram of the field. Yes, I bought one. With my own money. And I consider it one of my most useful buys ever. (That and my fold-out chair and over-sized umbrella.)

We have more water bottles in our cupboard than wine glasses and juice glasses combined. That's not the correct ratio.

I have an entire drawer full of team photos I paid $12.95 a pop for and can't figure out what to do with.

Any given Saturday (and most Sundays), up to three games are scheduled on three different fields (always on opposite sides of the city). Actually, we're lucky if they're on opposite sides of the city: at least one is usually in another city entirely (up to four hours away).*

Needless to say, the World Cup was a very big event in our house. And a costly one, resulting in the purchase of FIFA World Cup Soccer on the Wii and several team jerseys.

I've finally figured out how to get the sweat smell out of shin guards. (It's a highly secret formula which I plan to patent and then retire on.)

We own two pairs of goalkeeper gloves...even though none of my kids play keeper. There's a goal in our backyard (and broken slats in the fence behind it).

I have a box of at least 10 different sized pair of Nike and Adidas cleats in the garage, waiting for their next wearer. Let me know if your kid needs some: we're running specials on toddler size 10 and youth size 1 right now.

I finally broke down and bought those car paints to decorate the windows of the minivan with the kids' team names and colors (but only for tournaments).

We have many, many tournaments.

Which result in many Days Inns and Denny's breakfasts and Chevron gas stops. And tournament t-shirts. And coolers of Gatorade. In fact, I'm afraid to add up what exact percentage of our income goes to soccer and soccer-related activities, but I'm pretty sure we could vacation in the Bahamas for a month or possibly buy a yacht and travel the globe with the money saved if we'd just give up this monkey on our back.

*Note to rookie parents (you know who you are): having three kids in organized sports per season necessitates at least as many enthusiastic adults (of driving age) willing to shuttle, cheer, and provide halftime snacks. Start enlisting early. Grandparents are usually prime ~~victims~~ volunteers.

Red Badge of Courage (Fish Hook Edition)

2010-08-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

Today I'm welcoming a friend of mine, Viva Connel Clark, to Never-True Tales. She recently wrote the following piece in a LiveJournal essay-writing community I started several years ago (which is now in other capable hands) called Reflectology. In it, she somehow manages to tell a tale about fishing, coming of age, loss, fatherhood, and the American military experience all at once. As I've found myself returning to her words in my mind ever since, I asked her if I could re-post them here. All you need to know before reading is that Viva is a wife and mother in beautiful Minnesota and (no exaggeration) one of the smartest and most interesting women I've ever had the honor of meeting.

Just a few hours ago my husband and I dropped off our 18 year old son–his biological son, my stepson, if you want to get technical—at an unremarkable Marriott Hotel that marks the beginning of his service in the US Army. It was neither the beginning nor the end of the emotional journey we are travelling as parents, but it is certainly a major milestone.

We have been in the process of preparing--mentally, emotionally, physically--for this day since late December, when Alex informed us (quite out of the blue, as it happened) that he had decided to join the Army right out of high school. At first my thoughts were on concrete things; his safety of course, the military culture and how he will respond, the fact that this is a kid who has never been to camp, never been on an airplane, never been away from his family for any length of time. Even now, the people I talk to inevitably focus on these issues. As the time grows closer, though, I feel those are things that will work themselves out. The overwhelming sense I have now is much simpler; I feel sad because he is leaving, and I will miss him. As a teenager he has of course increasingly had his own life--between school, sports, and working at the pizza place we rarely saw him the past year—now, however, his absence is palpable thing. The quiet seems to echo through the halls where we are accustomed to the booming of an Xbox from behind a closed bedroom door, and the lack of Gatorade in the refrigerator, or the fact that there is no longer the tripping hazard of giant tennis shoes near the garage door.

I knew I wanted to write further about this experience of having a child go into the military, of the mixed feelings it evokes and the reactions of our extended families. I still may write that, one day, but today I’m more interested in telling a personal story. It’s second hand, perhaps it’s not even my story to tell, but for me it was a ray of sunshine, and that’s where I wanted to focus.

Here’s a cliché for you; we can only imagine what each day holds in store. We try to plan and manage every contingency, but of course that only goes so far, which is why Life is an adventure every day. We know this, but on a day when even small things are magnified in importance, a comedy of errors turns an already memorable day into one for the ages.

For Alex’s last day as a civilian he and his dad planned a day of fishing. The peaceful lake, the lapping of waves on the side of the boat, the quiet bonding between father and son was the ideal choice for their final day together. It should have been very A River Runs Through It, and it was! Except, maybe, starring Jim Carrey. The highlights? First, it rained. Not a gentle, cooling sprinkle, but RAIN, hard sheets of it, propelled by gusting winds. In their hurry to get out of the downpour, they dumped the tacklebox. Wet, harried, nearly ready to give up, they were given a reprieve when the sun came back out. Even better, the fishing was spectacular, and Dad, in a flush of good fortune, caught a huge fish, the biggest walleye he’d ever caught in four decades of fishing. In fact, in you ever meet my husband, ask him about this fish. He just might have a picture of it on his phone.

Oh, about that picture. In the flush of excitement, they took the photo before even removing the hook from the fish’s mouth. Being a feisty sort, the fish flopped just enough—to get the hook caught in Alex’s ankle. Hours from deployment, and they are rushing to the clinic to push a barbed fish hook out of his foot. The fact that the young doctor had never removed a fish hook before was kind of the final coda, but this fish story, besides being true, did have a happy ending. At the appointed time (maybe just slightly late) the young man was there, with just a small puncture wound and some antibiotics to betray his misadventures. He may not agree, especially after the painkillers wore off, but for him and his dad a crazy day of ups and downs was just what they needed. There was no time to be sad, not until those last few minutes, back in the anonymous suburban hotel parking lot.

He said goodbye outside. He didn’t want us to come into the hotel with him. I hadn’t yet met Alex on his first day of kindergarten, but I’m guessing it went kind of the same way. The rain had started up again. I took a picture of Alex and his dad, arms entwined. Later I would explain to people that some of the rain had fallen on his dad’s face.

Afterwards, what do you do? We got coffee and picked up some Chinese food. As I fastened my seat belt, my husband, who has a poetic bent, said, “I lost a boy today, but I’m gaining a man.”

I don’t know how long he rehearsed that line in his head, but I know he meant it with all his heart.

The Best Of

2010-08-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

The best people are always the
most interesting, with laugh-lines, stories and
pasts that open easily upon knocking.

The best books are heaviest with
truth, telling us what we already
know, lest we should ever forget.

The best berries are the highest
on the branches furthest from reach,
lending a scrape that draws blood.

The best moments are the brightest:
sun on skin, lights on tree.
Smiles on the faces we love.

The best memories are the murkiest:
steeped in shadow, overgrown with weeds
knee-high we cannot push through.

Those Who Help Themselves

2010-08-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

The concept of 'help' and I have a somewhat hostile relationship. Basically, I don't like asking for it. For that matter, I don't particularly like receiving it. Doing so makes me feel weak, and inadequate, and in some manner awkward, much like I'm standing around in someone else's kitchen, unsure where anything is kept or how to assist.

This is not to say I'm not touched when someone does offer to help me when it's needed; I am. I'm just not sure how to proceed: how to hand over the reigns, step aside, sit down and shut up. How to adequately say thank you. Perhaps this is a very masculine trait; I don't know.

I do know this: when I think of help--the concept as well as the deliverance--I think of Mrs. Bird. Mrs. Bird was my grandmother's housekeeper when I was a child. This would be back in the late '70s and '80s in Laguna Beach, California. Anyone in my family reading this is probably thinking it's odd that I still remember Mrs. Bird (maybe they don't themselves), but for whatever reason, she was to me one of those very inconsequential people in your life who dip in and then back out but not before leaving a lasting impression. I'm not speaking of the gym teacher from high school or the long lost boyfriend who resurfaces on Facebook, but the ones whose role was so very minor, they barely scratched the surface of your reality, but whose touch seems to somehow linger.

Why this person, for me, was Mrs. Bird, I have no idea. I don't think she ever spoke more than two words to me, but when I was in my grandmother's house, which was often, I was always acutely aware of her presence, maybe because even then, I didn't know what to do around someone who was, essentially, there to help me. I was always stepping over her vacuum cord or trying to avoid her mopped floors or thanking her shyly for the fresh beach towels or PB&J when really, I just wanted to do these things for myself.

I can't recall my first introduction to Mrs. Bird; she was an institution in my grandmother's household from my earliest memory of the place. As a young girl, she struck me as very, very old, but in hindsight, I doubt she was much older than my grandmother. She might even have been younger. (I wonder, sometimes, whether she's still living.) Despite her age (or perceived age) she exuded formidable strength. I have no idea how tall she was in terms of stature, but in terms of sheer presence, she towered. Without a doubt, she was very capable. She walked around the house with purpose, mostly ignoring us kids around her feet. She had dark skin that intrigued me because where it creased around her mouth and eyes and on her hands, the lines ran so deep and black as to seem bottomless. She wasn't unkind, but she wasn't overly friendly, either, and for this reason (and the pronounced wrinkles), she inexplicably struck me as wise. (I don't know whether she actually was.)

She lived in the canyon (this would be the Laguna Canyon), and every day, my grandmother would drive her home in her big Cadillac so Mrs. Bird wouldn't have to ride the bus. Sometimes, I'd get to go too. I looked forward to this, because I loved seeing Mrs. Bird's house, which seemed as much a mystery to me as Mrs. Bird herself. I'd sit in the massive back bench seat of the car, slipping around on all that leather whenever my grandmother took a turn, and listen as they chatted about their grandkids and kids, their husbands, and the like. Again in hindsight, I think my grandmother and Mrs. Bird were friends of a sort. At very least, they enjoyed the company of one another on those drives, whatever their relationship was otherwise.

Mrs. Bird had many kids still living at her house (whether they were her children or grandchildren, I never fully worked out), and when we would pull up, there would always be lots of bikes and toys littering the dirt driveway and a kid or two in the yard. To my mind, this meant that all those children got to stay home alone all day long while Mrs. Bird was with us (which may actually have been true), which made them very impressive to me. Older somehow. More mature than myself or my school friends, even though I could see that most of them were actually littler. I'd watch from my seat as they rode their bikes down the street to greet the car, and I'd long with a sort of thrill to be one of Mrs. Bird's kids for just one day.

When I'm in my grandmother's house even now, there are moments when I think of Mrs. Bird. Such as when my grandmother pulls one of the many worn, cotton aprons with the crossed straps in the back out of her bottom kitchen drawer. When I have to dig into the linen closet for clean sheets. When I yank out the ancient vacuum. And sometimes, when I catch my mind flitting to Mrs. Bird during these moments, I'm ashamed that I'm remembering her in terms of these menial chores which surely never defined her. But the truth is, they're the only context I have for her, and even as a child, I was painfully aware of how narrow and thinly sliced that context was. With the anomaly of her greater life beyond my grandmother's house cut off from me, the memories in my head now are sharper, less forgiving than they might have been had I been gifted with a fuller picture. They're just jagged snapshots, scattered around my mind like shards of glass: Mrs. Bird in the family room with its grand piano and oriental vases and plush, spring-green carpeting that must have been a pain to keep clean. Mrs. Bird in the kitchen covering casseroles. Mrs. Bird gathering her sweater from the side-board when it was time to go.

And then there's the even more splintered images: The way her hands looked gripped around the plastic vacuum handle. The leather flats she wore in the house. The way her skin was dry and cracked around the ankles. The little purse she always set in her lap while riding in the car.

The way I was always in her way.

But if I'm tempted to delude myself into thinking Mrs. Bird is one reason I'm more inclined to help myself than accept help, I must push that away as well. Because of course I didn't know her, and she didn't know me. The brief connection of our lives was too thinly threaded to hold the weight of any sort of self-discovery, no matter how helpful.

What We're Reading: Summer 2010 Edition

2010-08-15T20:14:00.000-07:00

I was rewatching an old Gilmore Girls episode the other day which reminded me it's time to post my quarterly 'what we're reading' post. Specifically, it was this exchange:

Rory: This thing is too small.
Lorelai: That backpack is not too small.
Rory: It's miniscule.
Lorelai: Just take your schoolbooks and leave some of the others.
Rory: I need all of my other books.
Lorelai: You don't need all these.
Rory: I think I do.
Lorelai: The Edna St. Vincent Millay?
Rory: That's my bus book.
Lorelai: Uh-huh, what's the Faulkner?
Rory: My other bus book.
Lorelai: So just take one bus book.
Rory: The Millay is a biography, and sometimes on the bus, when I pull out a biography and I think to myself, 'I don't really feel like reading about a person's life right now.' then I'll switch to the novel. And then if I'm not into the novel. I'll switch back.
Lorelai: What is the Gore Vidal?
Rory: That's my lunch book.
Lorelai: Uh-huh. So lose the Vidal or the Faulkner. You don't need two novels.
Rory: Vidal is essays.
Lorelai: But the Eudora Welty's not essays or biography.
Rory: Right.
Lorelai: So, it's another novel. Lose it.
Rory: It's short stories.
Lorelai: This is a sickness.

And I found myself wondering: would Rory Gilmore embrace or despise the concept of the Kindle? Personally, I'm a huge fan (but I tend to be an unabashed technology whore). The best part about a Kindle (besides the instant gratification of purchasing books electronically) is that no one can borrow your books and not give them back. But on the flip side, you can still spill pizza sauce all over them while reading in bed just like with any other book, and instead of just smearing the stain into the paper and moving on with your life, you have to get up and get something to wipe it up with. Major pain.

Anyway, what's currently on my Kindle (in addition to enough other titles to fill a Rory-sized backpack): My Name is Memory by Ann Brashares. I know, I know, she wrote The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but after that, she wrote some great stuff for adults, too. (Namely, The Last Summer of You and Me, which I also recommend.) But Memory, based on the premise that a select few people can remember living multiple past lives, is equal parts romance and philosophy and suspense and was one of those stories that commanded my attention even when I'd put the book down.

What Nate's reading (age 11): I'm letting him read The Hunger Games (in anticipation of the release of the third installment of the trilogy next week). I really wavered on this decision. Is he too young? Will the intensity of this series be too much for him, even if the writing, characterization, and message are all ideal? What if the content upsets him? What if it doesn't? (Because it should, and I'd worry about his emotional development if it didn't.) I'm still not sure if I made the right decision, but he's halfway through, can't put it down (a universal reaction), and I won't lie: it makes me very happy to have a book series in common with him.

What Calvin's reading (age 9): The Last Dragon, by Silvana De Mari. It's a translation from Italian, and I've just started it myself because he loves it so. He actually just finished it, and declared it the best book he'd ever read.

I have to admit, I'm not sure what Charlie's reading right now, except that I am bugging him to read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo because I'm curious to know if he concurs with my 'meh' assessment or not (I like to be validated).

So, what are you reading? I probably have time for one more novel before school starts (since I'll devour Mockingjay in a matter of hours). What are your kids reading? Recommendations (and more Gilmore Girl quotes) always welcome in the comments!

Oh! And I almost forgot: Never-True Tales now has a Facebook page. If you are inclined to follow along, just 'like' it, (why does FB have such asinine wording for everything?) as I won't be posting updates on my personal Facebook page any longer and I don't want to lose anyone!

This much I know:

2010-08-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

Place flows like a rushing river.

But memories are made only once.

Time, too, is a swift tide...

carrying us all too quickly forward.

You're growing up way too fast.

And there's nothing I can do.

Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

2010-08-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

Nate and Calvin, June 13, 2010

My boys are apart right now. On Monday, Calvin and Toby went off on a backpacking trip Nate wasn't quite feeling up to after the infamous poison oak incident (whoops, I think I just let slip who got the worst of it), and won't be back until tonight. This means that Nate has been without Calvin for almost three days, and vice versa.

Oh, the agony.

Because they're close, these two. Share-a-room-by-choice close. Whisper-in-the-dark close. Suffer-poison-oak-together-and-live-to-tell-the-tale close. And though they're both buddies with their youngest brother, too, there's an undeniable bond between #1 and #2. Maybe it was forged during those early years of our family, when pregnancy-babyhood-toddlerhood-oh-my-god-another-pregnancy-babyhood-toddlerhood ruled the hour. Maybe the simultaneous diaper changes and joint stroller rides and shared sippy cups left their mark. Or the perpetually exhausted mother. Or the fact that they were both brought home from the same hospital to the same little cottage-style house on the same shaded street and put to bed in the same crib in the same tiny yellow and blue room.

By the time Toby came along (pregnancy-babyhood-oh-my-god again?!), we were in Oregon. We were in a larger house in a more established neighborhood. Nate was starting school, Calvin preschool, no longer underfoot each and every hour of the day, their little heels dug so deeply into the trenches of home and hearth (and exhausted mother). They were other, while Toby was what they once were, together: the newborn. The baby. The toddling toddler. Loved certainly...included definitely...but one step off his brothers' joint rhythm nonetheless.

But back to the here and now: when we told the boys that Nate would not be able to go backpacking, Calvin let out a genuine cry of disappointment ("But it's no fun without him!"), and Nate's been wandering around a bit aimlessly since ("Is this what it would be like to be the only kid around here?"). So often I hear how lucky I am to have sons who get along so well. But of course I'm not the lucky one. They are, to each have such a ready and willing ally at their side, now and later. I know there will be times in their future when distance or circumstance separate them and they have less in common than they do right now, siblings in the same household, sharing Legos and bathroom towels and (occasionally) underwear when I mix them up. Maybe they'll be in different cities or states or even countries, experiencing completely different day-to-day realities, but nevertheless, I fervently hope that this prolonged time of concentrated sibling-ship from birth to age 18 is enough to seal the deal on lifelong friendship. That these years of intense, in-your-face, next-to-you-in-the-car, hey-that's-mine, no-that's-cool brotherhood will someday serve as the proverbial Paris they'll always have.

And can lean back on.

And can throw the occasional spit-wad at.

Dumb and Dumber

2010-08-09T06:15:00.000-07:00

My house now almost has floors, but not quite, which means all the furniture is currently pushed into the middle of the rooms and under tarps on the back patio and in the hallways, and the kitchen is filled with tools and boards and sawdust, and we have no dining room table or functioning TV...which naturally means it was a perfect time for the boys to get horrible cases of poison oak. Again.

Are my kids the only ones who repeatedly don't learn their lesson about this stuff? Or are they the only hooligans allowed to run wild through the forest, or what? Because it's getting ridiculous. And this particular tangle with poison oak displayed a level of ridiculousness impressive even for them.

I won't name names, due to the sensitive nature of this story (you'll see), but it went something like this:

Brother #1: (playing out in the woods) Um, I need to go.
Brother #2: Go?
Brother #1: Yeah, as in, go.

Brother #2 waits.

Brother #1: Can you hand me some leaves?
Brother #2 hands them over. (You see where this is going, right?)

30 minutes later...

Brother #2: Hmm. My hands (and face where he's touched it) are all red and itchy.
Brother #1: Oh wow, yeah. That's bad.
Brother #2: I think it's poison oak again.
Brother #1: Yep! It sure is! (Perhaps a laugh or two at his brother's expense.) I can't believe you did that again! Glad I didn't touch it!

Beat of silence, then...

Brother #1: Oh. Oh nooooooo.

That's right: One boy has poison oak all over his hands, the other has it all over his...unmentionables. We let them suffer through it with over-the-counter remedies for about 24 hours (or until Brother #1 could barely walk and Brother #2's face was all puffy), and then caved and got them both prescriptions for prednisone, the only thing that seems to clear it up for us. But this was after dealing with a near constant, pitiful stream of ohhhhh and ahhhhhhh and owwwww as the boys writhed on the (displaced) couch in misery. On the other hand, the pharmacist got a lot of amusement out of our tale, so I'm glad I brightened his day, anyway.

In the meantime, I'm making my kids commit this to memory. Leaves of three, leave them be, boys.

Leave them be.

Upheaval

2010-08-06T07:09:00.000-07:00

My house has no floor.

No, that’s not a metaphor, but it is, hopefully, a temporary situation. We’ve ripped out all the carpeting and are installing hardwood in an attempt to remedy the muddy dog print/food spillage/cat puke/dirty soccer cleats situation that‘s currently out of control. Oh, and by 'we', I of course mean Charlie.

So as you can imagine, we've been spending much of our quality time in places like this...

trying to choose between sample chips of wood called harvest cherry and honeyed maple and toasted oak which all sound oddly appetizing but look exactly the same under the florescent lights.

And these projects are always, always more complicated than you’d think. Because pulling up the floor doesn’t just involve pulling up the floor. Turns out, in order to pull up the floor, you have to first move all the furniture off the floor. This, of course, hadn’t eluded me. But what I’d forgotten was that most of this furniture has stuff in it/on it/under it which also needs to be moved, set aside, and re-shelved. And as we’ve been doing this (and by 'we', I of course mean me), you’d be amazed what I’ve found hiding at the bottom of closets, under desks, and behind couches. Amongst other things, I’ve sorted and discarded plastic Easter eggs, AWOL Rescue Heroes, notes from a class I took five years ago, a desk chair massage pad (I can only assume this was a gift), the instruction manual to the Nikon camera Toby dumped a bucket of sand onto at the beach last year, my Wii Fit, Calvin’s lost Shuffle, a big pile of 2T clothes, toys that haven’t been touched since Calvin was born, and more dust balls than we were frankly prepared to handle.

And until this project is done, I have no idea what to do with all this stuff. (Shout out to my mom: I finally found my flute from high school!) But how did we even get so much stuff? Worthless stuff. Stuff we must have thought we needed when we bought it, but haven’t missed for half a decade. I’ll be damned if it’s going to all be reinstated back into drawers and shelves once all the furniture is back in place.

So I've set it all aside into garage sale and toss piles, which is a noble intention in theory, but in reality, space is becoming an issue. When two complete rooms’ worth of furniture are removed, they have to go somewhere. (I believe that’s some law of physics or another…when one object is removed from its current space, it must fill another space of equal or lesser…er…it doesn't feel like I have that quite right.) Currently, there’s a couch in our hallway (which means you have to climb over it to get past), rolls of used carpeting in our backyard (which the dog seems to enjoy munching on), bookcases in the kitchen, and piles of all that worthless stuff in the garage.

Which leaves us with two large, bare rooms to work on (which was the whole idea), but an additional problem. Because there's something about staring at bare walls (and your couch squished into the hallway) that makes you think that while you're at it, maybe you should invest in a new couch. And new lighting while you're at it. And a better office desk, which will match the new hardwood.

And so I retreated to the kitchen to escape all the shortcomings of the living, family and dining rooms, but I'm suddenly reminded that the cabinetry there looks just as 'loved' as the family room walls, and that we're in need of new counter tops. On a more manageable scale, my food processor died last spring (had I cooked even once this summer, I'd have remembered this earlier) and I'm reminded that I really want this new one.

It's like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, the home improvement edition. And it ain't cheap.

Which brings me back to the issue of stuff: what do you think I can get for a partially warped travel-sized Battleship game? A lamp with a leaf-patterned shade I bought in the late '90s? A very cute and only slightly bent wicker basket? Nothing at all? That's what I thought.

I guess this is why Craigslist was invented.

Living Presidential

2010-08-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd get back to posting a tale from the road today.

The first week of July must have been a slow one for the Westgate Park City, because when we arrived to review their resort, they put us up in their presidential suite. This was good timing, actually, as we were hitting the mid-way point of our trip and frankly, could use a little pampering.

Of course, no one, no matter how many miles they’ve traveled with their little brother whistling in his ear, needs four TV sets, three glassed in massage showers, three fireplaces, a wrap-around deck bigger than our backyard at home, and a whirlpool tub in each of the four bedrooms.

But good luck telling Nate that. He thoroughly embraced this new standard to which he clearly thought he should always have been accustomed from the moment we inserted the key in the door. (Which, incidentally, took us a while: not knowing we were in the presidential suite, we passed by its heavy oak double doors and ostentatious signage many times in search of our room number. We eventually had to ask a passing housekeeper, who looked at us with our duffel bags and wrinkled clothes as though entertaining serious doubts that we were presidential material. I wholeheartedly agreed.)

Within minutes of our arrival, Nate had claimed a bedroom/bathroom suite, played around with the mood lighting, then donned the complementary robe in his closet before sitting down on the leather couch with his feet up. He later tried out every tub (including the hot tub on the deck) and every massage setting on the shower before enjoying everyone else’s turn-down mints while watching HD TV. I did, however, stop him with a shriek before he could untwist the cap on a $5 bottle of sparkling water on the kitchen counter.* The next morning, he was the first to read through the complementary USA Today (while still in his robe).

Upon entering every other hotel room we reviewed after that, no matter how adequate for our needs, he’d sigh wistfully while doing an oh-so-critical walk-through with his now-seasoned eye and say something like, “So small?” or “Not really what I had in mind…” while toeing the edge of the tub as one might give a new car’s tires an idle kick.

I tremble to think what was going through his mind when he got home...to his regular-sized tub and lack of heated floors or maid service. Whatever it was, he wisely kept to himself.

In case you're wondering: I’m not entirely sure what the point of this post is, other than to admit I now have a spoiled child and no one to blame but myself.

*It does bear revealing however, that by 10 pm that night, his big room seemed a bit too roomy, and he asked Calvin to come share it with him.

The newest spokesman for the Kids Against Braces Coalition

2010-08-01T21:47:00.000-07:00

(...or the KABC...or whatever Calvin decides to call it once he gets it up and running, grassroots-style.) Because remember how I said his getting braces was going to be drama-free? I spoke too soon.

First of all, does anyone else find it odd that in all the years of orthodonture, this branch of dentistry seems to have progressed very little? I mean, general dentistry isn't still relying on those silly cloth ties around the jaw for a toothache that you see in old cartoons, so why are orthodontists still cranking down your teeth with wires? Isn't there some sort of non-invasive option yet? Laser surgery, perhaps?

For Calvin, it was barbaric from the start: as soon as she began her work on his mouth, the orthodontic assistant remarked that he had the tightest-spaced teeth she'd ever encountered. And then she had to call in reinforcements. And slowly, I watched our one hour appointment tick its way toward two-plus. At one point, they were both practically in Cal's lap trying to prod, pry, heft, and leverage the pieces of hardware into his mouth, all the while imploring him to 'lie very still'.

I don't know about you, but I have a hard time lying still while someone goes at my gums with a pick. And Calvin's not exactly what you'd call a 'good patient' to begin with. He has a pain threshold to be admired, but once that line's been crossed...let's just say his 'fight or flight' inclination leans heavily toward 'fight'. I had to repeatedly remind him to keep his hands in his lap because I could see them inching their way toward her forearms as if to grab hold as she bent over him. I'm not sure whether he had a plan formed in the event that he did seize control, but I think it's safe to say her suction machine would have been turned against her.

At one point around the one hour mark, a little girl (evidently a new patient) came into the room and hovered in the doorway with her mom, looking terrified. She was actually crying a little. Apparently, the orthodontist (and I'd like to point out that this is the first we saw of him) thought it'd be a great idea to show her around so she could see that getting braces was no big deal and actually a full-on party in your mouth. Because our orthodontist is Dr. Cool. He's about 35, has gelled hair, a Wii in his waiting room (complete with Dance Dance Revolution), a color-coordinated staff (that day they were all in pink camisoles and gray slacks), and of course, a perfect, shiny-white smile. He likes to greet all the kids with a 'hey dude' and a high five and the pop culture reference of his choice. Needless to say, it was clear that in his office, a crying little girl in the waiting room was kind of a kill joy.

He'd brought her into the back room so that the teenager sitting in the next chair could chirpily tell her all about how cool Dr. Cool was, how braces are totally fun, and how she'd just won last month's drawing for a Justin Bieber t-shirt, but unfortunately, the girl couldn't take her eyes off of Calvin, rocking pitifully on his back while the assistant kept one well-placed knee right on his chest in order to cram something else into his mouth. He kept making little 'ah...ah...ahhhhh!' noises while the other assistant dabbed the corner of his mouth with gauze stained pink with spit and blood.

Dr. Cool whisked that girl right back out of there and we didn't see her again.

When it was finally over, Calvin walked out to the car with his mouth set in a firm line. I didn't know whether this meant he was disgruntled or if he just couldn't manipulate his lips into any other expression; turns out, it was both. On the car ride home, I asked him whether it still hurt.

He said no (which come out sounding like 'nob'...all that hardware makes for diction even Henry Higgins couldn't fix), so I tried to cheer him up with the reminder that the worst was now over. I asked him whether he was still glad he got braces (at one point, he'd be amicable to the idea). He turned and stared at me as though trying to ascertain whether I really was that obtuse. "No (nob)," he said slowly, clearly trying to enunciate for my benefit. "Gebbing brazes sux."

A sentiment he's been enthusiastically sharing ever since with anyone who asks. Which, incidentally, is quite a few people: all his friends' mothers, for instance, (who were hoping he'd talk up braces to their kids), the lady behind the counter at the take 'n bake pizza place (who's getting hers on next week), the vet, his soccer coach, and of course, his own two brothers. He's become the poster boy for all things anti-orthodonture:

"Brazes sux!", he warns them all. "Brazes sux. Dob geb em! Brazes sux!"

And I have to say I emphasize with this battle cry. He can't chew well. He can't talk. He can barely open his mouth halfway. Because in addition to his braces, he has a particular form of ~~torture~~ inconvenience called a Herbst appliance in his mouth. For those of you lucky enough not to be intimately acquainted with the Herbst, I'll spare you the gory details. All you need to know is that it involves two metal bars on either side of his mouth which scrape against the inside of his cheeks (you know, the nice, tender part), a bar across the roof of his mouth, and another bar under his tongue, all working together to the common purpose of shifting his jaw forward. (Hence the impossibility of diction.)

And the ironic thing is, it makes it so he can't smile all the way, and causes his bite to look a little odd, whereas it looked just fine before. In addition, Calvin now tends to thrust his lower jaw outwardly at random intervals 'because it feebs bebber that way', which is new and not exactly improved. After observing this for a while yesterday, Charlie asked me, "Is this look permanent?"

To which I answered, "I think that's the whole idea." And then we both sat there in silence for a minute wondering why were were paying in monthly installments for this service. I just hope Dr. Cool knows what he's doing, because I have to admit, his latest newsletter letting me know about their upcoming 'Hannah Montana Month' (find out more on their Facebook page!) has left me wondering.

Nothing to See Here

2010-07-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty busy doing a whole lotta nothing these days.

And I'll be honest: it's rubbed off on my blogging. Turns out, what my mother always said was true: when you're bored you're boring. Today's one of those days in which I can find nothing of interest to say. You might think that in this case, I would chose to say nothing at all, but no...I think I'll power through it. Let's see...Calvin got his braces put on today, but it was a rather uneventful process to everyone other than the orthodontist's billing department. Nate's hit the Terrible Elevens (What? That's a thing.) and now counts 'showing off for his friends' and 'talking back' as his favorite new pastimes (but unlike karate, I can't really scrapbook that), Toby's taking swimming lessons, but there's no drama there other than the fact that he looooves his teacher.

Right now they're all at the river with Grandma and Grandpa, and I think the main reason I'm dragging my feet here in blogland is that--and again, I'm just being honest--rather than write a blog post, I'd really rather be eating a slice of the apple pie I bought from Costco (ok, two slices) and watching old Gilmore Girls reruns. Off topic: don't you miss that zany Lorelai and Rory? And doesn't Costco always have the best and most tempting desserts? I always linger in their bakery section trying to look as though I have a legitimate purpose for my loitering other than wishing I had a reason to buy (more of) whatever they have on offer. One day, as God is my witness, I'm going to buy one of those triple-layer chocolate cake numbers, socially acceptable reason to celebrate be damned. That's right: I'm going to take it home and have it for dessert for no reason at all.

Back on topic: I think my lack of topic and general lack of go-get-'em-ness stems directly from the fact that we're almost on Week Two of this rarity of absolutely nothing going on in this household, and I'm not exaggerating, unless you count morning soccer camp and swimming lessons and evening soccer practice, which I don't.

Consequentially, I've lost my way a bit. I like structure. When parenting experts write about how kids crave it and need it to succeed, they're talking about me. I love a good schedule. Lacking that, I like a good project. For weeks, travel was my project. Now that I'm home, and the kids are happily settling into ~~less strenuous pursuits~~ aimless nothing, I find myself needing another one. Or else the pie eating and Gilmore Girls watching commences.

So I've tried out a number of new projects, all of which have yet to gain a lot of momentum. Largely, I blame a general cash flow problem for this. They include:

1. Replacing all the carpeting in our house for hardwood flooring.
2. Designing a new workstation in the family room.
3. Rearranging the boys' bedrooms and reassigning roommates (not popular and not likely to happen).
4. Scrapbooking six months worth of photos (I'm learning my lesson and documenting far fewer events in the future).
5. Clearing out the garage.
6. Querying novel agents.
7. Replanting grass seed in the backyard.
8. Firming up Christmas and summer 2011 travel plans. (I know, I'm neurotic.)

What I've accomplished so far:

1. Seasons 1-2 of Gilmore Girls.

Pretty productive, if I do say so myself.

This post has been included in Finer Things Friday, because nothing to do is certainly a finer thing!

Big Sky, Montana: brought to you by the color blue

2010-07-27T21:36:00.000-07:00

Nate on the bungee trampoline.

Cal loving the zip-line.

Tackling the high ropes course.

The rope bridge 30 feet in the air.

I won't make this into an endorsement (wait...too late!) but I will say this: if you get a chance to go to the Big Sky Resort in Montana, go. Without question. (What's good enough for the Obamas and the Bidens is surely good enough for us.) In fact, while you're at it, take the long way back home; in all our time in this state, I never met a part of Montana I didn't like.

This post is part of Seven Clown Circus' Wordful Wednesday.

Toby and the Case of the (Non)-Disappearing Dollar

2010-07-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

There was a reoccurring verbal exchange during our road trip that went something like this:

Toby (plaintive wail): I can't find my toy/shoes/book/sunglasses/hat/brand new souvenir!
Closest Adult (twisting sideways and upside-down in their seat to look): It has to be somewhere in this car!

And yet, more often than not, it wasn't. Nor was it in the hotel room. Or the backpack. Or on his head/feet/face. Mostly, these things were just gone, lost to a black hole only Toby could conjure around him. Toby has a strange knack for losing things in this way, and it's not a new phenomenon. Case in point: when my sister visited from Massachusetts during Spring Break, the very last thing Toby said to her was, "Have you seen my Nintendo DS?" (She hadn't.) The very first thing he said to her when she arrived to visit this summer? Yep: "Hi Aunt Kate!" (pause) "Have you seen my Nintendo DS?" She said it felt as though she'd never left.

So when a prized (by Toby) Sacajawea silver dollar came into his possession, I was sure it was a goner. (Toby became obsessed with Sacajawea and the Lewis and Clark expedition somewhere around Grand Teton National Park and can tell you anything you want to know about everyone's favorite Native American guide, including, but not limited to, the fact that she was born a Shoshone, was dramatically kidnapped by another tribe at age 12, and that the baby on her back was nicknamed Pomp.) Wherever we went, so went the silver dollar. Our running commentary shifted to:

Adult (bracing for the worst):Toby, where's your Sacajawea dollar?
Toby: (triumphant): Right here in my pocket/hat/shoe/sweaty palm!

That dollar was tossed up in the air and blithely caught repeatedly during hikes down dusty trails, was balanced on Toby's forehead in the car, and was carried into untold Subways, Starbucks, and museums. It was set down on various table surfaces at the Embassy Suites, dropped into tangled sheets of unmade beds, left carelessly poolside while Toby swam, and was generally transferred from hand to hand to hand.

Sometimes, it would inexplicably end up in one of my pockets, or in my purse, or in the coin slot on the car console. Even now, back at home, I've spotted it amid a pile of scattered Legos, in Nate's soccer gear, and in Toby's bookcase. But it always seems to find its way back to its owner. Every time Toby thinks of it and wants it, he seems to know precisely where it is. It's as though in the case of the Sacajawea dollar, the universe has reversed the repelling factor of every other possession Toby's ever owned. He and the coin enjoy some sort of magnetic attraction that cannot (it seems) be broken.

I can't explain it, and I'm not sure I'd ever want to. All I can say is, if I'd ever doubted it before, I am now a believer: that Sacajawea chick is every bit as tough, resourceful, and resilient as history dictates.

Quintessential Summer

2010-07-23T06:41:00.000-07:00

Photo credit: Sunlitdays

The fair's in town this week, but we're not going. Somehow, it's lost some of its quintessential summer magic for me. Maybe it's the $7.50 per person entry fee, or the cigarette butts all over the ground, the nickel and diming of the midway barkers, or the way shoestring french fries seem more disgusting than delicious these days. When the kids clamored to go, we made our (valid) excuses: it's hot, it's dirty, it's as expensive as a day at Legoland.

But I remember the fairs of my youth and the love I had for it when my eyes were too young to notice things like cigarette butts and excessive grease. Back when I held out my hand for my entrance fee from my parents, and they were the ones grudgingly forking it over. Back then, the fair started for me at dawn, when I'd wake up in a tent next to my horse's stall and go through a hot, sticky day in Wranglers and my favorite cowboy hat, my hair in French braids to keep the dust out. I'd ride in events, sit astride the arena fence with the sun in my eyes, eat donuts and pizza, and generally run amuck. When I was older, I'd roam the midway with my friends once the sun went down in my cut-off jean shorts and my cutest tank top, secretly hoping some boy would spend too much money trying to win me a bright pink stuffed animal I didn't want. It was all very Charlotte's Web.

And despite the sticker shock at the gate (and then again at the midway...and then again at the snack stands), I look back fondly at the few fair experiences I've spent with my kids, too. The begging for frozen lemonades. The standing anxiously against yard sticks marked at 42', fingers crossed for a two inch gain from the year before. The odd, foam lizards on stiff leases sold at every other booth that every kid under age 12 covets (and then leaves somewhere between the midway and the car at about 10 pm). The impromptu dancing to local cowboy bands on the makeshift stages (or is that just my kids?). The thrill of the Ferris Wheel, the Sizzler, the House of Mirrors. The cotton candy, and of course the shoestring fries.

I took a photo several years ago of Calvin eating a soft-serve vanilla cone under the lights of the midway. I remember my state of mind while I took it: exhaustion from too much sun and noise and stimulation, irritation at paying for extra ride tickets a moment before, regret that we hadn't left just a bit earlier in the evening. But none of this was evident in the photo: this was back when our kids were young enough to rarely be out and about after dark in summer, and the joy on Calvin's face was tangible. His profile was back-lit, glowing even in the light of the blinking neon, and the unnatural white of the ice cream was cast in sharp relief. His eyes were downcast, focused on a single drip sliding down the sugar cone, and you could see a ketchup stain just below the neckline of his t-shirt from earlier in the afternoon. I can't find that photo now, and it breaks my heart.

Maybe we need to go re-create it?

R&R

2010-07-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes (though not often) words are overrated, so I'll just say this:

Lake Josephine, Glacier National Park, and Toby in a suspended moment of yellow sunshine, green water, and dangling limbs.

Meet the Many Glacier Hotel

2010-07-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

It's located at the east end of Glacier National Park, and you can read more of the practical points here, but in a nutshell, if you get a chance to go, go. Obviously it's beautiful, but there's also a timelessness to it that tugs you by the scruff of the neck and forces you to slow down. There's no TV. There's no wifi. There's no cell service of any kind. What it offers in return are panoramic views, wrap-around decks, sunlight on water, white-tipped granite peaks, and as many canoe rentals you want.

Here's a glimpse of the view from said wrap-around deck:

And Toby in a rare moment of stillness (this place is magic, I'm telling you):

The hotel was built in 1915 to accommodate the early wave of national park visitors arriving by train in their traveling cloaks and toting parasols. You can tell that not much has changed: the wooden floors still creak as you walk them, Swiss flags still hang from the original timber beams in the dining hall, and the entire lodge seems to shutter in a stiff breeze.

There's no A/C, and you'll be hard pressed to find more than two outlets in each room. But the hotel's sturdy wooden tables and worn couches are the perfect location for games of Monopoly, bears gather on the slopes of the mountains in the berry season, and if you see the reeds by the lake swaying, that's a moose, not the wind. (We only caught a glimpse of their brown muzzles and silky heads.) In summer, it doesn't get dark until after 10 pm, and at sunset, it's elbow-room only on the outdoor decks. If you get cold waiting for the huge orb of the sun to finally sink behind the granite, no worries: there's a roaring fire in the cavernous lobby.

Calvin summed it up best when he stepped into Many Glacier upon arrival and said, "Oh! So this is what the Wilderness Lodge [DisneyWorld] was trying to look like!"

And trust me, it doesn't even come close. (Sorry, Disney.)

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming

2010-07-17T17:01:00.000-07:00

We're back. We've come full circle, as it were, starting back in June with a drive up I-5 to Portland and ending yesterday with a drive up I-5 from Sacramento. (Incidentally, poor Sacramento: as the very last stop on an extensive list, that town would have had to have been Paris and Rome and DisneyWorld all rolled into one in order to command our full attention and awe. As it was...hmm. But shout-out to the Embassy Suites Sacramento, which ingeniously carries a line of Bath and Body Works Coconut-Lime Verdana lotions and soaps in their bathrooms. Perked me up considerably, I tell you what.)

As most of you know, we were on an extended national park road trip with my parents doing reviews for my travel site Pit Stops for Kids, and it was an amazing three weeks. But lest you think I spent all my time away checking in and out of hotels, enriching my children's cultural education, opening my eyes to new horizons, and hunting down wifi, you'll be pleased to hear that I managed my time wisely. Case in point:

1. I diligently slogged through all 608 pages of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Call me a follower, but I couldn't let the rest of the reading world leave me behind. My verdict won't be a popular one though: I finished the last page and turned to say one word to my mom. That word? "Underwhelmed."(Also? "Ick". I've read enough twisted sexual shit to last me a while.) This is not to say the book wasn't interesting (hello...twisted sexual shit!) or worthy of praise, but for me, it falls in the category of 'well-deserved summer sensation that fizzles' along with titles such as The DaVinci Code and every Mary Higgins Clark novel ever written. Plus, did anyone understand a single word of all that high finance exposition? If so, keep your mouth shut; I feel stupid enough as it is.

2. I saw Eclipse. Why, you ask? I don't know, why do we occasionally eat too much chocolate at one sitting or find ourselves inexplicably engrossed in junk TV? My point: we've all done things that are guaranteed to make us sick with self-loathing later. (And liked it. And would do it again.) Or perhaps I was just dropped on my head as a baby. But it was a deliciously fun time waster, and unlike Tattoo, it did not require the use of any of my taxed brain cells. That spells summer blockbuster to me!

3. I ran a total of 18 miles all vacation, and ate a total of 4 bazillion calories. This is a ballpark estimate as I don't own a bodybugg, but I think it's fairly accurate. I'm pretty sure the breakfast burrito I ordered not once, but twice in Grand Teton was 1000 calories alone. Ditto on the mushroom tamales in Zion. I doubt Jillian Michaels would approve. On the homefront, Sam the Dog ran 0 miles in my absence and also ate a total of 4 bazillion calories in the form of Doggy DayCare biscuits. (Yes, I'm one of those people now. Don't judge.) When we ran together this morning, I totally kicked his ass.

4. Thanks to a complicated system of downloading, saving, uploading, and viewing, I finished Season 3 of Mad Men even while in TV-free, internet-free lodges deep in the wilderness. At one point, I even had to prop the laptop up on a bathroom counter to utilize the only electric plug with a third prong. Totally worth the cramp in my back (I was sitting in the tub, of course). Score one for innovation. Also? Great way to pass the time in dark rooms while waiting for kids to fall asleep on vacation.

5. I worked on my tan. Simmer down, I wore sunblock. But this is monumental for one reason. Can you guess? Here's a hint: what does it take to get a tan on the beach? (And finish Tattoo? And eat fatty foods?) That's right...kids old enough to entertain themselves, that's what. Yes people, I'm calling it now: I have perfect 'beach-aged' kids. They're old enough not to drown, but young enough to cheerfully spend the day swimming and running amuck, thinking there's nothing better than the combination of sand, sun, and saltwater. Which of course there isn't.

Unless it's a mushroom tamale. (With a Haagen Daaz bar for dessert. Didn't I mention those?)

Blue

2010-07-14T21:50:00.000-07:00

I took this photo today using the histomatic setting on my iPhone camera. (Yes, that's the kind of high quality photography you can expect here at Never-True Tales. You're welcome.) Isn't it blue? As in, deep-sea-azul-cloudless-sky-berry blue?

Too blue, probably, but I don't care. I like it because it was blue today here in Laguna, California. I snapped the shot after setting down the stack of beach chairs slung over my slightly sunburned shoulder while waiting for Toby to make his weary way up the sandy stairs after a long day of blissful nothing; when I squinted into the horizon (and the screen of my phone, impossible to see in the glare of the sun), all I saw was sand meeting water meeting sky.

Which of course the human eye feels compelled to capture and record and store away on hard drives and in albums and on postcards. (We cannot help it.)

I picked the histomatic lens on a whim. Or put more more aptly: on a wave of nostalgia. This small stretch of Southern California beach (exactly one-quarter mile long) has been a part of my personal canon, my family's internal dialogue, my entire life. My grandparents bought a house on the hillside above it in the 1960s (back when normal people could buy ocean-view property in Laguna Beach). In fact, they settled here because my great-grandparents were living in a home just outside this photo's left-hand frame.

My mother grew up spending summers (and all seasons) on this beach. I grew up spending summers on this beach. My children have grown up spending summers on this beach. There are photos of me taking some of my first steps here. I remember years worth of sunburns and sunscreen and water-logged days with my sister and cousins in the 1980s. I remember sullen teen years and happy college breaks spent here. I brought my own babies here.

And the beach and surrounding neighborhood hasn't changed much (thank goodness for homeowner's associations, I guess), but the general breed of people who live here seem to have. It's a newer, faster crowd, I suppose. Whereas everyone used to pad up and down the street with beach gear while burning their feet on the hot asphalt like self-respecting beachcombers, they now zip around in souped out golf carts driven by tweens. Whereas my grandmother used to know all her neighbors, they've one-by-one been bought out by new buyers who can afford the multi-million dollar home prices.

And in the four days we've spent here this vacation, I haven't seen even one of these new-to-me owners enjoying their unobstructed Pacific Ocean views on their patios and decks in even one (out of at least 40 hugging the cliffside) of their multi-million dollar homes. Where are they, on a fine July day, if not enjoying their beach home? Working? Vacationing elsewhere? Zipping around in their golf carts? (In all honestly, I cannot remember noticing or not noticing this in the past, so it could be that this has always been the case...except, I guess with us.)

In family photo albums in my grandmother's house are snapshots taken with genuine histomatic lenses, faded yellow around the edges, peeling from their pages. They show such similar scenes to the one above that it's uncanny (and I wish I had a scanner here so you could see this for yourself). Most of them depict my mother and her brothers on this same patch of sand as teens and young adults, my grandparents under an umbrella (mustard yellow instead of today's citrus stripes...or is that just the photo paper?). The swimsuit styles are different (if you look closely enough) and the kids in the foreground are holding canvas rafts instead of foam boogie boards, but the sentiment behind the moment is the same as what I see before my eyes in the present: tranquility. Recreation. A tanned father, a young mother, a child digging with a shovel, all touched by a momentary ray of something golden...a dappling of luck, an arbitrary sprinkling of fortune. Fickle, even if you're marking the passage of time in terms of generations instead of golf cart models.

But even so, on this perfectly blue day, July 14, 2010, this photo means one thing more: my family right where I left them, under their cerulean skies with salty, sand-grained water lapping at their toes.

This entry has been included in Seven Clown Circus' Wordful Wednesday.

The one that got away

2010-07-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

Meet my new nemesis. It's called Angel's Landing and it sits incongruously in Zion National Park when it's not taunting visitors like me with our inability to scale it. So yes, it got away from me, or rather, I got away from it, backing away down the trail like a big, fat coward.

And this is new to me. Not failure...of course not. But backing down from a goal I've set for myself? Pretty rare. Usually, I can shame myself into almost anything, at least when it comes to physical challenge.

Too bad no one was on-hand to double-dog-dare me.

The trail I was determined to complete goes straight up Angel's Landing after climbing up from the canyon floor for two miles first. If you look closely at the photo, you might be able to tell that the path follows right along the spine of that narrow 'land bridge' to the peak. My guidebook describes the first two miles (really just a warm-up) as 'a strenuous hike climbing 1,488 feet to a summit which offers spectacular views into Zion Canyon'. This part was not the problem. I wasn't afraid of the hike up to Angel's Landing. No, I did that without much problem, but Angel's Landing itself? Which is just a piddly extra half-mile tagged onto the hike? It's described as 'following a narrow knife-edge trail along a steep ridge, where footing can be slippery and support chains have been set along parts of the trail'.

And I've got a few problems with that. Especially after seeing it for myself. Because that 'trail' they speak of? Not so much. More like jagged slabs of sandstone up which hikers are expected to climb (as in honest-to-goodness, hands on rock, scrambling on all fours, fingernails clinging to stone and grasping at dirt climb) not hike.

And that chain they've installed? Yeah...in the 1930s. I read about it in the visitor's center. (And they think no one's paying attention to the free video production shown on the hour, every hour. Ha!) And said chain is attached to eyelets drilled into the sandstone no less. The sandstone that the kids' junior ranger guide told us is so crumbly and fragile it constantly breaks off and turns to dust.

Wonderful.

But the 'knife-edge'? They weren't kidding about that. So I'll give them some credit there. It was indeed as narrow as the edge of a knife. And add about 30 hikers at any given time, and it's a pretty crowded edge of a knife. Imagine a bunch of ants crawling back and forth on a blade of grass, and then substitute 'ants' for 'people' and 'blade of grass' for 'cliff-face with sheer drop-off', and you've got a pretty good idea of what I was dealing with here. Oh, and that chain you're supposed to hang onto? It sways and wobbles and inexplicably ends in places forcing you to cling to bare sandstone and you have to share it with all the other 'ants'.

But all this exposition? Just a list of my excuses, naturally. I'm sure you saw through that right away. I like to give people a little background info to go with my wimp-out moments. Because I did indeed wimp out. I hiked the steep (stairs in places) two miles up to the knife edge. And I even started up, hanging onto the chain and scrambling and slipping and praying to God that I'd get the chance to see my children grow up despite my folly. I got to within a quarter mile of the top, and just...couldn't do it.

I got to where this group passed me, then followed them back down. Slowly. Like an old woman. Full disclosure: I was a bit stiff with fright. I couldn't trust my feet to find the right footholds and my eyes not to wander down, down, down the 1,488 feet to the canyon below. I couldn't trust my hands to let go of the chain as people came and went along the 'trail'. And I was afraid I'd be a liability to the others who weren't afraid. I was afraid I'd freeze with that chain in my fisted grip and no one would be there to talk me down...just push past me.

So I backed away from a challenge, and I have to say, it feels shitty. For a good while, I stood at the base of the knife's edge and noted all the people either 1. much younger than me or 2. much older than me who did manage to do what I could not. And I tried to work out how they went up and down without wanting to pee their pants.

And felt shittier.

And then I tried very hard to breathe in the experience of being on that mountain-top, and be grateful I was able to be there at all, and soak in the amazing views and just appreciate the time and place I was in...
but that didn't work.

I still felt shitty.

Our last two weeks in pictures...

2010-07-07T16:52:00.000-07:00

I know I've fallen off the grid these past two weeks. I know you all assume I've been lost at sea or some such thing, and I don't blame you. I've done an abysmal job of recording our travels here.

And I'll be honest: the situation isn't going to start improving today. No, we're still on the road, knee-deep in laundry and take-out dinners and itineraries and new states every few days. And by the time I've updated Pit Stops for Kids and gotten everyone to bed, it's all I can do to stay awake long enough to find my bed each night. And it's a world of fun. But also exhausting on a core-deep level. As all of you know from your own travel experiences, I'm sure.

But I'm itching to record these weeks of travel with my family properly. I can't wait to get started. I have loads to say. In the meantime, I'll give you just a tiny glimpse of what we've been doing.

We started in Portland OR, where we reviewed the Portland Spirit river cruise:

We then spent two wonderful days with friends in Spokane before saying goodbye to our Never-True Dad (boo to livings that demands to be made!) and continuing on with the Never-True Grands to Glacier National Park:

From there, we drove south to Big Sky, Montana, where we reviewed the kid-friendly options at Big Sky Resort (which was omgawesome):

And from there, we drove to Yellowstone and Grand Teton, which looked like (but was not limited to) this:

You'll all be happy to hear we did laundry at Grand Teton. That was a big event. Then we went on to Park City, Utah, where we reviewed the Westgate, and they must have mistaken us for a state dignitary or else Brittney Spears, because we got the Presidential Suite, which was pretty sweet. We had five TVs and four fireplaces. Honestly, who needs that? No one...but that doesn't mean you don't like it when it falls in your lap for 24 hours. We only turned on one TV one time, and I felt wasteful. Here's our view:

From there, we headed south to Zion National Park, where we still are today, hiking through canyons and wading in rivers. We've gone from approximately 60 degree highs to 101 degree highs, from alpine forest to high desert, to out-and-out whoa-it's-hot desert, from sea-level to over 9000 feet elevation. We've dipped into big cities and driven through tiny towns. It's been amazing to see the country by car (and I'm not just saying that because I can't afford airfare these days). I think the kids have found every license plate except Hawaii. We're optimistic, though. When we found District of Columbia the kids whooped so loudly the people behind us thought we'd seen a grizzly bear beside the road. Yes, really.

On that note, until next time, internetz, and I have to say I don't quite know when that will be. I'll probably be reporting from Southern California by then.

(And sorry for the limited photos and the likely spelling errors. Sadly, I only have limited internet connection and time!)

Further evidence that I'm an unfit parent

2010-07-03T16:54:00.000-07:00

Letting my kids get way too close to Barring Falls along the Sun Point Nature Trail in Glacier National Park. Yep, that's Nate on the cliff side. I can't be expected to be in control of all my kids all the time, right? That's what I thought.

Photo Op

2010-06-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

Hello all.

Day 5 here on the Never-True Tales/Pit Stops for Kids/grandparents and grandkids/road trip.

I have so much to write about, I feel a bit paralyzed, to be honest. I don’t know where to begin. It’s exactly the feeling one gets when first walking into a Baskin-Robbins or an IKEA or Disneyworld (feel free to insert your own weakness here): stimulation overload. Too many options. Too many choices.

So I’m going to begin somewhere quite simple.

Here, in fact.

Underwhelming, I know. I have two memory cards filled with photos of stunning scenery, amazing experiences, and happy children (and it‘s only Day 5!), but this is the one I want to share with you all, because it reveals so much about what this trip is about.

In this photo, Toby’s taken off his seat belt and scrambled out of his booster seat in a mad fervor to take a picture of a black bear eating berries along the side of the road. And it’s not as though I see black bears every day, either, but instead of taking my own photo, I took a photo of Toby taking a photo.

And I find that very telling.

Because I didn’t think I did that too often: gain vicarious enjoyment through my kids. I guess I always assumed I was too self-centered for that to be a problem, too wrapped up in my own small enlightenments and lessons learned, soaking in stimuli for my own sake as much as for theirs. When I expose my children to new experiences, travel, and activities, I’m usually engaged in that sense of discovery right there with them.

But clearly that’s not always the case. Sometimes, like today, it’s the reaction that gives me the most pleasure, not the action. It’s the view through the camera lens, not the view out the car window. Not the bear, but the child enamored with the bear.

And this is one reason (among many, many, many) that I travel with kids.

More to come (with decent travel photos!) I promise! I scribble things down to share with NTT readers every day, but it’s a matter of finding those scribbled notes, digging them out from dirty laundry bags (why did I put them there?!), un-creasing all the wrinkles, typing them up, finding WiFi, and posting them. Thank you for bearing with me. In the meantime, you can follow along with some of the places we‘ve visiting at www.pitstopsforkids.com.

It's that time of year again...

2010-06-23T08:15:00.000-07:00

Travel Segment time! We're leaving tomorrow for a three week road trip which will take us through eight states, four National Parks, six mountain resorts, and more hikes, tours, activities, and restaurants than we can count. We'll end the trip in sunny Southern California where we'll visit our extended family and hit a theme park or two, then return home in mid-July.

While I always try to update Never-True Tales as often as I can while traveling, things will work a bit differently this time. You see, this vacation isn't all fun and games (actually it is, but shhh, don't tell): throughout our travels, I'll be reviewing resorts and attractions for my travel website, Pit Stops for Kids.

Yes, I'm combining business with pleasure, which means the bulk of my 'Yippee! I found internet connection!' time will need to be spent posting reviews there. In fact, I plan to post 'a pit stop a day', so be sure to check it out. I'll show our progress on a map and everything.

Plus, there's prizes. Throughout our road trip, you can enter to win an OtterBox iPhone or BlackBerry case, guidebooks, and iPhone apps, and before we even leave (i.e. right now!) you can win a $25 gift card to the travel store Kids Travel Happy.

And before I take off my self-promotion hat (which, incidentally, I picture as one of those Victorian numbers with big plumes and birds nests and ribbons around the brim), I have to urge you to go visit the site Best Family Travel Advice before your next adventure. What is BFTA, you ask? It's a question-and-answer forum bringing the best of the best online family travel writers (plus me...go figure) together under one roof, so that you get the most comprehensive travel advice possible. These writers 'know' traveling with kids backwards and forwards, and the site--though still a baby--promises to grow into quite the travel resource. I'm excited to be a part of it, and hope you'll find it useful if you try it!

I'll do my best to check in at NTT, even if it's just with a few photos and a few scribbled lines, then write more extensively about our experiences when we return. In the meantime, please feel as comfortable at Pit Stops for Kids as you do here, and of course you're welcome to follow me on Twitter at @pitstopsforkids as well as @nevertruetales.

Adios!

Everyone is Beautiful

2010-06-20T19:12:00.000-07:00

Here in Southern Oregon, school is officially out for the summer. There was a time, which now feels so long ago, and yet oddly near (like looking into the wrong end of a pair of binoculars), when I had no idea when school was out, and frankly didn't care. Instead, this much anticipated seasonal change would only slowly dawn on me as I was driving to the park and spotted boys tall enough to pedal themselves on their bikes dotting the sidewalks, or as I set foot into the library to find the shelves of the children's section teeming with kids twice the size of the regular toddler story-time crowd. That was back when none of my children were old enough for school enrollment and what day it was, let alone what month or season it was, meant little to me. I was whiling away my days in a fog of diapers and sippy cups and goldfish crackers softened by baby gums before being spit back out and wiped onto my blouse. My sense of time was segmented into far more precise (and manageable) blocks that I liked to call wake-up time (4:45 am), laundry time (6:00 am), breakfast time (6:45 am), Clifford time (7:00 am), play group time (9:00 am), and nap time (hallelujah).

But now here I am with (it's official now) three school-aged kids who sleep fairly well and entertain themselves (mostly) and know how to consume delicacies like cherry Jell-O without my dining room looking like the set of Dexter (usually). And it's as though those dark, desperate, grimy, gritty baby and toddler years (can you tell I didn't bear them gracefully?) happened to someone else. Someone who was a shadow of my current self (and who clearly did something awful in a past life). But I'm reading this wonderful novel right now that's bringing it all back into sharp relief.

The book is called Everyone Is Beautiful by Katherine Center, and as I (re)immerse myself in the world of very young children and desperately tired mothers she's so poignantly painted--a world I recognize on a visceral level--I find myself gasping aloud at the genuineness of it. At the acutely painful and oh-so-true portrayal of those on-your-hands-and-knees-searching-under-the-table-for-that-soggy-waffle-the-baby-threw-and-finding-that-Lego-you-just-stepped-on days that every parent intrinsically recognizes. The arduous grind of the impossibly long days which form the cogs that move the surprisingly blink-and-you'll-miss it wheels that are our children's formative years. The way the entire world (all four walls of it) are cast in grainy black and white with only splashes of color that pop out of the background and startle you. And hurt your eyes. And wake up the baby.

That world. You know it. Maybe you're in it. Or perhaps you, like me, have almost forgotten it. Here's my reminder:

Nate, Cal, and Toby, circa 2004

I'd love to see yours.

If blogging is gooey, chocolatey goodness...

2010-06-18T01:00:00.000-07:00

then awards are the icing on the cake. With a cherry on top.

Today I must detour from my regular scheduled programming to thank Jessica of Adventures with Three Girls (wonder what that's like!) for presenting me with this:

According to Jessica's blog, before I'm allowed to officially accept this award (and I do so love accepting awards), I have to tell all of you seven things you may not know about me. Which is a challenge, isn't it, because I'm a bit of an open book. I blab here about everything from my furthest-reaching goals to my biggest fears to my lowest parenting lows (in fact, I have not one, but three tags dedicated to my worst moments), which begs the question: what's left? It's all just too much of a (good?) thing, with all of you rubber-necking left and right around this car wreck of my life, but I'll do my best.

Seven Things You May Not Know About Me (but probably do):

1. The most embarrassing thing to happen to me was not this. In fact, this doesn't even make it into my top five. Something to look forward to.
2. I married my high school sweetheart. So you see, it can work out. Once in a blue moon, probably, but still.
3. This is mine. I published it in 1986. It was a really cool experience for a nine-year-old girl, but note to all you youngsters out there: don't peak too early. It's not good for the soul.
4. I've been a vegetarian since 1996. In the 15 years since, I've only tasted meat once: when I went AWOL with a KFC chicken sandwich when pregnant. Still not sure how that happened, but I'm pretty sure (but not entirely sure) I didn't dream it.
5. Sometimes, I pretend I don't hear the kids watching iCarly, just because I'm too lazy to go turn it off.
6. I love where I live, but my heart belongs in the Sierra Nevada, and I'm forever grateful to my parents for having the wisdom to raise me there.
7. Going on a run is my solution for just about any ailment, from PMS to sleep deprivation to stress. Kind of like Windex was for that dad on My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Wow...haven't thought about that movie in a long time. Did that woman disappear under a rock or something?

After the Fire

2010-06-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

The day Charlie and I left home in our laden-down Toyota Tacoma for our sophomore year of college, a bolt of lightning made contact with a pine tree high on a dry ridge above a nearby valley, setting fire to thousands of acres of wilderness.

It was August of 1995.

And a significant portion of our childhood backyard--especially Charlie's--went up in flames. As we drove against the flow of traffic (gawkers and wild land crews alike) through Northern California's Sierra Valley toward the interstate and our route north, the late evening sky was an angry red. The sinking sun was entirely blocked out in clouds of smoke. Even with the truck windows up, the air hurt to breathe. Nearby residents were gathering along the roadside, watching the flames lick their way toward their homes and ranches.

The next time we saw this same land, the mountains surrounding the valley were a bare, charred shadow of their former selves.

And then next time.

And the next time.

Here it is today.

It's coming back, inch by inch. (Even 15 years later, the saplings dotting the mountain sides cannot yet be measured in feet). The kids ask why there's only baby trees, and we try to explain to them that before they were born, all the tall trees, the ones Dad fished under and snagged kites in and climbed, were destroyed by wildfire. We try to impress upon them that they will grow up before this land can. That their children will ask them the same question, if they're lucky enough to visit. That wilderness does not bounce back like little boys do. It's a sobering thought. One that's hard to wrap the mind around.

Because mountains are supposed to be timeless. Childhood stomping grounds are meant to be etched on the memory, unchanged. But not like this. Not frozen in the act of loss...of mourning and slow, slow recovery. Not stranded, caught between the going away and the coming back.

But the fact is, they are. We are, when we return, and see that yes...the impact of the fire still remains. We become those college kids again, both anxious and excited to be leaving home, trying to outrun the thickening smoke and the whir of helicopter blades and the blinking lights of road blocks.

And while this sad side of timelessness is unnerving, when we look at these barren mountains, we are given something in return. Perspective. We see the past fifteen years as the earth sees them, instead of how we see them. Unlike in the closed-minded vortex of our own lives, time for this land has not flown by in a flurry of marriage and babies and school years and careers. It has not been recorded in toothless grins giving way to first steps giving way to lost teeth. Nor in graduations and growth spurts and each generation deferring to the next in the blink of an eye. No, time here has crawled by...painfully. Slowly. Each small stride a struggle measured in the growth of a blade of grass, a new tree, a return of creek water and trout and white-tailed deer.

You can see the scars. Those distant mountainsides used to be covered in trees. You can also see the growth. You can see the age brought on not by years, but by great effort. And it's an honor to be a part of it.

This post has been submitted in:

Writing Q & A with Aidan Donnelley Rowley

2010-06-14T01:00:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I posted about this great book I'd just read. And I promised a review. Well, I'm going to do you one better. I submitted a list of questions for Aidan Donnelley Rowley, author of Life After Yes, to answer, and she's graciously obliged.

I chose this route rather than a traditional review for several reasons. First off, while I have plenty of praise for the craft and care Aidan put into this work of fiction, as well as for the reoccurring themes Life After Yes gives us to ponder, you guys don't need to read my opinion of the book. You can form your own just fine, thankyouverymuch, right? Plus there's wonderful ongoing discussion of the book's themes and characterizations over at Motherese, as we discuss it for her monthly book club.

No, my primary (and basically selfish) reason for conducting this interview was to pick Aidan's brain on the writing and publishing process. Most of you know about The Novel that Won't Die. Yep, it's still alive, no matter how many times I kick the crap out of it (four major revisions and counting). I keep trying to move on (I've even started Second Novel), but TNtWD is like one of those inflatable clown-faced punching bags we all played with as a kid. TNtWD just keeps springing back up for more, no matter how many times I punch it in its stupid, grinning face. And the crazy part is, I'm even starting to like it again. (The punching, and the novel.)

Anyway, some of you know what I'm talking about. Some of you understand the deeply personal, mostly painful, often isolating process of writing a novel and submitting it for publication. And certainly Aidan does. And so I'm honored to be able to learn a thing or two from her as I trek down the same path she's successfully navigated. If you're a writer, I hope it's helpful to you as well!

*****

Q: In the Extras section of Life After Yes you explain the basic evolution of your decision to change from a legal career to a writing career. As a writer with several 'day' jobs, I want to know how much of the novel was formed in your mind at the moment you quit at your firm. Was it still a fuzzy idea, or did you know exactly what you planned to write?

At the moment I quit my job, all I knew was that I wanted to write a novel. I had no real idea, not even a fuzzy one, of what it would be about. At the time, a good friend had given me a duffel bag full of diaries she had kept since she was eleven and I contemplated trying to turn them into a book. I realized though – and quickly – that this was not what I wanted to do. I wanted instead to imagine my own story. From scratch. And so I did. Looking back, and writing these words now, I realize just how spontaneous it was to jump ship with no concrete idea or plan. I am so very thankful though that my foolish confidence pushed me in this direction.

Q: There are as many different writing processes as there are styles of writing (and counting). I have writing friends who wouldn't dream of penning that opening line until their entire novel was outlined in Post-It notes above their desk, but I know I need a foundation of prose to build on before I can define the full arc of the book. While writing LAY (and any current work), where do you fall on this spectrum?

I did not outline Life After Yes. I just plunged in and started writing. It always sounds bizarre to say this, but I followed my characters’ lead. Ultimately, I am happy I proceeded this way because the story evolved organically. But. This also meant a lot of edits. Once I had a draft, I realized that things needed to be added and subtracted and shifted around. This got quite messy. I intend to be a bit more organized am doing for my next book. I am writing the entire novel in isolated scenes. Once I have written them all, I will put them in the “right” order and connect them with prose. We will see how well this works or if it works at all!

Q: How many rewrites/drafts did LAY go through before you decided to query? After you queried? After you'd found an agent? (In other words, are we reading LAY 1.0, 2.0, 5.0?)

Oh, wow. I have no idea how many drafts I went through on my own. Many. I did one major revision for my agent which added a hefty sixty pages to the manuscript and I did yet another revision for my editor. And then. (Yes, there’s more.) Then I did a couple more line edits for my publisher. All in all, I would guess you are reading somewhere between LAY 7.0 and 12.0

Q: Tell me about the querying process for you. Again, everyone has an opinion about the best way to catch the eye of an agent. What was your experience? (And if you feel like disclosing hard, cold numbers, how many agents did you query before being picked up?)

Ah, the querying process. Once I felt like I was spinning my wheels with my manuscript, I started talking about the fact that I was looking for an agent. To whom? To everyone. I was amazed at how many names were unearthed merely by announcing the fact that I was seeking representation. I worked hard to write a compelling and concise letter and sent blind queries and queries to individuals to whom I had some connection, however tenuous. I honestly don’t remember exact numbers, but I think I received 5-10 rejections before signing with my agent. I realize, particularly after talking to many fellow authors, that this process was, for me, relatively quick and smooth.

Q: Have you reread the novel since publication? Is there anything you wish you could change? Anything you wish you hadn't, back during the editing process?

I haven’t read Life After Yes since publication. I could pretend that this is because I am very busy (oh, and I am), but I think it is more complicated than that. I think I haven’t reread it for fear that I would stumble upon something (or many somethings) that I would want to change. I think this is life. There will always be things (in life and literature) to edit, to polish, to tweak. But sometimes, many times, we must just let go. And move on.

Q: Tell me about one aspect of the publishing process that you hadn't expected.

There were so many aspects of the publishing process that I didn’t expect because I was (and am) an utterly ignorant rookie in this game. Coming up with a title was one of the most rewarding and maddening parts of the experience though. I never realized how important (and difficult) it is to isolate the right title – one that will inform and intrigue and inspire. Admittedly, this phase of the process was a struggle for me, but I am thrilled with the result. As a title, I think Life After Yes captures the subject matter of the story while remaining purposefully ambiguous. Now don’t even get me started on making a cover decision!

Q: Finally, give me a hint as to what you're working on next? (Pretty please?)

I am currently at work on my next two novels. I did not plan on working on two manuscripts simultaneously (and am not sure this is ultimately advisable), but I am excited about the ideas for each. They are very different stories, but both deal with themes of biology and motherhood. Hopefully, I will have more concrete details on these projects to relay soon!

*****

Aidan Donnelley Rowley lives and writes in New York City. You can read her words every day at her blog, Ivy League Insecurities. Thank you, Aidan, for taking the time to answer my questions. Your responses have caused me to form a dozen more!

If you haven't yet read Aidan's debut novel, Life After Yes, I urge you to pick it up and give it a try! You won't be sorry!

You know it's finally summer when the TV offerings start majorly sucking.

2010-06-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

Toby agrees.

This was yesterday afternoon, when he sat down ready to watch a brand new Diego (are there any brand new Diegos?) but got a Scholastic Kids Challenge repeat instead:

Happy summer, all!

30 Things I Vow to Do this Summer

2010-06-09T01:00:00.000-07:00

1. Take a three-week road trip (Griswolds, you've got nothing on us).
2. Buy a root beer float ice cream bar at the gas station convenience store en route to the lake.
3. Read bad literature.
4. Finish season three of Mad Men.
5. Listen for the ice cream truck.
6. Pay for at least one overpriced carnival ride (as if I'd get away with paying for only one).
7. Learn how to make sangria.
8. Float on an inner tube at Applegate Lake.
9. Wake up to good coffee and real oatmeal at a national park lodge.
10. View Old Faithful and finally see what all the fuss is about.
11. Become my son's soccer team groupie. Oh wait...I've already done that.
12. Have breakfast at The Waffle Window in Portland. (There's lots of eating on this list, isn't there?)
13. Watch hours of street basketball while my kids slurp on sno-cones the size of their heads.
14. Let the kids stay up late to watch a movie in the park.
15. Backpack in the Oregon wilderness.
16. Listen to the surf crash as I lie on the beach getting a non-trendy tan.
17. Pile on blankets and sweatshirts while watching the sun set on another beach, closer to home.
18. Zip through the trees in Big Sky, Montana.
19. Stay the night in a treehouse.
20. Brave the crowds at the public pool on long, hot August days.
21. Swim in a natural hot spring.
22. Run 30 miles a week.
23. View 4th of July fireworks, Wyoming-style.
24. Wade through the river, looking for crawdads.
25. BBQ in friends' backyards.
26. Ride in a dragon boat and sample apple wedge fries.
27. Beat my 85-year-old grandma at ping-pong.
28. Write 500 words a day on Second Novel.
29. Dream up viable reasons why I need an iPad, then try to pitch them to Charlie.
30. Try not to cry when school starts again.

Inspired by the weekly writing assignment at Mama's Losin It.

Photo credit: Summer Is, by Patrick @flickr

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be gun-toting, second amendment-defending, violence-loving, Y-chromosome-bearing 11-year-olds.

2010-06-06T21:01:00.000-07:00

For those of you who swear you'll never let your little boys play with toy guns...yeah, so did I.

So...did...I.

Once upon a time, in a ~~galaxy~~ land far, far away, I was a liberal princess (who didn't need saving), spouting politically-sound arguments in favor of peace, love, and gender-neutral toys from the turret of my very own feminist castle (in a kingdom free of Tonka trucks, Rescue Heroes, and the bane of my existence, the perpetual thorn in my my side, my Achilles heel...Nerf). And I was happy there, as delusional people often are. I was, truth be told, a bit smug, looking down on all you moms with your boys making pistols out of paper clips and playground bombs out of bark chips.

But then it happened to me. To my sweet, innocent, peace-and-love-loving boys. First came the desire for camouflage. And I'm not speaking metaphorically here: the day came that they stood in Children's Place and rejected the embroidered puppy dog ensembles in favor of those olive green camo cargo pants and t-shirts. This change in apparel was followed shortly by the ka-boom and pow! pow! sound effects only little boys can make sound so authentic coming out of their cherubic, milk-fed mouths. And then: in came the arsenal. The battle axes. The rockets and the swords and the water pistols and the cross-bows. And before my very eyes, they turned into boys who just. can't. get. enough.

But you know. You've seen.

I have nothing left to hide. (And there's certainly no way I'm wearing camo.) Still...I raised them better than this! I raised them vegan, FFS.

So I'm here to tell you, it could happen to you. Even if you co-sleep. Even if you wear your baby in an organic cotton sling made by fair-trade sisters from a developing nation. Even if you breastfeed. Even if you have once purchased a Ralph Nader onesie. Even if you cloth diaper your sons and read them Lewis Carrol and Robert Frost and tuck them into bed under rainbow quilts you found at a Salvation Army in San Francisco while marching in the Martin Luther King parade.

Even then. (I should know.)

And when it does happen, I'm sorry to tell you I cannot help you. In this disturbing world of play violence, there are no comrades at arms. There is no leave or honorable discharge. You've read All Quiet on the Western Front. You know it's true.

There is only the long, steep fall from grace as our once oblivious, soy-milk sipping, teddy bear slipper-wearing children take up their long-range Nerf sniper rifles and--without so much as flinching--shoot a foam bullet right at our heads.

While we're loading the dishwasher. Or the washing machine. With their dirty socks. And that's when you know what you've suspected all along: they all turn on you, eventually.

Every woman for herself.

May God go with you.

Here's looking at you, kid.

2010-06-03T19:48:00.000-07:00

Yes, you.

I can scarcely believe you're nearly eleven years old. For that matter, I can scarcely believe I'm old enough to have an eleven-year-old. And of course, in some ways, I'm not: when we found out you'd be entering our lives in nine short months, I was 22. Dad was 23. We knew nothing. We had nothing. We were ill-prepared and ill-equipped. We had approximately $50 in our savings account (now we have closer to $75...kidding...no, I'm not...yes, I am), I had just begun my first job after college, and Dad was still working on his degree. We lived in a dump of a place in our university neighborhood; the paint was literally peeling off the walls and the manager kept telling us he'd fix the rotted siding but never did. I drove a car that only started about half the time.

I found out you were on your way on a dark, overcast November night. Dad was at work, and I stood there, in our peeling-paint bedroom, stunned to the point of immobility for at least a full minute (which, as you know, is a long time for me to stay still). Because this wasn't the plan. And I do so love a good plan. The plan was to get pregnant at 30 (still eight long years away). The plan was to achieve status in my career first, buy a house first, mature first. Learn what a 401K was. Maybe pay off a loan or two. Because back then, in 1998, we hadn't even started paying those back yet. We still needed a co-signer for our (crappy) car. We paid for backpacking trips and dinners out with our friends first and rent last. Our most pressing responsibility was caring for our dog (and even that was iffy).

Dad wouldn't be off work for hours, and I knew I had to tell someone this news or I'd combust, so I got in my car (it started!) and drove across the city to our college friend Jamie's place (an equally crappy apartment in an even worse neighborhood). I'm pretty sure I stood, mute, in her little hallway long enough for her to start worrying before telling her the words I still couldn't believe: "I'm pregnant."

And she's probably forgotten this, but I never will: she beamed, and, completely genuinely, she said, "Awesome."

And it was. It really, really was, despite the pathetic bank account and the abysmal housing situation and our very young years. Dad felt the same way, embracing this new turn of events far more readily than I had. Grandma and Grandpa did too, bless their non-what-are-you-thinking?! hearts.

We bought a house in a nicer neighborhood. It gave new meaning to the term 'fixer-upper', but still, it was ours. Yours to come home to. We added hours at our jobs. Dad worked full time and finished school full time. I adjusted my schedule to work 10 hour days until you arrived. We figured out what health insurance we'd need, and we deferred loans. We deferred a lot of things, now that I think about it.

And you were born, and we grew up in a hurry. And it was hard. From the time you learned to roll over, I don't think you ever stopped moving. I don't know how it's medically or physically possible, but I'm pretty sure you didn't sleep at all for the first three years of your life. I know we didn't.

We lacked the perspective we have now. We lacked the resources we have since gained. But we did it, this parenting thing (as young parents truly can). And if you're any indication, I have to say, we did it well. Because you're an amazing kid. You're kind. You're friendly. You're funny. You're imaginative and witty (when you don't resort to potty humor) and you're smart (you'll know this when you cut yourself some slack). You're becoming the sort of real, live person with whom I'd enjoy spending time if I met you on the street. (Not that you spend a lot of time on the streets...I promise, we're good parents!)

And like all parents, I can't wait to see what you do next. This year. Next year. In ten and twenty and thirty years. And I don't care whether you do something amazing, or whether you do something mediocre, as long as what you're doing is what you love. Just don't lose that eleven-year-old charm, that goofy smile, and that bubbly laugh (yes, it bubbles). Remember that you're awesome, and have been from the very beginning.

This post is included in Finer Things Friday, because growing boys are a fine thing.

Riddle me this:

2010-06-01T21:07:00.000-07:00

Is blogging the new past-time of privileged women? Like the luxury of learning to read in the Middle Ages or the time to sit and paint during the Renaissance? (And by 'privileged', I do mean pretty much all of us lucky enough to be toiling away here in first-world countries.) Because I was thinking about this the other day as I scrolled through countless (well-written) blogs about various people's lives, their struggles and fears, their kids, their TV viewing choices, their marital arguments and vacation photos, and it occurred to me that it is.

Because it's self-indulgent, isn't it? It can be borderline narcissistic, just like social and personal media platforms like Facebook and Flickr can be. (And yes, I'm taking cheap shots at myself left and right here.) We want to record, record, record. In a society ever more inundated with images, words, and graphics, in which it's become harder and harder to hear through all the noise, we shout: look at me! Look at my life! Look at my kids! The world gets smaller and smaller and we struggle and squirm in an effort not to be squeezed out by the sheer amount of information, headlines, photos, and anecdotes.

And the fact remains, not everyone has the luxury of this daily, weekly, or bi-weekly self-indulgence.

But that doesn't make it a bad thing. Because not everyone has the inclination, either. And someone needs to: if statistics of blog readership can be trusted, we evidently crave that peppering of philosophy and psychology in our daily grind, that reflection of our lives, that finger on the pulse point of what we do each day: the mothering and the working, the spousal discord and the perfectly rising bread. I know I speak for myself when I say we want that depth to the ordinary. The current under the surface.

We want someone, somewhere to be monitoring it all. Confirming our fears. Echoing our opinions. It's a comfort, I think, to see that nod from another soul. Case in point: have you ever found yourself on a webpage of photo thumbnails (perhaps a link-up list), and marveled at all those postage stamp-sized glimpses of random people's lives? All those beaming children, snippets of gardens and kitchens, cropped family portraits and slivers of trees or cloud? (A beautiful example is at Chatting at the Sky.) It's stunning. And inspiring. And crowded. It makes you want to hold hands with these people and throw an elbow for some breathing space both at the same time. It might as well be me. You. Your neighbor with the cooking blog. Your kid's teacher with the coupon code site.

We're self-obsessed, sure (especially the writers among us...and again, I'm looking at me). But the musings and the over-analyzing of, well, everything has always been left to the ones with time on their hands (even in short supply). Who writes history (not to be mistaken for making history)? Primarily rich white ~~men~~ women, right? The ones with the luxury of sitting and staring at their computer screens while sipping lattes. (Or more accurately, the ones rushing to schedule a post amid Cheerios flung onto the floor and kids clamoring for attention.)

The ones with the burning need to document.

And yes, I am fully, painfully aware that I am now over-analyzing why we over-analyze. But I can't escape it, it seems. This subject of blogging, of recording, of sharing this cyber-space with one another the world over, has been on my mind of late, especially in light of all the buzz circulating the blogosphere about whether bloggers are being fairly compensated (which is a whole other can o' worms). And if we know why we write, then why do we read? Why are we drawn to our favorite blogs day after day? What do we gain? Are we really so voyeuristic that we can't get enough of other people's lives? Are we craving fiction (even if that fiction is someone else's reality)? Or is it all less noble than that? Are we merely trying to gauge whether we measure up, a cyber version of keeping up with the Jones'? Is the fact that everyone-with-a-computer-and-an-internet-connection-can-now-have-an-audience really a good thing? For that matter, can we even hear ourselves think through the cacophony of opinion?

Obviously, I don't know, which is why I'm asking you. Feel free to wax lyrical or simply self-indulge.

~~Penny~~ pixel for your thoughts?

This post was written in response to the 'write an opinion post' prompt at:

The Graduate

2010-05-31T11:39:00.000-07:00

(Minus that whole 'Mrs. Robinson' thing.)

Goodbye snack rotations and car pools. Hello yellow school bus and packed lunch.

Goodbye cubbies and naptime, homemade play dough, and teachers named 'Teacher'. Goodbye laminated name tags shaped like turtles and goldfish crackers in Dixie cups.

Hello backpacks and after-school sports, homework and field trips. Hello fund raisers and early mornings minus cartoons.

Hello time flying so predictably by, big world spinning, spinning, spinning.

Goodbye Pre-K.

Hello class of 2023.

Spring. And you. And me.

2010-05-27T20:00:00.000-07:00

The leaves I like best

are spring-green and waxy-
thin as tissue paper decoupaged
with white glue, hung
in a sunny window
to dry.

Or else like kiwi cut
in half, star-fruit sliced,
the cheery yellow tips
bejeweled fingers waggling
toward a pale sun;
an open palm, veins threaded
through.

Like you. Shaken.
Stirred. Preserved:
they waver on their
stems in a gust
of wind before
falling with the rain
to stick to my window, the
underbellies of
starfish encased under
their plane of
glass.

Moms of Boys (an Ode)

2010-05-25T18:35:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I had a sudden idea for quite the unconventional post the other day. (In my experience, this can sometimes be good but mostly be bad.) I'm going to try it out, anyway, just for fun. It either really works, or really, really doesn't, but I spent an embarrassingly long time on it, so I'm risking the (inevitable?) massive flop and posting it anyway.

You remember Adam Sandler’s famed Hanukkah song? Well, much like his need to celebrate the Festival of Lights, I sometimes feel there’s just not enough support for the moms of all boys in this world. So I wrote this little song for all of you nice moms of boys out there who think you’re all alone amid a sea of snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

Watch the original first to get the tune in your head (this is a crucial step).

And here we go…

Put on your mom-of-boys hat, and get ready to say, ‘Get off of that!’
Buy guns, swords, and pirate hooks,
Dig in the dirt and cheer him to first--you’re a mom of boys!

Boys may be stinky, and you may not understand anything they do,
but you get to skip tea parties and can say princess who?

When you feel like the only mom wiping pee from toilet seats,
here’s a list of moms of boys, just like you and me:

Jennifer Connelly has listened to her share of arm-farts and dodged her share of darts,
as has Jenna Elfman and teenage witch Melissa Hart!

Guess who else owns 2,000 Matchbox cars and knows the name of every dino?
Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks and Real Housewives’ Dina Manzo.

So, put on your mom-of-boys hat, and get ready to say, ‘Get off of that!’
Legos, and smelly toes, G.I. Joes and cars that go,
Clean up that spill, give him a turn at the grill--you’re a mom of boys!

Cate Blanchett only shops for blue under-roos, just like you,
but still finds time to star in every medieval movie ever made, too!

Who needs pink bows in their life (and those awful Pet Shop toys)
when you can trade horror stories with my friend from Australia
and Momalom’s Sarah--both moms of boys!

So go soak all those grass-stained jeans and lose that frown,
You can bet Posh Spice is also driving little soccer stars around town.

Yeah, put on your mom-of-boys hat, and get ready to say, ‘Get off of 'that!’
Invest in decent home insurance, be ready for any occurrence,
Your kids may attempt natural disaster, but I guarantee you will be faster--
you’re a mom of boys!

Laura Bush and Michele Obama-- not moms of boys! (It’s true.)
Which is how they find time to entertain, and change policy too (quite a coup)!

But we’ve got Britney Spears, so take that, first ladies,
Geena Davis almost counts (twin boys and a girl) but not the Katies.*

Some people think Survivor’s Stephanie is, because she’s so kick-ass and never tires,
Well, she's not, but guess who is? Twilight’s Stephenie Meyer…

Which explains why Midnight Sun will never...be...done,
but did she really name a werewolf after her middle son?

My friend Tina’s a mom of boys, so of course we’re like this
so is Heather of the EO and Paul Stanley’s ex-wife from Kiss.

So do your smelly laundry and buy your action toys,
and despite being eaten out of house and home,
Enjoy being a mom of boys!

*Curic and Holmes, respectively (all girls)

(I should add that I have many more blogging and real life friends with all boys--I seem to gravitate to them like a moth to flame--but try as I might, I couldn't fit you all into this ode!)

Lifetime Presents...When GPS is not Your Friend: The Amy Whitley Story

2010-05-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

Ok, so maybe I'm not actually the subject of a Lifetime Original whatever-you-do, don't-do-what-these-people-did movie, but last Friday, I came thisclose. (And honestly, isn't it really only a matter of time?)

My friend and I were on the planning committee for a party we threw last Saturday night. On Friday, we decided to car pool to the party host's home to set up for the event. The host lives in quite a remote location, so she gave us very specific directions. We had these directions with us. But we also had a GPS unit, so we plugged the address in and took off.

The following is a condensed (but accurate) account of what happened next:

Mistake #1: We fly right by the exit the party host indicated on I-5. Luckily, the GPS is telling us to go two more exits south, so at least we're half right, right? Ten minutes south, we take said exit, and nearly immediately find ourselves on a dirt road. "But that's ok, my friend (who's requested to remain nameless--as if you can in a Lifetime Original!) said, "because (host) lives on a dirt road, so maybe this one links up to it."

Seems like a sound argument to me. Until we come to a river spanning across the road. Not a creek. Not a wash. A I-wonder-if-we-have-the-proper-clearance-for-this-maneuver honest-to-goodness river. But it's cool, because we're in a Suburban. We do start to wonder though: if she was going to send her guests through a river, don't you think (host) would have mentioned that (instead of the railroad crossing, perhaps) in her directions? But no matter: we're through it. And the boys thought it was great fun. (Did I mention we have our boys in the back seat? Our youngest, both age 5. Now you know.)

Still, that river nags at us. "Do you think we should turn around?" my friend (let's just call her Jane) asks.

"Maybe next place you have a chance," I say, because suddenly, the dirt road is only the width of one lane, with a drop-off on one side and a steep hill on the other. No way is the Suburban going to do a three-point-turn anywhere near here.

Mistake #2: We get our chance, and blow it. We finally come to a space in the road that may have been a turn-out but was more likely where rain has eroded part of the cliff-side, widening the single lane. To give you a better sense of time and space, I'll tell you that at this point, we've been driving on the dirt for at least 20 minutes. We hesitate, but the GPS (that had done so much for us so far, if you'll excuse the dripping sarcasm) is indicating that we only had five more miles on this road, and that we've already come six. "At this point," I say, "we might as well keep going."

Five minutes later, the road becomes so rutted the boys are bouncing around in the back seat. Five minutes after that, Jane puts the Suburban into four-wheel-drive. Twenty more minutes after that, we finally get to the end of that five miles. There's an intersection...with another forest service road.

"Recalculating...recalculating..." the GPS lady says pleasantly, and we look at each other. It hadn't quite occurred to us that there would be more after those first 11 miles. "Turn left in...200 feet...and continue 8.3 miles to...intersection of...

recalculating..."

Shit.

Mistake #3: We continue. I know, I know...this is the point of the Lifetime movie where you've run out of popcorn and on your way to the kitchen, you're muttering at Valerie Bertinelli, "Why are you doing that? Just turn around already!" But when you're in the Lifetime movie, it doesn't seem so obvious. I know this now. I'm sorry, Valerie.

Oh, and another fun fact: the gas gauge is now on 1/8 a tank. And the boys have grown weary of looking out the window at trees and are starting to wonder why we didn't bring the DVD player, if we were going on an extended road trip. To pass the time, Jane and I start taking inventory of what we have in the car, survival-wise. It's an odd (but promising) assortment:

three bouquets of flowers
two folding tables
three tablecloths
two dozen bandanas
china dessert plates for 40
three bottles of club soda
three bottles of Coca Cola
two bottles of top shelf tequila
a watering can
a small bag of snacks
a zip-lock baggie of rice crackers

The gas gauge slips a little lower. I reach casually into the back seat and slide the bag of snacks away from the kids. They're now throwing animal crackers at each other, and I'm thinking that's not the best use of our resources. I give them each a Capri Sun and a quarter of a granola bar and tell them the game it to not eat and drink it all at once.

At about the six mile mark of this next segment of dirt road, we see a US Forest Service truck parked on the side of a wash. Even though the vehicle is empty, it makes us feel a little better. At the seven mile mark, there's a fork in the road. Hmmm.

We make a choice, and stand by it. Our GPS tells us we've now crossed the border from Oregon to California, then back again. As we zig-zag over the mountains around hairpin turns, we start to wonder aloud what conclusions people will draw when our remains are found in 20 years or so. "Maybe we'll be on 20/20," I suggest. "The voice-over will be, 'Though their location has been revealed, the real question remains: what were Amy and Jane doing so far from civilization, driving a spiderweb of forest service roads toward the California coast, their car stocked with expensive liquor and tablecloths? Why had they decided to make a break for it together, and even more mysteriously, why had they taken their children?'

Mistake #4: Not pouring the tequila into the gas tank. We reach the end of our next eight miles. We hold our breath for good news, but: "Recalculating..." says the GPS whore, er, lady. When the device finally refreshes with its next screen of criss-crossing roads, it's estimating another seven miles 'to destination'. We look at each other in (yet more) indecision with a generous dollop of dismay. We've already driven at least 18 miles on these roads. To go back now would be like getting 2/3 across a river, deciding we can't do it, and swimming all the way back. The low fuel light blinks on.

Mistake #5: We continue. On and on and on. We are only 2 miles from that elusive 'destination' when Jane's phone buzzes. (I should mention that at this point, we've given both our iPhones to the boys in an attempt to quiet them.) I grab it; it's (host). I attempt to describe where we are, adding that we're almost there, and then my heart sinks as she delivers the bad news: "Oh, you can't get to my house from that road. It won't go through."

Mistake #6: We don't cry. I mean, it would have been warranted. But I want it on the record that we don't. In fact, we're pretty calm. We're even laughing a bit hysterically at this point. We drive on until we can turn around, and then we head back. "Are we going home?!" the boys wail. I dole out another quarter of a granola bar, then take a bite of one myself. Should I mention that all this GPS-screen navigating in conjunction with the hairpin turns have made me sick?

We turn a corner on the road, and Jane hits the brakes. When I look up from the GPS screen, a cow is blocking our path. Allow me to repeat: a cow is staring us down in the center of the road. It is at this point that Jane turns to me and says, "This is making the blog, isn't it?"

Oh, it's so making the blog. I steal an iPhone back from the kids and take a picture. Here's our friend after we've urged him back to the side of the road.

My reasoning is that perhaps when they find our car, they can piece together what happened to us by the photographic evidence.

We speculate how long it will take us to go completely native, should we be stranded here indefinitely. We give the boys two hours, max, to go Tarzan on us, and ourselves only marginally longer. I figure we'll be skinning that cow, digging for taproots, and saying 'fundraiser committee who?' within a week.

I dwell for a moment on how embarrassing it will be when I have to call Search and Rescue and tell them I've gotten myself lost. But it's probably a mute point, because both our phones are now low on battery, since we've been allowing the boys free access to DoodleJump.

We take the phones away. The boys now entertain themselves with random screaming.

Mistake #7: We admit what we've done. Jane's husband calls to check in. I answer the phone and give him the short version (which is to say, not the version you're all getting) of our current situation in my best 'we're not at all worried' voice before the phone can go dead. I end by asking him how long he can typically drive after his fuel light comes on in his car. (I phrase this in such a way as to sound like I'm merely casually inquiring.)

He's not fooled. "Why?" he asks.

"Oh, it's just been on for the last four miles is all."

There's a long pause, then: "Are you serious?" He sounds genuinely unsure.

Another pause after I confirm this. Then: "Where exactly are you?"

"Um..."

To the best of our knowledge, this is where:

We lose connection. Jane has to hit the brakes again as a flock of wild turkeys cross our path. They're the size of small dogs, I kid you not. We come to the Forest Service truck; an employee is just getting in it. We stop and ask her how much further it is to the freeway. She thinks it's only a few miles, and so we fill her in on our gas situation, just in case she comes across us in a few minutes on the side of the road, and continue on. I peg her as the one interviewed in some sheriff department interrogation room a couple days from now as the last known person to see us alive.

Two miles from the freeway, we hit something. The tires make an ominous scraping sound, and we stop. For about ten horrible seconds, I think we've popped a tire. But no; there's just a huge branch caught under the wheel. Jane yanks it out. (I think she's already gone half-native.) We continue. When we see our river flowing across the road up ahead, we whoop in celebration. The boys observe that hey, we've been here before.

Conclusion: we make it. On fumes. Onto the freeway and to the next exit. Where we find a gas station. And look at our watches. Yes, what should have been a 30 minute drive has taken us 2.5 hours.

We get back on the freeway headed the right direction, and follow (host's) directions. We arrive at her house a mere ten minutes later.

Isn't it lovely? (Notice how little light is left in the day?)

Moral of the story: don't bet in favor of a computer chip (which doesn't know the difference between a rutted dirt road and an interstate) over a real, live person who lives at your destination and drives it every day.

Also? Fuel and potential warmth is overrated: we should have drunk at least one bottle of that top-shelf tequila while we had the chance.

(Although if we had, we'd probably still be out there.)

This post has been included in Chatting at the Sky's Tuesdays Unwrapped. I'm unwrapping adventure, I guess!

The Value of a Dollar

2010-05-21T01:00:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I recently went from having no job to having two part-time jobs.

The first is a reading specialist position I accepted at our elementary school. It's honest-to-goodness, five-day-a-week, thank-goodness-it's-Friday paid employment. The second is the two hours a day I put into my travel site, Pit Stops for Kids because as of the last month or so, it's actually making me enough revenue to be considered a legitimate use of my time.

If by revenue, you mean vacation money. Which I totally do. (It's like Cam and Mitchell on Modern Family the other night:

"They're paying you in flowers, so..."

"Well I would have blown the money on flowers anyway, so they're saving me a step.")

Anyway, I've decided that together, these two jobs equal approximately 1.5 full time jobs and pay roughly the equivelent of one half-time job.

And depite the fact that I'm not totally in love with Toby's child care arrangement and not much of a fan of using my lunch (half) hour to down a can of Slim Fast while driving the Pre-K car pool, this is ok with me. In fact, it's really ok. And maybe even more than ok.

Because it makes me happy. Not just the work, although that makes me happy too. (I teach six-year-olds how to read and then go home to write about family travel. What's not to like?) But when I say I'm happy, I'm not referring to the work. I'm referring to the simple fact that I'm working.

And people, I can't tell you how annoyed I am that I can't seem to get past this subject, but the fact remains that I can't.

I've written about it before. Here, for one. And then again here.

What I make. What I do. How these two elements weave together (or don't) to create something tangible and strong. A solid wall I can lean against. A roof over our heads. Food on our table.

I'm not the primary breadwinner in our family (not even close), and that's always been ok, because for the most part, I've always been the primary everything else. The one making dinner and packing lunches. The one who knows the soccer schedule and the car pool arrangements. The one who feeds the dog and does the laundry and schedules the dentist appointments. The one who knows where we left the field trip release form and when the science project is due. The one who knows where everyone's going after school, and which bus they're riding and who's picking them up (me).

And I still do all that (or at least the bulk of the heavy lifting), so now that I'm working outside of the house as well, nothing should feel different, right?

But it does. I'll just be honest here: when I'm handed that paycheck, fat with all that validation behind those (few) zeros, it feels good. Better than emptying the dishwasher feels, for instance. And when a PR manager of a resort tells me yes, they are interested in what I have to say about their hotel and that yes, the audience I can reach is of value to them, I won't lie: that feels great.

So yeah. I guess I can be bought. And I don't know if that's a bad thing. But it is a disturbing thing. Because I was valuable before. And I shouldn't need a W-4 form and a headache every night to tell me that. I shouldn't need a perfect stranger on a phone from Swanky Resort of the Pacific Northwest telling me you're good at what you do. But I always have: I've needed that A on the paper. The check mark on the report. The nod of the boss, the coach, the parent...even when I am the boss, the coach, the parent.

I shouldn't have to ask whether or not I'm valuable, but I do. (Have to.) And my kids tell me yes, you are. My husband tells me yes, you are. I tell me yes, you are.

And yet I still don't know. Or won't believe it. Or both. And so I keep working in pursuit of that approval, and keep mothering three kids and driving them everywhere and making sure they don't miss a single meeting or practice or play date. And I keep setting the alarm for 5 am so I can run 5 miles before breakfast...before packing lunches and sorting laundry and pouring a quick cup of coffee before I'm due at work.

And I'm not sure what's wrong with me. (Do you think it's because I'm a firstborn?)

And I'm not sure how to stop.

And at the very least, I'm starting to think I deserve a raise.

Just Say Yes to Life After Yes

2010-05-18T18:16:00.000-07:00

Today's Five for Ten topic is 'yes', in honor of our own Aidan Donnelley Rowley, who, as of today (yesterday if you're reading this on Wednesday), is officially a published author! Her debut novel, Life After Yes, is now in bookstores! (Like, actual bookstores...as in, on the New Release table in Barnes and Noble. I feel faint simply by association.)

Aidan was generous enough to send me an advance copy of the book, and I'm pleased to report that despite a crazier-than-usual schedule the last few weeks that's kept me from any form of personal relaxation, including much reading, I'm well into the tenth chapter. I'll be reviewing the book on Never-True Tales upon finishing, so I'll save the details for later, but spoiler alert!: it's a wickedly fun and compelling read!

So look for my review sometime next week, or better yet, take all these literary VIPs' word for it, and pick it up right now to read along with me! Once you do, head over to fellow blogger Kristen's site, Motherese, and join her book club. We'll be discussing...you guessed it...Life After Yes!
A little birdie (of the Twitter variety) told me the author herself might actually join in the discussion. Now that's what I call a book club!

Congratulations, Aidan! Your big 'YES' has been both a vicarious thrill and an inspiration!

Sunday morning is for lovers...if by lovers, you mean oatmeal, Sponge Bob, rashes, emails, and church

2010-05-16T08:19:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning. 6:30 am. I have exactly an hour to sit down and write my post for the next Momalom Five for Ten. Topic: Lust.

But first, I have to:

Brew coffee. (Because you have to wake up to write about lust at 6:30 am on a Sunday.)

Then I decide I'd better check my personal email. Why do I have 34 messages since last night in there? Oh yeah, because I commented on a bunch of Facebook status entries while waiting for Charlie to start Breaking Bad. Which means I'd better log onto Facebook now, too, and reply.

But then I find some informative emails in my inbox, too. Like the four different messages from Nate's soccer coach concerning fall tryouts, banquets, and the Memorial Day tournament. Which I read while trying not to get all panicky about the five places I need to be at once at 1 pm next Saturday (setting up for a party, at Toby's kindersoccer game, driving Calvin home from his 11:30 am game, finding a copy of Nate's birth certificate for the tryouts, and making fruit kabobs...don't ask). I decide I'd better go find my iPhone and add all these events to my calendar, in hope that the wonder of Apple technology can work out a formula in which I miss nothing (I'd pay a lot for an app for that). And then I reply back to the soccer coach with questions. And then ask Nate exactly how many goals he did score in the Kick-a-Thon, so I can write out the check.

It's now 6:48 am. But that's cool; I still have time before the kids will demand breakfast.

Then I remember I really should check my blogging and travel email, too. And I respond to several comments left there and two reviews. Then I get sidetracked down the lovely rabbit hole which is my google reader.

7:10 am.

I open Blogger and stare at a blank entry screen for a bit.

Lust.

Lusty, lusty, lust...

Nate can't find his Bible for church. Needs it now. We look in his room. On his bookcase. In his bed. Under the seat in the van.

7:18 am.

I stare some more at the blank screen. Lust. I've got...nothing. The night before, I told Charlie that today's topic was lust, and we did a little free word association to give me some ideas. For the record, the first thing he said was 'Gone with the Wind' and the first thing I said was 'grain elevator'. (See, I had this professor in college, and he talked a lot about writing poetry in grain elevators while working summers on the Washington Palouse, and waxed lyrical about the smell of the wheat ripening in the heat of the sun, and...well, anyway, it was all very sexy. You'll have to take my word for it.)

I make a mental note to follow up on that Gone with the Wind thing, then try to play around with these two ideas for a few minutes. Amber waves of grain, antebellum hoop skirts...what's wrong with us?

7:26 am. I delete.

7:32 am. I'm out of writing time. Nate still hasn't found his Bible. He wants breakfast.

I start the water for oatmeal. Toby comes over to complain that the other boys will only watch Animal Planet and not Sponge Bob. I make them switch. But Toby doesn't want to watch that Sponge Bob, because that's the one that gives him bad dreams. As does Animal Planet.

7:38 am. Calvin doesn't want oatmeal. But we're out of cereal. Toby wants a egg sandwich. But we're out of eggs. I get them yogurt and granola and tell them to get in the shower.

7:49 am. I remember Nate has a poison oak rash and I have to rub cream all over his legs and stomach before he can get in the shower.

8:05 am. I get in the shower. I wake up Charlie. (Yes, it's good to be him.) Nate still can't find his Bible. Oh, and he's decided he's too sick with a sore throat to go to church. But not sick enough with a sore throat to miss his soccer game later. (No dice, kiddo.)

8:18 am. Calvin has no clean underwear. I make him wear a clean pair of Nate's. (Does anyone else do this, or is it wrong, wrong, wrong?)

8:26 am. In the car.

8:35 am. We remember we forgot to put the dog out. Go back home.

8:45 am. Late to church. (Nate is itching his legs and Calvin is complaining that his underwear doesn't fit. Toby is crying that he thinks he sees a Cheetah out his window and will never sleep tonight out of fear of Animal Planet.)

I hope you enjoyed this sultry post on lust.

'Member Me

2010-05-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

For a period of about six months (about the length of time it took us to pay our deductible and come to our senses), Toby did a stint in speech therapy. I think he was about three at the time. Yes, he must have been three; I remember because he was potty training and peed all over the alphabet rug in the therapist's play room.

My point being, when he was three, he had lots of words he mispronounced (which we've come to learn many three-year-olds do...we must have been major suckers to sign those checks week after week!). But during that time, one of my favorite words of his was 'member'. As in, "Mom, member when we..."

Or: "I member that! That was fun!"

His turn of phrase struck me as more than just the omission of a syllable. It suggested a joining of sorts. A being a part of. A membership. He members. He's included.

But then there was this...the flip side of the coin: when he didn't remember, when his brothers or dad or I were talking about some past history of which he was not a part or too young to absorb, he didn't say he 'didn't member'. No, he said 'dismember'.

Always with a heavy heart. Always with a woeful shake of his head, his brow furrowed.

As in: "I dismember that, Calbin." (We were working on names, too.) His face would cloud over, as though he were confessing to a particularly disappointing transgression. "I'm sorry, I dismember it, Nate."

Dismember. To take apart. To separate limb from body, to slice a piece from the whole. To divide. Every time he said it, my mind slid left of where he intended to something more violent, more dramatic, than he meant.

It settled on less than. Weakened. Apart from the heart of things. And it saddened me.

I thought about all the events and people and places he 'dismembered' through no fault of his own...all that he tried so hard to 'member', in order to weave himself back into our vernacular. To seam--no, to fuse--his imperfect recall, so frustratingly unreliable, to the rest of us and our memories.

To our old house with the maroon door. The car we used to drive. Grandpa Bob. Relatives we rarely see. Our vacation to DisneyWorld. The time Calvin threw up all over the back seat of the van. The day Nate fell off the swingset. The Mexican place on the corner that's now out of business but used to be a doughnut shop where we'd stop on Saturdays.

None of these things are in Toby's lexicon. Not really. Not fully. He was forced to jump into a game already in progress, a story already started, a dance already choreographed.

But what he dismembers, and what I wish he'd member now (even if he does know how to pronounce the word correctly), is that we weren't really whole until he came along. We were disjointed, still gathering the pieces that would one day fit. Our stories lacked the exclamation point only he can bring, the giggle from the backseat, the goofy ad-lib and improv he trademarks so effortlessly.

So thank you, Toby, for joining up. For membering us, starting now.

Happiness Defined

2010-05-11T19:00:00.000-07:00

Today's Five for Ten topic is happiness. And I'll be honest with you: I don't know what I can say about happiness that hasn't already been said. I'll try anyway:

I suppose happiness is a condition, not a state of being.

Happiness is temporal. It's the balloon bobbing in the breeze just before the release of the string by sticky toddler fingers. It's the beat of anticipation just before the shedding of the wrapping paper. It's found in the click of the minute hand, not the chime of the hour.

It's finite. It's moral. It comes and goes in the space of a breath.

It's found in the detail of the dragonfly wing, the grain of sand, each singular whoosh of heartbeat on the fetal monitor.

It's not to be micromanaged.

It's easily undone.

It's even more easily resurrected.

It's overvalued by the adult: paid for in monthly installments or defaulted loans. It's buried somewhere under the seldom-used ski boat sitting in the driveway and oversized home collecting too much dust.

It's undervalued by the young; a bouncy ball rolling down the chute of a quarter machine, a cookie in a lunchbox, a dog licking one's face.

It's carpe diem.

It's an art form, an expression, a dancer...long and limber.

It should be effortless, but often, it's not.

It's grace personified.

Happiness is not the antithesis of despair.

It doesn't keep exclusive company.

It's rarely earned. (That's satisfaction, which feels even better.)

It's never won. (That's luck, which is just as fleeting but twice as elusive.)

It's often confused with joy. With contentment. With success. With honor. With prestige.

Happiness is always here, never there. It's in the golden moments, in the kitchen with its yellow morning glow, in the flash of the little-kid smile, in the smell of baby shampoo, in the twilight hour as the house settles, in the pant of the dog and the rustle of the leaves on the oak tree outside. It's in the voice of someone you love, the mannerisms you can't live without, the smell of bread baking or ink on paper or soil freshly turned.

It's in sunlight on water and raindrops on the roof and oranges freshly sliced. Coffee on Saturday mornings and blankets in winter.

It's the more. And the less. And the whole. And the want. And somtimes, the wish.

But you already knew all that.

(P.S. I think it's worth mentioning that the photos above were chosen from a file titled 'random family photos' on my C Drive.)

Two-O'Clock-in-the-Morning Courage

2010-05-09T20:58:00.000-07:00

My kids have been at it again: stalking the neighborhood. Taking no prisoners.

They can't get enough of it, really. The battles. Fighting the good fight. The supposed glories of war. They devour books on the American Civil War, the World Wars, other people's wars. They try to understand what our military is fighting now: the where and the who and the why.

When they're not Nerf war-ing it, they're setting up divisions of plastic soldiers in complicated formations and spending hours maneuvering them from the hallway to the bedroom to the kitchen floor, where the dog or a misfiring broom strikes with the speed of a missle, wiping out full infantries.

They strategize. They draw maps and attempt to deploy neighbor friends, rallying the masses (but not at school!). They pit brother against brother. And always, always they engage the enemy with courage unsurpassed.

Goggles in place. Vests strapped on with velcro.

But inevitably, things go array. In the ugly chaos of war, the anticipated battle is not the reality, the strategies sketched on notebook paper failing to execute as planned. And then there's tears. And tattling. There are surprise attacks. Kids turn traitor, shooting an ally in the back, or worse yet, one goes AWOL, slamming the front door behind him, declaring he's "not playing anymore!"

And the game starts to drag. Shoulders sag. Sensing a moment of volnerability (and perhaps a mom or two about to call it a day), an ambush, lying in wait, decides the time is right to strike.

And that's when the two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage* either kicks in or it doesn't. The courage for the unexpected moments. The courage that comes from somewhere inate, something primal and true. The courage that stops you from turning tail, crying foul, running, if you will, to your mommy.

It's unprepared courage.

It's unarmed courage.

It's fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants courage, and we all need a healthy reserve of it stored somewhere safe and dry.

For all the times when it isn't.

*Two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage is a term coined by Napoleon Bonaparte. I know this thanks to Nate's Big Book of Military Strategy.

Passing the Bed

2010-05-06T19:04:00.000-07:00

;

Guess...who's...in...the...hoooouse? (Ok, that was my Oprah impression, and I'm going to go out on a limb here and decide it doesn't really work in print.) Anyway, I know many of you are already fans of my next Won't You Be My Neighbor guest: Heather King of The Extraordinary Ordinary. Heather is not only a gifted writer, but she writes, week-in and week-out, from a place of quiet honesty which has inspired many people. I'm speaking specifically, of course, of her recent admission on the EO of her addiction to alcohol, but non-specifically, I'm speaking of her ability to string words together on the topic of many, many subjects, with all of which we are intimately familiar: motherhood, womanhood, life. Because as extraordinary as her addiction and recovery story is, she's so much more than one defining moment, as we all are, no matter how pivotal that one moment is. So thank you, Heather, for gracing NTT with your words on life today.

Passing the bed

He has asked so many questions that don't have answers and I'm just so tired. I ask him to help his brother. I say, "He's going to get hurt, can you help him?" He asks, "Why will he get hurt?" I answer through gritted teeth, "He just will! Just help him!" Then he sighs and his big blue eyes look sad and I wish I could find the strength for more patience and less surprising anger.

When I walk into my room to get dressed, I pass the crumpled bed and want to get in it. I want to curl up on my side and cry. I'm not sure why, but I want to do it. I start to walk that way and then I see her, the me in my mind's eye, on her side in the bed where I am not. She looks like she's repeating history. She is carrying this disease and she thinks she isn't and then sometimes she thinks she is this disease. She is me and I am her and she is them and she is not.

She is so afraid that she's given it to them.

I know that if I were to walk in and find her curled there, I'd think she should get up. I'd think she should shake it off. It's not her fault she's there, but she needs to get up, I'd say. Then I'd wonder if some of it is her fault, because I know memories of ridiculous choices can flood in and bring with them the funk, curling her up.

So I get dressed. I wash my face of yesterday's make-up and I put one foot in front of the other to make sure that I'm not her or them or her past. I fight it because I know that when I do, it gets a little better.

I fake it sometimes, but strangely, most of the time I'm truly reveling in the buried joy. The miraculous happiness that comes through the eyes of my boys. We make a hide-out in a closet and they are thrilled with their flashlights in the dark. I well up with joy because they are who they are and I believe we can change this. Even if it doesn't stop, it can be lighter, it can get better. Even if they feel it, they can learn that it doesn't define them. I will tell them. They can learn from the truths we speak over them...

You are lovely. You are worthy. You are good. Just exactly as you are. This heavy weight of sadness, it can never be who you are.

I can say it with words from my mouth, and I can say it by walking away from the bed, uncurled and dressed.

"Can we go to the park?" He asks carefully. And I say yes even though I don't want to because I know that it's the right thing to do. I put one foot in front of the other and he rides with training wheels beside me. He says, "You're great, Mom." Then through my tightening throat where my heart wells up with this mercy, I say, "So are you, little man."

"I know," he says.

I laugh with unleashed joy and I think, please keep knowing...please keep knowing...please...

We are sometimes sadness, but mostly we are grace.

Please leave comments for Heather below! If you have a neighbor visiting you this week, be sure to snag the banner at the top of this post and link up!

This is my last Neighbor post in this current six-week series, but take heart: Momalom is bringing back their Five for Ten series starting on May 10th, and you can bet I'll be participating. Will you?

Open Letter to Toby

2010-05-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

Look at you.

Because I am.

I'm noticing you. I promise. Even if you are last in a line of three, the final duckling in the row. Even though you're as elusive as a spark from your smile to your toes, one minute a seemingly permanent addition to my hip, the next a runaway toddler, the next you, in the here and the now, talking a mile a minute as you blissfully walk into pirate day at school.

If our progression in the parenting of your oldest brother is like a careful trickle from a tap, controlled and cautious, and your middle brother's a steady steam, yours is a torrent unleashed, white water raging to points unknown. We pull you along with us so often, gripping your hand and tugging, tugging, tugging. We plop you into your booster to ride along with Nate's car pool. We drag you from soccer games to karate to 2K runs to the elementary school art show. Let's go. C'mon. It's time.

And you're so willing. So ready to keep stride with your brothers. So eager to tackle schedules that are too busy for you, sports that are mismatched for you, literature you can't possibly understand.

You're a sprinter, in a time of your life when you should be skipping. Or forgetting where you're supposed to be at all.

But I haven't fogotten, in case you're wondering. About things like pirate day. About being five.

(Even if your costume was dug out of the dress-up box at 8:54 am while the clock ticked in a candance of we'll be late, we'll be late, we'll be late that beat at the back of my mind and may have escaped my lips.)

Your eye patch was too big.

The first bandana we unearthed was way too small. Whenever did it fit you? Did it ever fit you, or was it in fact a reminent from one of your brothers' past, a token from a Halloween before you were born, or birthday bash in which you were oblivious to the festivities, entertained by car keys or a baby biscuit while Calvin, or perhaps even Nate tugged it onto his head?

But no matter: you're a third-born, and you genuinely don't care. You discover each left-over scrap and toy with reverent surprise, turning it over like the piece of a puzzle it is. Ohhh. Nate's. When? Where? How did he wear it? Just like this?

Yes. Just like that. Just like you. Because you're a natural, and you don't even know it. So as much as it pains me to say it: welcome to the big leagues, kid.

Or have you been here all along?

(This post is part of Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus.)

On Call

2010-05-02T21:53:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, I had a long night.

Some of you know that I volunteer part-time as an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician) for my county's Search and Rescue Unit. What this used to mean was that any time day or night, I was on-call for searches. When I received a call, I had under thirty minutes to be dressed, pack-ready, and out the door to the station, which is 20 minutes away. Not easy to do when you're the mostly stay-at-home parent to three kids under the age of 10.

Which is why these days, I volunteer in a different capacity. I serve as a call-out operator, which means the search manager or Sheriff's Department sends me a page (again, at any hour of the day or night) and I dispatch searchers from home. Basically, I'm at the top of a glorified phone tree.

And while this job is easier in many ways (I don't have to leave my kids at moment's notice and I don't have to hike through the night or the sleet or the snow searching for lost hikers or stranded families or the occasional meth addict...yes, our tax dollars are well at work, people), it's harder in one respect: after I get a page and make my phone calls, I often have nothing more to do but wait.

I wait for calls back from volunteers, for more details, for news of a stand-down or successful find.

Or not.

And the waiting puts me in an odd sort of limbo, lying in bed in the dark, willing sleep that won't come until I can calm my pulse--racheted up from the searing beep-beep-beep which tears me from my bed--especially when the call is a hard one to take.

Like last Wednesday's. This is what greeted me on the pager screen as I squinted against the glare of the kitchen light at 2:38 am:

ASSIST TO _____ COUNTY AUT 3YO FULL CALL OUT. REPORT TO STATION 7.

Which translates to a request of our help by a neighboring county to search for a missing three-year-old autistic child.

If that won't get you out of your warm bed, nothing will.

Oh, and it was raining. Hard. And as I made my calls then reported in with the search manager, I felt burdened by the knowledge that I would not be among them.

Because in the past, I have been, and while tiring and frustrating and heartbreaking, searching for the lost is among the most gratifying work I've ever been honored to be a part of. But Wednesday night--like every night--my own children were asleep in their beds, and when they woke, they would need their mother. As would my place of employment. And the soccer car pool, and my friend who'd asked me to babysit her preschooler.

And is any of that more important than the acute need of a missing child?

No.

But all of it combined, day in and day out, year after year is. And for me, this has been a hard realization to learn.

Almost as hard as the realities of the cases I've heard and the outcomes of the failed searches I've attended. Right now, while my kids are small and my responsibility to family and home are as strong as a magnetic pull, I can't go.

But this knowledge did nothing to negate the fact that this missing child continued to weigh on me all the next morning: as I went for my early morning run in the (ever increasing) wind and rain. As I got ready for work. As I got my kids prepared for the bus. As I taught kindergarteners to read. As I checked my email and put together blog posts. As I drove the soccer car pool.

I was caught up in the ebb and flow of my own little universe, all the while aware of another one: one filled with a child's fear and possible suffering and a family's anguish and my colleagues' exertion. Of course, we always are, aren't we, to some extent? We know about the earthquake on the other side of the globe, and yet we can't allow that to stop us from packing our first grader's lunch. We are aware, in some corner of our mind, of war-torn countries and suffering peoples and even the homeless man who sits every day at the corner by the coffee stand, and yet, we still muse over our grocery lists and deposit our pay checks and sign permission slips. We have to.

And so I was there, fighting the tide in that alternative universe-type place, right up until the moment, at 4:45 pm, when this page graced my screen:

ASSIST _____ COUNTY STAND
DOWN CHILD HAS BEEN LOCATED
ALIVE (I had to scroll down to see the word 'alive')

and for the first time all day, I relaxed, finally able to shake off some invisible burden.

I didn't hear the whole story behind this child's rescue until the debriefing (and I'm unable to give details here anyway), but in that moment, last Thursday afternoon at 4:45, as I searched the laundry pile for a soccer jersey and double-checked homework while thoughts of what's for dinner tugged at the corners of my mind, the waiting was over. The plane was done circling, the holding pattern broken.

And I was able to enjoy the serenity of a safe landing.

Dearest, Most Involved Husband...

2010-04-29T20:00:00.000-07:00

Today I'm honored to welcome CK of Bad Mommy Moments as my Won't You Be My Neighbor guest. If you're not already familiar with this great blog, you need to click on over there ASAP. I especially had fun reading her recent compilation of Bad Mommy Moments from readers! Thank you, CK, for gracing Never-True Tales today! She's offering us a hilarious letter to her husband, which reads, in my opinion, much like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. (Oh, c'mon, admit it, you know that one by heart!)

Dearest, Most Involved Husband:

I’m not mad. Honestly, I’m not. There was nothing wrong with what you said. In fact, it was a fine question and I’m glad you thought enough about how I filled my day to ask it. I’m just frustrated because I can’t quantify my “activities” the way I used to. I mean, I know I did a lot of things today. But they no longer equal completed tasks I could check off of a list.

For instance, had I made a list of what I finished today, it would’ve looked like this:

Grocery Shopping

After viewing this, you would have had the impression that 1) my day was a success, 2) I had a lot of extra time in which I could have accomplished other things such as cleaning, laundry, and writing, and 3) dinner should have been cooked and on the table. Please note that I wanted to do all of those things. I had planned to do all of those things.

However, since today was grocery day it was time to take stock of the fridge in order to make a grocery list. In doing so I found that container of breast milk I was looking for last week. Turns out I hadn’t put a lid on it, so when it went sour and spilled, it seeped into the broccoli and all over the shelf, which needed to be cleaned.

Motivated by the success of a partially cleaned fridge, I yanked out the rest of the food and shelves and drawers and lined up everything on the counter. But after I emptied the contents of the door, the baby started to scream. I raced out to the porch and saw that she was on her stomach in her pack-in-play, which meant that I missed the first time she rolled over. And by the look of fury on her face, she’d never do it again.

Upon entering the room I realized why she screamed. She exploded on everything. Her clothes, her hair and somehow even on her face. The smell was so intense that I had to pump myself up to peel off her clothes, wipe her down and rush her up to the bath.

Once cleaned, she started to yawn, so I thought I’d nurse her before nap, since the pediatrician said I needed to “bring her to the breast” more to combat my dwindling milk supply. For the second day in a row she refused to nurse long enough to create let-down. She gave a few half-hearted sucks and then trashed her head in agony. In response to her tears, my poor confused body let-down on its own, and attempted to put out the screaming wildfire on her face.

After putting her down in the crib, I went into our room to change. As I lifted off my shirt I found myself facing the reflection of my breasts in natural light. No wonder she didn’t want to nurse. There was hardly anything left for her to latch on to. Soon my boobs would look like nothing more than nipples floating on a sea of crepe paper.

Before I could sink into real tears however, I heard the crib mattress shift beneath her and realized that she’d fallen asleep. I threw on a new shirt and raced down to the basement to drop off my shirt before the milk stains set. While I was down there I sorted through the laundry that had piled up over the week. I started a load of whites, but got sidetracked by the box of hand-me-downs I’d forgotten about. Good news? She’s set on summer clothes. Bad news? You’re still out of boxers.

Since I never got around to eating lunch or making a grocery list, I wound up grocery shopping with low blood sugar and no direction, which was why I spent so much money on chips and Swiss Cake Rolls. And when I returned home with a fussy baby I realized that I couldn’t put it all away since half of the fridge was still on the counter. Which is also why we’re having pizza for dinner. But you need to order it. And pick it up.

So, like I said. It was a fine question. And I’m not mad at you for asking. Because I know I did things today, they just don’t count. And by the way, you might not want to go out on the porch. I just remembered that the baby’s diaper has been marinating out there since this morning.

Best,

Your Wife

Please leave comments for CK below! If you have a neighbor visiting you this week, be sure to snag the banner at the top of this post and link up!

Daily Bread

2010-04-27T21:27:00.000-07:00

Confession time: I hate it when something's been on my radar for a long time, but by the time I get around to posting about it, everyone else already has. (Is this because I'd like to think of myself above the pack mentality? Because surely I'm not.) Even through I'm a joiner...the type of person who easily gets excited about causes, foundations, programs, and new flavors of Ben and Jerry's, I almost didn't post today--or ever--about Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution.

But it deserves all the attention it's getting, so I'll just swallow my unfounded pride and say baa baa and join the herd. As we've been watching his series on ABC as a family, I've been systematically clearing out all the processed food from the cupboards. But as I do so, I've been noticing something: most of it's already gone.

I've sung the praises of Once a Month Mom on this blog before, and I now have yet another reason to love that site: as I've been cooking large numbers of homemade meals for my family, I've also been baking more breads and muffins, burritos and egg sandwiches, my own pancakes and waffles, and even my own nutrigrain bars and freezing them individually, eliminating much of our 'need' of processed after-school snacks. (If you want a few recipes, I wrote about it last month.) I guess once you get into the habit of reaching into the pantry for ingredients to make things from scratch, you naturally stop reaching for those boxes of frozen foods in the grocery store.

But lest you think this is a preachy post, let me assure you it's taken me entirely too long to realize this very simple truth: I need to feed my family well.

Not just adequately.

Not just regularly.

Not even just in a way that monitors sweets and cuts back on fast food.

There's more to it than that. There's a certain grace to the preparing and the consuming, the offering and the taking, hands passing bowls of steaming goodness across a table. I (or my husband, or my live-in chef...my point being, whomever) need to not just make dinner, but make dinner a priority. An event. An act of offering. I need to assign it value by giving it significant space on my calendar, in my checkbook, and my day.

Every day.

It needs to be a tangible, aromatic, ritualistic thing I do.

And this 'thing' doesn't have to be a burden. It can fold seamlessly into the daily grind, the coming and the going, the waxing and waning of the sun, the kids, the car pool. If you don't believe me, read this blog, after which I dare you to question the central place food can have when weaved seamlessly into a family and home.

And so I'm learning. I'm learning to look at the ingredients in the frozen foods I used to buy and do the appropriate double-take. I'm learning to think of myself as competent in the kitchen instead of hopeless. I'm learning that the smell of a meal baking in the oven is to be cherished. It's a cliche, sure, but it's a cliche for a reason: homemade food is nurishment. It's my kids walking in the door from practice to breathe deeply with a satisfied, "Mmm!"

It's comfort. It's love.

And I'm dedicated to serving generous portions of all of this to my family at least five days a week, three meals a day.

Now, as Jamie would say:

Who's with me?!

On Darkness

2010-04-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

"The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky--seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness." Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

This glowing orb is Toby's moon light. We bought it for him on impulse on a trip to IKEA over three years ago, so he'd have a light by which to read.

And we've been unsure whether we regret it ever since.

Because he can't sleep without it on.

All night.

Every night.

Our little boy who is so full of joy and smiles and laughter and light is afraid of the dark.

Petrified, actually. To the point where, if someone inadvertently turns a switch while he's in the room, he crumples in terror, arms instinctively clutching his sides, bent double in fear. "Not dark!" he cries. "Don't make it dark!"

Or when I ask him to put something away in his room, and the light is off, he stands hesitantly in the doorway, as if trying to draw upon courage that he simply does not have on reserve. "I can't go in there. Not in dark."

I've tried using logic: "Darkness isn't a thing, Toby. Everything is the same in the dark as it is in the light." I've circled his room, pausing at various points of interest, showing him that his dresser is still just a dresser when the lights turn off. That his box of cars is still just a box of cars.

But he knows this. "I'm not afraid of the dark," he tells me. "I'm afraid in the dark."

Which, when he puts it that way...of course. His point of view, as usual, slays me. It cuts straight to the heart of things, slicing cleanly through all the layers of assumption and societal expectation I've encased...well, everything...in during the past 33 years, and I wonder how it is that children have this ability, and when--oh when?!--do we lose it?

Because I want to cork that age, and then seal it up tightly as a drum and store it somewhere safe where it can ferment forever.

But this is an important distinction. In the dark, our senses are compromised, aren't they? In the dark, we're volnerable, our intellect no longer giving us the edge we're accustomed to when it comes to fighting monsters and wolves and cheetahs and all the other things Toby is certain will creep through his window at night.

In the dark, there is absence.

Are we afraid of absense? Does it exemplify the very moment our human bravado turns trailor, deserting us? Are we so accustomed to functioning in muchness that such a void frightens us? Even the youngest among us?

I don't know. I do know that to Toby, the demarcation between real and unreal is still a fuzzy line viewed at great distance, even in broad daylight. He asks me for clarification all the time: Dragons? Real or unreal? Werewolves? Witches? Unicorns? Panthers? Hercules? God?

No.

Yes.

Depending on who you ask.

I can tell my answers are taken with a grain of salt. He nods a bit suspiciously, as though thinking, But what does she know of fear? She doesn't need a moon light. She wants to take away mine.

And of course, what I can't tell him is that I do need one, and that I won't take his away, not when he clings to it so desperately. I don't tell him that while I do turn off the lights--and even revel in the darkness against the back of my eyelids most nights--I fill the emptiness as quickly as I can. Because that nothingness that is nighttime--that act of being in that cavity of obscurity that encloses so securely, under those clouds that hang so low--is no good for me, either. It wraps around my mind in knots and snags my thoughts.

So I fill my head with self-made moon lights...with pleasing patterns of words, and people, and prayers. I reach for the hand of my partner. I dream.

And when I finally fall asleep, I've found somewhere brighter to be.

All I want--all parents everywhere always want--is same for him, only better.

Hide and Seek

2010-04-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

Today I'm honored to welcome Aidan Donnelly Rowley of Ivy League Insecurities as my Won't You Be My Neighbor guest. Aidan is a mother and wife and writer who makes her home in New York City and blogs with both wisdom and unapologetic honesty. I love her challenging questions and forthright thoughts.

What's more, Aidan's debut novel, Life After Yes, is hitting stores this spring! Be sure to give it a read!

*****

Last week, we took Toddler to a local playground to meet up with a cute little boy from her Preschool class. The weather was perfect. The kids played well together. They chased each other and shared string cheese. After a while, they started playing hide and seek. I didn’t know that Toddler knew about this game so I watched with great interest. She scurried away, skipped actually, to find a hiding spot. And I smiled as my little girl, my precocious little girl, picked her spot. A vast and conspicuous brick wall. She approached it gingerly, inched up close. And then she splayed her arms against that wall and rested her cheek on it too. Like a squashed bug. Splat. In plain view.

In that moment, a thought lingered behind my cliched maternal grin: She doesn’t know how to hide.

She doesn’t know how to hide. Yet. But she will learn. All too soon. She will become an expert. Like the rest of us. Before I know it, she will be sniffing out all the secret spaces to hunker down and disappear. And then she will wait. She will wait for a friend to find her. She will wait. And wait. And she will be found.

But one day, things will change for her like they did for the rest of us. One day, she will hide herself so well, too well, and the wait will be long, unsettling, uncertain. A time will come when she wonders if someone will find her. If there is a her to find. She will wonder whether anyone is still looking.

But not yet. Thankfully, not yet. For now, hide and seek is still a game.

We all hide. From each other. From our children. From our partners. From ourselves. We hide little things. Wrinkles. Receipts. Chocolate. Gossip magazines. Stretch marks. And bigger things. Tattoos. Fantasies. Fears. Flaws. And bigger things still. Illness. Regret. Boredom. We hide bad things. Affairs. Deceit. Crime. We hide good things. Pregnancies. Christmas presents. Easter eggs. Success. Happiness. Love.

We hide and hide and hide some more. We are constantly scurrying around the playground that is life, sussing out the perfect places to duck into, to disappear, the prime nook to stuff our things.

What are we seeking by hiding so much?

We all seek. We seek with eyes and ears and hearts and minds. We seek with questions, with stories, with dreams, with prayers. We seek with words, artfully or clumsily strung together. We seek through others. We seek through babies and books and blogs. We seek by saying, by revealing, by unloading. We seek solace and safety and security. We seek sunshine. We seek soul. We seek self.

We seek and seek and seek some more. We poke holes in our accumulated armor, we let things out, in hopes that something will be found. But then we remember the wise words of a wise man. “Talking much about oneself may be a way of hiding oneself.” (Nietzsche) And we realize that in saying so much, in seeking so emphatically, we might be hiding even more.

What are we hiding by seeking so much?

Toddler. I want her to grow and learn and develop. And she will. But for now, I want her to play games. I want her to giggle as she runs, to bask in innocence and open horizons, to hide foolishly and fearlessly, and to always be found.

_________________________

What are you hiding? What are you seeking? Do you think hiding/seeking is part of what it means to be human?

Please leave comments for Aidan below! If you have a neighbor visiting you this week, be sure to snag the banner at the top of this post and link up!

What We're Reading (Spring 2010 Edition)

2010-04-20T20:00:00.000-07:00

Nate, blissfully lost in the Underland, 4:40 pm Monday afternoon

Do you ever feel as though you're experiencing an abundant 'book year'? We have those around here, in which the words swell to double their size on the page and our world expands, and we eat and we eat and we eat until sated. This spring has been one of them, our shelves and countertops teaming with good literature...from my remembered love of the gentle grace and genius that is Alice Munro to my joy of reading (and reviewing) novels penned by women I call friends (consider that a teaser!), to my discovery of Suzanne Collins, for whose existance in my life I can thank Cristin of Incidents and Accidents.

During our spring break in Death Valley, I devoured Collins' The Hunger Games with such zest that upon finishing the first novel of the series as we drove into Reno, Nevada (our pit stop for the night), I insisted on 'swinging by' a Borders bookstore with three cranky kids in tow to pick up the sequel. While at the display case, a college-aged boy stopped me to casually ask if the series was any good. I think it was the seven-hour road trip talking when I grasped his arm and blurted, "I just finished the first book 38 minutes ago and my kids have had it but I made them stop here to buy the second one even though they're clearly not fit to be in public after that last ice cream bar fiasco in the backseat somewhere around Fernley because I can't go one night without moooooore!"

And he mumbled something like, "Ok, thanks lady," and wandered away. But this series really is THAT GOOD.

I also got Nate (ok, and myself) completely hooked on her children's series, The Underland Chronicles, in which a boy falls down a laundry shute into a land under the earth ruled by transluscent people terrorized by giant rats. It's every bit as awesome as it sounds.

And now I've started Patrick Ness' The Knife of Never Letting Go, and just the title alone has me at hello.

Calvin is reading a big, thick, dusty tome of Ancient Greek mythology, which he checked out of the library after we'd finished reading the first Percy Jackson book. It's pretty dry, but he keeps at it. I love it when one book inspires interest in a whole new subject matter. It's almost as though you can actually see the new door opening.

And Toby? Toby is learning to read. The process is organic and magical and it's so beautiful, I could cry.

So how about you? What are you reading these days?

(This post is part of Seven Clown Circus' Wordful Wednesday as well as Works for me Wednesday.)

Boys Gone Wild

2010-04-19T01:00:00.000-07:00

There are two things I never thought I'd discourage in my children: healthy imaginations and initiative. Last Friday, I was forced to curtail both in Nate before the elementary school principal (aka my boss), a swarm of irritated neighbors, and possibly the local police department did it for me.

Yes, really.

Because what happens when 10-year-old boys: a) have a vision, b) recuit, c) arm themselves, and d) get organized?

I'll break it down for you in three little words: Nerf Gun War.

To give this tale the treatment it deserves, I have to start at the beginning, and at the beginning of any shitstorm in which I customarily find myself is usually me not quite paying the attention I should.

Case in point: two weeks ago, I heard Nate starting to talk about said 'Nerf gun war' in the form of an innocent little activity he and a few neighborhood friends were planning out in front of my friend and neighbor Tina's house.

A few days later, I was almost definitely half-listening when he begged to ride his bike over to his buddy's house (Tina's son) for a 'strategic test run'.

And then the big day came, and I 'um-hmmmed' and 'uh-huhhed' and almost retained the information I was pretending to hear when he and Calvin came back home from Tina's raving about how great the Nerf war was and how they're going to do this every single Friday afternoon for the rest of their lives.

And I thought, Great! Fresh air, foam bullets, lots of running? Let the good times roll!

But I was missing some key information. Apparently, when Tina had rounded the corner onto her street after work that day, a gang (no other way to describe it) of at least 20 kids were lying in wait (no other way to describe it), anxious for the 'war' to start. Half of them, she'd never seen before in her life. Some of them, apparently, had been dropped off there by parents she'd never met.

Kids had jumped neighbors' fences in combat and darted back and forth across her suburban neighborhood streets (which are usually quiet, but still!). She was pretty sure some of the younger kids had trampled flowerbeds in their haste to reach safety bases, and she was a little afraid her neighbors would egg her house or key her car if they ever figured out who among them had instigated this fifth grade flash mob.

In short, it probably shouldn't happen again.

I told her I was in complete agreement, then...yeah, I promptly forgot all about it...until this past Friday.

When I saw the detailed maps of the 'war zone' Nate had drawn and photocopied.

(Exhibit A)

And the piles of arsenal being deposited into the boys' backpacks.

(Exhibit B)

And then, starting around 10 am, parents began to inexplicably call me for more information about 'this war' their sons wouldn't stop talking about. Is our house the home base, and can their kid just ride the bus home with Nate this afternoon, or..?

Wait. What?!

But I had to switch to the other line because Tina was calling me back: she'd just gotten off the phone with the school principal. Apparently, talk of the Nerf war had been percolating all week, reaching its crescendo when a homemade flier some child had made (how it's possible that it wasn't mine, I have no idea), had fallen into enemy hands (a fifth grade teacher). The flier read: Nerf War (2nd round)!!!!! All boys every grade to meet at (Tina's address) at 3 pm 'armed and ready'!!!!

This was not good. Not even a little bit. If you spend any time at all in elementary schools, you know that the words 'gun' and 'war' on unoffical invitations to the student body are kind of a big deal and not to be ignored.

Long story short, quite a bit of explanation was necessary, followed by the daunting task of squelching the war movement. Turns out, once the furvor has set in, propaganda at its peak, this isn't easy. But Tina feared that if 20 kids had shown up the past week, she was looking at 50 this time around,and her suspicions were correct: after the principal visited the fifth grade classrooms one by one and made school-wide announcements to all the teachers that the 'Nerf war was officially cancelled', it came to our attention that kids as young as second grade had been planning to attend.

When my own kids got off the bus after school, they were abuzz about the whole fiasco. And throughout that afternoon, cars continued to pull up at our curb (apparently once designated as a 'staging point'), forcing me to explain the whole sordid story to half a dozen parents (and turn away another couple kids who pedaled over on bikes, Nerf machine guns strapped to their handlebars.

It was a long Friday afternoon, but when I think about it, I can't help but laugh, then shake my head, and then laugh appreciatively again. There's something about that level of ability to lead that's to be admired in a handful of ten-year-olds. Really, their only mistake was that leaked communication blunder.

Rookie mistake.

Note to Target, Kohl's, Penney's, et al

2010-04-15T19:00:00.000-07:00

Today's Won't You Be My Neighbor post is brought to you by Kathleen Basi of kathleenbasi.com. One of the first things I was drawn to on Kate's blog was her section entitled Why I Write, which I could relate to a thousand times over. Right then and there, I knew we'd be friends. She's a mother, a writer, a wife, and a woman of faith who will both challenge you and inspire you with her words. Today, however, she has something to get off her chest (pardon the terrible pun; that's all my doing)...

Note to Target, Kohl’s, Penney’s, et al:

Seriously, people. Who are you making clothes for? Because—news flash—it’s NOT ME. At the age of twelve, I began developing curves. Being a tomboy at heart, this was hardly a welcome development. While my waist stayed little, I quickly progressed from nice, inoffensive little training bras to Bali and Playtex underwires. You know, the ones with FOUR hooks? Yes, folks, I wear old lady bras. I have no choice. By the time I was thirteen, the attendant at the movie theater thought I was old enough to see rated R movies.

And that was BEFORE I became a nursing mom. They say you go up two cup sizes when you start lactating. Imagine what happens to someone who already wears a 38D!

Right now, small-chested women everywhere are thinking, Man, quit whining! I’d love to have that problem! Let me tell you: no, you wouldn’t. Because big chested women cannot buy fun, stylish clothes.

I hate shopping for clothes. At any given moment, I can think of about fifty-three better uses of my time. Things like organizing my computer desk or picking dandelions. But every so often I achieve temporary self-delusion and decide it might be fun to go buy some cute, stylish clothes. You know, something other than event T-shirts (size XL, of course) and the nasty sweats that didn’t even fit me when I bought them on clearance fifteen years ago.

I walk into the Mall and my breath catches on the pretty, feminine things that grace the store windows. Things with low-cut necklines, empire waists and teeny-tiny bodice cups, crisscrossed by bias tape. Things with adorable little ties beneath the breasts. Things with elastic puckers or big frills all over the bodice. Things like this:

and this

(Penney’s and Kohl’s, respectively)

Things you most definitely cannot wear a support bra underneath!

Then, amid all the clutter, I spy a dress style that really might just look good on me. Fingers trembling with anticipation, I run for the nearest dressing room, only to find that—big surprise—it’s not made with enough room for a big chest. By the time I find a size big enough for my top half, it’s two sizes too big for my waist.

Would you like to know what they do sell that fits a figure like mine?

This.

Yeah.

This is why my wardrobe consists of solid-color tees and whatever I can find to (sort of) go with them.

In fact, when I Google “clothes for big-chested women,” the results go straight to CJ Banks’ “Clothing for Large Women.” Obviously, no clothing manufacturer has ever seen a woman with a big chest and a small waist. (Except Dolly Parton and Jessica Simpson. But we’re not going there.)

And I know it’s not just my body type that retailers make no effort to accommodate. How is fair that women of one or two body types have a zillion styles to choose from, while the rest of us have resign ourselves to looking like a) a floozy or b) a shapeless blob?

Because really—and now I am being serious—hardly anybody looks good in the styles that are out there: short tops and low-cut jeans meant to show skin (which usually exposes itself in rolls); halter tops, strapless dresses, and so on. I sing a lot of weddings, and out of the hundreds of women I’ve seen in bridal party attire, there have been probably a dozen who actually looked good in a strapless dress. But what choice do they have? That’s all that’s in the stores.

Readers, I know that someone out there has found the nugget among all the fools gold. Please, pretty please, tell me where to shop? Plllleeeeeze?

In the meantime, Target, Kohl’s, Penney’s et al—news flash! Whoever finally decides to dress real women—we’ll be loyal to you forever.

Please leave comments (and suggestions!) for Kate below! If you have a neighbor visiting you this week, be sure to snag the banner at the top of this post and link up!

Island Living

2010-04-13T21:00:00.000-07:00

John Donne said it first and probably best: 'No man is an island unto himself.'

And yet...

The above photo is of me (left foreground) standing alone on the trail of Mosaic Canyon, Death Valley. I'm not alone-alone...everyone else (including whoever was behind this camera, obviously) was somewhere in the vicinity, but I must have sought out a little bit of space between the sleek walls of marble, allowing the acoustics of the canyon to bounce its happy-kid voices over and around me for a brief moment, because truth be known, I like to be alone.

And sometimes, despite knowing that so very much of the human condition screams connection, I fear I could settle into a little shack in the woods a la Walden Pond (or perhaps Unabomber) a bit too easily. I crave space. I thrive under a hefty weight of self-efficiency. I am in no way a touchy-feelie person.

And it always comes back to bite me. I know you'll be shocked to hear this, but if you tell everyone that you can handle everything on your own all the time, they stop trying to help you. I know, right?! And then, after a while, you really do start to feel alone. And not in that feel-good Unabomber way, either.

So I'm trying.

I'm attempting to reach out more often. To need help. No, scratch that: to want to need help. (Because of course I always needed it.) I'm trying to chisel away at that towering, rock-hard myth that we all have it totally pulled together; you know, behind the doors of our homes, beyond the entryway we try to keep vacuumed in case someone stops by.

And I'm beginning to see how it works, this non-island living: I share a personal worry with someone I trust, and I feel a burdon lift. I find myself in a bind when a preschool birthday party conflicts with a grade school soccer game, and someone offers a hand. (Aren't friends who will grab not only your kid's booster seat but your kid too and plop them both in their car at the last minute, insisting they've got everything handled the best? Thank you, Tina!) I delegate duties to my perfectly able-bodied boys which yesterday, I would have shouldered solo: I could use a hand here. You can grab that on your way out. Why don't you each take a load?

I have to admit, it's pretty nice here in the village, amongst you all. The weather's fine. The company is finer. You know how when a group of women get together and everyone's so glad to be there they're all talking over one another and no one can get a word in edgewise? I love that. I love to be heard. I love to talk. I relish the wisdom to be found in seeking out advice, of sharing stories, of meeing neighbors. I want to hear what you all are reading, what's for dinner, and what drives you most crazy about your kids.

But sometimes--and I don't know if this is true of you, too--I need to set myself adrift. I need uncharted territory through which to cut my own path under my own steam. And on those days when I'm determined to go it alone, please wish me luck.

It's just someplace I need to be.

'All the men...were my brothers, the women my sisters and lovers'

2010-04-12T01:00:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt I randomly entered a roller coaster compartment at some sort of amusement park next to Alice Munro. (This may have stemmed from a recent Facebook conversation I had about her with Heidi of Heidi's Table, I don't know.) But inexplicably, my whole family seemed to disappear somewhere, and we spent the day together…chatting in lines and buying cotton candy (Alice and me, not Heidi and me, although she certainly would have been welcome). I tried to work up the courage to ask her to read a manuscript or to at least recommend me to her agent based on our magical day alone, but I woke before the words could get out of my mouth.

I don’t know what that means, but it can't be good.

And besides, while I admire Alice Munro, if I were to pick someone to spend a day with, it'd be Anne Lamott, hands down. Yes sir-ie, I'd pour out my soul to Anne Lamott. Something tells me she'd be a very good listener. Then I'd follow every bit of advice she gave me for the rest of my life.

Anne Lamott actually reminds me--both in demeanor and in prose--of one of my absolute favorite English professors from my college days, the notable poet Laurie Lamon. I was so fortunate to be taught by this woman. Lamon creates verse in a quiet, unassuming way that speaks of grace and finesse with a steady, absorbing glow--never a jarring flare--of written word, a talent noticed even by the literary genius that is Donald Hall.

But all of this prose and poetry talk brings me to the fact that April is National Poetry Month, which is, in my opinion, one of the only good things about April. And yes, I realize that these assigned 'national whatever months' are largely self-proclaimed, often contrived and usually pointless, but I choose to celebrate this one anyway, not, this year, as a dabbling poet (because I don't know whether publication in a spattering of literary journals even counts) but as a dedicated admirer of poetry.

Because I wasn't always. In fact, as much as I loved to read and write, I never gave poetry the time of day until my freshman year of college when I entered Laurie's (she never went by 'professor' in her classroom) Intro to Poetry class (mostly because it was required for my English writing degree), chose a seat under a southward-facing window, and cracked open Discovering Poetry (101?) for the first time.

And Laurie began to speak in her soft-spoken, unassuming manner, leading us as we read, pulling us in and out of the words as though weaving through the lines and syllables: up, down, over and under, her hands drawing us forth, her pauses drawing us out.

And on those early fall days, as strips of sun slanted across my desk and set dust motes to drifting, I was spellbound. There is no other way to describe it.

I read William Carlos Williams' Landscape with the Fall of Icarus and Wallace Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird and Walt Whitman's Song of Myself and I thought oh dear God, yes. This. THIS is for me.

And some days, I flourished amid all these new concepts and sounds. Other days, I floundered through the words like a young woman drowning; nothing about poetry is easy. But I spent three more happy years in Laurie's classes, then as her classroom aid and her student literary magazine editor, because I could not get enough. Because even the reading of this medium is a paradox: on the one hand, nothing is given to the reader freely. You work. You study the page while drawing sweat on your brow and creases around your mouth. On the other hand, every end-stop and half-rhyme is an offering deposited at your feet. An annointment so gracefully given it can make you gasp.

And even now, over a decade later, every time I pick up a new volume or discover a new poet, I think of Laurie Lamon and her amazing words and her equally inspiring teaching in that sunny classroom, and I am grateful.

Grateful for the whole word of words and ideas that awaited me. Grateful that someone took me by the hand and led to toward the cool drink of water that is verse.

If you, too, could use a little hand holding, try the volumes linked above, or maybe one of these:

Either way,

Just.

Try.

The Better Parent

2010-04-08T19:00:00.000-07:00

For today's Won't You Be My Neighbor post, I'm welcoming Christine LaRocque of Coffees and Commutes. (If you're on top of your game, you may remember I had the honor of guest posting for her last week!) I discovered Christine (yep, she has me to thank) last fall, and I've enjoyed her writing on the juggling act that is working and mothering ever since. Thank you for joining me here today, Chrstine!

I admire my husband. I gush about him frequently at Coffees and Commutes. It's not to be irritating or to set him up as better than others. The reason I'm so quick with the praise is because...well, he deserves it. It's that simple. I count my blessings and give credit where it's due. Not a day passes that I'm not thankful he's my partner and best friend. Here's why:

The top 10 reasons my husband is a better parent than I:

10. He plays endlessly with our boys, no game or activity is too trivial. His patience and enthusiasm for their various forms of fun amazes me.

9. He includes our oldest in almost every job he does around the house. This cannot be without frustration for him because it takes him hours longer than necessary to complete a task. And yet, he accommodates our soon to be 4-year-old budding handyman and let's him tag along and learn.

8. He's got a better sense of humour about almost all challenges said preschooler throws our way. He rolls with the punches so to speak and offers perspective when I can find none myself.

7. It's clear to him, much more than it is to me, that no matter how hard this intense period of caring for little boys is, it will get better as they get older. I don't mean the actual parenting, I have no illusions that it just changes, and perhaps, arguably, gets harder. What I mean is in terms of finding time to get things done. As they get older they will be more independent, more willing, even wanting to entertain themselves on occasion. He reminds me constantly that they won't need me so intensely forever.

6. He's better at discipline. My son doesn't get under his skin and doesn't "work him" like he does me. He makes a decision and sticks by it.

5. He has a much better imagination. He can talk to both boys (even the 14-month-old) at their level. They just chat about stuff and enjoy it. I like to chat too, but I marvel at the things he thinks to talk with them about. He explains everything, he's creative, he tells made-up stories that delight the boys. It's enchanting.

4. He can go for weeks without any time to himself and still enjoy our company. I, on the other hand, cannot go for more than a few days.

3. Have I mentioned how well he plays with the boys? Oh yes! But worth mentioning again because I so envy him this skill. I am NOT good at getting down and dirty with trucks, trains and tools. But he does, for HOURS.

2. He's much better at letting them go. He understands that boys will be boys. He's okay with the scrapes and bruises, the daredevil attitude, the unbridled energy. He just gets it, encourages it, and copes with it.

And the number one reason my husband is a better parent than me?

1. He gets me, the mom. He supports me unconditionally. He lets me be who I need to be to my boys. He doesn't harp that I hover, or snuggle or cuddle too much. He's been the best breastfeeding coach a mom could have. He listens over and over again to my various worries. At the same time, he encourages all of my personal pursuits because he knows, in the end they make me a better, more present mother. I'm not sure I do the same for him.

Please leave comments for Christine (the luckiest woman ever) below! If you have a neighbor visiting you this week, be sure to snag the banner at the top of this post and link up!

Lacking

2010-04-06T21:52:00.000-07:00

Are you all tired of hearing about Death Valley yet? For your sake, I hope not.

The thing about a desert is this: there’s a whole lot of nothing. And sure, I knew that going in, but the true impact of it all really does tend to sneak up on you. For instance, if you stop, and get out of your car, and hike around in the desert, this may be where you end up:

Stovepipe Wells sand dunes

Way, way up there at the very tip of the right side of that dune, is Nate and Charlie.

And where at first you see absence, you eventually see space. Lots and lots of it. More than enough to get lost in (metaphorically speaking, of course).

Toby, traversing a dune.

On our last full day in Death Valley, we decided to drive 50 miles to the west to hike down into Ubehebe Crater. We packed a light lunch, loaded the cars, and took off. What we didn‘t count on (does anyone, ever?) was the 1 hour + road construction delay and subsequent road conditions necessitating a 30 mph speed limit. Put mildly, it was a long, boring, and dusty trip to the crater. To be perfectly honest, it was probably too long, boring, and dusty to justify viewing what amounts to a giant hole in the ground (even if said hole is pretty darn cool).

Ubehebe Crater

But view it we did. And run straight down it we (‘we’ meaning Nate and Calvin) did, and picnic lunch we did. And it was lovely, really, if not paid for dearly in car time.

Nate racing to the bottom.

But we had to return to our ranch home away from home sooner or later. And so we forged ahead (or back, as the case may be), crawling painstakingly behind pilot cars and pitifully slow RVs over roads steaming with fresh asphalt, all the while itching for the spring-fed pool that awaited us back at Furnace Creek. And somewhere along the way, Nate’s Nintendo ran out of juice, and then we ran out of snacks, and almost exactly ten seconds after that, they started to bicker in the back seat.

And maybe it was the fresh pavement fumes talking, or perhaps I had heat stroke, but I looked out the windshield at all that dry, empty, endless desert surrounding us in every direction, and then I took inventory of all we had to do to occupy ourselves besides stare out at this expanse while cruising at the lightning speed pace of 15 mph (which was precisely nothing), and slowly, an odd sense of satisfaction came over me. I felt the same way I do when I slowly rake a path of sand across a pristine desktop Zen garden (except that I only have the attention span to do that once before discarding it for something--anything--else).

I felt…calm.

The speed of the car, so agonizing mere minutes before, became bearable--deliberate, even--and I thought, ‘Why not? Why can’t we simply do nothing but stare out at the desert for a few hours? What will it matter? Who will it hurt? Why can’t we simply slow down?’

I was, after all, on vacation.

But even on vacation, I never vacation. (Ask my husband, who has been in desperate need of an actual vacation for over a decade.) I rush. I organize. I plan. I itinerate (yes, that’s a word). And so this inconvenience Nate, Calvin, and I had on our way home from Ubehebe, this travel mishap, was a gift. It was time, dropped squarely in our laps. And we weren’t at liberty to slice and dice it, or allocate it, or bank it, or schedule it. It was thrust upon us by an overly tanned twenty-something in a neon orange safety vest holding a Stop sign, and we needed to take it.

For what it was.

Stillness. Quiet (once I’d squelched the backseat argument). An extra hour under the blue desert sky with its slowly falling ball of a sun. With its steady whistle of breeze in the scrub brush ever-constant behind the rhythmic roll of tires on dirt.

Nothing I would have selected out of a travel brochure or guidebook. Nothing I’d have seen the value of just minutes before.

Simply time. On vacation.

Well spent.

This post has been included in Seven Clown Circus' Wordful Wednesday.

Sunday Best

2010-04-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

So yes, yesterday was Easter Sunday. And we do celebrate it, so you'd think I'd be here today posting photos of my children in pastel Easter outfits hunting for brightly colored eggs amid flowers and spring-green shoots of grass, right?

Wrong.

And I'll tell you why. There are two factors at play that ensure the lack of Easter family photos in our house:

Number 1: the weather.

The weather on Easter Sunday in the Pacific Northwest is shit. There, I said it. And I stand by it, too. I dare anyone living within a 200-mile radius of me to challenge this. My friend in Eureka, CA got snow this year. Snow! And she lives almost 4 hours to the south.

We had rain. Buckets and buckets of rain. And it's occurred to me that perhaps, in other regions of the continent, people adapt to their weather conditions and plan accordingly, but not us. Oh no. It is spring, and Jesus has risen, and dammit all to hell in a handbasket, we are going to socialize outside on the courtyard after the church service in our dresses and skirts and brimmed hats come the apocalypse or anything else. Our rain-soaked, matted hair and water-logged sandals will not deter us, and no matter how frozen our fingers become, we will not let the wind rip our umbrellas right out of our hands.

Not again. Not this year.

And then, every year, we plan after-church activities which cannot possibly happen in a million years without inducing hypothermia in the very old and very young: egg hunts on the lawn. Picnics at the park. Springtime crafts and wine tastings at the vineyard (I was so looking forward to that one). Instead, we have to relocate everything indoors at the last minute. And this is an undisputed fact: any indoor space (from a church basement to a living room) not planned upon as an egg hunt/craft station/indoor picnic location well in advance does not a photogenic backdrop make. Any photo I'd take of the kids hunting down eggs would undoubtedly have not just their Easter baskets but my basket of unfolded laundry or half of Nate's discarded science fair project in the background.

And even if I were to get a decent background, I'm still left with factor #2: the clothes.

Sometime around 2006, I gave up dressing my kids for Easter. Wait, don't misread this: they're dressed, as in, they do have clothes on, but that's about as picky as I get.

I wasn't always this way. There was a time when I'd buy darling Easter outfits for my kids, making trips to BabyGap and Gymboree as early as late February to ensure they had all the sizes and colors I needed in their stock of matching sweater vests and slacks. Then I'd force the children into these outfits and pose them on the front porch, instructing them to stop shivering until I'd gotten a good shot.

Seriously. I did this.

And they were adorkable. But then, about four years ago, Toby outgrew the last pinstriped, embroidered duckling shirt I had folded in a storage tub (along with the coordinating brown loafers), and I never went back. To the extent that, this year, I neglected to think about Easter attire altogether until fifteen minutes before we were supposed to be in church when I hastily pulled any shirt with potential from the boys' closets and flung them on the beds, matching them with whatever jeans didn't have rips in them. Calvin took one look at the cotton polo I'd unearthed for him and declared it too 'fancy pants'.

"Mom! It has this scratchy part!"

Otherwise known as a collar. Where did that kid think he was being raised, on the set of My Name is Earl?

But there's a point when there's just no point anymore, once your kids reach a certain age. You simply become worn down by their sheer inability to wear something for longer than 20 minutes without ruining it or outgrowing it. (And if you disagree with me, I bet you have girls.) Their pleated khakis all have grass stains on them, and the only shoes they own which do not have cleats for soles are permamently caked in mud.

And so yesterday, they all ran out the door for church in various states of Sunday best: I'd found Nate's dress shirt from Thanksgiving, squinted at it for a while trying to decide if the orange hues could be considered springlike, then ordered him in it, along with his least-holey jeans and his least-muddy sneakers. (But when he couldn't find his jacket, he ended up wearing his ski team sweatshirt through the whole service. How was anyone supposed to admire his autumn harvest theme then?)

Calvin wore the offensive polo with his least-holey jeans and least-muddy sneakers, found his jacket, but never brushed his hair. Toby won the prize for best dressed in a crisp, light-blue Lands' End collared button-down that Calvin once wore to a wedding. I totally scored with that one. And as for me? I put on my cutest skirt and flimsiest sandals and dutifully froze half to death. But at least I looked good doing it.

Not that you'll see any photographic evidence.

Motherhood: An Atonement

2010-04-01T16:19:00.000-07:00

You can find me today posting an oldie but goodie at my neighbor Christine's blog, Coffees and Commutes. Thank you for having me, Christine! (Look for her post featured here next Friday!)

Today also marks the first in a new wave of Won't You Be My Neighbor guest posts at Never-True Tales, and I couldn't have started it off with a more articulate and timely offering if I'd tried. Please join me in welcoming Terresa Welborn of The Chocolate Chip Waffle. I only discovered Terresa's blog recently, but from first sight, I knew I'd found a kindred spirit of the blogging kind. The Chocolate Chip Waffle is nothing less than a harbor in the storm of the daily grind, filled with beauty and truth and words that buoy and shelter and restore. Thank you, Terresa, for sharing part of yourself here today.

*****

Today I watched my two-and-a-half year old dig into his pb&j. Like a competitive eater, he was all business and appetite. Could it be that one year ago he nursed for the last time?

Once upon a time I nursed my four children, including twins. Together we rode the loop of time through moonscapes, breaking dawn, afternoon fog. A shared circle of mother-baby-hood.

An at-one-ment.

As close as it felt then, today it feels as remote as the aurora borealis. And I miss it very much.

The ingredients of mother's milk and mothering in general can't be replicated by formula or father or nanny. Not really. Motherhood is singular, holy.

Even as my children grow older, the mama-child circle continues: blow drying my girl's hair until it shines like warm honey, counting my oldest son's ever growing freckle collection, and debating the possibilities of an apricot fruit leather dinner with my toddler.

Mothering is an atonement.

We sacrifice ourselves, our bodies, the better part of our lives for our children. We hang on a mother's cross, side by side, apron strings stretching across continents, cultures, time.

Nails come in the form of a thousand choices. Nursing blanketless or supplementing, home schooling or public schooling, marathon running or couch potato ennui, homemade wheat bread or Orowheat multi-grain. {Which, by the way, tastes fine purchased day old and hasn't malnourished my children yet.}

Life is hard enough, but mothering? Apart from feeling near impossible most days, it's our cross to bear.

We are unsung heroines, older in our angst, our bones, our shortcomings than any Bible story, Old Testament or New. We are disciples of turning the other cheek, hallowed living, sacrifice. We must be. That is what defines us from father, aunt, grandmother, cousin.

Mothering is where all those years at summer camp pay off, as we pull together the infinite threads of who we are and who we hope to be, and braid them in with our children.

We become one braided cord together. Stronger. At least that's the idea.

Some days I stand, barely holding, the eye of the storm, and hope this heavy mothering thing will pass. But it won't flush down the toilet, can't be mailed to Uruguay, and survives time outs. I've tried.

I want to pass the bitter cup, but where? To TV? Daycare? Grandma? Public schools? I'm a user of these things and a periodic pusher, too, but they're like Botox on the wrinkles of motherhood. Short fixes for a much longer haul.

You see, I'm tired. Not anemic, just worn thin like a JC Penneys polyester pant suit.

But I want to be strong.

Pioneerish.

Real.

After eight years of mothering, many days I want off the cross. I want to go to a movie or take a jet to some remote, clean, childless place. But then I remember, slippered and casseroled, that my life is found in the giving of it, the losing of it. And that there's eternity left to get the hang of it.

I might just be a grandma by the time I figure this motherhood thing out. That's OK. Maybe then I'll write a book.

God, give us a long winter
and quiet music, and patient mouths,
and a little pride - before
our age ends.
Give us astonishment
and a flame, high, bright.

- Adam Zagajewski

Motherhood unfolds astonishment with each child, each sunrise. I want to be hungry for that again. To give myself to my children and know it is my ultimate offering. And to blaze in the refiners fire, the flame high and bright that helps us hold onto grace and not ghost away our days or scramble mad dash for a “Get out of jail free” card.

This thing called motherhood nudges us to learn and mellow. Where else would I find that each moon phase is really called, “My goodnight moon” as my two-year old son, Zack, points up to the sky?

And without motherhood, how else would the world have softening edges and green shoots and grow?

As many times as I curse using the safest four-letter-words I know, and walk zombiefied through my children's hearts and home, life has a way of pushing back. Creating a pause. And then I find another portion of myself to give again.

An atonement.

© 2010 by Terresa Wellborn. All rights reserved.

Please leave comments for Terresa below, and then I urge you to go savor all she has in store for you on her own blog. If you have a neighbor visiting you this week, be sure to snag the banner at the top of this post and link up!

Hidden

2010-03-31T01:00:00.000-07:00

The first thing anyone notices (or at least the first thing I always notice) about Death Valley is its unapologetic inhospitality. You drive over the rise of the highway from Beatty, Nevada and a vast, cracked valley of barren land stretches out before you, and you cannot help but think of empty hands extended. Of cupped palms dry of water. Of stark denial.

Photo courtesy of Death Valley NP

If you've read up on the valley, you next think of the doomed Manley wagon train who gave the valley its name in 1849, and you can imagine the depth of their despair at this first glimpse of everything they did not want to find.

But then you look again.

And as you explore the park, you find creases in the cracked land. You find hot springs, and sand dunes, and washes twisting up canyon walls. You stand looking out over the desolate valley, and suddenly, you can see the way the sun sets the Paramint Mountains to shades of amber, then rose. You notice the ribbons of color in the boulders framing your hikes. You listen to the silence.

These gifts of the park are subtle, and--I won't lie--subtle isn't usually my 'thing'. But I think that’s why I like Death Valley so much (well, that and the weather). It isn’t like Yosemite, with its Half Dome that universally impresses. It’s not like Yellowstone, with its gushing parlor games. There’s not one feature of the huge park (biggest in size in the continental U.S.) which I can honestly say draws a consistent 'wow'. To appreciate Death Valley, you have to be observant. You have to be still. You have to look closely.

We began our first full day in the national park hiking up Golden Canyon and continuing on past Manley Peak to Zabriskie Point.

Manley Peak

The three mile trek includes some pretty arduous climbs, but the first mile is a gentle affair twisting up a washed out road through the canyon. It’s shaded, and pretty, and if you time your hike right, the morning sun casts the canyon walls to striking shades of gold (hence its name).

Every few yards, a cracked chasm in the rock framing the road leads up the canyon side, and the boys followed each of these paths like dogs on a scent, zig-zagging their way up the wash. Some chasms they could walk into, but others required some scrambling as they climbed up, pulling themselves into the crevice by their arms. Then they could follow its winding path (formed in the soft rock bed by infrequent flash floods) up and up and up, until one of us called them back. They looked like little ants traversing an ant farm.

Calvin, up the trail in front of us.

Higher up, the trail got tough, and the sun blazed down, and Toby struggled with the terrain. I walked with him steadily, holding his hand, until we were directly under the huge rock fortress that is Manley Peak. For a brief moment as we were passing under, its shadow fell over us, and he stopped, staring up. Even he knew that for anything at all to block out the sun in Death Valley--even a massive stone ediface--is rare.

Over the top, there were more hills, up and down and up and down through the rippling borax and salt deposits that make up the land here. I transferred Toby to Charlie's shoulders. The sun was back in full force.

Goofy Toby, trying to look triumphant upon crossing

the Manley Peak pass.

The morning lengthened. Toby found a lizard and stopped to study it for ten minutes. Nate found the entrance to an old opal mine, intrigued as only a ten-year-old boy (and his thirty-something father and uncle) could be by the extensive danger signs planted all around it.

Nate, about halfway from Manley Peak to Zabriskie Point.

Zabriskie Point was hot and windy, but the view was spectacular. We could see all the way to the Badlands to the left and kne that our home for the week--Furnace Creek Ranch--lay somewhere straight out ahead. The sky was a rich blue above us.

“Awesome,” someone said, and then we all stared out over the desert anew, and I was so, so grateful that my family and I, mountain and tree lovers from the pacific northwest, could take this in, uncover all there is on offer, and adjust our definition of beauty to include it.

Me, Calvin (yelling), Toby (eating something), Charlie, Nate

(Then we tried to take a family photo, and only 3/5 of us cooperated, of course.)

Out of Office Memo...

2010-03-30T05:51:00.000-07:00

As part of Won't You Be My Neighbor, I'm honored to be guesting posting today at:

I've pulled one of my favorite posts out of the archives for the occasion. If you haven't been reading Never-True Tales since the beginning, this one might be new to you, too. Either way, swing on by, get to know The Chocolate Chip Waffle, and say hello!

When you run out of clean underwear, it's time to come home.*

2010-03-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

We’re back.

Actually, that’s not quite true. As I write this, we’re in the car heading north, somewhere between Beatty and Fernley Nevada, but by the time you read this, we’ll be home. We’re driving along lonely, lonely I-95, and I have the laptop perched on my, well, lap and my dad is driving. The kids are all happily plugged into electronic items of various natures, which is a good thing, because if the lone billboard at the last exit can be believed, the next place to stop is called the ‘Play Mate House’, which (as I know from our drive south six days ago) is in fact a bright pink double-wide trailer a hundred yards or so down a dirt road with splashy neon lighting shaped like a curvy woman's bare leg in a cowboy boot that made all three kids ask in tandem, “Play Mate House? Can we stop and play?!”

Er, no.

Then Nate asked the follow-up question (of course): “Why not?”

(Because we're in Nevada, and therefore, I do not think that word means what you think it means.) But before I could come up with something more concrete, Toby asked, “Do they have a ball pit?”

You know? Possibly.

But we had a marvelous time in Death Valley. It really is a breathtakingly beautiful national park, and I sure hope you all don’t get tired of hearing about it, because I have lots to say about it in the next week or so.

We had our awesome moments. Like when Toby went to whirl his bundled set of silverware over his head like a lasso for his cousin Homer’s entertainment in the resort café and his spoon flew out in a long, beautiful arc to clatter to a landing on another diner’s plate.

Whoops.

And when Calvin went racing down the side of Ubehebe Crater (which drops at a grade of about 45 degrees for at least 100 yards, ending in hard lava deposits) and a crowd of college students began yelling, “Oh my God! Look at that little boy! Careful little boy! Whose kid is that?!” until it got awkward enough that I felt compelled to answer, “I don’t know, but he must have really rotten parents.”

Then they laughed politely, but it was still awkward as we all watched Calvin’s sturdy little legs do double-time under him like a cartoon character as he barreled his way down. But I mean really…since when do college kids pause to express concern over eight-year-old boys to the point where they inquire about their mothers? Losing. Their. Cool.

Then we had all the moments my mom was “ma’amed”. You know what being ma’amed is. It’s when you allow your child to climb the 1850’s replica of the mule wagon in the museum right under the sign that says, ‘No climbing’, because you’re just too tired or too far entrenched in ‘vacation-mode’ to care, and someone walks by and says, “Ma’am! Excuse me, ma’am, but he can’t be climbing that.” Or when you’re feeding the ranch’s horses directly by the sign that says, ‘No feeding the horses,’ and sure you saw it, but you pretend you didn’t, because you just can’t resist the way the 18-month-old giggles when their big lips tickle the flat of his hand until someone official-looking strolls over to remind you, “Ma’am, that warning is there for a reason,” with disapproval written all over his face.

My mom gets ma’amed a lot. And yes, it’d be easy to avoid, wouldn’t it? But she believes rules are meant to be broken…whenever one of her grandkids is wanting for anything. It drives us all slowly crazy (especially Nate, who lives for rules). We spend a good amount of time pretending not to know who she is.

But here’s news: Calvin didn’t break out with a rash all over his face, like he is inclined to do on any vacation in which we’re more than 30 miles from the nearest pharmacy. Nate did complain of a toothache, however, and I paid $10.99 in the Furnace Creek Ranch general store for a tiny tube of Oragel. Which he only used once, as the toothache magically went away moments after purchase.

But by and large, we all stayed healthy, which every family knows is the real key to a good vacation. And we only got moderately sunburned. I’d call it ‘sun kissed’, really, it was so minor. And we only ran out of clean socks yesterday and, as the title of this post would suggest, clean underwear today.

So yeah, time to come home. I’ll leave you with a few photos, with more to come later in the week.

Looking down at hikers from the Stovepipe Wells sand dunes.

Nate and Cal at the pinnacle of the sand dunes.

Earning a Junior Ranger badge is serious business.

*Blatantly borrowed from Erma Bombeck's When You Look like Your Passport Photo, It's Time to Go Home. (How about a moment of silence for Bombeck, one kick-ass lady?)

Perserverance

2010-03-23T19:01:00.000-07:00

As I type, I'm with my family in Death Valley, California. The landscape before our eyes is cast in hues of brown and rust, sienna and sunshine. We're based in the oasis of Furnace Creek; the stark valley floor surrounds us, a jagged line of the Paramint Mountains defines the horizon. Above us is cloudless blue sky.

For all intents and purposes, it's summer here. But just last weekend, we were immersed in winter...in white snow topping green pines, a chill wind, and layers of clothes. I have much to say about Death Valley, but this tale needs to come first.

Our ski race season culminates with a family fun run in which everyone, from little brothers to moms, can participate. Toby was excited. Toby was ready. Toby slipped (i.e. studied) the course with his big brothers, waited at the top diligently, filed into the gate, and took off like a rocket. He navigated the course with a decent combination of agility, finesse, and guts for a five-year-old, all to catch an unruly edge at the second to last gate from the bottom:

Wipeout.

In case it's not clear to the novice ski crash interpreter, that's him splayed out like a test crash dummy on his right side, his left leg in the air. One ski is catapulting downhill and the other is airborne.

There was a chorus of 'ahhhhhh!' from the gathered spectators, and then his helmet fell off and started to roll toward the finish without him. I was a good 50 yards away downhill, watching, and so it was left to the head coach and the nearest gatekeeper to run out to his rescue.

But rescuing he did not want.

What he wanted was to get back on course. He jumped right up, shook his head a little, then stomped uphill in pursuit of one ski. By the time they adults had reached him, he'd grabbed one and was stumbling downhill to get the other, one mittened hand attempting to push his helmet back on his head.

When the coach asked whether he was ok, Toby's only response was an almost cheery, "What place am I in?!" before taking off down the rest of the course, skis pointed straight downhill, grim determination on his face.

Later, when praised for his impressive display of iron will and lack of tears, he responded that 'he knew he just had to suck it up'. (I may or may not have told my children to do exactly that on numerous occasions.) And I'm proud of him. Proud of him for not crying and carrying on when he crashed so spectacularly. Proud of him for going right back up to that intimidating starting gate and racing again. Proud of him simply for caring about this, for participating in something bigger than his usual pursuits. Bigger, perhaps, than he was ready for.

But don't try telling him that.

When I suggested that perhaps he needed to slow down on his second run, if only to stay in control, he looked at me as if trying to determine whether I was joking. And then as if questioning whether I truly understood the basic principles behind ski racing. "Mom," he said, "I can choose 'go slow', or I can choose 'win'. Why would I go slow?"

Why, indeed.

He finished his second run in 7th place. (He misheard the announcer and spent the rest of the day convinced he was actually in 2nd place, but that's a whole other story.)

This post is written in conjunction with the You Capture challenge 'A Moment' at I Should Be Folding Laundry.

If you need me, I'll be soaking up some Vitamin D

2010-03-18T19:26:00.000-07:00

So I've been working almost a full week now. Obviously, I need a vacation.

And look at that! I get one!

This employment thing isn't so hard if you do it right. Here's how it works, people: you look for a job in a school district, then you wait until the last third of the year to apply. Then you make sure you set your start date for the week before Spring Break. After that, you can count the weeks until summer. (You're welcome.)

So I survived my first week as a part-time working mom and part-time work-at-home-per-usual mom and a get-up-before-God-ever-intended-to-work-out mom, and to reward me for all my effort (or maybe because we've had this planned for a while now), we're leaving for a week of sun and fun (in that order...the sun is the priority) in Death Valley National Park. I'll be mixing a little business with pleasure, reviewing some hotels and travel gear for Pitstops for Kids along the way and back, but mostly, this is about taking a break, and being warm, and spending time with family.

Now, I know that "Death Valley" doesn't conjure the same mental image of warm-weather high life as say, "Bahamas" or "Cabo" does, but trust me when I tell you, it's all that and a barrel of monkeys. (Well, I don't think there will be monkeys, but we're driving through Vegas, so I guess you never know.) But it's pretty stellar if you're more of the outdoorsy exercise type than the lie-about-by-the-pool-beckoning-pool-boys-while-sipping-something-whipped-and-fruity type (of which I'm the former, because I can't afford a vacation that includes the latter). All I'm saying is give a destination a chance before you mock it, because when I mentioned where we were going to an accquaintance last week, she actually laughed at me. As in, "Bwah ha ha ha! Aren't you always so funny!" And then she kind of came to an abrupt start and said, "Are you serious?"

That's not cool.

But neither is Death Valley (so there). In fact, it's just about never foggy and rainy, so chew on that while enjoying your Oregon spring break, accquaintance lady. It's deliciously warm in the early spring, and if we're lucky, there will be wildflower blooms, and there will definitely be night walks under a ridiculously starry sky and hikes through canyons that literally change color from rust to red to copper to sienna, and if you think all of the aforementioned shades are the same color, you've got to come see for yourself.

Oh, and there is a pool...it's a hot spring fed number by which I'll be sunbathing in my new swimsuit. And it comes with four little pool boys (my three plus my nephew) sporting foam noodles and snorkels.

If I had to disclose one drawback to Death Valley, it'd be its lack of 3G-friendliness. Or any kind of internet connection compatability at all, to be specific. So any updates will be sporatic, but you can be sure I'll be thinking of you all and pining for my return to bloggyland. (Er, almost certainly.)

If you have a Won't You Be My Neighbor post today, please link up! I should have time to read and enjoy before we pack up and go! Next week, I'll be leaving the Neighbor Friday linky in Kristen of Motherese's capable hands, so head on over there to link up on March 26th!

Reach

2010-03-16T19:06:00.000-07:00

Photo by the talented Jen of Jen Marie Photography.

This week, I'm stretching.

My mind, with new challenges.

My comfort zone, with a new schedule that toys with my routine.

My limbs, with a 5:30 am running time that (for the first five minutes at least) feels more like a harsh shake awake than the friendly tap on the shoulder it once was.

I'm also stretching the limits of the 24-hour time allotment we're all granted each day. I burn through it greedily, sucking it dry, clamoring for more. My children need me. My job needs me. My websites need me. My dog needs me. My husband (bless his heart), gets to the back of the line, but in the meantime, I need me.

And so I form a new routine. I carve out hours and minutes carefully from the whole, separating sinew from bone, the muscle of my day from the fat: evening TV viewing gets pushed to the side of my plate to make room for teaching, coaching, the car pool, the preschool pickup. The portions are heaping. The backburners are in full use.

I go to bed earlier. I rise earlier.

I reach, and I grab, and I collect moments and I harvest them. I have quite the bushel full. And yet, there will always be something that I just can't fit on the plate. The apple that spills from the cart. The cup that overfloweth, and not in the good way.

This week, it's a gladiator costume.

In the midst of starting this part-time job that takes up three-fourths of my day, and finding after-preschool care for Toby and beginning soccer practice for Calvin and organizing the car pool for Nate and packing three lunches a day before running in the dark and making sure homework is done and signing field trip slips and registering everyone for well, everything and keeping up with the laundry and the packing for school break and taking the dog to obedience class, Calvin mentioned last night at dinner,

"Oh yeah, and we're all dressing up like gladiators at the last ski race (this Saturday). I need a plume for my helmet and some kind of armor."

And God's truth? I reached to grasp this additional something my child needed...I truly did. My mind immediately conjured an image of a gladiator and inventoried what we might have on-hand to create a costume and attempted to slide 'shop for plume materials' somewhere into the weekly schedule, but I fell short. I had achieved the maximum reach of my arm span, and found myself grasping at empty air.

I just cannot do it.

And I told him so, gently, and then felt the weight of guilt settle into my bones. I tried to shake it to no avail, so instead I just shifted back and forth on my feet a bit, distributing it evenly. (I would have made an excellent Catholic.)

And yet all last night I couldn't get it out of my mind...this need that isn't acute but still wanted. Still important in Calvin's life. In the end, I delegated it to Charlie, who volunteered to head the gladiator costume committee. And the guilt left in a whoosh and the plate became a little less full.

And so the moral of this story? Marry someone wonderful, of course. Someone who will pick up your slack and run with the ball when you cannot. Because there will be times when you cannot. When you flounder. And you'll need someone who will shoulder that single burden that proves too much, and absorb the accompanying guilt. Oh, and will volunteer to euthanize dying rats to boot. (Yes, that's happening. At the vet. This week.)

(Also, come join me this week at 5 Minutes for Going Green, where I'm writing about blogs and websites that can inspire you in your quest to go green...and not just on St. Patrick's Day!)

This post is a part of 'You Capture' at I Should Be Folding Laundry and Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus.