tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43371707221517699872024-03-05T18:32:56.280-08:00whateverings. slices of life. musings to myself.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.comBlogger166125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-64410770336044770162019-10-22T06:15:00.001-07:002019-10-22T06:15:41.284-07:00Ditching the To-Dos This morning, after my three children had their lunchboxes in hand, knew I loved them, hopped out at carpool, I drove to the mountains. It was 8:09 AM. I had exactly six hours and 51 minutes before I needed to be back. My yellow lab Sunny knew what was up. She saw my backpack and hiking boots. She heard as I grabbed a scoop of food for her and put it next to my baked sandwich. She eyed me as we and wagged her tail turned right towards I-5.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0FDsZWuUsRl1s4BnqEnNTOFk6x_FFT232xEGeEAwwq-j3Ke4gwL_1WCG6s1Z2dg579uuy2rvI45stS_SNLaHB089AMubxHsMpoizu7cS2TGPKLvpi9h47804NZsOmAJOQo5Eh_0PJ8I/s1600/IMG_8938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="864" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0FDsZWuUsRl1s4BnqEnNTOFk6x_FFT232xEGeEAwwq-j3Ke4gwL_1WCG6s1Z2dg579uuy2rvI45stS_SNLaHB089AMubxHsMpoizu7cS2TGPKLvpi9h47804NZsOmAJOQo5Eh_0PJ8I/s320/IMG_8938.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me! No to do list in my hand!</td></tr>
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Usually Sunny and I meet my friend Zoe, whose old, big, great dog Ozzie taught Sunny how to be a good trail dog with us. But back in May, Ozzie barely made it up to strenuous Mailbox Peak; she had to lay down and rest on the hike back down, and Zoe and I carried her the last mile. She weighs almost 80 pounds, and we barely made it back before pick up time. But it's Zoe's pace that I love the most, and it's her swearing and laughter and sharp observations that pair so perfectly with a good hike. Zoe and Ozzie hop in my Suburban right after morning drop off, so I get an extra two hours with her.<br />
<br />
Other times I meet my friend Jamie, who has never brought her her goofy young retriever, and it's wise to leave behind her flat-faced, not-so-nice French bulldog. But I'm happy to hike just with her, listening to her stories of Ironman and Mont Blanc and the regular ups and downs of a long marriage. Jamie's pace is excellent, too, though we pause from sweaty ascents to snap photos of waterfalls or neat bridges or beautiful, Evergreen covered paths that show us the way.<br />
<br />
Every now and then it's just me and Sunny. I know that bears and cougars and unkind people exist out there, not that we've run into any of them. When we hike alone we stick to popular trails and I tell my husband where I am, when I leave, and when I return. But I can go my own pace--a steady, strong "Ranger walk," like my dad used to when I hiked with him. I don't take breaks and I don't slow down; my thoughts wander and I breathe in the smell of fresh rain and pine trees. I always have to laugh at how fast I get to the top.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckvYRntxvd0WwV3cErEf-MW94ACS72pZi0dLtCKOsOw23BBTkpi5lj8C8LhGNhuW-652YQz64ytdW-Nedgmb-gw3_ShMk_8h2FzikIjKWq5lwIDZ8EbdKFfTNXY8ueavPj28iL7VVRq8/s1600/IMG_1459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckvYRntxvd0WwV3cErEf-MW94ACS72pZi0dLtCKOsOw23BBTkpi5lj8C8LhGNhuW-652YQz64ytdW-Nedgmb-gw3_ShMk_8h2FzikIjKWq5lwIDZ8EbdKFfTNXY8ueavPj28iL7VVRq8/s320/IMG_1459.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny at Lake Serene</td></tr>
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I trained for and ran marathons for years. When my children were born, I did P90X in our basement before they woke up. I switched to Crossfit when they could stay with a sitter and I've been doing that for years. But hiking feels different. There's no one else pushing me. I'm outside in nature, with another like-minded woman nearby, connecting with just one person. I'm smiling as my dog turns into a mountain goat and does twice my mileage and has an even bigger smile on her face. I leave my to-do list at home and hardly move my phone from my pocket. This feels so very devious! Like I'm skipping work...even though, as a stay-at-home mom, I don't work in the way most do.<br />
<br />
I pay attention to time only because I need to get back to school by 3, with a tired and muddy pup, to pick up my kids. We all return home--to normalcy, to the to-do list, to a much-needed shower. My body is tired but my heart is happy, and I can continue with all my stay-at-home mom stuff with more humor and good stories. When they tumble back into my car at the end of the day, loud and loose after being on their best behavior for hours, they ask me, "How was your hike? Where'd you go?" and they ask when they can go, too.<br />
<br />
In time, they'll come with me. One of these days, maybe I'll let one of them skip school and head to the mountains with me--they'll know how good it feels. Just a little bit naughty, but very good for the soul.<br />
<br />
<br />Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-7519646379902733582019-10-15T09:17:00.002-07:002019-10-15T09:17:25.745-07:00I Need to Read LessYou are probably carving pumpkins or daydreaming about Thanksgiving menus, or maybe you're simply brushing off the dust your favorite pair of Fall boots. Not me. I'm looking to January 1st. I'm already thinking about New Years and New Years Resolutions. This year, one of my goals is going to be to read less.<br />
<br />
You read that right. I need to read <i>less.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
For the past four years, one of my New Year's resolutions is to read 100 books a year. That sort of reading takes commitment and discipline. I've got both of those of those in spades. Plus, I've discovered the Overdrive app and have the ability to check out audiobooks from my library and listen to them on my phone.<br />
<br />
I don't work outside the home, so most household chores fall to me. I pack lunches while my family sleeps, listening to <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2587955887?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1">Harbor Me</a> </i>by Jacqueline Woodsen (the interview by her ten year old son after the book is charming!). I fold clothes and sweep while listening to <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2216841197?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1">Grant</a></i> by Ron Chernow. My yellow lab is well-walked; she sniffs the leaves and sidewalks in Edmonds while I listen and chuckle to <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1120763046?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1">Yes Please</a></i> by Amy Poehler. My three children are involved in activities that require longer drives, so sometimes while they read books in the backseat, I sneak one earbud in and listen to <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/474335253?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1">Far From the Tree</a> </i>by Andrew Solomon. At night I pull out an actual physical book; right now I am reading Annie Dillard's <i>The Abundance: Narrative Essays Old and New</i> before sleeping.<br />
<br />
I've always been a big reader, but after having three children I realized that books were an escape for me, and it's a rather cheap, easy escape. When my marriage hit turbulence and Depression pulled a gray blanket of sad over me, I dove into books.<br />
<br />
When my own story was too difficult to face, escaping into other people's stories was easier. I used other authors' words to replace or maybe just push out the thoughts in my head. To block out memories of easier days. To shoo away the pesky "what if's" that buzzed in my brain like hungry mosquitoes. I drowned out the scary silence and everything else with books. I read at night to replace any last thoughts with someone else's story because my own was close and complicated and exhausting.<br />
<br />
Three years and over 400 books later, I'm glancing up from my pages and taking my earbuds out to see myself and my habit. My reading has become a bit obsessive. Once it was helpful; now it is not. I need to decrease other people's sentences in my head and replace them with my own musings, thoughts, and reflections. I need to create some space to wonder, ruminate, and think.<br />
<br />
I have to think about this three months in advance, because who says you have to change overnight? I like to plan ahead. I don't want my own thoughts to scare the shit out of me...I don't want this new resolution to be anything like a polar plunge into the quiet of my mind. Plus, with 76 books read this year and 24 more to go, I can't break the habit before reaching that goal I set for myself ten months ago!Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-35968912346976713632018-03-04T19:53:00.000-08:002018-03-04T19:53:21.127-08:00Panic...at Victoria's Secret?Last year, I was in a funk. A group of girlfriends with whom I'd been friends for over six years were together on a girls' weekend in Florida. But I was not there. I had moved to Washington State a few months before, and was too far to be part of their conversations, their daily Starbucks runs, their plans. The logical part of me understood why I was here and they were there; the emotional side of me was bummed. The pictures posted on social media didn't help, and my "Have so much fun!" plus smiley and thumbs up emojis masked the jealousy I felt.<br />
<br />
Tired of me dragging my feet around and eager to see me feel better, my husband suggested I go to the mall. "Why don't you freshen up your lingerie drawer? Get some fun new stuff?"<br />
<br />
Always happy to leave our three kids in his care and get some alone time, I said yes. I wasn't super into his plan, but I understood that getting out of the house might help me get out of my funk.<br />
<br />
I drove to the Alderwood Mall, a fine but not-so-extraordinary mall twentyish miles north of Seattle and parked near Nordstrom. I strolled the displays there, tried on a bunch of things, and bought a handful. Then I headed to Victoria's Secret. I grabbed one of their mesh bags and threw some stuff in that I planned to try on. I was holding up some tiny pair of underwear when I looked out past Victoria's Secret's doors into the wide mall. Something caught my eye.<br />
<br />
I saw people running.<br />
<br />
Lots of people were running. Some were screaming. I could feel their panic. A few people ran into Victoria's Secret, and I heard the words you never want to hear: "He's got a gun!"<br />
<br />
I quickly dropped behind the heavy display counters, cursing myself at the stupidity of being here and not home. Of "needing" overpriced lace in cute patterns and bright colors on this day. My heart beat out of my chest, and I could feel the adrenaline shoot through my body. Might I get hurt--killed?--in a lingerie shop?<br />
<br />
The saleswoman who had just before handed me the mesh shopping bag crawled over to me.<br />
<br />
"There's a back door! Come on!"<br />
<br />
I followed this lady. We all did. We pressed ourselves into a tiny hallway. People pushed and shoved, some cried, almost wailing, unable to contain their fear inside. Mothers clutched children as hard as they could. Other mothers pushed their children, confused and clearly upset, in front of them, as if wishing them to get out first. Before them. I've never been in any sort of panicked crowd, and I do not want ever to be in one again.<br />
<br />
We got out to the parking lot. To the crisp fall day. The sun seemed to promise safety. My hands were shaking--I could barely use my phone as I could not control my fingers. The only other time I have felt this sort of adrenaline was after delivering each of my three kids.<br />
<br />
I thought I knew what relief was before this moment, but I rdidn't. I was so glad to be out. I was dazed from the previous five minutes--if the whole ordeal even lasted five minutes. I really have no idea. I texted my husband: "There is a shooter at the mall. I'm outside and I'm safe."<br />
<br />
Because I was new to the area and had been to that mall only a few times before, and because I was completely shaken up, I walked around the entire mall looking for my car. Police swarmed the place, sirens blaring. I saw armed men moving quickly inside and was glad I was not there any more. It turns out that it wasn't a shooter. There was no gun. There was a stabbing in the food court; the police believed it to be an isolated incident where Person A went in looking for Person B and then stabbed him when he found him.<br />
<br />
As I drove home that day, I said a <i>thank you </i>prayer. For keeping me safe, for keeping others safe, and for all of that craziness to have happened that day, and not two days before, when I had all three of my kids at the very same mall. I'm glad that they did not have to feel panicked and afraid like the other children I saw. And I continue to whisper prayers of <i>please protect them</i> because I know that stuff like that happens way too often, and I won't always be there.<br />
<br />
And that scares me.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-13583981409752255612018-03-03T13:50:00.000-08:002018-03-03T13:50:01.297-08:00Patiently Walking to SpringI'm sitting at the round table in my living room, big picture window in front of me that looks out to the Puget Sound. The Olympics are mostly covered with clouds, but this morning in the early morning light, their snowy peaks were clear and pink. The sun is shining bright--it looks like a summer day.<br />
<br />
But...it's not.<br />
<br />
The temperature is barely 40, and being this close to the water means there's a constant breeze. And I don't mean a warm, Hawaiian breeze. I mean a bone-chilling wet breeze. This is the kind of weather where my kids and I get excited to go for a bike ride but turn around after a mile because we forgot how cold our hands and noses get in weather like this. The sunny view from inside tricks us into forgetting that we're still in Winter.<br />
<br />
I'm not the most patient sort. I am always looking to the next thing. The week before a road race, I'm Googling for the next half marathon six months from now. This morning, right after breakfast, I got the slow-roasting pork that my family would eat for lunch ready for the oven. At the same time I mixed the meatballs for dinner, to let their flavors develop in the refrigerator while we played and tinkered the day away.<br />
<br />
But here we are at the beginning of March. I'm proud to have made it past February, my least favorite month because of it's expectation-laden holiday and gloomy weather. Like the view outside, March tricks me into thinking Spring is here. It nearly is.<br />
<br />
What if, this year, I enjoy these last few weeks of Winter? What if I tried to find the joy in the little glimpses of Spring without casting a growl at Winter for still lingering? What if I said a little Ann-Lammott-like prayer of <i>thanks!</i> every time I noticed the sky lightening earlier, or the sky darkening later?<br />
<br />
Hopefully this will help me slow down and appreciate today instead of simply looking ahead to tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that...Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-49295756366589218572018-03-02T17:34:00.001-08:002018-03-02T17:34:20.412-08:00SunsetAs a stay at home mom with three young children and a husband who works way too much, I have to confess: I love Monday mornings. On Monday mornings, I wake up early to walk the dog before the business of lunchbox-packing and breakfast-making begins. My husband often leaves before the kids wake up; if I'm looking to be an extra good wifey I'll pack him a lunch that involves rice and some sweet-salty Korean-ish meat. I throw on work out clothes and brush my teeth in the last seconds before the kids and I dash out the door. They chatter and I try and keep my patience during the 15 minute drive to school. I drive up through the carpool lane, and they get out.<br />
<br />
And then it's quiet.<br />
<br />
Oh. So. Quiet.<br />
<br />
Friday afternoons are the opposite of Monday mornings, of course.<br />
<br />
But on this Friday afternoon, we all took the dog for a walk together--me on my feet, them on some sort of wheels they got from the garage. The weather is cold and dreary, but if the dog has to be walked, why not encourage them to come along? My two boys are playing basketball with the two neighborhood boys, and my oldest daughter has been sitting on the sofa--reading, helping her little brother (before the basketball began), and now is taking a turn on the iPad before dinner.<br />
<br />
I've been quietly making jerk chicken. Mixing the cinnamon, salt, brown sugar, cumin, cardamom in a little bowl, then rubbing it onto the chicken breasts. I've prepped tomorrow's Kalua pork, a recipe that makes me think of a luau we went to last year during a vacation to Maui. My mind lingered back to those times as my hands worked, cleaning the kitchen for the third or so time of the day.<br />
<br />
And now the sun is setting out my window--somehow it's found a clear patch in the sky amidst all the dark clouds that threatened rain all day.<br />
<br />
It's quiet now, because it's just me and my girly. When the boys come in, their bring in their energy and excitement, but the talk will soon turn to what movie we're going to see over the weekend as we dig into the jerk chicken and corn and cole slaw.<br />
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I guess Fridays aren't so bad.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-5206823514341966962018-03-01T12:19:00.004-08:002018-03-01T12:19:48.889-08:00Family Book ClubA few weeks ago, my oldest son Ben suggested to his big sister Lorelei and little brother Kiefer and me: "Let's have a family book club."<br />
<br />
The suggestion hung in the air; I waited to see if his siblings would match Ben's enthusiasm or strike down the request. As a giant book lover and devourer of books, I held my breath and hoped. Would they support their brother in this out-of-left-field suggestion, or might they chuckle at the random suggestion that create homework for themselves?<br />
<br />
"Yeah!" they agreed.<br />
<br />
I let out my breath. I patted myself on the back for whatever hand I had in this sincere appreciation for books and thanked my lucky stars for these cool apples who definitely fell close to this tree.<br />
<br />
(Honestly, the reward for reading the book was really having permission to get on my laptop and do a PowerPoint presentation as a final book report/presentation to the rest of us. Nothing is cooler than PowerPoint right now to them...if that's not chuckle-worthy, I don't know what is!)<br />
<br />
Ben got slips of paper and asked for help in remembering different genres of books. "What's a genre?" asked first grader Kiefer. Fifth grader Lorelei filled in the blanks for him, and we threw out a healthy list of categories: nonfiction, fiction, fantasy, science fiction, historical fiction, biography, graphic novels. He folded the slips of paper, grabbed one of his many baseball caps, and let Kiefer do the honor of choosing the first genre.<br />
<br />
"Biography!" Kiefer declared.<br />
<br />
They happily started looking for books and talking about which person in history was interesting to them. They Googled and looked to see if our library had the books they wanted. Kiefer became quickly overwhelmed by the number of options within the "Who Was...?" book series. While I observed them and chimed in to help, I began to wonder who I would choose.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I got a notification from my library that it was finally my turn to listen to the audio version of <i>Grant</i> by Ron Chernow. The decision was made. I'd listen to this book and learn about this important man and also do my book report on him.<br />
<br />
While I faithfully review almost all of the books I read on Goodreads, listening to <i>Grant</i> with an ear towards lessons for my children on this leader has been unexpectedly fun. Should I share with them that his first name is actually Hiram, middle name Ulysses, which created the initials "HUG" for which he was teased mercilessly in grade school? Should I tell them, especially my equestrian daughter, of his horsemanship? In addition to these two things, here are the things that stand out to me as very worthy of teaching them about Ulysses S. Grant:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>He was a kind-hearted, tender leader who once walked among the wounded in the Mexican-American War and gave water to a wounded enemy after walking the battlefield to look for his own troops.<br /></li>
<li>He was a successful military leader early on, but then got out of the Army to pursue civilian life with his wife and children. But he was a failure at all things agrarian and business. Yet these failures meant he was looking for an opportunity, and when southern states seceded and military leaders were needed, he was in need of work--and this was his kind of work.<br /></li>
<li>Many believe he was an alcoholic from a young age; Chernow argues that he was disciplined with his alcohol abuse and kept it from affecting his family and military career. He was a private man who took seriously the positions he held, but was undoubtedly unable to shake this addiction altogether.</li>
</ul>
<div>
I'm looking forward to listening to the rest of the book--which is a good thing, because I'm on part 7 of 38 parts!--and I'm looking forward to my own PowerPoint presentation to my trio at the end of the month. </div>
Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-54038957522070967712017-09-12T11:58:00.002-07:002017-09-12T11:58:51.759-07:00I QuitI'm quitting writing.<br />
<br />
I just got home from my middle grade critique group, where I told my two excellent, also unpublished authors: "I need to take a break." They nodded their heads, telling me to come back anytime. I took a deep breath and walked away as they started to plan their next meeting.<br />
<br />
Some backstory: Five years ago, I decided I wanted to write children's books. Our three kids were very young, and I was surrounded by piles of books of all sizes and fonts and types. I started writing my own stories, playing around with voice and plot and syntax. At the same time, I tried to learn as much as I can about writing children's books, mostly books, blogposts, and my newly formed critique group. After three years of picture books and dozens of rejections, I had a go at a longer format. I wrote an early middle grade chapter book, about 22,000 words, and for the last two years I've edited and revised it.<br />
<br />
I still had those three children. I still am surrounded by piles and piles of books. But they did what children do--they grew up some in the last five years. Their baby phases ended and school began. Practices and playdates replaced the long afternoon walks to the mailbox. My husband still works long ten to twelve hour days, so all of the household management and parenting falls to me.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, I sent my long, polished manuscript to a few agents. I really thought I was going to get a YES from one. I did not.<br />
<br />
Her rejection was the straw that broke the camel's back. (Now that I'm not writing I can use such cliches.) I'm now reconsidering everything, as setbacks usually make a person do. After weeks of soul-searching and wondering and <i>really</i> thinking about it, I've decided to quit writing children's books.<br />
<br />
At least I think so. At least for a while. The thing is, this quitting doesn't have to last forever. If I miss it, if I feel empty without sitting down at my computer and typing out a new story, if I want to be involved in the children's literature community as a writer and not just a blogger and aficionado, then I'll pick it back up. This quitting is almost a test, a litmus test to see how passionate I am about writing stories.<br />
<br />
But slicing? Essays? I can't imagine not writing those. In fact, the first thing I did after breaking up with my critique group was to sit down, open my laptop, and edit this before clicking "publish." So...see you next Tuesday.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-66977155084438508812017-09-05T04:30:00.001-07:002017-09-14T12:23:35.096-07:00My Daughter Asked Me About Bad Decisions...<div>
The other day my daughter asked me: "What are some of the worst decisions you ever made in your life, Mom?" I stopped to think. Panic in the form of adrenaline shot into my bloodstream. My mind was instantly blocked by the few enormously bad decisions I've made in my adult life that are too big and too mature to explain right now my ten year old right now. Her question prompted in me an explosion of uncertainty about whether or not I'll ever tell her about those bad decisions. Some secrets are worth keeping for a long time. Maybe forever.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I promised my daughter that I'd get back to her, and this blogpost will be edited and changed (and the above paragraph deleted, to be honest) as a letter to her. I needed to think about my answer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As the days rolled by after her question, I thought and thought. I realized that a big chunk of bad decisions didn't come to mind right away because what were horrible and emotional moments in the short run became funny--though perhaps slightly embarrassing--stories in the long run. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's what I came up with:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>I sure wish I hadn't driven my mother and stepfather's car into the ground when they lent it to me for a road trip with my pals when I was mid-twenties. It was a bad decision to ignore the sound coming from the engine; it was a downright stupid decision to think that "letting the car rest" in the parking garage of our New Orleans hotel while my friends and I did what twenty-somethings do in New Orleans would cure it of its clanking.</li>
<li>It was a bad decision to break up with my boyfriend in the car after he surprised me at the airport for my best friend's wedding. I had told him not to come, that I'd wanted to focus my time and attention on being a bridesmaid and hanging out with old friends instead of being his girlfriend and making sure he had a good time around people he'd never met before. When we got stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the break up became pretty awkward.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But there are two things that I came up with that aren't funny and probably never will be:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>I wish I hadn't bought such an expensive wedding dress. My mother was kind and generous and wanted to provide some parts of the wedding, though we (but really my husband-to-be) paid for almost all of it ourselves. Looking back, I can see how I got caught up in the exciting swirl my wedding and I wanted that day to be gorgeous and wonderful and memorable. But a dress with a four-digit price tag that I wore for five hours...? Looking back a dozen years later, I wish I had been more respectful of my mother's money and more frugal about our wedding.</li>
<li>I wish I never spanked my children. I don't think I ever spanked my oldest daughter, and I think I only spanked my youngest son a handful of times. But my older son...I can't say the same thing. I cringe at the the count and wouldn't want to know it if it was available to me. I was going through some emotional times when he was going through some terribly obstinate times, but the fact was: I was 38 and he was three. I was wrong.</li>
</ul>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Some days these bad decisions rise to regrets. Other days, I choose to be kind to myself and grant a little grace today and whenever I think of those bad decisions. I'm human. I make mistakes. Sometimes of epic proportions, sometimes ones that are easy to laugh at right away...or after a few months.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But the lesson to my daughter is clear: Time helps. The passing of time helps one gain perspective on a situation and allows you to view it from a vantage point that is usually clearer and makes the solution a whole lot more obvious. Sometimes that's tricky, because I know I have a tendency to be hard on myself and beat myself up: <i>Why didn't I do X? That was clearly the right thing to do!</i> But when you're in the thick of it, that clarity simply doesn't exist.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So you live. And you learn. And you chuckle at the fact that you thought a few days of rest would solve your car troubles. Or about that break up with your boyfriend in a traffic jam. And about the bigger things you sigh and wish you'd chosen differently. And hopefully you will from this point onward because you've thought about it and learned. On to new mistakes!</div>
Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-89969553704183002812017-08-29T09:49:00.004-07:002017-08-29T09:49:27.433-07:00The Trees I SeeI'm sitting on the deck of our house-for-the-week during our family's last hurrah of summer. The deck, like the whole house, is unlike our traditional, cottagey home. It is sleek and swanky, and the railing I'm looking at--well, looking through--are another example of the modern touches. Thick panels of glass mean that there is very little between me and the view. Only sturdy clips to prop up and link the glass together sit on the deck.<br />
<br />
Other than that, it's just me and the view.<br />
<br />
And the view is breathtaking. I know I'm supposed to be looking at the water. There are orcas and seals, humpbacks and porpoises out there. Bald eagles could fly by any minute. I'm supposed to be searching for them. A couple of neat boats sail past every hour.<br />
<br />
But between me and the blue, blue water are seven trees that keep grabbing my attention. I can't keep my eyes off of them.<br />
<br />
Six of these trees are tall evergreens. I think they're Douglas Firs, but I'm not certain. We moved to the Pacific Northwest from Virginia last summer, so I'm still getting to know the flora and fauna of the area. Regardless of their correct classification, they shoot from the ground as straight as arrows towards the sky. One has a few reachable branches, but the other five have no low-lying limbs to invite my children to climb...which is fine, because all six are taller than the house, with perches four stories tall. They are perfect for this plot of land because they don't affect the view too much at all. I can see plenty of ocean between their trunks.<br />
<br />
And then there's the seventh tree.<br />
<br />
This one is completely unlike the others. This one is twisted and gnarly. It is bushy and imperfect. The bark makes this tree stand out even more. There are three different barks happening: One is a predictable, tough shell. The next is the most eye-catching thing about it: a skin as chestnut as my daughter's pony, smooth in some places, bumpy in others. Then, there's the stone gray part of the bark, where it looks like the tree has died but is still in tact. It is the same color of teak after several seasons bleached from the sun. There are hardly any leaves, and I can see no predictable pattern of where the few clumps of leaves grow.<br />
<br />
This red tree grows up over the cliff and the water but its limbs twist their way down and out like a wicked witch's fingers beckoning kayakers its way.<br />
<br />
I wonder: Is there any moment in this red tree's mind when it wishes it was like the others? Does it spend any ounce of its precious life feeling envy or self-doubt?<br />
<br />
How ludicrous! How laughable! What a silly thought! Trees don't have thoughts like that.<br />
<br />
And with that, I'd like to be a more tree-like. I want to grow where I need to grow. Grow <i>how</i> I need to grow, trust my instincts that my bark and my hair and my trunk and my limbs are exactly how they are supposed to be rather than wasting precious moments wishing otherwise.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-39470572892218936712017-08-22T10:56:00.002-07:002017-08-22T10:56:26.451-07:00Athlete vs GamblerA few weeks ago, my eight year old son Ben and I were driving home from his travel-soccer championship game. A well-earned second place medal hung around his neck. I was still recovering from watching the game, which was a battle between two good teams of boys. It was a low-scoring game but there were plenty of goal attempts and close-calls, many by my Ben. This is his first year in a league with higher expectations, but in part because of his stellar coach, it's still about the basics of ball handling, working as a team, and being a good sportsman. Plus, he still laughs a ton on the field, so I know he's having fun in a serious way.<br />
<br />
Ben's an athlete. He doesn't fall far from the tree, because I'm an athlete, too. No, I've never been paid and the idea of sponsorship is laughable. But I ran five marathons and an ultra marathon before he was born and two marathons and one half-marathon afterwards, and now am an age-grouper in local races. And I might be a proud member of the cultish Crossfit community (meaning I go three times a week and run on the other days). I'm training for another half-marathon now.<br />
<br />
I love pushing my body and challenging it to do tough things. I always have, and I'm willing to bet that I always will.<br />
<br />
But speaking of betting, on that ride home we passed by two casinos in Tukwila, Washington, en route back to our house north of Seattle.<br />
<br />
"What is gambling, Mom?" Ben asked me.<br />
<br />
"It's when you play cards and try and win money. Some games require some skill, but it's a whole lot of luck." I did my best to explain.<br />
<br />
"Have you ever gambled?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said. That was why my answer was short sweet.<br />
<br />
"Why not?" Ben asked me.<br />
<br />
I had to think about my answer, so I took a few minutes. I got into the right lane, put my right turn signal on, and pulled onto the I-5 North, still thinking about why I didn't like to gamble.<br />
<br />
"I don't like it because it relies on luck, which is what I work hard to make," I said slowly, still thinking as I spoke. "My hobbies are all about physical challenges--trying to get myself and my body to do things it couldn't last week. To be better than yesterday because my mind and body are working as a team. I like to work hard to succeed, rather than sitting around hoping to get lucky. That's what I think those gamblers do. They hope for the right card. That's just not what I'm about."<br />
<br />
"Plus," I added, "Did you see any huge windows in that casino?"<br />
<br />
"No," Ben answered.<br />
<br />
"Right!" I agreed. "I can't imagine spending hours and hours inside just sitting on my bottom without even looking at nature! I like to be outside and in nature as much as possible DOING cool things. Gamblers seem to spend a lot of time sitting inside. That's just not for me."<br />
<br />
There was silence in the back seat, and I knew he was satisfied with my answer. Without another question, I knew he was finished with the topic, at least for the moment.<br />
<br />
As we drove north, approaching and then passing Seattle and its hip Space Needle-filled skyline, I smiled. I'm not perfect, that's for sure. I really should stop yelling. I really should scrape up the syrup from the kitchen table where I'm typing. But my athlete-side is showing (and I reinforce with some telling) Ben and his two siblings some good options about how to live a healthy life.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-25176561179537365202017-07-25T06:43:00.002-07:002017-07-25T06:43:19.132-07:00Summer WritingMy big writing goal for the summer was to complete the first draft of the sequel to my early middle grade book. I'm an early-morning-writer, and that habit has mostly stuck this summer. But I'm also a during-soccer-practice writer and coffee-shop-writer in the hours or minutes in which I can squeeze writing.<br />
<br />
But I realize summer is not the time to be productive. Summer is a season where I really need to put the tasking and self-imposed deadlines on the shelf a little and just BE. I'm not going to un-stick myself from this summer's writing goal, because although I'm not writing the chapter a day I was earlier in the month, I'm writing a few pages a day. I'm furthering my book, little by little. Any forward movement is good. I'll be fine.<br />
<br />
There's just too much fun to be had in the summer to chain myself to my desk right now! The weather is fantastic, my best friend and her son are in town, and the mountains are calling my name to go hike and swim and explore.<br />
<br />
And that's why I've got to keep this short. Because I want to still write every day, even if it's just a few paragraphs--do these even count as paragraphs? sure, it's summer, let's count them as paragraphs--but I want to be with my people and in this place more than normal.<br />
<br />
<br />Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-81358101773448224612017-07-11T14:57:00.001-07:002017-07-11T14:57:14.210-07:00Summer Nanny<div class="MsoNormal">
I hired a summer nanny. <o:p></o:p>Please don’t hate me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not have a full-time, paying job. However, I am a
full-time mother of three and am trying really hard to spend 20 hours a week
writing. I’ve got a few published essays under my belt, but my half-dozen
picture book manuscripts are aging on a shelf while I actively search for an
agent with my completed early middle grade novel. Plus, I’m five chapters into its
sequel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and I’m training for a half marathon and go to Crossfit
on my non-running days. Does that count as justification for a full-time summer
nanny? I think it does. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In summers past, I work hard to prevent that infamous summer
slide. Right now my children are ten, eight, and six, so in years past they’ve
(obviously) been younger and needier. I’ve worked hard to keep my kids moving and
thinking and engaged in all their various interests. We’ve gone on field trips,
hikes, long excursions to museums and historical places, and sampled all the
ice cream shops within a fifty mile radius.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the summer slide is real in my own life. All of the
workout gains I’ve achieved during the fall, winter, and spring gradually fade
as I get to the gym less and run significantly fewer miles. My husband and I
constantly argue about how much I need to work out, versus how much I should,
and want to. As if there is an answer. As if I should have to defend my hour a
day of sweat in order to stay mentally sane and physically fit. But that’s a
slice for another day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, more important, my writing gets stuffed into the very
first hour of the day, before anyone else wakes up. This has always been and
remains my most productive writing hour, and I grasp onto it with sharp elbows
and scowls if you dare interrupt me. But any other writing is counted in
minutes, squeezed into the time my kids are watching TV, they’re occupied by
themselves (this never lasts) or in the evenings after they’re asleep, during
our “couple time.” Which I know is important, but sometimes it’s hard to be
present and happy when I’ve not given myself the other time during the day that
I need. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enter Nikki. She’s our summer nanny. We all love her. My
husband’s job allows her to be with one or two or all of my children when
they’re not in camp, and she drives them around to help me with the different
pick-ups and drop-offs and play-dates and practices. It is a win-win situation.
No, actually it’s a win-win-win-win-win-win situation because my husband gets a
wife who is—for the most part—present and not completely frazzled at the end of
the day. Sometimes, I’m even showered. Nikki is earning a big chunk of change to augment her Catholic schoolteacher salary.
And my children only get dragged to half the things they usually get dragged
to, which means more hours of play with the neighbors and painting rocks and
walking their dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whenever that inevitable mommy guilt threatens to creep up
and rain on my gratitude towards this happy summer arrangement, I remember the
facts: In one week, my kids are awake for about 100 hours each week. Nikki is
with us for 40. I’m still doing my share. I’m doing enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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But I’ve got to go. Chapter six of my book needs to be
written, and I have just two more kid-free hours and a whole lot of work to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-61623366785322103952017-07-04T15:02:00.001-07:002017-07-04T15:02:17.249-07:00Marathon MamaIn Spring 2007, I received the good news that I won the lottery--I got into the New York City Marathon. At that point, I'd run four or five marathons before and knew a) what I was getting myself into and b) this race would be different from the others. Why? Because when I received my entry confirmation, I was still pregnant with my first child, who was due in early May.<br />
<br />
I was a first time mom, so there were few things I knew for certain at that point. But I was certain that I would not be pregnant forever. I was naive enough to be certain that I would be able to start training for the November race about a month after giving birth, although now I'm wise enough to know that I was lucky not to have complications to prevent this plan from happening.<br />
<br />
But that is, indeed, what happened. I gave birth to daughter Lorelei the second week of May, and started to count down the days until marathon training. When I got the go-ahead from my doctor, I began the humbling journey back to fitness by way of marathon training, which is always taxing. But in addition to marathon training, I was also adjusting to sleepless nights, nursing a child, and being responsible for this little being. I did fine on both accounts, but my marathon training was hardly rigorous. Because of the hot Virginia summers and my crazy-first-mom habit of never leaving my child, I did a whole lot of runs--including long runs!--on our treadmill.<br />
<br />
The New York City Marathon fell almost exactly six months after her birth. And so, a few days before the race, Lorelei, my husband, and I hopped a train from Washington, D.C., to New York City. We attended the race expo, saw a few sights, and tucked ourselves in early in the city that never sleeps. The start of this marathon was miles and miles from downtown--I couldn't tell you exactly where because I'm not a New Yorker and I don't know New York well, facts that come into play a little later. Because of that, we runners had to take buses to the start. We arrived at this staging area, on average, two hours before the actual start of the race.<br />
<br />
Did I mention I was nursing Lorelei? As she was my first, I was following all the baby books verbatim and hadn't introduced any solids to her yet. I figured I'd get to that as soon as we got home from this little trip. Did I mention that because I stayed home with her, I never pumped and gave her a bottle? Letting her latch on and eat was a million times easier and faster.<br />
<br />
But on this morning, I had provided breast milk in bottles for my husband and wished him luck. Later, I would see the pictures of a very unhappy and very hungry Lorelei sitting, crying on the bed. Those bottles I left him never got touched.<br />
<br />
And, worse news for little Lorelei: this was not my fastest marathon. My lack of serious training, the hills of the race made those 26.2 miles horribly longer than the other marathons I'd run up to that point. I couldn't figure out what borough I was in, but I didn't really care. I probably should have stopped, especially when I passed my husband and baby on the course around mile 18. But I didn't stop. I continued, trudged onward with that shuffles most marathoners know well.<br />
<br />
And I shuffled and shuffled until the finish line finally was in front of me. I was completely exhausted, but I suddenly found myself with two more challenges: First, I had to find my husband and child in the meet-up area. They were not where I expected them to be, though later we realized we were waiting just yards away from each other and kept moving to find each other. Second, my breasts suddenly realized that they hadn't nursed in nearly 12 hours and were growing harder and more painful by the second. Who knew that my body could find more ways to hurt?<br />
<br />
Finally, we linked up. I staggered to them, and my husband tried to explain that he'd had just as hard a day as I had. I did not answer him. I pulled up my sweaty jog bra to get some relief myself and to provide some for Lorelei, right in the middle of the street. I pushed my marathon finisher's medal to my back so it wouldn't hit her and we walked towards the train station. She went from left breast to right and back again for the next hour as we walked through the streets, got in a taxi, and boarded the train towards home. Sometime along that train ride I responded to my husband's ludicrous assertion that his day had been as hard as mine.<br />
<br />
After the birth of my other two children, I waited a while longer to run a marathon. For their sake, and for mine!Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-56202382547757099922017-04-26T14:13:00.000-07:002017-04-26T14:13:03.551-07:00Read Before SOL TestingDear students,<br />
<br />
Let me tell you a quick story about my son, Ben. He's in second grade, has big dimples and is super fast. He also dabs so much I had to create a rule: "No dabbing at the table." He is competitive and plays anything and everything with great joy and serious gusto. He's played rugby, run cross country, played basketball and soccer and takes swim lessons because I make him. But baseball is his true love.<br />
<br />
Another thing about Ben: He can get really, really nervous. We all do, but whereas you and I might have a few butterflies fluttering around in our stomachs, he's got a massive swarm. And all his faith in himself POOF! disappears into thin air. It's hard to watch as he falls from confident to worried in a matter of seconds.<br />
<br />
One more thing about Ben: He's pretty lucky to have a wise big sister named Lorelei.<br />
<br />
Last week, before a baseball game, his nerves zoomed in from out of nowhere and took over. As we drove to the game, his dimples disappeared and his lower lip trembled. Lorelei looked at him and asked, "You know what Ms. Logan tells us to do before a test?"<br />
<br />
He didn't say anything, but he turned his soggy eyes to her.<br />
<br />
"She says to stand up next to our desks and pose like a superhero. She said that tests have shown that kids are more confident and do better when they do that," she said. "Maybe you should try it when you head to the plate."<br />
<br />
Ben said nothing.<br />
<br />
About an hour later, when the time came for him to grab his bat and head to the plate, Lorelei and I sat and watched him take some practice swings near the dugout. Then he put his bat in his right hand and strode towards home plate. He got to the batter's box and dug his right foot in a little, then placed his left foot. The kid-pitcher looked at him, and Ben looked back.<br />
<br />
But then Ben took a step back, out of the batter's box. He put his legs in a wide stance, made fists with his hands and put them on his hips. Ben pulled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. He lifted his chin another inch and I honestly thought a superhero cape was going to POOF! appear out of nowhere. (It didn't.)<br />
<br />
He picked up his bat again and took his stance in the batter's box. The kid pitched, and the ball whizzed by. Strike one. The kid pitched again and WHACK! Ben connected his bat with that ball and it flew. And then Ben flew. His legs pounded towards first base, then rounded the corner to second. He saw that the outfielder was fumbling with the ball and he knew he could outrun the the throw. He had the guts and the confidence to keep running. So he did, on to third, and then he went for it--but the outfielder finally got his act together and threw to home.<br />
<br />
But Ben made it first. And that was his first home run ever in a baseball game.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
So my suggestion before this little test is this: Stand up, shake off the stray butterflies or whole swarm that might be in your limbs or in your stomach, close your eyes, and embrace your inner superhero. Give me a stance. Maybe one more.<br />
<br />
Now sit down and give that test all you've got.<br />
<br />Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-4371540629115009172017-04-04T06:15:00.001-07:002017-04-04T06:15:45.963-07:00Expectations, and Getting it RightExpectations are difficult, if not impossible. This is what my best friend and I have concluded in the past few years. It seems difficult, if not impossible, to hope for the best and maybe anticipate a little goodness out of something or someone, without full-on expecting a certain result. And when that result does not happen close to what we've got in our minds or hearts, the bitter taste of disappointment courses through veins, telling us we got that whole hope and expecting thing wrong again.<br />
<br />
I seem to be an expert at this hoping-too-much stuff, and that disappointment taste is a familiar, biting shot.<br />
<br />
But I think I got it right this time.<br />
<br />
I just weathered my first winter here in the Pacific Northwest. I wish I had a dollar for each time a person told me, "Hope you like rain!" when I informed them we were moving out here. We knew 14 months in advance, so there was plenty of time for people to say, again and again, how wet it is out here. Having gone to college out here, I had a good idea about the rain and the mindset it requires.<br />
<br />
So I faced the winter like I would face a tough wind: I leaned into it, tasting a lot of that bad weather stuff on my face as I did, but most of it rolled off my coat (purchased at REI, of course, by my husband, so you better believe it was a high-quality one). I faced the winter again and again, usually with the cute rump of a yellow lab trotting in front of me, her tail up and happy, loving being out, not caring too much what the weather might be throwing our way that particular walk. It was still a chance to breathe fresh air, stick up a stick or two, jump up on a neighbor, pee in someone else's yard, and--wonder of all wonders--poop and have her mom pick it right up.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I can think of only four or five walks this winter when I was truly miserable. I wore rain pants, my husband's insulated rain boots, a long rain coat, baseball cap and hood to guard against the wet. But I tried to trick myself into thinking they were fun--puddles and a puppy helped.<br />
<br />
And suddenly, I find myself here. In April. On the other side of my first winter. My friends keep saying how rainy the winter was--the worst in recent memory. Locals keep grumbling about how bad the winter was--a man on a street corner told me it was like "that one Sigourney Weaver movie when she's taken over by aliens and it won't stop raining."<br />
<br />
Um, huh?<br />
<br />
Whatever this guy meant, it is Spring. And we made it.<br />
<br />
Yesterday as our whole region smiled up at the sun, Sunny and I trotted along the sidewalk, I realized that I finally got this whole setting expectations thing right. I expected gray and dismal and tough, and any time it was not that gray or not that dismal and not that tough, I noted it. And was happy about it. A little celebration, actually. When it went back to gray and dismal and tough, I got into my lean-into-it stance. And the cycle continued--of keeping my expectations realistic and low, but being happy when the weather was better.<br />
<br />
There's something to be learned from this. It might take me a few more winters to practice this new skill and carry it into other parts of my life besides walks with my dog. But, I plan on sticking around.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-15804550550353467802017-03-31T05:42:00.001-07:002017-03-31T05:42:18.707-07:00Uni-tasking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCuaeItb0eI31Yfh4yRcPPDYdByXfvlNJwTIcSD0T2j7TqaOANZ7uX5xlu6WyJrMC6ywOOjMagPkZEG6CVQmVSG0h-RZ4tj4HRoidfLOUVXfNWY_o0VSMuGjxEgWMK4Dlts8eEspSiTs/s1600/31-day-streak-with-border.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCuaeItb0eI31Yfh4yRcPPDYdByXfvlNJwTIcSD0T2j7TqaOANZ7uX5xlu6WyJrMC6ywOOjMagPkZEG6CVQmVSG0h-RZ4tj4HRoidfLOUVXfNWY_o0VSMuGjxEgWMK4Dlts8eEspSiTs/s1600/31-day-streak-with-border.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Recently, and specifically in Michael Pollan's book <i>Cooked</i>, I heard of this concept called "uni-tasking." I'm sure I've heard it before, but in my busy mom-of-three days when I'm trying to squish together so much in the 24 hours given to me, I'm a multi-tasking monster.<br />
<br />
I multitask all day long. I just checked my phone while my computer was downloading the badge above to see what the workout of the day is at my gym. I made a waxing appointment at a few red lights on the way to dropping my kids off at school yesterday. I listened to my audiobook while walking my dog. I talk on the phone while driving. I talk into my phone in the Notes section to write long emails or letters while driving or walking the dog, then I print them out later. I make to-do lists while "relaxing" with my husband at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
Writing out that paragraph makes me realize why I--and many others--are so exhausted by the time we collapse into our beds at night. Maybe our poor sleep is due to the habit of multi-tasking: we are doing things even in our sleep, instead of simply sleeping.<br />
<br />
On the last day of this challenge, and looking to the month of April and the months beyond it, I think I'd like to slow down as many of us have and reflect or observe or just write a little more than I did this month. I want to focus on one thing and one thing only, allowing my mind to wander a little and daydream, or sit on my porch and look at the Puget Sound for a few minutes every day. I know I should go to yoga, and while it might not work for my schedule right now, maybe I'll practice meditating. I'll start with just two or three minutes. Don't laugh--this sitting still thing is going to be a challenge.<br />
<br />
But I like a challenge. And look! I completed this one. I'll commit, start small, and keep going on good and bad days. Thank you so much for your comments and thoughts, and I look forward to seeing you back here next Tuesday!Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-12913861025550297552017-03-30T05:39:00.001-07:002017-03-30T05:39:17.792-07:00Answering JosieI've got a little pen pal relationship with my niece--I'll call her Josie. She and her twin sister, two siblings, giant golden retriever, my sister and her husband live all the way across the country on the East Coast. I can't remember how it happened, but Josie and I have have struck up a serious pen pal relationship.<br />
<br />
This week I got two notes from Josie. The second one was just asking me if I got the first one, and the one last week. That's how a lot of her letters are--just short and sweet. Clearly she feels no pressure to write for an hour, describe every minute of her day, or express her inner most feeling to me. She just grabs a piece of stationery (with her name printed on it, a Christmas gift from my sister) and writes a bit. Whatever is on her mind. I love this and am inspired by it, and do it right back.<br />
<br />
Most of the time. But the earlier note this week--the one that yes, Josie, I did receive--made me laugh out loud. It included this:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Grammy said that you have a bunch of muscles. True or False?"</blockquote>
I am excited to answer her. She just turned ten and is has begun puberty. While we all know we're not supposed to compare, Josie has a twin that is shaped like one of the pine trees around our house. Tall and straight, with straight and long brown hair. They are not identical; Josie is rounder and paler with adorable freckles all over her face and curly red hair.<br />
<br />
So I think the fact that yes, Josie, I have a bunch of muscles, might be a relief to her. Quick background on the muscles: I Crossfit four to five times a week and have been doing so for almost five years. I do Olympic weightlifting with pretty heavy weights and can do pull ups and other "gymnastical" as my trainer says stuff like bar muscle ups and one legged-squats. I am super close to being able to walk on my hands across the gym floor...my best is three feet. My shoulders and biceps are--how can I say it?--ripped. Swoll. Strong.<br />
<br />
I have muscles because I like to push my body and test my body, I'm going to tell her. I am proud of all the things my body can do, and I like to keep the focus on that main purpose of my body--it's not just a thing to hold clothes on. And while I like the fact that I can do thrusters and burpees faster than most men in the class, I love that I can jump into a parents versus kids basketball game with Ben and keep up with him and his teammates. I love that if Lorelei's pony is being naughty, I can hop on and remind her how to transition to a canter nicely. I love that if my kids and the neighbor kids ask me to go for a run, I can stop what I'm doing and run a mile and half with them.<br />
<br />
The purpose of muscles is to participate in a wide variety of things, Josie, and to be strong and capable. I've got to just point out how un-fun the opposite of that is: fragile and incapable. I hope you always are those things, Josie. Strong and capable. Achieve that how you want, but be that, for sure.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-54817560234440984602017-03-29T06:00:00.002-07:002017-03-29T06:00:54.369-07:00All I Really Want Is a Horse<b>Obsessio<span style="font-family: inherit;">n</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #979797;">[</span><span class="dbox-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #979797; display: inline; font-style: italic;">uh</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #979797;"> b-</span><span class="dbox-bold" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #979797; display: inline; font-weight: bold;">sesh</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #979797;">-</span><span class="dbox-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #979797; display: inline; font-style: italic;">uh</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #979797;"> n] </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">the</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">domination</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">of</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">one's</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link oneClick-available" style="box-sizing: border-box;">thoughts</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">or</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">feelings</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">by</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">a</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">persistent</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">idea, </span><span style="background-color: white;"></span><span class="oneClick-link" style="box-sizing: border-box;">image,</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link oneClick-available" style="box-sizing: border-box;">desire,</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span class="oneClick-link oneClick-available" style="box-sizing: border-box;">etc.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="oneClick-link oneClick-available" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="oneClick-link oneClick-available" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
When I was a child, I had one obsession: horses. Every story I wrote, every picture I drew, every dream I dreamt involved a horse. My friend Nikki was just as horse-obsessed as I was. When she'd come over to play, we'd put up jumps all around the living and dining room in our house and jump around on all fours again and again, pretending to be a different horse each time. My sister really liked horses, but she managed to think and do other things that didn't involve horses; sometimes I found it difficult to relate to her balanced approach to horses.<br />
<br />
My sister and I (and my friend Nikki and her sister Heather) were lucky girls because our parents paid for our horseback riding. I began taking lessons in second grade and walked and trotted and cantered until I got to fourth. At that point, we moved from Georgia to Hawaii, where there was a barn near the beach. That was fine for awhile--can't believe my parents drove all that way nearly every day--but then we found a barn closer to us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguE8YZ6saPLSpHe7HIYR1fUy9jedVzplW_z5J_EQiM1uWld3gQ6HmTx61HCO4uc0kLahyFnOqvcRpP1WvB-NVvIg_sOm-0LMQD5KBJf2d3N7GXdHac6nNotQZmgsSFcnkKAPx05jOJLNU/s1600/Flashdance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguE8YZ6saPLSpHe7HIYR1fUy9jedVzplW_z5J_EQiM1uWld3gQ6HmTx61HCO4uc0kLahyFnOqvcRpP1WvB-NVvIg_sOm-0LMQD5KBJf2d3N7GXdHac6nNotQZmgsSFcnkKAPx05jOJLNU/s320/Flashdance.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me & Flashdance, <br />at Wheeler Army Air Force Base, circa 1988 </td></tr>
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And then we found Flashdance. His owner was heading to college but leased him to me. Please, who am I kidding? My parents paid for him, but it was me who rode him almost every day. Flashdance was a great backyard horse who I curry-combed until his coat shone in the Hawaiian sun. I braided his mane and tail for fun, and also for the horse shows we entered. I bathed him, I picked up after him, I made sure the the tack that sat on his body was very clean.<br />
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The hours I spent away from the barn were just as horse-filled. I flipped through catalogs dreaming of stuff I could buy in our color--hunter green. Necessity wasn't required; if the gear looked cool, I wanted it. I bought magazines and read them and books to learn more, learn <i>everything</i> I could about horses.<br />
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Still, Flashdance wasn't mine. While I fully appreciated that he was basically mine, the thing was, he wasn't. My friends Nikki and Heather owned their horses. My parents even bought my sister a horse (for $1! then the people bought him right back when we flew off the island for good). I really wanted to own Flashdance. Or another horse. Okay, any horse.<br />
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I never got to, and my childhood was still pretty blissful without it. But now, at 40, watching my daughter ride and riding once again, I would love to have a horse of my own. Though he would never articulate it, I know he believes love is finite, and the love I'd pour into the horse would mean even less love for him, and he already gets too little after three kids and a cute puppy.<br />
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But you can't logic away an obsession. And I've still got it. Because aren't we all just rehashing our childhoods in one way or another?<br />
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<br />Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-49349116728941851342017-03-28T06:01:00.002-07:002017-03-28T06:01:35.328-07:00Dear Cleaning TeamTo the people cleaning my house today:<br />
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First, I know I'm paying your company a hefty sum for cleaning my house, but I just want to say I'm really grateful that you are here helping me keep my house clean. If it wasn't for you, I would definitely not bother to move the clutter that seems to gather on its own. Thanks for pushing me to do just that.<br />
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A note on the big bundle of sheets and blankets and quilt that is balled up in the hallway: Last night my son came into my husband's and my room complaining of an upset stomach. Because my husband is traveling and I love the excuse to cuddle with my always-growing kids, I invited him into our bed. That turned out to be a pretty stupid move, because he threw up on everything within a five feet radius just ten minutes later. Nothing was left unscathed. The sheets, the pillows, the blankets, the wall, the quilt, the floor, the lamp, the nightstand. It was a puke fest of the nastiest kind.<br />
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I know you all are too young to be parents, but let me assure you that even if you love your kids as much as I do and are empathetic and sympathetic to their ailments and heart aches, their vomit still makes you retch a little.<br />
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And, remember that note about my husband traveling? Right. So I did all the clean up. If I left anything, please forgive me. And wash your hands as many times as I did so we stop the germs with Ben. Because, you know, I've got two other kids and if Ben is just the first in our family of five to get this...we're doomed. Do you know what the puke bug does to families? Nothing good. Nothing good at all.<br />
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The other thing about the timing is that we'll now be in the house when you're here, which I really don't prefer. We'll be in one part of the house while you're cleaning another. And when I say "we" I also mean my young dog who will likely bark and be high-energy the whole time...while at the same time my son Ben will need to rest and be low-energy.<br />
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And then there's me--I'm utterly exhausted, having hardly slept because after the clean up I had no other option but to sleep in a bedroom that still smelled like vomit. I've left coffee beans on my night stand to try and absorb the smell a bit, and I will open the windows in the afternoon if the weather warms up like it did yesterday. If I'm still in my pajamas after dropping off my other two kids at school and taking my dog to the dog park so Ben can sit in the car while Sunny tires herself out...please don't judge me. Throw me a sympathetic look and I'll leave a bigger tip.<br />
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Because I'm really grateful you're here.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-74384119426079128902017-03-27T05:48:00.001-07:002017-03-27T05:48:19.058-07:00So. Very. Close.In April of 2014 I wrote a 10,000-ish word chapter book. I woke up every morning and typed out one short chapter, the story flowing out of me fairly easily most mornings. Other mornings, I would maintain my promise to write a chapter, even though I knew it wasn't awesome and it'd need to be heavily revised.<br />
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Fast forward to today, and this same manuscript has gone a few radical revisions, has been shown to two different critique groups, has traveled to an intense writers workshop down in California where it was shown to and earned some praise from writers and agents and editors. Everyone had comments on how it could be improved, <i>should</i> be improved, but they all thought it had real potential.<br />
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Over the weekend I outlined what I would need to do in order to submit it to my first choice agent by my children's last day of school. From that deadline I drew others: when to get it back from my mother to do a final out-loud read, when it send it to my mother for copyedits, when to get the first ten pages to my critique group, what weeks I would have to insert all of the feedback they gave me on the last version of the manuscript.<br />
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It's grown to 15,000 words, and it has matured in the years since I wrote that first draft, and I am very hopeful that it is the key to finally getting an agent. The picture book manuscripts that are growing dusty on my virtual shelf were and maybe still are good, but not good enough. I know it's the pressure of being this close and being this hopeful that has me looking for other things to do in my schedule.<br />
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But this is it--these next few days I've got to keep these slices short and focused so I can sit and focus on my chapter book, making sure the characters are full and funny, that each sentence moves the plot along, that each scene is interesting and page-turn-worthy.<br />
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Keep your fingers crossed for me (please)!Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-36590493038290655962017-03-26T19:28:00.000-07:002017-03-26T19:28:10.173-07:00Happy to be Here, A teapot involves too many steps for me, especially on days like today. I just filled up the big, giant mug my cousin painted for me this summer at the pottery place in our little downtown. After three minutes, the microwave told me the water was hot enough. I don't care about the specifics; I'm hardly picky about how hot it is or how long the tea steeps. Sometimes I end up forgetting about it and have to reheat it hours later. No matter. I still drink it.<br />
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I'm just happy to have finally made it to this drinking tea part of my day. It's been a long one, filled with sullen anger from my husband, which led to an ugly argument before he went out the door on a trip for work for most of the week. Sigh. That left me crabby and angry with three little kids on a cold, drizzly day. Suffice to say it wasn't my most stellar mom day, but I managed to play a few fun Uno games, make homemade muffins for Ben's baseball game, and feel grateful for that game, which pulled me out of the house and out of my witchy mood.<br />
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And now it's evening, and my kids are chomping on apples while they wind down and watch Odd Squad before heading to bed. I'll visit their rooms one at a time, padding along in my ugly but warm and comfy Ugg slippers, carrying my big mug of tea. First I'll read two picture books to Kiefer, then I'll read a handful of poems from Kwame Alexander's <i>The Crossover</i>, and then I'll head downstairs to Lorelei's room where I'll finish my tea and a chapter of <i>Short</i> by Holly Goldberg Sloan.<br />
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And then, the house will be quiet. I'll walk Sunny one more time and head to bed early. I'm already looking forward to Monday morning. I love Mondays--a fresh new week, a fresh new day, a fresh new start. It's like a reset button.<br />
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See you then.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-81715322277365845372017-03-25T06:20:00.000-07:002017-03-25T06:20:39.526-07:00On Being Interviewed by BenMy son Ben is in second grade. His class is doing a project for Women's History Month that involves interviewing special women in the students' lives. Last week their homework was to interview one special woman. I was very pleased that Ben chose me (though, let's be honest, he procrastinated until the last day and I was really the only over-18 woman around to interview!).<br />
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The questions were simple:<br />
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<ol>
<li>What are you most proud of?</li>
<li>What has been your biggest challenge?</li>
<li>What words of advice do you have for young girls?</li>
</ol>
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Simple, but they stopped me in my tracks. My mind raced to the adult answers to these questions, and as I stared at my 8 year old, I had my own question in my mind: How honest should I be? I had to stall a little, pretending that I had to do one more thing in the kitchen before sitting down to chat with him. My mind raced a little, searching for the appropriate, yet still honest, answer for him.</div>
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I settled on these answers, which were probably full paragraphs when they came out of my mouth, but succinct (slightly lazy?) Ben shortened them to a sentence or two:</div>
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<ol>
<li>My mom is proud that she learned to speak Thai fluently in the Peace Corps.</li>
<li>My mom's biggest challenge is staying patient and calm as a mother.</li>
<li>When you're young, you might want to hide your differences so you blend in. When you're older, you realize these differences are the things that make you special.</li>
</ol>
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But the questions rolled around in my head for hours afterward, and I think they (and the fact that I was thirsty from only drinking wine, not water, when we went out last night) woke me up way too early this morning. I woke up thinking of my grown-up answers to them. Here they are...as you can see, they are a little longer!</div>
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<ol>
<li>I'm proud that I'm still married after going through some really tough years. I'm proud that I kept my promise to stay committed to my husband despite having what some might argue were reasons and opportunities to leave. I'm very proud that we will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary in two months. We're a work in progress, no doubt, but I'm proud of sticking it out.</li>
<li>My biggest challenge? Two things: First, in coming to terms with where I am in life. Accepting the fact that I am a writer who has published essays but is <i>still</i> working on getting a book out. My main focus is my children and their health and development, so a lot of my time is spent in the kitchen, shuttling them to activities, and spending quality time as a family. Second, letting go of resentment. Forgiving things that should be water under the bridge by now, but...I'm <i>really</i> good at recycling grievances.</li>
<li>Believe in yourself, believe in your own worth, believe that your dreams are possible. Work hard to achieve the things you really want. Be humble to the process. Hold your head up high even though you will, inevitably, make mistakes.</li>
</ol>
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What about you? How would you answer these questions? What are the first answers that jump to your mind?</div>
Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-59528174426850674722017-03-24T06:06:00.003-07:002017-03-24T06:06:29.859-07:00I Should Read LessI know everyone's goal is to read more, but I think I should do the opposite. For the past three years, one of my new year's goals is to read 100 books. As a stay-at-home writer and mom of three children, that's an ambitious but achievable goal. After reading Stephen King's invaluable <i>On Writing</i>, I added audiobooks to my daily routine and found that this was the way to achieve my goal almost effortlessly.<br />
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About four years ago, our local librarian showed me how to download the Overdrive app that allowed and still allows me to borrow audiobooks from the library. Like my beloved physical hold shelf, I can put books on hold and wait for months while also searching for a book that was "available now." I loved it: I could plan ahead <i>and </i>get instant gratification.<br />
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Pretty soon, I was never without words. And that's still the case now. I listen to books while shuttling from drop off to pick up and all the errands in between. I listen to books while I do all those mindless things around the house: cleaning up the kitchen, folding the laundry, picking up the piles of clutter, sweeping the floors. I got headphones and began listening to books while walking my pup. Every now and then, when I was at the very end of a book or listening against the hard deadline of a due date, I would put in my ear bud and listen while others were around. During our summer road trip, I listened to the end of the wonderful <i>The Nightingale </i>while my husband drove through Utah and my kids watched a movie in the back. But mostly it's just me and the audiobook. We were pals.<br />
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Then, last week, while listening to the extraordinary <i>Cooked </i>by Michael Pollan, I had a bit of a revelation. In the book, he writes (or, in my case, spoke about--I really love it when authors read their own books, by the way) how chopping onions and garlic and other vegetables as prep for a slowly-cooked meal was a great way to daydream.<br />
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Daydream? Huh?<br />
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Upon reflection, I realized that audiobooks shaved off my time to daydream. And I think, years ago, that was the point. At the time, my husband and I were slugging through some murky crap because and in addition to the fact that I was personally at a difficult time in my life. As I looked back and saw the point at which I started listening to audiobooks almost compulsively. I think I filled my head with words and stories from somebody else because I didn't trust my own words and thoughts. At this point in my life, the thoughts always spiraled downwards into some dangerous, negative abyss.<br />
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Interestingly, it was also at this point in my life when I stopped running long distances--mostly I did that because of an injury to my foot, but the short and intense, group (read: with friends!) Crossfit workouts were a good replacement for long, solitary, thought-filled runs.<br />
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Want the good news? I think I'm okay to daydream again. I think I'm okay to let my thoughts drift as they will. I think I'm okay to turn off the audiobook and listen to my own story again, at least some of the time.<br />
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P.S. In case you're in the market for a good audiobook, here are some of my absolute favorites:<br />
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<ul>
<li><i>Love, Loss, and What We Ate</i> by Padma Lakshmi</li>
<li><i>Yes, Please!</i> by Amy Polhar </li>
<li><i>Everything I Never Told You </i>by Celeste Ng</li>
<li><i>The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary</i> by Laura Shovan (middle grade)</li>
<li><i>Gooney Bird Greene</i> series by Lois Lowrey (middle grade)</li>
<li><i>Orange is the New Black </i>by Piper Kerman</li>
<li><i>Cooked </i>by Michael Pollan</li>
<li><i>Life From Scratch: A Memoir of Food, Family, and Forgiveness </i>by Sasha Martin</li>
</ul>
Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-8030772285842273842017-03-23T05:52:00.000-07:002017-03-23T05:52:04.292-07:00Working Through a MoodMy youngest son, Kiefer, has a sunny personality. He charms everyone he meets with his precocious words delivered through his toothless lisp and slightly mischievous expression. His teachers report he's a joy to have in the classroom; his coaches nod in approval at his hard work and hustle and good attitude on a field or court.<br />
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But the past two afternoons when I've picked him up from school, he's been nothing like his usual self. He's been a storm cloud of a child, complaining of the after school snack, crying about being dragged to whatever activity we've got scheduled that day, and falling apart if one tiny thing goes awry. I think he's got a little cold, I think he's going through a growth spurt so is hungrier than usual, I think he's just five years old.<br />
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I'm not sure which day was worse--Tuesday or yesterday--but yesterday we at least came home after school. A nice treat in our baseball-filled schedule! But getting yesterday what he wanted on Tuesday did not soften or brighten Kiefer's mood. Nope. He was a total grumpus. He didn't want to paint with his siblings and neighbors. But when he finally did, and when his big sister accidentally touched him with the tip of her brush, he ran to his room in hysterics. He didn't want to go outside to play, nor did he want to do extra chores to earn money for a baseball backpack his big brother just bought for himself. He didn't want to play with the puppy or build with Legos. He didn't want to read books or do something with stickers.<br />
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It sure seemed all he wanted to do was bug the bejeezus out of me.<br />
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But then I started making dinner. Out of my three helpful kids, Kiefer is the most helpful in kitchen. I showed him the balls of pasta dough I mixed earlier that were resting on the countertop. All by himself, he got out and clamped the pasta machine onto the counter and sprinkled flour over the dough balls.<br />
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We had six little rolled of pasta and he insisted on cranking out all of them. That means he cranked each of the rolls four different times, making the long strips of pasta thinner and thinner with each crank. The first run through the machine is seriously hard work, but he grunted "I can do it" as he cranked. And he could! He laughed at how long they became, marveled how one twisted itself inside the pasta machine and became "L-shaped," and loved sprinkling flour on each pasta after it was rolled out. I asked my daughter Lorelei to come take a picture of us, working together to make dinner:<br />
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By the time the pasta and accompanying meatballs were cooked, Kiefer was a different child. By <i>doing</i> something important. He and I watched humble dough balls transform into pasta and created a nourishing dinner for his family. This made something inside Kiefer relax a little, soften a bit.<br />
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There's some magic in every mother's kitchen, and there's no doubt in my mind that I witnessed some in mine last night. After an hour of grumpy, frustrated back-and-forth conversation between me and my son, we came together as a team to make food from scratch. And then, we sat down together and ate it.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4337170722151769987.post-24406309793738560912017-03-22T05:54:00.001-07:002017-03-22T05:54:44.497-07:00Neighbors and a HumpbackLast summer, we traded in our private, deer-visited, woodsy home in Virginia for a home on the edge of a small town just north of Seattle. We got lucky and found a house that looks out on the vast, blue, ever-changing Puget Sound. Between our backyard and that body of water sits two train tracks. Throughout the day and throughout the night, Amtraks zip and coal-holding cars chug along. It takes some getting used to but we love that these trains are part of our life.<br />
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The trains are mostly charming and the water is mesmerizing, but there's one more thing I love about our home: neighbors. We got lucky in that respect, too. We live in a community where half of the population is over 60 years old. But right next door to us--together with their 60ish year old grandparents--lives a family with three young children. Their two boys are about the age of our two boys, and the four run from one house to another, one yard to another, one family to another. (We each have a girl in the family, but mine is the oldest, and theirs is the youngest, so that match up doesn't work quite as well.)<br />
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We borrow sugar or oatmeal from each other, we bring flowers over for a birthday, their (homeschooled) boys come over and ask if they can play with our puppy when my children are in school (always, always I say yes).<br />
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Yesterday I received a text almost simultaneously from the grandmother and the mother saying, "Kate! There's a whale! Are you home?" I dropped what I was doing and ran outside to find the grandparents and oldest boy staring out into the Puget Sound. It was a gray day, but the water was a blueish-gray and the sky was a light gray, and the clouds threatened rain all day but only spat out some drizzles every now and then. That didn't matter much, because spotting a whale was worth the wet.<br />
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The four of us, joined by the mother a short while later (who had been watching from inside) stood outside together, chatting but keeping our eyes trained to the water, trying to spot the whale again and again. We agreed it was a humpback, we agreed it was lingering more than we'd expect, and we agreed it was awesome.<br />
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For me, this whale-spotting is magical because they live in a whole, complicated, mysterious world so near to our home. There's still so much we don't know about them, and yet humpbacks have been part of humans' history for thousands of years. When this humpback surfaced yesterday, she was visiting our known world for a few seconds before returning back to hers. I was awestruck in that moment, when we were both in the same world.<br />
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But I think that's the same feeling I have towards my neighbors--I am old enough to know that there is a whole lot I don't know about other people's marriages and a family's inner workings that goes on behind closed doors. I respect those closed doors; I have them myself. But maybe that makes these moments when our families come together and look out and share a laugh over a backyard fence just as special as spotting a humpback. And when these two moments come together--AH!--well...that's downright heart-warming.Book Mamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10019696808857914040noreply@blogger.com2