I Quit

I'm quitting writing.

I just got home from my middle grade critique group, where I told my two excellent, also unpublished authors: "I need to take a break."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.

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.

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.

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.

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 really thinking about it, I've decided to quit writing children's books.

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.

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.

My Daughter Asked Me About Bad Decisions...

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.

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. 

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. 

Here's what I came up with:

• 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.
• 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.

But there are two things that I came up with that aren't funny and probably never will be:

• 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.
• 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.

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.

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: Why didn't I do X? That was clearly the right thing to do! But when you're in the thick of it, that clarity simply doesn't exist.

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!

The Trees I See

I'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.

Other than that, it's just me and the view.

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.

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.

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.

And then there's the seventh tree.

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.

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.

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?

How ludicrous! How laughable! What a silly thought! Trees don't have thoughts like that.

And with that, I'd like to be a more tree-like. I want to grow where I need to grow. Grow how 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.

Athlete vs Gambler

A 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.

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.

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.

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.

"What is gambling, Mom?" Ben asked me.

"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.

"Have you ever gambled?"

"No," I said. That was why my answer was short sweet.

"Why not?" Ben asked me.

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.

"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."

"Plus," I added, "Did you see any huge windows in that casino?"

"No," Ben answered.

"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."

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.

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.

Summer Writing

My 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.

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.

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.

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.

Summer Nanny

I hired a summer nanny. Please don’t hate me. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Marathon Mama

In 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

After the birth of my other two children, I waited a while longer to run a marathon. For their sake, and for mine!

Read Before SOL Testing

Dear students,

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.

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.

One more thing about Ben: He's pretty lucky to have a wise big sister named Lorelei.

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?"

He didn't say anything, but he turned his soggy eyes to her.

"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."

Ben said nothing.

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.

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.)

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.

But Ben made it first. And that was his first home run ever in a baseball game.

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.

Now sit down and give that test all you've got.

Expectations, and Getting it Right

Expectations 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.

I seem to be an expert at this hoping-too-much stuff, and that disappointment taste is a familiar, biting shot.

But I think I got it right this time.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Um, huh?

Whatever this guy meant, it is Spring. And we made it.

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.

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.

Uni-tasking

Recently, and specifically in Michael Pollan's book Cooked, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Answering Josie

I'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.

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.

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:

"Grammy said that you have a bunch of muscles. True or False?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

All I Really Want Is a Horse

Obsession [uh b-sesh-uh n] 

the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, desire, etc.



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.

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.

Me & Flashdance,
at Wheeler Army Air Force Base, circa 1988 

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.

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 everything I could about horses.

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.

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.

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?

Dear Cleaning Team

To the people cleaning my house today:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Because I'm really grateful you're here.

So. 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.

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, should be improved, but they all thought it had real potential.

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.

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.

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.

Keep your fingers crossed for me (please)!

Happy 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.

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.

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 The Crossover, and then I'll head downstairs to Lorelei's room where I'll finish my tea and a chapter of Short by Holly Goldberg Sloan.

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.

See you then.

On Being Interviewed by Ben

My 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!).

The questions were simple:

1. What are you most proud of?
2. What has been your biggest challenge?
3. What words of advice do you have for young girls?

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.

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:

1. My mom is proud that she learned to speak Thai fluently in the Peace Corps.
2. My mom's biggest challenge is staying patient and calm as a mother.
3. 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.

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!

1. 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.
2. 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 still 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 really good at recycling grievances.
3. 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.

What about you? How would you answer these questions? What are the first answers that jump to your mind?

I Should Read Less

I 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 On Writing, I added audiobooks to my daily routine and found that this was the way to achieve my goal almost effortlessly.

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 and get instant gratification.

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 The Nightingale 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.

Then, last week, while listening to the extraordinary Cooked 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.

Daydream? Huh?

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.

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.

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.




P.S. In case you're in the market for a good audiobook, here are some of my absolute favorites:

• Love, Loss, and What We Ate by Padma Lakshmi
• Yes, Please! by Amy Polhar 
• Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng
• The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary by Laura Shovan (middle grade)
• Gooney Bird Greene series by Lois Lowrey (middle grade)
• Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman
• Cooked by Michael Pollan
• Life From Scratch: A Memoir of Food, Family, and Forgiveness by Sasha Martin

Working Through a Mood

My 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.

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.

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.

It sure seemed all he wanted to do was bug the bejeezus out of me.

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.

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:

By the time the pasta and accompanying meatballs were cooked, Kiefer was a different child. By doing 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.

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.

Neighbors and a Humpback

Last 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.

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.)

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

Applesauce

My husband prizes efficiency above most everything else. Couple with the fact that I cook a ton for our family of five, he encouraged me to give Amazon Fresh a try. I ordered groceries online in Virginia, but never had them delivered to me. He was right--it was worth a one month trial at the very least. I've done four orders in two weeks and I like many things about it, but one of the difficulties of ordering online is making sure I know exactly what I'm ordering. I take responsibility for my mistakes--I'm always ordering groceries late at night when I should be asleep, and I don't pay as much attention as I should.

That is how I ended up with not five Fuji apples but five bags of Fuji apples. Fifteen pounds in all.

My son Ben and I love apples, but...that's a lot of apples! I gave a bag to the neighbors and brought half a bag to our barn for the horses and ponies and riders, too. But that left me with three bags of wonderful apples that I did not want to waste.

What's a girl to do? I made applesauce.

I've tried it once before and my children, then just two of them and a lot younger, didn't love it. I was bummed and probably ate it all myself rather than throw it away. But I'm listening to (and loving) Michael Pollan's Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation. The story of the book is how he's taking the responsibility for feeding his family back from the manufacturers and restaurants and placing it in his own hands. Early in the book he talks about how we rely on others to make food for our children, but we should make it ourselves.

The book is very inspiring, so I pulled our slow cooker out and starting peeling apples. I peeled a dozen, having fun while attempting to peel the entire apple without sliding my knife in but once. Twelve tries, I got it once. I sliced the apples, added 1/2 cup of water, and set it to low. These apples would cook for six hours; they would be ready right when my boys' baseball game (for the youngest) and baseball practice (for the older) finished. When we got home from our respective baseball diamonds--this simultaneous game/practice meant my husband and I had to split up, I'd add cinnamon, vanilla, and a little honey.

My plan worked even better than expected. The temperature dropped from mid-40s to low-40s while we were all outside, and while we ate an early dinner at home, everyone was a little hungry and a lot cold. The smell of my warm applesauce met us at the door. The kids showered and grabbed bowls, loved the fact that I added vanilla right to their individual bowls, and they ate it up. Cinnamon-y and rich, I was blown away by how much better this stuff tasted than the mash-ups my youngest son eats almost every day. (He didn't try my applesauce, but two out of three kids liked it--which is normal and fine for this first time!)

Like Pollan, I like the idea of slowly taking back the reins from those companies I outsourced. I'm inspired by his words and ready for his challenge: cook at home a little more than you do now.

Click HERE for the applesauce recipe I used in case you want to try it!

Sesame Chicken Wings

Light years ago before I had children, when I was a child myself, my parents asked me to cook for the family. The details are fuzzy. Was it once a week? Did they supervise at all? Was I in the fifth or sixth grade? Questions abound, but I remember exactly what I made: sesame chicken wings. Every time.

Sesame chicken wings was probably not the nutrient-filled meal my mother wished I would make. In fact, I don't recall serving anything with the sesame chicken wings. Every time it was my turn to make dinner, I got out the chicken wing packages and patted them dry. I lined the cookie sheet I used with tin foil for an easier clean-up. Then, I know I dredged them in some combination of ingredients. Soy sauce must have been one, maybe flour and honey as well...? That sure seems like an odd combination now that I'm writing it out. I remember sprinkling sesame seeds on top. And into the oven they went! I flipped them once halfway through the baking time. That I am sure of! At least it makes sense that I would...

Thinking back on this early cooking memory, the questions make me chuckle. The fact that my family ate these again and again makes me appreciate them a little more. But the biggest thing is how grateful I am to have this memory. Thank you, mom, not just for reading this slice like I know you will, but for also putting me in that kitchen and letting me make whatever I felt confident making. And for eating it--again and again and again! Maybe the fact that I'm a confident, fine cook now is because of this early, positive experience in the kitchen.

I was talking with a girlfriend last night who said that her cooking skills are nonexistent because her mother shooed her and her five siblings out of the kitchen when she cooked. And her mother cooked food to feed her kids--but without curiosity, joy, or any love of the process of cooking. My friend said that she never wanted to go into the kitchen after a while because it was full of sighs and slamming pots.

With three school age kids, I realize that the choices I make regarding what I cook for them (yesterday I wrote about sugar) definitely matter. But there's more to it than that. How do I cook? What do I show them about the process? Is my kitchen a place they want to be? And, the biggest question: how do I involve them? Over the years I've answered this in a variety of ways, and there are plenty of other moms who take pictures and blog and write cookbooks about this subject. They've inspired and, when I get tired of the mess, reinsured me to get my kids to help cut and create, roll pasta and of course bake. It seems silly to be thinking of the time when my kids cook for themselves when they are so young now, but I want them to be confident, creative, curious cooks.

And, because I think it's funny, I think I might make sesame chicken wings again soon. Albeit a tastier recipe, and served with heaps of vegetables and rice, too. (My favorite recipe is Smitten Kitchen's sticky sesame chicken wings...)

The Case Against Sugar

I just finished listening to the audiobook The Case Against Sugar by Gary Taubes. I hope my children enjoyed their last cookie yesterday.

Okay, okay. Even though I can and sometimes do employ the strictest no-sugar, nothing-processed diet on myself, I've yet to make it more than a few weeks without a "cheat meal." If it's tough for me to resist the sugary options in this American life of ours, it's nearly impossible for them. I believe with my whole heart the right diet is: mostly vegetables, lots of lean protein, some nuts and fruit. I have always, since they first lifted solid foods to their own mouths, given food to them in this order. By the time they got to the grain option I usually gave them--bread, pasta, rice--they were already full of what I considered the best stuff.

But now they're in school. And sports.

This next chapter of healthful eating involves more sugar than I would like. And it all adds up: popsicles during cross-country practice, a brownie for Sadie's birthday, a cupcake because it's the last math team, a Gatorade handed out by Brody's mom after the basketball game. How do I manage all these sweets?

I'm open to suggestions, so if you've got 'em, please use that comment box below!

I realize I'm not the person who should be listening to The Case Against Sugar. There are millions of Americans who are completely ignorant of how sugary drinks and meals can affect their health. I can't reach them, but I can affect my three children and my husband, who, unfairly, is the only one who is allowed to break the no-juice rule in our house. (Hmm. This one is going to be a toughie.) I think I've got to ban Gatorade, which is something I've said for years that no child or adult needs to drink. And juice...never? Once a month?

However, I think the school is my second step. Dare I become a no-sugar or low-sugar advocate and start a campaign to ban birthday snacks in lieu of a birthday announcement or a special book being read? Dare I become That Parent who suggests all-fruit frozen popsicles rather than the cheap, sugary ones?

A commitment to healthy living is a challenge, but I am hugely committed to my children's growing bodies and healthy habits. But I can't go totally overboard because at some point they're going to have to navigate these choices by themselves...

(to be continued! as I ruminate on this!)

Where I Want to Travel

My daydreams are of Cuba.

This really makes no sense whatsoever. My puny Spanish vocabulary has been overwhelmed by my Thai, and the short conversations I have with the men who work at our barn are chuckle-worthy at best. They show tremendous patience as I stumble through the simple sentence I'm trying to say.

And Cuba is now thousands of miles away--even farther now that we live in Washington. There are other places that I could go that would be as or nearly as exotic. I haven't looked into this cockamamie idea far enough to know the travel restrictions, but I'm guessing they are trickier today than they were last year.

But Cuba is still in my thoughts, I think for four reasons:

First, I was a political science major in college and have a graduate degree in international relations. Though its focus was Southeast Asia, a place I know a whole lot more about, I'm intrigued by how the politics in Cuba affected its people. I should read more about this (recommendations, anyone?).

Second, I love how Cuba seems to be stuck in the past. As a Luddite who eschews most things digital for our children and as a person who doesn't want the latest phone or remote or whatever cool gadget, it seems natural to be drawn to a place that appears to be living in the past.

Third, almost all the pictures I've ever seen of Cuba involve sun and people bashing in the sun. Now that I live in a rainy climate, I'm not overlooking the fact that places with a lot of sun look mighty attractive to me now. Plus, I love hats, so having a chance and a place to wear those sunny-weather, dapper hats is always a bonus.

Fourth, and biggest reason: I want to go with my best friend, who is half-Cuban. Growing up visiting her house, I heard the crazy Spanish flung around by her mother and her sisters, and was told how Stacey's grandmother had a bottle of champagne waiting, for when Castro died. I should know more about their story, how they got here, and I'm sorry to say I don't. But exploring this small country with my best friend beside me, spending hours walking the streets, soaking up a different culture with my very best friend is the stuff of dreams. In my case, my daydreams.

Now I've got to figure out: how can I make this happen? Now that I've yanked my daydream from my brain and put it into words, now that I've written this slice and put my wishes out there in the universe...this seems to be a logical next step. There's got to be a way. Right?

The Art of Being Sexy

My husband is urging me to be a little sexier.

It's hard for me not to sigh when typing this. I know his words come from the intention of capitalizing on our fleeting youth and fantastic health. He loves me, but he loves my body a little less when it's covered in exactly what I'm wearing now--a too-big-for-me sweatshirt and comfortable Athleta warm-up pants. I want to be a good, fun partner and jump to his suggestions and encouragement.

But the truth is, I'm comfortable in this outfit. I live in this type of clothing because I want to be the type of mom who can jump onto the court and play basketball with one son, like I did last night. Or help my daughter brush and tack up her pony without the excuse of, "I don't want to get these shoes dirty." I feel like I'm at the age where I rarely want strangers' attention on bright lips, tight clothes, and heels that are going to hurt my feet anyway.

However, I want to trust him a little, tip-toe a few inches out of my comfort zone, and realize that there's a time to put my mom clothes away. It's good and healthy for me to simply be his partner, his date, his lover and nothing else. I admit that when I do pull clothes from this side of my closet, with silkier fabrics and less comfortable shoes, I also pull a bit of female power that is definitely there and fun to play with. And a little attention from others other than husband won't kill me.

So for our date night this Saturday night I went online and rented a dress from Rent the Runway. Have any of you done this? I urge you to stay far, far away from the site because there are millions of dresses  at affordable rental prices and you'll waste hours scrolling through the options. I say this with experience. I say this as someone who just wasted another five minutes of her life scrolling through Monique Lluli dresses while writing this blogpost. In addition to that guilty dress-shopping experience, I found a dress last week that is, without a doubt, sexy.

It is a simple, black sheath dress that covers everything from my neck to my knees...except for the parts that are sheer. There's a liner for my chest area, but the area above is mesh so that under the black material you can see skin. And then between the chest and my waist shows three inches more of skin underneath. Of course--I'm not a complete hussy--the area between my waist and upper thigh is covered, but then there is six more inches below that where the material shows skin underneath.

I think it's sexy but not overly so. Pushing the envelope while still being classy. Right?

However, I woke up this morning remembering a dream I had. Fact: we're going to a very nice restaurant tomorrow night and I'm planning on wearing this sexy, partly-sheer dress. Yet I dreamt we got to the restaurant and I was the only one wearing a cocktail dress and heels, and everyone else was wearing the normal Pacific Northwest attire--comfy jeans and brown clunkers for shoes, nondescript sweatshirts and surely a rain coat for the weather. All heads turned to me and I felt out of place and uncomfortable!

Is this the adult version of showing up at school without pants?!

Today I might give a quick call to the restaurant to inquire about their tasting menu...and their dress code.

Why Moving and a Puppy Go Hand in Hand

Last Spring, we prepared for our cross-country move by closing ties with people and places in Virginia and maintained a clutter-free existence while our house was on the market. It felt like we were throwing up everything in the air and hoping that it would fall into place sometime in the next few years in a place we knew only somewhat. In the midst of all this, our sweet old dog passed away. It was a blessing and a curse, as most things are in life. My heart had a big, Lulu-sized hole in it and I was ready to leave the house she'd lived in to escape the hurt.

So I got my name on a list for a lab puppy. Right there, in the middle of that messy season, I knew it was the right thing to do.

A rebound relationship of another sort? Maybe, but I know I'm a dog person and having an affectionate bundle of wags that needed me (and I needed right back) was something I believed I needed in my life. The sooner, the better.

After a very exciting and very fun and very big summer, we arrived at our new home in Washington State the third week of July. Just as the dust was settling on my car (it had been in motion for a very long time as we traveled) and our kids got a little taste of the enormity of the task of being "the new kid," we went and picked up Sunny. She was an incredible bundle of wag. Her tail moved nonstop--when she was awake. Every jump and bounce and off-balance run made us all smile and laugh.

Sunny (at two months?) & Kiefer

School began soon after that. After their first day of school--their first day of school as The New Kid--it was Sunny and her wagging tail that met them in the car. (I drove, but they didn't see me or need me in the same way.) It was Sunny who picked them up when they were feeling a little blue. It was Sunny who Lorelei could sit with during early, friend-less afternoons, with the boys out playing with the neighbor boys.

My kids have thoroughly enjoyed Sunny. But between you and me, the puppy was for me. I turned 40 last summer and my youngest went to kindergarten--what a big year! I'm an extravert, and while I like some time pretending I'm an introvert, I knew too much alone time wasn't good for me. I had some college friends scattered around, but not the tight group of moms I could call on during the school day. Or after school. Or...well, anytime. Sunny was not the same as my good girlfriends, but she kept me company, gave me someone to talk to and focus on rather than just myself. I could play with her--I was supposed to play with her!--and she wagged all the more.

Sunny (when she fit in that bed) & me (I still fit in that chair)

And a puppy--especially in those early days when she was just a fluffball--gave us a great excuse to meet every single one of our neighbors. People would drive by, stop and get out, and come pet her and talk to us. She brought smiles to their faces, but their smiles extended easily to us. Soon we knew all the dog names in the neighborhood...and we were working on their people's names.

During Summer, Sunny was up once or twice at night, and I got a big eye-full of the starry sky every night. I was blurry in the morning, sure, but the stars were an impressive silver lining of
losing sleep. Summer turned to Fall and the weather turned from glorious to rainy, Sunny stayed sunny and got me out in the rain, regardless of what I wanted to do. And that, too, has been a good thing.

So...are you moving? Consider getting a puppy. (Although if you're moving somewhere cold in the dead of winter you might want to wait until it thaws!)