tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56080034943861571542024-02-20T05:43:29.621-08:00What MattersSometimes, it's the Little things.CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-26798558003399633942010-11-05T21:22:00.000-07:002010-11-07T13:06:59.823-08:00winning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs37XMN3UMSfsgURxizh2oaOGB2cMpxAWrGo55tmdKrLx5z7G2LUcYOvEgo76m0rpVC9OiJtcNEEhStysRus3P47YCFtapDr2akzRxPaIb12yeZ22snV04uY4TkvoCOhUj7fdEn5TAlKFs/s1600/three.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 395px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs37XMN3UMSfsgURxizh2oaOGB2cMpxAWrGo55tmdKrLx5z7G2LUcYOvEgo76m0rpVC9OiJtcNEEhStysRus3P47YCFtapDr2akzRxPaIb12yeZ22snV04uY4TkvoCOhUj7fdEn5TAlKFs/s400/three.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536291803221096546" /></a><div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had Halloween last weekend. It began, predictably enough, with me frantic and fragmented and late to a school party. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:small;">It followed that we attended a party, carved pumpkins, hung a light fixture, greeted house guests, drank some wine, made crowns in Sunday school, and then trick or treated.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mine were the kids with pillow cases and grocery bags. Patrick's cape went missing and Annabeth's dress itched. We took exactly four photos, and the only one of the three lined up is blurry - as if the photographer were married to a shrill crazy lady in the backgound that somehow made him shake the camera.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Over heaping piles of candy the next day, we worked on a big, messy flower project. We did so stubbornly, with great fanfare, a lot of mod podge, and some noise.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This week, there two great spelling test scores and two field trips. We checked boxes off of reading journals and quizzed around breakfast crumbs. Tomorrow, we take Christmas photos. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Three rainy days this week, and the kids got their new rainboots THE DAY BEFORE THE RAIN CAME. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dinners were hot, and vegetables were involved, and they mostly all at home. Which has to be worth something.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I worked out two mornings, early. I flaked on one meeting, and almost flaked on a dinner. But I recovered, and I attended. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I cried once - but it was brief. And I recovered from that just fine, too. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I dragged the kids to a fancy store to stock up on baby gifts. More big noise, and 2/3 had to stay in the car.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We got them all registered for basketball - inside of the deadline by several days! We didn't even have to place that call where we beg for an extension.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I lined up some doctor's appointments and I read four chapters of the Indian in the Cupboard out loud.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I finally passed my test. The relief is out of proportion to the score (which was fine. But - O! The relief!) And tonight, in the cold and the wet, after a spectacular finish, tonight we learn the Knights are going to playoffs! (No one could have predicted a 9-1 season for a school that's only had football three short years.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was not a graceful week, but a week well-lived. It is after midnight and unusually chilly. Sleep well, Little ones, and dream of victories large and small.</span></span></div></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-50843062866789962922010-10-25T06:10:00.000-07:002010-11-05T21:46:49.903-07:00welcome<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am a reluctant hostess. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love having people in my home, I do. I love it. I like to feel like I have done something to make someone's day, evening, week a little better. Easier. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The threat of hosting worries me, though. It might be a casualty of a southern upbringing - exposure to so many people who do it so effortlessly: putting out scones for morning playdates, throwing together bowls of the right nuts and pretty plates with fruit and cheeses for impromtu afternoon in-home meetings - homes seemingly always ready for a guest.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love visiting her - in all her incarnations - the friend and acquaintance who does that so well. I am not her.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mine is a home that needs to be made ready. If we relied upon spontaneous snack, guests would be treating themselves to the last capers from a jar bought last June, the last wrapped package of Trefoils from the confused Girl Scout cookie order (someone never got their Trefoils. They weren't ours... maybe they were yours?), shredded Mexican cheese bought in bulk, the last sad apple in the bowl. These are things not made better, even if put on the Just Right plate (that I don't own).</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are papers on the counter, papers on the floor, and games peeking out from under the couch. A Lego tower was started and abandoned - saved days ago from certain doom by cries of "pleeeease, Mama? I'm still working on it!" The blinds are crooked and the marshmallow-shooting gun sits under the lamp whose bulb has been out for a week. I haven't checked, but I feel certain there is no hand towel hanging in the guest bathroom.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is much to be done before I host.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My sister hosts grand dinners - with name plates and courses, and always a complicated ethnic dish serving as a nod to places recently travelled or guests too far from home. A Miss Manners devotee, she thinks of each guest - their backgrounds and their interests - and seats them accordingly, never beside their spousal equivalents. While I love attending such affairs, I will carry on as long as is reasonable avoiding acting as hostess to the same.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love being a guest, though. "Can I warm up your coffee?" and "can I freshen your cocktail?" may be my favorite uniquely-southern, uniquely host-delivered questions to bookend a day. I like the little soaps, someone else's fluffy towels, and interrupting - for a night - the other's routines.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's that season now: November and December upon us, with all their chances to host and be hosted - the happy stress of putting on a little sparkle and finding the right music. When I bake cookies, or set up the bar, or prepare a basket of towels, I will remember that each action is a prayer of gratitude - that I am lucky to have family in my world I want sleeping under my roof, that I have friends my children think are family, and that everyone enjoys a cup of coffee made by someone else, "warmed up" when there is only a single drop left.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">By the time my first guests arrive, I feel certain we will have changed the light bulbs.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-30798474712076682772010-10-11T00:21:00.000-07:002010-10-11T07:17:53.340-07:00fishy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPgT5rOIjEVCp9lJnUlfZ0bS9MOGxIk80bBrvfw0I1_KLKWdBUfr7tQlEbJV2d_qqWDy9opo_nWWVi1WOIIsOOwf2Q0cNARUDwumr7gxTHP0rsspOir3jQrx-yZTp44chQRVpkQQ-jUtL/s1600/fish1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPgT5rOIjEVCp9lJnUlfZ0bS9MOGxIk80bBrvfw0I1_KLKWdBUfr7tQlEbJV2d_qqWDy9opo_nWWVi1WOIIsOOwf2Q0cNARUDwumr7gxTHP0rsspOir3jQrx-yZTp44chQRVpkQQ-jUtL/s320/fish1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526699956127017618" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"In seven years of going to these fairs, we haven't once brought home a fish," </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I said to Fran, bragging a little.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We were watching the first children leaving the Fall Fair, loading onto the shuttle with fists wrapped tightly around the tops of leaky plastic bags, hapless little fish invariably named "Goldie" </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">circumnavigating their watery interiors.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I commented on how their hours in plastic bags had to shorten their life spans. Fran said she knew some whose fair fish lasted years. I said that while that may be true, I never planned to let my own children in on that possibility.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">An hour later, I broke away from my shuttle post to join Agatha briefly at karaoke, where AB was onstage, and pPod was in queue. There, on the bench next to her, at 2 o'clock in the afternoon.. an afternoon not really due to end much sooner than 4... were fish. Two. In baggies.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She looked at me, saw my skepticism, and dared me to deny Patrick this small victory. "See Mama? Now Annabeth has her cat and Sebastian has his cat and I have my FISH! Lightning and Bolt! Lightning is the bright one." He beamed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had no room to argue with either of them - Patrick, SO pleased to imagine sharing his home with his new finny friends, and Agatha, tethered out of kindness and necessity to my hyped-up, sticky-fingered five-year-old for what would be some ten hours of the day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Agatha stopped at the pet store post-fair and helped Patrick select, and then purchased, extravagant accommodations. No stranger to sociological studies, and a caregiver to all, she would ensure these particular young ones were afforded every opportunity for success. Tank, filter, goldfish conditioner, gravel, a castle.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Shuttle-duty complete, I collected fish and tank and son and spent an exhausted hour setting up their tank (no fishbowl for these fair fish!) cursing under my breath all the while. Patrick said, quietly, "they're mine, right Mama? All mine?" and I melted a little. We filled it, added drops to the water, floated the bags to acclimate. Patrick was uncharacteristically still, mesmerized.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It didn't register when Patrick, at 6:15 Sunday morning, woke me to say "Mama! I fed them! Just one flake each like you said. Lightning is still sleeping but Bolt ate his!" It did later, though. Hours later, church and errands later, I approached the aquarium with knowing dread. And there he was, bobbing in the filter flow. Dead.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We buried him, said fishy prayers, sprinkled water over his grave. I reassured Patrick that the living fish was Lightning, not Bolt. That in fact, his 'favorite' was still fine. Sebastian, the ten-year-old skeptic, positioned himself in front of the tank later saying, "this is so depressing, Mom. You know I'm just sitting here watching this other fish die." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Lightning (formerly known as Bolt), swimming along just fine, and chewing on another flake, looked hale and hardy. I tsked at Bass for his pessimistic outlook. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Gav had gotten home from his trip in time to take the Littles all to Annabeth's lacrosse game, to give me time and space for a leisurely lunch with a traveling friend. After delivering Tarra to her Phoenix-bound plane, I came home to an empty house and went straight to the tank.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There he was. At the bottom of the tank. Twisted sideways in the plastic foliage. Bobbing in that telling way. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I flushed him. And I went to the pet store, hoping to find his doppelganger. On the way I called Gavin and urged him to stay away from home. Stall somewhere. Keep Patrick out of the house. I would buy two, pretend I had brought home a new 'friend.' </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was blatant hypocrisy, since I can vividly remember hearing of friends' parents doing both such things when I was a child, and being horrified at the dishonesty, the betrayal. In this role, years later, it seemed the only obvious option.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the pet store, I stood in front of the tank stocked with hundreds of 30-cent fish, all looking exactly like Lightning (and somehow not at all). Phil talked me out of them. They die, Phil-the-professional said. They all die. They pee through their skin, he said. And you can't keep up with the ammonia. Better you take two female bettas. Something that will live. Males would kill each other, and you don't want dead fish again. And look! They have bright colors. Even the females. And they still have fluttery fins, even though they are the less showy of the genders. They come with a two-week warranty, even. If they die, reassured Phil, just bring back the receipt. We'll replace them. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I bought a bluish betta and a reddish betta and betta conditioner and betta food, and a net - just in case.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I stopped by the bookstore where the stalling was happening and broke the news to Patrick. I brought him to the car and showed him the new fish. His adjustment was immediate. Names were a setback, since he wanted super heroes, and the fish were girl fish. But he puzzled through it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Violet and Lava (Violet from the Incredibles, and Lava from Shark Boy and Lava Girl) appear to be thriving. They flutter and they sooth. And we think we'll make it past the warranty. Either way, I bet it's not the last we see of Phil.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-47545314792540119732010-09-27T14:48:00.001-07:002010-09-27T20:57:19.945-07:00tested<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEb0lIn9BRZ3AIY4xR8RuIaEnytWIyHm_LtTCmRcYKZ7SJySDb8VD2LzIpXc2LA0RDxyIN14JKHvrT-Jxzmn-skJ95URE4TOl8ohNhO22ue83NE6bTmlJevyhEgurd1iqxXZHbeit0ZXRq/s1600/test.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEb0lIn9BRZ3AIY4xR8RuIaEnytWIyHm_LtTCmRcYKZ7SJySDb8VD2LzIpXc2LA0RDxyIN14JKHvrT-Jxzmn-skJ95URE4TOl8ohNhO22ue83NE6bTmlJevyhEgurd1iqxXZHbeit0ZXRq/s400/test.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521808251555865906" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Twenty years ago (and more), I had abysmal study habits. It followed that when I took tests, my palms would sweat. I would break out in hives and squirm in my seat. I can remember all-too-clearly when the answers would swirl just on the other side of water-filled eyes and I would will myself not to cry. I can remember watching the time tick past, and seeing the answers all start to look alike, breaking pencil lead out of frustration, or tearing through the paper with erasures or scrawled-too-hard calculations.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You would think it would have gotten me studying. Somehow, it didn't.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I studied. I put in evenings and weekends, hours and hours of the driest material I've ever read, and worked out every sample calculation, checked every answer. I admit I skimmed the last chapters (Accounting for Equity Compensation. Securities Law Treatment of Equity Compensation. Section 16 and Disclosure Rules. How could I resist them?) But the first 9 (just imagine the gems those must contain! The fascinating nuggets!) - I highlighted, took notes, wrote in margins, re-read. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some of the studying was while Littles bumped around, asking questions and interrupting the flow. Lots of it was done while Agatha or Gavin gave me large stretches of time alone. Once I read about restricted shares while a lovely woman painted my toes.</span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I took it. The on-line test was the longest single-subject test I have ever taken. Interesting, in that it was so different from test given to me prior, on subject matter I couldn't have dreamed I would be anywhere near. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Much of it was calculations - and they don't come easily to me. Even when I know the rule-sets, I have to plot every point. I do so slowly, cross referencing with at least two sets of study notes, attempting to ensure I am doing the right calculation for the right question. I still miss them - capturing a hiring date wrong, or incorrectly calculating for "disqualified" when it should be qualifying. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today's answer sets are that kind of tricky. Each is designed to know what you might answer if you look at the question intelligently, with concentrated wrongnesss. Three of the choices from A to D ferret out all the versions of Wrong, and present them to you - in black and white, where they reassure by looking Absolutely Correct.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The non-calculations were no better. So convincing was every option, that I was compelled to look up every single answer - to double-check. After hour three, desperate to pee or to pace or to let the cat in, but terrified to use even one second anywhere else, I started moving faster. And, in haste, the questions got harder. Every choice looked right, or, alternatively, equally implausible . </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Four hours looking at one computer screen. With a couple of hundred pages worth of notes. "Open book," in these circumstances, feels a bit like a cruel joke. Not one question of the (100? I didn't notice. I was looking at the backward-ticking time) lot of them was automatic to me. Knowing the material, having studied, having taken the practice tests - it helped. But only just.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Somehow, though - since everything was solidly familiar (if foggy) and since I could say with no more certainty that any specific answer was fully wrong, It seemed plausible that I would pass. Not likely, perhaps, but plausible.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*********</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Having spent my day thusly, I felt more sympathetic toward my daughter, stumbling in the front door with a rain-soaked sour whine about her loaded backpack- she who takes three times as long as her peers to do a handwriting assignment, who panics at timed math tests and transposes numbers, who has make up work on top of homework. I feel slightly more sympathetic to my son, who keened for ten minutes about all the things he Doesn't Want to Do. On a hidden, more patient level than my response belied, I so wanted to make the extra time requirements go away for my daughter, replace my son's day with one full of only things he cares about, goals he wants. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My sympathy, however veiled, didn't make the evening smoother. Annabeth's homework didn't dissolve into misty done-ness, Sebastian didn't bounce up to bed with a renewed sense of optimism. In fact, nothing went all that well in the rainy evening after my grueling four-hour graded attempt to prove Something. But I did feel I "got it."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I didn't pass the exam. And I am proudest of the fact that I didn't get all that anxious. I used every second, but I never panicked. I got it done, and I guess I know more about how its structured than I did. I have ten extra points' worth of tax law to parse, calculations to re-do, clear margins to fill.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The test today was, in failure, affirming. In a way I couldn't have guessed. I'd rather not do it again, but I will. Next week, in fact. And I will be better. And it won't be the Worst Thing Ever. Which seems like progress, and a little like maturity. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-56319914246429652842010-09-03T05:40:00.000-07:002010-09-03T19:41:38.249-07:00flop<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMYrN5j3iIA5HK0WnD8HMYyGg_kFqAh9ea9DpOdF9H-3Yfn5bumBT3HnNPlYPmfT9KaQxblbr2w_9M7lhmjdDhtd8Gbu_vj1nyv2MQ9_QEfCGUaWVd0zbuxERZAMI3w7N6GyPJYDL3ZRt/s1600/flippyfloppies.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 369px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMYrN5j3iIA5HK0WnD8HMYyGg_kFqAh9ea9DpOdF9H-3Yfn5bumBT3HnNPlYPmfT9KaQxblbr2w_9M7lhmjdDhtd8Gbu_vj1nyv2MQ9_QEfCGUaWVd0zbuxERZAMI3w7N6GyPJYDL3ZRt/s400/flippyfloppies.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512672304312505234" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Fifteen days in. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I have been at this job, working daily from around 9 to around 5, for 3 work weeks, 120 hours - one pay check. 20 more hours in the car.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I have had coherent, useful, productive, inquisitive thoughts for about... maybe 60 of them.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I'm getting there.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">On Wednesday, I left my notebook at home. The notebook filled with day-to-day stream of consciousness, stream-of-day - questions about projects, products, programs - notes for the exam I will have to take and pass within 90 days into the job. The notebook I cling to to make sense of today out of whatever I wrote yesterday.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">All those years working from home has spoiled me. I would be on conference calls barefoot, after my morning nap, often in whatever I had worked out in that had pushed me out of bed earlier, at 6. There was no 'forgetting things.' There was laundry when my mind wandered, and my notebook was likely by the bed if not by my computer. I could walk upstairs to get it. Work through my to-do's while reclining on the Tempurpedic. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">We're in-town snobs. We don't commute. We live "ITP" as we say around here - inside-the-perimeter, Atlanta proper, planned neighborhood, but not the 'burbs. Fulton County, Fulton County taxes. So I got a job in the suburbs. Way in the suburbs. Far far away in Farfarawayland. I am not used to the commute.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I took about three minutes to breathe in my cube, to weigh having that notebook against returning into that traffic. Maybe two minutes. I checked my calendar. I realized, for the kazillionth time that week that I have only the thinnest grasp on what I am doing. That notebook is my lifeline. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I slipped out.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No longer "opposite traffic," the drive home and back had me settled into work around 11. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The next day, Thursday, while going over the inventory of My Things before while leaving my neighborhood, I realized my phone was still at home. On the bathroom counter.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I returned. Frustrated, because I was missing the early-traffic window, but proud that I figured it out early. I zipped home, parked, ran inside, turned off the alarm, kicked off my shoes, bolted up the stairs, grabbed my phone, re-set the house alarm, jumped back in the car, and patted myself on the back when I realized I was in the exact same spot as when I had noticed the missing phone a scant 6 minutes earlier. Nice.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I arrived at work 55 minutes later. Not quite an hour. Still better than Wednesday. I had originally planned to be early, and I was still solidly on time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Barefoot.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">No shoes at all.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The shoes I had kicked off were, presumably, in the kitchen.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I moved the trumpet I have not yet returned to the music store (new rental contract elsewhere) and looked for the shoes. (Perhaps I had put them UNDER the trumpet case...) I looked under seats, in the back, opened the trunk (Perhaps I had put them IN the trunk...) No shoes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Sebastian's flip flops - though he has been told a thousand times not to leave them in my car - were there. In the back seat. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I put them on.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Three weeks into my new banking job, and I wore my ten-year-old-son's flippy floppies all day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">With my silk blouse with beading detail, my ponte knit skirt with wide grosgrain trim. The patent leather belt, the long drapey sweater.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And the flip flops. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Today, I'm working from home. Barefoot. </span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-6455389882695505132010-08-17T18:32:00.000-07:002010-09-03T05:36:34.590-07:00back<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLr7aIncDG3iOEp8pRHrKRcM1P1EMG0ayoHUWglv_rTbcSpRhq8dllkmkfZdL7-KdAkz3rZ9iOMIufWzVVEd72t9OVKioRiwDMRLgkK34BVgIHAX05moWnPCix1WQ-gdOFRArtWA-ZOYcP/s1600/firstday10.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLr7aIncDG3iOEp8pRHrKRcM1P1EMG0ayoHUWglv_rTbcSpRhq8dllkmkfZdL7-KdAkz3rZ9iOMIufWzVVEd72t9OVKioRiwDMRLgkK34BVgIHAX05moWnPCix1WQ-gdOFRArtWA-ZOYcP/s400/firstday10.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512664608191590226" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">End of summer. A heck of a time.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At some point, everything I have written here has become seasonal. Maybe it's the farming heritage - it's the only way I can see things. The only contact I have with natural order is the turning of calendar pages.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When this next page turns, we will find ourselves in September. Fall. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Fall is rushed, though - mid-August and the Littles find themselves returning to school. Orientation today was intimidating, for me at least. A reminder of past slips - a swirling glimpse into another year of deadlines and accountability. The work itself, at least, looks exciting - the teachers enthusiastic. They all-but glowed from within - giddy about the year ahead, fresh faces, and the practical applications of all their teacherly knowledge. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">School, in these early years, is a wondrous place. Especially the first days of a school year. Those unsharpened pencils, new seating assignments, and pinchy shoes conspire to make Every Bit of It look promising. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I started a job simultaneously. In the financial sector. A place I found myself, somewhat incongruously, ten years ago - and now find myself there again. An accident is no longer an accident once it appears more to be force of habit. Intimidating stuff, numbers - and there is irony in my alignment with financial matters. But day three is tomorrow - and I will return, and will learn, and will fake the parts in between while I gather enough information to be credible.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But first I will wake three sleepers. I will move them from bed to tooth-brushing. I will dress them in new clothes. I will be sad that each is wearing last years' shoes (purchased slightly too big) and will cheer myself with bright white socks. At 7:30, they will leave. I will see them off, but I will not drive them there, and I will not be there to pick them up at 2:30 and 3. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I will go to work, and I will be a little maudlin, but no one yet knows me to even notice that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I will wonder about them all day. I will imagine their day, then their year - and will hope against hope that we will get assignments in on time, that there will be victories small and large.... that Sebastian will be more conscious about his school work, and that he makes new good, kind friends; that Annabeth bounces out of bed early each day and develops a love for school, success, and math facts; and that Patrick proves himself to be an enthusiastic contributor, a charming playmate, and a non-violent member of the class. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Every one of us will be hard at work on an agenda written by someone else. But we will be doing it simultaneously, and we will come together for a taco supper and will talk about it: our days, our year ahead, our lives shard and separate, parallel and intersecting. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i>(The picture is from the first day of school -and the post a few days earlier. Written August 17 - I didn't even realize I hadn't posted it...)</i></span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-34378445887786383202010-08-01T07:37:00.000-07:002010-08-01T09:09:59.603-07:00village<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_h2GMhQsR2sJGN5M3gkWfbbOI0Y6p1x4Vf4xf2uetXD8xcLvwpayp5WqE6fP7iu3slcK2etJMu90EpfRXoQr2xXPpO3h9mB7chX4Qxr4nLfZfXhBQ7RoOJYMc4oBP5tLOLVCC3bKDpKmm/s1600/ABWELCOME.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_h2GMhQsR2sJGN5M3gkWfbbOI0Y6p1x4Vf4xf2uetXD8xcLvwpayp5WqE6fP7iu3slcK2etJMu90EpfRXoQr2xXPpO3h9mB7chX4Qxr4nLfZfXhBQ7RoOJYMc4oBP5tLOLVCC3bKDpKmm/s400/ABWELCOME.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500473883870784178" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We had, for 19+days this summer, two or fewer children. With each child-shuffle, the balance tips. Things are different. Sometimes quieter, smoother - other times... just quieter. Almost universally easier, from a logistics-standpoint.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is a luxury to have these stores of fabulous adults that want to liberate us from our children - godmothers and godfathers, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I can write this now, in fact, because local support (Agatha!) has us with none, on a Sunday afternoon. Preparing for my new reality as a full-time-working mom...blogging, cleaning, organizing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In my family, as kids, we would go to the Farm every summer. We were a little foreign in Connecticut, where others noted our southern dialects and expressions. Where we winced, a little, at cousins' nasally tones of "Antie Baabrah." We were comfortable there. We moved quite a few times, and it was the place where nothing changed: the lush giant garden, the rows and rows of blueberry bushes - the peaches, strawberries, raspberries, apples, rhubarb - each seeming to magically appear for us, in succession. Grandma would bake and can and prepare - a kitchen chemist of few words, warm sweet smells, and generous yield.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We would arrive late. Very late. Off the interstate, we would press our faces to the glass looking for the trolley museum, the sign we were close. We would pass Uncle Ansel's farm on the left, turn right onto Scantic Road... and then, when we turned the one curve half a mile or so before Grandma and Grampa's, the tall white house with the lights on assured me we were seconds away.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When we got there, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">we would announce ourselves as we crunched forward on the smooth pebbles of the circular drive, breaking up chamomile with each wheel rotation. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grandma and Grandpa would appear on the front porch. We would unfold and tumble forward. I would run to Grandpa's strong arms and be lifted up, twirled around. He wore work pants in a dark green or navy, a button-front workshirt, light blue - sleeves rolled up. The waist of his pants would sag between belt loops, held up by a belt fashioned from saddle-leather and notched to the farthest point - a raw-edged hole punched through with an awl. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grandma would laugh her rare laugh, clasp her hands together and look truly delighted, embracing us each with powerful hugs. She would be wearing bits and parts - giant, baggy, leftovers from teenage cousins. Clothes designed only to cover. She might have a bandana over her hair - long, silver hair she would brush out at night, and braid into coils, pinned into place on the back of her head, the same exact way every day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our grandparents toiled. At all times. They got up before us, and went to bed after us. They were constant, with ropey forearms and Things to Do. We would slather on citronella oil from little brown apothecary bottles and try to outwit mosquitos, sometimes 'keeping up' with farm chores, other times avoiding them by staying gone and staying busy. We'd hike down to the pond, avoiding thorny bits, whacking at tall grasses with bigger sticks. I would ride on my grandfather's lap and steer the 40-year-old John Deere. We would make bricks out of natural clay on the banks of the Scantic River, a tributary of the Connecticut River down the road. We would pick blueberries and "smoke" unlit reeds stuffed with ground up mint leaves. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mom would drive home a few days after we arrived, and pick us up weeks later as summer closed. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We grew each summer. We worked, we played - we explored boredom (but didn't speak of it.) We felt hot dirt under our feet and invented games. I followed my grandfather through gardens with a salt shaker in my pocket. I slept with my mom's old stuffed animals, and pored over evidence of her youth in the attic, trying to know more. I twirled in her college gowns and attempted to make paper dolls as she once had (hers, pages and pages of elegant creations made while near or in high school - fashion designs with painstaking details. Mine made around age 8, wobbly and crookedly cut - hashed out, over-embellished, and abandoned.) Our socks grew dingy from farm use, and came off the line crunchy and hot.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">People have asked how I can leave my chidren - Annabeth for 12 days with her godmother in California, Sebastian for 10 with his grandparents' after we'd left. I can do it, partly, because I did it. Every summer. There is peace in separateness, a break from family members, a chance to re-invent yourself, to explore versions of yourself those closest to you are blinded to. To get away from the gnawing of siblings, the nagging of parents. There is growth in learning that other adults do things differently, that you don't have to buy Mom's crazy, or Dad's. It is good, halfway into a summer crammed with the togetherness of road trips and Things to Do to experience missing the same people that drive you nuts.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There is peace, too, in two-verses-three. Giving and receiving additional attention when one is out of the mix. Quibbling less, competing less, and exploring gentler spaces.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tomorrow we collect Sebastian from the airport. He will walk tall and proud, wearing the pin that identifies him as an Unaccompanied Minor. In two weeks school will start, and I will start a job, and there will be no more room for breaks from routine. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our children are each made better by their time away, living and exploring inside someone else's rules and routines. They learn from other people, people whose ideas sometimes differ from ours - or don't differ at all, but are easier to receive and more palatable from someone else - someone more interesting, new again each visit, and wise.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-28999042067635129112010-07-26T20:40:00.001-07:002010-08-01T07:37:09.486-07:00Wake (written July 24th)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJMUxemtl_H6YNv75tmF-iEvoWl6asbCV3sZSOjihA12LY8ZPAT-CA0rI-Kd6zr3X3SlKXFqytQuBSyNGErnbJOENCwtF1hnkEHVqO_GsrxMyDuT18jqmaTZAqckl-1VOXmFIshMgJBoX/s1600/tube.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJMUxemtl_H6YNv75tmF-iEvoWl6asbCV3sZSOjihA12LY8ZPAT-CA0rI-Kd6zr3X3SlKXFqytQuBSyNGErnbJOENCwtF1hnkEHVqO_GsrxMyDuT18jqmaTZAqckl-1VOXmFIshMgJBoX/s400/tube.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500449047434950594" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I fell this morning. I was running, sortof. It was a warm-up for my actual workout. It was 6AM and I haven't really worked out in weeks. I heard a car and instinctively picked up my trot (from what was, arguably, a fast-ish walk.) </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The driver saw, in the early dawn, me step off the curb and lunge forward. Landing, with a thump, face-first in a ditch. I didn't, apparently, break the fall at all. I just... fell. Hard. There was an audible crunch, the origins of which are still undetermined.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was fine. I brushed off, picked small pebbles out of my flesh. Made sure the liquid dripping off my hand was not my life's blood, but hot ditch water. After the wipeout, I joined class, and ran through the ringing in my ears.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Which is all to say that I still hurt. The fogginess of the day is likely not attributed to that fall. But I do have weird bouncing-on-pavement aches. Pavement, apparently, doesn't really bounce. Nor does my 40-something year old body. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We drove back from our month in Maryland yesterday. We stretch those drives, longer than seems absolutely necessary. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was a perfect vacation for the kids, I think. Unplanned time with us, planned time with others. Adventures with godparents and grandparents and far more water than our landlocked permanent address would suggest.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For us grownups, the trip was more trip than vacation - we were fragmented, in varying directions. Once extended family left, the haze settled in, the 100 degrees plus settled in. Annabeth left for ten days, Sebastian had camp. Grann was recovering (more on that) and I traveled back and forth for job interviews and managed to spend entire days fretting about them in-between. The beach (bay beach) didn't beckon so much as mock - Cicadas screaming from the shore, haze, bitey bugs, ridiculously warm tide pools.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I drove the boat a little when m brother-in-law turned over the wheel. I don't do that well. You cannot gain true purchase on water - it is the nature of the beast. You slide along the surface, never quite truly in control. The whole thing feels a little like a video game. Wake sneaks up on me and I wince - always crashing more than expected, or - bracing myself - sliding right over it without feeling it at all.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I obsessively watch the things that measure depth, and the GPS directing my route. I worry about the things under the surface, imagining the things that have snagged and destroyed mightier vessels than ours. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Water that feels like silk when you are in it will certainly kill you if you jump into it from a high enough point. Suicide hotline billboards remind you of this fact when you drive over the higher bridges. It's the stuff of contradictions - danger and life.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the day after the 4th (ok, the 5th), my mother-in-law had emergency hip replacement surgery. She, too, had trouble with the unyielding ground, and losing control of the surface. She is recovering amazingly well. (With a broken wrist as well, no less.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We charge forward, navigating the unknown and slick, turning over the wheel when we can. It's hot, and a new school year is about to begin. It's the end of one thing - summer - the start of another - oh to be young enough to mark time by 'grades,' to get that clean slate each year, start over... to celebrate the subtle optimism of sharpened pencils and crisp new clothes... to compare your hard-won adventures to theirs, to hope you don't sit by the one girl in class that spent the season in Paris.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The newness promises. Like water, that reassurance that tomorrow will come sustains us. We don't know what will be there, what lies just under the surface... but we charge forward anyway, and hope someone else will learn from our mistakes on the way.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I posted this a week after writing it. I have written so little this summer, here - it's summer, after all, and it was hard to get the writing head. Plus, I have a few other things I keep up with professionally - so computer time was overtaken by "responsibility". Then, when I tried to summarize the summer, I got that. It's maudlin, really. Though I wasn't at all blue when I wrote it. Which is why I then didn't post it. But, retrospectively, there is something or other there - so I did. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-33429302813931037342010-06-24T20:28:00.000-07:002010-06-29T10:52:54.133-07:00contributing<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I like this jangly-nerve-endings, ready-to-work, time to Do Something feeling that has me in constant productive motion.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am writing now, daily. It is a combination of paid work, grass-roots work, and unpaid release. It feels good, in every case, to get things out of my head and onto a screen. It feels great to produce, or to contribute something.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My sister always says the world is full of consumers and producers, and a life well-lived is a productive one. My grandmother, a woman of far fewer words and far less education, believed the same - though was too busy to comment on it.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I want to harness some of this energy for the mundane: clean the house, pack, tie up ends that have been loose for so long I have grown used to them in this state. Of course, that will only happen when there is no more avoiding it. We will have to leave for the trip, but precedent would suggest we will do so later than we want, with the house messier than I intended.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Between, among, and around summertime adventures and chores for the littles, I am job-hunting. To that end, I am actively networking for the first time ever - taking advantage of the interwoven threads of people I know and have known. I am savoring the intersections, loving the connections. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Looking for a job is forcing me to look back, to examine and evaluate 20 years in the workforce. (Go ahead. Gasp. I do.) I have to talk about it, think about it, offer it up as evidence. Doing so has me feeling, many days, surprisingly competent and reassured.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There is optimism to this thing I am doing now. There is a forward-looking sense that it will all be fine, and a retrospection I am capturing while in the middle of it: the threshold is all promise and possibility, and a thing worth savoring.</span></span></div></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-88838520330606034262010-06-21T03:36:00.000-07:002010-06-21T19:35:27.776-07:00mid summer<img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBEbXIv3E0EaRWWH79iHcZY5MM0WbRPTNzpVJ3wr7duP54Zs0CgS5Jzr0e0DMo8EUqznMCjhbZNcM3mJ1Pvo9FXoBscT34mkDGp18A0lqtwxzhyphenhyphen9XxcW8R6zszOOCrie_ROCT31vPtTSdT/s400/pooltoes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485184479858226818" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's been pretty slow here.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We're into the thick of summer, and the busiest days have had maybe a couple of two-hour blocks of Somewhere to Be. </span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I won't lie... there has been talk of 'boredom,' and moments when I questioned the sanity of this much time with this particular crowd of littles - bumping into each other, shooting invisible weapons, jumping onto furniture, flopping onto the floor begging for Something to Do. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In retrospect, though, I will remember the thrill of the lull, bucking trends by doing little that is planned. They will paint it a shiny shade of memory it and tell their own children, "when I was Your Age, we entertained Ourselves and were Grateful!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Pools have been good, and still exciting. We have been to five or six of them, relying heavily on invites from others. Next year, (she says each year) must have a membership. Summertime, with water, is magic and happy, with exhausted children tumbling into bed. Without water, there is a lot of general oppression, broken up with trips to the library.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We've done that, too: library visits. The third week of break, (I think. I have lost count, and calendars elude me in the summertime.) Sebastian learned bridge at a library-provided week-long (free! two hours a day!) workshop. On the last day, we forgot him - each adult certain the other was picking him up. Two hours later, we figured out we were both wrong.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Summer My Parents Left Me at Bridge Camp might be a sad future college essay, or at least fodder for comedic self-deprecation, if he we weren't so completely unfazed. I guess he has come to expect such from us. His combined affection for books and the absence of siblings helps. Still. There is something especially pitiful and nerdy-kid perfect about being abandoned at library bridge camp.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;">There was a lemonade stand. Home-made from the juice of twenty lemons, sold with oatmeal butterscotch cookies. It was sticky, and hot, and we made a tidy profit, in spite of the failed yard sale that provided the backdrop and excuse.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was a living room fort so inviting that Annabeth slept there. Once with a friend, once for a nap, and a night alone. A coffee table, blanket tenting, a few pillows. It seemed hot to me, claustrophobic, and hard. She loved it. I fought reason and order and left it there. For days.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XtKtLSFvlRTQASG44XlBBSUTl2s9Naq0H0GVUrRKpIC3J34mnQxKJQut99_L0hAIU9N2HcKIRkdJ8vuPKiRpV-OUtGxhSA_8zAzAh-QsRTey6Z9GTW9u57ddf3o833tPBTFDieTo5UO5/s400/fort.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485186014927335890" /><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was a sketchy drive-in theater, with lawn chairs and popcorn, car speakers turned up loud, a surprising breeze, glimpses of truly inappropriate movies on other screens, and a bed time perilously close to midnight. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For them, there have been sleep-overs. Grandmother, neighbor, godmother. Mini-vacations from the rest-of-us, mini-glimpses of freedom and someone else's pancakes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For me, there have been job interviews - not yet fruitful, but competent other mom, hair done in the middle of the day provides some novelty. (Never mind my running out of gas on the way to my networking interview. I was rescued: sweaty, beheeled, standing in the middle of the uneven parking lot of the mini-mart that I had thought had gas, but didn't. It did have bars on the windows and a dumpster out back where terrible things happened a month or so ago. It was not a place to be in poplin, pearls, and patent leather. My rescuer was perfect - and assuaged and delivered me.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Next weekend there will be a long drive, and we will move this show to Maryland and Connecticut - where we are sure to do more of the same, plus extended family, cornfields, some boats, a zip line, nightly cocktails, goats, and maybe even a tent in the yard. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is summertime. And it is good.</span></span></div></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-6951963434399736442010-06-10T22:46:00.001-07:002010-06-15T12:17:26.999-07:00swim<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAxza1pmeIUVSNQ80_DgOXqkty1c1SzG8BO7-DZYheILY_mq4cZFUn-DEvTf2z_fRpNJ8ishp-6N4oEnTB3a1ay6MGg_xR5xxijL3ipq4QF1lJjIKCvkhSIRcVPLmEQnUO5V8FM0E4MAPd/s1600/pool.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAxza1pmeIUVSNQ80_DgOXqkty1c1SzG8BO7-DZYheILY_mq4cZFUn-DEvTf2z_fRpNJ8ishp-6N4oEnTB3a1ay6MGg_xR5xxijL3ipq4QF1lJjIKCvkhSIRcVPLmEQnUO5V8FM0E4MAPd/s400/pool.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481416956790375842" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I swam aggressively - lurching myself across with all my might. Arms fast, legs kicking straight and hard. Two lengths and I was out of breath.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I watched someone else swim and remembered: swimming is meant to be long strokes, steady and smooth. That the goal is lengthening, pulling. That speed is born of efficiency, when it is done right. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently, I have no muscle memory for the sport. It doesn't come naturally to me. I enjoy the silence, the regularity. I like aligning myself with marks on the pool floor, emptying my head, going across. But, like running, I never lose the sense of the work of it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I do not slice through the water, torpedo-like and silent. Rather, my arm-paddles slap the surface and work against me. My feet follow, useless nubs attached to weighty logs that connect to my torso, which contributes precious little.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We lived, before here, in south Florida. We were in a townhouse, the giant five of us (though the children were little, littler and littlest). It was on a school campus, a school known for swimming. Pool access was one perk.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In an effort to 'get in shape,' I swam. I did so with a neighbor - my savior and advisor, Cheryl. She had coached swimming for a time in an earlier version of her, and she was amenable to coaching me. She talked me into it, as I recall. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We swam first in the little pool. It seemed safer, but apparently suffered from a chemical imbalance. My arm hairs burned off and my hair turned a frizzy orange shade that sparkled oddly in the sun. Once I got pregnant, I wisely retreated from that pool. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After that baby was born, Cheryl got me out again, coaxing me to move up to the Big Pool. I would tiptoe out of the house at 5:15, ever grateful for my time alone- careful to wake no one. I would vaguely hope Cheryl was not on her stoop, goggles and towel in hand, so I could return to bed guilt-free. Rarely did she comply. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The big pool was Olympic-sized, diving depth, with a disarmingly distant pool floor when peered at through goggles. I never trusted the drop from where my feet could reach to where no feet could reach. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here, we were coached, at 5:30 in the morning, three days a week. Over time, I got to where I could swim many laps uninterrupted. Always at a pace slower than those around me, with a clumsiness that looked like defiance to the coaches who tried hard with me, to coach.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I sometimes watched, one lane away, young Olympic hopefuls who had traveled from across the globe to train at my side. Inches from me, a Speedo-clad adolescent would barely flutter one chosen body part - an arm, or a leg - and slip effortlessly past me, as I put everything I had into some version of the common freestyle stroke.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I swam the follow-up rounds of laps tonight, some of the coaching came back. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Head down, aligned, look at the bottom of the pool. </span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lead with one arm, pull with the other, meet in the middle. Pull arm in the water as far as possible until hand passes the waist.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I felt the difference, and swam four more lengths, mostly uninterrupted. I dusted off faint instructions found on the shelves of my back-brain, and again tried to follow them. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Feeling like an eight-year-old, I looked around for someone to watch me, tell me my movements made some sense. Shout, "good job!"</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I need to remember, once I get past tonight's insomnia, sleep, and wake again... to apply this metaphor to other things. Now, smelling faintly of pool chemicals at 2:30 in the morning, I remind myself: slow down. Take long strides. Head down. Lead, pull. Be patient. Don't imagine that work = speed, or efficiency. Be deliberate in actions: each time through is a chance for improvement.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-91341892454802620172010-06-04T07:00:00.000-07:002010-06-04T13:07:29.011-07:00half<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNwq6m4NVxhgdlVTHyXNljsVwPQnbxxVrHLInLxPVS_s1fJgrhpSMDpDyxepAM5iFRNnOBO2TBRp-KcarE_IN2QjloJBQKihCUrxiAq8VlrTMkkr2TdWRK57NfAeVxJwn7M0TkGjnjucB/s1600/wedding.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNwq6m4NVxhgdlVTHyXNljsVwPQnbxxVrHLInLxPVS_s1fJgrhpSMDpDyxepAM5iFRNnOBO2TBRp-KcarE_IN2QjloJBQKihCUrxiAq8VlrTMkkr2TdWRK57NfAeVxJwn7M0TkGjnjucB/s200/wedding.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478926857118431538" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Marriage is hard.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is no revelation. Even so, in a good marriage, it isn't often said aloud. (Though said, in the half light, on porches with girlfriends, a bottle of wine in.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tica (long-term bff) and I will often marvel - as obvious as it is - that who you marry defines Every Other Thing from that point forward. It's an exhausting realization.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am in a good one - much to my surprise. I couldn't quite imagine that, years before it occurred. Serial boyfriends notwithstanding, I imagined I would live alone. (In a cute bungalow, undisturbed by small hands and large pairs of sweaty socks.) I would travel the world, maybe. Tile my floors myself. See a lot of great movies. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This didn't sound ideal. But I could, with effort, work it into something that sounded not-so-bad.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My mother raised us alone. Four of us, plus Mom, an educator. A fact that sometimes hampers our raising of children. It's hard to remember that these duties are shared, that there is another opinion that is weighed equally against mine. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I also have a weird response to this partnership thing. Its as if, having never seen it done, I assume it is a get-out-of-jail card. That everything I don't like, he will do for me. And that every other thing I do, I should be allowed to do exactly halfway. I imagine, automatically, that someone will pick up the other half. It is a method that works far more than it should- but not always. We often do different halves of different things.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">An old friend with whom I reconnected this week, said something about marriage from a Hallmark card, to the effect of 'falling in love is chance, staying in love is a choice.' It rang painfully true, for her, for whom only half was contributing effort. It IS a choice. Every single day. It is hard work. And both halves have to fully engaged. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">12 years in, I think we have this, mostly. And I have a world of gratitude for that gift - for the chance that my falling in love was directed at another person willing to work. In this, my 50% and his 50% align quite well. And we laugh, a plus.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Gores are getting divorced. It has sparked snark and speculation. I succomb to neither. It seems, from here, that they each have strong personalities and a lot going on. They have fully separate and complicated lives. From which they raised, to adulthood, four children. Their utility, as a twosome, has been proven. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the thick of it, with a bunch of kids, houses, yards, careers - common purpose might be enough. Take the shared chaos, noise, the cluttered stuff of life - and factor in mutually desired end-results (not living in squalor, children that are contributors, weeds that don't overtake, paychecks that come regularly) and you are propelled to survive almost on momentum alone, as long as you generally respect each other. Inspiration hardly comes into play.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then things slow down. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is sad, yes, for whichever of the two had to be convinced. It is sad, too, for the children - regardless of their age. But I doubt all bad. To me, it seems inconceivably brave - to charge into the unknown so publicly, when you live in such apparent comfort otherwise. (Though, after forty years, I can't quite imagine what a counselor could offer to help cure general malaise.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Even if unhappy, I doubt I would have the stuff to buck the status quo. Marriage is hard. Forty years is a long time. Your children know enough to move on - to be part of what stays behind has got to take a toll. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In my version, when that happens, we sell the big house. We get the small bungalow. We travel the world together, with no one complaining or planning alternate routes. We tile our floors ourselves. And we see a lot of great movies. We keep it simple, and we try to keep in touch. It's all we can do. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We will have to seek out the inspiration when the noise subsides - and for my part, now, I try to take none of "we" for granted.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-49127465204211775222010-06-01T04:51:00.000-07:002010-06-01T05:43:52.999-07:00in memoriam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidf_E60VAPAHpY7HlCkc5zr6_CCAM4PRCVuk4JwB1qgkCQ4FbaI1WKhUHQ6x_M1X7ysbywyDLFt6L9sIPHPA_tkkzzOp0ZB42GJC7X-fXiPeOg0mF2exWfAlSYUti8iQC4q2fq1yCXBNsl/s1600/kittylove2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 278px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidf_E60VAPAHpY7HlCkc5zr6_CCAM4PRCVuk4JwB1qgkCQ4FbaI1WKhUHQ6x_M1X7ysbywyDLFt6L9sIPHPA_tkkzzOp0ZB42GJC7X-fXiPeOg0mF2exWfAlSYUti8iQC4q2fq1yCXBNsl/s320/kittylove2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477785053355907506" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;">I could tell by her approach, at dusk, that she was not quite alone. That she had... something. Her gait not as lithe, a shadow on her white chest, her steps, a little tentative.</span><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was a small bird, coloring to match hers. Wings sticking out of her mouth on two sides. Held gently, all things relative. (No doubt to prolong the utility of the still-living toy.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It took some effort, but I got the bird, chased away the cat. The cat, ours. The bird, no one's. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The bird had a tiny wing wound, and a spot on her short, fragile neck where feathers were missing. I put a tiny spot of Neosporin on the wound, some vitamin E oil.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I attempted to nurse it to health. Put it in a box. With newspaper, New York Times articles referencing the disaster in the Gulf. A soft nest in one corner of paper towel. I took to calling it "her."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">By morning, she seemed to be surprisingly doing well. She would hop a little, and chirp loudly, fly a short distance in the bathroom. Young, but feathered. Not a baby bird - but small bits of fluff still clung just under her wings. An adolescent that Annabeth dubbed "Fred."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">While articles on the web seemed to align, faithfully telling me not to attempt to raise a small, especially wounded bird, on my own - wildlife rehab centers are closed on Memorial Day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Annabeth was especially concerned. She didn't sleep the first night, convinced the bird would die. She said prayers, she cried, she woke up - propelled to find us two floors below - caught in an un-recountable nightmare.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I attempted to feed the bird - water, which she drank a little of; a watery cat food mixture, a tiny bit of mushy banana. She wouldn't eat. Her chirps continued, but her hops looked more enfeebled. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was twitchy that second night. Job hunting online, unwilling - somehow - to go to bed. Eventually, I gave up. I opened the closed bathroom door, annoyed that the light had been left on. I looked in the box. She had given up, too. More thoroughly than I. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">One bird. Taken by one cat. I dug a hole, chipping through Georgia clay and poorly disguised construction debris. Ten short inches down, maybe a foot. I said a quiet prayer. It was two AM. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When Annabeth wakes up, it will be June. And there will be no little bird to drive out to the rehab center - our one plan for the first day of the first full week of summer. She will cry, and I will feel responsible. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Innocent bird, gone. Guilty cat, here. It is her nature to feed on the small things, coloring matching hers. It is her wont to crouch in the grass, pounce, take, celebrate. We will love her no less, and we will mourn her next victory. </span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-21734475606474016782010-05-27T04:58:00.000-07:002010-05-27T05:26:38.718-07:00pPod<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiK4_bMKHfkOIBASjUTi3tznumLdqEv2QCbgEfCuVoHL114VAs8yqymBcv_U0gImJRM8tqi74wn6MfY5yC1n6EduzTl_EQiMnHq9G02ReRp8G5IF_CNMvhCvMO5Ud74aJpkP1hKdYUGiO/s1600/bugboy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 339px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiK4_bMKHfkOIBASjUTi3tznumLdqEv2QCbgEfCuVoHL114VAs8yqymBcv_U0gImJRM8tqi74wn6MfY5yC1n6EduzTl_EQiMnHq9G02ReRp8G5IF_CNMvhCvMO5Ud74aJpkP1hKdYUGiO/s400/bugboy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475924130472902210" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />We walked to school for the last time on Tuesday. I didn't realize until probably Friday that this day was coming. Intellectually, I guess, I knew it - but I didn't KNOW it until I was doing it. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We had homemade cookies in hand, hydrangeas picked in the morning from our enthusiastic bushes. We played as we walked to school. There are always imaginings. He has been a super-hero, a friendly bear hunter. He has been looking for his dragon, or trying to outsmart a tiger (our brown striped companion, Chessie, who follows us for most of our walk.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That morning he said, clutching the flowers, "today we are climbing Snow Mountain to go visit the Queens, with gifts." Queen Jones and Queen Woodard, teachers of pre-K. I told him, yes, gifts: flowers for Beauty and cookies for Sustenance. He repeated this to the teachers when we arrived. I couldn't have been prouder.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What I will miss, I realize now, even more than the walks, is the time that is Ours. The spaces that fill with not-so-much. When we do things - just him and me - or we don't. He helps with laundry, he pushes the vacuum... or he plays alone, talking to his toys: Playmobil pirates, Legos, odds and ends collected from siblings or McDonald's. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Today is Our last day. We'll finish Monsters - vs - Aliens and go for a walk. We'll head to the neighboring neighborhood, where they have the pond he liked to visit when he was two. We'll have a picnic. We'll talk about stuff. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He is five. He is gentle and rambunctious, busy and thoughtful. When he colors, he uses every color on every page. Puppies have purple ears and green noses and yellow tongues. Transforming robots are stripped of their menace in his hands: orange chestplates, giant pink feet. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll miss his conversations with Baby Patrick (they are waning, though he still holds a special place.) Eventually, he won't ask me to sing to him at night: made-up words to Brahm's Lullaby, "I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover" and all three verses of Rainbow Connection. He'll stop accessorizing, putting on a cape in the middle of the day for no reason. Or sunglasses, a cowboy hat, beads strung sideways across his chest.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Since infancy, he has made people laugh. They say, "I would love to be inside HIS head!" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And I have had the pleasure now, for five years, of being granted more time with him - alone - than either of the other two. I was more distracted, often working, this time. But he's been right there, happy to self-entertain and pleased to bring me in when I was available. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Through it, I have had many opportunities to glimpse inside that head. And it's nice in there. It's bright, it's colorful, and most definitely - good things are coming. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tomorrow the other two are home, as well. We will all tumble into summer and in August, all three will head off to the same school. It will be easier having them all in one place, and it will be inspiring to watch how much he grows. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But I will miss the place where flowers and cookies seemed like all we needed. </span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-1834390903394604142010-05-26T05:50:00.000-07:002010-05-29T21:37:34.649-07:00Ending<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rJAiDJPINt_mc8BGFz9a994x0v4MLi9WVloe2HKKEeBHjF9EXmDY2bV6W8Y-Vbk2YI-dl8D_3vEk27N14SSKEF6PXfQmPzG0mAxJsKbdpXAPsY6ES6-hZoFkW3cl4_cd4EcUWwoDL5_P/s1600/alaotragrebechrisrose.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rJAiDJPINt_mc8BGFz9a994x0v4MLi9WVloe2HKKEeBHjF9EXmDY2bV6W8Y-Vbk2YI-dl8D_3vEk27N14SSKEF6PXfQmPzG0mAxJsKbdpXAPsY6ES6-hZoFkW3cl4_cd4EcUWwoDL5_P/s200/alaotragrebechrisrose.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475570984034861714" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before we moved from Florida, we got so caught up in the leaving that I have no impression at all of our last trip to the beach. We didn't take pictures, we didn't commemorate it in any way. And yet it was the Most Sacred Thing for me. The reason, above all other reasons, for being there at all.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Things end while we are doing other things.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I certainly don't recall the last time I used a diaper on any child in my house. The last time I guided a tooth brush over tiny teeth, the last time my oldest sat on my lap during church (He is ten. 5'2" and 95 pounds. It was not recently.) You don't know the last time you breast feed a child. You don't recognize the last time you speak to someone in person, or on the phone. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Every ending is, by definition and experience, another beginning. This thing stops, that one takes its place.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Or at least, we are trained to believe this. Lyrics and hindsight seem to confirm it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was struck, this morning, by an artist's rendering of the </span></span><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/earth/hi/earth_news/newsid_8702000/8702598.stm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Alaotra grebe</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, a bird, once in Madagascar. This bird was last seen in 1985. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I wondered if in his birdy thoughts, in his small bird-brain, he looked around and felt lonely. I feel certain, as he was dying, he had no idea just how alone he was. To be the very last of his species. Or maybe he died with his mate, on their small pond, their weak wings never taking them to other ponds.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Looking at the images of oil gushing into the gulf, I cannot help but wonder who else's end is now proscribed. What is going that will not be replaced? Who's lives - human and creature - are irrevocably changed, or destroyed altogether? What chain of events have been put into motion that cannot be reversed?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I cannot fathom the greed, the speciesist (like 'racist,' for species. Is there a word?) thought that says - de facto, we are better. Might = right. Oil will gush until we figure out a way to save - not the creatures, the habitats, the whole life cycles - but the oil. It is, in a word I rarely use, sinful. It defines, for me, sin. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We raise our children clumsily. Small lessons go missed, homework goes undone, days that should have order often disintegrate into chaos or murmers of mindless television. My only wish in that regard is that the things I say - my rants, my lectures, my late-night talks, stick in their back brains and form them in ways my clumsy day-to-day efforts sometimes don't.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I wish, I hope, I pray at night, that when my own Littles are big and in charge, when they are running things or working for things or doing whatever it is they choose to do to Contribute, that they know Beauty. They promote it. They know Others. They see them, and they care for them. They know Work. They seek it. They see what they have, and they are Grateful. And they recognize Wrong, and work toward Right.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Compassionate, passionate contributors. This - what is going on in the Gulf - what is happening to our beaches, marshes, lives - plant and animal and liquid - is Wrong. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I often forget to pray. I forget prayer at all. But I never forget to appreciate, and am humbled by the imbalances I see in all things. It's not quite religion, but it is a tugging sense of duty and awareness - and I go to church on Sunday in the hopes that in the hour of silence that sense will come to the fore. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; "><i><b><span lang="la"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Primum non nocere - </span></span></span></b></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The basis of the hippocratic oath. An oath, it appears, should ethically have been extended to far more than doctors. To bankers, businessmen, global energy companies. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">First, do no harm.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am praying now for this to resolve. For life to go on, for the ocean to self-correct. I am praying for the impossible. I am praying that this will not mean the End of things we cannot begin to foresee or quantify. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And I am praying for my children to pay attention, to think and see and absorb and carry forward to the next generation a sense of duty, compassion, passion, and heart-moving, soul-motivating, action-inspiring gratitude.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">RIP Alaotra grebe.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><i>Blog posts about the Gulf and this tragedy are gathered here. Stop by. Stay a while</i>.:</span></div><br /><a href="http://www.debontherocks.com/?p=764"><img src="http://mommymelee.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/gulf_blog_carnival.jpg" /></a>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-41062823707118007952010-05-21T09:16:00.000-07:002010-05-21T10:30:10.429-07:00Revisited<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMQk6Lt2LUJn8eIco_21LKe2T65Fa2nB8zcscTCM0uIEj4dBd3xXAFxWRTkyOsab05GIM5yKiv8PFZo9BnQbvrOd0YRPDQMyBNPFkG-JkKEZrPtonPk5NTm-5U1D0LxrtfTq7ZRmhV4YT/s1600/retromamma.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMQk6Lt2LUJn8eIco_21LKe2T65Fa2nB8zcscTCM0uIEj4dBd3xXAFxWRTkyOsab05GIM5yKiv8PFZo9BnQbvrOd0YRPDQMyBNPFkG-JkKEZrPtonPk5NTm-5U1D0LxrtfTq7ZRmhV4YT/s200/retromamma.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473767268286474850" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After that last post... I got many calls and comments - Facebook messages - reminding me not to be hard on myself. To cut a break. And I do. I really do. I have a fiery temper, and I am not exempt from its wrath. It is quick, though. And after the explosion, I forgive. I soothe, when necessary (and it is! When you breathe fire, there is always a lot of cleaning up after yourself later.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I AM good at some things, and was reminded of them that same night. Late. Through the quiet. By my husband. Who I love and lean on 14 years after picking. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the next day, yesterday, worked. Annabeth and I made cookies for her class, put an initial for each child on the front in proper preppy sorority girl lower case. There were polka dots and little cellophane bags. She wrote beautiful thank you notes for last week's birthday. On her own. Taking careful time to say the right things to convey specific gratitude. She practiced her spelling words without a complaint, taught her little brother to spell "people."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They are mostly a humble bunch, a generous bunch. They are loving, warm, affectionate. They are considerate and compassionate. They are boisterous and loud. And they are, mostly, contributors.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Patrick has forgiven me completely. I forgot the right kid that time - either of the other two might have seemed more wounded. They would have put a lot of effort into making me feel OK about it, but they would be a little sad. pPod just seemed glad to see me. He really liked his balloon, and later showed me how the big bad wolf roars.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hours after dinner last night, Patrick threw up all in his bed. It was close to midnight, and we got him up, washed the sheets, got him in the shower and tucked him in between us. Gavin and I fell asleep to him chattering away. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This morning he had a fever, so he stayed home. Three days left of school, and he is missing one of them. He was warm and extra affectionate, laying half on me in front of morning TV. We watched Little Bill and I felt all nostalgic. I didn't realize how much I missed Lil Bill, Bobby, Alice the Great. The sweet morals slowly played out. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In my real world, where things aren't resolved in twenty minutes, there are still far more gentle spots and joyful spots and segments of lessons learned, as well as subtler daily bits that remind us what good kids we have than there is chaos, and the regrettable (though maybe not infrequent) shouting.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My thinker, Sebastian, needs someone to indulge him when it's close to midnight and he appears with some Big Question. (Why is there suffering? How do I know the world won't be destroyed while I am alive? Why doesn't God answer my prayers to have Bonus (the long-dead cat) visit me as an angel in my dreams? Will we ever move again?) He needs us to occasionally ignore the book light shining on in those same hours close to midnight. He needs to be reminded of other's expectations, and to be appropriately lauded when he shines.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My artist, Annabeth, re-imagines every piece of junk as a future craft - "don't throw that away! I can use it!" She executes craft projects with me and is still thrilled to have me at her side, doing my thing. It hurts me when she is hyper-critical of her own efforts, especially doing this thing she does best of all. (yes! Tarra, Heidi, Kymmie, Agatha, Becca, David... you are right - I think she gets it from me. And I should be gentler on my own Me.) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My actor-future-fiction-writer- man-of-action, Patrick wants attention - someone to make laugh and help him weave his elaborate stories, to encourage him to accessorize, to roar, to give tiger hugs and after baths, to let him ball up under a towel in the middle of the room and "crack out" of his dinosaur egg - to welcome that dinosaur enthusiastically, but with a little fear. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And I do all that. With a willing, engaged Big One. And we do it well. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And sometimes, I even bake cookies.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-49773516151053358912010-05-20T06:19:00.000-07:002010-05-22T20:51:38.431-07:00Tested<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKP9UdHqGJ7dp1mK13ig8AiwR3M2UNtHbOKGPHPQpvjN9uUSRl1aXW7OseRUI9nMh4Ry-XBQGOwwHL9-BX6ORzkw-9Q4mV6QP25jWhLFq4ApyI89ISbjjdXSt54nMbw13Hp0mfD9_g5lR/s1600/patdanielle.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKP9UdHqGJ7dp1mK13ig8AiwR3M2UNtHbOKGPHPQpvjN9uUSRl1aXW7OseRUI9nMh4Ry-XBQGOwwHL9-BX6ORzkw-9Q4mV6QP25jWhLFq4ApyI89ISbjjdXSt54nMbw13Hp0mfD9_g5lR/s320/patdanielle.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474301689680501938" /></a><div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;">I dressed Patrick yesterday morning in his red rugby-striped shirt. </span></div><div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;">Generally, he adheres to his public-school open-to-interpretation uniform that it is only loosely followed by the pre-K set. Probably a dozen times, I have let him wear something other than the white (now white-ish) polo topper that fits requirements. On those occasions, he always picks the red-and-white. His favorite.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I dropped him and went on to other things - a breakfast meeting, then proctoring an AP test at the other school. I marveled at the relative calm of the adolescents taking that test. It was the final move of their high school careers - once that last bubble was filled in, stray marks erased, cell phone collected from me - they were gone. Off to the Rest of their Lives. And yet none seemed panicked, or even particularly plussed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Post-testing, I collected my daughter so we could go run a quick fun errand. We lollygagged, loading our cart with sugar cookie supplies. Then we left to retrieve Patrick, who I felt had lingered too long at after-care.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We got to his school and Annabeth asked if she could go in barefoot. She had stripped off her confining running shoes. I said, well sure. Just into the cafeteria. Just picking up a brother.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I walked in a few beats behind her. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Swarms of adults. A buffet. Little boys in top hats, pastel shirts, black pants, sparkling blue bow ties. Little girls in perfect spring church dresses, floral prints.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was confused for a flash of a second, two, three. Annabeth, beside me in her bare feet, said, "wow. What's this?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It had been the show. The Show. The end-of-the year celebration to move them all to kindergarten. Proceeding arm-in-arm. Singing, dancing, acting. Patrick had been, apparently, the Big Bad Wolf. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And I. Had Not. Been. There. Girls in dresses. Boys in ties. Gussied parents taking pictures. Siblings in finery eating from the parent-provided potluck buffet. Patrick in his day-stained red and white rugby, dirty shorts. Running shoes. Annabeth in bare feet. Bare. Feet. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I had received notice of this event. An email. Another. Maybe even another. Each time they would come over my phone I would glance at them, intending to parse later. I thought - since one called it a graduation celebration - it was on the last day of school. Next week. I never slowed down, read. Planned. Scheduled. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Recognizing what had happened, I wandered the small crowd wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Stunned. I snapped at someone, a friend. I blathered, in shock. People intercepted and said things like "he was wonderful!" and "I think I got a picture of him" and "It's OK, someone videoed it." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I left briefly, to cry in my car. I sobbed. Pulled myself together. Returned.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To be absolutely fair to myself, Patrick didn't show any concern. Genuinely. He was bopping around with a blue balloon. He said, "It's OK, mama!" Though he expressed disappointment that he didn't get to wear the sparkly tie. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We numbly ate chicken fingers. People said "let it go." And I felt so --- inadequate.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Things have been lost lately - falling off my radar, or under it. I have been going through the motions, sometimes frantic, always preoccupied. School is out soon - and the month has been a mess of pieces and parts. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I don't do this well. I have committed to things next year - big things. I will learn again, this summer, how to use a calendar (I can't figure out when I stopped, or why the very idea of a calendar intimidates me now.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I blew up later, at night. For imagined infractions of everyone else. But, of course, it was all about that Show. My error. My disconnect. My absent calendar. My crushing love for my youngest. Missing his last baby moment. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We are right here. At the end of the school year - a year rife with last-minute saves: permission slips, lacrosse games, trumpets, leotards. Dirvishes that whirled. Mornings that were late - and often a surprise (as in, SURPRISE! It's morning!) Right here, I am feeling ill-suited for all of it. Overwhelmed, with holes in my thoughts and holes in my day that allow for neither accomplishing nor resolving.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And before venturing to do this again, I would like, just-for-me, a test. An end of the year AP- equivalent that lets me know that I am suited well enough. That I am as good as the next guy and getting better. I would like to darken my bubbles, erase my stray marks, blow off the dust of the mistakes removed, turn in the test and move on. Matriculate. And find out mid-July if, in fact, I have received the desired four and will, after all of it, get credit for this cobbbled-together year. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And if not, I would like to take the year off. Re-group. Maybe study abroad. Come back when I am feeling more mature, and Ready.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-78577623220158575742010-04-26T11:14:00.000-07:002010-04-28T05:39:47.308-07:00gravity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvrI1KzuX2UG4SL_BYO_iNpgjaEAslwJzdt7-f9FePcfMCDozlnEIdk_hqgLZxATPlFaj-yqqBR3SH6BL1w1z179c1icWlzvE4F8H6W6stBrg7IhUvU7PtrqegamEUNxfvoPCmt6g15Au/s1600/couplecemetary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvrI1KzuX2UG4SL_BYO_iNpgjaEAslwJzdt7-f9FePcfMCDozlnEIdk_hqgLZxATPlFaj-yqqBR3SH6BL1w1z179c1icWlzvE4F8H6W6stBrg7IhUvU7PtrqegamEUNxfvoPCmt6g15Au/s200/couplecemetary.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464537390351647874" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I can remember idly wondering - in one of those short-lived, under-appreciated, pre-adolescent summer spells where "boredom" is an imagined risk, and "idle" is an actual state - if my affection for cemeteries meant I was morbid or otherwise "not right."</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I would ride my bike from my grandparent's farm "all the way" to the cemetery up the road. The bike had been my mother's, or possibly belonged to a cousin who had long since moved on to other things. Grandpa and I painted it. With Rustoleum from the hardware store. A sort of semi-matte orange that showed every paintbrush stroke. He bought me a red banana seat with the deeply imbedded sparkles that seem an inverse 3-D - a sparkly depth that goes on for iridescent ever in the bright sun of Connecticut July.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I pedalled uphill to that place and was alone in a way that felt specifically mine. Not the alone that comes from sibling abandonment, or friends being thousands of miles away (our home was South, our summers were North), but the first glimpses of Alone that you choose. I would pull tangles of weeds away from some headstones.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I would wander those stones, read them. I would parse through the dates, do the math. Find some from 18-so-and-so and some, if memory serves, from 17-something. I would imagine their stories, their long-ago-lives of simplicity and unimaginable complexity - some cut short by war, commemorated by tiny flags.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When Grandpa died, I couldn't understand why his graveyard was one we had to drive to. Why it was so golfcourse-like. Grandma would bring flowers from her gardens, tend others she had planted. She would say a rosary. The honoring felt different with someone I knew - with the gravity (pun, perhaps,unavoidable) of the situation infusing those occasions with an awkwardness. I wanted to visit alone, and I wanted not to intrude. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Gavin, who has an abstract comfort with death that both a love of history and his own veteran status afford, shares my affection for cemeteries. On vacations, we visit them. He reads the headstones, looking for the oldest, the best epitaphs, the largest families buried together, the most interesting names. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We have visited his grandfather's, who had fought the good fight, finished the race (2 Timothy 4:7).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> We have spent hours in cemeteries in Scotland, in France. We have driven out of our way in wanderings to chase them down. We hiked barely marked paths in a National Park on spring break to find ancestral graves (and found them). And, alone in Vancouver, I caught the first glimpse of majestic mountains by veering off-course in my walk from work to my motel - through a beautiful cemetery.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Here, we live near one of Atlanta's grander 'memorial gardens.' I run there. 100+ acres, with an unparalleled view of the city. Its highest point marked by a marble couple, forever looking ever higher, with the city scape directly beneath them. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In spring, the real plants,those that threaten to overtake were it not for the constant attention of caretakers, flower. All senses are engaged as I pant along on my gimp foot, assaulted by pollen, confronted all sides by Death, and wisteria, roses, and later in the season, magnolias, all on the edges, trying to break in. And in the middle, acres of rolling manicured lawns. And the dusty, sad cheer of row upon row of fake flowers.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Aside from the occasional long-ago-planted oak, the lawns are free of actual plant life. Plastic flowers weather in vases cleverly constructed as part of the headstones. And yet, everywhere there are spigots - presumably to help you in your grave-tending. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I have had little contact with death, and have just enough religion / spirituality to say with some conviction that I do believe it hardest on the living. The serenity and beauty of the graveyards is there for them. I don't know for whom the plastic flowers fade.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I have been to funerals and their wakes - a scant eight over my lifetime, if I am counting correctly. I have seen passion and poetry, reverence and reverie, even dancing, toasts, and silver goblets. I have also witnessed air deader than the person being so respected. And at all, the coffins seemed universally ill-suited to the task. (Please. No embalming for me. If anyone's asking.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My sister the brilliant poet wrote, while in high school, a poem about mortality to honor my (still living, at the time) grandmother that started "..'please don't put plastic flowers on my grave, ' she said. And I, unthinkingly, agreed." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thinkingly, decades later, I agree as well - fervently, rabidly. But from wherever I am, I bet I would love a spot in a graveyard - a bench, maybe, to honor my life. Some wisteria - uncontrolled and unruly - and a few words well-chosen and carved on something more permanent than I, in a nice font.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-83148360790116141642010-04-10T12:17:00.000-07:002010-05-22T20:45:20.340-07:00Grow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipG2gAPC619lB3jSK9rXMtlmpLDyb1ZmMtBZ9shv48Ti562D1ofBUE0BgduYOUWv3hxbxwGoZcKgyKLeMdTHVX949jQxSBetNz5dk7UI8B031mltKBRxSZoCZzYX_OMA4JlH2nJExOl4Ll/s1600/violets.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipG2gAPC619lB3jSK9rXMtlmpLDyb1ZmMtBZ9shv48Ti562D1ofBUE0BgduYOUWv3hxbxwGoZcKgyKLeMdTHVX949jQxSBetNz5dk7UI8B031mltKBRxSZoCZzYX_OMA4JlH2nJExOl4Ll/s200/violets.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474306478340815378" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">t is spring. My favorite time of the year. Last posts were spring, too - but on the cusp of newness. Now we are in it. In Atlanta, spring is an explosion of color. Everything is in bloom at once,</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and you can see pollen dancing in the sunbeam that warms the cat.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I plant things, and wonder how to do it more effectively. It is all mysterious to me - even from long lines of gardeners and farmers on both sides of my family. I like that things grow. I want to help them along... but I get distracted.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I wander the yard in no real pattern. Probably in dress clothes from a rare outing outside the house. I pull things up and then remember I own gloves and I should wear them. I yank at other things and remember I have a tool for that. I go to get the tool and see that the garage is a mess. I tackle the clutter, put the tools down on the cedar chest I really must move out of the garage and go inside to change. Whereupon I see laundry. And fold it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Patrick commented yesterday on the grass. "It's so pretty, Momma! I love it! We have the only grass with little tiny flowers!" Today we mowed, in response.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I tried to explain to him how we distinguish weeds from desirable plants and it made no sense to him. The deeper I dove into the topic, the more it felt fascist - pulling up dandelions and clover and pretty little white flowering things with no known name. I couldn't explain myself.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When we walk to school this time of year, my favorite yards are the yards at the edges of our neighborhood. They have thousands of matured, multiplying daffodils - but also the plants of my youth. Memories emerge of lazy spring days making "salad" of dandelion leaves, violets, sour clovers, and chives. I don't recall if we ever ate the salads, but my older sister spent one spring obsessively making violet jelly from Yule Gibbons' book. She was 11 or 12 and already achieving things that never occurred to the rest of us. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Most of the yard owners manicure all that away. They trim out the magic, leave the expected - tidy and trim. Colors in controlled bursts. Flowers you are most certainly not meant to eat.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The children burst out of the house with this weather - God's weather. The sun is bright, but the air is never oppressive. People emerge to drink on their porches in the evenings, to walk the neighborhood - to generously imagine everyone is a friend. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Annabeth turns 8 next month. Something close to 1/6th my age - though it feels, in some ways, that I have known her forever. I have known her for her forever - a world where she imagines she can remember when she was "little." Spring is the right time for her, sunshine and optimism on her better days. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She received an award this week. Arts Laureate, representing the first grade in the arts assembly. She was so proud to wear the dress her grandmother made, so proud to receive an award for what is certainly the Most Important Thing. She sees patterns everywhere, comments on the color of weathered buildings. We see the artist's temperament at times, but we saw something so proud, so grown-up when she strode across the stage wearing her medal - the tallest child until the fifth grader at the end. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I turn 42 tomorrow. A weird number. It sounds sensible, established. Far more of either of those things than I am - with my charmingly weedy yard and children flung across the neighborhood. But twice 21, and certainly twice as smart as I was at that number. Which is something. And... it is spring. This will be a good year.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-71872407672906888462010-03-26T05:14:00.000-07:002010-03-27T07:09:34.459-07:00Commence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S1cJx7Z_75WrOFh4LWqEmTXPlY-yVejk4qKHx2I_4oXKGX3ju6H337j8W-4wYANMwoECzfQazafAF9akrXSD-MrakC6A-daUggN8ybFeeU5GxLvI407zgd4hm1XhEylLjBAoba5B8CIQ/s1600/IMG_0605.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S1cJx7Z_75WrOFh4LWqEmTXPlY-yVejk4qKHx2I_4oXKGX3ju6H337j8W-4wYANMwoECzfQazafAF9akrXSD-MrakC6A-daUggN8ybFeeU5GxLvI407zgd4hm1XhEylLjBAoba5B8CIQ/s200/IMG_0605.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452927820718236610" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This buzz of a few months - where Christmas ended and suddenly it's almost April - so much busy-ness I've ceased having complete thoughts. (And have taken to losing things in my own home.)</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Vancouver saw an early spring. The cruel joke of Winter Olympics - when I left Atlanta in the south's version of a snow storm, and arrived in British Columbia to record highs and the greenest grass I'd seen all winter. It was magic, there - how misty days would run together and you would find yourself deep in the belly of a cloud. The cloud would lift and - surprise! - you would be surrounded by spectacular mountains, scenery invisible to you the day before.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;">While there, my workmate and new friend, Heather, planned wedding bits from afar. I grilled her for details, and marveled a little at the different aspects of our lives we weave together - work here, wedding and family there. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I returned after six weeks away and, in something of a haze, for three days unpacked and did laundry and packed again. We went on Spring Break. Here, too early for such a break - Blue Ridge foothills where nowhere near as green as the foothills of what I believe is the Cascades. It was beautiful, though - with a daily dose of stunning waterfalls and streams.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">On our first day out, we went to Chimney Rock, and witnessed a marriage proposal. The couple was buoyant, beaming, young. The boy had a rock carved with "will you marry me..." on it, had placed the rock in among the other flat stones of the observation deck. We took pictures.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtzXIVRpYe7yhXpZ1DD5LXtI5sO6N6SLAazEaw6lJMIdDyv7H8xvelf8nT9wtyMgvEaNSo4iDdTcooC5gwRqQXO5GpuqtVw713uehwKQKE4sjpJCyOZJmANL4tbN2jfZ6VfI9-GrAhOeYD/s200/engaged.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452918905011339298" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The third day out - it happened again! We were in a National Park this time - looking down at a waterfall - and a guy came running up to us. "Could you help me with something really cool? I am about to propose to my girlfriend down there </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">- could you take my camera and get some pictures?" Fantastic. Of course we could. It is, apparently, What We Do. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We came home and, in something of a haze, for three days unpacked and did laundry and packed again for a wedding in Florida. We all went - the whole fam. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The kids hadn't been to one before, and this was in the Ocala National Forest. An old friend of mine was getting married - my high school prom date, in fact - and my godson's mom / daughter's godfather's wife officiated. My oldest and dearest friend, Tica, lives nearby and we would host a party together Thursday (something I would never do on my own...)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am in love at weddings. I never love my life, Gavin, or friends and family present, more. Weddings, in almost any form, make me giddy.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There were days of activities - great food (all prepared by the bride and groom and presumably, many elves), cocktails and dancing and spanish moss and bluegrass and sunshine. Friends from long ago- still themselves, all still versions of who they were 20+ years back. From the Cuban sandwiches Thursday night to setting the pitch via pitch pipe for Amy's rehearsal Saturday morning to playing with my godson and twin Sunday afternoon (while possibly hungover)... A perfect weekend, bracketed by rain that never fell on any of it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhj5S4Lpug8DSo0ASd4nAqnEqTpvPyfjZKVAHHvY8ZolMEBYl9inImNdx8PySS-s6dNd0ep_lgmpZfgymuSrsa4_TZxv1W8tPtkWZAhGP-rJNonEXteAwttUk-Ff5ET6mpuXPHiom46L_r/s200/denise.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452923710381929762" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I kept being struck by all the work we put into Beginning. All the attention paid to Starting. For our wedding 13 years ago, I only knew there would be a mass, and I wanted friends and family accounted for, people from different stages of each of our lives in one place. I wanted to count heads and feel love and dance to great music. I wanted the accountability of an audience. With a couple of gin and tonics and dancing after.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At weddings - Andy and Todd last year, Bill and Gia this - there is so much optimism. So much promise and enthusiasm and prayers both spiritual and secular. Everything changes, right there. And yet nothing does, really. Denise officiated, and we watched, and I thought, wow. So much has been bestowed upon her. Bill and Gia wrote their own vows. And they stood there - and they promised. And by the power invested in her, Denise pronounced and introduced.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Spring has sprung, beginnings have begun. Let's get started.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-75307008667086424762010-03-25T12:11:00.000-07:002010-04-26T13:28:24.012-07:00Losing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPln6Ib5XUPgQCyC35GDVkSLMmbE0YqfVK7-bxtelzbfDlCxkcqoZKMBlWgoATF5E0WjuRavr1tAw4KHsRZdXsDraaEOoHSS4RVtfCdAlsOM1Lt9C0k92N4pK88XOVY_rFqzWpBWrZV7x/s1600/one.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPln6Ib5XUPgQCyC35GDVkSLMmbE0YqfVK7-bxtelzbfDlCxkcqoZKMBlWgoATF5E0WjuRavr1tAw4KHsRZdXsDraaEOoHSS4RVtfCdAlsOM1Lt9C0k92N4pK88XOVY_rFqzWpBWrZV7x/s200/one.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452656769844890546" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Last night, Annabeth lost two teeth. (Five minutes after this photo was taken, she pulled the second one.)</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To say she 'lost' them is to put a rosy and passive blush onto what was surely an active (and, to judge from the blood loss, somewhat violent) extraction. They were very loose. And she wanted them out. She is almost 8 - and it is a rite of passage she was starting to fear was passing her by entirely. We assisted, at her request, in helping her narrowly dodge that fate.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her tiny teeth were collected by a fairy. Prior to that offering, I held them up to my teeth. They were a quarter the size. I cannot imagine the her that will emerge with her new giant teeth. How it will change her face. Her between-grins-grin will smile gummily from First Communion photos next month, and from atop her sparkly leotard in her annual gymnastics recital. There is a sweetness in the toothlessness, the loss of baby that exits with the milk teeth.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I remember lost teeth. A palpable loss. You can stick your tongue where there had been a tooth and the raw, yielding gums around space are at once fascinating and somewhat horrifying. You admire your freakish toothless appearance - and, if you are me (which I know for certain you are not. But hear me out...) you are plagued with a lifetime's supply of nightmares and anxiety dreams that perfectly replicate that tongue-to-gap differentness.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Other losses tend to be less tangible. Something was here, now it's gone - and maybe something will replace it. I missed, oddly, babies in my belly for the first weeks after each was born. They seemed safer there. I miss places I've moved from, people that used to be in my life. The memories are foggy, though. There is no muscle memory that can replicate my grandfather's giant hand - with leathery back, crooked strong fingers, and calloused palms; the smell of the ocean after hours at the end of a hot day; the first voices of each of my children.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I lost my job. I can't even grasp that one yet. And I really, truly care so much less than I am supposed to. I know I should look. But at the moment, I am so grateful for the spaces in which I can organize other spaces. I like this in-between place, with no clear sense of what is next. Oddly, I am afraid I like it a bit much.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yesterday, I had jury duty - which I approach with the heavy sense of responsibility - a Pollyanna-ish belief that this is my Duty. That this is Democracy. Jobless, it was no hardship. I thought of Denise, who is a judge. Robin and Agatha who work for judges. I served, though I was never called. Six hours later, I got up from my seat and left Gavin's Kindle behind. A new toy I was just getting used to, a novel I had 18% completed (per the measure below and to the left of the text.) Gone.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the way home, Gav called me. Oblivious, as yet, to the missing Kindle, he was warning me about the drive - which route to take. Atlanta traffic, the hassle of here-to-there - the plotting of alternatives. And then? I never saw my phone again. It's here. Though I have torn apart the car, the couch, the garage, bookshelves. I have offered cash prizes to household members. And I can't believe I am being kept from several active Scrabble games.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The organized, fantasy me would have one spot for all those baby teeth. They would be labled with dates. They would be in tiny pill bottles, specific to each child. That me would never leave a Kindle behind, would know where my phone is, would have current calendars up and would have begun the real spring cleaning I vaguely imagine. That me would have a fat savings account from years of careful attention. That me would be called on that phone by friends who would say "wow! I don't know how you stay so organized! So disciplined! You make it look so easy!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This me needs to look for the phone, get the job, replace the Kindle, do the laundry, make the new calendars and get started with dinner. And every bit of it is much easier than I will manage to make it look. (Well, except for the job bit. But I can blame the economy for that one.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So. Annabeth lost teeth. I lost, a few weeks back, a consistent paycheck. Yesterday I lost a Kindle. And an iPhone. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tomorrow, I think I will work on gaining.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-90965254464809967382010-03-03T23:24:00.000-08:002010-03-05T05:38:16.291-08:00Airborne<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHq4v-uhvcbp5FkrJTh0URtn64Zx7vETWwLw_a-naxLMGCVs09tWtj8zWGm9BCO-pT9G1ZpZW6-LwngNezQdVnlA6FtiXssxVQQRthCWnDGyOXI54cshsXOH-m9sCxwP7mtK3xW3OeL_d/s1600-h/landing.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHq4v-uhvcbp5FkrJTh0URtn64Zx7vETWwLw_a-naxLMGCVs09tWtj8zWGm9BCO-pT9G1ZpZW6-LwngNezQdVnlA6FtiXssxVQQRthCWnDGyOXI54cshsXOH-m9sCxwP7mtK3xW3OeL_d/s200/landing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444840687586606818" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">With apologies to Jason </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Reitman</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, "up in the air" is a metaphor I really need right now. For some of the same the reasons it worked so well in his movie. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I have flown for long stretches over the last six weeks. And flying - as a layman with absolutely no understanding of aeronautical engineering - requires a leap of faith for me. I think "how do it do this?" Relying, as I am, on a giant tin can to hurtle me above the earth at unfathomable speeds. Trusting, as I do, that it's </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">ok</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> to have the clouds under me, that the hard earth below will receive me gently - delivered by metal wings, guided by a man in a uniform, festooned with medals, about whom I know nothing.</span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Up in the air. When you are between destinations. When you rely on fate or luck or planning - or the convergence of all these and timing - to get you from where you are to where you will be. When the where you will be is indeterminate, or the path to it is unclear. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I trusted the planes, and I was delivered - to a job that ended, to a past career that warranted re-visiting. To home again, twice. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;">The plane landed and I am home, but I am still up there - a little ungrounded.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I don't know what comes next. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I closed a door, definitively. Four weeks later, I am returning home to job hunt. And learned, in the Salt Lake City Airport during the 45-minute layover, that my thumb drive that included my last invoice to that other job was destroyed. That all my writing samples from that other job were also irrevocably corrupted. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Six weeks elsewhere, and returning to motherhood and reality, I learned that the spreadsheet that defined how I am to distribute 55 boxes of Girl Scout cookies is also quite gone. And I have no idea what it said, because I was between places when I created it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> In the Salt Lake airport, I didn't quite cry. But tears sprung to my eyes and I talked myself down. Questioning, at once, my organizational skills both maternal and professional, I swiped my eyes, swallowed the growing lump, and embarked the plane. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I settled in, somehow, next to a race car driver. In his sixties, on his way to Jackson, Mississippi to race a car. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;">I have never talked with someone before, on a plane.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">For five hours, the charming Brit and I looked at our separate lives through common interests, common sensibilities. David (his name, learned just before wheels touched down) is a farmer mechanic, as was my grandfather. A grower of things, a builder of race cars, a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">flyer</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> of planes, a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">sailer</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> of boats. He is a father, a grandfather. He is stationary, on his island - and he is the most mobile of mobiles - building and racing cars - having returned to this version of himself at 60 after a 30-year hiatus. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif; ">He told a story, my flight mate. Of a fisherman.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The fisherman is casting his line when he is approached by a banker. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Why not hire some laborers to fish for you? You get a cut of what they bring in. The more you hire, the more you collect. Eventually, you won't have to do any of the work. They will do it for you. Money will roll in. You can retire. " </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> "But what would I do?," replied the fisherman, curious.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Well, then you would have all the time in the world to spend at the beach. Fishing," replied the businessman.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">"Ah. And how is that different from what I do... now..?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif; ">For now, I will enjoy a little inflicted-upon-me leisure time. I will count my ducks, go on Spring Break, and enjoy my children without a corporate-mandated to do list hanging in the wings. I will look for work - and I will try to remember these past weeks - filled with some of what I love and some of what I loathe, some of what fits, and some of what doesn't. I will try to know something of what I want before I begin the chase.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I may even fish. </span></span></div></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-67734771844656823682010-02-25T07:02:00.000-08:002010-03-03T23:22:12.582-08:00Gold<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL6SlwU36CuSyQRIJoSEhD5nentHvVYTFUwztAF1lIyl55Ta9at5HtfcFsIxYH4ETgc8O92FWFBpM0FNk9TcuVNZuzAJCwoWeftUM4b5tNTOJqwBr1-X21KLI7-CHMcAlwHSMdWzuqCgRX/s1600-h/clock.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL6SlwU36CuSyQRIJoSEhD5nentHvVYTFUwztAF1lIyl55Ta9at5HtfcFsIxYH4ETgc8O92FWFBpM0FNk9TcuVNZuzAJCwoWeftUM4b5tNTOJqwBr1-X21KLI7-CHMcAlwHSMdWzuqCgRX/s200/clock.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442714141477240210" /></a><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We are in the medal rounds for curling. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /></span></span><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"We" meaning those of us here at Hillcrest. The curling venue. In Vancouver. We will miss it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Heather, my co-manager (with her optimism, drive, and consistently sunny disposition) would be an instant friend in any circumstance.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We came into this the same way: we knew nothing about curling. We had no idea what our roles in Vancouver would be before we got here. We didn't know each other.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> We got lucky. We have exceptional volunteers and solid, enthusiastic management. In retrospect and story value, nothing will beat the motel we called home for 18 days - affectionately refered to as the Bates Motel. For it's nerdy appeal, relative obscurity, later-in-life award potential, and inherent weirdness - the sport has won us over. And we had, by many reports, one of the smoothest venues going, curbside.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I now know that Canada, China, Sweden, Switzerland and Norway are especially good curlers. I know that "stones" are slid across "sheets" toward the "house." There is a crazy amount of strategy involved, and there are also brooms.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I hear that competitors and fans alike drink a lot of beer (though my only proof is post-event stumbling spectators, looking for their buses) and, apparently, they wear magic shoes - that are slidy or grippy at whim.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Outside the sport, I learned, or was reminded of, other things:</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">1. A toque is a knit hat.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> It is pronounced "tooook." I like this word. I will use it.</span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">2. A uniform is like playing dress-up.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> You put it on, and all the sudden you are like those animals in Richard Scary's Busytown. Others have some notional idea of what you do all day. You are part of a larger whole. In the tribe. And when you are done with work, you can physically slough your day, change into civvies of your chosing.</span></span></span></div><p><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">3. There are a lot of Canadians in Vancouver. </span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I was briefly stunned by the number of Canadian flags flying outside windows in condos downtown. Each time someone would announce that "we won another Gold," Heather and I would have to conciously remember who "we" are. It's them - in the streets - clanking cowbells, wearing maple leaves. The Canadians. And of course it is.<br /><br /></span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">4. Everybody needs a little love.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Sussing out the individual motivations of volunteers kept the early days at the venue interesting. Generally, they want to participate- and they have the time to give. Most gave up vacations - to stand, proudly, at a curb. To welcome their constituency: media, sponsors, athletes; depending on the load zone. As a paid employee, my job is primarily making them feel it is worth it. By whatever practical means.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">5. Canadians embrace process. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">T</span></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">hinking outside previously-set parameters is not particularly rewarded. They speak of "process" (with a long "o...") and "chain of command." It can be frustrating, but it has a discipline to it. It's just confusing to American event people who like the more pirate-y aspects of this career path.</span></span></span></p><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6. Just be nice. </span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Nice" is a legitimate adjective for Canadians. They are unobtrusive, polite, and pleasant. Sometimes, to quick-moving, quick-decision-making, execution-oriented Americans, "nice" isn't always useful. But it keeps the curb pleasant. And it is FAR preferable to work with unpaid people whose default is nice than to work with overpaid people whose default is suspicion and derision*.<br /></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7. Work is preferable than being idle.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I spent the first two days here in disbelief. I left my family behind thinking it would be 18 exhausting, hard-driven days. I managed about 200 yards of curb. At a very smoothly-run venue. I paced during those early days. I champed at the bit, straining to find more work, more worth.<br /></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">8. Fresh is good, and idle is not all bad.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Day three of my complaints, a wise advisor (or two, or three) said, "shut up and enjoy your peaceful venue or you will end up knee-deep in muck at the bus yards." Words to live by.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">9 Time is relative</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It has been 14 years since I worked on a large event. And it seems impossible that it was so long ago, that I have lived another life since then, that these people don't know that version of me - this version of me. In that world, I worked 16, 18-hour days. On this quiet venue, the 10-hour days - spent mostly waiting - seem especially long. And 18 days without my family feels like 40. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">10. The Girl Scouts were right.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I felt sorta princessy with all the stuff Gav gave me for my trip. My own travel towel, really? Is that necessary? Pillow cases from home? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">At the Bates Motel, where I rest each night until the 5AM alarm, towels are an inch thick. When folded, six layers deep. The pillow cases are an obvious and unfortunate blend. I LOVE my travel towel. And my own pillow cases from home are my Favorite Thing. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My instinct is to adapt. But in almost every case? Preparation trumps adaptability.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">11.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (Because mine goes to 11.) </span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dorothy was right.</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> When I return home, I will have been gone six out of the last seven weeks. Gavin is wildly tolerant, and the children - while nothing could have prepared them for the absense of mom for that stretch - have adapted reasonably well. </span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I miss event work. The immediacy, the concrete conclusion. The tangible difference between planning and execution. The palpable energy. The happy volunteers. I miss being part of something bigger. I miss all-access accreditation and the power of issuing cars, or parking permits. I miss golf carts and urgency. I miss drinking with exhausted, loud, fun and funny people with foul language and all the inside scoop. I miss it far more than is practical, or logical. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So much time has passed. And I can all too easily imagine the me that stayed in it - a single me, a career-rich me. And I would be good at it- as high or as deep as I wanted. And I would keep myself fully distracted in the whirl. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But I didn't pick that me, I picked this other me. The one that took time off, that had babies. Three of them. The one that built a checkered, confusing career path. Whose husband is rooted and supportive and There, whose children are awe-inspiring. Whose people require her to focus - tight, direct, measured focus - on others. To not succomb to distractions. To slow down. To be. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I medaled this round. And I won. There truly is no place like home. There are no people like My people - my Littles. My Big One. They are too far, for too long. And "away" is not a tenable, desirable state.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Five more days and I am back where I am meant to be.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*referencing, specifically, the corporate world I closed out in January. NOT organizing committee folks here. I know no one in the event world that operates from a default of suspicion and derision - even when jaded, grumpy, and tired. Which we often are.</span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-56589509336062454502010-02-12T18:49:00.000-08:002010-02-12T19:55:12.216-08:00Misfit<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Between places, now. Here, with There on the other side of a plane ride that, ironically, may be delayed because of snow.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It is snowing. Hard. And Here is Atlanta, and There is Canada. The world in which I am dabbling is the event world, one I moved in smoothly for years, many years back. Enough years past to make me feel really old when spoken of out loud. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Three weeks ago, I left for south Florida to close out the contract I have maintained and prospered from for four years. A falling, flailing, failing company, I was not surprised by the abrupt dismissal by cell phone over Christmas break. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The news was sharply, suspiciously delivered. Gavin had unprofessional, violent ideas for how I should respond. I demurred, ignored his suggestions, and travelled to Florida at their behest to close out the contract, and train my replacement.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Doing so opened this event door, and soon I had tacked on a contract for ten days' worth of work for a certain couple of high-profile football games, also in Florida. That was last week.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The first 2/3 of the trip - in an office, with low-key responsibilities - was torturous. People were suspicious, uncomfortable. The environment breeds self-protection, chilly self-interest. I was training someone to take my job. My every move was projected on a wall. The recipient of my attention was overwhelmed by the information - and humorless. The ten hour days felt eternal. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I would step outside, just to break up the day. Just to breathe air that hadn't already been breathed, filtered, and returned. To get away from darting eyes and the closed tiny room. And the projector. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The final third of the same trip - in parking lots and bus zones, barking into radios and standing in the rain, breathing diesel fumes - was somehow fun. People were, if sometimes overzealous, generally open. The environment breeds openness, requires frequent exchanges of information and instant familiarity. Trust is necessary, and responsiveness rewarded (by systems that work). Humor is critical and within reach. A ten-hour day would be short.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was driving across a parking lot, on a golf cart, on the prettiest day we had. I had just dropped a cameraman at his car, while running a courtesy golf cart shuttle for media during media day. I felt crazy lucky to be there. And I thought, "who wouldn't love this?" With little effort I thought of ten, twelve people who wouldn't. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There is no glamour in it. It is working in events, yes. But it is operations. It is transportation. Bus zones, parking lots, motor pools. Bus boards, parking permits, driving routes. A perfect day is one in which the people you are moving (or parking or directing) don't notice. And you eat bad box lunches. And you fall into bed after too-long days - and you can't always get the diesel out of your pores. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Years ago, when I first did this, the boyfriend I was leaving behind for the second time, for my second event, gave me an ultimatum. Him or Them. The them he described, pretentiously and unpleasantly as "misfits and malcontents." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Which sounded at least interesting. I picked them.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I met my husband working that last event 14 years ago. His competency was highlighted by his largeness. I had spun out a little, in a job for which I was under-qualified. I hired him to help me get a handle on all the parts. My boss, when he figured out we were dating, said something to the effect of "thank God. He is your rudder."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I will be so glad to be home, when I am home. When this is an adventure in retrospect, when I am at the other side of too-long days and mishaps I can't yet quite imagine. When three weeks in a 'bungalow,' whose online commentary includes one disgruntled visitor's succinct rating of "creepy," are over. When I can again tuck in my Littles. And thank my husband again, in person, for being so tolerant and willing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But for now, from here - trying to leave Atlanta with three inches of snow on the ground - it sounds fun. I am so pleased to be a part. To have a husband willing to engage in this outrageous six-week single-parenting experiment. To have three more weeks of pay. To wear the uniform, to smile through grit. To be a tiny piece of something so much bigger. And to fit. </span></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5608003494386157154.post-31059583318081253052010-01-14T10:05:00.000-08:002010-01-17T06:40:21.853-08:00First<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepIwrIMAc81gFBm84yHaiYnlS7IYjSS-68BZCfnervBL7VKrLyKRFN_f6K30iqg1dcU6E9sQfhdc1D0bnzAfF1e0Z3gKwkgZupElraEwhlC-CxsDAleV6XIKK8lQyJhkMgfXciA0tkmPB/s1600-h/cathy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 149px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepIwrIMAc81gFBm84yHaiYnlS7IYjSS-68BZCfnervBL7VKrLyKRFN_f6K30iqg1dcU6E9sQfhdc1D0bnzAfF1e0Z3gKwkgZupElraEwhlC-CxsDAleV6XIKK8lQyJhkMgfXciA0tkmPB/s200/cathy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427577543960462514" /></a><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Kindergarten. I had long, shiny hair. Which Mom had cut into a short, stylish shag - no doubt after too much twisted end-chewing, or on</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">e too many pieces of gum being cut out of it. Short = practical. And Mom only had so much time in the </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">morning - with four kids, a job, no spouse.<br /><br />I can recall sitting on the bench seat of the </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">fam</span></span></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWnh3UFpy5DxRjmGOdLVvqxejjnGovYJ8rj-xy6cfhna__4BlBLDpj81a6rGsdGnxQi5JJbcd2IlUFKrld3zwFoF7RUb8NwMiUMCsAoT5Sn1xEusRgSq7nPOhIQB0URX0YVn3Xuc0pXmdo/s200/after.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427576317351044114" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, serif; ">ily car, post-cut. We had gone to a 'real' hair cutting place. A beauty school, with rows of chairs.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Driving home, in our olive green (metallic brown?) Buick - just before the station wagon - I scootched across the brown pleather bench seat to the middle, to see my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I couldn't quite reconcile that She... was me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Time has not adjusted that first impression. Pictures (and family movies) prove: it was awful.<br /><br />On the day I came to school with new hair, the boy (Mike Rhodes! I remember, I remember!) wouldn't talk to me.<br /><br />The last two to be picked up, every day, I approached Mike Rhodes (I think of the name like "Charlie Brown -" always to be said as one) on the stairs after school, where we waited for our (working) mothers.<br /><br />"Remember me? You said I was your girlfriend!" (A word it took great courage to speak out loud.)<br /><br />With visible distaste, and incredulity, he replied.. "What? I don''t even know you. MY girlfriend has LONG HAIR. You look like a BOY." And, if memory is correct, he then moved to a different stair.<br /><br />And the moral, of course (since cautionary tales have those) is: Say nice things. People remember the mean stuff.<br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div>CatrinkaShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383407884034887408noreply@blogger.com5