Losing

Last night, Annabeth lost two teeth. (Five minutes after this photo was taken, she pulled the second one.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.)

So. Annabeth lost teeth. I lost, a few weeks back, a consistent paycheck. Yesterday I lost a Kindle. And an iPhone.

Tomorrow, I think I will work on gaining.

Airborne

With apologies to Jason Reitman, "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.

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 ok 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.

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.

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.

The plane landed and I am home, but I am still up there - a little ungrounded.

I don't know what comes next.

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.

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.

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.

I settled in, somehow, next to a race car driver. In his sixties, on his way to Jackson, Mississippi to race a car.

I have never talked with someone before, on a plane.

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 flyer of planes, a sailer 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.

He told a story, my flight mate. Of a fisherman.

The fisherman is casting his line when he is approached by a banker.

"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. "

"But what would I do?," replied the fisherman, curious.

"Well, then you would have all the time in the world to spend at the beach. Fishing," replied the businessman.

"Ah. And how is that different from what I do... now..?"

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.

I may even fish.

Gold

We are in the medal rounds for curling.

"We" meaning those of us here at Hillcrest. The curling venue. In Vancouver. We will miss it.

Heather, my co-manager (with her optimism, drive, and consistently sunny disposition) would be an instant friend in any circumstance.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Outside the sport, I learned, or was reminded of, other things:

1. A toque is a knit hat. It is pronounced "tooook." I like this word. I will use it.

2. A uniform is like playing dress-up. 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.

3. There are a lot of Canadians in Vancouver. 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.

4. Everybody needs a little love. 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.

5. Canadians embrace process. Thinking 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.

6. Just be nice. "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*.

7. Work is preferable than being idle. 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.

8. Fresh is good, and idle is not all bad. 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.

9 Time is relative. 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.

10. The Girl Scouts were right. 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?

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.

My instinct is to adapt. But in almost every case? Preparation trumps adaptability.

11. (Because mine goes to 11.) Dorothy was right. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Five more days and I am back where I am meant to be.

*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.

Misfit

Between places, now. Here, with There on the other side of a plane ride that, ironically, may be delayed because of snow.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Which sounded at least interesting. I picked them.

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."

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.

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.

First

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

e too many pieces of gum being cut out of it. Short = practical. And Mom only had so much time in the

morning - with four kids, a job, no spouse.

I can recall sitting on the bench seat of the

fam

ily car, post-cut. We had gone to a 'real' hair cutting place. A beauty school, with rows of chairs.

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.

Time has not adjusted that first impression. Pictures (and family movies) prove: it was awful.

On the day I came to school with new hair, the boy (Mike Rhodes! I remember, I remember!) wouldn't talk to me.

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.

"Remember me? You said I was your girlfriend!" (A word it took great courage to speak out loud.)

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.

And the moral, of course (since cautionary tales have those) is: Say nice things. People remember the mean stuff.

Leila

In 2000, a month after the birth of my first, I had no idea what I was doing.

My sister-in-law Kim, who had - at that time - a three-year-old and a one-year-old, seemed a seasoned professional. She had already seen through to the other side of potty training, first words, first steps.

Kim had, and has, a patient, disciplined approach to child-rearing. She is calm, laid back when she needs to be - and I have never seen her actually explode. (She cannot, I will disclose here, say the same about me.)

Kim introduced me to Dr. Denmark.

Both of her children had their first well-baby visits with Dr. Denmark, and she recommended I do the same.

Leila Denmark.

At the time, Leila was 101 years old. A practicing pediatrician, working out of her office, next to her home - in Alpharetta. Far outside the perimeter (OTP, as we say), on a sleepy street, with a giant oak in the yard.

You arrived at the office and entered, according to your need: sick children, well babies. Well babies got first attention. No appointments. $15/visit, pay cash at the desk. One person worked for her, as I recall.

Dr. Denmark took her role very seriously: showing generations of mothers how to trust themselves. She believed in the football hold for soothing fussy children. She taught that crying toughened lungs, and that coughs were to be resolved and not shut up. She felt cow's milk was dangerous and mother's milk was best.

She spent thirty minutes talking to me and my healthy baby - reassuring, and doling out time-honored wisdom. I towered over her, and she seemed the pillar of strength. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to appear capable. To win her approval.

She said, at the time, that we should all read less about raising children and spend more time raising them. She said to have clear boundaries, that babies didn't want to roam free - that children want limits. She felt strongly that you should never raise your voice or hand to your child, but that you should be attentive enough to not need to do either. She felt we should all, new parents, quit looking to books to tell us what to do and find quiet spaces to figure out our instincts, and follow them. "A cow knows what to do with a calf - certainly you can figure out what to do with your baby."

She was affirming, comforting, and direct. And she loved every minute of what she was doing.

My same son has been sick this week with a mysterious and somewhat gruesome virus that has left his lips, inside his mouth, and throat riddled with sores. He has had a fever for seven days. My primary care physician scolded me for taking him to urgent care. The urgent care physician gave him antibiotics that aren't doing anything discernible.

It appears to be running its course, and he is on the mend.

And out-of-pocket, this journey (and we have great insurance) has cost in excess of $200.

The doctors poked a little, prodded some. Gave some advice. The feeling was of work - their jobs, our efforts to get there. Insurance cards examined and processed. I was tired just going, and my son felt no more soothed by the words of doctors that went around him.

My son is sick. Our healthcare system is screwed up. And I miss Dr. Denmark - who I hear is still alive, in Athens. At 112.

So I was thinking about her today. Talking about her, to my friend Kelly, who said "I remember her! My Dad loves her! You should write about her."

And then the day took off. And all this work stuff happened. Work opportunities of the kind of work I did before. Pre-kids, pre-marriage. Event stuff where work and play all blurred. And being in the thick of it was fun.

And I chased the opportunities, and I agreed to complicated things that will take me away from here. For several weeks. For a Super Bowl. For a winter Olympics. And the idea is crazy. And the rush of being In It is enticing. And I questioned my decision, as a mother. And it looped back around to Leila, somehow, who said:

" Anything on earth you want to do is play. Anything on earth you have to do is work. Play will never kill you, work will. I never worked a day in my life." - Dr. Leila Denmark, who retired at 103, the world's longest-practicing pediatrician.

Now, of course she also said a lot about that your children coming first. And mine do. But right now - I also need to work my chops just a little. Do something different. Go somewhere other. And come back here. Thrilled - six or so weeks from now - to return. And they need to see me off. To do something I want. Something... interesting. (That will also pay some bills - here in the first month of unemployment.)

Of course, this all assumes Sebastian will be fine by next week. He will be. He will be.

Priceless

There is so much happening right now - or not happening right now - in my world, near my world, that I am stunned and dumbstruck and accomplishing little.

I lost my job. My 'contract,' though there never was one. It was four years of well-paid month-to-month that ends - entirely expectedly - at the end of January. To get to that End, I have to travel to south Florida, where we lived for four years. I will go back there, and spend ten days ending, or facilitate others' taking over whatever it is I do.

The trip itself has elements I will embrace: there is the ocean, there are close friends, and my sister who is a friend. There are highways that are straight and traffic that is laughable (compared to here.) There are salty breezes and there are shells. And there will be quiet evenings alone, and loud evenings with too much wine and friends. And responsibilities that do not extend to small, demanding people.

Of course I don't want to go. Even with all that said. My life is here, my world is here, my people are here. My small people are my world. And the Big One is here - and he's still my best friend and the person with whom I most want to end my days.

I looked at bringing someone mid-trip. "Someone" meant Annabeth, because I will have just taken a short trip with Sebastian (DC this weekend, 4th grade trip - if he recovers from his current tenacious illness). She would fly, as an unaccompanied minor. But I looked, and it was - sadly - cost-prohibitive for someone on the cusp of losing nearly half of the household income. I didn't tell her.

Sunday night, not talking about any of this, Annabeth was a mess. Moving deftly between whiny and petulant and bossy and sullen, she finally stomped to bed. I went in to say goodnight. Asked her where this had come from, why she was so committed to such meanness.

She said, quite out-of-the-blue, "I don't want you to leave us." And she started sobbing. Softly, bravely, trying-not-to-ly into her pillow.

And I said, quite out of my own control, "how about you come visit? You fly, by yourself, to the beach, and come visit me? And we stay in a hotel? And we see the ocean and visit old friends?"

And she stopped crying. And it seemed well worth the $200+ I just committed to make it stop.