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.

Aughts

We were three of us at the start. We rang in the New Year with home-made hats. A brand new tiny baby boy (who was not, actually, all that small.) My sister had just adopted two daughters - six and eight, from Khazakstan. We were in a loft with painted harlequin concrete floors, giant drafty windows, and a cat that wouldn't come down from the overhead pipes.

We left the nineties, the loft, the extended family. We moved to New York. We added a nanny and new jobs. Graduate school. Towers fell. Another baby came. Taxis were hailed, umbrellas were spun inside-out in lower Manhattan wind-tunnels. I counted rats and listened to impossibly clear music with the stunning acoustics of subway stations. I learned something of bonuses, and something of crawling on my hands and knees for one more quarter for laundry loads.

We moved to Florida. We had another, decidedly final, baby. We were sand and salt and sparkly things. The Baby Bjorn, jog stroller, crib, and Avent bottles were dusted off and then retired. Hurricanes came. We lived out our thirties and returned to Georgia to each turn, implausibly and prematurely, forty.

This decade, we added cable and iPods and laptops and cell phones. We started carless and rode cabs, subways, trains, planes, buses, boats. We visited islands at either end of the decade - in the Caribbean at the start, British isles toward the end. We lived in three states, four moves. We went from the potential of family to a Family. With suppertime and homework and school dress codes and "go team" and "go outside!" and "go to your room."

Babies spit up sat up and stood up and learned to walk and then ran and talked learned to read and told jokes and did multiplication tables and wrote reports and begged for more time on their DS games. They cry less, they shout more. They laugh and they love and they try to believe in Elves and Santa and tooth faeries.

I attended three funerals and two births. I gave many, many baby gifts - and know dozens and dozens of fully-formed humans that didn't exist in 1999.

We watched the young senator on TV. I said "that is the next president." He said, with the authority and certainty that I know and love, "no way. Too green. Too black. We aren't ready. He isn't ready." And four years later - he was, he is. And we don't yet know what the reach of that is - but I am heartened by the fact that my children find it not a bit strange.

We are still fighting the same war. We've noticed the change in the weather, and we are talking about organic and local and reducing carbon footprints. We are paying down credit cards and know no one still getting real-estate rich.

We are defined by what we lost - in resources, in finances, in faith, in lives - and by what we have gained - in politicians, and expanded worldviews and tolerance and lives. We are prepared, really, for nothing. And we pray, futilely, that those unpredictable events and impacts will be soft and swift and enjoyable. That we will be spared tragedies, personal and global. That we will be kind, and generous, and peace-loving and patient and considerate.

For us, this last decade was about moving and changing and adapting and defining.

When this decade ends, Sebastian will no longer be a teenager. Patrick will be learning to drive. Annabeth will be in the middle of the college application process. We will be in our fifties.

A decade is a really long time. And, as observed by everyone who has lived through more than three of them, they pass at an unfathomably fast clip.

From here, we have no idea what that will look like. But we know - the two of us, the five of us - more than any other decade before - who we are doing it all for. We know that much.

Machine

"All I want for Christmas is an airsoft rifle and an iTouch," said my 10-next-week son, Sebastian.

"Well, you'll be disappointed, then."

"How do you know that? How do you know what Santa will give me?" He said, voice laced with cynicism.

"I just know. And I will make it known. That assault-weapon-looking guns are not, nor will they ever be, welcome in this house."

Silence. Maybe tense. But quiet, as Sebastian tries to find a come-back, or, no doubt, a defense for his wishes.

Patrick, 5-years-old-next-week joins the conversation. Softly.

"What I would like to ask Santa for? .... Is a machine. ....A machine that could make you one or two. Whenever you went in it. Like a baby.

I would like that."

"oh?"

"Because I would like very much for you to carry me like that again."

...

"Oh, pPod. That would be nice."

...

"Yeah," he said, wistfully, "it really would."

(We lived in Florida. There was a hurricane. He bathed in pool water. In a bucket. It was chilly. He was, and is, unflappable.)