Wednesday, April 15, 2015
The First Day
I'm not melancholy about having missed out on something. Nor do I think I failed to capture my dreams or follow my passions. I've had an incredible career -- in fact many of them. Through the generosity of my dear husband I've pursued crazy, impulsive pastimes. I've hopped from occupational interest to occupational interest as I saw fit and prudent. So I'm not exactly sure why on that very last day I felt unfinished.
My kiddos are two of the most amazing boys to rule the suburbs. Really. Like all young men they are learning to learn, learning to lead, learning how they want to be loved. They are champions and scholars and I couldn't ask for better behavior. Considering who is raising them -- we are tickled pink at their stature. But they are growing up so fast. As they grow up, I know that soon they will step out. Step right out on their own and perhaps leave me behind.
So on this first day of the next decade I thought I would be a wreck. I'm not. I'm going about my day doing my usual. And I guess that is where the inventory of your life is. The importance. That which I cannot let go.
I walked my children to school in the gorgeous Colorado sun.
I watched from a safe distance as they settled into their own friend groups and giggled with their peers.
I sipped my coffee. Oh I love well-made coffee.
I answered the door to one of my favorite people of all time. A true gem of a friend.
I golfed with old friends and new friends.
I ate no less than 3 cookies before I ate anything else.
I raced to pick up the supplies for another creative project and saw the shining face of someone I really appreciate having in my life. Someone whose whereabouts on April 15, 2013, left me very concerned for her safety and well-being. I'm so grateful she's alive.
I walked my children home from school, encountering some of our favorite neighbors along the way.
I was carpool mom on the way to LAX, where I then sat high on a hill and watched my oldest son play a game I know nothing about.
I ran my car completely out of gas. Which only served to show me how loved I am. My oldest son sat with me and waited for the other half of our family to save us. It was actually really incredible.
I ate an incredible dinner, prepared by my husband and sons. The wine was good, the food was great, and the men at the table were good to me.
I wrote a little and I'll read a lot. My book and my bed are calling to me as I close this day -- this first day of the decade.
You know how you look back at pictures of your kids and you half smile? Your eyes get a little wet, and you stare in awe at the way their hair was so soft and their cheeks were so chubby. You may even point to the picture and say to them, "Gosh remember when you did that?" The zip of the years in front of you is staggering and you wish you could pause. At 40 -- this beautiful marker of a life well-started -- I realize the people who touch my life are looking back at their pictures and memories of our times together and grasping at the same passage of time. I have been fun. I have been fit. I've had long hair, short hair, gray hair (!). There was the pregnant belly, vacation sunburns, eyes glassy with drink, and a mouth wide with laughter. Not uncommon a heart broken with sorrow and a soul lifted up in good times. So yes, happy tears today because I remember when I did all that.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Reasons
Thursday, May 17, 2012
May You Have Room to Grow
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Inheritance
This is the camera I looked into for about 19 years of my life. And those were the years I lived in Utah, Texas, Nevada, Wyoming and Idaho, went to Disneyworld, wore my first swimsuit, took my first steps, took off for my first day of school, even ran through my backyard sporting my first perm. That's the lens I gazed back at as some of my greatest milestones slipped away and my father watched them through the viewfinder and clicked a few judicious shots. Now in those days, of course it was film. So, you took a picture maybe two, not 1000. And you never really knew what shot you got until the entire roll was spent and you dropped it off for developing.
Use of the camera was rare enough; I knew that something was very special if I saw my father slide it in his pocket. I also knew he wanted to remember the event, remember me. The moments caught with a click and then the zip, zip, zip of him cranking the film to the next frame.
As sharp as I may be, my memory isn't. Some of my memories are really just memories of the photos taken and the stories retold. In fact, one of my favorite memories is a picture of my father that was taken with this camera. He was 19, single, living in Germany. Obviously, there was no me so it's not really my memory. But when I think about my father, sometimes that’s the image that comes to mind, not the way I most recently saw him.
About the same time I moved away and struck out on my own, my father stopped using that camera. As strange as it sounds, I started to worry about it. Where would it go? Would it be discarded? Forgotten? Destroyed? And then I decided I couldn't handle that. So, I asked my father if I might have it for my inheritance.
This year for my birthday, he sent it to me. (Don't worry; he's still alive and kicking.) He sent me the camera that documented flashes of my growing up.
The Rollei is not the only thing I inherited from my pop. I inherited his hair color, his strangely fleshy knuckles, and his running stride. I suppose there are a few other things, things that are obvious in photographs. But there also a few things that are not. Whether the gifts you inherit are waves of nostalgia skidding across your brain, pumping through your veins, or making your heart skip a beat they are yours to keep, create your life around, and sometimes pass on to the next line of warriors in your family. Learning the significance of each and how they bind us together and remind us how alike we are is what helps us survive the journey.
I knew I should have asked for the corvette.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Son of a Shutterbabe
First reaction: Oh my gosh I'm getting really old.
Other reaction: Mason is a pretty good photog.
It's the latter that brings me joy. Mason has always had an interest in my camera. He uses my Canon, when I permit him. He uses my cell phone camera, when I permit him. We gave him a little digital camera of his own, which he carries around everywhere. The guy's got an eye. It's got me thinking, again, about the things we're destined to do.
Clearly he has a lot to learn about lighting (all the settings were manual, which is a lot for a 35-yol to manage, let alone a 5-yol). Provided I can endure the pain of being his subject, he might really make something of this.
Incidentally, his little friend -- the son of a realtor -- came to our house recently and said, "This is a nice kitchen." I've never had a 5-year-old tell me I have a nice kitchen. Then again, he's the first son of a realtor to visit.
What were you meant to do?
Friday, January 13, 2012
It Was All Very Non-Traditional
I'm not sure -- even at this juncture -- if it grew from laziness or a desire to embrace some heritage, but our family left the tree up until Knut Day this year. We did it. Which is to say, we didn't do anything at all. It just sat there taking up all the space in the sitting room (te he he, I just said sitting room). We refused to touch it in the name of Knut. But today is Knut Day and I'm predicting the tree will stay right where it is until Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. But damn it, it better be gone by Abraham Lincoln's birthday.
"Why," you might ask did we leave the tree in its spot for so long. First and foremost, we are procrastinators. In this house, some more so than others, and all equally in denial.
Next, the basement is finally under construction. If I wanted to put the tree away, there is no away for it to rest. This situation is only going to get worse before it gets better.
Lastly, I really have wanted to have a Knut Day celebration of my own for a few years, now.
Did I mention the unfinished basement is the former home of aforementioned Christmas tree? Oh yes. It's current home is temporary -- though my neighbors will question my grasp of the meaning of "temporary" by the time all this is finished. It's future and mostly permanent home is yet to be determined. This is the main reason I hesitate to disassemble it. Is it better to let an assembled -- though not decorated -- tree stand in your living room; opposed to an undecorated, disassembled heap of tree parts stand in your living room? Yeah, I'm not sure about that. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.
I'm feeling terribly lost in my current predicament because I had such a strong plan up until 6:30 p.m. today. Until today I was resting easy in the luxury of knowing I was -- on some level -- a little bit Swedish and could tell people I was observing Knut Day this year. (This is also a total misnomer. You don't observe it so much as mark it as the day the season of festivity is over with one last festivity.)
We invited a few friends over for a crafternoon and smorgasbord. It was a delightful plan. Now it has unfurled and I have to have a new plan to get that tree out of the house.
But let's look past my panic and talk about what a hit the photobooth at the Knut Day celebration was. Magic. In the grand scheme of my Pinterest fueled thoughts I thought the crafts would be the big hit. But the photobooth was clearly the one thing that every kid wanted to try out. Well, every kid except Mason and another guest who is a) Mason's age and b) a lot like Mason.
The photobooth was assembled half-heartedly and consisted of a cast-off piece of banana yellow broadcloth thrown in front of the T.V. to create a fearfully unironed backdrop. Then I plucked a few props from our prodigious costume closet and provided the kids with a few guidelines. Pick a prop, pose, and take a picture. Hysterical. I will have a photobooth at my next party. I will have a photobooth at the next classroom party. I will have a photobooth at the next fundraiser. Hell, I'd have a photobooth at a funeral. It is a scream. Enjoy the pictures.
We munched on Swedish meatballs from IKEA, veggies, fruits, lemon cakes, and golden raisins in boxes wrapped to look like Swedish flags. I also filled my Christmas card tree with goldfish bags and notes that proclaimed the holiday season to be o-fish-ally over. I served glogg to the adults. I decorated with undecorated smaller Christmas trees, candles shaped like Christmas trees, and even a miniature battery operated Christmas tree meant to adorn one of those creepy miniature towns (it's amazing what you can find on clearance).
Once I got over the shame of using a whistle in the house I got the kids engaged in a good 'ol fashioned game of who can do the most push ups. Then we had a pretty good face off for the most sit ups. Then, and only then, did I encourage them to plunder the tree of its gingerbread cookie ornaments and bags of popcorn.
Here's a short list of the things I was determined to do, but did not:
1. Take a picture of all the Swedish flag adorned raisin boxes.
2. Take a picture of the smorgasbord.
3. Take a picture of the Christmas tree with its edible ornaments.
4. Take a group picture of all the kids.
5. Dress like a scary goat and perform mischievous acts.
Alas...
Christmas has come to an end,
And the tree must go.
But next year once again
We shall see our dear old friend,
For he has promised us so.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Book Buddy Venn Diagram
Where "favorites" is the category a Venn diagram between myself and say my best friend in kindergarten may have shown we both loved purple, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and books (30 years later we are still competing to see who can read the most books in a year). But on my side of the graph, favorite song would be something like Lady by Kenny Rogers and her side would have said something like Rock With You by Michael Jackson. She was way cooler.
My first grader recently completed his first Venn diagram. He compared his "favorites" to his book buddy "Kyle". Looking at the diagram I am pretty sure they had to make up similarities to intersect in the middle. Kyle is in 3rd grade and apparently can see rated R movies and listen to Kanye West. In common they have ice cream (mint chocolate chip), insects (praying mantis), and days (Friday).
I wish wish wish I could compare my first grade self to my first grade son. We would not have ice cream in common.
For the record here's the diagram:
And for those of us with poor enough eyesight to not be able to read Cooper's favorites:
Color: Red
Animal: Penguin
Song: Dynamite by Taio Cruze
Football Team: Saints
Ice Cream: Mint Chocolate Chip
Insect: Praying Mantis
Day: Friday
1 Grade Teacher: Toline
Show: SpongBob
Movie: Harry Potter, part 2 (he actually means the second half of the last movie)
Friend: Leighton
Dessert: Donuts
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Best Teacher Ever

When parents send their children to school we hope they will find themselves in the stewardship of able and caring teachers and coaches. Men and women who share their knowledge beyond the walls of a classroom, beyond the deadlines in a lesson plan, professionals like Coach Jones.
The Coach Jones to which I refer is still offering sage but subtle advice nearly 20 years since I last sat in his classroom. He doesn’t even teach at my old alma mater anymore, however, he continues to teach.
I had my reasons; most of them melancholy and full of anxiety, when I posted what I thought would be an innocuous status to Facebook last night. I asked, “I have about 620 weekends left with my kids before they move out. What should we do?” I received a handful of replies, all valuable in their own perspectives. And then Coach Jones weighed in.
“I would watch cartoons until noon, walk the river and teach them to skip rocks, chocolate malt at Arctic Circle, hot dogs at a ball game and then read to them before prayers. Never waste a Saturday.”
I cried.
Granted I was smiling and laughing and feeling so amazing to see and read those words. But mostly I cried.
Coach Jones spoke more to me from 1989 through 1993 than probably any other person, including my parents. He was the consistent voice of instruction, gentle guidance, and general life coaching. (Ironically enough, he probably doesn’t even know that.)
I was a teen typical in my angst, confusion, and swimming in foolish but unimpressive choices. I had no idea who I was, what I was capable of, nor what I wanted out of life. But I did make the track team. Through some incident involving fragile ankles I ended up perched opposite of Coach Jones while he taped my feet. Every day.
In fact, I suspect that at some point during the season, or seasons my ankles were healed. But he taped them anyway. While he taped he questioned me.
“Did you get your homework done?”
“Are you really dating Fillmore?”
“Where you going to go to college?
“How’s things at home?”
I had to answer because he held the business end of a roll of athletic tape dangerously close to my not-often shaved legs and could conveniently tape above where there was pre-wrap. It was precarious. More over, I wanted to answer because he was often the only person who asked me anything that really mattered all day.
I survived high school. I survived the year that followed it, even though some of my closest friends did not. And here I am a happy and healthy suburbanite who rarely sees or thinks about the people she went to school with. For a long time now I recognized I hadn’t learned all I needed to by the time graduation rolled around. Turns out, Jones knew it too. Today’s lesson was fully extraordinary.
I will not waste a Saturday.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Toodle-oo 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
A Little Help
We write on our Christmas cards. I'm not saying people should. But for me and my house we can't stand to waste a stamp without a little correspondence thrown in. Besides, I really like the people I send cards to and I can't help saying hello. This year, the boys declared they were old enough to help. Also, it was penance for opening all the advent doors in one night.
So if you receive a card and the return address is a little askew, or the message on the back of the card looks something like this: HAP HALIDAS, know it is sent with extra love and phonetic concentration. The 7 yol and 5yol variety, which is the very best, I say. And if you don't get a card, it's because I'm not organized enough to keep track of the addressees of all my friends and family. Hell, I even had to call my brother before shipping his gifts because I wasn't a hundred precent sure of where he lived. My brother, people.
Also, let me just say it here. I believe I adamantly professed that this year I was going to send Thanksgiving cards, not Christmas cards. What is my problem?!!?! Can't meet a deadline to save my life.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
That Word Actually Means What You Think It Means
Good is broad. I believe that there are lots of good. Lots of good restaurants. Lots of good schools. Lots of good parents. And none are alike. Agree?
So to you good mothers and fathers who if they heard their child curse would sharply gasp/freak out/smack their child’s face/wash their child’s mouth with soap/talk sternly to and add time out… you may not want to read any further.
I’m a good mom, too. And mainly because I was a curious child who asked a lot of questions that resulted in some, if not all of the aforementioned responses from my good parents I’m another kind of good.
Which is why I didn’t even flinch when my 5-year-old said, “I know ass is a bad word.”
Instead I thought to myself, I wonder if I can peg this on my husband.
“Oh that’s a new word. Where did you hear that word?”
“Nowheres. I just knowed it. What does ass mean anyways?”
“Just to be clear, it all depends on who says it. If you’re reading a bible story at school and they say ass, it means a donkey. But usually moms, dads, and teachers don’t like to hear little kids say that word.”
“Oh right. But what about the Ass Jack?”
“You mean Jackass?”
“Yeah, Jackass. (Let me just say it is uncanny how easily jackass rolled off his tongue. It was like he was talking directly about Rick Perry.)
“Oh that’s a terrible thing to say. It means jerk. Like a really dumb jerk who is mean.”
“Anyways, Mom, what about that ass of the kicking?”
“You mean like, I’m going to kick your ass?”
“Yes. Like when Cooper said that at the zoo!”
“Oh that is a naughty way of saying, I’m going to kick your butt (and here I nicely kicked him in the behind.)”
“Oh-ho-ho, now that would hurt worser!”
And that was basically it. No immediate intrigue and mischievous smile that told me he understood he was in trouble; but couldn’t wait to be in that kind of trouble again. Just, a stoic and placated peace from the backseat. See, I’m not that bad.
PS -- Remember when Cooper kissed my butt?!?!?!?
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
What Happened In Vegas
Now I’m talking crazy and putting too romantic a point on a very plain event. I ran a race. Nope. That’s not it.
I boarded a plane, carrying two small bags filled with running clothes, tennis shoes, an iPod, a Garmin, 3 headlamps, and 4 reflective vests.
When I sat down in my excellently spacious exit row seat the joker next to me asked if I was traveling to Vegas for business, or pleasure. I hesitated and said, “I’m going to run a race.”
And it was nice.
But when I told this nice gentleman with a voice like Penn and Teller (whichever one of them talks) he raised an eyebrow and said, “What kind of race.”
A short description of Ragnar Relay, Las Vegas and I got an earful of how foolish I was. Not just from him, but from the whole row!
And it was nice.
There is a courage that comes from doing what others think is senseless, particularly if you’re prepared -- and for once in my life -- I was prepared. So, I was confident – though a little afraid of the dark – and ready to take on this adventure known as the Ragnar.
When I think about why I agreed to train and travel and participate in this particular relay there is really only one answer. My brother asked me. He said it would be fun. He said it would bond our family together. He said I could finish. And I believed him.
Now that it’s all over and we did indeed finish I’ve been shuffling through the photos and I’ve come to this conclusion. I didn’t go to Vegas to run a race. I went to Vegas to discover who is my family.
And it was nice.
It turns out; family is more than your brothers and sister. It’s not just your parents. It is your running partner who logged countless miles and hours at your side and converted you to early morning runs. It is your husband who stayed behind to watch the kids. It is a neighbor who sent you a text in the middle of the night to wish you luck. It is one of the other 1st grade mothers who wrote you an e-mail just to tell you how amazing you are just days before the race. It is the woman you’ve known since you were 5 who saved you from chaos and provided you a safe and quiet place to land after the race. It’s anyone and everyone who touches your life and knows that those who have felt the greatest need for help give the most relevant help. Oh my gosh, I love my family!
Aside from learning that I like my family, I determined I want to test myself. Running through the desert in the middle of the night wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. I think a marathon is next, my friends. (Or I could be convinced to do another 200-mile relay with a 6-man team.) So, if you’re wondering…
I’m going to run a race.