Trains, planes, automobiles, and then some.

Spring break was spent in Washington, DC (northern Virginia, really) with my parents for four days, and then the remaining three days in New York City.

The transportation was varied and was, for the kiddos, the most exciting part of the trip.

We flew on big airplanes that had animals on the tails.  Zeke and Josie argued over whether the one on our plane was a coyote or a fox.  (It was a fox.)

We rode the Metro in DC, which goes above the ground and below the ground AND IT GOES UNDER A RIVER, MAMA!!

We went to the American History Museum, where you can climb around on an old Good Humor truck.  Inside we saw Dorothy's ruby slippers, which was a very big deal.

And I mean inside the museum, not inside the Good Humor truck.

We rode the Amtrak train to New York City -- an astoundingly civilized way to travel (certainly compared to air travel).  So comfy and stress free.

Josie decided to liven it up a bit by coloring the entire bottom half of her face red right before we had to get in the car to leave for the train station.  She looked like a victim of severe sunburn.  But she didn't care. 

Once in New York we rode in a taxi to Brooklyn (where we were staying courtesy of the generosity of my friend Anne).  When Josie got in the taxi, she gave me a worried look.

"Mama, are we in trouble?"

"No, why?"

"Because this taxi looks like a police car."

(Which begs the question, "how the hell would you know?" but I let it go.)

The next day we rode the subway to go see my brother Sam.  Zeke and Josie made friends on the subway.

When we got off the train, the kids yelled, "Bye!  We love your hair!"

The next day we rode the Staten Island Ferry and saw the Statue of Liberty.

Then the next day we took a car service to the airport, and flew back home.  Where we promptly all climbed into bed and slept (and watched basketball).

That was Zeke, rush chairman, he was damn glad to meet you.

Zeke has always been an extraordinarily social kid.  From the time he was able to demonstrate that he knew people's names and their relationships to each other, he has known the name of every kid and every parent from every school/daycare facility he attended, and they all knew him.  When we walk up to the playground in the morning where his class assembles before the bell rings, he's calling out to everybody -- "hi, Costa!"  "Good morning, Mazzie!"  "What's up, Avery!" and also chatting up their parents, all of whom know his name.

"Who was that?" I'll ask.

"That's Leo's mom.  Her name is Lisa."

He likes everybody and says "hi" to everybody, even our Douchebag Next Door Neighbor.  "Hi, [Douchebag]! We're going to school!  See you later!"

Maybe it's just a function of my generally introverted nature, but I barely know any of the kids' or their parents' names.  I recognize their faces (usually) to say hello, but that's about it.

A few months ago my mom came to town to stay with the kids while J and I went to Vegas for one of my high school reunions.  She took them to the Greek diner on the next block for something to eat.  When they were walking home, Zeke said, "Mimi, come here, I want you to meet the guys in the alley."

Mind you, the kid is 5.  But he's simpatico with the "guys in the alley."

So they went around to the back of the row of stores (where the dumpsters and parking are), and there were three old Greek guys who sit outside on plastic chairs, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and kibbitzing about whatever old Greek guys kibbitz about.  I think one of them owns the diner or something.

Zeke walked up to them, introduced himself with a handshake, and started to chat them up.  Turns out one of them has a granddaughter who goes to Zeke's school, but, as Zeke explained to him, she's in Miss Becky's class, not in his class.  He told them about how he had gone to the zoo and how he liked the science museum, and about what he was doing in school.  After a few minutes, he shook their hands to say goodbye, and went on his way.

I think I have a future senator on my hands, God help me.

Springing Forward

Yesterday was the first day of daylight savings time, and it was glorious.  I absolutely adore having long days.  There are always a few days of feeling surprised by the time -- "holy shit, it's already 7 and I haven't even planned dinner!" -- but the light makes up for it.

Toward mid-afternoon Zeke was having a rough time.  He was tired but refused to nap.  I was doing a workout involving a barbell loaded with heavy weights, so when he tried to come near me for a hug -- something I was unable to give without jeopardizing both of our safety -- I barked at him to stay out of the way, which only made him cry more.  Josie was napping, so J decided it would be a great time for Zeke to get out of the house and burn off some extra energy by sledding and snowboarding. Because it's light for longer, they didn't come home until almost 7. 

We happen to have a Zeke-sized snowboard because J is currently working on a job at a Goodwill distribution facility.  The guys at the facility told J and his coworkers to feel free to take anything that "falls on the floor."  (I'm reminded of that line from Married to the Mob: "Everything we eat, everything we own, everything we wear fell off a truck!")

Over the last three weeks, we have acquired 2 sleds, a Josie-sized suspension bike, a Star Wars Millenium Falcon toy, organizing tools for the cupboards, a London Fog trench coat for J, a J. Crew barn jacket for J, and 4 snowboards - 1 of them Zeke-sized.

It's kind of like the summer that my brother Josh got a job as a garbage man in northern Virginia (back when he was in college).  He kept bringing home goodies for all of us, including a life-sized plastic lobster that my parents still have hanging on the wall of their kitchen.  Eventually, Josh was fired for not having "good rhythm."  My dad was so offended on his behalf that to this day, he refuses to pay for the county garbage collection service -- instead he takes the garbage to the dump himself.

Anyway, the snowboarding lesson was hit or miss.  Because Zeke was tired, he wasn't as keen to try something that would have him falling down and messing up a lot, so mostly they went up and down the hill on the sleds.

The onset of spring in Colorado is sort of a confusing time, weather-wise, because it coincides with when we tend to get our biggest snowstorms.  Saturday it snowed heavily all day, resulting in flight cancellations and highway closures.  Today it was close to 60.  Friday it's supposed to be over 70.  Which means that we'll probably get a blizzard on Sunday.

But the longer days means that warmer weather is indeed coming, and bringing with it biking and hiking and camping and summer picnics.  And Spring Break.

We were thinking about heading somewhere beach-y for Spring Break until we discovered that to get anywhere hot enough, it would have been incredibly expensive because they totally jack up the airfare that one week.  We looked at Puerto Rico, thinking we could get in some good surfing.  The week before Spring Break, the plane tickets were around $500 apiece.  The week of Spring Break, they were $900.  Same with Costa Rica.

So instead of south, we're heading east.  We'll spend a few days in Virginia with my parents, celebrate Passover, go to the Air & Space museum and do other fun things like that.  Then we're going to take the train to New York and spend the rest of the week up there.  The kids have never been, but have seen parts of the city in movies, so they're excited to go to the zoo, to Central Park, to the Empire State Building, to the Natural History Museum, things like that.  Plus the train ride up there will be a big deal.

Spring always makes me feel happy and hopeful.  Things are good -- business is great, the kids are doing well, everyone is healthy.  All in all, I'm happy to be alive.

Ghosts of Birthdays Past

It's my birthday.  I am old.  I believe, at 43, this is the last year I could say that I am in my early-40s.  Once you're 44, you're officially "mid-40s."

I was thinking about this number 43, and it seems so impossibly big, when I don't feel remotely old.  That got me thinking about past birthdays, and where I was at the various points in my life.  Which spurred me to do a post similar to my friend Lisa's old Valentine's Day post in which she chronicled various relationships she's had in her life.  Only I'd do it with birthdays.

5 years

I was living in Venezuela, in my last year of preschool at Kinder Snow White.  I don't remember much, but I have fragments.  I remember wearing a long blue dress with some kind of white design.  The party was at our house in Altamira, and I'm sure there was a pinata involved.  I remember that house so vividly, even though I haven't seen it in over 30 years.  It had a tile roof, and there was a wall in the back of the yard that I could scale to get myself onto the roof.  I remember that I loved to sit up there and fiddle with loose tiles.

Now that I have a 5-year-old, if I ever caught him up on the roof of our house, I'd freak the fuck out.  But I had the balance and sure-footedness of a mountain goat (still do), and I felt very safe up there.

10 years

We were living in McLean, Virginia.  The Lake Placid Winter Olympics were going on, and I remember being in a tizzy about Tai Babilonia and Randy Gardner, a duo that was competing in the pairs figure skating competition.  I was in 5th grade and a bunch of my girlfriends came over for a slumber party in the basement of the big townhouse that my parents used to own.  In addition to watching ice skating, we played a game that one of the girls made up -- "Washington Secretary," I think about young women working in city and falling in love with their bosses.  Gloria Steinem would not have been amused.  My brother Josh was 8 and my brother Sam was 2, so I'm sure we thought that Josh was a pest and that Sam was really cute.

Sorry, Josh.  I love you. (You too, Sammy.)

13 years

I don't remember my 13th birthday at all, but I had my Bat Mitzvah a few months later.  The actual service where I read my Torah portion and all of that was in a beautiful little synagogue in Jerusalem (we were living in Israel at the time).  I remember a luncheon afterwards.  I received amazing gifts, because my parents had all kinds of artsy friends -- musicians, painters, sculptors, political cartoonists.  A few gave me original prints that they had made.  I also got some pretty jewelry that I still wear.  I was wearing a peach dress with poofy sleeves, a dropped waist and pastel stripes.  These are not colors or styles I would ever wear today.  It was the early 80s - I have no other excuse.

Thirteen is a horrible age.  I was on the tail end of puberty, mystified by my new boobs and the effects they seemed to have on men, completely unsure of myself.  Awkward, gawky, you name it.

15 years

Back in Virginia, 10th grade. My parents surprised me by getting me out of school early and taking me to see Cyrano de Bergerac at the Kennedy Center (Derek Jacobi, an amazing actor whom my grandparents had taken me to see doing Shakespeare in Stratford, Ontario, won a Helen Hayes award for his portrayal of Cyrano in that production).  I have awesome parents.

Fifteen was a rough year and a great year.  Being in the States, in a wealthy DC suburb, was very odd.  I was used to being in the bosom of the diplomatic community in Israel, in a tiny little school, where everyone knew me and I knew everyone and I felt like I belonged.  In McLean, my parents weren't rich, I didn't get a car for my 16th birthday, and I was in a high school of 2000 people.  I did my best to fit in - being on the diving team and in the GT program at school helped - but I was so happy when we moved to India later that year.  I loved India.

21 years

I was a fourth-year student at the University of Virginia.  I went with a bunch of my sorority sisters from UVa to stay with my parents in northern Virginia.  We went to a bar in Old Town, Alexandria and I used my own driver's license to buy alcohol for the first time in my life.  I somehow managed to avoid getting really shitty drunk, instead maintaining a pleasant buzz.  They had me wear a big sign around my neck that said, "Kiss Me, I'm 21," or some such nonsense.  It was really fun.  I'm still good friends with all of those women.  ZTA love, girls!

Twenty-one is such a stupid age.  You think you're so mature and grown up, but you're really an idiot.

25 years

Law school was done and I was living the single life as a newbie lawyer in Atlanta.  My friend Nessa and Chris took me out to dinner and then made up some reason about why we need to go back to my apartment (which I was sharing with my friends Jane and Nancy).  I was dubious, but we went back to the apartment where there was a surprise party waiting for me.  We ended up dancing the night away at some club in Buckhead (I can picture it, but I can't remember the name).  Fun times.

28 years

Still living in Atlanta, in the big house on Valley Green Drive.  I was dating the scion of a prominent Atlanta family and very much in love with him, but that relationship kind of chewed me up and spit me out into the depths of my first awful bout with depression.  I tried to fit into his world, and when I didn't, I hated myself and felt like a fool and a failure.

Things were still good on my birthday, however -- he took me to New York for the weekend.  We stayed at the SoHo Grand and went to nice dinners and took a long taxi ride up to see the Cloisters.  I felt very special.

34 years

I had met and fallen in love with J two months earlier, and went back down to Costa Rica to surf and celebrate my birthday with him.  He threw a little birthday party for me at the surf camp, including a cake that he had paid some local woman to make, and which he had carried back to the surf camp in one hand while steering a bike with the other hand, as he navigated his way down a steep hill.  Barefoot, as usual.  It was a lovely party, but I was suffering through the early stages of a UTI, so that kind of put a damper on things.

38 years

We were living in Hawaii, and I was a new mom -- Zeke was about 4 months old.  I was still getting the hang of dealing with a baby, changing diapers, worrying about starting him on solid food, getting him to sleep through the night. I was missing my Atlanta crew so much, so J rented a house on the North Shore for a week and all of my peeps, plus my mom, came to visit me.  In order to pay for the house, he had been hoarding cash and keeping it in a sock in his closet.  I had actually noticed that he was constantly taking out large sums of cash from our account, but mysteriously never had any money on him.  Did he have some kind of drug or gambling habit?  Was he saving up to leave me?  When he went to pay the woman the deposit on the house, he actually took the sock with him.  She thought he was nuts.

We had a blast surfing and laughing and hanging out.  It was a great birthday.

43 years

My mother, father, brothers, and my friend Ali call called me to sing/wish me happy birthday.  My mom told me the story of the day I was born.  Zeke asked, "will there be cake?"  So I will stop in at the market on my way home from work and get the fixins to make a cake.  Tomorrow night J is taking me out for dinner.

Life continues...

Dodged a bullet

In spite of the fact that I am an unabashed and, indeed, enthusiastic user of foul language (is there any greater word, with more versatility and character, than "motherfucker"?), the only swear word my children have ever heard me say is "damn it."  I also throw "Jesus Christ" around quite a bit, because it just rolls off the tongue so easily during moments of exasperation.

Occasionally, Zeke will say "dammit" just to see what the effect is -- I always reprimand him and tell him it's not a nice word to say.  Last week, we were at a professional lacrosse game and Josie exclaimed, "look at all these people!  Jesus!"  Once I was able to contain my guffaws, I told her that she shouldn't say that.  Seeing me laugh, she then proceeded to repeat it ad nauseum.

Knowing that they are little sponges, and that they love being cheeky,* I'm very careful to hold my tongue around them.  The few times I've messed up and said, "shit" or something similar, it was either out of their earshot or they weren't paying attention.

 This morning, I was pulling out of the driveway to take them to school.  We live on a somewhat busy street (not a highway or major thoroughfare, but it is on the bus line and there are shops and restaurants on the next block), so sometimes getting a clear shot out takes a little while.  Plus there is a coffee shop across the street, so in addition to cars driving back and forth, people are constantly pulling in and out to park.

I saw an opening and pulled back.  But then I saw one guy backing out of the coffee shop parking lot, another pulling out of a space on the street, and another turn on to the road from one of the cross streets.  Everybody seemed hesitant and it was hard to tell who was doing what or going where, so I pulled back into the driveway and, without thinking, said, "what the fuck is everybody doing??"

Realizing what I had said, I was silent and braced myself for the onslaught of "fucks" from the back seat.

After a moment, Zeke said, "Mama, I think you mean, "what the heck, right?"


Riiiiight.

_______________________________
*It's like living with Beavis and Butthead.  I can't get changed without them giggling and saying, "I see your boobies! Heh heh...boobs!  Boobies!  Boobs!  Booty!  Heh heh heh."  

Visions

I am a realist.  I grew up in countries around the world and was, from an early age, exposed to war (Israel and El Salvador), extreme poverty (India and Papua New Guinea), the ravages of Cold War totalitarianism (Romania).  I have a positive outlook on life, but I harbor no illusions about what life is like for many, many people in the world (i.e., nasty, brutish and short).

I actually think things are far better now than they have ever been.  Advances in medicine, advances in civil rights, social safety nets, a reduced crime rate -- they all contribute to make our lives, particularly here in America, pretty good, on average, and certainly as compared to 100 or 200 or 1000 years ago.

Of course, bad things happen all the time.  Human beings suffer all the time.  But life is for the living, so I try to keep my head up and do the best that I can for myself and my family, without letting negativity weigh me down.

So I'm surprised that I'm continuing to have such a hard time dealing with the school shooting in Connecticut.  It's perfectly normal to be sad and horrified, and to want societal changes that will reduce the likelihood of that kind of mass-killing to recur.  And I'm not suddenly worried for my children's safety in any heightened sense -- I don't worry about them being at school, or playing outside.

But when I close my eyes, I see a classroom filled with bullet-riddled teachers who have tried in vain to protect bullet-riddled children.  It's an image I can't shake.  It's an image that feels so real to me.  I feel a cold clutch in my chest, a desperate desire to turn back the clock so that this unimaginable horror could be undone.

I've never been this affected by an event that I wasn't personally connected to.  I'm haunted by it.  I'm not sleeping very much.  I'm constantly on the verge of tears.

Maybe because I have small children, including one who is so close in age to the 6 and 7 year-olds who were so senselessly slaughtered.  I have a sense of what was truly lost.

When I come home from work and walk in the door, the kids are usually on the couch hanging out or watching a dinosaur documentary or something, winding down from their day and waiting for me.  And every time I enter the house, I hear excited shouts of "Mama!!"  Zeke is usually naked, because he tends to be when he is in the house, but it still makes me laugh every time.  And he will run up to me and jump into my arms and tell me about his day.

"All green today, Mama!"*

"Me too, Mama!  I had an all green day too!"  Josie exclaims.

"That is outstanding, way to go!"

And they'll chatter and tell me whatever is on their minds and ask me to come and snuggle with them and give me hugs and kisses and tell me how much they love me.

It's the best part of my day.

I find myself imbuing these littlest moments with such significance, as if each were the last, like I'm trying to make up for what the poor parents of the murdered children can no longer do.

Today is Zeke's last day of school before going on Christmas break for 2 1/2 weeks, and his class is doing pajama day.  He'll be going to school with Josie tomorrow for her last day before break, and her class is doing pajama day as well.

This is the greatest thing in the world to Zeke.

"Mama, I am so, so lucky.  I get to do two pajama days in a row!"

This morning, we put him in his adorable footie PJs with the sports balls all over them, and he couldn't stop grinning. He was so excited he was practically vibrating.   He was about as happy as he could be, and it was infectious, which meant that everyone around him got to feel the joy of being 5 years old and getting to hang out with your friends in your pajamas all day, playing games and watching movies and being silly.

He's not the only lucky one.  I am as well, as is every parent out there who gets to enjoy their children for another day.

I just wish I could get those horrible images out of my head.


______________________________
*The kids in his class are on a green/yellow/red behavior system.  "Green" means behavior is great and all privileges are in place. Josie's school has no such system, but she has adopted it for herself nonetheless.

Working through the universal taboos, one at a time...

The other day the subject of marriage and weddings came up.  Since J and I got together, we have done an annual yearbook on Kodakgallery (or Shutterfly now, since they bought KG this year), so we have a nice series of photobooks chronicling our life together.  The kids love looking at them, especially pictures of themselves as babies, and pictures from our weddings.

Zeke and Josie were looking through the books and talking amongst themselves.  They then declared that they had an announcement to make.

"Mama," Zeke said, "when I grow up and Josie grows up and we're both grown-ups, I'm going to marry her."

"You're going to marry Josie?"  I asked.

"Yes.  I'm going to marry Josie."

"You can't marry Josie."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't marry your sister."

"Why?"

"You just can't.  It's against the law.  It's one of those things you just can't do.  Plus it's weird.  If you marry someone, you have to marry someone outside of your family."

We went back and forth about this for a while.  He seemed unconvinced.

Josie said, "OK, then I'll marry Juliette [one of the girls in her class].  Because she's tall."

"That sounds great.  If you get older and decide you want to marry Juliette, you can.  It'll probably be legal everywhere by then."

A couple of days later, J and Josie were sitting on the couch together, being snuggly and cute.  Josie said, "Mama, I don't want to marry Juliette anymore.  I want to marry Daddy."

I considered whether to base my response on the incest or the polygamy angle.  And then decided that no response was necessary.  She lives with the man and has seen how he eats, dresses and farts.  She'll change her mind soon enough.

What is there to say?

On Friday morning, I was at the doctor's office, taking Josie for her 3 year physical.  She was pronounced healthy and smart and wonderful and beautiful and surprisingly tall.  She got a Hep-A booster and a flu shot, which made her cry for all of 90 seconds, but that was enough to merit a trip to Starbucks for muffins and hot chocolate before taking her back to school.

After dropping her off, I headed off to run errands, mostly consisting of taking one of our cars to have its emissions tested, then to renew its registration, then to go grocery shopping, then home to put away the groceries before heading to Zeke's school to pick him up.  As I pulled away from Josie's school, I turned on the radio, heard the news about the school shooting in Connecticut, and promptly burst into tears.  I cried off and on at the emissions place, the DMV, the Safeway, and the playground.  I cried talking to Zeke's teacher and I cried making dinner.

I can't stand all the "hug your kids tighter today" and "something must be done about guns and mental health" and calls for action on assault weapons and fucking Mike Huckabee and people talking about how the problem is that the principal and teacher weren't armed and all of it.  I just can't.  I feel like every time something like this happens, there are expressions of horror and dismay and vows to do something about guns or whatever, and petitions are circulated and calls to congresspeople are made, then time passes and everyone goes back to their lives and nothing changes.

Then it happens again, and the cycle starts all over.

This.

I don't know what else to do but live.  So we spent the weekend going to the science museum and watching J play flag football and watching movies and playing with paper airplanes (Zeke's latest obsession) and going to the Blossoms of Light exhibit at the botanic gardens and reading Mo Willems books and buying Josie a new car seat because she outgrew her old one.  And on Monday I took everyone to school and J and I went to work and life goes on.

Because there's no alternative.

What I'm saying is, I've had better trips to Target. On the plus side, my immune system is off the chain.

It's been a hell of a week.

Last Friday, when I was enjoying a somewhat leisurely flex day (leisurely in the sense that I was free to run errands, clean the house and get shit done without children in tow), I got a call from Zeke's school that I needed to come get him because he had a fever.  He spent the weekend feverish and coughing and mostly resting.

J caught a mild version of it and stayed home with Zeke on Monday.  Then on Monday night, Josie started spiking a fever.  So I stayed home with both kids on Tuesday.  I tried to get some work done at home, but taking care of two tired kids who felt like crap did not make for a mellow or productive day.  I did take Zeke to the doctor because while his fever was gone, he was still coughing a lot.  The doctor said that if he was fever free without medication, he could go back to school, even though the cough might take a few weeks to clear up.

So Wednesday, I stayed home with Josie again (her fever was still bad, plus she was starting the coughing) while Zeke went to school (and was NOT happy about Josie getting a day to herself with Mama, but he dealt with it).  During the day she seemed to be getting better, but then Wednesday night she was a mess -- she had a raging fever and felt horrible.  I was up with her most of the night, wiping her forehead with a cold washcloth and snuggling her.

J stayed home with her yesterday, and her fever didn't come back and she was doing much better.  Zeke had a good day at school and they were both feeling chipper. We decided she would go back to school today, and all was well.

Now, in the meantime, everyone I speak to at the kids' schools or at work has been imploring me to stay healthy, or has expressed worry about me coming down with whatever cooties the children have.  The truth is, I never even bothered about worrying whether one of the kids had taken a drink from my glass or whatever -- they're all up on me all the time, so if I was going to get it, avoiding a potentially germy drinking glass wasn't going to make a difference.

But I feel great.  I'm doing the Ultimate Reset again (which is great for boosting the immune system), doing my workouts, and drinking my Shakeology, so I'm healthy as a horse.  (Are horses really all that healthy?  They have to get sick *some* time, right?  Anyway.) 

So last night, I had to go to Target to pick up a few things, and with everyone appearing to be relatively healthy and happy, I offered to take Josie and Zeke with me.  While we were there, Josie saw a little pair of purple metallic ballet flats that she liked.  They were way marked down and in her size, so I told her she could have them.  She wanted to put them on, so I pulled the tag off and put them on her.  When we got to the checkout line, I gave the lady the tag to scan so that Josie could continue wearing them.

the non-shoplifted ballet shoe

All was well until we were loading up the cart with the bags and getting ready to leave.  Josie suddenly freaked out, convinced that we were leaving without paying for the shoes on her feet.  I explained to her that I had paid for them and everything was OK.  She starting crying and screaming, "you didn't pay for them! you didn't pay for them!"  I said that I had. She insisted I hadn't.  The checkout ladies on either side of me tried to reassure her.  Zeke piped up as well.

But she was unmollified and becoming hysterical.

So with bags and children loaded into the cart, I had to wheel everything through the store to the exit and through the parking lot to my car while Josie screamed, "YOU DIDN'T PAY!  YOU DIDN'T PAY!" and I hissed at her, "Yes I did would you please calm down stop saying that STOP IT!"

It turned a few heads and a couple of people shot me looks of concern and disapproval, brows a-furrowed.

Thank goodness she's back at school and I don't have to stay home with her another day.  A) I've got a ton of work, and B) we might kill each other.

And the real kicker?  She doesn't like the way the shoes feel when she walks and wouldn't wear them to school this morning.

I can't win.

I actually found Matt King to be a sympathetic character.

This past Saturday, we got back from spending Thanksgiving in DC.  It was a terrific holiday -- once again, my parents' house was packed to the rafters with me and my brothers and our families.  The kids had a great time hanging out with their grandparents and cousins and uncles and aunts, I enjoyed the fact that there were enough adults around to give me time to read two books in five days, because someone took the kids the park every day.  I got to go to the State Department to see my mom tape an interview panel on child adoption. I got to see my high school friend Lisa and my college friend Susan, who happen to know each other because their husbands are law partners.  We ran/walked/pushed strollers in the SOME Turkey Trot, a 5K run for charity that benefits DC's homeless.

The whole mishpacha

We had a delicious Thanksgiving dinner.  We went for walks by the Potomac River.  We had our annual Day After Thanksgiving Pie (DATP) gathering with my friend Ali. 

Mostly we just got to be together and enjoy each others' company.

But traveling with the kids is tiring, plus there's the time difference, so after getting home on Saturday, we got to enjoy Sunday as a lazy day.  At one point J took the kids somewhere and I had the house to myself, so I decided to watch The Descendants, which was on HBO.

Later we were all driving in the car and I was telling J about the movie (which I thought was great).  J asked me what it was about, and I said, "well, it's about this guy who's a, uh..."

I hesitated for a second as I tried to think of what I wanted to say.

And before I could finish my thought, Zeke -- who hasn't seen the movie and had no idea what we were talking about -- piped up from the back seat, "...a dick?"

Now, I'm pretty proud of the fact that though J and I both have potty-mouths, the kids do not know any of the bad swear words because we're really careful about the language we use in front of them.  When J and Zeke went camping with his friend Coleman and Coleman's dad, they had a running thing that because they were camping and it was a boy's weekend, everyone was allowed to swear.  So they encouraged the boys to say the worst words they could think of.

The words that the boys came up with?  Butt and fart.

In the grand scheme of things, "dick" isn't so bad, but obviously I'd prefer that Zeke not use it in public.  So in between wheezing with laughter, J and I tried to explain that "dick" isn't a nice word and we shouldn't call someone a dick.  (Unless they're a dick, I thought to myself).

I can't decide if this is a parenting fail or a parenting win.

Against my better judgment, I'm leaning towards "win."

Lydia, Oh Lydia

Today is my niece Lydia's 10th birthday.  She's a special soul who holds a special place in my heart, so I thought I'd write her a little something to let her know how much she means to me.

My dearest Lydia:

Ten years ago today, your introduction to the world was abrupt and a bit scary, as you were a couple of months premature.  I remember visiting you in the NICU and thinking how impossibly small you were.  How it wasn't possible for a human being to be so, so tiny.  Plus you were born with a hole in your heart, for which you required risky surgery when you were only 6 months old.  So from day one, you had a lot to deal with.  But you got through it, and we knew you were tough and special.  Our little miracle baby.

As a toddler and a little kid, you showed yourself to be creative and artistic.  You loved fashion and drawing and color.  I remember one Thanksgiving in Washington, when you were about 5 or so, we were going out to go to a museum.  And you insisted on wearing a dress and multiple necklaces and a hat and fashionable sunglasses and a handbag.  One of the museum guards took a look at you and said, "little lady, you're about the best thing I've seen all day." 

You are the middle child, which comes with its own struggles.  You have a sister 5 years older, who was the first grandchild and therefore beheld by all as a superstar from the day she was born.  You have a sister 5 years younger, who is smart and loud and hilarious and a bit larger-than-life, personality-wise.  You are reserved and more of a gentle soul than either of them, and I sense that sometimes you feel a bit squeezed out.  But I want you to know that you are a shining star in my sky.

Because you have your own quiet strength that shines through.  When Emma had her accident 2 1/2 years ago, it must have been horribly scary and awful for you, not only because your sister had been hurt so badly, but because it meant such total upheaval in your life -- seeing your sister hooked up to tubes and machines in the hospital, being taken care of by different people while your parents dealt with the trauma, and still having to go to school and try to have some semblance of a normal life while it was all going on.  You were a rock at a time when no 7 year old girl should have to be a rock.

In the past few years, I feel like we have had the privilege of really seeing you blossom as a person.  You are still artistic and creative, but you're also a terrific athlete.  Your Uncle J adores you, and particularly adores seeing how great you are on a surfboard.  You're a great lacrosse player, which is so, so cool.

And you are such a mensch.  Whenever the family is together, you are so sweet and patient with the little kids, playing with them and looking after them and entertaining them.  Every year when we come home from Thanksgiving, Zeke and Josie are constantly asking me -- for weeks -- "when is Lydia going to come and visit?  When are we going to go to Josh's house so we can see Lydia?" 

Thanksgiving is next week, so we will be seeing you soon.  We are very thankful for that, because you are the best 10-year-old girl in the whole world.

All my love,

Auntie Wendy

Friday Frippery

Gratitude

My friend Karen has been doing a Thirty Days of Gratitude series for the month of November and I really liked the idea, so I've been doing the same over at my fitness site.  I've been doing all kinds of social media training, learning about search engine optimization and that sort of thing, so I'm blogging much more over there these days.  I'm really trying to build up my coaching business via social media, so I would love it if y'all would check out my posts, maybe subscribe or leave a comment or two, tell your friends, or even join one of my upcoming challenges.  I'm planning some good stuff for December and post-New Year's.

Single Parenting

J left last Friday for 8 days to celebrate a friend's birthday with a bunch of people in Key West.  I'm not sure what prompted me to agree to such a long solo stint, but I'm on day 7, so it's almost done.  We've been staying busy -- visiting friends, going to Jump Street and Monkey Bizness, playing at the park.  The kids have been great (mostly - bedtime has been a bit rough), but I'm so ready for some time alone.  J has already given me the thumbs-up to go to the movies tomorrow when he gets back.  I'm torn between Skyfall and Argo.  I might do Argo and then see Skyfall with J.

I'm so screwed

Josie is cracking me up these days.  She has become so headstrong and self-assured, which is awesome - I abhor a doormat - but I foresee some epic battles in about 10 years or so.  Yesterday at school, the kids were instructed to go sit on the reading rug for story time.  The rug has the alphabet on it, and each kid was assigned to a letter to sit on.  When Josie sat down on her letter, she looked around at the arrangement and exclaimed loudly, "this seat STINKS!  I can't see a thing!"

Which is hilarious because she's a skinny little three-year-old peanut, but won't be so cute as she gets older. 

Speaking of young whippersnappers...

One of my high school friends, who is one of my favorite people in the world, has a wonderful teenage daughter who has started a really cool bilingual blog (they live in France).  It's a good read -- check it out by clicking here. 

Schadenfreude

We had an election.  I am happy with the results.




Happy Friday, y'all!

Orientation

I've traveled quite a bit in countries where people drive on the other side of the road (i.e., the left), including renting cars and going on road trips in Australia.

People here frequently ask me, "was it hard driving on the other side of the road?"  And my answer is always, "the hard part isn't being on the other side of the road. The hard part is being on the other side of the car."

Because so much of driving is having a sense of where your body is and where the car is relative to the road and the other cars on the road. If you're used to being on the left side of the car, then you're used to having the bulk of the car on your right.  It affects how you instinctively position yourself relative to lane lines and road shoulders.

Plus inside the car, everything is in the wrong place.  My mom and I took a trip to Australia 11 years ago when she was stationed in Papua New Guinea, and we drove from Sydney to the Blue Mountains to look at waterfalls and beautiful scenery (it is one of the most gorgeous places on earth -- if you have a chance, go there).  And every single time I went to put on my turn signal by flicking the lever to the left of the steering wheel, I turned on the windshield wipers.  Mom laughed her ass off every time.  Until she did the exact same thing and I laughed my ass off at her.  Good times.

I was reminded of this watching Hurricane Sandy bear down on the East Coast.  I am an East Coaster at heart -- when I orient myself in my mind, I do so from the vantage point of Washington, DC and the surrounding environs.  Which is weird, because I haven't lived in the DC area itself for almost 30 years.  But I went to college in central Virginia, then North Carolina for law school, and then I lived in Atlanta for 13 years.  And it's where most of my friends and family are.  So when I think of storms hitting the East Coast, I think of them coming at me or hitting "above" me, to the north.

But this week, while my friends and family are dealing with the storm in Virginia and  Maryland and New York and coastal New Hampshire, I'm out west in the mountains.  It's sunny and in the high 60s/low 70s in Denver all week.  It feels very strange, not just to not be there, but also to remind myself that the devastation in New Jersey and New York isn't north of me, it's well east.

Stay safe, all of you.  I don't wish I were in harm's way, but if feels weird to be so removed from what you're going through.  Like I'm on the wrong side of the car.

High Five

My little boy, my baby, my Zekey-beans, is five years old today.  It's been a hectic week and J and I have been shitty about doing anything special on this particular day -- we're doing a party at the Botanic Gardens on Saturday, so we felt like we had it covered.

Newborn Zeke

 But of course, we don't.  Because kids don't think that way.  Today is his birthday.  Today should be special.  So J will be bringing home a scooter to present to him after school.  We will make chocolate chip cookies together, and I won't fuss at him about the fact that he eats half of the sugar before I've had a chance to mix it with the other ingredients.

We dropped Josie off at school early (after Josie and I serenaded Zeke in the car) and went to the Safeway to get treats to bring to his class at school (we were going to make chocolate chip cookies until I remembered that the school only allows store-bought treats, not homemade ones - yeah, I have no idea, either).  We picked out some yummy mini-brownies, and because birthdays are special, Zeke was allowed to grab a chocolate-coated doughnut to have for breakfast.

1 year old Zeke

 We got to school early enough for Zeke to have first dibs on the swings. And on the rock-climbing wall, at which he is amazingly adept.

Watching him play, he looked so big to me. He doesn't have the baby chub in his face or his fingers or elbows anymore.  He's all ripped abs and muscle-y legs, like his dad.  He bounces on a trampoline and can do flips.

2-year-old Zeke

And then I start thinking about how fast these five years have gone (even though sometimes it feels like forever ago that I was childless, all carefree with nothing but time and money to spend on whatever I wanted).  Luckily, I've been writing this blog longer than he's been alive, so I have a written record of so many details that would otherwise be lost.  Posts like this one, which never ceases to crack me up.

Now I look at him and think, "what does life have in store for you?"

Certainly there will be ups and downs.  He will suffer disappointment and heart-break and have to learn difficult lessons.  I get a lump in my throat thinking about that.

3-year-old Zeke

 But then I think about how smart and kind and curious and bold he is.  He will experience and accomplish great things, and have wonderful adventures.  He will be loved, and will love in return.

In the meantime, I get to be with him as he grows and learns and becomes the person he will be (and so does his dad, but this is my blog and I get to be proprietary if I want to).  I get to be the one he turns to when he has questions about the world, about people, about life.  I get to read him books, and work puzzles with him, and build trains with him, and dry his tears when he's hurt, and be the one he leans on when he's tired.  The one he wraps his arms and legs around every morning when I give him his good morning hug, before he's really awake.

4-year-old Zeke

 He is at such a great point right now in his life.  He adores school.  He's learning how to read.  He has tons of friends.  He's healthy and strong and coordinated.  He loves his sister, and she loves him.  They have an amazing time together.  He has so much fun, every day.  He is so much fun to be with.

5-year-old Zeke

 I know it's all so fleeting.  Before I know it, he'll be big, and he won't want me to snuggle him.  He'll be off with his friends and be embarrassed by his parents.  He'll be independent and able to take care of himself, which is as it should be.

But I get him right now.  And for that, I feel so lucky.

Musings about mental fitness and how it fits into the big picture

I'm blogging over here today.  Come and see what the fuss is all about...

Three!

My lovely Josephine, you are now three years old.  And what a delight you are.

I can now say that I no longer have any children in diapers, because after months and months of resisting, you decided about a month and a half ago that you were ready to use the potty.  You totally could have done it before then, but as with everything else, you were going to do it on your own time and your own terms, and you did.

But beyond that, you are revealing yourself to be a real mensch.  You don't have a best friend at school.  You're friends with everyone.  You are friendly and sweet and concerned for one and all -- if someone falls down and gets an owie, or is just having a sad day, you are the first to give them a hug and comfort them and say, "it's going to be OK."

Having fun (and getting cupcake face) at your party with your friends of all ages.

 You never, ever have a bad day.  You're always happy and affectionate and adaptable to whatever the situation is.  You're game for anything and a big fan of adventure.

I love the relationship you have with your brother.  The two of you occasionally bicker, but most of the time you love playing together.  You praise his accomplishments ("Zekey, that was an awesome throw") and he shows you how to play the various games on the iPad. You share your toys and are willing to cede the TV even when it's your turn to pick what you want to watch, when you see that Zeke has a strong preference or is having a rough day.  I love listening to the two of you talk in the dark as you lie in bed at night. 

I also love how self-assured and yes, occasionally bossy, you are.  Though I'm capable of standing my own ground, it's always nice having a pint-sized enforcer to back up my decisions.  I don't remember the last time I laughed as hard as when you were yelling up the stairs at Zeke, "ZEKEY!  GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM!  IT'S NOT A PLAYGROUND!  IT'S JUST A BATHROOM! IT'S NOT FOR PLAYING! IT'S FOR POOPING AND PEEING AND TAKING A BATH!"

You are my sweetest little snuggle-bug.  I'll frequently wake up with you having crawled into my bed during the night, all warm and cozy and pressed against my back.  I love that you ask for big hugs and kisses all the time.  I love that you'll just randomly say, "love you, Mama" when the mood strikes.

Because I sure do love you.  To the moon and back, my little monkey-bean.

Love, Mama

The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake, and the Colorado Rocky Mountain high...

I looked at Josie the other day and couldn't believe how angular and leggy she suddenly looks to me.  She's tall for her age (God knows how that happened) and yet still very thin (she'll be 3 in a few weeks and is still under 30 pounds), and she's all knees and elbows and skinny limbs. 

And Zeke is looking more and more like a kid -- no more baby fat, and he's so smart and articulate that sometimes I have to remind myself that he's still a little boy.

They are so much fun right now. 

We went up to the mountains for Labor Day weekend and stayed in a friend's condo.  The kids love being in the mountains.  The more time we spend outside, the better.

So we played at one of those funky playgrounds that are all climb-y and European in design.

And we went canoeing on Lake Dillon, and made a couple of stops to swim and throw rocks. 

And goof off with the panorama feature on the camera.


After doing P90X, I can flex in three places at once.

It was great until we were heading back to the dock and a storm blew in.  The temperature dropped about 20 degrees, the wind started whipping, and it was pelting rain.  J and I paddled our asses off to battle the wind and the current -- I'm surprised our arms didn't fall off.

The kids were freezing and tired, so we went back to the condo for a nap. 

Then we went back outside to go exploring.

The entrance to an old silver mine.  Josie assured me that while there were spiders in there, there were no monsters.

We went home the next day tired but happy.  And excited to get back up there during ski season.

Something that happened

My father's mother, who was my last living grandparent, died last night.

The news was only shocking because she has been living in the same reduced state for so long that it almost felt like she was somehow immune to the laws of biology that govern the rest of us.  But she was 96 (or thereabouts), and had been languishing in a nursing home for ages.  Just lying in a bed, not moving, not speaking, not interacting with anyone.

The saddest part about it is that no one is particularly sad. 

She was not a nice person, not a loving mother, and a friendly if mostly unengaged grandmother (at least to me).  My dad checked out of the relationship decades ago.  I continued to call her on a regular basis up until about 5 or 6 years ago, mostly out of a sense of obligation, because she never had anything much to say to me.  But then she decided that she wasn't interested in engaging in life or in having any role in her own care, so she just stopped.  Stopped moving, stopped taking care of herself, stopped doing anything but sit and watch TV or stare into space.  Her muscles atrophied to the point that she was incapable of getting up or doing anything for herself, so she spent the last years of her life lying down and doing nothing.  She squandered her considerable assets on hiring live-in caregivers who sat in her kitchen watching soap operas and then left with her silver and other valuables in their handbags. 

I asked my dad if he wanted me to come to Detroit for the service, but he said, no, it's expensive and unnecessary.  I asked him if he was OK, and he said he was fine.

When I was talking to my mom about it, she lamented that it seemed horrible that no one would really mourn her. 

But I guess if you're going to be nasty and shitty to people your whole life, there's the rub.  You're not going to get much more than a passing thought when you die.

I feel weird about it.  It feels weird to no longer having any living grandparents.  I feel sad that I don't feel sadder. 

I think I'll go home and be super-nice to my kids.

How to throw the perfect wedding

STEP 1:  Have the groom be an absolute mensch with a wide circle of friends from all the various times of his life - college, business school, life in various cities.  A stand-up guy who on his worst day would be described as loyal, kind, generous, funny, intelligent, hard-working, honorable, cool.  A guy who, wherever he is, is the social chair, the cruise director, the one that everyone knows and loves and the glue that holds the group together.

STEP 2:  Have him get married for the first time relatively late in life, when he's in his early 40s.  Maybe he's had a series of relationships that didn't work out.  In other words, it's been a long time coming, and he's been looking his whole life for that elusive One.  And he's finally found her.

STEP 3:  Have the One be an extraordinarily smart, independent, elegant, stylish, wonderful woman.  Perhaps she's got her own story of living through and overcoming unspeakable tragedy, so that in marrying this incredible groom, they've found a happiness together that makes their union achingly poignant and perfect.  Throw in a couple of gorgeous kids who now can point to a complete, delightful family unit, and there isn't a dry eye in the house.  Hearts are bursting with joy for the four of them.

STEP 4:  Have people willing and eager to come from all over the country (and hell, all over the world), to celebrate the occasion.  This will be accomplished via Steps 1 and 3, by virtue of the bride and groom being such amazing people that their tribes will be thrilled to take part in the event, no matter how far they have to come.

STEP 5:  Make the setting for the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, and the reception, all be stunning.  Beautiful architecture, beautiful flowers, beautiful trees, beautiful weather.  Delicious food and drink. 

STEP 6: In the midst of all of this elegance and finery, include unique touches that point to the couple's sense of humor and whimsy. 

• Like an Alice in Wonderland-themed rehearsal dinner, the "Mad Hatter" portion of which includes having the guests stand up at various points in the evening and move three spaces to the left, so that they're now sitting in front of new people and making new friends. 
• Like having your wedding cake topper be custom-made bobblehead dolls of the couple and their gorgeous kids in their wedding clothes. 

• Like 1) surprising the guests with a live band that wears gold lame` suits and novelty afro wigs and specializes in 80s covers, AND 2) providing novelty wigs and glo-stick necklaces for the wedding goers.  So that the result is a bunch of Silicon Valley millionaires and Virginia horse country blue-bloods, mostly in their 40s and 50s, rocking out with blue or pink hair and generally acting like teenagers at a rave.
• Like having your party favors be engraved shot glasses, including providing the tequila, salt and limes for everyone to do shots with.

These factors are virtually impossible to combine.  It takes rare individuals, rare circumstances, and a little bit of luck to pull it all off. 

But when it happens, it's magical.

Congratulations, Bob, Christine, Christian and Chloe - I wish you every happiness.  You deserve it.

Thoreau had the right idea

We took our big annual family trip to the beach a few weeks ago.  It was the usual craziness that comes with 10 or so people who love each other but aren't used to being around each other, all sharing a house.  And it was also fun and relaxing and fully of beach-y vacation-y activites.

Like playing with the kids on the beach.

And taking them in the water.

And reading on the porch.

And searching for crabs among the rocks.

And, of course, surfing.

Watching the children play on the sand and in the water was eye-opening.  They were so full of joy, running and jumping and swimming for hours and hours -- fully enjoying their youthful energy and health.  At one point I looked over at Zeke and he was just rolling in the sand, like a fillet being breaded, and he couldn't have been happier.

It caused J and me to start talking about how we want to live our lives.

For J, it's an easy choice.  He grew up by the beach and loves it like no other place.  It feeds his soul.  Colorado is beautiful and there are plenty of things to do for people that love physical activity in the outdoors, but there's a part of him that wilts a little bit every day that he wakes up so far away from the ocean.

I can be happy pretty much anywhere, as long as I have something to read and people around me that I love.  And, an internet connection, of course.

So if it means so much to the people that I love, I'd be happy to live near the beach again.  After all, there were plenty of things about Hawaii that I disliked, but being by the water and enjoying the surf was certainly not one of them.

And we like the New England setting - good weather with four seasons, nice people, access to sports and universities and good schools.  And family close by.  It would be awesome for the kids to grow up near the cousins, whom they adore.

The question is, how to accomplish it.

When I look over my blog posts of the last couple of years, the theme that emerges is that of busyness and exhaustion.  Of not having enough time.  Time alone, time with J, time with the kids, time unencumbered by obligations.  It makes me weary and exacerbates my depression.  I'm good at handling it, but I wish I didn't have to.

So that's where my Beachbody business comes in.

It started off as a lark.  I had been doing this company's workouts and using its products for so long that I signed up to be a coach largely for the discount, and maybe to make some beer money in recommending it to my friends, since I was recommending it to my friends anyway.

Then I figured I could use it as a vacation/rainy day fund.

Then I realized that I'm actually pretty good at the coaching part, and getting better at the networking/business part.  And if I work and apply myself, I can use it to get my time back.

I don't care about being rich or having fancy things.  I just want time. I want to feel like I'm living deliberately and thoughtfully, as opposed to just careening from obligation to obligation and then collapsing in an exhausted heap at the end of every day.  And if I continue to apply myself and work, to connect with people and help them get the bodies and the lives they want, I can create a life for myself and my family by the beach.  A life of health and activity and family and helping people.

So we've put together a plan, and we're implementing it, and we're going to get there.