north side four (plus Eleanor Roosevelt, the Senator and the President)

Thank You For Being a Friend

2012-02-29T21:50:00.005-06:00

We've been talking quite a bit about being a good friend, and making good choices; about finding friends that make you happy and feel good about yourself. Mary curled up next to me, somewhat lost and a bit confused, and finding herself in a place where good friend choices seem to be more and more difficult. This, I thought, was a time to lead by example.

"Who are my friends? Who do you think is a good friend to me?", hoping to instigate a conversation about choosing people who make you feel happy.

Mary sat up, "Mom, what about Oliver's mom? She is nice, I like her, she'd be a good friend for you".

While we weren't really looking for a friend for me I appreciate the consideration. And she's right, Oliver's mom would never tell me I couldn't sit with her at lunch. I doubt she would call me stupid for not knowing that Jupiter was the biggest planet in the solar system and I feel confident that I would always be welcome to join in her game, or conversation, on the playground. Plus, I happen to know she is really good at math which is always a bonus when you are out to lunch and find yourself befuddled at tip time.

That's what friends are for, always looking out for you, even when you aren't asking for help.

Thanks for being my friend Mary; you are always welcome at my lunch table, as is Oliver's mom.

Life's Illusions

2012-02-17T13:02:00.000-06:00

Kansas City, 2011

How Will I Know?

2012-02-16T11:56:00.005-06:00

The carpet in the hallway was a blue and green geometric pattern, a truly bad choice to welcome home college students who had been out far past bedtime. The walls were a blue green color, a textured paper that was beginning to peel away at spots near the floor. Our door was near the middle of the long hallway, to the left when you came out of the elevator. On one side lived the cowgirls, with whom we shared a bathroom. They were from a small town in Kansas, spoke with deep country accents, and rarely spent any time anywhere near us, or school at all. On the other side lived two boys from St. Louis, wonderfully nice and quiet boys who I now assume are living a fulfilling life as gay men somewhere in Missouri. They were the next door neighbors, the NDNs which, left us, Egg and I, in between the cowgirls and the NDNs.

Egg and I shared room 222, my bed on the side of the hallway, the door always open. Every day the guy down the hall would stick his head in and yell "Hey!". He soon became Mr. Friendly, and then Kenny, and now, over 20 years later, Uncle Kenny. He still greats me, and my children, with "Hey!" each and every time we see him.

It was sophomore year and I had landed in this dorm because all my friends went through sorority rush; I did not, and I had nowhere else to go. My parents made this choice for me and I was furious, convinced that a much better option would have been an off campus apartment. My parents were right and I was wrong. It was a private dorm, which meant that they sold themselves as having better food and maid service. Maid service consisted of a once per week trash dumping, a quick once over of the shared bath, and a vacuum of the roughly two feet of unoccupied floor space in our tiny room. To the delight of Kenny, I would scream, obnoxiously, from my open door, "DUST" whenever I heard her make her way down the hall. Better food was debatable; I once took a box of Rice Krispies, dumped them over a bowl of marshmallows from the hot chocolate area, and stuck the entire thing in the microwave. Marshmallows blow with great force when microwaved.

Disgusted with these horrid living conditions, I protested by rarely leaving the building. We spent hours in the study room, doing everything but studying, or lounging in the poorly adorned hallway, disturbing anyone who had come to college to actually learn something. Across the hall was the really tall guy and his roommate Booger (so named for the large booger we once saw hanging from his nose while running). Next to them were Jason and Tom who decorated their walls with the packaging from the 24 can pack of Bud Light. Beyond that, Kenny and Steve, Lex, Juli, Maria, Pam (the art student who got a good dose of whipped cream blown under her door), Books, Brady (who allowed himself to be tied to a chair and sent on the elevator), Danny, Andy (and his smelly feet) and Margo who technically lived across the street but became an honorary hallway dweller by spending every free minute of her time on the second floor.

We spent an enormous amount of time in that blue and green themed social artery, sprawled out on the floor from one end to the other, when we should have been studying or sleeping or performing some random acts of community service. Little work required to find a playmate when 20 of your best friends live down the hall; it was like the perfect childhood neighborhood block but without pesky parents to call us home at bedtime. We carved pumpkins, did handstands, created small fires, explored the wonders of jello, and erupted into late night dance parties when speakers were moved from desk to doorway.

Without much effort I can smell that hallway, as I have every time over the past 26 years, when I hear Whitney Houston sing "How Will I Know?", the ballad of the second floor. Creating the most vibrant memory, Whitney Houston reminds me of a wonderful year, spent with people who became life long friends; of a time when everyone was happy and voices were never silenced for too long.

Life's Illusions

2012-02-10T21:11:00.000-06:00

February Beach, 2012

How Far For Pho?

2012-02-10T12:07:00.008-06:00

It's an ongoing battle. My want of life in a charming small town versus my husband's insistence that there is no such place. My visions involve summer dirty children, running wildly in great expanses of grassy fields, riding bikes on sidewalks to the main street ice cream store (Eleanor Roosevelt panting in chase behind them), long lazy days on blankets eating sandwiches and analyzing clouds, and Independence Day parades full of local high school marching bands, Miss Blue Hydrangea 2012, and dogs in Uncle Sam hats.

Jack's vision involves Wal-Mart.

"Would you give up Vietnamese food for life in a small town? Because there are no Vietnamese restaurants in small towns", he says with the authority of one who has visited every small town in each state I find acceptable to call home.

"I would not. I love pho. Maybe I could learn to cook it myself".

This portion of the conversation is now over, Jack is laughing too hard to return fire.

The girls and I return home from picking up the dry cleaning and a stop at the tea cafe nearby. I'm aglow, basking in the kindness of those who always remember my children, and almost always have a small something for them to stuff into their pockets. This week it is a hair bow, from the dry cleaner, a trinket her daughter picked up in Korea. "Imagine the familiarity in a small town Jack, imagine how friendly it would be and the sense of community...", my voice trailing off, wandering miles from our apartment.

"There are no dry cleaners in small towns. There are no people with daughters who randomly stop by Korea to pick up some hair bows", he counters.

But there are cafes, and women working there who smile often and pinch cheeks and ask if I'd like my English muffin toasted or on the griddle. There are farm fresh eggs and local honey, hotcakes and corn cakes and pure maple syrup. There's a guy named Sam who sits outside the cafe in the morning, reading his paper and waiting for Wilma, his wife of 58 years, to finish having her hair done next door at the Curl N' Cut beauty shop.

Jack's small town breakfast is a ham, egg and cheese biscuit from the Burger King drive-through, tossed to him by a pimple faced teenager, working on Saturday morning to pay off the final installment on his girlfriend Jessie's tattoo. Just a few more Whoppers to go before her backside reads, in full, Jessie n' Josh 4Ever, with entwined hearts and roses. The biscuit smells of cigarette smoke; Josh has been sneaking a few in the break room, the stress of tattoos and parenthood at 17 are really getting to him.

Jack grew up in a small town, I did not. He is deeply familiar with crossing highways on foot to get to the school, Dominoes pizza as the sole option (in both delivery and ethnicity) and the eternal ache of wanting to find something bigger. I am familiar with strip malls, dual turn lanes, subdivisions and the easily replicated vibe of modern suburbia. My ache was in wanting to walk to town to visit my dad at work, waving to Floyd and Goober as I ambled along the dusty roads. Impossible, my dad worked in an office building in the middle of a huge parking lot, surrounded by overpasses and faux woodsy bike paths. Not once did I walk to his office, or anywhere; there is no walking to actually get anywhere in the suburbs, all walking is reserved for laps in enormous indoor malls and designated walking trails (frequented by the suburban villain, the flasher).

The battle continues. I search the internet for Vietnamese pho recipes and online sites that deliver nuac mam, sawgrass and sriracha sauce. Jack savors the shrill of sirens on our street at four in the morning. The girls wear hair bows from Korea, Sam and Wilma celebrate another anniversary and Josh and Jessie make wedding plans.

We will never move.

"That Wasn't Nice!"

2012-02-08T21:27:00.007-06:00

My girls are now seven. They spend their days at school writing tall tales and memorizing multiplication tables. They are learning to navigate the precarious social structure of a second grade classroom: what it means to be a good friend, the value in honesty and the importance of standing up for a classmate who is not being treated fairly. They are learning to be good citizens in their own world which will someday translate to a much bigger place, because being kind and fair is important when you are seven, and when you are 53.

Four years ago John McCain, then the Republican candidate for president, was confronted by woman at a campaign stop in Minnesota who stood up and called Barack Obama an "Arab". John McCain, who had been boo'd several times for trying to quiet the rowdy crowd, took the microphone from her, "I have to tell you, Senator Obama is a decent person and a person you don't have to be scared of as president of the United States. He's a decent family man, a citizen, that I just happen to have disagreements with on fundamental issues and that's what this campaign's all about. He's not an Arab".

Politically John McCain and I don't see eye to eye, but I believe in his character and I respect his integrity.

Rick Santorum, selected yesterday by the people of Minnesota, Colorado and Missouri to be the Republican nominee in November, is not burdened by that same sense of fairness. At a campaign stop in Florida, Santorum did not feel it was his responsibility to correct the woman who told him that Obama was not "legally" the president, that he "totally ignores" the Constitution and that he is an "avowed Muslim". Rather than correct any of these statements, Santorum assured her that he was "doing his best to get him out of the government right now".

Yesterday at school a friend of the girls was called a name by a classmate. He quietly put his head down on his desk and said nothing. Mary looked directly at the name caller and said, "that wasn't nice!".

Mary gets my vote.

Put Something In

2012-02-07T17:29:00.002-06:00

Put Something In

Draw a crazy picture,

Write a nutty poem,

Sing a mumble-grumble song,

Whistle through your comb.

Do a loony-goony dance

'Cross the kitchen floor,

Put something silly in the world,

That ain't been there before.

Shel Silverstein

Finding My Balance

2012-02-01T11:37:00.002-06:00

My wrinkle cream is giving me pimples.

At an age when I might finally be able to admit it's the mid-point, a close to the halfway average of the eventual last age of my two grandmothers, I see myself teetering on top of Mount Aging Gracefully. I am not steady, it's a balancing act, and I've never been to sure of my footing at high elevations. My skin is as confused as I am.

Several months ago I sat with a group of women all close in age, early to mid forties, and one 37 year old. She sat silently as we discussed this new found aging. I was truly shocked to discover that all those pretty freckles on my hands were actually age spots; the old gals enlightened me, but not my spots; those creams don't work they said. The 37 year old chimed in, "neither do the wrinkle creams, so I had Botox". We all stopped, looked and inspected. "See, my forehead used to look like that", pointing to my severely disfigured cranium, "but now it looks like this" and she gestured, Carol Merrill like, at her smooth yet immobile temple space. The forty year old crowd was without words, their not yet gray heads bobbing back and forth as if they were center court at Wimbledon, searching for vast differences in our foreheads. I smiled and crinkled up my skin to get a better look.

Only validating my theory that 37 was the perfect time to have children, I seem to have lost my tiny print eyesight at the precise time my girls have learned to read. Coincidence? I think not. No longer am I limited only to restaurants where I know the entire menu by heart, "what's this?" I say, gesturing at some mouse sized words under the header "primi". Kate reads, in her best Italian, every detail of the cappellacci di zuca and we move on to the wine list.

It does not seem that long ago when I would spend Sundays with my grandmother, dividing the morning paper and joking about my reading the wedding notices while she read the obituaries. Here I am now, somewhere between weddings and funerals, working on the crossword puzzle. It seems to me that my crossword puzzle years should be relatively skin issue free.

Many years ago, when Mimi was considering a face lift, I said no, assuring her that I really liked her wrinkles. I did, her face without them wouldn't have been her face at all. In my life, she had always been a bit lined, "Allyson, just look at this chicken neck, someday you won't think this is so beautiful!". Her face was wonderful, familiar and loved. The benefit to wrinkles, versus the pimple, is that there are very few "Good Lord, where did that come from?" mornings. Wrinkles sneak in where the pimple announces his arrival with gusto; wrinkles reflect happiness and experience, pimples reflect stress over finals and too many late nights at The Wheel.

The real buger is this: I thought I had conquered adolescence. Rarely am I without a date on Saturday night, and when poker night trumps sitting at home with a movie, I cherish the quiet. Long gone are the days when I felt self conscious, with snickering teenagers ready to mock my every move. Of course I do realize that with two seven year old girls in my home, the snickering will soon reappear, to some degree warranted as it's not infrequent that I show up at school with a large hole in my sweater or with my pants unzipped. But still, haven't I grown too old to worry about looking geeky? Isn't it time to embrace my inner geek?

There is no longer room for both adolescence and middle age on my pale freckled face, although I'm not really ready to commit to either. My days are spent fine tuning the balancing act, teetering with one foot on either side, a stop at the Clinique counter on the way to the Estee Lauder night cream. I'm simply confused, as is, apparently, my skin.

Genius.

Dim Sum and Then Some (Thing Horrible)

2012-01-30T07:47:00.004-06:00

"If your father was still alive he would send me a gift certificate to Gibsons."

Jack, my born and raised Nebraska husband, was not thrilled with the Sunday night dinner options.

In addition to the delicious sushi cake, there were noodles topped with edamame and peanut sauce (cooked to a near paste like form), and steamed whole wheat vegetable buns.

Even the girls, who generally like everything I offer, were less than enthusiastic when presented with the buns. "What's in that?", from Kate, who rarely checks the contents before diving in. "I'm not sure, could be spinach, it's green," said Mary, picking delicately at her warm bun. "Maybe can I share one with someone?", asked Kate. Mary jumped at this opportunity, "Here! Have part of mine!".

"You know, these noodles would have been so much better with tofu," said the cook.

"Really? Tofu is what you think this needs?", said the Husker.

Culinarily, it was not my best weekend. Saturday night I accidentally poached shrimp in butter and orange juice, resulting in a fibrous glop of crustacean, smelling sweet and tasting overwhelmingly of citrus scented dirty bath water . Not even a warm tortilla and avocado could save us from the pleasingly pink shellfish. Sunday morning I reached for cornmeal but found polenta, creating light, airy and oddly gritty waffles.

Saturday morning we went out, for dim sum, in celebration of Chinese New Year. The scallop and chive dumplings, pork shumai, rice noodle rolls, and lotus leaf sticky rice being by far the best thing offered this weekend, and that was before I whipped up mushy noodles and thin sushi cake for dinner.

"I'm going to send a picture of this to my family, my entire family, to see if anyone I am related to can identify this as dinner".

Oh Jack, maybe they need to get out more. I'd recommend Furama on North Broadway, anywhere but here.

Life's Illusions

2012-01-27T14:10:00.000-06:00

Kate, 2007

Life's Illusions

2012-01-20T11:56:00.002-06:00

Sledding, 2011

The Duel 2012: Gingrich and Romney

2012-01-19T05:02:00.002-06:00

The voice on the radio announced a virtual “Armageddon” in South Carolina this week, the promise of Newt Gingrich, furthering his attacks on Republican front runner Mitt Romney.

“What’s an Armageddon?”

She listened very carefully to my explanation, that Gingrich was promising an attack of negative advertisements, that rather than tell us all the reasons why we should vote for him, he was going to tell us all the reasons we should not vote for his opponent.

“He is going to say bad things about Mitt Romney?”

Essentially, he was going to point out all the things that Romney has done previously that would keep him from being the kind of president that the Republicans would like to elect.

There was a pause, some consideration, and then Kate said, “you know Mom, that sounds a lot like Hamilton and Burr, saying mean things to try and keep the other from winning. We all know that didn't work out so well”.

The long term effects of negative campaigning as explained by a seven year old.

The Duel

Happy Birthday Jack!

2012-01-18T15:56:00.002-06:00

Every year on this date the girls and I celebrate Jack’s birthday. Every year Jack, to the best of his ability, ignores us. He has no qualms about growing older, he embraces his forty'hood with gusto, it’s the actual celebrating that he dislikes.

He’s a fun person. He laughs, smiles, and seems to enjoy his life, but he does not celebrate birthdays. He has, begrudgingly over the years, learned to tolerate holidays. I celebrate Arbor Day. I believe birthdays are the most anticipated day of the year, and even after the celebrant has died, I still remember them. It’s an ideological difference we've been negotiating for over ten years. We've both had to sacrifice, we’re working it out.

As part of my acceptance, I have come to understand certain rules that might make the day more enjoyable for him. Primarily we are not allowed to ask, ever, what he might like for his birthday and we are not to expect overwhelming joy as his response at gift opening. He hails from a “what would you like’ kind of family, which has never suited him well. With his birthday coming less than one month after Christmas, this gift giving kindness has become a seemingly insurmountable burden. His mother once sent a brightly colored balloon bouquet to his bank office which may have been the year he formally announced his retirement from birthdays. Last year she sent a box of homemade cookies; he was genuinely thrilled.

With the arrival of children I warned him, he could no longer continue to be such a complete scrooge on his birthday, children expect more. They've been counting down all week, making presents and planning surprises. They started the day with shrieks of happy birthday and a special celebratory banana snowman shaped muffin. They have warned their teacher, please not too much homework tonight, it’s our dad’s birthday. They plan on being quite busy with all the festivities surrounding this wonderful day. If we were to leave Jack in charge, they would have time to finish their complete math workbook, complete the extra credit report on the Constitutional Convention and read the dictionary.

For their sake the newly minted old man will go out to dinner, eat cake and smile when they sing. He will open gifts, feign excitement and delight in playing with Bob the Talking Toilet Paper Roll Doll, "would you like an interest rate swap?"

And maybe next year, after this kind of wild fun, he might just offer a suggestion as to what he would like for his birthday.

Happy birthday Jack; tomorrow is a new day.

Before birthdays were tortuous.

Life's Illusions

2012-01-13T22:54:00.000-06:00

Chicken Pot Pie

2012-01-12T12:18:00.007-06:00

It's chicken pot pie day. It's snowing, it's really cold and it's Mimi's birthday. One twelve twelve just came around again as she would be 100 years old today. She should be 100, she lived like she had that kind of time.

All This Snow and No One to Play With

2012-01-11T20:59:00.011-06:00

The girls returned to school this week, Jack went back to work, I went back to the library. Order has been restored in our lazy lives. Given the general assumption that mom and dad can hardly wait for school to start again, I'm always a bit off in my want to keep them home just a few days more. "Mom, it's got to happen, we've got to go back to school, we've got to learn.", said my painfully logical seven year old, the one who burrows under her pillow and begs for more sleep when we come in at 6:30 to wake her.

At every possible opportunity I voiced my displeasure with CPS and their decision to continue classes through December 23rd, giving us very little time for holiday merriment before Christmas. School was over, it was Christmas Eve. We wedged in a trip to see the windows at Field's (generally disliked, "there was no story Mom, it was like a commercial" from the logical child), we saw Santa, we decorated the tree, we made a gingerbread house, but there was no carol singing, no Kris Kindl Market, no falalala and precious little hohoho, but plenty of homework. Not my idea of a silver bell kind of build up to the big day and I was not pleased.

As it turns out, having the extra week in January was nice. Very little pressure to do anything, and, given that Chicago has recently become a warm weather get away, a little like taking a vacation right at home. It was 58 degrees last week; we went to the park, we walked, we ran errands, we went ice skating, and we enjoyed the true wonder of being on our own schedule, if just for a few days.

The holidays are over, the new year has begun, and, as I sit here in my dining room awaiting the arrival of 8 to 10 inches of snow, I realize that I have found my way home again, back to Chicago and the order that dictates our daily lives, back to some other's schedule.

It's hard to love snow when all your playmates are in school.

Six months until summer break.

Life's Illusions

2012-01-06T10:56:00.002-06:00

Twelfth Night, 2012

Merry Christmas She Said

2012-01-01T20:35:00.000-06:00

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in a broken accent.

It was after 11:00 pm and I had spent the past six hours making a two hour trip, weather delays trapping me on the ground in a city I did not want to leave. There were no more than five of us on the plane, the last flight from Kansas City to Chicago, on Christmas night. It was snowing, in both places, perfect for Christmas, unless your Christmas is to be spent flying from one winter wonderland to another.

My dad took me to the airport. Even with an early dinner we had to leave before Nana's Christmas cake, a brandy soaked tradition. It was to be the last Christmas for my 90 year old grandfather, the year he repeatedly asked where he had tied up his horse. It was a Christmas that all seven kids had made it home, when my grandmother was still able to cook, my dad still able to carve the turkey and a family all together for one last precious time. Waving good-bye was like leaving the ghost of Christmas everything; taking me away from my family on Christmas is unthinkable, stepping onto a plane scattered with strangers, like torture.

Frustrated that I drew the short straw, that no one else, not even the other clerks and paralegals who weren't traveling, offered to be there on the day after Christmas, I moped and pouted with the time I did have with my family. I was angry at my horrible boss, the one who removed his glasses and used the end piece to clean his ears whenever we met to discuss medical records or boring depositions. The one who callously said "you know I'm Jewish, I could work on Christmas day" when I asked if I could at least come in late the next day; my need to repeatedly quote him not really enveloping the spirit of Christmas.

Because my father flew frequently, often three or four days a week, he was familiar to almost everyone at the American Airlines counter in Kansas City. Having Dad deliver me to the airport meant a seat in first class as they often extended this courtesy to his daughter when available. On this night, given that I was one of five people flying, my seat in row 3 was secure. He waited with me until they finally boarded, the two of us sitting in the lonely and cold airport, the bar closed and the place deserted. I encouraged him to go home, but secretly hoped he would stay, scared to be alone and wishing that maybe they would finally just cancel this flight and strand me, helpless and unable to get to work. The plane had to be in Chicago, the flight would go, even if we had to wait all night.

Two hours later they called the few of us remaining to board. Leaving home was difficult, saying good-bye to my father who was my Christmas constant, horrible. The plane was de-iced, we pushed back from the gate, and O'Hare closed to incoming flights. We waited. I buried my head in my mixed nuts, not at all interested in small talk with the nice flight attendant who was probably not exactly where she wanted to be either. I questioned all the decisions: grad school away from my family, the terrible job at the hideous law firm, the one that made me cry almost every day as the bus approached my stop. My dad suggested I quit, find something else, but I knew I was learning, more about what I did not want to do than what I did, and the miserable pay was better than nothing at all.

After almost two hours of waiting we took off. I cried when the wheels left the ground.

O'Hare was deserted, as quiet as I had ever seen it. My lone bag spun on the carousel, as lost as I was. I threw it over my shoulder and made my way out, heading to the taxi stand rather than the train as Dad had given me cab fare, not wanting me to spend the remainder of my night on two trains and a bus getting home. I stopped in the restroom before leaving.

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in a broken accent. Merry Christmas said the woman who had spent her Christmas cleaning restrooms at the airport, away from her family and friends, working at a job I have always considered to be among the worst imaginable. My day of self misery was over; "Merry Christmas" I said to her, and thank you.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T01:12:00.000-06:00

Merry Everything!

Lights! Camera! Action!

2011-12-22T11:44:00.001-06:00

For most of high school, and a good deal of junior high, my free time was spent in the theatre wing, reading lines, hammering on sets and soaking up the behind the scenes atmosphere so heavy when you are 14 years old. My contributions were generally backstage, sorting out costumes and arranging set plans, but occasionally I was called to the stage, most frequently appearing as the tottering old woman in whatever production was headlining that semester. I became a master at graying my straight brown hair, tying it into a bun and creating, with brown and white pencils, the lines that now decorate my face permanently. With the rest of the cast I gathered just before curtain time, holding hands in a circle, passing love with one squeeze to the next and handing out The Robe, a gift to the crew member deemed most vital to that performance. The minutes before curtain were, for me, the whole of why I was in theatre at all, the anticipation and excitement worth all the long nights and hard work.

When I graduated from college with no clear idea of what I wanted to do, I found a job waiting tables. Friendly but forgetful, I quickly acclimated to the topsy turvy schedule and grew to love my year of living without direction. When I worked in the evening, we arrived around 3:30, an hour and a half before the dinner service began. Once the assigned prep work was done, salads in the cooler, napkins rolled with silverware, we all sat down to a quick meal of whatever was getting old in the walk-in, and a pep talk from the chef on duty that night. The camaraderie of the assembled crew was contagious, knowing that for this to be a successful night we all had to work together. When the first table was sat the show began. My mother, who was not at all pleased with my educated career choice, softened a bit when I likened this time to my high school theatre days, and the excitement of curtain time.

Each year we host a holiday party, a crowded affair, with too many people crammed into our small apartment. I spend weeks planning and preparing, organizing and shopping. I'm up early on party day, cooking, while Jack gathers anything without an assigned space to be put in our bedroom, the designated dump closet. Mary and Kate now pitch in, responsible for the playroom, soon to be completely destroyed by the army of children scheduled to arrive. With an hour left before the first guest arrives, I'm usually showered but not dressed, fumbling around the kitchen in my old bathrobe and slippers, wet hair piled onto the top of my head. The four of us work together on the final preparations: snipping chives on crostini, lighting red candles, hiding puzzles from three year old guests, and chilling beer and juice boxes on the back porch. At 30 minutes I'm sent away, to lose The Robe and hide those pesky lines now appearing daily on my forehead. Minutes before the first buzzer I appear, ready to face the evening, my fellow cast and crew by my side. We share our own love, knowing we have all worked hard to make this evening a success. Even now, almost thirty years later, the show goes on.

Life's Illusions

2011-12-16T22:48:00.002-06:00

Pardon me?

Life's Illusions

2011-12-09T16:37:00.001-06:00

Holiday Party, 2008

Bakers Two, Part Deux

2011-12-05T09:29:00.002-06:00

It's been a very long week, which is not the way I wanted to kick off the holiday season. It happens, but I've lost any inclination to write, or cook, or change my socks. I'm re-posting, from my limited selection of holiday related essays. It might happen again; I'm too busy enjoying the falala and the hohoho to take off my dancing shoes and flex my fingers.

Bakers Two, originally posted in January of 2010.

He was certain, or close to certain, that there were two girls. As I had spent the better part of the previous five months faking excitement while staring at the foggy screen, I had no real means to challenge his opinion, and Jack was passed out on the floor, the words "two girls" having sent him directly under the table, head first. "Really, two girls, really? You are quite sure?", and he was, what he saw, and what I did not, was two girls. And to think, I had been busing around all this time assuming two boys were causing me all this discomfort. I threw water on my husband, dressed and hurled myself towards the door.

Fueled by my relationship with my father, I had assumed, for the years I spent not pregnant and without children, that if in fact I was ever fool enough to throw myself into this madness, I would come out on the other side the mother of boys. To be fair, those spanky little navy blazers at Brooks Brothers figured into my future vision, perhaps my son would be born in that. He was not, in fact he came out naked, two times and in drag.

At some point I realized, once I took control of my pink phobic mind, that really, some of my very best childhood memories were directly related to my being a girl. Days spent at the ballpark with my dad included, as were the hours I amassed sitting at the counter in Mimi's kitchen. Every September we baked apple pies, for Valentine's Day a heart shaped cake and at Christmas, peppermint cookies, sugar cookies and whiskey balls. Of course I could have been a boy, and there were days that my father might have thought that perhaps I was, but there was something to my girl days in the kitchen, and in a quick moment I realized that I could relive those wonderful memories with my girls. And this realization made the tiny blue blazers a thing of the past, red aprons were in my future, I was certain.

The first Christmas rolled around; at three months they were very little help, which I found truly frustrating. Mary slept through most of the Bing Crosby serenaded day while Kate fussed and insisted on sitting in the kitchen.When I then spilled a good amount of powdered sugar directly onto her small head, an indoor winter wonderland covering her small and once happy infant body, she voiced her displeasure accordingly.

Four years later she is content to bathe in powdered sugar, or chocolate, or both. There are few pleasures greater than spilling an entire cup of flour on her sister, who then returns the favor, but with melted butter. Cocoa works especially well for airborne mess, and cookie decorating sugars are best used to enhance the somewhat dull brown and black hair that covers Eleanor Roosevelt. And when we have at last exhausted all our baking efforts, the girls revel in licking all things containing raw eggs which, as we know, was not a problem at all when I was a child. Before raw eggs were exposed as the horrifically dangerous orbs that we now know them to be, I, like many, was encouraged to lick away all remaining raw eggs from toxic plastic bowls. Not so in 2009, uncooked eggs pose every possible danger to children and I scream in horror when their batter covered fingers touch their faces. Once recovered, we all walk down the street to eat raw tuna on rice for dinner.

Valentine's Day is just over a month away. Optimistically I will have the heart shaped cake pan greased and ready, the very same one I used so long ago in that red kitchen with the old gal who had endless patience for what must have been a challenging bake off. My memories, thankfully, do not recount her putting her head on the counter and begging for sanity while loudly pleading for an armed fairy cleaning woman at her beck and call; perhaps my girls can block that out as well.

Happy Birthday

2011-11-25T22:41:00.006-06:00

Thank you for being my friend.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T21:36:00.006-06:00

Forever on Thanksgiving Day
The heart will find the pathway home.
~Wilbur D. Nesbit

Thanksgiving 2007

2011-11-24T21:18:00.002-06:00

"We're having tofurkey?"

Life's Illusions

2011-11-18T08:28:00.000-06:00

'Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving, 2009

If Only You Had Yelled Fire

2011-11-13T17:27:00.013-06:00

We were told to yell "Fire!" when threatened. We were told, in college, that if we were attacked, if we were followed or felt uncomfortable, that the best thing to do was yell "fire" because if you yelled "rape" or "help" no one would come. People look the other way they said, but people will always come to see a fire.

After college I went to work in a small home furnishings store. When one of my fellow employees described her kitchen decor as "black themed" I was intrigued. When she continued, describing her Aunt Jemima wall art and her Mammy cookie jar I found it to be offensive, and I said so. In my next review I was told to get along with the other employees, I was told that I was not expected to agree with everyone but expressing my opinion was unacceptable and that I needed to remember we all have different taste. I was told to keep quiet, look the other way and act as if offensive remarks didn't bother me. And I was told that if I couldn't do this there would be a note in my file as to my inability to get along with others. It seems I was told, in my first job and my first job review, to tolerate racism, in whatever form it presented. I should have yelled "fire", because maybe then someone would have listened.

It's much easier to keep quiet, to look the other way when someone tells an offensive joke, to keep walking when someone needs help. Sometimes you have to do more than dial 911, you have to bravely walk in and offer a hand to the one in need. Sometimes, as an adult, you have to know when to yell "fire". Because if you don't, you lose your job after an amazing 46 year career, and all you had to do was stand up and say that's not right.

Life's Illusions

2011-11-11T17:17:00.000-06:00

Apple picking, October 2011

Her Shining Face

2011-11-09T20:24:00.003-06:00

"...if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like
sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”
-Roald Dahl

Treading Water in the Shallow End

2011-11-07T13:45:00.005-06:00

Not so many years ago someone said, when referring to me, that I was simple minded. Not her words exactly but the essence was that I was lucky to be able to go through life unencumbered by deep thoughts, and I do know that she used the word deep. Prior to that I had not heard the word deep used, outside of swimming pool references, since junior high when Susie would pass me notes that said "that is so deep!" after quoting lines from her favorite Air Supply song.

The truth is, I can be deep, just like I can be obnoxious, but more often than not, I chose not to be. If deep means that I am so burdened by the challenge of daily living that I cannot be cordial to the cashier at Trader Joe's then I agree, I'm simple. If being deep means that I need to suffer through the agony and angst of motherhood, without allowing myself to be overcome with joy at the deliciousness of children, it's perfectly fine with me to stay in the shallow end.

When my father was in the hospital, when we thought he had just had a major stroke and was certainly dying, the very night that I flew 500 miles to hold him close to me one last time, my aunt greeted me in the hospital hallway with "thank God you're here, we need to laugh a bit", and I felt, while suffocating in scared and lost, appreciated and home.

My truth is that I prefer to laugh, and sometimes I prefer to laugh when it might not be appropriate, when common convention tells us to be somber and morose. I've had my share of opportunities; from a life that was once so easy and fun, people have died, plans have changed, and I have cried.

After my grandmother's funeral, when none of us were ready to step away and let this be over, we moved our horrible day to a favorite restaurant. Late into the evening, after a wonderful meal and countless bottles of wine, the waiter asked what we were celebrating. The laughter that had been nonstop for hours came to an abrupt halt, there was an awkward pause, and I answered, "our grandmother". It was not the answer he expected but it was the best answer we had, and it was just the answer that Mimi would have loved. In the end it was the laughter that allowed us to hold onto each other for just a while longer.

Treading water in the shallow end has served me well.

I wish I could carry your smile in my heart
At times when my life seems so low
It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring
When today doesn't really know.

Now that's deep.

All Out of Love, written by Graham Russell, Clive Davis, and Lewis Martinee

Life's Illusions

2011-11-04T20:55:00.002-05:00

A bee, a ladybug and Super Girl, 2011

On Not Learning a Lesson

2011-11-04T12:05:00.004-05:00

Just one of the reasons Halloween is not my favorite holiday, from a conversation with an eight year old child at school.

"Guess what? I threw up all over my dinner plate last night!" said the child.
"That is disgusting," said the librarian.
"It was chocolate, I ate ALL of my candy when I got home".
"Do you think maybe you learned a lesson, about eating chocolate?"
"Probably not, I do it every year".

The librarians children are not allowed to eat chocolate ever again.

There will be no picture posted to further illustrate this conversation.

All They Wrote, Plus Bibliography

2011-11-03T12:24:00.004-05:00

Jupiter is the largest planet, Mercury is closest to the sun. Jupiter has a big red spot, Mercury is the fastest moving in the solar system. Two children, two research projects, two planets no longer lost to me in the world of knowledge known as outer space. Second grade snuck up on me, I thought we had few years before I would have to turn to the World Book and Google to answer questions. "Mom, what's seven times four?", I know that. "Mommy...how do you spell calendar?", done, right from the top of my head. But temperature range and atmospheric conditions on Mercury? Not found in the storage space above my shoulders.

It was Mrs. Jean Hardy, in sixth grade, who assigned to me the most difficult and complex paper I ever completed in all my years of schooling: a research paper, with bibliography and presentation, on Gothic architecture. Hours of fact finding, days spent huddled over the encyclopedia at my grandparent's house, library time that included actual studying, thousands of one sentence facts scribbled onto lined sheets of notebook paper, all to be cut into strips and reassembled into a coherent and well thought out paper. "Don't forget the endnotes" said Mrs. Jean Hardy, who thought that perhaps, in sixth grade, we all had some idea what an endnote might be. It was a horrible and grueling process, one that scarred me and left me determined to never again surrender to the painful and sleep robbing task of writing a research paper. That was sixth grade, this is now.

Granted, assisting in the completion of two reports for a second grade class was a bit less taxing than being the primary writer of seven pages of flying buttresses and finials, but none less stressful. As I sit here tonight, surrounded by completed papers, bibliographies and visual aides, I know with confidence that I will be startled awake around 3:00 am, the victim of the dreaded "I Slept Through A Semester Final Exam" dream.

Thank you to Mary, Kate, their second grade teacher and of course, Mrs. Jean Hardy for tonight's restless slumber. Yawn.

Genuine thanks to Mrs. Hardy who taught me to diagram sentences, prepare and present an informative speech, and work very hard for an A. She was one of the best teachers I have ever had and I am still grateful for her critical eye, high standards and willingness to reward good work.

Kim Kardashian is Getting Divorced!

2011-11-01T14:39:00.014-05:00

Kim Kardashian is getting divorced. This is big news; it's on the front page of the Huffington Post, CNN and Fox News. The Today Show found time this morning to probe the details and if you're like me, you simply cannot wait to see the cover People Magazine is working right now. Or you can, because if you're like me, you don't really know who Kim Kardashian is, and you just might not care that she is getting divorced if you didn't even know she got married.

To clarify, I know there is a Kardashian and I assume there must be more than one, given the amount of press devoted to anyone with this last name. In my one hour every so often, the one hour devoted wholly to mindless pursuit of People magazine while having my toes clipped, shined and polished, I am overwhelmed with all things Kardashian, a topic I find to be completely mindless yet exceedingly dull. It's not just my old reliable People, US Weekly and In Touch both seem to have nothing else to report. The Kardashian has forced me back to books while having a pedicure and that alone makes me just a tad bitter.

It appears that this wedding, the one that took place 73 days ago, cost about $10,000,000. You might agree that this is an enormous amount of money to spend on a wedding, a ridiculous amount even, which would still be ridiculous had it lasted 72 years rather than days. What is it that these people do to create such public interest in their grocery shopping habits? Not to mention their pregnancies, pets, wardrobe, hairstyles, eye makeup favorites and other intensely intellectual pursuits. Who are these people and why do we care so much about them and their "traditional" wedding?

In other People magazine news, Jessica Simpson is pregnant, but not married. It's been so hard, after the tragic divorce and countless breakups but now, finally, she's found true love and happiness, with her fiance, presumably also the father of her unborn child. My guess is that soon I will find myself bored, not with a Kardashian, but with updates on Jessica's growing baby bump, her diet woes, and her plans to put a hold on her upcoming nuptials. Maybe, months from now, People magazine will share pictures of her baby shower and then soon after, pictures of the bundle of joy created by Jessica and her fiance who will surely give their child the safe, loving and traditional home guaranteed by the presence of both a mother and a father.

It's not just Hollywood that is making the news. The Republican front runner in the 2012 presidential race was just revealed as a sexual harasser who paid off his accusers. He didn't do it, or he did but didn't know anything about it, or he did but didn't know just how far his staff had gone to quiet the mess. At any rate, he had no idea. He also supports a constitutional amendment to protect marriage between a man and a woman but apparently does not support the actual sanctity of marriage and those vows spoken 43 years ago, when he promised to honor and remain faithful to his female wife for the rest of his life. "Traditional families are the bedrock foundation of any healthy society", said Herman Cain in February of 2004.

On October 14th, Frederick Marvin, 91, and Ernst Schuh, 89, were married in Syracuse, New York, after a 52 year relationship. Unlike some they didn't jump headfirst into this marriage, these two men spent 52 years together before being allowed to promise to love each other for the rest of forever. It's unlikely they'll have children, given their ages, but I believe this marriage might last, at least longer than 72 days, I really hope so.

And there it is, the moral core of the country being worn away by same sex marriage, as predicted. Children raised by same sex couples being denied access to traditional loving homes, those non families, as defined by Michelle Bachmann. Maybe we should all have a 52 year waiting period before we get married, or maybe we should be grateful for those that give us hope that some things can last a lifetime, and you don't really need to spend a fortune and invite People magazine to make it real.

Hand in Hand

2011-10-24T13:26:00.004-05:00

It was clear when they walked in that they had been married a very long time. In one hand he held a folded newspaper, in the other, her wrinkled hand. He pulled out her chair, sat down himself and began to read.

"Where is that restaurant?" she asked.
"Downstairs dear".
"So it won't take long to get there?"
He smiled at her, she checked her watch.

He read, she flipped pages in a magazine.

"Do you know our tickets are for 1:30?"
"I know we are going to the symphony this afternoon," he answered.

I checked my watch, it was 11:10; we were one half block from the symphony center.

"What are you going to eat? At lunch."
Without looking up he replied, "I haven't seen the menu yet dear".
"I think I'm going to have soup, something that won't take long to prepare. What do you think?"
"I think you should get whatever pleases you."

He read; she flipped pages, crossed and uncrossed her very old legs, adjusted her skirt, rifled through her purse and sighed loudly when she checked her watch again.

He folded his paper and looked at her, "Marilyn, would you like to go and have lunch?".
"You know, I believe I would."

They left hand in hand.

Life's Illusions

2011-10-21T23:41:00.000-05:00

Call to the Pen, October 2011

A Book Riddle

2011-10-20T22:10:00.004-05:00

Not Mommy or Daddy or even boo hoo

Her first words were saved for an animal,

That’s who!

She had lost him she thought

A tragic ordeal

She yelled, she went boneless, she let out a squeal.

As always it was

That Mommy knew best

And they all rushed back

Past the school, through the park, a little bird nest.

They looked high, they looked low

And found nothing soft and green

Until Daddy reached back further

To a place he had not before seen.

Trixie laughed, she screamed, they thought it was funny,

And then happily yelled out her first words,

“Knuffle Bunny!”

Knuffle Bunny, by Mo Willems, is one of Mary and Kate's favorite books. I wrote several book riddles as a game, to encourage them to listen and use clues to discover which of their favorite books I was describing.

Little Red Rent A Car

2011-10-17T14:08:00.001-05:00

The line at Hertz was impossibly long and I was in a hurry. Not that I had anywhere I really needed to be at that moment but standing in line at a car rental place in Newark was not my idea of fun getaway. They offered me water and a map as a consolation. They should have offered me a car and a fine fellow to carry my bag.

Hours later I stepped up to the counter.

"That's a fine rate you found, congratulations".

No congratulations necessary, just a signature in exchange for keys and I would happily be on my way and out of this particular congestion.

"Let's see what we have, hmmm, yes, here we are, a super duper fast thingy ma car with wheels and a roof and power windows, would you like that?"

"That will be fine", and it was, for a $20.00 per day upgrade fee. This poor man had no idea who was peering at him from the other side of the counter. My specific request, with regard to a car, is that it actually moves, has windows and doors, and doesn't smell too bad. Beyond that I don't really care. I assured him that my original car would be fine, if he would just kindly hand me the keys I would be happily on my way. I'd had hours to study my free map, I was prepared.

"But this one has so much more room, plenty of space for your luggage". I looked behind me, and then down at my small green duffel bag, "you understand there is only me, right?".

He went back to his computer, and not satisfied with what he saw, moved over to another computer, forcing someone else to wait while he searched, presumably the same data base, for the perfect car for me and my one bag.

"Aha! Just what you need, and only $10.00 more per day!"

The car I drive now is almost ten years old. It has scrapes, bumps and bashes on all sides. Engraved on the passenger door, in very primitive four year old handwriting, is the word "KATE", left there by a rock and a creative child. It makes odd noises and has lights that flash unexpectedly, warning me to check the engine and to please, for the love of God, pull over and stop driving, in the interest of safety. It also has four wheels, two car seats, a number of windows and heat; it suits me perfectly.

I shook my head, no thank you. "But miss, this one is much more comfortable, it has tons of legroom". I rose to my tippy toes and stretched all of my almost five foot two frame above the counter, "thank you but legroom is not really an issue for me. Can you find me a car with wheels?".

Defeated he handed me a set of keys and directed me to the door marked "No Upgrade". Row after row of small cars, the ones they keep all to themselves as renting one is unthinkable, lined up neatly just waiting for the fools not interested in headlights, cup holders, and power windows. The legroom less car in my spot was red and had Texas license plates, my obvious penance for not wanting more out of a three day car relationship.

Still Crazy After All These Years

2011-10-14T13:43:00.001-05:00

The two men at the next table were a bit loud, laughing heartily with a slap on the back kind of vigor. My lunch companion was Jane Austen and this wild kind of fun was a bit distracting as I read my way through a plate of rice and green lentils. "Remember freshman year, or was it sophomore, when you....", I looked up, suddenly envious.

It's not often that I have lunch with someone with whom I could reminisce about sophomore year, in fact it's almost never. My school companions have spread from New Mexico to New York, we rarely actually talk, much less have lunch together. The last time we were all together as a group was at least twenty years ago, so long ago I don't actually remember, and I certainly don't remember every saying "good-bye, see you in what, maybe twenty years?".

But that is how it happens, even with people that at one time you held so tightly that the thought of a weekend without them was torture. Thankfully laughing together is like riding a bike, you don't ever forget, especially when you realize, halfway through the beautiful wedding, that you left your car running in the driveway outside. And when you, at 45, end up being only a slightly more grown up version of the person you were at 18, reconnecting with those old selves comes quite easily.

Was this where we thought we would be? Almost thirty years later, giggling at the tiny dog in the tiny dog carrier two seats away, at the home of Peter and his husband Brian, in New York, watching our friend Laura marry her longtime partner Candace?

Long ago, at about this time of year, we'd all wrap ourselves in ragg wool, borrow a family wagon and drive west for a day at the Renaissance Festival. After hours of eating turkey legs, making hand dipped candles and listening to poorly tuned accents, we'd pile back into the woody wagon, pop the Vivaldi cassette in the player and muse about spending days like this for the rest of our lives. Of course at 17 we failed to consider that things change; life doesn't always stay in suburban Kansas City, and that we were just beginning to discover who we might be for the rest of our lives.

Family wagons morphed into mini vans and we moved away, found new friends, grew up, and grew apart. We married, had babies, watched babies go to college, and two weeks ago found ourselves back together for the first time in a very long time. We discovered that saying hello again is just as easy as saying goodbye, and that after all these years, we were essentially the same wonderful people we knew so long ago. It seems that knowing people so intensely, and so thoroughly, works to bind you together for years to come, even if you don't spend any of those interim years together.

Politics and ceremony aside, it was really nice to be back amongst old friends.

"Did you think Laura would grow up and marry a woman?"
"I don't suppose I thought Laura would grow up".

Life's Illusions

2011-10-14T08:36:00.000-05:00

At the Zoo, October 2005

History Buff

2011-10-11T17:11:00.004-05:00

Goerge Washington,
James Monroe,
Albert Einstein,
Way more to go.

Johny Appleseed,
Betsy Ross,
King Goerge III,
John Hancock.

Samuel Adams,
Honest Abe,
Historical people,
Went to thier grave.

Thomas Jefferson,
FDR,
Teddy Roosevelt,
That's all so far.

Katherine, Age 7

With Samuel Adams, Washington D.C.

Life's Illusions

2011-10-07T09:43:00.000-05:00

For Laura, 1984

What Was Left On The Cutting Room Floor

2011-10-05T10:10:00.001-05:00

I was flattered recently to be interviewed by children's book author Anna Deskins, for her blog. She writes about me as a "Mommy Blogger" which I suppose I am, although I am still somewhat shocked to find me associated with Mommy anywhere, happily shocked. While I'd like to think that I cover so much more, at the end of the day, my life, for the foreseeable future, really revolves around my children. Accepting that has been like accepting the fact that my feet grew two shoes sizes when I was pregnant.

A few of my favorite questions, and answers, did not make the final cut, but I saved them here, which is what Mommies do, save things.

AD: A lot mom's are so overwhelmed and dream of being able to accomplish their dreams, whether it's doing their own blog or becoming an entrepreneur. What advice do you have for them?

NSF: Make your children part of those dreams. I’m working on a book, a memoir, and the girls and I write together, they have journals, just as I do. They will surely be published first, they are very dedicated. They should be answering this question.

AD: It seems that people know everything about us, especially if we blog. Does your family ever beg you not to spill details about their lives on your blog?

NSF: My husband says no. He’s a grown up, he can handle it, and he’s funny, so I enjoy writing about Handy Jack and his complete and udder befuddlement with regard to the sport of ice dancing. The girls don’t understand yet but I do consider what I say about them and try to do my best to not magnify anything in their lives that could be humiliating or embarrassing. I don’t write about potty training. Kate wants to be a Senator someday, her secrets are safe with her mother.

  AD: As you know, I'm a children's book author, what are some of your favorite children's books you used to read to your kids?
  

NSF: We still read together! We just started a book about Benjamin Franklin because we are going to Philadelphia in a few weeks. The books with staying power, those that we turn to again and again? Lyle, Lyle Crocodile by Bernard Waber; George and Martha by James Marshall; Frog and Toad by Arnold Lobell; John, Paul, George and Ben by Lane Smith; Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans; and our very favorite, A Little Country Town by Jandelyn Southwell, the most perfect book to take us out of the city on occasion.

You see a pattern, so many of their favorites were favorites of mine so many years ago, books I remember reading with my grandmother. Books are a wonderful way to share my life with my children.

And that is the rest of the story. My thanks to Anna Deskins, and Jeff Rivera, who introduced us.

Take This One, Really

2011-09-28T00:17:00.001-05:00

He hit the corner just before I did, which is exactly what you don't want to happen when you are running late for a funeral. His arm went up to flag the only taxi in the oncoming pack of cars. I stood, checking my watch, silently berating myself for taking the 30 seconds to stop and wave at the family who runs the corner taqueria. It began to drizzle.

"Do you need a cab?"

Taunting, of course I do.

"Here, take this one, I'm in no hurry".

I peered at him over the top of my glasses. He switched the 12 pack of Bud Light to his other arm and opened the door for me, "take it, really. I can wait".

For nine months I rode the train to work, pregnancy oozing from me at every available egress, and I can count on one hand the number of times people stood up and offered my swollen self their seat.

My calloused soul climbed into the back seat, "thank you so much, I mean, it's just that I am late for a funeral and I, I just don't know how to thank you". He smiled, moved the Bud Light again, and closed the door.

Cheers kind man, and thank you.

Egg in the Mud

2011-09-25T20:23:00.014-05:00

"You come here, you haven't been here in so long", and that, when coming from San Francisco is hard to resist. My side of the world was less exciting, and she was promising a spa day in Napa. I bought my ticket.

Where once we had been separated only by a bookcase, we were now over 2,000 miles apart, a thought unimaginable ten years prior. Before email, before Skype, we talked on the phone, constantly, and wrote letters, the wonderful old handwritten kind that now sit in a box in my closet. We met freshman year; I remember quite clearly that she was wearing a lime green suit and white pumps, although she dismisses this, horrified at the idea, and her very comfortable jean and cashmere sweater wearing self seems to negate my memory quite effectively. We were assigned as roommates sophomore year, the girl in the white pumps and the loud girl who wore plaid, which is how she remembers me, an image I cannot dispel. Her second impression, after a thorough scrutiny of my cassette tapes, was that I really liked Billy Joel. She was edgy, she had Flock of Seagulls hair and a taste for new music, crazy stuff like R.E.M. and INXS, I had a bob and John Denver. We were further apart than San Francisco and Chicago.

She spent her nights in the architecture studio, I spent mine at the Wheel. When my late night revelry caused her to oversleep and miss a final I thought we were done. A kind professor, a big heart and my slumbering through the last of Sociology 302 kept us together.

Where she is organized, I am madness. Eventually she learned to sign my name, being the responsible one when we moved from dorm to apartment, and bills had to be paid. As a person who liked to be at the airport two hours before her flight and forced to rely on someone who happily sauntered to the gate as the doors closed, she returned home with a wonderful gift to say thank you for living, only so briefly, on my schedule.

Years later she was at the gate to greet me, of course she was, she had been there for hours. I bet my flight was late. We ate at the garlic restaurant, Johnny Rockets and Hamburger Mary's; we got food poisoning somewhere on the wharf (and lived through it in her Marina neighborhood one bathroom studio apartment), and we rented a car and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge towards Napa Valley.

We stopped in St. Helena, the best small town I have ever seen, and ate sandwiches in the park from a wonderful market, next door to the most amazing kitchen store I could imagine. We were on our way to Calistoga, and the mud baths. Her friends recommended Dr. Wilkinson's Hot Springs, home to the man and the mud. My father was entertained by the entire idea, amused at the idea of the two of us paying money to be immersed in a pile of wet dirt.

Mud smells, and it's hot. It clogs your pores and makes it hard to breathe. With at least a fifty year cushion, we were the youngest people in the room. Every one of us was naked, although it seemed that we were the only ones exhibiting any sense of modesty at all, the rest of the mud sinkers, all seventy plus years of them, wandering from room to room, wearing little but scraps of dried old mud. Forcing yourself, naked, into a pile of warm mud takes youthful stupidity, old determination and strong arms.

My father delighted in this story, "Everyone else was old? And they didn't change the mud? You sat, naked, in used mud?". This had not occurred to me. "Why do you think the mud was so warm? What do you think the old gals did in that mud Allyson? How bad did it smell?". I hung up and called San Francisco, the shriek of horror could be heard across 2,000 miles.

Many years later, when Jack had to call her, on her birthday, to tell her that my father died, she cried, "not today, please not today". But she has shared this day, one of my very favorites, for bringing her into my world, and the worst possible I could imagine, for taking away someone I loved so much. It's become Bill Day, for celebrating and toasting my dad, but it will always be Egg's birthday, a reminder of the passing of time and the value of true friendships.

Twenty six years later we are still friends, best friends.

I wrote this to post on September 25th, but was, of course, late.
Happy birthday my friend!

Life's Illusions

2011-09-23T21:08:00.000-05:00

Aspen, September 2005

Lighting Up The Night

2011-09-20T14:31:00.004-05:00

In the city, the lights often hide the stars, leaving us with a smooth gray night sky to ponder. The first time I visited Jack's family, in Nebraska, I was agog at the amazing light display after sunset and immediately sprawled myself in his grandmother's yard, content to spend the rest of my evening entertained by the light show. Having never lost their starry view to city lights, they had no idea what I was doing and quite certainly spoke in hushed voices about the odd new girl who refused to move from her spot in the yard.

Some things never change. For everything that I love about living in the city, I still feel robbed when I see the stars that blanket the sky in Michigan. Without agenda, I could easily lay quietly in the yard with the girls for hours, awed by the depth and brilliance of the lights available on the other side of the water.

Mary and Kate are keeping a night sky log for school. Every evening at 7:30 we tromp out to the back deck, pajamas on, and look up, hoping to find something of interest to note in their journals. In two nights we have yet to see the moon; Mary thought she saw a star but it was only a very slow moving plane. Our night sky is glowing not from stars but from these lights,

which shine for the last time tonight. The end of summer, the end of yet another sad and dismal baseball season in Chicago.

Tomorrow, perhaps, we will see the moon.

Night Moves

2011-09-19T10:16:00.001-05:00

Occasionally running late, missing the train and being forced to drive downtown to a meeting has advantages, not fully realized until the warm night follows you home, windows open, along Lake Shore Drive.

In a city where there are very few places to drive as fast and for as long as you want, like those available to a suburban Kansas City teenager, finding yourself alone in a car on a warm night with an open stretch of road is quite a treat. And given that I rarely drive, much less by myself and at night, having this fun sneak up on me was invigorating, especially given my basic disdain for driving in general.

But there I was, top down on my white bug, racing home along Mission Road, Kathy in the seat next to me, "Don't Stop Believing" blasting from my old AM/FM dashboard radio. With parents who looked the other way with regard to curfews, we were often the last ones home, watching all our friends scurry like late night bugs to arrive before the designated bewitching hour. "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights" took me to the top of Metcalf, looking at the queen in the lights from Brad's Jeep, the open car allowing too much wind to hear or think as we raced down into the suburban sprawl of lights before us. No finer choice for spying on boys from other schools than "Every Breath You Take", from the cassette deck in Becca's mother's car, at a time when neither one of us actually knew how to drive.

For the very short drive home, my car was full, not with children and husbands and responsibilities, but with Deb, Laura, Peter, Kathy, and Susie, bad eighties music and wonderful memories. That kind of fun simply cannot be found on a bus.

Goodnight Mogul.

Life's Illusions

2011-09-16T21:23:00.001-05:00

World War II Memorial

Past Due Notices

2011-09-15T23:15:00.001-05:00

We went to Costco last weekend which, in itself, is not necessarily noteworthy. We took Jack along which insures that it will be a practical trip with few frivolities finding their way to our large cart; no books to add to the collection, nary a cd or movie and not one box of 36 lemon flavored madelines. We stocked up on beginning of the school year lunchbox supplies: yogurt, grapes, blueberries, pasta, cheese and falafel (it’s a new year). We came home.

When we remodeled our kitchen a few years ago we built, into a corner of formerly unused space, a pantry. It’s a wonderful addition to a somewhat small kitchen and we welcome the storage space. But a pantry built into a corner has a deep dark secret, a corner. In fact it has six corners, one on every shelf. If you make a habit of not reaching into the depths of the space you can successfully avoid those corners for years, until your husband decides to help put away the groceries from Costco.

He opened the pantry door. “Where do you keep broth?”, the very first question, like a missile aimed straight at my unorganized heart. Broth is often found as close to the back as possible, “anywhere is fine, thank you!”. Jack is not an “anywhere is fine” kind of guy, his pantry would have a spreadsheet on the inside door with grid locations for every possible item contained. My pantry does not.

He reached in. Out came a box of smoked salmon. “Where did we…Allyson, this came in a gift basket from one of my clients, before the girls were born”. He’s right, it did. He went back for more, “matzo ball mix? Have you ever made matzo ball soup?”. In fact I have not, but five years ago, when I bought the box of easy to make soup mix, I thought I might. “This is fruity tea, blueberry fruity tea, why do we have this?” I drink an enormous amount of tea, all of it black, none of it fruit, “it was a gift”.

The gauntlet was now thrown down, the challenge was on. Get a garbage bag and bless yourself, Jack was going to clean out the pantry. Four bags of butterscotch chips, all with rolling expiration dates, because each September, when I think that maybe this year I might be that kind of mom, I buy a new bag, for when I make Oatmeal Scotchies. We found oatmeal, because we actually eat that, but no sugar. There were peanut butter chips, two years past the best by date. Frosting, cookie decorations, assorted half full bottles of food coloring and cream of tartar, all ready to go for the holiday cookies that rarely get made.

A partial list of the food, with expiration dates, that Pantry Cleaner Jack deemed unfit for human consumption:

Vegetable glace, (2/10), now a hard chunk
Pork bouillon (I don't eat pork) given to me by his mother when we married (3/01)
Cornstarch, no known date or purpose
Cornmeal, (4/11), unopened
Tiny jars, many tiny jars, of jam
Three boxes of chicken broth, (1/11)
Asian salad dressing (3/11)
Marshmallows, and
Hershey Bars, because I bring home leftover s'more stuff every summer from Michigan, and the next summer I forget and buy new.

Everything with a soon to expire date was moved to the front and thus, our meal planning for this week was complete: cous cous with toasted pine nuts, lime cilantro rice, wild rice, Irish oatmeal cakes, rosemary flecked sea salt, Kansas City barbeque sauce, dried cranberries, smoked salmon and for dessert, butterscotch chips with a tablespoon or so of hard brown sugar.

We've never been more popular. Friends called, they were going to an Oktoberfest, did we want to come? Our next door neighbors asked us to join them at the beach for dinner. Are you kidding? There was a pantry half naked, vulnerable, doors open, it's contents covering every surface of our once neat kitchen; we couldn't leave, not when there was this much fun to be had at home. And certainly not when there was this much delicious food to be eaten. Next up, Pantry Jack learns to cook.

Tell Me Lies

2011-09-12T18:53:00.001-05:00

Several months ago a woman I know lied to me. She did not omit nor dance around the truth, she lied. She looked me in the eye and told me a lie. It was more than "yes I used soap when I washed my hands" and less than "the Iraq regime continues to possess and conceal some of the most lethal weapons ever devised." It caused no permanent damage, it did me no harm, but it bothers me still.

The lie involved our children, it was a fabrication, the creation, in her mind, of something that did not happen, and the retelling of that fiction. It wasn't the substance that bothered me in that I knew immediately that it was untrue, but that she felt the need to tell this story. She reached across the table, patted my arm and condescendingly reinforced the known lie. I said nothing.

Jack wanted to appear at her door and announce that he knew she told a lie. I convinced him this was not necessary as I was certain that she was well aware she had just lied, the issue was that she didn't seem to care. That I find to be concerning. In all honesty, I'm not always honest. Occasionally Jack will call to find out just how late we are and I will say that we are almost to the train when we have really more than one block left to walk, and then I urge the girls to walk even faster, to make time to cover my misleading location fib. When I am tired or frustrated or angry I will answer "fine" in response to "how are you?". I do not tell people that the food they have put in front of me is horrible, or bland, or overcooked, and in that omission, I am not telling the truth. But with these untruths now revealed, I can confidently say that I strive every single day to lead a very honest life, and so I am shocked to find that blatant lying, as an adult, can come this easily. Akin to littering, didn't we all learn long ago that garbage goes best in a garbage can and not tossed into the park? Didn't we all learn that honesty was the best policy?

Last year a parent at school suggested to me, in front of their child, that we, as a school, lie to the school board regarding class instruction time specifics. I'm certain my jaw actually dropped just a bit in response. You are suggesting we mislead the authority which governs the school, and you are suggesting this idea in earshot of your impressionable eight year old child?

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it; I'm a terrible liar. My parents knew it, as does my husband. I become quite befuddled; I stammer, giggle, cry, vomit, spin in a circle and bray like a donkey when attempting to mislead anyone. Not true of liar woman, she handled it with ease, smoothly rolling out her story with nary an animal sound nor a single tear. Maybe that's why it sticks with me, and maybe that's why I now feel like I have to question everything she says.

And that's the truth.

A Pear Tree

2011-09-11T19:25:00.003-05:00

In the center of the plaza stands a single Callery-pear tree. A burned stump after the attack, it was nursed back to health at the Arthur Ross Nursery, in the Bronx. Brought to its present spot, it flourishes. Where there's life, there's hope.

The New Yorker, September 5, 2011

Life's Illusions

2011-09-09T09:44:00.000-05:00

Stones of Hope, 2011

Two in Two

2011-09-07T12:27:00.013-05:00

Tuesday my kindergartners started second grade. This came as quite a shock to me. As usual I was the blubbering parent on the playground, long after the last child made the first day of school march into the building. Jack is patient, he guides me away from the school as someone yells, "not again! Don't you work here?", as I sniffle and shuffle away.

The truth is that I love school. I love paper and pencils and backpacks and books. I love the smells and the people and even sometimes the learning. School has become, in our two years there, our community and I am happy to be back with the teachers and staff who are now my co-workers and who color the bulk of my weekday life. I am happy to be back in the library, back with the students, back in the meetings and back at the neighborhood Starbucks, running into my favorite parents. This morning's coffee conversation topics included circumcision, Orthodox Jews, lollipops and Christian Science; not the stuff of my regular summer repertoire.

It surprises me, the need for a calendar again is compelling, when one week ago I would have said I could live the rest of my life on a lazy summer schedule. I enjoy pulling out a sweater each morning and I'm considering stashing my favorite canvas bag en lieu of a big leather tote.

This year the bandage was ripped off; the last few weeks of summer were spent roaming around the east coast, putting a halt to my regularly scheduled mantra of savoring each and every dwindling moment of summer. We came home, they went to school, it was that easy.

Children bring me back to the idea that summer is the very best time to do as much of nothing as possible. They leave seashells and sand in my bag and wet bathing suits on the floor. They are frequently sticky, coated with a thin layer of ice cream drips, and often dirty. They spend three months smelling of Coppertone and bug spray. A wedge of watermelon after dinner ranks amongst the world's greatest treasures and capturing a firefly before bed is the ultimate cap to a perfect lazy day.

The end of summer signals not just the end of bug bites and corn on the cob but also a marked notch in the forever enabled passage of time that leads, eventually, to growing up. As it turns out, growing up has not been all bad, especially when children remind me just how great it is to be a kid.

We'll miss you summer, see you next year.

Life's Illusions

2011-09-02T12:22:00.000-05:00

Philadelphia,
September 1, 2011

Of Smiles and Tears, and Wipes

2011-09-02T09:32:00.001-05:00

As we once again reach the end of summer and the beginning of a new school year, I'm reliving my take on the start of kindergarten. Originally published on September 9, 2009, when the our lives as school people began.

Amongst the K-3 crowd, the kindergarten parents were easy to spot. Seasoned parents talked to one another on the playground, a reunion for those who had been away for the summer, happy to be back amongst friends and free days. Kindergarten parents huddled. We had cameras, and video cameras, long faces, happy faces and nervous children.

"Josh! Josh! Over here son, look at Daddy, Josh!", yelled Josh's father, running around in his three piece suit, chasing a son who had not strayed from his mother's hand. Not surprisingly, Josh lined up with Mary and Kate for the march into kindergarten, led by their new teacher, Miss Park. There was no goodbye, we assumed we would march in with them, the school did not, and so it was, off they went and there we stood, on the empty playground with the other dazed parents. Jack stayed strong, I immediately crumbled, but out of the view of my newly cast kindergartners. One kind woman stopped, hugged me, and promised they would take very good care of my girls.

We spent the next two hours at a coffee shop where I read not only the Tribune but also the Times. Over two pots of black tea I spontaneously cried at every inopportune moment, but always when the kind waitress appeared; we can only imagine what tragedy she assumed was at the root of my blubbering. Or perhaps, like the nice woman at the book store who wrapped my two "Happy First Day!" surprises, she knew that it was the first day of school and the puffy eyes and red face were the telltale signs of an unstable mother not yet ready to let go.

Thirty minutes before the final bell, I was ready to be back on the playground. Jack insisted on playing this cool. At five minutes he was casually doing a drive by, looking for a parking space where he wouldn't get a ticket. Seriously, we are worried about a ticket? Our children are set to be released from the confines of their first day at grammar school and you are concerned about a parking ticket? When the bell rang we were there, outside the door. The morning bell set off the tears, the afternoon bell made me giddy. And the door opened, Miss Park was one of the first teachers out, and right behind her, two little girls who were excited and exhausted and thrilled to have spent a very wonderful first day in kindergarten.

Kate made a new friend, as did Mary, although Mary had no idea what her new friend's name was. The girls sat together, they sat apart, they read books, sang songs, and found the bathroom without incident. The only problem came at lunch. Packed into their lunch box was a hand wipe, to be used before eating. Kate could not find her wipe, and she would not eat until she did. With only 20 minutes for lunch, the bulk of her time was spent wipe hunting, finally resorting to using Mary's discarded grapefruit scented towelette. She had only made it through half a banana and a small wheel of cheese when the bell rang, leaving edamame, blueberries and a hard cooked egg untouched. This did not sit well; Miss Park told me the scream was so loud and piercing that she thought certainly Kate's small hand had been smashed in between two tables.

This morning the wipe was placed directly on top of the lunch box, in the middle, impossible to miss. The camera was left behind, and Jack went back to work. Mary and Kate love kindergarten, and so do I. Today.

Life's Illusions

2011-08-26T23:32:00.001-05:00

Summer, 2011

Painfully Accurate Forecasting

2011-08-23T21:34:00.009-05:00

The day before we left for Michigan Kate hugged me tightly and then threw up all over my feet. Apparently she was not feeling well, and she then passed that feeling on to her sister. Our favorite summer holiday started on a bit of a "sour" note.

We leave soon for a short end of summer getaway and guess who is sprawled in bed, head in a bowl, body full of fever? It's Mary's turn to kick off this vacation but if history has taught us anything she won't be alone for long.

Jack calls me paranoid and while I'd really like to agree, it's hard to call my fears baseless and excessive; our children get sick at almost every inopportune moment presented.

Kate spent two weeks this summer at what Jack and I called smart camp: a three hour per day gathering of six and seven year old children wearing glasses. I hesitated, the sessions she wanted ran in the weeks immediately before we left for Michigan. Eeek, exposure to that many children right before vacation, never a good idea, but I turned off the crazy voice in my head and enrolled her. See above.

This past week we have had three events well stocked with germy children: two birthday parties and on Sunday, 30 people, including children, at our home for an end of summer soiree. The timing concerned me, so close to vacation, but our calendars were full and surely this madness would not strike twice in one short summer. See above.

There is a certain empty validation in finding that I am not paranoid but rather, scarily accurate in my illness forecasting. Most regrettably we are raising social girls who truly delight in the presence of other children. They actually look forward to school and the sharing of their days with so many small germ carriers. It's torture, allowing them this childhood access to friends, but option B, sending them to school in togas fashioned from Lysol Germ Killing Wipes seems extreme, but not completely unthinkable.

Life's Illusions

2011-08-19T17:02:00.000-05:00

Four at Six, 2011

Our Health Care Crisis

2011-08-19T00:09:00.012-05:00

Dick Durbin is down two arms, and he's been this way for quite some time. We've done our best, with tape and glue and a bandage fashioned from pink striped grosgrain. Great effort for short term results which always leave him loved and armless.

The time had come to seek professional help. Mary and Kate tottered in, Kate clutching Dick Durbin, knowing that soon they would have to part ways. She had prepared him well for his hospital visit, but clearly had not spent adequate time preparing herself.

The doll ladies were very nice, and very old.

"Oh, look at your dolly, what a wonderful little baby dolly you have there!"
Kate held on tighter, not wanting to relinquish control to this kind yet seemingly confused woman.

"What is your dolly's name? She is certainly a cutie!" Dick was wearing khaki pants and a Cubs jersey, nothing about his look said dolly or girl or cute.

Mary spoke up, "his name is Dick Durbin, he is my sister's doll". Thankfully Mary did not elaborate with her own doll's name.

The wrinkled fingers of the doll doctor pried the armless Senator from Kate's tight grip, "that's an interesting name. Does she go by Dickie?". It was clear that there was no way was Kate going to trust this woman with her precious doll.

The doll lady examined the patient, "oh my, she doesn't have any arms, or fingers! Where on earth are her fingers?".

"I chewed them all off, but I was much younger. I am now almost seven", said Kate with great authority.

It was as if this woman, who was at least 80 years old, had never before been faced with an armless and fingerless Senator Cubs fan doll in need of urgent care.

The octagenarian continued her exam and suggested we step out to wait for the diagnosis. After what seemed like hours an associate emerged from the exam room to deliver the news. They could repair the damage, they believed, but it was going to require major surgery. Apparently so, necessitating specialists from all over the doll world; the estimate provided for pre-authorization was twice what was initially paid for Baby Dick Durbin. And given that he does not have universal health care, we opted to forgo the surgery for now, to bring him home and provide the best care that we can here. Kate was elated, there would be no forced parting with her beloved Senator, but now the responsibility for medical repair falls to me yet again.

Super glue and grosgrain, I'm no surgical specialist but I can reattach an arm in an emergency. Which is just what this is; Kate and her senator are soon off to D.C. to meet the fully-limbed Senator Durbin. Best that our Dick Durbin have arms, to shake the hand of the real Senator. Arms, but probably not fingers, I'm not a miracle worker.

Life's Illusions

2011-08-12T17:00:00.005-05:00

Golf, Summer 2009

Beach Necessities

2011-08-09T23:37:00.000-05:00

We needed a vacation. Jack was having one, hours away on his annual four day weekend golf bender, and the girls and I were left at home with all the responsibilities of summer. We were ready for a day at the beach but this time we chose a one hour drive over a 15 minute walk. There was no planning, and very little actual thought beyond wanting to see the view from the other side of the water.

Bag packed, dog walked, children in the car, and one hour later we were as far away from the city as you need to be if you only need one day of vacation. We remembered bathing suits, towels and sunblock; we forgot pails and shovels and the big blue umbrella.

"Girls! We forgot your sand buckets!"
"That's all right Mom, we have these cups from Starbucks, they'll work".

Really?

They did. We had a nice sandy picnic, we played in the water, and for several glorious hours, we built a sand village with nothing more than the plastic cups we had accumulated throughout the day. For the first time in months, the girls collaborated, rather than argued, and worked well together to create a neighborhood of small sand huts, with no worries as to whose turn it was or whose bucket was last used for water, the usual banter of the beach architecture.

As one who has gone to great lengths to limit the amount of toys we own, who firmly believes that the best tool for play is a vivid imagination (and a sister), the Starbucks cup sand suburb was reassuring. My children might understand. While they will always want, they don't always need; adorned with shells and rocks and feathers, it was simply beautiful. A fine reminder to their mother who usually brings scoops and shovels and castle shaped buckets to the beach, all we really need is six hands, a few plastic cups and
time.

For one day, we had all the time we could need.

Life's Illusions

2011-08-05T12:05:00.000-05:00

Summer, Seventies

Eleanor and Lucy

2011-08-04T01:31:00.009-05:00

The girls and I met a beagle named Lucy at the coffee shop last week. Eleanor Roosevelt the beagle offered Lucy the obligatory sniff and then sat back, quite uninterested. Lucy, a few years Eleanor's junior, tried again to engage the old gal again but with no luck.

To the kind woman walking Lucy, a few years my senior, I said "well it's really no surprise, given their history. I don't suppose we should expect them to be friends!" and laughed out loud at my own hilarity. The kind woman looked at me as if I were crazy and hastily made her exit.

Jack explained, "of course she didn't understand that. Had I not married you I would not get that joke at all. In fact I think the only other person we know who might find that funny is Jay". Recently we discovered that Jay, like me, has a favorite patriot. That alone convinced Jack that he can now outsource my need to blather on about presidential history. I've yet to run this witticism by Jay. Beagles, presidents, and romance, that is clearly can't miss humour.

I stand with you Eleanor; it certainly wasn't easy to just sit there while Lucy flaunted her younger more girlish self, her energy almost overpowering the patio, blatantly throwing her youth in your now graying long nose. That said, she seemed nice and really, not at all the kind to have a sordid affair. You just never know about people, or dogs, or just how big a geek I can be.

Lucy Mercer Rutherford

Eleanor Roosevelt

When Did You Learn How to Read?

2011-08-02T22:17:00.002-05:00

It's the first section I read, blasting past all the real news, all of which can wait until I have read every bit of the Sunday Style section of the Times. There's Modern Love, and Social Q's, and my very favorite, Weddings and Celebrations. It's a very legitimate way to snoop into the lives of people I don't know at all, comparing accomplishments of the bride and groom, and backgrounds of the families. I study the pictures, trying to decide why the 38 year old partner in the Manhattan law firm is choosing to take her husband's name, or why two people who live and work in D.C. got married in St. Louis, where neither of their parents live, or how the woman with two Princeton professor parents married someone without a college degree.

The Times is the perfect place to list everything that has been accomplished in a relatively short time: doctoral candidacies, degrees from Oxford, charitable board seats .....and yet, not one wedding announcement that I have seen lists the exact age at which the bride and groom finally learned to read. It's amazing, this very important milestone and it isn't so much as mentioned. It's probably best, imagine Aunt June where she to discover that William's fiance didn't put together sounds and letters until she was almost seven; everyone knows that a relationship built between a five year old reader and a seven year old reader will never last. This tidbit could keep Aunt June at home on the wedding day and force her to return the place setting of china purchased for the once happy couple, knowing that the relationship was certain to fail. And heaven forbid that the 36 year old senior analyst who graduated with honors from Columbia be outed as one who struggled and didn't finish his first chapter book until third grade. Not only would his marriage be doomed, unless of course he was engaged to marry another slacker, but his professional career would surely be over. What kind of super analyst must you be to overcome that kind of dirty laundry?

This is vital information that is being withheld. Imagine how this could change the current drawn out Presidential election process: two candidates, one learned to read a full year before the other, election decided. We could have avoided this entire debt ceiling debacle by knowing that Obama was placed in an accelerated reading group in first grade while Boehner was left to learn with the average students. Obama plan wins.

This could mean the end of the ever intimidating job interview. Thank you for submitting your resume for our review but at this time we have chosen to go with a candidate who learned to read six months earlier than you did. We wish you luck in your job search however we know that you will never find anything in our industry as it clearly states on your resume that you never fully understood the letter of the day on Sesame Street and thus, remained in the standard reading classroom your entire academic career.

Everyone knows that the age at which you learn to read is the most accurate predictor of future success; just ask the moms on the playground. Why the New York Times hasn't picked up on this I will never understand. All the news that's fit to print? I beg to differ.

Life's Illusions

2011-07-29T21:15:00.004-05:00

Michigan, 2011

The Little Boy and The Old Man

2011-07-28T11:48:00.000-05:00

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

Shel Silverstein

Two Hours From Home

2011-07-25T01:02:00.007-05:00

From the front porch of our apartment, planes that have been routed over the water fly just north of us, on approach to O’Hare. On clear days I can make out the markings on the tail, American and United the most common, but it’s Alitalia, Aer Lingus and Lufthansa that always take me away. To the girls I will say “where do you think that plane has been?” but it’s really a game for me. It’s easy to see myself inside the plane, so eager to be on the ground after seven hours in the air. When asked to prepare for landing I reach under the seat to push my almost finished book back into my once organized bag. Now full of airport magazines, shortbread and a tea cup I’m worried might break, it’s a disheveled mess. I’m ready to be home but full of adventure, and soon will be ready to go again.

When my friends played Barbie, I played flight attendant. On a flight to Florida I found, in my young flyer activity pack, a shiny gold pair of Delta wings. It was as if I had been handed a magic superhero cape, assigned as an apprentice to the brave cabin crew. Certain that I had been singled out from all other able bodied eight year old passengers , and would be called upon to help should an emergency arise, I dutifully studied the evacuation procedures in my seat pocket, and wore my wings on every flight thereafter, until the back fell away and the gold shine fell flat. From then on flying outfits were carefully considered, so as to be flight crew appropriate; always a skirt, best to have a short jacket, for showcasing the wings, and if possible, a coordinating beret. The Pucci designed Braniff uniforms directed my young fashion sense; at ten I ached for turquoise pumps.

My grandparents took me to Europe when I was twelve, first to Vienna followed by a cruise down the Danube, through Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Russia and finally Turkey. From the roof of our hotel, Istanbul at night was, and remains now, one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. My grandmother took me on an Istanbul city bus, my father on the Mexico City subway, all so very far away from my suburban childhood, and all preparing me for the requisite six week post college Eurail-facilitated sojourn, with not one sense of where I was going. Occasionally lost, and eventually found, I discovered that German food was not my favorite, beaches in Italy are beautiful, and England really did feel like home.

Our first trip together, for many couples a quick weekend excursion, was a hastily planned, and then executed, trip to Italy. Decided upon after finding flights to Rome less expensive than to Denver, our intended destination, my future husband and I took off without one reservation. There was no itinerary, nothing beyond landing in Rome, and leaving from the same spot 12 days later. He was new to this kind of travel, having never before left the states; an emergency passport, one worn copy of Rick Steve’s guide to Italy, and we were as prepared as we wanted to be. Traveling is an interesting way to get to know someone, traveling sans itinerary in a country where your combined knowledge of the language amounts to buon natale, pesto and Prosecco, is an entirely different definition of getting to know you. In ten days we knew, not how the other squeezed the toothpaste, but more importantly, that traveling was something we could do together forever.

We got married. We amassed frequent flyer miles and spent long romantic dinners planning our next adventure. We went to England, Ireland and Mexico. He got a taste for adventure, I got pregnant. Nine months later there were two babies; we sent American Airlines a birth announcement and waited for their Advantage numbers to arrive in the mail.

Their first flight was at three weeks. Bundled and carried, they slept the entire time. After that, flying was easy. Dallas, Boston, Phoenix, Ireland, Philadelphia, Denver, Puerto Vallarta, for two years, two glorious years, we flew wherever we wanted, with little effort and little discomfort. And then it happened, vomit. Once, twice, three times, every time; one of our frequent flyers had developed a horrid aversion to air travel.

Three years ago we went on hiatus, our flying days over until someone either outgrew this affliction or grew old enough to be heavily medicated for the entire flight. We began searching for getaway options within two hours, by car, from Chicago. For a brief time I explored the idea of moving the entire family to Boston, or London; so much more to see, I believed, in our two hour road window. My husband, with an office in downtown Chicago, protested. Nearby vacation choices were limited; we considered Wisconsin, dismissed Indiana and settled on Michigan.

From the front porch of our small town Michigan beach rental I see kites flying overhead, the nearest airport being over one hour away. My urban children, at home restricted to supervised play at the neighborhood park, are free to run from one end of the yard, around the cottage and back, shrieking wildly as they chase each other through the sprinkler. They kick balls, play hopscotch and lay in the grass creating animals and shapes from the infrequent clouds that float lazily by. We eat fresh blueberry ice cream (not a scoop of gelato to be found in the three block downtown area), grill hamburgers and savor the corn bought on Wednesday morning from the small farmer’s market. We trade in the city bus that takes us about our neighborhood for two wheels, bicycles being the only form of transportation required. Fireflies, s’mores and sand pails define our holiday; passports and guidebooks are left at home.

I never thought I would think that a small town by the beach, only two hours from Chicago, was the perfect vacation destination, but now I do.

Life's Illusions

2011-07-22T10:40:00.000-05:00

Michigan, July 2010

Life's Illusions

2011-07-15T08:10:00.001-05:00

Michigan, July 2007

Skipping But Not Screaming

2011-07-11T11:06:00.002-05:00

From two aisles away Mary spotted something she liked. She reached in and found the shiniest most turquoise thing on the rack. There were sparkly things all over the front, a tutu around the middle and enormous poofs where sleeves might have been. She held it up for me to see, "Mom!".

"We don't wear clothes that scream dear".

"Who is WE?"

It happened so fast; in that instant I became my grandmother, completely skipping a generation. We did not buy the sparkly turquoise screaming tutu poof, no WE did not.

Life's Illusions

2011-07-08T23:52:00.001-05:00

Independence Day, 2011

Motherhood Changed Me

2011-07-07T22:36:00.006-05:00

For the first two months we both got up, three to four times per night. It was usually Kate who woke me up, and then I would wake both Jack and Mary as it was snack time. We took turns with each one, alternating bottles and nursing (Jack generally handling the bottle shift) and with rare exception, Mary would finish first, or fall asleep, and Jack would take her and happily climb back into bed. That left me with Kate, and in my struggle to stay awake, reruns of the Nantucket based comedy, Wings.

One night, after Jack and Mary had left me alone in the dark with Kate and the Hackett brothers, I dozed and woke to find not Joe and Brian and Sandpiper Air but Susan Smith, the mother convicted of rolling her car with her two young sons strapped into their car seats into a lake, on my television. Where only one year before the story of Susan Smith horrified me, now, in the dark with my tiny child nestled in my arm, I was nauseated. Motherhood changed me, the idea of being responsible for the death of my children was more than my exhausted self could take and I immediately turned off the television and headed back to bed, keeping Kate close to me for the rest of the night.

My curious self had watched much of the original programming when the Susan Smith story first made news. By all accounts hers was a truly horrible childhood, full of the kind of things that create really destructive adults. She lied, she deceived her community, she placed blame on an anonymous black man and in the end, she killed her children. And eight years ago I could watch it all on television, with a odd curiosity as to how could this really happen.

Not anymore. Motherhood changed me, it's more than I can even consider, and it's unconscionable.

Life's Illusions

2011-07-01T00:10:00.002-05:00

Festa Pasta Vino, 2011

Defining Pride

2011-06-28T20:42:00.001-05:00

In our home Pride is about being who you are, which is how the annual neighborhood festival is presented to Mary and Kate. They go to the parade every year but where once there was awe at the loud music and bright colors, there are now questions and curiosities that are sometimes impossible to explain. My need to not label anything proves challenging when faced with terminology so common to pride celebrations: gay, straight, breeder. What we stress is the need to celebrate who you are; thankfully we are not all the same but we are all proud of what makes us unique.

And so, rather than watch from the crowded sidelines, we walked through the streets of Lakeview, with friends and their five year old daughter. Most of us walked, some of us rode, in a stroller decorated for the occasion by Mary and Kate. They began working last week, retiring to the playroom with markers, crayons, paper and poster board. An hour later there were signs, "Be Yourself", with letters in various shapes and colors, and two large rainbows. "Why rainbows?" I asked, and Mary answered, "because we are all different colors, just like rainbows".

While I shelter my children from pop culture, from Hannah Montana and ICarly and things that I find to be too mature for their six year old selves, I have no problem walking them the four mile parade route of the annual Pride festival. Exposing them to different cultures and lifestyles, to young and old, gay and straight, will hopefully give them a basis for understanding who they are far greater than the teenage cable channels. Teaching them about being yourself and celebrating who you are is more important than allowing them to follow tween culture that encourages uniformity and conformity to one set of ideals.

At six, pride is not about sexuality but individuality. The terms gay and straight are not part of their repertoire because they don't need to be; at six they don't have to navigate the real world where who you are is so frequently defined by who you love. And at six, they don't know who they might be, nor do I, and it is important that they understand now that we will always love and respect them, in whatever way they define themselves in years to come.

Peace, it's the summer of love in our neighborhood. Kick off your shoes, relax, but please look the other way when the inflatable, excitable, and anatomically correct man appears along the parade route. At six, we're not ready for that.

Life's Illusions

2011-06-24T23:44:00.003-05:00

New York State of Mind

Let's Go New York!

2011-06-21T13:44:00.004-05:00

New York is on the brink of legalizing marriage between two men, or two women. Why must this be news? Why must we all care so much? Recently Illinois said that if you really wanted, and if it really mattered, you could come to our state and get committed, but not really married, not now, maybe someday. Good for Illinois, just a little bit good, but come on New York, show us up, show us how to really do this right. I'm committed to many things: safe schools, a diverse community, healthy food, happy children, but I'm only married to one, thing. Let's go New York!

I'm posting, again, something I wrote in November of 2008, when California decided to change their ways and un-marry all those same sex wild things who had foolishly jumped in to this marriage madness. My belief remains the same, why do we care?

One Step Back, posted originally on November 14, 2008

There are days, oh the days, when the husband drives me crazy, simply bonkers. He does not wash dishes, he'll load the dishwasher but he will not hand wash one thing. He leaves the television on when he leaves the room, and he does not love, he barely tolerates, Eleanor Roosevelt. But I know he's here to stay, we're married, like it or not and thankfully we do love each other. And we're a family, the four of us (plus Eleanor) and I am quite certain that tomorrow we will be a family and the next day and the next.

Oh to be a gay man or woman in California, to not have to live with this burden, this sense of security, this insane knowledge that my marriage is legal, condoned and accepted. What it would be like to know that tomorrow I may wake up to find that I'm no longer married, that this commitment I made is simply no longer valid? That this person living in my house with me is no longer my spouse but now my roommate? I've had several roommates in my lifetime, loved them all, but did not want to marry one of them.

And here we are, celebrating an election that puts us all one step ahead while voters in California (and three other states) said no, maybe not all of us, let's leave these people one step back. And why? Why is this important to so many people? It's important to me, it makes a difference in the lives of people I love, it affects how my children will see the world, but why does it matter to you?

This morning I overheard Mary and Kate playing, they were exchanging rings and announcing "now we are married". Moving past the sister issue, I love knowing that my children think it's just fine for a woman to marry a woman or a man to marry a man. I want to be able to introduce them to my friend Peter and his husband Brian, not his friend Brian. I'd like everyone to have this opportunity, to be attached to this other person on days when you think it's the greatest thing going and on days when you want to hang the other off the back porch. Why should this emotional tether be only the sport of heterosexual couples?

Years ago I was a guest at a commitment ceremony, two men, in Kansas City. Telling my dad, my Texas Aggie Republican Dad, about my day I got "why should I care if they get married?". Really Dad? I expected so much more. And that's it, why should it matter? If someone else wants their shot at happiness, why not?

Saying Goodbye to Very Young Children

2011-06-17T21:08:00.002-05:00

They will not be the same next time. The sayings
so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.
Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in
the more securely to the worldly buzz
of television, alphabet, and street talk,
culture polluting their gazes' pure blue.
It makes you see at last the value of
those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells
of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces
like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)
who knew you from the start, when you were zero,
cooing their nothings before you could be bored
or knew a name, not even your own, or how
this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.

John Updike

Life's Illusions

2011-06-17T16:38:00.002-05:00

Last Day, First Grade

Making Copies, Keeping Friends

2011-06-16T22:23:00.005-05:00

Five copies, all stashed in a box at the back of my closet, waiting to be mailed. They've moved at least six times; that I have found them, yet again, is a true wonder. I made the copies around 15 years, ago, in the supply room at UMB Bank on the Plaza, in Kansas City. Over lunch at my desk, likely steamed vegetable dumplings from Bo Lings, I read an article in Town and Country about five friends who took a hotel barge river cruise through France. Floating down the Burgundy Canal on the Fluer De Lys seemed idyllic, and completely possible; I was unmarried, without children, and working hard to be able to do things like float around in France. And so I made the copies, to send to my friends, thinking that maybe someday, possibly soon, we could take such a wonderful trip.

The articles never made it to the mail, the trip never happened. Our lives grew, jobs became careers; we became wives and mothers, architects and milliners, but not sailors. We live in three different states, the last time I was in the same room with all these women was when I got married. The idea of four days together, without agenda or distraction, is mesmerizing.

Certainly the Canal du Midi is lovely but I'd be content with a few days at the beach, or in a hotel room in Akron, Ohio. This might be the best birthday present in the world; check your mailbox ladies, it's not too late.

Life's Illusions

2011-06-10T11:21:00.001-05:00

First Day, First Grade

Life's Illusions

2011-06-03T23:37:00.000-05:00

June, 2009

Slow Down, You Move Too Fast

2011-06-02T08:21:00.001-05:00

"My face looks funny, it doesn't fit on my body". We were walking up Broadway, Mary and I behind Jack and Kate and she said this all too casually, as if we were college roommates craning over one another for a look in the tiny dorm room mirror. Had it just been this comment maybe I could have responded just as casually but this followed "I think I look fat in these pants" the day before. She is six. And telling her that the pants she had on were a size four would only reinforce the idea that numbers, and size, matter. So we stopped and I asked why, when what I really wanted to do was scream, and cry and yell at everyone in her class, and every parent of every child in her class, but instead I asked, "why?'. Which wasn't the right question, although I am certain that I have no idea what was. She didn't have an answer, a mumble, nothing specific and then just as quickly she was distracted and running off to catch her sister.

At least three times per week Mary comes home asking about Hannah Montana. She aches for a Barbie and thinks that princesses are the best things going. She's not alone. Better than half the little girls in the library want princess books, and many refuse anything else offered. The line into class each morning is scattered with ICarly and Hannah Montana bags worn on the back of the six and seven year old girls.

The thing that continues to amaze me is how frequently people say to me "they grow up so fast" and yet those same people buy Justin Beiber posters for their five year old daughters. When a first grade girl croons "he's so cute" I remember that I thought Charles, who lived down the street, was not at all cute. Rather, he was annoying and a bit stinky. I was six and most, if not all, boys appeared to me as Charles did.

My girls don't have painted toenails, we don't go for mani-pedis together, not yet. I cringe at introducing the idea that a woman needs to be painted or adorned to be valued, and struggle with their understanding of what that might mean. At six I'm not sure they can make sense of my red toenails and my need to relax and enjoy an hour of quiet occasionally. What I see in my children are two amazingly beautiful girls, today sticky and dirty and covered with summer, which makes them all the more lovely, and all the more six. I'm not ready to give that up, to sacrifice dirty summer toes for ten shiny pink ones.

At a time when they are building character and discovering who they are, I can't support them believing that who they are is limited to what they see. With so many wonderful choices, I struggle with options that offer a very one dimensional portrait of what they can become. And yes, I want to slow down, because they only have one shot at being six years, 9 months, and a few days; let's not waste that one wonderful day hurrying to the next.

Bed In Summer

2011-05-31T20:46:00.003-05:00

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

Robert Louis Stevenson

Life's Illusions

2011-05-27T17:19:00.000-05:00

May, 2011

Eatin' Good, Playin' Straight, Judging All

2011-05-26T22:02:00.006-05:00

Re: Your invited to an exclusive event.

Really? It was Jack's invitation, in his inbox last week, and it's clear, as if one could possess an invited. How exclusive was this event? Actually a fairly big deal, a reception in New York, and yet, the person selected to extend the invitation didn't bother to proof read. Or perhaps they did, which is even worse.

In first grade my children are learning to edit and correct mistakes. They are learning when to use there, or their, and they know that there is a difference. Apostrophes make sense, capitalization is necessary and your and you're are two different words.

Didn't we all learn that in first grade?

If Indiana Governor Mitch Daniels did, he must have forgotten. In his recent statement announcing that he will not run for president he cited family concerns,“In the end, I was able to resolve every competing consideration but one. The interests and wishes of my family, is the most important consideration of all. If I have disappointed you, I will always be sorry.”

You betcha I'm disappointed, but not with anything having to do with the Republican nominees. The failure to review a very public statement, the lack of attention to detail, or, even more horrifying, the inability to spot a grammatical error, all are far more disappointing than the content of anything you have to say. This guy considered a run for president? Imagine the press statements, please.

Jack recently searched online for a golf course in Indiana, for a client meeting. This one, as described on their website, was immediately scratched from the list of contenders:

"We are a 18 hole golf course par 70. It is a great course to look around at. There are woods and water that come into play all around the course. You might see a deer or fox, or a owl setting there looking at you. All I can say is hit it straight when you come to the course."

My personal favorite is this description of the 12th hole: "Straight Shot hit it good you still comming to 15".

Hit it good? I know the perfect spot for drinks after shooting straight on the 18th hole. Applebee's recently tried to sell us on their homey surroundings with "eatin' good in the neighborhood". I fired off an email to company management complaining about the furthering of dumb thought to the American public. They chose not to respond.

In a society where people find it all too taxing to add the apostrophe to the words don't and won't, I find it hilarious that it is now commonplace to add that tricky punctuation at the end of the word, when typing that last letter is just far too much: goin', doin', and yes, eatin'. Better yet are the words where the apostrophe is misplaced, remembering that an apostrophe is required when you abbreviate a word, but not knowing exactly where. My favorite, and one seen frequently: lil', as in our lil' one, assuming they are shortening little. The apostrophe replaces the missing letter, it is not just thrown in for appearance, as in don't, for do not.

On the counter at my favorite bookstore is a copy of "I Judge You When You Use Poor Grammar", an enticing small book that I have thus far resisted. It's true, I do judge, I make no apologies, and I ask that you judge me right back.

You're welcome.

The Big Red Barn

2011-05-18T21:51:00.007-05:00

"Moo!"
"Moo! Moo!"

It's a bit of a problem, I see a cow from my car window, I moo. And when I moo the girls moo also, or they used to. Over the past year the chorus of moo has shrunk to just one, although Eleanor occasionally utters some noise in response, a sleepy hound growl emitted from the very back of the car. Eleanor knows, cows are enchanting. Mary and Kate now barely look up from their Taro Gomi doodle books.

Given our home base deep in the mid-west, a geography that requires us to spend hours rolling through farmland en route to anywhere, we spend ample time listening to me moo, backed up only by my always faithful beagle. And then I see a barn, a wonderful old red barn set deep into the green countryside, surrounded by acres of corn, nestled amongst the swaying trees; I can smell the freshly cut hay from inside my air conditioned, and farm smell protected, car. "Girls look! A big red barn!", excited as though I didn't just scream the same thing two farms past. I quote from various parts of one of the very best children's books, Margaret Wise Brown's The Big Red Barn, "and there they were all safe and warm, sound asleep in the big red barn". It's a childhood moment they will certainly remember forever, these days spent in the comfort of their family, surrounded with love and moos and heartland.

Recently we drove through downstate Illinois, Missouri and Iowa. Cows aplenty, farms galore, I was in pure farmland heaven. Somewhere in Iowa, after countless unanswered moos and dismissed barn narrative, I tried once more, "oooh! Look at that beautiful old barn girls!".

"Wow mom, that is really pretty", answered Kate.
"Well thank you Kate", gushed her happy mother.
"Mary, I didn't even look" whispered Kate.

I thought I had a few more years.

Life's Illusions

2011-05-13T20:26:00.000-05:00

Uncles, May 2009

Willing, But Not Able, to Share

2011-05-11T09:36:00.011-05:00

When my sister was born, my father, who apparently desperately had hoped for a son, was not at all disappointed. According to my mother, who had just labored through the most traumatic and near death event of her entire life, he proudly held daughter number two and said "I will have wonderful sons-in-laws". And he does, but quite unfairly Jack only knew Dad for a very short time.

They should have had a chance to get into trouble together; there should have been mornings when I was so mad at the two of them that I considered leaving them alone with each other forever. They should have gone fishing in Belize in the winter and Canada in the summer, carelessly scheduling a trip that coincided with my birthday. They should have obnoxiously wagered Nebraska vs. Aggies football and they should have golfed, inconveniently, when I needed help with the children, but they didn't. Jack knew post car accident Dad, an aged and more fragile version of the Wild Bill that raised me. Dad's life changing car accident robbed him of the mad vitality and fearlessness that drove him to drive down the side of a mountain in a teetering on the edge car, to hurl raw eggs at neighbors in Mexico, and to launch himself through a hotel room wall in college (although I am not supposed to know about that one). Jack knew kindler and gentler Bill, who moved slowly and cautiously through his days. I'd take that version, any version really because I still miss my dad. And now, nine years later, what I really miss is sharing him.

He should have had the chance to know his granddaughters, to celebrate Kate's recent book writing achievement and Mary's consistent straight A report card. He should have cheered them at soccer games, played with them on the beach and told them stories about their mother that they should never had known (as his mother told me about the hotel room self body launch). He should have had the chance to hold them, to know them and to love them. And they should have had the chance to know and love him, but they didn't.

I should have had the time to share my dad.

Today is my Dad's birthday. Every year I think it will befuddle me a bit less, that I might be too busy to notice, but I'm wrong, it gets me still. The children who distract me and overwhelm me with love also remind me just how vast the empty space is, his missing presence grows larger as their capacity to have known him grows.

Critical Thought on Mother's Day

2011-05-08T16:19:00.011-05:00

My mother has always been harshly critical of other mothers. She focused her judgemental commentary on three women, all with the same name, but had no problem in lashing out at others when she found it appropriate. In retrospect I see that no one was really safe from her critical eye, the mothers of most of my childhood friends having been targeted at one point.

For reasons never completely understood it was my aunt who faced the worst of her blows. The mother of five children, she was constantly blasted by my mother for the choices she made. Clothing, schools, church and travel were all easy targets; the dynamics of family order a favorite topic for my mother who was convinced that there was no possible way to manage five children. That all five children are grown, amazing people with full lives of their own is the best response. My aunt, also the mother of twins, has supported me mightily for the past 7 years. She cheers me on, tells me I am doing a good job, and hugs me when I am tired. She was there on the day the girls were born; she held my hand, changed a diaper and confirmed what I had hoped to be true: my grandmother would have been very proud of me, and my family. Her love and support, not to mention proven track record, makes my days a little brighter.

Mothering is hard. My two children challenge me, enrage me, thrill me, love me and bring me more happiness than I could have ever expected. The choices I make are difficult; I don't always do what's best but I try to do what is best for us. I'm not immune to criticism; I fault other parents for putting their children in danger, for allowing them to run willy nilly through Trader Joe's and for sending them back to school before they have had time to fully recover from whatever kept them home. It is difficult for me to understand why some people fail to take responsibility for their own children, or why they don't see themselves as role models to children who watch everything they do. When it's my job to set the standard and take actions that support our children as part of a greater world, why isn't that the job of every parent? It's easy to criticize and hard to do the job that maintains the standards in which I believe. But I try, I try not to be critical of others, and I hope that most people are doing the best job they can.

Certainly there are mothers who, simply put, are just not good at this. Mothers who harm their children, or put their needs categorically in front of those of their child; mothers who abandon their children or worse, although that is something that I now, as a mother, cannot even discuss. But in the end, I do believe that we are trying our best. It's from other mothers that I draw encouragement, and occasionally reprieve. My girls know to find Tracy at school if I'm not around, that Kari will teach them to do flips in the pool, Lisa will join them for tea, and Sato will spend hours teaching them to jump rope; but for the influence of these people my children's lives would be far less colorful . We may not do everything the same but we all do what we think our best is, and that is not anything I can ever criticize.

Perhaps the very best present anyone can give their mom on Mother's Day is to grow up and be the very best person they can be. As much as I love the buttons and paintings made in art class, I think the very best gift is to see, even now, two happy and well adjusted children who work hard, have fun, treat others kindly and love their family. Happy Mother's Day to those who help, those who encourage, support and enlighten, those who taught me how to be a mother, and the two children who give me reason to celebrate.

Life's Illusions

2011-05-06T20:32:00.000-05:00

Kindergarten, 2010

Looking Back With Appreciation

2011-05-06T11:41:00.003-05:00

With 34 days left in the school year, 34 days until Mary and Kate symbolically step to second grade, I found the time to sort through the pile of accumulated kindergarten work gathering dust in the dining room. The time was easy, two days at home with a very sick child (our seventh round of ilk this year) allowed me ample hours to comb through the basket of paperwork that I had let sit for almost a year. Nestled amongst the artwork were poems and stories and things quite difficult to read. Mary drew a lovely picture, stamped October 2009, with this caption: SML the FLWR. This morning Mary correctly spelled compute and pollute and schedule in preparation for today's spelling test.

Until the home basket excavation, I had really no idea how far from kindergarten they had moved. Sorting through the accumulation gave me a very good feel for the progress made over the course of the year, and a sense of awe in seeing what my children had accomplished. Handwriting became something I could read without the teacher's help, and artwork grew detailed and more realistic. In the early months faces had eyes, a nose and a mouth; by May they included ears, eyebrows, eyelashes and yes, sometimes wrinkles.

It occurred to me, as I reached the bottom of the basket, that this is teacher appreciation week. More than flowers or chocolates or an apple shaped pendant could ever convey, I am appreciative of the incredible teachers that have brought my girls to this place; amazing people who took them from shapes to multiplication, from simple sounds to words with vowels, and from smiley faces to wrinkled looking mothers. For people who are endlessly patient and know that a child can move from flr to schedule in one year's time, for those who expect the very best from every child, I am so very thankful.

"If you can read this, thank a teacher."

-Anonymous

Close But No Arugula

2011-05-04T04:41:00.002-05:00

Hands waved wildly in the air, the group burst into a fit of giggles and Kate was right in the middle of the madness. Wonderful, as she occasionally has difficulty connecting with her classmates, the antics of first graders being somewhat frivolous to my child who prefers Betsy Ross to Fancy Nancy. Her teacher was encouraged as Kate, her frequent lunch partner, sat with a group of girls, playing a rousing game of Who Likes?.

"Who likes pizza?", hands everywhere!
"Who likes hot dogs?", another fit of hand waving!
"Who likes macaroni and cheese?", it was becoming contagious!
"Who likes arugula?", one lone hand, plenty of silence.

Her teacher shook her head, so close, so very close.

Pomp, Glorious Pomp!

2011-05-02T17:09:00.003-05:00

Over three hundred years ago my family left England. I've yet to forgive them.

Had they been able to hang on for just a few more years I would have certainly found myself happily packed into this mass of people Friday morning. Rather, given to some long lost need for religious freedom, I watched the glorious nuptials on the west side of the big pond.

To note, Westminster Abbey appears to be a very nice church. Lovely hymns, a very pleasing service, magnificent flying buttresses; what about that says get into a boat and cross an unknown ocean to an unknown land? What on earth, literally, were they expecting to find over here?

My grandmother was convinced that our family could have rewritten history. Her cousin dated Prince Edward, the brief King Edward VIII, before he met the future Duchess, Wallace Simpson and abdicated. Had Mimi's cousin been a better suitor for the then Prince perhaps the whole Wallace debacle could have been avoided, and that twist to the family tree eliminated. Of course then Wills and Harry would be reduced to the group of "lesser Royals" when attending such grand affairs having missed the direct line to the monarchy. Or sadly, there might not be a Wills and Harry as Charles may not have snagged the snappy Diana had he not been the Prince of Wales. Rewriting history is daunting, in own life it means skipping a trip to the market, missing a sale on asparagus and thus making risotto with mushrooms instead; far less dramatic but captivating all the same.

As one who generally eschews all the princess nonsense generally associated with six year old girls, I am oddly fascinated by the Royal family. To be fair, I am somewhat dazzled by all weddings. The Style section, specifically the weddings, is the first section ripped from the Sunday paper, I blather quite loudly at weddings of friends and cry freely at television weddings. Add to that the layers of pomp and tradition associated with a royal wedding and my fascination is understood.

That the princes immediately remove their hats and gloves (leaving them with slightly mussed hair) upon entering Westminster Abbey is compelling. Their father, who, upon removing his gloves, wiped his nose and then shook hands with the entire clergy line up, could have used a royal hankie. As a person who is horrified to find my self seated next to exposed and voluminous arm pit hair on airplanes, who was completely disgusted at the teenagers, dressed in shorts, groping each other in church on Easter Sunday, and who teaches her children that adults are to always be addressed as Mister and Misses, a little pomp and pageantry is completely intoxicating. In my ongoing quest for a bit of civility and order in my daily life, a royal wedding is like a dance in a field of tucked in shirts and neatly trimmed nose hair.

And so I took my freedom and chose to spend over five hours watching every single detail of the glorious day, from my side of the pond, with a cup of English breakfast tea firmly in hand. It would appear that we all had a jolly good time.

Life's Illusions

2011-04-29T09:46:00.000-05:00

Zoo, 2008

Life's Illusions

2011-04-22T09:36:00.002-05:00

Easter, 2008

Life's Illusions

2011-04-15T21:35:00.000-05:00

Summer, A Very Long Time Ago

Mary and Kate

2011-04-11T11:16:00.014-05:00

When I turned the page my voice cracked, I had read this book many times before. Mary buried herself in my shoulder, innately sensing what she could not possibly know. This story was new, as it was to me when I read it for the first time with my grandmother, when I first sunk into her arm cradled around me. A pause, a deep breath and I continued, “I will not be going back to the barn”.

My arm brought Mary closer, and we continued. Six pages later Charlotte “summoned all her strength and waved one of her front legs at him”; Mary burrowed further into my sweater, unaware that the most difficult part was yet to come. Kate was quiet and still, I squeezed her leg and continued.

The lonely and well drawn description of the post-fair grounds has always been tortuous for me, and it was for Mary, who sobbed uncontrollably. The juxtaposition of the busy fair full of people and life with Charlotte’s quiet demise brought both of us silence, clinging to each other, not at all alone; “No one was with her when she died”.

Kate sat quietly, her lip quivering, clearly too overcome with emotion to speak. “Are you all right love?”, I asked, reaching beyond my own pain to comfort a child who needed her mother.

“I am just trying not to laugh at you two”, said Kate.

The book is, of course, Charlotte's Web, one of my very favorites, be it now or then, when I first read it years ago with my grandmother: Charlotte's Web, by E.B. White

Life's Illusions

2011-04-08T21:18:00.001-05:00

Having tea, April 2011