tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67017159760564554882024-03-20T00:32:05.840-07:00Haphazard TruthsWelcome to my breathing corner....Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-31656690951438076852015-02-07T09:10:00.000-08:002015-02-09T10:33:00.686-08:00Crime Scene<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's nearly eight in the morning. On a Saturday. And the whole house is still.<br />
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This never happens.<br />
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Ever.<br />
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Everywhere I look..., every room I wander..., there's this lonely, ghostly, ethereal..., hush.<br />
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It's so quiet. It's disturbing.<br />
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Like a crime scene. <br />
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The big kids, Sunshine and Hollywood, are away for the weekend. A Speech and Debate tournament. They spent nine hours in a van yesterday. A teacher I've never even met at the wheel. My babies' lives in his hands.<br />
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But who am I kidding? They're off to argue complicated political topics, things I can't even tell you about, because I'm not learned enough to completely understand. They'll bring home medals. Or disappointment that they'll keep to themselves. They're babies, no more.<br />
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Only The Storm is home. It's been another big week. A lot of growing.<br />
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So still she sleeps.<br />
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Like the dog, she'll use this Saturday morning.<br />
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And Balthazar is out with his morning exercises. He'll ride miles, hit some golf balls then come home to me, kiss my head, where I tap away at the keys.<br />
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Writing.<br />
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Because it's quiet this morning, I can.<br />
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Because my heart hurts this morning, I can.<br />
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This morning is a premonition.<br />
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Our future. Mine and Balthazar's.<br />
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Our beautiful, lonely, wonderful, happy and sad, perfect, perfect future.<br />
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Grandkids might visit. Fill Saturday mornings, again. Sometimes.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-43909050256782636952014-08-26T16:47:00.003-07:002014-08-27T09:15:23.476-07:00Wedding Truths I didn't sleep well on the night before this day, nineteen years ago. The room temperature in my parents' home was warmer than I was used to and I was excited. I was also a bundle of nerves: The next day was my wedding day and I wanted everything to be perfect.<br />
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So, "Skip the up-doo," I said, in the hairdresser's chair when the style felt a bit much for me. "Leave it down," I said.<br />
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Then, once the make-up artist had spent an hour pancaking my face and outlining my my eyes, I wet a cloth to wash it all off. I wasn't happy with my elaborate bouquet, either. I'd wanted a handful of daisies tied with a satin ribbon.<br />
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When the photography session ran long because I'd opted for three separate shoot locations, I was annoyed because I missed the harpist entirely. And when Balthazar stepped, with his shiny shoes, on the large bow fastened to the small of my back and cascading the length of my train, causing it to rip off altogether, I became annoyed with him, too.<br />
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"The camera sees that you're angry," said the photographer.<br />
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The truth is I didn't much enjoy my wedding day.<br />
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I was young and stupid and concentrating on all the wrong things and, on some level, I think I knew this. Hence, the last minute hair and make-up changes. Subconsciously, I must have been trying to tone it all down.<br />
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Anyway, here we are a full nineteen years later and, finally, I get it. Finally, I understand that it's the little truths that matter most. The simplest things.<br />
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Like the way my hand fits perfectly into Balthazar's; the light of his touch at the small of my back, where that pompous bow had no business being. Like the smell of fresh cut grass and the gift of rain. Honey on toast. My babies' hugs.<br />
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If I had the chance to do it all again, yes, I'd choose bunched daisies, but more than this, I'd pay attention to the things that really mattered.<br />
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Like the complicated love in my mother's face while we ate cereal that morning; the wetness in my dad's eyes when we danced, the importance of the tear he wouldn't let go even as he spoke his blessing in my ear; the meaningful embraces of lifelong friends; and Balthazar's kiss at the altar; the passion and promise in it; the joy in his eyes; and the wedding-sex glint that must have played there all day.<br />
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Of course, I can't do it all again, but at least I can fix it for the next nineteen years.<br />
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So, Balthazar, hurry home. Kiss me, again. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-12267730507175118162014-08-09T10:09:00.003-07:002014-08-09T11:14:33.039-07:00The Google Map Perspective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Once again, Hollywood and I are hanging out in LA. For the last four years, occasionally and sometimes routinely, we've taken the long drive south through the desert in pursuit of his acting career. Sometimes, like this weekend, it's acting classes. Other times it's auditions and callbacks.<br />
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It used to be that we came out fairly regularly, several times a week even, but for various reasons we've pulled back from it all and haven't made the trip in a while. Hence, this weekend is really one of analysis: Is this really something Hollywood wants to do? Is it worth the effort? Is he willing to put in the time? Does he even enjoy acting, anymore? Or has he outgrown it all?<br />
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His agent in Vegas warned me, a year or two ago, that teenage boys tend to drop out of the business. Peer pressures and stigmas and the daunting task of fitting in, etc. When she said this, I found myself both hopeful and sad. Hopeful because the child acting business is really taxing on a parent--in a way that soccer and ballet never have been for me--and even more so when you live four hours outside of LA. And sad because I'd hate for peer pressure to rob him of his dream when middle-school bullying has already stolen whole chunks of him. (Although, I'm thrilled to say, he's grabbed a lot of it back. And he's ever stronger for it all!)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGegBOOiPusxu6i-U8fqhP5TLBzWZGZhubJK-YUm5v3KGcRWv35jKUxokGPJDU9h3RZcKNmsqJ7mFGr-3zcHqytKdE7CtPo7xwvmlrmrgF6O03MN-9cGyXsVNo8DUOC8drd-hJts2T464/s1600/B+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGegBOOiPusxu6i-U8fqhP5TLBzWZGZhubJK-YUm5v3KGcRWv35jKUxokGPJDU9h3RZcKNmsqJ7mFGr-3zcHqytKdE7CtPo7xwvmlrmrgF6O03MN-9cGyXsVNo8DUOC8drd-hJts2T464/s1600/B+3.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a>Anyway, so here we are. Again. In LA.<br />
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The class he's taking is right smack in Hollywood, on Hollywood Boulevard, but since we booked late our hotel is in Sherman Oaks, which I want to say is north of Hollywood, but I'm not entirely sure, and that is just the point of this post:<br />
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We've been driving to and fro along the I15, for years, our destinations varying all over greater LA, from Hollywood to Van Nuys to Santa Monica and more. For pleasure, we've also visited Manhattan Beach and Malibu, and, of course, Disney Land. And always, always we've had a navigator in the car to get us where we were going. So, never once, have I had to look at a map of the city that wasn't a Google map--a small square of perspective no more informative than the minute-by-minute instructions of the navigator telling me to turn, turn, turn, until finally, "Destination on the right."<br />
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This morning, having plugged in McDonald's (Hollywood had a hankering for hotcakes) I found myself recognizing my surroundings.<br />
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"Hey," I said to Hollywood. "We know this area. That's the spot we ate at that time."<br />
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"Oh, ya," he said.<br />
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But, until then, we really had no idea where we were. LA isn't a place we've lived. We don't know it the way the locals do. Not well enough to take short cuts or avoid traffic. We are at the mercy of that automated voice of instruction and the small map on the dash-screen.<br />
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And it occurred to me as I dropped Hollywood off, this morning, two years of middle school later; and at least a foot taller than the last time I dropped him off to that class; peach fuzz on his upper lip; gangly arms; the caution in his eyes where once, only love and trust; the protective curve of his shoulders; but wisdom, too, and a well-earned strength..., and, well, it occurred to me that we live our lives in squares as small as those damn Google maps.<br />
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Eager to get where we need to go in our busy, busy lives, we take the first road, and the next road, but eventually and most certainly we hit upon a road jammed up by traffic, or stress, or economic worries; we're jammed up because our kids are being bullied at school, or because they aren't making great grades; we're jammed up with insecurities and false ambitions; we're jammed up for a million reasons. And we can't see where to go, because in the moment of it all, our perspectives our as limited as those God-damn Google maps.<br />
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Anyway, my point being that it's not a bad idea to sit back and take the time to look over the whole map, once in a while.<br />
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...you know, to help you to see where it is you're going.<br />
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...and to appreciate where you've been.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-64612130852319563062014-08-05T09:06:00.001-07:002014-08-10T08:34:54.637-07:00Mommy's Favorite"Who's my favorite?" they all ask. They all want to know. They've always wanted to know.<br />
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I suppose the question started forming in their little minds sometime in preschool when these sort of questions started being put to them: What's your favorite color? What's your favorite food? Favorite number? Favorite friend? Until, eventually, each one of them came home to ask, "Mommy, who's your favorite?"<br />
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I handled it the way my own mother did: "You're my favorite girl," I said to Sunshine. "And you're my favorite boy," I told Hollywood.<br />
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And this worked for a time.<br />
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Then The Storm came along to make me revise my answer. I took another cue from my mother's book: "Sunshine's my favorite big girl. Hollywood's my favorite boy. And The Storm is my favorite little girl," I said.<br />
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And this, too, satisfied them for a time. Enough so that whenever one asked, another would answer for me: "Sunshine's her favorite big girl, Hollywood's her favorite boy, and The Storm is her favorite little girl."<br />
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I imagine it's a question that all mothers encounter at least as many times as they have children. It waits, posed to be posed, right there in the wings of a mother's life. It never goes away. And just like the children who ask it, the question grows more complicated. So that now that they are eleven and fifteen and seventeen years old, my loyalty-inspired strategy has grown weak, flawed and it's failing miserably.<br />
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"No, really," Sunshine said, a few months back, "You can tell me. I won't mind. Who's your favorite?"<br />
<br />
She's sure that it's not her. She believes it's Hollywood, because he's the one I've worried for most in the past few years. And she's sure that Balthazar favors The Storm. "They have the soccer thing," she says.<br />
<br />
Plus, for as long as she can remember, she's been on her own, like on family bike rides when Hollywood rode tandem with me and Balthazar pulled the toddler-trailer with The Storm buckled inside, while our big girl managed her own two-wheeler. I can't recall many other examples, but Sunshine could list off an earful if you asked her. She started to, one time, a couple of years back, when the question arose again.<br />
<br />
As for Hollywood, he too feels left out, particularly when Balthazar travels for work and he's the only boy in a house full of girls. He doesn't ask about favorites anymore. He's a teenage boy, he doesn't ask about much, anymore. But, like his older sister, I'm pretty sure he doesn't believe he's made anyone's final cut.<br />
<br />
The Storm still asks, though, and she does so with all the fresh enthusiasm of her age. Her eyes still grow bright, optimistic, while she waits for my answer. Her brow lifts. Maybe this time she'll tell me I'm her favorite, she's thinking. Hoping.<br />
<br />
"You're my favorite little girl," I say, again.<br />
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"But...," she throws me a curve, "I'm not a little girl anymore. You've said it yourself."<br />
<br />
"You're growing up fast, that's true. But you'll always be my little girl." Then I wrap my arms around her and squeeze, poor compensation for failing her, for my unwillingness to choose her above the others.<br />
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"But...," she says, again.<br />
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"There are no buts about it. I love you all. Equally," I say, a bit defensively.<br />
<br />
But..., she's thinking (I'm sure of it, I can see it in her eyes,) but your favorite color is yellow; your favorite flower is the daisy; your favorite food is spaghetti; and your favorite man is Daddy. So, surely, you must have a favorite child.<br />
<br />
How could she know? How could anyone who isn't a mother know how much I love each and every one of them? How could she know that I would die a thousand brutal deaths for each and every one of them? A thousand brutal deaths times three.<br />
<br />
And how could they know that loving differently isn't necessarily loving more. Or less. Just differently.<br />
<br />
Because I do love them differently. And the differences in the way I love them are as obvious and as subtle as the differences in each of them: Sunshine's infectious smile; her clever, clever wit; the curve of her baby finger; the surprising firmness of the cartilage that intertwines her delicate ears, ears that I loved to touch while she slept as an infant, before those first curls arrived to drape them; and the way Hollywood's eyes hold histories and worlds, histories of worlds; the irony of his jawline, still delicate and smooth but holding the strength and promise of all the man that he is growing into; the pitch of his sudden laugh; the softness of his heart; and the way The Storm wraps herself around you to hug with her whole being; and the way she loves with her whole heart, like her siblings, but differently, with more abandon, I think, I fear; the deep brown tone of her summer skin pulling taut across her slender back and shoulders; the deep dip of the cleft above her lip, below her nose, that's deeper still when she's just woken and her face is as cottony-full as her voice .<br />
<br />
Yes, I love each of them differently. And differently everyday, still. They are complicated. I am complicated. It's complicated.<br />
<br />
But The Storm's inability to comprehend this isn't really the issue. The real issue is that I'm failing her. Me. Her mother. That in trying to be fair to all my children, her included, I'm breaking her heart.<br />
<br />
The issue is that hope, unfulfilled, eventually dies.<br />
<br />
The issue is that those beautiful brown brows may not lift in optimism the next time she asks.<br />
<br />
The issue is that Hollywood no longer asks at all; that, having endured enough heartbreak outside the home, he knows better than to come looking for it inside, from his mother.<br />
<br />
The issue is Sunshine's recent approach to the question. Her bravery: "You can tell me." And the desperation beneath it. Please, tell me. Please, tell me it's me.<br />
<br />
The issue is that my unbending loyalty to all of them is failing all of them, individually.<br />
<br />
The real issue is that each and every one of them wants desperately to hear that they are special, the most special. They want me to love them the most. And, of course, I do! Love them the most. Each of them. The most.<br />
<br />
So, why not say it? "I love you the most!"<br />
<br />
Because it's absolutely true: "I love you the most! And I love you the most! And I love you the most!"<br />
<br />
So, I'm revising my answer, again. Staunch loyalty isn't working. Loyalty that twists and reaches and bends over backwards; loyalty as flexible, all encompassing, strong and complicated as a mother's love, that's the loyalty needed to answer this most serious and delicate of questions.<br />
<br />
"You, yes, you are Mommy's favorite!" I'm going to say, the very next time I'm asked. And the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after that.<br />
<br />
Because they need to hear it.<br />
<br />
And because it's so very, very true.<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-81825722755398164602014-04-24T16:25:00.000-07:002014-04-24T16:33:19.952-07:00Some Thoughts from Baby <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>A Post by Special Guest Blogger, The Storm</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>Today was Take Your Child To Work Day, so The Storm put in her share of writing. She also did some pitching and she even submitted her short story (which was pretty good!) to a handful of publications. Fingers crossed! Her final assignment of the day was to write a nonfiction piece about being the youngest in our clan. Here it is: </i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">I am the youngest of three in my family. There
are some really cool things about being the youngest but, then again, there are
some not so cool things. Yes, I am the baby and everyone thinks that I get what
I want. But you should meet my mother—she likes to get things her way, too. That’s
the problem my mother is like me, so that is why we don’t get along so well. We
kind a of argue a lot!</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">Some good things about being the youngest is
that I am the baby, so I get to act like one. When my brother and I are
fighting, I can just yell really loud at him and my mom will scream at him to
get his butt downstairs. Also, because I am the youngest I have an older sister
and an older brother, so I know thing I should not know (because of the shows
they watch, which I watch with them.) It isn’t just them: my mom says bad words
sometimes. (She is getting better, though.) Ya, so being the youngest is
fantastic!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">Some BAD things about being the youngest
is that my opinion doesn’t really matter. Also when I want to record MY TV shows,
everybody else’s shows come before mine. Being the youngest, I can’t go to the R-rated
movies with the rest of my family. Also, I feel left out sometime because the
older kids do things I can’t do because I am to young. So, ya, being the youngest
sucks!<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">These are some pro and cons about being the
youngest in my family.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>A note on Mom's bad language habits: What can I say? I love words! All of them! </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>As for whose opinions matter:</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>The Storm wanted not one, not two, but three birthday parties this year. She got'em.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">T</span>he Storm wanted to go to Disneyland over spring break.</i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>And the beach.</i></span></div>
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<i>And the zoo</i>.</div>
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<i>And she wanted to rent a funky bike.</i></div>
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<i>And she wanted to rent a kayak, and have pizza for lunch, and visit the chocolate shop, and sit in the backseat, and watch Batman instead of "Anything else, please, anything else," and she wanted to ride Splash mountain three times, even though the sun had gone down and it was really cold --so we did all of this. And she didn't want to walk, ever, so we didn't. </i></div>
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<i>But, if you ask her about the week, she'll tell you that she wanted to go surfing and we didn't. So, her opinions don't really matter. Sigh. I'll say this for her: She knows what she wants, and she wants it all!</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-4660682224639207622014-03-05T09:04:00.001-08:002014-03-06T13:28:04.702-08:00Girl / Woman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
When she was little, the rules were pretty obvious, the boundary lines clear: You can ride your bike on the sidewalk only; hold my hand to cross the road; always swim with buddy. These things, and a thousand others, I told her to keep her safe.<br />
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As Sunshine became older, she insisted I loosen the grip at her wrist.<br />
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"Trust me," she said, and I did and she grew to be this smart, strong, confident, beautiful and kind sixteen-year-old (almost seventeen-year-old!) girl/woman. (That little diagonal line separating those two words holds a world.)<br />
<br />
I trust her. And she talks to me. And she has convinced me that the teenager stereotype, full of angst and rebellion, is a myth brought upon by a lack of understanding, communication, tolerance and patience.<br />
<br />
And she is good, and she values the trust between us as much as I do, and here is where it gets complicated:<br />
<br />
Last night, after a lengthy explanation about the proficiency testing going on at school, from which she is exempt, and assurances that most of her teachers will be moderating said testing, leaving her with substitutes and hours upon hours of classroom videos, make-work and general do-nothingness, she asked if she could skip school to have fun with her friends.<br />
<br />
"I can't give you permission to skip school," I said, even as I recalled some of my favorite high school memories:<br />
<br />
We called them day parties, these shining occasions when twenty or thirty of us would spontaneously skip off to his house, her house, the beach, a dirt road and just have the most spectacular fun in these few stolen hours. In fact, whenever I meet up with old friends, even thirty years later, these day parties take center stage under the yellow lights of our reminiscing.<br />
<br />
So, "I can't give you permission to skip school," I said, again, "but, I won't punish you, either."<br />
<br />
"And if you get caught, it's on you. I won't have your back."<br />
<br />
But, this morning, as she slung her school bag over her shoulder, on her way out the door, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know exactly where she was going, and I'd created a situation whereby she couldn't tell me.<br />
<br />
"I obviously don't want to know where you are going," I said, all sternness. "But, I absolutely want to know where you are going." A panic bubbled up inside me.<br />
<br />
She laughed at me, at my ridiculous logic which grew, of course, from my desire to keep her by the hand, keep a firm grip, keep her little and home with me.<br />
<br />
"I'll make good choices," she said, "and I'll let you know if I go anywhere different from the usual spots."<br />
<br />
"Or if you do anything unusual."<br />
<br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
"Unusual for you, not me."<br />
<br />
"Okay, Mom."<br />
<br />
"And be home at the usual time."<br />
<br />
"Right."<br />
<br />
"And make good choices."<br />
<br />
"We're getting repetitive."<br />
<br />
"Just go," I said.<br />
<br />
I cried a little when she left.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-38288469763802157242014-02-05T11:33:00.000-08:002014-02-06T08:15:07.281-08:00Life is Hard<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It shouldn't be this hard," I said to my friend.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Balthazar and I had hit our roughest patch on life's road. We were, more or less, living apart, he in Vegas, and I with the kids, in Iowa--since Vegas had a job for him and we couldn't sell our house in the Midwest.<br />
<br />
This lasted for two years. Funds, too, were tight and, playing the role of a single mom, I could barely find the time I needed to write my thesis. I'd committed to a very expensive, low-residency program, less than a month prior to Balthazar's job troubles. Oh, and our house was for sale throughout the ordeal, so I was frantic to keep it clean, lest we lose the one buyer we were desperate to find to make everything right, again. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I was stressed out. Balthazar was stressed out. And the kids suffered, too, for our stress--which made us stress all the more.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Why not?" my friend asked of my complaint about life.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrmmXiqVFvtXfbqfX4W5GYbV0tEvRCE8nsu2czB4YBG39jA5xneuE3oY7TrQYb0J5qDsawSgaOWaNavsS1W6pouacvmxfNHzvuTWioNjKFrvMfuYGF8yym7c7WrWoAPobgk7Zg_uR_BU/s1600/Chantal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbrmmXiqVFvtXfbqfX4W5GYbV0tEvRCE8nsu2czB4YBG39jA5xneuE3oY7TrQYb0J5qDsawSgaOWaNavsS1W6pouacvmxfNHzvuTWioNjKFrvMfuYGF8yym7c7WrWoAPobgk7Zg_uR_BU/s1600/Chantal.jpg" /></a>"Because. Because. It just shouldn't."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Why not?" she repeated.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Because life is supposed to be fun. It's meant to be enjoyed." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At least, that was what I had always believed and because, for me, life had, for the most part, been roses and lemonade. Even when things were difficult, which of course they sometimes were, there was wine to swirl in our glasses, once we'd clinked them together--"Here's to better days." Love to be made at night. Morning doves cooing outside our window, come sun up.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"But it's also hard," said my friend, candidly. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I stopped being her friend that day. It was an act of defiance.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But life stayed hard for us, anyway, despite my protests. Really, really hard. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
At first it was little things: A freaky flood in our basement in Iowa to scare off our first real prospect; a scorpion infestation in the new house in Vegas. One thing after another to keep our foreheads perpetually wrinkled: the constant vomiting of the dog who was allergic to the Vegas heat; a car accident; another car accident; an infestation of lice that lasted forever; bad teachers; bullies at school; and always there were the bills we were expecting; plus the ones we weren't. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And these were in the years when things were supposed to be getting better: Balthazar and I were working desperately to put things back in order. I'd graduated from school, we'd sold the house, found another in Vegas and we'd begun the long slow climb out of the debt that the previous years had set us in. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We have a roof over our head, food on the table. We have our health and we have each other." I encouraged Balthazar. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But the roof wasn't ours, really; it was rented. And the food was bland, or takeout, because, I really didn't feel like cooking much, anymore. This led to wider waistbands, less energy, less will. It led to less each other. Less of ourselves. More stress. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But, we are fighters, Balthazar and I, so we got up each day and did what needed to be done, tackled whatever new challenge showed up at our door. Then, at the end of the day, we squeezed the kids, as if to soak in some of their youth and optimism, to replenish ours--which was vastly diminishing. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We hugged each other, in consolation. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"It has to get better," we both said. Over. And over. And over again.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Then, "Are you fucking kidding me?" when the next blow would arrive. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I railed at our rented ceiling. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And the blows were knock-you-on-your-ass mighty. Sometimes because we'd had yet to get up from the last. And sometimes because they came from left field. And sometimes because they just were.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"We still have our health," I said to Balthazar. "The kids are healthy. We're healthy. We're gold," I said, "As long as we have our health, we're gold."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It was, in all honesty, the one thing, I was desperately afraid to lose. I could battle the rest of it, as long as we stayed healthy, I thought.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm sending you to a specialist," said my doctor, on a routine checkup. "It's your thyroid."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I didn't go. "Life is not supposed to be this hard!" </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Then, just over five years into our rough patch, five years living in a perpetual state of stress, a flu sent me to bed. For a full week. A week I couldn't afford. I missed four deadlines. My anxiety levels skyrocketed.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And then I gave in. I laid my head on the pillow and I slept. For days. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When I finally awoke, recovered from the virus, a numbness took over my lips and face, my hands. And then my brain. I couldn't follow a simple movie plot. I certainly couldn't write. My hip joints ached. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I said, that first morning when it hurt to walk.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I suspected multiple sclerosis. My new doctor (naturally, I'd ditched the other) suspected multiple sclerosis, too. She scheduled tests. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Balthazar didn't say it. Instead, he poured over the bills. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Seriously?" I said, when the receptionist asked for an exorbitant co-pay upfront. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Forget it," I said. "I'm not sick. I'm only stressed out." </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I went home.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I'm sorry," I said when Balthazar began complaining about bills, that week. "I'm sorry that you're stressed out. But I can't worry with you. If you have to worry, you'll have to worry alone. I won't worry anymore, not about money nor whatever shit should arrive on our doorstep tomorrow. I can't live like this. We can't live like this. It will kill us."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"I love you though," I said. "And I'd love to just go for a walk and hold your hand."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The blows still come, but less frequently, it seems. And, somehow, they land with less force. Even the big ones:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqGfoHgF-hxMlrJGbKEGJi8-D3hiG784vIMddk-0zJ2n6XIElkPM4DyIkEX7jpgAGBAkE1TGJKsQ8mbXlD4AWuNzeePJfWFr3KI_kphujYqnpbSv7zOmv17__Jix07uTalO-JExHoZ4E/s1600/Sarah+and+Grace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqGfoHgF-hxMlrJGbKEGJi8-D3hiG784vIMddk-0zJ2n6XIElkPM4DyIkEX7jpgAGBAkE1TGJKsQ8mbXlD4AWuNzeePJfWFr3KI_kphujYqnpbSv7zOmv17__Jix07uTalO-JExHoZ4E/s1600/Sarah+and+Grace.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Epilepsy," said the neurologist of Sunshine's episodes.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To her, he said, "Everyone has something."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"That's true," I said. "Think of Hollywood's allergies." They arrived like a sucker punch, during our second spring in Vegas and have been hassling him ever since. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Chronic sinusitis," said his specialist, last month.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Balthazar's high blood pressure is genetic; he's careful about what he eats.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
~<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm careful about what I eat now, too. I'm cooking with enthusiasm, again. We exercise regularly.<br />
<br />
We smile and laugh, a lot, as often as we can, really.<br />
<br />
And these joyous occasions chip away at the pall that has hung over us for so long. <br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9HlP31VSzf62ZSXxXR47K6372xfbT9WtZywNr2r4YCX9VQnPyvGAOf9FwsDKt_yg4F9-zcNrbAMK6V4Pu7AgYoOU95p1LHkdwxF3vMSicHADHoKsA0jE_tq8Xq3Jfpl7dN3b8IeYuZG8/s1600/Chris+and+Barry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9HlP31VSzf62ZSXxXR47K6372xfbT9WtZywNr2r4YCX9VQnPyvGAOf9FwsDKt_yg4F9-zcNrbAMK6V4Pu7AgYoOU95p1LHkdwxF3vMSicHADHoKsA0jE_tq8Xq3Jfpl7dN3b8IeYuZG8/s1600/Chris+and+Barry.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
To make me smile all day long. And I value our good days more than ever. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm smiling now, as I write this post.<br />
<br />
And my symptoms have all but disappeared. And we bought our own house, and there are no scorpions, and the dog stopped vomiting....</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Life is hard. A lot of the time. And it's bound to get harder still, but when it's not, Oh!<br />
<br />
When it's not, it's pretty damned great!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I think I'll call my old friend. I owe her an apology. A drink. We'll swirl our wine in our cups, once we've clinked them together. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-56877990918807633292013-09-05T05:53:00.001-07:002013-09-05T05:53:48.750-07:00The Crazy Mom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVAK8iRg-3b6suV_H1sB6sp4wYPJwtIW3i9VTgMJ7aLMdED1qptJUynjC5A7haRYSv4yrBWpdyyu6OU_GSW9jmCszKOX41N4PK7hNQoLPl_XFGtfRYkYXY2nGw83uqAPCbkVUKFEu_nP0/s1600/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVAK8iRg-3b6suV_H1sB6sp4wYPJwtIW3i9VTgMJ7aLMdED1qptJUynjC5A7haRYSv4yrBWpdyyu6OU_GSW9jmCszKOX41N4PK7hNQoLPl_XFGtfRYkYXY2nGw83uqAPCbkVUKFEu_nP0/s400/22.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I spent most of the Labor Day weekend on the sidelines with the rest of the parents of The Storm's soccer team, while the girls competed in tournament. They're a good bunch of people and I was just reflecting on them, when an alarming thought occurred to me.<br />
<br />
You know how there's always one crazy mom in every group? The one who is totally over the top? She either rides her kids too hard or talks them up too much. Or else she completely coddles them. She might have them set on twelve foot pedestals. Whatever it is, she's usually pretty easily identifiable because she goes on and on, completely oblivious to the fact that her behavior pretty much horrifies everyone else.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it just occurred to me that we don't have one of these in our group. Which means.... <br />
<br />
Gulp. <br />
<br />
Oh my God..., I must be her! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-23342624382566084532013-08-21T09:51:00.001-07:002013-09-05T08:28:40.301-07:00Fighting Words<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBeN5GwN7cU_Q-hgaukCZ6KIO2m9LZ3TMUCidK4bteMbcFK7fp96mZOPeRgbwgD2ew11LcxM3h-ulZK-g3ueG28xDd3cYyTeEJfgCS62MthD7nSobk32mryCDY3ZuZ7BSKdXNlBfBR_c/s1600/Barry+and+Shadow+1,+Aug.+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBeN5GwN7cU_Q-hgaukCZ6KIO2m9LZ3TMUCidK4bteMbcFK7fp96mZOPeRgbwgD2ew11LcxM3h-ulZK-g3ueG28xDd3cYyTeEJfgCS62MthD7nSobk32mryCDY3ZuZ7BSKdXNlBfBR_c/s640/Barry+and+Shadow+1,+Aug.+2013.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Yesterday found us at Target buying Hollywood some new school supplies. Weeks ago we purchased the girls' things but, just recently, Hollywood has also decided to return to public school.<br />
<br />
He left middle school, last January, when the bullying became unbearable, and he's spent the last eight months doing an online homeschool curriculum that was terrific, in that it taught him academic independence: <br />
<br />
While I was always around to help him, often I would need to research subjects for myself, before I was any good to him. Hollywood soon figured out that by removing the middleman, me, he could get his work done twice as quickly. He began looking things up on his own, rarely turning to me at all, in the last few months. He learned to teach himself and think for himself--a fabulous thing to be sure.<br />
<br />
But, he's been lonely. A 14-year-old boy needs other 14-year-old kids around, friends who speak his adolescent language and like the things he likes, video games, Nerf guns, cannonballs. So, he's returning to the public school system, again--having grown older, stronger and wiser to the ways of the world and the treacherous terrain of middle school. <br />
<br />
"Keep your head down this time," I've warned him several times. "Try to fit in," I've said, in spite of myself. In spite of him, too. <br />
<br />
Two binders, two packs of college-ruled paper, 24 pencils, a protractor, a science calculator and three other large bags of Crayola and Mead supplies later, we met up with Balthazar and the girls for dinner and a late movie, grabbing as much last minute summer fun as we could before school starts up again. <br />
<br />
We saw <em>The Butler</em>, a movie that caused some mid-film seat shuffling, in order that Balthazar and I might field the questions that continually arose. It was early in the movie that The Storm leaned over with her first.<br />
<br />
"What does that mean?" she asked, referring to the N- word.<br />
<br />
"You've never heard it before because it's a very bad word," I said back, before I explained to her, as best I could in brief and whispered theatre tones, the word in its historical context. <br />
<br />
Then, settling back into my seat and reaching for another handful of popcorn, it occurred to me that I certainly had heard the N- word, and quite regularly even, by the time I was ten, and what a great thing it was that she hadn't yet, and what that said about society's progress. It was a line of thinking that the movie, opening up in a cotton field and concluding with the election of President Obama, went on to confirm.<br />
<br />
The best thing about art, the thing that makes me so passionate about literature, beyond the prose--I'm crazy for good prose!--is not the story so much as the conversation that the story inspires, the bigger thinking that culminates.<br />
<br />
"You know," said Hollywood, on the way home. "I was just thinking about the word gay."<br />
<br />
"Ya? " I said. It was just us in the car. The girls were riding with their dad.<br />
<br />
"Well, kids should find another word to use as an insult. It's not right," he said. "Like, when they called me gay, even though I'm not, I was offended by it."<br />
<br />
"Hmm," I said.<br />
<br />
"It's because of the way they said it. They said it in a mean way. But I don't think there's anything wrong with being gay." He paused. "Still, I was offended. I don't think kids should use that word that way. Like when something is uncool, they call it gay. Like being gay is bad thing." Another pause. "I think a person's sexual preference should be up to them and nobody else should care."<br />
<br />
"I agree."<br />
<br />
Then he said, "I think maybe I should try to change the way kids use that word." And my alarm bells started clanging. <br />
<br />
Part of Hollywood's problem, in middle school, was his intolerance for bullying. He couldn't let it happen to anyone, without speaking up. I remember teaching him, years ago, that this was the right thing to do. Now, I realize, I set him up: In defending the bullied, he became the target.<br />
<br />
"I think maybe I should say something when kids use that word, that way," he said, while I scrambled for the right response.<br />
<br />
"Maybe," I finally said. "But remember, middle school is a rough place. Remember you were gonna keep your head down?" <br />
<br />
I want him to do what's right. I want him to be true to his strong, always dead-on accurate, moral compass. But, more than this, I want him safe. I want him happy. I want him to fit in. <br />
<br />
Because it's so much easier.<br />
<br />
But..., this isn't my decision to make.<br />
<br />
"You know how, in the movie, and in history, the people who stood up for what was right were persecuted? How they were beaten and jailed and even killed? How hard it was for them?" I said.<br />
<br />
"Ya?"<br />
<br />
"Well, you just have to know if you're gonna stand up for something, if you're gonna fight for something, well, you're gonna be in a fight. You've got to be ready for that. You've got to consider whether you want to take that on. And if now's the time," I said--because although he's bigger and stronger and wiser than he was eight months ago, and his confidence and self-esteem have been replenished, it was only eight months ago.<br />
<br />
I didn't add, "For God's sake, please, keep your head down, my sweet baby boy." <br />
<br />
Although, I desperately wanted to.<br />
<br />
"I guess I need to think about it a little. Maybe there's something else I can do to make people stop using that word that way," he said.<br />
<br />
"And remember, change doesn't happen over night."<br />
<br />
"Right."<br />
<br />
We were quiet, in our own thoughts, for the remainder of the ride. He, thinking seriously about how to best make the world change for the better. Me, wrestling with my own moral compass; with my desire to tame the good in him, to make him better fit in a not-so-good world.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~</div>
<br />
When we were at home, later, while he played on the floor with our miniature schnauzer, he asked me another question. Although, I now suspect, he already knew the answer. <br />
<br />
"Mom, what's a mutt, exactly?"<br />
<br />
"It's a dog that isn't a purebred. It's a mix of different breeds."<br />
<br />
"You called Shadow a mutt, once, when you were mad at her."<br />
<br />
...Point taken, my wise young man. Point taken.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-64131732366023030822013-07-21T13:37:00.000-07:002013-08-29T09:02:33.759-07:00A Haphazard Truths Manifesto<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I haven't blogged in awhile--it was a conscious decision. The truth is I stopped blogging for several reasons, some of which were practical--I won't bore you with the details--but one of the reasons, the main reason that I stopped sharing here at <em>Haphazard Truths</em> is because of different things that some people have said to me. Small things. Hints, really. Judgment, most definitely. Words that spelled out their disapproval of my oversharing and questioned my ethics as a parent. <br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
So, as I re-enter my <em>Haphazard Truths</em> practice (for it is a practice,) after a long sabbatical during which I ruminated and meditated often on this very thing, I've collected several counters to the accusations that, in blogging, I am robbing my children of their right to privacy. <br />
<br />
Here goes:<br />
<br />
1. I'm not a private person. I never have been. When I pull myself up to any given table, I lay out all my cards and, as I do, my heart (and probably far too many other organs,) pinned there to my sleeve, flaps about for all to see. <br />
<br />
I've never been very good with secrets, particularly my own. I'm more comfortable, I feel more secure when the truth, ugly and as uncomfortable as it might be, is laid bare, alongside all the cards, for everyone to contend with and dispute and, well, I believe, make truer still.<br />
<br />
This isn't to say that I insist, or even believe, that my children should be the same. They certainly, like everyone else, have a right to the degree of privacy that they choose. I understand this.<br />
<br />
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<br />
2. While my readers know, or at least I hope they know, that I care deeply for them and that I do my very best to be as honest as I can, they also must recognize that my priority is my children--at least the content of my posts should point to this. <br />
<br />
My three darlings give me an abundance of material to think about and write about all the time, but some of it, and some of the meatiest, frankly, is very personal to them and so, of course, I won't write about it. <br />
<br />
Occasionally, some very personal thing or other that we are contending with does inspire blog post musings, in which instance I simply ask the darling in question, "Can I write about this?" <br />
<br />
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<br />
And for every <em>Yes</em> and <em>Sure,</em> there are also the shocked and emphatic <em>No!'s</em>. And I don't. Case closed. <br />
<br />
3. Writers write. It's what we do. And my family is by no means the first, nor will they be the last, casualties of an earnest writer. My God, just watch the rapid speed with which the memoir shelves multiply at your local library. <br />
<br />
Still, I understand that there needs to be a balance between my needs as a writer and my obligations as a mother, and I make every effort to ensure that there is. (Revisit #2.)<br />
<br />
4. While the truth is that I would prefer to be writing fiction, my life, as it is--regularly and predominantly consumed by my responsibilities as a mother--doesn't leave me the time that I would need to concentrate on my fiction (yet.) But still I must write, as others must run or cycle or climb. Or breathe. <br />
<br />
I know this to be truer than ever, since my <em>Haphazard Truths</em> journey began--when, with that first post, I felt I'd gulped a huge breath of air for the first time in a long time. Writing completes me.<br />
<br />
And the material available to me, the only material available to me for the last 15 years is the material available to a mother who's abandoned career and pretty much self to dedicate her world to her children and family. What else would you suggest I write about?<br />
<br />
5. Finally, and this is a pleasant if unexpected benefit of blogging: <em>Haphazard Truths</em> makes me a better parent. <br />
<br />
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<br />
In writing about my children, my responsibilities to my children and my relationship with my children, I am forced to deeply consider all of this. And this deep rumination; the contemplation and sorting necessary to thoughtfully express in writing what they are experiencing, or what I am experiencing as a result of their experiences, or what we are experiencing together, leads me to have deeper understanding of it all, leading to more informed and, thus, better parenting. <br />
<br />
And taking time from our very busy schedule to observe my children, even if for the purpose of discovering blog material, has me, at least, taking a beat to observe my children from a different angle. And every now and then I'll notice something, I might not have noticed otherwise.<br />
<br />
It's a little like snapping a selfie--because, of course, my self is inclusive of them. <br />
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</div>
Anyway, studying them forces me to consider things like why Sunshine might have snapped at me over breakfast, and inspires me to make sense of her behavior, when it would be so easy, during the busyness of our day, to let it go, knowing it will pass or to brush it off as the natural behavior of teenagers--which by the way, I don't take much stock in: Teenagers behave like teenagers, for the most part, because they're treated like teenagers..., but this is a whole other topic for a whole other post.<br />
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<br />
Anyway, all of this is to say: I'm back. Big hug. I missed you!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-80978297122972001732013-03-26T08:46:00.000-07:002013-07-23T07:48:45.659-07:00My Worry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My worry for Sunshine needles like a thorn underneath my rib. I can't reach it. I can't tend to it. <br />
<br />
I must suffer it.<br />
<br />
Each day, my teenager inches further into a world where I can't protect her. She's making her own decisions, setting her own standards, calling her own shots. And I'm afraid for her. I'm afraid she'll make mistakes..., of course, she'll make mistakes. <br />
<br />
This realization pokes deeper still.<br />
<br />
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My worry for Hollywood is different. It is a wounded lamb I carry across my shoulders. All day. Everyday. For months on end. It lays atop my chest at night. In the dark, I listen anxiously for its every belabored breath.<br />
<br />
Hollywood hit a rough patch in middle school.... <br />
<br />
That's an understatement. I'm not ready to get into it. <br />
<br />
One word. Bullies. <br />
<br />
At his guidance counselor's recommendation, Balthazar and I have removed him. He's homeschooled now, and the change in him feels near miraculous. Already, he's regained much of the confidence they took from him. <br />
<br />
As if nothing more than a school lunch!<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I lay down the lamb, in a patch of soft, cool grass, to sharpen my staff on the nearby rocks. I raise it above my head like a spear. I could kill with it. <br />
<br />
Other times, I hold the stick, with one hand, by the hook, turning paranoid circles. My other hand gripped tight to the lamb's paws, at my shoulder. <br />
<br />
I will not drop him.<br />
<br />
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I've not been worried for The Storm, this week. It's a welcome reprieve.<br />
<br />
My baby is doing just fine. She's happy. She's healthy. Her grades are good. She's bonding well with her siblings. She's playing well and often with friends. She's smiling and laughing. Even in her sleep. <br />
<br />
To make me smile, too.<br />
<br />
And breathe, ah..., easier. <br />
<br />
Yes, this week, The Storm is being easy on me.<br />
<br />
...Except when she goes outside to ride her bike. The cars come fast up our street. And she's a little daredevil. When The Storm goes outside to ride her bike, my fret is a heart murmur. <br />
<br />
Probably nothing to worry about. <br />
<br />
But, I will anyway.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-23615674913049111832013-02-08T11:39:00.001-08:002013-02-08T15:18:52.863-08:00Of Big Dogs and One Little Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hollywood's growing up. He's two inches taller than he was six months ago--meaning he's already taller than I am, and he'll probably be taller than Sunshine next week. Maybe taller than Balthazar, next year. <br />
<br />
All this growing he's doing makes it hard for a mama to keep up:<br />
<br />
"I need new running shoes," he said, about a month ago.<br />
<br />
"Ok," I said. Then I stored it in that corner of my brain where I was keeping The Storm's request for science project breads. He didn't get them. <br />
<br />
"I need new running shoes," he said, again, when I asked him to join me for a jog around the block, a week or so later.<br />
<br />
"Can you wear your old ones?"<br />
<br />
"I guess."<br />
<br />
This sort of thing went on all month. Then, last week, when I suggested, once again, that he wear his old shoes, he said, "I can't. They really hurt my feet."<br />
<br />
We hit the mall.<br />
<br />
"What size are your old shoes?" I asked, in the shoe department.<br />
<br />
"Six."<br />
<br />
"We'll need a size seven," I told the salesman.<br />
<br />
Too small.<br />
<br />
"Seven and a half," I said.<br />
<br />
Too small.<br />
<br />
"Wow, Hollywood, you're really growing! Sorry," I said to the salesman, while the boxes piled up around us. "Can we try an eight?"<br />
<br />
Too small. <br />
<br />
"I'm a really sorry to bother you, again," I said to the salesman, who was doing his best to avoid us by then. "We'll need an eight and a half."<br />
<br />
Too flipping small!<br />
<br />
No wonder his feet hurt! He's been squishing his size nine dogs into shoes three whole sizes too small him, for over a month.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Speaking of dogs, Shadow's also giddy for the new shoes.<br />
<br />
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Since, they mean hand-me-downs for her: "New chew shoes! Arff!"</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-36203510668071849432013-01-23T16:00:00.001-08:002013-08-29T08:54:44.638-07:00A Failed Science Project <div style="text-align: center;">
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The data collection portion of The Storm's fourth grade science project is due tomorrow. The objective of her project is to determine which bread molds the fastest. She has predicted that the pumpernickel loaf will mold more quickly than the others (rye, wheat, sour dough and white) because she believes that darker, denser breads mold more quickly. She also means to test whether the breads mold at a different rate out in the sun, versus in a dark cupboard. And she is curious as to temperature's effect on mold, so the fridge will become a science lab, too.<br />
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Notice I said "will"?<br />
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In December, a week before Christmas, when The Storm chose her subject matter, I knew immediately that this could go wrong. You can't grow mold overnight. We would need to be prepared, start early.<br />
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I remembered science projects of previous years: the time Balthazar and Hollywood stayed up all night making crystals to present to the class the very next day; and another time when Sunshine and I drew color wheels and mixed food coloring in egg cartons until long past her bedtime.<br />
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"Remind me to buy your breads as soon as the holidays are over," I told The Storm.<br />
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She did.<br />
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I didn't.<br />
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In fact she reminded me several times, and each time she did my heart skipped a beat with worry.<br />
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"Yes, shoot, we need to get on that." But each time it was early in the day, hours until my next grocery trip. Or late at night, when I would say, "I'll buy them first thing in the morning."<br />
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Then I would forget all over again.<br />
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Anyway, here it has arrived, the day before her data collection portion is due and I've yet to buy her breads to mold. I've screwed up.<br />
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"Don't worry," I said, to calm her tears this morning. "I'll write a note to your teacher. The actual project isn't due until February. We'll make it work."<br />
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Here is the note I would like to write:<br />
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<i>Dear Ms. Fourth Grade Science Teacher,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Please excuse The Storm for not submitting her data collection today. I forgot to buy the bread. Or rather, I forgot to remember to buy the bread. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It would seem a simple thing, the purchase of a few extra loaves of bread--for a woman who visits the grocery store almost daily, in order to feed her family nutritious homemade meals. However, alas, I did not remember.</i><br />
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<i>It seems odd, doesn't it, that I could continually forget to remember to purchase the bread to mold? When I never would forget the bread to eat? Nor the many tasks that needed to be done to earn the bread, to buy the bread to eat, or mold?</i><br />
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<i>In fact, everyday, since the science project was assigned, I was able to remember the thousands of things necessary to manage the lives of the five of us in our family: the cupboards were filled; the laundry was done (the blue and black soccer uniform for Tuesdays, the orange and white for Thursdays, the white game jersey for weekends); the kids were always delivered and picked up from school and their various activities; there were presents under the tree at Christmas; and multiple feasts set at our table to accommodate our holiday guests; orthodontist and dentist appointments were kept; as were the dog's grooming appointments (although my own roots were let to grow); the kids received the help they needed with their daily homework; and the chastising they needed to ensure they themselves tended to this work; I read to them; I counseled them; I scrubbed behind their ears; I pulled countless ponytails through colored elastics; I kept the house clean enough to fend off mold (in hindsight, this was perhaps an error in judgement); I smiled pleasantly across the table for business associates; I bandaged knees; and served up spoonfuls of medicine this flu season; I wrote several articles; and edited just as many; I checked regularly for lice (a paranoid habit, perhaps); I flipped at least 360 pancakes since the science project was assigned (both wheat and white--I should have let these mold); poured juice; spilled juice; cleaned spilled juice; mopped floors; changed sheets; reminded them to cough into their elbows; I've cheered on the sidelines and cried on the sidelines of soccer fields; and life; I've pulled my son out of the middle school where he was being badly bullied to implement a new homeschooling curriculum (free of science projects, for now); I've had several serious conversations with my 15-year-old daughter about sex, and trust, and the dangers of peer pressure; I've made New Year's resolutions; new family budgets; new schedules for 2013; replaced four faulty appliances and a car; negotiated with two car salesmen; answered to six different editors; I've made countless lists (some even included "buy breads"); and reminded the kids to write lists, keep track, get done all that they needed to get done; "Do you have a sweater?"; "Where's your lunch?"; "Did you take your vitamins?"; "Make good choices out there,"; I've hugged them; stroked their heads; patted their backs; wiped their tears; and tucked them into their beds at each day's end; I've locked the doors and set the alarm; and I've lain awake making more lists. I've even cleaned cupboards and tossed into the trash molding breads (that had not been properly observed or recorded)--but for the life of me I could not remember to buy the damn breads to mold! </i><br />
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<i>I thought temporarily of helping The Storm to falsify data for submission, and would have had no problem doing this myself, as a young student in dire straights--it would be easy--but I'm a mother now, and my priorities are completely changed: </i><br />
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<i>Growing strong, healthy, good and honest children is my primary objective. So, I won't be teaching The Storm to cheat, this week. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Instead, all I can do is beg for your mercy, and an extension. How long does it take to grow mold anyway? That's how long we'll need..., assuming I remember to buy the breads this time.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Yours Truly,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The Storm's Mom </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But that isn't the letter I sent. Instead, I wrote this--<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Dear Fourth Grade Science Teacher,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The Storm is still in the process of collecting her data on molding bread. We would be grateful for an extension of approximately two to three weeks. </i> <br />
<br />
--with this quote, from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #330000;">J. D. Bernal (</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #330000;">a well-known scientist of the last century), in</span> mind:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #330000;"><i>"It is characteristic of science that the full explanations are often seized in their essence by the percipient scientist long in advance of any possible proof."</i> (Or mold!) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #330000;">(</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #330000;">The Origin of Life</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #330000;">, 1967)</span><br />
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I'm hoping The Storm's teacher is a percipient scientist!<br />
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-88340453820946042062013-01-13T09:05:00.002-08:002014-09-03T22:10:31.331-07:00A Lesson Called Angelica (Revisited)<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Early into the new year, as I struggle with new schedules and all the 2013 resolutions I've set for myself--toward improving me, my life, the life of my family, and the world in general--it seems an ideal time to revisit this lesson I learned (and wrote about) a few years back:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i> A Lesson Called Angelica </i></span> </div>
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This posting finds me running around Target on a Saturday, grabbing things I would have picked up weeks ago, if I was a more organized woman. It’s been one of <i>those </i>days, so I haven’t showered; I’m wearing yesterday’s t-shirt—it was right there—and no make-up. I’m hungry, because I didn’t get any breakfast, nor have I had any caffeine. But, I’m so late that I don't have five minutes to grab a cup from Starbucks—which has me a wee bit cranky, on top of it all. Oh, and it’s been one of those years, too, so I’m all but busting out of my fat jeans—to my own thorough disgust.</div>
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I’m having just this horrid sort of morning, when, low behold, I see her: The woman I would be, if I could just get it together. I always see her when I’m having a bad day—although she arrives in various forms. </div>
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Today, she’s tall in a pair of sleek black leather boots--to make me feel even shorter and dumpier than usual--when I step into the checkout line behind her. She’s thin and fit; she could be a dancer. Her jeans are the expensive kind, made to look old, except the elaborate stitching on the pockets assures me they aren't. Her hair is long and dark and smoothed. On her face--a very pretty face--there rests a serene, almost sleepy, expression—a hint of smile, when she begins to unload the items from her cart. </div>
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There are no children with her, but, as well as Christmas decorations, she buys a pair of tennis shoes—a boy’s size six—and various other things to convince me that, despite her knockout body, she is the mother of at least a few children. I imagine them at home with their father. It’s a big, beautiful, clean house—organized a la Pottery Barn, and the children are dressed for the day, although it is only ten in morning. Perhaps they’re decorating a gingerbread house, or playing a board game—of course, they all get along. There would be a dog, too, a golden lab probably, resting lazily at their feet. Classical music plays softly in the background. </div>
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I watch the woman I would be—if I could just get it together—as she, almost in slow motion, sips coffee from a travel mug monogramed with a curvy swooping A. And on this morning, standing behind her--feeling old, sloppy and inadequate--a thought that has never occurred to me, suddenly does: A is a much better letter than C—not only is it a much fancier letter, it’s the very first in the alphabet. </div>
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This is an irrational thought, I know, but, nevertheless, here and now, on this miserable morning—when I just can’t seem to get it together—it does occur to me, for a split second. </div>
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Then an announcement from the overhead speakers interrupts my thoughts:“If there is an Angelica in the store, could she please come to the customer service desk? Angelica, please come to Customer Service.”</div>
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She looks like an Angelica—she looks like an Angelina!--she could be Angelica, I think. I watch for her reaction. There is none—except, maybe, yes, she blinked. She definitely blinked; a slow controlled blink of registration. Maybe? Maybe not. </div>
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I watch A load her bags into her cart. They are the environmentally friendly canvas bags, the same ones that I have forgotten in the trunk of my car—again! </div>
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Why, oh why, can’t I get it together? </div>
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The announcement sounds again. A doesn’t blink this time, doesn’t even seem to hear it. </div>
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I'm still watching her when she leaves, curious to see if she’ll go to Customer Service. Her strides are long, but her steps are patient and composed. Her black boots sound off delicious clicking noises. </div>
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When she passes the exterior doors to move towards the service desk, I am satisfied—I knew I saw her blink—Angelica is a suitable name for the woman I would be--if I could just get it together. </div>
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I check my watch. I'm really late. My frenzied state returns. I bite on my thumb nail, as if this might speed up the cashier who's working at a snail's pace.</div>
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“HURRY UP!” </div>
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The voice is loud and guttural and mean. And it isn't mine. </div>
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It’s Angelica’s.</div>
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She’s marching, fast and furiously, now, out the door, screaming over her shoulder at a boy who is approximately eleven and rushing behind her. </div>
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“Now!” </div>
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He's flustered, panicked. He wants to obey, needs to obey, but he keeps glancing behind him.</div>
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“C’mon,” he calls to another boy of about seven. </div>
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There’s terror in his eyes. </div>
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Angelica is outside now. </div>
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“C’mon,” the boy calls again to his brother, and the younger brother moves more quickly. But he, too, keeps watching over his shoulder.</div>
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Another boy appears. </div>
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It's a toddler. He's following about ten steps behind the seven-year-old, who is five steps behind the eleven-year-old, who is almost out the door—although still looking back with that pitiful and panicked expression. </div>
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Angelica is long gone. </div>
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Then so is the eleven-year-old.</div>
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Then so is the seven-year-old.</div>
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Then, after a few brief seconds when he is alone in the store, so is the two-year-old.</div>
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And so is my notion of the perfect women, the women I could be, if I could only get it together </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-40804057399291028662012-12-31T19:57:00.003-08:002013-01-01T08:40:48.909-08:00Some 2013 Resolutions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It's that reflecting time of year.... </div>
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The Storm: "In 2013, I'm going to work on my patience." </div>
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Me: "I resolve less technology for everyone!"<br />
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Sunshine: "I'm going to have better posture because I think bad posture is ugly and I want to be pretty."<br />
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Shadow: "I'm already pretty and I know it. Instead, I resolve to be walked more often."<br />
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Balthazar: "I'm going to convince my wife to stop posting about our personal lives on her blog."<br />
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Me: "But just look at these faces, how can I not share them with the world?"<br />
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Hollywood: "I'm going to procrastinate less."<br />
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Cuz (visiting from Canada): "Can I tell you later?"<br />
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What's your 2013 resolution?</div>
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Happy New Year, Everyone! Thanks for reading! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-92051121861290832372012-12-20T08:23:00.000-08:002012-12-20T09:15:11.196-08:00Holiday Sock Day!It's officially Holiday Sock Day at The Storm's school.<br />
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"Wear your high-cut Converse," Sunshine offered. "Here, wear them like this. This is the style. Let me help you."<br />
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Ah, sisterly love--an early Christmas present for Mom to enjoy while she sips her morning tea.<br />
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We done good, Balthazar!<br />
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Even Shadow agrees.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-47618320272305189152012-12-09T08:36:00.000-08:002012-12-09T15:38:45.476-08:00Another Mountain Metaphor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CVBWanll0j1VedTtIZhc6OYSfxu7KNxssyin_Gtjns1WS3t5hDYLIMPzUxLJoIris27YCgDhix1eYGK82T1uzItipZrTylCU4rMG3bSRuBfQDKKNKQ830tkAqioWfeQ8c2_Jjs_QQAk/s1600/November+22nd,+2012+112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CVBWanll0j1VedTtIZhc6OYSfxu7KNxssyin_Gtjns1WS3t5hDYLIMPzUxLJoIris27YCgDhix1eYGK82T1uzItipZrTylCU4rMG3bSRuBfQDKKNKQ830tkAqioWfeQ8c2_Jjs_QQAk/s640/November+22nd,+2012+112.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The temps are unseasonably warm here in Vegas, this December. I don't know if that's a good thing, but it does make for pleasant hiking. The Coop has a favorite spot we like to hike, just west of the city, called Red Rock Canyon where the fiery red rock is as gorgeous and interesting and mesmerizing as the views from the top of mountain.<br />
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Our favorite route starts with a short walk over some mildly uphill terrain, before we reach the bottom of a mile-high saddle in the mountain. Then it's maybe an hour of serious rock scrambling, before we reach the pinnacle to settle atop our favorite overhang in the sun, for a picnic lunch.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XrHjHuoTQ8ArcDN0Ify3b-ieJrBXHFdn3hKwToo41xJsWWqOPBcho9Lrl2crn6yi1UK-uQV_qH3jYKfrkE5gpYl_ybfsztsdsgTETsMsZDUkJMZJLR4_nSmaMe0pYDasHJ44BsKZKnw/s1600/November+22nd,+2012+045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XrHjHuoTQ8ArcDN0Ify3b-ieJrBXHFdn3hKwToo41xJsWWqOPBcho9Lrl2crn6yi1UK-uQV_qH3jYKfrkE5gpYl_ybfsztsdsgTETsMsZDUkJMZJLR4_nSmaMe0pYDasHJ44BsKZKnw/s640/November+22nd,+2012+045.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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There are no trails to follow up the saddle. In fact, as many times as I've climbed it, I don't believe I've ever taken the same route twice. There are just too many protruding rocks, loose rocks, crevices to squeeze through, obstacles to get around, steep rocks to haul yourself over, and flat spots to crawl under--and too many enticing overhangs and caves that beckon to be explored. <br />
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Each new climb brings new perspectives--each step, even--and each new perspective promises a better route, so that Balthazar and I often find ourselves standing side-by-side analyzing our next move towards the top. <br />
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"This way looks good," he'll say.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg539PRPBum0Z74E7XyZh2vzwebPLq5WCM0ximSwCdpD5UqsQnwysQeuY4_NouR_GSprSaO5UTWgVWcYyfnUuibOtFCixnwd0ZUsAylmFmYChFBZ4tPqWhd3aXcselOZi2pKOv-hpxH2ro/s1600/November+22nd,+2012+068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg539PRPBum0Z74E7XyZh2vzwebPLq5WCM0ximSwCdpD5UqsQnwysQeuY4_NouR_GSprSaO5UTWgVWcYyfnUuibOtFCixnwd0ZUsAylmFmYChFBZ4tPqWhd3aXcselOZi2pKOv-hpxH2ro/s640/November+22nd,+2012+068.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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"I like this way better," I'll say. Then he'll climb a boulder and I'll skirt around it, or I'll climb a boulder and he'll skirt around it, and we'll meet up on the other side.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVC3JbvTQh8EBKuCc1XwbGNAkiima8RDesePSmhqqMgiuB1a3jWgPPnQ5WO4g7WEesuxUzu1GYe5mMjx5g51Ok2SzLzVxX91c_asGYpEMLIYIZVof3kRYXOXdliCJA_IX5B__qcNaQE2k/s1600/November+22nd,+2012+071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVC3JbvTQh8EBKuCc1XwbGNAkiima8RDesePSmhqqMgiuB1a3jWgPPnQ5WO4g7WEesuxUzu1GYe5mMjx5g51Ok2SzLzVxX91c_asGYpEMLIYIZVof3kRYXOXdliCJA_IX5B__qcNaQE2k/s640/November+22nd,+2012+071.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Mountains have always been obvious metaphors for life. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5LgIkGzlWRfgVQBREj1WjvcZyyf5_4LqlfbkSQ0Z5PaYlpW-L7iruR_46pa5nQHevVs-uBebES-7gnpun9k-h6PXQk-VFjRwFvxUc33-rWCRt81wnkDo0ITcwiAsVvAEy0Z43g-Ed7A/s1600/November+22nd,+2012+047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5LgIkGzlWRfgVQBREj1WjvcZyyf5_4LqlfbkSQ0Z5PaYlpW-L7iruR_46pa5nQHevVs-uBebES-7gnpun9k-h6PXQk-VFjRwFvxUc33-rWCRt81wnkDo0ITcwiAsVvAEy0Z43g-Ed7A/s640/November+22nd,+2012+047.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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The first time that The Coop embarked on this fabulous adventure, I worried for the kids. Everywhere up this mile high saddle is the potential to slip and scrape a knee; to twist an ankle; to really get hurt. <br />
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"Please be careful," I said, over and over, to them, that first time. And I insisted they stay within mere feet of me all the way up--so I could catch them, if they fell; advise them of the best routes; prohibit them from attempting anything too dangerous.<br />
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Mother knows best.<br />
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But now that the hike has become more familiar to us, now that I've seen how well they handle themselves on the rocks, now that I've heard the thrill in their shouts from across the mountain--<em>Mom, look at me way over here; Mom, this way is really cool; Mom, look, I'm up here, look how high I climbed-</em>-I've learned to let them be free on the mountain, to find their own paths, their own nooks.<br />
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Mother doesn't always know best.<br />
<br />
I was heartbroken when Sunshine quit ballet, last June. I was sure she was making a mistake. <br />
<br />
"You let her quit?" several people gasped, implying that I shouldn't have.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I wouldn't have--if I thought that it was up to me. But, in my heart and in my head, I knew the decision had to be hers. She had to want it a hundred times more than I wanted it for her, if she was to ever to truly call herself a ballerina. If she was ever to be happy.<br />
<br />
"I traded ballet for better grades and a social life," she says, today, completely satisfied with her decision, completely content with her life.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Hollywood, of course, wants to be an actor--I struggle with this, knowing that the life of an actor is not an easy one. I imagine all of the rejection he'll come up against before he ever <em>makes it, </em>and how this will break his heart over and over again. And he doesn't even like ramen noodles, so what will he eat?<br />
<br />
But just like it became obvious to me that ballet wasn't in Sunshine's blood, I can't deny the stars in Hollywood's eyes, the passion in soul, the drama in his future.<br />
<br />
<em>Please be careful, </em>I want to say. <em>I see a safer</em> <em>route</em>, I want to tell him. Instead, I drive him to acting classes, meet with agents, prep him for auditions.<br />
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I suppose I could say no. I could warn him away. And I could do it in such a way that he would believe me. He trusts me, so if I were to explain to him that he really would be better off with a degree in dentistry, or accounting--if I began, right now, my lobbying for his different path, I could make it so. <br />
<br />
But then would he ever shout out at me again from across the mountain?<br />
<br />
<em>Mom, look at me</em>!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-85576958070124762482012-12-02T10:06:00.000-08:002014-08-10T08:53:28.824-07:00Left Out in The Storm<br />
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It all started when Hollywood got his hair cut.<br />
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<br />
<br />
For a long time, he'd been thinking about chopping off his curls. Middle school is a tough time and we (and he) thought a shorter, less conspicuous style might make his school days a little more tolerable. <br />
<br />
The good news is that it seems to have worked. His confidence is up and he loves his new look. I like it, too: It highlights his sparkly blue eyes, his crazy long lashes, and his firm jawline. And he looks older now, more like the teen he is.<br />
<br />
But, it is with this new look, this more grown-up Hollywood, that The Storm's troubles all began. <br />
<br />
Let me back up: <br />
<br />
<em>It all started when Hollywood got his haircut.</em><br />
<br />
"Oh my gosh!" said the stylist. "I never realized how much you look like Sunshine." <br />
<br />
"Doesn't he?" I said, because although they've always looked alike, suddenly, for his new height, and his new hair, they could be twins.<br />
<br />
"Sometimes, I feel left out," said The Storm, later, when she and I left the salon to do some shopping. "I don't look like anyone."<br />
<br />
"It's just that they look like Dad and you look like me," I said--but that wasn't what she wanted to hear.<br />
<br />
For the next few days, there was much gasping over Hollywood's haircut and the strong resemblance he bore to his big sister. And the two teenagers in our home were suddenly bonding as they hadn't in years, laughing over things that weren't funny to the baby of the family, jokes too sophisticated for a nine-year-old. <br />
<br />
When she wanted to play Monopoly, they didn't. When she wanted to watch Disney movies, they wanted to watch a scary movies. When she wanted cookies, they wanted ice cream.<br />
<br />
At the dinner table, the two grew animated sharing stories about thier days at school.<br />
<br />
"She's awful," agreed Sunshine, of a teacher Hollywood was complaining about, one she knew from her own middle school years, one whose name The Storm couldn't properly pronounce. More laughing.<br />
<br />
"We're doing a science fair," said The Storm, about her own school day, but the teenagers weren't very interested.<br />
<br />
Sunshine told us instead about a girl from her science class who was probably on drugs.<br />
<br />
"We start our drug awareness course, next week," said Hollywood.<br />
<br />
"Oh, that's an intense week," said Sunshine, and she went on to preview all that Hollywood could expect.<br />
<br />
The Storm asked to be excused.<br />
<br />
We've thought a lot about this, Balthazar and I, about the very different upbringing our two daughters have had. When Sunshine was nine, our dinner table conversations included all the topics you might expect of a family with a preschooler, a second grader, and a fourth grader: dinosaurs, puppies, princesses, and the benefits of eating carrots.<br />
<br />
But The Storm, at nine, has been exposed to entirely different family dinner experience. <br />
<br />
It's the way of things, Balthazar and I said, by way of forgiving ourselves for the movies we've allowed her to see, the words she's heard, the subjects explored at our table.<br />
<br />
Then one evening, shortly after Hollywood had his curls lopped off, when again the subject of how much he resembled his sister came up, The Storm snuck away without even asking to be excused.<br />
<br />
She'd been crying for twenty minutes when we found her. <br />
<br />
"We can't help it if we look alike," said Sunshine.<br />
<br />
It's more than that I explained after I'd spent another several days thinking about it: "Just because she can keep up with our fast growing family doesn't mean she should have to. She's nine. We need to make room for our nine-year-old."<br />
<br />
We started with a game of Monopoly. <br />
<br />
Then a family trip to the Santa Monica Pier... <br />
<br />
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<br />
to turn us all into nine-year-olds...<br />
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<br />
...for just one more day.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-42956669772403244422012-11-28T10:58:00.000-08:002012-12-02T07:40:13.936-08:00Eight Easy Steps to Torture Your Teenager <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ajbA3yEFf93jQDJrbsnqIEs2-0Inft8Kn7Q8F4x8ShL-yGHGPLQxkw_Nai1gqtOV4GHwHjYTnRRYiHPXdEMbPRS25orvH23zqSHNA0Azm20a56XZpVRozVRMXcOj0UJC84a2Ns85XOU/s1600/November+3rd,+2012+303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ajbA3yEFf93jQDJrbsnqIEs2-0Inft8Kn7Q8F4x8ShL-yGHGPLQxkw_Nai1gqtOV4GHwHjYTnRRYiHPXdEMbPRS25orvH23zqSHNA0Azm20a56XZpVRozVRMXcOj0UJC84a2Ns85XOU/s640/November+3rd,+2012+303.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
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1. Write a blog about her--include personal information and pictures.<br />
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2. Include a link to your blog in your email auto-signature.<br />
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3. Send an email to her English teacher...<br />
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4. ...in the middle of the school day while your teenager is sitting in English class.<br />
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5. Choose a day when the students are ahead of schedule in their Jane Eyre studies and have 20 minutes to kill before the bell rings.<br />
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6. Be sure the teacher has a SmartScreen or a some similar technology, so that she can project a magnified version of your blog to the front of the room for all to read.<br />
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7. Be sure the English teacher has a nice reading voice so that she will do a brilliant job of reading aloud the posts you've written--about your teenager, her boyfriend, her goofy behavior and her teenage temperment--for the entire 10th grade English class.<br />
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8. Also be sure the teacher has a whiteboard, a fresh dry erase marker and concise handwriting, in order that she may share your blog's URL with the students for them to also enjoy it at home.<br />
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That's it. That's all it takes. Have fun with it! (I sure did!)<br />
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<em>Note: The ever cool cat, Sunshine, took it all in stride--although she admits to blushing furiously--and The Coop had a good laugh about it that night at home. </em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-76707229053773590192012-11-14T06:42:00.003-08:002012-11-14T08:00:54.675-08:00Stop. Drop. And Roll. From the time they are very young we start teaching our children to be safe. We warn them to stay away from the hot oven or the fireplace; to watch their fingers near doors; not to talk to strangers. We teach them to stop, look, and listen before crossing the road. "Never stick a knife in the toaster," we say. "Never play with matches." Then we prep them for emergencies, in case they do: "Stop, drop, and roll."<br />
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We warn them, again, as they grow older of the dangers of strangers; then the dangers of the internet; the dangers of drinking and driving; and eventually even about the dangers of premarital sex. So, so many dangers that I can't even come close to listing them here.<br />
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Then, finally, we will need to free them to the big, bad world--when all we can do is hope, hope that they remember what we taught them; that they think smart and act quickly; that they use their common sense; that they be lucky.<br />
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For the most part, I feel confident about my children's safety. They're smart. They've got savvy. They follow rules. So, I sleep pretty easy at night.<br />
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Then I wake in the morning to this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXt3j3CceNQeZPyHyDNN5T2EUDt3Q9fpacvPeqczIq2P3mlKi8U40TwlKZ_TV7X6djv0TB3iZczzpel2HX4L_cJGuJDHISVC2ExFyHac1mxmhKCD7exSsIWE6Anr_CVRVioinIssiWSFQ/s1600/November+3rd,+2012+331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXt3j3CceNQeZPyHyDNN5T2EUDt3Q9fpacvPeqczIq2P3mlKi8U40TwlKZ_TV7X6djv0TB3iZczzpel2HX4L_cJGuJDHISVC2ExFyHac1mxmhKCD7exSsIWE6Anr_CVRVioinIssiWSFQ/s640/November+3rd,+2012+331.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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"What are you doing? Haven't I taught you anything?"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPCPTHGB5_xDSIAer1Oq3pS7UTMGFe32xVYuPr4gKbdi9hH0Ep8T3jtKU2ERyPU4M1pLmppLy5tY_deQhXdxM8LLd8CiYCyq6oH-UbJN7LaCo5gwqdmx3mu22pJi8ji8UslboW92umjw/s1600/November+3rd,+2012+332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPCPTHGB5_xDSIAer1Oq3pS7UTMGFe32xVYuPr4gKbdi9hH0Ep8T3jtKU2ERyPU4M1pLmppLy5tY_deQhXdxM8LLd8CiYCyq6oH-UbJN7LaCo5gwqdmx3mu22pJi8ji8UslboW92umjw/s640/November+3rd,+2012+332.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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"It's okay, Mom. It works. I saw it on the internet." </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-TgYO4LR1freVr__CK2fKRQcye9oE-_pG7winTnrqrzB-na7mPVfTyNnlzpV2G5bhhQOlVzfGh6pQLe_X9NipERUPYGjeRPSXDgUMEWs-nHsQE_8dalfG4Mj7mUiopP4SIDdTea1Tvg/s1600/November+3rd,+2012+333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-TgYO4LR1freVr__CK2fKRQcye9oE-_pG7winTnrqrzB-na7mPVfTyNnlzpV2G5bhhQOlVzfGh6pQLe_X9NipERUPYGjeRPSXDgUMEWs-nHsQE_8dalfG4Mj7mUiopP4SIDdTea1Tvg/s640/November+3rd,+2012+333.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Heaven help us! It's definitely time for some refresher courses. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-24966311492803231212012-11-07T23:15:00.000-08:002012-11-07T23:33:48.574-08:00Greener Grasses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANbFt0cwPIw-Gfo2hwqF-OjGIiM0wDtQ4SCkmbK8RNI9JtOMOi2NOPOCwc9_6eXtl-_aV91-X7RTZ9VVTPtU94Xg-SE0O7jWajnSa8VdoHP71L6WcV7XhGttkVCbQ5c8NTuchhrkaCdA/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANbFt0cwPIw-Gfo2hwqF-OjGIiM0wDtQ4SCkmbK8RNI9JtOMOi2NOPOCwc9_6eXtl-_aV91-X7RTZ9VVTPtU94Xg-SE0O7jWajnSa8VdoHP71L6WcV7XhGttkVCbQ5c8NTuchhrkaCdA/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+352.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Before we moved into our home, she had sat vacant for five years, so the neighbors have told us. She wasn't in terrible condition, just sadly neglected. But we liked the neighborhood and the price, and she was in better shape than a lot of abandoned houses in Vegas. So, last January, we bought her. Immediately, we tackled the most important work. We fixed what was broken and scrubbed what needed scrubbing. We ripped up the filthy carpets to lay shiny new floors; and then we unpacked. </div>
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Right about that time, of course, began our five months of lousy hell, wherein all household renovations were put aside while we battled the bugs.</div>
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Then it was summer in Vegas and too damn hot to do anything.</div>
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But in the lovely temperatures of fall, and bug-free, The Coop finally got at our home-in-progress projects again, painting and decorating, and tending to our abode with all the TLC she hadn't had for so long. </div>
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"It's starting to feel like a home," said Sunshine, and I agreed. Warm hues on the wall and some attention to cozy and comforting details had made the difference--on the inside anyway, but there was still the matter of the yard. In the front it was fine. The demands of the HOA ensured that the bank had kept the grass watered and the weeds plucked, but the backyard was a whole other story.</div>
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For five years, the backyard, which was obviously once rich with greens and florals and palms, was left to grow dry and die, so that by the time we arrived to clean her up, we were forced to yank more than two thirds of the original trees and bushes, more than thirty, in total. And the driest of dirt had long ago replaced the back lawn. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iMNGkT0_LkQrnYdpxOKlVwKqz2CZVlHyONE4rAZIpP6zkl_o7_Nsezx1toDq7W-TY7xtGS4VT5VHBoM9rQ_VeZCU4p090sU724vrYS3JBl8lWOLog5ZiIMCce_wMATEbplltZHlBgEk/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+353.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iMNGkT0_LkQrnYdpxOKlVwKqz2CZVlHyONE4rAZIpP6zkl_o7_Nsezx1toDq7W-TY7xtGS4VT5VHBoM9rQ_VeZCU4p090sU724vrYS3JBl8lWOLog5ZiIMCce_wMATEbplltZHlBgEk/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+353.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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First we tried seeding. The result: Many, many birds. Then long weeds grew, in sporadic clumps, of the few seeds our feathered friends had missed. </div>
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We would need to sod, we determined, but it would be expensive--and double that for the labor. </div>
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"We'll do it ourselves," said Balthazar.</div>
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And, this weekend, we did! Or rather, they did.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHtUH8KfRuEUFkuG5BfFLg1u_VHOFQHmwvlCSSxBKEyvGOPM7OJbM3mYYhUNvKHclxczcoDAT4jmku25zqazMlOU-1ah4AqJbHllfZEKt535v7wXZ1AbohIoJt63ZMRyxXvIZnoFJG_4/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHtUH8KfRuEUFkuG5BfFLg1u_VHOFQHmwvlCSSxBKEyvGOPM7OJbM3mYYhUNvKHclxczcoDAT4jmku25zqazMlOU-1ah4AqJbHllfZEKt535v7wXZ1AbohIoJt63ZMRyxXvIZnoFJG_4/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+364.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Hollywood hauled the sod from the driveway, where it had been delivered, to the backyard. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOz1fcfvaoKvk1PFU82kmnJ7jlhU7F-wY_G-VL0N9zhYMLV3MXlxd5yq3hXnAAfoUnkpG3IxyfQwH89SHjKuyCqPAKSqDflC2IVBn-55APV7D_2zJE9TpGEwaJ2ZZDcgngL180PrXkQ4I/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOz1fcfvaoKvk1PFU82kmnJ7jlhU7F-wY_G-VL0N9zhYMLV3MXlxd5yq3hXnAAfoUnkpG3IxyfQwH89SHjKuyCqPAKSqDflC2IVBn-55APV7D_2zJE9TpGEwaJ2ZZDcgngL180PrXkQ4I/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+355.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Balthazar layed it out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoecPYgmpr5y16ZpHxDarQx-GY2lrj5enTtP-YqYRkOFCV5fZB4BWW8yaT5K84TQ6JXWTYxJBl-ulG_1YDHLh-5Lfv7_08JUCI3XNVf7pFMoRjB3wdqLM4rdor-EMa3aN2LO39HdIaa0/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoecPYgmpr5y16ZpHxDarQx-GY2lrj5enTtP-YqYRkOFCV5fZB4BWW8yaT5K84TQ6JXWTYxJBl-ulG_1YDHLh-5Lfv7_08JUCI3XNVf7pFMoRjB3wdqLM4rdor-EMa3aN2LO39HdIaa0/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+347.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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The Storm stamped it down and watered it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhei6j_8rkULSjkdZvkIGFKEYuL8KYgWIhxDFBzhEFxFZCgXOjwlIMdMZ3IIXeEnKdVGOjRnsnD2fu3UhXhZuail84KuBX_UhxsoTAICMZF9jNHNB-usgXORt7VBdetFNzT2mLFa516Ki8/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhei6j_8rkULSjkdZvkIGFKEYuL8KYgWIhxDFBzhEFxFZCgXOjwlIMdMZ3IIXeEnKdVGOjRnsnD2fu3UhXhZuail84KuBX_UhxsoTAICMZF9jNHNB-usgXORt7VBdetFNzT2mLFa516Ki8/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+348.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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And Sunshine tilled the dirt in prepartion for it all.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYToBGuZgX5bxBd-VTpzazR3jLX9zWCdTJi1GQ5GzwPbW0YWRa6BBvuao7Go8YKLmaMQFmvjkvsyMcoCngcB_w580H05Awja99d-NC2MPmEVueJ8YiIaEYUpd8aY8dYHcwe-RyYICjEM/s1600/November+3rd%252C+2012+346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYToBGuZgX5bxBd-VTpzazR3jLX9zWCdTJi1GQ5GzwPbW0YWRa6BBvuao7Go8YKLmaMQFmvjkvsyMcoCngcB_w580H05Awja99d-NC2MPmEVueJ8YiIaEYUpd8aY8dYHcwe-RyYICjEM/s640/November+3rd%252C+2012+346.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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For my part, I made and delivered pancakes--they started very early on Saturday morning.</div>
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Kids today aren't required to do much manual labor, particularly anything so strenuous as laying sod. In one sense that's good; In another, it's a shame. The physical exertion of heavy lifting is so thoroughly satisfying; the pride of a job well done is utterly fulfilling; and the pillow on your bed, at the end of it all--aah!--there's not much better.</div>
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All three of the kids had a blast! And Balthazar was mighty proud of them. </div>
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Sure, they were a bit sore the next day, but it was that good kind of sore.</div>
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As for me, now I can say, without a doubt: The grass really is greener on my side of the six foot wall!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-81772487572711914712012-11-01T22:50:00.000-07:002012-11-01T23:01:37.305-07:00The Pumpkin Patch <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sunshine was two when we made our first annual trip to the pumpkin patch. We were dressed in winter coats, of course, when we visited a farm north of Toronto, Ontario, where the cornfield maze was so large there were lookouts stationed in high set chairs, like lifeguards, to direct the too-long lost through bullhorns.</div>
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When Hollywood was two we moved to Iowa, where the corn stood equally high, and as far as the eye could see. The pumpkin farms (and fun) went on for days--hayrides, petting zoos, mini tractor racetracks, and whole pools of corn kernels to dig in--and could be stumbled upon every few ever-so-flat miles. </div>
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Now, we are in Vegas. The pumpkin patches come in from California to set down in parking lots on busy street corners. When they finally haul out, Christmas trees replace them, on the blacktop. </div>
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But they aren't without their thrills! </div>
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Her smile says it all!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-48695277995965079122012-10-27T00:16:00.000-07:002012-10-29T09:39:26.867-07:00The Devil and Mrs. Potato HeadIn one of my earliest Halloween memories, I'm five years old and already the kids are knocking at the door, even though my mother's only come home from work, and my father, too. I remember that they took turns shelling out candy, while they scrounged up a costume for me. I recall being disappointed when my father suggested they put his old coat on me so that I could be a hobo, then my delight as he lit a match and burned the butt of a wine cork to rub on my face--dirtying me up enough to satisfy my five-year-old sense of authenticity. In my memory, crumpled newspapers are wrapped in a blue bandanna that hangs from the end of a stick I carried--although I suspect this is just my grown-up self filling in the details. In actuality, I would have carried a plastic shopping bag.<br />
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By the time I was seven, I'd taken Halloween matters into my own hands, designing a devil's costume--my best friend was an angel. I wore red shorts over red tights, and the same red turtle neck of my school picture that year. I carried a big pitchfork made of tinfoil and wore horns of the same, attached to a hair band, as well as a tail safety-pinned to my bottom.<br />
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This is the last Halloween costume I can remember wearing as a child, although, of course, it isn't the last one I wore. I trick-or-treated well into high school and then there were parties and dances every year after that, right on through college and into my early years with Balthazar, when we dressed up as Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. I remember that year well: the trip to Goodwill, and the fabric store, and the hours we spent together on the floor sewing felt to foam.<br />
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I'm not sure why I can't remember my costumes of the fifteen years in between the devil and Mrs. Potato Head, but I suspect (because each year my parents had a little more money than the last) that these costumes that have escaped my memory were of the purchased sort, and not homemade.<br />
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Last week, two weeks in advance of Halloween 2012, The Storm and I went costume shopping for her. She had a particular outfit in mind, one she'd seen online, and sure enough when we arrived to the party store, there it was on the wall with the hundred others that I'll see over and over again on my doorstep on October 31st; the hundred others that will make their way door-to-door across America.<br />
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But, since it was only two weeks until Halloween, the store was already sold out of The Storm's size. She tried on a slightly larger one--but it was too large. She opted for a second choice, to the same results. And a third. <br />
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"Why don't we go home and make you a costume?" I said. The entire costume-shopping experience was becoming a bit of a Halloween nightmare: the aisles were overcrowded; children were throwing tantrums; the staff was miserable; and the bright fluorescent lights seemed to magnify everything, including the cheap quality of the overpriced satins and plastics.<br />
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"Maybe I'll try that one," The Storm said, pointing to a fourth choice, instead.<br />
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"Sorry," said another dead-eyed staff person.<br />
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"Well, I'll take that one then," she said of a little red devil's costume.<br />
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"I was a devil one Halloween," I told her. "I remember it perfectly." And I told her all about my big pitchfork of tinfoil. <br />
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She wasn't really interested. </div>
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I wonder if she'll remember those sparkly wings thirty-five years from now? I don't think so. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-1589112331591031022012-10-16T09:21:00.000-07:002012-10-16T17:09:53.092-07:00Fall's Colors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Fall in Las Vegas is a wonderful time! Even without all the golden hues. </div>
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When the summer heat finally lets up and the temperatures drop into the pleasant 80's, and even into the 70's, folks start to venture outside again. In that way, it's sort of like spring everywhere else. Anyway, after a long hot desert summer, we're making the most of it. </div>
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Here are some pics of our Sunday morning walk.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxICTuo93OdX-mRRYbHPKMzNznOer4zsKug_75BN-iyBi1CFh-47p2nEvflmicpWGX0BAsCIgcbtlMzS8A8RLVVGDvrVNikEwaP89DDeKnp_yiRpd4syQANlRLF5YNpgRAuWeZUd8m0DA/s1600/October+16th,+2012+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxICTuo93OdX-mRRYbHPKMzNznOer4zsKug_75BN-iyBi1CFh-47p2nEvflmicpWGX0BAsCIgcbtlMzS8A8RLVVGDvrVNikEwaP89DDeKnp_yiRpd4syQANlRLF5YNpgRAuWeZUd8m0DA/s640/October+16th,+2012+025.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-sJkJH0M5Y8uLTJFZIr_S_SEnP9uUJ8Z4ugSg2crj0F6dFLPw6OtcQn5DJVrCD2padcqs_xSslXs1-BzfGYD-pt_ut94hcttJW_TSXe9o1NiCZ1YLPRgWppo1OjwUuLb7-dLs4WmFOs/s1600/October+16th,+2012+031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-sJkJH0M5Y8uLTJFZIr_S_SEnP9uUJ8Z4ugSg2crj0F6dFLPw6OtcQn5DJVrCD2padcqs_xSslXs1-BzfGYD-pt_ut94hcttJW_TSXe9o1NiCZ1YLPRgWppo1OjwUuLb7-dLs4WmFOs/s640/October+16th,+2012+031.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Of course, we stopped to check out butterflies....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkf3X_I6BboEfOnbNaFwVpfCeHYwfs4p9amHp931UQzw_-xYvA_OzEuJuYR6FHmpGs069GLJuzODr85BsPwtgbhn6GNeS2co260RxpYK6Fholzmdv-_m1dWesxMO4OPton2SGFwGp5Vs/s1600/October+16th,+2012+049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkf3X_I6BboEfOnbNaFwVpfCeHYwfs4p9amHp931UQzw_-xYvA_OzEuJuYR6FHmpGs069GLJuzODr85BsPwtgbhn6GNeS2co260RxpYK6Fholzmdv-_m1dWesxMO4OPton2SGFwGp5Vs/s640/October+16th,+2012+049.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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And the ponds and waterfalls (courtesy of the Hoover Dam and some hefty HOA fees)....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jV9OIU51ja_mC6YxTDzBDT2OjtO-65TGWwGgwGS0_uSThukGgMhxWdmGWvPeUfdHO9hPtRDEep8V6X_3OQhI5N8YIIfrlNNKJhKtsxRuMeDdyScvuFprKLCMqCrJerAMsIqPvZhdf7A/s1600/October+16th,+2012+033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jV9OIU51ja_mC6YxTDzBDT2OjtO-65TGWwGgwGS0_uSThukGgMhxWdmGWvPeUfdHO9hPtRDEep8V6X_3OQhI5N8YIIfrlNNKJhKtsxRuMeDdyScvuFprKLCMqCrJerAMsIqPvZhdf7A/s640/October+16th,+2012+033.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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We climbed a few trees....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDGuM0Yrq-H5rWZN6lOyFFOpPYB7pVCqS_aH_JbgZsGyFX401Iv7XPCe_tt1s3TYwOsjPsNR5_XhF7jHvI500a15PWrbqqwh-LgMS63jaxNlLUE-VMsuaQ12ceL0B9ELG41A8K4SMduU/s1600/October+16th,+2012+044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDGuM0Yrq-H5rWZN6lOyFFOpPYB7pVCqS_aH_JbgZsGyFX401Iv7XPCe_tt1s3TYwOsjPsNR5_XhF7jHvI500a15PWrbqqwh-LgMS63jaxNlLUE-VMsuaQ12ceL0B9ELG41A8K4SMduU/s640/October+16th,+2012+044.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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And every few blocks we stopped to water and rest Shadow... </div>
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Meet Shadow! She's our five-and-a-half-year-old miniature schnauzer. (Here's the funny story about how she came to be a part of our family; page 27, "The Ultimatum": <a href="http://www.vegasseven.com/digital/2012/08/09/flip">http://www.vegasseven.com/digital/2012/08/09/flip</a>) </div>
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Until, eventually, there was no more water, and our slow-going walk had moved well beyond the cool of early morning, so the black and furry Shadow--who works ten times as hard as necessary, for all the leash-pulling she does--could no longer go on. <br />
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While The Coop had a sit down, Mom jogged the remaining mile home to fetch the truck, to save the dog (who swallowed the fly?) I don't know why.<br />
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"You love that dog," says Balthazar.<br />
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"I don't," I reply. (See "The Ultimatum.")<br />
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Anyway, once home, we put on our painting clothes and the kids went at the family room walls, graffiti-style. The cooler weather has inspired us to finally decorate the home we purchased last winter. (That and I'm not nearly in the car so much, since Sunshine left ballet, so I have time now.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBI0kOPZnWSHvm44XAQxlOwCVz78PDnxMIj83Y-6FaP98PD_MY1yw-JwjIF6U1tJXmsWWUBaQ6OLpxG9ZgazvaISHeyEPGm_462qCtucG66QZcZ73vOZkrouNwSUbL30S0VL0qiqmQ5OI/s1600/October+16th,+2012+050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBI0kOPZnWSHvm44XAQxlOwCVz78PDnxMIj83Y-6FaP98PD_MY1yw-JwjIF6U1tJXmsWWUBaQ6OLpxG9ZgazvaISHeyEPGm_462qCtucG66QZcZ73vOZkrouNwSUbL30S0VL0qiqmQ5OI/s640/October+16th,+2012+050.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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It was a bit bold of us to settle on gray and red--we're generally more taupe-like folks. But, I gotta say, I'm loving the contrast! <br />
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We hope to have the whole house finished by Christmas. Pics of the dining room, next week. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6701715976056455488.post-19624141917332555732012-10-06T06:59:00.001-07:002014-08-10T08:21:57.678-07:00Mini Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1ME0_k15MZeEqS_xsi21pS6o-znG_Ug_JkhArZHXtdSvKf2b8Dtt4Z0m2ShJsV9ULTR_bbZFpArj2_bHG96EomIaRMJziq4VQKcuH2FMaoU7oFN3WEgIv6Ak8GXI8D6JSY8-H8WWwbk/s1600/September+22,+2012+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1ME0_k15MZeEqS_xsi21pS6o-znG_Ug_JkhArZHXtdSvKf2b8Dtt4Z0m2ShJsV9ULTR_bbZFpArj2_bHG96EomIaRMJziq4VQKcuH2FMaoU7oFN3WEgIv6Ak8GXI8D6JSY8-H8WWwbk/s640/September+22,+2012+002.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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"Check out that sky," Hollywood said to his teammates, earlier this week, when Vegas bestowed another beautiful sunset upon us.<br />
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14 teenage boys turned to look at him with blank faces.<br />
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"Yep," he said. "I'm turning into my mom."<br />
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Then last night he fell into the couch with an old person's groan: "Now, I'm turning into Dad."<br />
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~</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiAfXzurDunUBxFuKD_kzamRk2ykx2SpSoYb_8bVFpxXiofVn4sJp4flpEnet1x-64oPy3hFNDI6s3FV3piKG3y0d2eLVvgBcbYAszzRJhm871oaKsCSs7hfJCdd08B0CnPgOH2r1ynk/s1600/September+5th%252C+2012+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiAfXzurDunUBxFuKD_kzamRk2ykx2SpSoYb_8bVFpxXiofVn4sJp4flpEnet1x-64oPy3hFNDI6s3FV3piKG3y0d2eLVvgBcbYAszzRJhm871oaKsCSs7hfJCdd08B0CnPgOH2r1ynk/s640/September+5th%252C+2012+005.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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When The Storm did something to remind me of my younger self, I pulled in tight on her face and dropped my finger to her nose. "Mini me," I said.<br />
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Not missing a beat, she lifted her finger to mine: "Big me."<br />
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~</div>
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A friend coming to town was in touch, last night, to remind me that we were together when we went on our first dates. It was a Friday night, just a few weeks into the school year, when we met our dates, two school boys, in front of the movie theatre where our parents had dropped us off. Inside, we proceeded to make out with our young studs, amongst a theatre packed with families while ET begged to phone home on the big screen. <br />
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I laughed to recall the spectacle. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRj_5HPIkxb8dg60WWQicFKAB0yBXcNut4G7Ke-jKdwwxdlPyIwgDen_tG91EgrHPgL52w2QHA6BZeyY5E6NwJF3ELs-Fy29mefCMFsq0PIgYOZSXXWIJaeLmM9k2Ezu0QNV3sjA4Y0GM/s1600/September+14,+2012+035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRj_5HPIkxb8dg60WWQicFKAB0yBXcNut4G7Ke-jKdwwxdlPyIwgDen_tG91EgrHPgL52w2QHA6BZeyY5E6NwJF3ELs-Fy29mefCMFsq0PIgYOZSXXWIJaeLmM9k2Ezu0QNV3sjA4Y0GM/s640/September+14,+2012+035.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Then Sunshine arrived home from her Friday night movie date and suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2