Readers

In his first year teaching, an old boyfriend of my roommate once told my mom, "I used to read, before I started teaching."

I want to read too. I want to read a couple of books a week. I think reading is a good thing. I love reading a thought that is new or one that I have been trying to articulate for a long time or one the rings true or one that makes me go "eww". I do believe that reading, if you choose wisely to read things that are diverse, stretches you and gives you a circle of ideas that you may not be able to access in your social circle. See, reading is a good thing.

The thing is, I watch TV. The reason is my mind is always buzzing. All day long, everyday, I am thinking, making connections, and rethinking. Sometimes it can be almost manic. If I read, my mind continues to buzz. It doesn't still itself. I continue to make connections with myself. When I watch TV I can finally push pause and now think. I need that. So I tell myself.

The other thing is, I am also just too tired to read. If I get into bed and read, I am lucky if I make it three pages. But I need time to chill. If I don't chill, I can't rest. I can sleep, but it isn't quite as restful.

So I am going to push myself to start reading more than three pages a day (not including school reading and the newspaper) and see if I can also allow myself to watch TV.

I'll update the blog later on how its going and what I am reading.

Talk About Digging Deep

Sumner "passed" the quarter! Now what kind of parlance is that? Passed? As though he passed it from one person to another.

It is a well know fact that there are a lot of kind of poops. Some poops stream out. Others slowly ease themselves out. Some explode and still others plop. Sumner's poop on Saturday night, his first since the Thursday afternoon pooh I dug through, was a plopper. When he called me (and the chopsticks) in, there were about 5 or 6 firm little turds in the toilet.

I stabbed into one that was lying in the bottom of the hole where everything gets flushed. To avoid any unnecessary stink, I poked it apart underwater with the tip of the chopstick. No money. Then I jabbed into the biggest turd of all. It would not crumble as the first one did, so I brought it close to the surface of the stink-protective water. And there it was...the grooved edge of a quarter. Sumner, standing next to me with his pants around his ankles was happy to see it. He wanted to get it out of there and keep it, but I have my limits. So we flushed New Hampshire down to the sewers. I shudder to think who it may "pass" onto. Be wary of New Hamphire quarters that you find on the ocean floor. You never know.

Annabelle Grace

My friend Darcy, who I have known since we moved down the alley from her when I was nearly three, had a baby and she dared to name it Annabelle. Annabelle Grace. Heaven help us.

To say that Darcy and I have strong personalities is an understatement. She has been likened to (and played the part of) Lucy (from the comic strip Peanuts). And me? To Darcy's Lucy I am Peppermint Patty.

Some of my first memories were of arguing with Darcy over who was the boss. She was older and a little taller and she had a little sister, so I pretty much was stuck under her regime for a while. Later, her little sister came over to my side, I grew and she didn't (she's like 4'11"), and I realized that she was only a month older than me. I managed to get a word in edgewise and we fought some more. Most of the time, we get along just fine. It is so comfortable to be with her and her husband. It's just...if she would listen to me and do what I said--and vice versa--we'd all be just fine.

We love to play games with Darcy and Thad and her sister Dell and husband Tony. We giggle and giggle and giggle.

As you might have gathered from this blog, good old Annabelle has some punch too. She taught me how to stand up to Darcy. She and Darcy both are direct and they don't mince words. They are smart and snappy. They aren't afraid to stand up for themselves.

When my parents exiled themselves to Iowa, Darcy and her husband Thad were already in that strange land, for Darcy's medical school. She and Thad would spend random Sundays and lonely holidays with my parents. My parents would visit them in the big city of Des Moines and see Darcy's latest decorating home project or the new addition Thad put onto their house after dinner and a movie. There is a lot of affection between the four of them.

So Darcy dared to name her brand new baby Annabelle. Annabelle Grace. I recently heard that grace is how God resources us to handle out lives in all of their beautiful and bleak reality. Darcy will need some grace to raise another Annabelle.

God bless them all. I can't wait to meet this little one.

I Know An Old Lady

who swallowed a fly...I dunno why she swallowed a fly...perhaps she'll die.

I have a young son...who swallowed a quarter...I dunno why he swallowed a quarter...perhaps he'll die.

Have you ever dug into your child's feces with a single chopstick in an effort to double check that the foreign object they swallowed "passed"? I can now say, I have.

Last night at 6:30, just as I was tidying up the dinner dishes, Sumner slumped into the kitchen and asked for a glass of water. After taking a sip he admitted he had just swallowed a quarter.

"And how did that quarter happen to be in your mouth?" I asked.

"I was playing with it. In my mouth."

Annoyed and worried, I called Phil and the Children's Hospital ED and my pediatrician’s help line. They all concurred: take him in.

Now I don't want to sound heartless, but I did not want to take him in. Sumner woke up that very morning at 4:15AM, early even for him. The weekend before I was in DC staying up too late acting like it was Phoenix 1997. Monday I tried to recuperate. Tuesday I turned in a paper and had a late-ish night out with the kids (9PM) for a Parent Council Meeting while Phil was on call. I was so looking forward to children in bed and asleep at 7PM and an hour or so to myself before Phil came home. And now this.

Well, he wasn't having trouble breathing, so I made the kids take their meds, clean their toys up, and brush their teeth. Ramona got in PJs and Sumner changed into pants he could sleep in and we took off, in the rain, for the hospital. Phil met us there and took Ramona home while Sumner and I registered.

We were there for about 4 hours. Here are some of the highlights:

• Coloring on Xeroxed sheets of Sponge Bob and Pooh Bear and other such nonsense with some of the other children in the waiting room and then turning over a Scooby Doo sheet and free styling a couple colorful designs and drawings. That got every child at the coloring table's attention. Why don't places like that stick with blank paper?
• Watching Sumner get a little scared and mainly thrilled by a made-for-TV kid's Disney movie: his hand was over his mouth as he said, "My heart is beating so fast."
• Exposing him to the original "Parent Trap" when we finally got a room and borrowed a video from the ED video shelf. Sumner's reaction, "They're sisters."
• Watching the nurses get a kick out of Sumner, who loves to have his blood pressure taken and oxygen tested, "I just love things that squeeze something on me and show numbers about me."
• Hearing him explain to one of these nurses that he doesn't like needles and needing reassurance that he won't need to have one poke him. I said, "Let's not worrying about that right now." He said, "I am not so good at putting away worry."
• While he was getting his chest x-rayed, he smiled for the camera--really big and cheesy. Later, after we saw the film, he told me, "I thought I was going to be able to see my face and the face on the quarter."

The film proved that the quarter was not in his lung or esophagus. By 10:30PM it was already in his stomach. While we were waiting for a cab, I lectured him about how ridiculous this whole situation was and told him to lay off the quarters. “Don’t put things in your mouth ever again.” He smiled at me and said, “Even food?” We were home by 11 and his was asleep about 2 minutes later.

In therapy I have learned to be able to say: a lot of crazy and often difficult things have happened to me in the last seven years. Now it is October 2005. Hurricane. Retina. Quarters. What next?

Two final thoughts: 1. My brother swallowed a nickel in seventh grade, never told anyone, and is still worried that it is inside of him doing damage. So, I am going to be digging in more poop so that this doesn't haunt Sumner at age 25. 2. My brother also shoved a hot tamale up his nose once. They rushed him to the ED, but it had dissolved there and stung like crazy. 3. The quarter was a New Hampshire quarter.

This is that most blog like blog I have blogged.

Ramona Told Phil

That he didn't have fat boobies, like Mommy, and that when she grew up she was going to have fat boobies, like Mommy. Lucky her.

Policy change

I just can't have all of these annoying advertising comments on my email, so from now on you need to register to make a comment. Sorry that I have to do that.

TFA Take Aways

Young Americans, David Bowie is playing.

I went to Teach for America's 15 Year Alumni Summit in DC this weekend. I have felt rather unsure about my opinions of TFA since I entered the Corps. in 1996. There are good things about the program (good experience for well-educated folks with privilege to carry with them throughout life; some quality, committed teachers come out of the program; there is power and support in numbers; many TFA people want to change the world but they don't spend their life being depressed about the state of the world--they get change done) and some not as good things (teachers who teach with little training and experience take away from movements to professionalize teaching; the culture of TFA also sometimes leads one to think that teacher is just a springboard to something else instead of a viable career) . This weekend I realized that a lot of good things have come out of the movement: good teachers, other movements to reform education, lots of powerful story tellers--to name a few. No one is claiming that this is the only way to change education--it is just one of the many ways. So, I am going soft on TFA.

There are several things I "took away" from the conference that I have to pass on:

from Marian Wright Edelman (Children's Defense Fund):

Keep moving.

We need to redefine success: Service is what counts, not "success".

Her life is shaped by living her faith.

Keep connected to children.

Don't underestimate the progress that has been made in the world towards justice.

We need different leaders pursuing different strategies of change (incremental and radical) at the same time.

Every child is sacred.

from John Lewis, US House, Georgia:

Get in the way.

Non-violence is a way of life.

You need a sense of calling/mission/mandate.

We must deal with the intersection of poverty and race.

from David Gergen, Director of Center for Public Leadership and a guy who worked for a lot of Presidents:

"Leadership is mobilizing others in the pursuit of shared goals." Gary Wills

Leadership is a journey. An inner journey too.

With leadership, context matters. It influences the styles of leadership, but there are three universals of leadership. Leaders are people who:

• have ambitions. For what? Self? Others?
• have character.
• have personal capacity, the ability to make good decisions. B/c of this, leaders must be informed by history and their experiences. They must be able to take this info and reflect and then make good decisions.

Leaders are readers.

Every leader needs a candid friend.

Be unassuming so that you can work with people better than you.

Give voice to community by listening and then act.

Choose something. Be scholar in that area. Develop the social skills to persuade people.

Have ambition for others.

Positive character includes: integrity, candor, confidence, compassion, empathy, and consistency.

Keep reading.


Those are my notes. May be a bit boring to you. Maybe not.

Echoing a Plea from My In-Laws

I just received this email today. Please speak up. To write your congresspeople, click here for reps and here for senators.

Friends,

The reports by the national media have not accurately shown the destruction that has occurred in New Orleans. It is on a scale that can't easily be captured by a camera. Imagine the entire island of Manhattan or all of San Francisco under 8 feet of water. We have driven through the affected neighborhoods and they go on for hundreds, actually thousands of blocks. It's like a ghost town.

The city can't be saved by a mayor or a governor. It can only be saved by Congress.

Please contact your elected officials in Washington and ask them to immediately enact legislation that will authorize the aid to help rebuild.

Time is of the essence. It has been more than five weeks since Katrina and progress is alarmingly slow. It is becoming apparent that New Orleans is rapidly approaching the point where saving it may become academic.

Please act today.

Thanks,

Lynn & Rick

We Are Who We Are: Mom's Surgery Part II

So there we were, just the four of us. That is a very unusual thing. Once you grow up and get married and have kids it is very unusual to be alone with your mom and dad and brother. Family means something new once you get married and procreate. Mom and Dad especially pine away for being just the four of us, but it is not reasonable. We are not a family of 10. Sure, they really love their four grandkids and the in-laws are growing on them (read my sarcasm on this point), but their very own kids are still the apple of their eyes. They want us to themselves. They probably really want us to just shrink back into our fourth grade selves and live at 348 Washington St. with them.

Being the four of us felt so comfortable. We sat in an empty hospital wing in vinyl recliners, which would be set aside for patients on a weekday. Mom was the only patient, so we could all put our feet up. We were all our regular old selves. Mom was worried about germs and refused to tell the nurse her weight within our earshot. Dad, Jake, and I all chewed on the skin around our fingernails. Jake was dressed in his usual hip getup. Dad was talking about people he saw at his Florida conference who he knew from a number of obscure places and times and connects with in his easy way. At different times all of us--except for mom--took naps. We prayed for Mom and the grandkids and Philip and Miranda who were with the kids. We called the people who needed to know what was going on. We all tired up and got silent a couple of times. Humor also reigned. We are funny people and can crack each other up so we laughed a lot. My dad got a few of the medical details confused. I read my beloved fluffy magazines.

Mom had her surgery and it was successful. The retina reattached, but she was in bad shape for awhile (I'll spare you the pukey and pain-filled details). I stayed for a couple of days and coached Dad on how to take care of Mom, Jake and Miranda took their family back to Chicago, and then Aunt/Nurse Liz came and helped Mom out.

The thing that I keep coming back to is that we are who we are in crisis. With the hurricane and this little family emergency, I have seen it again and again. In crisis we are the same people we were the day before the crisis. After the hurricane, Rick, my father-in-law still said dollar as "dalla" and tomorrow as ta-mah-ra and hearing him say those words were still music to my ears. After my mom's surgery she was still trying to accommodate me and make sure I was relaxing enough (while I was supposed to be helping her) and I wanted her to stop worrying so much. In crisis, we rise to the occasion and we may grow and change, but essentially we are the same people who are irritated by the same things and who eat the same foods and who need the same amount of sleep. This is somehow comforting to me.

I'm back

from the movie theatre (saw "Thumbsucker) and I am listening to Burning Spear. I am resetting myself, as my week was a little hectic. Going to a movie helps to clear my head and gets me to think about someone other than myself.

The Friday before the one that was two days ago, I got a call from my dad informing me that my mom's retina had detached. My dad doesn’t like it when bad things happen. He under-reacts to things and the thought-you-may-want-to-know tone of his message seemed to be in great contrast to the information he was delivering. A retinal detachment is a pretty serious thing. So I called Mom.

She was, understandably, a little worried and emotional--crying in her silent, sweet way. Yet she was pretty calm and accepting. The problem was my dad was in Tampa, my brother and his wife were in Chicago, and Philip and I were in Boston. My brother's kids were with my mom because Jake and Miranda (brother and sister-in-law) were moving to Chicago and needed to be there looking for a new apartment. So she was kind of alone.

As you know, my parents live in Iowa, but we are not from Iowa. She knows a lot of nice people there, but there is only one distant blood relative in the state and no sisters or children and no Ruth Holmes. Ruth is our old around-the-corner neighbor and she’s your basic cookie-in-the-oven-giving-church-lady. She is someone safe that you can rely on in this kind of situation and you won't feel like you are putting her out. We have a lot of Ruth Holmes in Oregon, but my mom was kind of alone in Iowa. She got some help with the boys from her neighbor and my dad’s cousin twice removed, who is a freshman at Grinnell.

So on the Friday before the one that was two days ago, Jake, Miranda, Dad, and I all did our best to get home. Jake arrived at 4 AM on Saturday morning and slept for a couple of hours and then got up and took my mom to the doctor in Des Moines. Dad and I arrived at 11:15AM and learned that Mom needed surgery right away and all four of us headed to the hospital.

To Be Continued...

Trust and Truth

My Conversation, The Uniques

I hope my brother reads this blog. We have great parents who taught us a lot about a lot of things, but there is one lesson that my mom drove home more than any other and it is about trust and the truth. My brother and I can both imitate her Trust lecture perfectly (it is one of the shorter ones in her repertoire). If we got caught in a lie, she would sit us down. Her voice would get very serious, disappointed. Here's what she'd say, "You have lied to me. I cannot stand to be lied to. You have violated my trust. I do not feel I can trust you right now. You are going to have to earn my trust back now."

My mom always ended up forgiving us, but those words had a way of making us feel the weight of our actions. Telling the truth is an important thing. The thing is, my mom—unlike most of us--always tells the truth as she sees it. She does not lie. You can trust her with anything. She doesn't even tell white lies. She does not tell little lies of convenience. I know many of you don't believe that this could be true, but if you know my mom you can believe it. Honesty is her policy.

I remember when I first learned that big people lie (especially to little people). I was in fourth grade and I was spending the night with a friend that had a little brother and a VCR. My brother was about the same age, but we didn't have a VCR so renting a movie was a big treat. We all went to the video store and on the way there this little boy said he wanted to rent "The Three Little Pigs", which his family had obviously suffered through many times. So, the mom and my friend and her sister all started telling this little four-year-old that I was scared of the big bad wolf and so we were going to get something else. At first my impulse was to correct them, but after I got few winks from the mom in the rear view mirror and a couple of nudges from the sisters on each side of me, I kept quiet. But I was upset. Why not just tell him to get something else or say no? I felt really uncomfortable telling this little lie. This was a new practice for me.

Well, I guess I got more comfortable with lies and I tell little ones to my kids all of the time. I talked to one of my church friends (who one might think would have some sort of moral reason to tell the truth) about lying to kids and she plainly told me it was not big deal to her. They forget about it in a minute and then you avoid the conflict. This is what I do, but I am not sure I agree with her.

Lately Ramona distrusts some of the things I say. She only trusts Sumner. She is a wise child. Sumner generally will not try to trick her. "Sumner, is it a bu-zert (translation: dessert) night?" "Sumner, was there really a little mouse in our house last year?" "Will my teacher Beth be at school today?" "Sumner did we watch T.V. already today?" I cannot be trusted on these subjects.

I realize that she sees through my little lies of omission and convenience. She wants authenticity. It has been said before that she takes after old Granabelle. In truth, she does.

I am not sure I even know how to be totally honest with her. It is really hard to not just make up "stories" to keep her content and pacified. Distraction has never worked with her.

The saddest thing of all is that I have been teaching Sumner to tell her little lies too. Tuesday we made pizzas. They each made their own and there were two pieces left, one from each of their pizzas. I put both of them in Sumner's lunch on Wednesday and on the way out the door to the bus stop, he asked what was in his lunch and I told him. Ever the math student he said, "So you gave me my piece and Ramona's piece." "Something like that," I dodged. "Well, there was one of hers and one of mine left, so you must have given me one of hers." Ramona cried, "Is he going to eat mine?" and dropped her shoes and her cooperative demeanor. "Let's go guys," I coaxed and winked at Sumner, "Let's just not worry about it." Ramona clearly was going to obsess about it. Sumner saw my wink and put his hand on her shoulder and gently said something like, "I won't eat your pizza." But he was going to. He winked back at me proudly, having done just what I asked. She calmed down and we made it to the bus stop in time. She forgot about it. But how many times will it take for Sumner to lie to her before she has no one to trust?

The thing is if you start lying, where does it stop? My mom used to make this slippery slope argument and I never was sure if I bought it. What harm does a little lie do? Sometimes? Nothing. Most of the time? It erodes the trust we all need to have between each other to live with and love one another. I am going to try to practice honesty. The task is daunting.

Today

Coconut Telegraph, Jimmy Buffet

School's not so bad.

1. I had such low expectations for my class that I have been pleasantly surprised. It has two things going for it: all of the students are teachers and the professor is a teacher. Now you may say, isn't this a school of education? Aren't all of the students and professors teachers? It my experience this has not been so. Who can be a teacher and afford to go to Harvard? (Someone who’s family is rich or husband is going to be a doctor.) In fact, I have had a hard time finding the teachers at the Ed School. Many of the students at the Ed School want to get out of teaching or never taught and most of the professors are researchers who happen to teach. This professor taught for 25 years and happens to be a researcher. This is a class for teachers about teacher leadership. So, that's a good thing.

2. I love working at Sumner's school. Good parents, good teachers, and an excellent principal. I get to talk to people and connect them with one another and learn about them. That's all of my favorite stuff. Another good thing.

3. It is manageable, at least for now. I have been plagued with fears about managing my home and school life, as it has proved impossible in the past to manage. These last few weeks have been madness, but it is falling into place now. I am driving less. I have time for school and time for myself. I am writing a blog. Ramona and I made lemon bars for Sumner and I and banana muffins for all of us and a roast today. And working energizes me in a way that caring for people does not. A very good thing.

As usual my anticipation for what is to come is much more dramatic than the real thing. I am going to be able to do this thing. I've grown. I hope.

Tomorrow

I start school tomorrow. After taking a semester and summer off, I'm not sure I want to go back into the classroom and take a class and I am not sure about doing this internship at Sumner's school. My class is called Teachers, Leadership, and Power: Changing the Teaching Career. My internship is a project at Sumner's school to initiate inclusive parent engagement and communication across all grade levels, races, and socio-economic realities. That's a mouthful. The work will be fun, but not if it cuts into the important stuff.

You see, I want to live a counter-cultural life, which means...

I don't want to rush. I want to avoid driving (not because I don't LOVE my minivan) because I want to walk more. I want to value time to just sit and be still and encourage my kids to do the same. I want to set aside time to be creative. I want to cook and bake and have my kids help me with that. I want to have time to chit chat with friends and time to be by myself. I want to know what God is pulling, calling, me to do. I want to rest in the knowledge that I am doing that thing.

In the past work and school have cut in on doing these counter-cultural things. My desire to get the job done well and get strokes for the job well done cause me to lose perspective. I feel like I am on a hampster wheel that is spinning and spinning and I don't know how to stop it. When I work to jard, I think to myself: if only I could get off this damn thing and get over to my bowl of little green pellats and take a little nap. If only that hand from the sky would lift me out of here and cuddle me for a while. I get all confused and muddled about why I am still spinning. I get frantic sometimes, but mainly I am just puzzled that life is moving, but not going anywhere.

Alright, enough paranoid anticipation for one night. I am going to start school tomorrow. I am going to take it one day at a time.

Sumner's Dreamhouse

Sumner asked me today if we could buy an apartment. I thought maybe he wanted to own a place. I told him proudly that we did own our "apartment", but I was thinking smugly: it is called a condo when you own it. He said that he wanted a different apartment, "big red one with a balcony."

"Do you mean a brick building?" I asked.

"Yes, one with a swimming pool too," Sumner said.

"Do all brick apartment buildings have pools?" I wondered aloud.

"I don't know, but I want to live in a big apartment building with all of my friends. Like where we lived in England."

We lived in international graduate student housing in London. We loved it.

"Kate will live there," Ramona chimed in.

I thought about this for awhile. Sumner and Ramona still appreciate the idea of a close, really close community. I am dreaming about moving for our condo to a single family house with more square footage and Sumner's remembering being in 500 square feet with friends all around as ideal.

Another great link

As you can see, I just learned how to put links up on my blog. So fun.

If you've spent much dinner-party, chit-chatty time with me anytime recently you know that I am a BIG fan of "This American Life". There are few episodes I have not heard. I dream of telling stories on the radio with Ira. I really think I would get along with Sarah and Jonathan and the rest.

Anyway, they did a show entitled "After the Flood" about New Orleans. If you listen to it, you will hear in the prologue that the radio crew set out to give people who were or are in New Orleans more time to tell their stories than the TV news can give. They created the anti-soundbite and it is pretty harrowing. This was the best reporting on the post-hurricane disaster in New Orleans that I have heard or seen or read. It is a little bit of a commitment to listen to it, but it is worth your while.

For me, the single most important thing I learned about myself after listening to this show was the lingering racism I have in me.

I don't want to admit it, but sometimes even a good bleeding heart liberal like me starts to think: why didn't these people [I am thinking but not saying even in my own private mind where no one can hear me: African-Americans] evacuate? Surely they had a way. This story cleared any misconceptions I had from the news media about that question.

And I know some of you, like me, may have thought: if only they'd stop looting, then...then what? Then they'd deserve help. What kind of bullshit if that?

We (humanity, I mean) are all so afriad of each other. I really think we are. And I still don't know what to do about it. It isn't enough for me to just live my life. I have to make some concious choices about how I live my life. Which bring me to the subtitle of my blog, hanging right above this entry: "What will we do? We're trying to figure this out."

Five Comments

This is a record. Aarti, a Boston-friend who I see more often than most of my readers, told me she was disappointed to see five comments (four real ones) on "Phil's Fashion Sense". She thought that my blog was her own private blog. I knew that some of you had read at one time a blog entry here or there, but I had NO idea that people aside from my mom and Aarti were really checking in and reading this thing. Aarti's disappointment is my glee. Hey, Claudia. Hey, Cathy. What's up all ya'll out there?

Thanks for reading.

Grannabelle says that she thinks that blog touched a nerve with women because perhaps we all have been inappropriately judged and/or mocked for our fashion sense by our mother, boyfriend, sister, and--in my case--brother. Jake thinks I should start my fashion rehab by getting braces and bleaching my teeth nightly. I just gotta put in here that once, when my parents were dating, my dad said to my 115-pound mom, "Your butt's not big. It's just long." Crushing. And pretty funny.

By the way, Phil also doesn't like French braids. He calls it my "battle hair" and claims that it makes me look like a lobster or crawfish. Who would even worry about someone who says something so outlandish?

By the way, the question has come up: is what I am writing what I am truly feeling and thinking and experiencing? It is true enough, but I use hyperbole and artistic license liberally.

Phil's fashion sense

I shop fast. I get dressed quickly. Most days I can't bother with a shower. Too much hassle.

Phil has quite a beauty regime. He takes at least 30 minutes, but sometimes more, grooming in the morning. I estimate that this is how long it took me to get ready on my wedding day. He has to consider a couple of different outfits and asked my advice about if he should go with the brown shoes and belt or what the black.

I don't always ask Phil's opinion about what I am wearing, but Phil lets me know what he thinks of each piece of clothing. When we first started dating, this was helpful. He complimented me like crazy and I liked it and it made me feel good about myself. But 2 babies, lots of lactating, and seven years later I don't always appreciate his advice. For the first several years of marriage, I took his advice quite seriously. When I was pregnant with Sumner, Phil even bought all of my maternity clothes for me. And when his criticism came, it would make me bristle.

But over the last few years, his advice has become downright bizarre and impossible. Strange and twisted.

Today I got a new skirt. I really liked it. My mother-in-law got it for me for my birthday. Mine is not shown on the link. It is plum. I bought a harmless black t-shirt to go with it. I tried on the outfit for Phil. That's when he started spouting his usual nonsense.

Before I relate some of the impossible things he said, let me tell you that Phil thinks I should wear pants all the time. He claims that if a woman wants to look "foxy" she wears pants. And, of course, I am after a sex-kitten-panther-foxy-soccer-mom look. "No one wears skirts," he tells me. I really prefer skirts to pants.

He also tells me I dress like a mom. This is not a compliment. Go figure. If I get something hip, he says that it is too cool for me and my "look". Tonight he told me that a belt I got, "threw him off." He liked it, it was pretty cool, but maybe too cool, for little me. It is madness.

Once he saw me in the new skirt and t-shirt I could tell what his verdict will be. "It looks like high-school goth. I don't really like that peasant-hippi thing." Where did he learn these terms? What can I do? What can I say? He concedes that it fits well and looks good, but he doesn't like it? And he can't provide any suggestions, except for: "more pants."

This from a man who can hardly match his khakis to his 6 blue and white button down shirts. It's too much. I have moved way beyond being offended and into the realm of just shaking my head and wearing whatever I damn well please.

I got this email...

Dear Emily & Phil,

I don't mean to upset you. I just can't put this description out of my mind.

Love,

Marlow

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/08/national/nationalspecial/08orleans.html?th&emc=th

I got this email from my friend the other day. He's a second year medical student at Tulane. It is a pretty shocking story. I recommend it.

After you read it, you may think, how can this be happening? How can they let this happen?

Let's be careful there.

I remember growing up in Salem quite clearly. My daily life never really gave me glimpses of people living in poverty. Sure, my parents took us to work in soup kitchens and drew our attention to these forgotten people when they had a chance. But, we could put it out of our mind for 99% of the time and we did.

Then I left Salem and went to New York for college. I remember what I liked about the big city is that all these people are crammed in a small space and that this makes it harder to ignore each other--at first. The rich see the poor and the middle class sees its other half. In a big city most people of different races have to at least lay eyes on each other everyday. Of course, New Yorkers and Londoner and Bostonians and Salemites and all the rest of us still find ways to ignore each other. We have become pretty sophisticated at it. We don't think about the lives of those people who clean our workplaces or what that other part of town is really like. We just don't go there in our car or our imaginations. What do they have to do with me?

After Katrina a question has nudged itself to the front of my mind: Who is lying dead in the gutter somewhere who I am not helping up? The easy thing for the Samaritan in the Bible (Luke 10:25-37) was that the guy lying in the ditch was right next to him. He had to look at this dirty, bleeding mess of a person and then make a choice: should I help or not? We don't have this same luxury today. Our parents and grandparents and we have insulated ourselves from those who lay in the gutter and get stomped on. I tell myself that it is sad how they live and that it has nothing to do with how I live or what I do. I don't think I can say that anymore. I think there is something I can do. I just have to figure out what it is.

I Am So Tired

Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan

I am newborn-baby tired. I am stayed-up-all-night-to-finish-a-paper tired. I am so-dreading-when-my-children-wake-up tired. I am can't-stand-to-see-their-
little-faces-tomorrow-morning tired. I am tired from crying and I am tired from not crying enough. I am after-a-day-in-the-garden tired. I am tired of lists of things to do. I am even-a-cup-of-tea-with-extra-honey-doesn't-help tired. I am just so tired.

And I am afraid to go get into bed. I am afraid that I will get in bed and not be able to go to sleep. I long to sleep all day long, yet I can't as soon as I lay down.

Today I tried to take a nap. I got the temperature right in my bedroom. Both kids were asleep. I put in ear plugs. I read the Psalms--usually a sure ticket to quiet sleep. I follow the Word of God with a refrian of the Lord's Prayer, praying it again and again like the Catholic I am not. Nothing. Not one minute of sleep.

This is not good.

I Haven't Been Writing

I am listening to Swing, Brother, Swing sung by Billie Holiday.

At first I wrote less because I was traveling. Then it was Phil's surgery. The hurricane is the main reason I haven't over the last week, but school starting is also getting in the way. There are a bunch of unfinished blogs written over the last couple of months. But I will still write and I hope that you will still read. The hurricane is changing things; it brings perspective.

I was holding off writing because I am not sure what I want to say or how to say it. The displacement of the people of New Orleans is beyond even something from my mother's wildest, hyperbolic, paranoid imagination. I have thoughts and passionate feelings about the gross inequities that are rising to front pages. I am not sure how to write about all of that.

It feels strange to whip out a witty little ditty about something Ramona said and something Sumner did when we're watching and living with so much tragedy and uncertainty around us. Yet Sumner and Ramona continue to say and do funny things that make me laugh. He isn't too interested in his new bike--he'd rather look at his Lego magazine for the fifth time. Ramona is "really srustrated" with me because I sometimes say to her when I am really frustrated "Come on, man" and she says, "I am not a man. One day Sumner will be a man and I will be a lady. I am not a man. I am really srustrated that you keep saying that".

So life goes on. Kids are kids. I know how to write about that kid stuff. And you know what: people are people. Despite this bizarre interruption of our lives by uncontrollable forces of nature, we still have to go through the routine of living--eating, kissing, sleeping, and going places.

Philip and his family are a lot more private than me. Of course, one must remember that you only need to be a little bit private to be more private than me. Sharing the complexities of shock and grief that they are feeling feels like an invasion, so I will leave that alone. They are staying in Boston for the time being and don't know where they will go when. They are watching soccer practices and giving baths and driving the minivan and making a lot of calls and emails. They are a lot of help to me. Their house is okay.

So I will write about the stuff I have been writing about. Tomorrow.

Little Outpourings

About 15-20 people have offered housing to my in-laws while they are in Boston. Thanks.

My friend Molly emailed me and told me she was making a blackberry crisp, which Phil really likes, and was wondering if it was shippable from Colorado to Boston.

A guy waiting on me in the Cingular phone shop told me that he thinks the government should just cut people checks of $1,000 and send them to new cities to start new lives. I couldn't help but think, wouldn't they use it for drugs or booze or Happy Meals instead of bus fares, new apartments, and cheaper food. While the judgmental policy maker in me was doing overtime in my imagination playing through the idea of a $1000 redo check, the historian in me broke in: Wouldn't 40 acres and a mule have helped 130 years ago? Would we be here if the right thing was done back then?

At bedtime, Ramona usually prays each night for five things she is thankful for. This week she just wants to pray for "everybody’s' flooded houses".

I don't usually see people in t-shirts from Louisiana in the Bay State. Yesterday in the drug store, on the street, and while I was on a run this morning, I saw people dressed in support of those displaced folks from New Orleans and those still stuck there. Every shirt anyone ever bought on a tourist trip to New Orleans seem to be out of their basement storage box and on people's backs.

Finally, you gotta follow this link and hear this song. Once, when Phil and I were in college, he put a jazzy instrumental version of "Oh, When the Saints" on his voice mail. One day, his grandmother called and left a message on his phone singing (with her German accent) the first few lines of the song. We played it over and over. I heard this version yesterday. In the lead into the song, a New Orleans jazz funeral historian said he is thinking of those who have died from New Orleans and are now marching into heaven. I also am thinking of the help we pray is marching into New Orleans.

There Are No Words

What we are seeing on our TVs and computers from New Orleans is unspeakable. I have not been able to blog.

Our family is safe. They will rebuild and life will go on. Lynn and Rick are here in Boston with us and Sumner and Ramona keep our spirits up.

The injustice going on in New Orleans is beyond what I could have imagined.

Lord, please show us how to help. Guide our steps. Send help. Now.

Forget the stupid TV Show!

Money Girl, Kenneth Davis

I used one of the worst kid swears that a parent can use and I used it in anger and frustration. I said stupid.

Sumner outgrew his bike this morning, at least that is when Philip's mom realized that it was too small and that she'd like to do something about it. When had been planning to go shopping and so we added a bike to the list of boxer shorts and school uniforms and bathroom stool.

A few hours later, we finished lunch and struggled to get out the door. Sumner had already had some "screen time" on the computer and Ramona had just finished watching a show on PBS. She forgot to turn it off and Sumner, in a daze, wondered into the living room and plopped down in front of the TV minutes before I wanted to get him into the car. When I asked him to flip off the TV so we could go get A BRIGHT SHINING NEW BIKE, he wimpered and whined. I could not believe it. This was pathetic! I remeber vividly getting my 5-speed-blue-banana-seat bike (second hand) and a few years later the Christmas morning when I got another blue Schwin, this time a 10-speed with the upside down handlebars. Those were two great days and today was going to be another one of those days. Sumner wanted to watch Clifford.

I was pissed (mainly at other things) and I wanted Sumner to be pumped for this experience. He sighed and said he didn't want to go. That's when I said, not in a friendly-fun-sarcastic way but in an annoyed-mocking-seething-pissed way, "Forget the stupid TV show. You are getting a new bike today. Get your shoes on."

We got over this swear. I calmed; he got excited. We got school uniforms. We got boxers. We found an egg timer I had been wanting. No bathroom stool, but you can't win them all.

With several missions accomplished, we headed to the most hateful store on earth: Toys R Us. Going there is the pits. Going with your kids is hell. I would rather go to the beach without a lunch and deal with my kids while they wilt into a hungry mess than take them to Toys R Us with me. Most of the toys suck and the people who work there know less about the toys than my kids do. The store, like most stores (except for Target and Nordstrum's) is too full of stuff. But sometimes, there are times when they have the thing you need and you just have to suffer through it. So, we entered this hell.

They were having a 50%-off green tag sale. The bike are in the far corner of the store, but just across the threshold are a display of Bionicles (a Lego product boys of the 1970s just can't respect) and some Lego stuff. Sumner got stuck here and Ramona started to trying to learn to skateboard. My mother-in-law spotted Ramona and I started to move Sumner to the bikes. He could have cared less. A BRIGHT SHINING NEW BIKE? No, he asked if he could have a Bionicle. I said, "No, let's go checkout the BRIGHT SHINING NEW BIKE." No, he wanted to skip the bike and get the Bionicle, which was on sale for $ 3.99. "No, we're not here for this," I said, while finding myself roped into this excellent deal and plotting to buy some for birthday presents. So, my mother-in-law corraled the kids to the bikes and I saved myself some money by buying $20.00 of toys (regluarly priced at $ 40.00). I realize this is a ridiculous statement.

I found them in the bike section at the mercy of an employee who takes no pride in his job (probably because he gets not benefits, minimum wage, and shit from his manager). Why am I helping this company oppress him?, I thought. I pressed on. Sumner was trying 20in bikes, but his was barely tolerating it. 16in was too small. Then I saw that they have a few 18in bikes. Perfect fit. I asked Sumner what he thought. "Could I use some of the money I have saved, $ 3.03, to buy Toa Matau?," he asked. We were having different converations, possibly in different languages. I deduced that Toa Matau is a Bionicle. I could have screamed, "Forget the stupid Bionicle! We're buying you a BRIGHT SHINING NEW BIKE and it has flames on it. Get over yourself."

But I didn't. I realized that this is Sumner. He likes to ride his bike, but he REALLY likes to build things and he wants more pieces, more possiblities. So, I said, "Sure, you can pay me when we get home. Do you like this bike?" He smiled at me. He looked at the bike, able to focus on it for the first time. "Yeah," he said.

I picked up some training wheels and a pink basket to dress Sumner's old bike up for Ramona. Then I informed the underpaid employee I had been abrupt with already that they carried both of these items since he had just told me they didn't sell either.

We made it. Sumner loved Toa Matau. He build him in 2 minutes as soon as we got home. Ramona was a pleased a punch to get on the old bike with a new basket and bell and ride it before dinner. Sumner talked to his new creation in the living room by himself.

A dinner, Sumner mentioned casually to Phil that he'd like to try his bike first thing in the morning. I hope so, because it is A BRIGHT SHINING NEW BIKE!

Going to Movies By Myself

Comer y Dormir, Not sure the artist--just on Phil's iTunes

I love going to the movies by myself and here is why:

I don't have to consider someone else's preferences or opinion.
I don't have to coordinate my schedule with anyone else's.
I don't have to listen to their impressions afterwards.
I don't have to pay a babysitter.
I can get popcorn or get nothing, but I won't have to share.
I like to escape into the almost darkness and be almost invisible.
I can let down and let go.
I can forget about my life and its pressures.

And so, I am refreshed. I leave the movies considering the art or the story. I connect it to me. I now have the time and space to think about my life and its pressures with some perspective.

So I went to the movies by myself for my birthday. It was great.

What's the Worst Thing That Could Happen?

I have been blogging less over the last week because of some minor ailments. My hip has been hurting when I sit too much, a little ----rhea, a plugged ear—nothing to write home about. But, of course, I called my mom anyway and enumerated all the things that were slowing me down. No one in my immediate family really had the patience to listen to me complain, so I had to dial Grannabelle.

But my mom loves to discuss infirmity. She has told me (about seven times) that her parents took her to a lot of funerals as a child. She tells me this in a casual and authoritative voice, as if her parents loaded her into the car each week and dropped by a couple of wakes just to expose her to a little death. She follows this funeral parade revelation with the suggestion that these little death tours may explain her fascination with sickness and death. Could be.

Once, when she was driving me to the airport for a return trip to college she suddenly turned to me. With urgency she stated, "I have been wanting to tell you something. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables. They prevent cancer." She had not just read a double-blind study in the AMA about a link to cancer and one of the four food groups. She had "seen something somewhere". This kind of urgent advice, which often has undertones of warning, comes frequently. Ramona got a mosquito bit? Is it West Nile? You are feeling tired? Mono? Chronic Fatigue Syndrome? My mom, like most, has a tendency to care, thus, she worries.

My mom also believes that if you are sick, you should go to the doctor. They are the experts. This is generally good advice. She taught me to listen to my body and take care of it. (I still push it too hard sometimes) I am thankful to have this legacy, but I could do without the worry. I do accept worry as a fact of life.

My kids spend more time than me being examined in doctors' offices and I sit and wait and talk to doctors. Obviously, I have the easy job between the three of us. Sometimes I find myself worrying. When I worry, I pray. I pray for health and healing. I pray for peace. I pray for the ability to take care of my family in the best possible way.

In the waiting rooms and examining rooms of our lives, I am confident and trusting. I believe the doctors will do their best and it will make my children's lives healthier. Yet, when I get home, late at night, when I need a snack and to be in bed an hour ago, I start to let the worry creep in. I pray some more, but sometimes my will to worry is greater than my will to accept God's peace. My mind wonders. I start to forget to trust God.

Here's where confession comes in and I tie everything back to my mom: I have learned, just in the last year, that confession sets me free. I confess all of my worries late at night when I lay on my pillow, but I am not asleep. I name the absolute WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN and how it is owning me. I ask God to take it from me. Then I pray for all the stuff I prayed for two paragraphs ago. It usually works. Peace comes. When it doesn't work, it means there is more worry in me that I can't name yet.

My mom articulated this process to me when I was griping about my back. She wanted to check with me and make sure that none of my doctors was missing ovarian cancer, because she heard or read somewhere that ovarian cancer has very few symptoms and one of them can be lower back pain. "Come on, Mom, I don't have cancer," I whined. She interrupted herself to say, "I know. I know. It just helps me to get this information out there. I need to articulate it so that I can get over it."

This is the What's-the-Worst-Thing-That-Could-Happen? Principle or confession. If my mom and I just admit to each other (or, even better, God) our worst case worries, they lessen or even evaporate.

The Saints Are At It Again

The New Orleans Saints are a huge piece of our fall every year. Every Sunday of our fall revolves around their games. They have an uncanny ability to disappoint in very painful ways. Each season Phil choses to believe that possibly the worst team in the NFL will somehow redeem themselves and start winning. He even has a heart-felt belief that if the Saints started winning that the city of New Orleans would "do better and be better". I don't know if this is true, but I know that Phil does better and is better when his team is winning. Their near misses eat him up.

As I write, their preseason game against the Patriots in on the local FOX station here. A televised Saints game is unusual in Boston. During the regular season, Phil usually listens on the internet radio or goes (usually alone) to a sports bar that televises several NFL games and bribes the bartender to show the Saints game. He and the other three Saints fans in Boston find each other (he also knows a handful of Saints fans in London and Oakland) and have their hopes dashed weekly.

I know this because he comes home and retells the whole game to me. I am so uninterested. I tolerate these descriptions because it is important to him, but I just don't get it. So, Phil calls Mitch, his buddy who lives in Austin and they re-live the whole thing together. I am telling you: from the pre-game to the post-game to the Monday-morning quarterbacking I am wore out.

I am worried after tonight's performance. This is a perfect example of the way the Saints love to get your hopes up. Right now their are just a few moments left in the game and they are up by 10 points. This is unusual. They could win it (19 seconds left). This preview, which has no bearing on the regular season, will be something Phil will savor for the next couple weeks. He'll dare to believe that his team can not only beat the Superbowl champs, they could come out of no where and be the Superbowl champs. It is going to be a long fall.

Let's hope--for me and the kids at least--that the Saints suprise us. If they could make the playoffs we'd be happy.

Ramona Calls Her Butt Crack...

"the crack of my butt." We should all adopt this construction.

CHECK out July 10. I just finished it and so it is a new post.

Capital Punishment and the Space Cadet

My mom believes in capital punishment for bad driving, but not for anything else.

Sumner tried to work this whole punishment thing out today.

I was reading him a story in the paper about a map dealer who is accused of stealing maps from some libraries, including some rare maps from the 16th century from the Boston Public Library. Sumner asked what happened to the thief. I told him he was arrested. Sumner asked if that meant that they were going to kill him. I told him that he was just going to jail until they decided if he did in fact steal the maps. Sumner calmly said, "Well, they should kill him." I was aghast, but played it cool, "Why do you think they should kill him?" Sumner pondered it for a minute. Then he pulled a classic parenting move, "What do you think?" I told him that (even for bad driving and map theft) I thought that people deserve to live and that killing someone is just plain wrong. He listened. We talked.

I could tell that this to this little geographer, stealing an old map is a much bigger deal than it is to me. I was also reminded not to worry that he is no space cadet. He is a thinker. As Rosie once said, "He's a little thinker."

The Space Cadet

I lose my keys. I like to sleep with my cheek on a book I fell asleep reading. I forget a lot of the time a lot of things. I think of myself as a little absent minded and I worry (there's that horrible action again) that Sumner is too.

I mean sometimes he seems to forget a simple hello or good-bye when we run into people. Basic eye contact would even be nice. Getting his homework from our kitchen table to his backpack to the van to the school to the homework bin often seemed like the greatest challenge of kindergarten.

I was telling this to a friend and she shot me down. This is that same friend that told me a long time ago that the opposite of worry is trust.

She told me of an enchanting conversation she had with Sumner. She was reminding him of her new daughter's name and he said it sounded like Asia. And she said that Asia was a country. A continent, he corrected. She inquired into the difference between the two and if any countries were continents and he explained the basics of geography to her and that Australia and Antarctica were both countries and continents. Then he gave his dad credit for teaching him these things.

He's focused...she promised. Not spacey. I trust her.

Don't Worry, Sweet Thing

(In the van after a long swim)

SUMNER: Mom.

ME: Yes, Sumner.

SUMNER: If I ever get cut badly...(long pause)...and I need a mechanical arm or leg, will you put it on for me when I am asleep?

ME: Yes, Sumner.

He's worried about these sorts of things. We all worry too much and he's getting going at age six. On vacation last week in Oregon, I told Ramona (who promptly told my mom) that my mother was afraid of everything and so she didn't need to worry about all of the things Grannabelle was very dramatically warning her off of. I don't want me kids to worry so much. Yet, I worry like crazy. I lay awake worrying about being awake and what I should do with my life and if the kids have good nutrition and if October will be a good month. We all worry too much.

All six-year-old Sumner needed was the reassurance that IF he loses a limb, will I make sure putting on the new one doesn't hurt and to insure this, will I put it on when he is unconscious. And I can say, "Yes, Sumner." It will be okay, if this "if" scenario comes to pass. That's all we need to be told, it will be okay if you "if" happens.

Sassy Sisterhood Syndrome

Philip was the first one to document it. Marlowe confirmed it. Clayton was relieved to hear it and glad to propagate it. Seth was keenly aware of the syndrome. It seems that when my three best friends from high school and I are planning or anticipating or actually getting together to see one another, we get a little sassy with our husbands.

I think they also may have described us as bossy, domineering, unwilling to listen, impertinent, and feisty. I might have even heard the word diva floating around.

Over the several days that we were together for Amy's wedding, Molly, Erika, Amy and I all shook our heads or smiled when this subject came up (or was harped on), but none of us protested. We all know that on some level it is true. 98% of the time, we are each members of full-fledged partnerships with our husbands in separate cities around the country. But when we know we are going to be in each other’s presence some sort of fever overcomes us. I have been trying to break this one down and here is what I have come up with:

We grew up together and we grew up sharing our dreams and best hopes with each other. I'm not talking about the grade school or middle school growing up--I am talking about the hard part--when we started to do grown-up things like fall in love and marry and have babies and move around and have jobs. Through it all we had an unspoken pact between us that we could do anything. And we've done a lot of those things. At 21 I think we thought it was going to be a much quicker trip to those best hopes and terrific dreams. We were pretty sure of ourselves and getting surer.

At 30, part of us knows that life is a long, hard process and that we will be growing up forever. Of course now, unlike at 21, our husbands are part of that building, molding, and refining process. We love each of them dearly, but when the girls get together we are reminded of the feeling we of growing up. Together we are each other’s growth charts. Living, walking, breathing benchmarks. It isn’t a competitive thing. It is a checking in thing. Like when we were sitting at Erika's cabin talking about how "My Best Friend’s Wedding" could be us (at Phil or Seth's weddings) or at the Blueberry Cafe wondering if this med school thing was ever going to end (it has) or at in Amy's parents' new and still to be furnished home studying for a World History exam and dreaming about college and Europe and boys. We have always bolstered each other and that is a good thing. We remind each other that although we are works-in-progress that we are moving somewhere. When we see each other only about once a year--if that--we are reminded of where we've been and where we're going. And that makes us sassy.

Don't worry boys, it is just for a few days. When we separate, we return to your grounded arms and are better because we are bolstered.

Finding Oregon

What is Oregon like? Well, it is like no place on earth--except for Washington (State, that is, for you Easterners).

Oregon is the place where a couple hours after arriving in the state Phil said to me, "I am already getting annoyed at how efficent everything is and how nice and helpful everyone has been to us."

You see, the night we arrived, we were beat. We set out from our home in Jamaica Plain at about 4:00PM and took the bus, two trains, and another bus to the airport. Then we flew to San Fran. On this flight our children slept most of the time and Phil even managed to fall asleep until I shook him awake when Ramona stirred so that I could lift Sumner's pillow from Phil's lap and hopefully keep Ramona resting. The Ramona disaster was averted, but at the cost of a Philip disaster. He didn't get any more sleep, but not for lack of trying. In SF, the now-rested kids woke up and cheerfully led us the our gate to Portland.

As we got on the plane to Portland I turned to Phil and said, "These are my people." Oregonians abounded. Simple hairdos, lots of t-shirts, a few grungy punks, and everyone looked like they would enjoy hiking.

Once we got to Portland, 12:30 AM Portland time, 3AM Philip and Emily body clock time, our kids were really ready to start partying. We made our way to baggage, were we split up. I took Ramona to get a rental car and Phil took Sumner to get the luggage. I soon realized that I had left my wallet on the plane and Sumner's car seat had gone missing. It was about 1 AM. Trying to remedy either of these situations in Boston at that late hour would have been like trying to start a fire without matches in a rainstorm. But not so in Oregon. In the United Baggage Assistance Office, there was not only one or two, but THREE smiling, helpful, awake woman ready to help me out with my two problems. First the wallet, one of the three counter ladies asked for a careful description of the item in question and my seat number. Then she called to yet another helpful, jolly woman who was waiting in the back room on bended knee to scurry out to the plane immediately and retrieve my wallet, which she did in less than 8 minutes. Meanwhile, I was given a loaner car seat for Sumner and promised that they would get our seat to us at our ocean hotel--a two hour drive--by the next day. Problems solved. No need to get frustrated. Philip and I could hardly contain our tired selves--where was the person or reason for us to get mad? No where in this friendly place. To add insult to injury, they found the seat within minutes, paged us, and then ran the seat out to us the rental car counter. It was about 1:45 by then.

Not only are the people nice in Oregon, but it is just breathtakingly beautiful. I am not sure I have ever appreciated this until this trip. As a kid, it was just what it was. I didn't drink in the beauty, because I was used to it. But on this trip, I was amazed. Driving from Portland the the Oregn Coast, the car wound its way through mountain forests, thick with pine trees. We did a lot of winding on Oregon highways. It seems as though the land has to be wound through. A direct route could never do it justice. There are no strip malls from the Oirtland burbs to the coast--only a few Dairy Queens and homestyle family resturants. Although I know that much of Oregon has been logged and reforested, it seems untouched and underdeveloped. I felt like I was discovering something that I had forgotten and everyone I knew in other parts of the country and world were missing out. Then we hit the coast. The air felt cleaner; it was cold and I could taste it with my nose. Driving on cliffs that in some places drop a hundred feet straight to the beach, I couldn't decide if I should be focusing on the mountain to my left or the ocean to my right or Sumner driving in a sports car with his Papa directly in front of us.

Oregon. Nice. Efficent. Clean. But mainly: beautiful.

Out of Contact

This is not a blog. This is the first time I have been able to get online in more than a week. It is hard to blog on vacation, but several new blogs will be up this week. Keep checking. Aarti, you are probably my only reader left. You will not be disappointed (I hope) with the forthcoming catch-up blogs.

Ode to Philip

Love to Be Loved, Peter Gabriel

I am married to a really fantastic guy and I want ya'll to know how great he is. I don't always think of him with a halo. Sometimes he seems to be such a niave oaf. These days there are many more halo days than oaf moments. I need to treasure these moments and i kind of want to proclaim them from the mountain top. Here are just a few of the amazing things he does:

1. He tells me most days that I am doing a great job at whatever I am doing.
2. He is terribly funny in a sarcastic and self-deprecating way.
3. He loves to grocery shopping and meal plan and he makes great sandwiches.
4. He likes to talk to me when we get into bed and doesn't get mad when I just want to read.
5. He is tall and smiles down at me.

Can you believe it?

A haiku:

calling to check in
asking how i am hanging
in. now i am fine.

Calming Down

Ramona has a tendancy to get excited about things. She doesn't really forget things. She can't quite "move on".

This morning after breakfast Sumner settled into his perch in the Living Room to play with his lego nights, puling apart their limbs and rebuilding them in new ways. Ramona, in just her underwear, sat in bed with four dolls lined up and sitting along the wall across from her. She was talking with her big eyes to them about something that seemed urgent. Phil and I scurried around, not wanted to squander the few minutes they were "playing nicely", which is what Ramona calls entertaining herself.

Soon enough, the dolls were not enough for Ramona and she came to pester me. She told me about her plot to have a candle for every child at her birthday party (in six months) so that no one will try to blow out her candles, because "that would frustrate me if they did that." I agreed to this plan and then Sumner came in to ask who wanted to make a tower out of their fold-out tent with him. He was really asking me, but I was folding laundry and couldn't oblige. Ramona wanted to help, but she wanted to make a princess castle. He insisted on his idea and they ran to the site of the tent to battle out. Within the minute, there was shouting and wailing. I went to the scene and was able to peacefully negotiate a bargin where Ramona used the tent for the princess castle and Sumner used his bunk bed for the tower. They were satisfied and he went to collect the materials (paper, tape, and scissors) that he needed to build his tower.

Ramona lasted at the tent in the Living Room for about three minutes, while I swiffered the kitchen floor. Then she was drawn back to Sumner. He just wanted to make his tower in peace. She demanded that she be able to make her princess tower on the lower bunk. Soon, her squeaks turned into more shouting and wailing. Again, I intervened and they agreed to split the bunk bed. Then, for about a half hour they played together--nicely. The bunk bed was on its way to being transformed. Sumner weaved paper, made paper pockets, lots of triangular shapes with plans to tape them all over his bed. I am not sure what Ramona was doing aside from chirping and running to get stuff for him. I mopped the floor and caught the end of Weekend Addition.

The creating cullminated with Sumner up on his bunk taping furiously and then stopping to cut and throwing the scraps down to Ramona, who was once again screaming and crying. I tiptoed over the wet floor to reach them. She wanted his black scissors, but had worked herself bast wailing to a low grade tantrum. Sumner had the best scissors in the house.

Doesn't every house have a best scissors? We've got the useless (but safe) plastic kid scissors and kid's zig zag scissors and sewing shears (off limits to kids) and some crappy scissors (I picked up from some retiring teacher one May) and even meat scissors and then: the good ones. The Good Ones are used for pretty much everything from cutting open a bag of shelled crawfish to cutting off loose threads on clothing to kids' art projects. Ramona, understandably, wanted the Good Ones. So, I intervened again (should have stayed out of it) and brokered a deal where I would retrive the Zig Zag scissors and Ramona could use the Good Ones. They were amiable to this judgement.

But as soon as Ramona had the Good Ones and Sumner had the Zig Zags, she started screaming. "Those [the Zig Zags] are so special to me. I want them." She had really lost it this time. I couldn't talk to her. Sumner just went on working safely out of her way on the top bunk. She went from wailing to frenzy to near seizure. I tried to break in and talk. Sumner's paper scraps were landing on my head. She screamed. I tried to hold her and then rubbing her. Rubbing her gave me a word in edgewise.

I explained to her that it seemed that she just wanted whatever Sumner had and that she should just get down to using the Good Ones and get over it (dammit). I ackowledged that I thought she must want to play with Sumner, but that he was focused and she needed to let him do his thing (this part of the word in edgewise was much shorted than the dammit part). I asked her what we could do to calm her down. I suggested a book or a drink of water or listening to music or praying. She stopped crying. She furrowed her brow. I thought I was making headway. She had an idea. She said, "Having the scissors that Sumner has would calm me down."

I give up.

Make My Day

Coconut Telegraph, Jimmy Buffet

It is summer and we are loving it. After the boards, first step, and 12 months of third year medical rotations, in June we slowed for the first time. We found how totally exhausted we were. Philip has the whole month of July off and we are resting up (going to New Hampshire and NYC). This week resting and relaxing includes little agenda and lots of free flow. So, today, we all piled in the van around 3:30 and headed to a Boston public pool to swim.

When I take the kids swimming (or anywhere else), I like to travel with a light load. Philip, on the other hand, values comfort and ease above the convenience of having little on your back. To swim, the kids need a change of clothes, earplugs, goggles, suntan lotion, and a towel. I can't go much lighter than that with them, so I cut corners with myself. As we set out, I had two small bags with these items for the kid and Phil had a giant backpack for himself. For myself I had the swimsuit on my back, my shorts, and my Tevas. No towel (I can share), no goggles (for wimps), no shirt (one more thing), no hairbrush (I like to look natural), and no change of clothes (who needs it!).

The swimming was a blast. Ramona is learning to push off from the wall and is willing to get her head wet, a huge breakthrough. Sumner is a fish. The water was just right and we always make friends at the pool.

When we got out, all of my family members, like normal people, dried off with their towels and changed clothes. I even facilitated the process for the kids. Still dripping, I took Sumner's damp towel and wrapped it around my waist and got into the car, with my wet hair in knots. Somewhere between the pool and the van the kids and Phil decided to go drop by Dunkin Donuts for a pre-dinner snack. Since we are on a home-vacation, I was up for it and we headed to the nearest one.

When we parked I jumped out of the van in Sumner's towel, swimsuit and Tevas started for the door. When I turned back to see what was taking the rest of them so long, I saw Phil was shaking his head at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Don't you think you should put your shorts on?" he pointed out. It must be hard to be married to such a carefree person who rarely feels shame and embarrassment. I am more likely to embarrass people--even strangers around me--than embarrass myself.

I followed his advice and put on my shorts. We had some munchkins (which he had to pay for because I didn't bring my wallet) and then we stopped to get a few groceries for dinner (which he had to buy because I couldn't go into the store). Then we can home and Phil started making a tasty dinner. I fed the kids a quick dinner, bathed them, gave them their meds, and read to Ramona. While our dinner simmered, Philip played a game with Sumner. I still had not found a moment to change my clothes and really had forgotten that my hair was in snarls and that I was only wearing a suit, shorts, and my Tevas. So, I sat down at the computer to contemplate this blog.

Then the doorbell rang. I thought it must be one of three visitors: Julie and Aaron (our neighbors), Greenpeace, or Mormon missionaries. I was hoping for the neighbors. I went to the door and asked who it was. No answer. So I opened it. Standing on the porch was one of these cute little college students canvassing the neighborhood for something I guessed he really believed in. On first glance, he seemed to be half my age and size.

He smiled at me and said, "Are your folks home?"

I didn't know what was happening. Was Ramona behind me? No, she was in bed. Was he high? No, I realized, he was just a diligent, civically minded youth who thought I, too, was a kid. I didn't know if I should kiss him or slap him.

"I am the folks," I replied and grinned a toothy grin. Then I helped him with his letter writing campaign, invited him in, and got Phil to write a letter too. I celebrated this mishap by eating dinner (I was starving) and wrote this blog. Now I am going to take a shower.

Still Students After All These Years

Most of the time I am so happy and proud to still be living a student lifestyle. I like to think that the simple life is for me. "I don't need all that stuff or those mere conveniences that other people my age have." And then I realize that I really do like to buy books instead of always checking them out from the library. I would like to go out more often and not worry about the arm and a leg I need to pay the babysitter. I want to have a little more tucked away. But, we're almost done. Real salaries are in our future and so I think I need to glorify the student lifestyle while I still can. Plus, we get tons of time off.

Phil and I have been planning a trip to NYC, the scene of our young friendship. We wanted to go for a romantic getaway, but we also didn't want to spend too much money--after all, last time I was living there it was mainly my parents' money I was spending. And Phil, well, he wasn't spending much money at all; he is more careful.

Saving money is always a fine balance. You must weigh the costs you may save with the suffering you must endure to save it. So we decided on the following plan. We would skip an airplane, train, or regular Greyhound bus. We would take the Chinatown Bus, $30 roundtrip. We debated a bit about lodging. Of course we could bunk with some of our friends, but then we would miss out on some of the "romance". So we decided to opt for a one star hotel on the Upper West Side. Orbitz described it as a standard room with a double bed and a shared bathroom down the hall. Phil called and discovered that there was no AC. We could handle that. $62 and I threw my flip flops into my backback on top of my library book, just in case the bathroom was wet when I needed to shower. We were off to a frugal start.

The Chinatown bus seem great at first. I pulled out a book and with my feet resting on my backpack I got into it. I made a couple calls. Philip and I chatted a bit. Who cared that afer about 45 minutes my neck and back started to tighten. They would have on some dumb (and short) plane ride. Then I started to feel queasy, a case of good old-fashioned car sickness. No more reading and Philip was asleep and it was dark and there was nothing worth looking at out the window anyway. I gritted my teeth and with a stiff upper lip endured. No vomitting or anything.

As advertised, we were dropped off on a seemingly random corner in Chinatown at about 12:30AM, but the city was alive. Really awake and moving and working. There is just no other city I have lived in that works this way. The 1/9 subway was crowded with all types: three medical students, Chinese speaking biracial African-Chinese-American and his Chinese-American friend, lots of Latinos looking like they were on their way home from work, some punky teenagers of all races, a handful of preppy Columbia students, and us. We got off by our hotel and checked out about three busy bars before settling into one that had outdoor seating. A pint later, in the middle of a summer downpour, we sprinted to out "hotel". The lobby looked legit and we innocently took the key and bouned upstairs, still excited from running in the rain.

When we opened the door to the room we didn't quite know what to do. My mom would have described it as a flop house. I told Phil it looked like a set from Law and Order. Phil had no words. And so, we laughed. Let me begin with the things this room did NOT have: a mattress cover, a chair, a lamp, a light cover for the floresent light, a mirror, a hook, a closet, a phone, or a floor I could put my bare feet on. It did have stained (but laundered) sheets, a sink, a microwave, lime green paint, a peep hole, a window fan, a eight inch hole in the ceiling, an air shaft view, and several locks. We had been imagining dorm room, not shit hole. So we laughed some more and changed into dry clothes. It was nearly 2 AM and we had no lead on another room, plus we had already paid for this one. So we laughed some more and climbed on top of the sheets and played cards (I won) all the while wishing we had hooded pajamas to sleep in. Fatigue finally overcame the creeps and we slept for a good 7 hours before checking out and finding a hotel one block away that gave us a real hotel room--attatched bathroom and all--for not that much more.

Travel Log Preview

We have been out of town for since June 30 and that is why things have been so quiet. Never fear, I have collected quite a few stories that will be uploaded over the next two days. Some of them include:

Just Getting out the Door
Ribs for Dinner
Vacation: Skelding Style
Hide and Go Seek
Living Like a Student at 30 and Proud
Flossing on the Upper West Side
Ground Zero
New York V Boston

Flossing on the Upper West Side

Philip and I were walking down the street on the Upper West Side between Broadway and Amsterdam towards the Park when he stopped abruptly and took off his backpack.

"I am have an emergency," he said plainly, as he opened his dop kit*, which he had quickly slipped out of his bag. He cut off a long, large piece of floss from his floss box.

"What are you doing?" I protested, as he started to floss bits of his breakfast out from between his teeth.

"You just can't understand. I am in pain."

I jutted out my chin indignantly.

"Physical and mental pain."

I rolled my eyes.

"Combined physical and mental pain," he whined for emphasis, as if I didn't know the meaning of the word "and". With this and the floss hanging out of his mouth, he started to walk again, at a New York pace. I jogged to catch up.

Now, I have had some strange flossing experiences. My family and I regularly flossed as a group activity while watching TV and then marveled at the interesting ways we found to fold and tie up, even crochet, our used floss. Philip has always puzzled at this ritual. In college, I once flossed with a 5 foot piece of floss with both Phil and our friend HaYoung at the same time while listening to "You Sexy Thing". But, COME ON! Walking down the street! Waiting on the corner! Crossing Amsterdam! It was a new low for both of us.

*I had to look up this word for this blog, as I was not sure if it was dob kit or dop kit. I could not find it in the abridged OED we have at home or at dictionary.com. I googled it and found many dop (not dob) kits for sale. Now Phil and I are very curious about the origins of the word. Any ideas?

Hide and Go Seek

Sumner, Ramona, and their grandfather, Pop, played a lot of hide and go seek while we were in New Hampshire. We were staying in a suite--two rooms, two closets, one table, four doors, two bathtubs, some beds with blankets, and a couple of chairs. Not a lot of hiding spots. But for Sumner and Ramona, it was as good as four acres of wooded brush.

Philip learned how to play Hide and Go Seek from his dad and this is how they play: When someone is hiding, you let them look for you for a minute or so. Then, you start to peep. That means you make the tiniest "peep" sound. Once the peeps begin, the race is on. The Seeker(s) gets closer and closer and then, the climax: the Hider jumps out and scares and tickles and grabs the Seeker(s).

They play this over and over again. They love all of the anticipation. The thrill is tremendous. I can remember waiting in hidden spots when I was a kid and using all my energy not to giggle or pee in my pants from all of the excitement. The knowing something and getting to reveal it or not knowing something and getting to discover it is pure fun. When they hide, they get the rush of "tricking" Pop and making him react to their surprise attack at the end. When they seek, they love getting closer and closer to being shocked (yet again) by Pop. And then there is the embrace at the end, the comfort of knowing that the world is reordered as you want it to be. It is very sweet.

Vacation: Skelding Style

Ain't No Mountain High Enough, Aretha

I have learned a lot of lessons from my husband and by extension my in-laws. But I have always been suspicious of one of Phil's vacation values: vacation to the MAX. Is that really vacationing?

Well, I just spent 5 days on a jam-packed, activity vacation in the White Mountains and it felt like vacation. I relaxed. I enjoyed nature. I did not feel pressure or rushed. I biked, cannoed, opted to read for an afternoon, slept a ton, swam with the kids, played in the river, ran, worked out in the gym, climbed through a bunch of caves, rode a gondola to the top of a mountain, ate some fabulous meals, got robbed when Rick and I faced off with Phil and his mom in a game of Catch Phrase, had some good talks with the grown ups, played with the kids, and didn't blog once.

So, I guess you can do a bunch of stuff and relax. This does not mean I am not abandoning one of my vacation values: vacation is slowing down and not having to do stuff. It is relaxing. But like most of marriage, we are blending and I am learning.

Ribs for Dinner

Tired of Being Alone, All Green

There is a phenomenon that I believe many co-parents are familiar with that I will call the Ribs-for-Dinner phenomenon. We will call these every parents the Home Parent and the Otherwise Occupied Parent. In the following situation several things are going on. It is not a regular weekday or even a regular weekend. This is a vacation scenario. The Home Parent can't wait to spend some extra family time with his or her children and the Otherwise Occupied Parent. He or she has been looking forward to sharing even more of the daily joys and burdens of parenting with his or her spouse. The Otherwise Occupied Parent is also all revved up to share the daily grid and the daily giggles. During routine weekdays and weekends the Otherwise Occupied Parent has complete faith, trust, and admiration for the Home Parent. He or she says thank you daily and alternately marvels "how do you do it?" and "you are doing a great job."

Then, the 24-7 togetherness begins. The OOP sees some suspect interactions between the HP and the children. Perhaps bribes are given or too much sugar is condoned or too much whining is tolerated. The OOP wants to jump in, help out, and give advice. The HP parent wants the back-up, but feels a little sensitive about the only thing he or she has really being working on--some little people that will never be a final product--being questioned in any way, shape, or form.

So here is how it may play out:

OOP: You just ordered Child X ribs for dinner?

HP: Yeah.

OOP: He isn't going to eat them.

HP: Really? I think he loves them.

OOP: I don't think so.

HP: He ate them that one time at Restaurant X.

OOP: I don't think he's going to eat them.

HP: He will.

OOP barely shakes his or her head.

HP smiles as if he or she isn't irritated.

What can you do? I guess (not that this has happened to me or anything) HP needs to let down his or her shield a little bit and the OOP needs to continuing trusting a little bit and then they run with it together.

Just Getting Out the Door...

when we are leaving on vacation is really difficult. I have spent a lifetime of racing to be the last to board a plane and leaving on road trips three hours after the appointed departure time and therefore pitching a tent in the dark. I hate this. Part of me wants to be one of those people who pack a few days ahead of time and waits at the gate for 45 minutes before the boarding begins. But part of me hates the idea of being so type A about just getting there. I hate to leave a cushion of time. If I was "together" (such a wonderfully clear and ridiculous euphemism) and spent 45 minutes at the gate before boarding, what would I be missing out on? Talking with a friend? A bubble bath? Sleep? Reading on extra chapter with Sumner?

On Thursday Phil and I were planning on picking his parents up at the airport and heading up to New Hampshire. It was Sumner's last day of school and we thought that we were in pretty good shape to pick his parents up in the early afternoon. We made lists, long ones, all week long. We assigned times to the tasks on the list. We slotted them into time periods. These are our best strategies for getting stuff done. My bag was nearly packed the night before and Philip had done what he calls his "mental packing". That means he knew what he was going to put in his bag and was ready to approach his closet and get to it (versus approaching his closet and at that moment start pondering what it means to go on vacation and what he might need to wear for the experience). We had pulled out all of the stops--we thought.

We used to not employ all of these fail safes when we were heading out on a trip and the result was that we would leave a messy house in hurry and a panic and leave several key things behind every time. But we are getting better. Since we have been improving, we see how horrible things used to be and what we can aspire to be. Now that we have our eyes on the prize, which was once an illusive phantom, we want it desperately. So when we fail, we take ourselves more seriously.

Stuff came up. I probably shouldn't have done a craft with Sumner's class on Wednesday morning or gone shopping to fill in a few holes in my wardrobe. It may not have been the best idea for Phil to IM with Ajay late Wednesday night. Did I really need to sleep that extra half hour on Thursday morning? We also kept missing slotted times to get the van cleaned and so it was left until Thursday morning. One more thing to fit into a full morning.

I dropped Sumner off at school, while Philip tried to take care of some businessy-things at home and execute the actual pack. The detail shop that usually cleans the van was busy, so, running out of time, I overrode my preference to get the car taken care of just so by my shop. I took it to a regular car wash that happens to vacuum interiors. They did it in no time, but as I drove home I realized the interior was hardly cleaned--sand was still all over the place. So I took it back to have them give it another go. After another 10 minutes with it they returned it to me still dirty. So this picky white woman asked them to do it a final time. Finally it was done right and I rushed home. I digress.

This fiasco ate up most of our morning and we both still had long lists of things to get done. We fed the kids and plopped them in front of the TV and ran around the house trying to get everything done. At one point I saw Phil sprinting past the window. I thought he must be racing to save a standard poodle from the jaws of a lion, but then it dawned on me that he was just trying to get the bikes on the back of the car in a speedy way. Meanwhile I was trying to put away every little bit of clutter that remained out and pack food and finish one last load of laundry and pack all of our meds and toiletries. It was the usual rush. We were 30 minutes late to pick up Lynn and Rick. Neither of us had showered for two days. Ramona wouldn't wear the cute outfit I had planned for her. But the house was picked up and I only forgot a few major things. This was a small victory. Will we ever avoid the rush? Will we ever see "together"? And truly, how together do we want to do?