Hands

One of the most satisfying and infuriating things about having children is seeing your, and your spouses, physical traits, personality quirks, and character flaws on display in this little person. Whether by nature or by nurture, there they are: his eyes, my temper. His calves, my nose. Oh, and my nail-biting, insomnia, fear of spiders, and test anxiety. Wonderful. Sorry about that, kids.

Sam has inherited his father's hands. 

They seem to be a family trait, BJ having inherited them from *his* father. When I first shook hands with the man who would become my father-in-law, I couldn't help but notice them: Big hands. Big enough to make me feel very small. Fingers long enough to look delicate. Well suited to the man, who has spent his life practicing the art and science of surgery. In both men, they seemed up to the task of holding lives in the balance.

On Sam, those hands are still small enough to fit neatly inside mine, but they carry the promise of strength. He is a thumb sucker. Even in his ultrasound pictures, he was sucking his thumb. As a tiny baby, he would cork his mouth with that little thumb, and spread his fingers all the way out, covering his tiny face. Eventually he learned the more typical "fingers curled into a fist" method. I've always enjoyed seeing him smile with his thumb in his mouth, the single dimple in his right cheek serving as the first clue, and giving him a mischevious air. 

His habit of placing a single index finger to pursed lips and tap-tap-tapping as he considers his juice options never fails to delight me. Such a funny, grown up gesture from such a small person. I catch myself doing the the same thing while looking at things in the store, and laugh to myself. 

This morning, while watching his favorite dinosaur show and cuddling on the couch with me, he took my hand and held it, bouncing our linked fingers on his knee. Then he raised my hand to his lips, and kissed it. 

It took my breath away. It is something his father does. Has always done. The first time was on our first real date, sitting in his Jetta on a cold winter night, looking at the holiday light display at Falls Park, having the most in-depth literary discussion of my life. He did it from his knees, after proposing to me in front of our entire National Guard unit. At the top of the stairs to the banquet room where we would take our vows in front of a small group of loved ones. Standing beside me each time I labored to bring our children into the world. Even just in the car, as we drive into town. It is a casual, intimate, gesture that always seems to shrink the world down to just the two of us. 

Sam smiled up at me, as if he knew this was somehow a big deal to me. He is a bright kid. He notices everything. Dad is pretty much the best person in the entire world, as far as Sam is concerned. And when Dad does this, it makes Mama smile. I told him "Thank you!", gave him a hug and a big kiss. They are always watching. If Sam continues to learn the lessons his father is living for him, there is a little girl out there who will have wonderful future full of love and laughter and fun, and unyielding support in the hardest times. 

Days and years

The least appreciated parenting advice out there is "Enjoy every moment! It goes so fast!" The fact that it's thrown out by experienced parents whose own children are long grown and gone doesn't seem to soften the blow. There is NO WAY to enjoy every moment of parenting. A huge portion of parenting involves other people's bodily waste (usually on you), other people's needs (long before your own), and other people's demands...on your time, your body, your belongings, your bank account, and so on. Much of parenting is, simply, not fun.

There is, however, a kernel of truth. I am lucky, in many ways, that my children are spaced the way they are. My oldest turned 18 two weeks before my youngest was born. I am dealing with all the "baby" stuff (sleepless nights, teething, breastfeeding, diapers, gummy smiles, milestones), at the same time I am navigating the extremely tricky path of being the parent of an adult. It gives me a perspective that I otherwise could not have had. While enjoying every moment is not realistic, it really does go fast. Or maybe it's better summed up with the quote (from whom, I don't know) "The days are long but the years are short".

The days are long. Oh my goodness, yes! With a tween, a toddler, and an infant in the house, they often feel impossibly long. It's not unusual for me to be checking the time, hoping it's bedtime...at 5pm. Oh, right...dinner. Yeah, gotta do that first. And baths. And laundry and dishes and picking up the toys so no one breaks their neck and nurse the baby and put Sam to bed and take the dog out and put Sam back in bed and nurse the baby again and help with homework and rock the baby to sleep and go for my run and cut it short and get the baby back to sleep...and do it all again tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.

The years are short. Maybe there is some parent out there who waves their child off into an independent life with no concern or qualms about their ability to manage. Maybe there is a parent out there who never lay awake worrying about how their newly adult child was getting by in the "real world". Maybe there is. But I've never met one. We can all remember the exciting, heady, terrifying days when we were finally out on our own. We can also remember the extremely bad decisions we made. Some people luck out and escape with nothing but stories. Others end up dealing with bad credit, criminal records, injuries, debt, or their own tiny human parasites (if you miss my humor there, I'm talking about children) for the rest of their lives. Even so, just as we can't hold on to the back of the bike seat forever, we also can't try to steer them into adulthood. It's for them to do. Crash, or soar. Succeed or fail. It's time to step back and let them do it.

We get a little practice. At first, every problem they have is something we can fix. Wet diaper? On it. Hungry? I got milk! Tired? Rocking chair and lullabies to the rescue! They take their first steps away from us when they take their first steps. Now there are problems they need to solve for themselves. We can guide, and we can teach, but nobody can climb out of that crib for them; they have to do that themselves!

We are still resource number one, right through elementary school. Jr. High, though, begins a whole new reality. We see this with Bryn. Suddenly, there is drama. OMG, is there ever drama! Friend drama, puberty drama, sports drama, boy/girl drama! Loads of it! Parents might only hear about 1/4 of it. The stuff we hear about, we can try to give advice, but this is when they are taking their first lessons in interpersonal relationships. We can't do much. It seems trivial to us, but it's MONUMENTALLY IMPORTANT to them. "Just tell Kiely that you didn't know that she liked Jordan, and it's not your fault that he likes you, anyway!" Umm. No. This is a LEVEL 5 DISASTER that is going to spawn at least 12 cryptic Facebook messages, half a dozen Tumblr posts, and a bare minimum one melancholy Instagram picture. It's even more huge when, like Bryn, your tiny school consists of 23 kids in your grade. Everyone is in everyone's business, there are fewer than 15 members of the opposite sex available to you, and your hormones are going haywire.

High school brings the BIG QUESTIONS. Dating. Sex. Drugs. Heck, even politics and religion gets thrown in there. They are grappling with fundamental questions of who they are. They may (if we are lucky) still come to us for guidance, but most of it is "none of your business, MOM!!" The smart parent will give advice obliquely. Bringing up a celebrity sexting leak, and saying "Well, what they should have done is..." A news story about a drunk driving accident is an opportunity to say "I know that you are smart enough to know that, if you were drinking, you could call me for a ride and I wouldn't freak out, because you know I just want you to be safe." Oh yeah, we get sneaky.

And then...suddenly...they are gone. They are at college. Or working. They are an adult. They could...I don't know, run off and get married! They can decide to start smoking! Get a credit card and run up loads of debt! Have a medical crisis and decide NOT to tell us about it! Vote republican! Get ill-advised tattoos and piercings! You know... the kind of stuff we were dumb enough to do! At this point, the only say we have is dictated by our child. Our adult child. We have to hope we did the right thing all along, so they are willing to let us in, willing to come to us when they need us. Because the will always need us, even (maybe especially) when we are gone from this earth.

Yesterday was busy and stressful. It was one of those nights where I really wished I could put them to bed at 4:45pm. Little hands had grabbed at me too many times. This cold was kicking my butt. I'd been trying to get ready for the long trip to drill this weekend. I was tired.

Around 1:30 in the morning, I woke up to running footsteps and hiccuped sobs. Sam had woken up. Something, a nightmare, maybe, or a shadow on the wall, had scared him, and he'd sprinted down the hallway to our room. It's happened a couple times before, but not often. I scooped him up, hugged him, and carried him back to bed.

He wouldn't settle. He curled into a ball in his bed, whimpering. I gave up, and carried him back to our room. He settled in between us, with his pokey elbows and icy feet. He looped one hand around his daddy's forearm and stuck his thumb in his mouth. With his other arm, he pulled my arms around him and curled into me. Instead of whimpering, he gave a long sigh, and his whole body relaxed.

We wouldn't get much sleep, BJ and I. We knew that. But there is far too short a time where our presence alone can fix everything. Someday the challenges will be so great that we can't just assure him that "everything is ok". Eventually, we won't even know when he is laying in bed, worried and afraid. For now, though, everything is ok. Curled up between mom and dad, all his problems are solved. For now.

The days are long, but the years are short.

Christmas Confessions

I have a confession to make: I am already decorating for Christmas. I know, I know: there is an unspoken, but very clear, rule regarding this. Christmas decorations cannot go up in one's house until after Thanksgiving. It seems to have something to do with allowing Thanksgiving to stand on it's own, enjoy its own time in the spotlight, before the red-suited bully pushes his way on stage. In theory, I agree with this. Thanksgiving is my second favorite holiday. After all, what's not to love about a day dedicated to being grateful for what we have, spending time with family, and eating delicious food?

But, the fact is, my very favorite holiday is Christmas. I love Christmas to a ridiculous degree. The music never gets old for me; in fact, it often makes me tear up. Happy, nostalgic tears, right there in the aisle at Target. I'm a sucker for the decorations. Show me a store that looks, as my husband puts it "like someone puked Christmas all over this place", and I'm in paroxysms of joy. All of my favorite things to cook are family Christmas traditions (my caramels are legendary). I plan out gifts months in advance, but I don't shop until well into the season. Why? Because I love being the stores when they have all their decorations up, music playing, and the amazing buzz of energy from crowds of shoppers. All this from someone who usually avoids crowds at all costs.

I have half a dozen family traditions that we stick to every year. All the kids know that they get to open one gift on Christmas Eve, just before bed. It's always pajamas. Not the most thrilling gift for a kid, but the one time I suggested eliminating the tradition to save money, we about had a mutiny. I was delighted, since this was my favorite tradition as a child. Decorating the Christmas tree means homemade hot chocolate and snacks. Each of my children has a bird assigned to them. I picked it out for them when they were tiny. Every year, they get an ornament of their bird. Ian gets cardinals; Bryn, chickadees; Sam, bluebirds. This is Astrid's first Christmas, and everyone seems to have started giving her owls from birth, so she will be my little owl (which is slightly complicated, since I had also been giving her father owls. I guess we will have to label them somehow). Oddly, I had never gotten myself anything particular until last year. From here on out, I am either a birdhouse, or a nest.

Friends and family treat this love of Christmas the way they would any insane love of something. With polite smiles, snickers behind my back, and "well, that's just the way she it". Just like they would for someone who was really into dolphins, or Star Trek, or coin collecting. It's just this weird thing I do, hahaha.

It doesn't seem super odd until you learn that I'm an atheist. (*record scratch* Wait, what?!) Ummm, yeah. I love Christmas more than anyone over the age of seven. Certainly more than any self-respecting atheist should admit.

I can hear the collective question in everyone's mind: WHY?!

Lets start with the way Christmas is celebrated. There are, on the surface, many secular aspects of it. Santa Clause, though he started as a religious figure, is largely neutral at this point. I believed in Santa a lot longer than most kids. I grew up poor. My mom was a single mother, who put herself through school and then tried to raise the three of us on a teacher's salary. I was familiar, from a very early age, with the idea that things cost money, and we didn't have money. But, somehow, on Christmas morning, the deepest desire of my childish heart would be sitting under that beautiful tree. I know now that it was the result of tremendous sacrifice and effort on the part of my mother, but, back then, magic seemed to be the most logical explanation. And I was the daughter of an unreliable, absent father. The idea that there was a man out there who cared what I wanted, noticed my behavior, and wanted to make me happy? It was comforting.

I love doing things for other people. I don't tend to spend a lot of money on gifts, but I love putting real thought and effort into finding something that will be cherished by a friend or family member. I often make gifts, which adds a whole other layer of fun to the process.

Speaking of making things; food. Oh my. I love to bake, and Christmas is the time I can really go crazy. Cookies, pie, bread, candies! I can make them all! I can give them to random people (the mailman, the UPS guy, the lady from the electric company, the secretary, principal, and all the teachers at the school)! What could be better than that?

There is a big cultural push for charity and service at Christmas time. I love that. I wish it kept up all year, but I will enjoy it while I can. I make an effort to keep it going myself, but sometimes it can feel like a lonely endeavor 'round about July or August. When the whole of society is focused on helping those less fortunate, being giving, being kind...it feels like the kind of world I want to live in. Too often, especially lately, it feels like everyone is divided by ideology, religion, politics. When the majority of people are, for once, paying attention to the "peace on earth, goodwill towards man" thing, we get a bit closer. I'm not saying it's perfect: there are the utterly ridiculous fights about "Merry Christmas" vs "Happy Holidays", and, no, not everyone celebrates anything at all this time of year...but in general, there is a little more positivity out there, and I like that.

And finally, there is the Christmas story itself. I spent several years working on the Labor and Delivery floor of a hospital. I spent a couple more working at a children's hospital. I've been a doula (a professional childbirth assistant) for 12 years. I've seen dozens of babies take their first breath. I've seen thousands more in the hours immediately following that. I've had four babies of my own. Every single time, I am blown away. They are perfect, amazing little bundles of possibility. They can be or do ANYTHING! The story of a child born into less-than-ideal circumstances, who then goes on to save the world? It resonates with me, because...couldn't they all? What if we treated every single child like they were here to save to world? I've found that, usually, kids live up to what we expect from them. There are some really big challenges ahead for humanity. I hope we can leave something other than unending wars and conflict and pockets of starvation and poverty scattered amongst the technology and wealth. So far, what I'm seeing from the adults isn't encouraging. I'm hoping I can expect better from all the kids I've known.

So, if I am downright annoying, what with the singing and the decorating and the baking and sappy Christmas stuff, at least now you know why. And if you are looking for someone to go caroling with, or driving around looking at lights, or wandering around the mall, or baking cookies...well, I'm your girl.

Swim

It has been just under 16 years since the day I stood in a small room in Des Moines, and took the oath of enlistment for the Army National Guard. I was 19 years old.

It was a different world. The National Guard was in a constant state of budget crisis. There was always more that needed to be done than there was money to do it. A sign in an office at the armory said "We have done so much, with so little, for so long, we are now convinced that we can do absolutely everything, with absolutely nothing". There was no war. Sure, some units were going to Kosovo, and about every six months the Commander would trot out some new global emergency that he was sure we would be called up for, urging us to get into shape, pay attention in training, and keep track of our gear. The Desert Storm veterans used to tease us, telling us we would never get a combat patch. We could stay in for 20 years and never leave the US. Hell, if the budget got cut again, we would never leave Iowa!

Things changed.

Today, I got to spend some time with my oldest, Ian. He's 18 now. Living on his own, busy with his own life, so getting a few hours of his time is precious to me. We got on the subject of childhood memories, and how it can be difficult to remember the order of events. This happened, and That happened...but when did This happen in relation to That? It gets muddled.
"What was going on when I was 9?" He asked, "I can't remember, exactly."
"Well," I said, "That was when I was in Texas, going to Medic training."
"Oh, now I remember!" he said. "I was all worried, because you were helping take care of the people who had to leave Katrina, and I knew you couldn't swim. I was having lots of nightmares, and I kept trying to figure out if I could ride my bike to Texas, because I was a good swimmer, and you aren't."

There is always, especially at this time of year, so recently after Veteran's Day, a lot of talk about the sacrifices members of the military make. Some people even remember to honor their families, who often sacrifice even more. I often say that staying in has been the ultimate act of selfishness on my part, because I put my family through hell so that I can do something I love. I've never felt the truth of that more strongly than I did today.

My nine year old son wanted to ride his bike from Minnesota to Texas to protect me from flooding that he was afraid was near me. Between that 16 weeks of training, and the 16 months of deployment, a little boy spent years having nightmares about my safety. That fact clamped down on me like a vice.

"Listen," I said. "I want you to know that I know my being in has been hard for you. It's hurt you. You must have felt so alone and so sad. I never wanted that. Ever. And I'm sorry."

He looked stunned. And a little teary-eyed. Maybe he thought I hadn't noticed.

"You have nothing to apologize for." His voice is so deep. When did he stop sounding like a little boy? "Everything you did, you did for us. I knew that. I know that. I'm proud to be your son."

Thank you, Ian. I don't think you know how often you really did keep my head above the water.

Season's change

When we lived in town, I could always tell when it had snowed during the night. I would wake up, and all the outside sounds would be muffled. Out here on the acreage, the only sound we get, usually, is the wind. So it was a bit of surprise to wake up Saturday morning to discover I was living in a snow globe. Winter has arrived.

Not on the calendar, of course. Minnesota winters do not feel the need to constrain themselves to some artificially enforced time line. They creep out in either direction, hanging on longer than we would like, showing up earlier than we'd hoped. They are the ultimate bad guest.

I grew up in southern and central California. Winter, for us, was a time of fog and rain. Occasionally, the edges of the puddles would gain a slim margin of ice, which we kids found highly entertaining. Snow was like Disneyland: something we planned and traveled for. About once a year, we would head to the mountains to "see the snow". Since we didn't have the required clothing, we improvised. Jeans awkwardly forced over top of sweat pants. Two long sleeved shirts and hoodie worn under the lightweight "winter coat" we used in the valley. We would drive for hours, arrive in Yosemite National Park, find an empty field, play in the snow, load up the car, buy hot chocolate, and head home, feeling like we had really experienced winter. One year, at home, I made some statement about how it "doesn't feel like Christmas without snow", which caused some major hilarity in the family: at that point in my life, I'd never actually seen snow while it was falling.

Easter was a time for pastel sun dresses and white sandals. My easter dress was always some lightweight, frothy confection that I couldn't help twirling and skipping about in. We would put on sunscreen before heading out to the egg hunt on the lawn of the courthouse, surrounded by lush greenery and a riot of flowers. A picnic usually followed.

Homemade halloween costumes were often based off of a leotard and tights, and trick-or-treating didn't stop until your feet hurt too bad to keep going, or your plastic pumpkin was stuffed to overflowing. We often had a halloween-themed birthday party for my sister (born November 1st), and the backyard would be used for bobbing for apples and other games.

My kid's reality is slightly different. Oh, those frothy easter dresses and cute sandals hit the stores just the same as they did when I was young. But, in Minnesota, easter often arrives when snow is still on the ground. With my boys, at least, we could go with a long sleeved dress shirt and a pastel sweater vest. For the girls? Those twirly dresses I loved so much are completely impractical. One year, I made Bryn a dress: pale pink polar fleece, worn over a white turtle neck, leggings that were one step removed from being pants, and snowboots. If you want to have fun with hiding eggs, don't dye them. Throw the eggs out in the yard to blend in with the snow. Good luck, kids!

Halloween costumes are selected based on what can fit over a snowsuit. It would be climatically, if not culturally, appropriate to go as Inuit every year. Trick-or-treating ends as soon as one of the kids complains that they can't feel their fingers and toes (which is usually about 45 minutes after I've decided I'm on the verge of succumbing to hypothermia, myself). A few years ago, Bryn actually braved sleet to collect her share of the diabetes bait. Luckily, by then she was traveling in a pack of friends, because there was no way in hell I was going out there.

And the snow. Piles and piles of it. Drifting over the driveway, burying the car, getting tracked into the house to melt into icy little puddles just waiting for stockinged feet. For them, it really won't feel like Christmas without snow. Skiing and sledding and ice skating are things that people really do, rather than abstract stories in books. Granted, they also get to deal with the sub-zero windchills, which, once you emerge from behind the thickest part of our shelter belt, down by the mailbox, are downright brutal. And that, of course, is right where the school bus will pick them up.

This probably sounds pretty negative. The fact is, I love it. The snow is amazingly beautiful, and peaceful. The cold makes me think hard about whether or not I really need to go run that errand...which means I spend more time doing things at home with my family, and less time running around. One year, during a particularly busy and stressful Christmas, a perfectly-timed Christmas Eve blizzard stranded us at the apartment we lived in. I was initially upset about the various family gatherings we were missing, but it ended up being one of my favorite memories. We stayed in. Just me, BJ, and the two older kids (the younger two having not been born yet). The complex had an indoor pool and spa, and we ventured down to make use of it. We were the only ones there, and the snowflakes outside were the size of cotton balls.

And, after 20 years living in the midwest, I have adapted. I've learned how to layer. I'm ashamed to admit that it took until two years ago before I discovered the wonder of wool socks, and snow boots chosen for their function rather than their fashion. I own snowpants. I've got a hat lined with real rabbit fur. I'm even starting to eyeball my husband's Carhart coveralls (I call them his Gingerbreadman Suit), with a thought towards getting my own. Little by little, I am laying claim to this season.

This year, for my birthday, I got snowshoes. That snow globe world out there is just waiting to be explored.

Grief

A dear friend of mine received some terrible news. She has suffered a loss so painful that my mind shies away from trying to imagine it. For those of us around her, it's a painful reminder that life is sometimes bitterly unfair, often tragic, and never truly safe. 

Dearest friend, I cannot make this pain less for you. I know that. Grief is a dark bubble that surrounds and separates. To grieve is to be more alone than feels possible in a world with so many other people. Everything said is muffled to the point of being nonsense. A single day stands as the dividing line in time; there was Before, and now there is After. For a while, they seem so close that your heart doesn't want to believe that Before is gone. There should be a way to reach back, and pull it up to you, so that After doesn't come. It shouldn't be like this. 

We, your friends, never know what to say in times like this. We want, so badly, to help, even as we know there is little we can do. This grief is yours. We hurt for you. We cry for you. But it's you who has to find your way through that dark bubble. Just know that we are out here. Row upon row of us. We rest our fingertips on the edges of that darkness. We hold up candles to guide you out. You may not feel our touch yet. Our lights may not be able to pierce through to your eyes. But we are here. Always. 

"Got your hands full, don't ya?"

I didn't really know what I was getting into when I decided to become a stay at home mom. I'd been a working mom for years. A working single mom. A working-two-jobs-and-going-to-school-single-mom, even. It seemed to me that I would have unlimited time to do whatever I wanted. After all, I'd managed to keep everyone fed, clothed, dropped off and picked up (most of the time...kids may occasionally have been left places on accident), and the house reasonably clean. Or, at least, not a SuperFund site. I pictured myself making delicious meals in a spotless house, and doing educational, age-appropriate art projects with my little darlings. Peace, perfection, and happiness. And, in reality, some days come pretty close to that.

This was not one of those days.

Not even close.

I suppose it started the night before. When Sam threw a tantrum, pitched a shoe at me, and split my lip. That earned him an early bedtime, for the benefit of both of us. Except Bryn was still at volleyball, and BJ was at work, so when she called for a ride, I pulled the sleeping child out of bed and loaded him in the car. With both babies strapped in, I turned the key and "clickclickclickclick"....dead battery. No problem. We have a battery charger...that required at least a couple extension cords to reach the front of the car. Ok, quick call to BJ at work, cords located, car hooked up...nothing. Both little ones are screaming bloody murder from their car seats. First rule of trouble shooting? Is it plugged into the wall? Ok, no it's not, easy fix. Car started...

By the time I get to the gas station that is the bus drop-off on game days, everyone else is gone, the station is closed, and Bryn is sitting cross legged on the curb, doing her homework by the light of Powerball sign. Mother of the year, right here folks!

Then Astrid woke up at midnight. The hour and a half of sleep I'd gotten so far was the longest stretch I would get all night. Seriously, couldn't we have figured out a better way to get teeth by now? Evolve already!

At 6:30 am, it was time to get Bryn up for the day. And make coffee. Lots of coffee.

"Umm, Mom?"
I responded with a grunt.
"I think something is dead in here..."
I thought "is it me?"

The cats, in an effort to prove that my late-night declarations of their utter worthlessness were, in fact, nothing but slander, had killed and dismembered one or more mice...I'm not actually certain. The...parts...were strewn about, but some seemed to be duplicated more times than they should for only one. Now, I don't know about you, but dead animals in my kitchen are a bit more than I care to deal with pre-coffee. Unless it's bacon, of course. However, Bryn was now dancing about, doing some rather dramatic retching, so it seemed unlikely that I could pawn this off on her, despite "cat care" being part of her chores. The cats were kind enough to leave me all the squishy parts. Thanks, ladies.

Sam had speech therapy, so I was lucky that BJ got home in time to help me get the little ones stuffed into clothes are car seats. Car seats that were strapped into a car with a dead battery. Again. BJ got out of bed and came outside to switch car seats to the other car and get mine hooked up to the charger, earning himself the "Best Husband Award".

I stopped for coffee on the way in, having never gotten around to making it at home. This prompted a meltdown from Sam, because he wanted my coffee. When I let him have a taste, he had another tantrum, this one because he didn't like my coffee. He cried because I put his shoes on. And to be picked up. And, immediately, to be put back down. He threw a fit when he saw that the video game had been removed from the waiting room. Another one when the speech therapist handed him the bubbles that he had previously been begging for.

And then...the final straw. I had not used valet parking when we came in, because the parking lot was nearly empty. So, I had no parking ticket to hand to Sam as we left the appointment. Which meant there was no chance to trade that parking ticket to the nice old men at the valet stand for a dumdum sucker. I ended up hauling Sam out of there like a sack of potatoes in one arm, while juggling coats, diaper bag, and Astrid in her carseat in the other. As we walked out, the security guard smiled and said, raising his voice to be heard over Sam's screaming, "Got your hands full, don't ya?"

I smiled at him. The calm, peaceful smile of a mother who understood completely that toddlers have bad days, and it isn't their fault. The smile of a woman who was 100% certain that the situation was under control. A woman who would never lose her temper at her darling child, because she knew that children need to be allowed to express their emotions before they can learn to control their emotions.

Actually, judging by the way the burly ex-cop recoiled and suddenly seemed to have urgent business elsewhere, I may have given him a feral snarl that might have hinted at the violence I was imagining visiting upon him.

Just another day in paradise.

Running

In the past two weeks, autumn has arrived in full force. Our trees are exploding into colors, there is a bite to the air, we've even had some frost...and the farmers are out harvesting.

I'm excited for them. This is when they find out if a year of hard work was worth it. Some of them will have a difficult year; this spring's flooding means that some fields are stunted. But, while I am certainly no expert, most of them look pretty good to me. At night I can see the lights of our neighbor's combines as they lumber around the fields. In the morning, they are already up and running at 6:30 am, when I get Bryn up to catch her bus.

The only downside to all this activity is that it's driven my runs indoors, to the treadmill in the basement. Not that I don't appreciate the trusty machine. I do! Winters are long and bitterly cold here. The wind never stops. Ice and snow piles up in drifts taller than I am, hiding ditches and dips, making the way far too treacherous for running outside. But the never-changing view of the basement wall does leave something to be desired.

When I started running out here, in mid-June, the corn and beans were just barely sprouted. Astrid was 6 weeks old, and in my mind I could already hear the clock ticking down to my Physical Training Test in November. That first day, I ran for a minute, walked for five, repeating a few times. I didn't get very far, and I certainly didn't go very fast, but I came back to the house red-faced, panting, and cursing a blue streak about all the doggone hills. I had ten thousand reasons to not drag myself out again the next day...but I did.

I came to love it. Running our gravel road helped me learn the area, helped me become part of it. The wildflowers that grew in the ditches made me smile. When I saw the neighbor out mowing and baling the ditches, I thought I would miss the flowers. Instead, I just enjoyed the cut-grass smell. Someone's beef herd grazes about half a mile down from us. At first, they looked at me in placid, bovine confusion, but after a few weeks, a black cow with remarkable white markings over her eyes, who I call "Eyebrows", started to run along the fence when I came by. I frequently ask BJ if I can track down the farmer and buy her as a pet, but it seems I have found out just exactly where he draws the line on my crazy ideas. Chickens? Yes. Goats? Sigh, ok, fine, but not until spring, ok? Cows? No.

In July, I was joined on my runs by a 5 month old Blue-Heeler/Husky cross named Henry. He's a wild critter, and he wants, more than anything, for me to let him off the leash so he can herd those cows, but he's a damn fine running buddy. I've never really been a dog person, so it's a little surprising to me that getting Henry was my idea, but, chewing aside, he's a nice addition to the family. After all, whats a farmhouse and an acreage without a dog?

The days started getting shorter right around the time my runs started getting longer. It got harder to fit in an evening run before the sun went down. One night, I started off later than I would have liked. I run for time, not distance, and I was planning on 40 minutes of running, with a five minute warm up, and a five minute cool down.  It was a much longer time than I had run previously, and because it was already getting dark, I opted to go straight out and back, rather than making a loop, since I wasn't totally familiar with all the roads on the loop.

Night always seems to creep up slowly, and then rush you. I wasn't very far down the road before I lost all concept of where I was on this road I thought I knew so well. The fields were just dark patches, with only the switch from corn, to soybeans, and back again to break them up. I felt like I had been running forever. I felt like I was struggling more, going more slowly than usual. I kept checking to make sure my phone hadn't died, since I hadn't heard the chime that would tell me I was halfway, and it was time to head home.

I was pretty shocked when I came to an intersection, and my shoes hit pavement. This blog wasn't titled randomly; no matter what direction you go, there is two miles of gravel between us and the hardball. I was over the road and just even with the sign that warned drivers headed the other direction of the upcoming stop sign when my phone chimed. It's amazing what a change of perspective will do; minutes earlier I had been exhausted, irritated with my pace, and just wanting the whole thing to be over. Suddenly, I was excited, proud, and determined to finish the return trip without a break. Turns out I can do a lot more than I think I can, especially when I stop trying to talk myself out of it.

For now, though, since "squished by a combine" is not on my bucket list, I will be plugging away on the treadmill. And there might be a little piece of masking tape over the the block that shows the details of my run. Maybe I should even turn off the lights...

Parenting

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cormier/the-day-my-son-gave-up-on_b_5701432.html


This blog has been making the rounds with some of my friends, and I just couldn't let it pass without comment.

I'm not a parenting expert, but I have four children. One of them, I have actually managed to get to adulthood alive, despite what often seemed like his concentrated effort towards self destruction. When you get down to it, we are all just making it up as we go, but I've been making it up longer than most, so I hope someone will hear what I am saying, and at least think on it.

We live in a time of super-intensive parenting. There is so much focus on it. So many of us really LIVE for our kids. It is fully expected that the focus will always be on "what is best for the kids", rather than "what is best for the adults" or "what is best for the family". I know several couples who have not slept in the same bed in years, literally, because a child wants mom or dad there while they sleep. I have talked to friends who said they can't remember who they are anymore. I know people who have given up every hobby, interest, and passion they had, and poured themselves completely into parenting their children. I have been guilty of this type of thing too, from time to time, and I can't help but wonder if we aren't doing ourselves, and out kids, a huge disservice.

Kids are wonderful, amazing little people. And they will take everything you offer, and ask for more. There can never be enough hugs, kisses, bedtime stories, or playdough sessions on the kitchen table. No matter what you give them, they will always want more. It's not because they are greedy, horrible little monsters. It's because they are kids, and thats what they do. You can spend they whole day doing whatever your child wants to do, and, when you put her to bed, she will lay there wailing that she just wants one more kiss or one more book or one more movie, all while so tired she can barely keep her eyes open. You could take a week off of work, be with your toddler 24 hours a day, and the morning you leave to go back, he will fling himself down, sobbing that he just wants to spend time with you.

If you try to give them everything, you will lose yourself. Your love for your child will be the siren song that lures you out, and drowns you. Eventually, you will have nothing left to give, and they will still be wanting more. At the same time, making your child your entire world is not helping the child at all either. That is way too much to ask anyone to do, much less a kid. They are either going to give themselves an ulcer, trying to make sure you are ok, or they will assume that it is their due, and become a tiny tyrant.

The mother who wrote this post worries about her son "giving up" on her. I'm more worried about her giving up on herself. There is nothing wrong with telling a child, "You had your story, and your hugs and cuddles. It's time for bed now. I love you. Good night." There is nothing wrong with telling them, "Mom needs some time to herself".  Show them some examples of good self-care. Even fairly young kids can understand that sometimes, people need a little time to themselves. It's fine to say that you want "Just a minute" to really mean a minute. Just make sure that you aren't forgetting to show that sometimes, the answer is no.

The Ancestor

I am a writer. I always have been. 

Not a writer who makes a living writing. If you define "writer" as "someone who gets paid to write" or "someone who has published their writing", I don't fit. But, if you define writing as "someone who writes", I am most certainly a writer, and I have been one nearly all my life. 

For me (and for many other writers I have talked to, some of whom meet those far stricter definitions), this means I have these...characters...that wander about through my brain. Some of them are different facets of me. Some of them are entirely fictional creations that will go down on paper and live through various things for my amusement. Some of them...some of them are a bit harder to pin down. 

There is one that I think of as "The Grandmother", although "Ancestor" is probably a better word. She shows up in the very late winter, enticed out by the seed catalogues that arrive in the mailbox. She whispers to me, very softly. I don't even realize that I'm listening to her, but pretty soon the catalogues are marked up with stars and circles, bristling with sticky-notes marking pages. My husband looks at me sideways and informs me that I have to leave *some* lawn intact. "I could dry these" I mutter. " I could can these, freeze these...these say they will store in a cool, dark area for up to 6 months!" 

Hers was the voice that convinced me I needed pet chickens. She was delighted by my experiments making jam and pickles. Shouldn't everyone know how to sew? Knitting a sock is a skill everyone should have, isn't it? When my husband asked me if I wanted to purchase a deep-freeze so we could buy half a beef from a coworker, The Grandmother was right on board. When I think back to the cross-stitched sampler I saw as a child, reading "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Do without", I picture her hand on the needle. 

When the weather starts to change towards fall, she shows up in force. The first morning that carries a bit of bite to the air, I know she is going to start speaking. "Winter," she says "is not something to ignore. It's not a time to become complacent! There is danger coming!" It was silliness, but I would listen without realizing it. Even when I lived in an apartment, a block from the grocery store, the shortening of days prompted me to start stocking up. I would bring home a couple extra cans of soup every time I went to the store. Pretty soon, the tiny kitchen of my tiny apartment had no more storage space. The canned veggies, fruits, and soups took up residence in my closet, displacing my shoes. I would laugh at myself as I tried to find space, and then buy more the very next time I ventured out to the grocery store. 

She whispers to me from a time and place that was darker and more hostile than the soft world I inhabit. "Your children are small and vulnerable" she says. "You must be prepared for anything." She got louder, after Iraq. Like many other veterans, I carried with me a bone-deep belief that everything could go to shit at any time, with little or no warning, and you better be ready for it, because no one is going to save your ass. I married a fellow veteran, who carried the same belief, not just from war, but from the harsh reality of New Orleans, where he worked as a paramedic after Katrina drowned the city. She was positively screaming when a spring ice storm took out the power for a week, driving us from our house because it was too cold for Sam (who was still a baby). When we decided to move to the country, I insisted on getting a generator. Between that and the woodstove, I'm pretty sure we can ride out any future power outages. At least, I think I'm the one who insisted...

This year, when the seed catalogues show up, we will be in uncharted territory. I have nearly unlimited space. I have the luxury of room for fruit trees. I have an already-established asparagus patch. The design for the chicken coop is being tweaked to allow for a combination chicken coop/goat barn. There is a woodshed full of firewood, and more waiting to be split. BJ mentioned the possibility of a pig, which would require a smoker...and he would like to try building an outdoor, wood-fired bread oven. A compost pile. A root cellar. You know, brewing beer would be a neat hobby...The Grandmother smiles, and nods in approval. 

Lilacs and Thunderstorms

In the choking dust of Kuwait, I dreamt of lilacs and thunderstorms.

It was the summer of 2003. In my dream, I sat in the passenger side of a car. Someone was driving, but I didn't know, or even care, who it was. I was leaning against the door, on the shimmering edge between sleeping and waking. The window was down, and as the car went around a corner, the smell of blooming lilacs and an impending thunderstorm washed over me. It was so vivid, so real, that it seemed to linger in the air for a few moments after my platoon sergeant's barked order woke me.

The dream came back many times over that year. A year that seemed to get progressively worse; darker, more dangerous. First we had close calls. Then minor injuries. Then major ones. In February, we lost Josh, one of my dearest friends. During the most stressful times, after the very worst days, the dream would come. I loved it for the window of peace it gave me. I hated it for the longing it left in its wake. It seemed impossible, unreachable, and oh, so desirable. When my tour was over, the dream stopped. But it remained in my mind, a symbol of everything wonderful. It felt like a goal, of some sort.

Just over ten years later, I was divorced, remarried, and expecting my fourth child. After a series of events, including multiple armed robberies and a near-fatal shooting within a few blocks of our house, my husband, BJ, and I had been talking about buying an acreage and getting out of town. We had even put in an offer on one, a shocking heap of a foreclosure, sky clearly visible when you looked up from the attic, that somehow still managed to capture our imaginations. Despite offering more than the asking price, we were outbid by someone who was, apparently, even more crazy than we were.

After that, we tried to be a bit more...selective. We made a list of what we wanted: At least 2 acres. Five would be better. On a paved road. At least four bedrooms. Fixer-upper was ok, but we wanted it to be livable at least. It didn't seem to be *that* high of a standard, but months went by, and we saw nothing we liked. It seemed that what we were looking for just wasn't available, not at any price we could hope to afford, anyway. I kept looking.

I had seen one listing several times. A red house with white trim. Just under five acres. The pictures looked amazing. But there were only three bedrooms. And it was over the state line, in Minnesota, which, unlike South Dakota, had a state income tax. And the price told me that no matter what the pictures said, there was something glaringly wrong with it. I had been looking at properties that included two barren, treeless acres and a 15 year old double-wide with pink shag carpeting for that price. Still, one winter day, I decided to drive past it. I plugged the address into the GPS and set out.

When I was directed to turn off of the paved road, onto gravel, I nearly turned around. Not only had BJ been quite adamant that we needed to live on a paved road, it had snowed the night before. The gravel road had been plowed, and recently too, but I wasn't entirely sure I trusted it. Still, the little checkered flag was said to be only two miles away, so I pushed on.

I could see it for nearly a mile. Bright red and stately against the white of the snow, it sat on a hilltop. The paved driveway stretched 400 feet from the road to the double garage. A neat line of evergreens marked out the Eastern side of the property, and a thick, wild looking shelter-belt stood to the North. I had my phone out to call the realtor before I was even close enough to see the sign. The inside proved to be immaculate. It didn't take long for us to agree that our two youngest children could share a room (the oldest was 18 and had no desire to live in the country), that Minnesota taxes weren't all that high, and we could put up with the gravel.

We bought it. I mean, that's the short version. There was all the usual nonsense with banks, mortgages, inspections, a barn that had to be torn down, a broken pipe in the house in town, and the fact that I was trying to pack up and move while dealing with an 11 year old girl who was anxious about changing schools, a wild weasel of a toddler who hated change, and the uncomfortable fact that I was massively pregnant. We spent the last months of that bitterly cold winter enjoying the warmth of the woodstove and struggling to keep the driveway clear with the snowblower that had been perfect in town, but was totally overwhelmed out in the country.

Watching spring come in was amazing. The "glacier" gradually retreated, revealing the true lay of the land. Every day brought some discovery. One day, we noticed there was concrete dish sitting on the surface of the snow...it looked to be some sort of ground level bird feeder. Neat! I thought. Over the next few days, it became clear that it was NOT a ground level feeder. It was, in fact, sitting on a three-foot tall pedestal that had been completely buried. We also discovered that the snow drifts south of the driveway had hidden several small evergreen trees and a rather pretty little rose garden.

There was a small, square garden fenced with a small, wrought iron fence. We joked, in a rather macabre fashion, that it looked like a cemetery. Despite this rather odd appearance, it turned out to be a perennial garden. The day before our daughter, Astrid, was born, it bloomed full of tulips.

In early June, I was puttering around, cleaning the house. Sam, my toddler, was playing with cars. Astrid was napping. The windows were open to catch the ever-present breeze. There were dark clouds on the horizon; that had been a near-daily sight over the last few weeks. Since the kids were occupied, I took a moment to slip outside and pick some flowers to put in our bedroom. Down the hill, through the big evergreens, through the row of hackberry trees. The wind was picking up, the light changing as the clouds came overhead. The final row of shrubs, running the entire length of the property, was all lilac bushes. I could hear the thunder now, and the wind carried the smell of rain, mixing with the riot of lilac blooms.