I was never a baseball fan until I was about to turn 23.
When I talk about my 'fandom', I usually qualify which season drew me in by saying "I was hooked on the game in April!", lest someone thinks I threw myself at the first bandwagon rolling by.
It's true. I never really watched a baseball game until that year. However, I was dating someone (who I have since married) that practically eats, sleeps and breathes Yankee pinstripes. It was hard to ignore the sport with a baseball fanatic around.
One morning in April 1996 we sat on Bruce's cracked brown faux-leather couch and debated how to spend our day. His eyes got wild and big. He flew for the phone book, made a quick call and came back triumphant. "Let's drive to the Bronx and go to a Yankee game."
"Oh goody," I thought, while my mouth formed the sounds, "Ahhh, umm, k? Baseball, huh? I know nothing about baseball."
It sounds cliche, I'm sure, but it's a factual statement - when we walked out into the concrete cathedral to the sport I was in awe. There's something about the lush green grass and the climbing rows of stadium seating that gets your attention. I had a good time even though the Yankees lost. More seasoned fans were actually even more elated than I was - the team might have fallen short but that game was the best one Doc Gooden had pitched in his return that season. It gave them hope even though they couldn't guess what would lie ahead.
Days later I was on a plane headed out to a trade show. The coworker sitting next to me said, "Did you see Doc pitch? Isn't that great?"
I confessed my status as neophyte, adding that I had been at that game. Dennis took it upon himself to tutor me in baseball. From that day forward he'd send me emails and instant messages that went something like this: When you talk to your man tonight, say "I don't know about you, but I swear Boggs was safe in the 7th inning. That 6-3-4 double play with a hard slide coming down is tough to execute and I don't think they did it! Those umps are blind."
I, of course, dutifully repeated his lines, often adding in "At least that's what Dennis told me to say." Over time I didn't need his insights. I knew Doc Gooden's no hitter was a big deal. I knew Jeter was having a rookie-of-the-year caliber season. I knew it was worth staying up late and watching the World Series underdog surge to take the crown from Atlanta. I was hooked. I was a Yankee fan.
I still am.
Even in 'Roid era.
Of course, the events leading up to, through and beyond the Mitchell report have left their mark.
I am also a football fan, although not as glued to the set each week as some (read my husband) people are. I'm a Giants fan and I have been since childhood. I had no expectations for them this playoff season and so I'm not only elated to find them Super Bowl bound, I'm unbelievably shocked about it.
We were watching the game last night, as you might expect having read this far. I watched the offensive and defensive lines take their places for the first drive. I turned to my husband with a snarky smirk on my face and said:
"This line up brought to you by Balco."
And he laughed in return saying, "Yeah, no kidding."
It's sad, isn't it. An athlete in any sport can't excel, can't hone their skills or build their body without the shadow of doubt looming over them. A player can't hit a peak and then fall off the statistical cliff without a fan wondering if the guy's simply "Giambied" (as in Jason who earned multiple MVP awards while admittedly juiced and then, upon giving up the cheating aspect of his game, failed to break out of the mid-200 batting average range...which for you non-fans out there, is a bad range to be mired in.)
It's sad that each record set in the last decade or more is looked at with a question in the eye of the beholder. "Did he really win that many games because he's that good or because his trainer injected HGH? Can that guy really knock the cover off the ball that many times in a season...in a career...after 40? Is that rookie really that good? Is that superstar clean?"
It's sad that the greed and self-doubt of some cast a shadow on all.
It's not stopping me from watching, I admit it. It is stopping me from watching it with the same innocent awe at a person's raw talent.
1.21.2008
1.05.2008
Best of 2007
I know. I'm a little late. Not quite a week late, but late just the same. Last week, probably when it was actually New Year's, Jenn tagged me for the "Best of" meme. In the interest of being a good blog-bud, I now give you, albeit belated (have I said that enough?), my best of 2007 entry.
There were rules and all that too - start copy and typing and end copy and...well it's a meme so there was some tagging. Yet, as we've already covered ad nauseum I'm late to the party so we'll skip the formatlities of the meme rules. Work for you? I thought so.
Vacation, all I ever wanted
BK (Before Kids) we traveled quite a bit. Sometimes to exotic places. Sometimes to the inlaws. After kids the trips took a drastic cut back. Some of it logisitics. Some of it budget. The last week of January 2007 we moved back to the "on the go" mode for a trip to Disney World. The kids loved it. The husband loved it. I loved it. All is right with the world.
As a matter of fact, I am glued to this camera
When we were deciding when to get married I put up quite a "mature" argument that I did not want to get married in May. Why you ask? Because my birthday is in May. I didn't want my birthday and my anniversary to get all mushed up together. I wanted to get married in April. The man, however, assured me that if we got married in April, he'd still find a way to mush together my birthday with our anniversary and that the weather in Bermuda (where he was advocating for our honeymoon) was so much nicer in late May, early June. In the end I relented. My birthday and anniversary are 1 week apart. Sometimes they do get squished together...along with Mother's Day like it they did in 2007. And I'm ok with that because this year the man decided to splurge BIG time on an anniversary, birthday, mother's day gift -- he bought me the Nikon D80 I'd been lusting over for quite some time.
My finger is rarely far from the shutter button.
Speaking of Anniversary
May 31st, 2007 marked 10 years of marriage for the man and me. We celebrated the milestone by taking our first long-weekend trip sans kids, which of course simply gave us permission to act like children:
Since we're on the topic of weddings
My brother got married this year. Not so much a highlight.
The kids, however, were adorable in their flower girl-tux attire.
Bucket full of milestones
The first half of September was a really busy month for us. Within the first two weeks, Logan started Kindgergarten, Megan started preschool...and then she went and turned 3-years old. I'm all teary-eyed and proud just remembering it.
There were rules and all that too - start copy and typing and end copy and...well it's a meme so there was some tagging. Yet, as we've already covered ad nauseum I'm late to the party so we'll skip the formatlities of the meme rules. Work for you? I thought so.
Vacation, all I ever wanted
BK (Before Kids) we traveled quite a bit. Sometimes to exotic places. Sometimes to the inlaws. After kids the trips took a drastic cut back. Some of it logisitics. Some of it budget. The last week of January 2007 we moved back to the "on the go" mode for a trip to Disney World. The kids loved it. The husband loved it. I loved it. All is right with the world.
As a matter of fact, I am glued to this camera
When we were deciding when to get married I put up quite a "mature" argument that I did not want to get married in May. Why you ask? Because my birthday is in May. I didn't want my birthday and my anniversary to get all mushed up together. I wanted to get married in April. The man, however, assured me that if we got married in April, he'd still find a way to mush together my birthday with our anniversary and that the weather in Bermuda (where he was advocating for our honeymoon) was so much nicer in late May, early June. In the end I relented. My birthday and anniversary are 1 week apart. Sometimes they do get squished together...along with Mother's Day like it they did in 2007. And I'm ok with that because this year the man decided to splurge BIG time on an anniversary, birthday, mother's day gift -- he bought me the Nikon D80 I'd been lusting over for quite some time.
My finger is rarely far from the shutter button.
Speaking of Anniversary
May 31st, 2007 marked 10 years of marriage for the man and me. We celebrated the milestone by taking our first long-weekend trip sans kids, which of course simply gave us permission to act like children:
Since we're on the topic of weddings
My brother got married this year. Not so much a highlight.
The kids, however, were adorable in their flower girl-tux attire.
Bucket full of milestones
The first half of September was a really busy month for us. Within the first two weeks, Logan started Kindgergarten, Megan started preschool...and then she went and turned 3-years old. I'm all teary-eyed and proud just remembering it.
12.28.2007
So, about this resolution stuff
I don't "do" resolutions. I used to. Dutifully. Every year I'd mull over my options over the waning days of a year trying to pin point the biggest areas of my young life where change was required. And yet, invariably, every year those things would fall by the wayside before Valentine's Day cards got bought.
It's not that I lack discipline. Really, it's a very simple problem. I'm, how do we say, quite mercurial. What's paramount today does not always hold the same urgency tomorrow. What seemed resolution worthy on December 28th may have lasted until January 7th and then, well frankly, it got trumped by a new priority.
My five year old has decided, for the first time in his life, to declare a New Year's resolution. When I was annually resolving I aimed for specifics - I will increase fitness by walking daily. I will exercise my brain by reading a biography on every president (I've been stuck on John Adams for the last 6 years, by the way.)
The boy, however, takes a different approach. He resolves broadly. His tactic, perhaps, is that it's easier to achieve a goal if you're not caught up in the nitty gritty of how you're going to do it. It's easier to make a life change if you build in some wiggle room.
"For the new year," he said with his eyes locked solemnly on mine and his warm, larger than it used to be hand tucked comfortably in the crook of my arm, "I'm going to make a resolution to try to be a better boy. I'm going to try hard to be a better listener and I'm really going to work on not getting as mad at my sister even when she's mortifying me." (Yes, he did say mortifying.)
I didn't know how to respond. The cynic in me wanted to wave the John Adams bio and say "resolutions, ha!" The mom in me won out and I praised him for identifying areas of his life where he wanted to grow and improve.
It was later, when I was recounting the day for my husband, that I referred to his plans as "lofty goals." Except then I realized the kid wasn't really "all pie in the sky." Perhaps he was better at this resolution stuff than I realized. Maybe, if I stopped projecting my own "New Year flops" on the poor kid, I'd learn a thing or two.
Looking back on the years I resolved and failed, I realized that if I had followed Logan's model I might be farther along the shelf of biographies by now. I might be in better physical shape. I might have accomplished a lot of other things. My old way of going about it did little more than set myself up for failure. It was an absolute all or nothing. I had no room built in for stumbles. It became a labor of duty not a passion for self-improvement.
Logan's resolution, however, gives him the benefit of the doubt. He's going to try. He's going to work. He's going to do his best -- and if his best falls short of literal improvement, so be it. . . because his goal is simply to try. Something tells me that in that simple, attainable goal he'll find bigger, far reaching success.
Something tells me I ought to listen to the boy and accept that sometimes he really does know better than me. . .even at 5 years old.
It's not that I lack discipline. Really, it's a very simple problem. I'm, how do we say, quite mercurial. What's paramount today does not always hold the same urgency tomorrow. What seemed resolution worthy on December 28th may have lasted until January 7th and then, well frankly, it got trumped by a new priority.
My five year old has decided, for the first time in his life, to declare a New Year's resolution. When I was annually resolving I aimed for specifics - I will increase fitness by walking daily. I will exercise my brain by reading a biography on every president (I've been stuck on John Adams for the last 6 years, by the way.)
The boy, however, takes a different approach. He resolves broadly. His tactic, perhaps, is that it's easier to achieve a goal if you're not caught up in the nitty gritty of how you're going to do it. It's easier to make a life change if you build in some wiggle room.
"For the new year," he said with his eyes locked solemnly on mine and his warm, larger than it used to be hand tucked comfortably in the crook of my arm, "I'm going to make a resolution to try to be a better boy. I'm going to try hard to be a better listener and I'm really going to work on not getting as mad at my sister even when she's mortifying me." (Yes, he did say mortifying.)
I didn't know how to respond. The cynic in me wanted to wave the John Adams bio and say "resolutions, ha!" The mom in me won out and I praised him for identifying areas of his life where he wanted to grow and improve.
It was later, when I was recounting the day for my husband, that I referred to his plans as "lofty goals." Except then I realized the kid wasn't really "all pie in the sky." Perhaps he was better at this resolution stuff than I realized. Maybe, if I stopped projecting my own "New Year flops" on the poor kid, I'd learn a thing or two.
Looking back on the years I resolved and failed, I realized that if I had followed Logan's model I might be farther along the shelf of biographies by now. I might be in better physical shape. I might have accomplished a lot of other things. My old way of going about it did little more than set myself up for failure. It was an absolute all or nothing. I had no room built in for stumbles. It became a labor of duty not a passion for self-improvement.
Logan's resolution, however, gives him the benefit of the doubt. He's going to try. He's going to work. He's going to do his best -- and if his best falls short of literal improvement, so be it. . . because his goal is simply to try. Something tells me that in that simple, attainable goal he'll find bigger, far reaching success.
Something tells me I ought to listen to the boy and accept that sometimes he really does know better than me. . .even at 5 years old.
12.21.2007
Oh to be 5
It started out as one of "those" days. I was up before the rest of the house. Normally that's not a bad thing. It usually means I have some quiet time to read email or take in a few pages of my book without being climbed on. Today, however, there was no relaxing. Today there was baking to be done.
A lot of baking.
We'll gloss over the nitty gritty with this - sometime between getting two kids dressed in clean, ironed clothes, getting one kid to and from preschool, getting two kids fed lunch, two loads of laundry and taking out the trash so one balking back Daddy didn't have to do it, I managed to coordinate a 5 year old in the cutting out and baking of 4 dozen sugar cookies and three loaves of "from scratch with no bread machine" raisin bread. And ALL of that was before I located lunch for myself at 1pm.
I was not very full of "the Christmas spirit" right about then. I was cranky. And I still had a classroom full of kindergartners to face at the "cookie decorating station." Yeah, so not happy I decided to volunteer to run a center at this thing.
At 1:30 Grandma and I signed ourselves in at the school office. We carried our bundles down the hall to the room - the room that was oddly empty of loud 5 and 6 year olds.
The teacher was bustling around the empty room prepping. That's when it hit me. The kids were at the Media Center (back "in the day" we called that the library) for their Friday special. She had us come in early so we could set up without anxious, boisterous kids underfoot.
In total there were nearly as many grown-up helpers as there would be children - some of us brought along grandmas. We joined the teacher in bustling. I was fighting the urge to grumble. This mom-of-kindergartner thing can be a lot of work.
Then the noise started to build.
Twenty-one kindergartners hours away from a week off with Santa arriving days into the break are hard to contain. They erupt into the room with waves of energy proceeding them.
It's contagious.
This was my fourth afternoon this year in the classroom - my third afternoon "working" the party. Logan's teacher is big on parent involvement and we love her for it. These are kids I'm getting to know. Big eager faces, giddy at the idea of spreading frosting on cookies that they can then load up on chocolate and sprinkles. I mean really, heaven, right?
These are kids who realize "skating" on school linoleum floor in their socks is about as much fun as one can have. Kids who think shoving giant cotton balls around a few cardboard boxes is a great way to build an indoor snowman and who still get giddy over the idea of making reindeer food.
These are kids that helped to revitalize me today. Kids that remind me that sometimes even though it may seem overwhelming, the preparation for and the time spent simply 'being there' is the best gift of all.
For them. And for me.
A lot of baking.
We'll gloss over the nitty gritty with this - sometime between getting two kids dressed in clean, ironed clothes, getting one kid to and from preschool, getting two kids fed lunch, two loads of laundry and taking out the trash so one balking back Daddy didn't have to do it, I managed to coordinate a 5 year old in the cutting out and baking of 4 dozen sugar cookies and three loaves of "from scratch with no bread machine" raisin bread. And ALL of that was before I located lunch for myself at 1pm.
I was not very full of "the Christmas spirit" right about then. I was cranky. And I still had a classroom full of kindergartners to face at the "cookie decorating station." Yeah, so not happy I decided to volunteer to run a center at this thing.
At 1:30 Grandma and I signed ourselves in at the school office. We carried our bundles down the hall to the room - the room that was oddly empty of loud 5 and 6 year olds.
The teacher was bustling around the empty room prepping. That's when it hit me. The kids were at the Media Center (back "in the day" we called that the library) for their Friday special. She had us come in early so we could set up without anxious, boisterous kids underfoot.
In total there were nearly as many grown-up helpers as there would be children - some of us brought along grandmas. We joined the teacher in bustling. I was fighting the urge to grumble. This mom-of-kindergartner thing can be a lot of work.
Then the noise started to build.
Twenty-one kindergartners hours away from a week off with Santa arriving days into the break are hard to contain. They erupt into the room with waves of energy proceeding them.
It's contagious.
This was my fourth afternoon this year in the classroom - my third afternoon "working" the party. Logan's teacher is big on parent involvement and we love her for it. These are kids I'm getting to know. Big eager faces, giddy at the idea of spreading frosting on cookies that they can then load up on chocolate and sprinkles. I mean really, heaven, right?
These are kids who realize "skating" on school linoleum floor in their socks is about as much fun as one can have. Kids who think shoving giant cotton balls around a few cardboard boxes is a great way to build an indoor snowman and who still get giddy over the idea of making reindeer food.
These are kids that helped to revitalize me today. Kids that remind me that sometimes even though it may seem overwhelming, the preparation for and the time spent simply 'being there' is the best gift of all.
For them. And for me.
12.12.2007
Sometimes curiosity is bad
After my massive brainstorm to update my blog (which was inspired by Peggie's mission to update her's as a Christmas present to herself*), I volunteered to help Jenn update her template.
And that's when the bad thing happened.
I am not a web designer by trade. I only know enough HTML to get myself in trouble. I knew enough to alter the basic template I had to make it Jenn's very own lovely new home on the web. Except the code I gave her wasn't working.
I was baffled. It was bugging me. I wasn't going to rest until I figured out where I had slipped up. And then I started to tinker. Tinker is bad. Very bad.
I clicked that neat button on one of the blogger template tabs that said "update" and suddenly my innocent little HTML based blog was now an XML blog...and my lovely bold red blog with the header I pieced together with stock art was gone. Poof. No more. I was left with standard templates and a header to squish into it. I almost went with it too -- except it meant no bold, flashy red background. Zip. Gone.
Sigh.
And so I set out on a mission to find templates offered up at the very good price of free. :) We like free. We like templates.
Which brings us to the fish - voila. The new, new template.
I did nothing. I designed nothing. I used not an ounce of my right brain...unless googling counts for useage.
But for now, at least, this template speaks to me. We're happy together. Me and the template. We're buds.
Perhaps another day when I'm not staring at the clock wondering how many cups of java I will need to prop me up at my desk in the office tomorrow I will try to resurrect the bold, red and "by me with the nice stock art" header template. But for now, I give you fish.
(But hey, I *did* make Jenn's header. Go see it. Wave hi while you're there. Ask her how the Eagles are doing and then take cover.
* If you're wondering, Peggie's new blog dwelling is NOT live yet. You'll have to keep pestering her until it debuts.
And that's when the bad thing happened.
I am not a web designer by trade. I only know enough HTML to get myself in trouble. I knew enough to alter the basic template I had to make it Jenn's very own lovely new home on the web. Except the code I gave her wasn't working.
I was baffled. It was bugging me. I wasn't going to rest until I figured out where I had slipped up. And then I started to tinker. Tinker is bad. Very bad.
I clicked that neat button on one of the blogger template tabs that said "update" and suddenly my innocent little HTML based blog was now an XML blog...and my lovely bold red blog with the header I pieced together with stock art was gone. Poof. No more. I was left with standard templates and a header to squish into it. I almost went with it too -- except it meant no bold, flashy red background. Zip. Gone.
Sigh.
And so I set out on a mission to find templates offered up at the very good price of free. :) We like free. We like templates.
Which brings us to the fish - voila. The new, new template.
I did nothing. I designed nothing. I used not an ounce of my right brain...unless googling counts for useage.
But for now, at least, this template speaks to me. We're happy together. Me and the template. We're buds.
Perhaps another day when I'm not staring at the clock wondering how many cups of java I will need to prop me up at my desk in the office tomorrow I will try to resurrect the bold, red and "by me with the nice stock art" header template. But for now, I give you fish.
(But hey, I *did* make Jenn's header. Go see it. Wave hi while you're there. Ask her how the Eagles are doing and then take cover.
* If you're wondering, Peggie's new blog dwelling is NOT live yet. You'll have to keep pestering her until it debuts.
12.11.2007
Work in Progress
Yes, I'm tinkering with the template again. That sea shell design was ready to go. I know there's a spelling mistake in the header graphic. I also know I somehow lost a second color in the background. I'm not sure I like the red I settled on. I'm tinkering.
It may evolve over time. Or not.
Got an opinion on the change? Let me know.
UPDATED (12/12) - Well I found my second color, made some text changes to the header (good call on centering Nicole!) and now I think I'm set. At least for now. You never know when a new graphic might grab me and demand to be used.
It may evolve over time. Or not.
Got an opinion on the change? Let me know.
UPDATED (12/12) - Well I found my second color, made some text changes to the header (good call on centering Nicole!) and now I think I'm set. At least for now. You never know when a new graphic might grab me and demand to be used.
12.09.2007
The kid will take a tall. Make mine a Venti.
I don't even remember how it came up but I recently found myself saying:
My daughter is addicted to Starbucks.
And if I recall the other end of the conversation seemed to need a moment to pop her eyes back in her head.
"Starbucks?" she said, "You mean your three year old?"
Some how the funny of a story gets lost when you need to explain it. I hate that. Even as I back tracked slightly and then moved again to push ahead I knew the tale would fall flat.
"Well, yes, actually. Only she calls it Star-boo-cks," I mumble, before hastily adding in, "It's the cow-milk. She loves it. Well really I think it's the ambiance but she knows she's only drinking the cow-milk."
"The cow milk?"
"Right. You know, the little juice box milk with the cow on it...vanilla. She doesn't like the chocolate..ahh...hey look! Is it snowing?"
Speaking of coffee houses. . .
My church moved into it's current facility in 1969. Before that the congregation occupied a small, colonial style church building down town.
Sometime during my childhood our creepy, itty, bitty library migrated to a big, airy, spacious new building. The then 'new' library was built off the back end of the old church building. The old clock tower, the bell - all still there. The choir loft remained in tact. The stained glass that did not make it's way to the new building still poured colored sun light onto the floor of what was now meeting space. I always loved having story time in there.
Over the last two years that same library underwent another overhaul. It began with a busted pipe that left water damaged books, carpet and lord knows what else in it's wake. It ended up a brand new wing and a tremendous face lift for the old section. Today our library is buzzing with the sorts of services and programs that earn it on some national association's list of top 5 libraries in the nation. Seriously.
As a child I truly believed our library was the most amazing one ever constructed. It was a treat to go poke around the stacks of books. My children, luckily, agree. We make frequent trips and leave with large, over stuffed bags of books each time.
Last week was our most recent trip. The girl child was at preschool. The boy and I were ducking in quickly to return our previous stash and to restock. He was antsy. He wanted a slew of books but he wanted them quickly. We ran through, picked out, checked out and with Logan setting the pace, we hustled out past the circulation desk into the lobby.
He was pulling my hand and dragging me towards the front of the building - the old church building that still looks like the church from the outside while boosting bits and pieces of its history on the inside.
"Can we?" he asked, knowing what lie inside that former sanctuary is off-limits when Megan is with us.
I gave in, as I normally do knowing this is a rare treat for him. I let him jog two paces ahead of me and came to a stop in line behind him. The woman behind the counter smiled at Logan's exuberance and waited for him to stop waffling over his choices.
When he finally did, I said to her, "Ok, we'll have one vanilla frosted donut with sprinkles, one container of milk and one large vanilla spice coffee. Thanks."
Moments later the boy and I were settling into the iron backed chairs at our little table just feet from the overhang of the old choir loft. His donut resting on the bag as he licked the first bits of frosting from his fingers. I swirled the sweetners and cream in my coffee. . .and then I used that Dunkin' Donuts emblazoned napkin to wipe up the bit I had spilled.
If we're being honest, I felt a small nudge of guilt for not making the kid say grace before digging into that donut - or maybe that was just a bit of stain glass tined light clouding my mind.
My daughter is addicted to Starbucks.
And if I recall the other end of the conversation seemed to need a moment to pop her eyes back in her head.
"Starbucks?" she said, "You mean your three year old?"
Some how the funny of a story gets lost when you need to explain it. I hate that. Even as I back tracked slightly and then moved again to push ahead I knew the tale would fall flat.
"Well, yes, actually. Only she calls it Star-boo-cks," I mumble, before hastily adding in, "It's the cow-milk. She loves it. Well really I think it's the ambiance but she knows she's only drinking the cow-milk."
"The cow milk?"
"Right. You know, the little juice box milk with the cow on it...vanilla. She doesn't like the chocolate..ahh...hey look! Is it snowing?"
Speaking of coffee houses. . .
My church moved into it's current facility in 1969. Before that the congregation occupied a small, colonial style church building down town.
Sometime during my childhood our creepy, itty, bitty library migrated to a big, airy, spacious new building. The then 'new' library was built off the back end of the old church building. The old clock tower, the bell - all still there. The choir loft remained in tact. The stained glass that did not make it's way to the new building still poured colored sun light onto the floor of what was now meeting space. I always loved having story time in there.
Over the last two years that same library underwent another overhaul. It began with a busted pipe that left water damaged books, carpet and lord knows what else in it's wake. It ended up a brand new wing and a tremendous face lift for the old section. Today our library is buzzing with the sorts of services and programs that earn it on some national association's list of top 5 libraries in the nation. Seriously.
As a child I truly believed our library was the most amazing one ever constructed. It was a treat to go poke around the stacks of books. My children, luckily, agree. We make frequent trips and leave with large, over stuffed bags of books each time.
Last week was our most recent trip. The girl child was at preschool. The boy and I were ducking in quickly to return our previous stash and to restock. He was antsy. He wanted a slew of books but he wanted them quickly. We ran through, picked out, checked out and with Logan setting the pace, we hustled out past the circulation desk into the lobby.
He was pulling my hand and dragging me towards the front of the building - the old church building that still looks like the church from the outside while boosting bits and pieces of its history on the inside.
"Can we?" he asked, knowing what lie inside that former sanctuary is off-limits when Megan is with us.
I gave in, as I normally do knowing this is a rare treat for him. I let him jog two paces ahead of me and came to a stop in line behind him. The woman behind the counter smiled at Logan's exuberance and waited for him to stop waffling over his choices.
When he finally did, I said to her, "Ok, we'll have one vanilla frosted donut with sprinkles, one container of milk and one large vanilla spice coffee. Thanks."
Moments later the boy and I were settling into the iron backed chairs at our little table just feet from the overhang of the old choir loft. His donut resting on the bag as he licked the first bits of frosting from his fingers. I swirled the sweetners and cream in my coffee. . .and then I used that Dunkin' Donuts emblazoned napkin to wipe up the bit I had spilled.
If we're being honest, I felt a small nudge of guilt for not making the kid say grace before digging into that donut - or maybe that was just a bit of stain glass tined light clouding my mind.
11.29.2007
Ho, Ho, Ho....I got tagged
Because sometimes I like to take the easy way out, I'm simply going to tag you, you and you...and you. . . and ok, you there lurking in the corner. (I think you get the idea.)
1.) Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Hot chocolate. (Egg nog? Yuck. Ok, I went through a small egg nog phase. Now I can't figure out why.)
2.) Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Santa tries to have them all wrapped but sometimes Santa decides that a simple bow will suffice for those "hard to wrap" items. (And really, God bless whoever invented the gift bag.)
3.) Colored lights on tree/house or white? Colored!
4.) Do you hang mistletoe? Nope, but I have no real reason why.
5.) When do you put your decorations up? Most of it goes up the day after Thanksgiving. The tree makes it's way up some time in the middle of the December and this year the outdoor lights will go up next week when the elementary school delivers the fresh greens we ordered from the PTO.
6.) What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? But I love the desert! Umm, my favorite? Sweet potatoes.
7.) Favorite Christmas memory as a child? It's hard to pick one as my favorite because there are so many special ones. I think perhaps the best, though, would have to be decorating cookies together - we'd bake together, decorate, listen to Christmas music and drink hot chocolate. It's a tradition we continue with our kids...still at Grandma's kitchen, the same recipes, the same music.
8.) When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? I think I was about 9 or 10. I honestly don't remember the details of how or when. I all I know is that I had to "play along" the year we went to Florida for Christmas to see my Grandmother before she died. My brother was 6. I was 10. I remember feeling so "grown-up" to be in on the secret and getting to help "pull it off."
9.) Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Yes. In the past it's been PJs but after the way that went over like a lead balloon last year, we're doign PJs and a small gift for the kids. None for the adults though.
10.) How do you decorate your Christmas tree? We have a lot of those "mean something" ornaments. It's a lot of different things that have some of story behind them -even if it's just "I saw it when we were [name place] and it looked too cute to pass up." Each year the kids get a new ornament of their own (Logan gets Santa. Meg gets an angel) And we try to get a 2nd ornament that symbolizes something they're "into" that year.
11.) Snow! Love it or Dread it? Depends on what I've got to do that the day it snows. ;)
12.) Can you ice skate? I used to but I'm not sure I could get around the rink without brusing my rear any more.
13.) Do you remember your favorite gift? Well...I did find out I was pregnant with the boy child in December after years of NOT being able to get pregnant. ;) That was a pretty neat gift.
14.) What’s the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Being with my family and sharing in the spirit of the season.
15.) What is your favorite holiday desert? Cheesecake. Yummy!!
16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? We have more traditions in our family than I can keep track of. If I stop to think about it, I think my favorite thing, though, is the church school Christmas program. I love seeing the excitement in those little faces as they sing their songs and share their joy. It brings it all back down to what we're really supposed to be focused on this time of year.
17.) What tops your tree? A Boyd's bear dressed as an angel.
18.) Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Giving!
19.) What is your favorite Christmas Song? Is it rotten to admit I can't remember the name of it? I think it's Mary's Song and I have it on an Amy Grant tape. I love that song!
21.) Favorite Christmas Movie? Santa Claus is Coming to Town is my favorite special. My favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life. . . which I never watched before Bruce made me.
22.) What do you leave for Santa? Milk and cookies, with a carrot for the reindeer. :)
1.) Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? Hot chocolate. (Egg nog? Yuck. Ok, I went through a small egg nog phase. Now I can't figure out why.)
2.) Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? Santa tries to have them all wrapped but sometimes Santa decides that a simple bow will suffice for those "hard to wrap" items. (And really, God bless whoever invented the gift bag.)
3.) Colored lights on tree/house or white? Colored!
4.) Do you hang mistletoe? Nope, but I have no real reason why.
5.) When do you put your decorations up? Most of it goes up the day after Thanksgiving. The tree makes it's way up some time in the middle of the December and this year the outdoor lights will go up next week when the elementary school delivers the fresh greens we ordered from the PTO.
6.) What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)? But I love the desert! Umm, my favorite? Sweet potatoes.
7.) Favorite Christmas memory as a child? It's hard to pick one as my favorite because there are so many special ones. I think perhaps the best, though, would have to be decorating cookies together - we'd bake together, decorate, listen to Christmas music and drink hot chocolate. It's a tradition we continue with our kids...still at Grandma's kitchen, the same recipes, the same music.
8.) When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? I think I was about 9 or 10. I honestly don't remember the details of how or when. I all I know is that I had to "play along" the year we went to Florida for Christmas to see my Grandmother before she died. My brother was 6. I was 10. I remember feeling so "grown-up" to be in on the secret and getting to help "pull it off."
9.) Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Yes. In the past it's been PJs but after the way that went over like a lead balloon last year, we're doign PJs and a small gift for the kids. None for the adults though.
10.) How do you decorate your Christmas tree? We have a lot of those "mean something" ornaments. It's a lot of different things that have some of story behind them -even if it's just "I saw it when we were [name place] and it looked too cute to pass up." Each year the kids get a new ornament of their own (Logan gets Santa. Meg gets an angel) And we try to get a 2nd ornament that symbolizes something they're "into" that year.
11.) Snow! Love it or Dread it? Depends on what I've got to do that the day it snows. ;)
12.) Can you ice skate? I used to but I'm not sure I could get around the rink without brusing my rear any more.
13.) Do you remember your favorite gift? Well...I did find out I was pregnant with the boy child in December after years of NOT being able to get pregnant. ;) That was a pretty neat gift.
14.) What’s the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Being with my family and sharing in the spirit of the season.
15.) What is your favorite holiday desert? Cheesecake. Yummy!!
16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? We have more traditions in our family than I can keep track of. If I stop to think about it, I think my favorite thing, though, is the church school Christmas program. I love seeing the excitement in those little faces as they sing their songs and share their joy. It brings it all back down to what we're really supposed to be focused on this time of year.
17.) What tops your tree? A Boyd's bear dressed as an angel.
18.) Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Giving!
19.) What is your favorite Christmas Song? Is it rotten to admit I can't remember the name of it? I think it's Mary's Song and I have it on an Amy Grant tape. I love that song!
21.) Favorite Christmas Movie? Santa Claus is Coming to Town is my favorite special. My favorite movie is It's a Wonderful Life. . . which I never watched before Bruce made me.
22.) What do you leave for Santa? Milk and cookies, with a carrot for the reindeer. :)
11.25.2007
Be aware of your image
On Monday last week I set about the task of obtaining quotes for a set of updates to my company's web site. Although I already have quotes from two agencies that have a history with either me or the company itself, I wanted to obtain at least one or two more.
Google is my friend. I am a champion googler and so, of course, I set about my task looking for additional advertising and/or interactive marketing firms by running a few searches on such agencies in my state.
Talk about an aggravating experience.
Let me give you a little free marketing advice. If you're going to sell web marketing services (web site design included) do yourself a favor and actually design yourself a web site that looks like a professional did it.
Ok. I'll leave it at that. I was prepared to wax poetically on the topic some more - providing elaborate detail as what these people did wrong (lackluster, text heavy, 'canned template' looking sites) and what they didn't do right (provide easy to navigate, fun to read sites that were overly in love with flash animations and "cute" gimics because the overkill is just as bad as the opposite end of the spectrum.) I'm sure, however, that my day of eye-rolling and seeking a brick wall to bang my head on is not nearly as fascinating to anyone else.
Google is my friend. I am a champion googler and so, of course, I set about my task looking for additional advertising and/or interactive marketing firms by running a few searches on such agencies in my state.
Talk about an aggravating experience.
Let me give you a little free marketing advice. If you're going to sell web marketing services (web site design included) do yourself a favor and actually design yourself a web site that looks like a professional did it.
Ok. I'll leave it at that. I was prepared to wax poetically on the topic some more - providing elaborate detail as what these people did wrong (lackluster, text heavy, 'canned template' looking sites) and what they didn't do right (provide easy to navigate, fun to read sites that were overly in love with flash animations and "cute" gimics because the overkill is just as bad as the opposite end of the spectrum.) I'm sure, however, that my day of eye-rolling and seeking a brick wall to bang my head on is not nearly as fascinating to anyone else.
11.07.2007
By ear
When we graduated High School my best friend and I hit a stretch of nostalgia. We had this need to try to preserve or at least commemorate the relationships we had, or perhaps just document who we had been during those years of our lives. It was the time before email. Before digital photography. It was before easy access to video cameras that didn't require a shoulder to, well, shoulder some of the weight. It was before you could, gasp, burn your own CDs. Before scrapbooking skyrocketed to all it's glory. We were just "that" far north of the 80s.
The process of creating our shared memento was somewhat laborious but not difficult. We made tapes. Between our own collections and what we could gather at the library - a good decade before iTunes - we would spend hours in front of our parent's stereos carefully starting and stopping the source and destination tapes until we had a mix that captured the desired effect.
It's been years since I've listened to the results. I came across one during a garage sale purge last year - and as much as I wanted to take the walk down memory lane my inability to locate an actual tape player got in the way of my desire.
This morning, as usual, I woke up way too early as my husband moved around the room readying himself for work. This morning, not like usual, I couldn't drift back off to even an uneasy sleep. Instead I pulled a pillow over my head, reached a hand into the nightstand and pulled out my little Shuffle. Plugged neatly into a world of random music, I was at least able to wander around aimlessly in my own mind.
As the garage door closed behind his car leaving and I lay wide awake staring at the ceiling, it was clear that I had no hope of doing anything more than sitting in the dark listening to music that seemed like a good idea to preserve on this device. I crept down the dark hall way and flipped the computer on. The player moved from a ballad by Rascal Flatts to a heavy drum beat and loud rocking vocals of Bon Jovi from a time when big hair was best way to identify a rocker.
I waited for the PC to warm up and in the dark haven of my home, I danced around like it was the prom all over again. The music slid seamlessly to Jerry Lee Lewis and so did I. The pre-coffee blitz of energy left me happy to find my leather chair waiting for me. I slipped in and began typing as the music transitioned into a little Billy Joel and from there into Norah Jones.
Her music oozed over my ear drums like caramel dripping from a spoon dipped into in a sundae. It made me wonder what someone who came across my collection of songs on this MP3 player would surmise about me simply based on the eclectic collection it contained.
Last year someone sent me one of those "get to know you forwards" that asked one simple question "What's on your iPod play list?" It seemed frivolous at the time and, since most of my listening time is spent "Oh yeah! I remember this song. Hmm, didn't realize I had put it on" it also seemed nearly impossible. Now, though, I think I see the wisdom behind the question.
Music is expression. The music that calls you can be a window to who you are - what moves you, what calls to you and what sets your feet dancing and your voice singing (off key or clear as it may be). It's not that the lyrics speak for me, but they do speak something about me.
I'll leave it up to you to decide what it says. I've got some old Nelson song to bop around to now and perhaps after that a little Nickelback.
The process of creating our shared memento was somewhat laborious but not difficult. We made tapes. Between our own collections and what we could gather at the library - a good decade before iTunes - we would spend hours in front of our parent's stereos carefully starting and stopping the source and destination tapes until we had a mix that captured the desired effect.
It's been years since I've listened to the results. I came across one during a garage sale purge last year - and as much as I wanted to take the walk down memory lane my inability to locate an actual tape player got in the way of my desire.
This morning, as usual, I woke up way too early as my husband moved around the room readying himself for work. This morning, not like usual, I couldn't drift back off to even an uneasy sleep. Instead I pulled a pillow over my head, reached a hand into the nightstand and pulled out my little Shuffle. Plugged neatly into a world of random music, I was at least able to wander around aimlessly in my own mind.
As the garage door closed behind his car leaving and I lay wide awake staring at the ceiling, it was clear that I had no hope of doing anything more than sitting in the dark listening to music that seemed like a good idea to preserve on this device. I crept down the dark hall way and flipped the computer on. The player moved from a ballad by Rascal Flatts to a heavy drum beat and loud rocking vocals of Bon Jovi from a time when big hair was best way to identify a rocker.
I waited for the PC to warm up and in the dark haven of my home, I danced around like it was the prom all over again. The music slid seamlessly to Jerry Lee Lewis and so did I. The pre-coffee blitz of energy left me happy to find my leather chair waiting for me. I slipped in and began typing as the music transitioned into a little Billy Joel and from there into Norah Jones.
Her music oozed over my ear drums like caramel dripping from a spoon dipped into in a sundae. It made me wonder what someone who came across my collection of songs on this MP3 player would surmise about me simply based on the eclectic collection it contained.
Last year someone sent me one of those "get to know you forwards" that asked one simple question "What's on your iPod play list?" It seemed frivolous at the time and, since most of my listening time is spent "Oh yeah! I remember this song. Hmm, didn't realize I had put it on" it also seemed nearly impossible. Now, though, I think I see the wisdom behind the question.
Music is expression. The music that calls you can be a window to who you are - what moves you, what calls to you and what sets your feet dancing and your voice singing (off key or clear as it may be). It's not that the lyrics speak for me, but they do speak something about me.
I'll leave it up to you to decide what it says. I've got some old Nelson song to bop around to now and perhaps after that a little Nickelback.
11.05.2007
Perhaps I'll hide the box
My brother recently moved out a lot of his "stuff" from our parents house. Ok, so sure, the biggest thing he moved out of the house was himself...but that's neither here nor there. The point is, there was lots of rooting around various nooks and crannies as years worth of dust covered stuff finally released their grasp on 'spare space' throughout my parent's home.
I don't know about you and your spare space, but in our family once you push up the sleeves and start tidying up the project starts to snow ball. What started out simply as pulling out some boxes of old college text books from the attic becomes a quest to purge the dusty space of all it's superfluous wares.
And that, frankly, means that some of the stored away remnants of the past ended up in my house taking up some of my spare space.
Logan had a great deal of fun poking around the box of my youth. It was like a treasure hunter hitting a gold mine. His favorite discovery was a long, relatively narrow blue box from my junior year of High School. My English teacher that year was on a mission to swell our vocabularies with as many "25 cent" words as she could in preparation for the SATs. The list of words she peppered us with could also be found in two boxes of flash cards you could buy at any teaching resource store. I bought one of those boxes - a long blue, relatively narrow box full of "SAT vocabulary" words.
For the last two months, Logan sets down with this box from time to time and pulls cards out of it. He will do his best to pronounce the word on his own - smiling from ear to ear as he gets stuff like "passive" correct. And then we read the definition together - doing my best to modify the written explanation on the card to something my 5 year old might connect with.
This morning he handed me "toxic" - guessing it's pronunciation properly first. I read him the card's definition, "Unhealthy; dangerous." We talked about toxic chemicals. We talked about toxic plants. Then I told him that sometimes we refer to "toxic friends" - people that are friends with you but can be not so pleasant sometimes.
"Oh, I get it. Like when Papa is cranky, he's toxic," said Logan - referring to his Grandfather's occasional quiet brooding with snappy retorts sprinkled in.
"Umm, not exactly. Papa is not toxic. Papa just gets grumpy sometimes," I told him.
He weighed it carefully and walked off quietly. "I get it. In the Transformers, the Decepticons are toxic. And in the Veggie Tales, the people that picked on the Snoodle are toxic friends."
Right, that's it, I told him and then I gently corrected the pronunciation of the next word he was looking to learn - idiom. We talked about regional dialects "We say soda, but in other parts of the country people say pop." Logan laughed, finding "pop" an amusing word, I suppose.
He came back in later and said "I get it. So the boy in my class that's just learning English has his own idioms and sometimes, like when he's knocking over our blocks, he's toxic."
Yeah...ok. I can just picture that conversation in Kindergarten today. Maybe I'll hide the box.
I don't know about you and your spare space, but in our family once you push up the sleeves and start tidying up the project starts to snow ball. What started out simply as pulling out some boxes of old college text books from the attic becomes a quest to purge the dusty space of all it's superfluous wares.
And that, frankly, means that some of the stored away remnants of the past ended up in my house taking up some of my spare space.
Logan had a great deal of fun poking around the box of my youth. It was like a treasure hunter hitting a gold mine. His favorite discovery was a long, relatively narrow blue box from my junior year of High School. My English teacher that year was on a mission to swell our vocabularies with as many "25 cent" words as she could in preparation for the SATs. The list of words she peppered us with could also be found in two boxes of flash cards you could buy at any teaching resource store. I bought one of those boxes - a long blue, relatively narrow box full of "SAT vocabulary" words.
For the last two months, Logan sets down with this box from time to time and pulls cards out of it. He will do his best to pronounce the word on his own - smiling from ear to ear as he gets stuff like "passive" correct. And then we read the definition together - doing my best to modify the written explanation on the card to something my 5 year old might connect with.
This morning he handed me "toxic" - guessing it's pronunciation properly first. I read him the card's definition, "Unhealthy; dangerous." We talked about toxic chemicals. We talked about toxic plants. Then I told him that sometimes we refer to "toxic friends" - people that are friends with you but can be not so pleasant sometimes.
"Oh, I get it. Like when Papa is cranky, he's toxic," said Logan - referring to his Grandfather's occasional quiet brooding with snappy retorts sprinkled in.
"Umm, not exactly. Papa is not toxic. Papa just gets grumpy sometimes," I told him.
He weighed it carefully and walked off quietly. "I get it. In the Transformers, the Decepticons are toxic. And in the Veggie Tales, the people that picked on the Snoodle are toxic friends."
Right, that's it, I told him and then I gently corrected the pronunciation of the next word he was looking to learn - idiom. We talked about regional dialects "We say soda, but in other parts of the country people say pop." Logan laughed, finding "pop" an amusing word, I suppose.
He came back in later and said "I get it. So the boy in my class that's just learning English has his own idioms and sometimes, like when he's knocking over our blocks, he's toxic."
Yeah...ok. I can just picture that conversation in Kindergarten today. Maybe I'll hide the box.
10.25.2007
Start saving your pennies
It's that time of year. The retailers see the Halloween candy moving off their shelves and so they're sneaking in the Christmas goods. You can swing between howling ghouls and angelic little cherubs in the aisles of nearly any store. It's quaint.
Or pathetic.
Take your pick.
It's also the time when the holiday catalogs start arriving in my mailbox. Which, of course, means it's time for two little redheads in my house to hover over said catalogs with crayons in their hand and dreams of wrapped gifts under the tree.
Logan gets an extra half-hour of "quiet" time each night after we tuck Megan in and turn off her lights. He can read on his own. He can draw. He can do whatever he feels moved to do as long as he's quiet and in his own room. Tonight that meant he was armed with a crayon and the Lego catalog.
About 15 minutes in he came hustling down the hallway. "Look what I found!" he called out much too loud for the "shh-your-sister-is-sleeping" time frame. He was waving his catalog around and gesturing to a build-it-yourself Lego robot.
A $250 build-it-yourself Lego robot.
"Umm, Logan," I said, expecting his usual response to follow, "That robot cost $250. You are not getting the $250 robot for Christmas."
And yet, instead of the usual, "Santa can bring it" reply. (Damn that man in red!) Logan cocked his head to one side and pondered this new wrinkle. "Oh! I know," he said and gestured to both Dad and I. "How about you two put your money together and then you can get it for me."
Right. Yeah. Ok. Been there. Done that. You're still not getting it.
Dad filled the space left by my almost gaping mouth. "Why don't you start saving up your allowance? In a few years you can buy it."
Logan didn't like that idea. He thought some more. "Oh! I have an idea. How about you start putting away a little money in a box now then you can get it for me on my last Christmas getting toys. . .
You know, when I'm in 5th grade."
Sure. Ok.
The problem, my friends, is that in 5 years this kid is going to remember we didn't say no and look for that thing under the tree.
Or pathetic.
Take your pick.
It's also the time when the holiday catalogs start arriving in my mailbox. Which, of course, means it's time for two little redheads in my house to hover over said catalogs with crayons in their hand and dreams of wrapped gifts under the tree.
Logan gets an extra half-hour of "quiet" time each night after we tuck Megan in and turn off her lights. He can read on his own. He can draw. He can do whatever he feels moved to do as long as he's quiet and in his own room. Tonight that meant he was armed with a crayon and the Lego catalog.
About 15 minutes in he came hustling down the hallway. "Look what I found!" he called out much too loud for the "shh-your-sister-is-sleeping" time frame. He was waving his catalog around and gesturing to a build-it-yourself Lego robot.
A $250 build-it-yourself Lego robot.
"Umm, Logan," I said, expecting his usual response to follow, "That robot cost $250. You are not getting the $250 robot for Christmas."
And yet, instead of the usual, "Santa can bring it" reply. (Damn that man in red!) Logan cocked his head to one side and pondered this new wrinkle. "Oh! I know," he said and gestured to both Dad and I. "How about you two put your money together and then you can get it for me."
Right. Yeah. Ok. Been there. Done that. You're still not getting it.
Dad filled the space left by my almost gaping mouth. "Why don't you start saving up your allowance? In a few years you can buy it."
Logan didn't like that idea. He thought some more. "Oh! I have an idea. How about you start putting away a little money in a box now then you can get it for me on my last Christmas getting toys. . .
You know, when I'm in 5th grade."
Sure. Ok.
The problem, my friends, is that in 5 years this kid is going to remember we didn't say no and look for that thing under the tree.
10.19.2007
Talk about different paths
A few years ago I got an invitation to my high school reunion. I think it was for my 10th year. It's been a while and I've successfully blocked it from my memory. Suffice it to say, I did not go. Tickets ran a ridiculous amount of money per person. In truth, anyone I wanted to catch up with I already spoke to on a regular to semi-regular basis. Getting together with them did not have to cost me $100/couple and a new dress.
This weekend my brother got married. His bride was a member of my graduating class. We didn't talk much in high school because we traveled in different circles then. Some things don't change.
Two of the other bridesmaids were also classmates of mine. And again, at the time, not people I knew more than recognizing their faces as ones I passed in the hallway. Having spent time with one of them this weekend, I realize I missed out in knowing her back then. While we do have some differences, she's certainly a person I could see myself being friends with.
The other, however, has changed much since High School - at least from the perception most had have her. Sadly, none of it is for the better. In a way two of those women were frozen in time - there they were, dressed up in gowns, DJ blasting some good fashioned 80s rock and it was 1991 all over again. It was senior prom where "those" kids showed up already drunk because they didn't know how to let loose and have fun without it.
I sat watching the dance floor at one point that night and marveled how people can start a leg of life's race from the same starting line and end up in such disparate places.
This weekend my brother got married. His bride was a member of my graduating class. We didn't talk much in high school because we traveled in different circles then. Some things don't change.
Two of the other bridesmaids were also classmates of mine. And again, at the time, not people I knew more than recognizing their faces as ones I passed in the hallway. Having spent time with one of them this weekend, I realize I missed out in knowing her back then. While we do have some differences, she's certainly a person I could see myself being friends with.
The other, however, has changed much since High School - at least from the perception most had have her. Sadly, none of it is for the better. In a way two of those women were frozen in time - there they were, dressed up in gowns, DJ blasting some good fashioned 80s rock and it was 1991 all over again. It was senior prom where "those" kids showed up already drunk because they didn't know how to let loose and have fun without it.
I sat watching the dance floor at one point that night and marveled how people can start a leg of life's race from the same starting line and end up in such disparate places.
10.07.2007
Reality check
It was sleepover weekend for the boy. He left the house Friday afternoon shortly after exiting his school bus and he returned around dinner Saturday. He came bounding out of his grandparent's car with a pillow-case safety pinned around his neck and a brightly colored "TA" emblazoned upon one side of it.
"And you are?" I said, curious about the identify of what was clearly the world's newest super hero.
He had named himself. His own imagination picking over potential word combinations until he could settle upon the one he thought the world was most sorely in need of.
"I am . . ." he bellowed, pausing slightly for the appropriate amount of dramatic impact, "Think Before You Act Boy!"
Ah..ok. Yes.
He leapt up the front steps like they were small stones upon his path and practically flew into the backyard where his father and sister waited to greet him. The grandparents and I followed him. We watched him leap up on the children's plastic picnic table - setting his feet apart just so and his arms held out before him about shoulder level.
"Logan, don't stand on the table. Get down," said Daddy, weary already of what he knew has been an ongoing battle.
Logan, in all his five-year old-I-can-call-the-shots-myself glory, simply reset his feet into a new stance and smiled.
"Logan, down. Now," said Dad as he tacked on the coming consequence for the refusal to listen.
I walked over, quietly, lifted the superhero from his perch, holding him out horizontal to the ground and flew him to safety. I flipped over the small table and placed it in my dying vegetable garden.
"Clearly," I whispered to him as he glared at me, "Think-Before-You-Act-Boy has run into some kryptonite."
"And you are?" I said, curious about the identify of what was clearly the world's newest super hero.
He had named himself. His own imagination picking over potential word combinations until he could settle upon the one he thought the world was most sorely in need of.
"I am . . ." he bellowed, pausing slightly for the appropriate amount of dramatic impact, "Think Before You Act Boy!"
Ah..ok. Yes.
He leapt up the front steps like they were small stones upon his path and practically flew into the backyard where his father and sister waited to greet him. The grandparents and I followed him. We watched him leap up on the children's plastic picnic table - setting his feet apart just so and his arms held out before him about shoulder level.
"Logan, don't stand on the table. Get down," said Daddy, weary already of what he knew has been an ongoing battle.
Logan, in all his five-year old-I-can-call-the-shots-myself glory, simply reset his feet into a new stance and smiled.
"Logan, down. Now," said Dad as he tacked on the coming consequence for the refusal to listen.
I walked over, quietly, lifted the superhero from his perch, holding him out horizontal to the ground and flew him to safety. I flipped over the small table and placed it in my dying vegetable garden.
"Clearly," I whispered to him as he glared at me, "Think-Before-You-Act-Boy has run into some kryptonite."
For real?
Anyone else think it's a bad idea to a put a three-year old in a very fancy dress 2 1/2 hours before she NEEDS to be in the very fancy dress?
Good. I thought maybe it was just me being unreasonable again. ;)
Good. I thought maybe it was just me being unreasonable again. ;)
10.02.2007
It's the 2nd. Must be time for shameless plug
That's right. Today is October 2nd and that means today was my day to compose something witty and thought-provoking for The Soccer Mom Vote. I can not promise witty in today's piece. I can promise thought provoking. At least I think it is.
Oh go on. Humor me. Go. Read. Ponder. And again, stroke my ego by leaving a comment over there. It's not for me, you know. I do believe comments make Nicole, pregnant soccer mom ring-leader, a happy girl too. And isn't it a lovely thing to make the pregnant girl happy?
Oh go on. Humor me. Go. Read. Ponder. And again, stroke my ego by leaving a comment over there. It's not for me, you know. I do believe comments make Nicole, pregnant soccer mom ring-leader, a happy girl too. And isn't it a lovely thing to make the pregnant girl happy?
9.29.2007
And she said with pride. . .
Our school district sponsored a "fitness carnival." It was organized by the High School peer education group and open to anyone in a district elementary school. Races were held by gender and grade level.
As soon as he heard about it, Logan wanted in. Ever since he saw one of the high school's track teams running down the road for practice, he'd been determined to race. This morning he got his chance.
Going in Logan knew three things:
1. Students placing 1st, 2nd and 3rd got a medal.
2. Anyone else crossing the finish line got a ribbon.
3. He'd be running in the last race of the day (Kindergarten boys) and as a 5-year old with a summer birthday, some of the runners along side him could easily be a full-year or more older. And that means, they'd likely be bigger and faster.
He went into this race determined to at least run the entire 1/2 mile and get himself a ribbon. He'd happily take a medal, but as long as he crossed the finish line without walking or breaking, he'd have met his goal.
The whistle blew - he ran. Roughly a 1/4 mile in, Logan was nestled comfortably in the middle of the pack. He saw something that either no one else saw, or no one else cared to admit they saw. Another boy had fallen down and was having trouble getting up as the tangle of 5 and 6 year old legs ran around him.
Logan slowed his pace as he approached. He stopped. He stopped long enough to hold down his hand and help that boy up. With a quick pat on the kid's back, he confirmed the boy was ok. The boy took off running, calling a thank you over his shoulder as he went. Logan nodded and picked up speed. He had paused. He had stopped, but he didn't care.
The closer he got to the line, the faster he ran. In the end, he came in roughly 33rd in a field of over 50 boys - neither first nor last. Smack in the mid-section.
Yet, in the end, I think he was the one that really won. He met his goal. He ran the entire length except for that one short break when he reached down a hand to be the good sport.
On our way home I pointed out that he was the Lightening McQueen of the race - the one that voluntarily lost time off his own pace to make sure another contestant stayed in the game. Logan, the child that's been quite vocal about pursuing a particular vocation since he could talk, laughed and then said with utmost sincerity, "Mommy, that's just what doctor's do. I was running. I was racing myself and I was practicing being a doctor."
Is it any wonder why that kid is my hero?
As soon as he heard about it, Logan wanted in. Ever since he saw one of the high school's track teams running down the road for practice, he'd been determined to race. This morning he got his chance.
Going in Logan knew three things:
1. Students placing 1st, 2nd and 3rd got a medal.
2. Anyone else crossing the finish line got a ribbon.
3. He'd be running in the last race of the day (Kindergarten boys) and as a 5-year old with a summer birthday, some of the runners along side him could easily be a full-year or more older. And that means, they'd likely be bigger and faster.
He went into this race determined to at least run the entire 1/2 mile and get himself a ribbon. He'd happily take a medal, but as long as he crossed the finish line without walking or breaking, he'd have met his goal.
The whistle blew - he ran. Roughly a 1/4 mile in, Logan was nestled comfortably in the middle of the pack. He saw something that either no one else saw, or no one else cared to admit they saw. Another boy had fallen down and was having trouble getting up as the tangle of 5 and 6 year old legs ran around him.
Logan slowed his pace as he approached. He stopped. He stopped long enough to hold down his hand and help that boy up. With a quick pat on the kid's back, he confirmed the boy was ok. The boy took off running, calling a thank you over his shoulder as he went. Logan nodded and picked up speed. He had paused. He had stopped, but he didn't care.
The closer he got to the line, the faster he ran. In the end, he came in roughly 33rd in a field of over 50 boys - neither first nor last. Smack in the mid-section.
Yet, in the end, I think he was the one that really won. He met his goal. He ran the entire length except for that one short break when he reached down a hand to be the good sport.
On our way home I pointed out that he was the Lightening McQueen of the race - the one that voluntarily lost time off his own pace to make sure another contestant stayed in the game. Logan, the child that's been quite vocal about pursuing a particular vocation since he could talk, laughed and then said with utmost sincerity, "Mommy, that's just what doctor's do. I was running. I was racing myself and I was practicing being a doctor."
Is it any wonder why that kid is my hero?
9.27.2007
TGIT (Thank God it's Thursday)
It's Thursday.
It's actual-brand-new television.
The Office is back.
I'm a happy girl.
And for the record, I honestly think I've worked with a real life rendition of nearly every character on that show. Yes. Even Dwight. My Dwight wanted to sell videoconferencing services to funeral homes. Don't ask.
It's actual-brand-new television.
The Office is back.
I'm a happy girl.
And for the record, I honestly think I've worked with a real life rendition of nearly every character on that show. Yes. Even Dwight. My Dwight wanted to sell videoconferencing services to funeral homes. Don't ask.
9.26.2007
In case you're wondering
I write.
It's what I do. It's what I do to earn a few bucks. It's what I do to manage my stress.
I write.
Sometimes, when I'm hotter under the collar than I'm comfortable being, I write big long tirades. It's better than the alternative. It's not a good idea to speak at the one that irks you when you're not calm. At least that's the conclusion I've reached.
In those instances - the ones where I need to tirade through my finger tips - I rely on my blog to absorb the emotion. Sometimes I keep it a private listing. Sometimes I don't.
The yesterday I did not. And that's ok. I needed to get those words out. I even needed someone else to see them - anyone. For those that did, I thank you for the messages back or at least just the eye balls. Those that didn't - you didn't miss much really. It's sounds a lot worse than it was. :)
The thing is every now and then, after the written word has done it's job of being balm to my hot temper, I have a change of heart. Like now. It's not that I take back the words. I don't. They came out on their own accord because they needed to. I simply put my fingers on the keys and let them take over. Whatever hits the screen hits it because it had to find it's way there. Then I'm cooler. I'm more level headed. I stop and think about whether those particular words are the ones I want the spark - the one that set me off - to see.
Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's not.
As much as those words were what I wanted to say to my spark - they are words I can't say to her. So I took down the posts. All this to say, if you think something's missing - it is. But it's gone because it served it's purpose and it's time had come to an end.
It's what I do. It's what I do to earn a few bucks. It's what I do to manage my stress.
I write.
Sometimes, when I'm hotter under the collar than I'm comfortable being, I write big long tirades. It's better than the alternative. It's not a good idea to speak at the one that irks you when you're not calm. At least that's the conclusion I've reached.
In those instances - the ones where I need to tirade through my finger tips - I rely on my blog to absorb the emotion. Sometimes I keep it a private listing. Sometimes I don't.
The yesterday I did not. And that's ok. I needed to get those words out. I even needed someone else to see them - anyone. For those that did, I thank you for the messages back or at least just the eye balls. Those that didn't - you didn't miss much really. It's sounds a lot worse than it was. :)
The thing is every now and then, after the written word has done it's job of being balm to my hot temper, I have a change of heart. Like now. It's not that I take back the words. I don't. They came out on their own accord because they needed to. I simply put my fingers on the keys and let them take over. Whatever hits the screen hits it because it had to find it's way there. Then I'm cooler. I'm more level headed. I stop and think about whether those particular words are the ones I want the spark - the one that set me off - to see.
Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's not.
As much as those words were what I wanted to say to my spark - they are words I can't say to her. So I took down the posts. All this to say, if you think something's missing - it is. But it's gone because it served it's purpose and it's time had come to an end.
9.12.2007
Happy 3rd, Moo-bear
When I was a girl fantasizing about my grown-up life, I always pictured myself with a red-headed pigtailed daughter. We'd do the sorts of things my mother always did with me. We'd bake. We'd paint. We'd play dolls. We'd sing and walk. We'd cuddle up and read a good book together.
Today the embodiment of that dream turns three.
Megan is not the docile, mild-mannered child I used to pretend I'd have. In fact, she's anything but docile unless she's sound asleep (and even that is questionable.) However, and please don't tell her this, I'm quite relieved she's taken the different route.
Today, I have a head-strong and confident little person. She knows what she wants, she's not afraid to tell you and she's certainly not about to back down until she gets it - or until it's clear you're going to do what it takes to outlast her. Megan seems fearless, except when she's not. She's a girl that understands the power of the tear and the well placed whimper.
She'll try anything once - although sometimes she prefers to have a hand to hold while she does it. She's vocal about her likes and dislikes. She's perfectly capable, even at this age, of standing up for herself. She's perfected "the look" that tells whoever is on the receiving end that they've crossed some sort of unforgivable line.
Megan is also compassionate in a way I never expected a child her age of being. She's quick with a hug or a kiss to heal hurt feelings - even the ones she did not inflict. She's first to round up a group of tykes about her age (give or take a few years) and take charge as she engages them in play. She's quite concerned about making sure everyone is included and happy.
Give her room to roam and people along the way, and Megan will make new friends. It's not just that she talks to everyone she meets. She remembers them all - by name if they've been so kind as to give theirs. She never forgets these details.
Silent is not in her vocabulary. She will whisper. She will meow. She will talk in a 'normal' voice. She will squeak. She will yell. She even talks in her sleep from time to time. She sings. She recites stories she's memorized. She tells jokes - and sometimes gets the punchlines right. She's a born entertainer.
She's her brother's shadow. And yet, she's his rival. She's his hero. She's his devotee. She's the bane of his existence and the balm for his soul.
Megan is my touchstone. She's the one that keeps me grounded and the one that let's me soar.
She's growing fast. Too fast. She's my preschooler now. Not my baby any longer. And yet, for as long as she let's me say it out loud, she's my Meggie, my Tinkerbell, my Princess and my Moo-bear. And some day she'll be all those things whispered in my heart as she outgrows her comfort with those monikers in public. She'll always be my littlest one. My baby. My dream girl. Always.
Today the embodiment of that dream turns three.
Megan is not the docile, mild-mannered child I used to pretend I'd have. In fact, she's anything but docile unless she's sound asleep (and even that is questionable.) However, and please don't tell her this, I'm quite relieved she's taken the different route.
Today, I have a head-strong and confident little person. She knows what she wants, she's not afraid to tell you and she's certainly not about to back down until she gets it - or until it's clear you're going to do what it takes to outlast her. Megan seems fearless, except when she's not. She's a girl that understands the power of the tear and the well placed whimper.
She'll try anything once - although sometimes she prefers to have a hand to hold while she does it. She's vocal about her likes and dislikes. She's perfectly capable, even at this age, of standing up for herself. She's perfected "the look" that tells whoever is on the receiving end that they've crossed some sort of unforgivable line.
Megan is also compassionate in a way I never expected a child her age of being. She's quick with a hug or a kiss to heal hurt feelings - even the ones she did not inflict. She's first to round up a group of tykes about her age (give or take a few years) and take charge as she engages them in play. She's quite concerned about making sure everyone is included and happy.
Give her room to roam and people along the way, and Megan will make new friends. It's not just that she talks to everyone she meets. She remembers them all - by name if they've been so kind as to give theirs. She never forgets these details.
Silent is not in her vocabulary. She will whisper. She will meow. She will talk in a 'normal' voice. She will squeak. She will yell. She even talks in her sleep from time to time. She sings. She recites stories she's memorized. She tells jokes - and sometimes gets the punchlines right. She's a born entertainer.
She's her brother's shadow. And yet, she's his rival. She's his hero. She's his devotee. She's the bane of his existence and the balm for his soul.
Megan is my touchstone. She's the one that keeps me grounded and the one that let's me soar.
She's growing fast. Too fast. She's my preschooler now. Not my baby any longer. And yet, for as long as she let's me say it out loud, she's my Meggie, my Tinkerbell, my Princess and my Moo-bear. And some day she'll be all those things whispered in my heart as she outgrows her comfort with those monikers in public. She'll always be my littlest one. My baby. My dream girl. Always.
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