A Calendar of Mistakes

I like to keep a paper calendar. Several, in fact. I have my work calendar. I have the family calendar.
I have my personal calendar. It starts out every month like this.




Just a few birthdays.










 I will eventually fill in my days off. Then I fill in any doctor or dentist appointments, teacher conferences. I'll fill in Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, after school activities, sports events. Finally it looks like this. This is just the necessary things that I have to be aware of. If I'm lucky, I can add something like a girl's night out, a date night, or a short trip to somewhere fun.


I'm not unique. I'll bet that every mother or father has a calendar somewhere like this. Maybe it's just in their heads, but it exists, and it's important. It keeps us from forgetting things and making mistakes like dropping the wrong kid off for swim lessons, or forgetting to pick up another one from an after school club.

I started keeping a calendar because of one notoriously "Bad Mommy" mistake from my life. I forgot to take Hannah to preschool. I forgot to take her on her first day. Her first day of preschool. This huge milestone in both of our lives, and I forgot it. I felt like failure. On first days of school, parents take photos, cry a little... I just forgot. It's not like you can take pictures on the second day, even if it's your first day, because that's just admitting that you forgot to be there in the first place. I forgot. I cried. I beat myself up over it. My little girl was growing up (she was four) and I was already tuning her out. She was blissfully unaware of my Mommy Drama. She had no clue what she had missed (in retrospect, not much.) When I recently admitted to her of my failures as a parent, Hannah looked at me blankly. "I went to preschool?" she said.

I've always remembered my mistakes. I remember turning off the timer when my mother was making kolaczkis for my dad on their anniversary when I was five or six. The timer went off. I wanted to help. I turned off the timer. I'd seen Mom do it hundreds of times. I knew what I was doing. I was making her life easier while she was outside in the garden. The kolaczkis burned. Burned to a nasty crisp. She yelled at me because it was a present for Dad. It was the only present she had for him, and I'd ruined it. She might have cried. I know I did.

I recalled this story thirty two years later to Mom, and she looked at me blankly. "I don't even remember that," she told me.
"Seriously?" I asked. "Because I remember it so well."
"No. I don't remember it. Are you sure?"
Was I sure? I had deep seated guilt about this for my entire life. I had royally screwed up my parents' anniversary. I was sure they would get divorced, or at the very least sell me to gypsies. I knew that this was why I wasn't a favored child and was cursed with acne. This is the reason for my deep seated ambivalence towards baking. "Yeah. I'm sure."
"Oh. Well, I'm sorry."

My calendars are an attempt to alleviate the mistakes in my life. They don't always work--especially the family calendar. Other people have to look at it for it to be effective (not that I'd complain, but if you need gym shoes at school one day a week, check the calendar for what day that might be!)
Mistakes are transient. We don't always know what sticks or what will be remembered once an event is over. I just have to remember which kid to drop off at the park and which kid to drop off at the pool. It's not that hard.

To be honest though, I've never let the kids near the timer on the stove. I don't want to scar them with the same mistakes I made.

In 2013

Just a few notes as we begin the new year. I've made a few resolutions...

...to appreciate my family...





...even when they're goofy...





...especially when they're goofy...

...to keep on crafting...

...to find beauty in places I go...



...and in people around me...



...to take an adventure...

...wtih friends...

...and to not lose touch with friends and their families...

...to be thrifty...

...to appreciate what I have...

...to appreciate who I am...



...to encourage the talents of those around me...



...even if they still need to clean their rooms.

Happy New Year everyone. Thanks for reading this blog. I'm also resolving to write more in 2013 in addition to all of the resolutions above. Cross your fingers that I'll keep that one!

 

(By the way, I've also resolved to lose 20 pounds, but who hasn't?)

Precision and Poetics

When Caleb was just learning to speak, I loved to have him explain his world to me. At the time, I was in graduate school and one of the things I had to study was the development of language in children. He was always an outlier on the high side of the bell curve. He was one of those kids who rarely got frustrated by his lack of language facility because he was always able to talk his way around problems.

When he was about two he saw a large swarm of dragonflies, and he informed us: "Look, a dragonfly party!" This made total sense because while he didn't know what a swarm was, he knew what a party was.
When he wanted to describe a trail we were hiking that was under water, he called it the "juicy trail." Mom's Wisconsin house was "The sharing house" for obvious reasons.

Hannah was never as easy with her language usage; she was one of those kids who would get frustrated because we didn't know what she was saying, or at least we couldn't interpret what she meant. As the years have gone on, however, I've come to appreciate her thought process (although I still can't say I understand it.) She is a literalist who loves saying exactly what she means. She can't talk around problems like Caleb because talking around a problem means that she's not saying exactly what she wants to say. She needs precision

With this as a background, here is a conversation we had yesterday:

Me: "Here's an interesting quote. It's from Albert Camus. He was a French-Algerian writer. 'Autumn is a second spring, where every leaf is a flower.' What do you think he meant by that? (in the interest of full disclosure, I was reading the funny papers, and Mutts had this quote in it. I'm not so big a fan of Camus that I'd introduce him to eight and ten year old kids.)

Hannah: "Maybe he meant that the leaves are going to fall off the trees and decompose. After the winter, when spring arrives, flowers will grow better because of the composted leaves."

Me: "Um...well...that's an interesting point of view...."

Hannah: "Or maybe he meant that the leaves have colors like flowers in the spring."

Caleb: "I think I'd go with your second idea."

Hannah: "What's Alergian?"

Just try to explain poetry to a literalist. I dare you.

Summer Vacation.

What will my children remember from their family vacations?

We are lucky. Our kids are great travelers. They are wonderful on long car trips. They know how to pack books, drawing implements and car-games (Having their own i-pods and DSi game systems helps when all else fails--sometimes sooner.) Every year I pick a book to read as a family and I haven't gone wrong yet. Last year it was The Graveyard Book. The year before that was Little House on the Prairie--not an overwhelming success with Caleb until Pa got eaten by wolves (my addition.)

This year we read Holes by Louis Sachar. 

The kids were inspired by the book

We also traveled in a foreign country. I hope that they learned something from that. Not everyone will speak your language, but anyone can be your friend. Communication doesn't have to rely on words, although a little bit of Allons nager does help.(Caleb learned this phrase. It means "lets go swimming." He used it a lot. He still remembers it.)

nos amis

We were lucky this year to have traveling companions. Our pals Rosie and Michele from Winnipeg, Manitoba made their way eastward and played tour guides through Canada for us, and campfire buddies in Maine. Michele is an artist, so she and Hannah had a lot to talk about. At least Hannah had a lot to talk about. Michele was great at listening. The two of them worked on projects by the light of a lantern as the rest of us enjoyed the campfire. Win-win!

But Michele wasn't the only one to inspire my daughter! Hannah learned a new move from Rosie. I like to call this move, "The unexpected sign."

The master

The apprentice.

There are often creative ways to punish children who misbehave when you are on vacation. Like this lovely bubble at L.L.Bean. Unfortunately the kids actually liked this. Especially Hannah who has a soft spot for little fishes. And big ones. And cute ones. And ugly ones.

Caleb is not so fond of fish.

Traveling can always be fun as long as you do it with people you love, travel to places you enjoy, and keep an open mind for new adventures.Coming out of Quebec back south we drove through New Hampshire. It was some of the most beautiful country imaginable. We had never seen the White Mountains before. If you remove our huge heads, they are behind us, and they are stunning--trust me. We will have to go back to New Hampshire to get better photos and to do some hiking, biking and whatever it is that New Hampshirites (New Hampshirinos? New Hampsherians?)do for recreation.

The Band of Stalwart Companions

But, no matter where we go, I don't think we'll find better traveling companions. Our Boler Buddies (Michele and Rosie) turned a good time into a really great a memorable time.

Honestly, I was having a hard time planning this year's family trip. It was my first vacation without Mom waiting at home to hear that we had gotten home safely, to cluck over the amount of money we spent and to kindly indulge in viewing our vacation photos. Rosie was a hero, rescuing me from my doldrums of vacation ennui by planning the portion of the trip that took us through Ottawa, Quebec (visiting her cousins at Vignobles St. Remi--Bonjour to Natalie and Fabien, our wonderful hosts, and their beautiful, friendly kids) and then to Freeport, Maine where we camped and visited L.L.Bean and enjoyed campfires and Lobster (although I think at least one couple at the Lobster Pound of Unimaginable Carnage* might never be the same.)

What will my kids remember from all of this? Probably the fact that their mother has the ability to embarrass them anywhere in two countries.

 I think that they're just lucky I didn't find a "Free Tibet" sign. I mean, have you ever checked out the airfares to Tibet? I'll take it free any time.We can test our non-lingual foreign language skills there next.

Happy summer vacation.

*"the Lobster Pound of Unimaginable Carnage" is not the name of the lobster pound, just a description of Rosie and Michele's first experience in eating live lobster--which was actually dead at the time.

What are you writing for?

I spent nearly five years getting a master's degree in education (reading education specifically--but writing and curriculum development played a huge role in the program) and one thing that stuck with me from the courses in how to teach writing is that you must keep your audience in mind when writing. Who is your intended audience? Who do you want to reach? What purpose does this paper/story/report serve? Do you want to entertain? enlighten? persuade?

Sometimes I think that I just need to write. I don't know if there is any purpose served by my writing, or if it's just something that I do automatically, like buying the candy-bar from the vending machine. (I don't even think about it any more. That Twix bar just winds up in my hand. And then I can't waste it for pity's sake...ugh. No wonder I can't lose weight.)

Looking back over my blog entries I realize that all of these stories are things that I would have told Mom if she were still here. These are the things I would have called her to share. These are the things that we would have laughed about together, or she would have been present to witness, or that she would have yelled at me about (sorry for the 'Loads' entry...although it is kind of funny in a gross way.)

Ultimately, I guess I'm writing for myself...but I'm writing for her too. I'm writing all of the things that I can't tell her any more. You guys are the surrogate audience for my stories, and I really want to say thanks. Maybe through your eyes, through your reading it she can know that I'm thinking of her.

Wallaby no. 1

This is Caleb in my very first Wonderful Wallaby! It may look like a hooded sweatshirt, (it is) but I knit it. I knit the whole thing. Isn't it great? He picked the colors and the yarn he wanted. Some people say "He must be a Cubs fan." But he isn't really. George patted Caleb on the head and said. "Norwegian flag--cool." But Caleb really doesn't recognize the Norwegian flag yet, in spite of his father's Scandinavian pride.
In the yarn store Caleb had gravitated to the dark blues over and over again. "How about green?" I suggested.
"No." Caleb picked up the shade of blue that you see in the picture. "I like this."
I looked at it. Hand-wash only. "Really? How about this blue?" I suggested another one that is easier to care for.
"No." Caleb insisted. "This is the one I want."
"Why?"
"Because it reminds me of the color of the water in the Bay of Fundy, Mom. Remember that? When it was raining, and we were walking on the bottom of the ocean when the tide was low?"

Of course I remember. I remember quite well.
So, Caleb has a Wonderful Wallaby that must be hand washed, but I don't care (much.) He remembers the Bay of Fundy when he wears it, and our adventures walking around on the bottom of the ocean. How many kids can say that? How many Moms?

Building up and Tearing Down

The smokehouse and stable

I inherited Lincoln Logs from Mom. Mom inherited Lincoln Logs from Grammy. I know that some Lincoln Logs were received as gifts for Christmas at least one year. The upside to this is that I have a LOT of Lincoln Logs. Enough Lincoln Logs to make a village.

I don't know if Lincoln would recognize these logs. They are all very regular in appearance and size. The wonderful thing about Lincoln Logs is that they are very easy to build with. As we were putting the town together I thought of real logs. Real logs are not even in appearance or size. Anyone attempting to build with real logs has to deal with one end tapering, the other end being fat. You have to muscle and hew and shape real logs. Lincoln Logs are 'logs lite.' They are nothing like real logs, but you get a great rustic looking building out of them. At least they would be great buildings if you were about six inches tall and into drafty windowless houses.
Caleb really likes building with the Lincoln Logs. I don't fool myself that he's a budding Frank Lloyd Wright, (he's not into form or function right now, focusing on making as many buildings as possible with limited resources) but he's getting the hang of it. He built most of this town. There's even a bridge across the "river" indicated by the floor between the rugs. So that we aren't confused by some of the houses that are built on the wood floor ("water" in Calebtown), he also built moats and dams. These are not to be confused with the pastures and crop areas that he has also designated. "What crops?" I wanted to know, idly helping build what later became known as the stable. "Corn." He thought for a minute. "And soybeans," he added. "Oh, and strawberries." Because if you're going to farm, you'd better grow stuff that you want to eat.

There's also a lumberyard, but he included that because he didn't want to clean up the logs he didn't use. I know this because when I told him to clean up the mess, he told me so.

Bridge and dams in Calebtown

He also included jail, because in any town, tiny or not, you are going to have bad guys. Caleb found this to be the most fun to make and spent a lot of time on it blocking up the windows and doors, and there's nothing like walling up prisoners to make you feel like you're accomplishing something. Then again, maybe he liked it because we had a wanted poster to put up outside, and a sheriff's sign to put on the top.

During the night, the kittens destroyed Calebtown. They were looking for things hidden in the buildings. That's the cat way of thinking: why have a box if you don't hide things in it? I can kind of understand.  Maybe one day soon we'll build Hannahtown, or Momandadtown one of these days.

But I can't help but feel sorry for the residents of this tiny town who got attacked in the middle of the night by large, wild animals. Kind of like a Japanese horror movie, except instead of Godzilla, you have large domestic cats slinking about and poking their heads through your roof. All we need is a hero to save us, but we'll do superheroes another day. Right now, we're cleaning up three generations of Lincoln Logs.

You want to do what?

Wow. Over 700 page views. Thanks everyone. I'm thrilled. :-)

I'm also recovering from some kind of flu. I love going to swimming lessons with the kids when I feel like this because the Y keeps the pool deck heated at about 85F and 100% humidity. It feels great when you're sick. Of course, it feels sick when you feel good, so there's the trade-off.

The kids can't take swimming lessons at the same time any more. Hannah is at one level (Porpoise) and Caleb is several levels below her (Fish) and they only offer Hannah's level on Saturdays. This is great when I'm not feeling well because I can get up and go to the pool and sweat like a pig.

Mom always insisted that we all learn to swim. She said that we had to be able to swim well enough to save her if the need ever arose. But that practicality aside, I agree with her. Everyone should swim. It's great exercise, it might save your life someday, and if you do it well enough, you could have a better job than McDonald's during the summer months. Who wouldn't rather lifeguard after all? Not that I'm knocking McD's. I worked there for three years. I still have a hard time eating french fries. When you come home smelling like a fryer, it kind of turns you off to it for awhile...forever actually.

The Y offers a lot of programs, but one of their sponsored events is a kids triathlon offered in tandem with their regular triathlon. They encourage all of the swimming lesson kids levels Fish and above to enter. I'm not sure why. Being able to swim doesn't mean that you can run or ride a bike for that matter, but since my kids can do all three activities, they've started training. At least that's their excuse for running through the house like my halls are a race track.

Hannah did the triathlon last year, and both she and Caleb want to do it this year. I was Hannah's support team. I had no clue what I was getting into. I struck up an agreement with Hannah. She could do the triathlon, but she had to do the best she could in every category and she had to try her hardest to finish, no matter how long it took her. This year I know a bit more about what I'm getting into. I've made the same agreement with both of them and I can say that I'm really proud of my kids for wanting to do this. I'm not thrilled, but I'm proud.

Before the swim--inked up.

I am really not thrilled at all.That sounds awful, but it's true. I'm not thrilled. Last year it was 45F and windy and drizzling on race day. We started before 8am--a special kind of hell in and of itself. For anyone not familiar with triathlons, you start off swimming. With the kids' triathlon that's a swim in lap pool--not the 80F pool, the other one; the one they keep at about 35F so it doesn't freeze. The kids have to swim 200m in the 7-10 year old category (yes, we're mixing our measuring systems. Sorry. I'm American.) This isn't far, but it's far enough for kids who might never have swum laps before. Hannah did okay. She didn't pace herself though and had to switch to backstroke for the last 50m. No problem. It's a triathlon. You get through it any way you can, as well as you can.

After the swim, you have to ride a bike. Again, no problem....except for the 45F and windy...and rain...and the kids were wet and cold. The "transition" station was outside in the middle of the track. The wind was whipping around. I was cold, and I wasn't even wet. I gave Hannah my gloves. I gave her my ear warmers. I told her that if she finished she could pick where we were going to eat dinner. She was so cold she couldn't even tie her own shoes. And she had to ride a mile on her bike. She was nearly crying. I think I was crying, but we had a deal. She was going to try her hardest. Not only was I crying by this point, I was terribly, terribly guilty that I was making my child do this. Not that she hadn't begged to do it. Not at all. I had not only let her do it, but I felt as if I had forced her to do it.

Many of the kids got out onto the street where the course was mapped out, and turned around and came back almost immediately. I know this because the kids were all chip-timed, and there is no way 7-10 year olds would be able to ride a mile in under 2 minutes. Hannah wavered in the face of the wind, but she didn't stop. She pushed and pushed and was soon out of sight. Nearly 10 nail biting minutes later she came back into sight. I was relieved. Now just a half mile to run.

She ran it. I didn't run it with her, although I ran alongside of her for a bit. "Don't embarrass me," she requested through chattering teeth as she rounded a turn. I fell back. I was embarrassing??...but George and Caleb were there with their "go Hannah" signs, hooting and hollering and that wasn't embarrassing at all.

And she finished. Soaking wet and nearly crying she finished the run and got her finisher's medal. She picked Barnaby's for dinner. At dinner, Caleb announced that he was going to do it next year.

So here I am. happy that they are going to do this, but knowing that my own misery will be compounded as I watch both of them struggle, shiver and maybe cry their way through the triathlon course. But I will support them. I'll be their cheerleader and their coach, and I will encourage them when the going gets tough, and I won't embarrass them any more than is completely necessary. I'll do it because it's good practice. As they get older, that's the role I'll have to fill in their lives.

And no matter where they finish, I'll be proud of them. Getting through...that's what matters after all.

Now he wants to do it too.

Game time!

One of the coolest things about going to the United Center for a Blackhawks game is getting there a half hour before puck-drop so that we can watch the warm-up. It doesn't matter where your seats are, you can sit down on the floor, close to the glass, and watch the hockey players warm up. We like to sit right behind the goal because the pucks come right at you, and occasionally, if you are lucky, you can grab a puck as it goes over the glass. If a player hits the puck just right, the puck will sail over the glass and won't get hung up in the netting (and if there's not a huge crowd around) and you can claim a practice puck. We got one last year. I believe it was shot over the glass by Patrick Sharp. I think so because after the kids picked it up, he skated by the glass and gave the glass a whack to get the kids' attention. Hannah was worried he wanted it back. When she realized that she could keep it, she was thrilled. So was Caleb. They took turns holding it. I'm not sure where the puck is right now, but it turns up occasionally.

Getting up close to the glass really drives home what a crazy, insane game hockey can be. One thing that I've discovered about myself is that there is no way on this green earth I would ever want to get in the way of one of those pucks. Those things hit the glass with a thunk that makes your ears hurt. George tells about the time that his father caught a puck that went over the glass back in the 1970's-- it broke his father's hand.  I'd probably play hockey the same way I play soft-ball; I'd be spending a lot of time hoping that no one hits anything my direction. The problem with this strategy is that there is no outfield in hockey.

I can't think of anywhere sweeter to watch a game than from up against the glass. Not that I'll ever get the opportunity. During the skate-around, when the teams are practicing you can go up to the glass. You can sit in the lower rows. You can stand up in front. But, you CANNOT SIT IN THE FRONT ROW. The front row seats, I've discovered, are auctioned off. The price of these seats ranges between $600 and $1000 (each!!) for a regular season game. And we mere mortals with seats up in the 300 level are not allowed to even park our rear-ends in these seats for a brief respite before the game begins. We can sit anywhere else before the game begins(until the ticket-holders show up at least) but our common heinies will never grace the   posh resting place of the gilded heinie bearers that will recline in the seats against the glass.

There are special ushers who enforce the heinie hierarchy, and they will ask you to stand up if you are seated in one of the special seats. You can stand in front of the seats. You just can't sit in the seats. Of course, behind you are many more fans, all wanting to get as close to the action as possible, so standing up in front of the seats blocks other peoples' views. If you are in that front row, in front of the special seats, and the rightful ticket holders have not yet shown up, you can stay as long as you crouch in a sort of strange, crab-like posture, knees to the sides in an awkward deep knee bend, elbows knocking against the undersides of the boards, trying not to topple over into the special chairs--if you do topple you will be swooped down upon by the special ushers who remind you (politely but firmly) that you cannot sit in the special chairs.

I really don't have much of a problem with this. I mean, who wouldn't want to sit so close to the action that you can see the players up close and personal, witness the blood and sweat, and hear their skates, and watch the puck flying towards you? And what organization wouldn't want to get as much money from that desire as possible? But every person has to prioritize their spending, and our priorities are kind of wrapped up in museum memberships, clothing, food, the mortgage...I suppose that someday I could budget for a gilded seat, but that would mean going without something else. We can see the action from up high much better than from the floor anyhow, and there's no danger of being struck by a seriously dangerous puck.

My only complaint about going to a hockey game is that there is no way to guarantee the outcome. If I can only afford one game a year (and not in the special seats by any means) my team should at least be able to guarantee me a win. That didn't happen this year. But as Caleb said halfway through the game as fists started flying, "Well, if they aren't going to win, at least we'll see a good fight."

It wasn't bad. I just wish we were closer.

Stan Mikita and the kids.

In my mind's eye

There are moments in my life that, even as they occurred, seemed to be suspended in time; it was as if someone had suspended them inside of a dome--a snow-globe of reality--and within that moment I felt as if nothing could touch me. Reality had stopped and I had a brief time to view life from the outside and simply admire the wonder of it.

This is not to say that all of these moments have been wonderful. A twelve year old murder victim one fall, lying on the ground beneath the trees on a residential parkway, lit by the flashing blue lights of responding police cars is preserved as one of these surreal moments; I remember the exact color of the blue autumn sky the day I stepped outside after I got the phone call telling me that my father had just died. I remember the birds flying overhead and the unfair beauty of the day. But also preserved in these bubbles of memory is the memory of  the first time I saw the Northern Lights as I floated on a glass smooth lake late one August; I can lie in bed and recall the comforting, blanket-like silence of the world as I sat by a campfire in the mountains watching stars fall during a meteor shower.

I remember the muffled sounds of the snow falling onto snow in Wisconsin as we returned from a hike with the kids. It was a strange silent day without birds or animals. There was only the sound of snow.  I didn't want to go out that day, but the hike provided me with some of the most beautiful winter images that I still hold in my mind...and it's one of the few suspended moments that I caught on camera and I can revisit it whenever I want to.

Some of these moments are so fleeting that they have become nearly mythic in my mind. I can recall a singular moment that occurred while walking through a stand of Sequoias. I will never forget the image of my children (often rivals, often fighting) holding hands and whispering in conspiratorial friendship. I have no proof that this moment happened. There is no preserved image of their camaraderie except in my mind, and I guard the picture jealously because I don't know if the picture, or their friendship, will last.

Just a few days ago when it snowed I stood in the parking lot at work and looked at the trees, their branches outlined by bright white snow against the dark of the early morning...and I took a picture with my mind. It's there with the rest of them. I don't know for how long, but it's there right now.

Wisconsin-coming back from a hike