Getting Even

Posted on October 30, 2014 by missemtoo

The other day, the girls asked me to print out a photo that had been saved on my computer. As they gathered ’round the screen (today’s version of the campfire or the Victrola), they laughed out loud (that’s not an exaggeration) when they discovered that the photo – taken last week – was kept in a file titled “current 2013”. I fully understood their amusement; here it is, merely two months from twenty-FIFteen, and I’m not only using a folder named for last year, I’ve further delineated the file as “current.”

If it had been a mistake, if I’d put the photos in the wrong folder, we could have chuckled at my error and moved along. But it was not. Here’s how my photo sorting process goes: I take digital photos and upload them to my computer, where they are sorted automatically into folders by the date on which they were taken. Because many of the photos are taken with my “good” camera, they are very large, which makes for high quality images but doesn’t work so well when I want to put them onto various websites – they take forever to load and they take up a ton of space.

Hence, I go through the photos and edit them, which occasionally means actually playing with brightness and contrast and lighting and erasing double chins and smoothing wrinkles and even moving heads from one photo to the next, but far more often means simply saving the photos at a smaller size in a temporary folder marked “current” and then moving them into their permanent folders (“March 2014”, “Back To School”) later on. It used to be that my “current” folder was, indeed, current – I’d edit photos within a few weeks of taking them, move them on shortly thereafter, and would stay relatively on top of things. The “current 2010” folder would be deleted once 2011 arrived, and so on.

And then I fell behind. Waaaay behind. I’m still using the “current 2013” folder because, you guessed it… I haven’t finished going through the photos from the 2013 calendar year, so I never moved onto a 2014 folder. Back in March, I said that I was approximately two weeks from “lapping” myself in photos. Well, my friends, I far surpassed that estimation, because as of today, the photos that need editing going back to… hold on, let me check… May 10, 2013. Nearly EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO. I hardly even recognize the people in those pictures; Annie had, like, six more teeth then that she does now.

That’s not to say that I haven’t looked at, nor edited, any of the photos I’ve taken in a year and a half; obviously, I have, because you’ve seen them. I edit what’s most important to me and what’s needed for various deadlines. But as far as being “caught up” on photo editing? Not so much. To be honest, at this point, I’m not sure that I’ll ever be. Perhaps I should just look into a new photo storage plan and be done with it – yay, all caught up!

When I think about it, the whole picture debacle is really just a tangible (digital?) example of life in general. Just today, I was listening to other folks at the Y talking about how they’re trying to “get ahead.” They’re anticipating what’s coming up next week, next month, whatever, and are trying to get a jump on things so that, I don’t know, they feel better about stuff maybe? I get that, I really do. I always make the girls’ lunches (when they don’t make them themselves, holla!) the night before because the mere thought of doing it in the morning makes me break out into a sweat. I ask family members for their Christmas wish lists in early November because I prefer to be done shopping by Thanksgiving. We save money and have 529 plans for the girls and all that, because, yes, it helps to be one step ahead.

But sometimes? Sometimes you just can’t. I mean, sure, there are times when you choose not to pack for that trip because you still have three days before the plane leaves and you’d rather watch Game of Thrones. Procrastination is a fabulous motivator, after all. There are other times, though, when you’re truly only able to do what needs to be done right now, today – when you’re able to tread water and carry on a conversation with the lifeguard and maybe inch forward, but you cannot even begin to think about forging ahead.

Then, just when you’re starting to get the hang of things and keep your head from getting wet, life is, you know, life and throws all these ridiculous balls in the pool that you have to bat around or keep afloat. Sometimes, it’s disruptive enough – a death, an illness, a bout of depression, a job loss, something big – that you just have to get out of the pool altogether and take a knee (I know I’m mixing sports metaphors here; there’s a reason why my dad said I had the best “practice swing” on the fifth-grade softball team). Other times, it’s not that huge, but it’s disruptive nonetheless… the firewood that gets delivered mid-week and is situated in exactly the spot where the trick-or-treaters will be walking between your lawn and your neighbors’ so you absolutely have to get it moved right now even though you had a million other things on your to-do list…

… or a dog who has had trouble with what you thought was heatstroke but now could be something having to do with his heart, so he has to wear a Holter monitor for 24 hours (which makes him quite grumpy) and is really no big deal but you do have to watch him whenever he’s outside and record all of his activity, which is easy but just takes a little time, you know?

So you can tread and you can keep your head above water – most of the time – but forward progress is just not happening. In fact, you begin to realize that not only is it pretty much impossible to “get ahead,” it’s also damned near impossible to “get caught up.” Getting “caught up” implies that, if we accomplish everything we’ve currently got on our life roster, we can take a breather because – ta da! – finished! But it doesn’t work like that because the list never ends; it’s not like a school course where once you’ve completed the work and taken the tests (which you hoped were essays because you tend to be just a wee bit long-winded and can sometimes talk your way into a good grade), you can rest easy because it’s over. No, this life syllabus keeps adding and changing and getting torn up and started again. Frankly, I’m finding that trying to get “ahead” or even to get “caught up” are making me kind of crazy.

Maybe, instead, we need to focus on simply trying to get “even” – to do what we need to do when we need to do it and not worry so much about the rest. When we get even, we might feel more balanced, because we’re not trying to reach so far in either direction. Perhaps, if we just get even, we can stop giving ourselves so much flack about all that we haven’t accomplished yet or working ourselves into the ground to stay one step ahead of the game. Maybe, if we get even, we can enjoy the process a little bit more.

I don’t know – it’s just an idea, one that I’m not exactly putting into practice yet, just talking through. I’m certainly not suggesting that we shouldn’t try, nor that we should just give up. It doesn’t need to be cut and dried, either. I mean, if you enjoy trying to get ahead – the way I enjoy buying Christmas presents early – then it seems like a good thing. And sometimes, it’s a prudent thing; far better to replace the roof before it starts leaking, you know? Likewise, if you set specific goals and check ’em all off and feel totally “caught up” and then want to kick back and revel in that delicious accomplishment, rock on with your bad self. If it’s working, then it’s working.

But if it’s making you miserable and crazy, if you feel like you’ll never be caught up or ahead, if it feels like you’re just constantly treading water… then I think it’s time to get even. To get balanced. To get some sleep. To get a grip, for real. To get caught up with friends. To get a latte. To get laid. To get to the gym. To get to a movie. To get a hug. To get your feet on the ground.

And then to get moving again when you can, even if it’s just inching forward.
I mean, so long as you can find the photos when your kids ask for them, does it really matter where and how they’re stored?

(Side note: if you need me next week, I’ll be busy sorting and saving my pictures. If I find any good ones, I promise to share.)

This picture is blurry and poorly lit and has nothing to do with anything but it was taken at a haunted hayride a few days ago and we all had a good time and, damn it, we were happy.

Mixed Emotions

Posted on October 23, 2014 by missemtoo

When I received the voicemail from CCI about Jambi, it didn’t even cross my mind that something was amiss. By contrast, it was wholly shocking a year and a half ago when we got a call only eleven days (!!) after Langston had been turned in. We’d been sure he was going to do well in Advanced Training – he was such a pleaser, so smart, so loving. We hadn’t anticipated that it would be the loving part of his personality that would get him dismissed; indeed, he adored and missed us so much, he became crazily anxious not being with us (and, um, got into a fight with another dog and then bit the trainer who stepped in to intervene – oopsies!). It was clear that Lang was meant to be our forever dog and we welcomed him home with open arms.

With Jambi, it was different. We felt in our bones that she was a good egg, that she was cut out for the life of a service dog. Her exceedingly calm demeanor and unflappable nature, her cuddliness and sweetness, her intelligence and desire to please; this dog was going places, damn it! And so when the call came yesterday, it never occurred to me that Jambi had been released – it was far too early for her to have been placed (she wasn’t slated for graduation until February), but surely nothing was wrong.

As I reached the part in the voicemail where our puppy program manager said she had “great news” to tell us immediately, I turned to the girls and told them that I was all but certain that I knew what the news was: Jambi had been selected as a breeder. An hour later, my suspicions were confirmed.

Up until now, I’ve only mentioned that CCI puppies face one of two possibilities: to be released from the program (which the vast majority are because perfection is a very difficult standard) and become someone’s pet, or to graduate and become a working dog in some capacity – a hearing dog, a service dog, an assistance dog, a therapy dog, etc. There is, however, a third possibility. A very small number of pups are selected as CCI breeders, taken out of Advanced Training, and sent off to California, near CCI’s headquarters, to begin a life of leisure (and humping) with a volunteer breeder/caretaker family.

In order to ensure that the dogs are properly and safely bred, that they’re well cared for, and that certain genetic characteristics are passed on from dog to dog, CCI breeds all of its own puppies – Golden Retrievers, Labrador Retrievers, or crosses of the two. I’ve been saying for over a year now to anyone who would listen (or at least who I thought might be even mildly interested) that I thought it was highly likely that our Beast would be chosen as a breeder. Not only did she have a terrific personality, one I thought CCI might like to, you know, pass along, she was also small for a Lab – something helpful when you’re navigating tight spaces, trying to fit under airplane seats, squeezing onto subway cars, etc. Plus, she’s gorgeous.

Jambi’s most recent progress report reiterated what a fantastic dog she is – attentive, quick, calm, super smart, not easily distractible, not fearful, highly motivated. She was doing incredibly well in Advanced Training, easily well enough to have gone on and graduated… so well, in fact, that they decided that there should be more dogs like Jambi.

Having suspected that this would be her fate long ago, I wasn’t shocked to hear the news. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel conflicted. See, we really really wanted her to become a service dog. That’s what makes it all worth it – the training, the pooping in the middle of stores, the heartbreak of growing close to her only to return her. The idea that Jambi could someday change someone’s life makes it all worthwhile.

If she can’t, however – if she’s just not cut out for it – then flunking out didn’t seem to be the end of the world, especially since we’d planned on her going to live with my sister-in-law (and new brother-in-law; more on that soon). She would be in a loving home! She would be with people who would continue with her solid training foundation! We could still see her! These did not seem like such bad options.

To have neither feels a bit… hard. Jambi didn’t quite make it. She’s not coming back. We’ll probably never see her again, ever. Sure, she’ll be with a new, doting family – but will they appreciate her adorable grunting noises the way we did? Will they love the velvety feel of her perfectly cold, wet nose? Will they know that she lives for ice cubes and will come running the moment she hears one jostling about in the freezer?

And then there’s the whole breeding thing; it just seems so impersonal. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am with a guy she’s never even met, whose butt she’s only just begun to sniff – what if she doesn’t like it, this mating thing? And then when she’s pregnant (but she’s so young!) and uncomfortable and has squalling puppies all around her, pawing at her and nipping – what if she doesn’t really enjoy being a mom?

It’s not easy when your babies grow up and fly the coop and get knocked up all within the space of a few months!

With our first CCI dog, Diamond, I actively hoped against her becoming a breeder; it wasn’t helping enough; it felt like all of the time and effort and love we’d put in would go to waste. I preferred that she flunk out than become a breeder. This time around, I no longer held those views. Maybe it was having worked with CCI longer and seeing how important all of the dogs are, maybe it was seeing two of our pups get released, or perhaps it was because I’ve had the feeling for so long that Jambi would be selected as a breeder. Whatever it was, I wasn’t hoping she wouldn’t be bred, so receiving the news wasn’t the punch in the gut it would have been a few years ago.

And, when you think about it, being chosen as a breeder is actually a pretty fantastic thing. CCI hopes that Jambi will have 5 or so litters, which amounts to 40 or so puppies. It is essentially impossible that none of those puppies will go on to become service dogs, and far more likely that several – maybe even a dozen – of them will. That means a whole lot more people’s lives will be forever changed for the better than if Jambi had become a service dog herself. (And they’ll be damned cute, too.)

If changing lives is why we raise CCI pups, it seems that we’ve hit the jackpot with this one.

Nevertheless, it’s still hard. Even though we know that this is a wonderful thing, a true honor, it’s still not what we’d originally hoped would happen, and changing emotions on a dime isn’t really my strong suit. (Unless I happen to be watching a good Budweiser commercial, in which case I can go from smiling to sobbing in a matter of seconds.) Knowing that we won’t get to see her again hurts. Wondering how she’ll take to being an incubator is tough.

But I’m going to look on the bright side. With luck, her new breeder/caretaker family will be amenable to connecting with us through digital media so we can watch her grow, be a part of her pregnancies, and ooooh and ahhhh over her new puppies. My mother-in-law pointed out that Jambi’s exceedingly sweet and adoring nature means she’ll probably be a tremendous mama. And, if we play our cards right, down the road we should be able to raise one of Jambi’s puppies as our next CCI dog — which is pretty freakin’ incredible.

And so, to Jambi… We knew you were destined for great things, Beast! We miss you so much, but this is such awesome news; you’ll be amazing and will bring such joy into so many other lives. And if we ever make it out near you in California, I expect an uncontrollable full-body wiggle as a greeting, deal? Deal.

Settling In

Posted on October 17, 2014 by missemtoo

It’s now been three weeks since we got Fenwick, our fourth CCI puppy, and I daresay things feel distinctly different than when I last posted about him. He’s becoming a true member of our household and raising him is turning out to be relatively easy*.

* I realized I just jinxed myself. Universe, please have pity on me.

Upon further reflection, I’ve come to the conclusion that there are several reasons why the adjustment to having another puppy around has gone more smoothly this time. To wit, in no particular order:

1) I’m no longer feeling detached, nor keeping my distance. Once I realized that’s what I’d been doing, I decided to knock it off. He’s not Jambi and that’s okay; he’s his own self and that self is pretty fantastic.

2) This face. All day, every day.

3) He still has puppy breath. (And very sharp teeth.)

4) He lets us know when he needs to do his business and then almost always waits until he’s outside to actually do it. THIS IS HUGE, people. Langston had a habit of asking to be let out, peeing like crazy, and then peeing again the instant he got back into the house or was put in his kennel. (Our CCI program manager actually had to ask us not to bathe him so often because it was bad for his skin, so we resorted to hosing him off a couple of times a day.) Jambi went through a lovely stage where she would poop in her kennel at night and not let us know; I’d “discover” it when I’d awaken to use the bathroom and would be overpowered by the stench. So, Fenwick asking to go out and then doing his business outside? GENIUS.

5) Speaking of genius… he’s smart. He totally knows his name, responds to the “sit” and “here!” and “Let’s go!” commands, and has mastered the art of sitting, waiting, and then being given the “okay” command before he eats his meals. He also walks on a leash quite nicely now; we’ve managed to make it a whole ten minutes up the street before he gives up and needs to be carried.

6) He’s a total imp. He knows the “here” command but will purposely dart away from me if he’d rather play outside. He pulls the girls’ swim towels off of their drying spots, drags them around the kitchen, and then lies down in the middle of them. If you’re not watching very closely, he’ll slip out of any open gate or door to follow you. He’s a twerp.
Dragging a stick that’s three times his size because he is a COMPLETE GOOFBALL.

7) He talks. I don’t mean that he barks or is just plain noisy (although both of those are true), but that he vocalizes often and it sounds just like a human being – but not in a creepy, disembodied way. More in an adorable, “OMG, he sounds like a cross between an Ewok and a Wookiee!” kind of way. (Yeah, yeah, I know that those are technically not human… but they were voiced by humans. Point for me.)

8) I’ll deny I ever said this, but he just might be sleeping through the night. You didn’t hear it here. Nope.

9) Langston has changed his tune and has decided that Fenwick is a pretty fabulous playmate. Lang brings toys over to play with him, gets all dog-mouthy with him, and gleefully flings him across the floor when enough is enough. He’s even willingly sharing his bed and not trying to curl into a tight ball in the corner so he doesn’t have to touch Fenwick. OH HAPPY DAY.

And perhaps the biggest reason why raising this puppy is easier (so far) than the previous three puppies…

10) Ella and Annie help. THIS IS A GAME CHANGER, Y’ALL. With our first CCI pup, Diamond, they were really too young to do anything besides avoid becoming chew toys. With Langston and Jambi, they wanted to help, but were either too little to be too effective (the pups were too heavy to carry, they couldn’t reach the food) or got bored ten seconds into working on “down” and would walk away, leaving the puppies chewing on couch cushions in the living room.

This time, not only are they capable of pitching in, they actually want to participate. Feeding the puppy? Not a problem. Letting him out, even on short notice (“He’s about to have an accident! Go go GO!”), and then watching him so he doesn’t get into trouble? Done. Patiently working with him on learning his name? Okay, so maybe they weren’t patient, but they definitely offered assistance. Knowing how to handle it without falling apart when Fenwick nips at their toes or chews on the hems of their bathrobes? You bet.

The other day, Ella decided that the puppy was getting a bit stinky, so she gave him a bath – in the shower, by herself – and then toweled him off and brought him back downstairs. Yeah, she mixed his dirty, hairy towel in with hers, but she hung them both up so I consider it a total win. Heck, one time, Annie even cleaned up after Fenwick when he peed inside… and then sprayed the floor with disinfectant. As you can see, this is all kinds of awesome.

———————-

So, to sum up, if you want to raise a puppy and have the experience be particularly excellent, I highly recommend that you a) get a really cute dog, b) get a smart dog that makes you feel like a super-competent trainer, c) get a dog with personality so you can laugh it off when they try to chew through the handle of your new rake, and d) above all else, have a seven and nine year-old on hand to assist you with all of your puppy-raising needs.

Except for getting up in the middle of the night and picking up poop. Those are still on you. At least this adorable face will make it more bearable.
Oh. Mah. Gah.

There is no WE in Girl Scouts

Posted on October 15, 2014 by missemtoo

Like most parents, I openly support my girls in their chosen extracurricular activities. I cheer them on at swim meets and soccer games; I clap enthusiastically at recitals and performances ; I turn over their latest pottery camp creations in my hands, commenting on texture and color and shape and how the pieces seem to have multiplied like rabbits. When Ella announced that she had been elected to her school’s student council (Nick and I hadn’t even been aware that she was running), I applauded her determination and go-get-‘em attitude, promising that I would pick her up at the end of meetings. If our girls are into it, we’re into it – or, at least, into them being into it.

(This is all within reason, of course. If either girl requests to do an activity that is somehow outrageous – joining the Let’s Ban Chocolate club, for example – or that completely doesn’t fit into our schedule or that we really, really don’t approve of, we’ll have to reexamine things. For now, though, everything’s cool.)

Supporting them in doing their activities means just that: they’re the ones doing things; I’m the one on the sidelines. While they’re standing on the blocks in their caps and goggles, I’m watching – poised, ready, nervous – but I’m not getting into that water unless I can be magically transported to an infinity pool in Jamaica. I’ll whoop wildly for a great goal and hide my eyes after a blown save, but I’m not running around on that field with them unless I’m being chased. We are not doing chorus; Ella is. We do not attend aerial arts camp; they do. This seems like a simple enough concept.

When it comes to Girl Scouts, however, all bets are off. I’ve already talked about how I’m a slacker mom when it comes to Scouting – the one who drops her daughter off at meetings but doesn’t stay; the one who accompanies her on clean-up hikes (and gamely picks up trash) but steps back so Annie can roast marshmallows on her own; the one who safety-pins the badges onto her vest because sewing is way beyond my commitment level. Annie enjoys it, and I’m happy for her that she does. But let’s be clear: Annie is the Girl Scout, not I.

Perhaps I’m missing a crucial Girl Scout gene, having never been a Girl Scout myself, but I seem to be one of the few moms who feels this way (save for the other slacker moms in Annie’s troop; thank God we have each other. And wine). I knew we were off to another uncomfortable year of Scouting at the very first event we attended, only a week after school began. It was advertised as a visit to the Rochester airport and sounded quite promising – a tour of the facility, checking out a plane and the cockpit, talking to pilots. It was understood that moms were expected to accompany their daughters, and I was pleased to do so – to observe Annie as she participated, to help herd her and the rest of her troop where they needed to be.

Yes, Annie’s in her pjs – the older girls were spending the night camped out on the airport conference room floor but the young’uns had to leave early, ~~THANK GOD~~ oh well.

In large part, the visit delivered: we were, indeed, taken through the airport, with the girls giggling through the security checkpoint as one of the guards – clearly tickled at being able to take a break from looking for dangerous materials, and clearly taken with the girls’ enthusiasm – high-fived everyone as we went through the metal detector, including all of the parents. As we prepared to take a tour of the most recently-landed aircraft, we were greeted by the plane’s crew, including a female captain (who identified herself as a pilot) who essentially told the girls that they could do any damn thing they set their minds to, including flying planes. It was pretty rad.

This captain hopped right off her plane and gave a wonderfully inspiring little speech to the girls. It was quite impressive.

The girls explored the (empty) cabin, buckling seatbelts and examining tray tables, lifting the window shades up and down as though doing aerobics, and spending an uncommonly long time in the cockpit – longer than I’ve ever been allowed, certainly.

Good grief, there were so many dials in there!

Some of the airport’s firefighters met us at the terminal, bringing their gear and stickers for each girl and giving us demonstration of how they put on all their equipment while they told us some rather fascinating tidbits about airport emergency crews. (Did you have any idea that each airport has its own designated fire crew that lives on the premises in a station house that is required, by federal law, to be located so that the trucks can reach anywhere on airport property within three minutes? See; fascinating.) All of that was well and good, and I was actually kind of glad that I’d accompanied Annie on this little fieldtrip.

When not touring the facility or hearing from employees, there was a lot of downtime, however, and the other troop leader(s) wanted to fill that downtime by singing Girl Scout songs. I can get behind this, as both a music teacher (hello) and the parent of a child who does not appreciate hanging around with nothing to do. Singing is fun! Singing is inclusive! Singing requires active participation, which means that fewer kids get bored! Yay, singing!

But the Scout leaders did not just want the Girl Scouts to sing; no, they wanted everyone to sing – including the parents of the Girl Scouts – and when we did not stand from our chairs and join in the jubilant chorus of “Hermy the Wormie,” we were called out.

Now. I’m all about singing. I loooove me some singing, even crazy group-style. I love ridiculous camp songs and have even taught my own girls the camp songs from my childhood, smiling like an idiot every time we burst into the one about the farmer and the maiden and their laundry. When I go to the sing-along showing of Grease, you can bet your ass that I’ll be belting out “Summer Lovin’” because that’s my jam. I will out-harmonize any of y’all on a holiday caroling expedition, even one with the Girl Scouts. So it’s not about the singing.

It’s about this being Annie’s activity, one to which I feel no particular attachment aside from taking pleasure out of her liking it. If it were a parent/kid kind of thing, if we signed up together as a mommy/daughter team, I would be all over it. But we did not. Only Annie’s name was on the registration form. Only Annie’s vaccination records were required for participation (I, on the other hand, could be rabid and they wouldn’t know).

In this here house, the resident Girl Scout is even in charge of ironing on her own badges. With some minor supervision, just for safety’s sake, of course.

I fully understand that some parental participation in her troop is not only helpful but necessary. There are the logistics, of course – attaching badges to vests and procuring snacks and providing transportation to and from the activities. There is also the simple fact that Annie’s troop has only one leader and so we, as parents, have each volunteered to run at least one meeting; I’m totally down with that and will be Googling like mad to make sure that whatever activity I’m in charge of is all kinds of fabulous.

But when the moms got together at the parent meeting, I couldn’t help but notice the use of the word “we” in describing all of the things that would take place this year. “We’ll sell cookies!” “We’ll learn how to make healthy snacks!” “We’ll earn these badges!” And I didn’t want to be a spoilsport, but I kept thinking, “This had better be the royal we, because ‘we’ are not Girl Scouts.” Is that not why we have troop leaders (thank God for troop leaders)– to actually do the activities with these girls??

It’s all just a bit much. Case in point: the badges. Y’all, there is a Girl Scout badge for absolutely everything under the sun. The badge booklet was more than an inch thick – like a college textbook – and contained over THREE THOUSAND different patches. THREE. THOUSAND!! Fed the homeless? There’s a badge for that. Provided relief to hurricane victims? Hurricane relief badge right here. Knit a sweater? Knitting badge! I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a badge for keeping the apps on your smartphone updated.

Annie’s first Brownie badge… lest you thought I was kidding…

I know that families these days are strapped for time and it’s The Thing to devote hours and hours of your attention to your sons’ and daughters’ interests. There is now some societal expectation that one must be really into your kids’ activities in order to be a good parent. Moms and dads join their children on playdates well past the age where their supervision is necessary. Parents get into physical altercations at ballgames because they become so overinvested in what’s happening on the field. Their dance competition is your competition. It’s crazy-making.

If you want to become a Girl Scout troop leader, I applaud you. Nay, I salute and revere you, because my kiddo enjoys this activity and, by golly, she needs awesome people to run it – people who are genuinely invested, interested, and really dig singing about Hermy the Wormie. Dedicated, enthusiastic, and fun Girl Scout troop leaders are a wonderful thing.

Likewise, if you are the parent of a Girl Scout and you find yourself with a burning desire to build a teepee alongside your daughter, visit the animal shelter, or learn how to make a papier mache hat – and your daughter doesn’t mind you tagging along – then go ahead and join her. Rock on with your bad mom/daughter duo.

Don’t worry, I’ll still see you occasionally – at the beginning and end of troop meetings, at the monthly activity I’m running (it’ll be incredible, I promise), accompanying Annie and her fellow troop members when they drop off clothing to underprivileged kiddos or ring the bell at the mall. I hope you won’t think I’m rude when I allow Annie to dole out the hand-me-downs or ring the Salvation Army bell rather than rushing in to do so myself; it’s just that I’ve already had the opportunity to see how such kindness can change people’s lives and I really want Annie to have that chance without me hovering over her and influencing her experience.

I mean, after all, how can Annie rightfully claim her Helping Others badge if I’ve done half of the helping? No, this is for her to navigate, to enjoy, to learn from; I will accompany and support her, but we are not doing the Girl Scouts.

Unless one of those 3,000 badges happens to be for mixed drinks or wine tasting or a Moms Night Out. In that case, bring that catalog a little closer, please.

While ironing on her badges, Annie was dismayed to discover that she had misplaced one of the numbers for her troop (after having opened the baggie in which they’d been kept, the baggie she’d been told not to open). I actually think it’s kind of the perfect representation of our Girl Scout experience at this point.

Lucky Thirteen

Posted on October 6, 2014 by missemtoo

Thirteen years ago today, Nick and I were married and – if I may be so bold – our wedding was pretty freakin’ awesome. I’ve already written here several times about what it means to be married, about how our relationships has grown and changed over the years, about Nick himself and who he is. So today, as promised, I want to talk about our wedding itself and why it still makes me smile after all these years.

I have no idea why we’re laughing, but it pretty accurately sums up the tenor of the evening.

If I got married today, I’d be all over Pinterest – Ooooh, let’s serve those at the reception! These are fabulous invitations! Who knew you could do that with a ball of twine and some feathers?! When Nick and I were planning our wedding, there was no Pinterest. The internet, although definitely part of our lives, was not the place to go to get information and ideas about your upcoming nuptials. The sources that were available – gen-you-wine old-fashioned books and magazines – provided us with bunch of ideas, a few of which we adapted, but mostly we were on our own.

Which suited us fine, because we knew only three things for sure about our wedding: we really wanted to get married to one another, so that was, you know, kind of the focal point; we wanted our guests to have a kick-ass good time; and we wanted the wedding to really represent who we were. Meaning it would be musical, fun, geeky, loud, joy-filled, a little different, and enormous portions of delicious food would be plentiful.

Knowing that the musical aspects of the wedding were really important to us, we got started early by arranging two songs to be sung a cappella (see: geeky), recording the different parts and burning them onto CDs (again, not so easy to just email the files; and also again: geeky), and mailing the CDs to our extremely good-natured and supportive friends – members of the a cappella groups Nick and I had been part of in college – who’d agreed to sing with us over the course of the weekend. To their credit, every single one of ’em learned those parts; when we got together to rehearse for the first time (less than an hour before performing), it was like turning on a stereo.
“I Can’t Get Enough of You Baby” by Smash Mouth, what else?

For the rehearsal dinner itself, which was hosted by Nick’s family, we decided to bring a little Minnesota flare into our New York festivities. Nick’s mom and aunts hand-dyed the tablecloths and created the table centerpieces themselves, using preserved local Minnesota flowers and cattails and then shipping the whole kit ‘n’ caboodle all the way out to the Big Apple. It felt homey and warm and special and I was so grateful to them for putting so much effort and love into every detail. Nick’s dad created a slideshow of photos of Nick growing up, while my mom created a video of photos of me growing up, and the whole night felt like the perfect combination of his family and mine.

That there would be the hand-dyed tablecloth and really cool Minnesota flowers.

Naturally, there was singing. We sang a cappella with our friends – a mix of old songs (including an old-school ditty called “Daddy” whose lyrics begin, “Daddy, let me stay up late… for tomorrow is my wedding date…” I know!) and the ones that Nick and I had arranged. Nick performed on his guitar, I sang with my forever BFF, Kiki, and Nick and I did a few songs together, welcoming everyone into this crazy world of ours.

The morning of big day dawned cloudy and rainy, but the skies had cleared by the time the festivities began. I’d asked my singing pals to join me and my bridal party just prior to entering the church so that we could sing “Going to the Chapel” (in harmony, duh).

Going to the chapel… literally.

The wedding ceremony itself was lovely and vibrant, nodding to tradition while turning things on their ends. Although we got married in a church, I refused to walk down the aisle to the organ because I think organs sound like something out of a horror movie (and yes, I was a music major and studied Bach and all that jazz [pun intended!] and I still can’t stand the organ; hey, you like what you like), instead choosing Offenbach’s “Barcarolle” from The Tales of Hoffman (after falling in love with it in the movie Life is Beautiful) for the processional and Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” (yes, the march, like you’d hear on the Fourth of July) for the recessional.

At the reception, we wanted everyone to have an absolute blast, to dance and eat themselves silly and enjoy the hell out of the whole affair (in part because, c’mon, how often are we going to do this? and in part because of the timing of the event). To begin, we had our first dance; nowadays, I’d be scouring YouTube for fun and charming First Dance Videos, but then, YouTube wasn’t even a blink in Mark Zuckerberg’s eye (I know he didn’t invent YouTube – Google tells me that it was created by three former PayPal employees – but it’s the first name I came up with, so there) – so it was just up to us to come up with something a little unusual. Ultimately, we decided to add a bit of whimsy to the dance (“The Way You Look Tonight”, a longtime favorite of ours) and incorporate a “choreographed” section complete with pat-a-cake clapping and doing “the swim”; it was very dignified.

What? You didn’t rock ’50s and ’60s hand motions during your first dance? Pity.

Since this was, we figured, our one shot at sharing a bit of ourselves with this collection of charming guests who made their way across the country to join us, we wanted to include some of our favorite family traditions – including Christmas crackers (you know, the kind with exploding snaps at each end that are filled with a paper crown, a small slip of paper containing a joke or bit of trivia, and an itty bitty toy), which my family has opened at special dinners since I was a kid. Except that any old Christmas crackers wouldn’t do, so we – along with my mom – spent hours upon hours filling empty crackers with music-themed items: piano erasers, quarter note pins, and the like.

The crackers, ready to go at at the tables…

Naturally, we put the crowns on as soon as we opened the crackers. Duh.

Our love of music was woven into all areas of the reception. Our band had told us they’d learn one song of our choosing – and so we chose a relative unknown, “Oh Babe, What Would You Say?” by Hurricane Smith, because it was one of my grandfather’s favorite songs and we used to listen to it while roasting marshmallows at the bonfires along the lake; we invited our entire families to join us for the dance. Our seating cards were written on music staves, sending people to a table not named by number but by a place that was important to Nick and me (Denver, Disney World, Canandaigua…).

My cousin, looking to figure out which table he was at. (Hint: he was with us.)

Dramatic reenactment; you get the idea.

Our a cappella friends joined us once more for a performance. Our wedding favors were CDs featuring our favorite songs. And, of course, there was the whole sing-a-song-with-the-word-‘love’-in-it thing, which turned out to be one of the best aspects of the entire day.

We oh-so-cleverly did a mashup of Lyle Lovett’s “She’s No Lady (She’s My Wife)” and the George Gershwin classic, “Boy! What Love Has Done To Me!” (as sung by the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald). #MusicGeeks

Yep, our buddy B is still wearing his crown. Because he rocks.

In short, everything was just as we’d hoped it would be; we had the perfect wedding (for us). I realize that not everyone can say that their wedding was everything they wanted, and that ours was makes me tremendously grateful. (Grateful, as well, to my – and Nick’s – parents, who never played the role of overbearing in-laws, instead deferring all important decisions to us so that the day could go exactly as we’d imagined.)

The first few shots were staged – no actual plunging – but then we really did jump in at the end, which scared the heck out of my stepdad, who was taking the photos.

We wanted the food and drinks to be abundant and delicious; it was. We wanted the band to play songs that everyone would get up and dance to; they did. We wanted people to come together to sing and be silly; they did. We wanted autumn to be fully incorporated into the wedding – the decor, the food, the colors, the flowers (I believe that I’d asked for the reception locale to be “dripping with flowers,” a statement that, in hindsight, might have been just a bit overboard – but, gee, they sure were pretty!); it was.

We wanted to share our love of our home states with our guests; we did. We hoped they would join us in celebrating some of our families’ most cherished traditions; they did. We tried to ensure that music, and its importance to us, was felt at every turn; I believe that it was. We wanted everyone to feel welcome and happy, to be able to relax and just kick back and enjoy themselves, to know how grateful we were that they were there; I think they did.

Laughing about something different this time; yes, Nick is wearing his crown, and yes, I’ve got a yellow plastic treble clef pinned to my wedding dress.

Even now, thirteen years later, people who attended our wedding tell us that it was one of the best weddings they’ve ever been to. Although that’s certainly a kind and flattering sentiment, I believe that it wasn’t so much the wedding itself that was memorable; it was that, for one day, we put ourselves wholly out there: this is who we are. We love music. We love our families. We adore our friends. We live for good food and laughter. Traditions matter. Levity is a must. Humor is essential. Laughter is the best. We really, really dig one another’s company. We believe in fun. And we are so, so glad that you’re joining us.

Our wedding wasn’t a one-off celebration that marked a complete departure from our personalities; it well and truly started our lives together because it was a representation of who we are as individuals and as a couple. Today, we’re still living by those values, right down to the geeky a cappella love and the continued use of Christmas crackers.

I feel so thankful – and lucky – that our marriage started off the way it did, with a wedding that was everything we’d dreamed of. I’m even more thankful – and feel even luckier – that our marriage itself is only somewhat like what I’d imagined; actually, it’s better.

Happy baker’s dozen anniversary, Nick! Here’s to dozens more – and to more laughter, more singing, and more cake and wine.

I’m Bringing Boredom Back

Posted on October 3, 2014 by missemtoo

In 2014, children rarely have the opportunity to become bored. There are, of course, the timeless classics that have entertained kids for millennia – being outside, playing games, building elaborate villages with Barbies or Legos (okay, so maybe they weren’t doing that hundreds of years ago, but you know what I mean). There are also oodles of technology-filled pastimes, from low-tech marvels like TV and music-listening to ever-updating apps and video games and things that I’m not even remotely hip enough to know about. We can talk ourselves in circles about how much technology is good versus how much is bad, how infrequently children play outside; how over-scheduled their lives are; I’m not even going to attempt to enter into those debates. I will say, however, that all of these things do mean that children almost never have the chance to be bored – they can just fire up the computer, trade Pokeman cards, or set the DVR to record a program that can be watched at any time of the day or night, no more “Oh, I guess I’ll have to wait until it’s on…” or, heaven help us, sitting through commercials.

After observing said never-bored children when they’ve been faced with the slightest bit of change-in-routine adversity, I feel that I can confidently say that boredom is a good thing.

We need to bring back boredom.

Case in point: after returning Jambi for Advanced Training, we began our drive home via ferry from Long Island to Connecticut. Allow me to paint the scene… A three-deck ship traversing Long Island Sound, cutting majestically through the water at the bow and leaving a frothy white wake at the stern. A gorgeous summer day, sunny but not too warm, salt air breeze billowing around us. Crashing, soaring waves ahead, as though caused by the strongest imaginable current (in fact, they marked where the Sound meets the Atlantic, and they were, indeed, caused by monstrous currents). Sailboats and fishing vessels and motorboats zipping in and out of our line of sight, which extended down the sweeping coast of extreme eastern Long Island, over to the Connecticut shoreline, and all the way out to sea. Rentable binoculars that swiveled in all directions, with which you could see every detail of the passing boats, buildings, and landscape. A formidable-looking building on a formidable-but-beautiful-looking island (which, we learned upon Googling, was Plum Island, home of mysterious government research). A charming lighthouse, promising safety and salvation. Birds cruising overhead, hundreds of passengers with bags and snacks and stories to be imagined, shipboard rooms to be explored and visited.

Plum Island is actually right perty.

In other words, essentially the perfect setting for a wickedly entertaining action/travel/ adventure movie, complete with intrigue and mystique and mysteriously deep bodies of water…
… and yet, my girls? Bored. BORED TO DEATH.

Look! A lighthouse!

Although we had a car full of books and drawing supplies and the like, they opted not to bring any of said items with them onto the decks. Likewise, Nick and I forbade them from using their iPads, citing a) that there was no need, as we’d only be onboard for a little over an hour and we tend to reserve electronics for longer journeys, b) they had us and their grandparents to converse and hang out with, and c) we are on a ship traveling over water and past lighthouses with the Atlantic Ocean at our fingertips and how can you find nothing to do omg??

Believe it or not, they – in fact – found nothing to do. Nothing at all for the entire sixty-plus minutes we were on that beautiful, lovely, exciting, godforsaken ferry. Well, I should rephrase that; nothing at all except complaining about how they were so bored and that there was nothing to do.

House-lighthouse thing near the Connecticut shoreline.

I had assumed that such behavior was not unique to my children but didn’t have an opportunity to put my assumption to the test until yesterday when I volunteered as one of the playground monitors at the girls’ elementary school. Although there was no precipitation during recess itself, it and rained earlier in the day, covering everything with a fine layer of water drops and puddles. The official (i.e. paid) playground monitors attempted to dry off the equipment, but their towels were doing little good; after seeing several first graders slip off the monkey bars and slide – not in the good way – down the climbing walls, the principal decided that it was simply too wet to allow the students to actually play on the playground, so recess was then limited to playing on the blacktop or swings. (Why the kiddos couldn’t play on the fields was a mystery to me; concern over slipping on the wet grass seemed overblown at best; concern over wet sneakers seemed even sillier. Given that our school is not prone to overreacting or helicoptering, however, and generally allows kids to be kids, I decided to give the principal the benefit of the doubt and just go along with the no playing on the grass thing.)

Because there are only six (or eight? I can’t remember) swings, the majority of the students found themselves on or near the blacktop for the duration of recess. It should be noted that the blacktop is an area the is entirely devoid of anything to do, a vast wasteland of asphalt… except for the basket ball hoops on each end (and the requisite basketballs to toss into such hoops), the marked-off four-square courts (and the requisite balls with which to play), the hopscotch boards, the life-sized tic-tac-toe boards, a brick wall replete with drawings, benches upon which to sit, etc. Oh! And did I mention that the children were not required to stand atop the blacktop alone but could bring all of their friends with them?

To be fair, some of the kids entertained themselves all recess long. There were basketball free-throws and impromptu games of Red Rover and marauding bands of children who stalked the corners of the blacktop and gossiped to their hearts’ content. But, by far, the two-word phrase I heard uttered more than any other was, “I’m bored!” or it’s four-word cousin, “This is so boring!”

Now, I’m hardly the paragon of childhood self-entertainment. It’s long been noted that I used to come downstairs as a kid and ask my mom, “What fun thing do you have planned for me today?” I, like virtually all children, uttered the B word more times than I’d like to count, until my mom actually forbade me from using it. But I did know how to go outside and entertain myself – not with dolls, not with toys, but simply by being and using my imagination. Some of my happiest memories as a kid revolve around the forts that my brother and I created beneath and within the branches of enormous trees, or the “king chairs” that we dug into snowbanks at the top of our driveway.

This photo is basically only for show… She was interested in this for approximately 24 seconds.

Today, it’s different. Kids are used to being constantly entertained, to having little – or no – downtime in which to unwind and actually have to devise ways to keep themselves occupied and busy. They go from school to home (almost never by walking) to homework (often scripted) to sports (run by an adult to tells them what to do) to enrichment classes (also run by an adult) to music lessons (taught by grown-ups with an agenda) to dinner to bed. Their “free time” is filled with play, yes – but, left to their own devices, that play would almost always include Minecraft or shows on the Disney Channel or the latest unbeatable level on Candy Crush. Their days are so very structured, with very few opportunities to even consider the art of making something out of (what seems like) nothing.

It makes sense, then – sadly – that neither my girls nor many of the hundreds of kids on that playground were able to occupy themselves with their simple surroundings. They were unable to see that, actually, there was so much to do. They could examine the passing ships and make up stories about where they came from and where they were going. They could look for colonies of ants that were making their homes along the blacktop’s edge. They could count the stairs between the decks or the strides necessary to traverse the blacktop diagonally. They could time themselves (by, like, counting out loud instead of using an app or a watch) to see how quickly they could cross the area in front of them backwards and sideways. They could pick blades of grass and try to whistle with them or braid them together. They could invent tales of espionage and action, elaborate fantasies of why they needed to cross the Sound via ferry instead of driving through Manhattan and up the Connecticut shore. They could stretch. They could do jumping jacks. They could see how long they could stand on one leg or only their tippy tip toes. They could talk to their friends or parents or grandparents – not about anything specific; just talking. They could look up at the sky and search for shapes in the clouds. They could look up at the sky for no other reason than that the sky is not the earth and it is far away and a special kind of magic. They could breathe in deliciously fresh air and appreciate not being stuck indoors all day long.

But mostly? They don’t. They’re just bored.

Can you tell how appreciative she is?

I know; some of this comes with age. It’s not just a child-of-2014 deficit. But this generation of kids is more scheduled and structured than any we’ve seen before, with more time spent on screens than we could ever have imagined when we were their age, and as a result, they are used to having someone else provide their entertainment – which means they don’t have any idea what to do with themselves when they don’t have something (specific) to do.

Which is crappy because being able to distract oneself when stuck in an undesirable situation is a pretty damned important skill. We’ve all had those dreaded moments at the doctor’s office – or, God forbid, the DMV – when we realize the magazines are from 2011 and we have to preserve the little battery life that remains on our cellphones because we’ll need Google Maps to help us get to the pharmacy (because paper maps? Please) and suddenly terror strikes as we stare thirty minutes of dead air straight in the face. We’ve had those moments waiting in the line that is 397 times longer than the ride itself and we’ve given our phones to our oldest child so that she can take photos of her father trying his hand at whack-a-mole and there’s not even so much as a stray coupon or Advil label to read in our purses or backpacks. THE HORROR.

Truth is, life involves a lot of waiting around, and if you have no ability to occupy yourself unless you’ve got a handheld electronic device within reach or a copy of Us Weekly, it’s not gonna be pretty. Moreover, we’re not going to get very far – I’m talking big picture here, like as a species – if we don’t have people coming up with new ideas and inventions. To do that, imagination and free-thinking is needed, stat. I’m pretty sure that young Benjamin Franklin was roaming his backyard, just biding his time with his kite, as a storm approached and suddenly something sparked his imagination (see what I did there?). If he’d spent every waking moment shuttling between soccer practice and orchestra and besting the next level of the Star Wars version of Angry Birds, he might never have examined his glasses more closely and decided to create bifocals.

As a kid, I think that boredom is pretty much par for the course (as an adult, I honestly don’t understand how anyone over the age of 20 can be bored; there is so much to do in any given day, having nothing to do would be such a wonderful luxury – I can assure you that I’d fill it with mindless blather that would keep me very, very happy). But we’re not doing our children any good by providing them with entertainment 24/7 (yes, this comes from the mom with a Summer Fun List who hates endless stretches of nothing). I bet even Thomas Edison was bored from time to time, which is a good thing because without the ideas that were generated during his downtime, we’d be way behind schedule and might still be listening to “All About That Bass” on 8-track.

I don’t think it’s possible to fully teach kids how to divert their attention. We can help, we can provide suggestions, but in the end, the only way that kids learn how to occupy their time and use their imaginations is to actually do it. And the way to allow them that opportunity means allowing for more downtime – and for more time to be bored. The best way to learn how to beat boredom is to face it enough that you know how to kick its butt.

So, I hereby propose that we bring back boredom. Go on – get outside and play. No, you don’t need to bring the baseball and the bat with you. Just leave the bikes behind. That’s right, you can just be outside with nothing to do – until you create or discover something to do.

Nick and I are really not the hovering type of parents; our girls have a lot of freedom and leeway to learn, to create, to make their own mistakes, to develop confidence and competence. Still, they lack the ability to easily distract themselves without a device or some toys, so we’ve already begun implementing this new philosophy at home, providing stretches of time when we “make” them run along with no crutches to lean on. Ella and Annie don’t yet seem to view this in a positive light, especially when they tell me that they’re bored and I gleefully – and genuinely – chime back, “That’s awesome!”

Someday, when they’re adults, I hope they’ll appreciate the ability to entertain themselves. Especially if we still have the DMV.

Make Room For Puppy

Posted on September 30, 2014 by missemtoo

Four days ago, our family grew by one: we welcomed Fenwick, our fourth CCI puppy, to the fold.

Don’t mind the green around his ear; that’s just a little extra ink from his uber-cool tattoo.

We’d been planning to get another CCI pup since before we turned Jambi in for Advanced Training, but a puppy wasn’t available to us until last week. We met him at the airport, a howling bundle of fuzz that couldn’t wait to get out of the kennel where he’d been cooped up for more than twelve hours. Annie had stayed home sick that day, so she ventured with us to get Fenwick; on our way home, we drove by their elementary school right at Ella’s lunchtime… so an impromptu meet-and-greet was held in the school parking lot.

What? Don’t all the sick kids wear magician star skirts on their days home from school?

Half Golden Retriever and half Labrador Retriever, Fenwick (we don’t name them, btw, but I think his name is very dignified – in a Brit-lit kind of way – and pretty rad all-around) has a very clear Golden look. He’s absurdly fluffy and soft, not at all wiry like Labs tend to be, and by far the smallest puppy we’ve had. He is also crazy loud when he’s left alone and prefers not to be, screaming in a freakish way that is almost human. Aww, puppies!

The girls took to him immediately, declaring him “The cutest dog ever!” and cuddling with him and carrying him around in that way that children do with puppies and cats that makes you question whether small humans and small animals should ever share the same space. Then they ~~torture~~ play with him and help wash him and any Hey, you dropped me on the tile floor and could’ve killed me memories are all but forgotten.

See the leaf? You can’t eat it! But you can look at it! See it? Don’t eat it! Look – a leaf! Leaves aren’t for dogs! I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY.

Okay, okay… so maybe peeing in my kennel wasn’t such a good idea…

Nick seems to think that Fenwick is just dandy, but he went out of town less than twenty-four hours after picking him up, so his opinion doesn’t fully count. Which leaves me as the lone hold-out who isn’t completely smitten with this adorable little furball.

I’m not sure why, exactly. I knew it would be difficult – eight week-old puppies almost always are. They wake you up at night to go to the bathroom, they whine when they’re displeased, they pee and poop in the house indiscriminately and sometimes wind up soaked in their own urine. (This is eerily similar to most two year-old humans.) They nip at your fingers and hemlines and shoes, they put everything in their mouths – especially the things that shouldn’t go there – and they are utterly unpredictable. (This is exactly like most two year-old humans, except it’s legal to lock them in cages.)

I knew all of this going in, and I was prepared. Cleaning up the umpteenth mess of the day (five minutes after I let him out and with absolutely zero warning or preamble) is exhausting – but that’s not really why I’m not crazy for this boy yet. I don’t dislike him – he’s got that delightful puppy breath and is and full of zany puppy energy and makes little grunting noises when you hold him and likes to drag a stick around the backyard that’s six times longer than he is, which cracks me up to no end. I’m just not all in quite yet.

I know – I know! – how can I not be completely taken in? I mean, look at this guy.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY.

I think part of it is that we’re going out of town next weekend, so I’m almost afraid to put too much into it because I’m half-worried that he’ll forget us entirely in our absence. I’m also worried that he’ll still be up in the night and will be soiling the floors at regular intervals when our petsitter is here and, well, I’m just nervous, so I’m not jumping in fully to enjoy him. I think part of it is that I miss Jambi – not just any old puppy, but Jambi specifically – and when Fenwick’s personality diverges from hers, it’s a reminder that she’s gone, and that’s hard.

But I think the biggest reason I’m not totally head over heels for this puppy is that Langston isn’t head over heels, which is not at all what I expected. He and Jambi were ridiculously good pals, playing and lounging and napping together from day one. He’s also been really friendly with other dogs, though, so we assumed that he would love having a puppy around again – especially since he’d been practically bouncing off the walls with boredom since we turned Jambi in. When we brought Fencick home and introduced them, I actually said to Lang, “We brought you a present!” (Yes, I talk to my dogs as though they’re human. Preach it.)

To my dismay (and surprise), Langston doesn’t care. In some ways, he’s even annoyed by Fenwick – which, upon closer inspection, I guess I can understand. Fenwick bites at Langston’s wagging tail, causing him to yelp with pain; he attempts to gnaw on his hind legs as though they were teething toys; he jumps up on him in a never-ending game of Notice Me! Notice Me! Notice Me!

I’d been so convinced that Langston would be thrilled that we were bringing home another puppy, I didn’t even consider how it would feel if he wasn’t completely taken with the new dog. Turns out, I’d been putting a lot of stock into the two of them getting along, to being buddies, and now that it hasn’t played out that way (yet), I’m really bummed.

I say “yet” because I know that it’s only been four days… four days out of the sixteen months that Fenwick will be with us. He’s only a baby. We’re all still adjusting. Hell, he’s still on west coast time – jet leg will do strange things to a dog. I know that there’s plenty of time for Langston to come around – or not. Maybe they’ll never be the best of pals. But there’s plenty of time to adjust to that, too, and for me to fall in love with this smooshy little buddy simply because he’s him, rather than because he’s Langston’s companion.

And yet… Last night, I’d invited Langston up on the couch to chew the new favorite bear we’d gotten him, keeping it safe from Fenwick’s shark puppy teeth. A moment later, however, Langston had gotten off the couch – bear in ~~hand~~ mouth – and walked over to Fenwick… to play. With his bear. Langston wanted to play with Fenwick by sharing his bear. Oh, be still my heart!

They played longer than this, but I was so busy watching like a giddy buffoon for the first minute or so, I didn’t even think about grabbing my phone until Ella said, “Mom! Don’t you want to record this??” She is so my daughter.

You guys, my heart soared. So yeah, they only played together for about five minutes today, and that was only because Langston grew so tired of Fenwick trying to nip him to death, he decided to nip back and some dog-mouth-play ensued, but still. It’s a start! And a good reminder to me that, like people, no two dogs are alike – and it’s pretty unfair to judge one based on the other. Today, Fenwick ate all of his dinner (woo hoo) and let me know each time he needed to go out to poop, so overall, it feels like a win. He’s responding to his name and walking better on a leash and feels just absolutely perfect in my arms.

We’ll get there. I’m not worried. Neither is Fenwick. It’s all good – doggone it.

Dog tired.

Just subbing again this year? Nope.

Posted on September 25, 2014 by missemtoo

“Are you looking for a full-time job, or are you just subbing again?”

It’s a reasonable question, and one that I get asked quite frequently. Friends and family – even acquaintances or parents of the girls’ friends – know that I used to be a teacher and that I began subbing a year ago. They also know that I had looked for months for a music teaching position but that none had been available, so I applied as a substitute. I was thrilled to be back in the classroom, but remained somewhat disheartened that I was “only” subbing instead of teaching my own group of students. Hence, last year, the answer to the question was some version of, “Yep, still looking – but for now, just subbing.”

This year, my answer has changed only ever-so-slightly, but the meaning behind it has shifted dramatically. “Yep, still looking – but actually, I’m very happily subbing!”

The exclamation point is important, ’cause I’m gonna tell you a secret that not many people recognize: subbing is awesome.

With all due respect to the hilarious Dave Barry, I swear I am not making this up.

First, some caveats. If my family was relying on my income to make ends meet, substitute teaching would not be the best way to put a roof over our heads because it is inherently unreliable. You are not guaranteed work, instead waiting for other people to become ill or be absent, so – short of poisoning the water of local teachers’ homes – your salary (and I use that term loosely) is really inconsistent.

Second, if my family’s schedule did not allow for any variability – if it had to be set in stone and not budge – subbing would be a really poor fit. Barring a long-term gig like I had last spring, subbing means that no two weeks are alike, so your “schedule” (such as it were) is bound to be constantly changing, oftentimes not materializing until that morning.

Thankfully, my family does not need to rely on my income to pay the bills, and I am fortunate enough to have supportive and flexible folks in my life who can help put all of the pieces into place, even at six a.m.

But wait, there’s more!

All ready to go this morning…

Substitute teaching isn’t just about avoiding the negatives; it has its own set of really stupendous positives, many of which I didn’t even realize before I began subbing last fall. Sure, on the one hand, each day and school are different. Your hours aren’t the same, you might be five minutes from home or twenty, you have to learn the ins and outs of each school where you teach. But on the other hand? The hours aren’t the same! No up at 6:00, out of the house by 7:00, home by 4:30 if you’re lucky drudgery. No mind-numblingly similar commute every single day. Because each school operates differently than the last and each school’s culture is uniquely its own, you have the privilege of getting to know all of them. Plus, each time you sub, you’re doing something new, so it’s virtually impossible to get bored. How cool is that??

Subbing is like being a grandparent: all of the fun but almost none of the stress. You know that ridiculous amount of extra teaching stuff that makes it so exhausting? Doesn’t happen when you’re a sub! I arrive when I’m told to and depart when I’m done teaching. Lesson plans and grading? Nope. I just follow the plans in front of me and leave the rest when I go. There are no faculty meetings to attend, no field trips to proctor, no parent-teacher conferences to prepare for. But working with kids, watching them get those ah-ha moments, introducing a new concept, trying to reach the one student who seems unreachable? Absolutely!
And then I go home.

When you’re a “regular” teacher, you work with the same kids day in and day out. Even as a music teacher, although I had well over a hundred – sometimes well over three hundred – students on my roster, I still saw the same faces each week. This is great, of course, for building relationships and establishing continuity, and you do really get to know a particular age group quite intimately, but it does mean that you’re only working with one cross-section of kiddos. Subbing, I get to work with everyone – kindergarteners to seniors, individual saxophone lessons to entire orchestras, a sixth grade homeroom to third grade reading, students classified as gifted and those with special needs. Absolutely everyone is included, every age and class size and ability and race and socioeconomic status, and that is exciting as heck.

It’s also challenging, but in the best way, that Oh wow, I hadn’t thought about it like that before way where your brain almost hurts afterward – but it’s a good kind of pain. Teaching twenty-five first graders how to add doubles calls on way different skills and resources than teaching fifty tenth graders how to play that symphonic section adagio or teaching six ELA middle schoolers how to decode a sentence — and you guys, there is something so freakin’ exhilarating about having to use different parts of my brain, having to think outside the box, and having to do it on a dime. Growing up, I was one of those ~~dorks~~ people who adored learning, especially if it was a fast-paced lesson, and that’s what subbing is like every single day.

Learning? you say; I thought you were teaching. Well, yes, of course, but as everyone knows (they do, right?), one of the best ways to be a good teacher is to be a good learner, and I am learning so damned much in these classrooms – in a different way than I did as a “regular” teacher. Then, I learned the ins and outs of middle school music and it was wonderful – truly – but now I’m learning about teaching, period. I had never conducted a high school band before I subbed, but let me tell you, when you have a hundred impatient teenagers staring at you as they await instruction that will help them prepare for next month’s concert, you figure it out fast. I’ve been shown games to help beginning readers, seen classroom management techniques that had never crossed my mind, and heard songs from across the globe that I’d never known existed. Yes, I’m teaching… but I’m also getting the best education of my life.

And that whole unpredictable, no-set-schedule thing? Amazeballs. Subbing is ridiculously flexible. Because I am fortunate enough to not have to work every day in order to support my family, I get to pick and choose. One week, maybe I’m available Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday; the week after that, perhaps Monday and Thursday only. If I only want to work a half-day, that can be arranged. If I need to leave a little early for an appointment, no worries; they’re grateful to have me anyway. Until I actually accept a job, I’m never locked in – if my schedule has changed but I still receive a call, I simply say, “Sorry – I’m no longer available that day!” and no one thinks a thing of it. It doesn’t get much better than that!

Today’s job began late enough that I could still take my morning walk with the dogs… and the girls. ‘Tis the mark of a good situation, my friends.

Best of all, I’m teaching. I’m back in the classroom, back with kids, back to what I feel called to do. From the moment I walk in those doors to the moment I turn in my ID badge, I come alive and give it everything I have. Sometimes, all I’m asked to do is clerical work – making copies, cutting out decorations, sorting papers – which is not exactly teaching, nor why I applied for this job, but you know what? I totally don’t mind. For one thing, I’m no dummy; if I can get paid to hang bulletin boards, sign me up! But beyond that, I know that I’m helping teachers do their jobs better. For each stack of homework that I file into take-home folders, a teacher is gaining extra time with her students, for his grading, for their professional development. Sign me up for that, too!

When I am in the classroom working with those kiddos, there’s nothing better (professionally, I mean; I do love hanging out with my own kiddos and seeing a movie with my husband and a mean Sauvingon Blanc and a Salted Caramel Mocha… sorry, where was I?). It used to be that I was irked at my subbing status, embarrassed even. It was only what I was doing temporarily, what I felt forced to do because what I wanted – my own classroom – wasn’t available. Each of those early times that I subbed, I felt compelled to explain myself to other teachers, to let them know I’d spent years in the classroom and why I decided to sub, to prove that I wasn’t just some wannabe who couldn’t get herself a “real” job. I wasn’t ashamed, but I was definitely defensive.

Now, a year in, I’m completely content with my decision and my position as a substitute teacher. I don’t need to prove myself – I just need to continue doing the best that I can and let my teaching speak for itself. At the end of the day, I leave the classroom feeling solid about myself and the job I’ve done.

We – all of us, society as a whole – need good substitute teachers. We need our children to receive excellent educations and to be taught by excellent teachers, but those teachers simply cannot be in their classrooms every minute of every day. When they’re gone, it does little good to hire people who cannot be counted on to take their places effectively. Subs play a critical role in education; good subs are even more important. Not to toot my own horn (HONK), but… I’m a good sub.

I’m no longer on the defensive; in fact, I’m proud of what I do. Don’t get me wrong – if a “regular” music position opened up, I’d still go for it. But right now, I’m thrilled with being a sub. It keeps me on my toes, it makes me think, it teaches me more than I thought possible. I’m out there, back in the classroom with kids, making a difference while still being able to make the difference that I want to in my own daughters’ lives. And let’s face it – the hours can’t be beat.

So, no. I’m not just subbing again. I’m subbing again because it is exactly where I want to be.
And I love it.

Sun coming up over the hills. Which I still get to see, because I get to pick and choose my own schedule, because subbing is the bomb.

It’s Not Easy Being Green… Or A Parent

Posted on September 17, 2014 by missemtoo

When you become a parent, you anticipate that certain aspects of parenting will be difficult: not being able to soothe your infant when she’s crying; convincing your toddler that pooping in the shower isn’t funny; the year your kid gets a teacher that he just can’t stand; dating in any way, shape, or form; convincing your middle schooler that pooping in the shower isn’t funny; sitting shotgun and physically restraining yourself from pretending to step on the brake while your 16 year-old gets his learner’s permit. What you don’t necessarily anticipate is how difficult the day-to-day interactions can be, how much seemingly insignificant frustrations can completely throw you off your game, how utterly helpless and confused you may feel over what – you think – should really be easy, silly stuff. Those are the moments they don’t talk about in parenting books, the ones that your Lamaze instructor neglected to mention while she was glossing over words like perineum and crowning and don’t be alarmed if your partner has a bowel movement right there on the birthing table because pushing a human out of your hoo-hah can sometimes cause your body to do weird stuff.

Although we originally attempted to parent them in exactly the same way (it was all we knew, after all), it became apparent really quickly that Ella and Annie were – surprise! – very different people with very different personalities (yes, I did earn myself a Master’s Degree, why do you ask?). Some of these differences became glaringly obvious this past week, presenting me with parenting hurdles I had no idea how to jump.

Same outfit… same hair… do not be fooled.

This hurdle surely had to be something big, something important, something really mind-blowing, right? Um… nope. In fact, it was a worksheet from their new art teacher asking them to draw a picture telling her a little about themselves. When the first kiddo brought it home from school, she kept it private, refusing to show it to me at all. I didn’t push her to reveal her masterpiece, but did remind her (the night before it was due) to complete it. She did and then showed it to me – a pencil sketch, drawn with care but not particular effort. I thought little of it and asked her to place it in her school folder.

That same afternoon, the second kiddo brought home the identical assignment and set to working on it immediately, crayons and colored pencils flying as she added details and nuances and flourishes. Upon seeing this, I asked the first kiddo if she, too, was supposed to have colored in her paper; she said no. After clarifying (“You’re sure? No coloring?”) and being told, again, that no additional work was required, I let the matter go.

As I was straightening up before bed that night, however, I double-checked her folder to make sure that the paper was there – it was – and, for the first time, took a closer look. The directions stared back at me, very clearly stating that not only was the assignment to be colored in, it was also supposed to contain a decorative border and the instructions were to be cut off of the completed work. And suddenly every bit of parenting advice and prep work I’d undertaken up until that moment flew out the window as I thought, “That little twit!” and also, “What the hell do I do now?”

I had asked her about the assignment. I had specifically mentioned coloring, and she had specifically told me it was not required. MY GOD, WE’RE RAISING A LYING DEVIANT. Should I haul her butt out of bed at 11 p.m. to right her wrong? Should I awaken her in the morning and insist that she complete the work to the standard of which she’s capable? Should she receive some sort of punishment for her flippant attitude and disrespect for her art teacher? Should I inform her that, in our house, we complete our work and I expected more of her?

Or was I not a part of this at all – was it all on her? Since it was her assignment, should she just have to return to school with it unfinished and face the consequences? Was it okay for her to have her teacher see that she didn’t really give a care, to potentially form a negative opinion of her? Shouldn’t she be responsible for her own school work?

(It should be noted that Nick was already asleep, so these were conversations I was having with myself. Aloud. I always have self-conversations aloud, don’t you?)

And then it dawned on me that perhaps – and more likely – she had not actually read the instructions. Perhaps, instead of deliberately deciding to blow off the assignment (and, in the process, flip her teacher the bird), she genuinely didn’t realize that it was incomplete. Reading the directions – all of them – is still her responsibility, of course, but intent matters (or at least I told myself that it did). So, after running the tale of my little miscreant and my subsequent dilemma past some dear friends, I opted for an approach straight down the middle: I highlighted the instructions that she hadn’t followed, left the paper out on the kitchen counter for her to find in the morning, and then didn’t say another word about it. If she decided to do more, she could. If she decided to turn it in as-is, she could, and then deal with the consequences. But at least I knew that she was aware that the directions called for something else.

(She chose to color in her picture. I have no idea how well/much she colored, nor if she added a border; we never spoke about it. I may have superglued my mouth shut to achieve this, but still.)

Y’all, it was hard. How do you know when to push and when to let go? When is it time to back off and when is it time to move in? Is she old enough to be responsible for her own self or is it still time for me to insist on specific behaviors? Perhaps most of all, how do I understand and accept a child who is fundamentally different from me – I, who (despite my wait-till-the-last-minute, disorganized ADHD-ness) always made sure that my school assignments were just so? Not stepping in and hovering over her until the work was spot-on was almost physically painful; worrying that she’d be perceived as a slacker, as someone who doesn’t care was even worse… but I worried more for me, not for her. She isn’t concerned with her reputation – I am because, deep down, I’m afraid of how it reflects on me. How do you parent a child who goes about life from a completely different perspective than you do? How much of you and your beliefs do you thrust at her, and how much do you let her navigate her own way?

AND THIS WAS JUST A SINGLE ART ASSIGNMENT.

GAH, parenting. Bite me.

As the first child trundled off to school with her homework, I told myself that this was the hard part – parenting a kid who approaches life in an unfamiliar way (to me). With the second kiddo, the one who tucked into her homework so ardently, the one who is more like me, it was bound to be easier. Famous last words.

You probably know where this is heading, no? So, we arrived at the morning when the second child’s assignment was due. She had worked on it several times over the course of the week, adding color and finesse, and it was not only clear that she had put in a great deal of effort – there wasn’t really even room on the page for anything more. After reminding her the night before that it was due and being met with silence, I assumed that it was finished and tucked it into her folder for her to take to class. (Normally, this would be her job, but we’ve had a bit of a tough time segueing back into the school routine – okay, I’ve had a tough time keeping everything on track and making sure that the girls go to bed at an hour that allows them to get enough sleep – and she was so exhausted the night before, she had left half her dinner at the table and fallen asleep an hour prior to her “normal” time, so I took pity on her and loaded her backpack.)

Dutifully, she checked her folder before heading off to school… and immediately took out the crayons again, attempting to fill in the very few empty white spaces. She was still coloring when I announced that it was time to head to school, thinking this wouldn’t be an issue – the requirements had obviously been fulfilled, so she was good to go.

BUT NO, she was not good to go. Although she may have technically followed the instructions, she was not finished. The more I tried to coax her into getting out the door, the more she fell apart – she had a vision, damn it, and now it would be ruined. RUINED!! She clutched the paper to her chest (if I were a romance writer, I might say “heaving chest” because she was sobbing so hard, her chest was… well, heaving…), folding it up into a tight square as she shrieked that she could not turn it in like this – SHE COULD NOT.

I tried to reason with her – she had put in a nice, solid effort. It looked neat. It was clear that she had worked hard. Didn’t matter – it was pitiful; she wanted to do more. I tried to gently remind her that I had mentioned this the night before and she had essentially ignored me and that if she had wanted to work on it, then would have been the right time. But she DIDN’T, and now it WASN’T DONE and OMG SHE COULDN’T WORK LIKE THIS.

By that time, neither could I, and so I marched her off to school – still wailing – alternating between feeling empathetic and feeling infuriated. She continued to sob, and I do mean sob, for the entire walk, which was simultaneously heartbreaking and maddening. Yes, I get it – you don’t feel good about it. It isn’t done to your standards. You don’t want to turn it in like this. But guess what? SCHOOL IS STARTING IN THREE MINUTES AND BY GOD YOU NEED TO GET YOUR BUTT IN THAT DOOR AND DOWN TO YOUR CLASSROOM.

I offered her solutions: she could turn it in just like this and no one would be the wiser; it looked finished, bam. Or she could speak to her teachers – her homeroom teacher, the art teacher – about it and explain her dilemma, that she wanted to add more and could they help her? Could she finish it in class? Could she have more time at home? Or she could choose to not turn it in, period, accept whatever the consequence was, finish it at home, and then turn it in the following day.

(Side note: Why I was completely comfortable with one child deliberately not turning in her work at all because she was unsatisfied with it while I was horrified that the other might turn in an incomplete assignment is probably something I should look into…)

None was acceptable. What she wanted was more time – right then, to complete the vision she had for the assignment – with absolutely no consequence. Alas, while I sympathized with her plight (so much so, I actually debated allowing her to stay home to finish the paper, because my God, I remember that awful feeling when I’d neglected to do my work the way I’d intended to), I now have the strange perspective of time: the world would not end if the homework wasn’t done to her specifications. This was not a thesis. She had had the opportunity to complete it the night before but hadn’t taken it. And, most importantly, sometimes the choices that life gives you aren’t the ones you want, but you still have to make a decision.

Which totally sucks. I love parenting!!

At last, I physically pulled her by the hand into the school lobby, where we had a rather long conversation with the secretary, who could not have been more sympathetic. Her daughter had been this way, she told me, a perfectionist, but turning in work that wasn’t exactly just so was actually good for her. She also informed my still-sobbing daughter that of course she could talk to her teachers about it, but that she absolutely had to go to class – nothing could be accomplished by standing in the hallway. We were given a late pass, much to my – not her – dismay (the first ever in four-plus years at the school, *gasp*) and told to be on our way.

My girl nodded and trudged glumly down the hall but was unswayed; when we reached her classroom door, she refused – absolutely refused – to go in. She was in such hysterics, she could hardly breathe, and I knew she was embarrassed to have her classmates see her in such a frenzy. I hugged her. I reminded her to talk to her teachers. I told her that it would be okay. And then? There really was nothing more that I could do short of completely disrupting the class, so… I left. I left her crumpled against the school wall, gasping (heaving?) for breath as she continued to weep, unconsolable.

Remember when, last week, I’d assumed that parenting the kiddo who was not like me would be harder than parenting the one who is like me? Yep. Total walk in the park with this one. HA HA HA.

This was so not in the Lamaze brochure.

As I left the building, I passed the secretary again, who was on the phone with the art teacher explaining the situation and asking her to come down and talk to my little perfectionist. She then turned to me and said, “You did the right thing, Emily. It’s hard, but you really did the right thing. She’ll be okay.”

I knew that much – surely, she wouldn’t be in the hall all day long. She would eventually calm down and, more than likely, forget about the assignment a few minutes later. I wasn’t really worried about that (although what these I-have-a-vision-and-it must-be-realized-exactly-to–my-specifications tendencies may mean down the road, I don’t know) – but, dang, it was sure nice to hear straight to my face that I wasn’t an ogre.

Or, even better, that I was doing it right.

In hindsight, I have no idea if I actually got either scenario right. Both girls seem fine and there appear to be no lasting repercussions, but there are things I might do differently another time. I fully recognize the irony that the silly, no-sweat, introductory homework assignment turned into a parenting struggle not once but twice, for totally different reasons. Well played, assignment. Well played.

When I first became a mom, I’d anticipated difficulties with friendships. I know, despite my insistence that time slow down, that puberty is just around the corner, and I’ve got the cute American Girl book lying in wait. I dread the body-image issues that could crop up any time now. But a Tell Me About Yourself! assignment for art class? Nope. Not on my oh-shit-this-could-be-hard radar.

I can hardly wait until the intense homework starts.

I’d say we should just skip ahead until they’re, oh, 20, but then I’d miss the chance to show them Dirty Dancing for the first time and watching them navigate their first middle school dance and traveling abroad for the first time and introducing them to Starbucks lattes. So, yeah, I guess we’d better keep on going.

I’ll just remember to be on my toes – it’s amazing how quickly molehills (that you didn’t even realize were there) can become towering mountains. Good thing don’t mind climbing.

Throwback Thursday: I remember the love

Posted on September 11, 2014 by missemtoo

Whenever I think of September 11th, 2001, I am – like everyone else – immediately transported back to that morning. Nick and I had recently moved to New York from Colorado, and our apartment was absolutely fantastic. With its two bedrooms and two baths, it was pricey by any standard other than those found around enormous metropolises, but man, did we get bang for our buck — parking, storage, hilarious and helpful old-school Italian landladies, a washer/dryer right in the apartment (those stacking miniatures that could hold three socks and a sweatshirt without overloading), and best of all, it was in a tremendous location thirty minutes from Manhattan in the heart of a darling little village right on the train tracks.

I do mean right on the train tracks. When a Metro-North train pulled into the station, we could be inside the apartment and still make it out the door, down the stairs, onto the platform, and into the train on time. This did mean that there were commuter trains going past our windows at nearly all hours of the day and night but really, it didn’t bother us. In fact, we scarcely even registered that they were there.

That Tuesday began like any other, except that Nick was preparing for a job fair so he was getting all gussied up. It was, of course, a picture-perfect September morning, topaz blue skies unblemished by clouds, warmish but not hot, the just-right segue from summer into fall. (It still strikes me as odd that I took stock of the weather at all. I can’t recall what the weather was on other important days, but I so vividly remember staring at the expanse of blue later in the afternoon that day and being dumbfounded that the world had fallen apart on such a beautiful day.)

We were going about our routine when my mom called around 9:00 – unusual for her, as she is truly a night owl – to ask if we’d heard the news that there was an accident and a plane had struck the World Trade Tower. In an attempt to save money, Nick and I didn’t have a television (and internet news wasn’t really happening yet), so we turned on the radio in an attempt to get more information. There was confusion – was it a small, personal plane? How had the pilot not seen the tower? – until the second plane hit, and then we all knew that this was no accident; something was terribly wrong.

Although we didn’t have a regular television, we did have a miniature one that fit right in your hand, so I pulled out its antenna as far as it would go until I was finally able to find – and keep – a televised broadcast of the unfolding attack. It was on that itty bitty set, no more than 3 inches across, that we watched the towers fall, disappearing into enormous gray clouds at the bottom of the screen.

I remember covering my mouth in shock and horror. I remember crying. I remember the desperation and frenzy as we attempted to make contact with the great number of people we knew who lived and worked in the City – including my father and stepfather – only to be met with maddening recordings informing us that all lines were busy. I remember the relief and hysteria upon finally hearing their voices, which was echoed by the relief and gratitude that we heard in the voices of our out-of-town friends and family who had been desperately trying to reach us to see if we were okay.

I remember the silence; for the first and only time during our tenure in that apartment, the trains stopped running.

Twenty five days later, Nick and I were married in a small, charming stone church thirty minutes from Manhattan. In the few weeks since the attacks, the United States had – understandably – discussed little else, and we had briefly considered marrying privately and celebrating more formally later. Ultimately, we decided to go ahead with the big day as planned; it would be a shame to change things up so late in the game, we reasoned, but more importantly, we figured that we could really use a reason to celebrate.

That everyone came is the most humbling experience I’ve ever known. On one level, it’s always pretty amazing that people are willing to show up and support you. But this? This was different.

We all remember those This Can’t Be Happening weeks following September 11th – the omnipresent sense of uncertainty and fear that crept into every area of life, unfurling like fog in the night. We were on edge, tense, scared. For many of us, the mere thought of pursuing “normal” life was overwhelming; traveling – by plane – was inconceivable. And yet, that’s what our guests did. Very few of our friends and family lived locally. To get to us, they had to travel – a good 80% of them, nearly half by air. That they had the courage and strength to get on those airplanes and highways remains utterly awe-inspiring to me.

As for those who were local? Well, these were the folks who lived and worked in Manhattan, the ones who could smell the still-smoldering ruins from their apartments, the ones whose vistas were now missing two anchors, the ones with apartments on the train lines like us, the ones who were surrounded, every minute of the day, by the aftermath of the attacks.

So, yeah. Our wedding guests pretty much kicked ass.

We didn’t talk about September 11th during the wedding, deciding instead to focus on why everyone had so generously come together, but we didn’t have to. It was everywhere – the faces of the people we had lost or who were still missing, the news “crawl” that began on CNN, the feeling that nothing would be quite the same again. But at the wedding, there was joy. There was music (lots and lots of music). There was laughter. There was seriously delicious food and seriously raucous dancing.

Maybe it was because we’d all been followed around by clouds for the past twenty-five days, but we were here and it was fun and we were celebrating and there was singing and eating and alcohol and holy crap did everyone let go and have a freakin’ blast.

The most poignant moment of the night didn’t come during the ceremony, however, nor during any of the letting-loose afterward. Instead, it was a surprise moment that perfectly honored the somber-but-celebratory mood, forever linking our wedding with September 11th in the most wonderful way possible.

Given the musical theme running through the wedding, Nick and I had informed our guests that we would not kiss if glasses were clinked but rather when an entire table stood up and – in unison – sang a song containing the word “love.” It didn’t take long for people to get into the spirit of things and we found ourselves serenaded by the likes of The Beatles’ “She Loves You” and David Cassidy’s “I Think I Love You” – all cute, all light, all sweet.

By several hours in, one of the few tables not yet to stand was the one at which my grandparents were seated. This was reasonable, perhaps even expected – requesting octogenarian participation was maybe reaching a bit. But then my grandfather stood and, in his booming voice, began to sing “God Bless America”.

God bless America
Land that I love

Within a few words, his table had joined in. Within a line, the entire room sang together. By the end, everyone was standing, hands on hearts, as the band accompanied us. It was, quite simply, one of the most moving and beautiful things I’ve ever been privileged to be a part of.

———–

No other tables stood after that.

When we decided to go ahead with the wedding, I knew that it would be somehow joined with September 11th. I never anticipated that one of my strongest memories of one of our country’s darkest days would come from our wedding reception, nor that it would be so lovely.

Despite our collective haze and shock, there was something special about the place we found ourselves immediately post-9/11, something connecting and almost comforting. While I certainly wouldn’t wish for another terrorist attack to bring us all together, there are times when I wish we still could feel that camaraderie, unity, and collective determination to rise, rebuild, and heal.

I will never forget, but I will also always remember. I will remember the sky and the silence, the “Missing” posters and the fighter jets overhead. I will remember the way so many people joined together, at Ground Zero, at makeshift triages, across bridges and over dinner. I will remember those incredible family members and friends who chose strength over fear, joy over sadness. I will remember the hope we shared, the laughter, the hugs.

I will remember the singing.
I will remember the love.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Category Archives: thinking and talking