Going for a ride

Posted on June 3, 2014 by missemtoo

I’ve visited the lake (Canandaigua, one of the Finger Lakes in western New York) every summer since I was seven months old. It’s magnificent; the clear, sparkling water; the bonfires on the beach; the rising green hills; ice cream trips made by boat; the flat shale beaches that make for perfect skipping stones; the lack of weedy shoreline that so many other lakes possess; the piercing brightness of the stars at night, with the Milky Way streaking right over the dock. The moment I’m near that water, I’m home.

For as long as I’ve been alive, family has been fortunate enough to own a boat, and so I have more memories than I can count of skimming across the water onboard our Boston Whaler… or… whatever kind of boat we have now. I’ve tubed until my arms are ready to fall off (likely thanks to the cackling drivers – and egging-on passengers – who decide, without fail, that it will be a hilarious game to make the trip as wild as possible in an attempt to send the tube-riders flying off of said tube), water-skied until I got blisters on my palms (or until I took such a big fall trying to go over the wake, I lost not only lost the skis but got smacked in the nose by one, too), wake boarded (once… although I did – completely accidentally – manage to do a trick and turn the board 180 degrees because the “wrong” foot was facing forward, to raucous shouts from the passengers and bewildered confusion from me), and jumped off every part of the boat into the open water to go for a dip. I have no idea when I officially learned to drive the boat – come to think of it, it was really more a process of osmosis, with me gradually just taking over (something that would be, um, frowned upon today with, like, rules and regulations and needing a license and all that), and I still have to say a prayer and close my eyes when I finally dock it (opening my eyes might help with the whole not-running-into-the-dock thing, but hey, why mess with tradition) – but I love, love going for a boat ride.

In many ways, I’m more at ease on a boat than I am on land. Although I’m known to grow both carsick and airsick, the rolling motion of the waves is actually calming to me. I can trip over the pattern in the rug (and did, once, when I was in high school; apparently, I slammed my head into a water fountain and knocked myself cold, resulting in a concussion. I am not making this up) but I’m surprisingly sure-footed when out in the middle of the lake. It’s not uncommon for me to lose my balance while just walking in my kitchen, but I can prowl around the thin walls of the boat like a freakin’ maritime mountain goat, never yet falling into the water below no matter how precarious my climbing (not that I’ll ever admit this to my girls, of course; safety first and whatnot).

Our crazy winter left the lake completely iced over for the first time in forever (do you see what I did there, Frozen devotees?), which, in turn, left the water level higher (and far colder) than normal from both the ice melt and the snow run-off. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we were hit with a decent rainstorm that walloped Rochester and Canandaigua, sending virtual torrents of water down the steep hillsides surrounding the lake and into the basin below. Within two days, the water had risen a good two feet above normal, swamping docks and swallowing up beaches.

My aunt, who was staying at the lake house with my grandmother during and after the storm, sent us these photos of our (now much smaller) beach.
The shoreline running between us and the house to the left is usually a good six feet wide… Not so here… Plus, you know, the portions of the dock and the beach that are obviously underwater…

That yellow swing is normally at least five feet from the water’s edge. It’d be hard to plop a baby in there now…

The following morning, the water levels had risen still higher, covering a large portion of the dock and filling up the beach.
It’s kind of like having one of those cool infinity pools… except, um, not.

As a result of the flooding, all motorized boating was prohibited on the lake for over a week – in part because the wakes from the boats would swamp already waterlogged docks and beaches and also because there was so much debris floating around, traveling through it would be like trying to reenact the Titanic’s voyage. And we all know how that ended.

Even through Memorial Day weekend, traditionally the first “big” weekend of the year, there were no boats allowed on the lake. I was bummed not to be back on the water, but quickly grew acclimated to the very unusual… silence… that filled the air. In all these years, the ever-present sound of the motors had – apparently – become its own kind of white noise, humming in the background constantly. Without the revving and whizzing by of various watercraft, the lake took on an entirely new, and unexpectedly relaxing, feel. I would never have told you that not having boats on the water would be a good thing… but it was. It was peaceful and slow and old-fashioned and very, very good.

Annie poking a stick at our Memorial Day weekend bonfire. By now, the water had receded significantly, but it was still nowhere close to normal.

Last weekend, a good two weeks after the lake rose to its precariously high levels, the water had finally drained back to almost normal, and the boating ban was lifted. As if to make up for lost time, vessels of all shapes and sizes began darting past our dock, the whirring of their motors creating the soundtrack for our sunbathing and shale-skipping (although Langston launched himself off the dock with aplomb, the water was still far too frigid for our cold-allergic kiddos, and so no swimming was to be had this time). Although I had never given it any thought before, I was now hyper-aware of each boat that passed by the house, feeling both comforted and annoyed by their sound.

When Ella asked if we could go for our first ride of the season, I was almost hesitant. In some way, I didn’t want to break the previous weekend’s quiet reverie, didn’t want to spoil the antiquated – if unnatural – peacefulness. But Ella persisted until at last I relented, and we found ourselves donning towels and sweatshirts to ward off the faint chill of twilight as we lowered the hoist and set the boat in the water.

It took nearly a minute for the engine to finally turn over, but at last I shifted into reverse and slowly backed us out of the hoist. (I might have turned the wheel just a bit too hard and nearly smacked the bow right into the side of the dock, but I didn’t. It was close, though. Like I said, docking – or, really, having the boat anywhere near the dock – isn’t exactly my specialty.) Moments later, we were cruising toward the middle of the lake, our hair racing behind us, grins bursting onto our faces.

I know these are all blurry – it’s hard to steer and use the “big” camera in a moving boat, people – but I adore them anyway.

Our maiden voyage lasted less than five minutes (in our excitement to finally get back on the water, turns out we’d completely forgotten to get life jackets for the girls. Oopsies!), but it was a glorious, warm, exhilarating, completely joy-filled five minutes. Maybe it’s growing up on the water, as I did, or maybe it’s something genetic, or maybe it’s just one of those funny coincidences, but Annie and Ella adore being out on the boat just as much as I do.

It may have been delightful having a boat-free weekend, but – man! – getting out there again was even better. While there are plenty of things about summer that I look forward to (not having to make school lunches, being able to sleep past 7:00, consuming more ice cream than a Ben & Jerry’s tester), few top the simple pleasure of being in the boat, with the wind in my face, the steady (or unsteady) rise and fall of the hull over the waves, the seagulls flapping overhead as we the glide by the emerald green shoreline.

Sharing that love of the water, of being on the water, with my girls?
Well that, my friends, is very, very good indeed.

Small changes

Posted on May 30, 2014 by missemtoo

It’s already started. But that’s too babyish. I don’t like how I look in this. She said we can’t be friends if I won’t let her use my pencil. Stop it – someone might be watching! They’re just seven and nine, but their awareness of how they’re perceived, and of judging their own worthiness by others’ perceptions, is steadily growing.

Part of this is a good thing. As preschoolers, they didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about how they dressed, what the ate, how they carried themselves. At times, this was adorable (wearing a full-on princess get-up to the grocery store); at others, it made me proud (girlfriend doesn’t care one bit if anyone else thinks it’s stupid to still be into Mickey Mouse Clubhouse – rock on!). Other times, it was not only embarrassing (“So sorry that she started singing right in the middle of the eulogy, sir”) but just plain frustrating (knocking over the entire display at the checkout because of obliviously executed dance moves). Having some awareness of others, of the fact that you are not actually the center of the universe, of how to be respectful – even if it means that you need to stifle the urge to wear your jangliest bracelets to Easter brunch – is super.

But a lot of it really just plain sucks. Being aware of others and their feelings is fantastic (three cheers for empathy!), but being so aware of others’ feelings that you begin to deny your own is just not cool. Having been a young girl myself once, having survived elementary and middle school and adolescence (mostly), I can certainly remember what it was like to obsess and worry about what your friends – and not friends – would think about virtually everything that you did. I can vividly recall the physical feeling in the pit of my stomach wondering what everyone would think of my Keds, of my carefully-styled bangs, of the fact that I still enjoyed Sweet Valley High well past eighth grade.

So I get it, I really do – that near compulsion to find out what others think of you, and then to base your own opinion of yourself upon it. Getting it and being okay with it happening to my own children are two very different things, however, and I’ll be damned if I just sit idly by. And so we talk a lot, about what it means to be a good friend, about whose opinions really matter, about being confident in just who you are and not worrying about what other people think.

The problem is, you’ve kind of got to walk the walk, and I know I’m not always setting the best example… especially when it comes to compliments. Like so many women (and some men, although – in my own very unscientific case studies – they seem to do this far less than women), I find it nearly impossible to accept a compliment graciously.

“That’s a really cute outfit!”
Oh, well, I just threw it on at the last minute.

“I love your hair today!”
I haven’t even washed it!

“You were really sweet to think of me.”
It was the least I could do.

“Your students must love having you as a teacher!”
Ha, I wish!

As women (or, at least, as this woman), we’re constantly told not to be too pushy. Not to seem too boastful. Not to seem too confident. Not to make it appear that we think we’re better than anybody else. And so we – I – deflect. I demure. I’m afraid that if I accept the compliment, it will maybe somehow mean that I’m trying to brag, that I’m cocky, that I’m conceited.

But here’s the thing: I actually do think I’m a pretty fabulous person. A person with a helluva lot of flaws, a person who takes forever to make dinner because I get so easily distracted, a person who makes mistakes constantly, a person with a lot to work on… But, overall? Yeah. I’m all that and a bag of chips. Or at least a caramel macchiato.

I don’t even know that I realized just how frequently I was deflecting compliments until I heard Ella and Annie begin to do it.

“That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing!”
Uh, thanks, but it’s old.

“You sang that so nicely!”
I really messed up at the ending.

“Your math has improved so much!”
I still can’t do flash cards that fast, though.

At first, I was naively flummoxed. We’ve taught them to be polite! They know to thank people! WTF?! But it didn’t take long for me to realize that, although society certainly works hard to teach them that accepting praise is not okay, I wasn’t exactly being such a stellar role model myself.

You can’t spend five minutes online, watching the news, or reading a newspaper without seeing some awful something that’s happened to women. Hundreds of Nigerian school girls kidnapped. A young, pregnant Pakistani woman stoned to death in front of a crowd of onlookers while police did nothing to intervene. Women in California hunted down by a misogynistic gunman intent on enacting “revenge” for their lack of interest in him. And that’s just in the past month alone.

I’ve pored over the #YesAllWomen tweets and articles and posts that have sprung up in the wake of the Santa Barbara murders. I was so tremendously moved by the stories and examples of how omnipresent sexual harassment, objectification, and intimidation are for so many women… But I was pleased, almost sheepishly, that I couldn’t quite relate. I mean, I’ve only been sexually harassed one time (back in college when I was working and living in the projects; after the incident, Nick would drop me off and then phone my – male – roommates to let them know I was coming into the building. They then stood watch for me until I was safely inside my apartment). I didn’t think that I really experienced all that much objectification or intimidation.

Well. Except for that time in the Bahamas when I was seventeen, visiting with my high school jazz band (music geek alert), and the guy who was manning the parasail boat strapped me into the harness, leaned over and chuckled, “This is the second-best ride in the Bahamas, baby – ’cause I’m the first!” and then actually smacked me on my ass as he sent me up into the air. Or all of the years before Nick and I were married when I carried a whistle on my keychain in case I needed to call for help. Or the number of times my girlfriends and I have been wolf-whistled at. Or how I still, to this day, announce to any strange male who comes into the house (plumber, cable guy, etc.) that my husband will be home soon.

As the stories flooded my consciousness, the embarrassment quickly followed; not at the incidents themselves, but at how they’d become such a commonplace occurrence, I didn’t even recognize them. It has somehow become perfectly acceptable for me to make sure that my clothing isn’t too revealing, even if all it “reveals” is my shoulders, lest I attract unwanted attention. Checking a parking lot at night to be sure it’s safe? Duh. Worrying that the guy who screamed at me in a fit of road rage because I didn’t get out of the left lane “fast enough” might actually get out of his car at the next light and accost me? Just par for the course.

As the mother of two young children, I worry about a lot of things – if they’ll remain healthy. What school will be like. Whether or not they’ll find good, supportive friends. If they’ll root for the Yankees or the Twins (or, God help me, the Red Sox). As the mother of two young girls, I worry for their safety – not so much as children (my Free Range thinking has helped me not freak out too much), but as they grow up. The statistics are so alarming; I can’t seem to find an agreed-upon percentage, but, in their lifetimes, between one in three and one in six women will be the victims of sexual harassment. That’s not just worrisome, it’s terrifying.

And also hard to ignore; after all, I’m already a part of those statistics.

There can hardly be any doubt that we need a full cultural change around women, men, and how we’re perceived and treated. That change needs to come from all of us – every single one – and it’s going to take time. But, by God, it has to happen, otherwise the stories that have been permeating the news recently will become so commonplace, we will cease to even recognize them as unacceptable. And that?
Unacceptable.

Changing the entire world is a bit beyond the scope of my abilities (despite my aforementioned fabulousness), but changing the world for my daughters is not. They may grow up in a society that devalues them, but they can learn to value themselves. They may be told by others that they are not worthy, that they are too loud, that they shouldn’t dress like that, that they should act like this instead… But they can learn not to listen, and to listen, instead, to their own voices telling them how incredible they are.

First, though, Annie and Ella have to believe it. They have to believe that they are smart, strong, capable, funny, delightful, kind, and beautiful, and everything else that makes them such remarkable human beings.
And, quite frankly, I have to believe it for myself, too.

There are plenty of awful things that are said about and toward women. When something wonderful is said – when kind, supportive words are offered instead, it is oh so important that they’re not brushed aside. Part of believing that we’re worthy and special and awesome means that when we’re complimented, we feel confident enough in ourselves to accept the compliment, and to not worry about how such acceptance may be interpreted by anyone else. In theory, it’s really simple…

“Your presentation was great!”
Thank you!

“I love your necklace.”
Thank you.

“This jello surprise is absolutely divine!”
Thank you!

In practice, it’s quite difficult. I’ve found that it comes off as just a bit disingenuous if you say “THANK YOU” through gritted teeth. It takes almost physical will to force a sincere “Thank you” out of my mouth without offering some side comment, making a sarcastic remark, or immediately changing the subject. But I’m trying, hard.

It’s a small change, but I hope it’s the start of something oh so much more.

For all women.
For myself.
And especially for my daughters.

All together shattered

Posted on May 28, 2014 by missemtoo

Right after Nick and I went on our juice diet (in a word: don’t), I began to add dessert back into my daily regimen as soon as my stomach could handle it. One of the juicing websites I’d been looking at had a recipe for a yummy (enough) sounding smoothie using a banana, ice, almond butter, almond milk, and some cocoa powder – basically all of which were “good” ingredients: no dairy, no grains… Nothing to make anyone jealous, in other words, but basically nirvana after five-plus days consuming only liquified vegetables.

It was delicious, and not just because I was going through chocolate withdrawals. No, actually really tasty – so tasty, I began making these smoothies for dessert on a fairly regular basis. (If you frequent Pinterest, you might notice them called a “healthy” Wendy’s Frosty. They don’t really taste like a Frosty, but I don’t have the heart to tell anyone that.) I have a thing for snacking after dinner (pretzels and a bowl of ice cream and some almonds and cheese puffs and a handful of dark chocolate? Don’t mind if I do!), so I’ve been trying to hold off the bingeing in favor of these frothy beverages. My blender and I are real tight.

For reasons I don’t quite understand, the stupid juice diet kind of ruined breakfast for me, by which I mean that if I consume anything more than a small piece of fruit in the mornings, I feel ridiculously, uncomfortably full until well past lunchtime and then my blood pressure drops and I’m like a foraging truffle pig by mid-afternoon. So I still juice each night and then Nick and I drink up in the mornings (although I no longer even consider “green” juices because that stuff is nasty, man).

One night several weeks ago, I had just finished creating my veggie-fruit masterpieces and was about to pour them into our juice glasses when I somehow lost control of the glass pitcher (who, me?) and accidentally tapped the side of the cup as I added the liquid. Meaning, naturally, that the glass now had a large crack running all along its side and needed to be thrown away.

Strike one.

Don’t mind the orange-y funk. That’s what happens when carrots get pulverized.

After filling new glasses and getting on with the rest of my evening, I was taking out the ingredients for my nightly smoothie when the almond butter… slipped… and knocked into the container of the blender, sending it toppling to the kitchen floor. In a feat of contortionism far beyond my abilities, I attempted to catch it mid-fall (which, I’m sure, looked as comical as it felt), but I wasn’t in time.

Strike two.

Have you ever dropped the top part of a heavy glass blender onto a tile floor? If not, let me save you the trouble of guessing what it looks like: INSANITY. Tiny glass bead-lets everywhere, under appliances, in crevices ten feet across the room, on top of furniture (wtf?). The poor dogs didn’t know what on earth was going on (GET BACK! LEAVE IT! GO LIE DOWN! DON’T! FOR GOD’S SAKE, KENNEL – KENNEL!!) and it took me at least thirty minutes of sweeping, vacuuming, and mopping to feel that the floor was finally safe again.

Without a functional blender, you might think that my smoothie dreams were over… Ah, but then, you’ve got another think coming. In no time at all I’d hauled the Cuisinart onto the counter – if it can chop salsa and essentially liquify salad dressing, surely it could make quick work of a banana-chocolate-almond smoothie!

Quick work, kind of.
Effective work, not really.
Ridiculously messy work: OH HELL YES.

See, apparently a Cuisinart isn’t really meant to hold lots of liquid at a time, and as a result, nearly as much of the smoothie wound up on the counter (and cabinets. And coffee maker. And toaster) as remained inside the machine.

Strike three.

I have no idea what the spatula is for. Perhaps to scrape bits of smoothie off the counter?

And so you might, logically, think that this would have stopped me from drinking said smoothie that night. YET AGAIN, YOU WOULD BE WRONG. After all that work, there was no way in hell I was going to let everything go to waste. I drank that damn smoothie, all right… except, I kind of chewed the damn smoothie because I guess Cuisinarts and ice don’t really get along so well.

Strike… Oh, forget it, I’m already out.

Knowing that I wouldn’t last long without the ability to blend things (and seeing that the Cuisinart was clearly not up to the job), I immediately went on Amazon to search for a blender… with a plastic container, because obviously, with my track record, I’d be destroying the new one before I’d even removed it from the box. This one seemed to have the best reviews and was nicely affordable, so if I did happen to, you know… slip up… it wouldn’t have cost me too dearly.

Plus also: it’s name is Ninja. ‘Nuff said.

(Side note: I ordered these pub glasses at the same time because Annie just might have broken another of our original ones the day before, making our glass “collection” look a little like something you might find at a flea market. I prefer to look like a well-stocked bar.)

My Ninja Prep Master arrived two days later (Amazan Prime, holla!), and – whaddya know – it rocks. This thing blends like nobody’s business, pulverizing my smoothies into delicious silky goodness as quietly and swiftly as, well, a ninja. If a ninja blended things. I was immediately smitten and have been using it nightly ever since.

Mine isn’t quite this clean, nor have I made guacamole with it yet, but I’m in love nevertheless.

This past long weekend, we’d planned to go to the lake on Saturday and Sunday nights, but, at the last minute, Nick suggested that we head down on Friday instead. I was hesitant – Ella had a birthday party to attend that night, the girls needed to wash their hair, and we wouldn’t even be at the lake for twelve hours before returning for Annie’s soccer game in the morning. We also needed to do some cleaning and yard work before just heading off for the weekend.

The girls were – naturally – totally psyched to go, and Nick seemed ready to take on the mayhem, but I wasn’t convinced. I hemmed. I hawed. I grudgingly gave my “okay.” But I didn’t really want to go. It was then that Nick – perhaps not entirely seriously – informed me, “You know, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I can just take the girls by myself.”

There was a time when I would have said absolutely not. A time when I wanted to be there, both to spend the time with the girls and Nick, and also because maybe I like to be in control just a bit. Besides… staying in the house overnight all by myself?

But the more I thought about it, the more the glorious possibility stretched out before me: I could stay overnight in the house ALL BY MYSELF. No one needing to be read to. No one needing mid-night checkings-on. No one waking up at ungodly hours and tromping downstairs to play “Let It Go” on the piano. No one snoring next to me (well, Jambi snores, but that’s different). No one to help make breakfast for in the morning.

THE HOUSE ALL TO MYSELF. ALL NIGHT LONG.
Sign me up!

The girls were a little concerned (for me) that I wasn’t going with them. Would I be okay? Did I mind staying alone? I assured them that I did not mind staying alone (with three dogs, you’re never really “alone” anyway) and that I would be very, very okay… and off they went. And so I did what any part-time stay-at-home, part-time working, full-time mom would do when faced with twelve hours to herself: I spread mulch. I ran an errand at The Home Depot. I made my juice for the morning. I tidied up.

Okay, okay. And then I curled up with Pinterest and several episodes of “Modern Family” and my ubiquitous, Ninja-made smoothie… except, this time, I added Kahlua. And Bailey’s. Yes, both. Together. And, oh my sweet baby Jesus, if that wasn’t the very smoothest, creamiest, most amazing beverage I have had in a very, very long time.

Batter. Up.

This time, I didn’t even break the glass.

Looks like a milkshake. Tastes like awesome.

Girls, Girls, Girls

Posted on May 19, 2014 by missemtoo

Every year, I ask for the same thing for Mother’s Day: some time to myself, some time with Ella and Annie, and a card or picture “saying something nice.” Everything beyond that is all gravy.

This year, my Mother’s Day was full of gravy – seeing my mom and my aunt and my grandma, oodles of time alone, lovely and beautiful gifts (I did get that GoPro I’d been coveting – lucky girl!) – but, due to some unusual circumstances, I wasn’t able to spend time with the girls.

And, apparently, making Mother’s Day cards didn’t fit into the curriculum, because neither Annie nor Ella brought anything home from school – and then the little stinkers forgot to make me something on their own! I’d love to say that I took it graciously, but I totally did not. I pulled out the Mom Guilt and requested* a card or a note by, oh, this past weekend (a week after Mother’s Day).

* by “requested” I mean “told them that if I didn’t get one, I’d be heartbroken forever.” I usually avoid Mom Guilt at all costs, but when I lay it on, it’s thick.

Fortuitously for us, Nick was going out of town this weekend (unusual, as he is usually away during the week), which meant that it was going to be just Annie, Ella, and me for forty-eight solid hours — more than enough time to make up for not really hanging out together on Mother’s Day. Seeing as how we had only a few obligations and responsibilities, I decided to make it a full-on Girls’ Weekend.

Y’all, it was one for the books.
Or the blog, in this case.

For the past five-ish years, we’ve planted a vegetable and herb garden. The cold weather had caused us to fall behind, but this weekend offered the perfect opportunity to get started – and so, after school on Friday, we headed to our local nursery to pick up the seeds and baby plants we needed to begin our garden.

She was a wee bit excited to take home our plants…

They each got to choose their own veggies… and did sherpa duty, too. Score!

Fifteen vegetables and six herbs (plus strawberries), ready for planting.

Once the car was packed up and smelled like fresh basil (omg delicious), we beelined for the girls’ most favorite store in the entire world: The Dollar Tree. I might have been nominated for Mother of the Year for this decision. By now, I’ve wizened up, so they each had a fifteen minute time limit during which they could spend their allowance to their hearts’ content.

ALL THIS AMAZING ~~CRAP~~ STUFF FOR ONLY A DOLLAR APIECE!

Following The Greatest Store of All Time, Ella needed to go to swim practice – which, while not quite Girls’ Weekend fun, did provide Annie with the opportunity to draw a picture for her class’s Teacher Appreciation gift, so that was kind of perfect. (Was she off drawing my picture? No. But I chose to ignore that in a mature fashion.)

They’d opted for pizza for dinner, which was eaten on the couch while we watched videos on YouTube before crashing into my bed for the night. I’d envisioned a relatively leisurely sleep-in — recent heavy rains had cancelled Annie’s soccer game on Saturday morning, so we didn’t have anywhere we needed to be right away — but we were all wide awake at 5 a.m. when the birds outside my window decided to scream at us that it was MORNING! IT’S MORNING! ARE YOU UP? MORNING!!

I realize that many people enjoy waking up to the dulcet chirps of these winged creatures, but ~~those people are insane~~ I do not, because they never fail to awaken me at an ungodly hour and then I can’t return to sleep while they continue to shriek their greetings at one another. HAVE YOU EATEN BREAKFAST YET? LOOK, IT’S GETTING LIGHTER! HAVE YOU NOTICED? IT’S MORNING!! As a result, our windows are always shut tight when I crawl into bed each night – but, turns out, in the tangle of arms and legs and misplaced bedding, I’d forgotten. And so I shimmied out of bed (the girls prefer that I sleep between them, which is super comfortable) and closed the window, crossing my fingers that we’d all be able to go back to sleep. YES, I CAN SEE THAT IT’S MORNING. YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT I’M HAVING FOR BREAKFAST? EGGS.

Miraculously, we did manage to snooze again… but, at 6:30 a.m., were greeted by my second-favorite wake-up sound: the lurching voopahs of a dog about to vomit. As I’d predicted the night before (when I caught him mid-yard with a long tail hanging from his mouth, omg omg omg), Langston’s stomach could not handle the… rat? vole? mouse?… that he’d ingested (WHY DOES HE KEEP DOING THIS??), and so up it came. At least he was considerate enough to expel the creature’s remains on the hardwood rather than the carpet.

Dogs are so much fun!
And also? Sleeping was pretty much over.

Lack of sleep aside, the morning was beautiful – in the 60s, mostly sunny – and after I got the garden ready for planting, the girls jumped at the chance to get their seedlings and seeds into the ground.

Ella was quite giddy about her cherry tomato plant.

Please ignore my hand in the photo; I’m still figuring out how exactly the GoPro works…

Our “big deal” fun for the weekend was seeing the touring production of Beauty and The Beast, which we ventured to after enjoying a yummy lunch at a tiny restaurant in our little town. Even though Annie declared that she wouldn’t marry the Beast because he was too ugly (um… but… the whole moral of this story is… never mind…), we all thought the show was pretty darn good.

They’re still singing about how Gaston and Belle would be the perfect pair… just like Gaston’s thighs…

I gave them the option of Saturday dinner at home, dinner ordered in, or dinner out — and they chose to dine at one of my most favorite places in the entire world: Wegmans. Which meant we all got exactly what we wanted from the prepared food bar and I could eat Indian food without Nick complaining that he can’t stand Indian cuisine. Bonus!

It was obvious that the day had been just about as deliciously full as either girl could have hoped… so I decided to really gild the lily and take them out for ice cream. Hey, on a Girls’ Weekend, calories don’t count. (At least, that’s what I told myself when I asked for extra hot fudge.)

Why, yes, they are wearing different outfits than in the previous (two) photographs. Three daily clothing changes is the accepted bare minimum ’round these parts.

After our restless Friday night, I gave Annie and Ella the opportunity to sleep in their own beds on Saturday… HAHAHA. That was a good one, Mommy! Thankfully, our second night together was more peaceful than the first (no open windows or puking pups), and our Sunday morning was every bit as slow and easy as I’d hoped Saturday would be. We snuck out of church early (surely God understands) to head to our final official Girls’ Weekend destination: The Lilac Festival.

See, Rochester is kind of known for its myriad summer festivals, but Nick doesn’t really enjoy festivals all that much (too many people and heat and crowds and have I mentioned people?) and I’d been reluctant to brave them solo with the girls. But Ella and Annie seemed more than old enough to be successful festival-goers, so off we went.

The walk into the park was not exactly short, but the girls entertained themselves by running amongst the lilacs and climbing on this absolutely enormous, full-branched tree.

We ogled the food trucks, raced one another on an inflatable obstacle course (well, the girls did; I cheered them on), and stopped at every single kiosk and vendor’s display in the arts and crafts area. Although they’d shown excitement for the doll clothes that we’d found (“They’ll fit my American Girl, Mommy!”) and the trinkets that they insisted they purchase with their allowance money, their biggest grins were saved for the gentleman selling bow ties. Nick wears bow ties almost exclusively these days (largely in honor of his dad; Bill was an avid bow tie wearer) and the girls were ecstatic to find an entire booth of just bow ties – CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?? After purchasing the tie selected by the helpful and informative seller, Annie skipped away declaring, “The Lilac Festival is the best EVER!” So that was kind of awesome.

They also got airbrush tattoos. Annie’s was slightly more visible than Ella’s.

On our way out, the girls made me promise that we’d come back to the festival again next year, something that I was more than happy to agree to. We laughed and sang for the duration of the car ride home – and then, shortly after our arrival, Nick returned from his trip and our Girls’ Weekend was technically over.

I used to bemoan his being out of town, especially on a rare weekend, because it was just so difficult – parenting alone, bedtimes, mealtimes, nap times… basically all of the times. But now, it’s so different. Ella and Annie are just plain fabulous human beings – fun and funny and entertaining and great listeners and game to try just about anything – and spending the weekend with them isn’t difficult anymore. It’s fantastic. (That they can wipe themselves and no longer require their food be cut into bite-sized portions is also a huge plus.)

More weekends could be like this one, I suppose – relaxed, full of adventures, devoted to having a blast. But, then again, maybe not. There’s always something that needs to get done, a project that needs tending, rooms that need cleaning, and spending the entire weekend devoted to just hanging out with my children is simply not possible most of the time.

Maybe that’s why this weekend was all the more sweet: because it’s a true rarity. The housecleaning and chore-doing went to crap (although I did manage to mow the lawn and do the dishes) and, instead, every moment was spent enjoying Annie and Ella – enjoying them, enjoying their company, enjoying being their mom.

I know that this weekend was its own special kind of bubble. (Indeed, by this morning, Ella had stomped off to school after being so rude about her breakfast, I’d saved it to give her again at dinner (true story) and Annie forgot her school shoes at home. REALITY CHECK, stat.) But I’ll take it.

It was the best Mother’s Day gift I could have received… and I even got some cards by the end of Sunday, too. (Mom Guilt, FTW!)

Wild Thing

Posted on May 14, 2014 by missemtoo

When I met Nick twenty-plus years ago, I knew absolutely nothing about hockey, except that it was played on ice and a black disk was involved. And sticks. But only sometimes helmets, because back then, helmets weren’t yet required. (Say what?!) Knowing Nick meant that it was inevitable to not hear about hockey; he was even the mascot for our college’s hockey team, which meant that he skated around the tin can of a field house in a life-sized camel costume. Let me just reiterate that: a camel. On skates. One time, he removed the head of his costume and scared the coach’s (toddler-aged) daughter so much, she hyperventilated.

As luck would have it, my inauguration into the world of hockey couldn’t have come at a more precipitous time, because the New York Rangers were headed for a playoff run in the spring of 1994. In fact, they were actually poised to win the Cup… for the first time in fifty-four years (I don’t normally keep sports stats like that in my head – that space is reserved for far more important information, like the years that “Like a Virgin” and “True Blue” were released – but Rangers fans were so hungry for the win, I’ve never forgotten it).

Living an hour outside of New York City, the Rangers were a logical team to root for, and an especially fun team – given their chances at taking home the title – if one had only just been introduced to hockey. I fell for the team hook, line, and sinker. Nick and I were tremendously fortunate that my dad, who worked in midtown, was able – through his company – to get us tickets to game five of the Stanley Cup finals, with the Rangers up three games to one in the series, and thus poised to win the championship that very night. We watched with depressed resignation as the Canucks were ahead 3-0 several minutes into the third period, then felt the floor reverberate (I’m not exaggerating; the stands at MSG actually moved) as the Rangers soared back to tie it 3-3 — the Cup was ten minutes away!! — only to have the Canucks refuse to back down and win the game 6-3. GAH, THE HEARTBREAK.

I turned down a ticket to game seven (Nick was back in Minnesota and it was a single ticket; I was nervous that, as a solo eighteen year-old female, I might not quite make it out of the arena in one piece, regardless of the game’s outcome), but watched – on the phone with Nick – as the Rangers finally “beat the curse” and won the Stanley Cup. If you’ve got to be indoctrinated into a sport, I highly recommend falling for a team that wins the championship ten minutes later.

Lousy photo of an already super-lousy photo, but still… We were there, man!

Over the years, I’ve come to not just tolerate hockey, but to really enjoy it. Nick and I have seen NHL games in Manhattan, New Jersey, Long Island, Hartford (so long, Whalers!), Boston, Montreal, Columbus, Denver, and St. Paul, and each one has been a thrill (although my all-time favorite game was actually the AHL Frozen Frontier game we shivered our way through in December). I am fully able to follow the games and understand what’s going on, even with the refs’ hilarious hand gestures (I think “tripping” is a particularly ridiculous movement) – and, despite their often bumpy noses, I’m more than happy to root for players from all teams who are particularly easy on the eyes (Mike Modano and Patrick Sharp, I’m looking – happily – at you). I’m more than a little proud to say that it’s gotten to the point where, when we take girls to games, I’m able to answer the majority of their questions (correctly, thank you very much) and can narrate what’s happening in language that they actually understand. I’d probably make a great color commentator. Now that my long-term sub job is over, perhaps I should look into that.

It’s no secret that Nick lives, breathes, and sweats the Minnesota Wild. He dreams in dark green and red. He knows every player’s position, alma mater, height, weight, and whether or not they prefer iPhones or Droids. (This is an exaggeration. But only slightly.) It’s been a tradition of ours for several years running to try to catch the Wild in person somewhere across the nation – this year, saw them play in Buffalo – but Nick watches the rest of the games at home.

And when I say “the rest of the games”… I do mean ALL OF THE REST OF THE GAMES. Every game. All of ’em. Right in our living room.

I’ve heard the term “football widow” used to describe women (or, perhaps, male partners of gay football fans?) who are essentially left alone on Sundays during the NFL’s season – which runs for, what, five-ish months? Sixteen games in the regular season, plus a few weeks of playoffs, right? So, we’re talking, like, twenty days devoted to football, plus some Monday nights too, maybe. Let’s bump it up to thirty just to be crazy. Thirty days spread out over five months. SUCH HARDSHIP.

By contrast, the NHL regular season lasts for SEVEN months, with each team playing 82 games. EIGHTY-TWO GAMES spread out over the course of SEVEN MONTHS. Or, to be more specific, that’s eighty-two nights, afternoons, and evenings where Nick was watching the Wild play. I’m not so good with the math, but that appears to be a crap-ton more hockey than football.

EAT MY JERSEY, FOOTBALL WIDOWS.

To be fair, although Nick makes us all recite the Wild roster every night before dinner, he does not require that he be home for each game. It’s not that he’ll skip them (don’t be absurd), but rather that he’s absolutely willing to “miss” a game to do something else – spend a holiday with family, coach soccer, have a conversation with us that doesn’t involve the words “penalty” or “icing” – and then watch the DVR’d recording at a later time. Which doesn’t necessarily mean that fewer hours are devoted to the Wild, but rather that watching the Wild live rarely gets in the way of anything else on our calendar.

Our backyard rink last year.
Helmets are apparently not required here, either.

When the calendar is empty, however, all bets are off (unless you’ve bet that Nick will be watching the Wild). The good news – for me – is that I really enjoy hockey (see above). The other good news is that Nick is one of the most amazingly fair-minded sports fans I’ve ever encountered. I don’t just mean that he’s a good sport – although he is certainly that – but that he always, always roots for the good game — the fair, evenly-matched, well-called, proper-sportsmanship-displayed game. He’ll be the first to say when the Wild has played badly, or to admit it when they score a goal that shouldn’t have been allowed. He also can’t stand what he calls “homer” announcers – the ones who call the games as though the Wild are the second coming of Christ and the opposing team is Satan – who cannot be objective and even. I mean, he wants the Wild to win, of course… but if the other team beats them fair and square, if they were truly the better players, then so be it. They deserved to win. The Wild did not get “gypped.”

Basically, while Nick may be a fan of the Wild (maybe their biggest fan, like, ever), he is an even bigger fan of the game of hockey. And, actually, of sports – and sportsmanship – in general. We have watched as our favorite baseball teams (Yankees for me, duh) lose, but if the other team’s pitcher is throwing a perfect game, we’ve cheered for the perfect game. Because as Nick has taught me, sport transcends teams. Even the Yankees or the Wild.

Last night, the Wild’s season ended. They had made it into game six of the second round of the playoffs, but couldn’t quite pull off the win against the Blackhawks. Throughout the game, Nick yelled, loudly, each time the Wild had a good scoring opportunity – which was often, with pucks bouncing off goal posts and coming *this close* to going in. But the Hawks’ goalie was on fire, making seemingly impossible saves time and time again, and every time – alongside the anticipation that the Wild might score and the crushing disappointment when, yet again, the puck didn’t enter the net – Nick would proclaim it a good save.

He’d said all along he’d be satisfied with the season if the Wild made it to the playoffs. They did, and then some, so I know he’s pleased. He’s also readily acknowledged that the Hawks were the deserving winners of this series. But I know he’s bummed that the Wild won’t be playing game 7 – or any games thereafter.

Well, at least not until October, when the 82-game madness begins all over again.

For my part, I’ve got mixed feelings about the end of the hockey season. On the one hand, it’ll be nice to not begin family meetings with a rousing rendition of “The Good Old Hockey Game.” Plus, now that the TV won’t be dedicated to hockey, maybe I can finally catch up on the dozen “Modern Family” episodes on our DVR. On the other hand, I love how much Nick loves the Wild – how fully invested he is, how much it psyches him up – and I’m sad for him that those days are over. Also, now that he’s more available to hang out in the evenings, some of my Pinterest time may have to give. *sigh*

First skate this year. It was really, really cold… so Nick’s wearing his Wild hat. Of course.

———–

Because Nick is out of town today, I was the one to have the following conversation with Ella this morning:

“Mommy, did the Wild win last night?”

No, sweetie. They didn’t.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Daddy’s going to be bummed.”

Yup.

“But did the other team play well?”

Yes, they did.

“That makes it better, then!”

———-

Like father, like daughter

p.s. Go Rangers!!

The One Where Nothing Happened… But It COULD Have!

Posted on May 9, 2014 by missemtoo

Yesterday, the most terrifying* thing happened: my girls were unexpectedly home alone** for over 90 minutes! Their babysitter never showed!! I wasn’t home!!! Nick wasn’t home!!!! THERE WAS NOBODY HERE OMG OMG OMG.

* Except… It wasn’t actually terrifying at all.
Isn’t that the weirdest thing?

(** Also, they weren’t alone. But they could have been! More on that in a moment.)

Lemme ‘splain.

On Thursdays, I teach piano lessons, so our babysitter, S, gets the girls from school, supervises their homework-doing and snack-eating and backpack-emptying and sometimes-playing, generally makes sure they don’t maim one another, and does awesome babysitter-y things with them. We adore her.

The girls walk home from school, but Ella likes to go independently, so S and Annie walk together, while Ella comes at her own pace. Yesterday, when Ella arrived home shortly after 3:00, as usual, she noticed that S and Annie weren’t here yet. After a few minutes, she began to consider that Annie was just sitting at school alone, so she hightailed it back, found Annie, and the two of them walked home together. They then said “hello” to the new lady who has been cleaning our house (I’d avoided the mere thought of a cleaning woman for years, but my recent sleepless balancing act caused me to count my blessings and reexamine my priorities; she comes once every two weeks, this was her fourth visit, and she’s been superb), and then pondered that they were, for all intents and purposes, home alone.

They tried calling my cell phone – three times, Mommy! – but the call wouldn’t go through, because they’d forgotten to dial 1 for an out-of-area number (yes, I still have my phone number from before our move seven years ago. I KNOW, I know). They also tried to text me from their iPads, but again, nothing went through because they “needed a password, but you won’t tell us the password, Mommy, because you don’t want us buying stuff whenever we want to.”

At least I know my meager parental controls are effective. Those in-app purchases can really be a bitch.

Because they weren’t technically alone – our housecleaner was working upstairs – they decided all was well, so they did what they always do: followed their checklist. Within an hour, they’d emptied their backpacks, brought their papers into the kitchen, helped themselves to a snack, and completed their homework. (Ella did technically bend the rules by reading aloud to Annie instead of a responsible adult, but hey, the cleaning lady was still working, so I can’t really fault her.)

Man, it was nice out yesterday!

When everything was checked off of their list, they headed out to play in the backyard around 4:20 – just as our housecleaner was finishing up. She, too, noticed that S was nowhere to be seen and contacted me, catching me mid-teaching. Given that this is a rare occurrence, I thought maybe something was up, so I asked my student to go ahead with her piece while I took a moment to check my phone (something I never normally do during lessons)… and had the following exchange with our cleaner:

I knew that something was seriously awry; S has never just not showed up, not once in several hundred afternoons and evenings spent babysitting our girls. So I apologized profusely to my student, explaining that now I needed to make a phone call, and dialed S, hoping that she’d answer, hoping that she was okay. The moment she picked up (people don’t really “pick up” anymore, do they? You know what I mean) and heard that it was me, she gasped with recognition. “Oh my God. I am SO sorry, Emily – my grandmother is in the hospital, and I’ve been with her all day, and I just completely forgot about babysitting.”

She then explained that she would leave the hospital immediately and get home to the girls. I tried to protest – Was she sure? Was it an emergency with her grandma? I could cancel lessons; I could call Nick? – but she was practically already out the door. So, after a failed attempt at contacting a neighbor, some more distracted instructions and critiques to my very patient piano student, and a few more communications with our cleaning lady, it was determined that she – the housecleaner – would remain at home with the girls until S could arrive.

When S got here, fifteen minutes later, I’m told that Annie and Ella essentially looked up from playing and said, “Oh, you’re here!” and then went right back to what they were doing. The cleaning lady went home. S played with the girls, fed the dogs, threw the ball for Langston, and then apologized even more when I returned home, promising this would never happen again and refusing payment of any kind for the time she was with our girls.

And… that was that. They played outside until just before dinner and got absolutely, deliciously filthy. They cleaned up, ate dinner, made their lunches for tomorrow, had dessert, read books, went to bed. The end!

Sounds terrifying, right?!

For so many families these days, though, this would have been terrifying. The What If game would have begun: What if they’d gotten abducted on their way home? What if they’d choked on their snack? What if they’d gotten hurt? What if there was a fire? What if the cleaning lady wasn’t actually a nice lady after all? What if she’d molested them? What if she offered them poisoned apples? What if they’d gotten scared? What if they’d gotten into an argument and knocked one another to the ground? What if they’d gorged on candy? What if a Jehovah’s Witness came to the door? What if aliens landed and tried to beam them up into their mothership?

Never mind that none of these actually happened, and that the girls were calm and happy and safe. Something could have happened. And those Could Haves and What Ifs are often so omnipresent – no matter how unlikely they might be – that panic and hysteria and anger frequently take over. Children – fending for themselves, not relying on an adult or being under constant supervision?? Unthinkable! Something awful could have happened! Fire the babysitter! Quit teaching piano! NEVER LET THEM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT AGAIN!!

At least, that’s how it so often seems these days.

But – and maybe we’re strange (okay, we’re definitely strange) – neither Nick nor I felt that way, not even a little. Yes, I was upset… but not that the kids had been on their own, nor that they spent time “alone” with someone we don’t know very well, nor that S hadn’t remembered to get them. (On the contrary – at first, I was worried that something had happened to her, and once I learned about her grandmother, I was heartbroken for their family. It never dawned on me to be upset with S.) No, I was upset that our lovely new housecleaner rearranged her afternoon in order to make sure my girls weren’t alone – upset for her, because I’m sure she had somewhere else she needed to be, and watching my children certainly wasn’t part of our original hiring agreement.

You can read stories left and right about how children are becoming less and less independent; how often they’re supervised; how little they play outside; how playgrounds are being closed because they’re “dangerous;” how college students are completely flummoxed when faced with doing laundry because they’ve never had to do it before; how recent college graduates bring their parents with them to job interviews (omg!); how every person who ever comes into contact with any child for any reason needs a CIA-grade background check.

It’s just… Nick and I haven’t bought into it. And, for the most part, our neighborhood hasn’t, either. Step into our yard and you’ll see loads of kids of all ages outside – with no adults in sight – riding bikes, running from yard to yard, roller blading, playing baseball in the cul-de-sac. Our girls are growing up where walking to school is encouraged, ironing isn’t just for grown-ups, and playing with hammers is par for the course. They earn and spend their own money, bake their own cakes, order for themselves at restaurants and stores, and sometimes even cook meals. Maybe it’s some kind of retro Pleasantville… but I’m so freakin’ glad that we’re a part of it.

Seen at school today. Helmets? Check. Crossing guard? Check. Walking bikes safely across the street? Check.
Parents? Nope.
(Yes, I recognize the irony that I, a parent, took this photo… Carry on…)

About five years ago, I came across a book and website by Lenore Skenazy titled Free-Range Kids. Although I hadn’t realized it, Nick and I have been “free range” parents all along: we believe that Ella and Annie are smart and capable – not, to quote Ms. Skenazy, “invalids who needs constant attention and help” – and we treat them as such. We think that the world has way more good people than bad, and that the best way to allow our kiddos to grow into successful, happy, healthy adults is to give them the tools they need to do so… which does not include our hovering over their every move.

After attending a (funny, well-spoken, generally fabulous) talk given by Ms. Skenazy (one of my fellow mom friends was so taken in, she called out and asked if Lenore would marry her…), I was even inadvertently featured in one of her ParentDish articles, which resulted in commenters calling me a ridiculously irresponsible parent who did not deserve to have my children; some even called for my death (!). A year later, I wrote to Lenore to let her know how my parenting had changed – or not – since that incident. She posted my letter on her website, part of which read:

But also? It made me think. It made me re-assess how I DO parent, and made me look more carefully at WHY I parent as I do. And the outcome? I’ve become even more Free-Range! If THAT’S the mentality of others out there – paranoid, terrified, helicopter-ish to the max – then I know I *HAVE* to continue with Free-Range thinking and parenting more than ever, to ensure that my daughters grow up to be confident, strong, and capable, and to look at the world knowing that dangers do NOT lurk around every corner, that most people ARE good, and that they, themselves, are competent.

Confident, strong, capable, and competent.

I may have written those words over three years ago, but they are just as true now as they were then.

Did Nick and I want our girls to fend for themselves for nearly 90 minutes? Nope. Did we want them to be stranded by the babysitter? Of course not. But life is not perfectly in our control (if it were, there would be a Starbucks on my corner, believe me), and sometimes these things happen – and when they do, we’re doing our best to ensure that our kids posses the skills and the confidence to navigate the changes.

Ella and Annie could have freaked out. They could have completely panicked, worried themselves sick, and been utterly unable to determine what to do next. They could have been taught that predators and molesters lurk around every corner, and might have been terrified for our housecleaner to be with them. It could have been one of the worst afternoons of their lives.

Instead, when I got home and found them playing in a pile of dirt out back, reveling in one of the first warm days of the year – covered head to toe with filth – and said to them, “So, I hear you had quite the afternoon!”, they looked up with delighted eyes and said, “Yes, we did! We found dinosaur bones!” And then proceeded to hold up some kind of… bone… that is certainly not from a dinosaur and so I don’t even want to think about what it really is and why it’s lurking in our backyard.

God only knows what they’re digging up…

When prompted, they admitted that they were worried… But not about themselves. They were worried that something might have happened to S. The rest? S being missing, walking home alone, taking care of their snack and homework and unpacking, chatting with the cleaning lady, and ultimately waiting for S to arrive and play with them? So unworrisome, they hardly even acknowledged that it was unusual.

But it was unusual – because it’s never happened before, because of how they handled it, and because of how so many other kids and parents would have handled it.

For a moment, when I first received the call from our housecleaner saying that S wasn’t home, I nearly did go down my own list of What Ifs… But then a strange feeling came over me, and it became so powerful, it drowned out everything else: gratitude. I was so grateful that our cleaning woman cared enough about our girls to contact me. I was so grateful that she was able to stay with them a little while longer. I was so grateful that S cared enough about our daughters to leave her grandmother and race to the house to babysit. I was grateful that she fed the dogs; that she played with the girls; that she took such ownership for her mistake. I was humbled that she refused any payment.

Sometimes, it really does take a village. Our village is tremendous.

When I took another step back, though, what I was most grateful for and astounded by was my children. Yes, Nick and I hope that we’re teaching them to be confident, strong, capable, and competent… but it’s rare that we have an opportunity to see whether or not our efforts are effective. But, you guys! HOLY CRAP. They walked themselves home. They fed themselves (a healthy snack! Not just junk! [Well, they did ‘fess up to eating some chocolate, and Ella squirted whipped cream straight from the can into her mouth… but it would have been disappointing if they hadn’t bent the rules a little, right?] They even put their dishes in the sink!!). They did their homework. They played nicely together and did everything that they normally do after school, flawlessly – so much so, our housecleaner didn’t even realize that S wasn’t here until it was time to leave. And throughout it all, they remained calm and happy, because they were confident in their own abilities and knew they were badass enough to smack this unexpected curveball out of the park.

They’re hardly perfect, and we’ve still got a helluva lot of parenting to do… But, yesterday, Annie and Ella were pretty much the biggest seven and nine year-old rockstars in existence. Hell, maybe we don’t even need a sitter anymore! Holla!

(Don’t worry. We’re not letting S go anytime soon.
But it’s nice to know that, in an emergency, Ella and Annie are the ones you’d want on your team. Take that, Jack Bauer!)

We learned something else, too: that we need to have our phone numbers written somewhere that’s easily accessible. S could have been contacted much more quickly had the girls been able to reach Nick or me immediately. Or maybe I should just change to a local cell number… Nah.

So, there you have it. The terrifying afternoon that was anything but. Nevertheless, we thought that ice cream was in order – not to comfort our “traumatized” daughters, but to let them know how proud of them we were, and to celebrate their levelheaded stupendousness. I can’t think of a better way to start Mother’s Day weekend.

Except maybe with the wine I had last night after I finally got home. Nothing may have happened, but wine is usually a good idea.

Yes, they wore their pjs to get ice cream. All the rockstars are doing it.

Throwback Thursday: The Gift

Posted on May 8, 2014 by missemtoo

Photos have always been really important to me. It didn’t matter if I took them or someone else did, if they were technically “good” or quick, blurry snapshots – I’ve loved them. While I’m not terribly hoard-ish (yes, that’s a word; because I said so) in most areas of my life, I do hoard photos. I’ve got boxes of old pictures, some containing frame-worthy gems, others with envelope after envelope (from the stores that used to offer 1-Hr Photo Development! – remember those?!) of out-of-focus images, often in duplicate or even triplicate, of people and places whose names I can no longer recall.

Doesn’t matter. They’re photos and, like books or chocolate or Sauvignon Blanc, I simply cannot bear to part with them. This may seem odd or at least not terribly practical, given the amount of space that the physical photos take up in my basement and the digital photos take up on my hard drive(s)… but the pictures make me happy. All it takes is a few moments sifting through image after image to completely lift my spirits, make me gasp (in both good and bad ways), and make me smile. Which is also like books or chocolate or Sauvignon Blanc. I may be onto something.

GranMary came to visit a couple of weekends ago, and we had a really delightful time with her. As I’ve mentioned, little gives me more joy than seeing our family and friends just soak up my children, and GranMary’s visit provided plenty of opportunities for that. I loved the way that Annie and she giggled together on Friday night before Ella got home from swimming – a little time, just the two of them. I loved how I was awakened on Saturday morning by the girls’ raucous laughter from GranMary’s bed, after the girls had crawled in with glee. I loved how she and Ella cuddled in to watch one of the Harry Potter movies while Annie was at a Girl Scouts outing – a little time, just the two of them.

I loved watching Mary and my grandmother chatting away over lunch. I loved a chilly Saturday afternoon spent inside, with the girls scarcely leaving GranMary’s side as they did projects (she always brings some; it’s a highlight of her visits) and watched more Harry. I loved the opportunity to sit and talk with her after the girls had gone to bed, while Nick was at a party for his hockey team – a little time, just the two of us. I loved how GranMary gamely participated in our scavenger/egg hunt, seemingly unfazed by the dozens of children shrieking about our backyard in search of chocolate and money. (Then again, who could blame them?) I hated it when we said goodbye for another few months and Nick drove her back to the airport – a little time, just the two of them.

I hate that Bill is no longer here to come out and see us, but I love that Mary still does. I love that we’ve made our own relationship with her, in part because she is GranMary, but in part simply because she is herself, and we want her in our lives.

And Bill is not entirely absent from her visits; we talk about him all the time, wistfully, longingly, but almost always with laughter. This visit, GranMary surprised Ella and Annie with little photo books for each of them – pictures of them with Grandpa Bill. Many of the photos, I’d already seen, but some were new to me and they took my breath away. See, I thought I’d already sifted through my Memories Of Bill, had pored over everything I could recall, turning them over in my mind and reveling in their comfort… but here were moments that I’d never seen before. Memories that I never even knew existed.

It was amazing.

The girls loved their books, too. After going through each page, asking about every picture, smiling and laughing, I wasn’t sure what they’d do with them… But then I discovered that Annie had taken her book to school to share it with her friends, and that Ella keeps hers beside her bed. It seems that they’ve inherited my photo-loving gene (and the book-loving gene and most definitely the chocolate-loving gene; it remains to be seen what they think of Sauvignon Blanc).

Mary also brought a small collection of individual prints with her, which she gave to Nick and me – all pictures of Bill, most of them with us in one way or another. I’d seen nearly all of them, and cheerfully thumbed through the pile without really paying them too much mind… until I found this one and was stopped cold.

Bill and me, May 2013, laughing like nobody’s business

Looking at it, you might be thinking: that’s cute enough. You’re both laughing, ice cream seems to have been involved, and you look like you’re having fun. A nice picture… if you don’t count the faded smudge at the top of the photo (an errant finger? late afternoon sun?) or Bill’s compression socks or the way the cuff of my capris is practically cutting off the circulation in my calves.

I see those things, too, but I don’t care even one bit… because this is the only photo I have ever seen that contains just Bill and me. We have photos from our wedding (Nick’s and my wedding, not Bill’s and my wedding… Although I do have photos from Bill and Mary’s wedding…), from before our wedding, up North, downstate, with Ella and Annie, with Nick, with Mary – and many of them are delightful photos – yet none of them contains just Bill and me.

Believe me, I know. I looked. Hard.

Why this matters, I’m not sure. It’s not like there’s anything unspecial about photos containing other people, too. But somehow, it gives me incredible joy to have this photo of the two of us, obviously enjoying one another’s company, laughing and generally getting a kick out of life.

I hadn’t even known this photo existed, hadn’t known that Mary had surreptitiously snapped it a year ago during Bill’s last-ever visit. I’m so very glad that she did, though, and that she printed it out and gave it to us. It is, without question, one of the most wonderful – and unexpected – gifts I’ve ever received.

I can’t wait to stumble upon it again when I go through our photos (and eat chocolate and drink wine) and relive the memories of that day.

Nah, scratch that. This one’s going on the wall.
Joy that big should be shared, don’t you think?

They’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do here

Posted on May 6, 2014 by missemtoo

On Thursday, Nick and I went out to dinner to celebrate twenty years of being together. We found a new (to us) gem, a little Cuban spot with scrumptious food and festive decor, leaving the girls with a sitter, B, who is also (relatively) new.

Upon arriving home – stomachs uncomfortably full, but feeling quite content – we relieved B of her responsibilities and got to the rest of our romantic evening. Meaning that Nick went upstairs to use his iPad while I tidied up downstairs and edited some photos.

See? After twenty years, that spark is still fresh.

Nick hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes when he called me up, saying I needed to see something. I obliged, assuming that perhaps the girls had fallen asleep in some strange or adorable way, and was surprised when he led me to the master bathroom.

“Look!”

Um… What am I looking at?

“All of this stuff is out!”

Uh, okay…

Judging by the brightness outside of the window, you can probably tell that this is a dramatic reenactment. I do strive for authenticity.

“I think that B was going through your jewelry.”

What?

“Your jewelry is all over the counter!”

I can see that, but I really don’t think…

“She must have heard the car and run downstairs in a hurry.”

I’m pretty sure that’s not what actually happened.

“She’s a lousy thief if she thought we wouldn’t notice.”

That’s because she’s not a thief at all.

“Then how…”

I think that the girls must have been in here, playing around with my earrings.

“Why would they do that??”

Because they’re girls?

“?”

Ella, especially, really likes to try on my earrings.

“But why would she have come in here instead of using the other…”

I don’t know, but… Yes, look! That’s it!

“What’s it?”

Those earrings, the big hoops. They were in the girls’ bathroom and now they’re in here.

Exhibit A: Dun dun DUNNNNN.

“And that means…?”

It means that Ella brought them in here and was trying them on. B wouldn’t take the time to rummage through the earrings in another bathroom and then bring them in here if she was just going to steal them.

“Okay, fine. But why are the cabinets open?”

Uhhhhh… Maybe I left them open after I got ready? I sometimes leave things open and don’t remember…

“Yeah, but I was in here after you. They weren’t open.”

Well, I’m not sure why they’re open, but…

“Do you think B was going through our prescriptions??”

Yes. She was probably trying to steal my Xanax…

“Do you think we should…”

… which is a bummer for her because I don’t keep my Xanax in here.

“… check to make sure everything’s okay?”

No! I’m telling you, B had nothing to do with this. The girls were here. I don’t know how the cabinets got open, but I’m sure that it wasn’t B.

—————–

Later that night, my assumptions were confirmed when I discovered that my makeup – which is kept in the girls’ bathroom (it’s confusing, I know) – was scattered all over the place and nearly every one of my hair products had been moved. At first, I thought that perhaps everything was missing (and, I’ll sheepishly admit, I had fleeting thoughts that perhaps our sitter was, in fact, a cosmetics thief), but a closer inspection found everything still in the cupboard – just in a completely random spot from where I’d left it.

Ella and Annie were all over this. I knew it, but I needed to hear it from them, and I was concerned that if I accused them of being messy boors, they might not ‘fess up after all. (I’d love to say that they’re honest and forthcoming all of the time, but… well… I’m trying to model such behavior by not lying, myself.) So I decided to try a different approach.

Hey – how was it last night with B? Did you all have fun?

“Yes, it was great!”

Awesome! What did you do?

“Oh, you know. The usual. Ate dinner, watched a show, played a couple of games.”

“We also tried on some nail polish, but we used the wrong kind – you know, the kind that peels off instead of regular? – and so now both of us lost all of our polish while we were sleeping, so that’s kind of a bummer.”

That is a bummer. You know what else is a bummer?

“No, what?”

We don’t think we’re going to be able to ask B back to babysit anymore.

“Why not??”

Because we think she was stealing things from us.

(In case you’ve ever wondered – yes, people’s mouths do actually drop open in surprise. I saw it with my own two eyes. Twice.)

When we got home last night, all of my make-up and hair stuff was in new places. B must have gone through the cupboard looking for things.

“Um, mom…?” (eyes down, voice quiet)

Yes?

“B didn’t go through the cupboard.”

How do you know?

“We… might have… been looking for more nail polish remover. So we might have moved your stuff.”

“By accident.”

And you didn’t think to put any of it back?

“I guess we just forgot. But B didn’t do it.”

Okay, well that’s good. But I’m still concerned about the stuff in my bathroom.

“Your bathroom?”

Yes. My earrings were all over the place. I think that B was rooting through them.

“Actually… (even quieter than before) That wasn’t B, either.”

Why not?

“Because it was… me. I was in your bathroom. With the earrings.”

You were? What were you doing?

(* crickets *)

Were you trying them on?

(still crickets from Ella)
(rapid, vigorous head-nodding from Annie)
(*side note: only Ella has pierced ears)

Is that why you were in my bathroom?

“Yes. I’m really sorry.”

Have I ever let you try on my earrings before, just for fun?

“Yes.”

Exactly. You just had to…

“Ask you.”

Right. And when you were done, you needed to…

“Put everything away.”

Yep.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Well, I’m glad to know that it wasn’t B, but I’m still concerned about my medicine cabinet.

“Your what?”

The cabinets in my bathroom – the ones with the mirrors – were wide open. I’m glad to know that B wasn’t in my jewelry, but it looks like she was in my cabinets.

“Well… Uh… That’s not true, either.”

Then why were my cabinets wide open?

“We, um… We miiiight have been looking for more nail polish remover.”

“And we miiiiight have looked for it in your bathroom cabinets.”

“And we miiiiight have forgotten to close them when we were through.”*

I see. (*mystery solved!)

“But B didn’t do any of that. She didn’t go through the cabinets or your jewelry or your hair stuff or your makeup.”

“She can still be our babysitter.”

I’m really glad to hear it. That was a close call. Phew.

——————

So, on the bright side, my children were unwilling to let the babysitter take the fall for their indiscretions. They owned their behavior, apologized, and said they’d do better the next time around. All good things.

On the other hand, there was a little stretching of the truth. Plus ransacked jewelry. And remodeled cupboards.

But perhaps most disappointing of all: they weren’t even remotely capable of covering their tracks. I mean, if you’re going to root through your mom’s earrings, open up your parents’ medicine cabinets, and rummage through and rearrange your mom’s cosmetics in the search for illicit nail polish, the least you could do would be to hide the evidence, you know?

Ah, well. There’s always next time.

This wasn’t taken the night we discovered their shenanigans, but it may as well have been, because they sleep this way all the time.
They may be lousy rule-breakers, but they do have good taste in nighttime headgear.

The best part of my day

Posted on April 30, 2014 by missemtoo

Right before we left for break, the girls’ school had their spring open house. All of the families were invited into the classrooms for the evening to chat with the teachers, see some of the work that our kiddos have been up to, and consume balls of ice cream in the school cafeteria that had been dished out by slightly disgruntled middle schoolers. Highlight of the night, for sure.

(Although this year’s fare came from a local shop – one of our favorites – so when Nick had to leave early, I didn’t exactly complain that I had to eat his ice cream, too. Taking one for the team and all.)

Last year, Nick had been out of town for open house and we’d Skyped to “show” him the girls’ work. While the use of technology was pretty rad, this time around, Annie and Ella were particularly interested in physically showing us all that they’ve been doing, and we spent a good thirty minutes in each of their classrooms poring over the details of every paper, wall hanging, display, and writing sample.

Y’all, these girls’ teachers work hard! From the careful and eye-catching room designs to the stacks of Look What I Can Do! papers on the desks to the way they so clearly knew the students, inside and out – we really lucked out with these ladies. And, hot damn, if our girls haven’t learned a few things this year! It was really something, seeing what had been considered “best work” in September versus where they are now. Enough something, in fact, that I didn’t even mind returning to the classroom after having spent all day in one.

Teachers are the best.
And I’m not talking about myself. Mostly.

My favorite part of the evening, though, was well and truly looking at, reading, taking in the work that the girls were showing us. There were math papers and journal entries, persuasive essays (Ella tried to convince us to get a bunny; her powers of persuasion aren’t strong enough yet), chapter stories, poems, computer essays, illustrations – and every single one of them was a perfect little encapsulation of who our kids are.

To wit, this poem by our still-Potter-obsessed daughter:

There are times when I’ve wondered if it’s too much Harry – if, four months after completing the series, Ella “should” have moved on more than she has… And then those “shoulds” are silenced by the simplest of poems: “a world that makes me smile all the time.” Why on earth would I want to make her leave that place? Amen, kiddo. Well played.

It should also be noted that this poem probably exactly follows the teacher’s directions: neatly written. Careful spacing. Repetitive words. Name, left. Date, right. A topic that she’s interested in, but nothing too flowery or showy, just what needs to be done, but still letting us peek inside a bit. In other words, perfectly, wonderfully Ella.

Annie’s work looks a bit different, and not just because she’s two years younger. Take, for example, this journal entry:

Allow me to translate.

The writing prompt is: I just can’t wait until I’m old enough…

I can’t wait till I’m old enough to get a car because then I can go to the mall and get mini pretzel bites with cheese. I just can’t wait until I’m old enough to get a phone because then I can take a bunch of selflies and I love selfies.

So. To recap: Annie is hungry, confident in her appearance (some might call that vain, but hey, when you’re cute, you’re cute), independent, and interested in the material things of this world. She’s also freakin’ hilarious, honest as hell, and a ridiculously accurate illustrator (please note the crossed legs in the drawing to the left, as well as the girl’s hand approaching her mouth – with pretzel bites, one would assume – which she is clearly delighted to be consuming, given her grin and how she’s closed her eyes with eager anticipation). In other words, perfectly, wonderfully Annie.

They could not be more different. Thank God, because now Nick and I get to experience two kinds of absolutely awesome every single day.

I know I’ve said it already, but these last few weeks balancing work and home have been hard. I think a huge part of that has to do with the fact that I thought I was going to be done before break – I was gearing up, throwing all of my energy into finishing, leaving nothing on the table – and then, BAM. Not done! (My therapist likened it to running a race – all out, full-on, expending all of the power you can muster – only to learn, steps before the finish line, that you need to run a few more miles.) I am just spent.

The work part is going fantastically well (if I do say so myself. Which I just did). I’m still loving every moment of teaching, my colleagues have been super, I got a really helpful and glowing review from my administrator (go, me!), and my students seem to dig me. It’s everything else that I just can’t quite get a handle on – piano, the house, the dogs, the kids, seeing friends (ha!), reading, exercise. The pieces just aren’t quite falling into place.

I’d actually been feeling that way prior to open house – maybe because I was really pushing to “finish” the teaching gig? – and had been feeling somewhat guilty. I haven’t been in the girls’ classrooms as often as in the past. I haven’t devoted as much time to talking about their homework. I haven’t had the energy to really chat with them about their lives, not the way I’d like to, anyway.

I basically felt like I was doing it all wrong. Parenting rocks.

Nick and I both marveled at the technology that the girls are using in their classrooms. They have computer lab time each week – that much I knew – and their teachers use SMART boards (which I can now successfully navigate, thank you very much), but I had no idea how much they were using iPads and laptops to do their work, too. One of the things that Annie’s teacher had pulled aside for open house was a computer story that each child had written. Annie just had to log in (holy crap, log in! She’s seven) and pull up her tale, titled something like “My Day At School,” and then we could see it come to life, complete with her own illustrations and text, animated pages turning. It was really cool.

“During math I love to play games with my friends and make patterns.”

We were taken through her whole day – arrival, classwork, specials, lunch – and it was pretty basic, school-related stuff. As such, I was completely unprepared for the final line of her story:
The best part of my day is… walking home with my mom.

And suddenly, I’m wiping away tears and smiling like a watery buffoon and trying to make my way over to the word wall or the reading corner and pretending that I’m not getting teary in the middle of a crowded classroom filled with miniature chairs and an excess of Purell.

So maybe I haven’t done it all wrong. Some things have been less than stellar, sure, and I’m still off-balance (I stayed up crazy-late on Monday night to make brownies for teacher appreciation day… which, I remembered on Tuesday morning, is next Tuesday, not yesterday. Which is probably good, because I tried a new recipe and the brownies tasted like crap and I would have hated for our good name to be sullied by those foul treats). But there’s wonderful in there, too. Lots of it.

It’s also a nice coincidence, because the best part of my day is spending it with these girls and the guy with whom I made them.

Throw in some sweet tea (I just made my first batch yesterday; YUM), and I’ve really got it good.

Way down south in Dixie

Posted on April 29, 2014 by missemtoo

We really did have a delightful time while we were away in Kiawah. Last year, our April break had been quite early, so the ocean wasn’t swimmable yet and, despite being rather far south, the coastal air was even a bit too chilly to do much pool swimming. Hence, high on the girls’ list this year was being able to get thoroughly wet.

Mission: accomplished.

Our first afternoon was gorgeous; not too hot, not a cloud in the sky, and an ocean at our fingertips. Er, toes.

Thank you, iPhone panorama.

Ahhhh, late-afternoon sun…

This fellow was still alive. Nick returned him to his home, accordingly.
And Ella, with her video camera, taking it all in? Fantastic.

I still can’t stop with the ocean-from-behind shots. They’re my kryptonite.

The following morning proved equally delicious. We spent pretty much the entire day at the beach and the pool.

The tide was suuuuuuper far out, leaving us with an enormous stretch of beach upon which to play.

If you click on the photos, you can see them bigger… That’s a bit more fun, just sayin’.

My girl was so ready to take on that ocean.

Yes, this means I waded out while still holding my good camera, just to catch her glee as she skipped over the incoming wave.

It was worth it.

Getting ready to bodysurf, something they learned how to do during this trip…

Not pictured: me, bodysurfing for the first time. To hear Annie tell it, “Mommy bodysurfed for the very first time ever – and she had the LONGEST RIDE OF THE DAY! It was a least FIFTY feet!!” I’m not one to brag, but I’m also not one to lie… It’s true. I rocked it.

Jambi wasn’t so impressed with the Atlantic – she’s the weirdo Lab who doesn’t like water – but she gamely tagged along for the ride anyway. Not that she had a choice.

Alas, we couldn’t spend all of our time at the shore – partly because we needed to do things like eat, partly because there are other things we love to do when we’re in Kiawah, and partly because the weather took a turn for the cold. Still, we found plenty with which to occupy ourselves.

Miss Annabelle awaits her entrée.
I love how her fork is turned the wrong way.

If there’s a flat surface, we’ll bike on it.

Go, Papa, go!
Because of the basket, I totally hear the Wicked Witch of the West music right now.

Don’t worry – she wore a helmet. We just took a 20 foot spin because I asked Nick to take a pic of us on the tandem bike.
Check out her camera-ready grin.

I was taking pictures of the rest of the family arriving on their bikes, so I told Jambi to sit.
She did.

We’ve been talking about visiting a local plantation for years, but wanted to wait until the girls were old enough to appreciate it at least a little. A couple of weeks prior to our trip, Ella serendipitously brought home a book titled Show Way, a marvelously-voiced story that segued nicely into talking about plantations (“The characters in the book are even from South Carolina, mom!”). Coincidentally, the cooler weather provided the perfect opportunity to make a day trip, and it was just as we’d hoped. To quote the girls, “Who knew a plantation could be so interesting?”

I guess I really do have a thing about shots from behind…
Grand Meg and Nick did enjoy the gardens at Magnolia Plantation, though. We all did, actually.

Plantations aside, we also just hung out… a lot. It was good.

Annie attempted to pass off Uncle Taylor’s hat as her own.

He got it back before he left.
For what it’s worth, this is our first sibling shot in quite some time. Holla!

Sure, we go to Kiawah for the weather. And the beaches. And the pools. And the spanish moss-lined trees hovering, canopy-like, over the one-lane road out to the island, just waiting to grow stealthily and wrap us all up in Southern hospitality. We go for the humidity in the air, enveloping us in velvety warmth. And the fresh fish and sweet tea, brimming with enough sugar to make the tooth fairy weep. And the ever-present sound of the ocean, rushing in and filling the world with a pleasantly rumbling echo.

This was taken off of our balcony on the night of the blood moon.

So, this may seem like the world’s least-exciting video… but that’s kind of what I love about it. The white-noise-rumble of the ocean in the background, the wind through the trees. It’s unexciting, sure… but it’s also peaceful and calming and relaxing and basically heaven.

Yes, we go to Kiawah for all of those things. But most of all? We go to be with family. To be with my dad and stepmom. To spend time with my brother and his boyfriend, Gary. And, best of all, to give Ella and Annie the opportunity to enjoy their Papa and Grand Meg, their Uncle Taylor and Gary.

It’s one thing to think your own kids are awesome (when they’re not driving you to drink fuzzy navels while you prepare dinner. Not that I would know). It’s another to see your friends and relatives enjoy them. But it’s a special kind of deliciousness to behold your dad and stepmom and brother and his partner (and also my fantastic cousin, Laurie, and her husband, Keith – who live in Charleston – although I don’t have any pictures of them this time around) just absolutely adore not only spending time with your children, but genuinely liking them as human beings.

I know that they like hanging out with Nick and me (to a certain degree, anyway), sure. But they cannot wait to be with Annie and Ella, to play games with them, to be silly with them, to get down on the floor and pretend with them, to ride bikes with them, to feed them treats that would otherwise be forbidden, to joke with them, to read with them, to listen to them, to laugh with them. They allow the girls to crawl into bed with them at ungodly early hours in the morning, to steal their sunglasses and shoes and pose with them, to ruffle their hair and call them goofy names. They cheerfully tolerate them putting on countless dance shows and singing exhibitions, asking the same questions for the thousandth time, and never giving them a moment’s peace.

Watching my family love my children for exactly who they are is… well… incredible.
And that is why we come to Kiawah.

Gary’s GoPro captured Ella with him underwater… along with Ella’s underwater camera, filming them both. A two-fer!

I just love these two photos – one taken by me, poolside…
… and the other taken by Gary from within the pool.

You totally know that I’ve asked for a GoPro for Mother’s Day.

Okay, so – truth be told – the weather at the end of the trip made things a little tough. You hate to complain about the weather on your vacation (I mean, it’s a vacation, after all, and it’s damn lucky you’re even on one), but when you go someplace so that you can swim – or at least enjoy being warm – and it winds up being much too cold or rainy to be outside, it’s a wee bit crummy. Next year, our spring break is monstrously early again (thanks ever so much, Easter), and we may try to head a way down south in Dixie a little later in April (even if it means pulling the girls from school for a few days; shhhh…) so that we’re more likely to encounter warm weather.

No matter what, though, these folks’ll be there.
And that’s the bestest part of all.

Especially if we throw some in sweet tea, too.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Category Archives: typical crazy