Walk With Mike: Week 4

Tues Jan 22:  Around the block with Tom and dogs.  These walks are squeezer inners--the kind where we don't really have time to go somewhere more interesting.  Plus, it was only 12 degrees, so we didn't want to be out longer than about 30 mins.

Wed Jan 23: I broke my outdoor walking streak today--it's minus 4 with some windchill.  So I treadmilled instead, which is infinitely more boring than walking outdoors.  So I watched TV to occupy my attention span.  This counts, right?

Thurs Jan 24: 

Fri Jan 25: 

Sat Jan 26: 

Sun Jan 27: 

Mon Jan 28: 

Walk With Mike: Week 3

Tues Jan 15:  Around the block with Tom and dogs. 

Wed Jan 16:  Around the block with Tom and dogs.  

Thurs Jan 17:  Hiked a windy loop at the Technology Park whales tails.  Dogs worked off a lot of energy running through the fields. 

Fri Jan 18:  Around the block with Tom and dogs.  Temps uncomfortably cold.  Not feeling much of a connection with the outdoors...

Sat Jan 19:  Around the block with Tom and dogs.  Wind uncomfortably cold.  Looking forward to walking in warmer times.

Sun Jan 20:  Hiked another very windy loop around the rec path and nature trail with Tom, Max, and dogs.  Once again, Max entertained. 

Mon Jan 21:  Hiked Lake Iroquois trails with Liz.  Temp = about 7 degrees.  No wind; physical activity kept us warm.  

Walk With Mike: Week 2

Tues Jan 8:  I tried to walk up to my favorite knoll this morning, but the trail was covered with blowing, drifting snow.  So I turned around and hiked at Mud Pond. 

Wed Jan 9:  Simple walk around neighborhood loop with Tom and dogs. 

Thurs Jan 10: A quick 20-minute walk up the street and back with Tom, Max, and dogs.  (Mia's birthday cake was in the oven, so we had to cut things short.)  The most magnificent thing about this walk was having it with a little guy who bounced, skipped, or ran the whole time.  Guess he had a little excess energy after a day at school.  

Fri Jan 11: Snowshoe at Sleepy Hollow while waiting for Mia at Nordic practice.  Quiet out there in the woods. 

Sat Jan 12:  Walk around neighborhood with Tom and dogs.

Sun Jan 13:  Walked Williston rec path with friend Liz and dogs on leash.  Snow is melting--January thaw--so woods are slushy and muddy.

Mon Jan 14: Walked Williston rec path while boys were at piano.  It was dark and lonely back there, and I wasn't very comfortable being alone.  So I stayed close to the school.  Not a rewarding walk.

Walk With Mike: Week 1

The other night, Husband told me about Michael Moore's walking streak:  30 minutes every day for something like 42 weeks now.  (His motivation:  https://www.facebook.com/mmflint/posts/10151165307981857).  I typically walk three or four times a week anyway, so why not "step it up?"  So I joined the New Year's resolvers and started Walking With Mike on January 1.  I aim to keep a weekly log to help pull me along (meant more for me than for you, dear reader, but you are certainly welcome to read along--or better yet, walk along too). 

WEEK 1
Tues, Jan 1:  The notable thing about today's walk:  It's my first official Walk With Mike on the first official day of the first month of a new year.  Tom and the dogs joined me around the neighborhood loop.  

Wed, Jan 2:  Tom and the dogs joined me again for the neighborhood loop.  I think the temp was around 10 degrees, but we still heard chickadees.  Started out quite chilly, yet I had unwrapped my scarf and unzipped my neck by time we finished. 

Thurs, Jan 3:  Today's walk was a Nordic ski.  Only 5 degrees out, but I stayed pretty warm.  I'm not a very skilled xc skier, but I do like being out on the trails in the woods by myself.  

Fri, Jan 4:  Walked with Tom and dogs at mud pond.  Windy, so the trees were noisy--creaking, squeaking, whistling, and dropping rather largish branches.  Running through the woods is surely the happy place of both dogs. 

Sat, Jan 5:  Walked with Tom and dogs at Lake Iroquois trails.  I wish I would've worn snowshoes.  

Sun, Jan 6:  Another ski day.  Downhill, with the whole family. 

Mon, Jan 7:  Afternoon walk around neighborhood with friend and neighbor Ivy (and dogs).  Time goes by quickly with Ivy, as she is a good conversationalist. 

Front Nine

Dear Max: 

I’m writing a couple weeks after your ninth birthday.  Of course, I always mean to write this on the day of, but time has run away with me, just as it is running away with you.

On your birthday, I posted on Facebook that I blinked, and you turned 9…

In this past year, I have watched you become particularly independent and confident.  Especially in the past few months, I frequently hear “I got this, Mom”, “I can do it,” “I’ll handle it” as you’re pouring orange juice for yourself or cooking an egg.  You apparently don’t need help anymore.

I read something about the development of 9 year olds—that they become worldly thinkers.  Worldly, like in how the world was actually created or what is the meaning of life.  And you said to me, out of the blue in the car the other day, “I can’t really imagine not having you as a mom.”  That warmed my insides, it did.

You are still solidly holding your own as the youngest against two teenagers (and Baxter).  You can play any game, strategizing and understanding the nuances with the best of us.  But I don’t really have a clear picture of your life as a student, as you don’t share much about school.  I remember at the end of last year, I ran into your teacher in the hallway at school and asked about you. “He has a sense of humor that is unlike most third graders,” he said.  I do notice this year that you may have crossed over a hump with spelling and are quicker to make choices.  

You are taller and thinner and can finally ride most roller coasters.  Your room is almost always tidy, and you are the least likely to complain about chores.  You have an uncanny ability to pick up the tune and chorus of a song.  You still won’t wear clothes with zippers, though you have relented to an occasional button.  You have far too much energy for two old parents.  You enjoyed golf camp over the summer, and I so enjoyed playing with you.  

Your Grandma Jo says you have turned into your dad’s Mini Me.  I can’t deny it.  Your looks have moved in that direction, and you tend to communicate (or not) with me in the same style—making me dig for what I really want to know.  For instance, “Who did you have lunch with today?” I ask.  “My friends,” you tell me. 

When I watch you from a distance, I still see that baby who smiled at everything, that even-keeled toddler who never threw a tantrum, that Kindergartner who was sent to the Planning Room on Day 5 of school for playfully wrestling with his buddies on the playground, and that third grader who finds humor in the things that others don’t quite get yet.  You are still the happy one, the guy who just wants to have a little fun, our SpongeBob afficionado.  And I am so curious to see where this spirit takes you over time.  It surely won’t be a boring place. 

Love,
Mom

Lucky #13

Dear Will: 

13.  It’s so weird to think of you as a teen—you haven’t gone through any wild mood swings or cranky periods yet.  Quite the opposite, really.  You are a delightful young person!

You still seem like you like to hang out with Dad and me; you’re the kid who I can count on to accept a compromise; you take responsibility for anything thrown in your direction; you enjoy a good meal; you’re agreeable; you’re almost always in a good mood; you’re an awesome role model for your brother.  

This doesn’t seem like typical teenage stuff…

On the extracurricular front, you love theatre, gaming, and Camp Billings.  You also like math, running, sailing, swimming, hanging out with Baxter, and bowling.   You don’t like beets, language arts, or housework.  A little more typical, I think.  

As a member of the LEAD group in school, captain of the cross-country team, and recipient of the Camp Billings Triangle of Honor, you’ve shown a confident capacity for and interest in being a leader.  And you will debate an issue until the cows come home.  That headstrong and stubborn streak of your toddler years is still there, but it shows itself in more positive ways now.  

You are on the top of the hill as an 8^th grader, and you started the year with a long list of things you need to accomplish:  homework, athletics, theatre, chorus, band, your 8^th grade community service project.  You seemed a bit stressed by the challenge of it all, but I don’t see anything getting in your way. 

Except for this:  You lose things.  But you find them.  I don’t think I’ll ever meet a person who has such a lucky streak for finding misplaced things.  You lost a new jacket four days after you received it for your birthday, and when I asked you if you had found it, your answer was “Not YET.”  And you found it the next day.  This happens relatively frequently with your lunchbox too.  

Everyone notices your patience with Max.  He still follows you everywhere and talks constantly at you, and you are remarkably kind, helpful, and accommodating toward him.  The few times you brush him off, I certainly can’t blame you, for you’ve likely lasted longer than most would with his constant “attentions.”  

Your current profession of choice is an actor.  As you know, I usually suggest that this passion should be more of a hobby than a profession for you (as I’m a little concerned that this won’t be a very generous path for you.)  But you say you’re going to prove me wrong... :)

So here we go into your years of getting prepared to be an adult.  It’s likely that you will get a little moody and make some bad choices in the coming years.  (Remember “Fork you”?)  And I bet your room will never be spotless, your hair will never be long and messy, and your individuality will never be compromised. 

Love,
Mom

The Douchbag

After going blog-dark for a little over a year now, I have been feeling eager to write again, and a few stories that need archiving (for entertainment in my old age) have recently transpired.  This one developed during today's carpool to high school.  The setting:  My car.  The characters:  One junior, a boy; four freshpeople, all girls; the driver, me. 

In the murmur of the sleepy teen conversation, I heard J use the word "douchbag." 

Me:  J, did you just say douchbag?
J:  Sorry, Mrs. P.
Me:  You can use the word if first you can tell me it's real meaning.
A, boldly:  It's what you use to clean your vagina.
S:  Well, you don't use the bag to clean your vagina.  
A:  No, the bag contains the stuff you use. 
Me:  Excellent.  You may now use the word freely.  

F, the boy junior, did not say a word.  

So then I asked what a douchbag is in the street sense.  These are what I gathered are some of a douchbag's characteristics--all news to me: 

• They are lax bros--guys who play lacrosse.
• They wear tall/long dark socks. 
• Their shirts are either polos or sleeveless pinnies.  
• They wear either salmon-colored cotton shorts (like khakis) or long, brightly colored sport shorts.  I wondered why salmon. 
• They have nice hair they toss around.  This is called "flow." 
• They often wear their "snapbacks" on the front of their heads.  A snapback is the sizing mechanism on certain caps. 
• Douchbags are attractive.  If you are not attractive, you are not a douchbag. 

J was the most passionate about the distinctions of a douchbag.  F, the boy junior, helped me understand what a snapback is.  

Me:  F, I'm surprised you subscribe to this douchbagging. 
F:  I'm not really that committed to it.  

I dropped them off and school and thanked them for such an enlightening morning.  Then I pointed to a guy wearing salmon shorts, and they all gave me a thumbs up.  

Note to readers:  I do not plan to share this blog (or any) with my daughter, as I would like to continue to document such mornings, and I don't want her to shut down for fear that I will write about her on the internet.  So no snitching!  

Vermont Quilt Show

My first visit to the Champlain Valley Quilt Show, which rivaled any collection of quilts I've ever seen--a spectacular show of folk art.  


Some of my favorites: 

Unleashed Emotions

After a particularly difficult evening with a bad-tempered Daughter (tired after a sleepover), Husband read this passage in Keith Richard's autobiography Life.  It made us laugh.  

"The power of the teenage females of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, when they're in a gang, has never left me.  They nearly killed me.  I was never more in fear for my life that I was from teenage girls.  The ones that choked me, tore me to shreds, if you got caught in a frenzied crowd of them--it's hard to express how frightening they could be.  You'd rather be in a trench fighting the enemy than to be faced with this unstoppable, killer wave of lust and desire, or whatever it is--it's unknown even to them.  The cops are running away, and you're faced with this savagery of unleashed emotions." 

On so many levels, ain't that the truth. 

Sleepovers should be banished.  

The Ghosts In Me

I was corresponding with a friend the other day about some ranch land near Elko, Nevada, that one wing of my family managed in the early to mid-1900s.  He knew of the area and told me that he always thought I "had a little hillbilly" in me.  My response to him was that I have the ghosts of many things stirring in me--even Republicans.  His response: "They all watch over you and make sure you don't turn into the dreaded yuppie."

Which got me thinkin' about those ghosts...

• Great grandfather:  chief engineer on a Great Lakes freighter
• Another great grandfather: physician (who delivered me in 1965)
• Great grandmother:  suicidal
• Another great grandmother:  a woman of the kitchen--I have her cookbooks, which are wilting away but filled with old clippings, notes, and shared recipes
• A great x4 grandfather: War of 1812 hero*
• Grandmother and grandfather:  Apple orchard owners and city superintendent
• A great x3 grandfather: U.S. district attorney for the State of Delaware
• A very distant aunt: owner of oriental rug factories in China
• Great x2 grandfather, aunt, and uncle:  cattle ranchers near Elko, Nevada
• Great x 2 grandfather: attorney and member of Nevada State Legislature
• Great x4 grandfather: Maryland physician; owner of many slaves

 *As the story is told, this Captain John Adams Webster once came across a wrecked Japanese ship and rescued the sole survivor, a man named Hecko.  Hecko could not return to Japan because the Japanese beheaded men who had contact with other civilizations (true?).  So Captain Webster took Hecko home to Maryland and educated him.  Hecko became the Captain's secretary.  

In the War of 1812, Captain Webster, at Fort Babcock, awakened and heard the sound of boat oars in the water--an advancing British fleet.  He aroused his crew, which began firing on the fleet, forcing them to retreat.  Family lore claims that it was from this incident that Francis Scott Key wrote the "Star Spangled Banner."  Also true?  I can't be sure, but it's a good story to tell.

Back to those ghosts...

The list above includes just 1/4 of my family--kin from just my maternal grandfather's family, the Pattersons and Dorseys of English, Irish, and Scottish origins, who lived primarily on the Eastern seaboard, Nevada, and into California.  My maternal grandmother's family, the Muhlitners and Satlers, came from Germany and settled directly in St. Clair, Michigan, in the 1850s.  This is where I was born. I have long records of this family hierarchy, but I know nothing about them as people.  I also know nothing about my paternal family.

Which means there is another 3/4 of my heritage stirring in me, and I have no idea who or what they were.  If the list above is any indication of variety, just think of the possibilities...

Thirteen

Dearest Daughter: 

A day or so ago, when we talked about how to celebrate your 13th birthday, you told me this: 

You:  I don't want a party.

Me: What?  How could that be?  This is a big year for you. 

You:  No it's not.  Sweet 16 is the big one

Me:  What do you mean, Sweet 16?

You:  You know, the year you get the biggest birthday party of your life?

Me:  No, I don't think I knew about that.

You:  You don't know anything, Mom. 

And that about sums up where we are right now...

I don't really mind if you think this though, because I am confident that I do know a few things about a few things--like being 13, for instance.  

I know that as you move into your teens, you are a pure and beautiful study of opposites.  Happy/sad, mad/loving, confident/uncertain, independent/defenseless, pushing/pulling, stressed/carefree, social/private all wrapped into sometimes the same day.  (OK, you're not actually uncertain very often.  You're too stubborn to be uncertain.)   

I know I primally *get* you in ways I've never understood anyone else, so your shifts don't really vex me.  At the same time, there are times you can turn on my mad switch quicker than lead sinks.  

I know you are getting sassier, to be sure.  Some days, that's cause for a warning; other days, I'm privately proud that you are standing strong for something you want or believe in.  

I know your friends, of course, are your axis.  Music, social networking, horseback riding, swimming, and cupcakes turn your gears.  

I know that the more I try to share with you, the more you deny me. No shopping together anymore.  No reading books together.  You received a cell phone this past Christmas, and told me not to text you.  "That's weird, Mom." 


I know that despite all your rebuffs, I won't be so weird someday (well, not weird in the same ways that I am now).  We are inextricably connected by so many common qualities and conditions.  As my first born, you paved the parenting path for me and forced me come up with answers for a gazillion questions.  And as the little person you are today, you've reminded me of the joyfulness of being happy/sad, mad/loving, confident/uncertain, independent/defenseless, pushing/pulling, stressed/carefree, social/private all wrapped into one perfect package.  

So I guess we'll keep you for another year.  



Love ya!  Kiss, kiss. 
Mom

P.S.  Dad says that he hopes your taste in music improves.  

P.S.S.  This year was also the year of the "horse."  I remind you of this so that in years to come, you can think back and remember what a debacle that was.  I hope you laugh.  

Page 3

Los Angeles brought many "firsts" to our new lives:

Tom's first real job out of college--writing dBase documentation at Ashton-Tate
Avocados
In-and-Out Burger
El Pollo Loco

Christmas on a beach 
Body builders on a beach
An apartment a block from the beach (where we moved after about five months) 

Authentic Mexican food
Surfing (just Tom--a neighbor named Louie taught him)
Jasmine and gardenias
Smog and water pollution
Drought
Movie premieres  
Irish pubs
The La Brea Tar Pits
Massive flea markets ("swap meets")
California pottery

And earthquakes.  On October 1, 1987, as Tom was driving me to work, our car (a used Mercury Marquis we picked up after our other car was totaled) started bumping all over the road.

"What's wrong with this thing?" he wondered as he started to pull over to the shoulder of the freeway. 

At that same moment, we heard on the radio that a 6.0 earthquake had just hit the Whittier area--right where we were driving.  

Being transplants, we had no concept of what an earthquake really meant, and we laughed at how silly we were--thinking it was our car.  I didn't really understand the dynamics of the force until later in the day when I was in the warehouse where I worked and an aftershock hit.  Feeling the floor and walls move around me scared me into a frenzy, and I flew off the loading dock and out of the building like a bullet.  Again, that night, another aftershock shook us out of our bed and apartment, wild eyed and panicked.  I remember my heart beating hard and fast the whole rest of that night.  

We felt many more earthquakes in our years in California, though none as big as the Whittier quake.  When they first start to rumble, you stop and wait to see if it's a "big one."  I guess you sort of get used to them, as I don't recall reacting much to any after that first one. 

***********

I also saw my first unprocessed dead body in LA.  After Tom started his Ashton-Tate job, I was unexpectedly offered a job as an administrative assistant at USC.  My classes were at night, and as a full-time staff member of the University, I could take one class per term for free--a savings of more than $25K over the course of my degree.  So I plugged away at both the job and just one class per term until I earned my full master's degree, nearly debt free.  

At any rate, we still had only one car, so most days, I drove Tom to work, then headed up Figueroa Street to campus, through South Central LA (also known as "Watts"), an area rife with gangs.  (Given LA traffic, this whole morning route sometimes took up to 1.5 hours.)  I felt safe in my car, but one morning, I passed by an area marked by yellow tape just as the police pulled a blanket off a body lying on the ground.  A surreal scene I still remember to this day.  

***********

I don't intend here to make LA seem like a dangerous or derelict city.  It was just so different from where we came--I'm not sure we could've found a more opposite place to land.  At the same time, it was full of original experiences, food, sights, music, and people.  From there, road trips took us to the Mohave Desert, beach towns north and south, Mexico, Mono Lake, Las Vegas, Disneyland, and Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park.  We met some wonderful friends and enjoyed birthday, New Year's, and Academy Awards parties with them.  We auditioned for a couple of game shows.  We saw a lot of concerts.  And we were even invited to spend a day surfing in Malibu at actor Jack Warden's house (Tom worked with his nephew).  I don't remember much about that day except that the other people at the house--friends of Tom's colleague--were pretty wasted.  

So yeah, LA was an adventure on all fronts.  While we never felt as though it would be a home to us, we were highly entertained by its experience, and we still laugh over the memories. 

Page 2

When we arrived in Los Angeles--bright eyed and a bit overwhelmed by the size of the place--our first mission was to find a place to live.  We had no idea where to start looking, but we had a general idea where the campus was and where my office was, so we somehow settled in San Gabriel, within walking distance to the Clearman's North Woods Restaurant, where we often enjoyed a burger, red cabbage salad, and cheese bread.  (We stopped for lunch at this same restaurant 13 years later, when we passed through LA on our way out of California for good--a fitting bookend.)  

A look though the newspaper for an affordable apartment was our first clue that we were no longer in the little leagues.  In northern Michigan, we had both paid around $100 a month for a room.  In LA, we were shocked that we were going to need to shell out more than $400 a month for an apartment.  In one of those apartments, we saw termites floating in the toilet and realized that we needed to adjust our baseline.  I don't remember exactly what we paid for our first apartment--I think it may have been closer to $500 a month--but I do remember it was on the second floor of a indistinct complex.  It had two rooms and a very small kitchen, and we decorated it with two lawn chairs and a blow-up mattress.

I went to work immediately, and Tom filled his days building a resume and scouring the paper for jobs.  Since we had only one car, Tom drove me to and from my office.  

Shortly after we moved in, a neighbor knocked on the door and invited Tom to play poker.  George was very tall, fair, mustached, and he smoked a pipe.  He managed a local Friendly's, I believe, and was desperately in love with a Mexican woman whom he was trying to bring to California.  He and Tom became fast friends and often spent afternoons lounging around the pool. I don't recall George being a good influence on Tom, but I do recall that he made killer potstickers. 

Another set of neighbors, a couple from India, recently had a baby.  The woman often knocked on our door to chat or to bring us Indian snacks.  She also often paced back and forth in front of our living room window, singing to her baby.  I have to admit that we sometimes didn't answer the door when she knocked, as it was difficult to bring her visits to an end. 

About two weeks after we settled in, Tom was in a Kinko's getting resumes copied.  When he walked out of the store, he saw that "some poor fella's parked car had been hit."  Then he realized it was our car, totaled by a guy who only tell Tom, "I hit car."

Another two weeks later, it rained.  We walked outside to crisp, clear skies and were shocked to discover that we lived about a mile from the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, which we had never seen due to the smog. 

Welcome to LA...

Page 1

June 1987.  I've just graduated from Michigan Tech University, and I'm scheduled to be at USC in Los Angeles for grad school in September.  Tom (not yet Husband) decides to come along. "I've always wanted to go to LA," he says casually.  I don't think either of us gave the arrangement much thought beyond that.  My parents are somewhat glad I'm not going alone.  His parents are reluctant (read: highly distraught with his impetuous decision) but let us take the car they've given Tom.  Neither of us has ever been west of the Mississippi.  

Concerned about my finances, my mother arranges an interview for an LA-based job at the copper and brass manufacturing company for which she works.  The job:  inside sales at a distribution warehouse--a position for which I have no experience.  As a Communications major with job experience as a lifeguard, working at the dorm desk, and writing news releases for the university news bureau--selling copper fittings and tubing to plumbers was a stretch.  But I somehow talk them into hiring me, so we need to leave for LA earlier than we had planned. 

We pack up all our worldly possessions--clothes, blankets, one of the original Macintosh computers (maybe even a Mac II?) and its diskettes, and head out across the country.  Across the country.  An adventure I'd never envisioned myself on.  I don't really know what grand plan I had in mind for myself, but I'm pretty sure it didn't involve being in Los Angeles. In pictures of the trip, we looked like a couple of carefree kids, to be sure.  Tom has a gift for driving long distances without getting tired, and I doze off every couple of hours.  I didn't drive much.       

I do remember going zen when we drove through Kansas.  Those forever fields of warm, yellow wheat, with long trains or tall silos the only breaks in the scene, hypnotized me. We watched a huge thunderheads develop and let loose in the distance.  In Topeka, we stopped for lunch, where we were offered "Kerrs and Kerrs Lite" as beverage choices.  Tom ordered a "Kerrs." 

We pass through St. Louis.  Into Colorado, we see snow on the caps, and we delight in driving through tunnels.  In Golden, we stop at Buffalo Bill's grave site--for no reason, I imagine, other than we were there, and it was there.  My guess is that I had to convince Tom to stop, for he's not generally a sucker for tourist stops, and I am.  In our pictures, he wears a white trucker's cap that reads "America Rocks." 

Across Utah, we were both captivated by the canyons and colors of the landscape, that in places, looked more like a moonscape.  We take a break in Zion, the only national park stop on this trip, and hiked through sandstone cliffs with warm, western colors that danced and changed with the light.  Such a contrast to the forested landscapes of Michigan, where we both grew up.

We are only a day or two away from Los Angeles, where everything contrasts to all the previous days of our lives growing up in Michigan.  Those pages to come...

Eleven

 

Dearest William: 

In this belated birthday letter for 2010--the year you turned 11--I will tell you why I think you may be destined to become a frat boy...

It came to light yesterday, when you were describing the "Core Olympics" in which your class was participating on the last day of school before Christmas break.  

"I really want to be in the frozen t-shirt contest, where you take a frozen t-shirt and defrost it enough to put it on.  The first one on wins."  

A frat challenge for 11 years olds if I've ever heard of one.  

Backing up in time to four months ago:  It's the middle of August, and you've been at Camp Billings for two weeks.  When Dad, Max, and I arrive to take you home, Mia greets us first.

"Will has been wearing the same sock for a week."  

Notice she said "sock" not "socks".  

Sure enough, when I find you at the tether ball with Baxter, you're wearing one knee-high rainbow-striped toe sock on one foot, a black strip of fabric tied around your other ankle, and your red Crocs.  

"Are other people dressed like that too?" I asked.  They were not. 

Another 11yo frat boy sight to behold.  

**************************************************

One of the things I LOVE about you is that your sense of self and independence is already strong and bold.  You've got your own style, you make your own choices, and you don't really seem to give a flip about what others think. 

That's not to say you're not conscientious.  Your trendy Justin Bieber hair swoosh and your skinny jeans give that away.  

In this, your sixth-grade year, you are holding strong academically and surprising me with a solid performance in language arts--a subject that didn't spark your interest in any way whatsoever in previous years.  I also see you highly enjoying your first year studying French.  

You took up cross-country running, basketball, snowboarding, and swimming this year--leaving taekwondo behind.  You also loved spending days on the lake with Dad on the sailboat or on a board behind the ski boat.  When I watch you groove on piano and your toe taps, mine does too.

You are still an amazing older brother to Max.  The other day, he was struggling with something--I don't remember what--and you doubled back to kindly help him.  Neither Max nor I asked you to help, but you just did it as naturally as any warmhearted person would.  

Finally, about a month ago, I said something to you, and you scowled at me.  Then you followed with a big grin, as if you say, "I was just kiddin' mom."  And I thought to myself...I don't have much longer before that scowl is NOT followed by that wonderful grin.  

I dunno though...I have a feeling that grin is here to stay and will get you far--with both your mom and the rest of the world.  

I love you. 

Mom

Ho, Ho, Ho!

For a couple days now, I've been working on a blog about how to simplify the holidays.  I deleted it, however, because at the end of the blog, I figured out that being spirited isn't really all that complicated.  

You decorate a tree, give some gifts, bake some cookies, plan a few family meals.  Eh voila!  You got yourself a solid holiday.  

Little One is full of cheer and is pulling the rest of the sluggish family along.  He still believes in Santa and has played "Jingle Bells" on the piano at least 80 times.  He has already watched Charlie Brown, Frosty, and  Rudolph.  And he begs every evening to decorate our tree (standing in our house now, undecorated, for six days).  But it's hard to pull everyone together on weeknights, so tonight, Friday, is his night. 

Our shopping is 98% finished, and admittedly, we've fully embraced the consumerism of the season.  I always think we're going to cut back, but Husband rallies with bargains he finds online.  Plus, I don't feel like we bought stuff the kids won't use.  That seems to be an upside to older children--they actually want practical gifts, usually of an electronic nature.  But Will even put a snowboarding helmet on his list.    

I gave up holiday cards a couple years ago for eco reasons.  I'll also cut back on cookies this year because I'm the person who eats the most and needs the least.  The kids cherish decorating my great-grandmother's cut-out cookies though, just as I did as a kid.  (Mia says the cookies are her favorite holiday tradition.)  I have some dough already in the freezer, so maybe we'll just make a small batch and call it a Christmas day.  

So I just need to pull out some decorations, find a good Santa for Max to visit, bake a few cookies--and I have more than two weeks to pull it all off. So why was I looking to simplify? 

I think I actually need to simplify some other areas of my life, not the holidays.  Christmas comes only once a year, and it really does bring out the happy in people.  Plus, I think we have only another two or three years left of the Santa Show.  So it's definitely time for me get on the sleigh and get a shot of seasonal joy.  


Or maybe a bottle of seasonal joy (one with lots of bubbles), a Starbucks Cranberry Bliss bar, and some Christmas tunes.  How simple is that?  Ho, ho, ho! 

A Crack in Everything

Feeling a little heavy hearted whenever I see news about Elizabeth Edward's passing today.  What a role model and figure of strength.  

Note to self:  Remember this:  

In an interview, she quoted this from Leonard Cohen's "Anthem": 

Ring the bells that still can ring.

Forget your perfect offering. 

There's a crack in everything. 

That's how the light gets in.

From her latest book: 

"[When my children] tell their own children about their grandmother, they will be able to say she stood in the storm.  And when the wind did not blow her way--and it surely has not--she adjusted her sails." 

Seven

Dear Max: 

You turned seven 82 days ago, and I missed the opportunity to write you a birthday letter then.  So here goes now... 

Just yesterday, I went to your school library to see if I could find a missing book.  When I told the librarians your name, they both smiled, and said, "We love Max."  They didn't even seem to care that you had lost a book.  I told them that I love you too but that they shouldn't be fooled by your smile.  There's a little rascal in there too.  (See picture above as proof.)  

"He's always so happy," one of them remarked.  "Always smiling."  I confirmed this, and told them that people have been saying this about you since your very early days.  This is truly one of your gifts. 

Also just yesterday, while I was sitting at my desk working, you were carefreely skipping rope around the room.  I stopped and watched you and indulged in the freedom and purity of your kid-ness, and I felt so fortunate to still have that energy in my life.  Your older brother and sister aren't always so free and uncomplicated anymore.  

In the past year, you learned to confidently ride a bike.  You mastered the kneeboard behind the ski boat.  Your reading has advanced leaps and bounds.  Your math mind still amazes me with the things you can figure out.  You started riding the bus after school to the taekwondo studio without Will--a big show of independence.  You marched with the Little League in the Fourth of July parade, and threw candy to only your brother and sister and their friends.  And you kept leaving these notes at my desk: 

During your first second grade school conference, I asked your teachers about your social life. 

"Everybody likes Max," they told me. 

"Yes, but does Max like everybody?" I asked.  

"Well, he's definitely a cat," remarked one of your teachers, suggesting that your social choices were all on your terms.  I cannot think of a better metaphor for you.  

Your older brother is still the center of your life.  You still offer to help me in the garden (which everyone else complains about), and you always reach for my hand when we walk out there.  You organize things, like the kitchen drawer where we keep all the plastic bowls and cups. And you take good care of your fish. 

All this sweetness, then you give me some kind of cool-dude surfer hand gesture in response to some request, and I realize that you are indeed growing up, you won't fit on my lap for much longer, and that jump rope will be too short for you someday very soon. 

Little Man Cat, you are the light of our family, you make us all smile and laugh, and you manage yourself with style.  Keep it real, dude. 

Love, 
Mom