Under the Fly Creek Sun

Eulogy

2010-10-03T19:54:00.001-04:00

I was about eight and it was the first warm day. Spring came late at the lake. My grandfather excitedly pulled a new bike out of the garage. By new, I mean something he had found at a Saturday morning yard sale and purchased alongside a pile of old board games, a broken radio, a few rusty old tools and the remains of someone else’s tackle box. And bargained the poor unsuspecting owner down to five dollars with his unrelenting gift of gab. The bike was too big for me and not at all stylish with its cushy seat and front basket. But that was the charm of the lake. The ground was soggy with late April snow and wet fallen leaves. I had eked an unusual permission to ride around the circular drive, out into the road and back into the yard, but no further, The path was well worn and too short and within a matter of minutes, I veered off course and onto the front lawn. The wheel caught the edge of a tiny tree stump, skidding the tire, sending me off the bike and the plummeting the handle bar straight into my chest. There was an intense pain as the wind was knocked out of me and a guttural moan escaped my lips. Within in instant my grandfather was at my side.

“Darn old stump,” he said. “Grampie never should have left that there.” I looked up and saw tears in his own eyes.

That scene was my grandfather. A passionate, sensitive man. He loved the outdoors. He loved a good bargain. He loved his life and he loved his family, feeling the joys and pains of each member as if they were his own.

Smell is said to be the sense most closely linked to memory. I find it to be true. My grandfather smelled of the outdoors. Wet wool socks and fresh cut wood. Gasoline and cold air. I still smell the damp dirt road and decomposing leaves of our long walks to the clearing by the lake. That certain densely organic, dankness along the planks to the dock. The scent of sun on water on a summer’s day and worms in a styrofoam container. The crispness of wood smoke on a cold winter’s night. These are the smells of my grandfather.

I see flannel shirts and suspenders. Off white socks. Work boots. A hat. A grey lunch pail. A nice warm coat. Heavy leather gloves. A toothpick in his mouth. A cup of coffee in his hand. Fishing poles and tackle boxes. Reclaimed piles of who-knows-what rescued from the dump.

I hear Box Car Willy on an eight track. Mr. Lincoln on the CB. And talk of a new car. A new tractor. A new four wheeler. Something new with wheels. The Channel 6 news, Lawrence Welk and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. That certain sound from his mouth that only he could make. The peepers and the deafening snore at night. This, the sound track of my memories.

And what I feel is loved. What we all felt was loved. My grandfather loved his family, and whether we lived across the country or across the yard, we lived too far away from him. Whether it had been a year since our last visit or only a day, it had been too long, His beliefs were simple and straightforward. Love your family. Love the Lord. The rest would take care of itself.

He and my grandmother shared 70 years together facing the joys and challenges of life. She was the love of his life. Together they gave their four children magical childhoods on the farm. I am sure the work was hard, but the rewards were greater. The shared memories of these days has been the background music of my life – of slides down the grain elevator, of giggling at the dinner table, of bikes ridden down hallways, of afternoon naps, of old dogs and milking time and home cooked meals and snowfalls so grand they buried cars. The tellers of these tales always look content – the nostalgia bringing them back to a happy place in their minds – that space that they shared with my grandfather.

The evidence of happy times surrounded me as I grew up. My grandparents had so many good friends. Good friends they camped with and fished with and played laughter-filled games of cards with until late at night. I grew up with more “aunts” and “uncles” than I could count – their friends were our family too and a testament to their overwhelming love and generosity.

Grampie loved to talk and visit. A quick trip anywhere with him could last for hours and try the patience of any impatient child. I can remember standing by his side at yard sales or coffee shops, silently willing him forward as he talked, and chatted and reminisced and gossiped and gabbed and chatted some more with anyone who would stop long enough to listen. He loved people and people loved him right back.

He had a special place in his heart for his grandchildren. His boat, christened the Becky Lynn, sat in the yard. The grandkids would pile into the wagon of his tiny tractor for rides. He took us on his snow mobile, his four wheeler, for walks in the woods. We sat on his lap and punched at his newspaper, tickled him knowing we were in for an easy laugh, tried to catch the toothpick in his mouth before he sucked it back in, waited anxiously for him to come home from work so we could see what treat he had left in his lunchbox. He taught us how to fish and how to row a boat and how to catch a frog. With the patience of Job, he even taught me how to drive. Around and around the country roads we would travel, stories of fish caught with balls of bread and toys made from strings and life as he remembered it from when he was a boy.

I interviewed a spiritual advisor from Hospice once when I was writing a news story. He told me that at the end of life, all humans, no matter how they have lived, no matter what they believe, come to the same point as they face their own mortality. They want to know what their life has meant, that their life has mattered. I am sure Grampie struggled with this as he wrestled old age. We will never know what conclusions he came to, what peace and value he discovered in the examination of his own life. But I do know what his life has shown to me. Love your family. Have faith. Talk to people. Be loyal. Work hard. Make plenty of time for fun. Wear your heart on your sleeve.

Alex got a new fishing pole for his birthday this year. We set out for the lake with a Styrofoam container of worms. And the scene was the same. The peatiness of the soil. The scent of warm sun on the water. The catch of the breeze. I put my arm around Alex’s shoulders, took his hand in mine and taught him how to cast, and while I was now the teacher, I felt Grampie’s arm around me. It took only seconds for the first sunfish to bite, only seconds for the fantastic joy of a first catch to spread across Alex’s face. Only seconds for me to realize I had to get it off the hook and only seconds to wish more than anything Grampie were actually right beside me. And, somehow, he was. I took a breath. Held the fish in my hand, and set it free. I saw Alex’s relief as it swam away. The same relief I had as a child. So thrilled to catch something. So happy it could still swim home.

“Wow. That fish must be happy to be going back to his family,” he said. “Do you think he was scared?”

Of course, I cannot say. Life is a series of catching and releasing. Of holding something in our hand and of letting it go. I think this past week, Grampie taught us all how to do that with grace.

What he has left behind is like a tackle box of memories. Different layers that can be pulled out or folded back up. Tiny compartments filled with surprises. A few old, worn favorites that always work. Some so tucked away and forgotten that to discover them to find something new.

So it is with someone who loved so much, with someone we loved so much. Grampie has found his way back home, but so powerful a force was he in our lives that our time with him will go on. We will sense him in the wood smoke. Feel his hand in the warmth of a coffee cup. Hear his advice in a squeaky car belt. See his reflection in the faces of our children. Feel his love in a hug from another.

There is a famous quote that states: “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”

I lost my breath falling off that bike thirty years ago, but what I gained was a moment; a moment like so many I shared with my grandfather that simply took my breath away.

Breath of Life

2010-09-26T20:38:00.004-04:00

My grandfather died today.

I was once told that the most powerful experiences are being present as someone enters this world and being present as someone leaves it.

Today I learned they are remarkably the same.

I sat with my grandfather the past two days and listened to him breathe.

Yesterday, it was a struggle, fraught with agitation that left him unable to rest. I held his hand in my hand, I tried to bring him comfort with touch, but there was no peace in his restless breathing, his restless body. I closed my own eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, the calming, "Feel the breath," mantras of so many yoga classes ringing in my ears as calm settled over me.

Breath. The essence of life. Never have I been more aware. It is breath we listen for when a baby is born. It is breath we listen for as we watch someone die. It is breath that calms us and breath our body will keep taking long after everything else seems to have slipped away.

In my own moment of peaceful breath, I remembered another particularly beautiful mantra from yoga, one whispered silently at the end of a meditation: "Inhale life. Exhale joy. Breathe in life. Breathe out joy." And so, as I sat with my grandfather, I closed my eyes again and placed my hand on his heart, a top his laboring chest. I imagined a power working through me, one that could take away his anxiety, take away his suffering, and leave him at peace, if only for a moment. I inhaled deeply of life, and exhaled joy and wished the same for him, knowing the life he inhaled was not of this world, that the joy was of the next. And while I cannot say that it calmed him, it did calm me. The life I breathed in was one of sunny days and laughter, the joy I exhaled, happy memories of the man who was my grandfather.

When I arrived at the nursing home today, his breathing had changed. Gone was the agitation. Gone the anxious fight. He was still. The breath still labored, but smoother. Except that it would stop. It would stop for long seconds. Almost a minute. His breath would stop and I would hold my own. Willing him to breathe again and wishing him the peace to not breathe again. Instinct dies hard. The body wants to breathe. We want the ones we love to breathe as much as we want their struggle to end. The breathing and not breathing went on for long hours as our family sat beside him. I thought of Alex, newly born. I could not close my eyes for weeks. I needed to watch him breathe. My eyes on his tiny chest would will his lungs to keep inhaling and exhaling. My eyes would guarantee that he would breathe. When my eyes could stay open no longer, it was my hand on his chest. I could feel it rise and fall. If my hand were there, he would breathe.

I watched my grandfather like that today. I watched his chest rise and fall and stop. And then start again. I looked around the room at my aunt and uncles, cousins, mother, grandmother. I know we were all doing the same. We could talk and laugh, sit silently or cry, but we were really listening for that breath.

And it was my grandmother, his wife of 70 years, who first knew it would not come again. She sat with his hand in her hand and said, "He isn't breathing." My eyes met my mother's eyes over his body and knew his breath would come no more. So silent, a breath. So silent that last exhale. So loud the silence that followed even as it ushered in peace.

I am too tired tonight. Each of us who loved him will greet sleep with a different emotion - peace, sadness, relief, emptiness. I think of my grandmother falling asleep without him for the first time in 70 years. I think of my mother, my aunt, my uncles - their first night without a father. I think of me, of us, his grandchildren. And I think of him. I think of him and I simply can't do it without seeing a happy man - his legs free, his mood light, a fishing pole in his hand, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, and a smile on his face.

I inhale life and exhale joy. And I know he does the same.

To My Beautiful Son at Seven

2010-07-29T03:58:00.003-04:00

Dear Alex,

You turned seven this week. Seven. A lucky number. Seven lucky years ago the midwife laid your perfect little body in my arms and I never wanted to stop holding you, stop watching you, stop being amazed just to see your chest rise and fall and your eyes open and look out at your new world.

I still feel that way.

At seven, you exclaim, "Sweet!" when you like something. You have a quick temper that frequently lashes out at me. But when you are tired or when you are unsure, your strong, growing body still melts into mine and you whisper, "I love you" in the quietest of voices as I breathe in the scent of your hair - the smells of running and playing and sand and lake water and wild berries. The scent of the sun at its most blazing glory.

At seven, you love all things technology and that is your dad in you. But you also love all things nature. You can find herbs growing wild in the forest. You seem to have an instinct for edible berries. You declared the one cherry tomato that managed to survive our weed-choked garden the best food you have ever tasted. You are an inspiring chef who amazes us with your artistry with food, who can't help but conncocte something new if there is more than one ingredient around, who would rather mix his juice into his berries and stick them in the freezer to see what happens than eat his breakfast as it is.

At seven, you begged for a light saber. You want to be on the Dark Side, although it is clear your heart is all good. You bicker constantly with your sister but bring her special crafts from your summer program, - bandaids and bracelets constructed from beads. She smiles and thanks you with astonishment and sincerity that makes my heart skip a beat and you smile a funny little smile you save for her alone.

At seven your life is a constant treasure hunt. Our home is filled with special sticks and stones, pieces of pottery pulled from the lake, nuts and berries. They fill the shelves of your room. They fill the bay window. They fill ziplock bags in the bottom of my purse, in my glove compartment, my old coffee cup.

At seven, you are every bit the wonder you were to me the first moment I held you in my arms. I sit and watch your sun drenched golden head - bobbing just above the water at the lake after you have jumped into the deep, deep end, watch it as you dig and construct and engineer great "foam" factories in the sand with your friends, watch it as your pour over a new comic book, watch it as you chop fruit for your latest dessert creation. You look up and catch my gaze with your startling blue eyes and I thank God again for the miracle that you are mine.

Happy, happy birthday, my sweet, sweet boy.

Love,

Mom

Summer Solstice

2010-06-23T23:54:00.004-04:00

I was in a debate recently about the point of art. The suggestion was that we are mere animals on a planet, causing mass destruction that should be exposed, through art, before we all die. My art is more about the tiny moments... the moments when, whether animal or not, destructive or not, we are truly alive, truly present. Both extremes are around us, all the time, every minute. They are two sides to the same coin. In many ways, one could not exist without the other. But as for me, and my moments...

I try to have a party every year on the summer solstice. Not only do I love the light and feel most alive with the summer sun beating down upon me and the days drawing long into the night, but in The Great Gatsby, Daisy makes the comment, "Do you always wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it?"

I want to be sure not to miss it.

This year it fell on Monday. I made strawberry jam in the morning of delicate berries that turned immediately to juice with one small gesture from a masher. The smell of berries and morning sun filled the kitchen until the pint jars sat satisfactorily side by side promising to ward off all threats of winter. We had a small party that night. Friends, fire, solstice lore about feminine energy and fire jumping and honey. I promised Alex he could eek out every hour of day light. We stayed up late- late enough for the fireflies to come out and work their magic. Long enough to create a glass jar filled with wonder and lightening.

I knew my children would wake up cranky beyond belief. I knew getting Alex off to school would be hell. But I didn't care. I heard his shouts from the field as he ran with his butterfly net through the dark. Felt his thrill as he raced toward me, his treasure in his hand until I lifted the foil cap and he released the bug inside the jar. I felt Cate hover closer to the fire as the damp chill of the darkened sky settled. I imagined sun freckled noses and band-aided knees. Watermelon, lemonade, icy plunges in the lake. Long evening watching the stars come out one by one.

Somewhere, in the gulf, oil spills continually, covering wildlife, threatening shorelines. BP's flawed publicity campaign assures us that the amount spilled in one day is equivalent only to what we Americans consume in four minutes. Four minutes. I am sure not one of us can claim innocence. I sit in Otsego County, surrounded by scenery most can only imagine. But there are plans to break into our hills and drill for natural gas, threatening not only the landscape, but our drinking water, our lake. We long to stop it, but everything I am presently touching is made from a petroleum based product, or run from electricity generated from petroleum. How do we begin?

And still the fields light with the magical lightening of mating bugs. The sky burns bright with stars. The moon waxes and wanes. Children laugh at night. They cry in the morning. They finish a year of preschool. They move up to second grade. Training wheels come off of bikes and tiny legs pump and pump to make swings fly higher and higher into the sky. We catch someone's eye for a moment and understand so much without words. We struggle to find words before a moment slips away. Before we catch our breaths, we will celebrate the dark as we celebrated the light.

And the earth spins and spins.

2010-06-10T21:04:00.001-04:00

Hope is a Many Feathered Thing

2010-04-05T21:32:00.005-04:00

There is no joy like an April garden. It grows great with optimism, sprouts with hope.

A few weeks ago we uncovered the fledgling mint - its tiny leaves pungent. Shoots of thyme dared poke out of the still cold earth and a brazen arm of lavender raised its greening limb to the sun. (Lavender, my truest plant love, has never survived a winter here. To see it alive and green in late March must be a beckoning to something magical that lies ahead).

These two rounds of June-like weather have deceived both our minds and the plants. The crocuses popped open in one afternoon - not quietly sneaking forth from the last piles of snow - but triumphantly bursting into full sunlight. The daffodils bloomed like an Easter parade just yesterday. But despite all this, I've given very little thought to our garden. Caught up in various dramas, I've made no plans, drawn no garden maps with Alex, perused no seed catalogs, read no gardening books, made no plans at all save asking for a tree blocking the sunlight to be removed.

But this afternoon I talked to a friend, a self proclaimed "avid gardener". It was supposed to be a conversation about resumes, but I could hardly hear over the wind rushing into the cell phone. He was in the garden planting the early spring plants.

"It's time already?" I asked.

"Almost too late," he said.

I should know these things. I planted peas and cabbage and spinach last year. But I am still a novice - and quite easily distracted. And so I let myself be distracted again. Seeing the top of the kitchen counter was not essential - at least not today. The halves of plastic eggs in the middle of the living room floor could stay there another night. I did have seeds and soil and little starting containers. I did have popsicle sticks and a pen. I pulled them all out. Cate and I waited for the bus. She flapped her arms, running up and down the driveway squawking like a bird until she heard the bus rumbling down the road. She then stood next to me, intermittently screaming, "Ally! Ally! and squawking like a bird. Alex emerged with the pleased and amused by his sister face, sprinted across the road and enthusiastically shouted, "Yes!" when asked if he wanted to plant some seeds.

The three of us worked together for the next hour or so, filling the tiny containers, pushing the seeds into the soil, labeling them carefully (an important lesson from last year), watering and finally singing the growing song penned by Alex at age two and sung to every seed ever planed here in Fly Creek. We planted pansies in pots, talked about the spot in the garden we will clear tomorrow and plant peas. And no memory of tomato blight or starving rabbits or waterlogged soil or voracious weeds took root. Only hope.

We finished the planting, placed the boxes in the windows and went to the backyard. Alex - a seasoned veteran on the swing - flew higher and higher into the air, and Cate, for the first time ever, coordinated her legs with her motion, propelling herself further and further off the ground to the great delight of her family. I weeded the herb garden as the swingers swang, the chives already tall and full, the mint beginning its crusade to take over the whole thing, the lavender taller and greener still.

I made dinner while the kids still played - thankful a brief conversation - inadvertently about peas - had set about a perfect afternoon together. Cate and Alex and Steve were back out after dinner, begging for more time and I hated to cut them short for homework and bed, especially on these rare, gorgeous nights before may flies and mosquitos.

I tucked Cate into bed. She begged for a chapter in the Tales Of Winnie the Pooh, a book we have owned for ages, but never read. It was fun to read aloud and she listened and I laughed and marveled as Pooh's head bumped, bumped, bumped down the stairs and he felt quite certain there must be another way - but then again, wasn't quite sure at all there was another way.

And when I came down to the silent kitchen, I heard the peepers for the first time and opened the door as wide as I could to hear them sing.

Alex Takes to the Stage

2010-03-13T20:42:00.003-05:00

Alex made his stage debut last night at the first annual "Cooperstown's Got Talent" show held at the high school. A paper requesting acts came home from school a couple of weeks ago. Alex usually looks terrified in front of a crowd. His preschool concerts, kindergarten concerts and first grade concerts have revealed him as a boy with stage fright. His mouth hardly moves. He fidgets with his hands and generally looks like he wishs he could disappear. Even at home, he clams up immediately if we catch him singing to himself. So, it was really only for the sake of asking that I asked if he wanted to be in the talent show.

"Yes!" was his surprising and enthusiastic reply. "What am I talented at?" It seemed a silly question, until I had to admit to myself that even as an adult, I often rely on my own mother to tell me the same thing. Sometimes, we just need our mothers to point out what in the world we are good enough at to make it worth sharing with the rest of the world. At six, Alex has a slew of talent, but stage worthy talents?

"Science tricks," I answered. "You and Daddy can do science tricks." So quickly, Steve became a part of the act. And to my continued surprise and his credit, he agreed without any hesitation.

It is to my great fortune there was merely a week for the Sweet Scientists (dubbed by Alex) to prepare. The kitchen counter and outdoor deck bubbled and gurgled and erupted with foaming liquids and exploding eggs. All varieties of hydrogen peroxide starting arriving by UPS. "Safety goggles" I whispered over and over from the background... trying to remain supportive, encouraging and unmicromanaging of the affair. By week's end, Steve seemed nervous and Alex seemed to have lost interest.

Then, it was the day of the show. Two lab coats were generously supplied by my doctor friend... nicely pressed, official, just right for two scientists.

The show was staged in the high school auditorium. The atmosphere was casual and fun. We watched jump ropers, listened to singers and the jazz band. The first of a few items to be auctioned were handed off. Just before the act was about to begin, Alex popped out from behind the curtain. He needed water for the experiments. We raced into the hallway and found a bathroom. I filled the cup as he danced around. "Do you need to go potty? I asked. "No." "Are you sure?" "Yes."

Back we raced to the stage and Alex disappeared behind the curtain. The last of the auction items was up. Alex popped back from behind the curtain and raced to me. "I do have to go!" We ran at top speed and made it back to the auditorium just as the item was handed off to its new owner. (I later found out Steve had no idea where Alex had gone... he thought he had gotten a major case of stage fright and just run away).

Finally, the curtain opened. Alex introduced the act. Steve made a few jokes. They turned toward each other and put on their safety goggles and the audience clapped. The experiments went off as planned - the foaming liquid foamed and erupted. The egg was sucked into the milk bottle. Alex cheered. The supportive audience went wild and the act was over. A few minutes later, a beaming Alex came back to his seat.

The night was a wild success for the timid six-year-old. His teacher was in the audience and took time to congratulate him and ask if he and Steve might even do a couple of experiments for the class. Alex was thrilled. And he got to help his best friend's grandmother bid on and win a couple of auction items. As we left the show, he said, "I am so happy right now I feel like crying!"

I hope Steve has started thinking about next year's act.

Two Years

2010-03-11T00:21:00.003-05:00

We have just celebrated two years as a family. A friend, just in the process of adopting, asked recently about our bonding. And I found it a challenging question to answer. Two years ago, an unhappy toddler was placed in my arms. She cried. But not for long. We watched a video of our photos and movies from China last night, and what struck both Steve and me was the amazing trust this little girl had to place in us - strangers she had never seen. I think we appreciated that at the time we first met Cate, but honestly, it is only two years later, when all the stress and overwhelming emotion of the trip has melted away that we can look back and truly ponder what it must have been like for this tiny girl to be left with a family of strangers who could not speak her language, who took her out of her only home and then flew her across the ocean to more strangers.

And yet, here we are. Here is Cate with an almost ever present smile on her face - by far the most cheerful member of the family, the most outgoing, the most confident. Here is Cate. The one that insists we do things "as a family". The one who insists she cried when she met us because she "didn't know us yet." The one who replied when I said, "Today we celebrate the day we became a family, the day we met Cate,".... "and here I am on my journey!!!"

And here we all are on our journey. Alex, the quiet, sulky morning boy. And me, the mother he emulates. Cate, the cheerful, happy, "It's morning!" girl. And Steve... more like Cate than Alex or me... And for now, Cate happily accepts that she came home to live in Fly Creek, that she wants to go to China, now, if she can... that she left a life of friends and fun times and came to a life of family and fun times.

She cheers when her brother gets off the school bus in the afternoon and sticks her tongue out at him 60 seconds later. She waltz into the gym before swimming lessons and announces that she is there.

How did we bond with Cate? I bonded before I ever saw her face. I knew she was out there. I loved her the moment I saw her. I have spent two years getting to know this amazing girl, who has still spent more time in the orphanage than she has spent with me. When we met, I knew nothing - not even what she could eat. Now I understand what will make her laugh. What will make her cry. What will bring her joy. What will cause her to shut down. I know what too much sugar looks like. And I know what, "I don't feel safe" looks like too. I know she is seldom more than a tickle away from a smile. I know she will laugh if given half a chance. I used to feel that I knew Alex so well I could anticipate his moves before he made them. I now know Cate that way too.

And I think she knows we are here. We will feed her when she is hungry. Tell her she can't have a snack when she is not. We will cheer her accomplishments and help her to learn. We will hug when when she is happy and hug her when she is sad. Her brother will say something mean and then build her a giant fort. She will lash out at us and then do something equally sweet.

She is our Cate. We are her family.

Need a Vacation?

2010-03-08T18:34:00.001-05:00

We have more weeks in our vacation club than we can ever use... if you are interested in renting a week and getting away, check out our site.

http://www.cooperstownvacation.com/timeshare.html

Snow

2010-02-26T19:01:00.003-05:00

Maine

2010-02-24T20:07:00.004-05:00

Preparing for the Year of the Tiger

2010-02-08T20:21:00.004-05:00

Creating something from papier-mache in the doorway between the living room and front entry is not an activity for the faint-of-heart. But what choice do you have when you need to create a giant dragon mask in the deepest dark of winter?

Chinese New Year begins on Sunday and we are gearing up. It amazes me how this holiday has woven itself into the thread of our family life since we set about on our journey to Cate. Alex bounded off the school bus with enthusiasm I have not seen in months. The first grade began a unit on Chinese New Year today and he was filled with facts and lore that flowed from his usually silent mouth for at least thirty minutes. He concluded with an exuberant, "Except for Christmas, I love Chinese New Year the best!"

The second his coat and boots were shed, the crafting began. Cate had waited all day for Alex to come home and the projects to get underway. At school, Alex has made lanterns, "but just the usual, plain-old paper ones," he said, now a seasoned New Year craft maker. We cut our red poster board in half and he set about painting characters with gold paint to create New Year couplets to hang by the door. Cate and I set about our most ambitious craft project to date - creating the head of a dragon that we hope to use at our celebration on Sunday. We started with two cereal boxes taped to a giant punching balloon and covered it with strips of newspaper dipped in flour and water. Somehow we contained the mess - so far. I'll keep you posted on the progress.

After reaching the end of our creativity for the day, I made honey-ginger chicken stir fry in my new, highly satisfying wok. Everything about the wok is satisfying - from the Chinese language newspaper it came wrapped in - to its perfect shape. Best of all, the wok came with a little paper that promised that a good wok, like a good friend, if well cared for, will become better with time. Something about the little proverb gives the wok a life of its own - like I am already cooking with an old friend - a piece of history. Silly, I know, but I don't feel it for any of my other pots and pans. The whole family raved about the dinner, a nearly impossible feat, and Cate ate one piece of broccoli - her first since leaving China.

After dinner, Ales settled down to do his homework - putting a list of New Year's related words in alphabetical order - while Cate and I added another layer of paper and goo to our dragon head. Then we sat down and looked at our album from China. Cate is excited to see it now. She is proud to be from China and tells anyone who expresses the slightest interest. She lists all the friends she has from China and she is lucky to have quite a few. She points to the pictures and asks questions and makes statements like, "I am crying because I didn't know you yet." And Alex, from across the room, helps fill in the history with his own memories - how he felt on the plane, how many layers of clothes Cate was wearing when we met her, how they ate noodles together on the hotel bed on their first day as brother and sister. I love that he is a witness to her history and that it is his too. I love Chinese New Year because it pieces together all the magic and mystery and places that have created our family. I love these moments of peace and love and family bliss.

And then Cate tosses the balloon Alex has worked hard to blow up, and of course, it pops, and well... the tears and drama that follow are part of being a family too.

Winter Fun

2010-02-08T20:11:00.003-05:00

Gearing up the the Winter Carnival Parade

Evening Yoga Session

Snow Sculpture

Snow Ball Fight!

Horseback Riding

Less Than 0

2010-01-31T09:23:00.002-05:00

At less than zero, the snow drifts off the tree branches, an endless scattering of glitter that never seems to reach the earth. At less than zero, the sunlight pours with unapologetic brightness through the glass, spilling across the kitchen floor. At less than zero, the sky is white. The trees and shadows stark streaks of contrast, a black and white image, still but for the drifiting snow, the tiny chickadee.

At less than zero, the kids wear jammies all day, wrapped in blankets like mummies, laughing at Curious George and asking with voices full of doubt and hope if they might have just one more cup of hot cocoa. And some marshmallows? At less than zero, I sit by the fire with a book or a magazine, with another cup of tea or an early glass of wine. At less than zero I find the cats sleeping in baskets of laundry or under the bed quilts or in the chilly splash of sunlight on the floor.

At less than zero, I dream of diving into the lake at dusk on a hot summer night. I dream of children rushing out the door, forgetting their shoes, their bare arms and legs all motion. At less than zero, the artist inside me is awake and ready. And so I write and imagine and pour over cookbooks and then remember it is too cold to go out to the store. At less than zero, I put on the tea kettle, go back to the window and let the glittering snow and laughing children and winter light work their own magical artistry.

Visions and Revisions

2010-01-21T11:28:00.003-05:00

I am starting a new blog. This spot has taken on a life of its own, a place to share my musings about motherhood and family life, a spot to post pictures of the kids. People like it and I enjoy this space for writing about those things so central to my life. But lately I have felt restless with this spot and realize I need another. I will continue to post here, maybe more regularly if I designate this the official motherhood/kid blog. My other blog will be a place to write about the rest of me...

So, it may not be for everyone, but for anyone who is curious.... here is the address...

http://afterteaandcakesandices.blogspot.com/

So far, there is nothing there and my coffee shop time is up for today. I need to retrieve Cate from school and take her to swimming lessons so stay tuned. More to come about the kids and the new blog...

2010-01-12T20:46:00.001-05:00

http://allysjourney.blogspot.com/

Grammie Dingman

2010-01-03T21:28:00.003-05:00

My grandmother is the only person who regularly addresses me by both my first and middle name.

"Oh, Jeannine Renee," her voice rings out across the telephone line. She says it with the same enthusiasm I imagine she carried in her voice as she announced the details of my birth to her friends 37 years ago.

My birthday cards are addressed to Jeannine Renee, the envelops covered with glittery stickers and Easter Seals. This has always been so. It was that way for me as a child. It is that way for my children now. I remember how carefully I opened each card, taking great care not to rip an adorable bunny or kitten sticker in half. I've watched Alex delicately work around a sparkling jack o'lantern and Cate exclaim over the puppy stuck just where the point of the fold glues to the rest of the paper. I know their joy at finding a dollar or two taped inside. I have felt it too.

My grandmother celebrated her 87th (or is it 88th?) birthday today. How lucky I am to dial the phone and wish my grandmother a happy birthday. How joyful I am to hand the phone to my daughter so she can sing an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday" to her great grandmother.

Memories of my grandmother are closely knit with Tang and Heavenly Hash and Magic Shell and PopTarts. Oh the delicacies that could be found in her tiny kitchen. Just a trip across the stone cold floor and it all awaited... Rocky Road, pistachio, Neapolitan. Always three ice creams in the freezer. Ginger ale, Coca-Cola. A kid's dream come true. Dinners of breaded pork chops and chipped beef gravy on toast. Pizza nights with tossed salad served in a black salad dish. Always with radishes. The color contrast has stayed always in my mind... the red of the radishes, the black of the bowl. Their sharp bite surprisingly pleasing.

If you felt ill at my grandmother's house, she would advise you to lay on the davenport. Davenport. Davenport. Why don't I use the word davenport? Above the davenport was a lighted picture box - some landscape or another. I liked to light it. Her sewing box was in the living room too. Standing on four legs, a white plastic quilted storage bin... it had a certain cool smell when you opened it, as if it were several degrees colder inside the box. Colorful threads, needles, a giant jar of buttons, the start of a few intricate crocheted doilies. Doilies. They were pinned to the arms of the chair and davenport, I imagine to protect them from wear. The covered the tops of dressers and tables. I grew up believing in doilies.

In the sitting room, a tiny knickknack shelf hung on the wall. Tiny dogs. Tiny cats. Tiny glass elephants. A small boy in a blue cap, kneeling in prayer. I stared at that shelf while my mother read me Mother Goose rhymes snuggled up on another davenport. Upstairs my grandmother would draw a "good hot bath" for me. She would fill it with bubbles from a pink Avon bottle. She'd toss in the bath toy - a Fisher Price version of Rub a Dub, Dub, Three Men in a Tub.

My brother and I spent a lot of time with my grandmother. We went visiting to our great grandmother, her mother. She had a silver Christmas tree and decorated her house with blue lights at Christmas. She collected deer. The little figurines covered every surface. I imagined my father sitting there as a boy, eating the fried baloney he spoke so longingly of when he spoke of his childhood. She lived in a duplex next to my great aunt and uncle. So we would visit them too. Their house was filled with cigarette smoke. A rubber chicken, a giant wasp's nest and an array of other treasures hung from their kitchen ceiling. They called me "Jeannie" and Jean-the-Bean" and gave me a lot of candy.

My grandmother worked for forty years at the Luxeray - sewing. For a long time, it was underwear and slips. She had a bag tucked away in her bedroom. You might find a pair that would fit, a pair labeled "Sunday" or something like that. The slips, my cousin and I used to play gypsy. We played for years in our long silky costumes. We played in my grandmother's neat, pink bedroom, rummaging through the drawers of her makeup table, sitting quietly by the heating vent in the floor. Staring down at the grownups in the living room. What were they watching? We could hear every word they said. We spent hours trying to catch a bit of gossip, some statement of interest to our eight-year-old ears. At night, my grandmother would tuck me into her bed.I got the pink and white bedroom and her bed. She slept in the guest room, or maybe on the davenport. "Good night, good night. Don't let the bedbugs bite," she'd say just as she turned out the lights.From her house, I could hear the train whistle from the tracks near the river.

My grandmother took my brother and me out to eat a lot. Hot roast beef sandwiches at the coffee shop. Golden calzones or shrimp in a basket on Friday nights at Lee's Drive-In. She brought us trinkets - stuff from the state fair. Stickers. Little figurines of cats. All the stuff that kids love. Now my kids get it too. Wind catchers that swirl in a metallic rainbow of colors. Stickers. Do-dads. They love it too.

My grandmother has survived breast cancer, colon cancer, skin cancer and a variety of other ailments, big and small. For as long as I can remember, she has handed things off to me with the statement, "When I am gone..." But the "when I am gone" has always been a practicality, never attached to the illness. When it comes to illness, she is a fighter with a positive attitude. I hope I have inherited that trait. She just came back from a trip to Florida to visit my cousin and her new baby. Her house is the neatest, most organized place I have ever visited. I know I didn't inherit that trait. But I admire it. Cards for birthdays, Valentine's Day, Easter, Christmas, Halloween all arrive a day or two before the holiday. I didn't inherit that trait either, but I hope I inherited the thoughtfulness.

My grandmother has been a constant in my life. She doesn't seem to change. She is the best person to call with a bit of exciting news. Her shout of joy is its own best reward. She makes soup and sends cards. She believes a good hot bath can cure most anything. She calls me on birthday and gives ziplock bags filled with exactly the same amount of change to both Alex and Cate.

So happy, happy birthday to a grandmother who has filled both my past and my present with love and joy.

I'm sorry my card is late.

Christmas Cheer

2009-12-19T07:42:00.002-05:00

2009-12-18T22:56:00.004-05:00

If you need some Christmas spirit...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LhmTU5BN_mk

It's a Wonderful Life

2009-12-16T22:00:00.006-05:00

One week ago today, Alex had a snow day. It was really more of an ice day, but a few inches of snow topped it off. We did the things one does on a snow day shortly before Christmas - we glittered and glued, we cut snowflakes from paper. We baked. Around noon, the kids headed out to play while I waited for a loaf of banana bread to come out of the oven. As they dashed out to the deck, I celebrated their independence. They can both get their own snow clothes on. They can put their boots on. They can play alone without a lot of worry. At least that is what I thought

We have a walk out basement. Therefore, our deck, which is off the kitchen, is second story. As Alex and Cate set about building a snowman, I watched out the sliding glass door, gathering my own snowpants and boots as I waited to take the bread from the oven. I was about two minutes from heading out when I watched Alex climb the railing of the deck like a ladder, stand on the top and jump, yes jump, from the side. A moment later, Cate was pounding on the door screaming, "Alex is crying." In my mind, this scene plays in slow motion, although I know it happened in a split second. Why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I run? Why did Cate have to scream for me? Only a second had passed.

I sprinted out the door and down the sixteen or so icy, snow covered stairs to a small, crumpled boy screaming that his legs hurt as blood poured from his mouth and nose. With the super strength and calm that comes only in these moments, I carried him to the house. The story could go on, but the ending is that he is fine. Nothing was broken. The bleeding stopped. The swelling went down. He's the same crazy, loving, boy he was, hopefully a bit wiser.

The moment was one of terror, but it was the hours and days after that were worse. He jumped about 15 feet. The possible "what if" scenarios are too horrid to follow. "He has an angel on his shoulder," a friend said. With all of my being, I hope that it is true. And I hope that angel stays firmly in place, whatever craziness lies ahead.

I don't think he will try that particular trick again. When asked why he did it (and he has been asked many, many times by many, many people,) he will not answer. He is self conscious and obviously more than a little embarrassed. I just think it is something he always wanted to try. I think he really thought that maybe, just maybe, he could fly (a thought confirmed when he asked me if I thought it would have worked had he been wearing a parachute). I think he thought the snow would be soft. I think he thought a lot of things we all would like to think.

Which brings me to this year's visit with Santa. Anyone who lives here knows that Santa frequents Cooperstown. Anyone who doesn't believe in Santa should visit Cooperstown and stop by his cottage. Your doubts will quickly be cast aside.

We visited Santa last Friday night. As luck would have it, Mrs. Claus was with him that night too. The kids were crazy at the thought of seeing him. We waited in the cold as they tingled with anticipation. We entered his cottage, and a silence fell over them - a silence reserved for the presence of greatness. Santa and Mrs. Claus took a few minutes to catch up with them. Of course, the Clauses know their names, their ages, even their years at school and how many Christmases we have celebrated together as a family. They know it all without any cues, as only the Clauses would. They each presented Santa and Mrs. Claus with a drawing they had made. The Clauses "oohed" and "ahhed" and studied each picture carefully. Cate tentatively approached and told Santa she wanted a flashlight. Santa described his workshop and the flashlights the elves are making. Alex approached. They talked about school. Alex wants a metal detector. They chit chatted about beaches and treasures as Alex sat on his lap, until Cate, from my lap said, "Alex jumped from the deck. He got hurt. He was bloody and his legs hurt."

The Clauses fell silent. We reminded them our deck is about 15 feet in the air. Alex looked like someone who would like to disappear. Santa and Mrs. Claus were dismayed. "Alex, Alex, you must cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye that you will never, never, never do that again," Mrs. Claus said solemnly. With wide eyes, Alex nodded his head and made the sacred promise. The visit moved on to Rudolph and presents and what Alex likes about being a big brother and all the other things that Santa likes to know.

But I was hardly listening. I was silently thanking the tattle-tale little sister and the motherly Mrs. Claus for making Alex take his solemn vow. I am merely his mother. I know the things I throw caution to, he will throw to the wind. But Mrs. Claus and Santa... what they say has weight.

As for me, and my Christmas wish, this all served as a reminder that I already have everything I could ever need. As much as I would like to, I know I can't ask that it always stay just this way. But if I could ask for one thing more, it would be this - I hope that angel earns his wings. Living on Alex' shoulder, I'm afraid he is going to need them.

And as his mother, I need to believe that he is there.

December 4, 2009

2009-12-05T19:49:00.002-05:00

Dear Cate's Birthmother,

Your daughter turns four tomorrow. She is beautiful and strong and funny and smart. She loves to sing and act and shake her hips when she dances. She is curious and mischievous. She doesn't like cats, but she is trying. She loves to build forts and play house with her brother. She talks nonstop and says when she isn't talking, she can't breathe. She hates vegetables and loves candy. She sleeps all night in her bed and crawls out in the morning wearing only a diaper and her skunk slippers. She is the star of her swimming class. She is growing tall and lean. She won't wear anything with buttons and would rather be a pirate than a princess. She loves preschool and cozy things - her fleece top, her furry blankets, her pink monkey. She is passionate and stubborn. She is loved and healthy and thriving. She is my daughter too.

I think of you on this night, in these coming weeks, and I know with a mother's heart that you think of me too. Chances are great that we will never meet, never know each other in this lifetime, we two women who share a daughter. As she grows, she will beg to know about you. My heart breaks knowing I will never be able to tell her the answers to her questions - at least not in the way she will hope. Yet, in some ways, I will know you. I will know you from the way she flips her hair or holds her hand when she talks. I will know you in the all-encompassing smile that spreads from her lips and swallows her eyes. I will know you from her angry put or her love of acting. These things, I will tell her, just might be reflections of you.

And so I write this letter, in case we should ever meet. And in my heart, I send out this message to you - Your daughter is cherished and loved beyond belief. Tonight, she decorated our Christmas tree with her brother, her father and me. She ate gingerbread men and drank milk and asked is we could do this again and again. I read her a book and tucked her in bed. She is asleep, anxiously awaiting her birthday tomorrow. The house will fill with family and friends and we will celebrate her with great joy.

Thank you for this beautiful gift.

Jeannine

Happy Birthday, Cate!

2009-12-05T18:54:00.004-05:00

Stinky Feet?

The Four-Year-Old Wakes Up!

She wanted her prettiest dress.

Presents!

Cate with her great, great aunt and uncle.

Too much party!

This is Cate

2009-11-04T13:48:00.003-05:00

Without warning, Cate decided last summer that napping was just not her thing. Without warning, she just stopped, unsuspecting of the joy that predictable three hour window brought her mother each day. It was the three hour window that let me write for the local newspaper. It was the three hour window that let me run out and do a few errands or schedule an appointment on the days that Steve was working from home. It was the three hour window that let me prep for dinner, put away the laundry, catch up on my email, and occasionally even sit down with a cup of tea and a book.

But she stopped.

I have tried to keep the routine alive - tucking her in with a bag of raisins and a few books. It worked like a charm for about one day. After that, the tucking in was quickly followed by the sound of feet stomping around upstairs as she moved from room to room, stopping to spy on me from the heating grate that looks from the upstairs hallway into the kitchen below. So I tried another approach. I told her she didn't have to nap if she would lay on the couch and watch Sesame Street, not moving from beneath the covers until it was over.

It worked for a day. Then came demands... not Sesame Street, Curious George. No, no, I said, trying to maintain some control. And so we went back to resting quietly in the bedroom.

Gradually, things went from not so great to worse. After an hour of foot stomping silence from the upstairs, I would discover everything from my nightstand scattered about my bed or Alex's rock collection spilled on the floor. The hour had become a chance for uninhibited exploration.

Yesterday, it reached its peak when Cate emerged from her "nap" decorated with war paint.

"It's just cream for my face," she insisted as I examined the muddled browns and beiges and cranberries of eye shadow gone wrong, smeared, not on her eyes, but across her cheeks in a dark, bruised-looking earthtone rainbow. She carried the look well when we went out to play in the leaves and she strode across the yard, hair covered in brittle leaves, a giant stick in her hand.

But when I went to tuck her in for bed, I discovered the toilet jammed full of paper. The plunger didn't do the trick and while I will spare the gruesome details, suffice it to say that underneath the wads of paper, I discovered the cardboard roll. In my bedroom, I found a mountain of cotton balls and the remains of the eyesh adow, now deeply gouged and beyond repair.

So we had a chat. You must stay in your room, I said. She could not, she insisted, promise that she would stay in her room. And so enacted Plan III. "You must stay on the couch, no TV, under a blanket for one hour."

"Books?" she asked.

"You can have books."

"Raisins?"

"You can have raisins. But no talking and no getting up until I say you can."

A deal had been made. She went dutifully to the couch with a small box of raisins and a pile of new library books. All fell silent in the house. No feet pattered across the floor. No small voice rang out. I applauded my own ingenious victory.

And then I smelled it.

I walked quickly into the room. Cate's face flashed the undeniable look of one caught in the act as her hands flew under the blanket.

Ten nails and the surrounding fingertips, freshly painted (to her credit, not a drop on the furniture). The small, sparkly, "Hello Kitty" nailpolsih hidden beneath the blankets folds.

"I tried to sleep, but my nails weren't pretty."

And really, there just is no answer for that - just some womanly advice about the dangers of freshly painted nails and fuzzy blankets.

Today's Great Highlight

2009-11-03T21:29:00.003-05:00

For the first time, Alex read Cate's bedtime story to her. They sat side-by-side on the furry blue blanket on her bed. She listened, still and patient while he read, with great pride and humor in his voice, "Hop on Pop" by Dr. Seuss.

I hid in the hallway watching the beautiful scene.

It ended with Cate giving Alex a big goodnight hug and telling him that she loved him and Alex's beaming face.

Sometimes it feels like we might be getting it right afterall.

Soggy Halloween

2009-11-01T18:46:00.002-05:00

On Why Motherhood Must Come with a Sense of Humor

2009-10-29T22:05:00.003-04:00

It has not escaped the notice of anyone with children that Halloween is right around the corner. And in a house where one child declares Halloween to be "better than my birthday" the days are an all out frenzy.

Alex has stood by this Halloween love since the age of two. At three, when he fully realized the wonder of knocking on the doors of perfect strangers and being handed candy, it became an all out love affair. That year, when Day of the Dead rolled around, he felt the deep knife-cutting agony of a love affair's end. At the age of four, he was angry when Christmas lights started going up. No amount of Santa chatter would lead him to betray his true love.

I have loved his costume every year, and made them most, my favorite being the carrot he insisted on at the age of three. Although he now denies ever having paraded (literally) around town as a vegetable, I beg to differ. How proud I felt that year, my adorable three year old in his orange carrot cap and dyed orange pillow case walking up to doors. How implecible his manners. How the neighbors "oohed" and "ahhed" over my orange-clad, blue-eyed carrot.

This year, his costume is from Walmart. Worse yet, his only dream is to dress as Super Mario. And there is no greater joy to a first grade boy than chanting, "Trick or treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat. If you don't. I don't care. I'll pull down your underwear." I mean seriously, what could be more fun than saying, "underwear"?

A friend gave us a subscription to Family Fun magazine. Alex has poured over the Halloween edition every day for a month. Such wonders! Decorations! Costumes! Treats! Games! Crafts! He has begged for a graveyard made of green hummus and crackers. Broccoli and celery trees. I made it for his friends today and it was a hit. But for school, he has longed for, begged for, the eyeballs on a fork.

And what kind of mother wants to disappoint a son that loves Halloween more than Christmas?

It seemed easy enough. Buy donut holes. Stick a plastic fork in them. Dip them in white chocolate. Run some red frosting along the edges to give them a bloodshot look and stick a chocolate chip in the center for the pupil. For one who shies away from actually baking, it seemed a dream. So I went to the store this morning and got the ingredients. But there were no donut holes to be found. A sensible mother would have stopped there, accepted her defeat, realized the value of her time, bought a bag of candy that would fit easily into a backpack, and moved on with her day. But not this one. Oh no. No, no. Much better to go to three, maybe four stores looking for donut holes only to be defeated. A sensible mother would have stopped there. Baked a pan of brownies. Logically purchased some baby carrots or cheese sticks or some other thing she actually wants her kid to eat. But not this one. Oh no. This one called her friend's cell phone, hoping he is in a bigger place than Cooperstown (he is) and asks him to look for donut holes.

Fast forward... four hours later, this good friend calls to report that despite having visited three large grocery stores, there are no donut holes. How about coconut macaroons? Oreos? Plain old donuts? "A bag of carrots," this mother should have replied, but no.

Near her breaking point, exasperated by her children, and still without donut holes, this mother calls her husband (who is in town) and begs him please to search the two remaining long shot possibilities. He hears the desperation in her voice and does not question the task before him. He comes home with the goods... covered in white powder and cinnamon, not ideal, but he has them. At this point, the mother has just gotten her kids to bed. The house is an explosion of homework papers and markers and dishes and laundry. She wants only to sleep. But she goes downstairs to make the eyeballs. (She must first find the counter).

Things seem to be looking up. But the white chocolate never melts. It gets crusty and crumbly but it does not melt. She burns her hand on the steam from the makeshift double boiler and in the end, stabs the powdered white donut holes with a plastic fork, sticks in the chocolate chip and attempts to draw jagged, bloody lines with red gel frosting across the powdery surface. She sticks them on a plate and hopes not all the kids want one, because of course, there are not 19 white donut holes, just 13. She throws in some of the cinnamon. Digs out a bag of gummi worms intended for another weird treat from the same anti-parent magazine and tries to make it look as though worms are crawling out from the eyes.

In the end she has produced a cheap looking treat that she wouldn't actually want to feed her children. But, instead, she gets to send it to school to be judged by 19 sweet looking but harsh critics who criticize everything from hair that sticks up to pants that look like pajama bottoms. She hopes they will be forgiving. Her hours-long effort looks like last minute desperation, because in fact, that is what it has become...

The story should end there, but of course, it does not. It does not because how does one transport a plateful of eyeballs on forks? Not in a backpack, that is for sure. So, the same mother, who once thought herself sensible, but now finds herself with a son longing to be Super Mario and a plateful of high-fructose corn syrup eye balls, spends another ten minutes constructing a tent out of foil to enclose the creations and keep them fresh.

I am sure the first mouse of the season will find its way to them tonight.

And that is the end of the tale. Judge not the mother who sends in orange creme filled Oreos, for she is in bed. Her house is clean. And her treat is waiting in her kid's backpack ready to go.

Arrrr...

2009-10-07T22:35:00.003-04:00

Just managed to delete my new post with one key stroke before I could publish it...

37

2009-10-05T20:10:00.002-04:00

Steve's Birthday

2009-10-05T19:55:00.003-04:00

The Birthday Boy

The Chef

The Wait Staff

Cate's First Day of Preschool

2009-10-05T19:44:00.003-04:00

September 11

2009-09-11T13:34:00.003-04:00

It is September 11. I rarely watch TV. The radio can't be tuned in inside our house. The car radio is often silent, difficult to hear over the constant chatter rising from the car seat in the back. And so it wasn't until I drove into town this morning that I remembered. The flag, of course, flies at half mast. But it is the thousands of tiny flags lining the walkway of every church, of every public space in the village, that truly mark the tragedy.

We all remember where we were when we first heard the news eight years ago. It is unlikely any of us will forget the collective shock, disbelief, horror, grief. I remember walking along the river that night. The world seemed utterly silent. No planes overhead. No trains along the track. Few cars on the nearby highway. Our world, in a moment, was shattered. It was hard to imagine we would ever recover, ever feel safe.

It is eight years later, and I think for most of us, life has largely returned to normal. It takes only the sight of a thousand tiny flags to conjure the fear, but day-to-day, a sense of security, maybe even complacency, has returned. But then September 11 rolls around again. It is tempting to just move on, painful to look back, but I make myself stop for a moment and think. I think of of the college friend who was on the top floor of the World Trade Center that day. His last words to his wife- an email sent from his phone - were printed in the New York Times on the first Memorial Day following September 11. I think of all those people. I think of all those families left with empty spaces. I think of the mothers and fathers whose sons and daughters board planes and head to conflict-filled lands - perhaps as soliders, perhaps as humanitarians or teachers - and try to imagine how they get through each day.

But I do not stop there. That is enough. But I cannot stop. I think of the mothers around the world who tuck their children in each night, praying that this night will not be the night a bomb falls on their home. I think of those who send their children off to school, anxious that they might step on an landmine or be swept away in some wave of rash violence on the streets as they walk the path from their homes to the school's front doors.

School started this week. I am anxious as my son crosses our busy country road to catch the bus. I fret with other mothers over what to pack for a snack and if school and soccer practice are just too much for a first grader. My life is good. My children have never gone hungry. Our water is clean. The roof over our heads has no holes. The gunfire we hear is from hunters off in the woods.

And so I try to be present. Present to all that I have. Present to what others have lost. And hopeful for a world that seems forever just out of our grasp.

First Grader

2009-09-08T21:03:00.002-04:00

"School is like having one giant play date with ALL my friends!"

Hold that thought, my dear!

At Summer's End

2009-09-07T22:07:00.005-04:00

The tourists are gone. I drove to town tonight and parked directly in front of the Chinese restaurant. I had my choice of spots. A brisk breeze blew off the lake. A few stores - those selling t-shirts and ice cream and baseball cards - were already closed. I picked up our dinner, ran home and enjoyed our last meal of summer at the picnic table, a small fire burning in the pit. We toasted to the first grade before we ate. We toasted to Alex - a boy covered with dirt and soot and probably still a bit of sand from Maine, a boy we would try to find beneath the grime in the bathtub a couple of hours later, layer by layer washed away before he was tucked into bed, his backpack waiting at the door, his clothes set out by his dresser. He plans to take the bus tomorrow. The new year starting off with a new adventure.

And so the summer ends.

It began and ended in a blaze of glory - the bookend weekends of our most fabulous season spent in Maine with dear friends. And while there were arguably more cloudy days than sunny, while I wore long sleeve shirts more often than tanks, while days at the beach were often spent in sweatshirts, blankets and towels in my lap ready to wrap freezing wet children, it was a carefree love affair nevertheless.There is no joy like watching my children swim. No happiness like witnessing them as they explore the coast. No greater peace than a moment on the lake, eyes closed, sun streaming in my face. No greater contentment than relaxed time with family and with friends.

Tomorrow school begins again. September always brings the comfort of routine, of changing leaves and chilled night air. The tourists are gone. Tomorrow the town will be quiet save the buzz of us locals resuming our lives over coffee and checkout line of the Great American.

We celebrated the full moon Friday night with a bonfire at the beach. It was a perfect night. The moon rose to its glory over the Atlantic. The fire burned. The children played. The adults laughed. We stayed until the moon was high and the sky full of stars. We laid on blankets and towels, our eyes open, our eyes closed. We toasted marshmallows. We put on sweatshirts. We stayed until we were too tired to stay any more, a fitting farewell to summer.

and someday I will write again...

2009-08-31T21:15:00.001-04:00

Please Help this Family

2009-08-28T22:11:00.002-04:00

If you have a minute to spare, please help this family bring their daughter home from Guatemala. Their case has been tied up in paper work for nearly four years - since their daughter was two months old. They are just asking that these letters be printed and mailed so their case gets attention and their daughter is finally able to come home.

http://www.kernbuilt.com/app/index.php/bring-ali-home

Their blog...

http://guojifamilia.blogspot.com/

Life on the Road?

2009-08-26T08:19:00.002-04:00

Steve has a new car. The kids have been living in it for about three days.....

Memories in a Jar

2009-08-23T20:26:00.007-04:00

One of the great delicacies of my childhood was my grandmother's watermelon rind pickles. We were young, my brother and I. The afternoon would grow late. We'd sit out on the screened-in porch that ran the long length of my grandparents' house. At one end, there was a door that led out to the front steps. A long clothesline ran to the woodshed. In the morning, the line was filled with damp sheets that turned crisp in the breeze. At the other end, the door opened to a dog line, beyond it, the garden, and then over a marsh to the lake. The porch was hot in the afternoon sun. We waited for my grandfather to come home from work. We waited for leftover cookies and thermosed tea still hot in his lunch pail. He spent his life farming. Retired from that life he drove dump trucks in the summer, snow plows in the winter. Finally, he would come. We would wait for the cookies, perched on the edge of the wicker furniture. My grandmother would come out from the house with a plateful of watermelon.

"Save the rinds," she would always say.

And we did. With the same fervor I imagine Patriot gardens were planted during World War II, we ate the juicy red pulp of the melon just until our teeth were about to hit the white of the rind. At the end of our afternoon tea, she would take them away, slice off our teeth marks, chop the rinds into bite-sized pieces and then bag them and put them in the freezer. It took a whole summer's worth of watermelon eating before there were enough rinds to pickle. They awaited their hot brine bath in the tiny freezer of an old ice box. It screamed of 1950 even when I was only 10 years old. It was grey and rounded - a jet stream turned refrigerator. To open it, you pulled down a stainless steel handle that would catch just before the door opened. No light came on inside. The stale smell of thirty years worth of stored food clung to its sides. A thin aluminum box served as the freezer. The refrigerator always housed the same inventory - a gallon of maple syrup, industrial-sized plastic jars that once held mayonnaise, but had since contained many other things, a case of beer left over from Labor Day that would most likely remain until the holiday rolled around again. Inside the ice box waited the frozen rinds. We felt we were doing an important job - eating that melon to get to those rinds.

I have countless memories of my grandmother at work in the kitchen. She had the magical ability to make every food taste great - even to a kid. Her cookies were always homemade. Jams and jellies never came from a store. Fish came from the lake. But it was not until last year when I was swept in my own wave of growing things and preserving things and eating locally and wasting less that I thought about those watermelon rind pickles - the too sweet, rubbery treats of my youth. And so I recruited my kids, trained them to eat the watermelon slice just so. I took the rinds to the kitchen, sliced off the teeth marks and chopped them into bite-sized pieces. The work was harder, more tedious than I had imagined, but satisfying to see the little green pieces, jumbled in a bag, sitting in the freezer. We ate watermelon steadily for a few weeks before I rummaged though a cardboard box of cookbooks for the Blue Ball Book of Canning.

I mixed the sugar, the vinegar, the spices and set the rinds to boil. I watched as they changed form - the bright, stiff green softening, losing color - taking on a warmer, deeper hue - softening around the edges, much as memories do. Something sweet from something that could so easily have been thrown away.

Summer

2009-08-22T21:27:00.003-04:00

A few pictures in no particular order. Blogger doesn't let me rearrange my pictures any more...

Lindsey

2009-07-13T21:08:00.004-04:00

My parents lost their dog unexpectedly last week. Although she was eleven years old, her death was a total shock. All the days leading up to her last were unremarkable - she was the same happy-go-lucky dog she has been since puppyhood. To lose her so suddenly, so without a shadow of warning, was a devastating blow.

I met Lindsey the same weekend Steve came home with me for the first time. We travelled home together for the official "meeting of the family" and there was little Lindsey, a tiny English Springer Spaniel, a few pounds of joy helping mend the broken hearts suffered when our first springer spaniel died of old age. I took a picture of her that weekend, one that forever captured the puppy that she was and the dog she would always be. She sat beneath a canopy of black-eyed susans, the sun streaming in on her little head, her tongue sticking out, her eyes all innocence and anticipation.

She never lost that look. Although her ears grew deaf and her eyes cloudy, she never stopped being a puppy. Our first dog carried the weight of maturity as she aged. Her eyes gained the look of wisdom that comes only with long life. But Lindsey's eyes always maintained their innocence, their anticipation that some great dog event was about to happen - that someone she loved was about to come home, that a puppy bone might be slipped her way, that someone would sit on the couch and give her a reason to flop her head in their lap.

In her absence, she is more present then ever. In the silence that greets us at the door, she is there, somehow even more so than in the chorus of barking and jumping that greeted us in her life. In the empty space by the sliding glass door, she still sits, her presence so keen in her absence, in that unnecessary rush to get in before the dog gets out. I am sure my parents feel her the most in the absence of a warm weight at the end of their bed each night.

It is funny how things are - what we take so for granted in the people and animals that we love, the things that are such a part of our daily routine that we almost cease to notice them, until they are gone.

For me, Lindsey will be ever present in the black-eyed susans. Their bright, cheerful yellow the blooming reminder of her sunny personality, the funny little dog with one ear flopped over her head, who sat patiently, but with eyes pleading for help as she was dressed as a pirate or had coasters stacked on her head by a small boy, who won over a little girl who once shrieked like Lucy in the Peanuts whenever she came near to one that begged to feed her puppy bones and didn't mind an occasional wet kiss, who made sure all visitors knew they were welcomed and made sure she had a good seat on the couch for movie nights.

Even in her absence, she is a presence.

July 4

2009-07-05T14:57:00.006-04:00

I am not sure how old children have to be before they can begin to grasp some of the more abstract meanings of holidays. When July 4th began with a particularly intense bout of sibling rivalry, I calmly stated, "Hey! It's the Fourth of July! It's a peaceful holiday, not a fighting holiday."

Not true, my friend reminded me when I told her about it at the July 4 parade. The Fourth of July would not exist without rebellion and fighting. So I should have told the kids it was about independence. But to them, it has a deeper meaning. One that rings in their souls, one that brings forth more powerful emotion then any idea of freedom and independence and love of country. To them it means one thing - CANDY. Free candy being thrown in the streets. All-you-can-eat candy tossed by clowns and dairy princesses and firemen. Candy. All you need is a fighting spirit - you must beat all the other children to get it - and a little courage - tire wheels and the rhythmic feet of marching bands might sometimes get in your way. But what good is something if it isn't worth fighting for, worth dying for?

I stand to the back of the crowd murmuring silent and not-so silent prayers that they remember the cardinal rule - STAY BEHIND THE WHITE LINE.

"Stay behind the white line!" I shout at the slightest tremor from their bodies that indicates they are considering risking the giant John Deere tire to get a Tootsie Roll before it is squashed.

"Get out there! Get in front of those big kids and get that candy!" Steve coaches, forever the competitor, a trait now mirrored to perfection in his son.

"They will be run over," I tell him.

"No, they are fine," he answers, a proud gleam in his eye as Alex throws his small body in front of the posse of eight-year-old boys who have monopolized the candy gathering. Cate, for her part, stands waiting, making a small, pathetic attempt to snag candy, never getting a piece for herself. But her patriotic pigtails work their magic. A kind man to her left catches a piece of two with each parade toss and hands it her way. Her brother, too, takes an occasional break from his candy-induced madness to hand her a token peppermint or lollipop.

The candy catching starts out slowly. A year has gone by since these skills of bravery and swiftness were called upon. Gradually, they gain confidence, and just when all out candy fervor is about to take over, just when the skills are honed, the horses appear. Any seasoned parade watcher (or marcher) knows the appearance of the horses signal the end of the parade. What the horses leave behind is not something to die for and the adults watched with humor as the crazed-candy joy written on the face of every child, turns to revolt as steaming piles of manure fill the streets, just inches from their noses.

Horses, of course, played a much more prominent role in our quest for independence. But that is a lesson I will save for next year.

Rain

2009-07-02T21:11:00.002-04:00

Why are my legs wrapped in a blanket on July 2?

Pictures to Kick-Off Summer

2009-07-01T22:56:00.006-04:00

It has been a rainy one. We tried to host an end of kindergarten backyard BBQ and were quickly driven inside by thunder and lightening with 13 children and many adults. We packed up for a weekend long camping trip in the rain. We swim in the morning and watch it rain all afternoon... but it has still been fun.

I am just home from yoga. After nearly two years, I know most of the poses. Now I am struggling to stay with the breath - to be in the moment. It is nearly impossible for me. Two breaths and my mind is off... considering a comment I made, thinking about things to be done, wondering why I haven't called a friend, anything but staying in the moment.

But this summer has been a lesson in staying in the moment. Long, hot, glorious days are obviously not the norm. So we seize the moments we can. We swim when it isn't raining. We run to the garden and uncover the mysterious that have sprung forth while the skies were dark. Alex ate two beans and a snow pea for dinner last night - our first harvest. The kids were swimming in their grandparents' pool at 7:45 a.m. today. It wasn't exactly warm, but it wasn't raining. Sand at the lake packs a little better when it is wet.

Tonight I dashed into a store before yoga. I was inside less then three minutes, but when I came out again, it was a downpour. With no umbrella, I found myself trapped at the end of the alley leading to the shop with a group of southern tourists heatedly discussing Little League. It is a common pastime to dislike tourists, to look down at them. True New Yorkers never go to the top of the Empire State Building. Bostonians don't walk the Freedom Trail. Mainers would never step foot in a restaurant decorated with fish net and plastic lobsters. In Cooperstown, we mock the baseball fans - especially those who take Little League as seriously as the World Series. So there I stood in a certain kind of panic, trapped in the rain with no umbrella, wondering if all moments are moments worth trying to be in... (Did I mention one of them was smoking?)

"C'omon, y'all aren't made of suga, are you?" said the mom of the group to her family after about five minutes of unrelenting rain. It was my moment. I ran, splashed through the puddles and made it inside. No, it turns out, I am not made of sugar. But I would find my mind drifting back to those minutes as a voyeur all throughout yoga, feeling guilty for feeling such disdain toward this vacationing family, wondering when someone has looked at my own family the same way...

Motherhood is all about staying in the moment. Sometimes, it comes easily. Watching Alex at work, an architect of sand, intently building and constructing, his little body taking the shape of a true boy - all arms and muscle and nothing resembling the tiny soft roundness of his past five summers. Cate, happily turning her life into a musical while she sings her love of her family, her cats, her clothes, her breakfast in silly little phrases that always end with "so, so much." But at other times, it is a challenge. Getting the same singing girl dressed can be a slow act of torture as my mind races to what comes next. Why does she have to run away and giggle instead of just getting her shirt on? Why does Alex always need a drink just as I start to type? Motherhood is also a series of interruptions. I need to remind myself to breathe - to be in these moments of interruption. They are so brief. Most of my life will pass by without little people needing help rushing to the potty or just one more book or a third snack before they starve. Most of my life I will be able to hear my own breath.

And so this summer, we take the sunny moments when we get them and work hard to enjoy the clouds and rain.

Almost Summertime

2009-06-16T17:16:00.001-04:00

Flying

2009-06-09T20:06:00.003-04:00

We bought a hot tub a couple of months ago. It sits under our deck, facing out across our yard to the hills beyond. It has brought me a new pastime I didn't expect - bird watching. I turn off the jets and sit in the stillness - a stillness alive with the constant chatter of birds. I spotted my first oriole last month flitting about a giant apple tree that graces the canopy at the side of our hill. And just tonight, watching the haze of a late afternoon storm rising slowly from the valley, a humming bird landed on a thin branch and sat - just sat for a full minute before darting straight into the air and disappearing from view before I could blink.

My children are growing up too fast this week - faster then my heart can handle. Alex, my anxious adventurer, the one whose eyes filled with tears whenever I tried to insist we follow the school rule that he walk on his own to class - the one who refused to even consider going to school if I would not walk him down the hall to his smiling teacher -is now walking half a block down a street, crossing the road and heading off without so much as a backward glance in my direction. For the past two months I have pulled up in front of the school - a carefully timed operation as it involves arriving in the few remaining minutes after the buses have gone and the late bell rings. For two months he has moved from tentatively getting out of the car, searching desperately for a friend to walk with him, to hopping out and strolling nonchalantly on his own into the building. This week he asked that we park down the street and walk as we had for the majority of the year. He wanted to get to school a little earlier. So we did. I was happy at the prospect. The short morning walk to the school, Alex's small warm hand in mine, is a ritual I had come to enjoy, and without the anxiety of wondering if and how I could get Alex into the school without me, it seemed like a gift. So I was not prepared when I hopped out of the car, helped him out of his seat and into his backpack, to have him ask me, so innocently, to leave.

"Can't you just get back in the car and go?" he asked without any malice. Just a question.

"Yes," I stammered, knowing the answer would never really be a yes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Yes. Yes, I know. And so, off he went. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk with that all too familiar bittersweet of motherhood pulling at my throat, poking at my eyes. I watched as he walked slowly, but confidently, on his own. I watched until he reached the crossing guard, knowing full well how closely he keeps an eye on the kids, knowing Alex would cross safely. I watched until he was on the other side, on the sidewalk that heads directly to the school. And I got in my car and went. Other parents watched me stand and watch him go. They smiled that smile of knowing. I have watched many of them stand in the same spot and watch their children go. I silently thanked the crossing guard for stopping me at the corner so other children could cross - thanked him for letting me hesitate just long enough to catch a glimpse of my son's skinny little legs, sticking out from his shorts, carrying him off to his school. Kindergarten is almost done.

Back at home, he insisted on taking the training wheels off his bike. I agreed with less emotion. I know this is not a move he is ready to take. But he is determined. His balance lasts for a nanosecond now, but it will come. By summer's end, he will be off, this time on two wheels.

Always moving. Always too fast for me.

Cate, for her part, has moved into a bed. Tonight is her first night. She has loved her crib, and we have loved having her in it. Alex was not a crib baby. Only recently has the idea of independent sleep been one he has agreed to make his own. I could write volumes about the emotions attached to sleeping so closely to your child - the joy and the sorrow of that time fading away. I will save it for another day. But Cate has loved her crib. She has loved snuggling into its walls and sleeping the night away. From her I have learned the comforting joy of tucking a little one in and whispering one last, "Good night!" as I carefully close the door. But lately I have started to get the feeling it was time for a bed.

We found the perfect one at a yard sale this weekend - old and wooden, with a trundle - perfect for the sleepovers that will one day fill our weekend evenings. Cate and I spent yesterday cleaning it up and painting it white. Today we bought a new bedspread and put the bed together. And still I had no plan to put her in it. I thought just to set it up. Let us both get the feel. I put sheets on it at 12:45 p.m. At 12:46, Cate tucked herself in for a nap and said, "Don't worry. I not getting out." And she did not. She woke up, pointed to the crib, and said, "I want that out."

It is still there. But Cate is asleep for the night in her new bed. And as much as she needs the floor space in her tiny room, I think that crib might just stay awhile longer. It will stay until my heart again catches up with the girl in the bed.

And so I watched that hummingbird sit tonight, feeling foolish for the tears that flooded my eyes as it darted away, out of my sight.

Why We Love Maine

2009-05-28T20:05:00.007-04:00

Growing Things

2009-05-17T21:38:00.005-04:00

So may people ask me about our garden. My musings have planted it in the imaginations of quite a few folks and seemingly given me far more of a reputation as a gardener than I will ever deserve. I have no more skill or expertise than when we started this whole thing a year ago. Reading gardening books fills me with trepidation. So much could go wrong. The world is filled with predators. Understanding soil and its relation to growing things takes nothing short of a doctorate in chemistry. Quite frankly, I have little time to read anything except Dr. Seuss, and when I do find a moment, complicated discussions on the pH of dirt and when to put netting over my plants to avoid cabbage worm is more then I can handle.

And so we come to this year's project. Year two of a garden is almost more overwhelming than year one. Last year, we had just a patch of grass, and while fencing it in, rototilling, picking rocks and all the rest were no small task, it was work filled with fantasy and unlimited imagination. This year's work started with patching up what remained of the dream. Deer topped the fence over the winter. Landscape fabric lay about in heaps. A determined patch of parsley struggled for its life amongst the weeds. And then there were the weeds. Oh wait, and then there were the rocks. Surely there were not so many rocks last fall? Steve patched up the fence, repaired the gate and rototilled again. And then the garden sat. It has been a cruel spring. One day so hot I dream of a mango grove. The next, I resolve we may never plant - may never get through that one last frost. So while our living room window is a virtual greenhouse, while a few rows of peas and lettuce and bok choy are struggling outside against our neglect, getting to the garden has been tough.

Alex and I headed out on Saturday. The trick, I have discovered, is to lure Alex into the garden and quickly lock the gate before telling him that it is still too early to plant. The boy loves to grow things. The rock picking and wedding are not his cup of tea any more then a fine chef wants to wash the dishes or clean the produce. He was hot. His head hurt. His arms too weak. His thirst was too great. I made some sort of Confucius-like statement one might find in a fortune cookie or on the tag of a tea bag. It fell on ears deafened by complaints. "I can make a bigger pile of rocks then you," I said. And he was off an running, piling rocks and pulling weeds like a champion.

And now the garden is ready. Ready for Memorial Day, the Day of the Great Planting. The day after which, there is to be no frost, although we all know that there will be. There will be at least a night or two or three that I tuck my children into bed and then run to the garden, carefully covering the fledgling plants with sheets and blankets and towels. And I will sleep easier those nights, somewhat sure that no deer will polish off our growing hopes and dreams as a single midnight snack.

We added to our collection of soon-to-be planted things today. In our window grows a random collection of basil and tomatoes, pumpkins and gourds, morning glories and sun flowers, beans and peas. Cate and Alex each have their own tray. We planted the seeds together, and despite my attempts at organization, over eager chaos prevailed and while I can pick out the tomatoes and the basil, we can't decide just what leaves are squash and which are gourds and which are pumpkins. I struggle against the need for neat little rows - pumpkins, here. Butternut squash, there. And then remind myself that life is nothing if not a grand surprise.

There was a garden festival at Alex's school today - a small celebration of Kid Garden - the wonderful space that has been created just outside his classroom window. Kid Garden is exactly what I want for my kids - a beautiful space for them to work and grow. The food it produces will be used in the school cafeteria when school is in session and will go to the food bank during the summer months. Kids have the option of helping out in the garden during recess and families will help care for it when school closes for the season. Alex loves Kid Garden.

As we were leaving today, he went searching for his wallet. The wallet is covered in surf boards, sent to him by our friend who lives in Hawaii. It is stuffed with one dollar bills he has collected from cards my grandmother has mailed to him. He never spends his money. Nothing is ever worthy of his money. But when he heard the festival included a plant sale, he went in search, and with four of his own dollars, bought himself a tomato plant and a butternut squash seedling and a piece of pumpkin bread. It is funny how it is in the little things we see our success as parents. There are so many moments to question our shortcomings. And then there is the moment when your child beams with pride - he spent his own savings for two delicate little plants.They are more to him then any plastic gadget. And the mother's heart in me sends out a warning to any deer or rabbits or bugs or frosty nights that might have other plans for these fragile growing things - Alex, his tomato, his squash.

It is Cate who has fine tuned her gardening skills the most this year. Every place she goes, she notices something new poking out of the dirt. "It's popping up!" she shouts with great enthusiasm be it flower or weed. The girl who shuddered and cried when her barefoot touched the sand now scoops up worms and spends ten minutes patiently digging a hole in one spot for a gladiola bulb or an iris. She has no emotional attachment to these growing things - not yet. But she makes sure to water her seeds and turn her plants as they face the sun.

And so we count the days until Memorial Day.

A butternut squash from last year's garden still sits on our counter top. "Can you BELIEVE we GREW that?" Alex asks whenever his eyes fall upon it. And the answer is a surprising yes. Without the how-to books, this gardening stuff is all faith and dreams and imagination. And that is stuff you just have to believe in.

May-Mei

2009-05-08T16:17:00.005-04:00

Golden Carpet

2009-05-08T11:03:00.003-04:00

Lady Godiva (or what I did with my new hair)

2009-05-05T07:41:00.006-04:00

My sincere apologies to all who believe this to be a ridiculous topic. You are probably men. There is nothing that binds women together like a good discussion about hair.

I got my haircut last night. I am not someone who plans these things ahead. I do not have a monthly or bimonthly standing appointment. I just wake up one morning, look in the mirror and know there will be no peace on my earth until I have had it cut. That is how my day started. For most men, the need for a haircut is not a matter of much concern. They get in the car, head to the barber and that is it. For me, it is a bit more complex. I like to go to a certain place - a place that offers me a cup of tea, a place that smells like botanical heaven instead of harsh chemicals, a place where they ask a lot of questions and consider your hair needs as if they were among the most serious on the planet. That place happens to be an hour's drive away. It is an experience I like to enjoy on my own, although I have experienced it with a child on my lap or a child sitting off to the side. My point is, it takes a small miracle to coordinate - to have the time, to have the kids cared for, to get an appointment.

And so I panicked when I woke up yesterday. Steve has a busy week - much of it to be spent in Albany. This weekend is already booked. Next week, he is away. Alex was home sick with a cough. Cate had gymnastics and swimming. A small backhoe was working outside my living room window, a rusty steel septic tank rotting into the ground, a gigantic new plastic one sitting near by. My car was in the garage. No one answered when I called the salon. Hair care seemed to be an out-of-reach goal, something way off in the horizon. I considered sitting down and writing the lyrics to a bad new country song.

But then the stars aligned. Steve's schedule would free up around dinner. Someone answered at the salon and there was an appointment open at six. By early evening, I was off.

It is amazing how a bit of time with an expert hair stylist can transform a person. I went in feeling like a run down mother of small children with bad, bad hair. Bad hair. Try to look down, consider wearing a baseball cap even though I look weird in baseball caps hair. I left two hours later feeling sleek - soft, shiny hair that I have never achieved on my own - the kind of hair that falls softly to the side while sipping a glass of Cabernet over a candlelit table, the kind that falls gently forward when reaching to pick up a crying child - the kind that can go out on a humid day and still look and feel like lovely silk. That was my satisfying, wonderful hair.

Of course, by that point it was eight o'clock at night. I had an hour's drive home. Steve would probably have fallen asleep putting the kids to bed. Even if any friends could be called and asked to meet me out for a glass of wine so my hair could fall just so to the side as I took a sip, it was a Monday night in Cooperstown. Nothing would be open. And so, I went home, looked once in the mirror and sat down at the computer to work.

I went to bed at midnight. Alex appeared shortly thereafter and coughed all night. At some point in the darkness he started talking about Shrek. I imagined by new hair and I had stayed up late into the night, enjoying the kind of intense movie critiquing banter one might enjoy as a Woody Allen character. At 6:15 a.m., we gave up. Ahh, many moons have passed since I last stayed up talking all through the night, greeting the first golden rays of dawn. In my imaginary hair world, I imagined it was the hair - the hair that had charmed this young man into staying up all night.

I went into the bathroom to put in my contacts and brush my teeth. Alex, who knew nothing of the hair appointment, saw only that it was sticking up on one side. "Your hair looks like a cat's butt," he said. I thanked him and reminded him that we do not use the word, "butt."

We crawled downstairs and tried to light a fire to ward off the damp morning chill. I tried to keep my botanically pleasing hair from soaking up the scent of woodsmoke. I wanted the day - just the day to smell essence of lavender and lemongrass as my hair swirled around my head. I drank six cups of coffee in about six minutes and put in my new a.m. yoga DVD - twenty minute routines that promised to bring balance to the start of my day. Alex sat patiently behind me on the couch, critiquing my poses as I tried to focus on my breath and the hair falling delightfully, smoothly into my face.

Steve came down stairs as I attempted triangle pose. "You got a haircut," he said. "Cute." A huge compliment after a largely sleepless night.

Alex is home sick again. No morning drop off. No one at all to notice the new hair. No women to remark on how great it looks. Nothing. Nothing but a new 1,000 gallon septic tank and two weeks worth of undone laundry to tackle now that we are free to generate waste water again. I should feel grateful. It is a damp, misty morning, not at all good for maintaining straight and glossy hair unless you happen to be Cate.

But for today, I will be happy. My hair will fall delightfully just so as I fold towels. Essence of lavender whirling all around me will bring calm peace as a sleepless Alex falls into inevitable grouchiness and bored Cate follows me about looking for activity.

Tonight I'll put on the Gypsy Kings. We'll make tacos and margaritas, pretend we're in Mexico and celebrate Cinco de Mayo. I would never catch swine flu with hair like this.

Buy Me Some Peanuts and Crackerjacks

2009-05-02T23:20:00.003-04:00

T-ball started today. To be honest, it is not a day I have looked forward to. I have dreaded our inevitable foray into organized sports, perhaps because I am not a sporty person myself or perhaps because I believe a lot of these sports are a bit too much too soon for young children.

But T-Ball seems a right of passage.

I don't know how it is in other communities, but the kick-off of the baseball season is no small matter in Cooperstown, and that is why I found myself standing this morning in Cooper Park, nestled snuggly beside the National Baseball Hall of Fame, waiting for the opening parade. Alex, as a T-Baller, had the privilege of riding a trolley to the opening ceremonies while the older players walked and waved to the proud parents and family members lining the streets.

We have stumbled on this small procession nearly every year - completely unintentionally - as we have run to the Farmers Market or the library on a Saturday morning. Alex has longed to join along... "In a few years," I said. "In two years." I said. "Next year," I said. And so it was fitting this morning that he awoke and announced that his dream was finally coming true.

We watched and waved and rushed to the fields. We sat patiently through the opening ceremony, the smell of hot dogs and concession-stand cheeseburgers filling the air.
Each team was introduced - from the T-ballers on up through the ranks. The volunteer parent coaches thanked. The man who mowed the field thanked. The villagers who donated money and time thanked. The Star Spangled Banner was sung, and I felt a catch in my throat as I looked across the field at my still tiny son standing still and tall, his hat across his heart.

I grew up in a small town. This is life in a small town. T-Ball is what it is all about - the community stepping up and reaching out - two dads who probably know as much about coaching baseball as I do - agreeing to coach this little team of kindergartners. Ten other parents coaching the other five teams. Yes, to teach them how to swing a bat and the order in which they should run the bases, but more importantly, how to put all their hands together in a circle and give a shout for their team, how to give a high-five to the opposing team at the end of the last inning and say, "good game," how to take off their caps and show their respect as the national anthem sounds across the field.

Small town life in like that. Many is the day I question what I am doing here in upstate New York. But answers come on days like today.

Today, the Cubs played the Nationals. We sat on the sidelines and cheered for every kid that was up to bat. The beauty of T-ball is that no one wins and no one loses. We laughed together as interest waned, as the outfielders swooped to pick flowers, as a runner decided to forego second base or as a bunt rolled past five children and turned into a home run. Some kids are good - the varsity team in training. Others are more interested in finding four leaf clovers in the field.

Alex announced at the end of the game that he is really more of a tennis (he played once two years ago) guy or a golf guy. But he was delighted when his dad brought home a new glove. So the verdict is still out on our future with baseball.

It makes no difference to me. Whether I am on a golf course, in a theater or sweating by the side of the pool, I will always be a fan. And I'll be happy to have this village to help my child along his way.

Cate

2009-04-28T12:36:00.004-04:00

Earth Day (a few minutes late)

2009-04-23T00:22:00.003-04:00

I’ve switched to energy efficient light bulbs in my house. I carry reusable bags to the grocery store. I use them when I remember. I belong to a CSA and buy local goat cheese. I hope Subaru will have a hybrid out when its time to replace my car.

I am fully onboard with creating a sustainable planet – at least in my mind. While my practices don’t always reflect my intent, I try.

Lately, I have been thinking about adding a wind mill to our landscape - maybe a couple of solar panels to the roof. I’ve scarcely paid a bit of attention to my electric bill in the past ten years. It comes. It gets paid. What else can I do? We need to turn on lights and run computers and do the laundry and cook dinner and charge our toothbrushes. I’ve seen the meter man come creeping around.

But suddenly, the idea of reading my own meter seems a bit of fun. The idea of a windy day generating more than fallen branches all about the yard sounds thrilling. The sunlight decreasing both my supplemental vitamin D intake and my electric bill? Outstanding.

Significantly reducing my carbon footprint? Priceless.

I read somewhere that visiting the giant wind farms in Europe is almost a spiritual experience. High on a hill, the constant hum of the earth’s energy being harnessed, the wind mills turn and turn and turn. I imagine it is a grounding experience, a visceral connection to the earth, the sound, the sight, the feel of the wind blowing.

Sustain the planet, sustain oneself. I like the idea of that and if I manage to follow through with this dream and install a small wind mill on my hill in Fly Creek, I might just plant the kids' pinwheels all around it and create a spiritual center of my own.

Last year, when we visited China, our guide told us the older people are highly distraught when they have to leave their homes and take up residence in high-rise buildings. Traditional Chinese homes are built at ground level, the rooms surrounding a central courtyard. Many of these homes, some centuries old, have been destroyed as the country modernizes and their residents relocated to apartment buildings. The older generation is ill at ease living ten stories up. They believe that after each meal, one must walk slowly with one’s feet upon the earth. Strolling through the hallways is not enough. Contact with the earth is essential.

This idea has stuck with me. And though we are just coming out of the long, dark months, the months when I would need that windmill to work overtime, I have held on to this idea of walking slowly with my feet upon the earth. We returned from China last year on the first day of spring. Slow walks around the yard with our children were an emerging possibility. And we walked. First slowly - then ran and laughed and played frisbee and searched out crops of mushrooms under the pine trees and baby bluebirds in their nests and wildflowers in the unmowed field. We heard phoebes calling and peepers singing, saw fireflies lighting the garden. I understand. Walking is not enough. Contact with the earth is essential.

Sometimes I think about how things have changed. Buying water in a bottle seemed absurd when I bought my first at a street vendor in Rome thirteen years ago. Now I have a hard time drinking a glass from the tap. When we were kids we ran water full force when we brushed our teeth. We were reminded to turn off the lights, but we didn’t recycle. Green was a color, not a lifestyle.

Taking care of the earth was second nature to our great grandparents. I hope it will be second nature to my children too. But it won’t be easy. Despite Earth Day, despite recycling and composting and weekly visits to the Farmer’s Market, we live in a consumer world

And so the windmill, so the dream of the sun lighting our way both inside and out.

At the moment, it is just an idea – something to talk about on a long roadtrip. Our property has not been evaluated. We haven’t looked into cost. We know very little about incentives and nothing about the electrical grid.

But I do know this. The earth is good for walking upon. With a little extra effort, my footprint can be small.

Spring

2009-04-16T00:06:00.007-04:00

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

from Two Tramps in Mud Time
- Robert Frost

Horror Story

2009-04-08T21:42:00.003-04:00

I woke up to snow. It snowed all day. The end.

The Sound of Silence

2009-04-02T22:41:00.003-04:00

Cate walked around with a bandaid covering her mouth for about an hour this morning. She stuck it on horizontally, the way I vaguely remember teachers covering the mouths of talkative students with strips of masking tape. (Could this really have been allowable in my lifetime?)

There was the ever communicative Cate, silent.

Cate is either a copycat, or the most sympathetic soul that has ever lived. Every pain felt by her brother, she feels immediately and with the same intensity. Alex has been sick all week, his nose so congested he gasps for air. Cate too, although there is no physical evidence to support her claims. I ask him to try breathing in steam. She needs to do it too. He falls and scrapes his knee, she needs a bandaid too. And we are lucky. There is very little a bandaid cannot cure in our house. And we have many, many things that need curing - week old scratches, invisible splinters, scars from last year, countless scraped knees and bumps on heads. Bandaids can cure all of these things.

And they can quiet a chatty girl.

Yesterday, Cate and I made a Target run. From where we live, it takes one hour to get to Target... uphill, in the snow and all that... We left at 9:30 a.m. We returned at 2:30 p.m. I am completely certain that Cate was silent for no more then two seconds at any point in our journey. She talked all the way to the store. She talked all the way through the store. She talked all the way home. She attracted an audience of senior citizens. They would find us from aisles away, her voice, like a magic flute leading them past towels and pet food to plastic cups or oral care or wherever we might be. And Cate held audience while they "oohed" and "ahhed" and asked her question after question she was only too happy to answer. Always, I am given some kind parting advice, "Watch out for her when she's older. She'll be a beauty," the men say. "I've got a granddaughter just her age, she'll keep you on your toes," the women say.

And on and on Cate talks, happy to shout a cheery, "Hello!" to anyone who might look her way.

I am fairly quiet by nature, a trait that forces Cate to ask several hundred times a day, "Why you no talking, Mommy? You sick?"

Sickness, I guess, is the only plausible reason for silence in Cate's mind. Maybe the bandaid to the mouth was another show of sympathy for her brother. I can see her logic... "If he is sick, I must be too. People don't talk when they are sick."

And for Cate, there was only one way to fall silent - a bandaid to the mouth.

She was determined to keep the thing in place. I showered, got dressed and put on my makeup in silence this morning. She caved only when she saw me bring out the lip gloss - something she begs for every day. She faltered for a moment. Even a three year old knows band aids can't stick to glossy lips. She turned her back and then whirled around, ripping off the bandaid and sticking her lips out in a pout. Fanciness before silence. I shined up her quiet rosebud mouth. She thanked me and then pointed to my crazy, frizzy, untouched hair and said, "Mommy. You hair not good."

And then she whizzed out of the bathroom and went downstairs to check on her brother.

"One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes."

2009-03-25T22:29:00.004-04:00

Faith, they say, is the belief in something that cannot be seen. Adoption, I say, has the same definition.

We finished our last adoption requirement today - our one year post-adoption evaluation - a portrait of our family - I will call it. First Alex rushing out to show our social worker the crocuses that have opened with glory, just today. Cate running to the driveway and jumping in circles around her. And then all-out sibling warfare. In my eternally optimistic mind, I reassure myself it was merely an opportunity to show my skills as a parent - the careful line between negotiation, teaching and running for my life. In the end, it was okay.

And so we answered questions about Cate and our life and our joys and concerns. And as intrusive as it seems to most people, we sat for a couple of hours with someone who is now a friend and talked about the wonder of our life as a family, over all that has transpired in a year. We wondered, together, over the miracle that each of these lost children are placed just where they should be, that the children we are raising are our children, that they belong, without doubt, in just the place they happen to be.

When she left, I was sad to see her go, to end this formal relationship, and joyful that we now proceed like every other family.

For more than two years, a giant basket has been a part of our landscape. It started as a single folder. And it has grown. It is stuffed to the brink with papers and copies and documents and receipts. It is the paper trail to our daughter. I have long imagined the day when it would be gone, sorted through, thrown away, just the final documents filed away for posterity. The day has come. But I can't do it. Maybe it is because I am a writer by nature. I have been trained to value, not only the final product, but the process. I know the power of the written word, the power of the pen. From the handwritten notes and application forms to the letter of seeking confirmation and final travel approval, these papers have a history with me. I doubt I will part with a single one.They are the path to my daughter. I am staring now at the overstuffed basket - its mere sight an emotionally charged experience for me.

I am a procrastinator, not because I am lazy, but because I like to get things right. And I work best under deadlines. Life as a reporter at a daily newspaper suited me. It was fast and changing and the deadline was always just at the end of my nose. Adoption is not like that. It is long and hard and filled with twists and turns and uncertainties and doubts. On this, I did not procrastinate. Endless paperwork is the only concrete form it takes until a child runs laughing through your home. You have to believe in what you cannot see. The papers become something to hold onto as you long to hold your child.

And now, here is Cate. How easily she could have stayed forever in China. How easily she could have been placed with a family in California. Or could she? To me, there is no doubt that here is where she was meant to be. She wouldn't have landed in another spot any more than Alex would have landed in another spot. And that is the sheer, miraculous wonder of adoption.

And now my children sleep upstairs. A year has passed. The process, the papers, China, the newness of being a family... they all recede. Now we are here. Here where most families always find themselves to be - doing laundry, making lunches, cleaning up from dinner, wiping bottoms, negotiating sibling warfare, putting on jammies, brushing teeth. They are the taken-for-granted stuff of life. Like every other mother, I take them for granted. I complain. I nag my children.

And then I see the basket, over stuffed with papers out of the corner of my eye.

My gratitude knows no end.

Monday

2009-03-23T17:27:00.002-04:00

Spring (Almost)

2009-03-15T21:25:00.007-04:00

I can't stop thinking about my garden. I say this and laugh because I am not a gardener. I have very little knowledge of growing things. This is an improvement over last year when I knew nothing, but my Organic Gardening for Dummies is still an advanced text for me.

Still, I can't stop thinking about the garden. It started last year as a science experiment, really. Alex wanted it. He has an uncanny knowledge about things that grow, probably gleaned from my father. He has followed him year after year around his yard of blooming wonder. Ask any experienced gardener and they will tell you to start small - perhaps a container of cherry tomatoes on the deck, a tiny plot in the yard. This, we ignored. Plan a garden with a four-year-old, the ideas are grand in scale. Cherry tomatoes - no. Watermelons, pumpkins, and of course, the rutabagas. These things need space. Give a powerful rototiller to a man who has never rototilled... you will have space. We had a big garden and a decent sized new herb garden to boot.

And it grew. It was not award winning, but nature is as giving as she is cruel. The deer chomped the heads off the sunflowers just as they were about to bloom, but they bloomed again, just before the frost. The last of the butternut squash still sits on the kitchen counter. The eight jars of salsa we canned from our produce have long since been eaten. A few rutabagas still pop their rotting heads from the newly muddy earth. Every tomato, every squash, every cucumber, no matter how ugly, was a sign of our great success. Even our mistakes were beautiful. The tiny nasturtium overtook the herb garden with its fiesta of blossoms. The cosmos planted to add a dash of color grew stems as thick as young tree trunks and towered over the kids' heads. We walked into the garden everyday with anticipation. Disappoint was rare.

Today the sun shone bright overhead. I played frisbee in the yard with Cate and stopped for a moment to lift my face high and breathe in its warmth. I have fallen in love with yoga this winter, but it was today in my muddy yard that I truly understood Sun Salutation. Its series of poses naturally capture and pay tribute to the first spring rays. A true salutation. We tossed the frisbee around. I pushed Cate in the swing, but I couldn't resist my true desire - a visit to the garden. Full of anticipation, I pushed aside the dead dry leaves. I was not disappointed. The first green sprig of thyme. The tiny sprouting leaves of mint - their smell pungent and clean. Later the mint will overtake the herb garden (another experienced-gardener warning I chose to ignore). I will fight it like an enemy as it encroaches on its more delicate neighbors. But today I rejoiced. Spring.

We were too late to order seed catalogs. As I said, I am not a gardener. I had no idea that any form of catalog existed that would be out of stock - especially weeks before even the most optimistic of us begins to believe in the coming equinox. I imagined Alex and I, and maybe even Cate and Steve, pouring over the colorful pictures, carefully accessing our temperature zone as we fell head-over-heels for cranberry beans and heirloom tomatoes, our hearts breaking that the season would be too short to do justice to the elegant Japanese eggplants. Instead, we will start as we did last year - laying out a map and then modifying again and again as we find things we can't resist at plant sales and greenhouses. We'll accept the leftovers of the more experienced gardeners who know the limits of their soil and space. And we'll wait for our garden to grow.

I only wonder what the deer and rabbits will take a liking to this year...

Mud Season.. A Tribute to My Family

2009-03-09T21:52:00.008-04:00

People often ask me what it was like the moment I first met Cate. I tell them about the crowded civil affairs office, the crying, the confusion, the joy. But in my mind, in that first moment, that first moment when her nanny looked at me and smiled and handed me my daughter, there is silence. It is the silence of the world ceasing to exist all around me. The silence of everything coming together into one moment. It is the silence I imagine of perfect meditation. The silence of existing fully in one moment.

I recall the same silence immediately after Alex was born. All around me were sounds. Steve talking. The nurse talking. The midwife talking. Hospital sounds. Then Alex was born and handed immediately to me. There was profound silence in that moment that I first held him in my arms. It seemed eternal, but could only have lasted a second or two and only when I heard the midwife saying, "It's a boy!" did I recall I didn't know that already.

The silence with Cate was there and then it was gone, broken by her stiffening body and overwhelming tears. In my memory, her sadness is matched by the look of kindness on the face of her caregiver, a peacefulness I tried to drink in. And then that woman was gone. I never even asked her name.

And now it is a year later. There is no silence if Cate is involved. She follows me everywhere, a chattering shadow, asking, "Mom? What doing?" I answer. My response immediately followed by, "Why?" I learned with Alex and am relearning with Cate, there is something existential in this line of questioning. Eventually, there is a "Why?" to which there is no answer and seeking an answer borders on the sharp corner of science, philosophy and faith.

It has been a year of such transition in our family. Moments of extreme joy. Moments of such difficulty. Cate has learned to navigate life within a family. Alex has gone off to kindergarten and learned to navigate life in an institution and Steve and I have tried to navigate our lives without ending up in institutions.

We marked our one year anniversary as a family with homemade pizza, two balloons and two 19 cent furry chicks from the florist. We talked about our memories of our first day together and Alex and Cate ended their day by lying together in our bed and watching "The Laurie Berkner Band." It couldn't have been better. On their first day as brother and sister, they lay together on a bed in Nanjing, eating noodles and watching the same video.

I didn't realize that simple event would be enough... I thought we needed something more to mark our year together as a family, and so I booked one night at an indoor water park/ hotel. I see now, we didn't need the extravagance, but in a way the trip was a brief summary of our life - not as quiet strangers, but as a family.

The trip began with the bickering of the kids in the car. Their fights are as classic as they are annoying. They always start along these lines... "Cate's looking at me!" "No," Ala looking at ME!" and it goes downhill from there.

But at the hotel, they decided to try sleeping together on the pullout couch. I didn't expect much. I tucked them in, turned out the light and waited for, "Cate touched me!" "No, Ala touched me!"

But it didn't happen. I sat in the dark and listened to them whispering back and forth to each other - each making sure the other was there in the dark. It lasted only a few minutes before Alex crawled to our bed and Cate followed shortly after, but it was a moment to remember. It was what I had wanted for them - a friendship, a companionship, each knowing the other was there.

I could write much more about the water park, and in another post, I might... Observations of This American Life... or something like that...

In the meantime, I learned a lesson... every day is a celebration of our family. Even the bickering - it would only happen in a family. We had a beautiful dinner with family and friends to celebrate our wonderful occasion. We had a quiet dinner alone. And it was enough. The celebration is all around us - sometimes so obvious and beautiful, other times marked in struggle and frustration.

It was pouring rain the day after our Family Day. I dug out Cate's hand-me-down boots, her hand-me-down coat. She threw the warm clothes I chose to the side and insisted on "being fancy" that day. I dragged her from the gym, to an interview, and all about town. She, in the pigtails she demands each day, was the only non-mud colored thing anywhere to be seen. And she drew smiles every place she went. She was so Cate. Outgoing. Waving at everyone she met. Dressed in layers and layers of clothing lovingly handed down to her by people who had waited anxiously for her to arrive. She has been so embraced. And she returns the love with bobbing pigtails and waving hands, a welcome splash of color in all our lives.

On Her Way Up

2009-03-04T22:49:00.004-05:00

WARNING: I will be nostalgic for at least the next 21 days...

So, one year ago, I was lying in a bed in NJ with 13 hours and 11 minutes to go until our plane left for China. The wind was blowing at hurricane force. I would lie awake for most of the night listening to it rattle the house and whip through the trees. We had two suitcases - one filled with a few articles of clothing for each of us, one filled with bandages and underwear and other practical items to give to the orphanage and little dresses and pants and coats and blankets and toys and diapers for the daughter we were going to meet.

Today, Cate climbed the rock wall at our gym. Strapped in a harness, suspended by a rope, she climbed while her brother looked on nervously and said quietly to me, "I don't know about this," and said loudly to the climbing instructors, "That's my sister. She sure is brave for a baby."

Alex has taken to climbing. Today, for the first time, he climbed to the top of the two story rock wall and rang the bell. He did this not just once, but three times. Each time he was cheered on by his sister, and each time lowered slowly to the ground by the instructors - nothing but pride written across his face. Cate and I sat and watched. "She doesn't want to climb?" they asked me. I said she was only three. They said there was no age requirement. I asked her if she wanted to climb. She jumped off the bench and the next thing I knew, she was in a harness, tethered to a cool young rock climbing guy and feeling her way up the rock wall. "Wow. She is confident for a little kid," one of them said.

I watched her - brave, determined - the wall such a metaphor for her life.

"A year ago today we left Cooperstown to go to China to bring her home," I said. I didn't expect them to comment. I didn't expect them to care, but someone had to share my moment. And for a couple of cool outdoorsy guys in their twenties, they did a great job at appreciating the unique amazement that is Cate.

She climbed about a quarter of the way up the wall and then she was done. The English required to instruct her how to let go of the rock, to hold the rope, to trust as she was lowered slowly to the floor, was a bit advanced. It took some time. But she did it. She took off the harness and ran back to me with pure glee written across her face. I saw the same look cross her brother's face as he looked at her and then quickly scurried back to the harness for another chance of his own. In this past week, he has read his first book, earned his first card in swimming and reached the top of the rock wall. A week like this will not be easily topped.

In this year, I have flown to China, climbed the Great Wall, gained a beautiful daughter, and built a family. A year like this will not be easily topped.

So be prepared for a week of reminiscence. My heart is back in China while I watch in amazement as our life unfolds here.

At dinner, my finicky, unhealthy eater-girl ate a strawberry without being asked. She tasted a sugar snap pea and asked for a carrot. We all cheered wildly.

As I tucked my baby in to bed tonight, I said to her, as I do every night, "Wan an, Xi Xi. Wo ai ni."

"I Cate. Xi Xi China, " she said. "Wo ai ni, Mama. Open door a little."

"The cats will get in," I reminded her.

"I like cats, Mama," said the girl who shuttered at the sight of them just last week.

I imagined her a year ago as the strong wind blew through the night. This, my amazing, rock-climbing, vegetable-eating Cate-Xi who sleeps with her door wide open because she is no longer afraid of cats.

Jumping In

2009-02-17T20:33:00.004-05:00

Alex has swimming lessons on Monday afternoons. I have dutifully taken him to swimming lessons once each week for four years. He swims all summer - in the lake, in my parents' pool, in the Atlantic. He loves the water, and while he has often squawked at going to swimming lessons, I have been insistent. I am a weak swimmer. We live near a lake. His friends will have boats. He will want to water ski. He will fly off the rope jump near Fairy Springs. He has to know how to swim.

And he can, and he has, for at least a year. On a warm day, he will swim for hours. At the gym, he can swim laps. But he would not put his face in the water. He would not. If Alex has one defining personality characteristic, it is stubbornness, and in his five years, I have seen it work for and against him. In this case, he has been adamant. He will NOT put his face in the water. He will not. He has worn down Sharky, the most experienced swim instructor on the planet. He has taught nearly every person in this town to swim, ages 2 - 40. No joke. He has worn down countless others, much newer to the field. He has worn down me. The mere mention of his eye balls touching the water, even for a second, has been met with adamant refusal. Not even goggles would do the trick. And yet, he can jump like a pro, swim laps like a champ, and float on his back until I count to a google.

Last Monday, I took him to class. He never advances. You have to float with your face in the water to advance. He swam. He horsed around. And he adamantly refused to put his face in the water. I sighed from the stands and reminded myself, "all in good time" while secretly wondering if this was worth our while any longer. After class, I approached the teacher about a private lesson. That, I reasoned, might do the trick. Don't get me wrong. I do believe firmly that kids will do things in their own time. But I also know my son. And sometimes I worry that his stubborn streak will come at a cost. Private lessons just might do the trick. The instructor and I agreed on the Tuesday after vacation.

And then came vacation. Alex begged for a hotel with a pool. And we obliged. It was perfect family time - the hotel a Valentine surprise. Cate flung herself with glee off the edge, bobbing deep under water and popping up with sheer delight written all over her face. Alex approached things a bit more carefully, but the roughnecking of time with dad gave way. I grimaced from the hot tub as I watched my children fly recklessly through the air, landing with painful belly flops or plunging underwater after their father had launched them. They came up sputtering, but happy. It was a bit too much. Other parents watched Cate with amazement and asked if we had started her young. She has no fear of the water. As young as we could, I answered honestly. But despite the craziness, despite the volume of water to the face, Alex hung back.

Until Monday morning. Without pretext, without warning, he put his face in the water, and he swam. Over and over. I am not sure who swelled with more pride - Alex or me. This is the thing that has amazed me most as a parent - the ability to truly feel the emotion of your child, be it joy, or sorrow, or pain, or pride. I watched in proud amazement, and couldn't imagine feeling any greater joy if I were watching him take the gold in the Olympics. And he felt the same way. Steve, the parent who has attended two or three swimming lessons and has been present for about 2o percent of Alex's life long swimming opportunities (and I say this with all due respect.... I am the lucky stay-at-home-parent) took credit for the advancement. "All he needed was his dad," he said with his own ounce of pride. And he might be right. While I encourage my children in every way I can, my instinct is to protect them from pain. I have left a teary small boy a hundred times at the door of his teacher and tried not to look back, my heart breaking in a million pieces. I have looked at a backward, crooked letter S brought forth from the tip of a pencil with such determination and said, "Great job, buddy!" I have stood back, just a foot out of reach, from the edge of the pool and watched him jump, always ready to catch him and help him wipe the water away from his eyes. But I have never flung him six feet in the air and seven feet out from my body. No. This I have not done. For this, he needed dad.

Not wanting to lose momentum, today, I dutifully plunged my white, February body into a suit again and headed for the gym with both kids. I didn't want Alex to lose momentum. Like I said, I know this kid, and I know all that stands between him and never putting his face in the water again is his ability to convince himself he can only do it at a hotel in Fishkill. Cate and Alex were both thrilled to so swimming. And at first he was reluctant, but he did put his face in, and as luck would have it, his instructor was life guarding, and so he showed him too. But I wasn't prepared for what came next. Thirty minutes in the lap pool and he looked over at the diving pool.

"I want to jump off the diving board. Please ask if I can." I try reason. I try logic. "You will plunge too deep. You will go way over your head." But he is insistent.

Permission is granted. We head over. I jump in and get enough water up my nose to help a drought stricken country. I start to doubt the wisdom of this move. If this happens to Alex, he will never try it again.

He climbs up the ladder and to the edge of the board. He falters. He hesitates. And he jumps. He comes up, coughing and bursting with pride. He jumps again and again and convinces his little sister to try it once too. She comes up with a smile on her face, but once is enough for her. At least for today. She, I know, is fearless. She will jump again.

And so it is. Last week, I had a little boy who refused to put his face in the water, even for a second. Today, he is jumping from six feet in the air into 13 foot water.

This, I know, is my reminder. Cherish those tearful moments. Cherish the times of fear. All too soon they will pass ... My heartbreak replaced by swelling pride and fear as I watch my two babies take the plunge and come up smiling.

An End of Pirate Days?

2009-02-07T19:03:00.003-05:00

It is winter carnival weekend. This year's theme is The Days and Knights of Winter...

It was supposed to be a snowman building contest... the best we could do was break off chunks of snow and construct the remains of a medieval wall.

At home, the knight emerged.

And his serf... with their pet dragon...

Today's knights use technology.

A Mid-Winter Night's Dream

2009-01-31T21:17:00.005-05:00

I love summer. I love the free giddiness of walking barefoot. Driving barefoot. Dancing barefoot. I love taking a deep breath and feeling nothing but air rushing into my lungs and joy escaping out. I love the first day I find myself on a boat in the middle of the lake, my head thrown back, my eyes closed until the moment I open them, and seeing nothing but crystal sky, knowing in my whole being that this, this moment is why I live here all year. This moment is why I struggle through all those cold, dark months. Maybe this moment is why I live.

This is not that moment.

It is the deep of winter and this year, thanks to massive amounts of supplemental vitamin D and the acceptance (at age 36) that a hat and a warm head are worth more then decent hair, I have been okay. Okay, despite the fact the first snow day came before Halloween and that the naked ground has been rarely seen since then. Okay, although it has been zero or below most mornings since Christmas. I have begun to measure the temperature, not in degrees, but by how close we early morning parents pull our hats to our eyes. By how long we look up at each other with a quick smile as we walk our kids to school. Less then two seconds - I know it is below zero. When it hit 20 one morning last week, entire conversations happened on street corners. Teeth emerged from smiles brought by happiness - not just polite upturned lips. Some even dared to go without a hat.

On Jan. 19, I admit to grumbling steadily throughout the morning as I climbed through snow banks to reach Cate's side of the car. I grumbled as snow filled my boots and I struggled to pull her from her seat. I grumbled as my coffee grew cold on the roof of the car as I tried to slide between the snow bank and passenger side to put her back in. I grumbled as I discovered my pant legs covered with mud and my coat covered with dry dirt and salt as I slid back again. But the next day was Jan. 20, and grumbling seemed the stuff of the past.

My morning drives with Alex have been the coldest. But somehow, I haven't minded those. The sky of those cold mornings is so blue. The singular warmth of the sun seems almost visible - as if it falls to earth in one concise ray and that if you could find that ray, you would feel heat. Without it, the air is a frozen vacuum, if such a thing can exist. But I have tried to focus on that singular ray. The bitterest nights are also the starriest. I have found a separate peace with this cold.

But, I am starting to come undone. Not by the cold. Not by the snow. Just by the clothes. The boots. The coats. The snowpants. The mittens. The hats. The gloves. The scarves. The long underwear. The socks. Multiply that by three - sometimes four. That is what it takes to get out the door nearly everytime - whether it be for a whole afternoon of sledding or a five minute trip to the post office. And then we come home. Multiply them all by three or four again and add wet, melting snow.

I have made a solemn promise to never again complain about getting ready for the beach. How hard is it, really, to pack a couple of snacks, rub sunscreen on nearly naked children and toss them in the car? A car that I haven't needed to warm or scrape or brush or anything?

And so I am writing this post. It is my attempt to beat down the negativity that is starting to rise. I cannot let it swell. It is only January 31. I cannot yet be defeated. I have lived here long enough to know that winter will linger for two more months, and as T.S. Eliot said, "April is the cruelest month."

Today I upped my vitamin D. Tomorrow I will take the kids skating. Maybe, just for fun, I will rub a little sunscreen on their noses.

I think the smell of coconut might do me some good.

Happy Chinese New Year!

2009-01-26T13:07:00.005-05:00

Welcoming the Ox

2009-01-22T13:17:00.005-05:00

A year ago today, I picked Alex up at preschool. It was a grey day, not unlike today, but gloomier. I was freezing. My feet were wet. When I got home, something promoted my to stand in our dining room and look out across the frozen landscape of our yard.

The phone rang. It was the director of our adoption agency. We had official approval from the Chinese government to adopt Cate. Even typing now, a year later, I feel the full force of that emotion - ecstatic joy, relief, disbelief... after two years of holding our breath, after four months of looking at her forlorn little face... we had a daughter. What followed was a whirl of activity that hasn't quite ended yet.

Our approval arrived shortly before the beginning of Chinese New Year - a festival that suddenly seemed created to mark our joy and anticipation. Packages filled with red envelopes and well wishes from friends arrived in the mail. Alex celebrated Chinese New Year at school wearing T-shirts he had created with his sister's name and his own written proudly across the chest. We made paper lanterns and dragons and bejeweled the walls and ceilings. We decked ourselves and our house in red, and made a feast of Chinese food to share with friends. We listened to music, so foreign to our own ears, over and over, because google indicated it was Chinese New Year music.

Holidays are nothing if not a collection of the memories and rituals of our lives. Christmas is joy because it hearkens not only the present happiness, but the anticipation of being a kid, left sitting at the top of the stairs while my parents oohed and ahhed over all the gifts under the tree. Thanksgiving is a memory of my grandmother's stuffed celery on a green plastic platter, the Macy's Day parade buzzing somewhere in the background as my mother cooked and the house filled with delicious smells. Easter, still a joyful hunt for jelly beans among my grandparents' house plants and pictures. The feelings package themselves in so many layers, opening again and again with each passing year.

So it has become with Chinese New Year. This year, The Year of the Ox, will mark only our third celebration of the ancient tradition, and yet, it has become our own. In its celebration I will pay tribute to the anxious determination of our first celebration. Our paperwork had just landed in China, but our hearts were already tied to a child whose face we had never seen. I researched the holiday. Alex and I did craft after craft. We ordered Chinese takeout and celebrated what we hoped would be. Last year, The Year of the Rat, was a feast of glorious preparation and joy of what would be. And this year, we will celebrate all that we have.

I do not know what Cate will feel for the culture of her birth as she grows. I suspect it will be a complex web. She may reject what she once embraced and later embrace it again. She may go through a time when she wishes to disassociate herself. She may not. I have wondered how we will handle these issues as she grows. Will we stop celebrating Chinese New Year? We will fail to honor the Autumn Moon? I think the answer is no. No, because we have already made them our own. They have already entered our family history. They are ours.

I know our celebrations, no matter how much we learn, will never be authentic. I know ours are only a version of the real thing. I will never sweep all the dust to four corners and then leave it until the fifth day of the new year. I won't open every window and door in my mid-winter home to let the old year out. But if I can get my hands on some fireworks, we'll shoot them off. I'll place a bowl of tangerines on my counter to symbolize abundant happiness. We'll light as many lanterns as we can.

And I will remember with each passing year, the magical range of emotions and events that have allowed our family to make this holiday one of our own.

Facing the Rising Sun

2009-01-20T23:24:00.002-05:00

January 20, 2009!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nei57nebRU&feature=PlayList&p=482ED9087C11B57E&index=23

Live from Bathtime

2009-01-19T20:26:00.004-05:00

Tonight's tubside conversation...

Some things are hard to explain to a five year old. Inauguration... Something for the pages of history.... Why isn't a president just a president forever? All this before touching on why Obama's inauguration is historical... a lot of deep thinking for a small boy... I decided to sum it up with something that would seem concrete.

"Well, Alex, the amazing thing about our country is that anyone can try to be president if that is what they want to be. YOU could be president someday."

I can see the wheels spinning quickly. Any minute he will announce his candidacy...

"Mom, do you have to leave home to be president?"

"Well, you would get to live in the White House."

"Well if I have to leave home, I am not doing it."

It's nice to be loved.

Get TogOEther

2009-01-18T14:46:00.004-05:00

We spent last evening with Steve's colleagues and their spouses at a post-holiday gathering. It was the type of event that might annually fill a spouse with dread. We have all been victims of those office parties that require a nice cocktail dress and a few hours of meaningless small talk before we can fairly kick our date's shin discreetly under the table and indicate with desperate eyes that it is time to go. But get-togethers with Steve's company are not that kind of affair. They are fun - always fun - and over the seven or eight years we have been invited, they have become something we look forward to attending. They have become time spent with friends.

In all honesty, I see these friends three or four times each year. I don't call anyone daily to check-in. We rarely meet up outside of organized events, but when I see them, I usually end up laughing harder and longer then at any other point in the year - and believe me - my life is nothing if not one humorous event after another. With two pint-sized comedians in the house, I get my fair share of laughter. But there is something just great about these people. I have tried to analyze it a bit in the past and all I can come up with is the spirit of fun and adventure that I find in all of them coupled with a genuine interest in each other's lives. Every gathering is a chance to step out of my usual role and be a me that is just me. Of course we are all concerned about each other's families, interested in each other's daily lives, but overall, these little soirees are a chance to just have fun and leave the daily stuff behind.

And there has been a lot of fun over the years. Sprinting through the streets of Manhattan on a crazy scavenger hunt, cruising past the White House on Segways just moments after being handed the keys, learning to salsa in a Brazilian restaurant, descending by helicopter to the floor of the Grand Canyon for a champagne toast, singing Sweet Caroline at an outdoor karaoke bar on the Las Vegas strip, these are the moments that bind people together. You can learn a lot about a person while watching him rise to these occasions. I know things from who hates new foods, but will try most anything to who is most likely to have a glittery pair of platform shoes hidden under the bed... and they know a lot of random, crazy facts about me. And when you get right down to it, it's the random crazy facts that truly define us.

So, this is my new year's toast to the people that not only know I love Neil Diamond, but actually encourage me to sing his songs out loud... and will probably still welcome me back after they hear me sing.

The gOE - gOE Girls

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-27T20:02:00.004-05:00

Happy Golden Days

2008-12-18T20:53:00.017-05:00

"Who said that every wish would be heard and answered when wished on the morning star? Somebody thought of it and someone believed it, look what its done so far."

If I lived here for no other reason, I would live here for Santa.

I am sure most of you are unaware, but Santa, it seems, has a soft spot in his heart for Cooperstown. I know. He told me. And in the event that his words aren't enough, his actions speak for his love of these little local kids and people. Santa, you see, is everywhere during the Christmas season. He not only accepts visitors (both human and animal) in his tiny cottage, he graces preschools and Head Start. He sits with the older folks in nursing homes. He sings with the kindergartners at Rotary lunches. He plays with toddlers at the gym. He visits patients at the hospital. Santa is everywhere anyone needs him to be. His heart is as big as the job demands.

A visit to Santa in Cooperstown is different then anything most of us have experienced in the past. It is warm and cozy. It feels perfect and complete. You stand, hands buried in mittens, heads tucked into hats, feet dancing in the snow outside his tiny cottage and wait. Always, it is cold, but even so, the wait never seems too long. It is too pretty. The village too quaint, draped in lights and greenery. Finally, the door opens. Out stumble a couple of happy kids, maybe some new parents with a tiny baby, and in you go. Inside, it is warm. Music plays. Santa is soft spoken and gentle. He remembers the things that Santa would, of course, remember. He has watched Alex grow. He greets him by name. He asks about kindergarten. He says hello to Cate. He has watched her grow too. He has followed her journey from China to this cozy little place across the planet. He welcomes her gently, anticipating her shyness, her reserve. Alex goes straight to his lap. After five years of visits, Santa is like an old friend. Santa asks what he would like for Christmas, but the visit doesn't seem to be about wanting. The visit with Santa seems to be about giving, about being content. There is an aura of giving and peacefulness all around him. It feels in that tiny cottage, the way Christmas should feel. The way it feels in story books and Christmas songs. Santa takes his time. He doesn't rush. He chats and asks questions. Sometimes he has even been known to read a story. The kids leave with a candy cane and that special quiet that falls when one has been in the presence of one so great. Back outside the cottage, it doesn't feel quite as cold.

Cate, of course, doesn't really understand what this Santa business is all about. She applauds when the tree is lit each morning. She goes wild for lights decorating a house. Santa...how do you explain Santa to a little girl who had nothing to call her own? But after a visit to his house, I think she started to know - not the asking for something, not the wanting of something, but the spirit of the season, the spirit of this man. We saw him again today when he visited the toddler party at the gym. He entered. Cate cheered. She grabbed my hand and ran to him, embracing the same Santa she was afraid to speak to less then a week ago. They say children are experts at detecting the true spirit of a person, and this is obviously true. When I lost sight of Cate in the crowd of parents and children at the gym, I had only to look for Santa. Cate was there, at his feet. I had to drag her away when it was time to go. Her summery of the experience, "Santa, mama. I yike him." I was twenty minutes late for a meeting. But I never would have changed that time for her.

As a bit of a roving reporter, I have had the honor of interviewing Santa on a couple of occasions.
I know he is a busy man. He has a whole world to visit, a whole planet get to on Christmas Eve. I am sure you could find one of his helpers elsewhere. I am sure there are many and that they are fine too. But if you find yourself doubting, if the world, your world, has shaken your beliefs and gotten you down this season, come to Cooperstown. You can find Santa in his tiny yellow cottage. You'll leave with a lighter feeling in you heart. He is a part of my Christmas magic. And I am thrilled by the magic he has so generously given to Alex and Cate.

Scenes from December

2008-12-18T20:33:00.005-05:00

I know Advent is a season of waiting, a season of anticipation. But I feel so gloriously free of waiting this year. All I have anticipated is unfolding right in front of me.

Ghosts of Christmas present? (I need to learn to correct the red-eye.)

Quote of the day.... "More chocolate? I LOVE this day!"

I think it is safe to say, Cate loved it too.

A Musical Break

2008-12-11T12:35:00.001-05:00

I love this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us-TVg40ExM

Birthday Girl

2008-12-07T15:48:00.005-05:00

Here she is..... she turned two not knowing a family anxiously awaited her arrival. She turned three a daughter, a granddaughter, a great-granddaughter, a niece, a sister, a friend.

Our sincere thank you to everyone who helped us and supported us in making this journey possible for our family.

Three!

2008-12-05T06:31:00.002-05:00

Our baby turns three today!

No list

2008-12-01T22:04:00.000-05:00

Never plan to make a list when you are packing to go away for a holiday....

Preparing

2008-11-24T20:40:00.005-05:00

Thanksgiving is on the horizon, although with our second snow storm underway, it could easily feel like deepest darkest winter.

I have decided to keep a notebook with me for the next two days and list all I have to be thankful for each day. I know the main list, of course, but I realize more and more that life is fleeting, unpredictable. It is the little things, the split seconds often, in which I find my greatest sources of joy, of comfort, of gratitude.

I'll post the list here in a few days, provided I still have power at home or have made it to New Jersey, which is the plan... maybe a few of you out there would like to try the same thing. It is all too easy to let our moments of challenge overwhelm our moments of thanksgiving.

Almost there

2008-11-17T20:02:00.005-05:00

I am reading China Ghosts by Jeff Gammage. "China Ghosts is the story of a girl. It's the story of a father. It's the story of a family." So reads the promotion.

It is too soon for me.

I picked the book up, in part because I read every book about Chinese adoption I can get my hands on, in part because it has topped the list of best selling adoption books and in part because I wonder if I could write a tale of our own story, if I have anything new to say, any other emotions to tap.

But it is the first memoir about Chinese adoption I have read since we returned home with Cate, and it is too soon. I didn't expect it, but my emotions are too raw. The experience, although, in the end, one of the best of my life, was filled with too many harrowing times, too much intensity.

Gammage, for his part, alludes to these times, describes them in a paragraph, a page or two, and moves on, but I know what that paragraph cost him, what it cost his wife, Christine. It is too soon for me to read this book, but I know I will not stop.

We recently viewed some pictures and videos of the moment we met Cate. It was like any moment of great significance in anyone's life. It is unforgettable, but the details are all a bit shady in my mind. I often wonder, if it weren't for photography, if it weren't for video, how would our histories change? How would our minds alter the reality to fit something we are more comfortable with remembering?

And so the moment with Cate. What strikes me, looking at these moments, captured forever on film, is the rawness. Her face. Her fear. I can touch them. I weep just looking at them, the pain of my little girl. They will never be seen here, these images that capture the beautiful moment my daughter physically entered my life. I will not show them. They are too intimate. Her emotions are that palpable. And, I suppose, if I am honest, so are mine. So are mine the moment I am handed this terrified, sobbing, tiny girl. So are mine.

And I feel them when I read this book.

Whenever we endure a great challenge in life, I think there is a period of the intensity of the unknown, followed by great joy or sorrow, depending on the situation, and then a quieting of the spirit as it starts to heal and absorb. We have to get through that period before we can look back with the distant reminiscence that becomes the greater part of our life's memory book. I realized this week, that I am very much in the healing part.

A few days after we first met Cate, we walked through the streets of Nanjing one magical night. She felt as if she had been ours forever, and yet, we did not know her at all. The air was alive. Alex was enchanted by the city at night. We were all enchanted by the sheer wonder of it all and Cate began to sing, "Donn, donn mei-mei," over and over and over.

She sang it again just the other day. There was an instant catch in my throat. That night came flooding back to me with a power I hadn't felt since the minute I lived it. She has sung that song since that night, many times. Even Alex sings it now. But somehow, just this week, it all came back in one powerful flood, perhaps more powerful now that I know this little one, now that we are truly in every way, a family.

I suppose there are many ways, as people, we know we are family. For some, it is simply blood. For others, a shared history. For me, it is more than that. It is the shared moments. It is the songs. It is the fear. It is the laughs.

On Sunday morning we sat around our kitchen counter eating breakfast, just like every other day. Cate made a funny noise and it made Alex laugh a belly laugh for a full minute. She loved the attention, and did it again. It was a beautiful moment, a moment I laughed, and thought silently, "We have become a family. We are a family."

Cate turns three in just a couple of weeks. It will be more than a birthday celebration. It will be a celebration of my heart, my love, my joy. She has become a part of our every day, the good, the bad, the momentous, the mundane. We hustle to get her dressed in the morning, laugh at her dancing, feel frustrated when she whines. She is our every day.

And for that, I am forever grateful whatever ghosts I may face.

Under Siege

2008-11-17T19:48:00.003-05:00

I'll be back

2008-11-13T20:30:00.003-05:00

Photo by Herb Bohler

I have been struck by some kind of writer's block I can't shake... Stay tuned.

Vote

2008-11-03T21:43:00.002-05:00

Halloween

2008-11-01T08:02:00.005-04:00

These Children are not in Costume

2008-10-30T21:33:00.001-04:00

Update

2008-10-28T21:19:00.001-04:00

He likes it!

Today's Forecast: 6 - 12 Inches of Snow

2008-10-28T13:19:00.003-04:00

There are many things that fill a mother with fear. Some are major. Any woman who even contemplates motherhood can sense them, although she cannot realize that upon actually entering motherhood they will become too intense to even steal a glance at for a second. Those are the big things... the fear that something really bad will happen to my children, the fear that my children will become seriously ill, the fear that I will become seriously ill and unable to care for them. Then there are fears that a mother doesn't anticipate until faced with them. They include a fear that vaccines may actually harm my children, or that the school I send them too won't actually be a nurturing environment or that letting them drink non organic milk will cause them to enter puberty at six. Finally, there are the fears that no sane woman would ever register on her radar before motherhood and would actually mock any woman who dared speak of them.

I am facing one of those fears today.

Within the past three weeks, I have gotten back in contact with one of my oldest, dearest friends and roommates. We lived together in our early twenties. We were crazy young reporters who worked in offices filled with men. We were just learning to navigate the world - drinking wine we bought 3 for $10 at the grocery store, throwing theme parties on the roof of our apartment that anyone could join if they cared to crawl out the bathroom window to get to them, and acting generally shocked when married men twice our age hinted at going out for drinks. (I recently found one of the skirts I wore to work in those days. I see now, I should not have been shocked). We were young, innocent and having fun. It was with this same friend that I booked a $400 ticket to Paris. We landed, navigated the train station and spent the night in a luggage car filled with other twenty-something-year-olds, and woke up in Italy. When I stepped out of that train, I knew love. I was in love with Italy. I loved every moment of that trip. I loved everything I saw. I loved everything I ate. I loved every thing I drank. I loved looking around every beauty-filled corner for love. To me, Italy is still synonymous with love.

And so, when she told me in an email that she would be in Italy for a few days, my mind went back to that place. That place of being twenty-three, in Europe for the first time, unattached, alive with possibility. Filled with all the knowledge that being a twenty-three-year-old reporter who "practiced" for Italy by saying, "Ciao!" whenever possible and drinking $3.33 bottles of wine can bring. I read the email shortly before going to bed last night. As the light started to break through my window this morning, two beautiful Italian men were still following us down the street chanting, "Bella, bella, bella!" much to our young delight.

And then an urgent voice rang through the darkness.

"Mommy. Mommy. How many more days until Halloween? Is it really only three? Only three days, Mommy? Do I have school off because it is only three days? Mommy, what about my costume. Mommy? Mommy, don't you think we should make my costume?"

Ciao, bella.

And that brings me back to my fear.

It has been snowing here the entire day. That alone should cause me fear, but that is not the source today. The fear, the deep-rooted fear, comes from the costume. Alex wants to be a shark. Last year it was a pirate, which seems simple enough, except that he wanted a belt. Not just any belt, but a GOLDEN belt. He alone knew what this belt should look like and when two trips to the Salvation Army and calls for help to every grandmotherly/ friend type person who might have worn a golden belt in the 1970's failed to turn anything up, we hand painted a belt to just the golden hue he had in mind.

And now he wants to be a shark. As adults, we recognize that the possibility of transforming a human into a realistic looking shark is slim. As a five-year-old boy who not only likes sharks, but can recite the book "The Shark-abet" and pick a megalodon out from a shovel-nose guitar shark, I am not sure the line between fantasy and reality are all that clear. Add to this that the same boy has major concerns about how things feel. He wants them cozy. Not awkward. He hates bike helmets. The possibility of creating some giant paper-maiche creation for his head would be a waste.

And so I spent the entire snowy morning carefully constructing a shark costume from the only fabric he likes - sweatshirt material. I have cut fins and teeth and flippers from felt. I've made the teeth glow-in-the dark. I am still working on the eyes. Steve walked in at one point and said,"That looks great. You know he is going to hate it, right?"

And that is my fear. I could chalk it up to a fear of time and money wasted, but I think the real fear is in disappointing a little boy. I know his expectations are probably unrealistic. I know there is a slim chance that any costume I create could resemble the shark that resides in his mind. I almost feel a little bad that I have completely deprived him of superheros and that he can't just go buy a pumped up chest and a cape at Target and run around with unharnessed delight.

If worse comes to worse, maybe we can turn him into a shark superhero. Aquatic life that flies through the snow-filled streets helping people in distress.

And if that doesn't work, I'll pour myself a glass of $3.33 wine, put my fear in perspective, get out my 200 page photo album entitled, "Italy" and forget about the snow swirling around three days before Halloween.

One Child at a Time

2008-10-16T20:05:00.004-04:00

The world is a small place.

I found out a couple of weeks ago that through Half the Sky (http://www.halfthesky.org/), Cate had an American sponsor while she was still at the Changzhou Children's Welfare Institute in China. And while this is more information about her past then I would typically share on this blog, I hope it serves a greater purpose - to bring another child home to a family.

The way I found out about her sponsor is nothing short of amazing. There is a yahoo group specifically for parents who have adopted children from her city in China. I was not a member of this group, but another woman who adopted one of Cate's friends, did belong. She noticed a post from someone seeking the parents of Chang Wei Xi, and remembered that was Cate. She notified me and I joined the group and got in contact with the woman who had posted the search. She informed me that she had sponsored Cate for nearly a year and had recently been notified that she had been adopted. She sought us out in order to pass along the pictures and progress reports she had received during the time of her sponsorship. She too is the parent of a daughter from China.

As promised, she mailed the information to us and we now have one more picture and one more snippet of information about the life Cate lead before she came to us. When ever so much about your child's life is unknown, every picture, every word is like a golden nugget. We probably have one hundred pictures of Alex's first day of life. We have about ten photos of Cate's first two and a half years, and I am grateful because that is more than many other families have been given. Thanks to this sponsor, we now know that she almost always had a smile on her face, that she liked to hold two toys that looked "like beer bottles" in her hands, that she looked at her feet when she was asked to put on her shoes. These details are so trivial, and they are so much.

What the sponsorship meant to Cate, I don't exactly know. Did it mean she had a warm coat? Did it mean she could go to the Little Sisters School? I don't know. But I do know it meant someone else was thinking about her out in the big world. Someone else knew that she was out there. Someone else could keep her in their thoughts, their prayers, their hopes, their cares. Someone else knew she was there.

Today, I received an email from the director of our agency. It tells the story of a little boy. He is eight and suffers from scoliosis. He needs medical care. His best friend has already been adopted. He needs a family and a family wants and needs him, but they are short of $7,000 of the fees necessary to adopt him. The email asks for help raising this $7,000. It seems like a lot, but it is such a tiny amount standing between this boy and a new life of love. It is so little if anyone who is touched by his story can give a little to get him home.

I read the email a couple of hours ago and I keep thinking of this little boy. His friend now has a home and he misses him. I think of the void I feel when a close friend is out of town for a few weeks. I think of Alex's desperation when Nate can't make it to school. And I think of this little boy, a boy with no mother or father or brothers or sisters and I cannot fathom what it must be like for him without his friend, without any hope of his friend coming back.

So I am posting the email here in hopes that anyone who can help unite this boy with the family that longs for him will give, even just a little. I know the economy is circling the drain. I know everyone is tightening the purse strings. And I know we each have our own causes, our own charities, our own priorities. But this could change the life of one small boy and give him a beautiful piece of his own history - how people around the world suddenly knew he was out there and helped to give him a home.

Hi there,
Pamela invited you to Little Boy w/Medical Condition Needs Adoption Assistance!.
Pamela sent you this message:
Hi,
I thought you might be interested in joining and sharing this campaign.
Many thanks!
Click here to view the campaign
About this campaign
Objective
Raise funds for the adoption of a little boy living in an orphanage in China who has scoliosis.
Member Pledge
We will give money to: Homeland Children's Foundation But we will only pay once $7,000 is pledged
The Pitch
Ji Ji is an adorable, smart and sensitive 8 year old boy living in an orphanage in Southeast China. His friends have been adopted from the orphanage recently, including his best friend, and he misses them very much.Ji Ji suffers from advanced scoliosis, and has a large bump on his spine. He needs to have medical intervention, the sooner, the better.
Homeland Adoption Services has located a family wanting to adopt him, but they have modest resources, and are short of the costs by $7,000. Our agency has given them a grant and they have received another grant but this last amount is holding them back.
This darling little guy is waiting and hoping for a family. Please help us to help him come home. Give what you can and please forward his campaign to anyone you know who might be willing to help him. We can’t thank you enough!
About The Point
The Point is a website where anyone can start a campaign and turn words into action.
People (like you!) pledge to give money, but only once the total campaign contributions reach their goal of exactly $7,000 That way, you can offer your money without actually spending it until you have enough to accomplish the campaign's objective.

Zen Hiking

2008-10-14T13:02:00.005-04:00

Hiking with a two-year-old requires a different perspective and a constant reminder to one's brain that life should be about the journey, not the destination.

We attempted our first family hike on Sunday. Alex, at five, was ready to charge up the path. Cate, at two, and still learning English, looked at me with dismay when we reached the trailhead and said, "No hiking, Mama. Biking." A thing with wheels and pedals is something she enjoys. A trip up a leafy hill in a pair of sneakers, she wasn't so sure about trying.

We stuck together for awhile before the anxious men took off at my encouragement and went ahead. Cate and I lingered behind, working our way slowly, oh so slowly, up the hill. For awhile she stopped and looked at every leaf. Then it was every blade of grass. Then she had to hug every tree with the blue trail blaze. There are many, many blazes on this path.

I started with a clear mind, calm, ready to let her explore, but quickly realized it would take a bit of zen for me to be so still. So I took a breath and looked around.

It was worth the effort to be in the moment.

In the end, my regular brain took over, and I walked the last quarter mile with Cate on my shoulders.

That was worth the effort too.

Happy Fall and Random Thoughts

2008-10-13T20:32:00.004-04:00

This is Cate, the little girl who would not walk across crunchy leaves when she first came home. She would not budge, even though she was wearing boots and snow pants. She did not want to walk across anything at all other than concrete. This past weekend, after a brief moment of hesitation and a good look at her brother's glee, she flung herself wildly into the pile, and like her brother, buried herself up to her neck while she laughed with delight.

What a difference a summer can make.

Alex, for his part, after a weekend of four birthday parties, hiking, a visit from his uncle, time with his grandparents and unlimited sunshine, carousel rides, apples, leaves and pumpkins, has announced that he will not return to school tomorrow. He plans to go live on a farm. I told him it would probably have to be a farm in Africa. I was trying to think of a place he might escape the school requirement. He thought it was a fine plan, except for the fact that he doesn't speak African, only English, Spanish and Chinese. He also announced himself the "Captain of Nature" this weekend with a "body built for speed." I would love to live in his head, a place where I am fluent in three languages, live on a farm that requires no weeding, only the harvesting of vegetables, and where I am king and have a body built for something other than eternally cleaning up the kitchen. He did grant me the generous title, "Queen of Nature," which I am happy to accept.

Picture Day

2008-10-09T22:26:00.004-04:00

Picture this. A small, blondish boy. He is wearing fleece pants, striped fleece pants, to be exact - blue, orange, white, maybe another color too. They look more like pajama bottoms then pants, but they are pants. He is wearing two shirts. One is black and has a glow-in-the-dark set of ribs and arm bones lining the chest and long sleeves. Over top of that is a Hawaiian shirt. Button down, surf-boards, hibiscus flowers, "Alohas". The only thing working with this outfit is the fact that the Hawaiian shirt shares the same color scheme as the pants.

This was the outfit Alex was wearing when I picked him up from school on Tuesday. This was the outfit Alex wore for his first ever "School Picture Day."

I will never judge another parent again solely on the grounds of what her kid is wearing.

This is how it happened. Alex, my little Alex, who hates to take his jammies off in the morning because they are cozy and he HATES to be cold, decided to surprise me by dressing himself that morning. I went t o his bedroom door. "Don't look!" he said. A few minutes later, "Now look!" I opened the door to a beaming face, striped fleece pants and skeleton shirt.

Of course I gushed with surprise and congratulations over his effort and accomplishment, and then gently, oh so very gently said, "It's Picture Day and you said you wanted to wear something dapper," (his word, not mine) "is this what you had in mind?" It was not. He rushed to his closet, immediately searching the tropical collection. He chose his latest Hawaiian shirt. It was a fine choice. "This is the one," he said. "But I hate how it feels. I'll put it on in school."

I hesitated, imagining an over strapped kindergarten teacher attempting to help twenty students comb their hair and rebutton their shirts, but I agreed. I am confident Alex accomplishes twice as much at school as he can at home. He could certainly slip off the T-shirt. In the worst case scenario, he would need help with a button or two.

What happened at school, I will never know. Did he ask for the teacher's help? Did he protest removing the long sleeve shirt because he was cold? Did he hate the way the tag felt? I don't know. But when he came out of school, he was wearing his most unique outfit to date.

I thought of my check for $30.05. I thought of the extra money I had spent to be sure each set of grandparents would have a 5x7. Goodness... would we have an 8x10? And then I laughed. I looked at Alex. I looked at the clothes, and I knew the the photographer had captured the true likeness of him. Isn't the purpose of a picture to catch a moment in time? A space in history? More than anything Alex has ever worn, this outfit was him at 5...the cozy, colorful pants, the somewhat spooky, somewhat piratey t-shirt, the good time, Hawaiian party shirt. This was my boy, all summed up in the outfit he had created for himself.

Although I am not much for formal pictures, I hope his grandparents will display it proudly on their mantles. I know I'll have it on mine.

And I'll wait for the distant day when he looks back on his kindergarten picture and asks, "Mom, why did you dress me in that?"

A Placid Life

2008-10-05T22:30:00.002-04:00

Snow on Whiteface Mountain (yes, snow)

A Room with a View

Glimmerglass?

Beauty

Me at 36

Steve surprised me on my birthday with a weekend away. Our kids stayed home with their grandparents. I threw a couple of outfits and a pair of hiking shoes into the car and we headed to Lake Placid.

I had this weird moment in our hotel room. I sat down on the couch to wait for Steve. I didn't realize it, but the couch was pushed up against a mirrored wall and as I sat, I looked up and caught myself in the eye. There have been times when I have seen myself in a mirror without actually recognizing myself - times I have walked into restaurants, unaware of a mirror, and upon seeing my reflection, have thought, "Hey, she looks familiar." That is also a weird experience. But this was different. I knew I was looking at me. I mean, there was no one else sitting on the couch, so who else could it have been? So there I was, me, looking at me, this time thinking, "So, this is me at 36." I looked at myself for awhile, not the way I usually do, which is to look and wonder why my tan has already faded into eternal paleness or if allergies are causing the large black bags under my eyes or when someone will finally invent a hair care product that will give me the long, shiny, luxurious locks that will make me want to shake my head while the hair all swirls around me before falling perfectly to my shoulders even when it is 95 degrees outside and raining. No, this was a different look. I didn't look at my face or my hair or my clothes. I just looked at my eyes. I looked into my own eyes and saw a dance of decades before me - six with a birthday crown and Raggedy Ann and Andy cookies for my kindergarten class, sixteen, sneaking out from the family party and standing giddily on the front porch with the boy who would be the first love of my life, 26, blowing out birthday candles with my parents and grandparents and the man I had dated for only two months but would propose six weeks later. I looked into my own eyes and saw the girl, the teen, the young woman and me, me who at 36 is some combination of all those figures, and yet, not quite any of them. Where had they gone and what had they given me that was still mine? Are we all always all of who we once were combined with what we hope is the growing wisdom of our passing years?

A dear friend once told me that the best time of her life had been in her 30's. And I think I agree. I now have a sense of peace about myself that I don't think I had at those other ages. I know the main characters of my life and I love them. But it was fun to be 6 and 16 and 26. I think I thought those were the best years of my life and I hope at 46 I think the same.

And then the moment was over. Steve was done. It was time to head out into the frigid afternoon, take a walk, find some wine and take my mind off of such weighty matters. The passing decades, I guess, are the complex person I have become, the daughter who still needs her mom to bake her birthday cookies, the teen waiting anxiously for the unexpected surprise, the young woman willing to take a bold step of commitment and now me, all of those things and a quite a few more.

September

2008-09-27T13:19:00.004-04:00

A Change of Season

2008-09-16T21:33:00.003-04:00

I put away Cate's summer clothes today - most of them, at least. A few pairs of shorts, a few short sleeve shirts remain. I am an optimist. Out came the box from the bottom of her closet, a box filled with adorable dresses, some gifts, many hand-me-downs, a few I could not resist. Dresses that hung in the air like unspoken promises those last weeks of waiting for her. I was surprised at the emotions that welled in me when I pulled them out today. A familiar wave of anxiety and longing. So much was unknown when I first tucked the hangers through their tiny arms and hung them in the closet of an uninhabited room. Would they fit? Would she like them? Would she ever be ours? The empty dresses, the closest I could get to her, the hanging of them a suspension of fear, a sign that I knew she would come.

Six months later, a funny girl sits at the end of the bed. The room is cluttered with socks and dolls and diapers and books. It is loud with her unending chatter. I look at the dresses now and know which colors will highlight her beautiful complexion, can imagine her little bobbed head, can see the way the skirt will move as she runs and jumps and dances on her stout and growing legs. I pick up an empty dress and pull it over her head. "Cozy!" she shouts! "Mine cozy!" And I hug her tight as she laughs and twists away.

I have started getting up at sunrise. I had thought to make a cup of coffee, take a breath and gather my thoughts before the start of the day - a stolen moment of time alone to consider the changing leaves just outside my window, the way the fog lies heavy in the hills, how the wooden floor has grown cold. Alex has taken to getting up with me. I pushed away the frustration that was my initial reaction to his early morning presence, and was happy in my heart today that I had let it go, that no sign of it had seeped into our routine. "Thank you for getting up so early to have a special time with just me, Mommy," he said. Together we have watched the pink sky change. Together we gather our thoughts for the day or enjoy an unrushed moment. Our season too has changed. He is a kindergartner, no longer only mine, off to spend the better hours of his days learning to sit and stand and listen and whether or not school lunches are edible or nap times fun. I am left with the lesser hours - the wearisome, overtired hours that follow the bubbling report of school that day. But these dawning moments are ours alone.

Yesterday's time brought us the unexpected wonder of watching our Lazarus of a caterpillar change into a chrysalis before our eyes. He'd hung in his tell-tale "J" all night. We ran down expecting to find the chrysalis. Instead, we found him just starting to move, retracting himself from his own skin to reveal the chrysalis beneath. Not many people will ever witness this. Many wait and watch, but few actually capture it. But Alex and I did. Despite my previous statements, it was worth the natural disturbance. And we will send him on his way to Mexico in a week or so.

And for the garden. The garden has been our greatest treasure this summer, culminating with the opening of our sunflowers last week. We had disappointments. Some animal dug under the fence and ate every yellow squash just as it reached maturity. The lettuce and beets didn't amount to anything. But we have had surprises too. A tiny watermelon growing, though we didn't plant watermelons. Gold and yellow tomatoes when we only anticipated red. A bumper crop of butternut squash and cucumbers and peppers and just the unending joy of watching Cate and Alex's faces every time they found something waiting to be harvested. And the rutabagas are still growing. Rutabagas. We had to have rutabagas.

We celebrated the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival on Saturday. In China, it is believed that this moon is the fullest, the brightest of the year. Special moon cakes are eaten. Stories and lore about the cakes, the moon surround the celebration. Last year, we celebrated on Plum Island. We had only learned about Cate days before. We sat together on the beach, we three, and watched a perfect moon rise over the Atlantic. We ate buttercookies I passed off as mooncakes to Alex, who had begged for them for weeks. I lingered on, gazing at the moon, long after Steve and Alex had returned to our cottage, wondering if this new face, this new name that was my daughter was staring at it too. I wrote her name, Wei Xi, in the sand and watched as the tide washed it away, willing it to carry the love and joy in my heart to her, half a world away.

This year, the moon could not break through the cloudy sky. We sat around a little fire in our own backyard and lit a lantern in a tree. Cate laughed and played with friends and family who unexpectedly joined our little festival and made it complete. Alex took one bite of a real mooncake bought at an Asian market by a friend and spit it on the ground. "This isn't like last year's!" he said and ran off to join his sister and friends. And he was right. It wasn't like last year. Like the moon, our life has come full circle. And while we don't always see it through the clouds, it's at its fullest, it's brightest.

And while I hate to see the summer go, nature's glorious send off has its own beauty. The pinks and whites and reds giving way to golden and purple. The touch of fire at the tips of the leaves. The deep brown stalks that remain after the flowers have faded away. Tonight we built a small fire in the fireplace, just to take the edge of the chill. The children were sound asleep in dark rooms by 7:30 and the light of the nearly-full moon pours in our windows.

Half a Year Together

2008-09-10T23:39:00.001-04:00

2008-09-10T23:35:00.000-04:00

Update from the Almost Natural World

2008-09-10T23:08:00.002-04:00

Mystery of mysteries... after nearly 24 hours of not moving, our caterpillar came back to life and is devouring his milkweed. He has been relocated to more luxurious accommodations.

Many thanks to Alex who insisted he was not dead, merely cold and lonely.

I guess I don't move or eat when I am cold and lonely either.

Butterfly Effect

2008-09-08T20:02:00.005-04:00

Photo by Herb Bohler

I hate to disturb nature.

Sure, I help along red newts trying to cross the road on dewy mornings. I use my gentle, firm, mother's-voice to encourage baby deer to leave the roadside and look for safer, greener pastures. I invite my late-fall animal friends to remain in the safe haven of my yard when hunters' shots begin echoing through the hills. I've even tried to throw a few beached jelly fish back into the sea.

Otherwise, I trust Mother Nature to take care of her own.

Then along comes a boy. Boys, true to their reputations, love salamanders, toads, frogs, bugs. I love them too. As a kid, I loved them. I spent a lot of time visiting my grandparents' lake home at the base of the Adirondacks. There was no T.V., save Saturday night's Lawrence Welk and Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I could only sit and color or attempt to crochet for just so long. And so I spent a lot of time outside, hunting under rocks, searching near the woodpile, collecting red newts and toads and frogs. I was a girl, so the daintier the catch, the better. I was gentle with these creatures. I spent hours creating perfect mini-worlds for their existence in the base of empty Cool-Whip containers I'd found in the pantry. My attention to detail was painstaking. I supplied them with a texturally diverse world - multiple varieties of mosses and lichens, some like rich carpet, others a forest of tiny trees. I spent entire cool, dewy mornings collecting and creating, always releasing my new-found pets before lunch, before the sun turned their min-paradises into tropical wastelands. I didn't want them to die.

Then along comes a boy. He doesn't want them to die either. But he isn't interested in their home decor. He believes that each little amphibian is looking for its family and he carries each creature he finds up and down the yard, searching for its mama or papa, a brother or sister even. I hold my breath, praying the thing doesn't have a heart attack in his warm little hand. Praying his well intentioned search doesn't turn to tragedy if he slips on the wet grass and tries to catch his fall, the tiny orphan still in his hand.

But I am glad he likes to catch them, am delighted he finds joy in nature. And happy when he lets them go, all legs still intact.

And so when late summer's sun shines, when the yellow of golden rod offers its striking contrast to the clear blue skies, I set out with this boy looking for monarch caterpillars. What better joy can be witnessed then this magic slight-of-hand of nature? The tiny caterpillar, turned fat, turned chrysalis - not only a lovely green chrysalis, but one sealed with a line of gold - turned butterfly. And not just any butterfly, but one that will migrate 2,000 miles to Mexico.

To witness this act, to have this boy and his sister witness this act, I am willing to disturb nature.

But not without some reservation. Monarchs, like so many creatures, are becoming endangered. They depend almost solely on the milkweed plant for nourishment. Herbicides often target milkweed. Development transforms meadows. The monarchs have fewer and fewer places to call home.

And then there are the preschoolers and the kindergartens. Every teacher of a kid under six wants a few token caterpillars for their classrooms each fall. What easier, cheaper, planning- free lesson could there be? It's science. It's metaphor. It's magic. And every fall, following the first day of school, every child within one hundred miles of a milkweed plant goes out searching, hoping against hope to be The One, The One who brings the teacher what she needs. And we would have searched too, but we had a wedding to get to...

Someone else brought Alex's teacher the caterpillars, but he hopped off the bus today and reported that while the caterpillars had been found, they needed milkweed, lots of milkweed. Anyone who has ever read The Hungry Caterpillar knows that caterpillars eat a lot. And so Alex hopped off the school bus and into the stroller. We know a good milkweed patch along with side of the road. I should have thrown a paper bag into the stroller, but I didn't want to take the time to go inside, and so I pulled an empty coffee can out of the garage.

A word about coffee. I love it - I would even consider myself a bit of a connoisseur. I only want to drink the stuff I like and I try to make delicious, fair-trade choices. Exploiting people and rain forests isn't something I want on my conscience any more then delimbing toads or newts. But I did have a giant can of Folder's in my freezer - a can I reserved for guests who don't care about flavor, they just need a hot cup of Joe, for times I needed to make coffee in bulk, for those sad, desperate mornings when my good stuff had run out. That non-sustainable, non fair trade, rain forest stripping can was in with the recyclables.

As luck would have it, we found a giant, healthy caterpillar on the first milkweed plant we saw. Shamelessly, I threw my reverence for nature to the wind. Alex might have a caterpillar at school, but Cate does not and neither do I. What joy. What magic. We carefully plopped the caterpillar and an ample supply of milkweed into our coffee can container and continued on our way.

I think it was the few remaining grounds of coffee. Maybe the ride was too bumpy, the shock too great. The caterpillar is dead. Dead within 30 minutes of its discovery. I tried to save it. I looked into its lush home and saw it lying listlessly on the bottom, not chowing down on the fresh milkweed. I used a leaf to pick it up and place it on a leaf. It rallied for a moment, and then was still. Resting? About to transform? But no. It has not moved. It has not crawled high and turned into its characteristic J. It's dead. Dead because I disturbed it and dead because I bought bad coffee that grows without regard nature... just like me. Fair trade coffee comes in little bags. Had I stuck to my guns and only bought fair trade coffee, I wouldn't have had a giant plastic coffee can in my possession. Had I stuck to my guns and left nature alone, the caterpillar would have doubled in size by morning and crawled to a safe branch to form its green and golden chrysalis. A gorgeous monarch would have emerged, joining the centuries-old migratory flight to Mexico.

Nature always offers a lesson and this one has illustrated what I have been trying to teach my kids - respect nature, don't disturb it. I hate to think I played a role in the endangerment of the monarch butterfly. I hate to think I played a part in the destruction of the rain forest. These thoughts disturb me.

First Day - A Success

2008-09-04T20:10:00.004-04:00

So far, so good. The only tears today were Cate's when she found out she didn't get to stay at school.

Alex is waivering between, "Kindergarten is great!" and "I just want to go back to preschool." It's a feeling I've known with every transition I have ever made. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that "Kindergarten is great!" prevails.

What I learned today... he scored somewhere between 16 and 110 goals playing soccer. The soup at school is so delicious. He was the best boy during nap and shaking a fist in the air alerts the teacher you need the bathroom.

He was exhausted.

And now for tomorrow....

It Takes a Village

2008-09-03T21:48:00.002-04:00

Alex starts kindergarten tomorrow. Today was actually the first day, but it was a "getting to know you" kind of day. Steve and I went with him. Tomorrow is the real deal. Tomorrow, I release my baby into the universe and have to trust that it will take care of him.

Today started with a safety talk from one of the bus drivers. I think the kids were supposed to learn how to cross only when the driver gives a signal and to sit quietly on the bus. What I heard is that riding buses is dangerous - just being near buses is dangerous. They can run you over. Buses are filled with blind spots. They can run you over. Buses can catch your leg or your backpack in the door. Crazy road-raged-filled drivers might pass on the right and run you over. If you don't walk inside the yellow line at school, you might be run over. In short, you might be run over. Before today, I was only worried about my 37 pound, smallish, usually five-point-harnessed child being thrown around inside the bus... about a hostile middle schooler harassing him, about a freshman teaching him the F-bomb. My fears were unfounded. Because there are so many, many ways he might be run over before he steps foot on the bus.

And the bus driver's last word to the kids? They have nothing to fear. They shouldn't be nervous. The bus is a safe place for them. Once they get on it?? Oh wait... it isn't safe there either because if a kid is loud and distracts the driver, then that kid has put all the other kids lives in danger. Bus = Danger. We are moving to the village.

Alex, my fearful, leg-clinging preschooler, has been excited all summer to start kindergarten. He clearly views it as the right of passage that it is, and much to my credit, I have hid my anxieties and been excited right along with him. "You can't go wrong in kindergarten," the more experienced parents have told me, and I think it is true. Alex's teacher is kind. Warm. Enthusiastic. What else can you ask for? But this isn't preschool. Twenty kids and their parents piled into her classroom today. Twenty. And just one teacher. Preschool was different. Three teachers greeted 18 kids. There was always someone available to find a band-aid or take a nervous, teary boy outside to find a worm for feeding the turtle while his mother escaped quietly out the door. Tomorrow, I am not even supposed to walk Alex to his classroom. I am supposed to get him to the front door (he isn't riding the bus to school), say good-bye and let someone else help him find his way. This is a lot to ask of a five-year-old, but even more to ask of his mother. I need to write a letter. Dear School People, You want me to leave my son at the door? Better yet walk him out to a bus that may run him over and hope no one distracts the driver before the bus gets to your door? Are you crazy? I am the one who made sure everyone who came within five feet of him during his first six months of life washed their hands and had an up to-date vaccination record. I am the one who paid top dollar to buy and puree organic fruits and vegetables for him to spit at me for the next six months. I am the one who never takes my eyes off the top of his head at swimming lessons. I am the one who makes sure he holds my hand if I can hear one car twenty-seven miles down the road. I am the one who spent three straight days researching the safest car seats. I am the one that wakes up a second before he cries in the night. I have spent nearly every minute of his five years of life watching over him. And you want me to leave him at the door?

Tomorrow I have to leave him at the door.

This morning, I saw the tiniest wave of anxiety. Alex opened his eyes. He looked around. "Today is kindergarten!" he said. "I have waited for this day for 87 years.... Can I hold Nate's hand?"

Yes, I wanted to say. Yes. Hold Nate's hand. Hold Nate's hand because you can't hold mine. Hold it tight even though you have to go to different classrooms. Yes, yes. Hold Nate's hand.

Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. we meet Nate in his mom in the parking lot. Part of being a good mother is knowing when to express anxiety and when to keep it inside. Tomorrow, I'll keep mine inside as I send my heart, my child out into the universe - holding Nate's hand as he walks in the front door.

Late Summer's Celebration

2008-09-02T20:56:00.008-04:00

A picture is worth a thousand words and I am too tired for even a word or two... so here is a photo tribute to our dearest friends after a fantastic weekend of fun and celebration on the Maine coast. There is nothing like 40th birthdays, beach bonfires, scavenger hunts, chicken pox, margaritas, lobsters, sea glass, sun, salt and sixteen people in three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a tent to cement a lifelong friendship.

Pixie Dust

2008-08-14T19:52:00.007-04:00

The mind of a five-year-old is a wonderful place to be.

I have a secret garden, a place I have kept, somewhat intentionally, to myself, a beautiful old place of stone walls, fountains cascading from the wall of a tiny tea house, marble statues greening with moss, ancient perennials tumbling right to the lake's shore. I love this place, its beautiful solitude. In reality, it is open to the public, but so few people seem to know about it or visit, it is easy to imagine it is my spot alone.

Today I decide to share it with my children. I have hinted at it off and on all summer, promising them a visit to a magical place, but the visit never happened until today. Alex has been under the weather for a few days now and we have been laying low, but today was a gorgeous late summer day, the skies crystal blue, the air warm without a touch of humidity, the song of the cicadas a constant chorus in the trees around the house. Days like these aren't many. I struggled to think of something to do... something to get us to the lake that wasn't the beach or a picnic. It was my garden.

"Would you like to visit a magical place?" I asked.

Even the grumpiest of children can't resist an offer like this. And we were off.

The garden is situated well off the main road, down a long, narrow drive shared by a small sailing club. The road itself set the scene for mystery and magic.

"This isn't really a magic garden," Alex said as we parked, but his voice begged to be told otherwise, and so I did. Without a thought, I spun a tale of fairies flying everywhere in the garden after the sun has set at night. We were here to build a fairy house, I said, so they might have a fun surprise as the skited about tonight.

"But fairies aren't usually real, Mom. Tell the truth... Anyway, how do we build the fairy house?"

And we were off. Vibrant red flowers turn to a dragon's fiery breath under the starlight. Plants with broad leaves towering offer a place for fairies to sit and chat when their wings grow weary. Statues come to life offering midnight concerts with their marble instruments. Alex was hooked. We gathered fallen crab apples so the fairies might have a snack, sticks and twigs and flowers and rose hips that lay upon the ground became our building materials. We travelled round and round the garden, up paths and over the bridge and back gathering just the right materials, seeking just the right spot.

Alex settled on a small clearing in the flowers, a spot with a view of the lake, close to a stone pond filled with koi, upon which the marble boy playing the flute perched. This, he concluded, was the place the fairies would most like to be. Carefully we erected our small structure, a tripod of twigs, cut grass roof, rose hips impaled on sticks marking the way. We set our offering of crab apples under the tiny roof, but still, Alex said, we needed more. We walked each pathway again, until we found a perfect fallen begonia, its orange still brilliant. Back to the fairy house. After deep thought, trial and error, my little architect decided to place it beside the stick structure, the giant flower head to serve as a beautiful garden for the fairies. But still, he wasn't done. It wasn't beautiful enough. On our final round, we found a scattering of red petals behind an old stone wall. These he arranged like a Chinese character, and then our work was complete. We tiptoed from the garden before the evening settled.

We pulled away without doubt. Fairies are usually true. As luck would have it, a ray of the late afternoon sun hit a cluster of tiny swarming bugs, just, just enough to see that they were there, but not enough to see their details. Alex recognized them instantly. Fairy children. Naughty, adventurous little children who sneaked out while their mamas were distracted, to play out in the sun instead of waiting for night to fall.

All the way home, I heard of his adventures. It turns out, he too, has sneaked out when his mama isn't looking. He has traveled 280 miles, across many creeks and through poisonous ivy to build houses for his fairy friends. In return, they make sure he doesn't itch. He has sought the help of 280 magical toads and they have given him the magic. At the moment, the magic is all trapped in his left leg, just below the knee. He knows because he feels it swirling there, but sometimes, the magic swirls throughout his entire body, right to the tips of his fingers, and then he can fly. He flies with his fairy friends all 280 miles across the creeks and forests and then he makes them soup. They don't care if the water is clean or dirty. They like both kinds and they love his soup. He makes it with a special bug called "ahu." This is their favorite. And, they get their cereal from nature too.

Alex is asleep now. The fairies, feasting on crab apples and singing with joy inside their colorful, carefully created house.

The mind of a five-year-old is a wonderful place to be.

The Artist at Work

2008-08-14T18:46:00.002-04:00