So? I’m finished. What’s next?

We planted trees in the backyard on Friday night—a tiny Magnolia with shy, pink blooms, and a straight and sturdy Pear. GB dug beneath gray clouds while I waited for the sky to unfurl. I pitched in wherever I could; this was, after all, 36×37 assignment #35: Plant a Tree.

Here’s proof:

This is my shovel, this is my foot

I’m glad I got this photo, because I really did try. In all honesty, though, I’m a little short on brute force, and when it comes to digging, I’m largely unsuccessful.

I’ll admit, then, that the scene mostly looked like this:

…and this

…and this

He We didn’t have much time to work before the sun set, but it was enough time for me to thank GB for being so supportive and for helping me with the project this year. (You can read my first post and the explanation of 36×37 here.) If I thought he was my best friend before the last 365 days, I know it with all my heart now.

I tried to tell him so as he scooped soil back into the hole. I hoped he could tell I was sincere.

It started to rain. He didn’t pause, he just kept planting.

~*~

Magnolia tree

At its start, this project was really just a cover for my early mid-life crises. I hypothesized the lengths I thought I’d need to go to keep from smacking my head against the predictability of daily routine. I thought I’d need big doses of adventure to keep myself from growing old and stale. What I didn’t realize was that I’d been planting and harvesting adventures all along—even in the smallest things, like sipping a new Greek coffee, or planning a quiet evening out with GB, or whispering bedtime stories with the boys. The big-time adventures—like flying the Light Sport aircraft and doubling down in Vegas and taking trapeze lessons and standing on the state line—were great, truly. But when I started to look for new experiences, I realized I don’t need to work so hard to create them. They find me, they find us, until it’s absolutely intoxicating.

I did right to bring my family with me on this year’s adventures. They were essential, because all along I understood how much they are the critical ingredients to my happiness. It’s so much better to see life’s surprises together, and no matter which direction I look, I will always land on my family’s faces.

Just as importantly, this blog became a place to seek out a community. I had no idea the blogosphere was full of such remarkable people. Now I’m rich with friendship—the face to face kind, and the screen to screen kind, too, because I’ve found both to be equally important. I’ve met good people, excellent writers and story tellers, all with a love for experience. Best of all, I’ve become entrenched in dozens of funny, insightful, engaging, ongoing conversations. No small talk here.

It was so much more and so much better than I expected.

~*~

Pear tree

This morning, at breakfast, I had an idea.

“You know what we should do this year?” I said. “We should start a box. And every time we do something new or interesting or different, we should find a token of that moment, bring it home and put it in the box. At the end of the year, we can look at it all together. I can blog about each one so we have a quick record of each…”

And now, I finally know what the next phase of 36×37 will be. Forget the race against time. Forget the numbers. We’ll just look at this life together and see what we can squeeze out of it.

…As for assignment #36? I did it. And I ate the most gorgeous ice cream birthday cake to celebrate.

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#34: Back to the Future

Now, two days before this 36×37 adventure comes to an end, I’m staring down the barrel of my most sentimental assignment to date—Build a Family Time Capsule. I wish I’d given this idea more thought before now; a recap of the year so close to its end is anything but a good idea.

Because at first, my family searched the house for tokens to represent ourselves as individuals. I gathered: a three-year-old photo of the four of us outside on a sunny fall day; a dog-eared copy of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury; a widowed blue topaz earring that belonged to my grandmother.

I thought these things could sketch an outline of my character. But given the context, that sketch had no meaning, and I knew it.

Meanwhile, my fellas chose items that made much more sense. The boys handed me Lego guys and plastic, four-inch super heroes. (Appropriate selections, to be sure; they dominated nearly every conversation we’ve had this year.) GB added his ticket to OSU Vs. Miami 2010, his grandmother’s obituary from January, and last June’s Father’s Day card.

All tokens of April 2010 to April 2011.

That’s when I realized this assignment shouldn’t speak for us one by one. It should show the things families do to sustain themselves, to sustain each other.

~*~

Tonight, H sits down to dinner and reads us four books. He does this after 30 minutes of bike riding on a bright spring day. He can add and subtract now. He has a best friend. Soccer starts Saturday. Karate starts Monday. All of these things are new.

O made a duck this week at preschool. He can count to 50 with a little help, and he’s quick as a whip at building puzzles. He draws people and houses and cheerful flowers. He calls me “Mommy” now instead of “Mama.” It’s new and wonderful stuff. All of it.

GB has learned to relax. These days, there are games of chase, hoops in the driveway, funny late night conversations, a zest for traveling and exploring our surroundings. It’s hard for grown-ups to find balance, but I think he’s starting to master it.

And me, I’ve learned to take inventory. I thought I counted blessings before. I thought I did, but really, I had no idea.

Now my time capsule list is very different. To the super heroes and Lego guys and ticket stubs, I’ll add print-outs of each and every 36×37 assignment.

It just seems obvious. Let this year and this family speak for itself.

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#32 Cont’d: Freak Show Carousel

You have to understand: When I see a place like this, there’s no way I won’t stop for it.

Merry-Go-Round Museum, Sandusky, OH

The building is one of the first things we see when we drive through the heart of downtown Sandusky. It’s just the sort of unusual thing we’re searching for today. But lunchtime beckons, and so does a glimpse of the water. I make a mental note, and resolve not to leave town before seeing The Merry-Go-Round Museum for ourselves.

So we hit the bistro and the Maritime Museum. (I’ve told you all of this already.) When we finish, we power through the doors of the Merry-Go-Round Museum until we eventually come face to face with this:

I survey the 7’ carving slowly. “Is that…a stork?” I ask aloud.

The boys have already left me to see what else they can find, and GB ambles behind them. I realize then that I’m talking to myself, or at the very least, I’m talking to the painted wooden form of a gigantic bird. That strikes me as funny, but then I look to my left and see this:

And then I look to my right and see this:

Suddenly, the atmosphere takes a dreamlike quality. I wonder half seriously if I’ve fallen into some sort of strange and freakish slumber. When the organ from a working carousel begins to play, I follow the boys to their seats, feeling heady and a bit out of sorts, but that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

~*~

You might not know this, but carousels are almost extinct. One of the only remaining manufacturers—The Carousel Works—is based in Mansfield, OH; and it’s the only firm that designs, carves and assembles under one roof. Given that nobody makes hand-carved Merry-Go-Rounds anymore, and everyone loves a good monopoly, it’s no surprise that a fully-loaded carousel will sell for anywhere between $300,000 and $1 million dollars.

If you ever find yourself at the Columbus Zoo, which boasts a Carousel Works original, you can think about that price tag when you pay for two tickets to ride.

~*~

The carousel ride lasts five minutes at least. I try to talk O into riding the baby bunny and H into riding the zebra, but in the end, they go for traditional horses, like this one:

Meanwhile, I’m still struck by the beautiful, slightly oddball carvings:

When we leave, I still have that same vague feeling of otherworldliness. I don’t know how to describe it, so instead I’ll redirect you to The Merry-Go-Round Museum online. You won’t see much beyond what I’ve already shown you here, but you’ll hear a bizarre, fun and uncomfortable little jingle to give you a true flavor of the place. It’s funny and mostly normal, but still just freakish enough to give you pause and question whether you really woke up this morning.

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#32: What Up, Sandusky?

It’s Saturday, and as far as Saturdays go, this one begins like all the others: Little boys awake and whispering by 7:30; everyone showered and dressed by 8:30; pancakes on the stove by 9:00; full bellies and clean dishes by 9:30.

With that routine officially under our belts, I pull out my computer and Google the map of Ohio. I call the boys to me, and when they arrive after some coaxing, I position one on either side of me. “Put your fingies together,” I say. “…Yep, together like this. Great. Now point to the map. Wherever you land, that’s where we’ll go today.”

And so they do. They put their pointer fingers to work, and by 1:00, we’re driving along the Ohio coastline, breathing the crisp Lake Erie air.

~*~

There’s no itinerary for this excursion, which is all very well; 36×37 assignment #32 includes picking a place the day of the trip, then going there without additional planning. Now that we’re here, we have nothing to do but drive around to search for adventure. And so we find a few things. They jump out at us the way tourist attractions sometimes do.

Dining

First, there’s lunch in a time-warped bistro—Barardi’s Restaurant. Based on our friendly and attentive server’s teased-up, platinum hairdo, I’m guessing we’re trapped somewhere between 1968 and 1972. The gargantuan burgers are slathered in cheese. The fries are hand-cut and doused in salt. There are flaky, fresh-baked pies in the pie counter. (Can you believe it? A pie counter?) Not only is that quaint and slightly adorable, but I’ll bet every last one of those cream-filled beauties is packed with unspeakable deliciousness.

H is more adventurous than usual with his meal. By that, I mean he actually eats it, and I think that has more to do with his newly loose tooth and his desire to extract it than it has to do with anything else. He’s trying to show it off for you in this photo:

Entertainment

We stop next at the Maritime Museum of Sandusky, which sounds like a snooze but—surprise—it actually isn’t! First, as it turns out, the Maritime Museum happens to employ the nicest man in the world who smiles at the boys and lets us all in for the family price of a wee $6.00 total.

Secondly, the place has all kinds of photo opportunities, like this:

The boys get to “test drive” a vintage Lyman Boat simulator that rocks like it’s on water and comes complete with working horns and windshield wipers…

They make boats…

Tie nautical knots…

And admire the pristine models.

Later, when I ask the boys about their favorite part of the trip, they agree that the Maritime Museum wins hands down.

History

If you’ve heard of Sandusky, it’s either because you’re from Ohio, or you’ve visited Cedar Point Amusement Park, which boasts the largest collection of roller coasters in the world. However, for much of the late 19^th and early 20^th century, Sandusky was known for something else—the largest fresh water harbor in America and the finest fish market in the world. It produced more fish than all the Great Lakes combined.

But it wasn’t just a fishing town. In the down season, when the lake froze 18 inches thick, Sandusky morphed into the largest ice shipping port west of the Hudson River. Its harvested ice was used predominantly to ship fish and beer, and would travel as far as Havana, Cuba—10 lbs of ice for every lb of fish.

Sandusky also was an active stop on the Underground Railroad. As Harriet Beecher Stowe described in the novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, many runaway slaves sought freedom in Canada, and arrived at this nationally known port of escape to cross Lake Erie with the help of a captain willing to take the risk.

The American shipping industry died in Sandusky years ago. These days, when you watch the Great Lake waters and spot an industrial boat, chances are that boat is Canadian.

Sightseeing

We end up at the Marblehead Lighthouse.

It’s chilly, so we don’t spend much time there, but for a Maryland kid like GB, it’s nice to be back on the water. We take a different route for the ride home—one that takes us along the coast, so we can watch for just a few minutes longer the icy waves waking up to a Northern Ohio spring.

To Be Continued

That’s not all we do. Between the Maritime Museum and the lighthouse, we make another stop. I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow because I need real estate for all the truly strange and excellent photos I took. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a riddle: What has two legs, a long neck, and goes up and down in a circle? The answer is “Stork.” You’ll find out why tomorrow.

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Randyland Revisited

(via vuvan.com)

In H’s room, there sits a wall clock with a minute hand that ticks louder than it should. I always notice it, but when the house is dead quiet like it is today, I almost stop the hands so I can fold and put away my son’s clothes in peace. From his windows, I can see a slog of soggy gray clouds hanging above our house. I dismiss them happily, because by this time next week they’ll be gone, and it will be springtime, finally, in Columbus, OH.

If you’re counting, this also means that my last 36×37 assignment is due in 11 days. That’s fun to think about—the number of accomplishments and silliness we can fit inside a year—but before I can hand in #36, I have four others I need to accomplish first. This means I have some work to do.

While I’m doing that, here’s an old piece with some major tweaks here and there to refine the story. As far as 36×37 assignments go, #5 was a personal favorite. I hope you enjoy the repost…or at the very least, I really hope you’ll like Randy.

~*~

36×37 Assignment #5: A Postcard from Randyland (June 1, 2010)

A few years ago, GB drove to Pittsburgh for a weekend to help my brother and former sister-in-law with her family’s business. When they returned and I asked about the trip, they peppered their recount with stories about some guy named Randy.

“You should see this guy,” GB said. “He was a server at the restaurant in our hotel, but he’s also an artist with a huge, quirky personality. I guess he bought an old building on the Central Northside, completely renovated it with recycled stuff, and started this whole rejuvenation project across his community. It’s wild.”

Now, I love art. And I’m fascinated by people who can cut themselves loose from social convention. But so far, nothing about the guy sounded that out of the ordinary. He sounded like a lot of other people I’ve met over the years.

GB could see I wasn’t convinced, so he opened a Google search. And he showed me this:

And this:

And this:

“This is Randyland,” he said.

I scrolled up and down, clicking picture after picture. “Is this for real?” I asked.

GB nodded, arms folded.

“Huh!” I said, nodding back.

~*~

Now we’re here in Pittsburgh. My brother and I have seen the city dozens of times, but this trip has a special purpose: We’re here to see Randy. It’s 36×37 assignment #5.

There are rules to this trip. First of all, Randy doesn’t know why we’re here. No one is allowed to tell him, either, because I want to observe him organically.

Maybe you’ve never heard of Randy, but he’s actually somewhat a celebrity, and from what I can tell, he’s a rare and interesting guy. The Chicago Tribune thinks so. Good Morning America thinks so. The Dave Matthews Band thinks so. And so do 50,000 or so other tourists annually. I wanted to see for myself whether I should agree.

~*~

Randy was raised in a poor neighborhood across town from his current address. His mother—a Salvation Army minister—was a single parent to six children, so his family didn’t have much when he was a child. In one article I found (on popcitymedia.com), he said his interest in recycling and refurbishing trashed items began when he was small. He built bikes and made toys for his siblings year-round, then stored them in the basement. At Christmas, he placed his creations around the Christmas tree so his family’s holidays would look like the ones in magazines.

In another article, he said he’d been told all his life that he’d never amount to anything. He took that as a challenge, and redefined what success meant to him: Happiness.

I’m not sure how or when he came to live in the Mexican War Streets district of downtown Pittsburgh. However, I do know his restoration project began in 1982 with a $1,000 unemployment check and some barrels filled with dirt and flowers. In 1996, he bought the 3-parcel Jacksonia Street property for $11,300.

Today, Randy is almost single-handedly responsible for installing 800 streetscapes, 50 vegetable gardens, and eight parks across the 30-block area.

~*~

Now we’re eating breakfast, and Randy is our server. I’ll concede that he’s loud, talkative and gregarious, and I’m guessing busy and/or perpetually hung-over patrons would find him “hard to take.” But for folks with a good sense of humor, Randy’s the man. He pulls off his abundance of energy with sincerity and sweetness. He makes an impression.

Here’s what I mean:

While we’re eating, five families come and go, and each makes a special point to tell our host goodbye. They initiate hugs and handshakes. He remembers their names. They leave the restaurant feeling important, like they’ve just seen a long-lost friend.

Me? I’m taken with how he treats my boys.

“Do you know why good food is important?” he asks them. They nod like smiling, hypnotized puppets, so he continues. “The food goes down your throat and into your belly and down to your toes and up to your brain, and that’s what makes you smart! That’s what makes you strong!” His eyes crinkle into a smile as my boys shovel spoonful after spoonful of cinnamon-scented Irish steel-cut oats into their tiny, chewing mouths.

~*~

Before we arrived, some of my online research uncovered articles and posts that painted Randy as a court jester of sorts–someone to observe then scoff at in private. Not all reports were unkind; but they all did consistently force him into a kind of  “otherness.” They used phrases like “eccentric,” “larger than life,” and “colorful” to build a storied image of the man.

Maybe, but if you look beyond those words, you might see a man who is kind to the core. That’s who I see, anyway: a unique person with a tender, exposed and joyful spirit.

I feel guilty. I realize now that I came here to gawk at a man who walks to his own beat, even though I told myself I had honest intentions. Today, however, I marvel at his pure and obvious love for companionship, and his desire to turn each day into something that feels like a promise. I’m ashamed of my short-sightedness and relieved he proved to be more than just a caricature.

“Randy, when you have a minute,” I say, “Can we get a picture with you?”

I love this photo. It’s blurry, but it captures everything I want to say about Randy: He makes people happy.

Anyway, we click the picture, and the next thing I know, Randy is handing me a map and offering to give us the Randyland grand tour if we can wait an hour for him to go home and tidy the place. I figure such a tour will add a certain “flavor” to this particular assignment, so we head toward the Mexican War Streets. We arrive before Randy does, unfortunately, so we snap the photos you saw above, then pile into the car to head back home.

The boys burst into tears. They don’t want to leave Randyland.

And from what I can tell, the grown ups don’t want to leave either.

Want more photos of Randyland? Check out this set on Flikr.

P.S. Randyland wasn’t the only “new thing” we did in Pittsburgh. Check out Assignment #5 (Part II) for more…

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Animal House and the Birthday Girl

 

(google image via digitalinkreport.com)

It’s late March, 1992. My mother is standing by the piano with an overturned hat in her hands. In the hat are four folded squares of paper. On each square, she has written one of each of these names:

• Allegheny College, Meadville, PA
• Centre College, Danville, KY
• Miami University, Oxford, OH
• Ohio Northern University, Ada, OH

I’ve applied and been accepted to eight different schools, although I’m not sure why I went after so many. I guess I want options, option, options, and now that I have them, I’ve narrowed them down to the four that “fit best.” I don’t exactly know what that means, but I can say the past four years have been tough ones. (Isn’t high school tough for everyone?) I want to go somewhere new, completely start over. I want to go by gut feel alone.

My mom shakes the hat and peers over its brim. “Are you ready?” she asks.

“I think so.”

In the middle of the dining room table there sits a large bouquet of purple and white hyacinths. The room is steeped in their sticky-sweet scent. I breathe them in as my mom reaches into the hat.

She opens the square slowly at first, then quickly and triumphantly. “Allegheny!” she says with naked delight.

My mom hails from Pennsylvania. She hasn’t said so, but I know Allegheny is her first choice. She and my dad took turns slogging through all the campus tours and overnights with me, and at Allegheny, she was different. She was more relaxed, maybe, like she’d found the place she’d feel comfortable enough to let me try myself out for a while.

Now her eyes squint. Her face is flushed. “Allegheny!” she says again.

“Allegheny!” I say to let it roll around on my tongue. It doesn’t feel right. I say it again just to be sure.

She watches me for a moment. Then she drops the square into the hat and reshakes the collection. “Best two out of three,” she says brightly.

I hold my breath as she pulls the next square.

“Centre College!” she says.

My heart skips. I grin all over myself.

She surveys my response. The square goes in again. And then it comes out.

She holds it up to my face and then places it in my hands. I feel sure of this square, sure of her handwriting, sure of this final decision. And while part of me feels guilty—Centre is the farthest away, the most expensive, the one with the smallest scholarship—the other part of me wraps my life around it.

My mother smiles. She gives me a hug, and for a while neither of us lets go.

~*~

I think about how impossible it must be to let your children strike out on their own. I know it’s impossible because I can’t bear the thought even now, with the boys as small as they are. Occasionally, I drive them past Ohio State University. “There it is, guys!” I exclaim. “Look, Ohio Stadium! Maybe one day you’ll be Buckeyes just like Pa. It’s close to home; I’ll bake you brownies whenever you want them.”

They kick their feet happily and peer through the car windows. I nod smugly, because I’m not above brainwashing. I’m not above doing whatever it takes to keep them here.

This is how I know my mom is a better mother than I am.

~*~

You can’t know at 18 what it means to tell a college to expect you in the fall—how the next four years will influence the decisions you make from that point. You’ll cull your knowledge and prospects and social mores from those first years of adulthood, and those years will shape everything else. I look around me and know that everything I have, everything I strive for, all my beliefs and convictions—everything, everything—comes from the foundation my parents set for me, and the person I grew into at school.

My mom helped me prepare, helped me pack, helped me go. She helped me come home when I needed to, then helped me go back out again.

In my life, I’m grateful for so much. But that moment in the dining room, with my mom and the hat and the hyacinths and the hope I held in my hands—that’s the moment I’m most grateful for, because it led to everything else.

Love you so much, Mom. Thank you for everything. A very happy birthday to you. Here’s to your finest year yet.

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#31: The Family-that-Nearly-Wasn’t Leaves Chicago

I should explain that we didn’t just drive to Chicago for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. We came to the city for much more than that—or at least I did. Last weekend’s visit marked our first Chicago stay in almost a decade. But more importantly, it’s the first Chicago visit we’ve made with our boys.

“Really? You call that a first?” you ask. “Isn’t that a stretch? Aren’t you cheating a little?”

On the surface, maybe. Maybe I am. But read more. You can decide for yourself.

~*~

It’s Sunday, March 13, and we’re closing out my tenth Chicago visit with a trip to the Children’s Museum at the Navy Pier. Already, I’m feeling a sense of disconcerted awareness: It’s time to go; we really, really want to stay.

I’ll get into all of that in a minute. But first, I need to explain how my obsession with this city was born.

• Trips 1 and 2: Fresh from graduate school, I took a job with a three-person firm that raised sponsorships for some of the larger events in Columbus. My boss also held part-ownership in a few running magazines, so in the summers we flew to Chicago for an annual sporting goods convention. I got a lot of free stuff from Nike on those trips, but never saw much of the city. I vowed to go back and explore the place on my own.
• Trip 3: My mom, cousin and I decided to hit the town with no purpose other than to shop, eat marvelous food and check out the night life. My quest for adventure was a little different back then; I remember taking a taxi back to the hotel while my companions stayed out to the wee-est hours. I shake my head at this now, for obvious reasons.
• Trips 4, 5 and 6: When a friend announced she was engaged, we hopped a plane to Chicago to “field study” her bachelorette party. We spent our first two trips scouting out ideas for a girls’ weekend, and spent the sixth trip absorbing whatever the town had to offer with all the women in her wedding party. On those trips, I dug into the city to see as much of it as I could. Until then, I’d never been brave enough to seek out new experiences. In fact, I’d never really been game for anything much at all. But those weekends, I got a taste of opportunity. The city and I just clicked. I felt like I’d slipped into a skin I could mold into whatever I wanted, so I could learn to not be afraid of so much. It was a really good fit, and I liked it, and suddenly, everything was different.

Later, I tried to convince GB that we should scrap our jobs and move somewhere other than Columbus, where the opportunities were better and we could plot a new course together. I think he was tempted—there’s always something tempting about starting fresh—but in the end, we never set the wheels in motion. We agreed to be satisfied with frequent visits. That’s how trips eight and nine came about:

• (Trip 7: This stop almost doesn’t count; it was a business trip, and I didn’t even stay the night. Why? Why, exactly? Help me make sense of this, current employer!)
• Trips 8 and 9: Eventually, GB and I decided to pursue MBAs at a local university that allowed us to work full time and attend classes at night. One of our finance professors offered a course that involved killing time most of the semester until we could fly to Chicago and tour the financial exchanges. I took the class and brought GB as my guest. A year later, GB returned the favor.

I think it’s trip nine that I remember the most.

It was almost eight years ago. After months of considering a childless future (not because we didn’t want kids, but because I thought I’d be a horrible parent), GB and I had a collective change of heart and decided to start a family. On Father’s Day, we told our parents they’d be grandparents by mid-February. We ate homemade sour cream coffee cake on a bright summer morning to celebrate. The next day, I lost the baby.

A few days after that, we hopped a plane to tour the Fed, the Merc, and the floors of the Chicago Stock Exchange. I remember walking along Michigan Avenue and stopping at FAO Schwarz®. I watched other parents watch their children as they gaped at all the marvelous toys. Then I grieved for a family I was sure would never be.

It took two years to finally prove myself wrong.

~*~

Well, you know and I know this story has a happy ending. Although there isn’t an FAO Schwarz in Chicago anymore, there is one H and one O. I never would have foreseen this eight years ago.

It’s strange how hard it is to see forward through the face of loss. No matter what the ugly circumstance may be, well-meaning people will insist it will all work out for you in the end. Back then, I wanted to clutch those people by the shoulders, shake them and beg them not to make false promises. Because how could they possibly know what rights and wrongs could come out of this. And how could they not know how much not knowing could hurt.

That’s what faith and patience are for, though. Not every story has a rose-colored conclusion. But some stories do.

That’s why standing here in Chicago with my three best guys for the first time feels like a very big deal. GB and I went from wondering if we wanted this, to wanting it more than anything. We couldn’t grasp hold of it, and then suddenly we could, like a brightly wrapped box had been handed to us in a quiet flourish.

Now, we walk out of the Chicago Children’s Museum and pile into the car. As GB drives down Lakeshore Drive, I ask the boys what they’ve liked best about the trip.

“All of it, I fink,” H answers.

“That’s what I’ll say, too, Mama,” O agrees.

“Me, too,” I say. “All of it, for sure.”

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Caught in a Downpour

First, I’m absolutely lashing with apologies. Each time my iPhone dings, I see WordPress notices from friends who have written something new. Bloggers, I’m clamoring to read your posts and shower your words with comments.

But the truth is, someone resigned on me at the office this week, so I’m spending my free time redistributing work to the rest of my team. Once that’s finished, I can sit back and wait for someone to retaliate by: 1) egging my windows, 2) laying a flaming bag of poo on my doorstep, or 3) keying automotive-love-of-my-life, Jones. With a vengeance. And then I shall cry.

So: Here’s a post I wrote in July about rain, a stolen hour and music. Bloggers, my fingers are crossed that I’ll catch up with you on Friday to see what sort of trouble you’ve been getting yourselves into.

~*~

Caught in a Downpour – July 26, 2010

My original plan was to wake early and run before anyone missed me. When the alarm sounded at 6:30 AM, my groggy mind and sinus headache regarded each other, shook hands, and agreed to go back to sleep.

Now it’s 7:30 AM. The morning is dry and cool—perfect for running—but a pocket of grim and gathering clouds lines the northwest sky. So what then? Run in the rain? I’d kind of love that. The problem is, I don’t like to run without music. And since I’ve stored my favorite mp3s on my water-averse iPhone, I need to make a decision. The sky above me is eerie and yellow, but the storm is miles away. The rain could hold for 40 minutes or so—just long enough for a 5 mile workout.

I decide to test fate, and the first two miles are easy. The air is crisp and still. Then, half-way through mile 3, the trees begin to blow sideways. I hear the rain before I feel those first heavy drops land squarely on my forehead.

Oh, my sweet baby iTunes, I think. Things are about to take a nasty turn.

~*~

To date, I have exactly 424 mp3s and 540 photos locked in the sacred memory of my mobile device. I’ve never backed up those files because my company’s code of conduct says I can’t sync my phone on my laptop. If my iPhone gets wet, all those files will disappear. Hundreds of dollars plus hours of my listening enjoyment would be washed away with just a few well-placed raindrops.

I’m two blocks from my neighborhood Starbucks. If I sprint, maybe I can make it there before the sky drains all over this sidewalk.

So I run full tilt. I take a sharp left into a condo complex that juts up against my favorite hard-core caffeine supplier. What I’ve never realized until today—what I never had a reason to notice—is that a 5-feet tall chain link fence separates the two structures. I’m sure I can scale the fence, that’s not the problem. But by now, the storm has unleashed itself. I look around and see a long garage with a 2 ½ foot overhang. I’ll be fine out here under the gutters, I think. This kind of downpour can’t last long.

~*~

In movies, you can tell when the “rain” is really just the studio’s sprinkler system. The water pours down in visible streams and splashes all over the set. That’s exactly how this thunderstorm is. The drops fuse together into furious lines that strike loudly against the pavement; they don’t change direction. It’s just a straight shot from sky to ground.

I watch those drops fall, listening to the slush of cars edging wetly through the neighborhood. My shoes are damp from the dripping overhang, but my iTunes are bone dry. I call GB to tell him I’m fine, then spend the next half-hour shuffling through my favorite songs. I feel sleepy and relaxed, and I’m all settled in when GB calls to say he’ll come find me.

Pantha du Prince – Welt Am Draht (Animal Collective Remix)

~*~

In a way, I wish I could stay longer. It’s just a half hour I’m glad I’ve had. In this time, I’ve thought of next to nothing—just rain and music and rain again. I’ve been forced to be still and quiet—a bit like sleeping, I guess. For a chronic multitasker like me, that’s really kind of a gift.

When GB pulls up, I’m glad to see him. The boys are smiling through their red hooded rain jackets. They spend the ride home recounting the morning’s cartoons. I tell them I missed them and they kick their feet happily. The rain falls loudly for hours, and my house is noisy with play.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Mama Can’t Say No Day, the Reprise

H turned six last week, and O turns four tomorrow. To celebrate, we’re hosting a combined birthday party this weekend for all the little boys in both their classes. But tomorrow, just as we did last week for H, we’ll celebrate a different way: Mama Can’t Say No Day, a new (and rare) tradition in our house.

“Mama Can’t Say No Day?” you say. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

But it’s not. Actually, it’s pretty great. This re-post below tells you about our first Mama Can’t Say No Day, and proves that empowering your kids can go a long, long way.

~*~

Mama Just Can’t Say No – May 3, 2010

“Maura, I have your son here in my office.”

I have to be honest—I’ve received more phone calls like this lately than I care to admit. “Is everything ok?” I ask. “Is he hurt?”

“No, no. He’s just refusing to take a nap. It’s disrupting the other kids. We’ve tried reasoning with him and ignoring him and putting him in time out. Nothing’s working. What do you suggest?”

What I think but don’t say: “Have you tried bribing him? Or taking away his toys? Or smoothing his hair and rocking him to sleep?” But I’m too ashamed of my “works like a charm” Bad Mom tactics. Instead, I say, “I’m so sorry! Daycare has been such a huge transition for him. We’ll talk to him again tonight. Meanwhile I’d welcome your advice…”

“Do you practice discipline in your home?”

I think about O, my sweet, snuggly 3-yr-old mama’s boy and am instantly defensive. In a family of huggers, he hugs the longest and the hardest. He holds my hand as he falls asleep and smiles when I wake him in the morning. O is just a lovable, jolly kid who happened to inherit his mother’s exaggerated stubborn streak. In our house, discipline usually turns into one massive standoff, with me saying “No!” and him saying “Yes!” until we no longer remember what we’re doing.

“Barriers are important. Kids need structure. They want it, and they thrive on it. Don’t be afraid to be the boss.”

I thank her and we say goodbye. After a minute or so of burying my face in my hands, I take a deep breath and get back to work.

~*~

The truth is, I say “no” constantly. No jumping on the bed. Eat your grapes, or no dessert. Keep your feet off your brother. Stop moving around on your chair. No! Non! Nicht! Não! Enough!

I’m not a nag by nature, and I’m not a bossy person, so this constant setting and enforcing of rules goes against my general grain. I do it because I have to. Because I know I need to. Because, like every other mom, I’ve read all the experts, and I’ll do anything it takes to keep my kids from dragging my name through their therapy sessions 25 years from now.

Even so, EVERYONE needs a day off once in a while. That’s precisely why today was so outstanding. For the first time, I decided to just scrap all the parenting rules and follow nothing but maternal instinct.

~*~

I hear two sets of little boy feet coming down the stairs. Two smiley kiddos appear with stick-uppy hair.

“Hi Mama!” H says gleefully.

“Hiya, pumpkin. What day is it, buddy?”

“The Day Mama Can’t Say No!”

“That’s right! Hey O, what does that mean?”

“We’re the bosses!”

“The what?”

“THE BOSSES!”

“And what do the bosses want for breakfast?”

“Chocolate chip muffins!”

Well. Chocolate chip muffins it is.

~*~

Here’s what else the bosses did today:

• Chose their clothes and got dressed by themselves (something they do every day—just not so eagerly)
• Brushed their teeth without argument (even if they did select the Thomas the Tank Engine toothpaste for toddlers, rather than that nasty “Sparkleberry!” flavored crap)
• Made tantrum-free movie selections at Blockbuster
• Talked me into racing the Target shopping cart down an empty aisle or two
• Ordered bacon—five pieces each—and ate quietly all through lunch
• Laughed their little blond heads off through two Phineas and Ferb episodes, then announced they were ready for a nap
• Had a massive Star Wars lightsaber battle with Uncle SC without antagonizing one another
• Enjoyed a very bubbly bubble bath
• Went to sleep at 9:00, exhausted and happy

~*~

It’s clear to me. When I loosen the reins on these guys, when I guide them rather than lord over them, when I tell them I trust them—and they actually believe me—then eight times out of 10 they’ll make good choices. They’ll stop railing against me in their little boy way. I guess in my heart I’ve always known this about them.

I make mistakes with my boys every day, and I count those mistakes as I fall asleep each night. But in the end, I can’t help but think: If they know I love them fiercely and obstinately and blindly and devotedly and proudly and without a hint of desire to change them, then they’ll believe in themselves, and they’ll want to do what’s right.

I wonder what the experts would say about that.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

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Blackout!

via unplggd.com

It’s Tuesday, and my day has been peppered with small talk about the impending storm. My Chicago-based colleagues hunker down for a 16-inch snowfall while Columbus falls prey to a long and unforgiving sheen of ice.

Inside, though, it’s warm from the steam of a jolly evening bath time. My jammied boys sit cross-legged beside me as I read from a child’s version of Oliver Twist. I don my best Cockney accent, stopping only when the lights flicker. Then the room turns black, and my scrubbed and smiling buddies fall to pieces.

“Whoa, whoa, guys,” I say. “It’s ok! Let’s go to Snoozetown. I bet the power will be on again by morning. ”

“I don’t wike when it’s dark!” O wails. “I’m realwy, realwy scared!” H tucks his head against my arm and whimpers in agreement.

“It’s ok!” I say again, trying my best to sound reassuring. “I’ll stay in here with you tonight. We’ll have fun, like a sleepover! Let’s tell stories.”

But the crying continues. I try a few more distractions before busting out my fail-safe plan: “Who wants to watch YouTube on my phone?” I ask.

The crying instantly stops. They giggle through two episodes of Fish Hooks before they finally nod off.

 

via Disney

I follow suit eventually but wake at 2AM to dwell on the melting ice cream in the freezer downstairs. I consider relocating it to the snow, but these fine, warm blankies anchor me to my pillow.

On Wednesday morning, the roads are too bad to drive to the office, and all the schools have closed. I resolve to seek shelter, so we descend upon my parents’ house. “Thanks for letting us stay!” I gush as we step into warmth and light. I spend the day working from the kitchen table while the boys dig into the toy box. My parents look happy. We have bacon sandwiches for lunch just to celebrate.

~*~

It’s a funny thing to be a guest in your parents’ house. The last time I slept here, I hung my wedding dress in their room and stayed up with my maid of honor until 2 AM. I remember laughing endlessly the way we always did when we were together. At some point, though, that laughter took a weepy turn.

“Why are you crying?” Erinn asked. “Don’t you want to be married?”

“No, I do!” I sniffed. “I’m not crying because of GB.”

“Well then what?” She urged gently. Her face was awash with concern. I think she half expected me to spill some sordid tale of betrayal and intrigue.

I just shook my head and stared at my hands.

There are things you take for granted as a kid. The sound of your dad grinding coffee in the morning. Your mother working the New York Times crossword over tea. You and your brother bounding down the steps in jammies and socks. Calling, “I’m home!” after a long day at school. I wanted to hold these things up to explain my pre-wedding sob-fest. But how can you ever explain the stuff of a happy childhood.

Now I tuck my boys into that nostalgic sense of safety. They sit like baby dolls in the room where I grew up. “I wish I knew about you when I was small,” I say as I kiss their tiny noses. “I never knew I’d have so much to look forward to.”

~*~

Thursday, I log on to the office from my childhood desk. I stare out the window as I run conference calls and make recommendations. The apple tree outside has grown so tall it now blocks my view of the rest of the neighborhood.

My mom knocks on the door to check her e-mail. “Come downstairs and work!” she says. “It’s quiet down there.”

“I will….” I say. “I want to. Just a few more calls.”

She smiles and shuts the door behind her. As she goes, I smell the unmistakable aroma of a roast cooking in the oven downstairs. I lean back in my chair and inhale deeply.

~*~

An hour later, GB calls to say we have power again. I’m equal parts relieved and sorry to hear the news. “We should stay for dinner,” I say. “My parents have been cooking all afternoon.” But it’s just an excuse; I have two helpings, load the dishwasher and do everything I can to put off leaving this house again.

When we finally do arrive home, the boys run from room to room. They switch on every light they can find, shouting each time they see a toy they missed while we were away. GB cleans out the now nasty refrigerator while I make my way to the grocery store. I pull favorites off the shelves, making a mental note to add bacon to Saturday’s pancake breakfast, just to see my guys bound down the steps with added fervor.

When they’re adults, maybe they’ll look back and remember falling asleep under my parents’ roof, loving the creaking floors and the glow of the nightlight through the crack of the door.

But even more, I hope they’ll remember what it’s like when the power surges back and the rooms start to warm and the house is how they left it and it’s unspeakably great to finally be back home.

~*~ Find Maura on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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