Maybe parenting is like a sling shot.

Maybe parenting is like a sling shot.

You wind it up, pull it back, pull it, pull it tight, and then BOING you let it go soaring through thin air. No longer in your control. All the while you were winding you thought that was the hard part, only to find out that no, the hard part is letting go, the hard part is watching.

My pregnancies were spent in the subways of New York City. I worked full time because I thought I had to, although in hindsight I'm not sure I did. Bob and I were in the rare position of having cheap housing and low expenses while living in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I suppose I worked because I wanted to. I wanted to be important, and to be important you worked. Or so I believed. Truth be told, I'd simply  never not worked, although these days I'd sure like to give that a try.

My OB-GYN clinic was located equidistant between our home in Brooklyn and my office in Manhattan. I arranged that on purpose so I could take the subway to appointments and then get back on and head on into work, no matter how big my belly was. I'll tell you that the thousands of other people who shared my R-train route were generally very kind, always embarrassing me by offering me their seats if I was standing, grabbing on to a pole for balance. Being from the Midwest, I would have preferred that me and my fleshy beach ball go unnoticed, but that doesn't happen in the city. Same thing when my belly weight threw me off balance and I toppled like a weeble on the corner of 26th and Park Avenue South, in my navy blue maternity office-wear. I was hoping to quietly wobble upright unnoticed as the zillions of people around me marched like ants to their workplaces. But for one thing, the laws of physics wouldn't allow me up, and for another thing, those nasty New Yorker's simply came to my rescue and pulled me up. I headed to my my 8th floor desk space  with one of those classic knee scrapes a 3-year-old kid would get on a playground.

When my babies were three months old, respectively, I went back to work. I felt lucky because I knew many other women who had less time. Still, I should have stayed home longer, even a couple months longer, but that's another blog post. Of course the question hit me: what's the point of having kids if you're going to hand them off to someone else? I mostly brushed off these questions and a wise colleague advised me that kids need you more when they are teenagers, so work now and save up the career capital until later.

Even as I had questions, the most amazing childcare provider emerged. A new friend in Brooklyn, who like me, was from Minnesota. She understood perfectly the whole Midwest-to-East Coast dynamic. Plus, get this, she was a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. Yes, my daycare provider was a practicing mental health counselor. Her skills constantly came in handy for all of us. She became first in a long line of people we've enlisted to care for our children. For the most part, it's all worked out surprisingly well. (I really don't know how anyone can say they do anything independently. It's metaphysically impossible.)

I no longer believe in so called "career capital" but my colleague was right. I feel like for the past 15 years all Bob and I've been doing is winding up the sling shot. We thought we were doing the hard part, but we were just pulling tight the energy so we can soon let it go, sending it into eternity. Everyday is less control, and loss of control is -- well, I don't know, isn't that a basis for mental breakdown? Hello parents of young children, you're all headed for inevitable insanity. No, I'm not saying that, but maybe to some degree I am. No, really, this is just how it is with me.

It has taking me 15 years to come face to face with parental loss of control, as our kids prepare for 11th and 8th grade, as my daughter learns to drive, as my son becomes more mysterious, as we are a few short years away from college and the (inhale) empty nest. My friends tell me the loss of control continues as children find partners, lose partners, have their own babies. "My son, the father" is an essay by Anne Lamott that I'll be using next Monday, in the first night of teaching my composition class at Des Moines Area Community College. Even now, witnessing my own kids taking care of younger kids is something I'm not fully prepared for.

My young niece is experiencing parental loss of control far too early as today she is being induced because her baby was diagnosed in utero with a terminal condition, anencephaly. She and her partner will lose their baby, who they've named Charlie King Ball, at birth, which will be within the next 12 hours or so.

Maybe parenting has to be like a sling shot, creating a force so strong we cannot contain it. Because if we could contain it, we would. And children, apparently, sadly, cannot be contained.

With love, T

Learning to fly. Learning to let go.

The Roosevelt High School cheerleaders, varsity and jr varsity.
Wish we could all see the fifth stunt group, to our left,
who apparently didn't fit into the frame.
It's fun to see the new girls learn to fly and the veteran girls teaching them.

There's something about this picture I really like.

I think it's all the reaching up. The pushing up. The stretching up. The looking up.

All the upward movement by the base juxtaposes with the flyers, who seem (understandably) rather tentative by comparison. Don't get me wrong, these flyers look awesome, but they're not on their toes like the back bases are. They're not looking upwards, like all their supporters are.

What the flyers are doing is looking out and revving up the audience -- while not letting on to their precarious situation. The flyers are totally dependent on a highly synchronized team to ensure their safe propulsion, trick, and landing.

The team moves perfectly together by counting. In this sport, precision is required otherwise a flyer gets dropped, and possibly seriously hurt. When a flyer falls to the floor, her trust in the base is broken. When trust goes down, the base can't get the flyer back up.

A reliable base who never allows the flyer to get hurt makes for a spectacular show.

I love all the symbolism in that. The teamwork, collaboration, and the idea that when someone succeeds we all do. Blah, blah, idealistic, blah. Imagine my son's hands making the motions of endless yacking, opening and closing his palms like clapping clams.

Girl child with one of her many cheer coaches,
and one of her many cheer awards. We are so very proud of her.

As you may know, I haven't been all that supportive of my daughter's cheerleading passion. I'm still not. But I am trying. This year I believe that great God almighty has taken pity upon this confused mother and made the English teacher the cheer coach. (How's that for grace?) That helps my state of wondering if cheerleading is the subject on which to spend so much time, energy, and money. Bob and I are doing back flips to finance the cheer habit and provide transportation, as girl child is now on three teams.

But what do I know? I'm lucky if I can get through any day without bloodshot, baggy eyes to meet my deadlines du jour. My goals often include recovery from sleeping with the most active subconscious in the world, which is not really sleeping. It's more like resting your brain on a bed of thumb tacks.

So when your kid finds her passion, something she loves to do, something she's good at, something she has access to, something others look to her for leadership -- you should raise yourself upwards and shout THANK YOU! to the heavens and earth. Even if you don't totally understand it. Even if it's not what you had envisioned for your child.

Right?

I'm trying, I really am. But honestly, I'm the most tired cheerleading mother you'll ever meet and I still have a hard time letting go of my preconceived notions of what passions my daughter should keep. You can imagine how giddy I was when my daugther informed me that this year she'll be the principal's assistant every day first period. (Mrs. Danielson and Girlchild kind of hit if off last year when Girlchild recruited the English teacher to be the new cheer coach. The Principal and my kid are thinking yay, a cheer coach. I'm thinking yay, a potential letter of reference for college applications.) My red eyes grew big with joy and all I could say was "I like! I like!" I think she did that intentionally so I'd lay off on my other concerns. It was a brilliant plan that worked perfectly.

Queue my son's clam-clapping hand motions to indicate yacking.

Still, if you want to join me in supporting all these upwardly mobile girls, find me every Friday night starting soon at the Roosevelt High School football games. I'll be the one cringing at the violent body contact on the field and reveling at the beautiful synchronicity on the sidelines. Then promptly going home to bed.

Thank for stopping by my blog. I wish you a wonderful weekend!

With love, T

The possibility of a bicycle booty call

Hello Snake Charmer Friends! Are you out there? Why would you be as I haven't written forever? Gosh, in the good old days of unemployment I was writing everyday. And you were all good enough to humor me and say nice things, or at least not say mean things.

About six months ago I decided to quit writing. I decided writing wasn't good for my mental health as it became yet another problem solving task clogging my brain. I graduated last December after a two-year fury of writing 100 pages for my book (book? what book?) in the nooks and crannies of my time. Right after graduation I pushed forward with 20 more pages and then just stopped. It's an effort to clear my mental clutter.

Some of you saw the picture I posted on facebook (against my better judgement) of my son at six months taking a bath in the kitchen sink among the dirty dishes. He was happy as a clam, pink and pudgy, smiling straight at the camera while sitting the suds. He totally didn't care about the chaos around him. I remember Bob and me feeling so tired that neither one of us could walk 20 feet to the bathroom to prepare his bath. Instead, we finished with supper (probably hot dogs or an equivalent dish), left the dirty dishes, and filled up one kitchen basin with soapy water for the baby. It was like a continuation of the long awaited dinner hour time together, and a procrastination of the much dreaded child bedtime hour.

Now that baby is 13-years-old, and metaphorically those dishes are still in the sink. A kid grows up no matter how distracted you are from mothering. You wish you could make more money, work less hours, travel to new places, get a full night's sleep, take dance lessons, read more books, look better, be cooler, and whatnot. Wishes are endless. Meanwhile all your kid does is grow up and grow away.

I can't remember the last time my boy smiled like he did in that picture with him in the kitchen sink. Wait, yes I can. Just last month he smiled. Bob and I have figured out the secret to get a teenage boy to smile. While bike riding we pull just ahead of him and then coordinate one, two, three to give him a synchronized booty call, lifting our behinds from the bike seat and wiggling to the glory of our son. Yes, a parental booty call in unison will make my 13-year-old smile big, just like in that sudsy picture of long ago. I'm pretty sure it's a smile of disgust, but we'll take it. I offer this parenting advise as a free gift to the world.

Unemployment hasn't been my personal issue for over three years now, so I don't know why I keep referring to it. (First paragraph, approximately four topics ago, in case this post is confusing to follow.) I guess it's just one of those deep-as-the-ocean experiences that you never forget. It all ended so badly, like a long overdue break-up with a horrible boyfriend. But the good thing about unemployment is it opens the door to a whole new group of friends who know exactly what you're talking about, unlike the people who secretly believe it will never happen to them. Shout out to all my friends who have ever lost a job! Love you!

Actually, the truth is I am writing and I'm writing a lot, in my new position of gainful employment. So I guess you could say I'm a professional writer. That's cool. I'll take that. It's not my own creative writing, but these are minor details. That will come when it's time. (I'm working on my capacity for zen wisdom.)

A couple months ago I was able to whittle out an essay from those lastly written pages from my poor little book project. A generous friend helped me edit it so I could submit it to a literary journal. I said it before and I'll say it again: I don't care if it gets rejected, which it probably will; it's a miracle that it got submitted at all.

The problem with not writing is that it has the opposite effect that I'm aiming for. I wish to clear my mental clutter so I quit writing, yet writing is the exact thing that clears my mental clutter. Kind of like a chicken and egg thing. Makes sense? Of course not, my thinking is cluttered.

For now, I've got a kid going to sailing camp, a kid who can cook, a kid who is learning archery, a kid who makes me laugh, a kid who is amazing with kids, a kid who wants to do international relations (ahem, I didn't influence that), a kid full of possibility, and a kid packed with opportunity. The incredible thing is this: these kids generally like me. Not a bad deal for a mother who has spent most of her mothering years feeling pretty much overworked, overbooked, and overwhelmed.

By now you, if you've made it this far in the post (thank you!), you are probably wishing I'd stick to my new policy of not writing. Still, I thank you for coming over to the Charmer blog and I wish you a lovely weekend full of possibility.

With love, T

Psychosomatic or just plain psycho

Water Fire events are held
in summer on the canals in
Providence, Rhode Island.
I've only seen it in pictures and TV.

"Where you came from is gone. Where you thought you were going to never was there. And where you are is no good unless you can get away from it." Flannery O'Connor

For almost all of our 15 years together, my daughter and I have shared a love for the word Providence.

We love the place. A city in Rhode Island that we've only driven through twice, when she was one year old, to and from a Cape Cod vacation she hated. She cried sleepless in our beach side rental nearly the whole week, driving me and Bob insane for the constant screeching and the frittered thousand dollar investment.

We love the old television series, set in the city of Providence. About a beautiful yet big-hearted family physician, her quirky sister, and their many collective boyfriends. (Our favorite boyfriend was good guy firefighter, Burt, played by the actor would go on to play the role of Mad Men's Don Draper.)

And we love the theme song of the television show, the sweet but haunting tune, In My Life, by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. The lyrics start, "There are places I remember, all my life though some have changed. Some forever not for better. Some have gone and some remain."

While we love the Beatles rendition the best, the song has been covered many times. I like Bette Midler's version in the movie For the Boys. We adore the Providence show's version as recorded by Chantal Kreviazuk. When we watch the DVD's of Providence (sadly, which don't include all the episodes) my daughter will queue Kreviazuk's version on her iPod and we listen through shared ear buds through the opening credits because for some reason the DVD version doesn't include the original theme song and we can't stand the song they inserted as a replacement.

Apparently Ozzy Osborne, Johnny Cash, and the cast of Glee have also covered the song, but I haven't heard them yet.

Providence is defined by the Merriam - Webster dictionary as "divine guidance or care." According to this source the word is often capitalized, as if it's a proper noun. Providence. I often wonder if that's the reason we like the show and the song, because we like the word and what it could mean. Although I honestly don't know how a three year old could possibly consider "divine guidance or care." That was the age of my daughter when we started to love the word, Providence.

But what do I know about little children and what do I know about divine guidance?

When I think about all the tender times of intimacy with my daughter, I also think about the postpartum depression that came after she was born. Now, well over 15 years later, I think about it more than ever. Postpartum depression is defined by the Mayo Clinic as this: "Many new moms experience the baby blues after childbirth, which commonly include mood swings and crying spells and fade quickly. But some new moms experience a more sever, long-lasting form of depression known as postpartum depression. Rarely, an extreme form of postpartum depression known as postpartum psychosis develops after childbirth."

I wanted a child yet I remember bursting into sobs in the shower just after we got home from the hospital. Baby sleeping in next room, I stepped into the bathtub and a rush of reality crashed into me. How drastically my body had changed. How dramatically my daily routine had changed. How little control I had over my own destiny.

In those same early days I would look down into the bassinet and see my baby as an object, not as a human, but as a strange appendage of myself that I felt needed to be removed, like a cyst or a tumor. "But it can't be removed," I remember telling myself in a most methodical thought pattern, "because it's illegal to remove it." It was incredible to me that something that I had created, that I had spawned, was also a resident of the state. That the an outside rule of law had any kind of say over this thing that I myself had created. And that I, indeed, did not have the right to do whatever I felt was best, even if it was to get rid of it. It was like saying my little finger had a bill of rights, when I should be able to treat my little finger in a way that was best for it and me. I think for a short time, my postpartum depression was probably bordering on psychopathic thinking. When you're all out of whack it's hard to control your mind.


Whenever I hear those stories of babies abandoned in garbage dumpsters or killed in public bathrooms, my heart aches and I wish there was some way I could reach out to the mothers. And I can't believe a first stop for these traumatized young girls is often jail. They need to be wrapped up in love and care and treatment. 

So here I am 15 years later, postpartum depression gone, Providence prevailing, and my body is all full of hives. I think. There are itchy red bumps on my legs and arms and I can't figure out what's going on. It comes and goes so I can still go to work and function through the day. But my skin looks like a newly plucked chicken, red dots on pink. Did I eat something bad? Is it an allergic reaction? Is my liver quitting? What?

Benadryl didn't even make a dent in the rash so I'm steering towards natural solutions. I'm applying and  ingesting vitamin E and it's helping. But I don't have any solid reasons why this rash except for one possible theory: about ten days ago my daughter got on an airplane and flew to New York City to be with my in laws for three weeks. It's not that big of a deal, good grief she flew alone when she was ten years old. She's in good hands. She's getting treated like a queen. It's her summer vacation. She's almost 16 years old. I'm working and I'm tired and I need a break from driving her to and fro. This circumstance doesn't seem hard to understand.

Yet these red bumps appeared about the same time she left. Psychosomatic rash? Super late recurrance of postpartum depression? Repressed anxiety? Stupidity?

I've had this saying for a long time that when I'm home, I want to leave. And when I leave, I want to return home. In other words, when I'm with my kids, I want order. And when I have order, I miss my kids. Why is it that I must choose? Why can't I have both?

As usual, I don't have a good way to end this post so I'll lean on John Lennon and Paul McCartney:

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more.

I'm praying for deepest, richest, widest, and biggest dose of "divine guidance or care" for you all, for all you love, and for all you can't understand. And hoping these psycho red dots go away. Wishing I could be present, here and now.

Peace and joy, T

Glad you came

me and my very own ragamuffins

When you live in a mid-size city with teenagers you drive a lot. Because the city is too small for robust public transportation. And the city is too big to walk or bike to the all the daily places you need to go.

You spend a lot of time in the car.

We have a system. On the way "there" (where ever there is) girl child sits in the front seat. On the way back (from there) boy child sits in the front seat. It's the genius plan the ragamuffins came up with to solve the endless fighting about who gets the front seat. You can't imagine what a big deal this is.

As we spend so much time in four-wheeled transit to and fro, mostly I make our trio of humanity listen to a steady flow of nonstop public radio. You know, those calming voices of war and strife. I give a thousand thanks for Iowa Public Radio. But every once in a while I let the front seat designee choose the music and sometimes I like it.

Our song du jour is a peppy tune that's easy to dance to, if not for sitting in a square box, put out by a British boy band, apparently. It's called "Glad you came." It's just a nice song.

"I think this would be a great funeral song," I say to the kids. "You know, like a celebration, like everyone's glad this person existed. I want this for my funeral."

"What a great idea, mom!" they said. No they didn't. They pretty much didn't say anything. I was talking to myself.

"No, actually, this would be a great birthing song, you know, celebrating a new life that has come into the world," I say. "Get it? I'm glad you came."

"Yeah, mom, I love that idea!" the kids say in unison. Just kidding, they didn't really say that.

Boy child actually had ear buds in so he didn't hear a word I said. Girl child shares my fondness for this song, but I'm sure she's not associating it with transitioning from the before and to the after. I'm pretty sure the boy band doesn't mean that either. Still, it's nice. Reminds me that I'm glad my kids are here, and to be perfectly honest I wouldn't have always said that. There were many times I wouldn't have said that. And even these days, when it seems that every second is sucked into getting them here and there, I'm not always sure.

But for a few minutes, when we blast this song on the Pioneer system in my new little car, I believe it a lot. We especially like the Glee version of the song (as we often do).

Sending this with lots of love, this mother's day, to all of you who care for children, who contribute to children's charities, who help with the care of children, who teach children, who give us jobs so we can support our children, who befriend me so I don't strangle my children, who advocate for women's health so we don't die from bearing children. Yup, it takes a village. Sending a special shout out to my mom, Diane Mork, and to all the people who do the same for her. I'm glad you came.

Enjoy this 2 minutes and 45 seconds of happiness. . .

Doubting mother. Expecting teens. Accidental devotion.

I'm grateful to LivingLutheran.com for posting my blog post on our funny little tucking-in ritual (and thanks to everyone who posted kind comments to my facebook page xoxox):


When it comes to forming family rituals, there’s one and only one that has worked out for us — Bob, the kids and me. It’s not a ritual we planned. And to be honest, it’s not one I would have chosen. The strongest tradition in our family system came to us by accident.  


You see, we are not big on creating domestic routines, although I always wanted us to be. I used to imagine fun weekly movie nights, rich annual Christmas festivities, and sweeping memories arranged in an artsy scrapbook. I longed for strong traditions that I saw my friends create for their families, imprinting love and togetherness through interesting customs and contained recollections.  Read more.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog!


With love, T

Phantom of the amoeba-stick-man

"Mom, my teacher sugar coated her way of telling me my art project was bad."

This was 7th grade Boychild's way of informing me that he didn't get a very good grade on his art project, which was apparently a bunch of sticks that he picked up from the yard somehow made into a marionette. It was a group project, he said.

"Yeah, she said we needed 'more color' and 'more imagination' and whatever," Boychild said, rolling his eyes, emphasizing the teacher's words with a dull sarcastic tongue twist.

It reminded me of the time Boychild, while in kindergarden, brought home a daily amoeba-stick-man drawing. Pencil on lined spiral paper. A black circle with stubby short black hairs jutting out all around, with a somber stick face, black stick arms and legs projecting out from the head/amoeba. There was no neck nor torso. He brought one of these home every day of kindergarden. Boychild's four-year-old black and white number two lead pencil creativity. Other kindergardeners were coloring wild, flaming rainbows and ponies with a crayola 72 pack. Boychild drew black and white amoeba-stick-people. (I plan to make a collage of those amoeba-people to hang on the wall but haven't gotten around to it yet.)

Wait a minute, I know what this 7th grade art project is all about.

"Did you make a puppet version of your kindergarden amoeba-stick-man?" I asked with furrowed eyes, in my firm mother-knows-best tone. I may be stressed, tired, and brain drained, but I will not tolerate a 7th grade version of the amoeba-stick-man. This mother demands more.

"No, mom, I didn't," boychild said. "It had a neck and we used color...aqua!"

On the dark early mornings when Boychild had picked up sticks in the yard before bumbling into the back seat of the car so I could drive him to school, I told him I needed to see this art project when he was done. One morning, when the art project had been close to finished, we had driven about five miles to school, late as usual, when Boychild realized that he forgot his finishing touches -- two shoe boxes -- at home. We turned around, I think it was icy streets that day, returned home for the shoe boxes, and Boychild was about 45 minutes late to school. I played mind games with myself that missing my own breakfast and being late for my own job wasn't a big deal.

I was really curious about Boychild's art project and what exactly it looked like, how much thought and effort really went into it. But, evidently, somehow the project busted up, according to Boychild. "It broke," he said. It would be impossible for me to see the finished art project, the alleged amoeba-stick-man in 3D.

And then the news about the art teacher's "sugar coated" way of saying that it was a terrible art project. Flatly denied by Boychild.

So, since I'll never see the art project with my own eyes, who should I believe? Boychild or teacher? What do you do with a boychild who doesn't give it all in art, even though he says he does give it his all? Or maybe he really does give it all. Or maybe he just doesn't like art. Or maybe he doesn't like anything.

How is a human mother expected to exert this level of wisdom?

With love, T

The boychild and his peace rally

So once, long ago when I worked on the 8th floor of 23rd and Park Avenue South in Manhattan, "in the city" as New Yorker's call it, a colleague went out for lunch and returned with an announcement: "I just saw the Dalai Lama." It was one of those New York moments, so casual, yet so, holy crap. I mean, she just took a short lunch break, maybe 20 minutes. And BAM, there's the Dalai Lama. When you live in a condensed population that is the center of the universe, tongue partially in cheek, you just see stuff like that, and it becomes kind of ho hum. (My bro-in-law has a meeting Mother Teresa story that would have you in stitches.)

I thought of that Dalai Lama lunch break today when my 12-year-old son announced that he'd bumped into a pro-Tibet rally with a friend in downtown Des Moines today after school. I'm like, wow, that's so cool. He's like, yeah, just another rally. I'm like, wow, I didn't even know you'd heard of Tibet. He's like, yeah, so what's the big deal. My son is not much of a talker, but wanted me to know that he was there. He wanted me to know that he's heard of Tibet, and he knows they need to be freed. Apparently he knows that, like, I dig that. (And maybe he's still trying to make up for the paper mache' bazooka he made in 2nd grade arts and crafts.)

If you haven't already heard, it's a big deal around here these days because the future prez of China is touring Iowa and a state dinner was in Des Moines tonight. Hense, the pro-Tibet rally. Des Moines is that kind of place -- big enough to be a city, small enough for a kid to bum around after school with a buddy. The boychild's school and Bob's office are both downtown, so the city has become boychild's playground. He's figuring out the public transit, the best place to get a sandwich, the skyways, the public library amenities, and how to best get from point A to B with the least amount of physical exertion. He's figuring out what it means to be free, to be who you are, to fly your own flag.

Wait, stop, I'm sure you're not thinking provincial thoughts about Iowa and Des Moines. That we're all about corn and quaintness. But if you are, I invite you to watch this short video. (Mom, heads up, there's a little bit of language in it.) That was a short diversion.

Anyway, just wanted to shout out to the free Tibet people -- Welcome to Des Moines! Thanks for coming. Thanks for educating my son.

With love, T

Crash landing pad

There are three ways in which I serve food to my kids. All I ask is that you don't judge me. Anyway, the three ways are the helicopter method, the spaceship method, and the crash landing method. They go something like this:

Girlchild or Boychild: "Mom, will you make me a turkey sandwich?"

Me: "Sure." I make the sandwich. I set it on the kitchen counter top.

Me: "Here's your sandwich."

Girlchild or Boychild, who by the way are probably sitting in front of the TV: "Mom, can you helicopter it in?"

Me: "Sure."

Suddenly the plate arises and makes a fast paced thicking noise and rotates in circles as it makes it's way towards the Subjectchild. All the way across the living room straight to the Saidchild and lands gently onto the lap landing pad.

The spaceship method is pretty much the same thing, except it's called a space ship instead of a helicopter. It kind of rotates like a round flying saucer from Mars. Sometimes the turkey sandwich is served on a platter with other food and drink, napkin and fork. Then, the entire platter rotates across the room, same quick thicking noice.

The crash landing method is a whole other thing. That's when the turkey sandwich, or whatever is being served at that particular request, sets so securely on the plate or tray that it suddenly takes off, runs across the room. It makes a screechy "rrrrrrr" sound like a car that has slammed on it's brakes. And then smashes onto the lap landing pad, still in tact for eating of course.

When crash landings occur, Girlchild and Boychild say: "Mom, that's just weird."

And I take heart in the way that author Mary Karr describes the way her family used to eat meals together in her memoir, "The Liar's Club." They used to all sit on the parent's bed, each facing a different wall, with their backs towards the center of the bed, with their food on their laps, all facing outwards. And it worked for them. I think it sounds kind of peaceful. (Rare moments of quiet in that book, anyway.) The way she writes it, it's hilarious. (Lots of hilarity in this read.)

All for now. Thanks for coming over.

With love, T
.

Teenager Economics

This is a random RHS cheerleader pic I found on google images.
But I'm pretty sure my favorite cheerleader is the girl in the back right.
Are they adorable or what? xoxoxo

I just spent $5 to get into a Roosevelt High School basketball game to deliver $15 to my daughter who has a $30 public library bill due to go to a collection agency soon. I should have been able to get into the game with my $80 season pass, but we lost it, and so I've chalked that up to putting us into major donor status with the RHS booster club. For whom I recently volunteered in the RHS concession stand. I thought it was cool that I mastered the popcorn machine until the 10-year-old son of another mother mastered it better than me. I paid $5 to get into that game too, just so I could report to concession stand duty and get one-upped by a 5th grader. I kept telling myself that working consessions was an innovative way to network. "So where do you work?" I kept asking other mothers as we sold skittles and walking tacos. A question which experience tells me inevitably leads to a conversation on the topic of rampant job dissatisfaction. Irrelevant to this post, but just saying.

Anyway...

It paid off. I mean, the networking. Not so much professionally, but from a parental standpoint. Because my teenage daughter keeps wanting to hang out with her friends instead of stay home with us. Even on Friday nights! It's uncomfortable, because you always want your babies close to you. But at least I've met some of her friends and some of their mothers, and so it helps.

There was a lot of energy tonight at the RHS gym. The varsity boys were just starting up and the pep band finally got showed up tonight. My goodness, this school has a reputation for it's music and vocal arts program and there's been no dang pep band! So it was great to hear them tonight although they don't seem to be your usual pep band, playing "Louie Louie" and assorted Beatles songs. (I love pep band songs. I keep harassing my girl that the cheerleaders need to come up with little dances to go with the songs. Not that  I have strong feelings about it.) The RHS pep band seems to feature bass and electric guitars so you can't easily tell if it's a pep band or a recording. Tonight they played, "Hell's Bells." If that's not a nightmare song from my high school years, but that's another story. ACDC songs seem to be big among RHS varsity sports. They liked to play "Back in Black" during the football game warm ups. It felt so been-there-done-that to me, but the kids thought it was really cool, including my 7th grader. I'm just a lowly parent.

So tonight, after the $5 admission fee I realized there was nowhere for this parent to sit -- and I kind of wanted to stay for a while because there was a lot of energy in that gym, I mean, the whole RHS student section was full of students wearing onesie pajamas. Yes, you read me right. An entire bleacher section of grown children in adult-sized, onesie pajamas standing up in full chant of hell's bells. It's called school spirit, people. And I was feeling it too, but since there was no where to sit, I did my one important thing and then returned home.

My one important thing: I marched right up to the cheerleader section, found my favorite girl, pulled her aside, gave her the money, and reminded her that I had my cell phone with me at all times and that she could call me whenever she wanted to. No matter what.

That's all.

How much did all that cost?

Thanks for coming to the Charmer blog. I wish you all a lovely weekend.

With love, T

My nightmare, their nightmare

"...motherhood is a series of emergencies..." so writes Debra Monroe in her memoir, On the Outskirts of Normal. In a chapter called "A History of Fear" she writes about all the ways her newly adopted baby could be mortally hurt, due to her imagined maternal inadequacy.

You start loosing your child the very minute you get one. Because every time your child learns something, the child moves further away from dependence on you. The fact that Amanda can now occasionally find transportation with friends is yet another step on that slippery slope of our separation. We still drive her to most places, but sometimes she doesn't need us. (It's probably more accurate to say that her need for us changes.)

"Mom, Katie will take me to the game tonight," she told me earlier today. The game was at East High School. Amanda was cheering for the Roosevelt High School varsity boys basketball team, the away team. (Even though Des Moines'ers know that the two giant-sized schools are separated by just a few miles of  I-235.)

Fine. The plan sounded good to me. She'd go with a friend, and I'd arrive by second quarter, watch her cheer, then bring her back home.

But then something happened that scared me. Felt like one of those emergencies you dread. A flash of nightmare.

I was in the kitchen preparing pizza toppings for Bob, thinking I'd have his pizza ready to bake before I left for Amanda's game. (He'd taken Aidan to his basketball practice, where, damn, that coach had Aidan scrimmaging on the "skins" team, I found out later. My son is not a "skins" kind of kid. Had I been there, I would have died inside, or at least embarrassed a couple people, especially Aidan, by talking with the coach.)

What time did Amanda's game start? I forgot. I texted her: "What time does your game start?" I continued chopping onions and slicing garlic.

Amanda texted me back. Except it wasn't Amanda. The text said (exact words), "Your fucking kid lost her phone."

My mind went wild. I imagined Amanda kidnapped. I let her ride with a friend to the basketball game and now she is kidnapped. She's too young to be alone, she's so vulnerable, there's so many predators out  there. Of course predators are going to stalk teenage girls at a high school basketball game. A predator has her. They will use her phone to torment me. Wait a minute, calm down. They didn't say you lost your kid, they said your kid lost her phone. Big difference. For whatever reason, some creepy person had my daughter's phone and was texting me. Had I been cyber bullied? Is this what high-schoolers do to each other regularly?

I came so close to texting back my own version of cyber bullying. Fortunately, even in my state of panic, I held it together enough to realize that I was totally at my bully's mercy. Totally. There was nothing I could do but to be polite. Courtesy was my one and only chance.

And so I texted back: "Will u pls return it?" And then I fumbled around with the T-Mobile 800# and disconnected the service, imagining all the apps and ring tones my texter was downloading. Still, it occurred to me that even if my bully texter was willing to oblige my plea, I'd cut off the service before we could further communicate. There was no way to make arrangements to return the phone.

No  longer in the mood to finish making Bob's pizza, I got in the car and headed over to East High. I was sure that when I got there I'd see Amanda decked out in blue and white with the silver poms, cheering with the rest of the team. But what if I didn't? What if I got there and she was the missing cheerleader? What if there were five girls bopping around the sidelines instead of six?

I called Bob to tell him about the creepy text. He was weirded out too. "Maybe you should just go right over there," he suggested. I already was on the road. He asked that I call him when I saw her, when I could verify with my own eyes that it was her phone, and not her, that was stolen.

If a child falls in the woods by herself, does the parent hear? Children shouldn't be alone in the woods, but sadly, as they grow older, it's inevitable. Or maybe more sadly, there are far too few chances for children to play freely and safely in the woods. I always like the times when we're all home together, just doing nothing but being together. It seems so secure.

I got to East High, parked the car, winded my way through the sidewalk, ramps, hallways, and stairways to the gym full of screaming, teaming kids. I'd never before been in a high school where the public gathering space felt situated in the bowels of the building. The basketball court and its environs seemed to enjoy its posture of strength, like an enormously sturdy bomb shelter. I found the visitors' section. Looked for the cheerleaders. Counted them, 1,2,3,4,5...6. All accounted for. Amanda was there as if nothing had happened. She couldn't see me as I was just a spec of a bug in the massive section of fans, parents, and students, but I could see her. Her cheer smile beamed all across the auditorium. Her pony tail bounced as though her lost or stolen cell phone was a figment of my thinking. I called Bob to let him know that I could see Amanda with my own eyes.

Maybe she had her phone after all. Maybe her friends were just fooling around with it. That would be awesome, I thought. If this was true I wouldn't even care if her friends dropped me an f-bomb. I just wanted the phone back.

During halftime, Amanda confirmed with me -- no cell phone. She had it one moment, and not the next. It simply disappeared. At this point, knowing that indeed she wasn't kidnapped in the woods, my concern turned away from predators and turned towards lost property. I considered that now we were two for two with lost kid phones. (Aidan had an earlier mishap.) And even Amanda's phone, or I should say ex-phone, was a Craig's list special because she'd lost her original phone.

How can regular folk like us keep up with children's cell phones?

But my laments were minor compared to other parents' because one of the Roosevelt basketball team members got terribly injured. He was pushed somehow into diving position, headfirst to the floor. Landed smack on his temple and just laid there like a human puddle. I saw it happen and it was truly horrifying. The game was stopped for a half hour to wait for the paramedics. A half hour with a gym full of RHS and East High kids, no game, no music, no cheers, and only one fistfight in the bleachers. The police broke it up pretty handily.

The old gym held us all in check. It hadn't yet reached the ranks of modernization, still ordering the people with its original built-in bleachers, not the kind that nimbly tuck back. The gym roared its own brute strength, simply with the weight of its massive cement walls and levels. The space reminded me of a ginormous cavern you'd discover deep inside a cave. Were we actually underground? I looked for fire escapes. Painted lettering boldly proclaimed "East Side Scarlets." Scarlets was an odd mascot name, I thought. I'd never heard of that before. Red was the main accent color.

Officials scrubbed blood off the floor where the player had crashed his head, while we all waited for the paramedics to arrive. It was the twilight zone.

Many friends had told me that East High has the most robust alumni association of any high school in the U.S., perhaps in the world. The gym was the very same gym that has held all those thousands of former students. I wondered if anyone believed the place was haunted.
It was troubling that officials moved the injured player to a chair instead of stabilizing his head and neck, keeping him warm, and talking to him. The boy was catatonic as he rose and walked to the bench. I hate to say, but I think moving him like that was a bad, bad mistake on the part of the officials. The mistake was made with the scarlet gym and all of us watching. When the paramedics came, they attached a neck brace and wheeled him out  flat on a gurney. Everyone stood and clapped. The pointless remaining six minutes of the game commenced.

I'm too old for these 15 hour days. I'm too exhausted for these "motherhood emergencies" although I'm told they never go away. Ever.

The gamed ended in a Roosevelt win (yay?) and the gym erupted into the frenzy of everyone leaving all at the same time. I always just stay put and let my cheerleader find me. Through the commotion I hear an announcement on the loud speaker. "Amanda Speirs, please report to the score desk." Did I hear that right? Did they say my daughter's name? "Amanda Speirs, please report to the score desk." I look down from the bleachers and sure enough, there's Amanda claiming her phone. Evidently, my bully texter had turned it in.

All the way home we tried to figure out how my bully texter knew the phone belonged to "Amanda Speirs." Her name wasn't anywhere. The only explanation we have is that it was someone who knows Amanda and knowingly took it, which is another layer of creepiness. Yet, I want to give a small shout out to my bully texter: thank you for changing your mind. And leave my daughter alone.

How will I ever let this girl go to college?

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

Salon Expectations

Queen Noor

Tomorrow is salon day.

I was reminded of my high expectations when I mentioned the appointment to my 12-year-old son, Aidan.

We were departing his basketball practicee whereby the coach had them playing shirts and skins. (I texted Bob to ask if it's appropriate for boys to play shirts and skins because I thought it was weird.)

"Tomorrow you will have a new mother," I said, after settling the fact that the coach gave the boys a choice whether to be shirts or skins and Aidan had chosen to be on the fully clothed team.

"Oh, what happened to the queen?" he said.

"Huh?" I was confused. Was the tween boy being a smart aleck by implying that my long needed salon appointment was making me an diva mother? Was he making fun of me? Should I cancel the appointment?

"No, remember your last hair-do was that queen," he said, sincerely. He wasn't being a smart mouth, he just had a really good memory. He was right. Last time I went to the salon I took a picture of Queen Noor's hair. Straight the shoulder, layered on top. I was confident that my hair magician could transform me into the former first lady of Jordan whose husband died in spite of long stints at the Mayo Clinic, purple Royal Jordanian Airliner parked at the Rochester, Minnesota, airport for weeks and months. Noor means "light" in Arabic.

"Oh yeah, you're right," I conceded. "I did go for for the queen. I think this time I'll go for the Diane Keaton." A whispy, whimsical bob. You may remember her as the bad parallel parker in "Annie Hall." Bob and I still laugh at the line when she parks in Manhattan and her date, Woody Allen says, That's OK I'll just walk to the curb from here. Bob and I actually say that to each other fairly often, when one or the other of us parallel parks.

"Oh, what's that hair like?" Aidan said.

"I'll show you a picture," I reassured him. I got the feeling that he was afraid that I might actually do something really outlandish.

You see, lately, I've been sporting the recession hair-do. Long, thick, stringy, often pulled into a severe bun. That's when you avoid the cuts and costs of the salon and do the best you can with your cheap shampoo and hot flat iron. If you're lucky, your natural color blends with the color of gray, until your daughter one day discovers your secret.

"MOM! Holy cow, you've got a ton of gray hair!" my Zena-like, statuesque 15-year-old daughter, Amanda, informed me the other day when she hazarded to lift my hair and look underneath. But that's another story. Back to my salon appointment for tomorrow. . .

So anyway, my Queen Noor do worked fairly well for a long time. A loooooong time. I had thought that my next plan would be the Talia Balsam, otherwise known as George Clooney's ex-wife, look. One elegant length, straight the the chin. That's before my hair turned into the recession do, and to be honest, I think it has transformed kinda Michelle Bachmanish. Or maybe it's the serial killer mother eyes. My daughter, who happens to be a varsity cheerleader, says that I tend to evoke serial killer mother in pictures. Sadly, she's right. For some reason when I'm in a picture, I try to present a happy smile and I end up looking menacing, in a middle class kind of way. I get those crazy Michelle Bachman eyes. I'm not crying in my soup about it, I'm just saying all the more reason for a salon appointment.

Diane Keaton

Goodbye recession hair. Goodbye liquid assets for this pay period. Hello high expectations.

I wish my salon medicine woman all the best. You're invited to do the same.

Bob hasn't texted me back yet regarding the shirts and skins dilemma. And just in case you're wondering, this blog post is actually a cleverly disguised yet elaborate procrastination tactic to avoid writing my cumulative annotated bibliography due soon and very soon.

Thanks much for coming over! Hair prayers welcome.

With love, T

Soccer Mom v. Mustache Dad

Sunday afternoon was Amanda's first soccer game of the season. We were the away team playing at the Vision Soccer Academy fields in Waukee, Iowa, about ten miles outside of Des Moines. Take the last gravel road on the right and park next to the 360 panorama of corn fields and the biggest blue sky since last October. Sunshine all over the place. Glorious.

Me, my lawn chair, and my book (my usual soccer game fair) approached the field and searched for a place to settle down for one and half hours of no moving, no email, no thinking, no nothing but for to sit and be. About 99 percent of the time Bob has other stuff going on so he can't go to Amanda's Sunday soccer games. But I don't mind because me and my personal time do just fine together.


"Mom, did you see me make that awesome move or were you reading your book?" asks my daughter, often, after any given game.

"You did great! I saw some of your moves." But she and I both know that I mostly read my book at any given game.

On this past Sunday, I looked for a place to settle and since I was the last parent to arrive the whole parent side of the field was filled up. I had to start the second row and it occurred to me that I had no idea which side was "my" side. I didn't know who the opponent parents were and who my people were. I looked and looked and seriously, I didn't recognize anyone. You may think that Des Moines is just another small town in Iowa, but it's big enough so that we don't know anyone. People in school, in church, in soccer, in baseball--they don't mix. They are all completely different sets of people. I'm sure it's not like this for our opposing, host team, Waukee, a true blue small town in Iowa, where everyone really does mix and match. I don't even see the one family we do know to a small degree, our car pool family.

So I picked a random spot close to the center line and settled into the peace of the afternoon and my book. Suddenly, interrupting my la la land with all the fervor of a Budweiser commercial, Mustache Dad emerged from the line of parents -- standing, pacing, and sweating about ten feet in front of me.

"YOU'RE CLUMPING! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP GIRLS! SEPARATE! LET'S GO WILDCATS!"

To be honest, I didn't know what our team name was, but I was pretty sure it wasn't Wildcats. I was sitting in the opposing parent section. And I was in a beer commercial with Mustache Dad and a selection of mom's with an usually high ratio of long red hair.

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? NICE KICK! QUIT STANDING AROUND AND LOOKING AT THE BALL! BE A LEADER!"

I considered moving, but I was already cozied in and besides, where would I go? I didn't know which way was my people. All I could do was pull out a scrap paper from my purse (a crumpled envelope with my rumpled wages for 2010, which I was supposed to give to our tax man) and start scribbling down all the things that Mustache Dad was screaming into my ears. They say that no one is safe when there's a writer around.

"DON'T BACK OFF! NICE JOB! OUTSIDE! KICK THE BALL! GET IT OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP, GIRLS!"

The one percent of the time that Bob has joined me at soccer games, he is tempted to be like Mustache Dad, feeling that urge to coach from the parent section. Coaching is a vocation that comes from deep within, apparently. I just can't take it. I tell Bob he absolutely cannot yell instructions from the side. It makes me feel bad for the real coaches. Or maybe I'm just a prude. The ref did tell Mustache Dad to cool it, but there was some kind of explanation that I didn't catch wind of to the effect that Mustache Dad continued with his high decibel drill sergeant act for the entire game.

At half time two of the red headed mothers kindly befriended me. "Hi! Are you Amber's mom?!"

When they looked at my confused face, they knew what I was going to say before I said it. I knew that at that point, they didn't care who's mom I was. I thought it best just to say a polite, "Oh, no, I'm from the, um, other side."

"Oh," they said, with dropped faces. "Well, it's nice to see you anyway!"

"Your soccer field is really pretty," I said.

"It's rustic," they said. "Thanks."

"I love the cornfields," I said.

They could not have known that I was reading Shirley Jackson's memoir, Life Among the Savages which chronicles the maddening minutia of being a mother, wife, and citizen of a small town. The more I read it, the more I am convinced it forms the basis of her chilling short story, "The Lottery." (Which by now you surely believe I'm obsessed with.) And after being haunted by that tale since sixth grade, I now wonder if the protagonist--that poor woman who got stoned to death by her neighbors--was actually her, the author, Shirley Jackson. Because sometimes you feel like everything and everyone is coming after you, even when you're just trying to get your kids dressed and breakfast on the table and your daughter to school and your son to piano lessons and yourself to work and your deadlines met and your coffee cup to not leak all over the inside of your car. Maybe she wasn't making a sweeping social statement, but instead just conveying the experience of an extremely overwhelmed and harried mother. Maybe she's just telling the story of a woman who can't get any peace and quiet.

"WOW, WHAT AN AWESOME KICK! DID YOU SEE THAT KICK? GREAT KICK! NOW GIRLS, QUIT YOUR CLUMPING! THEY'RE NOT SEEING HOW THEY'RE CLUMPING."

It got to 87 degrees on Sunday. (Back to 30 degrees on Monday.) And so Amanda and I stopped for ice cream on the way home from Waukee. I forgot the score.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog and I would like to especially thank my friend Marty for making my day by asking for The Snake Charmer's Wife. And while I'm on tributes, I'll offer one up for my husband too, who listens to me drone on and on about this and that frustration. I'm starting to think that God is just plain and simple gratitude.

With love, T

Blame It on Little House

There's noway around it. Raising kids is a loose-loose situation. The ultimate goal of a parent is to not produce spoiled rotten brats. But these days it's really hard not to offer up to the universe just that -- spoiled rotten brats. It's not their fault. It's mine. And my question is this: how do you know whether or not your precious babies are actually, in reality, spoiled rotten brats?

So when your kids fight for who will sit in the front seat of the car -- fight like they're live on the Jerry Springer show with pushing and shoving and hitting and kicking and crying -- that's when you've confirmed the fact that you've raised a pair of spoiled rotten brats. And you're a total loser mother because it's your job to teach them basic automobile entry etiquette.

Parental expectations. I'm blaming it on all those Little House on the Prairie books that my teachers used to read to me. Where the kids were happy to receive a lump of candy for Christmas, where Pa played the fiddle for entertainment, where Ma sacrificed her calico fabric so that she could stay up all night and hand sew new calico dresses for good-girl daughters, Mary and Laura. How do you live up to that?

And then there's the poor mother of three who's cleavage just isn't what it used to be. And so for the inspirational makeover story of the year, this mother was awarded an experimental high tech pair of brand new silicon breasts. Not so good for nursing babies, but great for perkiness, firmness, and overall less jiggling. Seriously, I saw this on the local news broadcast while in California. They even showed the mother being wheeled into surgery, smiling and waving from her gurney.

So what exactly does it mean to avoid raising spoiled rotten brats? I dunno. But I can tell you that I did the unthinkable today with my own kids following the Jerry Springer event in the parking lot. I hope you don't judge me harshly when I tell you what I did . . .that I postponed our Burger King dinner that had been promised all week. Huge blow to the kids.

And then there's the "I'm sorry." Not my son, but my daughter responds by profusely apologizing. I don't want her apologizing. I don't want her to grow up thinking that she needs to apologize to anyone for anything. Unless she is the former president of the United States of America and has led the world into multiple unnecessary endless expensive pointless wars. Other than that -- no apologizing. So how do you teach that? My son has no urge to apologize. I'm trying not to generalize male and female tendencies, but I'm just saying, I don't like my daughter apologizing.

We end the night with television -- the good cheerleader/bad cheerleader movie. Fortunately the bad cheerleaders win. And now it's time to bake cookies.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

Blood. Rival. Sister. Brother

Aidan's nickname for Amanda is "Adie." Only he can call her that. Last night I asked him how to spell it. ED, he said. But I am not allowed to use it which is fine because I can't pronounce it anyway.

In a flurry of brother sissy love, they decided to switch bedrooms last night. Good idea to me because as you can see in these official "before" pictures, the spaces needed a bit bit of renovation. Bob tried to micromanage the process. I tried to tell him this process could not be micromanaged, just let it be. Mother nature's motivation.

The love fest continued into the evening as it became apparent that there would be no beds fit enough for sleep. We're camping out in the family room, they announced. All cozied up on pull out sofa and recliner. Awwww.

Amanda gets gold stars in this process. She is moving mattresses, disassembling old beds, organizing shelves and closets, lugging stuff to and from the garage, and cleaning up things that I must never describe in this blog. Aidan is, well, let's just say he's not exactly multi-tasking. He's doing laundry. Which means there's about a 40 minute break in between work cycles. In other words, while Amanda is toiling away, Aidan is lounging in front of the TV and when asked why he's not helping his rationale is, I'm doing the laundry.

Having a son and daughter could easily make you want to generalize about the nature of men and women, but I shall not.

And so I am pleased to present to you these two "before" pictures with sincere hopes that one day I will be able to provide "after" pictures. These are brought to you in gratitude for Amanda's work ethic and ingenuity. Along with Aidan's consent. (But you should see him hit a golf ball - over 150 yards. Golf camp this week. For another dispatch.)

Aidan: ED, can you help me with my room?

Amanda: Sure, we'll get this all into shape.

Thanks for coming over friends. Come back soon.

With love, T

Maim, Destroy, Do Popcorn Balls

With a laid up mother, Aidan was set free to smash cities and maim skate boarders today. We are surely the epicenter of all the horrible statistics on big time screen time and dead brain cells. Lord help us. With a zingy back, I pretty much let video games rule Aidan's entire day.

ATACHEWA! I don't know if that's really Japanese but that's what Aidan says to the cats. It's the Manga game.

Listen, I may be flat down but I will not allow my son to destroy for 12 hours straight. I have standards. My solution: create popcorn balls.

I, mother of the year, enticed him to take 15 minutes out from his free video spree to make a batch of popcorn balls.

He did great! A natural candy man. Ate almost all of them as soon as he made them. Hint: substitute honey for corn syrup. It's tasty and

healthy.

Thanks for your expressions of empathy on the occasion of my out-of-whack back. Chiropractor appointment tomorrow.

Thanks to my husband for taking over my volunteer gig today; sorry to our youth director that I did not come through for today. [Presently, I am listening to nursing home

stories from Amanda who went there today to play bingo, which evidently was rather competitive. Nursing home service project seemed to make a positive impression.]

Take care and thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

P.S. Aidan would be proud to inform you that he is on day four of his present clothing selection which doubles as his pajamas. Not that we're endorsing this, instead just too distracted to monitor daily dressing. But don't worry, I did make him wash his hands before making the balls. As I said before, I do have standards.

Too Much Information

Friends, I'm telling you right now. Don't read this blog dispatch. You will regret it. I know I should not even write it except for that I have to. There are some stories that must be told. Dignity be damned.

There is an imaginary family who live in a midwestern suburb. An ordinary family. Mom, Dad, Sister, and Brother. And two kittens who are living on the edge. 

One member of the ordinary family who will not be named. . .well, Ok, let's just say that member of the family needed some immediate emergency attention by both Mom and Dad. In the bathroom. With the assistance of head lice shampoo and fine toothed combs. They say it takes up to three hours for this process. Especially if that un-mentioned family member has long and thick hair. 

Anywho, so it's a real family affair. The three of us in a small bathroom combing and picking and disguarding tiny little nasties. Search and destroy over the vanity sink.

Wait. 

Not three of us. Four. 

Because the more agresssive of the two cats has decided to do its yoga routine at the feet of the unmentionable lice victim. Languidly sprawling out on his furry little back on her feet, on the tiles in front of the heat vent. 

O no, not four. There are five of us. 

Because now the lice victim's brother has to pee and he's too scared to use the bathroom downstairs because his entire family and pets are in this bathroom. What can they do? He crawls past everyone and. . .you know. Make your own sound effect.

CRASH.

Darn. The ordinary suburban mother's wine glass just shattered all over the bathroom floor. That's right folks. This was the perfect setting for a smooth Friday night merlot. Wash the week away. Down the drain. Flush the toilet. Brush the comb. Disinfest the scalp. Sweep the floor. 

Human bonding, people. 

And if you actually did read this dispatch, I am very sorry for the truths you have just learned about this imaginary ordinary midwestern suburban family. And yet I'm so grateful that you came over because as you can imagine these people need all the friends they can muster.

Take care, T

Angst, Passion, and my Son

Hello everyone. Thanks for your kind words of sympathy on the occasion of my cancelled flight. Me and my suitcase are both home. Already I have some lovely photos of Aidan baking Bob's birthday cake which I'll post later.

For now, I just have to remind you all not to take a nine-year-old boy with you when you finally do go see the movie Twilight. Against my better judgement, Aidan came with me and Amanda. Honestly, I think he was intrigued by the vampire fight scenes he had heard about. The reality went something like this.

Angst. Passion. Forbidden love. The bad vampires are about to eat the man in the boat. . .

Aidan: Mom, I need some popcorn. Can we go get some popcorn? Please? I want popcorn. (We exit the theater, get popcorn, return.)

Angst. Passion. Forbidden love. Edward and Bella leaping the spectacular tree tops of the Olympic Penninsula. . .

Aidan: Mom, I have to go to the bathroom. (This I don't question; immediately we exit the theater, go, return.)

Angst. Passion. Forbidden love. Edward must save Bella's life from the evil James. . .

Aidan: Mom, my tooth just fell out. (What?! We exit the theater. Sure enough, a tooth in hand and blood all over the face. Go back to bathroom to clean up. Return.)

Angst. Passion. Forbidden love. Bella and Edward will never be apart again. . .

During times when we were actually sitting in our seats, if Aidan wasn't bored then he was utterly scared and sat with his eyes closed and his ears plugged, balancing the bag-o-popcorn on his lap. We watch a large portion of the movie from the back of the theater. Me on the inside of the door. He on the outside of the door.

Evidently coming up at school is a field trip to a live performance of "The Nutcracker." Aidan says to me: Mom, you gotta get me out of this. Please. Give Aidan a remote control and a recliner and he's good to go.

Anyway, I still enjoyed the movie.

Cheers, T

photo: my little romantic riding in the back seat

The Doctor is In

Mom, you can't say that. It's way too sarcastic.

That's what Amanda said to me after I described how I planned to approach an issue. Bob agreed.
What people may not know about me is that at heart I drip with sarcasm. (My mom probably knows that.) I let it go for many years until somehow, one day, I just decided it wasn't a good thing. And I quit. But it comes out sometimes when I least expect it.

Anyway, both Bob and I were amazed at Amanda's capacity to diagnose sarcasm so immediately. What can I say, our daughter has a high social IQ. She's brilliant. Amazing. Wonderful. Spectacular. All of the above.

So this picture is just over a year old but Amanda has grown about 10 years since then. Sigh. Today she came with me as I met with two other Amanda's who are students at Grand View College. The two other Amanda's and a Kayla had assembled Lutheran World Relief sewing kits, school kits, and layettes as part of their required service learning project for their religion class. (Thank you very much Dr. Jones!) So once again it was my priviledge to thank them and to let them know how important their contribution is. I mean, I get paid to do this! Amanda, Amanda, and Kayla are way bigger than sarcasm.

Me and my Amanda are now plotting for when I can see High School Musical III with my own eyes. We will bribe Aidan with popcorn. Pastor Dad is off the hook. And of course we are planning for November 21 at 12:01 a.m. (actually November 22) for when the movie "Twilight" opens in theaters. Lord give me strength to stay up that late with a van load of tweens.

Goodnight, friends. Thanks for coming over.

With love, T

Nationwide Homecoming

I'm home after a 5 day trip.

Mom, you're always so nice immediately upon return. According to Amanda.

I thought I was nice all the time but whatever.

So anyway the discussion around the house these days regards whether a pastor's daughter really should be reading about vampires. (Amanda's latest craze is the Twilight series.)

Pastor Dad to Amanda: You're in confirmation and yet you read about vampires. It isn't right.

Aidan to Pastor Dad: I'm in Sunday school and I watch Sponge Bob.

Good point. Anyway, we are now planning our family vacation to visit the town in which the blood thirsty teenagers of Twilight live in eternity. It will be a glorious cross country road trip. Nationwide tourism.

Speaking of Nationwide and potential brainwashing that truly *is* acceptable. . .

So today upon my homecoming Aidan very kindly offered a package of licorice to me, knowing how much I like licorice. I like red strawberry licorice. This licorice is yellow, green, and orange. I ask him where he got it.

Nationwide. Aidan responds casually, as if Nationwide is his little brother with whom he shares a bunk bed.

Bob, Amanda, and I look at eachother knowingly. Nationwide and Aidan. They just go together. "Nationwide is on your side."

You see, Aidan's school is located downtown in an office building and so every year, it seems, the tradition is to field-trip through the skyway to the Nationwide Insurance Company -- if you didn't already know, Des Moines is the insurance capital of the world. Nationwide then proceeds to give out big bags of candy and explain to the elementary students how they cover tree damage and other storm catastrophes. According to Aidan, anyway.

So I know my kids are in good hands when I am away. My daughter is in love with vampires. My son can list the benefits of Nationwide Insurance. My husband preaches on the Lutheran Reformation, a belief that we cannot earn our way to heaven and yet our job is to love our neighbor. (grace + vocation = Lutheran)

Me, I'm just glad to be home and yet my head is all full of dreams and ideas. Presently, I am drinking wine from Wisconsin and it is spectacular. I'm so glad you came over to the Charmer blog. Peace and joy to you.

With love, T

Photos: Des Moines skyline, Des Moines skyline as projected off side of public library