It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

Yesterday afternoon my girls and I saw a commercial that sent all three of us into gales of laughter--albeit for very different reasons. The commercial I refer to is a real side-splitter, one of those rare "bids for attention" that actually succeeds in getting the viewer to watch the entire thing. It is a commercial for Staples. In it, a giddy father swoops along happily in a Staples store, two solemn-faced youngsters trailing him in silence. He laughingly waves pens and note pads and staplers in the faces of his kids before carelessly tossing the supplies into his cart. Then he does a little jig up the isle, positively glowing with joy. The cheerless children mope along, while the music in the background warbles, "It's the most wonderful tiiimmmmeeee of the year!"

Yes, school begins again. For us, it starts in less than two weeks--12 days to be exact. And while there is a part of me that is going to be doing a little celebrating of my own (altho I doubt I'll be dancing through the aisles at Staples like the dad in the commercial), I know that I am going to miss the girls desperately. We've gotten into a self-sufficient routine that is as comfortable as it is predictable. And as much as I like to fly by the seat of my pants (as evidenced by my lack of focus, commitment, or any other form of adult-esque maturity) I like that, during the summer, I know just what my day with my girls is going to be like.

This year, I find, I'm having a bit harder time with the idea that they will soon be headed back to the hallowed halls of learning. They're getting older--going into 5th and 3rd--and they just don't need me as much. Their growing independence comes out in little but undeniable ways--the other day before heading off to the beach, I started putting sunscreen on my oldest daughter. She said, "Mom, I can do it" and took the bottle right out of my hands. I was a little stung--after all, no one can put on sunscreen like a mom, right? I woefully predicted she'd miss a spot and end up with a burn, but she did a good job--the aloe vera gel stayed in the medicine cabinet that night. My youngest daughter has already grown impatient with my pursuit of her for hugs and kisses. She's a cuddler--but on her terms. 

But of course (and perhaps this is part of the reason I'm not looking forward to the advent of school in a week and a half) when it comes to homework, they are definitely not independent. Homework is a grueling two-hour-a-day test of my ability to actually help them understand what they're supposed to be doing. The show "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?" would laugh me out of the room--throughout Sam's fourth grade year, I proved more than once than I'm not even as smart as a 4th grader. 

My favorite (ahem) example of this is when I tried to help Sam with some pre-pre-algebra sort of stuff. I vaguely remembered the general principal from 6th or 7th grade 30 years before. I gamely tried to demonstrate how to beat an algebraic equation into submission using just my brain. I'll never forget that day--Sam and I were in the waiting area at my other daughter's gymnastics class, sitting at a table reserved for siblings with homework. There were four or five other kids there in various stages of homework frustration. And try as I might, I just couldn't help Sam with her math. At last in desperation, she asked a couple other moms who were hanging around for help with her homework (yes, having your daughter give up on you helping her with math is a singularly humiliating feeling). The other moms gave it their best shot, too--but in the end, I decided my answers had to be the right ones, and instructed Sam to write them down.

The next day when she arrived home from school, I could tell by her face she was struggling between tears and laughter. I suspected I knew why...and sure 'nuff, she pulled out her graded homework from the day before. Her answers --ahem, my answers--were wrong. Every single one. I found myself in the unique position of trying to explain to my kid why I didn't know how to do fourth grade math. I couldn't explain, so I directed her that next time she needed to know what x equalled, she could go ahead and ask her dad!

So now with school right around the corner, the kids are excited to see their friends again, worried about increasingly difficult homework, and hoping they get nice teachers. I am excited for them, and glad for myself that I'll be able to get back into a routine of my own. I have several article proposals out there that I'm waiting to hear back on (and one idea is, in my never-to-be-humble opinion, so good that I've already started my research--after all, how could the magazine possibly turn me down??) plus the cookbook Stargrazers that I'm co-authoring. I've got plenty to keep me busy. I'm also trying desperately to finish my writing website so when potential clients ask me if I have a website, I can answer them in the affirmative rather than hem and haw and generally look like a behind-the-times ass. And I just finished writing my one year plan for moving from the occasional freelance work to full-time freelance writer. So I definitely won't be bored when they trundle off to school.

But once the elation of seeing them off for another year wears off, and the strains of "It's the most wonderful tiiimmmmeeee of the year" fade away, I'll miss them. And our own special summer routine. 

The Houseplants Are Taking Over My Life....

I love flowers. A walk through a lovely garden lifts my spirits in a way only matched by a spontaneous hug from one of my girls. A vase of flowers on my battered kitchen table--whether it's a $1.99 handful of daffodils from Trader Joe's stuck in a water pitcher or a $100 bouquet dripping with roses, iris and gerberas--never fails to bring a smile to my face. Trees are a favorite, too--I actually cried when our contractor had to dig up three backyard trees to install our pool (leading my dear friend Larissa--www.larissamarantz.blogspot.com--to give me a touching book entitled "Our Tree Named Steve" which actually made me cry even more). 

But perhaps even more than flowers and trees, I have a special connection to houseplants.

I know, I know. The eye rolling starts here--go ahead. It won't make me feel bad. There are times I roll my eyes at myself. 

My home is stuffed with houseplants. With the except of the bathrooms, there is at least one, and more likely two, plants in every room of the house--and it's a fairly large house. The patio, too, is smothered by them. Dieffenbachia, being difficult to kill, (I may love plants, but a more than a few have fallen victim to my over-watering, overfeeding, and, well, over-tending) prevail throughout, but in the kitchen you'll find African violets (I'm especially proud of that one--I got it for a Mother's Day gift 8 years ago and it's still happy and blooming) and an orchid given to me four years ago for my birthday. Going from room to room, you'll also encounter spider plants, Mother-In-Law Tongue (also known as "Snake Plant"--wonder if that was intentional--tee hee), Peace Lily, Philodendrons, Bromeliads, and a 5 foot tall something-or-other (I've never been able to figure it out) that I've had with me for 13 years--it initially started as a cut from a neighbor's plant in a cup of water (she didn't know what it was, either) and it now takes over an entire corner of my bedroom--and shows no signs of slowing! In five years time, I may have to cut a hole in my roof to accommodate it's ambitious growth.

Houseplants are, to me, a bit like pets. They are totally, completely dependent on me. If I don't water them, they die. If I don't feed them, they grow listless and tired. If I don't care for them, their spirit fades. If I miss a Friday morning watering session, I'm wracked with guilt and can't sleep until every plant is watered. Every plant--including the ones on the patio outside. Two weekend ago I was jolted out of a warm, drifting-off-to-sleep doze when I suddenly remembered I'd forgotten to water the plants. I tossed and turned, telling myself they would survive until morning, but at last I got out of bed (it was nearly 1:00am--the cat, cradled in the crook of my bended legs, meowed in protest) and watered every single plant. Feeling vaguely stupid and more than a little worried about this apparent tendency toward OCD, I went from room to room with my watering can. Visions of myself as an old and weird lady (excessive plants, excessive housecats, weird smells) flashed before my eyes. 

This morning, in a sudden burst of industriousness, I decided to clean the leaves of all my houseplants. A spritzer bottle, a soft cloth...how long could it take to wipe away six months of accumulated dust from the leaves of my botanical babies? After half an hour of spritzing and wiping, I was distressed to realize I hadn't even made a dent in the number of plants to clean. So I decided to do something I've never done before, just to get a handle on the size of my leaf-wiping job. I decided to count my houseplants. And patio plants, natch. 

27 houseplants. 25 patio plants. 4 at my front door. 2 on the balcony. That's...58 potted plants...ooooohh, wow.

I may have officially crossed the line.

So what to do? Well, while the fact that I care for 58 potted plants every day gave me a bit of a turn (if I was the cat-lady, someone would turn me in to animal control), I have no plans to get rid of a single one. They make me happy. And in this world, if you find something that makes you happy, go with it. 

Now, that being said, if there ever comes a time when navigating my way through my house due to excessive greenery becomes a challenge, I officially give you permission to relieve me of a few of them. 

As long as you promise to find them a good home. 

Interested in houseplants? Here's a terrific website: www.houseplants-care.blogspot.com

A reunion from the didn't-go-to-that-school perspective

Wow! I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted a blog. I just returned home from a week-long trip to Omaha. I brought my computer, intending to use the downtime to write a blog post or two and check my FaceBook (can't live without my FaceBook!) but alas, my power cord lay on my bed at home where I'd left it in my frantic pack-myself-pack-the-kids rush. So I only had an operable computer for a couple hours (that Mac promise--5 hour battery life--is a buncha bunk!). Long enough to moan on FaceBook how much I already missed my friends, check my fave online news sources and '*plink!* there went the battery. I was computer-less for five days. 

So why, oh why, were we in Omaha? My mid-western born & bred hubby had his 30th high school reunion last weekend. His parents are still there, same house he grew up in, so we decided to extend the reunion weekend into a rare summer Omaha trip. Typically we go in the winter for one holiday or another, and he usually makes it back in the fall for one Cornhusker college football game (you can take the boy out of Nebraska, but ya can't take the Cornhusker out of the boy...eeeooowwww, that kinda sounds icky...but I digress). There's actually plenty to do in Omaha. Great museum, beautiful public garden, fun down town "old market" area...and unlike sunny Cali, the state has barely been touched by the recession and there is construction around every corner. Omaha's worth a visit if you're every traveling cross country. But again! I digress! I am supposed to be writing about what it was like to go to his reunion from the don't-know-a-soul spouse perspective. 

So his reunion was essentially broken into two main outings--the casual Friday night mixer and the more formal reception at the local country club (yes, they do have country clubs there--in my naivete and smugness when I first ventured to Omaha 11 years ago, I assumed all they had was corn stalks). Let me preface by saying I really didn't want to go to either--I am a firm believer that there is absolutely no need for spouses to attend a reunion. I mean, really, how can you possibly flirt with your former high school love (and possibly the possessor of your virginity) when your wife or hubby is standing right at your side? Or how can the ol' gang reminiscence about the hilarious things that happened at band camp when every inside joke needs to be explained to the spouse with the "I can't believe you did that" expression on their face. And I had already gone to one reunion with Dave, his 20th, and spent the evening chatting with other neglected spouses while Dave chatted up his exceedingly pretty and slim (and newly divorced) former high school girlfriend at the bar. 

But eventually, he won me over by promising that no way, no how, was he gonna leave me. Even with his assurances, I didn't really make up my mind to go until the week before. My thought was I'd hang at his parents' house with our daughters, watch a movie, read, whatever, while he and the guys from the football team joked about the time they almost got arrested for a dine-and-dash escapade. But I did end up agreeing to go, mostly because it seemed so darn important to him. 

Ha! It was important until we got to the Friday night mixer. Overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people at the restaurant/bar (his graduating class was 700--senior alone!!) and probably half that number was at the mixer, Dave seemed to forget I was there. Immediately he was swooped upon by a tall, blue-eyed former track teammate who was probably quite the hottie in his day and was still not bad to look at, despite a hairline that was rapidly making its escape to the back of his head. I stood there, the dutiful, smiling spouse, trying to join the conversation with what I hoped were witty sallies and well-placed questions. Then a few other guys joined them, and before I knew it, I was looking up at the broad back of someone who had unquestionably been a football player. 

At last Dave shouted over to me that he would get us a couple drinks at the bar, and went off with his friends. Approximately half an hour later, neither my drink or my husband were within my reach. I finally moseyed up to the bar and found the one vacant stood. I figured I could order my own darn drink. I chatted for a while with the bartender (and exceedingly good looking mid-western boy of about 22--a nice distraction) then decided to make the most of the situation. I spotted Dave in a far corner with his buddies, laughing uproariously, spilling their drinks, and clapping each other on the back. I decided not to join them, lest beer be split on the new dress I'd gotten for the occasion. I wandered around for a while, smiling pleasantly at people who couldn't figure out who the heck I was, sipping my wine, and casting about for others who, like me, were on their own. 

An hour later, a group of us (the Spouse Club, we called ourselves) had gathered at a back table; me, three other wives and two husbands, and had ourselves a grand old time. It was really fun, all things considered. Nebraskans (all those in this group with the exception of myself and one husband who was from Kansas City, were from Nebraska) are warm and genuinely nice people. Everyone seemed to take their abandonment with good cheer--with the exception of one woman who seemed to get more and more P.O.'d every time she glanced at her balding, somewhat portly husband across the room. He was talking animatedly to a dark-haired, middle-aged beauty who seemed overly interested (even to me) in whatever he was saying. At last that member of the Spouse Club was annoyed enough to go home, figuring her hubby could find a ride. Yikes...

See? That is why you don't bring spouses to reunions!

At 12:30, I was ready to go home, too, but Dave was still having the time of his life so I decided to call a cab and head back to the in-laws on my own. When I found him and said goodnight, he looked guilty and stricken at the same time. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late!" he said by way of excuse. 

On the way out--reason two you don't bring spouses to reunions--a pretty brunette who looked nowhere near old enough to have graduated in 1979, threw her arms around my husband and said, "I had such a crush on you in high school! I just loved you!" And when they finally pulled apart, I introduced myself with a big (if somewhat forced) smile on my face.

I'm not against a little flirting with a former flame--in fact, I think the ego boost is something we all need from time to time--but watching it happen was a little, ahem, uncomfortable. 

But apparently Dave was the hit of the night, because he told me in the car on the way home that two other women had confessed similar adolescent crushes on him. And to be fair, he still looks amazing. He's super fit, hasn't lost much--if any-- hair, and is virtually wrinkle-free (the turkey!). He was one of the best looking guys at there. So I can see why a couple of women felt compelled to tell him that they'd put his picture under their pillow when they were seventeen. 

The formal reunion was the next night, and upon bended knee Dave promised that we would stay shoulder-to-hip with me the whole time. Which he did--right up until another long-lost friend spirited him away to reminisce. After 20 or so minutes feeling rather like a horse's ass, someone else, not my hubby, brought me a glass of wine, told me I was a good sport, and went off to talk to someone else. Eventually I found two members of the Spouse Club from the night before (the crowd at the reunion was nearly as large as the one at the mixer) and talked with them while Dave and his friends caught up. 

But it was all to the good. When Dave rejoined me at dinner, and later for dancing, he was smiling as broadly as I'd ever seen. He really had a wonderful time. Promises were made all around to keep in touch, and several of his friends asked him if he was on FaceBook yet. So after six months of telling me I needed to get a life every time I checked my friends' status updates, he is opening his own FaceBook account--at the very least to see some of the pictures everyone took. 

And as for me, I doubt I will be attending his 40th with him. I stick by my conviction that reunions are for the ones invited, not the wife or husband they might feel compelled to bring along. That being said, if I hadn't gone, I would not have met the terrific spouses that shared that back table with me. I exchanged emails with a few, and perhaps we will become lifelong friends. So who knows? Maybe I will attend that 40th reunion with him after all--if only to reunite with the friends I made this weekend. 

One persona at a time, please

I turned 40 a few months ago.

Yeah, yeah, I know; I've mentioned this at least 160 times in the last few blog posts. Yesterday, as I mindlessly peeled pistachios for a dessert dish (and popping every third one into my mouth) I finally realized why turning 40 has turned into something of a personal obsession. It's because it's time for me to let go of the role I've played the last 10 years or so and move on to the next phase of my life. And that scares me, so instead of moving forward, I've found something else to expend my energy on and focus on--that I'm 40, and aging is no longer a vague concept but an actual reality. 

My life has sort of been divided into decades, each with its own "persona." During my 20s I was the young professional, working in PR and racing to met deadlines; dating, partying, essentially spending my life in the typical self-centered mode of your average 20-something. I did have other goals for myself, loftier (in my youthful opinion, at least) goals that had to do with writing the "great American novel" (uh-huh) but somehow those goals got shunted to the back of the line in favor of having dinner with clients and preparing presentations.  

So I met my hubby when I was nearing 28, married him at 29, and popped out a baby at 30. The second one came at 32, and I spend the remainder of that decade doing the mom/wife persona--whatever I thought that should be (my wife/mother thing veered wildly at times from Dr. Laura to Roger C. Shank.) My career took a back seat to kids, and the goals I'd had in my 20s that had taken a back seat to my career fell even further into the abyss of "someday I'll get to it". I spent hour upon countless hour shuttling my kids from play-dates to dance to gymnastics to piano lessons to the park and 'round again. When they got into school I threw myself into volunteering life as if my life (or theirs) depended on it. 

If that weren't enough, in my quasi-guilt that I wasn't contributing by holding a full-time job, I volunteered for several local non-profits from the local Library Foundation to children's charities to community groups. At times I was busier planning fund-raisers than I would have been had I actually worked outside the home. 

But I've realized over the last few months that my kids don't need me as much, either. They're content to spend the day--all day--with very limited contact with me. Plus, my wild overindulgence in charity work quickly burned me out--not to mention irritated my husband to no end ("Darnit, Kim! If you're gonna work this hard, you might as well get a job and get paid for it!"). So where I used to be the center of my children's rather limited universe, their universe has now expanded considerably and I find myself on the periphery. And that's fine--it's absolutely how it should be, in fact--I'd be worried if it wasn't. But I find myself with time on my hands that I never had before--and trying to figure out what to do with it.

Yes, I am freelance writing. The summer season is slow, though. And so I have time--at last--to mull over next steps. It's like I've suddenly awakened from a dream where I am now edging toward middle age--the years have gone by astonishingly fast. 

But what do I want my 40s to be? I'm at the proverbial "crossroads" (in other words, a mid-life crisis). According to silvercentury.org, on average the American woman lives to be 81 years old. So at 40, I am nearly halfway done with my life. Wow. So the question becomes, with half my life now behind me, what do I want the next half to be? The kids obviously don't need me as much, I've limited my volunteer hours--both at school and in the community--to sane levels, and I've got one freelance writing project in the hopper right now. 

So while I'm now in the process of developing the "persona" of my 40s, at least I now recognize why I've been so obsessed with turning 40. That's something. 

I have a vaguely formed idea of what my 40s should be. I'm working on it. It has to do with finally making the time to write the book that's been in the back of my mind for the last 20+ years. Plus, I'd like to focus more of my freelancing on writing magazine and Internet articles, rather than just corporate and business stuff like fact sheets and news releases. Don't get me wrong; I truly enjoy the corporate stuff. There's no reason why both can't be part of the career I fashion for myself. Also, I'm currently writing a cook book with a friend (www.stargrazers.com) and that in and of itself will play a large part in shaping the direction I go as I head further into my 5th decade. (yikes--did I really write that?? But it is--the beginning of my--gulp!--5th decade!)

So now that I've figured out why I've been so mopey about being 40, I can use that energy to focus on a new direction--and a new "persona." Hmmmm.....published cook book author has a nice ring to it....

Grow old gracefully? Nah....

Ahhhh, 40. I remember my mom turning 40. I was 18 at the time, and remember thinking that she looked pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. So when I turned 40 a few months ago, the memory of that smug evaluation of my mother hit me like a baseball bat--a baseball bat made of chagrin. Here I was, turning 40, and...looking pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. 

And of course, I'm obligated to say that 40 isn't "old." I'm compelled by self-preservation to drop such forced-perky lines as "40 is the new 30!" and "You're only as old as you feel." Well, I'll tell you--when I look at myself in the mirror when I wake up in the morning, I know 30 never looked like this...not even after a long night in Vegas. Yeah, 40 is the new 30 if 30 has bags under its eyes, boobs you can hide an Ipod under, and the beginning of neck waddles. Alright, maybe I'm not that bad in the morning...but you can hide an Ipod under my boob (I'm very entertaining at cocktail parties).

But the "old as you feel" line is pretty true--most of the time I really do feel like I did in my  20s. Sometimes it's a real shock when I look closely in the mirror. The mental image I have of myself is what I looked like at about 24 (sans the rock-hard, 7-day-a-week-at-the-gym-body, of course). I exercise 3 or 4 days a week, I make an effort to eat "right" (whatever that is, depending on which magazine you're reading), and I take my vitamins and my Move Free Advanced (glucosamine for the not-yet-feelin'-it-in-the-knees crowd). 

My mom, now 62, interestingly enough says the same thing--that she feels like she's 23. And then she looks in the mirror and says, "Who the hell is that??" And I have to laugh, rather rueflly I admit, because I know that someday I'll be saying the same thing. 

So! My dilemma--which really, shouldn't be a dilemma. I am thinking it's time for Botox. Yup. In fact, it may be past time. Yesterday at the beach my 10-year-old looked deeply in my eyes. I anticipated a compliment--you have pretty eyes, mommy! Something along those lines. So I smiled at her, waiting, and she said, very seriously, "Mom, you have alot of wrinkles around your eyes."

"Hey, it's sunny! I'm squinting!" I protested. 

"No," she replied, "They're always there."

Huh. 

The reason I've been hesitating is because I wonder if my motivation to "do the Botox" is merely vanity. Why can't I just grow old gracefully? Is there really anything wrong with wrinkles? If I start Botox, am I really eager to keep doing it, ad infinitum? Am I trying to look 20 again? Do I even want to be 20 again? And, the question that I've mused over most of all: what message will I give my two daughters if I do get Botox?

My husband, a corn-fed mid-westerner who looks a full decade younger than his 48 years, is neutral on the subject. (I suspect he'd rather I get a boob job--he's pretty tired of my hide-the-Ipod trick). My friends are terrific supporters--and too my surprise, when I bring up the subject many of them have told me they've taken the Botox plunge already. Who knew? I always thought they were just blessed (darn them!) with really great skin. 

So the conclusion I finally came to is...I'm gonna do it. And no, I don't want to look 20 again (an awful year anyway, between bad roommates, big breakups and crappy jobs). I just want to look as good as I possibly can for my age--40. After all, that's why I exercise regularly. That's why I avoid fast food and (usually) pass on dessert. And why the Estee Lauder anti-wrinkle line takes up the entire top shelf of my bathroom cabinet. 

That's not to say there isn't alot to be said for letting nature take its course--you should see my mom. She's a knock out in her 60s, and has never been near a needle. But she's told me that had a solution to her crows-feet been around when they first began to make an appearance on her face, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. In fact, she thinks I'm silly for even thinking about it at all. I just need to get my saggin' ass to the doctor!

Next dilemma so figure out...should I get a tattoo??

Whadda ya mean ya can think fer yerself?

As the mom of a just-turned-10 year old daughter, I recently had a revelation that knocked me back two steps. My girl is her own person.

No duh, mom.

Yes, I know. It's an obvious observation. Why it took me until she was 10 to realize this indisputable fact I don't know. Well, that's not exactly true. Until now, I've always looked at my girl as an extension of myself. What I value, she values. What motivates me, motivates her. My interests are her interests. And for the first 9 years or so of her life, these assumptions of mine seemed pretty solid. 

Oh, sure. She is--and always has been--very different from me. Where I'm impulsive, she's measured. Where I'm eager to befriend, she's cautious. Where I see shades of grey, she's a purist. Yet these differences didn't, in my view, mean we were different. She was just another part of me. 

That's why it often comes as a genuine surprise--at least it has for me--when we, as parents, realize that the little ones we've raised have their own ideas on what is important in their lives. 

So that's where I am now. Though she's little still, I can see the person she's going to be coming through more and more with each passing day. And she isn't going to be a carbon-copy of me. One marked difference between us is the issue or right and wrong. She's  a real "law and order" kinda kid--minor infractions like illegal u-turns or talking to a man in the grocery store (it doesn't matter that the man in question is the produce guy--in her view, I'm married, thus men should be off my radar, period) send her into lecture mode. It's actually quite entertaining--I give her a kiss and promise to do better, all while trying to hide my smile. And the kid absolutely can't lie. She gets red-faced and sweaty, she stammers, and finally collapses into guilty-relieved giggles. I, on the other hand, have perfected the art of "truth-massaging," especially when it comes to hiding recent purchases from my husband! ("This old thing? I've had it for months!")

And she's becoming someone I deeply admire, too. One of my biggest (and I do mean this--it has caused me huge problems in terms of missed opportunities and failed forward progress) shortcomings is my inability to concentrate. That's probably why I like writing this blog--I can pound out an essay in an hour, post it, and move on to the next thing. And for me, there is always a "next thing," even if it is nothing. 

My daughter, in sharp contrast, is one of the most determined people you will ever meet. It's not just in school (where she tackles each assignment like it is a personal challenge that will determine the outcome of her life) but in sports as well. A couple months ago, she joined a youth running club that has produced some of the nation's top runners in the youth division. The first day of practice was grueling. She ran a total of four miles that day, not including the various drills.  I watched her apprehensively from the stands as she bolted around the track again and again and again. The last few times around she was crying with effort, and the coach took her aside and asked her if she wanted to take a break. 

I was half-way out of the stands, ready to take my little girl home and put her in a warm, relaxing bath and write off the whole experience (it was rather traumatizing for me to watch my then 9-year-old go through such obvious discomfort). But my girl didn't want the break. She got back on the track and took off again. After practice, she looked up at me, her face dirty, tear-stained and pink, and said, "Can I come back tomorrow?"

Which leads me (finally, I'm sure you're thinking) to my revelation that, yes, the tiny bundle of baby I still see when I look at my daughter really has grown into a person of her own. There is a good chance that this fall my daughter will be the fourth on a youth cross country team that has gone on to national competition the last several years. The Nationals are in Reno in December. So as we sat around the dinner table, excitedly dreaming aloud about the possibility that my daughter may go to Nationals this winter, and I asked her who she's like to go with her, since our budget will allow only one parent.

I am not sure why I asked her that. Maybe I wanted to give her the choice. Or maybe I just wanted an ego-boost--after all, I'm her mommy. But after a brief moment of consideration, she announced that she would want her dad to go. 

"If I can't have you both, I want him," she said in a conciliatory tone. "After all, he knows more about running than you do."

True 'nuff. My husband is a lifelong runner, and went to state twice as a high schooler, back in '78 and '79. My daughter's practical--and competitive--nature won out over any inclination she had to pick mommy so mommy's feelings wouldn't be hurt. And that's a good thing. I would never want her to live her life based on whether or not she thought the decisions she made would hurt mommy's feelings. That's no way to live a life. And no good parent would want their child to make their decisions that way. 

I'll admit, her words did sting. But it was a very small sting. I smiled at her and agreed wholeheartedly. He'd be the right choice to prep her for a big race--he's big on expectations, careful with praise, and very clear-headed. And that suits the kind of person she is becoming. Level-headed, determined and very, very focused. I, on the other hand, with my emotions flapping about for everyone to see, would be a better cheerleader and nurse than coach. 

I can only speculate at this point what kind of person my daughter will eventually be. But I know that observing her transformation through the loving eyes of a mother will be both poignant and fulfilling. She is her own person, and one I couldn't be more proud of. 

Too Close to Home

Two things happened over the weekend.

One is completely superficial. I had my hair colored on Thursday (gotta hide those crazy grays--they pop out of my head like live wires!!). Over the weekend I went swimming in our pool with my two little girls. Despite using this "amazing" spray on protectant which claims to be the enemy of all things salt, sun and water related (in other words, it promised my hair would be fine during swimming), my hair, upon later inspection, has subtly changed color. There's definitely an orang-y hue to my otherwise brown tresses (ahem--dyed brown tresses). So I need to call up my hair stylist and beg for help. And that means dipping into my cash reserves (if you read my post a couple back where I described my new "cash only" lifestyle). And that means I'll have to work my budget to accommodate an unexpected visit back to my hair dresser.

Okay, so how sorry do you feel for me now...?? 

The other thing that happened is that I got a life lesson that walloped the hell out of me.

So...you know how life has a way of giving you lessons in humility  when you least expect them? Well, in the midst of my annoyance about my unexpected Oompa Loompa hair, I got one of those lessons. 

There has been this beautiful house for sale around the corner from my house for about 18 months. It is simply a lovely home--spanish/Mediterranean style home with  professional landscaping and a 180 view of orange county. Nestled into the side of a hill, the house is three stories and tiered with decks that follow the lay of the slope. Over the course of the last 18 months there were several open houses, each with the accompanying flier--the pictures on the flier showed an interior that matched the exterior for loveliness. I'd never met--never even seen--the people who lived there. But I felt like I knew their house. 

Since the house was first put on the market in early 2008 (or perhaps late 2007) the price has dropped from 2.1 million to 1.9 to 1.5 to 1.2...and down, down, down. There was even a period of time when a big yellow sign outside the house proclaimed "Price will drop $50K a week until its sold!!" Still no sale. I thought I knew why--gorgeous house, with an amazing view...but for $2 million I'd probably buy a home in a gated community, maybe someplace a little more exclusive. Oh, don't get me wrong--the neighborhood is great. But only that house and four others on the same street were valued that high (except, of course, during the height of the now-defunct real estate market, when our regular two-story house was valued at the ridiculously high price of $950K.)

Every day as I walked the girls to school, we walked right past the house, always pausing to admire it and speculate about who might eventually buy it. Then, from time to time, I saw a car on the street next to it with lettering on the windows that read : "We Buy Houses." My heart ached a little every time I saw that car. "We Buy Houses." Obviously, the family in the house couldn't afford to wait for a buyer any longer. So this was how it ended for them...

After that, the familiar "For Sale" sign came down. The house was quiet for a long time. Then, this weekend, I was driving home. Like always, I passed the house. There was a hand-lettered sign that read "High Quality Furniture for Sale." Impulsively, I pulled over and stopped, letting curiosity get the better of me. I felt a little guilty as the gentleman of the house (a man not much older than me, as it turned out--maybe 45 or 47) approached me with such a friendly smile that I wondered if it was his house or if an auctioneer was helping them liquidate. 

I looked around, taking in the house. It was as gorgeous inside as the pictures on the open house fliers showed. I stood on one of the tiered balconies and took in the amazing view. I went from room to room, admiring the carefully decorated areas. 

Everything was just right--exactly how I would have liked to do had I the money or decorating savvy. The furniture was all super high-end--Henredon and Charles Fine Furniture and Treasures. On my budget, Pottery Barn is high end. I couldn't afford anything in the house (in the back of my mind I thought that I would finally get a new kitchen table if they had one that I liked and had a price tag less than $1000 bucks. But alas, while I liked the kitchen table, even at fire sale prices it was 4x the amount I could afford--and too fancy for the likes of me, anyway. Inlaid mahogany, gracefully curved  wrought iron legs, mother of pearl touches. And that was their kitchen table! Like I said, I'm a Pottery Barn kinda girl. 

Anyway I got to talking with the nice man who'd greeted me when I came in. Turned out it was his home. Perhaps he'd had a long day and was just waiting for a friendly face. Or maybe he was the kind of guy who shared personal information at a whim. Whatever it was; as we talked, he revealed to me that they had to sell the house and furniture--completely liquidate--at whatever price they could get because his wife had been very ill and had several surgeries. Their insurance didn't cover it. He didn't mention what the illness was and I didn't ask--all I needed to know was that whatever it was, it devastated them. Perhaps seeing my look of sympathy he said, no, no, it was okay--the only thing that mattered was that his wife was alive. They were going to start over.

You have no idea how much I wished I could buy that kitchen table now, no matter that it was way out of my budget and way too fancy for my little house. I shook his hand, wished him well, and left. 

The rest of the weekend I couldn't stop thinking about this family and their situation. It made my new orange 'do not seem like such a big deal. When I told my husband about it, I actually cried. I was incredibly touched by the man's words--the only thing that mattered was that his wife was alive. It made my heart ache for them to think that all they've built up, saved for, worked hard to achieve was being taken from them because of an illness. How would they start over in their mid-40s? I couldn't imagine how I would be in that situation. 

And then, I happened to read that over 60% of bankruptcies in the US are not--as so many like to sanctimoniously declare--due to "irresponsibility" and "lack of self-discipline."(see: http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/06/090604095123.htm or http://www.consumeraffairs.com/news04/2009/06/health_bankrupt.html) Over 60% are due to medical costs. People are losing their homes daily because they cannot pay their medical bills--and that is with insurance! It is ridiculous! People shouldn't have to choose between the roof over their heads and their health. 

I won't spend a ton of time on the politics of the dismal state of US health care. But I will say I think it's terrible that we are the only first-world country in the world that does not provide its citizens with health care. (see this interesting article on our politicians' great health care--the modern equivalent of Nero fiddling while Rome burns: http://public-healthcare-issues.suite101.com/article.cfm/health_care_for_the_us_congress) It's so short-sighted not to care for our citizens--we end up paying twice as much as other countries that do provide health care for substandard care in many cases. But just as bad is the "I got mine" attitude so many people seem to have. That seems to be changing--I truly hope it is. We will certainly see. 

For months I've been reading similar stories of people losing their homes because of a catastrophic illness. I venture to say that it truly could happen to anyone. In 2004 I spent a week in the hospital and nearly died (a story for another time). Our bill was over $35,000. One week!! My husband's insurance paid 80%, but we were still left with  thousands of dollars of bills. We managed it, but suppose my illness had required a month in the hospital? Two months? A year? We certainly would have lost our home had we been in that situation. Like this family. 

And so life has a way of giving us the lessons we need to be decent human beings. And that was a lesson I apparently needed. So yeah, I've got orange-y hair (at least until Jocelyn has room on her very full schedule) But I also have a roof over my head. And, God willing, my health.