Mountain Climbers

Wow. It's been nearly a year since I last posted on my blog. Wow. A couple things have happened since then.

First things first. The oldest two boys (that belong to me) are at Grandma's. For the week. (As I type this, I hear loud, thunderous banging and hammering and a compressor and nail gun. Hardwood floors. Hence the week at Grandma's.)

But, also as I type this, my youngest and newest addition is happily playing on his playmat. True irony, since I'm about to post how important it is to pay attention to one's children. He has me 99% of the time; my blog can have me 1%, right? Just kidding. I will stop and start this post about 457 times.

Back to the point at hand. I had a third baby! That in itself is definitely news. But the bigger news is that I am, for the time being, continuing to stay home to care for him. And the 3.5-year old son. And the 6-year old son who now believes he's pretty much in charge of all of us.

Why is this news? Because of the constant, unrelenting reminder from our society that when you are a Stay-at-Home-Mom, you are pretty much WORTH LESS THAN A PAID PROFESSIONAL. My time is worth less. My ideas are worth a bit less. And my salary; I guess that is truthfully much less.

When I was in the hospital having this third baby, I got into some interesting, high-brow discussions with some of the medical staff. The anesthesiologist. The nurses. The attending. The OB about to perform my Cesarean surgery. Then, after this beautiful, adorable and otherwise healthy baby had to go to the NICU (intensive care) 4 hours after birth, the neonatalologist. I had a very intense discussion with her. The spellchecker wants me to change that last one to "neocolonialist."  Isn't that funny?

Each of them--EACH, asked me the same question in the middle of or after said stimulating conversations, "What do you do?" 

What do you do?

It's an expectation. My husband said I should be flattered, at that assumption. I wanted to retort, "I DO a lot of things. Mostly, I THINK." But the question kept coming, over and over. "What do you do?"  I felt this undue pressure, to recant all of the impressive and amazing things that I DID do, previously, in my professional life. Data analysis. Risk management. Finance and accounting, budgeting, cash flow analysis, HR and PR and marketing and communications -- and a million other skills / buzzwords.

We went to visit a friend in their new house in Suburban Denver, CO. She told me that when they first moved to the neighborhood, a new neighbor came over to meet them that was an OB/GYN. And a Mom. She asked my friend, "What do YOU do?" And my friend told her she was staying home with her girls.

"Oh."  She said, clearly disappointed.

Sorry, I didn't realize staying at home made you stupid, ineffectual and lacking in fodder for stimulating conversation. 

I had another very good friend admit to me that when she heard about a mutual friend (who attended a prestigious, private university) staying home, her immediate response was, "I was surprised! I mean, she's realllly smart."

Sorry, I didn't' realize staying home made you stupid, and a waster of good private college money.

For the past two years, I've gone as my husband's guest to an annual Economic update and happy hour of the DC Alumni of his prestigious (but grounded) Business school. Each person there probably at the top of their career game, each earning.. well, let's just say a lot of them are 1%-ers.

Everyone I spoke to asked what I did. I was dressed like a professional, I acted like a professional, I made jokes like a professional. I longed to still be a professional during those conversations. I simply stated that I started a small business and that I had (at the time) two young boys. 

When I'm in line at a food establishment that is in a busy area with many professionals, and I'm out with my boys (hoping to procure a meal of some sort with them), and I'm dressed as "myself"? Lord, help me. I will be cut off and brushed and jostled. Nobody--and I mean, nooooooobody, will assist me. [To be fair, I assume this depends on what part of the country you live in, and we live in a very high-powered, high-income, high-self-importance area.]

But the point is, I am not respected. My time is not respected.

And that doesn't feel good!

But I'm not bitter. 

No, seriously. All sarcasm aside, I'm not bitter because I get it. I remember being on the other side, being swamped with work from work and having work dominate my entire psyche. Work is hard, which is why we named it aptly. 'Work'.

Not only am I not bitter, I've started enjoying all the myriad moments in my life, since many are fleeting (baby toes and baby giggles come to mind) and I've had the internal debate about when I'll return to work. Traditional work. For now, I have an incredible opportunity to shape three little lives that have forever changed me, and my outlook, and my goals and dreams. And savings plans. 

And the biggest news yet? With all my buckets of free time (sarcasm here), I've decided to write a book. Fiction. I've floated the idea to a group of my respected reader friends, and they loved it.

Why not climb a mountain or two, while I'm hoisting my children above my career? I'm strong enough. 

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The Big Time

The Big Time (on the Eve of Kindergarten)

First, you were a peanut
As small as small can be
Painted with a wisdom - Large!
Not average mediocrity.

Your tiny mind was turning
From the time you looked around
It dawned on me - quite suddenly
I had to show you what you'd found.

You found cords and plugs and tears
When I took those all away,
Your fascination with the Electric
(I know), is never going away.

Getting bigger, you found friends,
And fun in your imagination
I hope we can always pretend
(Not be stuck on this Earthly station.)

So, my darling son and Firstborn,
With your breathtaking mind and gifts,
Knowing you are ready
My anxious spirits lift.

For I picture that one clear moment
When I send you on your way -
The great big yellow school bus,
Your first Kindergarten day!

I'll try really hard to stay cool
And stop the tears from flowing
It's just: I love you so much,
Time is fast - and you keep growing.

I see the curiosity in your eyes
Your knowing eyes not knowing
What lies ahead, what to expect
When all that knowledge comes a-flowing.

And so you begin a new path
Somewhere all of us once start
My joy, my love, my inspiration, my wrath,
Pride is bursting from my heart.

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We Are Young in Life, Still

On the Eve of my oldest child turning the big FIVE, I blog. 

It has been a very long time since I've posted. There are many reasons for that, I won't list them all here because it would take me one week to type that many words; I don't have that kind of time. 

I've written this post in my head several times over the last few months; tweaking it and mentally editing it.  The thing about putting your raw, unfiltered, brutally honest thoughts and feelings out for public dissemination is, well, you never know how it will come across. 

I've been told my writing style is very "conversational."  I like that.  I like sitting here, having a conversation with all of you.  I like to think it's very J.D. Salinger but a little more socially engaged.  Today, the conversation is about the issue nearest and dearest to my heart. And I assume social scientists will study it; likely are studying it.

The effects of staying home to raise your children. 

I'll let that sentence stand alone.  Give it some thought.  I have, over the last four years and 364 days, given it much thought.  I've cursed it, sworn at it, blessed it, thanked it, looked in and around all the letters in that sentence, debated it, encouraged (and discouraged) it, and I've come up with one conclusion:  whatever anyone does for their family, is the right decision for their family.  Period. 

That said, let me let you in on a little discovery of mine.  It's kind of big.  Are you sitting down? 

By way of background to my ground-breaking discovery, let's talk about having kids.  I would argue that the person you are after you have kids is very similar to but astoundingly different from the person you are after having kids.  Kids make you aware of every single little thing about you. 

Why?  I call it The Mirror. 

Not literal, of course.  But those little tiny people, growing up before your eyes and ears, become Little Mirrors.  They imitate you.  They learn and regurgitate from you.  They react to things the way YOU react to things.  They yell at the dogs they way you yell at the dogs.  They can spit out, word for word, exactly what you said three days ago, when instructing another child who is younger.  It's amazing.  It's breathtaking!  It's horrible! 

And it's a mirror.  So what, what happens when we look into a mirror?  Really look into our own eyes?  We see ourselves.  Completely. 

Here's the funny thing about seeing yourself, over and over again, whether or not you want to...  you DISCOVER things about yourself.  Maybe they were there and you knew about them.  Maybe they were there and you didn't know about them.  Maybe you've been... ignoring some of them for a while.  Maybe you celebrate some with gusto, thanking your lineage for being so kick-ass.  But with a mirror, you see them.  Those.. tendencies about ourselves that we hate and love. 

So then, back to the person that you were, taking the serpentine path through to the person that you are now, and knowing that you will choose to continue becoming the person that you want to be, that Self Discovery starts to happen RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR!  Right in front of your own child, every single day, they are getting to know a person (and you are getting to know them) in medias res.  In the middle of the journey of Self Discovery. 

And that is it, right there.  That Self Discovery.  That is what makes staying home to raise your own children the most magnificent experience.  In all its ugly, banal, brutal, agonizing, rewarding, happy and joyful glory. 

Your children get to know you in the middle of you getting to know yourself.  They get to participate.  They get to help.  And Wow--do they love to help.  They're holding up that little mirror whether or not they want to.  It's how we are; it's part of our humanity. 

And they get to discover that we have discovered a whole new level of Love that we never knew existed. 

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Time IS On Our Side

Hi, beloved readers. And accidental blog-finders (those are the best.) I don't blog a lot. So, when I do, I try to go for a "Silent Bob" kind of angle.

It's hard, when you're in the thick of something, to really step back and appreciate what it is. But I've discovered something.. something amazing, and fun, and just astounding.

Aging is FUN!

That's right! Getting older. All those anti-aging creams, potions, lotions, pills, and the multi-billion dollar Entertainment industry that would have you believe that aging sucks - is WRONG!

Here's why. You just can't get this one thing from anywhere else BUT from getting older.. perspective. It's impossible to get anywhere else. Only time gives it to you. And here's the funny thing, even when you think you have it, you don't! Maybe a little, but not as much you think you do. My freshman year in college, I was strolling around the main quad at UNC-Chapel Hill with a few Seniors who were about to graduate. We sat down on the steps of Wilson Library, gazing out at the campus, which is stunning. It was dusk, quiet, beautiful. One of the Seniors sighed, deeply, and said, "man am I going to miss this. All of this." I looked out, nodding. Trying to understand. And I thought I did!

The semester after I graduated, I really understood him.

Now, I understand him even more.

Perspective gained from time is different from a huge loss. OR from grief. Perspective from grief is like tripping and falling into a hot tub. Not the way you planned to get in that deep. Not at all comfortable. Actually, very painful. And, probably, you don't want to be there. (When you figure a way out, you're very cold. And that's not comfortable either.)

Let's back up a bit. Why is perspective so important? Because, in the grand scheme, it gives us freedom. Freedom to think of the "big" picture.. the giant, time-filled picture of our entire lives.

Those of you who are older than me reading, congratulations! You have more of it than I do.
Those of you younger than me: you have less. You just do.

That's why aging is fun.. getting older is a gift, a gift of perspective which gives clear-headed thoughts on a muddled world.

One more thought.

This morning, my son invented a new kind of vacuum, pictured below. It runs on solar power (the first Stackadoo), it sucks up dirt which is then converted to energy (second Stackadoo), and it sucks up water which is then converted to energy (third Stackadoo). Last Stackadoo is the battery charger.
What does this have to do with Perspective? Nothing. It's just flat-out the most adorable thing, ever.

And in time, I'll have more Perspective to appreciate it even more.

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This Day: to My Beloved

Such a long road to get here
Let it go (surrender)
Don't judge it later
I want to remember this day

You're a baby! It's exciting and new
We got all of the things, the emotions
We got all the bling, and the blue
You ripped my iPod out of my hand at 13 months
And I knew.

You challenge me. You push me.
Test me. And learn.
I want to remember these moments.

You're a big brother! It's exciting and new.
New competition, new challenges.
New tests for the Mommy patience.
I want to remember this phase.

Channel my Mom. Converse with God.
Channel my inner artist. Get creative.
You question. You reason. You resist reason.
I want to remember your mind.

Push it away. Go away for an afternoon, see an orange moon.
Make sense of why you. Why now.
What happened to the old me?
I want to remember this.

I want to remember this post.

I want to remember this role. My role.

I want to remember this.

I want to remember my everything.

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Just Like Heaven (You Know, The Cure!)

Whoa, is that Fingers&Paws on my Google Reader / FB News Feed /(fill in blog reader here)? Why, yes.

I had a flash of brilliance on the treadmill today. You are about to read it, and you'll leave breathless, amazed, and exhausted, like you just read a novel.

Maybe not. But I had the opportunity last weekend to fly off to Sanibel Island, FL, with several girl friends (I am a girl.) It happens that I am married with children. Those hangers-on were not with me. It was five days of just worrying about myself. No nap-time, no snack time, no meal time, no breaking up sibling fights or picking crushed blueberries off the tile floor. Just me. I got a chance to LOOK UP. Otherwise known as

Perspective.

Other Moms know how it is. The daily drudgery, 12-plus solid hours of child-rearing, day after day.

Here's how I imagine it is, to run a marathon. Not that I've actually run a marathon. I have, in fact, run two Half-Marathons and I doubt I have to do the math for you. There are 25,000 people around you, you are all standing and waiting in line for an eternity in your corral. The gun goes off, the fun begins. You feel great, life is good! Your body is a fine-tuned machine, and the sky is clear and blue. Feet turn into miles, everyone is happy and smiling.

This is what it's like, right?! You had the baby shower. You are SO PSYCHED to have a baby, you cannot believe it. And then you got through the agonizing last three weeks where you listened to the clock tick off every minute of every hour, because sleep wasn't happening.

Around mile 5-6 your body starts to remind you that there's hard pavement underneath. It's hard. Your body begins to feel soft.

Then you decide--this kid needs a SIBLING! So, on we go to having #2. You've read the baby books, you had the shower so your family and friends ain't throwing another one of those. You're on your own.

Mile 7-8-9, and your shoulders start to droop a bit. Your body is trying to conserve energy as best it can, but it's dying for some water and--face it, some walking. You focus on not shuffling your feet, try to imagine picking them up a bit more off the ground. Your breath is coming harder now.

You make it through that impossible first six months where Older Brother (or Sister) just wants to TOUCH the baby, and HOLD the baby, and ROCK the baby, and FEED the baby a raisin or other suitable choking hazard. Or, my favorite, PUSH the baby down some steps in the stroller. Ok, let's all try to survive this until baby is at least able to crawl away.

You can feel your head hanging a bit lower now, your breath is decidedly uncomfortable. When did breathing get this uncomfortable? Short puffs. Focus on the feet. Try to lift up those shoulders. Keep running!

The baby can finally stand up, turn around, and walk.. and then RUN away from Big Sibling. Doesn't change or alter the Sibling Rivalry, in any way. Big Brother still knows how to get a hold of each and every mound of Play-Doh, Lego, block-o, name-it-o. Mommy attends a Sibling Rivalry parenting forum.

Man, around mile 13.1 (I know this from experience), your Body, your Brain, and your Soul scream out, "THIS SUCKS!! WHY DID I DO THIS?" and Oh my Good Gosh, I have so much further to go.

Well, here's what I THINK happens from here:

You are tired. Really tired. C'mon, you've just run a Half Marathon for Pete's Sake. Your body is crushed, spirits are down. But you want to keep on, and plus.. there are all those people cheering for you! Look at them, waving flags, jumping up and down, ringing bells and donging things. They know you can succeed! Do it for them!

There are days you grit your teeth. Frantically call a babysitter for a chance to go to the bathroom. You educate, entertain, educate, pacify, take care of. Take them to a park, to an indoor gym, to an outdoor theater. Take them on a trip, or two. Notice it gets easier (hey! Now we can hand them things, and drive during the day!) You help out watching others', and they help you out back. You are even able to look up, take a sip of your Starbucks, and wonder at the Mom you've grown into. A loving, caring, albeit tired, but really great Mom. You get tears in your eyes typing a blog post. You go home to relieve said babysitter or Mom friend. Older Brother pushes Younger Brother, the young Jedi fights back. All-out War begins.

You don't want to admit it, but you COULDN'T CARE LESS how many people are up against the ropes, cheering for you and all these other Schmucks running with you. They aren't running 20+ miles. You are. How did "marathon" get its name again? Some dude ran 26.2 miles and then.. your thoughts wander off. Thoughts are too hard now, like the ground. All you want to do is lie down on the cold hard ground and take a rest, and have nobody speak to you for about a year (these are the teenager years.) You take a turn too hard and turn an ankle but.. MY GOLLY, keep on truckin'. Running hurt is the perfect metaphor for this metaphor.

Things do get easier, as kids grow.. and get taller and less likely to drown in the 3-FT end of the pool. Eat more things and play with other children more nicely, and learn things and then do things all on their own. They grow and grow until they are the little people they always were deep down in there, just bursting to come out. And then they start to drive you around, picking up your Starbucks and texting you to let you know they are fine. And college is great.

And all of a sudden, it hits you. You were waiting for it, maybe for miles now. The last water station didn't do it, the thousands of cheering fans on the sidelines didn't do it. Your body did it. You hit the runner's high. You feel like a million bucks, because you are a million bucks. You could literally do anything right now. You have run 25.5 miles and you OWN this whole TOWN. The steps come easier, and easier, and you run a bit faster. You almost don't want the finish line to appear because it's gotten so easy.

I'm telling you what. I know there must an Afterlife, because one lifetime is not going to be enough with these children of mine. These boys, they are Heaven.


copyright 2011 Colleen D. Bucher

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No Day Like Today

I'm grabbing it.. the one minute I have. It's so important to me at this moment to write (with whatever time I have. Or lack thereof.)

I realized something important about myself today. Kind of simple, really. I realized: I am compelled to write when I am unhappy. I am compelled to take photographs when I am happy. I am passionate about both mediums, I truly am. And I feel equally alive, communing with my creative spirit, when I am doing either venture. Especially when I match the amazing, perfect image that has formed in my mind with the correct setting on my camera to.. capture it.

However, it is on days like today, when I have no choice but to organize my thoughts into words, my words into emotional responses, those responses into coherent sentences, and type.

It's so easy.. it's like it's all sitting out there for me, basking in the sun (or darkness) and all I have to do is wander out there and pick it up and devour it. Like my black Lab watching me now, glancing up at the open door of the pantry; all that food, just sitting there, within his reach.. all he has to do is just devour it.

Today was one of those days that was so horrible at times that it was impossible to imagine a day could exist that was unlike any other day like today. This type of day, today, has always existed, exists today, and will always exist. No matter what external factors change. The fact that it is means that it will be.

This is preposterous, of course. No such thing is possible, in an ever-changing world as mine currently is. Happier times are behind and ahead of me, at the same time. And, what compelled me to write here and now, is the other: equally sadder times are behind and ahead of me as well. That is life. That's what we signed up for, when we became grown-ups.

The very short way of paraphrasing that long last paragraph, is to say, parenthetically:
Life is not that hard at all right now. It just pretends to be, on days like these.

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The Present

They say it's all prioritization, this thing called life. How do we do it, as Moms? How do we keep them fed, and entertained, and educated, and confident? And shuttle them to preschool and playgroups, but make it home in time to nap? How we have dinner ready for everyone at the same time, but have the toys picked up off the floor so the early walker doesn't trip (or the eager-to-please Labrador pick it up to present it to us?)

How do we juggle all that.... and also dive off the bridge into Start-a-Small-Photography-Business waters far below?

Well, we have to sacrifice some things. Reading. Writing. Arithmetic. Strike that last one. Writing on one's blog, for which one was so faithful, for SO long.

I had an epiphany, in the midst of various parenting crises this week. I realized they are living their childhood--and it's RIGHT NOW. I realized my childhood was what it was, for better or worse (mostly better.. really, and I'm lucky) and that their childhood is happening right in front of me! This is the one that they'll remember for the rest of their lives, that will shape them into the people they will become. Right now! And they're happy!

Right before my eyes, little minds are being shaped, little hands are playing and having fun, little ears are listening and understanding the love that I give them. Love that I show them.

I have a Junior League newsletter to edit. Photos to go through for a client (two, actually), but a great song came on that spoke to me.

It told me to write on my blog today. Capture it all. Remember it all. The song? "Polaroids" by Shawn Colvin.

It's over now, and the kids are up.

NOte: I'm shutting down my 365 blog soon, as it served it purpose, but I'll continue to write on here as I have time. Ha.

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Roads Less Traveled

I am still here. I'm no longer standing at the 'Y'. I am too busy to blog (who isn't?) and have written this post 1,000 times. In my head.

Promise, I really have. I blog every day, as I make and eat my breakfast. Shoo the dogs away from the fallen Cheerio's. I just don't always get it down on screen.

Anyway, there's a poem by Robert Frost. You may have heard of it. It starts out,

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

That's it. In a nutshell, that is what I've done. What I'm doing. It's thrilling, and confusing, and frustrating, and limiting at times. But I've chosen to remain at home with my two young boys, during the formative, challenging, so-impressionably-young years, and start a portrait photography business.

Corporate America-->Small Internet Startup-->Hard Right Turn, Pause in the Y. The Y of the path (in the woods, silly.) I've been standing here for years, at the Y. And someone finally nudged me down the less-traveled path.

Let's see how it makes a difference.

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Shock and Awe

Today I want to talk to you about the "emergency key word." If you're a parent, you get it. You need no further explanation. Skip paragraph two and read on.

The Emergency Key Word is something, as protective Moms and Dads, we all cling to as insurance. It's one word, or maybe two together, that you can state (yell, scream, shout, grunt, plead or otherwise communicate) QUICKLY to your child in an urgent situation that requires attention. Their attention. On you. Keyword here is 'quickly.'

It's easy to imagine what some common Emergency Key Words likely are, for the typical parent off on a woodland stroll that falls and twists an ankle and needs his/her child to come back to him/her, while laying helplessly in pain on the ground: Look, Suzie! A SQUIRREL! (Stop and stare.)

Or you have an infant sitting on the sidewalk and a toddler wandering around.. a bee comes by and lands on your infant at the same time the toddler starts to toddler off the curb into a very busy street. Look, Johnny! An AIRPLANE! (Stop and stare.)

Or, let's say your child is old enough to swim, and standing next to a pool in their freshly changed, totally dry clothes, and a friend is urging a dry-clothes jump in the pool. Look, Billy! BROWNIES! Stop and eat.

Different motivations for different kids. Every child has his or her favorite things they are drawn to.. toys. Animals. Fancy things that fly. Tiaras. Whatever.

Now let's talk about what my Emergency Key Word has become. He's about to run through the "exit only" automatic door at the store. He's about to walk into someone. He's wandering down the sidewalk away from me. "PLUGS."

Yes, that's right. The kind that are attached to a cord, and plug in. My 3 year old is obsessed with nothing other than the one thing every grown-up he has ever met has told him to stay away from, lest he meet his death via electrocution.

(Luckily he's obsessed with the plug side, not the outlet side. For now.)

A quick mention of whether the building, store or home we're standing in has a plug. Where they are. What kinds of things would possibly need to be plugged in? Why do they need electricity, do they have a motor? Or an engine? Et cetera.

Yes, we have engineers in the family. And yes, he might certainly be headed that direction. But in terms of "normal" emergency key words, my son shocks most everyone that overhears us. (Get it?)

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I'm Back, With Foamy Gratitude

My blogging strike is over! At last! You may have noticed that I have not been blogging for about a month. (Or, maybe you haven't.)

I have been striking against the inequity and injustice in the blogging world. The glaring reality that Mom-bloggers are now growing at a faster pace than any other type, and yet, Mom-bloggers have the least amount of time to spend on it. Unfair.

(Yes, that was a blog joke.)

With that, I want to tell you about my hair cut this morning. It's a small, locally owned salon. Hyper-locally owned, meaning that the salon is named after the owner, who has owned it since it opened, and he (the owner, and namesake) actually cut my hair. I know, pretty kuel.

But first, the hair-washer person (we'll call her "Mona") took me back to the sinks to wash my hair. Pretty typical.

And anything but. I leaned my head backwards, at that awkward angle that salon sinks necessitate during the washing part. I wasn't sure if I should cross my legs or not; I picked something in between. I thought about my book that I'd bothered to bring, and the Book Club members that I had begged for more time from, since I don't have any, to finish the book. I thought about my 3-year old in preschool close by, the other 3-yr old that we had carpooled with, and my cherubic 10-mo old that was back at the carpoolee's Mother's house, happily napping.

I was by myself, during the day, for the first time in a long time.

Then, Mona started scrubbing. Washing my hair. She got her perfectly-sized nails in between the follicles and scratched all about my head, rubbed my temples, got the shampoo to a thick lather, just like they tell you on the back of the bottle. It was heaven.

When she paused, I took the moment to communicate to her how much she was making my day more relaxing.

Then, as if her life purpose had been fulfilled because someone thanked her for doing something she did 40 times a day, every day, Mona really scrubbed. She really took her time, allowing me to actually process the fact that I was becoming more relaxed. At one point, she even pressed the ends of her fingers into the back of my neck. You know, where you might rub if you were sitting at a desk all day, straining to see your computer. Or where you might rub if your neck and back ached all day from changing potty-training 3-yr olds and picking up toys all. Day. Long.

The scrubbing probably only lasted all of 6 minutes. But sitting there, legs half crossed and half not, thinking of nothing else besides gratitude for this person, this salon, this carpool, and this beautiful Fall day, I decided to hold onto the moment.

And, of course. Blog about it.

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CDB, Phone Home

I've been thinking lately a lot about connectedness. Being and staying connected to those we love, used to love, hated to love, or love to hate. It used to be a simple phone call, or a Christmas card (or letter) received out the blue. Right? Like from the next door neighbor 10 years ago that you once shared deep secrets with over the kitchen counter, that later moved away and was never heard from again. Until the random phone call.

Nowadays, it’s much more than a simple phone call. I guess it could still be as simple as a phone call, but tell my Mom how to text, and she’ll forget what you’ve told her the next day. (This is nothing on my Mom; my next door neighbor would also forget, and she’s young.)
When you have very little, no, zero alone time to think…. and analyze… And allow things to sink down to the bottom of the pot and simmer there for a while, life seems to take off much more quickly.

Tonight I had a chance to sit on a runway for three hours. There’s so much information in that sentence, if you look. It means I traveled (well, not necessarily!) “Runway” implies flying.. flying implies far away from my regular dwelling place. “Sit” indicates I had nothing to do but think.. read.. look out the window at the various and sundry groups of hundreds of people, leaving for various and sundry destinations. And—you guessed it. “Three hours” is a very long time.

Back up an hour.. I get dropped off at a major airport in Washington DC. Race to my gate, which is also inhabited by 300 of my closest strangers, since this the gate for Very Tiny Planes to Very Tiny Places. People are waiting. Everywhere. They’re waiting in lines, as long as Disney World’s coolest new ride. They’re waiting in crowded seating areas. They’re standing and waiting, sitting, slouching, leaning up against walls, other people, sleeping against the hallway. You get the picture. And I’m looking around, just watching the people. I’m that girl, just watching. (I even pulled out my little blog notebook and made some notes, if you want to know the truth.)

Almost without exception, everyone is on their phone.. “i” or otherwise. Blackberries, Droids, old-school PDAs and regular old texting phones are out in force.. flights are cancelled, phones are out. I’m watching the people in line, strangers starting destinations or connecting here—but Lord help us, not ending here, frantically try to beat each other to reach an Airline Representative on the phone before getting to the counter. Several waitees are in front of me, sitting on the floor, alternatively on the phone.

There’s the obligatory conference call. There’s the guy on his iPhone, clearly keeping up with a conference call whilst checking flight status, and OH YES! Also reading a book. This guy fascinates me no end. At one point he gets up to pace around (perhaps he needs to focus by pacing) and leaves his backpack and his open book, where he was sitting. People do strange things when their flights get cancelled.

So we are continually connected to each other—instantly, simultaneously. Waiting in line, all talking to the same 800-number, but not each other. Texting across the country to our friends who might be picking us up, but not to the writer cautiously watching you from behind. Are we more connected? Perhaps. Do we feel more closeness, among ourselves? With Social Media keeping us updated on each others’ lives more than we ever dreamed (did I really imagine I’d know exactly when Sally from 5th grade Science would give birth to twins?), what’s the next step for us? Will we all eventually start living the same life, unaware of it until we bump into the Older version of ourselves, the Younger version of ourselves, or the Black or Brown or Asian versions?

Ok, so that is far fetched. But it’s interesting to think about, right?

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Vacating Success

Measurement is a funny thing.

For example, how do you measure waiting? Not time, but waiting. And love? And how in the world would you measure vacation success?

I'll tell you how. An easy way to tell if a vacation is a huge smashing success, is by how much time is spent in Emergency Medical care. The more time spent, the more successful the vacation.

We had just landed in Denver. Land of the Rockies, sunshine, exciting hikes, open air. 24 hours pass, the sun shining, picnics had and playgrounds visited, mountains viewed and smiles turned somber. My toddler started getting sluggish, lethargic, didn't want to walk.. then didn't want to talk, eat. Or drink. Or do anything. (You understand if you know him. If you don't, this is NOT NORMAL.)

Altitude sickness, we immediately think, seeing as we haven't spent a single hour in medical school or done an internship in pediatric care. We bribe him to try liquids. It blows up in our face (just use your imagination with that one. I don't want to discuss vomiting.)

Something is terribly wrong with our otherwise perfectly healthy angel, so we decide he needs care. Off to Urgent Care we go, to see a PA who has--allegedly, as much time in medical school as we have. (But he was a Dad. So, there's that.)

Then, 24 hrs later, my sweet, chubby faced infant, with the dark eyes and lashes that draw you in and hold you there for as long as he cares to gaze, got hot. He started to cry.

An adorable baby is still that when he's crying. But when he's wailing, whimpering, wallowing in the midst of sleep, grunting with discomfort, and looking at you with tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, it literally makes you want to reach down and lift up a Rocky mountain to make him feel better. So, we did.

Off to the pediatric Emergency Room we went, just me n' my miserable cherub. I rocked him in triage. He cried. I rocked him in the ER waiting room. He cried. I rocked him after the triage nurse told me to lay him down on the exam bed. He cried. Pink cheeks, scared eyes, in only a diaper, he cried and I rocked.

Upon check out, the girl was nice enough. We had to stay a long while after we were done, since they got us right in, cared for, and discharged. And then .. the paperwork. She entered information in her computer as fast as the very fastest paint can dry, but we didn't mind waiting. My cherub and I. She collected what she needed and said I was all set. "Have a good night!" She said brightly. She was nice enough, but I couldn't resist:
"I really can't imagine anything else I'd rather be doing on vacation then checking out of the pediatric ER." I was joking, lamely. I should have resisted.

So, first ER visit? Check. A baby hospital band for the baby book? Check. Vacation? Check. Sleep, relaxation, rest, exploring new places, basking in the glow of nothing to do but relax? All banked for next time.

**Note: the most important element of our vacation was that we stayed with and had incredible support from two very understanding and very good friends, for whom we are very thankful!! Thanks TKB!!!

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Constant Gardening

Remember that fish (Nory?) from "Finding Nemo"? The one that couldn't remember anything?

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming... Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..." This is my theme music this week.

When I was out in the neighborhood for a run this weekend, in between dashes to the shady part of the street and wiping of sweat out of my eyes, I found myself noting something important.

Some of my neighbors keep incredible gardens.

Some are in front of the house, right next to the sidewalk, so all passers-by can enjoy the color. Some of them are side yards, or a carefully tended patch of flowers by the front porch or walk. Name it, and I saw it. And these gardeners, mind you, range from original owner (from the 1950s) to the young couple who moved in last week, still trying to conceive their first child and kiss Previous Listless Life goodbye.

There is one particular flower garden of spectacular hue, with a half dozen rose bushes bursting with light, color, delicate petal tips, and thorns, just next to the sidewalk on a fairly well-traveled road, for all to enjoy. I've marveled at it many times on family walks. My husband and I have commented how amazing the roses are. My toddler has pushed thorny branches out of the way of the stroller's path. Never knowing the danger of a tiny pinpoint prick on his little finger.

To my surprise, along my run this weekend, I saw the toil. The tired shoulders. The sagging sunhat. The work. I ran past the set of multi-colored rosebushes as the owner of the house was out among the bushes, tending weeds. Plucking unwanted visitors. Examining leaf health. Trimming back unwieldy branches. Tending, tending, and tending. I smiled at him, knowingly. He nodded in agreement. I ran on.

As I ran, I realized the significance of what I'd viewed, what I'd seen on this blinding hot day.

Tending a garden is much like raising children. Time. Attention. An amazing end result, blinding in its beauty.

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Frenetic Calm

Fascinating.

I approached the Giant food store, recycled bags in hand, free as a lark with no larklings. As I approached, heading towards the front door, something struck my eye that was fascinating. A woman.. girl... lady? An ageless female, who had clearly and very recently purchased quite a large number of items at said store, was outside with her cart of groceries. And oodles of plastic Giant bags.

Someone had forgotten her recycled bags.

She was pacing. Literally pacing. Hands in her pockets. Back and forth, forth and back, back and forth again, from her own made-up starting line to her turnabout spot, back to the starting line, and repeat. As I approached, I was struck at this shark-like behavior.

For what was she pacing? Was she nervous? Bored? Scared? Were her feet asleep, was she was trying to re-engage them in the world around them? I got so taken in by this steady, pragmatic foot-falling, I completely lost track of myself and wandered into the store, bypassing the carts.

I went back outside. I needed a cart, duh. But the shark, clad in her yellow v-neck and large, dark sunglasses, was impeding the way. I arced widely around her, as I noticed others did.

Other people, strangers to this strange dance, were avoiding her. Her shark infested waters.

How delightfully bizarre! I couldn't get over this conundrum.. people needed carts. She was impeding access to carts simply by pacing back and forth in front of them. I love the study of human behavior. I silently cursed myself for not taking more sociology courses in college, and got a cart. Finally.

Once the cart was gotten, I then needed to go through her pacing path to gain access to the Giant store. I had a twinge of guilt, then sudden excitement as to what her counter-move would be.

She paused in the pacing. Stepped back, tilted her chin slightly down. I, and another lady who didn't share my curiosity, curtly walked past.

I went inside and immediately looked for a window, to gaze out into this other seemingly tormented soul. Or, at least the soles of her shoes.

For my good fortune, and for everyone who later had to deal with me on this important day of my eldest son's 3rd birthday party, there was a Starbucks inside this store. And it was just inside the store, affording me the opportunity to check out the Mystery Pacer's next move.

She was still pacing!! What--in the world, could she be so anxious about? And who was she waiting for? And where were her recycled bags??

Then, I kid you not, what happened next was the most unexpected turn. As I pulled over to a Starbucks table, grappling for my pen/paper to make some blog post notes, as we all know I did, I glanced up.

She turned her head and met my gaze.

I was flabbergasted. The pacer knew her pacing was being tracked. I had the sudden urge to race outside and join in her pacing, up and down, back and forth, just for the pure and simple freedom of it. Freedom Pacers. And also, mostly, to find out why the hell she was pacing.

It was so deliberate. So unnatural. So .. creepily calculated. Every step was purposeful.

And only she, Yellow-Shirted Mystery Pacer, held the key to unlock those steps.

If my toddler had been with me, he would have fallen into step alongside her, looked up, and instantly unlocked the mystery. As he, as a general rule, holds all those keys.

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Painting a Revelation

I know there are so many blogs to read and so little time. But I had such a revelatory moment today that I had to share.

Six or seven years ago, I was in an elevator. I was in a high-flootin' finance job, up to the 8th floor in a somewhat respectable high-rise building, in the somewhat-respectable field of corporate&investment banking. I was probably dressed in a blue button down and gray pants. It was the uniform.

The elevator was packed, and, as was customary on a busy morning, stopped at nearly every floor on the way up. Two people were talking behind me, a man and a woman. They were talking about painting. I got excited and nearly turned around.. painting? Was there a budding Van Gogh behind me? What did she paint? When did she paint? Was she in an artist's body, or did she just hide this side of herself? How cool was that? What kind of medium, I wanted to ask.

"Yes, we've finally finished the guest room. Now I have to get the kitchen and dining rooms done... arrgh, it just takes forever to paint a house."

Oh. (sigh)

Fast forward to today. I am walking back to my car after picking up some delicious Lebanese food - with a 7mo-old infant and 2-3/4 yr old in tow. Yes, my toddler ate it too. There were two women, dressed in casual yoga gear, chatting just behind my car, blocking our entry back into the car. I said "excuse me" as I inadvertently heard most of the end of their conversation. One woman was cajoling the other, saying,
"You need to get back into that!"
"Oh, the painting? I am! I started a few weeks ago. Ah, it feels so good." I happened to know that they were talking about art.

Painting, for the beauty of it. For the pure joy, the unfettered feeling of creating something beautiful with every stroke of the brush, of pausing, reflecting.. clearing the mind. Making art.

A beautiful thing. **


** For the record, I do not paint. I'd rather create beauty through words. Plus, my brother got that talent in the family.

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Time. A New Frontier.

I know. Seriously. What could I possibly write about time that is new, different, innovative, obscure? We'll see. Keep in mind, there's no guarantee in the blogosphere.

But here's what struck me: In no other time in life than after having children, does time forever change. It speeds up, it slows down, it pauses and waits for you at times... other times leaves you on the side of the road with the car door open, speeding away. Taillights in the dust.

When I was charging through my 20s, time was just time.. it kind of ticked away. I looked forward to things, I looked back fondly on things, and everything seemed appropriately spaced. I'd say things like, "in a few months, we're going to the beach." Or, "in a few months, I think I have a doctor's appointment." "In a few months, I think my parents are coming to visit."

"I think", because who cares? It was a few months away!

Now a lifetime is contained in a single, solitary, well-chosen moment. In a moment where my almost-3-year old bends down to help his baby brother pick something off the floor, then hands it back to him, sealing my faith that he does listen. If a single moment can contain such magnitude, imagine a whole day?! A week? A month?

And whereas a few months previously might mean a different number of miles on the car, or temperature outside, or a different vacation destination, now it's the difference between my baby squirming helplessly on the floor and being able to give me high five.

That's right. Baby A gave me high five yesterday, for the first time ever. (For those who've lost track--and trust me, I get it - he's 7 mos old tomorrow.)

And what got me - really got me, about him doing it, is that I was just kidding! Time has done a number on me, too, and I forget how fast they change. I was joking! I sat him up, grinning from ear-to-ear just to be alive, and held up my hand and said in a voice excited enough to wake Sleeping Beauty, "GIMME FIVE!"

He looked at my hand. He looked at me. He raised his little hand and met mine. Ka-Ching!!

You could hear our collective giggles four miles away.

This is the thing. A few months isn't what it used to be. It's so much more...time. It's so much more documented. It's so much more change. It's the change of change, the derivative of life itself. Interestingly enough, when you derive a life equation, you get a more concentrated life.

And time is the remainder.

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Life. In A Painful Nutshell.

I really don't have time to post now. Naps are being gentled tugged away from my little guys... I should be doing prep work for the cookout I'm hosting. But I just really need to write this post. And I think I'll be glad later.

In the College of Arts and Sciences, we were treated to a whole neat selection of electives like "Asian Religions" by incredible professors. My Asian Religions class had a profound effect on me.. especially the section on Buddhism. Imagine, life being All Pain? Really? Like.. ALL life is suffering. Just have to get through the suffering; without it there would be no joy.

When I was gazing at my adorable cherubic infant who is currently experiencing sharp little razor blades coming through his bottom gum, I thought.. this is fitting. Isn't it?

Here is this little guy, just barely here. Barely six months old. He looks around, he sees a brand new world. Everything is great. Everything is fantastic! Everyone is so nice. Everyone is so accommodating. Everything I need, I am given!! Such joy, in this place called The World.

And then.. the pain.

It starts, probably, as a faint little ache in the gums. (Right? How the hell would we know?) Then it probably moves up to the jaw a little, a constant, dull aching.

Cutting teeth. Ouch! How painful is that? Imagine for a minute how that must feel. Didja ever get your wisdom teeth out? Yeah.

You just barely arrive here, happy as a baby, and then the pain begins. (And then, later, it really begins, when someone steals your toy and won't give it back, or you fall off the playground, or nobody wants to be your friend, or you get your heart broken. Or you forget you left the emergency break on when you start to go and smell an awful burning rubber smell.)

But look. We get through the pain. The constant-ness of it. Never ending, never a break until that tooth pokes through and one kid goes off to school (or college.)

The pain... then the joy... we like all of it.

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Timing is Everything

As the moon waxes and wanes, so goes my impulse to write. I feel sudden urges, much like my toddler who is learning how it feels when he has to "go". And I do believe this is a learned behavior, a skill, he is developing.

Take yesterday. On a generous whim, I decided to let him make the decision whether he walked through the grocery store (as opposed to riding in the cart. A much safer enterprise. Less bolting. And broken ketchup bottles. Et cetera.) We piled up the stroller basket with items, my infant eagerly watching how this was to unfold. All was going great. We had probably, oh, 20 or 25 or 50 items in the basket including all the baby food jars.

Time to check out. I was nervous. With my attention focused on loading all the grocery items onto the little conveyor belt, my toddler could seize upon the opportunity to bolt back into the store ("I'M FREE!!! I'm FREEEEEEEEEE!")

But, I come from a strict "Don't Fire Until Fired Upon" Philosophy, so I held the whistle and waited patiently while the chatty, well-meaning grocery clerk checked out the person in front of me. Very. Very. Slowly.

The Chatty, Well-Meaning grocery clerk finally looked up and started checking me out.
Beep! Beep! She starts scanning the items, bagging them, chatting all the way. Beep! My toddler looks up at me, and starts crossing and criss-crossing his legs.

Uh oh.

"Mommy, does this store have a bathroom, do you think?"
Hoo-boy. "Yes, sweetheart, they definitely do. Do you need to... ?"
"Yes, I need to go potty." Legs criss-crossed again. I glance at the conveyor belt. Only 49 items to go.
He shifts his weight and looks up again. "Mommy, I need to make a 'whoa'." That is his word for #2.

We are trapped in the grocery store checkout line with 3 people behind us. And my toddler has to go make a whoa. Right then.

I rattle off the situation to the grocery clerk. With lightning fast reflexes, she speeds up to 100X her previous speed. I run my card through the thing, pick up my toddler, push my infant in the stroller to the back of the store; way, way back. Where he does go. And wow, did he have to go.

Then, (and I'm sweating now) I race back to the front of the store to find out what happened. Do other people do this? I wonder as I run past shelves of cereal boxes I forgot to buy. Am I the first? I think to myself, knowing I am not.

Finally, we make it. Back to the line. Back to back of the line. The Chatty, Well-meaning grocery clerk recognizes me and smiles.

"Did we make it?" She winks.

We made it.

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Unbending the Straw

Life is so unfair sometimes. No, really, it's the clock that's unfair. I do not have time to post, yet it's all I want to do at times, write. Lunch is unfinished. Naps are over. I still have applesauce on my shoulder.

So the question really becomes, for me: Does not blogging kill brain cells?

I say yes. All day long, I have to maintain the highest energy level possible, explain every nuance of life from why strangers smile at you when they walk by, to why a cement truck turns the big thing on its back, to what constitutes a picnic.

None of these tasks are difficult to explain to an almost-3 year old. But sometimes I find myself diving a little deeper into the concept, like when I was trying to emphasize why the washcloth sank after it got wet. Or how hot food cools off, the principle behind this. Or why heavy things fall faster than light things. Or why Mommy doesn't want to prop the door open at Starbucks longer than one or two full minutes while my toddler casually saunters through, carrying his milk cup all by himself.

I do feel cliche, at times, especially when I'm rushing around. To fight feeling cliche, I find myself doing things that could only be categorized as uncliche. Or... another word might be... crazy. Wanting to avoid a nearly unavoidable toddler tantrum, I didn't let us sit down in Starbucks recently, instead telling my toddler that we could have a car picnic with our drinks! A picnic in the car! Allll we had to do was get back to the car. Ya with me, parents?

I loaded us in, infant in infant seat. Toddler in car seat. Stroller away. Library books away. Phew. Then, a little voice called me out on my own innovation:

"Can we have a picnic with our drinks.. in the car?"

Of course we can. I got everyone out. I popped the trunk. We spread a blanket in the bed of my (mini)SUV's trunk. Had our drinks (and our pound cake.) A picnic. I answered many questions that came up.. like the foretold cement truck.

Maybe it's cliche to attempt the uncliche. Yet, I feel it's my greatest endeavor to educate my young mind(s) at every opportunity.

And keep educating my own.

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