Sorry, Mom

There have been a number of times in my life when I felt compelled to pick up the phone, dial my mom, and just say, "I'm sorry." Not because I wronged her in some way (although there have been plenty of those instances as well), but because I had some sort of epiphanal experience that illuminated how remarkable my mom was during the most difficult -- or perhaps the most banal -- periods of parenthood and how I never properly appreciated it at the time.

This happened once after I spent a long, rainy weekend in Blowing Rock, NC, with my best friend, my 24-month-old godson (who called it Uh-Oh Rock), and my 23-month-old daughter.  In planning, we had envisioned a weekend of wandering around the lake, climbing on rocks, and enjoying the Main Street playground.  In reality, trapped indoors by a late-spring monsoon that turned the paths around our condo into raging rivers and mudslides, we exhausted our Duplo building possibilities, drove to nearby Boone and camped out in a used bookstore with a children's section just large enough to house a train table, and finally, in desperation, dashed into the local fire station and begged them to let us touch the trucks.  On the last evening, I remember turning around from plating dinner in the kitchen to find the two kids playing chase on top of the dining room table and telling my friend, who had until that point resisted introducing her son to television, that it was time to corrupt her first-born with a DVD.  The next day, during the two-hour drive home, I called my mom, who had survived not only my but also my boy-girl twin siblings' terrible twos.

"I'm sorry, Mom" I told her.  "I never realized…"

Thanks, Mom. No matter life's twists and turns,
you always hang in there.

It happened again when my daughter, now a middle schooler but sometimes still acting like a 23-month-old, decided to dedicate herself heart-and-soul to horseback riding.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I love that she has a passion and that her passion requires equal parts athleticism, humility, self-confidence, and manual labor. (Yep, she shovels her own $#!+.)  But her passion also requires a daily 50-mile round-trip and the planting of a new money tree in our backyard every spring.  Still waiting for those suckers to sprout.  My daughter would give up anything for riding, just like I would have given up anything for theater when I was her age. [Cue the aha moment music.] Just like I would have given up anything for theater, and the emotional ups-and-downs of auditions, and the daily practices, and the late-night tech rehearsals, and the performance schedule that conflicted with my 7th grade class trip to Williamsburg.

Ring, ring, ring.  "Hi, Mom. It's me. I just realized something..."

The latest in this series of events involves a book.  Now, when it comes to books, I'll be the first to admit that I tend to be somewhat pretentious.  It's obnoxious, I know, but when you major in comparative literature, they make you swear an oath on Jacques Derrida that you will never again crack the spine of a David Baldacci.  This pomposity manifests itself in a number of ways.  I avoid most tomes with the "Oprah recommends" sticker on the front (even though I would have given my eye teeth to get one of those stickers for one of my authors when I worked in publishing).  My book club groans when I recommend something on the esoteric side. ("Should we read Eugenides's The Marriage Plot in conjunction with a Victorian novel so we can compare and contrast?" was the comment that almost got me kicked out of the group.)  I voluntarily joined a Facebook group rereading Ulysses during the month of February.  Admittedly, I'm somewhat masochistic on this front, so if it's heavy--and particularly if it's Russian--well, then, I'm your girl.

Gift from my Mom

So when my mom, who is on the waiting list for every new Janet Evanovich and Dorothea Benton Frank novel, sends me something to read, I admit that I'm sometimes a bit cynical a total snob.  For instance, years ago when she sent me Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea (her go-to gift for anyone facing one of life's major turning points) with a lovely bookmark and handwritten note, I shelved the slender volume, unopened, in my guest bathroom.

Last month, however, when my book club finished The Aviator's Wife by Melanie Benjamin, I stood in the doorway of the guest bath and looked at the book I had exiled there. Was it true that Anne Morrow Lindbergh had run away from what the public thought was a charmed life in order to sort through and write down down her feelings about balancing the demands of marriage and motherhood with her own desires for intellectual stimulation, satisfying relationships, and self-fulfillment?  Was it true there were essays inside by a well-read, career-minded woman who, mid-life and mid-marriage, had trouble defining her place in the world?  How prescient.  How modern.  How… perfect for me.

My mom probably knew that all along.

I read chapter one and it knocked my socks off.  I read it again, barely able to digest all the lessons it contained, not sure if I had the capacity to absorb any additional truths recorded on the subsequent pages.  For someone whose daily spiral typically ends with has this prayer/mantra -- "Help me be satisfied with where I am, if I am where I'm supposed to be" -- this was indeed a gift.  For someone whose life in a landlocked state had become a little too metaphorical, Lindbergh's coastal reflections were both as penetrating and as stimulating as the salt air itself.

"Perhaps this is the most important thing
for me to take back from beach-living:
simply the memory that each cycle of the tide is valid; 
each cycle of the wave is valid;
each cycle of a relationship is valid."

I'm not sure I actually recognized how badly my pride desired validation -- for my choices, for the matters in which I feel I have no choice, and for the place I find myself as a result of the ebb and flow of those forces -- until that validation was proffered in a book that pride itself almost kept me from opening. As Alanis Morissette might write, "Isn't it ironic?"  Sometimes one has to be humble and patient and faithful in order to understand how remarkable the most difficult -- or perhaps the most banal -- moments of life can be.

"Hello, Mom?  It's me.  I just wanted to say I'm sorry… and thanks… again."

#SochiProblems

Even Nick, who is on neither Facebook nor Twitter, has heard about #SochiProblems. Unlike Justin Bieber's ill-advised use of eggs, I think journalists' living conditions in the Black Sea resort town for the next 17 days has evolved from humor to real news (or at least a good post-Superbowl topic for ESPN Radio). Nick's appalled. The ESPN commentators are appalled. Stephen Colbert is appalled.

Пансионат Солнечный (from all-hotels.ru)
I'm pretty sure this was my exact room,
minus the TV, rug, and throw pillows.

But here's the thing, folks. All this shock and awe inspired by your temporary Russian living conditions could have been avoided if you had just called me before your trip. I would have prepped you, or at least helped you reset your expectations.  Admittedly, it has been almost two decades since I lived in the "Sunny Holiday Hotel" in Zvenigorod and commuted into Moscow to do thesis research, but I'm sure some of the lessons still apply.

Rule #1: Stop being disappointed when things don't work. Instead, learn to be happy when things do.

Bathrooms -- Yes, the side-by-side toilet pics are hilarious, especially when the athletes bring their skis into the loo with them, but is that really such a big deal? There used to be a Pizza Hut in Charlotte, North Carolina, that had the same setup.  (It's now a sushi restaurant that I just cannot bring myself to try, but I digress.) Rule #2: Before going to Russia, rid your mind of any Platonic Ideal of a bathroom. The airplane lavatory on your flight over should help.

In our Sunny Holiday Hotel bathroom, there was no need for superfluous curtains or doors since the sink and shower both ran from the same water source. You toggled the flow to one or the other. Even better, the toilet had a lid, convenient if you wanted sit on it while under the shower, which rained down right over the potty and drained into a hole in the floor. Upon arrival, my roommate and I were a bit surprised by this arrangement, but before the end of our stay we declared the accommodations luxurious. The hotel was, after all, built by the communist party as a place to send their best workers on pre-appointed vacations.

Российская государственная библиотека
(from www.tripadvisor.com)

Other, grander places had different standards, of course. I spent many a day in the Russian State Library (formerly the V.I. Lenin Library), which houses one of the most dignified card catalogs in which I have ever had the pleasure of losing myself.  But a young woman can only spend so many hours in a reading room before she has to avail herself of the facilities. That same young woman should not be surprised when she opens the stall door (a stall door!) to find a simple hole in the floor, perhaps flanked by footpads.

Looking back, I can pinpoint the day my attitude about Russian bathrooms changed. My journal entry for that day reads, "It was a great day! There was toilet paper in the library WC!"

Oh, and one final word about the john. I'm sure you've seen the poster of disallowed toilet activities that has been making its way around cyberspace. While most people have commented on the "No Fishing" icon, it was the puking prohibition that caught my eye. If you feel nauseated, find another place to toss your cookies. My roommate chose the middle of Red Square. (Sorry, Nadya Blondinka. I couldn't resist.)

Water -- OK, so no one wants to see yellow (or any color for that matter) liquid flowing from the tap, but the warning not to drink Russian water existed long before Sochi got the Olympic bid. Here in the States we spend almost $12 billion dollars on bottled water annually.  I live at the foot of the  Rockies (which, according to Coors ads, means my water should be mountain-spring fresh) and still have two Brita pitchers in my fridge.  But suddenly you arrive in Sochi and are bummed you can drink from the faucet? Some of the pipes in St. Petersburg are actually as old as the city itself. Even in Zvenigorod, nestled in the countryside along the idyllic banks of the Moscow River, you follow Rule #3: Brush your teeth with bottled water and, if you run out, always boil or use water purifying tablets… or both. Or skip a brushing. My guess is that all five dentists would be OK with that.

Lack of curtain rods -- It's winter in Russia. Rule #4: Be thankful for all the Vitamin D you can get. Besides, it's not as if you were expecting blackout curtains, were you? See the picture of the room in Solnechny, above? In June, the light coming in through the window was just like that at both 5am and 10pm.  If you ever travel to Sochi in the summer, just be thankful it is almost 1,000 miles south of Moscow.

On a related note, for insomniacs, I highly recommend White Nights festival in St. Petersburg.

Project management -- "But NC," you may be thinking, "these people spent $51 billion and had seven years to get these hotels ready for us!" True, but remember Rule #5: Time flows at a different rate in Russia. Early one morning, in the Russian State Library, I took a stack of books to the copy desk and filled out a form to get duplicates made of chapters I would need once returning to the U.S. The young man behind the desk looked over my forms, held up one finger, and told me "час" (one hour). That seemed very reasonable, so I went back to my desk and read for a little while. When I again stepped up to the copy desk, the same librarian looked rather confused at my return. "час?" I asked him. "час," he corrected me. Ah yes, I reminded myself, час also means one o'clock. Which gave me plenty of time to take a deep breath, gather my belongings, and head over to The Shamrock Pub to watch a soccer match with some expat friends. I know you're there on assignment, but try to leave the maintenance problems behind and go enjoy some sports.

Empty Coca-Cola vending machines -- I'm pretty sure this just means Atlanta is no longer hosting the Olympics.

Mistranslated menus -- Yes, the dessert item "Cakes in ass." would be upsetting if you were hoping for "Assorted pastries."  Just as I'm sure you can understand my distress when I assumed that "Chocolate butter" was a mistranslation of "Fudge," purchased a sizable chunk, and took a large bite right out of the bag... only to find that it was indeed chocolate butter.

Rule #6: Don't eat large bites of plain chocolate butter.

Unpaved sidewalks / Open manholes -- Repeat after me: os-to-RO-zhno. Once again. Now shout it urgently: OSTOROZHNO! Rule #7: Learn this word. A "watch out" warning not only helps if someone is in danger of getting mauled by a bear, but it also comes in very handy if your fellow journo is about to step into the abyss because of walking while tweeting about #SochiProblems.

A genius diagnosis

"Hi. I'm Shef, and I'll be your genius today." Shef catches me looking closer at his ID badge and continues. "That's Shef, like the person who cooks your food in a restaurant, but with an S."

"Is Shef short for something?"

"Yes, but I can't tell you, because then I'd have to kill you."

I immediately liked my genius with the scruffy red beard and stretched lobe piercings. And liking my genius was important, because I was about to entrust him with my alter ego and her well-being.

"What seems to be the problem?" Shef asked.

I launched into detail with the royal we. "We're tired, I think. Sometimes, when we're doing too many things at once, we just shut down. Usually it's when we have a lot of stuff going on. There's no rhyme or reason as to why it happens. Sometimes all we've done is switch from one activity to another. Sometimes we're just trying to rearrange a few things. But without any warning, we just quit because we cannot do anything else without taking a moment to reboot."

To his credit, Shef pretended not to psychoanalyze me. I guess that's part of qualifying to be a genius.  ("Can you assess machines without also judging the user?") He pondered my description, admitted that this was a really unusual problem, and then suggested a few diagnostics we could try. I set my MacBook Pro on the counter and gave her a few gentle pats.

Shef first checked the issue log. "No issues in the last six days."

"Well, that's because I was supposed to come in on Monday, but I had to change the appointment because… Never mind. TMI.  Suffice it to say I haven't been at my desk much in the past six days. If you look back twelve-to-fourteen days, you should see records of my… I mean our issues."

Shef ran a preliminary diagnosis, and we got all green check marks. I vacillated between being proud of my Mac (we passed! highest marks!) and disappointed that there wasn't a specific diagnosis yet (maybe it's just stress? or all in my head?). Then he suggested we test the logic board. Not wanted to seem a luddite in front of my genius, I pretended that I knew what the logic board was and agreed that sounded like a good idea.

After a few moments of gray screens and spinning wheels…

"OK," says Shef. "Now we know what we're dealing with, so if you'll just sign here, I'll send this baby off to Houston for repairs."

Houston, we have a problem. (No, I didn't actually say that out loud. You're welcome, Shef.)

I walked out of the Apple Store, laptop-less and feeling a little naked and unbalanced. I decided to do a quick Google search (on my phone -- oh, the hardship!) to see just what was broken inside... of my Mac. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the logic board is just another name for what I grew up calling the motherboard.

Now, I myself have been known to take a metaphor too far, but really… the motherboard? The mother#@<%!~& motherboard. The base that provides ports and anchors all connections -- external and internal. The circuitry that creates ways for other components to communicate with one another. The backbone of the machine. That's what had failed?

I once read in Astrology in the Workplace (or something like that -- it was a manuscript someone sent my office to see if we would be interested in promoting the author and her work) that Libras, like yours truly, will work their @$$es off but then need a period to just rest and recharge. We give it our all for as long as possible, but we cannot handle stress for interminable periods of time. Balance is important. This is very true in my case, which I'm not sure makes me a Libra as much as it makes me a human.

And then I thought about a very wise friend -- a genius in her own field -- who consults and blogs on nutrition and well-being. (Check her out!) She has been on a self-care soapbox as of late. She emphasizes with her clients and her friends that taking a moment away from responsibilities it isn't an indulgence nor a cause for guilt. Instead, we need to view self-care the same way as we view eating veggies, exercising, or wearing a coat in the winter. It is a crucial form of preventative medicine and can keep us from having to schedule our own tests and diagnoses. Not to mention that when we practice our own self-care, we model for the important people in our lives -- significant other, children, parents, colleagues, friends.

I discussed this with my friend Becca, whom I met for a longer-than-usual laughter-filled lunch after my Genius Bar appointment. And I was about to explain this to Nick that evening after he returned home from a four-day conference, when he beat me to the punch. "How about if I take the kids tomorrow, and you get some time to yourself?"

I looked around at the Christmas decorations (half-taken-down), and the laundry (half-folded), and my father-in-law's insurance and tax papers (half-reviewed), and the research for my next writing project (half-read). And then I looked at the hole on my desk where my laptop would normally sit.

"OK," I said. "Thanks." Who am I to argue with both a genius and the stars?

Beginning again

1/1/2014 began with dog $#!%.

Stay with me on this. Over vacation, Nick and I have been taking turns getting up with the dog, Luna, since she is the only one in our family not taking full advantage of the lack of 1) alarm clocks and 2) obligations of work and school. Today was my day.

So I plodded down to the kitchen in my slipper socks (you may have noticed that wearing warm, fuzzy socks has now been mentioned twice in this blog -- Dumbledore and I have a lot in common in that regard), released the hound, and went about giving her breakfast. After that I pulled on a jacket, grabbed a couple of bags, and went outside to pick up poop. I've found it's much easier to collect when frozen (you're welcome), so first thing in the morning is a good time to clean the yard. Plus, B. is having friends over this afternoon, and the last thing I need is an 11-year-old stepping in (by then thawed) dog poop, not noticing, and tracking it through the house.

Yep, those were my first thoughts of the new year.  Nice, huh?

Somehow, I doubt I'm alone in this. Like waking up when you turn sixteen or twenty-one (or forty), when you know everything is supposed to be different but don't really feel much changed from the day before, waking up on New Year's Day can be a little anticlimactic. Especially at forty. Oh, have I mentioned that I recently turned forty? You begin the routine again. Another day, another few piles of poop to be picked up. The only real excitement is knowing that at some point you will write 2013 on a check and have a good laugh.

But then something happened. It began to snow. I swear to you, I had just put the bag-o'-crap in the dumpster and closed the back gate behind me when perfect little light and fluffy dots began floating down from a gray sky.

Selfie with snow and dog bowl

"Well, that's something new," I thought.

And it was. The fact is that there is something new every day, but sometimes I am so bogged down in the ordinary that I don't take any notice of the extraordinary. When I got back inside, this idea found reinforcement in the daily verse I receive via email. Paul reminds us that it isn't turning sixteen or twenty-one (or forty -- did I mention that I recently turned forty?) that guarantees a brand-new day. It is putting aside a worldly point of view (being over cluttered with the mundane) and living in Jesus's example of gratitude and grace (everything is refreshed). It is loving God and loving others, especially those who are unloveable, and remembering that the Golden Rule is the umbrella for all other rules.

Just then, Nick came downstairs. Neither of us had had our coffee yet, so the first thing he muttered was, "Is that your dog barking outside?"* 

Seriously?!  I thought. That's your lede on January 1? 

Um... I mean the 2013 me would have thought something like that. But since today is the opportunity to try something new, I summoned up all the pre-coffee love I could find and replied, "Happy New Year." We both smiled.  Wow, I guess a gentle answer turns away not only the wrath of others but also the inner wrath of a wife who resents that she had to get up first on a cold winter morning to scoop poop.

Last night at dinner I told my kids that my new year's resolution was to stop interrupting people. I've realized lately that what I used to think was a friendly gesture to help others find the right words when they are struggling to finish a sentence is really more indicative of my own impatience. And rude. And something I don't like when it's done to me. So I'm not going to do it anymore. But maybe that resolution can be a part of a greater mandate for 2014 -- to watch, listen, and recognize what's new (and quite possibly surprising) in daily life, in others, and through grace. Happy New Year.

*It was my (our) dog barking. She plays tetherball with herself and loves it so much that she makes noises like she's being beaten to death. There's no way the person whose turn it is to stay in bed could possibly sleep in through the ruckus. But it's adorable, as you can see here. #obnoxiouspuppymom

Size 10-12

After the email exchange that I posted on Friday, Nick and I decided that what we really wanted to accomplish on Saturday was a partial basement overhaul. This gave us each a task that was distinct (no bickering over how to progress or who does what!) yet in the same vicinity (togetherness!). So yesterday morning, we charged our eleven-year-old with making waffles, gave strict instructions on how to treat each other while we were out of earshot, granted permission for a little Wii U time, and then headed downstairs.

Nick tackled the boxes of tools (hand and power) that his father used to have in a basement workshop before moving out of their home of 40 years. This is a tough assignment, because every box has a memory within of something his dad no longer does -- either because he isn't physically capable or because he cannot find it within himself to try again.

As a professional artist, my father-in-law worked in two dimensions. He began his career at a greeting card company (where he met my mother-in-law) and finished it as a freelance illustrator working for Disney, Random House, Golden Books, and others. In his personal time, he worked in wood. He would see something he liked on paper and attempt to recreate it in 3D. Every year he carved at least one Santa Claus, a few of which were featured in woodcarving magazines. In the non-holiday seasons, he dabbled everything from folk figures to bookends to fancy boxes. Sometimes he would add a mechanical feature, like a magician's arm with a magnet that would reveal a different card when you moved it up than when you moved it down.



Eight years ago when we moved his dad from New Jersey to live with us, we set up a workshop in our walk-in attic, but he never once used it. Nick is still dealing with residual guilt.  (I've tried to tell him it's not his fault, but he was raised Catholic. I was raised Baptist. We're both very stingy about things like guilt.) Since then, his dad has moved to a retirement community, and all the wood shop stuff has moved into our basement. So Nick sorted countless chisels and saws and sanders and clamps and brushes and drill bits, as well as three boxes worth of interesting scraps of wood for our 9-year-old who loves to build toyscapes (including a skate park, complete with half-pipes, as a gift for our Elf-on-the-Shelf, Annie, whom I hadn't known was a skate rat.) 

Nick also stoically pieced together the carvings that had been battered and bruised over the course of three moves, each one a memory from the days when his dad was a younger version of the man he is today.

On the other side of the basement, I had my own project: dozens of buckets of clothes and shoes -- outgrown and to-be-grown-into -- that had been thrown into a back corner when the previous wearer changed sizes. Each needed to be gone through, sized, and sorted into piles for Goodwill, little brother, or younger niece. This is a permanent item on my to-do list.

Like the tools and carvings for Nick, so many of these items bring back very specific memories for me: outfits worn for school pictures (cute tops from when I remembered the day, t-shirts from when I didn't); an abundance of orange from B's second grade year because it was her teacher's favorite color; camp-logoed sweatpants she bought on day two because I didn't pack warm enough clothing for chilly mountain evenings; the last few sets of matching holiday outfits before they refused to wear them anymore.

I began to be overwhelmed with the transitions I could see, especially in the Size 10-12 stack that represents my daughter's 3rd-4th grade years. Although I cannot tell you the specific age or time of year that each of these transitions occurred (not only am I bad about keeping my basement organized, I'm also lousy at baby-book-esque recording), they were all there -- captured in the clothes I folded and stacked.

• The Girls on the Run t-shirts, which indicate not only the beginning of a wonderful team and character-building experience but also when she started developing what can now only be described as an obsessive love of running shorts. Seriously. She changes into them the moment she gets home, even when there's snow on the ground. Apparently running shorts and shearling boots are an acceptable combination.
• The end of soccer jerseys and the beginning of riding breeches. She now rides at least five times per week and competes in the spring and summer seasons. #barnmom
• The first pair of high heels, purchased for Halloween the year she decided to create her own costume and went as a "Sassy Witch."
• The evolution from pink as an acceptable color, to pink only being acceptable if there was a horse-themed graphic, to pink being in no way acceptable in any amount.
• An smattering of owls representing Athena and the year Annabeth from Percy Jackson replaced Hermione as her favorite literary heroine.
• A few dresses with the tags still on from when she declared herself no longer a dress-wearer. (Why would you when there are running shorts and shearling boots to be worn?)

The finished project

For the record, she's now eleven, in middle school, 5'3", and wears a women's size 4… and my shoes.

My younger kiddo is now in 3rd grade, and I anticipate that this will be the year his clothes begin to tell the story about the young man he will become. Will paint and glue splatters from countless art projects remain de rigueur? Will he continue to love lime green, his older sister's favorite color, or will he branch out on her own and declare another hue to represent her truest self? Will frogs and lizards continue to be acceptable graphics, or will they be replaced by a new favorite?

When the House Wren on my singing bird clock, a gift from my maternal grandmother, chirped 4:00, we came up for air and to locate our children. B, in her running shorts, was curled up and reading about Annabeth's adventures in the latest Rick Riordan novel. M was digging through the boxes of wood scraps and imagining what he could create.  A kennel for American Girl pets (speaking of hand-me-downs) seemed to be the frontrunner idea. For the time being, the younger versions of themselves seem like they'll stay for a while.