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.

An email exchange (or why I still love him after 20 years)

December 27, 2013 9:38am
To: NC
From: Nick
Subject: (No Subject)

Is there anything you would like to accomplish/do this week?


December 27, 2013 11:01am
To: Nick
From: NC
Subject: Re: (No Subject)

Lose 10 lbs. Become a better cook. Convince you to eat healthier. Find time to read aloud to our younger. Clean out every room in case we put the house on the market. Train the dog. Secure a few great post-vacation freelance projects to ensure January paycheck. Read 3-4 novels that I've been meaning to get to. See a couple of Golden Globe noms. Plan a fabulous vacation for just the two of us. Start working toward my PhD. Write Christmas thank you notes.

Or maybe just write thank you notes.


December 27, 2013 11:31am
To: NC
From: Nick
Subject: Re: Re: (No Subject)

Ambitious but doable. Might take longer than the week.

Boxing Day: A short and trite poem about a short and trite crisis

'Twas the day after Christmas and all through our pad
Are the remnants of presents from mom and from dad.
The stockings, still hung by the chimney but slack,
Now emptied of stuffers 'til Santa comes back.

My nine-year-old curled up and green in my bed --
Has been puking since dawn in jammies of red.
And I in my sock feet and Nick is... somewhere...
The barn, or the dog park? Just getting some air?

When from the back of my brain there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my laptop to see what was the matter.
What had I forgotten in my mental lapse?
Would the delicate balance of family collapse?

The list and the calendar, both kept with such care,
In attempt to keep sane. (Well, those and much prayer.)
Though what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an item that showed I was not in the clear.

I drew in my breath and re-checked the date,
Hoping and wishing it would not be too late
To get to the pharmacy and pick up a script
For my father-in-law -- 'twas on him I had slipped!

He lives by himself and does rather well,
But in matters of memory, he does not excel.
Nor will I, is my guess, when I'm eighty-two.
When it comes to prescriptions, he has quite a slew.

Parkinsonism and prostate inflated,
Peripheral neuropathy -- to these he is fated.
But still how we love him, and still how we hope
That he finds some relief and that we help him cope.

Now it is my job to keep his pills straight
And get them to him without any wait.
I sprang to my phone, to my hub gave a ring
And asked him, on his way home, by Costco to swing.

He said that he could, and my crisis was solved.
From my egg-noggy brain I would soon be absolved.
Poor dad would have his Tamsulosin, and still
I could stay with my child, so puny and ill.

Thank heavens for teamwork and pharmacist friends.
All's well once again as our panicking ends.
In truth we are lucky, despite all the hustling.
Gilda said it best:  It is just "always something."

We have access to drugs and for them we can pay;
That's a blessing we count on this Boxing Day.
Now you'll hear me exclaim, ere I take a vacation,
"Happy Christmas and peace to the Sandwich generation."