Renee's Ruminations

A Chance Encounter

2011-08-10T11:37:00.009-04:00

A few weeks ago we were dealing with a seemingly endless stretch of high humidity and even higher temperatures (rather unusual in the upper peninsula) which had sent us all indoors to air conditioners or kept us permanently entrenched at the beach. Finally, the temperature and humidity had come down some on Friday, allowing us to finally open windows and venture outdoors without fear of heat exhaustion. Clay had left for a weekend golf tournament and I am lying awake in bed, unaccustomed to the night noises after the steady drone of the air conditioner for so long.

I glance at the clock seeing it read after four in the morning, listening to the soft breeze rustle the leaves outside my window, and wonder what had woke me. The ceiling fan stirs the summer air around the room, and I get up deciding to check on Isabelle next door. I find her tangled in her white sheet, arms spread wide, bleached blonde hair a smear across her pillow in that carefree, puppy-like way that only children sleep. I do the mother-thing and place a light hand on her chest to feel her steady heartbeat strong inside her chest and place a kiss upon her forehead before slipping out the door of her room. For some reason I wander into the office, the furniture in shadow, as I step to the open window and look out on the front yard. And then I see her.

She is laying with her legs neatly tucked underneath her in the middle of my large flowerbed of myrtle, which encompasses six full size oaks. Like a queen on her dais she slowly lowers her delicate brown head to the lush green plants to nibbles off leaves and then raises it to survey the subdivision with her liquid black eyes. The doe's body is large and well-formed, paired with a graceful long neck, tapering into two elongated ears that are flickering back and forth, catching all of the tiny night noises. A slight gleam is coming off of her coat where it reflects the glare of the tall street light just slightly down the way.

I catch myself holding my breath, frozen in place, gazing at this lovely, wild creature which is such a common sight at my camp but more out of place, laying in my very public front yard. But these a.m. hours are a time when the human world and the animal one overlap and blur more easily .... when the neighbors we don't see venture out. And so a chance meeting.

Suddenly the doe shifts her gaze looking directly at the window I am standing in, and I realize I must have made some sound to give away my presence. We both look at one another for a full minute, not moving, before I back away and leave her. After all, this is her time. I crawl back into my bed, where the sheets feel slightly cooler against my skin, and doze off feeling somehow privileged to have met my nighttime visitor.

I Love Where I Live

2011-02-01T14:49:00.005-05:00

Now I know many of you think I am nuts, but I love where I live. By all accounts it is a miserable day by most people's standards ... 15 degrees outside, several inches of snow on the ground, and roads sloppy with slush and snow. Every car I see is covered with a combination of dirt, grime, salt, and grey snow, muting their shiny paint jobs into something nondescript and dismal. We all trudge through an inch or two of new fallen snow from last night which has yet to be shoveled, most with our chins tucked into collars of jackets. And the kids are bundled in head to toe snow gear for the playground at school.

It is the time of year when I cannot keep my kitchen floor clean because some foolhardy builder did not see fit to place a mudroom coming in off of the garage and so one enters my house directly onto said kitchen floor. Despite my best attempts to have my family remove shoes in the garage this does not always occur, and I continually wage war with the outside mess that comes with winter. This combines with having no ideal place to put all of the wet clothing a five year old inevitably will bring indoors and promptly fling all over. Sigh.

Nevertheless. I love where I live, and this was demonstrated to me again in various little ways today as I went about my weekly errands. Like driving next to Lake Michigan with all the rugged ice shacks dotting the frozen bay, fisherman already sitting snug inside, while big, fat white flakes swirled around in the sky. I will never get tired of that view. Or perhaps pulling into the store parking lot in time to see a gentleman rescue a woman from what would have been a nasty fall in the slippery parking lot, by quickly grabbing her arm. I shared a laugh with them as I got out of my car and exchanged a few quips about "skiing at Walmart" minus the hill. Later, as I pulled out of the same parking lot I watched as another man, who had just pulled in, got out of his car, walked over to another and proceeded to open the door of a neighboring truck. To steal it? No, to shut off the headlights which must have been left on by its owner. Smiling to myself I watched as he anonymously did his good deed, shut the door, and walked into the store.

It is these little acts of kindness that are all around me on a daily basis that I love the most about living here. The fact that when I walk around my grocery store I exchange "Good Mornings" with over a dozen people even though I don't know any of them by name because people are just that friendly. Or that I can teasingly argue with the guy who bags my groceries about the upcoming Packers/Steelers Superbowl game and half the people around us will join in on the conversation. It is a wonderful community and perhaps nicest of all it reminds you that despite all of the not so beautiful news we see and hear all too often in the media, most people are good-hearted, honest souls. And couldn't we all use that reminder every now and again?

Christmas Joy

2010-12-21T14:36:00.003-05:00

With only a few days left until Christmas I remarked to my father just last night that it was quite possible Isabelle's head might just explode right of off her shoulders from all of the excitement contained therein. The child has been something akin to a loaded stick of dynamite for the entire month of December, her little body a time bomb, bursting with enough positive energy, joy, enthusiasm, and Christmas mania to power a small city.

I have often thought if people who are sad around this time of year or live alone could just "rent" a kid for a couple of hours to remind them what a thrill it is this time of year before the big fat man arrives, then no one would be depressed. For instance, I just returned from my grocery shopping today armed with carrots, as my daughter requested, for after visiting with Santa at her school last week, she informed me the reindeer could not possibly eat anything else. Why you ask? "Because Mom, Santa said that candy and sugar will make the reindeer do loop-de-loops with the sleigh." (this said with a very serious and solemn face). So, this house will be leaving carrots out for the reindeer this year.

As another pocket on the advent calendar is opened, I try to remind myself not to let the days just slip by unnoticed, to not get lost in the business of wrapping and baking and rushing that comes with the holidays. All too soon this Christmas will be behind me and Isabelle will be another year older. Although, if Isabelle is like me at all, old St. Nick will always be magical to her, regardless of how grown-up she becomes. Merry Christmas everyone.

Painting

2010-10-11T15:32:00.005-04:00

My fall days have a certain rhythm and color to them. Blaze red is the dominant hue, fitting for fall, but for me the color of September and October because it is the shade of my kitchen cabinets in our camp, and I am in the process of finishing them. The base cabinets are installed and done, the countertop is ordered. The upper cabinets are scattered on the floor of my garage... six doors on saw horses, shiny with their third and final coat of semi-gloss Blaze red, the cabinet boxes sprawled around them like wounded soldiers, covered in their primer coat which is, funnily enough, pink. Next for them will come sanding, vacuuming, and three coats of red. And still, six more small doors, wait stacked in a corner as yet, untouched.

When Isabelle is in school I am there, brush in hand, radio perhaps playing in the background, watching the paint flow from the brush, back and forth in smooth motions, witnessing how the doors change from rough wood to something sleek and glossy. I like how the wood grain still shows through, letting you know that you can dress it up, but it is still going to be what it always was. Something solid to hold onto. Something that lasts like a memory. Hopefully, like our camp will be for our family.

I do not know what it is about painting, but it has always possessed a zen-like quality for me, even now when I am getting heartily sick of it, after painting all of the rooms, interior doors, and even a set of closet doors for camp this summer, it still quiets my mind. Perhaps because it is simple... at the end I look around and I see what I have accomplished. There is satisfaction in seeing what your hands have done. Perhaps because so much in this world is not black and white, done or not done. I relish the fact that in this instance I have an achievable goal, and even more wonderful, I know what the final product, the outcome, will be. So, I seek my solace in painting when all life's what if's and everything I cannot control become too much. For now, I will narrow my focus to painting the most beautiful blaze red upper kitchen cabinets anyone has even seen.

The Train

2010-09-09T14:34:00.006-04:00

There are train tracks that run not too far from our house and down the hill (what the entire local population calls the Bluff, for it is, actually, just that, which stretches all along the shore of Lake Michigan) from our little neighborhood. At the bottom of the Bluff is the rail yard where sometimes in the summer, when the windows are open you can hear the train cars clang together. Train whistles are common and, because of this often go unnoticed, even in the early morning hours, for as with anything you adjust to your surroundings.

Which is how I always know when I am more agitated or stressed or worried. I start hearing the train that comes through sometime during the 6:00 a.m. hour. Even when the windows are closed against the sudden chill of fall air, the sound pierces my slumber. The engineer has to blow his whistle at the one road crossing to warn any potential cars, and I swear he gives a shorter blast then typical on account of the early hour (as if apologetic to all of us still abed) and the very light traffic the road receives, but I awaken all the same.

Yet my mind is also like a freight train these days (heck, all summer) in keeping with our pace as we work on finishing the interior of our camp, attempting to stay afloat with all the day to day minutiae of running a household, and now with Isabelle starting kindergarten. My emotions have run the gamut that all parents do .... happy, proud, and a maybe a tiny bit sad to know one phase is over, but mostly anxious.... anxious because it is in my nature to worry and because I want her to above all be happy and content and to do well ..... what EVERY parent wants for his or her own child.

But we get on many new trains during the course of our lives so, we climbed on board our new one this week and Isabelle went off to elementary school and had a fantastic first day as we told her she would despite her own jitters. And despite my over-active mind, and the six a.m. train whistle I keep hearing I too, am going to enjoy this ride just like I have enjoyed all the others. Sometimes you just have to get used to the sound of the wheels on the tracks.

This and That and Everything Else

2010-08-09T18:35:00.006-04:00

Whoever invented the phrase "the lazy days of summer" has not been living my summer. Is it fall yet? Holy cow! Holy Whah! (That is Yooper phraseology for you clueless types) Holy Batman! ( I just like to say that one, and I have no idea why). In a whirlwind of mowing lawns, taking Isabelle to soccer, running errands, working on camp, painting various parts of camp, visiting family, going on play dates, cleaning house, teaching Isabelle to ride a bike with no training wheels (yes, big girl now!), going to the beach, and did I mention being a slave to working on camp? It has been an INSANELY busy, chaotic,summer. Mostly in a good way, mind you.

Camp is looking fantastic. We have walls.... and they are even painted now, thanks to me. We have a bathroom floor, a toilet that works, and beautiful red interior doors that are also installed. Today we had carpet laid in the bedrooms courtesy of a good friend. I am currently painting closet doors for the large bedroom, but it has been so hot and humid I have been dreading going in the garage to do more. We have had a few gatherings out there now with family and friends, and it has been wonderful and fun and makes us more excited for the future when we truly have it up and running.

Isabelle's soccer went well, although I think she was more into picking flowers in the field then being overly aggressive and going after the ball. Although, suddenly in the last two weeks or so something seemed to click with her, and she really started participating in the games more. Skill-wise she is very good and had strong ball control for a five year old. And hard to believe but we are not far away from the start of school. I already started getting her school supplies together and am checking what she needs as far as clothes for this year. Gulp!

I have mowed some serious lawn this year and have become quite adept at wielding the machine. My next house will not have such a big hill, I can tell you that! And a riding lawn mower would be appreciated, although my legs probably look better then they have in years, so I should not complain, right? In a cruel twist of irony we have had one of the rainiest summers in many years, so the grass is growing a ridiculous amount, making the lawn mowing outings very frequent..... too bad I do not get paid, huh?

We also sat for a professional family photo last week (just the three of us as well as my parents and my brother's family). This was no small undertaking, considering the large amount of adults in my family (myself and Clay included) who strongly dislike having our photo taken, but as it was a gift to celebrate my parent's 40th wedding anniversary we "sucked it up" and figured we had better get some shots of just the three of us as well, since the likelihood of us doing this again was slim at best. Of course, the most breath-taking shots were of the children (Isabelle and my niece and nephew) running on the beach at the end of our shoot. Holding hands, with pure joy etched across their faces, the sunlight glistening off their hair, our photographer, Jake, captured them forever in a stolen moment of bliss where the world was perfect. Years from now I wonder if they will look back at those photos and recall how that memory, that moment, felt. If they will remember? I hope so. Watching them, I know we all will.

So, here is to the "lazy days" of summer, insanity and all.

Mama Said There Would Be Days Like This

2010-06-22T14:10:00.006-04:00

Sometimes I think God must be up there in heaven just laughing his "you know what" off at my expense, as he watches me try to negotiate this path called motherhood. I recall begging, pleading, praying, and practically offering to sell my soul, if I could just have a child during those couple of years of trying and failing with pregnancies. So, it seems to me it must have been humorous to the big guy to be able to give us our most-spirited Isabelle and say, "You want a child so bad? Here you go! Let's see what you got!"

Not that my child is like the Devil Incarnate or something because such is not the case (and do not misundersatnd me, I would not trade her for any amount of money!) but she is definitely a kid we could all classify as .... more in the "challenging" category of child-rearing. (Either that or I truly am completely an idiot mother, perhaps a topic for another post, as on many days I feel like one). Ironically, most of the personality-traits that are driving me absolutely insane at the moment (stubbornness, strong-will, assertiveness,) will be assets as an adult. The problem lies in that they need to be paired with self-control and respect. And why is it, can please anyone tell me, that a child who has never been given anything EVER when she whines STILL continues to whine when she wants something, needs something, doesn't get her way, or in general is just not happy? Whining has not worked for five years! Does she think that now, suddenly in the midst of the fifth, I might finally break?!

But this is the life and the two sides of my five year old right now for better or worse. Example One: My darling daughter threw a mad, full-on tantrum over (wait for it) what sandals she could or could not wear on a bike ride through the neighborhood. (In case you are wondering a full tantrum these days consists of yelling, stomping feet, screaming, and lots of general unhappiness). However, pair this with the same child, who in the store shopping is a perfect angel, helping put groceries in the cart, smiling at customers, even telling one lady that she "liked her shirt" and wished they "made that shirt in kid size." As we walk away from the same woman, she whispers to me (rather loudly so the woman overhears), "Mommy, wasn't she pretty?" I answer in the affirmative, and as I turn out of the aisle, catch a glimpse of the woman grinning from ear to ear, and I know that Isabelle has just made her day.

Example Two: Isabelle has a rather explosive tantrum over putting on a new four-wheeler helmet (in front of all four grandparents, no less, and do not lose it people; the helmet is for riding WITH an adult on the four-wheeler) after which I am left questioning my parental skills. Picture red-face screaming hysterics like I am scarring the child for life because I asked her to try on a helmet and protect her skull from harm. Yet, ten minutes later she puts the helmet on of her own volition, and it is all okay. (Mind you, she NEVER would have put that helmet on if I had not forced the issue to begin with.... I have been down this road many times with my daughter. Even though I am certain I looked like some kind of evil Nazi dictator at the time!) A day later she suddenly decides it looks cool and is decorating it with her stickers. But again, pair this evil behavior with the same child, who on her field trip to Public Safety, was the only child in her class totally not shy around the police and fire fighters and according to her teachers said to one of the officers, "Thanks for keeping our world safe," and shook the officer's hand.

Yes, there you have it. On one hand, you have the tantrum-throwing, temper-flaring, cannot be reasoned with, near out of control child, who at times acts more like she is three rather then five. On the other, you have a well-spoken, polite and incredibly helpful and thoughtful child who seems to be every bit the five year old. If I did not know better I would say I had two identical twin girls or that I was in some weird version of the "Twilight Zone," but I digress.

So, what do I honestly take from Isabelle's extreme mood swings? That she is a schizophrenic? Possibly (ha, ha), but more likely she is just five, and while I am alternating between pride and exasperation, joy and frustration, laughter and tears at her antics, I try to remind myself, she too, is negotiating through her own still developing emotions, and they are a lot to handle. And part of my job is to teach her how to handle them. So, I ask God to swallow his chuckles as I fumble my way through this and grant me PATIENCE and GUIDANCE and perhaps still even more patience. Isabelle and I will both survive her childhood (I just might be in a padded room when all is said and done!).

Isabelle's Party

2010-06-18T14:45:00.003-04:00

While it may seem like it, I did not fall off the face of the earth (though it seems I am not alone in neglecting my blog, as many of my favorites have also not been updated in many weeks). No, true to form, summer mode has arrived and as I settle in, I find it difficult to spare a moment long enough to write or when I do I would quite frankly, rather be outside then on the computer. I suppose I need to revert back to carrying my journal around once more and use good old pen and paper.

Regardless, life found me last weekend hosting my first ever kids' birthday party as Isabelle officially turned five. Picture eight children invading my house in a flower/garden party theme, numerous adults, an abundance of food and gifts, and you get the idea. The weather was less then ideal but did manage to not rain us out. Therefore, we still did do our watering can game and our bug hunt outside, but we were forced to pot the marigolds I got for each child in the garage when it decided to start misting a light rain. Of course, in my mind I envisioned a sunny, glorious day with adults in lawn chairs and the kids spread out on a blanket while Isabelle opened her presents .... reality was them crammed into my too small upstairs living room. However, the flower cupcakes my mother made were adorable, the kids all seemed to have a great time and enjoyed getting to keep the watering cans, buckets, marigolds and bugs from the games they played, and despite the crazy stressing I put myself through, it all came out fine in the end.

When I tucked one exhausted daughter into bed that night she told me that she wished she could have a party just like that every day. Earlier, while zooming around on her new scooter from Grandma and Grandpa, she informed Clay that it was the "best day ever." So, I guess that sums it up for me right there. It was all worth it. After all, they are only little for so long and while some of this party craziness may seem like a hassle, it will not be long when I will be looking back on this fifth birthday with very fond memories.

On the Bright Side

2010-05-14T16:17:00.006-04:00

So, my Red Wings did not make it out of the second round of the playoffs this year. I get a lot of ribbing from certain guys within my acquaintance because I follow the Wings so closely (which, why is that by the way? Why are guys allowed to be crazy, rabid fans but girls are looked at weird or possessed if we are?) Like I am now supposed to be in mourning because they are not vying for Lord Stanley this year. So here is a news flash for those of you who STILL do not get it:

1. I am not a fair-weather fan. I am a life-long fan, always have been, which means I am loyal to my team regardless of whether they are winning the Cup or are in last place. It doesn't mean I will not occasionally get down on them or criticize their decisions or how they might play, but at the end of the day they are MY team, the organization I believe is the best, and the best class of hockey players, hands down.

2. This year I did not expect them to win the Cup. Honestly, I would have been surprised. And after the horrible season they had, plagued by injuries, I was thrilled with the run they mounted after the Olympic break to push them into the playoffs.

3. I am a fan of Red Wings and hockey, not a psychopath. Therefore, I will not, A) create a sacrificial alter in hopes of pleasing the hockey Gods, B) stick Voodoo pins in a little doll made to look like San Jose's Joe Pavelski or Sid Crosby (who needs to, after all when the Pens can blow it all by themselves!? Go Habs!) or, C) need to be checked into the mental ward if the Wings do not make it into the Stanley Cup finals every year. Just like the team will gear up for next season, so too will I!

On a final hockey note I will say I hope and pray that this is not the last I have seen of my beloved Nick Lidstrom in his number 5. To all of you doubters.... we have heard it all before, over and over, like when Yzerman and Shanahan left and what happened? Oh yeah, we won another Cup.... and year after year we are in the hunt and competitive and always fun to watch, which is more then you can say for a lot of teams. Besides, on the bright side .... knowing I do not have to watch whiny Crosby hoist the Cup this year.... I will enjoy watching the finals just fine! See ya next year Wings!

Bottled Lightning

2010-04-27T18:43:00.008-04:00

I do not have a sister. There are women in my life I am especially close to and they know who they are, but I do not suppose it is the same as having a sister. I am fortunate to be blessed with two lovely sisters-in-law (and, truly, I say fortunate because I actually LIKE and love my sisters-in-law, unlike many people I know) but I got to thinking about sisters this past weekend watching my daughter and her cousin, Anya, together.

Anya is newly six and Isabelle will be five in June. Both are darkish blonde, both fair-skinned, both fine-boned and of thinner builds. Both are strong-willed, dramatic, crazy and smart. Both are like bottled lightning, bright, beautiful, and difficult to keep contained for long. My brother and I watched our daughters for three days, holding hands, dressing the same, playing together, having their hair styled the same way, kissing them goodnight in the same bedroom, and laughingly calling them the twins. At one point I saw the girls throw their arms around each others necks while Anya held out a camera in front of their faces to immortalize the moment, and I thought, yes, freeze time right here, would you? It is so near perfect.

I love that they have each other, that somehow my child and my brother's look so similar that people could mistake them for sisters. I love that somehow even though they do not get to see each other more then every few months it seems like we live next door. I do not know what the future holds for their relationship .... the lives of teenage girls are full of many emotions and lots of changes, but I hope that the bond I see forming now between the two of them will somehow continue to thrive. Maybe sisters do not have to come from the same womb after all.

Hey, Hey, Hockeytown!

2010-04-08T10:45:00.005-04:00

Just a quick note for you non-hockey people (and how is that possible by the way? I mean, seriously, what is WRONG with you?). My Red Wings managed to pull off an amazing run after the Olympic break and are back in the Playoffs yet again and will be contending for Lord Stanley. Considering their injury-prone season this was no small feat,and I am so proud.

Now we simply await the last couple of games to see who the first round opponent will be, and I will try to contain myself to some degree. For this Wings fan though, I am just happy they are in the playoffs for the 19th consecutive season (the longest run in professional sports). No Fear, No Excuses, No Mercy, No Limits! Go Wings!

Simple Growth

2010-03-18T13:53:00.008-04:00

A few months back "Real Simple" magazine (the one magazine to which I hold a subscription, although I am guilty of grabbing a "People" off of the rack every now and again) asked its readers to write an essay on when they realized they were officially a grown-up. I've been pondering this question at odd moments ever since, as by most people's standards I am, indeed, an adult at this point, even if I somehow still find this surprising to myself.

But unlike, apparently, the thousands of people who wrote of specific humorous, poignant, monumental, or at the very least, telling moments, for me, nothing comes to mind as the so-called "light bulb" millisecond where I thought, "ah- ha!" I truly must be a grown-up now. The truth is somewhere in getting married and gaining a mortgage, raking the leaves and carting the groceries in from the garage, it might have happened. Or perhaps it was saying no to the door-to-door salesman, being called ma'am for the first time, scrubbing my own toilets, or cooking dinners for more then just myself. I might have grown-up during the thousandth load of laundry, in the middle of wrapping presents for an entire family Christmas after being personally responsible for all of the holiday shopping, or learning that when I am sick I am still required to be fully functional for my husband and daughter. I even suppose I could say I officially grew up when I figured out my husband and I will quite possibly never see eye to eye on certain issues, and at times we will not be each others favorite people but that this does not mean our marriage is headed for the proverbial "crap heap." I KNOW when I am old and gray he will be the one beside me, sitting on the porch of OUR camp, so I guess I must be in a grown-up relationship, right?

Honestly though I suppose the "I must be a grown-up moment" most likely occurred somewhere in the countless hours I have thus far logged being a mother. Maybe in the labor that would not end, in one of the early a.m. feedings when I somehow found myself in the glider rocker nursing Isabelle with no memory of having actually gotten out of bed to feed her. Or perhaps during, say the 12th hour of pacing the floor with a crying, screaming, will not be comforted no matter what, baby. And now I find myself in the last days of her preschool, and registering her for Kindergarten, with my nerves in knots and my heart in my throat at the thought of all that will face her in the big, scary albeit wonderful world that is school. I want her days to forever be candy and light, safe and secure with never a bad hour, a mean kid or a hurtful word said, even while recognizing the need for all experiences, including the not so great ones to become a well-rounded person. Does this make me a grown-up or just a parent?

So, no single defining moment. Life happens and I grew up. It goes on everyday. Real Simple.

Random Thoughts

2010-02-18T18:56:00.007-05:00

Wait.... wasn't that the name of a Saturday Night Live bit some years back? "Random Thoughts" by Jim or John Handy or some such?? Nope, it was "Deep Thoughts" by Jack Handy, right? Or maybe I am just losing my mind, which is probably closer to the truth. But the truth is I am still here, just busy and ... well, feeling scattered in my thoughts with too many varying ideas to put them into some kind of coherent thought-out blog entry. So, keeping that in mind here are my little nuggets of insight/wit/idiocy that I can offer up this month:

1. I do not recommend making-over two rooms simultaneously. As mentioned before we moved Isabelle into her big girl bed which necessitated switching up her room and the office/guest room. This basically involved destroying my upstairs for an extended period as I had to dismantle two rooms entirely and push furniture into the only other available room up there (our bedroom) and the hallway. Picture us climbing over furniture and wending our way around objects in an effort to find our bed at night, and if you had to use the bathroom during the wee hours of the dark it was a real adventure, usually involving a few swear words and stubbed toes. Painting two rooms back to back weekends was a fair amount of work as well, although it went relatively smoothly. And of course, following the family Peterson Law of averages, Isabelle's new bed did not go together in a, shall we say, "simple fashion" with its head and foot boards, so Clay had a few temper flare-ups which added to the festivities. All in all, a little more to handle then I had anticipated, but the end results are two new rooms that do look quite good if I do say so myself.

2. Thank god for the Olympics for they provide some good television to watch. I am so tired of the same old "stuff" and now that football season is over a girl needs more sports because all I have is...

3. Hockey. No, I have not forgotten my lovely Red Wing boys, although they are having one rough season, plagued by more injuries then any team in the NHL and serious injuries mind you. With all the things that have gone wrong for them one would almost think they had some kind of voodoo curse hanging over their heads. Yet somehow they are still lingering near the all important cutoff point to make it into the NHL playoffs going into the Olympic break, and now that they are finally getting healthy, people would be wrong to count them out just yet. Remember, they have the longest running consecutive playoff appearance record of any team in professional sports. And, they have managed to stay alive basically by fielding a team from their Grand Rapids crew and with a rookie in goal. A rookie named Jimmy Howard, who in my opinion has earned the right to be THE goalie from here on out and into the playoffs. Also, watch out for Team Sweden in the Olympics everyone (lots of my Wings are Swedes!!)

4. It is possible for my daughter to never stop talking from the time we leave my garage until the time we pull into the church parking lot of her preschool. This drive typically takes me fifteen minutes, and I swear to you the child does not take more then two breaths the entire time. The other day I felt like I was caught in a giant run-on sentence set on hyper-drive and after I dropped her off I got back in the car and sat still listening to the silence and just laughing to myself. Isabelle's energy level could power small countries. It goes something like this..."Do you see the train on the bridge? I want to ride Thomas again sometime. Oh, no! Thomas is in trouble! We have to rescue him! He fell off the track. Lets push him back on, help me Mommy! PUSH! PUSH! Good, we saved him! Uh oh! Its, Maleficent! (the evil fairy in Sleeping Beauty for those of you not up to date on fairy tales.... Isabelle's favorite evil villain who is a frequent guest in her imaginary play). Drive faster, Mommy. She has a bomb! I am going to call Prince Phillip to take care of it. Phillip! Can you take care of the bomb for us? I don't have time. I have to go to school now. Look Mom, an octagon! There are lots of shapes aren't there? What shape is that sign? Look an oval! Mom, did you see that puppy? Wasn't he cute? Mom, we need to get to school on time because Miss Tracey said it is my job to hand out the sit-upons. I hope we won't be late. Look a square!" You get my point.

5. Cheese Its are the best snack food in the entire universe. Just the original red box, not reduced fat, not any jazzed up flavor, just original Cheese Its. You must always have a box on hand as well as a back up just in case the first one goes empty. It is probably in my family's DNA as my mother also seems to possess a similar desire for the cheese cracker. Get your own box!

6. Never let your husband answer a door to a salesperson. Kirby vacuum cleaners paid us a visit the other day and like an organized mob hit they swooped in on Clay, stuffed a free bottle of Spic n' Span cleaner into his hand and "Boom!" were in the door. Clay wasted the next 45 minutes of his life listening to a long sales pitch from this woman who told him the machine was only 2195, neglecting to mention, of course, that the decimal point in that price did not come after the one. It took forever for him to get rid of her. Rule number one and two to all of you husbands, always say NO and NEVER, EVER let them in the house.

7. Anyone telling me I look nice, whether it is my daughter or some guy old enough to be my grandfather, always boosts me up and makes me feel better. Does that make me fragile in my self-esteem and desperate for an affirmation on my appearance or just normal in that I like a compliment? ( I suppose if you are someone like Heidi Klum you would hear them all the time and it would mean less, right? Or is it the same for all?).

8. I want to be my cat, Mindy for a day and see what it is like to essentially sleep for almost 16 hours, eat, bathe, and get petted.

9. Get off your lazy butt and remove the snow from your car BEFORE driving down the highway. I was behind some schmuck the other day when a rather large sheet of snow dislodged from their hood and proceeded to take flight over their car and land like a two ton boulder on my windshield, temporarily blinding me, and startling the sh-- out of me, before breaking into smaller pieces and falling off of my car in a watery mess, all at 60 or so miles an hour. What if I had flipped out and swerved and caused an accident? As it was it caused Isabelle to scream and yell, "Mommy what was that?!" and I was left to try and calm my freaked out child.

10. No child will ever walk around a puddle when they have the option to splash through it as evidenced by my walk with Isabelle on Friday. Thank goodness for waterproof boots but the jeans were thoroughly soaked.

11. How cool is it that I live somewhere that I can go and watch sled dogs race? I watched the finish of the UP 200 this past Sunday, and while it was not even close to my first time it still is one of the great events to turn out for every winter here in the upper peninsula. A truly unique experience on what turned out to be a gorgeous day on the shores of Superior, reminding me yet again what a beautiful place I live in.

12. I could go on and on, but I will end for now so that I can actually post a blog entry!

Sonata

2010-01-27T14:07:00.007-05:00

As my roller covered the last of the minty green paint I could not help but recall when I had first chosen the color for Isabelle's baby room. I was so thrilled to be planning her room ... to be making it "just so." It was bright and cheerful, and hopeful and happy, exactly how I felt... exactly what I hoped Isabelle would feel in her room. Now, here I was years later saying good-bye to it with a much more subdued shade, something called "earthy cane." Isabelle's baby room was becoming our office, and we were moving Isabelle into the larger room next door to accommodate the full bed she was getting moved into .... no more toddler bed for the big girl. Frankly, she was long overdue to be out of it and we had simply put it off in the hopes that perhaps we would sell the house before necessitating switching rooms. No such luck.

So, here I was painting over the first of many stages. I would be lying to say I did not feel a slight twinge at the thought of her growing up and leaving behind that baby room. Seeing Isabelle that first evening tucked into her "big bed," so proud of all her space and multiple pillows with room for Mindy, our cat to join her if she wanted, I realized how quickly time goes. I glanced around the space and suddenly could envision it a few more years down the road with posters on the walls, school books scattered on the floor, nail polish bottles on the dresser, and clothes draped over the foot board of the bed. What color would the walls be then?

This weekend I will paint Isabelle's new bedroom the color of her choice, a robin's egg's blue. A lovely, calm, serene color that makes you dream of summer days and sail boats on a lazy lake. The store called the color, in a rather grand fashion, "sonata." However, I kind of like the name as a sonata can be a rather complicated musical composition in that it contains three to four independent movements that vary in key, mood, and tempo .... much like my beautiful daughter herself. Each movement is like a stage, separate and yet connected in theme to the whole. Yes, the color is perfect, very Isabelle. I got to pick the first time around but from here on out it will be Isabelle's choice every time we redo her room. After all, this is her life to live, her musical composition to write, her sonata.

My Relationship with Chicken Little

2010-01-18T11:36:00.005-05:00

It happens sometimes. Inevitably it will come in the night as I lie in the dark wrapped in my blankets, cocooned in the shadows of my bedroom, listening to the deep, even breaths of my husband next to me, the rare car going by on the road outside, or the familiar creaks of my house. Its, the WORRY. And it doesn't have to be any particular, specific worry, mind you. It can be any of a host of them.... from money, to health, to relationships, to the all too familiar worry of child-raising. Even worry about some of my own goals that I would still like to achieve. Goals, that as a mother, you all too often set aside for a time, to make room for your families more pressing needs.

The worry will creep its way in, form a nice solid lump in my throat and leave me wide awake for a few hours before my exhausted mind is finally able to shake it off enough to drift into some semblance of a rest. And why? By all accounts, I lead a perfectly blessed life with much to be thankful for, and I closed out 2009 thinking essentially that. And perhaps that is precisely why in the small hours of the night I get these occasional worry attacks ..... because I am waiting for the "bottom to fall out." I look around at what some families, some people go through and frankly, I harbor almost a sense of guilt for our stability and security. Ultimately our biggest worry always comes down to a loved one being harmed or getting sick, doesn't it? And it takes on a whole new level as a parent.... the worry could swallow you whole if you let it. It makes me pray all the harder for the continued health and happiness of those I love as if I might have a time limit on my luck. Ridiculous, I know, but I come from a long line of worriers, and at times I think I could raise it to an art form.

Of course, common sense (usually) prevails, and I recognize my worry won't really get me anywhere (other then to drive me a little crazy). Plus, walking through life like your own personal version of "Chicken Little" waiting for the sky to fall is no way to live either. So, I do my best to stifle that worry gene of mine, swallow my "Chicken Little" moments and remember that with every new year comes new possibilities for relationships, goals, and the myriad of other tasks we all set for ourselves. So, lets see what 2010 brings.

Famous Mommy

2009-12-21T14:51:00.004-05:00

I will never be famous. I will never be some big time career lady who does power lunches (whatever those are), and I am certainly not one of those women who people look at and think "how does she do it?" In a world where we are all too often defined by what we do for a living, the ego of a stay-at-home mom can take a beating. This is all to apparent at social events where inevitably the question arises, "And what do you do?" My response is most commonly met with a polite dismissal, a few comments about how he or she could never stay at home followed by an exit to refill a drink or greet someone else (as if they could not conceive of having anything in common with someone who does not "work.")

Of course, I am stereotyping. Not all people are like this, although sadly there is still a huge problem with a person's job title being equated with what their somehow worth. And when you are a mom, especially one who stays home, you find yourself still fighting that, even though you know better. I continually feel like I need to justify myself to people, prove to them I am not some sloth-like person who is just too lazy to have a "real job." (Never mind that my real job, which I do not get paid for, could kick most of their asses on any given day). I find myself wanting the validation though, and since I do not get something concrete like a paycheck this can at times be hard to come by. Then I have to remind myself once more it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks or believes... I know the truth.

The truth is:

I wanted to be the one to kiss every injury and wipe every tear. I wanted to make the lunches and give the baths, and read the books, and play dolls, and restaurant, and fix her hair and help her get dressed, and tuck her in at night, and sing her songs, and take her to school. I even wanted to be the one to deal with her tantrums, and discipline her and teach her wrong from right because that is part of being a parent too.

No, I am not famous, but today I took my daughter sledding. Every time she reached the bottom of the hill in a spray of snow with a grin big enough to rival the Joker on Batman and every time she would yell, "Again!" And I could nod agreement and smile right back and say, "Again" too, because being a mom IS my job title and I didn't have to be anywhere else. Later we came in and baked Christmas cookies together in my kitchen, her little body pressed next to mine on her stool, rolling the balls of dough through the granulated sugar. No, I'm not famous, but in the eyes of my daughter, I am a rock star and that is more than enough for me.

Christmas Without Her

2009-12-03T13:59:00.005-05:00

It was at about this same time last year when I kept thinking I saw her. Out of the corner of my eye I would get a glimpse but when I would turn ... nothing. Yesterday it happened again while I was perusing the Christmas isles at a local store. Something in the curve of the woman's small-boned shoulder and the tiny, impractical slipper-like ballet shoes she was wearing despite the cool December air, momentarily tricked my brain into believing my Grandmother was a mere few feet from me. But, of course, she wasn't, and when the second passed, along with its little bit of magic, the elderly woman, feeling my eyes on her, glanced over. I offered up a half-smile, hastily returned the forgotten ornament I clutched in my hand to its hook and fled the store, completely shaken.

I suppose it is only natural that my mind would conjure up thoughts of Grandma Elaine so frequently come Christmastime. After all, every Christmas day was spent at her house as a child, and some of my best holiday memories were made there... ALWAYS with Grandma as the central figure. I still remember the family opening presents from each other after dinner (which tended to be a chaotic affair .... picture a huge circle of chairs....aunts, uncles and a gang of my cousins all tearing into gifts and you get the idea) and Grandma and Grandpa sitting, watching it all with huge grins on their faces. Looking back now I am sure I have idealized it some, but truthfully, it was pretty ideal.

Last Christmas I cried when my first holiday card came in the mail and with it the realization that no longer would I receive one from my Grandmother. This week (after sudden inspiration) I dug in my hope chest and pulled out a bag of cherished cards I have saved over the years given to me by loved ones. Sure enough several of the cards were from her. For some reason it was comforting to see her signature there on the paper, still declaring her love.

Grandpa spent this past Christmas without my Grandma. This year they will not be apart. And as I decorate my house, bake my holiday cookies, write out my Christmas cards, wrap my gifts, and read Christmas stories to Isabelle, I know my mind will turn to them both again and again. And that's okay because as I am making my new traditions I want to also remember to embrace the old ones and weave them into this family tapestry for Isabelle. Then, with any luck, maybe someday, she too, will look back on parts of her childhood as "pretty ideal." Merry Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa.

Exhaustion

2009-11-20T10:48:00.004-05:00

Here's the thing: I am tired. I think perhaps more tired then I have ever been in my entire life. Even more so then in those first months with Isabelle when she was doing the non-stop crying/screaming bit. More tired then during those two years of graduate school when I had insomnia so bad that I would find myself scrubbing my apartment toilet at three o'clock in the morning to kill time or downing something like nine cans of caffeine-laden soda a day to maintain some level of consciousness through my evening class. Today, I am the kind of tired where I would like to curl up on the couch and cry for no obvious reason.

Why, you ask? I have been asking myself the same question. I guess it would all come down to this year, 2009. This has been a year of work. Not that all years are not in some form, but this year it is a main theme .....working on camp is the big one which overshadows everything, and at this point I can safely say it is catching up. I know Clay would say, if it is catching up with anyone it should be him, as he is the one who is putting in all the hours out there. And he is right.... he puts in long hours at the office and then has been going out to camp in the evenings or on the weekends to work on projects. I help when I can but, naturally, having Isabelle a lot of the wiring, plumbing etc. falls to him. Plus, the days are so short right now that it is practically dark when he gets home from work.

But inevitably if he is at camp then I am here, "holding down the fort," not just sitting around getting a manicure (which I have never had done by the way..... I have had one professional pedicure in my life). This means a lot of evenings flying solo with Isabelle (after some long days with Isabelle! some great and some..... not so much). Suffice it so say this fourth year of her life has been a rather challenging one in the behavior department, definitely putting in my work there. Also, with Clay at camp so much, it has meant me picking up a lot (okay, all) of the yard work this fall. While this might not seem like a huge undertaking to some, let me remind you I have a rather large yard surrounded and filled by massive oak trees which involves enough raking to keep a small prison crew busy for an extended period of time. So the yard, in addition to the regular cleaning of the interior of the house, plus the errands, and, of course, Isabelle and all the other billions of little things one must accomplish everyday, like all the impending Christmas shopping..... you get the idea.

And now my daughter is going through an especially bad phase of behavior at nighttime. It seems she just would rather not sleep, and if she is awake she feels I should be too, so she devises various excuses (also include yelling, tantrums, and faking illness) to get me out of bed, none of which are any good, all of which make me mad, crabby and, in general, not pleasant. This is simply multiplied by the fact that Isabelle is then tired during the day (from not sleeping!!!) and is whining and clingy and I am suddenly finding myself understanding why some species eat their young. Sigh.

SO........ here I am in my seemingly never-ending cycle of exhaustion, clinging to these few thoughts. One, I am fairly certain I am done raking for the year as the oaks have finally dropped their last round of leaves and after more hours of work then I would care to calculate I think all that remains is for me to winterize (protect for you people who do not get buried in snow) several bushes. This means my aching hands can finally put that damn rake down. Two, after last night, Isabelle's game playing is at an end as this Momma Bear has more then reached her limit, and three, 2009 is almost over with and perhaps if I can just get to 2010 maybe I can find some time to get a little rest. Either that or I will just invest in a good pair of ear plugs.

Meant To Be

2009-11-11T12:49:00.004-05:00

It occurred to me last night how different our lives might look if some other choices had been made or perhaps if our path had led us somewhere else. I was putting Isabelle's Halloween pictures into an already bulging photo album, surrounded on the couch by three other albums, all full of Isabelle (it took me a bit to find which one I was currently filling. Hey, don't pick on me too bad.... at least I am keeping up with filling albums). There were even more albums of her still put away, and I had to laugh to myself since the kid is not even five, and she has more photo albums at this point then Clay and I do as a couple, and we've been married almost ten years and together for nearly thirteen. If I got into the countless photos of her left unprinted on "Shutterfly" the number would be staggering.

But my thoughts weren't about pictures. They were about how this one little person, who was then currently playing the billionth round of "Pretty, Pretty Princess" with her father, had so thoroughly and completely taken over our lives...and not in a bad way. I watched Clay spin the pink, plastic spinner, move his princess playing piece and dutifully pick up his blue earring and clip it on his lobe to which Isabelle cried, "Mommy, look at Daddy!" Clay didn't even flinch, just gave me a slight lopsided grin. Who else would my tough guy husband do this for? Simply put: No one but his daughter. What did we used to do on Halloween before we had Isabelle? What did we do on an evening like this? It must have seemed empty, and looking back and recalling how badly we wanted a baby, how much it hurt when we lost them, I know it was.

As is typically the case, my child has a way of summing it all up like no one else. I give you the following anecdote:

Last weekend I was driving to my parents. Isabelle was in the back keeping up her running dialogue, telling me about school, her friends, songs, making up stories for me, and asking me how to spell.... well..... everything. But I loved it. So I told her so and that I was so glad she was my daughter because I would be lonely without her. Her vivacious eyes met mine in the rear view mirror and Isabelle stated very matter-of-factly, "Yup, God thought you'd like me." Blinking back the sudden tears that pricked my eyes and smiling a huge grin at her, I could not help but think, Wow, did he ever get that one right.

Pausing

2009-10-21T18:42:00.004-04:00

Having finished my errands around town, I had a few extra minutes to kill before picking up Isabelle from preschool today, so I drove down to Ludington park in Escanaba and pulled into one of the parking spots overlooking the bay. Lake Michigan was doing its best impression of one of its sisters, Lake Superior, spitting forth large, angry slate-colored waves that rocked and pitched in no real discernible pattern, tossing white spray into the air. The rain continued to beat down upon my windshield obscuring the view and a low cloud bank and mist made it difficult to even see the smoke stacks of the paper mill across the water, let alone the other side of the bay. The wind tore at the trees and shrubs along the shore, ripping the colored leaves off soaked branches and plastering them to the pavement of the sidewalk.

Inside the cocoon of my car I listened to the wind and the crash of the waves, watching the force of nature around me, feeling the dark sky pressing down above me, as if it did not realize it was the middle of the afternoon. I found myself wondering how many others sat looking out on this lake at this moment scattered around the shoreline. It certainly was not a typical day to admire the scenery, for on days when the sun was shining one could drive down to this spot and be met with a dozen cars. Now, glancing on either side of me I noticed two other drivers parked in my vicinity, keeping watch. Were their others like us in Traverse City perhaps? St. Ignace? Or at countless other roadside turnouts?

A lone seagull stood defiantly on the sidewalk outside my car, facing into the wind towards the lake, head hunched down into his body like a football player in full pads. Like us, he seemed to be watching. Did he find it beautiful, this ever changing lake, as I do, even on a day like today? I don't know, but I think all of us (seagulls or humans) would benefit by just stopping for ten minutes every now and again. To take a pause in our action to watch the action of the lake.

Balancing Act

2009-10-12T13:52:00.010-04:00

I have this mental picture of myself sometimes, standing with my feet hip-width apart, wearing some kind of sturdy, comfortable shoe (maybe my Merrells, something I can wear a long time without my feet getting tired), my arms out either side of me, palms raised and holding ..... everything. And by everything I mean all the stuff in life that comes our way as women, that as women, we are expected to juggle, handle, deal with, manage, accomplish, complete, and most importantly of all, BALANCE. And I am not just talking the mundane tasks we are faced with, but the more important balancing act of trying to keep family time, couple time, personal time and even certain social obligations all on a level playing field. (You ladies know what I am talking about).

Above all else, it is the balance part in my life with which I struggle the most, and I am sure I am not alone. I think my foundation is solid; I have good intentions (back to my Merrells, love both pairs) but inevitably I always feel like I am not quite getting it right, my balance is off, one arm, one hand, is always holding more than the other. I think I am always letting someone down whether it is myself, my husband, my extended family, or even worse my daughter. For instance, I know Clay and I do not devote enough time to our relationship as a couple, but then again I would love you to introduce me to any parents of a four year old who does.

And finding some kind of balance with time for myself? As any mother knows you forgo the right to have time for yourself until at least, what? The child's eighteenth birthday? I thought of that last Friday night at about 9:30 in the evening as I found myself crouched behind my downstairs toilet finishing the last bit of painting around the plumbing in the back. Did painting my bathroom by myself qualify as "me" time? Or how about actually getting to use the bathroom by myself without a kid or a cat barging in? Is that finding time for myself? I suppose this time writing is the one thing I can say I do totally for my own sake (never mind the fact that I am also folding a load of laundry in between sentences).

Then there is my time with Isabelle. So much of my day with her is spent cleaning the house or running errands, making dinner, and I catch myself asking am I "balancing" this out with enough so-called quality time reading books or doing an activity which focuses solely on her? Has she watched too much television? Should I have taken her outside more today? Has she seen her grandparents enough? Come to think of it, have we seen enough of our extended families lately or are they feeling neglected because we have been so busy with our camp project? All of these little items course through my brain, me mentally attempting to weight them. I tie myself in knots and my arms in my little mental picture start to feel like they are holding two fifty pound cinderblocks.

Of course, the truly insane part in all of this is to think I can balance it all anyways because ultimately it isn't up to me. As much as I always try and want to make everyone content, I am not personally responsible for each individual family member's happiness... they are. As for the balancing act? All I can do is the best I can do. Today that meant staying home and reading books to Isabelle, doing a load of laundry, carving out thirty minutes of time (for myself) on the treadmill, digging up crock pot meatball recipes on the Internet, and even starting my Christmas shopping. And now I think I might just head downstairs to watch Monday night football with my husband. Maybe we can just find a few minutes of couple time after all.

Sweet Home Alabama

2009-10-05T14:13:00.003-04:00

Isabelle and I drove out to camp on Sunday afternoon to bring the guys lunch. Clay and our good friends, Len and Mark were having a "plumbing party" and installing the necessary pipes that will go into camp for the bathroom, kitchen and sewer. Eventually even a stackable washer and dryer for yours truly (yes, this will not be your basic, rustic yooper camp, boys and girls).

It was one of those fall days where the weather could not decide what to do with itself. Giant blue/black clouds stacked on top of one another would occassionally mist down rain, only to allow sunshine to break through mere seconds later, but then a very cold wind would blow red, brown leaves across the hood of the Commander. Only days since the loss of our beloved cat it was no surprise to me when Isabelle told me she could see Nib up in heaven as she gazed up at those same enormous clouds. I once more had to reassure her that God would not let her beloved kitty fall from up above and that if he was busy then I was sure great grandma or great grandpa would be only too happy to look after him for us. It was with some relief that I pulled into sight of the beautiful distraction of our camp.

I was pleased to find the men nearly finished with their project after a steady mornings work and in no time we were grilling hot dogs and brats, munching on chips, and having a few beers to celebrate yet another phase in the Peterson project. It was as the guys were standing on the front porch (doing their male-bonding as men do) while the meat sizzled on the grill and I was sweeping up some of the mess (and happy to do so after their hard work) that I finally started to breathe. I know you are wondering what I mean, but for the last few days it had been a bit of a struggle to just be normal and not let Isabelle see how truly upset I was about Nib and I was just tense and tired and .... sad.

Then a funny thing happened. Life went on. I remember looking out our window at the beautiful expanse of field starting to turn gold, Clay, Len, and Mark leaning against the porch, casually holding their drinks and sharing a laugh and then Isabelle running in the door to me as Lynyrd Skynyrd's 1974 classic, "Sweet Home Alabama" started to play on the radio. As its unmistakable sound filled the cabin, I spontaneously told her to turn it up and I dropped my broom. We danced around the scraps of pipe and in the sawdust on the floor. I told Isabelle to show me her moves, watching my four year old swivel her hips and shake her "booty" and could not help but laugh. I put my arms in the air and spun around, shaking my own hips, grabbing my daughter's hand and twirling her around me, finding the lyrics of the song on my tongue. I felt myself smile, my heart beat, my lungs breathe in air, and it was good to be alive, in this place, in this moment, with these people.

Do I still feel sad? Sure, and I will probably grieve the loss of my cat like some people do the loss of a family member because for me he was. But life goes on and sometimes all you really need to get you moving again, get you out of your funk and remind you that you are okay, is a really good song.

My Lost Boy Goes Home

2009-10-02T13:48:00.003-04:00

I said my final good-bye today to my lost boy, my Nib. I named him Nib after one of the lost boys in Peter Pan .... after all, it seemed appropriate, as he came to us all those years ago when I still worked in the vet clinic, and he was found with no mother. A former client had come upon him and his two kitten siblings at the town dump, abandoned, and that was it. I fell in love.

He was dubbed "Twinkie" as a kitten, and considering how incredibly fat he became we probably should have stuck with that name. With his orange tabby coat he was the classic Garfield and as an adult we called him "Fat Boy" as often as Nib. Over his seven all to brief years with us he brought so much joy, love, stupidity, and laughter to this house that I could write twenty pages and not even scratch the surface. As a kitten he had a fondness for sleeping on my head at night (as his weight increased this became an obvious problem), he would greet you at the door like a dog, let you hold him like a baby, lay flat on his back so you could rub his very large belly, tuck his head under your chin in the evening when reclining on the couch, purring his loudest purr just so you could be absolutely sure you knew how content he really was, wrestle with his fellow cat friend, Mindy, attempt to trip Clay when lifting weights, and could always be counted on to keep you company in the bathroom.

Nib was also one of Isabelle's best friends. In the morning when she comes and lays in bed with me while Clay gets ready for work, Nib would join us in bed, but cuddle up and lay on Isabelle, her giggling and pushing her face into his. She would frequently lay with him on the living room floor using him as her pillow or brush him with his cat brush and they had a fondness for sitting together on Clay's chair, Nib in her lap while she watched her Saturday morning cartoons.

With his beautiful, loving heart it was so difficult to say farewell, but even more difficult to watch his steady decline over the last few days. Nib's sad start in life coupled with some poor genetics (he already outlived both his siblings) more then likely contributed to his on-going problems and the only outcome we could ultimately have.

Put simply I could not watch him suffer anymore, not when I could stop it, and not when he had loved me so much and so well. So, I stayed with him at the end and stroked and kissed his head and told him what a great boy he was and how much I loved him. And I said good-bye.

There are people who will not understand this grief, this heart-wrenching, sobbing grief, for what they see as a small, insignificant animal. For them I say, I am sorry. I am sorry, you have never known what it is like to be loved so fully by such an innocent creature or to make that connection, that bond with something not of your ilk. The truth is, you do not have to understand. My darling cat was a loving, beautiful soul and I will miss him terribly. Good-bye, my Nib.

Ding Dong, The Snakes are Gone

2009-09-16T15:49:00.002-04:00

Or should I say dead? Yeah. For those of you not up to date on our snaky soap opera at camp feel free to read up on the two older posts on the subject. For everyone else:

Clay and our excavator, Jeff headed out to camp yesterday and proceeded to dig up the existing well and install the new culvert. My father-in-law stood by with camera and (yes) a weapon of his choosing. What followed was scoop upon scoop of dirt, stone, and you guessed it, snakes. Clay said at times the bucket was full of writhing bodies. (Ugh.) There were easily twenty plus snakes inside the well not counting the ones that have already been killed in the weeks leading up to us ultimately destroying their home. The largest were measuring around five feet with the average being about three, and they were literally everywhere, in the dirt, in the stone, falling out of the bucket, and swimming in the water at the bottom where it had not been drained.

When all was said and done a beautiful, clean concrete culvert, complete with a ladder on the inside was buried vertically in the ground, and already filled back up with water and, most importantly no snakes. A sealed cap will rest on top. Sadly, the stones from the old well were too badly damaged in the digging and could not be salvaged amongst all the debris and dirt and snakes. I was hoping to use them for something since they date back to Clay's great-great grandfather (at least). The pictures told the tale, and as I perused them last night on our digital camera, my first thought was that we can never show them to Clay's mom, as she will have nightmares for the rest of her life.

But my second thought is here is yet another story to add to the list of memories we are already accruing for our camp. And believe it or not I will add some of these pictures to the scrap book of building shots because they are part of it too. Besides years from now when we are all sitting around the gas stove in camp after a little too much alcohol, someone will start referencing snakes and no one is going to have to ask why. In fact, if I know this crew there is a long line of rubber snakes, snake stuffed animals, and snake jokes coming our way. Indiana Jones has got nothing on us.

All Things Winged and Red

2009-09-14T11:28:00.004-04:00

Yes, the NFL started its season yesterday, but I would rather talk about the Red Wings because they headed off to their training camp in Traverse City this past Friday, and before you know it my boys in red will be back on the ice. Now some fellow fans are all up in arms because of the exits of a few players, namely Hossa, Samuelsson, and Hudler. Yes, they hurt a little. (One could argue Hossa one way or the other in light of his playoff run since he did not score very much, although he certainly was active during the regular season.... we will see how you do with the Blackhawks, my boy). I, however, think we can make up for these few losses fairly well with the younger guys we have coming up, and the early indications from camp are already promising.

Case in point: A third line of Leino, Filpulla, and Williams, who rumor has it beat the Zetterberg line in scrimmage over the weekend. Williams biggest problem was getting the two Finnish guys to speak English a little bit more so he could have a clue as to what they were thinking! Everyone is back to good health including my favorite man, Nick Lidstrom, who the team jokingly has called a cyborg over the years due to his amazing good health. At age 39 he does have a few sore spots now including some tendinitis in his right elbow which he has been rehabbing over the summer. As for how long he will keep playing? He will not commit beyond this year, but plans to see how he feels during the course of this season, while definitely not ruling out a few more additional years with the Wings. Here is praying.

When I say everyone is back to good health, I mean everyone who was playing at the end of last season. Andreas Lilja, who was punched in the head way back on Feb.28th by Weber (loser) in Nashville, is still suffering post concussion-like symptoms and is not allowed any contact practices. He does not skate with the team and, in fact, had not begun skating again until this past spring. Currently, he is on the injured reserve list and at 6'3" and as our best shot blocker he is a defenseman that is sorely missed. However, at this point one wants him to be healthy just for the sake of being healthy. Apparently, there is still some reason for optimism though as it is not unusual for these types of injuries to take six plus months to subside completely. Personally, I would be very "gun-shy" of ever being struck in the head again, but Lilja very much wishes to play hockey once more.

No, the only move during the off-season that I find myself with misgivings about is general manager Ken Holland's acquisition of Todd Bertuzzi. Sure, the guy has a history of being a big time scorer and he is a a large guy who can be physical and perhaps replace some of the fire power we potentially lost with Hossa or Sammy ...... BUT. There is some big time baggage attached to this guy and do we want it even somewhat associated with the Red Wings? He is tainted for better or worse and whatever side you come down on, it is out there. And not to mention with all of his previous injuries can he really still play?? The last team he has been on that has won a playoff series in the last five years was the Wings themselves back in 2007. That's right he was on our roster when we went to the conference finals before losing to Anaheim, although he barely played with us due to injuries.

For those of you non-hockey people who have no clue what I am talking about when I speak of Bertuzzi's past, here is your quick catch up: Back in 2004 Bertuzzi played for Vancouver when he most notoriously sucker-punched Steve Moore of the Colorado Avalanche in the head, effectively ending that man's career as a hockey player. There is currently a law suit (I think in the Ontario court system) for 38 million which Steve Moore is seeking for lost income and damages. Needless to say it was the cheap shot heard around the hockey world and had everyone up in arms screaming about the violence of hockey. Now some say Todd Bertuzzi was merely the brute force, following orders, the so-called "hockey code" and, therefore, his 17 month suspension, community service, probation, while warranted, only punished the hit man and perhaps allowed the other guilty parties (coach? captain?) off with a free pass. Other people believe Bertuzzi is nothing more then a hot head whose temper got the best of him and in a moment of rage just "snapped." Now, I do not know what I believe or if I give credence to this whole "hockey code" idea or not but either way I would say this: I want a guy on my team who has the character and mental fortitude to do the morally "right thing" and win the "right way" despite what anyone may or may not be ordering him to do and someone who is not going to possibly "snap" at any given moment. At age 34 one would hope Mr. Todd Bertuzzi has grown up. I just don't know. I am a big believer in second chances and I am typically a lover of everything Mr. Holland does, but I am somewhat leery of this one, I must admit. I have always admired the Wings for being a classy organization and never having a player that could be labeled as dirty .... it would be a shame for the Winged Wheel to loose its luster on this.

Slight Miscalculation

2009-09-08T11:09:00.002-04:00

It would appear our snake problem is bigger than we thought. The nest is, in fact, the well itself. No, a few snakes did not just flee there when we began building ... they all have been living there all along, and apparently they have no plans on leaving any time soon. Despite the many gallons of bleach that have been poured into their environment, despite the cement block that recently went in around the top of the well and a couple feet down (you would have thought that would seal any fissure and ways into the well but, no.... somehow they still have ways in).

We discovered our larger snake issue after I reported to Clay last week that I saw a snake at the top of the well after I spent a day out painting. Naively we both assumed it was the last of two that he had seen prior to the pouring of the cement slab and that most likely it was even dead after the bleach and snake repellent in and around the well. After all, what snake would voluntarily wish to be near such an unpleasant place? Well, Clay took a drive out to camp the next evening with a load of gravel and some friends and when they arrived they lifted the lid of the well to discover a whole, shall we say, "gang" of snakes to greet them, all of whom were quite lively and not in the least sick or dying. They also proceeded to watch them slither up the walls of the well with ease along with somehow finding ways into and out of the well without using the lid through unseen holes. (Is your skin crawling yet? Mine is.)

So, now we have no choice but to rip out the well. Can you say unforeseen expense? We have already called back our excavator and priced sinking a concrete culvert, which you then can put a sealed cap on. It will work and it is about the only way any of us will feel comfortable and know we have eradicated the snake problem. My husband, at this point, I think, is planning to be there with a shot gun when the machinery comes in so he can pick off snakes one by one! Otherwise, we will all be having nightmare visions straight out of a B-movie where there is the shower scene and somehow little baby snakes start coming out of the shower head or something. Ridiculous and completely irrational but such is the human mind. Never a dull moment when building a camp and obviously never a cheap one either ... at this point Isabelle is the only one getting anything for Christmas!

End of Summer Insanity

2009-09-01T14:43:00.003-04:00

Where to begin? The end of summer is fast upon us, although if you have been in the upper peninsula this year you could argue that summer never truly arrived as it has been so cool, and of course, with the end of summer comes all different levels of insanity. So, I will just plunge right in.

We have the typical child variety of insanity with preparing for another year of preschool. For instance, Isabelle has apparently grown a ridiculous amount (again). The kid is all legs and it certainly does not come from me, so virtually all of her pants are too short, necessitating "school clothes shopping." When did my little girl need size five pants? And of course, we had all the necessary appointments, including her yearly health exam, and then her dental cleaning and now this week she is having her hearing and vision tested. We will culminate all of this with a haircut from her Grandma Helen and she will officially be "spit and polished" for the classroom. I feel kind of like I am having a car detailed!

Then there is our on-going camp project insanity, which anyone who has built anything knows sort of develops a life of its own. (Or it takes over the one you already have). The camp is really coming into being now and is looking wonderful. The electrical is almost complete and next will come the plumbing. I just finished painting the front door as well as all of the trim on the six exterior windows to match the roof which is a dark evergreen (the windows could only be ordered in white, of course). This little task would seem like no big deal except it involved coordinating with my dear mother-in-law to watch Isabelle whenever I wished to paint, as trying to do rather meticulous and careful work with a brush while simultaneously watching a human tornado is somewhat challenging. I also did all work on a ladder with the exception of the two front windows on the porch and had no access to water for easy brush cleaning since we have no plumbing yet. So, I was filling empty milk jugs and lugging them with me from here, doing a little cleaning on site and then bringing stuff home for the big scrub down. Tedious yes, but yesterday as I observed my completed paint job (hands on my hips, paint-smeared cut-off shorts and all) I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. And more this time then ever because unlike painting a room in my house, this is not a building or property that we will EVER sell. It will be OURS until the day we die and there is something so solid and comforting about that.

Even with the snakes. Yes, I said snakes. And that brings me to the next piece of my insanity. We have snakes in the well. Among our other camp projects is resurrecting the old, original well on the property, which is from the time when Clay's grandfather had a house on the land. It would seem that in all of our building and moving of earth and the old trailer and demolishing of some of the old, original foundation that was Clay's grandfather's house we disturbed a nest of snakes, who for lack of a better place, fled to the well. Apparently, they are Fox snakes, otherwise, known as Pine snakes, and we theorise they actually became trapped in the well when we moved more dirt with the excavator and essentially buried all of their escape routes because when we drained the well ...... lets just say we found quite a "pile" at the bottom. I will also inform you that Clay has lifted the lid on the well on a couple of occasions to find one or two curled up in the lip at the top. The best one though was when he and one of our good friends were digging around the well last week as they decided they were going to lay a cement pad all around it and going a few feet down into the ground. In the course of digging they unearthed a huge snake who had been trapped. It measured five feet. Add four inches and the snake is as tall as me. (Ewww.)

This might be the time to mention that my husband has a rather strong phobia towards snakes. He comes by it honestly. His mother is over the moon afraid. Clay is capable of being around them and can kill them when necessary, but is in no way, shape, or form, comfortable. Since encountering our "problem" at camp he has been dreaming about snakes at night, talking about it non-stop to anyone and everyone, and I swear he periodically gives full-body shudders. Suffice it to say I have found his hell and it is straight out of an Indiana Jones movie..... him in a well full of snakes. (My hell, you ask? Lets just say it would probably involve something like a very small crowded elevator, piping in Rod Stewart music or even worse Rod Stewart himself, singing, but I digress)

Despite the snake issue, the well is still sound and we are confident after a very thorough cleaning it will serve our needs just beautifully. We had never planned on using it for drinking water regardless, and in light of what has recently been taking up residence within I think it will be a very long time before we could think of it.

In the middle of all of this my computer crashed on me this past weekend, and I had a momentary freak out (yes, more insanity). After all, this computer is not very old. And how does a computer go from working perfectly one day to just totally NOT the next? I mean, shouldn't it give you at least some hints that it isn't feeling well.... a few glitches as a head's up? Instead it was like a drive-by-shooting, completely random and out of no where. I had visions of a major problem, being without a computer or e-mail for an extended period of time (Gasp! You might laugh, but for someone who at times has limited adult contact this is huge) Thankfully, my local computer guy is wonderful and had it up and running quickly and for not a ton of money, which was also huge.

Anyway, the end of summer is drawing to a close and I suppose this current level of insanity will pass .... most likely to make way for another level. But then again its kind of fun. There is a new country song out by Darryl Worley, I believe, called, "Sounds Like Life to Me." In the song his friend is complaining about all this "stuff" going on in his life, bills due, car breaking down, baby whining, wife pregnant again, like it is all some tragedy. Worley sings the chorus and reminds his friend life is about enjoying the ride and the unpredictability, not to get bogged down in the details. I like the song.

A Bike Ride

2009-08-13T13:43:00.003-04:00

We took a walk this morning, Isabelle and I. We take a walk virtually everyday, she on her bike, me on foot. We have done it so much that Isabelle has worn out one set of tires on her little bike and they actually had to have tubes put in them. Today we broke our usual routine and went in the a.m. instead of the evening.

The air feels slightly heavy and the sun's rays carry the promise of a very hot afternoon, but at the moment it is pleasant on bare shoulders, as I watch Isabelle's sandaled feet pumping ahead of me. Her training wheels barely skim the rode, as she increasingly rides on two wheels going faster everyday, gaining confidence and skill. Her stuffed "Fat Cat" rides in her basket in front of her, as her faithful companion. We turn down a side road on our well-worn route, and I watch her green and white gingham summer dress billow out around her, as she pedals faster, gaining more speed, taking her feet off the pedals and sticking them out straight either side of her, almost flying. Then I hear Isabelle singing, "Oh, I am a princess, and it's a beautiful da--aaayyy! And I am ri--idd-ing my bi--ike! A-and I l-ive in a to-ower! And it's grea-aa-t to be a princess!" The sun is gleaming off her bike helmet, her blonde pony-tail streaming out behind her like a flag, bike tires humming on the pavement, and Isabelle is flesh and blood happiness.

I walked behind my magic child, for in that moment she was pure magic to me, with a mixture of utter bliss and a sense of fleetingness filling up my chest. The enormous grin on my face came from just feeling so LUCKY to be in that moment, to see such joyful, gorgeous innocence, and reminding myself that this was one of the many reasons why I chose to stay home with Isabelle in the first place. So, she and I would have these kinds of memories. Time passes so quickly, and I know that slight tightness in my heart comes partly from thinking I should take a mental snapshot of her right now because my little girl won't need those training wheels next summer and perhaps next year in won't be "cool" to ride with "Fat Cat" in her basket anymore or to sing at the top of her lungs as she rides her bike down the street.

But today Isabelle is still four, loves princesses, bike rides, her "Fat Cat," and can even remind her mother why we should never grow up completely.

Painful Reminder

2009-08-04T15:17:00.004-04:00

I had been lulled into a false sense of security and why wouldn't I be? I mean seriously, it had been what? Six, seven months? Maybe even more. But when I woke up in the absolute still of the night last week, I had one split second of peace before the beast wrapped himself around my skull and reminded me of the pain of a truly severe migraine. Of course, the bodily functions that awoke me in the first place would not be denied, so I still had to move, regardless, and eventually I just "commando belly-crawled" to the bathroom and back. Oddly, despite feeling nauseous I rarely vomit during my migraines. For me I just wish for complete blackness, as little movement as possible, and for the love of all that is good and holy.... silence. Thus, nighttime is a pretty good time to have a migraine, if you are forced to have one. I eventually fell asleep, after crying for a while and praying it would be gone by morning.

It wasn't. Damn. I told Clay to go to work anyways (Yeah, I know, but what was he really going to do) and I figured I could just collapse on the couch for a few hours and get through the worst of it while Isabelle watched some cartoons, and she is a pretty good kid when it comes to people not feeling well. She is very solicitous and wants to help and is mostly offended if you turn down her aid. Being quiet is more of a challenge for her, but after getting her settled with some breakfast she did fairly well. By lunch I had my head to a manageable level... what I would call a severe headache. In other words it hurt a lot but I could walk around and keep my eyes open without feeling like my skull would split in half, so I could function. After a shower and a little food, Isabelle and I managed to piece together a decent afternoon, although I am sure I resembled something more along the lines of road kill (or maybe that is just how I felt).

All in all the next day was better with the typical after effects of my head feeling like scrambled eggs but not hurting and me once again remembering why, in fact, I take that little pill everyday that costs so much out of our insurance. The truth is that the last several months have been so blissfully pain free I sometimes have found myself wondering if I should talk to my doctor and try to wean myself off the Topomax. I am not one to just stay on a drug and you cannot help but find yourself thinking (Do I need it? I am not getting any headaches. Well, let me rephrase that, not any BAD headaches) but then again the drug is doing precisely what it is supposed to ... help prevent them. And in my case, almost completely.

So, I guess last week showed me that the beast is still lurking within the confines of my head after all and that even with my magic pill, he occasionally is going to make an appearance. But one migraine every six-eight months compared to what I was dealing with before? THAT I can live with!

Am I Mental?

2009-07-22T13:29:00.006-04:00

So, this past month I have been trying to figure out if I am having a nervous breakdown, just incredibly busy, a little depressed, perhaps over-tired, or maybe just the stay at home mom of a rather challenging four year old. Does everyone feel like this sometimes? Because lately I think I may be verging on psychotic (ask my family, if you think I exaggerate!)

In all seriousness, it has been rather nuts these last few weeks. We are in the throws of building our cabin. Not just a hunting cabin, although Clay will certainly use it as such come hunting season, and it is on the hunting property. No, we are planning it more for a fall/winter weekend retreat .... a place we can go to and have a bonfire in the evening, go snowshoeing during the day, sit around the gas stove at night and watch the deer in the field in the fall. It is coming along nicely, but as with all projects it involves a lot of time and effort and planning. Clay is understandably, shall we say, "focused" on this and only this, which at times has me feeling like a matador trying to wave a red cape in front of a bull to get his attention. However, since he has been dreaming of building this cabin since .... well .... birth, I keep trying to remind myself to be patient. And, in truth, I, too, am very excited about it and look forward to creating many wonderful memories there.

No, I think my crazy up and down moods mostly hinge on Miss Isabelle's own crazy up and down moods, but what do you expect from a four year old, right? She just happens to be going through an especially difficult phase right now with a lot (and I mean a lot .... did I mention A LOT) of defiant behavior (insert backtalk, slamming doors, stomping feet, yelling, screaming and more whining then I would ever care to admit) here. Before you start picturing my daughter as the horrible neighborhood child next door, let me be sure to tell you she still has her wonderful moments too, where she gives me a million kisses on my cheeks, flashes me that adorable grin and says something hysterical. Isabelle's cutest thing at the moment is her love affair with "Fat Cat" her prized stuffed animal, which as you probably surmised by now is a fat orange cat she takes everywhere with her, whether it is bike riding, a t-ball game, the grocery store, or to Wisconsin for our recent visit with her cousins, Anya and Gideon.

But while trying to recognize the normalcy of her not-so-nice behavior, my frustrations lie more in the increase in Isabelle's acting out and the fact that she is not afraid to engage in it non-private settings (Not so fun for yours truly.) This combined with Clay's one track mind and our busy schedule, I think has pushed me to my patience quota for the day more frequently then usual and has left me rather rough around the edges. For example, this past weekend. It occurred to me as I drove back home following my previously mentioned visit to my brother's house, that Kurt might be pondering his sister's mental health, considering that I turned into a puddle of tears Sunday evening following about the billionth meltdown of Isabelle's that day (okay, I exaggerate; it was about the 10th, but you get my point). Hopefully, I did not scare Kurt and Chrissy too badly as I adore them more then they will ever know.

Nonetheless, as I watch Princess Isabelle splash contentedly (for the moment!) in her bathtub, I feel a familiar lump in my throat as I think of how beautiful she is and how lucky I am to have her. It is what is so remarkable and amazing about children ... they make you crazy.... nuts... insane ... but you love them so fiercely, with such a rabid devotion, and there is absolutely nothing you would not do to keep them safe, make them happy, and help them grow into the best people they can be. Which is perhaps precisely why I sometimes find myself questioning my own mental health! But I'm guessing I am as mentally stable as the next mom, and like that next mom, we have our "made for television" moments straight out of a Hallmark movie and those that, well, let's just say might make it onto one of those "Nanny 911" shows. It doesn't mean we are crazy, mental, depressed, or anything else. It just means we are human.

So, tomorrow I will awaken Princess Isabelle and we will either "go to the ball" or "wage war" as needed. Bring it on. This mom is ready. (straight-jacket and all).

Experiencing Technical Difficulties, The Beautiful Place I Live, and Ruining my Daughter's Life

2009-06-26T14:44:00.004-04:00

Forgive my long absence, but as is so often the case in life, well ..... life gets in the way. Summer mode has officially hit and suddenly I find myself bombarded with hot weather, t-ball, playdates, a child that wants to be outside at all hours of the day whether or not it is 85 degrees and scorching and of course, all the typical mundane, everyday "stuff" that somehow still must get done even if all one really wants to do is hang at the beach.

My technical difficulties began last Saturday after my nephew, Matt, came and babysat for us. While here he perused the Internet (with permission after Miss Isabelle was in bed) and it would appear inadvertently picked up an unwanted guest/virus which took up residence on my computer masquerading itself as some kind of spyware. My current Norton did not detect it, and I have spent the last week logging many hours attempting to dislodge this ugly monster (first to determine if it is, in fact, legit and not just some scam to get me to buy something I do not need and second if legit, how to get rid of it.) Well, wonder of wonders, just when I was about to call it quits and call in the experts after failing miserably and also not being able to log into anything including my own blog thanks to this nasty bug, I figured it out. Yeah, me who literally fumbles my way through computers clicking on things. Turns out one of my own security measures on my computer was turned OFF (why?!) which is how this truly legitimate virus snuck into my computer, so I turned it back on and, when I did so, it promptly detected said bug and eradicated it. Knocking out the bug made the invasive spyware icon disappear as well. Poof! All gone. Hallelujah! And, now here I am once more with free access to my blog. (Well, at least after I figured out how to put "blogspot" onto a list of secure websites that I trust). Looks like I actually learned something new today.

On a totally unrelated note I spent all of last week being reminded of the incredibly gorgeous place I am blessed to live in. Last Wednesday I came up stairs to make Isabelle lunch and glanced out my kitchen window to see a doe and a fawn, who could not be more then two days old, standing in my back yard. I watched transfixed as the spotted little one on all four spindly-legs wobbled around my hanging basket on the edge of the woods and then slowly wandered off after her mother. Postcard perfect. This was followed later in the week by a peaceful evening spent with dear friends around a bonfire on Lake Michigan's shoreline, staring up at a star-filled sky and capped off with a brilliant blue sky Sunday, watching Isabelle and her cousin, Matt, splash in Ostrander lake while I sat on a deck chatting with Helen and my sister-in-law. Even this Wednesday as my friend, Kerri, and I sat on Gladstone beach looking at the sailboats on the bay while our kids played in the sand I could not help but feel so fortunate to live where we live. Yes, the winters are stark (although there is much beauty in the starkness too) but no where does any environment speak to me the way this place does. It is home.

Finally as my last piece of random information I will offer this: my daughter informed me today in total dramatic four year old fashion that I am "ruining her life." (Yeah, would love to know where she picked up that phrase.) I was loading the dryer with clothes and when I would not cease immediately to read her a book of her choice she threw it on the laundry room floor, stamped her foot, and as she was pounding up the stairs let loose with the above statement. Frankly, I found it hard not to laugh, but I think I responded with "I'm sorry to hear that." If this is what her fourth year holds in store for me ..... well, lets just say I think I better stock up on some more alcohol!

Game 7: Red Wings 1, Penguins 2

2009-06-12T22:41:00.002-04:00

The good guys do not always win. Isn't that the lesson you learn as you grow up? Well, that is how I feel tonight, and yeah, I am sad. And no, I did not watch them skate around our ice with the cup. I do not believe in torturing myself unnecessarily, and watching Bettman fawn over his prized Penguins is something I could do without.

Here's the thing though. I still adore and love my team. And I am so proud of them. The Wings played a hell of a season, and I had a blast watching them. The playoffs were phenomenal and that series with Anaheim, in my opinion, was the true Stanley Cup round, no matter what the NHL or the Penguins might think (that series was something else). I have no doubt when the injury reports come out in the next few days we will have quite the list; this was a major year of overcoming obstacles for us, and we almost overcame them all.

There is always next season and it just means the octopus will be all the more hungry, right?! Now, I just have to figure out what the heck I am going to watch now that hockey is over with.

5-0

2009-06-06T23:12:00.002-04:00

Game Five: Absolute dream game if you are a Red Wings Fan! One more win to Lord Stanley. Bring it home on Tuesday night, Wings!

Sigh

2009-06-05T14:18:00.004-04:00

I am too emotionally involved. Anyone who knows I am a Red Wings fan knows this. Now with the Stanley Cup series tied at 2-2, I find myself at a new level of stress for my team. It has been a brutal, hard-fought challenge to get to this point, and no, I am not talking about this series. I am talking about this season, and this entire playoff road for the Wings. From the second they won the Cup last year it has been one steady up hill climb to try and get back to the same moment again. There is a reason why so few repeat to win the Cup. It is nearly impossible.

Last night we did not do ourselves any favors, as I watched an abysmal penalty kill and as Henrik Zetterburg bluntly said we put on a "turnover clinic" to give the Penguins all they needed to take a couple goal lead. While the Wings went on to put in a solid third period and log more shots on goal then the Pens, they were not the quality shots we needed. The Wings have no one to blame but themselves for the loss they suffered in Game Four, and they know it.

And, of course, everyone is saying we are tired. Duh. Of course, we are tired. We played a bone-crushing series with Anaheim (one I would challenge the Penguins to have survived, I might add), went on to Chicago, which beat us up a bit more and then with no more then two days between started this series with back-to-back games. We are missing a key player in Pavel Datsuk and many other key players are injured and are essentially pretending not to be. Meanwhile, the Penguin's swept a tanked Carolina team (who spent themselves in a seven game series on the Bruins) and enjoyed multiple days rest between games during it, plus received three additional days off before starting the Stanley Cup finals. Gee, ya think the Wings might be more tired? (Yes, the Wings are a bit older in years, but in this case we have just played more hockey and more hard hockey so don't kid yourself.)

And like it or not call it a conspiracy, call it "tilting the ice," call it whatever, but there has been a huge amount of, shall we say "hiccups" in the Red Wings path this playoff road. Let's face it: It is not in Bettman's interest to have the Red Wing's win the Cup. He has made the Penguins the face of the NHL with Sydney Crosby as his poster boy. Anyone who has watched the NHL promos for this past season would think the Penguins had won the Stanley Cup last year!

Through it all the Wings continue to battle through questionable calls or non-calls..... Game Three in the Anaheim series when a tying goal was disallowed, which would have sent the game into overtime, instead the Ducks win. Game Three in the Chicago series when Kronwall gets a game misconduct and a major penalty on a hit on Havlat that every expert/talking head I could find and read called a clean hit. It changed the whole dynamic of the game, forcing the Wings to play without a key defenseman for more then half the game. Consequently, in this series if Kronwall so much as taps someone he gets a penalty (i.e. the weak "tripping" called at the start of Game four last night. The CBC announcer's remark said it all when watching the replay, "Well, I guess that was tripping.") Game Two of this series Malkin's automatic suspension reversed because he "was not sending a message," and has no history of fighting. (Check last years series in the Stanley Cup finals .... he actually did the same thing in Game Two with a few seconds left, just not to the same degree.) Game Three of this series when the Penguins play for 21 Seconds with a sixth man on the ice until he skates off (in front of the ref!) and yet no ref calls a penalty for too many men. Or last night when Matt Cooke literally boarded Nick Lidstrom (who was not playing the puck, can you say interference!) during a power play, and it was just ignored. Both the CBC and Versus announcers were calling for a penalty on it.

Yes, in Bettman and the NHL's need to pander to the masses and try to create more interest in the sport of hockey I would caution them to be somewhat careful that in so doing they do not alienate the fans who were here all along. I would ask them to not be so quick to "kick to the curb" a team that has 11 Stanley Cups in its history, is an Original Six team, and carries itself always with class and dignity and does not make excuses (even when their fans, myself included, cry foul for them) Because here is the deal. I think this is a good series without the referees or the league interfering. I don't think the Wings are necessarily done just yet because they tend to find the will and determination when no one else can. No, do not jump on the media bandwagon and count the Wings done now that the series is tied for you would be wrong to do so. BUT, if they should ultimately come out on the downside of this I would like to know that it was because they just got beat (and I am okay with that, they are still my team) not because they were "not allowed" to win.

The Mom Gig

2009-05-27T14:50:00.005-04:00

It was as I was carrying my tantrum-throwing, screaming, hysterical, red-faced, possessed daughter to my car (in the rain, mind you, because, of course, at that moment it would also have to be pouring) that it occurred to me I really would not mind having a cry myself. I am sure a few moms out there (and, I don't know, perhaps a few dads) know what I am talking about. You know, those times when you have absolutely used up the last tiny particle of whatever it is that holds you upright and makes you a parent. Those times when you want to throw your hands up in the air and say "uncle" or "am I on camera?" because this cannot possibly really be happening just like this, can it? Those times when you are pretty sure you might actually be capable of ripping your own hair out of your head in frustration. Yup, I wanted a good cry. You see, we were leaving a play date and what should have been a fun time for Isabelle, only she was having one of her, shall we say, "moments," and basically lost it when I suggested she needed to start sharing or we would have to leave.

In truth, I should have saw it coming. It started with her reluctance to eat the macaroni and cheese offered for lunch. The whiny voice was a hint, and I should have probably made our exit sooner, but I foolishly thought once she was playing again she would be fine, as she had never had one of her meltdowns when her friends were around for distraction. No such luck. When it became clear to her that I would not take the toy she wanted away from her friend, Sean, she started to lose it, and in the few moments it took to put shoes and jacket on, my friends got to witness Isabelle in all her dramatic, over-the-top glory. Embarrassing to say the least, although driving home, watching Isabelle flail around in her car seat like a wild animal, still screaming at the loudest possible volume, it was the least of my concerns.

The tantrums/meltdowns are not new. It was referred to as colic when she was an infant, although Clay and I dubbed the non-stop crying infant version of Isabelle as her "Evil Twin." As she has gotten older she has improved and the "episodes" are much less frequent, but it is a continual challenge for me in teaching Isabelle how to handle and express her strongly felt emotions. Especially in light of the fact that she is not quite four and put simply is not truly capable of being totally reasoned with nor can she necessarily understand or even fully articulate how she feels. I am doing my best to help her find ways to self-soothe and calm herself when she becomes agitated and to teach her better methods to handle situations but obviously it is a process and not one that is fixed over night.

I pulled into the garage with her still yelling full force and shut off the car, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath as I did so. Yeah, I wanted to cry, but not because my kid acted like a psychopath in front of my friends (whoopee, all kids do sooner or later, and every parent knows it is true) and not because I think Isabelle is some damaged child who is somehow mentally defective because she throws fits that could probably register on the Richter scale. I just wanted to cry because sometimes this Mom gig is so damn HARD. And sometimes I just do not feel big enough for it or strong enough for it or GOOD enough for it. Sometimes I just want to curl up and have someone hug ME and say, "Yes, this is hard." (then the other part of me screams "no pity parties" and get over yourself!).

In the end I didn't cry, which is kind of amazing considering how often I am known to shed tears because I guess I have managed to figure one thing out in the time I have been Isabelle's Mom. Sometimes all you can do is just keep trying. Which is why we moms will continue to tell our kids no when they throw the same toy across the room for the millionth time, why we will keep putting that broccoli on their dinner plates, why we will keep reminding them to put on their bike helmets, buckle-up, look both ways, use their manners, and brush their teeth. And why I will talk with Isabelle when she is calmer about sharing toys and using her manners (and not acting like a maniac) when we are at our friend's house. Being a mom is hard, but I try to remind myself that anything worth doing usually is.

Hockey Joy

2009-05-25T12:58:00.003-04:00

Can I just say I am so proud of my Red Wings! What a game yesterday! Despite being without their captain Lidstrom and key players Datsuk and Draper they rallied and stepped up and played a fantastic game, making Chicago look like the inexperienced and undisciplined team they are. While the Hawks were busy skating around trying to exact "revenge" for Kronwall's supposed bad hit on Havlat from Game Three we went on to win a hockey game. And I was so happy to See Marion Hossa play such a wonderful game and get some pucks in the net. He has been working so hard, and it is about time he gets some pay off for it.

Overall, the Red Wings demonstrated why they are so amazingly good... the depth on the team is simply unmatched. There is not one or two star players... it is a team of all truly skilled hockey players that all have the capability of being the star on any given night which maybe is not as exciting for the media people because they cannot fixate on just one person (like a Sidney Crosby), but it sure works for this fan.

Now we are one game away from returning to the Stanley cup finals for the second year in a row. If Pittsburgh follows and returns as well it will be the first time since 1983 that the same two teams have consecutively played one another for Lord Stanley. Whew.

Let's finish out Chicago in Game Five. GO WINGS!

Nine Years

2009-05-13T13:35:00.002-04:00

Yes, it is hard to believe, but Clay and I swapped " I do's" nine years ago, today. After so long we are not exactly bright, shiny newlyweds anymore, but at the end of the day I like to think we are both pretty content with where we find ourselves. After all, we have much to be thankful for.

A favorite quote comes to mind on this day:

"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person."
-Mignon McLaughlin, Atlantic (July 1965).

Fortunately for me, falling in love with my husband continues to be the easiest thing in the world to do. Happy Anniversary, Clay.

Happy Wing Girl

2009-05-11T13:50:00.002-04:00

Yes, yes, it is a Red Wing post, so if you don't like it then just skip this entry because unless you are clueless the Wings played a great game yesterday, and I just have to say YAY! They are now officially one game away from sending the Ducks back where they belong ... to their little pond in Anaheim.

It has been an ugly, physical series, with the Ducks doing their best to try and win on nothing but the back of their goalie and mostly cheap shots with a healthy dose of whining on their part. With the exception of one solid line they can not match the Red Wings in talent and have been out shot every single game. Yesterday was no exception with the Wings out-shooting the Ducks 38-17, but all of us fans were feeling old ghosts creeping in as the they continued to dominate play and pucks bounced off of goal posts . Until three minutes into the 2nd period when the Mule (Johan Franzen, for those of you not up on nicknames) banged one in to give us a one goal lead and Hudler (a.k.a Happy Hudler) knocked another one in out of mid-air (yes, mid-air) 39 seconds later.

What does the Anaheim coach, Randy Carlyle have to say about Franzen and his numerous goals this series? "Pretty good shots." YA THINK! Lets review, Randy: The Mule has scored twenty times in twenty-five playoff games. Still think that is just pretty good?!

Regardless, this Wing girl is one happy woman today and will be sporting her Lidstrom jersey tomorrow in the hopes the Red Wings will finish out this series once and for all in Anaheim. Go Wings!

Faith

2009-05-06T13:46:00.008-04:00

Faith - Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.

It is raining today. Big, fat slow drops that trail down the windows, causing my fat cat, Nib to bat at them with his paws as he sits on the windowsill. It has been a cool spring for us, and I am anxious for the warmer days, to put on my sandals, open my car window and feel the breeze blow my hair. Yesterday, leaving the playground early due to the chilly south wind off of lake Michigan, Isabelle looked into the cloud-filled sky and proclaimed, "Now the sun will never come out!" I replied that sooner or later it would come out and sooner or later it would warm up, even in the U.P. I have faith. (But today I am still in my sweatshirt and sipping hot chocolate).

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I stayed up last night watching the Red Wings lose 2-1 in Game Three in Round 2 of the NHL playoffs against the Anaheim Ducks. With about 1:04 left in the game Marion Hossa tapped in the tying goal making it 2-2, only to have the referee, Brad Watson wave it off and call no goal. Why? Well, to put it simply, Mr. Watson was out of position and lost sight of the puck so he whistled the play dead, guessing the puck was under Jonas Hiller, the Duck goalie. Never mind, the fact, that more then half the arena plus the replay easily showed the puck in plain view the entire time. According to the rules it is a non-reviewable play, so the tying goal was waved off, overtime never happened, and the Ducks won to go up 2-1 in the series, throwing thousands of fans, Wings and Ducks alike, into a frenzy. I was disappointed to say the least. Railing at the hockey Gods? You bet. But I have faith. Faith that in the end my Red Wings will ultimately prevail. (It might help though if the league and Bettman and the refs could call a consistent game and have some rules that made sense, like any play involving a goal be reviewable on replay!).

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Then there are the world events these days. So much in the news is negative and difficult to absorb. I feel bombarded with tales of the slumping economy, lost jobs, skyrocketing health care, global warming, the sad state of the housing market and the auto industry. It is as if the news media is doing its best to try and put us all on medication for depression with such a steady diet of only bad news. And, of course, there is now the dreaded H1N1 virus or swine flu to talk about as well. Here is the amazing thing though: Despite all the talking heads on television telling me how bad the state of the world is right now, in my heart of hearts I know we will be okay. Some might call me foolish or naive and these days it seems almost unpopular to be patriotic, but I still honestly believe this is a great country and that at the end of the day we will see ourselves through this mess. I have faith. (Again, it might help if the masses could use a little common sense and quite frankly get out of their own way).

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And there is my family, my marriage. As evidenced by this blog, it doesn't run like clockwork and it is not perfect. In fact, the two people that live under this roof with me have the ability to make me more frustrated then any other two people on the entire planet. I fantasize about maxing out a credit card and buying a one way ticket to Hawaii and parking myself on Waimea beach on the North Shore of Oahu (or perhaps a more secluded beach on Maui, yeah), selling homemade jewelry (not that I have a clue how to make any) and eating Opa (best fish ever) until I am stuffed. Being single, alone, with no responsibilities to anyone, but myself. Those fantasies arise inevitably after a day of Isabelle whining non-stop and Clay coming home from a long day of work, which culminates in us both snapping at each other, essentially competing to see who had the harder day. Dumb. But I always have faith. Faith that even when he and I are truly angry at one another, that our marriage is not going to fall apart, for it is made of stronger stuff. Faith that our love will bring it right back around... and it always does.

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Some of you might ask where is God for me in all of this faith, and I would say that by now that should be fairly obvious. He is at the center of it, from the simple and mundane, to the weighty and important. Perhaps that is why I do not necessarily feel the need to be sitting in a church pew every Sunday. My belief, my faith doesn't come from an organized religion. It simply comes from within.

Medagoopus

2009-04-20T13:39:00.002-04:00

I first heard it maybe two months ago, whispered so quietly it was gone before I even could ponder what I had heard. And it continued like that for the next couple of weeks; Isabelle and I would be doing our thing .... running errands, playing, going for a walk, and it would happen. I would think I had heard it, but then it would be gone, and she would be looking at me all clear and bright, as if to say, "What, Mom? What's your deal?" Then one day, as she pointed out a "jet trail" left by a plane in the sky, I was sure. I had to ask.

"What is 'Medagoopus?'"

Of course, Isabelle could not really give me a straight answer, but by then I had mostly figured it out for myself. As near as I can deduce it has several meanings for Isabelle, but in general it is a term used to express happiness, surprise and joy. In the jet trail example, for instance, she pointed into the sky and exclaimed, "Oh, medagoopus," as if to say "Look, Mom, how cool!" (why she couldn't just say that, I am not sure, but that just would not be Isabelle, now would it?). As a former English major, I confess I find it rather amusing to see my child experiment with the English language to the point of creating her own fun words and even more entertaining to watch her put it into use. Such as:

"Ooooo Medagoopus!" (pointing out the train chugging down the tracks on the way to preschool one Wednesday morning.)

"medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus,medagooopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, medagoopus, etc." (chanted mantra-like under her breath as she plays with her new princess castle from Easter, smiling happily.)

"MEDAGOOOOOOOPUS!!!" (yelled like a Scotsman out of "Braveheart" as she tears across the living room in a run, just to see how fast she can go.)

I seem to recall her having her own unique happy sound when she was younger as well, although sadly what it was is escaping me at the moment (which is exactly why I should write everything down!) but, regardless, I can say for certain my daughter is her own unique being! With all seriousness though I adore Isabelle's childish exuberance and zest and the fact that she is so happy sometimes she actually makes up a word to try and express it.

And she might be on to something. Standing outside my house this past Saturday, filling my lungs with clean spring air and raising my face to the warm sun the word, "Medagoopus" flitted across my brain. Suddenly, I was grinning.

Two and Counting

2009-04-19T10:28:00.002-04:00

Well, I for one am happy to eat a little humble pie. Mr. Osgood is looking like his old self in the first two games of the playoffs, displaying none of the wishy-washy goal-tending that was all too often present during the regular season. He was especially wonderful in the game last night where he posted a beautiful shutout against the Columbus Blue Jackets giving the Wings a comfortable two game lead going into their third game on Tuesday night. Yes, this Red Wings fan is very happy, indeed. (Although, it does beg the question of if Chris Osgood can be this fantastic come playoffs then why wasn't he playing better the rest of the season? Does he just need the excitement of the playoffs?)

Nonetheless, I am heartily content with the effort the defense has put forth thus far as well, especially in regards to cutting down on turnovers. And was anyone watching Datsuk and all of the hits he was delivering? Not too bad for a forward, huh? And they say European players won't fight? Now, we just have to stay focused and keep coming at them hard as I do not expect Columbus to just roll over. On to Game Three. Go Wings!

Quest for the Cup

2009-04-16T13:47:00.003-04:00

So, it is upon us once more: another glorious Stanley Cup playoff series in which the Red Wings will begin their quest for another title. Watching "Pardon the Interruption" on ESPN the other day, I was somewhat surprised to hear Barry Melrose pick the Wings to repeat and win the Cup (surprised in that Melrose is not typically a huge fan of my beloved team) and because if I am being truthful, my boys have looked like I have felt of late .... slightly off their game. They have lost their last three games, the normally strong defense has been coughing up turnovers, and the goalies? Well, not overly strong either.

Should we be worried?

I think a true Red Wings fan (or any fan for that matter) should always be more supportive then negative, but perhaps a few key points to back up my optimism might help as well:

- Please remember the Red Wings always have a tendency to drop off towards the end of the regular season before picking it up in the playoffs, and a number of them admitted this year they were suffering from a bit of a "Stanley hangover" and found it hard to get going at the beginning of the season as well. (Hossa was a huge lift in that regard).

- In the 2002 season the Wings lost 8 of their last 10 games plus the first 2 in the first round against Vancouver before going on to win the Cup.

- A number of key players were not in the line up and Babcock was even mixing up lines during the last few games, things we will not necessarily see during the playoffs.

- This is the 1st playoff appearance for the Columbus Blue Jackets as a team and their two top players, Rick Nash and goalie, Steve Mason are, likewise, making their Stanley Cup playoff debuts. Can you say nerves, anyone?

- The Wings players combine for 1, 793 playoff games experience to Columbus players 401.

Now, of course, they still have to play the games, and we all know anything can happen in a seven game series. And I do have my points of worry. I would be lying if I did not admit I wasn't somewhat nervous about the goalie situation. Osgood seems to be suffering some crisis of confidence and Conklin is largely untested in the playoffs, so like I said.... I am a little nervous. I also firmly believe that something is going on with my favorite captain Nick Lidstrom. While everything is kept "close to the vest" it was mentioned a few weeks ago very quietly that he had some "minor" injury but no one would get specific and then he was "rested" during the last game of the season. Now anyone who has followed Lidstrom's career at all knows he logs something like a billion minutes of ice time a year (the man never rests .... the guys in the locker room have dubbed him the Super Swede) so I do not think he needs to rest unless something is wrong. I also worry since he has looked slightly less then his normal self on defense and has even lost the puck a few times.

Regardless, I know where I will be tonight. Firmly planted in my chair (just like Holmstrom parking himself in front of Steve Mason ha, ha!) ready to yell at the refs, scream in victory or swear in frustration. How anyone could not adore hockey is beyond my imagination. And for those of you who do not follow the NHL I will try to not turn this into a hockey blog for the duration of the playoffs, but I make no promises! Go Wings!

Keeping the Vomit Vigil

2009-04-15T14:54:00.004-04:00

Sooner or later every parent faces it. Powerless, you stand by and watch helplessly as your child embraces the "porcelain god." And, no, I am not talking about the drunken hug you give a toilet after a night of over indulgence on alcohol ( I suppose that might come later, although I hope not. Gulp!) I speak of the younger variety, when your precious tot succumbs to some dread sickness and turns into something that at times reminds you of scenes from "The Exorcist." You know, those times when you put on the hats of both a nurse and a janitor.

Now, Miss Isabelle has, for lack of a better term, "up-chucked" before, but until the other night we have never had multiple sessions. Well, this past Monday I quit counting after about the eighth time. I awoke to a "Mommy" that sounded more like a sob and found my daughter, trembling in her bed, covered in what was left of her dinner and chocolate pudding dessert (How appetizing). Taking her to the bathroom I began the process of decontamination and calming, and then I helped her back to her bedroom, where I took apart the fouled bedding and remade everything. By this time Clay awoke and stumbled across the hall to see what the fuss was about and tucked Isabelle into her rocker with a clean blanket, while I made a quick trip to the laundry room. Ten minutes later and armed with air freshener I had Isabelle, safely tucked back into bed with new pillows, new pajamas, new blankets, and stinky hair pulled back in a ponytail away from her newly washed face. Kissing her goodnight and telling her to try and get some rest, I stumbled back across the hall and fell into bed next to an already snoring Clay. I glanced at the clock to see 1:30 dimly glowing green, and hoped that would be the end of it.

Ten minutes later it happened again.

What followed was a night of Isabelle vomiting roughly every thirty or forty-five minutes with the occasional "other action" thrown in. (Yes, along with bedding and pajamas I also washed some underwear too, poor kid. Ugh.) Being a very neat and clean child she quickly learned to tell when she was going to be sick and would bolt out of her bed and run to the potty in order to, as she would say, "not make a mess."

For a while the simple fear of getting sick had her jumping out of bed every five minutes and getting her to rest was impossible. I finally grabbed a blanket and camped out in the glider rocker in her bedroom, which calmed her down considerably. And when it became clear that sleeping was not going to happen for me I snuck down to the laundry room and threw in the load of soiled bedding at about 3:oo.

By about 3:30 or so Isabelle had it down to a routine as sad as that sounds. It would go something like this: She would be lying in bed semi-sleeping and I would be in the rocker dozing. Suddenly, she would sit up and say, "I'm going to get sick, Mommy," and crawl out of bed and hurry out of the room with me on her heels. In the bathroom she would get sick, me holding her hair (the whole time with me thinking how tiny her little back was as I rub it and how I would love to have a magic wand to make it all go away for her). Afterwards like robots, she would flush the potty, I would hand her a rag to wipe her mouth and a cup for a small sip of water and Isabelle would say "whew, that was a close one, Mommy," and I would ask, "Are you okay, honey?" Then it was back to "our posts." We must have repeated the same scene a dozen times, over and over, each time her collapsing into her bed a little more and falling into a deeper sleep.

Eventually, I moved to the guest room bed, so as not to disturb Clay (who I was attempting to let sleep so he could actually go to work the next day) in a vain attempt to get maybe an hour of solid sleep. At one point I awoke to my fat cat, Nib, curled around my head, purring, Isabelle faintly calling from her bedroom. I felt like I was clawing my way out of a long dark tunnel and glanced at the clock certain I had been sleeping at least a couple of hours. It had been 15 minutes.

In the end, we of course, made it through what seemed like the longest night on record, and Isabelle eventually stopped getting sick, although we spent the whole following day recovering. (me from exhaustion ... her from illness!) Like all kids she bounced back amazingly quick. For our family, it was the sickest Isabelle has ever been (knocking on wood as I write). I thank God daily for how healthy she is because it is so hard to watch your child be in even the smallest bit of discomfort, and not be able to make it better.

At the same time somehow it is also a bonding experience, and will become yet one more of the many memories I store up of when Isabelle was a little girl. As I tucked her into bed one of the numerous times I did that long night she clutched my hand and solemnly said, "Thanks for taking care of me, Mommy." With tears in my eyes, I replied, "I'm your Mom, kiddo. That's my job."

No Words

2009-04-06T14:24:00.002-04:00

Sometimes there just are not any words to encompass every emotion running through my body at any given moment. Or perhaps, maybe the problem is there are simply too many. Either way I find myself at a loss ... unable to articulate how I feel.

A wonderful man, who I was lucky enough to be able to call my grandfather, passed away on Saturday. He was jovial. He was full of life. He had a great big smile and an even bigger heart. And he loved my grandmother and brought her so much happiness.

And there are no words to express my love and my gratitude to this man or how much I will miss him. Good-bye Grandpa, I love you.

The Same Tree

2009-03-10T13:48:00.004-04:00

I was leaving Isabelle's room the other night, and as I turned to close the door I had to laugh as I watched her perform a little maneuver. First of all, she sleeps with two pillows: one full size and one small, toddler size (what we call her baby pillow). Anyways, she grabs the aforementioned baby pillow and wraps it around her head like a hot dog bun and then turning, collapses down belly first onto her bed and mashes her face into the larger pillow. Basically, all you see is a mound of blankets and pillows and nothing else.

Now this is funny enough by itself, but you need the back story, for this is a long-held Peterson trait and apparently Isabelle is already following it. You see, her father sleeps the same way as does her Uncle Todd. I have long struggled to understand how they manage to breathe, but Clay assures me they put their mouths at the edge of the pillow and do turn their heads to the side as to receive air flow. Having slept next to him for a number of years now, I have grown accustomed to the wall of pillow and blanket that represents the person next to me and based upon the occasional snore rest assured that he is, in fact in there. It is an untaught behavior and one that I thought was unique to the male species of the the Peterson clan as Clay's sister does not engage in "sandwiching her head " while sleeping. (I shall have to investigate further and learn about my nieces and nephews).

Yet, now it appears Miss Isabelle has begun unconsciously adopting the sleeping habit of her Daddy. Clearly, it is only in the beginning stages, as she only does it for a few moments, and I will find her sleeping the rest of the night in many other ways. It is not the only position she falls asleep in, where as for Clay it is the "go to" position for nighttime. (Don't laugh, we all have one.) Oddly enough, way before I was ever pregnant, and I was just dreaming of having a child I pictured one sleeping in a little bed and falling asleep the same way Clay did. I liked the idea of it because I love those amazing little quirks and habits and mannerisms that all unconsciously occur and link families together. They are like invisible vines that twine through all our arms and advertise "See! We are from the same tree!" Now, I am just left to wonder what other quirks she might pick up from Clay.

Chuck that Whine in the Garage

2009-02-24T14:06:00.003-05:00

We are into those months here in the U.P. when the winter days start to drag on a bit, the cabin fever sets in some, and every one's patience is wearing a little thin. You would think after coming back from our trip south that I would be rejuvenated, but anyone who has taken a week long "vacation" with a three year old (one that involved three connecting flights. Can you say chaotic?) knows it was not necessarily restful. Fun, yes, but relaxing? Not so much.

Yup, somewhere last Tuesday evening in Detroit Metro Airport when I was chasing after my husband and daughter, who were leaping up an escalator like two gazelles (me trailing behind, lugging our 25lb. carry-on bag, plus Isabelle's lavender child-size backpack) in a desperate attempt to make our last flight for home (we did with about 3 minutes to spare) I lost what was left of .... shall we say, my "chipper attitude." I just got tired. The truth was, my back was killing me, and my feet hurt because I had made the poor choice to wear my favorite pair of boots from Younkers, which while fashionable and easy to put on (a bonus for going through airport security) were not so great when having to sprint like a track star the length of an airport. This combined with undertaking the tender negotiations it took all day to travel with an understandably tired child was taking its toll on my psyche. Like Isabelle, all I really wanted was to be home and in my bed. Thankfully, we did finally get there.

Of course, now a week later we are here, but I am still struggling to regain the aforementioned "chipper attitude." I ran around last week getting everything back in order, doing laundry, putting luggage away, running errands, getting Isabelle back into her schedule, but I just feel..... off. Isabelle is whiny, the weather outside is blah, you turn on the news and well, that isn't exactly bright and cheerful these days, I've got this rash on my skin (yeah, whole separate issue) and I guess it has left me feeling for lack of a better word, cranky. I think, perhaps, I should try an exercise that I have adopted with Isabelle when she gets especially touchy.

Over the weekend Isabelle was doing the whine game. This happens when she basically is somewhat bored and feels Clay and I are not paying enough attention to her. I was fixing my hair in my bathroom after taking my shower and Isabelle was loitering nearby, essentially complaining, frustrated with me for not solely focusing on her at that moment. The whine was escalating to the point where she was going to reach a full on tantrum and in my exasperation I said to her, "Isabelle, why don't you go chuck that whine out in the garage because I do not like it when it comes into your voice. Can you just go get rid of it, please?!"

Well, the kid froze, and I swear you could physically see wheels turning within her head and then all of a sudden she was jogging down the stairs and I heard her cross the kitchen floor, open the door and make a little grunting noise ( I pictured her flinging her little arm into the void of the garage). I heard the door close and her steps coming back toward me up the carpeted stairs.

I met her eyes in the mirror. "Well, did you chuck that whine out?"

"I did, Mommy. I chucked it out," she replied, her voice miraculously devoid of all whine and sounding gloriously cheerful once more. Even more amazing she was now smiling and happy where two seconds ago she was moments away from meltdown status.

"Good. Thank you." I say, calmly smoothing my hair, while inside I am screaming, DAMN! I cannot believe that worked! And why did I not think of that sooner? Afterwards, we went on to find an activity to do together, crisis and meltdown averted.

So, anyway, my point is, maybe I need to take a page out of my own lesson plan and go chuck my crankiness out in the garage. Get over it already. (Course, it might also help if this darn rash would go away.)

This is So Cool!

2009-02-15T12:03:00.003-05:00

"Hello, I'm going flying today."
"Look at the airplane!"
"This is so cool!"
"Is it big?"
"Are we gonna get on it?"
"Is it gonna go fast?"
"Is this the runway?"
"Wheeeeee!"
"Mom! Look! Do you see the clouds? Mom! Look! Do you see the lake? Do you see the ice?!"

And, so went the first flight Isabelle took from Escanaba to Detroit. To say she liked it would be an understatement. Upon landing she declared to me that she now knew as much about planes as Papa Bob and and that they were "way cool." I was glad considering we dragged her onto two more connecting flights that day to end up in Gulf Shores, Alabama.

She was a rock star for both flights, buckling her belt, vying for the window seat, grinning like a madwoman when the plane would accelerate down the runway, and waiting for the drink cart to come by so she could snag some juice to drink. I told her it was just like Rocket on the "Little Einsteins" and she loved that idea and said we were blasting off. Not once was she fearful. In fact, I had to laugh at her for when we hit a little turbulence on our way to Atlanta, she was annoyed that her portable DVD player was sliding a little bit on the tray table and wouldn't stay still. Kids twice her age were eyeing their parents when the plane would bump and she was mad cause her movie was bouncing! I taught her to plug her nose and swallow to make her ears pop or to chew some gum when we landed and took off, but by our last flight of the day she was a veteran.

Isabelle also had the third plane in hysterics. Clay was separated from us by several seats and as everyone was getting settled it was all quiet on the plane and Isabelle called out, "How ya doing up there, Daddy?" (Half the plane erupted in laughter. I said to her, I am sure he is fine Isabelle, please use your inside voice as the whole plane heard you) "I was just talking to my fadder, Mom" (more laughter from everyone around us). The whole flight went this way with Isabelle occasionally calling "messages" up to Clay like "I love you" and "we'll come get you when the plane lands." When we were disembarking I heard a lady remark that Isabelle had "made" her flight for her and it went so fast. My three year old, the stand up comedian.

All in all, I am glad it was a good experience for her and a fun one. I can only hope our return flight will go as smoothly!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2009-01-22T14:00:00.003-05:00

We are in the car on Monday morning driving to preschool, and Isabelle, gazing out the window at the sun rising over the frozen expanse of Lake Michigan informs me that the sun is shaped like a circle. When she asks why (a question that is raised .... oh, several thousand times a day), I reply with something along the lines of, "Well, that is the shape suns come in," all the while thinking my brother could probably give her the scientific reason as to why suns and planets and moons, for that matter, are all shaped like orbs.

I am still pondering this and half listening to the radio and juggling several other nonsensical thoughts in my head, while semi-listening to Isabelle in the back seat when she hits me with, "Can planes fly to heaven?"

"No, baby, heaven is way up in the sky and planes cannot fly that high." (Me thinking where is this coming from?)

"How about a spaceship?"

"Nope, not even a spaceship can reach heaven."

"But I miss Great Grandma, and I want to see her, and how do we visit her in heaven?"

Picture me in the driver's seat, giant lump having instantly formed in my throat, still trying to drive the car. Did she really just say that?! "I know, sweetie, I miss her too (my voice breaking as the tears come), but we cannot visit heaven until its our time and God invites us. She knows you love her and miss her and God is taking good care of her."

"Yeah, she got old."

"That's right."

"But I miss her."

"I know. I do too."

"But Great Grandma is with God, and Joseph and Mary and Baby Jesus and she is taking care of them."

"Well, Isabelle, I like to think everyone in heaven takes care of each other, so, yeah."

"Momma, the spaceship car will be landing at preschool shortly, okay?"

"Okay, Isabelle." I wipe the tears off my cheeks with a shaky hand and am shocked to discover I am still driving and more then halfway to my destination. Kids never cease to amaze me with what their minds process and what they say. She, of course, had no idea the power or the effect her little inquiry had over me, but I like to think that if my Grandmother was listening in from up in heaven she had to have been smiling. And I could not help but smile too as I watched Isabelle run into her classroom minutes later, clutching (you guessed it) her new toy airplane for show-and-tell, wondering whether or not she would inform her classmates that planes could not fly to heaven.

Isabelle's First Hunt

2009-01-13T13:59:00.007-05:00

We gained a new addition to our household with the start of the New Year. No, I did not fail to mention the arrival of a pregnancy and baby (and do not hold your breath on that one people) .... I am talking Samson. Who is Samson? Well, he would be the latest in the fine dead animals I have gracing my walls. Yes, when you live in the Upper Peninsula and are married to a hunter you learn to accept a few things into your life. One: Rifles will be stockpiled in your house and you will come to view them as no more then exactly what they are, guns to shoot deer with. Two: Bullets and shot gun shells will end up in your washer because they were left in jean pockets, and Three: Dead animals or perhaps, more kindly, mounts will be hanging on the walls of your home. I admit, for a downstate girl this took a little adjustment, but I love Clay, and he loves hunting, and its a package deal.

And, in truth, it has been okay. The mounts are actually beautiful, and despite a few minor protests from Clay, they were given names. (I gotta have some fun, right?) It started with his bear mount, which is a three quarter mount (picture the bear coming out of the wall from about it's midsection, paws slightly raised, head-turned, mouth closed). Anything that huge in your house is quite the presence and sort of demands acknowledgment and a name, so he was dubbed Brutus. Then the first deer Clay had mounted was christened Bucky, obvious and cliche, but there ya have it. Now we have Samson, a very impressive 10 pointer my husband took with his bow this fall. Like his name implies he resonates strength with his well-muscled neck and a few battle scars. The really good part of the story though is from the night Clay shot this particular buck that now resides on my living room wall.

You see, Clay wasn't hunting alone. He was hunting with Isabelle, who let me remind you is three. It was nearing the end of the hunt, so her portable DVD player had used up the last of its batteries and she had finished off the last of her snacks and drink, and the light was starting to fade along with the last of her attention span. Clay informs me that she will sit on the floor of his blind with her head phones on and quietly watch her videos, periodically looking at the does in his bait pile, and for the most part just do her thing, but at that moment in the hunt he had taken her onto his lap and they were watching one or two deer munch in the bait pile when Samson came strolling in from behind his blind. Now I cannot begin to imagine the adrenaline rush Clay must have had or the thoughts coursing through his head during the next several moments, but he told me that he set Isabelle on the floor on her butt, whispered to her to not make a sound (remember she is three!) and got his bow and prepared to aim while this buck came into view. I asked Clay how long he figured it took him to shoot from the time he set Isabelle down, and he estimates less than a minute. I do not doubt he was trying to hurry in order not to risk Isabelle giving them away! I have to believe God was actually watching over Isabelle because if she would have made a sound there is no telling what her Daddy would have done to her!

After Clay shot, it is not clear what the next several minutes were like other than a lot of maneuvering, in order to get both of them out of the blind and onto the ground. Clay said he brought Isabelle down the stairs of his blind first and left her tottering around its base with a flashlight while he went back up to retrieve his bow and some equipment. Afterwards they found the arrow he had shot the deer with and that is when Clay got really excited, for it was well-covered with blood, which while sounding gruesome for you squeamish types is a good thing as it means a good shot and a clean kill. Deciding he did not wish to track the deer through the darkening woods with a three year old, Clay planned to tromp back through the field and call me on his cell phone to come and get Isabelle.

Now picture my dear husband, if you will, who has just shot the largest buck of his hunting career, so needless to say he is a wee bit pumped up. He has his bow and a back-pack and is jabbering away on his cell phone to me, striding down one rut of the two-track road that leads from his blind, barely even conscious of his daughter, who when he does look, is happy as can be, two hands grasped around his large hunting flashlight, hat crammed down over her head and trucking for all she is worth in the other two track trying to keep up with Daddy, but not a whine or complaint coming from her mouth. After Clay got off the phone with me, they reached the Jeep and just had to wait for me to drive out. That is when Isabelle informed Clay that she had to go potty.

Oh, boy. The only problem, of course, was that her little potty was in his deer blind..... way too far away. And now they were in the middle of a hayfield. So, Clay did the only thing he could do. He had her drop her drawers and forming a little "seat" with his arms held her up while she did her stuff. Isabelle handled it all like a great adventure, and Clay thinking that wasn't so bad asked her if she was done to which she replied, "Yes, but now, I have to go poop." Of course. Later, when Clay told me of their "bathroom break" in the field all I could think to say was, "Aren't ya glad I packed wipes in your bag of goodies for her?" Ah, life with a child is never dull, is it? But, then again if she is going to be a hunter and live in the U.P. she needs to now how to pee in the woods, right?

So, that is the tale of the very first time Isabelle went hunting with Clay. He now believes she is sort of a good luck charm and one can kind of understand why. She refers to Sampson as both her and Daddy's buck and did go back out in the blind with Clay several more times during the course of both bow and rifle season. Although it did take us a while to make her understand that you do not shoot a big buck EVERY time you go hunting!

Gotta Love those Red Wings

2009-01-07T15:06:00.003-05:00

I know I promised another entry on past events from the fall and that will be forthcoming, but today I must talk all things Red Wings, as in case y'all have not noticed they are kicking some butt! How anyone could not adore this sport is beyond me, but apparently many of you do not actually follow the world of ice and sticks and so may have missed last nights game in which the fabulous ones went and beat one of the best goalies in the league right now. Despite being 6'4" and something like 212lbs, Steve Mason could not keep his hefty frame in front of Pavel Datsuk's puck or Marion Hossa's. Of course, no one seems capable of stopping Datsuk (anyone catch the outdoor game at Wrigley field or Datsuk's overtime goal in the shoot out the other night? Stuff of highlight reels, really.)

And now Ty Conklin is coming into his own and starting to find that goalie radar the good ones all seem to get ..... the capability to throw some type of body part or piece of equipment out there and get it on the puck even when there seems to be no human way possible that he even saw the puck coming in that split millisecond. It isn't always pretty but it gets the job done, and I am liking the fact that I am increasingly comfortable with him or Osgood in the net.

So, it is all the more disgusting that none of the Red Wings were chosen for the NHL All Star game, but of course, it is selected based on fan votes a truly bias way to go, in which you have some cities essentially "stuffing the ballot box" to get particular players selected. All too often it can turn into a popularity contest. There are other arguments of course. Some say the Wings are just too good with too many good players and thus, no true standouts to garner votes. Or there is the argument that as a city the Detroit fan base is sadly lacking in enthusiasm (at least until the playoffs, perhaps once more because the Red Wings are consistently so good).

There is also a certain group of Red Wing, shall we say "Haters" out there. Rumor even has it that on the Pittsburgh Penguins website there was a link to the Hawks website with the express purpose to help vote for some of their players to put them in the All Star game and shut-out Red Wing players. Still harboring a little bitterness over last season Pittsburgh? Or are ya just ticked that Hossa decided he liked the look of our team more than yours? (For those of you uneducated hockey people Hossa was a member of the Penguin team last year and made a decision to come play for us and leave Pittsburgh because he wants to win a Stanley cup and he seems to think he has the best chance of doing that with us.) I guess ya can understand why they might be bitter. Today I hear that Lidstrom and Datsuk have been chosen as alternates or reserves for the All Star game, but they are chosen by the general managers and operations department of the NHL, not the fans.

That's okay. My boys can stay home and get the rest... they would probably prefer it anyways. Meanwhile, they will just keep doing what they do. Winning games and plugging away, biding their time until the playoffs roll around. I will keep watching and screaming and "woo-hoo-ing" (I mean Datsuk "soccer-kicked" the puck to Zetterburg last night when he lost his stick... CRAZY move!) Ya gotta love hockey.

Some of the Old Before we Ring in the New

2009-01-02T10:41:00.004-05:00

After the insanity of the Christmas season has finally passed us by, and I have a moment to pause for breath and realize the New Year is upon us, it has dawned on me that I have neglected to share a few of my favorite stories from the fall/winter season thus far on my blog. So I might perhaps go backwards for a few entries before I go forwards in 2009 and take care of some housekeeping as I would be remiss in not sharing a few good laughs.

First of all I will inform one and all that yes, indeed the tree did remain standing all season without a single tip over, which is a Peterson first (at least since Isabelle has been with us). I did take the darn thing down before New Years, however, since we got it fairly early this year and it was one crispy tree by the end and was shedding its needles, like a dog sheds its winter coat in the spring.

But for those of you who miss the "anger management" moments my husband, shall we say, finds himself in, I will relate the tale of getting our Jeep Commander stuck. Shortly after the conclusion of hunting season, Clay needed to return to his deer blind to pick up a few items like his trail camera, corn feeder, propane tank (yes, his blind is heated). He also does a few routine things to "lock it down" for the winter and puts out a salt block for the deer. Now here in the U.P. we had already gotten a fair amount of snow very early, and so while this was only the first weekend after the conclusion of rifle season, we had some question as to whether or not we would be able to drive back to his blind which involves driving across a portion of a forty acre field.

Now before we go any further you might ask why I was along for the ride in the first place, as normally I would have avoided this little activity. Simply put we were on our way to pick up Isabelle at my in-laws, who had babysat for her the previous night at their house and Clay's blind happens to be on the way there. Ya know, the whole "kill two birds with one stone idea," which sounds good in theory but not so much in practice.

Anyways, after stopping at hunting camp and pulling in and out of there with no problem whatsoever we drive around on the road and pull up to the gate of the field where Clay's blind is. Before us is a monstrous snow drift, and I am already thinking we should not drive through this, but Clay unlocks the gate in record time and is back in the Commander and gunning us through it before I can blink. The Commander cuts through the drift like butter, and I have to admit I am impressed. Wow, what power! The four wheel drive is humming along. Okay, maybe we are fine. After all, we did get in and out of camp, and that drift was huge and that was caused by the road plow so nothing that big will be in the field, and we just flew through that like nothing, right? Right? And so it seemed as we drove right by the old trailer, the white snow around us like a huge white sea ..... and then we stopped moving. Right smack dab in the middle of the field we bogged down and came to a halt. Clay tried the old rock back and forth bit to no avail, and as I tried to sink myself into the leather bucket seat and disappear I felt the tension rise inside the car. I watched him open his door and stifled the gasp in my throat when the snow was level to the door. Oh, boy. Then, of course, when he called his parents, his mother informed him that his father was not home, having run out to the store or neighbors. (Keep in mind where they live isn't exactly super close so it would have been a decent wait even if he had been right there). I decide to get out of the car and truly see how stuck is stuck.

I sink in snow up to mid-thigh, and silently curse my husband as I push through to the front of the Commander, where the snow has mounded up like a wave in front of the hood. I cannot even see the wheel wells let alone the front tires. Ugh. Standing in the snow I become well aware of the fact that I am not dressed for long term exposure clad in my slip-on Merrells (which are shoes, not boots) jeans, my Columbia jacket, thankfully, and only a pair of fleece gloves. I dug for a few minutes half-heartily, exposing the front passenger tire and watching it spin uselessly when Clay applied the gas then climbed back inside the car after seriously weighing the pros and cons of freezing to death or having to sit next to Clay while he fumed about being stuck. My lack of circulation won.

Back in the car I was informed that he had finally contacted a neighbor nearby who had a tractor (thank God for the local farmers) who would be coming to our rescue in approximately twenty minutes. What passed next was the longest twenty minutes of my life. We tried listening to the Packer game.... no good as the team was losing. (as you all know, not their best season, sigh.) I tried humor "Well, Clay you always make it interesting!" (met with icy stare and stone cold silence). And then as always it disintegrated into Clay bemoaning how things always worked against him and how was he ever going to get to his blind now? All I kept thinking was, Really? We are stuck in snow up to our asses, I am sitting here in soaking wet socks and jeans and still cannot feel my fingers and you are still thinking about getting out to the damn blind?! So, I suggested maybe on a return trip a sled and some snow shoes, but that, after all, it wasn't the end of the world. It wasn't like we were going out there to rescue a person. We were retrieving some belongings and "winterizing" the blind. A little perspective, please. I longed for my book, a person with a sense of humor, some dry clothes, a shot of tequila.

In what I am sure was a short amount of time (although it seemed forever) Greg showed up with the tractor and Clay hopped out to help him hook up to the Commander. I took a moment to call my mother-in-law on my cell and tell her that we would hopefully be on our way shortly. Helen's response to me was priceless. "Renee, I am so SORRY. Are you okay?" Can you tell the woman knows her son? I laughed and teased her about how I could feel her sympathy oozing through the phone from the first time he called her.

Of course, as is so often the case in Clay's world things worked out just perfectly. The tractor popped us out with hardly a tug, and then Greg drove around us and proceeded to plow right out to Clay's blind and back. That's right. In the end, Clay got to drive out to his blind and do everything he wanted to do, picked up all of his paraphernalia left behind from a successful hunting season (more on that in another entry) and we were on our way to my in-laws, albeit two-three hours later then I had anticipated. All is well that ends well, right? In the future though I am going to stock the car. Isn't the Boyscouts' motto, "Be prepared?"

If You're Glad it's Christmas time say "Ho, Ho!"

2008-12-12T14:16:00.004-05:00

It is now official. I have entered the world of Christmas programs. Isabelle had her very first Christmas program yesterday... her debut. At three years old it was pretty much hysterical as well as quick. Nonetheless, the church where her preschool is held was packed to the rafters (literally, the choir loft was full) with parents, grandparents, and siblings all anxious to watch their own "little person" in their moment of glory.

And sure enough, Isabelle paraded out in her brand new jumper and black ballet slippers, sporting a Santa hat that was crammed onto her head in such a fashion that I had a flash of her as a cross between Happy and Dopey of the Seven dwarfs (something with her big round cheeks and the way she was walking and her grin, big enough to light up the church by herself) Standing right in the middle of her fellow classmates, she sang all three of her songs, "Jingle, jingle," "Hat, whiskers, belt, and boots," and "If you are glad it's Christmas time say Ho, Ho!" She even did little bows in between the songs.

Of course, I turned into the typical fool of a parent and waved at her like an idiot, semi-stood to get pictures, craned my neck in various directions, oohed and aahed, clapped enthusiastically, and totally and utterly failed to even notice any of the other children at all. I had eyes only for my Isabelle. The whole program lasted maybe seven minutes. And it was totally worth it.

Our kids can turn us into complete morons and what perhaps is even better is that we do not mind in the slightest ...... so, what if you think I am a complete geek? I was watching my daughter sing about Christmas, and she is only going to be three once, right? Besides, someday when she is like twenty-six I am going to tease her about how big her cheeks looked with that Santa hat mashed on her noggin and how proud she was of herself standing up there (and then she is going to rip on me because I am going to get teary-eyed remembering it) and it will be great because that is what Christmas should be all about anyway. So, there is another really good Christmas memory to file away.

Tree Update: Will wonders never cease? For the first time since Isabelle entered this world our tree has thus far remained in the upright position without once taking a nosedive (pause to knock on all wood at hand) May I add that it is a truly beautiful tree this year, we picked exceptionally well, and I am remaining cautiously optimistic that all will be fine (barring any assaults upon the tree by the cats or Isabelle, of course.)

Christmas Magic

2008-12-01T13:34:00.003-05:00

I like to think we all still have that little thing in Christmas that is magic to us. Ya know, that one little item/tradition/habit that for even just a millisecond makes us forget the adult we have become and remember the kid we once were. In the movie, "The Polar Express" it is the little jingle bell from the harness of Santa's reindeer ..... for me it is and always has been the snow globe.

This came to mind this past Saturday as I began pulling out the Christmas decor, putting up my various Santas and snowmen and evergreen garlands around the house. The tree will be done later and will take much longer, getting its own day or days (as you all know from previous blogs on it! We will see how this year goes!) but what I really am always anxious to get to are my collection of snow globes. I began my collection after I got married, but my fascination with them started long before when I was just a girl. I cannot pin point when it began or even a particular globe. They were always just mesmerizing to me. I could sit and gaze into them, watching the snow fall silently down and imagine an entire little world encompassed inside, perhaps with its own set of little people. I would create entire stories in my head of what happened inside the snow globe.

Now as an adult I still find the same magic, carefully removing each from their box and examining them anew. Each is like a cherished friend to me and, indeed, many are from friends and family. One of my favorites, a huge silver-based one, holds three beautiful Christmas trees, unadorned except for white snow on their branches and the sparkling snow that falls in the globe. It plays "Oh Christmas Tree" as all three trees silently rotate inside the globe and was given to me by my dear friend, Mel. The first one Clay gave me is another cherished favorite and one that inspires many childhood fantasies within my head, for it holds a small cottage inside, complete with frosted windows that actually light up from a switch on the bottom. It also has a rock strewn stream, deer, and pine trees and plays "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." And, of course, I have the whimsical ones, with Rudolph or a bear snowman or little ones, with a Christmas Mickey Mouse, and even an older one that had been in my Grandma B's possession. The water is murky, but the Santa and sleigh full of toys is no less dear. My brother and Chrissy even managed one year to find a Breyer horse Christmas snow globe, combining one love with another since when I was younger I collected Breyers (I still have all of them packed away and let me tell you that is a LARGE collection).

I have three or four from Eddie Bauer which makes lovely wood-based globes with cute log cabins inside. Last winter we woke in the dead of night to a crash in the kitchen to discover that a shelf had come loose from the wall .... on it had been my favorite Eddie Bauer snow globe, a simple log cabin which I had left out long after Christmas as it was truly more of a winter scene as opposed to a Christmas one. I recall picking up the tiny shards of glass and placing them in the trash with tears streaming down my face. I felt ridiculous for crying over a snow globe but somehow I just could not stop. I was sad because Clay had given it to me, but it was more than that. For me when that snow globe broke it was like losing a tiny piece of that Christmas magic or that childhood wonder, so I guess it hurt just that little bit more.

Of course, every year brings new snow globes to the collection and I eagerly await to see what "Santa" will bring me this year. I also am training a new recruit in the art of loving snow globes and Isabelle is an avid disciple. She begs me to play their music and all must be kept well out of reach of her three year old hands as they are just way too tempting. Of course, I completely understand. After all, I think they are magic too!

Spouting Off

2008-11-14T16:32:00.005-05:00

Excuse me while I vent:

I came across a rather annoying piece on-line the other day. On Tuesday November 11th to be precise by one Jay Busbee who I guess is some self-proclaimed sports guy who thinks he knows a few things. (Don't we all!) Anyways, this little article was titled, "The Most Boring Champions Club Welcomes Jimmie Johnson," who frankly I could care less about as I do not follow Jimmie Johnson or Nascar, but I found some of the other members of his club interesting, including such people as Tiger Woods and recent amazing Olympian Michael Phelps. Also included in his list of so-called "boring champions" was my dear Red Wings captain, Nick Lidstrom.

Here's Busbee's take on Lidstrom: "The Detroit Red Wings' captain is a pleasant, exceedingly competent, soft-spoken gentleman -- which is exactly what you don't want in a freakin' hockey player! The defenseman is the symbol of the Wings' numbingly boring style of hockey, and making hockey boring is quite a feat in itself."

Excuse me!?! First of all, complimenting hockey while trashing the Wings at the same time does not make you okay in my book. Second of all, anyone who thinks the Red Wings style of hockey is boring is clearly not watching the same game I am. They are without a doubt one of the most highly skilled NHL teams out there with Datsuk skating circles around most other players so much so that the commentators have now come up with the phrase "Datsukian Deeks" to describe his moves! Hossa brings tears to your eyes with goals that make the highlight reels every night on ESPN for his artistry, and Zetterburg isn't exactly a slouch. And, while they are not exactly known for fighting, you all should have seen McCarty mix it up the other night in a very old school hockey brawl. No, they are not a bunch of "thugs on ice" so if Mr. Busbee is into that brand of hockey then perhaps they are a bit bland and he might look into a sport like .... say, roller derby.

As for Nick Lidstrom, yes he is a "soft-spoken gentleman" and isn't that refreshing in this day and age of me-me-me egocentric athletes who continually whine and play the diva. It seems a player like Terrell Owens cannot go a day without complaining to the media about not getting the ball thrown to him enough. We all know he has gone through a couple of teams and quarterbacks with his "it is all about me" antics. But, no, he isn't "boring." Or you could look at the many examples of criminal behavior among sports stars. Pacman Jones ring a bell? Or how about steroid abuse in baseball? But hey, the athletes aren't boring are they Mr. Busbee? Never mind that none of them have an ounce of class or honesty!

Give me the Nick Lidstrom athletes of the world twenty times over the show-boaters, Mr. Busbee. They are the ones who I can admire, the ones I can point out to my daughter as playing their sports in the manner in which they ought to be played.... not only with skill and talent and amazing athleticism but also with sportsmanship, class, integrity, and a love of the game, which is sadly missing in all too many of our professional sports athletes today. Bring on the "boring."

Does this Make Any Sense?

2008-11-04T10:31:00.003-05:00

There are some days when I am certain I am doing it all wrong. The damage has been done ... I have wrought irrecoverable harm upon my child through my poor parenting skills and lack of patience. A better Mom would know how to handle the continual back talk and sassy behavior. A better Mom would not get frustrated with her child when said child yelled at her for the thirtieth time during a twenty-four hour period. A better Mom would remind herself that the child is just three years old and that all children must go through such phases. Apparently I am not a better Mom. Today and over the last few days I feel like a terrible Mom.

This happens periodically, at least it does with me, and it follows a pattern, as I have at times in my life also felt like a terrible wife, daughter, sister, friend, and about any other role I have played at one time or another. I assume most people feel this way, but then again maybe they don't. Maybe it is just for chronic freaks like myself or people who feel the need to try and be perfect as if that is somehow attainable. The truth is none of it is about other people, really, and it is all about me and my own pathetic feeling of inadequacy and self-doubt. And I hate how that sounds even to myself. I need to stop whining. I need to "cowboy up." I need to "put on my big girl panties and deal with it," as they say.

Now is about the time when I go and apologize to my three year old for being so crabby, tell her that I have never done this Mommy gig before just like she has never done this kid thing before so we are entitled to a few (trillion) screw ups and we will just have to try harder to communicate. Now is the time when I remind myself that I am the grown up and she is the child and maybe I should act like it. Now is the time when I choose to stay "in the game" not just when she is cute and fun for Halloween, but when she is making me want to yank my hair out and run in the other direction. Now is the time when I remember how much I adore her. And that is never hard to do. The truth is I will probably always struggle with my own personal feelings of self-worth and self-doubt, and I will probably always worry about messing things up as a parent. But I will never doubt my love for her, and in the end perhaps that is all that truly matters.

Redistribution of Wealth

2008-10-29T14:00:00.002-04:00

I am truly sick of all the election "hoopla" but I still believe the "old guys" know what they are talking about. (I suppose my conservative colors are showing.)

From Abraham Lincoln…
"Property is the fruit of labor...property is desirable... a positive good in the world. That some should be rich shows that others may become rich, and hence is just encouragement to industry and enterprise. Let not him who is houseless pull down the house of another; but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built."

From Thomas Jefferson…
"To take from one because it is thought that his own industry and that of his father's has acquired too much, in order to spare to others, who, or whose fathers have not exercised equal industry and skill, is to violate arbitrarily the first principle of association - the guarantee to every one of a free exercise of his industry and the fruits acquired by it."

Not Really Gone

2008-10-23T14:14:00.003-04:00

I am rushing Isabelle out the door on a typical Monday morning trying to remember all of the things I want to do in the two hours while she is at preschool. I juggle my purse, car keys, the all important plastic bottle of diet Lipton raspberry white tea that I am currently addicted to, and Isabelle's back pack, while I help her get her other arm into her coat sleeve and lift her into the back seat of the Jeep. We go through this routine like a well-oiled machine, our bodies mindlessly performing the tasks we ask of them while all the while she and I keep up a running dialogue of what she might do in school today. I close her door, walk around to mine, get in, start the car, buckle up, back out of the garage, press the garage door button to close it, and quickly take a gloved hand to brush a stray curl out of my face and tuck it behind an ear...............

All at once I am slammed full force back into my grandmother's kitchen, feeling the heat coming off of her stove, radiating warm against my thigh as something bakes within. I am embraced by two arms, enveloping me like fragile butterfly wings, yet at the same time providing a tremendous sense of security and safety. I feel her baby soft cheek against mine as I stoop to hug her, her slightly scratchy grey hair tickling my nose, and deeply breathe in that smell, that grandma smell, something I cannot describe, but something intrinsically linked with her in my mind. And now here I am in October and she passed away in July and I am sobbing like a baby in my car because I am wearing a pair of her gloves for the first time and I just pushed a piece of hair out of my face and suddenly it was like she never died. Yes, I cried, but really it was such a gift to have such a vivid memory brought forth. God, the mind is powerful.

Part of me doesn't want to wear the gloves because the more I do the less they will bear her scent and the more they will gain mine. Of course, the other part of me does. The part of me that took them in the first place.... the part of me that thought it would be nice to put my hand inside something that once had her hand in it. As if in some way it could link us up once more and in a way we could still hold each other's hand. I know it is silly, but then again, perhaps not. Later that evening I told Clay about it when we went out for our after dinner walk with Isabelle. I told him it was like my grandmother was right here with me, and he stopped me and looked me right in the eye and said, "She is still with you."

I married a really smart man, but that is a blog for another day. (And we don't want him getting a big head).

My Not So Glamorous Life

2008-10-16T14:13:00.002-04:00

"Mommy, I'm AWAKE!"

(slight pause).

"Mommy, I'm AWAKE!!!"

(slight pause, with an audible "huff" attached to the end of it.)

"MOOOOOMMY! I'M AAAAAAAAWAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And so my day began this morning, no alarm needed. Clay was out of town on business and Isabelle was obviously ready to get up. I was completely and utterly out of it, but somehow staggered across the hall and opened my daughter's bedroom door, mostly just to get her to (for the love of God) stop yelling because the assault on my ears was just too much when still attempting to gain full consciousness. Our morning routine upstairs got interrupted by the sounds of my fat cat, Nib puking up his breakfast downstairs, so I found myself scrubbing my grey carpet (Why do cats always vomit on the carpet and never on the tile? And who in the hell decided to put grey carpet in this damn house anyways? Curse the people we bought it from and their bad/impractical taste!) with Resolve yet again. When I put the Resolve back in the cupboard I figure I might as well clean up the litter boxes since I am already in the laundry room, and, after all, what is a little excrement after vomit?

I manage to get through my routine on the treadmill only having to stop twice to help my daughter in the bathroom as she has not yet mastered the fine art of "wiping her bum" adequately and I feel like my morning has been taken up with nothing except bodily excretions in various forms. Needless to say I skip breakfast and figure I might as well go with the theme. I scrub toilets. Joy. Isabelle plays and eats her breakfast while I clean both bathrooms, still in my sweaty workout clothes and now also sporting a pair of yellow rubber gloves, with my bed head, workout hair, knotted into a greasy blob on top of my skull.

About this time Fed Ex decides to ring the door bell and deliver a package. More joy. Looking like the number one reason why my husband would decide to have an affair with some hot office floozy, I answer the door and watch the Fed Ex guy do his best to smother his look of alarm as I sheepishly thank him and open the door just wide enough to nab the box and close it again, all the while with Isabelle jabbering away asking "Who is it, Mommy?"

I get through some more cleaning, manage to shower, where I nick myself twice while shaving, discover three zits popping out on my face despite the fact that I am now also getting wrinkles (Sigh) and collapse in a heap on the couch to discover it is now only lunch time. Ugh.

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you too, baby."

"No, I wiwwy love you very much, Mommy."

As usual, my daughter can make my not so glamorous life seem pretty spectacular with just a few simple words. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and blink the tears from my eyes.

"I really love you very much too, Isabelle."

We curl up and read some books together, and suddenly I remember why I decided to stay home with her in the first place. No, it isn't glamorous, but it is important. Even if on some days no one except Isabelle and the Fed Ex guy sees me. And I bet I wish he hadn't!

Another Hockey Season, Hallelujah!

2008-10-10T20:24:00.003-04:00

The Red Wings officially started another hockey season last night and they did so with a loss. It is hardly surprising as it is hard to begin one season while still saying good-bye to the last. Looking shiny and bruise-free (with the exception of Lidstrom who is already sporting a broken nose and numerous stitches from an injury in the preseason) they watched yet another banner be hoisted into the rafters of the Joe, proclaiming them the Stanley Cup Champions. All of their numerous trophies were on display on the ice along with Lord Stanley for the audience to view. Meanwhile Toronto watched and coveted.

Then, of course, the ice was wiped clean, the puck was dropped, and the Wings are asked to do it all over again. And the so-called experts on television start right back up where they left off last year saying the Wings are too old, and it is impossible to repeat. And I watch the Leafs gun for them through this first game like rabid pit bulls scenting wounded prey, and I know teams will do this all season because they are the champions and this is hockey and, after all, this is how the game is played.

So, I will say this: Yeah, they were a little flat last night. Whoopee. Do you think that will effect a team with this kind of experience? So, you all still think they are old? Do you think they care at this point after proving you wrong repeatedly so many times? So, it is hard to repeat? Damn straight it is, but if any team in hockey can do it, I would put my money on this one..... it will all come down to injuries and, lets face it, the all important hockey gods. Bring on the doubters, bring on the Red Wing haters..... we have proven you wrong so many times before.... we do not mind doing it yet again. Oh, and thank you God for another hockey season! GO WINGS!

Compromising the Crown

2008-09-26T13:11:00.003-04:00

The second the blood ballooned from my daughter's nose I realized we had a problem. She, of course, did not, which was a good thing. The adults in the room flew into activity, me cupping my hands around her nose, others running for Kleenex, paper towels, etc. to mop up the sudden flow. My brother's face, was guilt ridden, and I think he was mumbling something about "breaking his niece" but in moments the blood was stopped, and Isabelle was more mad at being forced to sit still than upset at any injury.

It was the kind of strange, odd and peculiar "thing" that is becoming rather characteristic of my family. We were just arrived at the cabin we rented for our yearly family weekend, and all the kids had their new fishing poles from Grandma in the living room and were practice casting with the rubber/plastic "fish" on the ends of their lines. (Well, except the girls' poles which had pink crowns instead of fish because they were princess fishing poles. Of course.) My brother was helping his daughter and lobbed a cast across the room and somehow managed to plunk it perfectly off the end of Isabelle's nose, and while it left no mark on the outside whatsoever it somehow hit perfectly and caused it to bleed. Strange! Shortly afterward, we realized the crown on Isabelle's line had cracked slightly, or as my brother, Kurt said, "the crown has been compromised." However, after tying the line a little differently she was back to casting with it in no time, and it worked just as well.

The weekend followed with a continuation of a sort of comedy of errors including my sister-in- law, Chrissy, somehow locking herself in our bedroom (Let me be clear. No one else was in it at the time.), which quickly dissolved into three kids repeatedly calling through the door to her asking her if she was alright while my father and brother tried various implements on the lock to free her. Ultimately my brother went around and crawled through the window (Tiny window, tall man ... should have gotten a picture) and they started taking hinges off the door, but I believe it was my father with the butter knife that saved the day. (That sentence sounded like the game "Clue." It was Professor Plum with the candlestick. Sorry. I digress.) Then there was the incident later in the day when Clay and my brother went fishing out in the boat, and we all went off to the craft show in town only to get a phone call informing us that the pontoon boat had died and they were stuck at the opposite end of one very large lake and could we come back and rescue them? Some good Samaritans in a neighboring boat ended up towing them back to the cabin where it was later determined a bad battery was the culprit. Finally, there was the mystery of the oven which seemed to bake the ham rather quickly the first evening we arrived, but failed to roast the potatoes, or bake the squash after more than ample time had passed for Sunday evening's meal. And yes, some of us were a little sick and yes, the kids all had their moments when they whined or cried or fussed.

Yes, the weekend was not perfect, but then again I think it was. I have all these little snapshots of memories stored away already...... Isabelle and Anya huddled on a chair together with their princess fishing poles, Kurt standing on the end of the dock, fishing pole in hand (which, by the way, is the most natural pose in the world for him), Mom and Dad paddling the canoe together, Clay walking to his bow target with Isabelle and Anya dancing ahead of him, Mom getting tipsy off Clay's Bocce iced teas, Chrissy and Gideon exchanging kisses on the pontoon boat, sitting around the campfire, laughing hysterically over the game "Apples to Apples" (which you have never played until you have played with my family, TRUST me), Chrissy and I putting our children to bed at night in the cabin, all of the kids pretending to be pirates around the dinner table, Papa making a huge fort out of the kitchen table for them, the girls pushing their baby dolls in the swing, Isabelle looking at her cousin and saying "I wuv you, Anya," and Anya, replying, "I love you Isabelle." and me thinking I could die right then and be happy, watching Gideon eat four pancakes and two sausages and three hours later a full lunch, reading books to all three kids for bedtime, and just the luxury of having all of us sit around a table together which only happens maybe once or twice a year if we are lucky.

Anyways, I guess my point is the weekend wasn't perfect, but neither is my family and wouldn't that be so damn boring if we were? Give me the compromised crown any day! It is all the quirks and eccentricities and yes, even flaws that we all have that makes us who we are and guess what? Our families love us anyway. At least mine does, and I always walk away from our weekends feeling like I am really blessed. We are a crazy, kind of weird crew, but it is one I am proud to call my own.

Run Away, Run Away!

2008-09-01T22:14:00.004-04:00

It is evenings like this when I would just about kill for a book, any book. The television is driving me insane with its endless coverage of hurricane Gustaf, which while I have been interested in keeping apprised of, I do not feel the need to be continually inundated with non-stop information over and over and over. Information, which I might add is the same information just being repeated. The weather is only interrupted with the liberal media going practically orgasmic over the fact that Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin's 17 year old daughter is pregnant while at the same time repeatedly saying it should not be something that is brought into the political debate (yet simultaneously interjecting comments about Palin's leanings toward an abstinence-only policy in schools...... but lets not bring candidates' children into the political arenas.) One Far left blog was even trying to pass off the idea today that Palin's youngest son, born just six months ago with Downs Syndrome, is actually her 17 year old's as well! Does it never end!?! Essentially it is enough to make me want to blow up the television, and the thought that potentially more hurricanes are on the way and I have months more of political shenanigans to watch is depressing to say the least. I have already completed my crossword, doodled and doodled and doodled, downed an entire bowl of popcorn (sigh, guilt, more bad body image issues, gulp), read an article on-line from one so-called expert about how he thinks Farve will really do as a Jet (and do not even get me going on that subject, that could be a blog by itself!), and all I want is a book!

Combine that with Clay's less than stellar mood today, and I am contemplating running away and joining a convent or something. I want a quiet place in the north woods obviously with many, many books (preferably a place where amazon can still deliver, although quicker delivery would be nice since I am currently waiting for three different books hence my lack of reading material tonight) perhaps a cozy fireplace, some throw blankets, a hefty supply of hot cocoa and my cats, of course, to occupy my lap. Okay, maybe I would need a computer or some paper and pencil so I could write too. Alas, it appears running away is not a true option so I will sign off for tonight and go to sleep instead, hoping my books will come in the mail tomorrow and that the media might get a clue. At least the books might come.

A Sensitive Soul

2008-08-27T11:08:00.004-04:00

I should not have been surprised, and yet somehow I was. It seems that most of Isabelle's absolutely abysmal behavior (and yes, it can only be described as abysmal) was in large part due to Clay's absence from the home. I mean I knew she missed him. I knew it played a part. But clearly I had no idea how big a part.

Score one for the Daddy's of the world, right? I did not really need proof that fathers played a significant role in their children's lives, but this little experiment did, nonetheless, serve to add weight to their importance. While Clay would be the first to tell you that he is no Mr. Mom, he is a present figure in his daughter's life, home for daily dinners, and around in the evening for some one-on-one time, whether it is a family walk in the neighborhood, some time at the park, or just hanging out in the living room. He does his time reading books, playing trains (or yes, tea party.... a real man can fold himself into those tiny chairs) and come the weekends he always carves out some time with Isabelle. The thing is she doesn't care what they do.... it doesn't matter if they are golfing, washing the car, mowing the lawn, or "monkeying" with something in the garage so long as she is with Daddy. Clay lets her tag along and help, making her feel special and important, a true Daddy's little girl.

So, I guess you could say when Daddy went away the last two weeks Miss Isabelle decided to punish everyone involved. She punished Clay by refusing to talk to him on the phone for probably the first week he was gone, and obviously I turned into her designated punching bag of abuse, the one to take all her frustrations and sadness out on. When I think about it she started acting up as soon as we mentioned Clay was going to be taking a trip, and she knew her precious routine would be shook up.

The contrast this week in her behavior is nothing short of astonishing... a shrink would probably have a field day with it. The tantrums just vanished as well as the yelling and talking back, and the one time when I did put her in time out this week, she calmed down within five minutes, apologized for her behavior, and we went on with our day. Juxtapose that with a week ago when she screamed and kicked for over an hour in time out, resulting in her ultimately making herself vomit and then still refusing to say sorry for her transgression. The last two weeks she has gone around mumbling that she is sad and tired all of the time, and this week she is back to her bouncy self and is once more proclaiming to the general public that she is "so happy." This schizophrenic behavior is a little too much too take and reminds me once more of her back when she was an infant and Clay and I had dubbed her as Good Isabelle and Evil Isabelle, depending on which mood/face she was presenting to us at the time. Is it possible for a three year old to have multiple personalities? Ha, ha!

All joking aside I think it is more indicative of a very sensitive soul, and Isabelle comes by that honestly. I have often been accused of too easily "taking things to heart." Naturally, I would argue that being more sensitive to our surroundings and other people is not necessarily a bad quality or a shortcoming. Some people have always felt the need to tell me to "buck up" and not understand why I react to things so strongly. I happen to think it fantastic that a dog food commercial can bring me to tears, a sunny, windswept day can cause me to laugh out loud, a U.S. Olympian can make me burst with patriotic pride, and one grin from my daughter can make my heart fit to burst. Shouldn't everyone feel so strongly? Doesn't everyone? And if you don't then, I can only say I am sorry. When I was young and in school it was hard to be "overly-sensitive," as I was so often described, because being quick to tear-up was embarrassing at that age. Of course, I will hope to teach Isabelle how to better manage and understand her strong emotions but not to suppress or quell them because they are what gives us our zest for life. They are what makes us human and her sensitivity helps define who she is as a person. She will come to learn that her tears do not compromise her strength, and that having a sensitive soul only opens her heart to even more love. And who wouldn't want that?

Too Many Thoughts, Not Enough Time

2008-08-22T14:19:00.002-04:00

Somehow time has flown away from me once more, and I open my blog up and discover too much time has gone past, and I have not written, and now there are so many items I would like to write and how to choose?????? I suppose it is a common problem among people who constantly have their minds full of words; everything I witness, experience and think of is routinely being turned into a mini story in my head. So, in keeping with the fact that I have a bazillion little anecdotes/ideas/newsie thingies in my noggin (How is that for some good English? My former professors are all cringing and wringing their hands in shame.) I am just going to lay it all out for you guys.

Clay has been away for the last two weeks on a very long trip for work. This has meant that yours truly is at home alone with Miss Isabelle 24/7 who at present has decided to revisit a time of truly evil behavior. I refer to a period of time when she was under six months old and basically screamed all day. Lately she has been throwing tantrums to the same effect except now she is not 3 months she is 3 years old, so you get the idea. UGH! It has been a very large exercise in patience, and one I am sorry to say I do not always excel at. It all boils down to the simple fact that she is a very strong-willed child who is trying very hard to establish her boundaries and feels the need to frequently and repeatedly test said boundaries. Suffice it to say it has made for some very long days compounded by the fact that she truly misses her Daddy. We are OH SO HAPPY he is coming home tonight.

We have managed to have some laughs while Daddy has been away one of which included me mowing the lawn for the first time in my life. Yes, I am thirty-two and had never mowed a lawn before. I know kind of pathetic, but please understand I grew up with a father who felt daughters just did not mow lawns, plus I had an older brother who did. Anyways, Clay gave me a tiny crash course on the finer points of running his self-propelled walk behind mower, and a week after he was gone Isabelle and I broke the bad boy out for my virgin mow. Now Clay and I were both a little concerned on whether or not I would be strong enough to be able to start it as it had a pull start. When I had started it before it was after it had been running a while, but we both figured if I had to I could run next door to the neighbors and have Mike help me start it and then I could be on my way. After reassuring Isabelle repeatedly that yes, Daddy had told me I could use his lawn mower and her reminding me to make sure there was enough gas I tried to start it. Repeatedly. No luck. Despite all best efforts and tugging with all my might, I just could not get it to go. I was just about to call it quits and swallow my pride and go knock on my neighbor's door to prevail upon the "stronger sex" (gag me) when my 3 year old comes up and says "No, Mommy, you have to hold this bar and then pull the cord." DUH! Turns out I was so focused on trying to start it with enough strength that I completely forgot to pull back the bar to the handle and then yank the damn cord! Can you all say dumb blond moment!! So, I kindly thanked my brilliant daughter for reminding me of the obvious, started the mower and off I went. She proceeded to be wonderful that day, telling me how well I was doing, later showing me how to remove the bag for the grass clippings, and informing me that while my cutting job was "not as good as Daddy's" it "looked fine." What an experience.

I am also gearing up to send my daughter off to preschool for the first time in just a couple short weeks. I am excited and nervous and, of course new to this whole scene. I ordered her a back pack of her very own, and I think I might get her some slippers to just keep at preschool, so she can wear her boots there during the bad weather and then have her slippers to run around in there rather then having to mess around with different shoes everyday. I still need to come up with a good way of labeling her things. Dear sister-in-law of mine what do you do with my lovely niece and nephew's things? I have seen one clothes' labeler out there but I read mixed reviews on it and wondered how well it worked. Yes, a new chapter for us, although it is just some baby steps as it is a class that meets two days a week for two hours at a time in the morning. I am planning to do my errands and shopping while she is in school, which will be SO NICE, and I am hoping some new activities and challenges might help improve some of our current behaviour issues as well.

On a personal note the headache monster has largely been slumbering this month, and I feel great. With the exception of one fairly yuck headache at my brother's earlier in the month I have been pain free. Plus, upon examining that headache further I realize I brought that one on myself through my activities and food intake (or lack thereof). There has been a bit of a learning curve with this medication and discovering what my body can and cannot do while I am on it, especially in regards to exercise. In general it just seems to make me weaker and while I am frustrated by that it seems a small price to pay to not be in constant pain.

There are so many other topics I would like to touch on, but I find I need to do a few productive things with my day (while I find this productive for my mind it does not keep my house clean or pay the bills.... oh, I wish!) so, off I go for now as Miss Isabelle will be up from her nap shortly. The other stories floating around my brain matter will have to wait!

Migraines, Milligrams, and Monsters, Oh My!

2008-08-04T13:41:00.003-04:00

I suppose it would have been way too simple for my headaches to have proven to be so weak as to "give up the ghost" as easily as it appeared they did when I first began taking Topomax, right? I mean, it would hardly of made them worthy of their Jaws-like status in the headache world. So true to form they made a solid reemergence last week around the dreaded menstrual cycle (any of you squeamish men out there who can't handle talk of a woman's period just go away). And while some people say taking an over the counter medication on top of the Topomax can sufficiently quell their pain, no such luck was found for me. After being blessed with a beautiful (fantastic, wonderful, gorgeous, great, blissful, near idyllic) brain time this past month, I confess I was rather disheartened to find myself this past Thursday clutching my head in the kitchen while tears streamed down my face, trying to hold it together yet again. Damn.

However, we are making progress, I remind myself. After putting in a call to my doctor we have decided to up the milligrams of the Topomax and see if a higher dose can better attack the significantly more evil and diabolical headaches that like to plague me around that time of the month. And, of course now that I am beyond my monthly cycle I find I am once again pain free and feeling grand so all in all it is good. I mean, even if I have to suck it up and have some bad head pain every week and a half to two weeks out of a month it is way better then having it virtually every day like I was before. Of course, upping the milligrams means I am feeling all the side effects again and more strongly, some of which can be annoying, the tiredness, the tingling and numbness in the extremities, the way you can over heat more easily, but frankly all of it is nothing if it means my head does not hurt.

No, mostly, last week as I was dealing with my monster headaches again after having a blessed hiatus from them, I was thinking how awful it was that anyone has to ever suffer from chronic pain. That and of the stupid commercials for Imitrex they had out on television maybe two years ago which featured some little cartoon monster which was supposed to be your migraine, cavorting around the screen with a little devilish grin on his face and jumping on the "migraine sufferer's" head, while she grimaced and held her hand to her temple. I remember thinking then that the person who made that commercial had never personally had a migraine because I got news for ya....... my headaches are not some cutesy, cartooney character that could double as an illustration in a Mercer Mayer kids book like "There's a Nightmare in my Closet." No, mine are more like something out of the mind of Stephen King like the slouchy, creepy thing in "Lisey's Story" perhaps. Something that most likely would have an NC 17 rating attached to it and would not be allowed into a commercial. Anyways...... I suppose it helps me to occupy my mind with useless thoughts such as this to help keep the pain at bay. Laughter is the best medicine, right? Well, that and Topomax, just in more milligrams!

Ironing Woes

2008-07-26T21:23:00.003-04:00

I do not know whose brilliant idea it was, but some yahoo in motel world decided it was a good idea to bungee cord the iron to the ironing board at the hotel we stayed at last weekend. (Apparently, there must be a high propensity for people absconding with cheap irons from hotel rooms or something). So, there I was doing my best to iron my daughter's little dress on this board with an incredibly slippery silver ironing pad , which the dress kept slipping off of, stretching this too short plastic cord that closely resembled the old twisty phone cords we all once had back when we were tied to walls when talking on the phone. The board was also rather flimsy and poorly balanced causing it to have a tendency to tip, usually when Isabelle decided to streak by every two milliseconds or so to go use the potty with the "loud flush." The iron also was a sad model with a narrow base which also liked to fall over. Somehow I managed to get Isabelle's dress and one blouse of mine ironed, walking away with minimal swearing and one rather bad looking burn on my right forearm. Naively, I thought that would be the end of it. (One would think I would know better after the Christmas tree episode, but read on).

In an attempt to ward off any potential flare ups I did warn Clay of the rather inept design of the ironing situation, but in the span of five minutes it became clear I was to be powerless to control the moment. Because Clay does prefer steam when ironing he took a cup from the bathroom and filled the iron with water and plugged it in. All was peaceful while the iron heated up, but it was not too last. He placed his white dress shirt on the board and, of course, it immediately slipped off, and no matter how he positioned it he quickly discovered that it would not remain in place without keeping one hand on it at all times. Then when trying to maneuver the iron down towards the end of the board, Clay likewise, discovered how short the bungee cord was that was attached to the iron. After attempting to "make it work" for a (I will be generous and say a few minutes) he then moved on to trying to remove the iron from the cord. This mostly involved a lot of brute strength, swearing and bashing of any and all persons involved in the design of the tethered iron. Of course, that did not work. When that failed Clay moved on to stretching out the bungee cord by trying to pull on it and straighten the spirals out of it and hence give him more length to work with. There I was watching my college educated husband hang a heated iron, dangling down between his feet, pulling on the cord with his hands straightening the bungee. I kept envisioning severe burns on feet and runs to emergency rooms. (In case you are wondering, at this time my dear parents had taken my daughter down for the continental breakfast in the hotel lobby. Bless them!) When the swearing began in earnest and the metal base that sat on the ironing board which held the iron when not in use began to get bent from Clay pulling so hard, I decided I would retreat to the bathroom and dry and style my hair. Keep in mind by this time the water Clay had put in the iron was mostly spilled out now in various places all over the hotel room from him flinging the thing about in various ways trying to straighten the cord, and please continue to envision the whole time that this cord is, in fact, attached at the other end to the damn ironing board and you begin to get the picture.

When I finally came out of the bathroom it was with a fair amount of trepidation, so I was somewhat surprised to find the iron still intact and not in little pieces and to hear Clay quite civilly request an iron from the front desk over the phone. He then sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. You can imagine how my dear husband's mood "improved" when more and more time passed and the new iron (which hopefully would be delivered minus the tether) was not delivered. All too soon I ran out of things to do in the bathroom, so I finally suggested that he perhaps should take a shower (tentatively and carefully, like a police officer talking to a person threatening to jump off a roof top) and I would go down to the front desk and ask. I did so and, soon returned with an untethered (hallelujah) iron and a much nicer model, I might add. Leaving Clay with the new iron I went down to breakfast sure now that all would be well.

It was only later that I was informed that even that iron suffered some indignities also. Although the new iron was not tethered to the board, Clay was still not happy with the choices of where we had to plug it in within the hotel room, so he decided to find a new outlet that better suited his needs for, shall we say, greater maneuverability while ironing. He found one, plugged it in and ................... the iron would not heat up. After struggling with the evil tethered iron for the better part of an hour this was, I guess, the proverbial "last straw" and Clay launched the untethered iron across the hotel room, where it landed rather roughly in the general vicinity of the air conditioning unit. However, as I said I only learned of the iron's unauthorized "flight" later on, for when I returned from breakfast Clay was sedately finishing up his suit pants with the untethered iron. (Yes, it seems the iron worked fine, and, in fact, the outlet, Clay had plugged it into just happened to not be working). More impressive is, perhaps, the fact that the iron still worked after being so abused my husband.

It seems we were not the only ones with ironing woes, however, as my mother reports a tale of my parents' iron spewing water out at them when it was plugged in. It seems the last guest of the room had left water in the iron and poor unsuspecting Mom and Dad plugged it in only to start getting spat at. This would not be so bad except, once again, for the DAMN tether, for in order to pour the water out my father ended up dragging the iron and the board into the bathroom to dump the excess water down the drain. (Had to be quite the sight.)

Regardless, the running joke the rest of the weekend revolved around the tethered irons, and we all rotated the untethered iron Clay and I had gotten from the front desk between our room, my parents, and my brother and his wife's. Never did so tedious a chore garner so much attention. And although frustrating for poor Clay and perhaps scarring for my right arm, it provided some laughter during what was mostly a hard, and over wrought weekend, proving that laughter can always be found, and there are always moments to be enjoyed. (Although Clay might not think so!)

Take Good Care of Her God

2008-07-22T22:12:00.004-04:00

Somewhere along the way hugging her began to feel like embracing a piece of origami in your palm.... wrap your fingers too tightly around it and all the delicate parts that create the whole will crumble into nothing. I remember holding her hand this past Easter, tracing my fingers back and forth over the satin-like skin stretched over the bones and trying not to admit to myself that time was short. I look at my hands now typing on the keyboard. They are my Grandmother's hands, only the younger version with the same long-tapered fingers and nail beds. I think Isabelle has them too, although at only three years old I suppose it may be wishful thinking.

Now I mourn the loss of the only person who called me "darling." I know that sounds silly, but in a way she was the final symbol of my childhood, as if the last remnant of that era of my life has left with her. I have vivid memories of her basement at Christmas with long tables lined with chairs, trying to cram all the family in. Her little house would be ninety degrees because of all the cousins and aunts and uncles and family smashed together within, all of us dressed up in our holiday finery because Grandma loved that. And of course, there are all of the countless things I associate with her..... the chip dip recipe, perfect African violets on a kitchen windowsill, tiny shoes, parakeets, the diamond -shaped clock in her living room, the old fridge in the basement, her willingness to laugh at herself, Saunders hot fudge, the Christmas village set up on her window seat, the famous candy jar, Hallmark cards, her frustrating stubbornness, immaculately kept houses, her unique way with words, and anything and everything involving family. For me she seemed the quintessential grandmother with more grandchildren, step-grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and step great-grandchildren then you could begin to comprehend. Yet, despite the huge numbers if she had her favorites I will be damned if I had any idea who they were; she made us all feel like her "darlings."

She wasn't perfect. In fact, she could be so down right bull-headed it could make you crazy, and I certainly did not agree with her views on everything. No, her passing has not made me see her with rose-colored glasses. But, God I loved her, and her funeral this past weekend was heart-wrenching. I am trying hard to grasp onto the positive aspects (and there are so many). I am so thankful for being her granddaughter, for getting to have thirty-two years with her, for having all of those amazing memories of perfect holidays at her house on Sunnybrook, for all of those dinners at our house in Oxford, for all of those card games of Skipbo and shared bowls of chip dip, for the endless hugs, kisses, and glowing praise that only grandmothers bestow. I am so thankful that she was blessed with such a long, beautiful, full, loving, and rich life and one in which she could leave with both peace and dignity. Mostly I cherish the memories of watching her gaze at her great granddaughter, Isabelle Elaine (her namesake) and with tears in her eyes utter "bless her heart."

The day of my grandmother's funeral I went to her grave site, and I placed a pink rose on her casket as it was lowered into the ground. At that moment the pain of her loss felt very great, almost overwhelming. Then I looked at the marker next to hers. It was her first Love's. My grandfather, a man I never was lucky enough to know. It occurred to me then that there are many kinds of loss, and who is to say which is the greater? Is it more painful to have known and loved my grandma so well and then lose her or to never of had the chance or opportunity to know my grandfather at all? I know what I believe. Yes, there will be many more tears, but I will do so mostly while smiling at the same time. I look forward to the day when I will see her again for it will be a joyful reunion, and perhaps my grandmother will introduce me to the man at her side for that is a meeting that is long overdue.

This is My Brain. This is My Brain on Drugs.

2008-07-09T22:09:00.005-04:00

It is an amazing thing to have your life back when you did not even completely realize you had been missing it. Yet, here I am this week thinking just that. It is all because of a little pill called Topomax. This unimpressive, tiny white pill that looks about the size of a baby aspirin is seemingly (at least thus far) capable of doing what nothing has been capable of doing. It makes my head NOT hurt. YES. Can you believe it? Well, two tiny white pills, that is, but ya get my point.

My doctor and I just recently weaned me off of a drug that I pretty much hated for a variety of reasons, namely that it did absolutely zilch to quell the pounding in my skull, and I started the Topomax only about two weeks ago, so I know it is early to be "singing its praises" but when you have not had six consecutive days ( hell, who am I kidding? two consecutive days) without a headache in over four months, then you can begin to understand why I am just a little bit excited. Of course, it is too early to know if this will be the miracle drug that will handle the especially bad migraines that tend to surface around my menstrual cycle, but I am on a relatively low dose right now so I do have some wiggle room too.

And while I know it sounds overly dramatic to say I have my life back that is truly how it feels. I am filled with so much happiness this week that I am practically giddy. I find myself glancing at the clock in the afternoon with something akin to shock, realizing that I am not crippled on the couch cradling my head, but in fact, reading a book, doing laundry, or weeding a flower bed while Isabelle catches her nap. I am not mentally pushing myself through preparing dinner because my head is throbbing, or subconsciously planning my day in order to have all errands and appointments done in the morning since I know more than likely I won't be able to by the afternoon. Most importantly though, I am mentally present for my daughter, happy and able to play and read and do whatever we want to do together.

The funny thing is though was that I knew my headaches were bad. I mean I went to the doctor because it was so bad, and yet, now that I am actually experiencing a few days of, I guess, normalcy I am suddenly realizing how BAD it has been. I guess it goes to show what a person just adjusts to and learns to live/cope with. Now, of course, I am slightly terrified that this is just some weird hiccup and I will suddenly say awaken from my blissful, pain-free dream and find myself back in the vice-like grip that has been my head, but it is a good start. There are side effects as always (some big ones... while the pills look like nothing they are powerful little buggers) but I am willing to take on some fairly large trade offs if it means my head is no longer the tiny stress ball in some giant's hand. As with most things in life, time will tell if this is the answer I seek, but for now I plan to enjoy my "new head" to the utmost.

Praying

2008-06-29T21:16:00.002-04:00

"What's wrong, Mommy?"

"Oh, nothing honey. Mommy is just a jumble of emotions right now."

"But I can make you feel better."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"I give you a hug and you put up your eyebrows and then you will feel better!"

Yeah, life is a jumble of emotions right now, and these days my heart doesn't know if it should beat right out of my chest, jump in my throat, or swell to gigantic proportions. Case in point: I sat on the shores of Lake Superior this past week with the sun blazing down, the wind whipping my hair, watching my daughter and my brother's two children play in the shallows of that chilly lake's waters. My niece, Anya, is the picture of wild purity, a child who experiences everything to the utmost and lives her life with a zest that will make people flock to her as she matures because she radiates such a beauty of spirit. My nephew, Gideon, is the happy, easy-going one, always ready to bring a laugh or a smile to your face and so darn adorable I swear he could be the poster child for any kid product ever made. And then there is my Isabelle, splashing in the water, still trying to decide if she really is okay with being that sandy and disheveled but industriously filling her bucket with sand and compacting it with water anyway. All of them are the picture of innocence and of what is beautiful and right and wonderful in this world and in that moment sitting in my chair with my mother and my brother and sister-in-law, my heart could not possibly get any bigger with love.

Yet, in that same moment at the opposite end of the spectrum my grandmother lay ill in a hospital and we were waiting for word. Days later there have been a lot of words, little improvement and more questions. I am told to pray, but my heart asks what should I pray for? Ultimately, I pray for God to help my grandmother ...... in whatever form that takes so long as it removes any fear, suffering or pain from the equation. Selfishly, I would keep her with me always, but I don't "man the controls" on this ride, so it is not for me to decide and perhaps that is as it should be. For me, sometimes life feels to big to handle. Like I have more emotion then I know what to do with and this week has been like that. Everything is such a muddled mess within my head that it is hard to form an articulate thought. It is at times like this when I like to believe there is a "greater power" at work, somehow guiding me through. Call it naive, if you will, I don't mind.

But through my jumble of emotions I still see how life comes full circle (as well as throwing you a couple of curve balls) so I will choose to think about my grandmother's great grandchildren (her legacy) frolicking on the shores of Lake Superior, and I will swallow the lump that continues to climb into my throat, and I will listen to my heart thump away in my chest, and I will hope for a better tomorrow.

All things Isabelle

2008-06-18T13:31:00.003-04:00

Last Friday Clay and I took our daughter to Green Bay for a surprise. She has been obsessed with Thomas the Train for the past two years, so when the "Day out with Thomas" program came to the National Railroad Museum, I knew we had to take her. It was toddler insanity! Picture about a gazillion 2-5 year olds trailing around with their parents, strollers, cameras, and Thomas t-shirts, waiting for their chance to meet Thomas. Isabelle got to go on a twenty-five minute train ride with Thomas at the head of the train. We paused for photo ops with a giant Lego Thomas, jumped inside a castle trampoline for an eternity, saw Sir Topham Hatt himself (you would have to know the Thomas the Train books to have any clue who he is) and toured the railroad museum, climbing in and out of a number of engines, passenger cars and the largest train I have ever seen, named "Big Boy." Isabelle also entertained a roomful of people with an impromptu dance on a stage to music piped through the speakers in between the children's band that was actually performing. In the days since our trip she has talked continually about her ride on Thomas, and wants to wear her new "I spent the day with Thomas t-shirt" everyday. Overall, I think it is safe to say she loved her surprise, and it was a great way to finish up celebrating her birthday.

Her birthday party the Sunday before our trip to see Thomas was also very much enjoyed. She loved her presents (I have been chasing her on her new bike everyday) but mostly she loved playing with her cousins. It is hard to believe she is now three years old and truly no longer a baby, but instead a little girl. The time has flown, but I find this age a lot of fun, although exhausting! It is an amazing experience to watch the tiny being you created develop into a little soul with her own personality, sense of humor, and crazy quirks. I see glimpses now of the woman she will one day become, and I mentally tell myself to log these moments away in a safe place as they are going to be the memories I cherish most. I am so thankful for the time I have with Isabelle. Yes, it is hard sometimes (to the point where I swear I am going to need a padded cell, or at the very least several stiff drinks), but she fills my heart in a way that nothing else in this world ever has. So, looking back on the last week, I am just feeling fortunate .... fortunate for the time I can spend, the family I have, and the fact that we can give Isabelle the kind of safe and happy childhood that every child should be blessed with.

Lord Stanley, at Last!

2008-06-05T10:49:00.003-04:00

It seemed somewhat anti-climactic after the insanity that was the fifth game, but the Red Wings are bringing home the cup once more, and I, for one, could not be happier. Playing in their 104th game of the season they clinched their 11th NHL championship and 4th in the last 11 seasons. They did it this year by closing out every playoff series on the road, by battling through doubt, questionable calls, trash-talking coaches, and always believing in one another. It is the epitome of why I love team sports, and especially hockey.

How beautiful to see such a deserving guy like Nick Lidstrom, hoist the cup as team captain, and it was fantastic to witness Dallas Drake, NMU alum, after 16 seasons and at age 39 win his first NHL championship with the same team he began his career with. By far though my favorite moment of the night was watching Dan Cleary, cool and collected, be interviewed by the Canadian announcer. Moments later he located his wife and baby daughter in the crowd and dissolved into a puddle of tears and emotion. After fighting back from a horrifically broken jaw, Cleary will now bring the Stanley Cup home to Newfoundland for the first time ever.

So, now I can breathe once again and my continual talk of playoffs, and Cups and Red Wings will perhaps not be so prevalent on my blog (well, once the victory parade is over on Friday, and of course, there is always next season!) For now, I will sit quietly and smile, perusing all of the interviews, articles, videos, and photos I can find on the Internet, secure in the knowledge that the best team won. Go Red Wings!

Why God, Why?

2008-06-03T09:52:00.002-04:00

I should have known it was not going to be our night. The second Kronwall accidentally cleared the puck into our own net, I should have known that our hockey luck was absent yesterday. It was apparent that Fleury was standing on his head and stopping everything, but when we battled back and tied it and then took the lead, I thought surely the hockey gods would favor us now. I felt like someone had just told me my dog died when the Penguins somehow scored with 30-some seconds left in regulation. How could this be? Yet, I still held out hope, watching the Wings out skate, out shoot, out play the Penguins through two and a half overtimes, despite two very questionable interference calls, and even when the death knell was delivered by awarding a four minute penalty to an accidental high stick that yes, drew blood, but only because the player already had a previous cut in the same place. It was like a perfect storm created for the sole purpose of denying the Red Wings what should be rightfully theirs.

We deserve this Cup. We are the superior team in every sense of the word. We have behaved the right way, worked hard, continued to be a classy hockey team regardless of the fact that the Penguins have whined, complained, and delivered cheap shots to get where they are. We are a true team, with everyone contributing and not just one or two players carrying the load. I will tip my hat to Fleury who single-handedly kept his team in the playoffs last night, but frankly I find it hard to give credit to the rest of their team as it is more a matter of us beating ourselves then the Penguins actually beating us. I would challenge anyone to watch Game 3 and and Game 5 over and tell me otherwise.

Now, I am left feeling somewhat heart sick. I still firmly believe that if we play how we are capable we will prevail, but I have seen the better team not win the Cup before, and it feels as if the fates are conspiring against us. On to Game Six.

My Boys, My Daughter's Bum, and My Brain

2008-05-27T13:25:00.003-04:00

I am a pretty happy girl today for a variety of reasons. My Red Wings are doing fabulous, my daughter decided to up and potty train out of the blue, and my MRI came back informing me that I have no brain tumor, nasty growth, or any other offensive object somehow contributing to my headaches (no surprise there though).

So, to elaborate:

***The Red Wings have thus far made the Penguins look like the inexperienced, over-rated team I have believed them to be. Now do not misunderstand me. I think they are a very good team with some absolutely talented players, who still could easily make a series of this Stanley Cup final. However, it does show that my assessment was correct. The Penguins have not faced a team like the Red Wings thus far in their playoffs, and now find themselves facing a rude awakening. Perhaps they were believing too much of their own press? How quickly the media backtracks now and jumps on the Red Wings band wagon. Once more I say to hold on. Yes, we have won two games. In fact, we have two shut outs. Right now it looks like nothing short of a freight train could slow the Wings down, but this is hockey, and I for one will not be counting my chickens before they have hatched and Lord Stanley is being hoisted above Nick Lidstrom's head. I have seen crazy things happen too many times, and we will be going to their arena for the next two games. At the same time the Wings are the better team, and barring any more ridiculous calls (Holmstrom's supposed interference negating Lidstrom's goal in Game 1) I believe we will prevail.

And what was up with Roberts, flat out punching Franzen in the head during the third period?! For those of you paying attention Whitney went on to also knock Franzen in the skull just a few minutes later. When the one player who is coming back from concussion like symptoms is nailed twice within the span of eight minutes, I find it hard to believe he wasn't being targeted. Franzen, for his part is more forgiving than I, saying they were just trying to get their team fired up and when questioned about being hit in the head only replied that well, he does have a big one, implying it is an easy target. I am not so sure.

And, of course, now the whining begins that the Detroit defense is obstructing and Osgood embellished his fall into the net. Funny, how no Penguin was complaining when Holmstrom's love tap on Fleury's pads negated a Red Wing's goal, but now when it is on them it is suddenly not fair. Can we say sour grapes?

On to Game Three!

*** Isabelle woke up last Tuesday and decided from that moment on that she was going to use the potty, and has been accident free ever since. It is simply amazing how she just suddenly began doing what I have been wanting her to do for months. I am so glad, I listened to all those wise mothers out there who told me to just wait and she would decide to on her own with no endless fighting on my side. YES!! My little baby is quickly joining the world of ladies wearing "big girl panties" and I am thrilled and proud. Who knew that pooping and peeing in a potty could leave one so fulfilled?

*** Yes, the MRI did nothing more then confirm what we already knew. I get a lot of headaches. Bad ones. So, bad, in fact, that one can see the evidence of them scarred on my brain. Or as my doctor put it "a small defect in the white brain matter, which is seen in people with untreated high blood pressure, diabetes, or chronic severe headaches." Using the word "defect" in conjunction with describing my brain is not something I enjoy, although I am sure my brother will get a good laugh out of that one. Regardless, I am back to playing the waiting game to see if my current meds have the desired effect, but I must give them ample time to build up in my system before deciding if they do or do not help manage my headaches. I can say today they are not working as my head is feeling more like something that was mixed in a blender. On that note, I will sign off and ease the pain in my head with thoughts of my Red Wings and my potty-trained daughter.

The Holy Grail

2008-05-20T13:17:00.003-04:00

Yes, the Red Wings are in, but they still get no respect. I just finished reading an article on ESPN. com that picks the Penguins to win in the seven game series. On and on about how glorious the Pittsburgh forwards are and how great Fleury has been between the pipes. And while they were at it why not just anoint Crosby as the second coming? Ugh, I so hate all the so-called experts.

So, let me just throw in a little food for thought. I have no doubt that this will be a tough series between two highly skilled hockey teams, arguably the most skilled teams in the NHL. I have no doubt that the Penguins are, indeed, worthy of the praise they have received having essentially coasted through the previous rounds of the playoffs. However, anyone who follows hockey a little bit would tell you the Western conference is much tougher to play in. And while Fleury may be a great goalie, Osgood has proven he can hold his own, plus he has Stanley cup finals experience under his belt. Not to mention I do not believe Fleury has been tested with the likes of Datsuk and Zetterberg thus far in the teams he has encountered, nor had someone get under his skin like Holmstrom. Malkin and Crosby will certainly be a tough duo, but I truly believe our defense with Lidstrom, Rafalski, and Kronwall have the capability of doing the job.

At the very least the Red Wings deserve praise and respect for the fact that year after year they put together a great team and are always contenders. The organization has been to the Stanley Cup finals 23 times, which is the second most in the NHL, behind Montreal. Furthermore, they carry the burden of being "the team to beat" into every series they go into, (with class and dignity, I might add) and if they so much as hiccup and lose a game everyone starts screaming about how they are choking and are not a great team after all. Now all the chatter will be about the youth of the Penguins and the experience of the Wings. Well, fine. Our road to the cup this year has shown us to be a team that when we stumble, can come back even harder, even when our number one scoring man, Franzen, is not playing. So, enough with all the predictions; drop the damn puck and then we will see.

MRI Insanity

2008-05-16T11:12:00.003-04:00

So, I had my very first MRI yesterday. Quite the experience. Being a person who likes to be informed I had popped myself on-line and read about MRI's and of course, queried everyone I knew who had gone through one. Everyone said the same thing: loud and small. (They were not kidding.)

First of all, I had to do the complete strip and throw on a hospital gown (two actually, I wore one as a robe for warmth and some added coverage in the posterior) because any kind of metal is BAD in an MRI for obvious reasons. Anyway, there I was swimming in two gowns (both like triple x-large and capable of covering a small humpback whale) sitting on this narrow "bed" and getting ready to slide into what looked to me to be a very tiny tunnel. First, the ear plugs wouldn't fit. Turns out I have tiny ear canals and most ear plugs just pop right back out when you try and stuff them in my ears. So, the nurse and I crammed them in the best we could and then she had me lay down in order to put this "helmet" on my head. I had a brief flash to Hannibal Lector in "Silence of the Lambs" when he is strapped to that board wearing what looked like an old style goalie mask. It wasn't that bad, really, as it only covered the top half of my head and there were large eye holes, but I was quickly feeling, shall we say .... contained. The nurse then wedged in a whole bunch of padding between my head and the helmet in order to muffle the sound and keep my head still. At that point I could not have moved my head if I wanted to. Handing me a squeeze ball with a cord attached she instructed me to press it if I needed to stop the test and told me to relax.

Now I should mention I am a little bit leery of tight spaces. I am not a huge fan of elevators (although I think that might have more to do with the movement and less the small space) nor do I like to be in a crowd. I would not have described myself as bad as claustrophobic because it isn't like I panic (Well, except that time at Shamrock bar in college when there were so many people it was like we were a herd of cattle in a corral and I felt my heart start racing and it was as if I was going to scream, cry, or freak out, if I did not get out of there immediately. Yeah, it was a panic attack but that's another story). So, hell, maybe I am claustrophobic, but as I did not wish to be sedated I figured I would just suck it up and handle it. Yikes. Turns out the tube was even smaller on the inside than it looked on the outside. I closed my eyes before I even felt the bed move into the tunnel, but all the same I could sense the closeness of it, the walls pressing down around me, and I felt my heart rate jump up and my hands start to shake.

Then the sound began, and I can only describe it as laying inside a metal drum while someone runs a jackhammer against it on the outside. Yes, it was that loud, and even knowing it was going to be loud I was still startled. The panic was crawling up my throat, and for a moment I thought there was no way I could do this test. Somehow, I managed to get a grip on myself and concentrated on taking some slow breaths. The sounds continued and changed varying like something in a kid's cartoon with strange twangs, beeps, pulses, thumps, and whistles, and soon I found myself trying to anticipate what I might hear next. It was a continual effort to keep a handle on my emotions and not let my fear creep in, and it dawned on me that an MRI might not be a bad torture device for any terrorists we capture. I mean lets review: not allowed to move, crammed in a tiny claustrophobic space, incredible noise..... for me, if you just piped in Rod Stewart singing "If You think I'm Sexy," I would be in the seventh circle of Hell.

Twenty minutes through the nurse pulled me out, and I had a few minutes to open my eyes while she gave me an injection of contrast dye, which was no big deal other then that it was cold and I could actually sense it in my vein moving up my arm. Later, I swear, I could feel it in my brain, like cool fingers. It sounds like something out of a horror flick, but truly, while weird it was not an unpleasant sensation. Six more minutes in the tube, and I was done, feeling like a dog let off it's leash for the first time.

Now I have only to await the results, although I doubt anything of significance will be found. I have joked with my mother for years that I know my headaches are not caused by something scary like a brain tumor because I would have been dead ages and ages ago. (Is that my Monty Python "Tis merely a flesh wound" mentality coming through again, Chrissy?)

Red Wings update: Do not get me started on the disgusting job of officiating during game 4 or the almost blatant appearance of slanting a game enormously in one team's favor in order to force a game five. Yes, the Wings did not play perfectly, but then again typically a team only has ONE opponent in a hockey game, not two. Actually, though it will work out fine as it is hard to play with a continual level of intensity when you are always kicking the other team's A**, and it will serve to help the Wings refocus their energies. Plus, we will not have the pressure of carrying on a long winning streak going into the final series. Besides, I see Pittsburgh was not any better at finishing off their round against Philly and they did not have to play against the refs too.

Head Games

2008-05-14T13:56:00.003-04:00

I have not written in a while and it is basically for one reason. My head hurts. Now I should mention my head has a long history of hurting, dating back to elementary school when I told my mother I had a headache to which she replied that kids as young as I was did not get headaches. (She has since decided that she was probably wrong in that instance). Normal for me is 3-5 headaches a week, mostly of the nagging but not debilitating variety that can be brought to a dull ache with over the counter medication. At times I have suffered from migraines, which first reared their enormously ugly head in graduate school, but promptly left when I finished my degree. Can you say stress-related? I proceeded to go through a few years relatively migraine free until I went into labor with my daughter, upon which I had the worst migraine of my life.

Since that time I have had menstrual migraines (which are what they sound like; lots of fairly severe headaches around a particular time of month) along with my run of the mill ones 3-5 times a week. Now though it appears that the evil headache gods have decided to throw yet another curve ball my way. Looking back I now realize I have had a headache everyday for going on a month. I start out relatively good in the morning but by the afternoon I am typically fading fast, and while the pain will ebb and flow it will not completely leave until I finally go to bed. Over the counter meds are powerless against them. These headaches are different in that I now have neck pain (I picture a giant squeezing a stress ball with my head being the stress ball, his hand at the base of my skull where it meets the neck) as well as the standard ache in the forehead region. They do not rank as severe as migraines (at least not most of the time) but it is the chronic never-ending factor which is really starting to take its toll.

Now I am not a hypochondriac nor do I believe I am a wimp, but this is starting to get ridiculous even for headache-prone me, and last week when I found myself crying because ..... yet again .... me head was throbbing and poor Isabelle wanted to play (and all I wanted to do was curl into the fetal position in a dark room) I decided I really did have to see a doctor.

I know, you are thinking why in the He** did she not do that way before? Well, I have for the migraines over the years, but as far as the numerous other headaches I have mostly managed them with non-prescription stuff, and while nagging I did not feel they were affecting my quality of life. Besides it has always been my norm, so frankly I do not know any different. I am very good at powering through most headaches and have become skilled at even masking the fact that I have one most of the time. For instance, the fact that Clay gets maybe three headaches a year is just amazing to me. What must that be like?

Now that I have sufficiently whined I will tell you without getting into minute detail that yes, I am seeing a doctor and yes, we have started a plan of action involving medication and a few tests, but the simple truth of the matter is there are no easy answers. Most of the time there is no underlying cause for chronic headaches, and the "lucky" people who get them have to simply learn to manage them the best they can with medication and lifestyle. I could be trying various medications for quite some time before I manage to find one that works well for me, and then of course, there is the trade off of side effects as these are not exactly baby-aspirin we're popping.

But it is not just about me anymore, and it is not fair to my almost three year old to have a Mom who is not fully present at any given moment due to chronic pain. She already knows too much, and asks me almost everyday if my head hurts .... something I would like her not to have to concern herself with at such a young age. So, I am officially getting on the medical roller coaster to see if we can find a solution, and in the mean time, I am going to do my best to laugh through the pain. After all, so many people out there have it worse.

Update: The Red Wings are helping to lift my spirits considerably with their fabulous play, as they hope to finish off Dallas tonight in Game 4, which would be their second consecutive sweep in the playoffs. Franzen and I have something in common as he continues to be out with "concussion-like symptoms," but Datsuk and Zetterberg are picking up the slack. I am guessing we will be facing Pittsburgh in the Stanley Cup final unless Philly can make an amazing comeback (just like Dallas hopes to do). So, go red Wings!

Feeling Frazzled

2008-05-03T14:09:00.005-04:00

Some days I feel like the proverbial chicken running around with its head cut off. Lately, I cannot seem to keep everything straight. This morning I just realized Mother's Day is next weekend. Normally I am completely prepared with cards and gifts by now, and instead I find myself going "Sh**! because it totally slipped my mind.

In case, you didn't know I like to be ahead of the game. I like to think of myself as responsible, but I am sure it comes across more like anal and over-structured. Oh well, at thirty-two years of age I do not think we are changing me at this point, so everyone will just have to deal with it!

I think I am forgetful at the moment because we are in the process of trying to sell our house and look for a new one. The whole saga of even thinking about moving everything we have accumulated in the last five to six years is intimidating. Not to mention I am nervous about how successful we will be in selling given the state of the housing market lately. Suddenly all the flaws in my house seem glaring and harsh. Clay and I have been busting our butts for the last couple of weeks trying to fix some of the little chores we have ignored. (He just finally finished the trim work around the crawl space door. The job took him a total of 30 minutes never mind that I have been asking him to do that for going on six years!!)

I also have been trying to make the house not look quite as full of our stuff as it is. That involves more purging of items (which I am good at) and trying to make closets appear spacious and neat (this is a bit harder). Plus, that whole anal thing comes into play as I found myself two days ago systematically going through my closet and hanging everything in it with white hangers because, gee, that looks nicer. (I know. FREAK) Now I will admit that it got worse, as I proceeded to put all the black hangers in the guest room closet for all of Clay's suits and Polo's, and burgundy hangers in Isabelle's closet, and all the blue shades in the front closet. It isn't like I have too much time on my hands either, but all the same I got bogged down in making it perfect (at least in my mind). I am sure a shrink could have a field day with me. I comfort myself with the thought that we all have our little idiosyncrasies, and in the scheme of things mine are not too terrible. Although at the rate I am going I might be scrubbing my floor with an old toothbrush by the time I am sixty. (Maybe I was a maid in a past life.)

Anyway, all of the house nerves combined with Isabelle's ever increasing level of energy (which will explode into tantrums, whining and all out disobedience if not given ample exercise) has me feeling more scattered than normal. But, then again, if this is the worst I have to complain about then I ought to just be quiet, right?

P.S. For those of you not keeping track: My glorious team, the Red Wings, trounced Colorado in a lovely four game sweep and are awaiting the next round against either Dallas or San Jose, both of which will be formidable teams. Closer to Lord Stanley we go!

Hat Tricks

2008-04-26T18:44:00.003-04:00

Oh, how I love hat tricks! There is something especially beautiful about it when it is done in the playoffs, and today Johan Franzen went and scored a hat trick on the way to the 2nd Red Wings victory over Colorado. Final score 5-1. Ha, Ha! Currently the Avalanche are mostly looking like a team that thinks they need to get to the golf course soon, and if they keep up their current level of play that wish will soon be granted. However, anyone who watches hockey knows how quickly the tide can turn, so I for one will not get too cocky. After all, playing in Colorado is always tough, and I am guessing Mr. Forsberg will be back for game three after two more days rest, and he might give their team a boost just by being on the ice. I am also guessing they may not start Theodore the next game after two abysmal games on his part. But in the mean time I am going to sit here happily with my Red Wings another victory closer to the Cup and marveling at Franzen who has now scored an amazing 22 goals in his last 25 games. Yay!!!!!!!

Insomnia

2008-04-26T00:22:00.002-04:00

So, here it is almost 12:30 at night, and I am in the middle of one of my little no sleep trips. I got sick of laying in bed for over the last hour and thought I might as well get up and do ..... something. The rain is falling on the roof, and we are currently blanketed in a fog so thick that combined with the dark it feels like our house is the only one in the world.

At the same time I take comfort in the fact that I am certainly not the only one who is suffering from a bout of insomnia and perhaps also typing away on their computer or surfing the Internet in a vain attempt to bring their mind into a more restful mode. I remember thinking something similar when I was nursing Isabelle as a baby. Sitting in her room, rocking her against me with the night light giving off its soft glow, I would imagine other mothers, rocking in a chair, bleary-eyed, stroking their babies' heads as they nursed. It is a nice thought, don't you think?

I have never slept well. Even when I was young. My mother never realized that I got up and used the bathroom at least once every night until she went camping with me for Girl Scouts. There we were, tromping out of the platform tent to take a walk in the dark down to the outhouse, flashlights bobbing on the trail. Of course, my small bladder is only a part of the problem. I hear everything it seems and as previously mentioned I frequently cannot shut off my mind. I am sure I could be a candidate for a sleep clinic, but of course, I think those are strange. I mean, don't they hook you up to a bunch of electrodes, lay you flat on your back and watch you rest in a bed you have never slept in before? Given the environment what are the odds of you sleeping well?!

YAWN. I suppose I should go and try again. I am tired, and I do want to sleep. (of course, I was chronically tired for two years during my Masters' program, and I still did not sleep, so I guess it doesn't matter). I am sure I will look at this post tomorrow and determine it makes no sense and possesses nothing of quality (as opposed to my other posts. Ha, ha) but I can at least offer up the excuse that I am sleep deprived.

Besides I am not so tired that I cannot write GO RED WINGS!

What Else? Red Wings

2008-04-19T12:37:00.004-04:00

Sorry, this is all about Red Wings and sports and hockey, so if you were looking for anything else, just skip this entry and, in fact, you might just want to skip visiting my blog until the playoffs are over because the Red Wings most likely will be a frequent topic for me!

Okay, I admit it. After those damn Nashville Predators went and scored with like 47 seconds left in the third period of Game five to tie the game, I was a little freaked. I truly believed that the hockey Gods were against us. I mean, there the Wings were having played a very solid game and having something like fifty-two shots on goal and yet..... tie game. I was already dreading going back to Nashville down a game and having to win there and then come home and finish it off in game seven. (Notice I did not say they were done..... true fans always hope, pray, believe, beg, that by some miracle their team will prevail. Besides how can any hockey God choose Nashville over the Red Wings, one of the original six? Duh!)

Then Franzen went and did a little magic (with some help from Filppula) 1:48 seconds into overtime and just like that I feel so much better. So, maybe the hockey Gods are not against us, but then why the torture? I mean anyone with half a brain can see the Red Wings are clearly the superior team, but here they are in a very close series. Just like the rest of the Western conference, I might add. I guess it all comes down to the idea (like in football) that on any given day each team has a chance to do something amazing. I mean, did anyone other then maybe the Giants, really expect them to win the Superbowl over the Patriots? I know, I am mixing my sports but it does prove my point. For me, though I like to think a team is also WORTHY of winning the whole enchilada, and frankly, the Patriots weren't. The Red Wings, however? Oh yeah, they are WORTHY.

In fact, the NHL in general has very little of the "hoopla" that the NFL and NBA have, and I for one, prefer it. You rarely here about any professional hockey player, in a brawl at some night club or arrested for some type of spousal abuse, where as, it is (sad to say) almost commonplace in other professional sports. For the most part hockey players are just regular guys skating in the most grueling playoff schedule in the history of sports, busting their butts for a chance to win Lord Stanley. I watch because it is a true team sport and while you have your individual stars, none of them can do it by themselves. I watch for the amazing break aways and short-handed goals. I watch for a goalie who stops a puck that was certain to go in the net. I watch for a tough check or a good fight and for the fact, that at the end of the series regardless of who was pummeled, fouled or beat up, all players shake hands and say "good game." Ya gotta love it; I do not know how you can't. So, ya all know where I will be on Sunday at 3:00. Watching the Red Wings finish off the series in Nashville.

This and That

2008-04-15T15:19:00.005-04:00

Ugh, some days I just do not know what to write. I typically write whatever happens to be occupying my brain matter at the time, but the truth is I am all over the board this week, so I think I will just list (in no particular order) all the various themes currently taking up space:

* What is it with road rage? Actually, not even road rage. Clay got incredibly (shall we say "annoyed") this weekend when he was unable to locate a store that carried the golf putter he is thinking of buying. All of us have had times when we could not find what we are looking for. I am still searching for a pair of jeans that truly fits correctly.... and it has been thirty-two years! But I have never gone postal when, after trying on thirty thousand pairs of jeans, I still have yet to find the right one. Clay, well, I knew we were in trouble when the address for the first golf store resulted in nothing more than a residential neighborhood. This was followed by rather jerky driving and higher rates of speed to the second location, which was closed. This was followed by nearly being run off the road when he pulled out into traffic with very little time to spare, which resulted in a lot of horn-honking on Clay's part and me wishing I could disappear into the leather passenger seat. Now, I should back track and say Clay has looked at other golf stores in lower Michigan and has not found the putter in any of these locations either. However, it is a rather high end putter, plus very new, so frankly, I am not surprised. My husband, on the other hand, takes it as the golf gods being personally out to get him and trying to thwart his chances of acquiring the latest and the greatest. While I understand the frustration, I just do not get the extreme reaction. Must be the testosterone.

* I cannot get this book "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer out of my head. I read it about a week ago in less than two days, and while I have since read another book and, in fact started a third, I am still mentally chewing on it. Mom recommended it to me (mostly because she wanted to discuss it) and it is powerful. I keep finding more themes to it..... loss, and love, and communication. The communication of a grandfather, who doesn't speak except by writing or with his two hands, one tattooed with the word "yes" the other with the word "no" and to write letters he never sends to a son he never meets, a grandmother who types for hours and hours but produces only blank pages, a neighbor who lives as a recluse in his apartment and talks to no one and yet labels everyone he has ever met with a single word, which he then files in a card catalog, and a little boy genius wise beyond his years, who has the ability to communicate with everyone, but does not pick up the phone when the man he most wants to talk to (his Dad) comes over the answering machine, calling from the Twin Towers on September 11th. And that doesn't even get into the structure of the book and how the author uses the text to help convey the story in a way that reminded me of "The Death of Artemio Cruz" by Carlos Fuentes. I almost wish to be back in a college course just so I could talk about it in a classroom setting. Almost.

* A list in the form of projects/repairs on the house, which need to be done if we are, in fact, serious about trying to sell it. We have cleaned the garage and I have repainted a couple of walls, and the pantry, and the kitchen door, but we still need to power wash the exterior, do some caulking, finish some trim and clean, clean, clean.....

* My very nice weekend away for my birthday, which involved a lovely hotel, leisurely meals with no toddler to entertain (no offense, Isabelle), sleeping late, and a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings. Did I mention I love my husband? (road rage and all)

* The Red Wings, blowing game three last night against Nashville. After playing the better game and being the better team, they sat back and played "not to lose" rather then "to win" for the last 15 minutes of the third period. Basically they handed the Predators a chance to get back in the game and then seemed somewhat surprised when they did. I love the Wings, LOVE them, and was so thoroughly disgusted after this loss which puts the series at 2-1 instead of 3-0 (which is a HUGE difference when playing a best of 7 series in the first round of the playoffs) I just could not even look at the television. I must stop as I can feel the blood pressure rising.

* Laughing silently to myself as Clinton and Obama continue to pummel each other into oblivion, hoping to secure the Democratic nomination. "Clinging to guns and religion?" Could we be any more condescending? The man better not come to the U.P with those beliefs! Ah well, maybe it will help McCain.

* Will my daughter ever potty train?

* What should I make for dinner?

* Is it actually possible for me to lose the last few pounds (the ones I have been trying to erase for quite some time now) without resorting to anorexia, bulimia, plastic surgery, or hiring a personal trainer?

* Could our friend Toad (Todd, actually but he goes by Toad) be any nicer? I asked him to check the cats once this weekend while we were gone and he proceeded to check on them both days, bring in the mail and snow blow the driveway when we got six inches of snow. (yes, in April; it is the U.P. some places got over a foot so I consider us lucky.)

And, I guess, that is about it. Until next time.

To the Two I Lost

2008-04-05T19:43:00.004-04:00

I am not one to hang on to the past, and for the most part I think it does not help us to do so. However, some experiences (good or bad) have a way of sticking with you. This month has a tendency to bring a difficult time in my life back to mind, and I have learned it is easier to acknowledge it and move on rather then pretend I don't remember. The truth is I still do even after four years. In this case, though I believe it is good for me to recall how sad I was then because it only serves to remind me how incredibly blessed and happy I am now with my beautiful daughter and family. What follows is a poem I wrote after suffering my second miscarriage in April of 2004.

I never got to know you, I never knew your name.

In fact, you were more of a dream, one whose truth never came.

I will think of you forever, for reminders never cease.

You were one possible future from which I did not want release.

But some choices are not our own, nor for us to understand.

So, I will continue to trust in God, and strive to touch his hand.

A part of me will always miss you, as something I cannot erase,

Because I will always see the possibility of your smile in every child's face.

Washing My Mouth out with Soap

2008-03-27T13:43:00.003-04:00

I have no one to blame but myself. It is amazing to me how our children can so easily latch onto the least favorable qualities within ourselves and adopt them as their own. Some of these "qualities" must be ingrained in their DNA. For example, I think Isabelle must have come out of the womb possessing no patience. (Of course, after going through a forty-plus hour labor, one can hardly blame her for being tired of waiting!) She gets this impatient streak from her father who has been known to quickly lose it when things do not go perfect the first time.

However, the latest not-so-lovely "habit" is most definitely my fault. You see, despite my efforts in the last several years to, shall we say "tame my tongue" I, nonetheless, still maintain a tendency to swear. Especially when watching sports, specifically hockey. Watching a ref make a bad call against the Red Wings, can launch me into a tirade of language that could most likely make a sailor blush. I am also known to get a little irritated at what passes for journalism these days when I watch almost any evening news program. Unbiased? Please! My colorful vocabulary stems largely from a beloved friend of mine who in high school dropped f-bombs like a thunderstorm drops rain. She was as unconscious of it as one is of breathing, and I soon became the same way. In college, the swearing diminished considerably, but I confess I did not work very hard to eradicate it completely. Now, as a mother, I am once more painfully aware of what words I say, and I try very hard to clamp down on the trailer trash side of my vocabulary.

Although, it would seem not completely. Last week, Clay and I set up an Easter egg hunt in our house for Isabelle. The eggs were scattered in our downstairs family room, and Isabelle quickly got into it, racing around with her basket and piling the colored eggs inside. At one point she momentarily stopped and surveying the room stated excitedly, "They are "friggin' everywhere!" Clay and I, sitting on the couch observing, turned simultaneously to one another and he mouthed, "friggin?!?" I shook it off, determined to believe we had misheard until a few minutes later she said the offending word once more. Despite being rather alarmed by my beautiful daughter's utterance, I found myself not quite capable of keeping a straight face. There was something completely hysterical about watching this small, angelic picture of innocence say something that should be coming out of the mouth of a character like Rizzo in "Grease." Now, though I am rather chagrined and determined to do better in curbing my wayward tongue. In my defense, "friggin" is a much better substitute then the other "f-word!"

Hamster Wheel

2008-03-18T18:30:00.004-04:00

Some days I would like to just keep moving, keep running and never stop. I pound that treadmill track, lungs sucking in oxygen, heart thumping, blood flowing through my body, my muscles moving in perfect coordination totally without conscious thought. It feels good. It is simple. It is living at its basic, stripped of all the complexities, big and small, that make up a person's life.

This morning I thought I didn't want to get on the treadmill. I felt tired. The kind of tired that goes beyond the physical to the point where your soul and mind are just craving for... quiet. But I stood on the scale and saw the number and stretched my muscles with Isabelle mimicking my movements beside me. The first few minutes on the treadmill feel sluggish and I keep glancing at the time I have left and thinking, "I feel like crap."

But ten minutes in I am running, ignoring the slight stitch in my side as I cross the point where I am no longer thinking about running. The music playing on the TV fades away as does Isabelle babbling as she plays with her toys. My heart thuds in my chest as I run, run away from my fat thighs, run away from whiny kids, run away from meowing cats, run away from dirty laundry, dirty toilets, dirty dishes. I do my best to pound out the stress that has been tying my neck into a steady knot for the last three weeks, to release the worry, the ceaseless, gut-wrenching worry about things I cannot control, to rest my brain from trying over and over to come up with some way to truly help Clay. I run away from my insecurities about my looks, my inadequacies as a mother, my tendency to try and always meet everyones needs and wants even at the expense of my own. I keep going on my own version of the hamster wheel until the time winds down and the treadmill slows, and then I am walking and the room is slowly coming back into focus and my life still surrounds me - both the beautiful and not so beautiful parts. And I know I have not solved anything and a small part of me wants to just keep going.

The responsible part of me thinks about what I need to do for the day and reminds me that I do, in fact, feel better. And I do. While nothing is solved the body is strong and energized, and for the moment my head is not quite so clouded. My optimistic side comes to the surface, as it always inevitably does, and tells me that while I may stress and worry and feel down, life has a way of working out the way it is supposed to. I pound that thought into my stair treads as I head upstairs to get my shower.

Hard-Headed and Proud of It

2008-03-13T13:37:00.003-04:00

Well, it finally happened. I figured it would sooner or later, and actually it is amazing we almost made it to three years old before taking a really good whack. Yup, that's right: Isabelle finally hit her head. I mean HIT her head, not just one of the billions of times she has bumped it (once you have a child you will understand the difference, trust me.) The kid has fallen down the stairs, rolled off of the bed, fallen off a deck and a dock, and walked into doors more times then I can count, but this injury definitely goes on Isabelle's top ten list (number one, for now).

Last night Clay was lifting weights, which he does three/four times a week. Isabelle loves this and frequently counts for him as he does his reps or picks up her own weights (little one lbs.) and imitates Daddy. Well, he was doing his arm curls (20 lbs. in each hand). For those of you who don't know, this involves raising the weight up in a "curl" and then bringing it back down to his side. As Clay was bringing his left arm down, Isabelle took that exact minute to run into the room behind Clay and right into the weight, which proceeded to bounce off of her forehead.

Yes, that is right, 20 lbs. connected with my daughter's skull in the matter of a split second and before Clay even had a moment to realize she was there, let alone react. It is in that moment that time seemed to slow down and I felt every organ in my body jump into my throat. One thought played quickly across my mind. "Please, God, do not let it be too bad." Well, of course, all hell ensued, with Isabelle doing an immediate about face and rushing into my arms screaming at the top of her lungs, which if you have not been privy to hearing ranks up there with a thousand "yippy" dogs howling. She was so distraught that I could not even get a look, so while I held her I sent Clay to grab a cold washcloth and the all important "Boo-boo Bunny." "Boo-boo Bunny" is a creatively folded yellow washcloth with eyes and a nose and ears, but more importantly holds a tiny frozen ice ball in it's belly and is kept in the freezer. He works miracles and will be held on any offending injury by Isabelle without complaint. Thank you to Mom for buying it and to the craft show lady who made it!

After repeated gasping sobs from Isabelle, Clay and I finally got a look by pushing her bangs out of the way and each of us let out a collective groan. On the right side of her forehead an ugly black and blue mark had already appeared and was swelling to an impressive size, making my little girl look like she was about to pop a nubby deer antler out of her head. I spent the next forty minutes holding Isabelle and applying the cold washcloth and "Boo-boo Bunny" to the ugly bump. Fortunately, she did not break the skin and Isabelle was most definitely functioning normally, informing all who would listen that she "bumped" and going on in her typical dramatic fashion about how "it was accident" and "she cried." I managed to put her to bed shortly later after checking that yup, pupils were equal and reactive and that the crisis seemed to be over.

This morning Isabelle is sporting a lovely bruise, which thankfully, is hidden by bangs and the swelling has faded right down due to our quick application of cold and ice. I have no doubt it will fade much quicker then any of my bruises, as Isabelle possesses every child's freakishly wonderful ability to seemingly heal over night (too bad we can't hold onto that as we age). Clay is incredibly relieved as he was feeling enormously guilty, but I cannot say I am all that surprised. After all, she is my daughter and if she takes after me at all she will be hitting her head a lot over the coming years. But God seems to have planned for this frequent occurrence by blessing me (and I suspect my daughter) with very hard heads. Thank goodness.

Trip down Memory Lane

2008-03-03T13:30:00.003-05:00

Something in my dreams last night triggered a childhood memory. (I don't believe it was the dream where I was dressed as a chipmunk in a fur-filled musical being attacked by a rather large puppy. No joke! That was one of my dreams.) Anyways, I woke up at something like six in the morning suddenly remembering this incident from when I was ..... I don't know maybe sevenish? It was during the summer, and I went over to a neighbor's house to see if they wanted to play. (This was before all the hyper-scheduling of playdates nowadays.... children just actually spontaneously played together, imagine!) It was one street over and their last name were the Heffernans (or something along those lines. We will go with Heffernans even though I think that is the last name of Doug and Carrie on all the "King of Queens" re-runs. Sorry, back to the point.) The Heffernans had a daughter a year younger than myself.

When I got there Lena already had a friend over, and they were playing in the basement. I have no idea how long we played, but I remember that after a bit Lena disappeared upstairs to talk to her Mom, and when she came back down, Lena's mom called for me to come up. Standing rather awkwardly in front of her and feeling nervous, I waited to see what she wanted. In a very serious manner she bent down and blinked rather large eyes at me, and then solemnly informed me that I needed to go home because Lena just wanted to play with her one friend right now. Essentially I was not welcome, and she was booting me out the door. Feeling awful, I left the house as quickly as possible. I never went to Lena's house again.

Now, after all of these years, I can still sort of feel the remainders of the rejection and embarrassment, and I wonder why such a moment should be so ingrained on my psyche. I think for a couple of reasons. One, it was the first time that I had an idea that a grownup had perhaps done something wrong. Up to that point, adults in my eyes were still all-wise and all-knowing and, therefore, to be deferred to without question. When this incident happened, I did not know what exactly I felt, only that I was somehow unfairly treated. Looking on it as a parent today, I think Mrs. Heffernan handled the situation badly. I know I would be more inclined to help my daughter find ways to include all her friends and enforce the idea that excluding a playmate might hurt that playmate's feelings. Ya know, the whole "how would you feel if someone did that to you" kind of thing. To me, it was like giving your child permission to be rude. Plus, it seems almost anything would have been kinder then basically saying "my daughter doesn't want to play with you." Especially when it is an adult telling this to a young child. A second reason this little moment has stuck with me is because it was the first time I had really felt rejected. And I mean not the older brother dumping little sister kind of rejection but the I wasn't good enough, likable enough, fun enough, or cool enough, kind of rejection. It stings. Hell, even as adults we still all want to be liked.

I do not know if I ever told my mom. I think I was too embarrassed. Ahh, the painful days of childhood! Funny how the mind works, and I still wonder what dream or random thought that I am not remembering triggered this trip down memory lane. It also makes me realize Isabelle will someday face rejection and hurt feelings, and like any parent I wish I could spare her, but it is all part of growing up, isn't it?

Winter Woes

2008-02-25T10:06:00.004-05:00

About this time of year in the upper peninsula people all start getting the itch for some warmer weather. Trips to tropical destinations start looking pretty good when you are facing days upon days of temperatures only in the high teens and nights well below zero. Combine that with the snow which has now totally encased our mail box (literally, I can only see the little door peaking out of a sea of white) and good old cabin fever starts to set in.

I confess I start getting tired of winter as well, although not as bad as some. I have more of a problem with the mud season that passes for spring around here. No pretty budding trees and little daffodils..... more like mounds of slushy, brown snow, mud-caked, dirt-caked, salt-caked roads, yellow grass, and oh, more dirty snow. And it can last for a couple of months before suddenly bursting into a cool summer. Yeah, I will take the days of endless snow over mud season any time.

The truth is I find winter beautiful. There is something about the starkness, the cool clean of it all that appeals to me. When I step out on a cold winter's day and take a breath I can really feel the air going into my lungs, filling me up, and for a moment I remember how my body breathes in and out like this all day long with no conscious thought on my part. I like the crunch of snow under my boots and the utter silence achieved by winter. I enjoy the fact that I can walk all the way around the lake at my in-laws and never see another living soul (aside from the huge black lab trotting efficiently ahead of me.) I love laying in bed on a cold night tucked contentedly in under a pile of blankets, Clay softly snoring next to me, our house a small haven of warmth and security. I adore curling up on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa, a blanket, one of my cats, and the anticipation of opening a new book. And, the sound of my daughter's laughter as she rides in her snow tube, echoing across the frozen landscape of our neighborhood can certainly thaw the coldest heart.

So, when I am huddling my face in my jacket as I make a run across the parking lot to the grocery store in negative wind chills, I will try to remember what I love about winter and not wish for its hasty departure just yet. After all, next comes mud season.

Attempted Murder?

2008-02-14T13:25:00.004-05:00

So, my daughter tried to kill me today. Those of you who have little ones understand this statement immediately. Most parents, especially moms, have the bruises to back a line like that up, and my legs are no exception. However, Isabelle took it to a new level this morning.

For those of you who don't know, I collect snow globes. Every Christmas I get all of them out and display them for the season. I like to keep them all out for a time after the holiday and usually pack them up sometime in February or March. Well, I decided it was time to put the snow globes away today and pulled out the two huge boxes I store all of them in. Isabelle was watching a Valentine's day episode of Dora, while periodically walking her baby doll up and down the living room in its stroller. She was annoyed with me as I kept stepping into her line of sight to retrieve snowglobes off of the entertainment center. I know she was annoyed because even at two she gets a little bit "huffy" and lets out tiny sighs and even says "move mommy," as if I am horribly disturbing her. (Apparently, I should have heeded the signs).

Now I learned how to pack things from my mother, so all original boxes are saved and each snow globe fits in a specific box with specific wrapping and then each individual box fits like a puzzle into the larger boxes. (yes, I know I am a freak) So, needless to say, I was very focused on my task and picked up two snow globes (one in each hand) off the entertainment center. As I rotated around and took a step, Isabelle decided at that exact moment to push her baby doll's umbrella stroller right into my path. I swear this was premeditated. My foot somehow in a sick twist of fate decided to slide in perfectly beneath the fabric seat of the stroller and lodge itself in the metal bars which form an "x." My toes even managed to slip underneath one of the arms of the "x" which bent my foot at an awkward (and I might add, painful) angle. This, of course, was a small problem in comparison to the fact that I was also losing my balance and about to fall into the wood coffee table. Keep in mind I am still holding two snow globes. Somehow I manage to hop on my right foot which was still firmly planted on the carpet and twist my body away from the table. I ended up landing in a less than graceful heap next to it, still cradling the snow globes with a child's stroller wrapped around my left foot (which at this point is bascially screaming in agony as I twisted it further in falling down). Isabelle begins frantically dancing around me clamoring, "It's okay mommy! It's okay mommy!" as I attempt to stifle a few choice swear words itching to break free from my lips. After putting the snow globes down I yank the stroller off of my foot and assess the damage. My foot, while throbbing seems to still be whole and the stroller is not even bent. My mother had bought it for Isabelle and with some foresight purchased one that could withstand not only Isabelle's dolls riding in it but also Isabelle herself. Now, it seems the damn thing is also strong enough to not give way (at all) even when an adult foot becomes wedged in it!

Hours later my foot is now capable of bearing weight and I can walk with only a small amount of discomfort. Upon further inspection a small bruise is forming on the instep, but all in all I am glad to not have worse. I could have just pictured explaining to the doctor how I managed to break my foot on my toddler's doll stroller, partly due to my own stubborness mind you because I was not going to drop those snow globes! Isabelle is, of course, pleading innocence, but I have my doubts. Note to self: in the future do not disturb Isabelle when watching Dora.

Making Choices

2008-02-05T13:33:00.001-05:00

I wish that our lives had road signs to tell us what direction we are supposed to take. At least for those big decisions, ya know? Like do I buy this house, go to this college, take this job, marry this guy, or have another child? I would like it if you could see a bit further down the road and know if taking a particular job is going to result in a horrible boss and no raises or if the house you buy and slowly fix up will turn into a fantastic profit for you in the future.

Of course, life doesn't work like that. I just finished this book called "Memory Keeper's Daughter," and while it is about relationships and desires and lots of other issues, it is ultimately all about choices: the ones we make and the ones people make for us, and how even what can seem like a small decision can, in fact, have huge ramifications in our lives later on. So, how do I know I am making the "right" decision then? My husband thinks in a very logical manner and looks at the facts, strictly interpreting the pros and cons and crunching the numbers. I tend to be more of a "gut-feeling" kind of gal and have been known to make rather large decisions based on only an emotion. Case in point: When my parents and I were looking at colleges we looked at the finances, evaluated scholarships, studied curriculums, visited campuses, considered distance from home, etc. Well, I should say they did more of that and informed me what the results were! After looking at five or so I was still undecided. All of them would have been fine I am sure, but none of them drew me in. Then we took a trip up to NMU. I remember driving into Marquette and dipping under the railroad tressle for the oar dock and thinking the town had a certain vibe. It echoed again when I crouched on my knees on a massive boulder at Presque Isle park, the wind trying its best to yank my hair right off of my skull, as I looked out over lake Superior. That vibe, that feeling, mirrored some inner beating of my heart, and I just knew that I was supposed to move to the U.P. and go to school at Northern. Their English program turned out to meet my needs, but honestly all of it was secondary when compared with a simple gut emotion.

The same feeling has surfaced once or twice since. It came with my husband, but it wasn't there instantly. Oh, there was attraction and a spark, but the knowledge that I was going to spend the rest of my life with this man came more like a month or two after we had been dating. However, once there I knew without a single doubt, and truly he could have asked me to marry him probably half a year sooner then he did, and I know I would have said yes.

So, I guess what I have established is that if I have a strong emotional feeling my choice is made. The problem is I have come to realize that it doesn't always prove true for a loved one who wants my help in deciding something, nor is it always accurate when joint decisions must be made. My gut feeling is a strictly personal tool that is unable to be lent out for another's use. I find this incredibly frustrating when I want so badly to help someone I love. Ultimately, we can ask for help and get others opinions, but at the end of the day we have to choose for ourselves. It is a little scary, especially when I apply these thoughts to my daughter and think about her making important life choices as she grows into an adult. I will always want to help the people I care about, but I have to remind myself that sometimes the best way I can help them is to get out of the way and let them choose for themselves.

To Pee or not to Pee, that is the question.

2008-02-04T13:10:00.001-05:00

So, we are starting to approach the time that all parents do. Two words: potty training. Yes, the time when we all get back to our basics and get very earthy in our language. If you are at all squeamish about excrement just skip this post (and having children) because as a rule, it will be talked about. Of course, as of right now potty training is more of a game to Isabelle and as such is one that is only periodically played. Some days we only want diapers and never even look, think, or make any move towards the potty. Other days we beg to wear "big girl panties" or pull ups, and we repeatedly sit on the potty.

The problem is that Isabelle is such an energetic child that getting her to actually alight on the potty for more than say..... two minutes is pretty much impossible. Picture a humming bird at a feeder and you have a pretty decent idea of how long she wants to sit. Because of this my darling daughter has yet to put anything in the potty. (Aside from one bowel movement, which I happened to "catch" about two months ago when reading her a book. Anyone who has a toddler is familar with the "push" face. Unfortunately, no such face appears for the liquid variety.) Now, I have some friends who have been able to essentially make their child stay on the potty until something is produced, but these friends do not have a child like Isabelle. Isabelle is not what one would call overly compliant, and while I am more than willing to pick a battle with her when I need to, having a test of wills over using the bathroom is not something I wish to engage in. I want very much for this to be her idea, and I know if I force the issue with her too quickly she will refuse just on principle.

Thus, I am actually finding myself in unfamiliar territory where I let Isabelle call the shots on something. We sit on the potty when she wants to (I try to get her to stay for more then a millisecond by plying her with books) and while I encourage and ask, I am doing my best to not turn into a nazi dictator over using the potty. Most of my fellow moms who have been down this road before me hold to the idea that kids will start using the potty when they are ready and trying to make it happen in my time frame will only result in more work and frustration on my part. And I think I tend to agree. After all, I don't recall anyone say in second grade still clad in diapers, right?

Plus, I sort of understand Isabelle and her wishy-washiness. Some days she tells me she is a big girl and wants to do it all herself, including using the potty, but other days she wants to be "Momma's baby" and be cuddled and hugged and ... well... babied. Hell, I am going to be thirty-two years old, and sometimes I still want my mommy! (Not to wipe my butt mind you, but to make it all better, make the decisions, and be the grown up so I do not have to) So, while I do not rank diaper changing among my favorite things to do it is really no big deal either. And lets face it: kids grow up so fast these days that I am not going to get worked up about Isabelle potty training now or 6 months from now. Even if she hasn't figured it out yet, she is always going to be my baby whether she is two or twenty-two. However, I will gladly take and cherish these times when I can still "fix" everything that is wrong in her world with a kiss and a hug. Sooner or later peeing in the potty will happen. In the meantime let her be my little baby.

Dressing for Success

2008-01-21T21:54:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it would be so much easier to be a man. This thought comes into my head periodically and recently has resurfaced once more. Shopping for clothes tends to make this happen. Case in point: We have a fancy event coming up (and by fancy I mean essentially an adult prom) that we attend every year due to Clay's job and presence on the Chamber board. Truthfully, it has become a fun evening for me with dinner, dancing, and good conversation as well as the chance for a door prize or a bid on an auction item. The not so fun part is trying to find something appropriate to wear to this damn thing every year.

The guys, of course, have it simple. A suit (90% wear black so not even a question there) or if they really wish to jazz it up, a tux. Even the color shirt is pretty easy as almost all wear red or white due to the timing of the event and its proximity to Valentine's Day. For us ladies though not so simple. We need a gown and color is only one of a billion things to consider.

For me, I always play it safe and go with black as it is classic and always is appropriate. Don't get me wrong, I do not mind being noticed (what girl does?) but I would prefer not to be the one lady clad in peach or baby blue, and advertising that I last wore this dress as a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding. However, I understand the wish to reuse those bridesmaid dresses..... I mean you spent money on them, they were tailored to fit you, and who wants to blow a sizable amount of money on another dress that you most likely will also wear only once? The problem with a bridesmaid dress is that it usually will always look like a bridesmaid dress, even if you try to change it in some way. So for me, black and no revisiting of bridesmaid dresses.

My next issue is finding something that is age appropriate. This truly becomes a challenge for those of us who still fit in junior clothing and tend to look our age or perhaps younger depending on how we dress. To put it bluntly, while a lot of junior dresses fit me, I too often look like I might be attending a high school homecoming dance as opposed to an event where alcohol is actually served. Keeping this in mind and the fact that I loathe my legs (and yes, I mean loathe. They are big, muscular, and my thighs are not fit for public viewing. Plus, I know it sounds weird but I have ugly knees) I always go for a long gown. So, at this point you are saying, "Okay, long black gown, not bridesmaidy, and not high school. Got it. How hard is it to find a long, black gown?" Ahh, but you do not live in the U.P. where there is not exactly a high demand for formal wear. Choices and places to look are somewhat limited, and as any woman understands, shopping on-line for something like a dress is fraught with risk as you never know how it might end up fitting despite measuring, comparing and calculating to our best ability. What is a size six in one style/brand is a ten in another.

Of course, if you manage to find a dress, and it actually meets the standards you require (like not too tight in the thighs, not too bare, not too racy, not too slutty, not too matronly, not too boring, not too loose in the top, not too gaudy with sequins, beads etc., and of course, not too expensive) then you are still stuck trying to find the right undergarments to wear with the dress. Of course, the dress I picked out this year ended up being lower-backed, which creates its own set of challenges. Last year I wore those bra cups that actually adhere to your skin around your breast and then hook together with a small clasp. Amazingly, they are actually comfortable and manage to give you a little "boost" where you need it. One problem though. Or should I say major design flaw. You had better not get warm and start to perspire too much! There I was, having a grand evening when I decided to go dance a bit with some of the girls. After a couple of drinks I was getting my "groove on" and having fun..... until my sticky bra cups started sliding south. Yup. There I was on the dance floor, trying casually to push those damn things back into their original positions. While they never slid right off it felt like they were going to wind up around my ankles at any moment, so I quickly vacated the dance floor. Turns out the adhesive does not work so well if you get hot. Keep in mind I was warm from dancing, but it wasn't like I had just ran thirty minutes on the treadmill and was dripping. I would hate to think what they would be like if you wore them to a summer barbecue! Note to self: No sticky bra cups if you are planning on doing anything other than standing around and then only in cold weather.

Spanx are a great invention though. Footless pantyhose that actually do what they promise. They smooth you all over, hold in that tummy, minimize the thighs, no panty lines and don't require you to feel as if you are in an iron maiden when wearing them. Thank god for the WOMAN who invented such a sensible item.

Yup, all in all it is much easier to be the man when it comes to a formal evening out. Yet, despite the extra effort it sometimes requires to be of the feminine sex there is not enough money in the world to make me ever wish to be a man. I mean ladies, we all know our bodies are much more attractive in their design, and we are actually comfortable and secure in expressing our emotions. We do not find it necessary to always get in a fight to resolve a conflict nor is it required that we smack each others ass when we do a good job. Not too mention our intuition is way more accurate. Really, I could go on forever as to the advantages, but suffice it to say that other then the clothes thing (that and maybe the ability to pee standing up!) men can keep their testosterone. Bring on the spanx and sticky bras!

The Agony of Indecision

2008-01-10T18:49:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe it, but I am leaning towards turning down a chance to return to Hawaii. I say return because I have been there before, visiting the islands of Oahu and Maui. It was an amazing, once in a lifetime, better than you could ever dream kind of trip. Basically, the kind of vacation one would always dream of having in a perfect world but in reality can never accomplish.

We could go back. Spend a little over a week in a condo with our friends, swim in the Pacific, tour the coastlines, take a cruise, relax on the beach, and yet I am thinking we won't go. Why, you ask? Why, on this earth could I possibly say no?

There are a lot of little reasons. It comes at an already busy time of year. It costs money that we can afford to spend but could be spent more wisely elsewhere. There is hardly any time to plan and we would be rushing around like maniacs. It would involve asking a variety of people, namely family members, to help us out and impose quite a lot on them. Truly, though there is only one reason.

Isabelle. The thought of leaving her for more than a couple of days creates this pit in my stomach that threatens to swallow me entirely. We would have to leave her for probably eight nights, maybe more depending on flights and weather. Her loving grandparents would take care of her, but it seems like such a tremendous favor to ask for. After all, we are talking all of the duties of child rearing, not just a few fun-filled hours of play time. And what if she misses me or wants me and I am gone? I know, I know, she can miss me in two hours as well as eight days, but I wouldn't be there as soon to comfort her if she did. She isn't old enough to really understand going away too much yet. The logistics of planning for us to go away as well as pack for Isabelle to go to one grandma's house for the first half of our trip and then prepare our house for the other grandma to come and stay and watch her during the second half, is daunting to say the least. I know she would be fine. Logically, I can look at the situation and say, "Go, have fun, she is with people who love her and care for her. She couldn't be safer." But emotionally. Ahh, emotionally it is another story.

I remember thinking that line about your children taking a piece of your heart with them when they were born was absolute drivel. Then I had a child. Turns out that is pretty close to the mark, but it is more like I forget how to breathe when she is away from me too long. And the worry! My mother told me that once you have kids you never stop worrying. Another line, which I thought was sort of over the top, but that happens to be true as well. Right now I worry about mundane things. Did she eat enough? Is she sleeping well? Is that sniffle turning into a cold? Am I raising her to be a polite, intelligent, productive adult or have I already completely screwed her up? (okay, maybe not all mundane) Later, I will worry about her meeting the right guy, finding her happiness and being her own person. So, all of that so-called drivel turns out to be accurate. My soul is not just my own anymore, for I share it with a small whirlwind of love, exuberance, and activity, that is my daughter.

Part of what I wish to teach Isabelle though is to take advantage of the life you are given and not always do the safe or practical thing. I have never been particularly spontaneous. It is not in my nature. So, sometimes I worry that I let some chances/opportunities pass me by because I am too busy being responsible or doing the "right" thing. I know we could take this trip later. I just question whether we actually will. And while I think I would feel better leaving her if she were older than two, I know the first time I leave her for over a week will still be hard no matter if she is four or twelve. So, what to do?

I have no clue. I think I will go hug my daughter and dream of a warm sand beach.

A Day in the Life of My Cats

2008-01-08T13:50:00.000-05:00

Key Figures:

Mindy - Domestic, black and white, long haired cat. The epitome of elegance and refinement. Maintains the classic somewhat standoffish character attributed to so many cats. Impeccable grooming, precise habits, and harbors strong fears for vacuums, strangers, and any loud noise. History of an abusive background before being adopted from a local animal shelter.

Nib - Named after one of the lost boys in Peter Pan after being found at the town dump as a kitten. Domestic orange tabby, short hair. Very obese, weighing in at about 20 lbs. Arguably the dumbest cat I have ever encountered, but incredibly loving and affectionate to the point of being obnoxious. Clumsy, lazy, and essentially clueless, but maintains a happy, tolerant attitude.

In the morning:

6-8:30 a.m.

Nib- "Hungry, hungry, hungry. Why is my bowl still empty? Isn't it time to eat? Are they up yet? Oh good, she is up! Feed me, feed me , feed me! Why isn't she feeding me? Am I not loud enough? She is feeding the kid. Come on, what about me? Only fresh water? I am starving here!"

Mindy- "Good Lord, would that stupid imbecile quit with all of the noise? I am still trying to get my beauty sleep here. The fat pig certainly doesn't need to eat anymore. Maybe I can actually get a fresh drink of water now without having to wade through all of his slobber."

8:30-9:30 a.m.

Nib- "Man, I am hungry. Why does she run on that track thing every morning? She always seems so tired after, so why do it? Here comes the kid, look out! Why is she driving that toy on me? Ummmm, that kinda feels good though. Hey, kid, a little to the left, would ya? Oh yeah, that is nice. Here, let me roll over and you can do my belly."

Mindy- (still ensconced in cat bed on rocker in the living room) "Getting a quality rest around here is virtually impossible with all of this racket."

9:30-10:00 a.m.

Nib - "Why anyone would want to get all wet is beyond me, but I do enjoy just lounging here on the bathroom counter. What does a cat gotta do to get some food around here? Wait. Is that a crumb? Nope, looks like a part of the towel. Maybe I should eat it anyway, just in case."

Mindy - "I suppose I should get some breakfast from the dish downstairs. Fortunately, she has sense enough to put that one where the fat boy cannot reach it or I would waste away to nothing. He has no discipline! No class! Why she brought him home I will never know."

In the afternoon:

10:00-5:00 p.m.

Nib - "My bowl is still empty. I better get some rest and conserve my energy." (finds his typical spot under our bed) Was that the can opener I heard? Oh, no, false alarm."

2:00-3:00 p.m.

Mindy - "Finally! The disgrace to the cat world is asleep and so is the child. Now perhaps I can give a little attention to her. She must be missing me. Hello, darling, would you like to pet me? Oh, look, she wants me to sit on her lap. Well, I suppose for a little while it would be alright. Hmmm, this is actually rather pleasant. I might purr. Just a little though and certainly not as loud as SOME cats in this house. One must maintain one's image, after all."

In the evening:

5:30-6:00 p.m.

Nib - "I smell food. They are eating! Maybe if I go downstairs the kid will drop something from her chair!"

Mindy - "I feel simply filthy. I must bathe. One can never be too clean after all, and I distinctly detect that the eight hundredth hair on my back is about one millimeter out of place. Unacceptable."

7:00 p.m.

Nib - DINNER!!!!!!!!!! Yay! FOOD!! Gimme the bowl, gimme the bowl, gimme the bowl. Oh, I love you, I love you , I love you. Thank you, thank you. Yum. Hey, fancy pants, back off. This is my food bowl, and I am hungry. Go groom yourself or something."

Mindy - "Really! How rude! Ah, I see she is taking my dish downstairs. So much the better. One does not wish to eat with the barbarian anyways. Dropping food everywhere and making a mess."

8:00-10:00 p.m.

Nib - "Ahhhhhh, that was good. Burp! I think I will go sprawl out on the floor downstairs and wait for someone to pet me, kick me, whatever. I am not picky. Ooooh! Better yet, her lap looks open. I will just shove that book thing aside and I am in!"

Mindy - (Grooming, again and getting every last possible particle of food off of her whiskers)

10:45-11:00 p.m.

Nib - (Approaching Mindy sitting on the living room floor) "Come on, sweets, I know you want to wrestle a bit. You play hard to get, but you like it. Secretly, you love me." (Nipping around her neck)

Mindy - "Oh please, be off with you, tramp. That's it, now you have forced me to put you in your place!" (Tumbling ensues with a series of take downs by Mindy as Nib gets winded and must lay on the floor, baring his belly and swatting feebly at her when she jumps on him. Mindy does one or two wind sprints up and down the stairs. Nib joins in partially for one before deciding it is too much work and lays back down.) "Oh, my. I feel rather good now. Hopefully, you learned your lesson fat one. Don't mess with a lady! I am off to bathe and hold vigil for a while by the front window while they sleep. You don't bother me and go do.... whatever it is you do."

Nib - "Ah, now, don't be that way. We had fun, didn't we? I think I will go find a spot on the bed. They love me sleeping with them. Just push some legs over and Bam! I got a great spot. Good night, fancy pants."

Loose Ends, Taking Stock, and Getting There

2008-01-03T20:50:00.000-05:00

I am feeling at loose ends tonight. I think it is the inevitable come down after the Christmas rush. I went from the focus of the holdays into the relative calm of January, and now I am looking for what is next. This combined with the total trash that is called entertainment nowadays on television, and the fact that the books I ordered from Amazon are not here yet, and I am not unlike my two and a half year old asking, "where we going next, mommy?"

Of course, this is also the time of year when we are all supposedly "taking stock" of our lives and where we are within them. While I do not believe in all the making resolutions crap I am up for a quick evaluation. So, where am I? Ummmmm, happily married (for the most part... but it is a real marriage not the soap opera, movie kind, which means sometimes it is routine, sometimes it is great and sometimes it is not so great. Yet it is always secure in its love, values, and goals and that is why I know we are in it for life.) I would say I am about five pounds too heavy (in my view anyway. I am obese by hollywood standards and probably fine according to the majority of Americans). I am better health-wise then I probably have ever been because I work out regulary, sleep fairly well, and eat pretty balanced meals. Overall, I am content with my social circle, our financial situation, our house... and of course, continually more in love with my child everyday. So, is anything missing?

Yes. I am not sure I even have a name for it. I need something that is just my own. Maybe a job, but maybe it is more just a purpose or a thing to be identified for. An identity that goes beyond wife and mother, daughter and sister, into who I am as an individual. Except I have no clear vision or goal as to how to get there or what "there" even is. My father-in-law has made the statement, "I still do not know what I want to be when I grow up" and sometimes I feel the same way. The truth is I am already in the two roles I have wanted my whole life: wife and mother. Now I just need to figure out what that third role might be. I am confident I will... eventually. Right now though I am going to find a book to reread (send me my new books, Amazon!) and lose myself in the roles the main character plays.

Little Things

2007-12-26T13:23:00.000-05:00

Can I just tell everyone how lucky I am? I have spent the last two days just feeling so incredibly thankful for all that I am blessed with in my life, and isn't that what Christmas is all about? I know, it is all horribly cliche to be talking about this now, but if Christmas helps put everything in perspective ... well, so what? I will be the cliche.

So, here is my little list of things I am thankful for this beautiful holiday season:

My totally materialistic items:

1. The fantastic new computer I got that I am typing away on right now with its lightening fast connections, beautiful monitor.... oh, I could go on for days!

2. My cool new Sony walkman which I have no clue how to work, but I soon will. I plan to be downloading music and joining the world of current technology just a bit more.

3. The new luggage we got from Ron and Helen. Thank you!

The really important items that cannot be bought:

1. My daughter, Isabelle for:
a. wanting to give Santa a pink gift for Christmas because isn't everyone supposed to get a gift on Christmas, even the big man?
b. noticing every single ornament on the tree and making me feel like all the hours I spent decorating were completely worth it.
c. being the one person who wants to watch the Polar Express as many times as I do.
d. giving me a hug good night for the last month and telling me, "it's almost Christmas time, Mommy."
e. driving back from Grandma's on Christmas and singing "Jingle Bells" to her Daddy and I . "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, JinGUM all da way... oh DA fun it is to wide a one horse Oooopen Swwweighhhhhh."
f. "Santa brought me dollhouse.... ooh, how bootiful!"
g. asking where the gifts were the day after Christmas, looking at the empty space beneath the tree. Isn't everyday Christmas now?
h. pointing out baby Jesus on all the Christmas cards taped to the fridge and telling me he "pwobably needs a hug."
i. wishing me Merry Christmas two dozen times in the last two days.

2. My hubby for being such a fantastic father and making my heart melt every time I see him with Isabelle, (for buying such an awesome computer. Did I mention I love this?!), for playing personal shopper for his parents this year, and for still loving me despite all my little imperfections and annoying habits.

3. For the amazing family I have. (and I mean everyone. Yes, I know it is sorta Brady Bunch-ish, but it is true. Clay and I have great families.)

4. For snow on Christmas.

5. For Kurt. Let's not go 9 years again between Christmas's, okay?

6. Our good friends, Cindy and Len, for always making us laugh and treating our child like she is theirs.

7. My cats curled up under the tree like two presents.

8. Girls Nights out and cookie exchanges... it was fun ladies!

9. My snow globe collection because it still makes me see the magic of Christmas and makes me feel like a little girl all over again.

10. Mostly, that everyone I care about is happy and healthy and safe because at the end of the day that is all that really matters.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

2007-12-17T10:34:00.000-05:00

So, in true Peterson fashion we have continued our tradition of the annual tree falling. What, you ask? Well, during the last two years our Christmas tree has taken a nose dive onto the living room carpet, typically when fully decorated. By some small miracle I have managed to avoid breaking any precious/sentimental/expensive ornaments. This year, determined to avoid another explosion of pine needles, my husband decided to purchase a new stand for the tree. Because we buy rather big trees, we felt our old brass stand just wasn't managing the weight, and it is also a very difficult stand to adjust when it comes to straightening the tree.

We spent a lovely afternoon with Isabelle's grandparents, Helen and Ron, choosing, cutting and bringing home the tree and putting it into the stand where upon we all remarked at the ease in which it went up. That evening I managed to get all the lights on as well as the garland and tree topper and went to bed feeling comfortable with the knowledge that I would just have ornaments to do in the morning. At 4:30 a.m. a crash was heard and while Clay left the bed to investigate I stayed put, fearing the worst, but honestly already thinking at least the ornaments were not on it. He came back cussing, swearing and blaming my fat cat Nib, who he had seen running from the scene of the crime. (Let me just say that Clay has developed a rather intense dislike for Nib, one stemming I believe from Nib's poor hygiene habits, sloth-like appearance, and inability to take a hint and just leave a person alone. Therefore, if Clay could blame Nib for terrorism, high gas prices, and say .... the media's negative impact on children, he would.) Needless, to say I did not believe Nib did anything other than get the crap scared out of him when the tree fell over; he is just too lazy.

The next morning, Clay, amidst a lot of swearing and railing against the world about the unfairness of having trees continually fall over, went out and bought a piece of plywood which he secured to the bottom of the tree stand. Back in the living room once more we surveyed the tree upright in the corner, while Isabelle danced among the pine needles, carpeting my floor. Clay left to clean up the garage and I had just begun to think of cleaning up the mess when the spruce once more started tipping in my direction. Out of a sheer desperation I put out my hands and managed to grab the tree, preventing it from falling on me and crushing me into the floor, only to realize I was not strong enough to push it back upright. Oh, the scene we must have made if someone had looked in the window! Me awkwardly embracing a mangled up Christmas tree, while my 2 year old capers around the room, sing-songing "the tree fall over, the tree fall over!" Yelling for Clay, he comes back into the house to discover me, and instead of rushing to my aid, pauses to swear some more. I tell him to get mad later and help me now and we manage to push the tree back into the corner. At this point Clay lost it. In what can best be called a barely controlled rage, he yanked the tree out of the stand and carried the stand (along with attached plywood) out the door into the garage. I listened as crashing, banging, and general mayhem was heard and decided it would be best to stay right where I was.

Isabelle and I sat among the wreckage that was our tree until Clay came back inside and asked what I wanted to do. In as calm a manner as I could possibly manage (picture a hunter trying to soothe a black bear ready to charge) I told him I would do whatever he wanted, whether that was trying to make this tree work, getting a new tree, getting a fake tree or not having a tree at all, so long as he would calm down. Of course, being a yooper guy there was not going to be a fake tree in this house and ultimately we determined to buy a new one. (By this point we had examined our current tree closely and concluded its trunk was most closely shaped to the letter "S" so that if the bottom of the tree looked straight the top was crooked, and if the top was straight the bottom was crooked.) Clay left to get the new tree, and I spent the next hour untangling lights from the spruce that had now fallen over twice in one day. Before he left I tried my best to remind him, that Isabelle, who ultimately this was all for, didn't care if the tree fell over and was, in fact, having a grand time playing in the pine needles and calling the tree beautiful, despite it being on its side in our living room.

Ultimately, Clay came back with a new tree stand and a new tree. This one was a balsam and I must say it has the straightest trunk you have ever seen. The new stand works perfectly, being a more expensive version of the other one, without any plastic gears to strip when adjusting the tree. We are now well over a week with the tree remaining upright and Clay has finally ceased starting all of our phone conversations with "Is the tree still standing?" (On a side note, the din being heard from the garage was Clay destroying the tree stand attached to the plywood. I will be finding little green plastic pieces in every corner of the garage for the next year, I am sure. I pulled one out of a boot left next to the door just two days ago. And he wonders where his daughter gets her temper!?!) The old Christmas tree is now lighted and put outside where it manages to stay upright due to the healthy amount of snow we have on the ground. It actually looks quite nice, and I tell myself it gives some pleasure to the neighbors, so it is not a complete waste of money. For those of you wondering we are at a grand total of 120 dollars for two trees and two tree stands this year. However, money aside, I laugh to think of telling Isabelle about this when she is older. This year is her third Christmas, and we have yet to have a tree since she has been with us that has not fallen over. But there is always next year!

Mommy Guilt

2007-12-01T22:38:00.000-05:00

Ya, know all you hear about is working moms and the guilt they feel because they are off working and are away from their children all day. There are entire talk show programs devoted to helping mothers alleviate this guilt, complete with pointers on how to spend quality time. I got news for ya: there is such a thing as "stay-at-home-mom guilt" too.

In fact, it rears its ugly head for me every single year at about this time. Why you ask? Well, it all comes down to purchasing Christmas presents for my husband. You see I come up with ideas, comb through catalogs, scour the stores and think endlessly on what he wants/needs. Then, when I finally make my decisions I proceed to buy these gifts....... with money he has earned from HIS job. Now, call me crazy, but doesn't this defeat the purpose of a gift? I mean really he is buying himself a gift. Now I know (those of you who would defend me) I, too, have a job even if it is one that does not receive financial compensation, and there is that whole song and dance that his money is also my money and yada, yada, yada, but it just FEELS so wrong. I have thought of making him gifts instead, but lets face it; they just are not as nice. Knitted cap (if I could knit) or new driver for his golf bag? Hmmm, let me think, which would he like more? So, every year at this time I feel even more guilty for not working outside the home. As if I do not get enough guilt about that from outside sources. I mean society these days is all about how busy you are, how many activities, appointments, and plans you have scheduled, and some people make you feel like a complete loser because you are choosing to stay home and "only" raise your daughter. You know who you are, people.

Oh, and then there is the other guilt. You know what I am speaking of other S.A.H mommies. It appears whenever you decide to actually ask for a few minutes/hours of time for yourself to say go shopping with a friend or perhaps out to lunch. For me, I ask my husband if he can watch Isabelle for a while (and to his credit he is always willing to, although I tend to obviously work around his schedule so I know there are no conflicts). As soon as I drive off I am feeling somehow like I am shirking my duties, or if I am gone for more than a couple hours that I am taking too long. I even miss my daughter! Not that I think that is a bad thing, but it is a little nuts isn't it? I am so used to having this little shadow 24/7 that even when I really need the time away (for my own mental health and sanity) I am anxious to get back to her and feeling, yes, guilty, for being away. This is the guilt of not measuring up to perfect mommy standards. See, the perfect mommy never needs a break or her own timeout (because if she doesn't take it she might prove to be an example of why some animals eat their young). The perfect mommy never sits her kid in front of the tv to watch an episode of Diego, so she can maybe read the mail or start dinner. The perfect mommy always makes healthy meals, never loses her temper, always knows just the right way to stop a tantrum, and makes every moment a teaching moment. I hate the perfect mommy, and while I hope she is a fictious creature in my mind, she still remains the unrealistic standard by which I continually find myself lacking. Do all mothers do this or am I just neurotic?

Computer Woes!

2007-11-20T14:04:00.000-05:00

I am having computer issues today. Of course, this computer is like a dinosaur, so it is not exactly a surprise. Combine that with the fact that I have been asking for a new one for at least three years and you see my frustration. My husband, of course, has his work computer, so has little need or desire to spend more time on one when at home. Consequently, he does not see a new computer as much of a priority. I, on the other hand, whose primary conversation companion happens to be a two year old, see the computer as my link to the outside, adult world. I chat with the other mother's from Isabelle's play group; keep in touch with my friends across the country, and of course, shop. Needless to say at this time of year it might as well be attached to me physically. So, take note: All I want for Christmas is a new computer!

Mine!

2007-11-07T20:23:00.000-05:00

About two weeks ago, Isabelle began what I call the "Mine" phase of her toddler years. I imagine it is what most people refer to as the terrible twos. It goes something like this:

Me: "Belle? Do you want me to help you?" (watching her shake her doll furiously, trying to get the plastic brush out of it's tangled hair)

Isabelle: "NO!!!!!! It is MINE!"

Me: "Yes, I know the doll is yours, but can I just help you get the brush out?"

Isabelle: "NOooooooooo!!!!! MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (getting red in the face and starting to hyperventilate, still flinging doll around and tugging on hair)

Me: "Isabelle, calm down. Will you let Mommy show you how to get the brush untangled, please?" (Me reaching for the doll while trying to maintain my cool)

Isabelle: "NO, NO, NO!!!!! (collapsing on the floor into a full fledged kicking and screaming tantrum)

Me: "Fine then, you let me know when you are done throwing a fit and want some help." (me walking from room, which further escalates Isabelle into new throws of passion)

Now before you believe my child to be one of those maniac, zero-disciplined children that run their parents into the ground let me reassure you, she is not. Frankly, by most people's standards I am fairly old school and am more firm with my child then many other mothers I know. I believe in a schedule, regular bed times, please and thank you, balanced meals, and a house that is first and foremost run by the parents. Above all whining will not be tolerated. However, many times lately it just has to be ignored. Belle has a stubborn, bull-headed side (I mostly blame her father for that) and never does things the easy way. And as any parent will tell you, it is real easy to stand on the side lines and watch a tantrum happening and pass judgement, but once that child is your kid, the game changes and you have a new appreciation and understanding. I have come to realize that I can put her in time out and try and show her other ways to manage her anger, and can explain repeatedly that not everything is hers, and that screaming "MINE" at the top of her lungs might put some people off, but she also just has to out grow it. So, I guess it is just the terrible twos.

In the mean time I should invest in some ear plugs or maybe a sensory deprivation chamber!

Alternate universes and your DNA

2007-11-05T13:41:00.000-05:00

In an alternate universe I am some music groupie, chasing my favorite rock band across the country from concert to concert. I drive a jeep wrangler with my dog riding shotgun and spend my evenings dancing to a band like Three Doors Down or Five for Fighting. Of course, money is no worry as I either have some huge inheritance or get odd jobs along the way to pay for gas and food. You know, like all the people on tv shows, who live outrageously while never working a day in their lives. Yup, that is me.... maybe I even have a tattoo.

In this universe though I am a stay at home mom, own two cats, live in a small town in a nice neighborhood, and I am sure (by most people's standards) live a quiet, uneventful life. My daughter, Isabelle, is two years old and pretty much runs my day to day. And of course, no tattoos.... my husband would kill me! (and I cannot imagine ever liking something enough to permanently affix it to my body anyways).

Yeah, the truth of the matter is that you cannot escape your DNA. While I love my little alternate universe and periodically fantasize about being someone compeletely different (mind you that rocker version of me does actually exist in a small form inside my conservative self), I am truly who I am meant to be. When I first started college, I had this idea that I was going to shake things up a bit and be more social, more outgoing and not focus so much on grades (yes, I was the classic bookish, slightly nerdish one in high school). Well, for the first semester I met lots of people and had fun and did not study as much as I probably could have. Then the grades came in, and I discovered that I had earned all B's and one A. I remember being pissed off. Granted most of the people I was hanging with thought that was great and would have killed for those grades. Especially since most of them flunked out and did not return for my sophomore year. Yet, I was ticked because I knew those grades were not reflective of my intelligence. I couldn't be relaxed about school because that just wasn't me. Just like I never drank a drop of alcohol until I was 21 years old (yes, it is true and now you believe me to be a total Polly Anna) and I wouldn't date someone just so I wasn't dateless. What can I say? It is in your DNA; at your core you are who you are, and while you might fight it and tweek it here and there, ultimately you will always return to your basic values, beliefs and predispostions.

So, I embrace my conservative, obsessive-compulsive, slightly boring, bookish, self and find plenty to laugh and rejoice about in my day to day. And why not write it down for my own amusement... with luck you will find it amusing too.