So Whoop-dee-do and Dickory Dock...

...and don't forget to hang-up your sock! (OK. That is a quote from what is possibly the worst, most insipid, Christmas song ever: "Happy Holidays.")

But it is that time again and this year I've been curiously and pleasantly excited. In a low-key way, but enjoying it nonetheless. First, however, I must say I am opposed to the holiday creep. Christmas songs right after Halloween? Really? But all bets are off after Thanksgiving as we count down the Sundays in Advent. That's when it is time to break out the music and eggnog.

Even then I have to pace myself. I've come to realize that I'm happiest with about two weeks of intense preparation. More than that and I burn out by Christmas. It must be my procrastinating soul, but it's only fun when the pressure is ON. (Oh my poor, organized husband.) Part of what I look forward to is the night I stay up late working on some Christmas project. The rest of the family is asleep, the lights are low and I have candles lit, with seasonal music in the background. It's magic.

This year the phrase that is keeping me going through the holiday vortex is "good enough." The advantage to having a small house is that it's not good for entertaining. No entertaining means it doesn't have to be perfect. We can have what we want for our dinner and it will include Yorkshire pudding. The decorations and tree will happen when they happen. I'm liking the old-world tradition of not unveiling a decorated tree until Christmas Eve. My baking has not gotten past the contemplation stage. Luckily we have the 12 days until Epiphany to enjoy the fruits of our hard work. Everything will be good enough and we'll enjoy ourselves.

This year I'm enjoying the little things, like my (failed) attempt to make our liquid hand soap seasonal by layering pink and green. It's now a more neutral color (but smells good). I feel inspired making my holiday cards. (Still have to cough out the Christmas letter.) There are holiday shows and music and I love Christmas lights.

I know I must be a grown-up because church has become the highlight of the season, the 10pm Christmas Eve service. I sing in the choir. I enjoy the greenery, candles, incense, bells; lessons and carols with glorious descants. After a few hours of that I feel CHURCHED. Then it's home to await Santa Claus.

So there it is. I feel hopeful anticipation and wish all of it for you no matter what you may or may not be celebrating.

It's Pronounced "Saw-Win" - A Paean to Autumn (way cooler than An Ode to Fall)

It hit me today while I was out grocery shopping. I found myself mulling over home improvement projects: painting, organizing, re-arranging furniture. Some people get spring cleaning fever, I get an autumn nesting instinct. The season is changing and I'm about to spend a lot more quality time with my indoor space. I get the urge to make it cozy.

I think I will always have to be a northerner because I love the change of seasons so. One thing that hooked me on the ritualistic, theatrical, mystical-type church I joined (Episcopalian, natch) was the liturgical calendar. I love the rhythm it gives to the year and how it echoes the natural world. Advent (winter) awaits the coming of the light in the darkness. Lent is a time of dreary purification (perfect for February and March) leading up to the colorful burst of Easter (spring). I'm amused that summer is "Ordinary Time." I'm sure in an early agrarian culture that was necessary, but now it just gives me an excuse to take a spiritual vacation each year. Fall brings All Saints Day and it's (now) secular cousin, Halloween.

When I taught Sunday School I loved connecting All Saints and Halloween with their ancient ancestor Samhain (the saw-win previously mentioned), the Celtic celebration of the change of seasons from light to dark. It was a time to prepare for the winter ahead, harvesting crops and butchering livestock. I swear I can feel nature "powering down," preparing for a sort of death. It makes perfect sense to me that the Druids believed that the curtain between this world and the next is thinner this time of year, and thus easier for souls to travel back and forth. It's a good time for feeling close to those who have gone before.

I love the look of autumn. I find that even during bright, sunny days the light seems to have a hazy, tired quality. A few weeks ago while out to buy apples and pumpkins (a quintessential fall activity) I found myself mulling over the beauty of the landscape. The farm fields were mostly tawny gold and tan, their crops spent. The sky was a remarkably uniform silvery-gray. Between them the tree line was a gentle wash of earth tones. I don't know if it was a factor of weather or just my state of mind, but the changing trees seemed muted this year. I found myself picking through a Crayola box in my mind to identify the colors: goldenrod, cranberry, sepia, burnt sienna, ochre, bittersweet...and endless varieties of warm and cool grays and browns. Gentle and beautiful.

Time to stock-up on hot chocolate and candles and pull out the blankets and sweaters. It is getting darker. Time to build the cocoon.

They Taste Better with Salt (A meditation on Emily, the Midwest, and Everything)

Don't worry. It will all make sense at the end.

It's no secret that I have been saddened by the departure of my friend and neighbor, Emily. (And her family - a big shout out to Erik, Eli, and Smokey!) But, I mean, I was really bumming about it. This struck me as a little odd since friends moving on is just a hazard of living in a college town. I'd been through this before - why was I so bothered? Then it hit me.

I had a vision of Emily and Erik in the not so distant future sitting around with friends and family and talking with horror about that time that they lived in Ohio. They'll recall with incredulous laughter how backwards and narrow-minded it all was, playing that endless game of "remember when?..." followed by a rush of relief to finally be back home. I have the honor of probably being forever associated with one of the worst eras of their life. Ouch number one.

Ouch number two: Even if I were considered a high point of their time here, that would be rather faint praise. You can take the girl out of New England, but you can't make her like the Midwest. Even though it IS a relief to see that our regional cultures haven't been homogenized completely, culture shock is not a happy thing. I like to think Emily's opinion of Ohio was colored by her hatred of her job, but I wasn't always sure. She did not like it here.

The biggest adjustment, I think, was to the Midwestern notion of neighborhood. Our boundaries are somewhat looser. What the Easterner would consider nosey the Midwesterner would consider simply being interested. Yeah, we do pay attention to our neighbors and what they're doing. This has saved Tom and me on multiple occasions when someone from across the street called to say the dome light was on in our car.

My favorite story was one winter morning, after a sizable snowfall, Emily called me concerned because someone was snow-blowing their driveway. Why was he doing that? Was he expecting to get paid? I thought that was hilarious. When Tom and I first moved into our home as newlyweds the old-timers of the neighborhood took us under their wing. If someone had a snow blower they would often take it down the whole block. The guy with the riding mower would do our yard while mowing his. I could have taken that as a negative comment on my (admittedly lacking) lawn care habits, but I was too grateful not to have to mow the lawn to take offense.

Aggravating the situation was the fact that Erik and Emily had the neighborhood matriarch as their other neighbor. She has lived here the longest having probably raised her children during the 60's and 70's. Society and the neighborhood have changed since then, which is something she has very strong opinions about and IS NOT AFRAID TO SHARE. When I welcome new neighbors I always tell them to just say "yes, ma'am" to whatever she has to say. And she will have something, usually critical, to say.

Emily recently facebooked that she was thrilled that her new office was in The Robert Frost Building. He, a good New Englander, wrote that good fences make good neighbors. In the Midwest I think fences are for talking over.

My obsessive brain has been working on this post for the last few weeks, and I was prepared to write a paean to the common Midwesterner who can celebrate the ordinary. We are good people more focused on living our lives than setting out to impress others. We have heart.

Then something happened.

I was out shopping at my favorite bulk foods store in the countryside. Around here it's more kountry kitsch and Amish than hippy-dippy. I was strolling around the shelves when my ear caught a reference to "those people" in a nearby conversation. It seemed to be in reference to a car accident that "those people" tried to flee, because "that's what they do." They proceeded to talk about certain housing in and amongst the farms, and "they aren't Americans living there, if you know what I mean." What followed was some major anti-immigrant ranting, including the "fact" that immigrants are receiving better health care than us. And for free, to boot. The woman, purporting to be a nurse, claimed that they can just show up at the hospital and "if they need a heart transplant, they'll get it." This, of course, was why the retired gentleman's health care premiums kept rising.

I never stopped perusing the shelves, and I feel quite certain that my face did not betray me, but my spirits crashed to my toes. I glanced at the people as they left: a neatly-coiffed, faux ash blonde and two almost identical silver-haired gentlemen wearing striped polos, frameless glasses, and beer bellies over their belts. Practically the uniform for men of a certain age around here. In fact, they looked pretty typical.

Ouch number three: maybe Emily was right and we really are a bunch of chuckleheads around here. Maybe she really was lucky to escape to where the people are worldly and smart. For Erik I'm sure that the beer is better and his libertarian soul is probably more at ease in the "Live Free or Die" state. Now he won't be vexed by our stupid local government and terrible city services. Montessori schools are apparently easier to find in Manchester so Eli won't need to deal with our inefficient, needlessly rule-bound public school system with its behaviorally challenged and intellectually dull students.

Looking at those people leaving the bulk foods store, I silently started eating my words celebrating my region. I crunched on the consonants and found the diphthongs rather chewy.

Now I don't just feel bad for myself, but also about where I come from.

Could be worse. I could be from Arkansas. :-)

What's the Difference Between a Christian and a Doormat?

It sounds like a bad joke, but I mean it. If anyone has an answer (or a punchline) I'd like to know.

This is not an easy faith for those of us with poorly constructed boundaries. If someone strikes your right cheek, turn and offer your left. If they ask for your shirt, give them your coat as well. If they make you walk one mile, go two. "Give to him who begs from you, and do not refuse him who would borrow from you."

Funny, I don't remember Jesus ever saying anything like "You have to take care of yourself, first." (I also don't ever remember him railing against a culture of entitlement, but that's a political discussion I'm not going to get into here). There is the passage about removing the log from your own eye before removing the speck from your brother's, but then I read it in context and discovered that it's REALLY more about not pointing out others' faults before acknowledging your own.

Where does a Christian draw the line? It's hard to know whether I'm being pathologically self-sacrificing or living the gospel.

Maybe I should get a WWJD bracelet; What WOULDN'T Jesus Do?

Some Have Gone, and Some Remain (I've Loved Them All)

I'm really not good with goodbyes and in the next week I'm saying goodbye to my friend and neighbor, Emily. I like Erik and Eli, the men in her life, but she was one of my women friends and I think all my sisters out there know what I mean. I was even fortunate enough to have her living right next door. Isn't that what we all want? The kind of "sit-com" neighbor you could pop over and share a cup of coffee with? Even when wearing pajamas? I actually had that!

The problem is, Emily didn't want to be here. Not at all. She had her shiny new doctorate and was job-hunting at about the worst time in history to be doing that. She wound up taking a position at an extension campus of a state university that will go unnamed in case I ever decide to print any of the things she said about it. In a nutshell, it took her away from her beloved New England to a job she hated.

So it was with an ambivalent heart that I heard she'd been offerred a teaching position in New Hampshire. A job and a place she loves. I had to agree she should take it, and I'm happy for her. I really am.

Of course, I was terribly sad, too. We walked together, shared coffee, talked about everything. We did yoga together (arranged by her). I shared the joy when Erik and Emily started their family, and by their description I was Eli's "favorite neighbor." Eli and Brandon could hang out together (in a closely supervised way). There will be a lot to miss.

In the age of Facebook, however, I guess no one really goes away. A post is a post whether it's from next door or across the country. I'll get to see Eli grow up in snapshots. I'm happy for the family and friends that will be getting them back. Thanks for sharing!

That's one thing about life I'm not sure I'll ever get used to - the way people pop in and, especially, out, of my inner circle. Lately I've come to think of life as a slow-motion square dance: I have my group, I know the motions, then they call an Allemande Grand Right and Left and my partner moves on and I have to start all over. I'll have a close friend, then our trajectories change and we've moved on. Kaya also needed to get out of Ohio, she was a California girl. Chantay was part of the social work world. Wendi and Nadine were the law office. So was Mary, and I practically lived at her house for awhile! Kim was my support when I was leaving the work world, but she was homeschooling and I was not. I knew there would be trouble when Marla had her fifth child, she's almost too busy for friends!

I still have friends, and gaps fill in, eventually. Goodbye, Emily, I will miss you.

My Christmas card list just got one name longer.

Doing my Duty

I have received my golden ticket. I have been called for jury duty.

It's an exciting process that involves receiving an ACTUAL LEGAL SUMMONS in which the sheriff of Lorain County, Ohio, is "commanded" to summon me "to be available to serve as a petit juror (I'll graciously overlook the fact that as a female I should serve as a petite juror, and that with my diminutive stature I would fit the bill nicely) for the Court of Common Pleas of Lorain County. (Emphasis theirs, all caps and bold and underlined and stuff.) Beginning Monday, June 14, 2010, I am required to be available to serve for a three week period as needed.

This was truly a gift from the Gods (or God, or the Universe, or a totally meaningless coincidence as per your beliefs). As most of you know, I've been experiencing a bit of angst about what I'm doing with my life at this point, and this gave me a breather. I knew enough to know that jurying is a day-to-day thing where you never know until the evening before where you need to be the following day. This is not compatible with doing childcare since working parents generally need to know that they have a babysitter who will be there. I dutifully notified the parents in question that I essentially needed a 3 week vacation. I had also, inexplicably, decided that now was the time to remodel our old bathroom and eldest daughter's room (just in time to get it the way she wants it so she can go to college in a year), so I could also be baby-free during construction.

I read my instructions with growing excitement. I would need to report to the courthouse by 8:30am. The parking lot is several blocks away so I calculated how early to leave my house to allow a 15 minute walking time (the letter says it's 5 minutes) so I wouldn't appear to be my usual, time-impaired self. The dress code said "business casual," a style of dress I haven't needed for at least a decade. I invested (all of $10.00) in a pair of dress sandals. (They will likely cause baby-toe blisters during the walk to the courthouse [no shuttle service available due to budgetary cutbacks] but, hey, they're cute!)

And did you know that you get PAID for jury duty? It's $25.00 if you need to be there all day, $10.00 if you're done by noon. THAT'S MORE THAN I MAKE BABYSITTING! And you get paid if asked to report, even if you don't serve on a jury! I could get paid for reading and doing crossword puzzles! I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

I even had an exciting conversation with my across the street neighbor who actually served on a jury. She said it is not true that you can have a portion of the transcript read back to you, that only happens on TV. She also said there is this cool static sound they pipe in over the jury when there is a sidebar at the bench. (Can you tell I've been sucked into the world of cop shows?) She also, JUST THAT MORNING, thought she had caught sight of the perp she'd help put away (how cool does that sound?) at a local park.

Oh boy, oh boy. I filled out my questionnaire (should I have mentioned that I once worked at a domestic violence shelter?), sent it in well ahead of the deadline, made sure I had an ample supply of books and crossword puzzles, and waited. And waited. One week and a half into my "jury duty" and I'm still waiting. Each day after 3:30pm I eagerly log onto the website only to be told to check in the following day after 3:30pm for further instructions. Heavy sigh.

Last week was OK. About once a year the yard requires some heavy upkeep involving trimming, weeding, and mulching, and I got that done. After that, well, let's just say I'm not so good with unstructured time. I fritter it away and then feel guilty for not getting anything done. I'm a bad self-starter. Without an external goal I quickly get aimless. And bored.

I just checked about tomorrow and you know what? I don't have to report tomorrow, either!

I guess it's back to babysitting as I can - a little money is better than none.

And, hey, at least I got some cute sandals out of the deal.

Poking Sleeping Bears (or What I did on my Summer Vacation, Part II)

Tom and I realized that we haven't planned a summer vacation yet which is unusual for us. Our vacation is usually the pinnacle of our year, a camping odyssey carefully mapped out and executed. But it's a different phase of life now and things grow more complicated. We need to include things like college visits this year for our impending high school senior. And last summer's camping trip showed me that taking two teen aged girls into an electronic and shopping-free zone isn't all that relaxing.

A nice transition. I realized that I never finished writing about last summer's alpha and omega journey: New York City followed by Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore in the upper part of lower Michigan.

Ah, Michigan. I never meant to fall for you. You were always the kid next door while I was growing up in Wisconsin. The other mitten state. We had our own north woods and Great Lakes so I didn't need you. But now that I've moved on and only have Lake Erie to cling to I find that the time we spend together means so much more.

I don't remember how we first discovered Sleeping Bear, but this was our second time there. The "bears" referred to are actually sand dunes. It's a gorgeous patch of dunes and Lake Michigan. I don't want to say too much more or else other people will want to go there.

There are three things I remember from this trip: boredom, the traditional rain while trying to break camp, and Regan from Muskegon.

First, the boredom. This was when it became painfully apparent that my kids were no longer content to just take in the sights, listen to birds, play in dirt, and relax. In fact, spending 24/7 with your parents in a place with no running water or electricity with only a fabric shelter to retreat to is probably the teen version of Hell.

It wasn't all pain and whining, though. I did get to spend some individual time with each girl during sunsets at the beach. Amelia and I went on a crazy rock hunt one evening. The next night Miriam and I skipped, or tried to, skip stones, whooping and high-fiving after each pathetic attempt. Amelia learned, much to her chagrin, what happens when you forget the sunscreen while wearing sunglasses. And the cool young park rangers, Zach and Sarah, kept things interesting.

And I have to mention the rain while breaking camp because it happens so often as to have become an integral part of the vacation experience. It goes like this: we have a beautiful couple of days camping somewhere, planning on packing up and moving on the next day. Sometime in the early hours of the morning we're leaving we hear a rumble of thunder, leading to a (usually futile) mad scramble to pack everything into the car before the tent gets wet. Then we drag our wet, disheveled selves to the nearest diner for breakfast. I'm not kidding, this has happened to us at least 5 times that I can think of. Joe's Diner in Honor, Michigan took good care of us this last time.

A highlight for me, however, was Regan from Muskegon. That's how he introduced himself. As in all camping, you take your chances with your neighbors. With nothing separating you from each other the quality of the neighbor impacts the overall camping experience. Our favorite campground at Sleeping Bear doesn't take reservations, so we were just happy (and lucky) to get a site, even if it was next to a chain-smoking guy who favored staying up at night by his campfire drinking beer (probably Bud Light) and listening to classic rock (Led Zeppelin/Rolling Stones era).

If he were a dog, Regan would be a golden retriever -- big, shaggy, and enthusiastically friendly. I figured him to be in his 50's. He was not tall, but big. Muscular (oak tree biceps), but paunchy. His tangled blond hair fell to his shoulders but he had a sizable bald spot. He favored wearing faded tank tops, shorts, and mirrored shades. He was the neighbor who would walk out and talk to you while you were walking by (which, truth be told, made us consider alternate routes to the outhouse).

He buttonholed me our first day there, I believe, while I was returning from my morning stumble to the rest facilities. He strode out to wish me good morning. Now, I'm not a self-conscious person upon rising, and I have no real problem strolling around in pajamas before completing the daily grooming. Regan made a good-natured jibe about my hair, then grabbed a nearby fork and proceeded to run it through his. He asked after the rest of the family, referring to us by name. Turns out he had talked to Tom the night before and had scrawled our names on a paper plate so he'd remember. While we were talking one of the ever present daddy-long-legs crawled up my shoulder. Regan grabbed it away and said he was adopting them as pets. He was going to name that one Jeff.

I was amused and somewhat charmed.

It was easy to remember his name because of the rhyme -- he's Regan from Muskegon. He had spent the past twenty plus years as a furniture salesman but this was the beginning of the economic downturn. Even though he had seniority and experience they laid him off. He also had recently separated from his wife of twenty some years. He was up here to kayak and gather his thoughts. He still had his house in Muskegon, but wasn't sure he wanted to return there, and it was a bad time to sell. He hadn't found new work, didn't know what he wanted to do, but knew unemployment was going to run out. A buddy had contacted him about going out west to be a rafting guide. He was considering it.

I think I recognized his state of mind. Somewhat. It makes me think of the last job I walked out on. No, not the nursing home. The law office. That job was a complicated psychodrama beyond going into here and one day I just walked out. It was only about 11am and I just walked out and climbed into my car without any clear idea of where I was going, just knowing I didn't belong in that office. As I turned the key in the ignition the radio turned on and Tom Petty's "Free Falling" was playing. I still consider that a magical moment. I felt I had jumped off a cliff.

Looking at Regan, I thought I saw some of that stomach-churning elation. He had lost everything that anchors a person and he was just going, casting his fates to the wind. He ran out of time at Sleeping Bear so thought he'd head out to Manistique for more kayaking. After that, who knows?

He was such a character that he still pops into my mind now and then, and every time I think of him I pray a silent prayer that life is treating him kindly.

Wonder what this summer holds?

Epiphany!

WARNING: THIS ENTRY CONTAINS SELF-ABSORPTION AND PSYCHOBABBLE. Welcome to my world.

Epiphany: Liturgically it is the manifestation of Christ to the gentiles. I like to think of it as light bursting forth in the world. It also describes the flash of realization, that just-got-hit-with-a-bolt-of-insight/Eureka! sensation. I'm writing this on the heels of one of those moments.

All I have to say is thank-you, Mom (something that probably can never be said enough) and thank-you New York Times!

It started innocently enough, as these things often do. Today is my day off from childcare duties. My psyche has not been in a good place (too complicated to describe) so I was just kicking back. Thought I'd spend some time on the ol' computer. The Google homepage had a link to a Laura Bush book review in The New York Times. I read it. It was good. Along the side was the title of another story called "Mind Over Meds." Figuring it was about depression, my favorite bete noire, I read it.

It's been a salient issue for me. I had come to realize that I was starting to isolate myself, pushing coffee and sugar, feeling like it was taking all my energy just to get through a day. I'm depressed. And I was frustrated. It feels so amorphous. There are so many sub-issues going on. I've seen this coming and had the foresight to get me back to therapy. All well and good, except that the intelligent, insightful woman I had been seeing retired. I'm trying to start anew and it's not easy. I feel like so little of what I have to say makes sense without the backstory. It makes for 45 minutes of highly pressured speech from me explaining what's bothering me and why, then waiting two weeks to do it all over again. I didn't see this going anywhere.

It was a really good article by a psychopharmacologist who was reconsidering the split between the medicinal and psychotheraputic treatments of depression. My last shrink had been psychologist who very much believed in the neurobiology of depression. There is a knotty chicken and egg dilemma at the heart of the treatment debate: which comes first, unhealthy thought patterns or flawed neurochemistry? Pat seemed to lean towards the "physical" model. When my thoughts were problematic she would encourage medication to bring the depression under control, which would then help me untangle what was going on in my mind. Zoloft keeps me going. I'm really quite functional and I like to think that I come across as an unlikely depressed person. But even though I've been talking to a professional my interior life still feels like a mess.

Here's where mom comes in. We've reached that neat stage in life in which we are friends, not just relatives. And she's good for commending to my attention interesting things to read and consider. One of them was a New York Times article titled "Depression's Upside" (NYT February 28, 2010). She brought it up to me almost two months ago. Did I mention that procrastination is one of my problems?

So I finally sat down and read it this morning since I was surfing the net anyway, and, as the kids say, OMG!!! Never before have I felt like someone was describing the way my mind works. I ruminate. I go over things, considering and reconsidering. When the issue is positive it is creative, energizing, and inspiring. On the flip side I revisit dark moments over and over, re-feeling, trying to re-interpret, trying to figure out what went wrong (probably me).

Even more fascinating is the fact that ruminators, or "ruminants" as I preferred to be called, tend to be writers. Our prose is more polished because we're constantly editing, re-examining what it is we're trying to say.

Look at how quickly I've adopted the "we" and "our." I'm not a random, hopeless, psychological freak! There are other people who think and feel like I do! And maybe I can learn to manage this, and use it to my advantage, with the Zoloft to keep it from spinning out of control. It's hard to explain the tremendous feeling of relief this gives me.

I liken my blog entries to beach glass. They are what happens when an idea gets stuck in my mind's surf, being tossed and tumbled until even the trash is rendered beautiful.

This also explains why I've haven't been blogging as much. Much of the stuff running through my head right now can't be shared with a general audience. Not yet.

Thanks, Mom. I owe you a phone call.

Sweet Dream or a Beautiful Nightmare? (Thanks for that, Beyonce)

Childcare is a lot like having a late in life child. Almost like childbirth, I find it amazing how much of the agony and ecstasy gets forgotten.

Spring has sprung with a vengeance here in Northern Ohio, and we're having a burst of June in April. Brandon (now 15 months) has re-discovered the outdoors and he is done with being inside. He grabs my keys, says "buh-bye," and heads for the door. He hands me his shoes. The inside toys have lost their fascination. Banging something with a stick outside is ever so much more fulfilling.

I believe all small children are that way. I have yet to meet the baby who doesn't calm when walked outside, especially if there are trees to make patterns against the sky. And toddlers love their aforementioned sticks, as well as exploring dirt. Sitting in it, feeling it, and tasting it.

It's also amazing how tuned-in children are to the acoustic world. Brandon will hold his hand up to his ear and I'll realize there's an airplane droning, or he'll "woof" and I'll realize there's a dog barking in the distance.

Children are also natural birders. During the winter baby Max, then about 6 months, loved nothing more than lying on his belly by my back door watching the birds (and squirrels) dancing around the feeder. He even got to see a hawk (a harrier, I believe, it seemed to have a brown and black striped tail) take out a starling right in front of him. Now that it is spring Brandon has fixated on different bird calls: the screech of a blue jay, the piercing whistle of the cardinal, the song of a robin. He looks for the source.

It is refreshing to experience the world anew through little eyes and ears. But, as Paul Harvey would so famously say, and now for the rest of the story. At the playground I was charmed by Brandon's absolute belief that he would catch that squirrel. Shortly afterwards he choked on his water and threw up (just a little bit, true) down the front of his shirt. Or being outrageously cute while grocery shopping, waving at everybody in the store, but pooping his diaper as we were approaching the check-out, with me having left the diaper bag in the car. This morning, which overall has been enjoyable, has had its issues. Incipient molars + fatigue + excitement seems to = BITING. Apparently this is an honor reserved for mommy, grandma, and me. Just a little fly that threatens the ointment.

Ah, yes. I vaguely remember the joy and challenges of this stage from my own girls. It's good to be reminded, now and again, that there is a yin and yang to the world.

P.S. to Carla and Marla: Nightmare really is too strong of a word, but I bet you know what I'm talking about.

A Post-Feminist Commentary in Honor of National Women's Day! (Thanks, Chris A. and Chuck A. for the inspiration!)

I am a daughter of the Women's Movement.

I grew up with Ms. Magazine around the house, and even once sent in an ad I found offensive for their "No Comment" section. (I think I was offended that they linked smoking with being an empowered woman). I was the perfect age for "Free to Be...You and Me." (Mommies are people...people with children...) It was assumed I would go to college and launch a profession. The constant message I heard was that I COULD DO ANYTHING!

Then life happened.

I did go to college, but, unfortunately, received a degree that just doesn't launch into a career without a lot more schooling. (BA in psychology, right up there with English in my book!) Instead of grad school I got my MRS degree. The incredible Mr. Tom is worth it.

I finally stumbled into something of a career path when I took the job of legal assistant at a local Social Security Disability law firm. That job, unfortunately, coincided with the beginning of the motherhood phase. No problem, right?

To be truthful, I really don't think I would have been a good full-time mom, especially not in those days. I took 3 months off from work with each baby, was lucky enough to have an excellent childcare provider down the street, and I didn't find returning to work traumatic. In fact, I looked forward to it. They (the children) were happy where they were, and I was happy where I was. I needed the human contact and status that the job gave me.

For a brief shining moment I seemed to have it all, but all it gave me was something of a breakdown. My job would suffer if a child got sick, didn't sleep well, or had a special school event. And the house, never really known to be spotless, was a wreck. I was a wreck. It was the classic situation of trying to do two jobs, neither one very well. I mean, I probably did OK, but it was stressful! I quickly realized that "having it all" really meant being able to delegate chunks of one's life: day-to-day child rearing (which I really had no problem with, emotionally), and/or housekeeping, which I couldn't afford to outsource. I've come to appreciate that the lion's share of professional women (A kinda funny-sounding phrase. What does that make me, an amateur woman?) who are successful and happy have nannies and housekeepers. I had neither.

Through a process really too long to go into here, I gradually made the shift to homemaker/at-home mom, ironically after my children were both in grade school. (Such timing!) While commenting on one of my blog entries, Chuck A. commented on his time spent as stay-at-home dad, and how it was strangely unsatisfying to which I say AMEN, BROTHER!

Keeping house and parenting are, as Chuck pointed out, exhausting. Mainly because it's never ending. Laundry and dishes remind me of Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill - no sooner is it done when more comes rolling back. And is there any way to scrub a tub that is not back-breaking? And, I'm sorry, living creates clutter. It just does.

Even worse, I think, is the boredom, which is my undoing. I crave intellectual stimulation, and listening to NPR every day can only do so much. There is nothing inherently interesting in scrubbing the floor, although I do find vacuuming to be kinda Zen since it does such a good job of shutting out the outside world. Oh, sure, there is reading and crossword puzzles and such, but add a young child or two and that becomes fairly impossible. Even worse is the repetitive activity phase in which a small child takes great delight in repeating the same mundane task over and over (i.e. pretend trick-or-treating, pretend checking out at the grocery store) until one's brain is screaming for mercy.

And then, if these things aren't enough to make the homemaking/parenting job unsatisfying, then serve-up a heaping helping of good old-fashioned guilt and lack of status on the side. I am woman, remember? Hear me roar? I had pioneers before me who broke down walls and threw themselves against the glass ceiling so that I didn't have to stay home. But I am staying home, and it feels a bit like I'm letting my sisters down.

But why is that? Because of the even more fundamental problem that homemaking and nurturing are so seriously undervalued in our society. This attitude is not, I believe, the fault of the women's movement. I believe women were moved to escape from the home because it was a role held in such contempt. Look at early sitcoms. ("Donna Reed," "I Love Lucy," "Mr. Ed"...you know, the good ones). The women are childlike, helpless, and UNBELIEVABLY STUPID. Who wouldn't want to get away from that?

It's ironic that the more hands-on the care, the lower the status the job is accorded. I've heard it said that it's really too bad that nurses and teachers aren't respected and paid like corporate executives or sports stars are. True. But nurses and teachers are social and financial giants compared to nurses aides and babysitters. Aides are considered low-skill and thus poorly paid, attracting people to the job who may not feel they have many other options. Is that the sort of person you want caring for your most basic and private personal needs? Ditto with babysitting. It seems to be a job for the person who can't get a job.

At least when I tell people I do childcare, I do get a lot of people who commend me for doing such important work and think it perfectly acceptable to get paid. (And believe me, it ain't much.) If, however, I were caring for my OWN child and expecting to get paid for it in the form of, say, public assistance, I would be labeled a lazy sponge, even though the work I'd be doing is largely the same.

What is my point?

Well, I call myself a "post-feminist" because by my generation the stereotypes were already crumbling, but we're still defining and re-defining our social roles. I was told I could do it all, but I really couldn't. Not happily. I have a critical voice in my head for being a woman of intellect without professional credentials to show for it. But I've also discovered that homemaker is a crucial role. Somebody really has to do it, or pay someone else to do it for them.

I'm of the school that says we need to reclaim "woman's work" and accord it the respect it deserves. And it doesn't need to be done by a woman, we should be equally supportive of homemaker dads. Each person should be allowed to do as they are best suited.

Free to be...you and me.

And So a Story Ends

I read obituaries. My daughters think this is weird. My mom says it's a small town thing. I liken it to riding in a car down a highway at night and seeing illuminated house windows. Each one offers a fleeting glimpse of a life in progress, whether eating dinner, watching TV, or performing some mundane task. I note the scene and imagine a story.

Obituaries are a similar snapshot of a life. Was the person married? Single all their life but with a "special friend"? Did they have children? What were their interests? I'm also interested in the pictures that accompany the write-ups, and what does it mean when the best the family could come up with is some badly out of focus or horribly-lit shot? Some obits document lives of tragedy, or accomplishment. I'm most touched by the ones that speak of the person's nature and really give a feeling for why that person is going to be missed. Each life is a story full of ups and downs and important lessons learned. I feel that by reading the story, however brief, in an obituary I am somehow honoring the fact that this person existed and that they had a story to tell. They were more than a name.

This is the same reason that I read the list of U.S. military deaths printed daily in the Cleveland paper. I am pretty much unaffected directly by the wars we are fighting, but I feel it is important to pay attention to the fact that they are happening. And each soldier is not just a number, but a name. And each name is a story that has come to a tragically early end. I read the name, age, and hometown, and try to imagine the story that took that person to such a foreign land.

Today, for the first time, I saw a name from my hometown. MY hometown. Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, which, contrary to what the name sounds like, is not a military post at all. It's a town whose main claim to fame is being home of The National Dairy Shrine. I don't live there anymore, but it's where I grew up and it will always be my hometown.

I felt a shock. Lance Cpl. Jacob A. Meinert was only 20 years old. The last name sounded vaguely familiar like a name I remembered hearing while growing up. It's possible I went to school with his parents.

I didn't know him, but I know where he came from. A lot has changed about Fort since I left. I very much doubt that we would have had any of the same teachers. The first school I attended is now an apartment building (Caswell), my first middle school closed (Emory? Emery?), the junior high is now administrative offices, I think (James F. Luther), and my high school is now the middle school. But I bet he went to The Frostee Freeze, and walked along the Rock River, and gazed at the same church spire (St. Paul's Lutheran Church) that is visible all over town.

Unfortunately there have been military deaths of young people from Northern Ohio, although none from Oberlin. I find the stories sad, and see how it affects a whole community, but have never felt personally touched like I did with Lance Cpl. Meinert. I can readily picture his story. He died supporting combat operations in Helmand province, Afghanistan -- a world away, I'm sure, from the rolling farmlands of southern Wisconsin. But he carried with him some of the same images, I bet, that I treasure.

Suddenly those six degrees of separation seem awfully close.

Into your hands, oh Lord, I commend his spirit.