April Fool's at 10,000 feet

Happy almost April Fool's Day! My family loves this "holiday." My dad in particular. As children, he would wake us up every April 1st and – before our eyes were open and our brains adjusted – casually claim that A.) it snowed a ton or B.) the bar across the street burned down. Yes, I lived across the street from a bar.


I think for many people the holiday, if you choose to call it that, comes and goes with little notice. But I try to conjure something silly every year. Usually one for the kids and one for the kids to pull over on Jon. There are rules. It can't be terrifying. "We crashed the car!" And it can't be ridiculous. "Aliens have taken over the planet and your teacher is their leader." And it definitely can't be mean. "We won the 500 million dollar jackpot!! Quit your job!" So mean.


It needs to be believable, but gasp-worthy. Drawn out a little and then revealed at just the right moment. It's a lot to balance and usually I fail, though one year when we lived in Baltimore, I told Jon that I saw a crew filming Homicide, the 90's TV series. This wasn't an unusual thing about town, but I went on to explain that I had a conversation with another bystander who turned out to be a casting agent who decided I would be an excellent new addition to the series! Playing a rookie detective, of course, because I was still young then. He totally bought it. My acting was superb. Just not in the presence of any real casting agents. Such a shame. I could be gritty.


On April 1st 2000, I don't recall planning any jokes. I was too busy leaping out of a plane. Still makes me shiver. I had always considered myself adventurous and I had mentioned many times to Jon during our very, very long dating history that I would love to go skydiving. But then we got a little older and settled into our married life and I wasn't feeling all that daring anymore. 


That is precisely when Jon's coworker decided to organize a skydiving trip. Did I want to go? Did I? No, not really. But it was now or never. I had enough sense to realize that skydiving after kids was definitely out of the question and we were starting to seriously think about a baby. (I know I was a mother to Bunsen, but she'd bond with anyone willing to offer premium dog treats for half-hearted paw shakes.)


We got up very early. It was a gorgeous, unusually warm day. Sunny and in the 70's. I was nervous. We drove two hours to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I was really nervous. We pulled into a field. There was a small building with a small plane parked next to it. No runway. Where's the runway? I was terrified.


We watched a very brief instructional video and met our tandem partners, now entrusted with our lives. Mine looked like Papa Smurf and had logged hundreds of successful jumps. (Are there any other kind worth logging?) Still terrified. Jon went first because the sad little plane could only fit four passengers per flight and we were paying the extra $75 for a photographer to join me. Documented proof was crucial. Who was going to believe that I jumped out of a plane? On April Fool's Day!


You can probably guess the outcome. Jon went up and came down, then I went up and came down. Taking off from a field, climbing to 10,000 feet in that tin can of a plane, then reaching altitude and yanking the tin can door open, was nuts. Stepping on a little perch outside of the plane before leaping into the clouds, was more nuts. 


The trip to the ground was spectacular. The Eastern Shore is so flat and the day was so beautiful, I could see clearly from the Chesapeake Bay to the ocean.


I do not plan on ever doing that again. Ever. Never. Unless I'm on the Amazing Race. Then I'd do it. I'd also learn to yodel, sell trinkets in a Turkish market and eat 10 lbs. of tamales in under an hour. I love that show!


What's the most adventurous/extreme/crazy thing you've done? Would you do it again?

Jon suiting up. All smiles.

Good-bye, my love!

Jon after his jump and strangely giddy before mine.
I am 100% freaked out.

Me, right after the leap.

Starting to enjoy it.

SO pretty.

I can't decide what to name this post.

I've never been a confident decision-maker. I second guess myself a whole lot. Give me the opportunity and I will go back and forth over anything. We're car shopping now and I'm all over the road (ha!). Seriously, one day it's luxury, European engineering, clean lines and other stuff I don't know how to verbalize because I'm obviously not car savvy. Then the next day I want simple, American, rugged. "Look, my car can hoist itself out of a canal and make short work of sand dunes!" The only thing I'm settled on is the color, blue. Maybe.


It's one thing to make a decision for yourself only. No one really cares about the car as long as it drives to and fro. Jon gave me carte blanche and that sounds great but is actually causing mild anxiety. But what really stresses me out and can even keep me up at night (and I'm a fabulous sleeper if nothing else) is when I need to make decisions for my kids. I feel as if I'm constantly screwing with the trajectory of their lives.


When we first moved to Pennsylvania (a huge decision I definitely don't regret) I turned to my neighbor across the street for all kinds of advice. She's a mother of four and her youngest is Lu's age. She offered up names of doctors, education information and suggestions on activities. Mainly, ballet. Lu had taken ballet in Baltimore, a program run by the town's recreation department that featured 16 year-old teachers and very little in the way of real dance instruction. For an entire year, the class would work on a single number to be performed at the recital. The entire year. One number. And it still stunk. Either way, Lu liked it and so I asked my neighbor to recommend a local ballet studio. Little did I know what we were in for.


The school where Lu would end up dancing for five years was no joke. True, honest, serious, classical ballet. She quickly went from one time a week, to two times each week, to three and was teetering on four. The teacher was extremely qualified, super committed and not at all warm and/or fuzzy. But it worked for Lu. She's intense and always, always wants to please. From my perspective, I loved watching her dance. It's a real emotional high to see your children do well. She could perform drills that took total concentration as the teacher clapped and shouted in French. I'd sit in awe. Not only was I a terrible French student, but I took ballet for about a minute when I was young and never possessed such determination. I wanted no parts of anything my brother wasn't doing and my brother wasn't doing pliés.

I'm the thug in the tutu.
Arms crossed is my nonverbal way of saying, "This blows."
That's my friend Sharon on the left. She was, and still is, infinitely cuter.

Ballet is so refined and civilized (another reason it wasn't for me??) that it only seemed right that Lu should always thank her teacher. She'd cross the small dance floor and convey her appreciation after every class, then we'd split.

 Lu as a ballerina. Beautiful.

Soon soccer came along. And she was good at that, too. And she liked playing on a team. And her dad coached. And it was outside. Ballet and soccer. It felt like a tug-o-war. (Which is never fun, even the real, actual game. Nothing but rope burn on your palms.) Lu's ballet teacher expected total allegiance and the assistant instructor once warned that soccer would make her legs fat. This resulted in a lot of lying during her first travel soccer season. The truly pathetic part is, I blamed most of it on Bea and she wasn't even born yet. 


"Lu can't make class this weekend because we are taking a long road trip. Got to get those visits in before the baby comes!" 


Meanwhile, the "road trip" was a soccer tournament where Lu might just break a bone or get large and unsightly calf muscles. Shhhhhh. It wore me out and set a really awful example.


So this past fall, she gave it up. All those years, all that talent, all that French. There was no going halfway with this type of ballet, so she walked.


I know there are plenty of tougher, more important decisions that people make every day, every minute, but this was a deceptively big one. Ballet gave Lu discipline, balance (literal and figurative), strength and timing. And I loved watching her dance. Did I mention that? I knew her life would be very different if she stuck it out. It'd be all ballet, all the time, and maybe that was right for her? Probably not. Plus I was tired of making buns.


Because we are an active, don't like to sit around family, we quickly found another sport to fill the gaping void. Winter swimming. The program was perfect. It could be as serious or as laid back as we wanted. And since Lu was not going to be the best on the team (a little rough after being a stand-out dancer) she could just coast along and enjoy it. No pressure. I don't think she swam in a single race that counted all season. But she had fun and I got to sniff a lot of chlorine which is very nostalgic for me.


The end-of-season banquet was last week. We went even though I didn't expect any recognition for Lu. The night was dragging on (and I was tuning out) when they started to give out the coaches' award. First, they describe the swimmer. Then, they announce the name. 


"This swimmer is so sweet and respectful. She thanks every coach after every practice." 


My ears perked and I fumbled for the camera. Of course it was Lu. A leftover habit from ballet. At least there's that. So proud!


I'm glad Lu danced. It taught her many great things she'll carry forever. I'm also glad she's done. We'll just have to wonder whether she could have/might have been a prima ballerina. And we'll just have to live with those fat legs.*

What difficult decision(s) have you made lately?


*At present, Lu weighs 58 lbs. despite eating a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream every night. A big bowl. With Hershey's syrup. Her legs are twigs.

Bad math will get you nowhere fast.

With families and traditions, from generation to generation, it seems like patterns form or they are foiled. You either want the same for yourself or you want something completely, drastically different.


What do you choose to repeat from your childhood, and what do you choose to change?


There are many, many things about my childhood that I insist on repeating. I live in an old house, we must do a week at the Jersey Shore every summer, I am brand loyal with products my mom preferred, the kids are involved in similar activities, and every holiday is a carbon copy of my memory. "I know you can read, but your father will be reciting 'Twas the Night Before Christmas and you will sit there and you will enjoy it and you will fondly remember it forever!" 


From what I can gather, my mother didn't have a stable childhood, so the things I am perpetuating are the very things she likely chose to do differently. I'm certain she'd be happy about that.


There are some things, however, I have chosen to change. For instance, the toilet paper of my youth always, always rolled under. I craved a thrilling departure in my own home, so I deliberately made the switch. Come to my house any day and check for yourself. We are proud over-rollers and everyone who lives here, and has the power or inclination to change out an empty cylinder, has received the threats memo.


I didn't travel much growing up and never overseas and this I most definitely wanted to change. My first trips outside the country were to islands. Doesn't really count. We went to St. Lucia for our honeymoon, but it's hard to have an international experience when you never venture beyond the resort and you're completely surrounded by other honeymooning American couples.


Ten years ago last spring, when I was pregnant with Lu, Jon and I went to Scotland. Finally, Europe. We had no itinerary. We rented a car in Edinburgh and logged 600 miles. We visited the Murray castle, possible (probable) home of my ancestors. It was beautiful and sophisticated with roaming peacocks. We wanted to visit a MacKenzie castle but the MacKenzies were war-prone highlander ruffians and all their castles have been destroyed. 


In the midst of our travels and on the cusp of becoming new parents, I swore we'd return with children in backpacks. Our family would explore the world. We would be adventurous and unafraid!


It's true, we've travelled consistently since Scotland. At least once a year. Typically in March and usually to Disney World or a (doesn't really count) tropical destination. But that kid-in-a-backpack-in-a-foreign-land scenario sounded much better before we had the kid. Then we had two. Now we have three. 


When we started discussing ideas for this year's vacation, it occurred to me that the older girls are pretty independent and I'm a much more relaxed mom with Bea. Maybe it was time to go further. Maybe we could actually be that family who takes their kids to Europe.


So a week ago last Tuesday, we all headed to the airport for an overnight flight to London. Such excitement! We got a ride to the airport. It was empty! We checked our luggage and proceeded to security. Here we go! 


Jon, aka keeper of the documents/official and important paperwork completer/man who never misses a detail, pulled out our passports including the newly minted one for Bea, secured months ago to avoid any extra fees. The woman started flipping through them and then paused. Looked up. Looked down. Looked up again at me and said, "Did you know your passport expired last year?" Well, no, but of course it did. I got it for Scotland. More than ten years ago. Damn. Jon was stunned and mad at himself. But it's my passport and I can do very basic math. Ten years = expired. They don't make exceptions either. Not even if you crack a joke, then cry a little, are holding a super cute baby, and have fresh blond highlights. I wasn't going to England.


Lu was a panicky mess, Jon was eerily quiet, Bea was getting tired and Edy was happily dancing to the music in her head. I pulled myself together and realized I could rise to this challenge. One thing about experiencing very terrible, uncontrollable things like cancer, when you're faced with situations that aren't ideal, but definitely manageable, you don't let them topple you. You manage.


They allowed us through security (thanks, fresh blond highlights!) to the gate where we talked to a helpful man from US Air. He told me where I could get a same day passport (not a dark alley) and the steps needed. Jon would take the big girls to London that night and I would get 'er done on Wednesday, then head out Wednesday night with Bea. 


While the majority of my family jetted off without me, I went on line and printed out appropriate paperwork, I completed appropriate paperwork appropriately, I made an appointment at the passport agency, I had photos taken at CVS (not bad, actually), I drove downtown and waited to apply for a same day passport (interesting folks in that line!), I drove back home because it wouldn't be ready for several hours, I then drove back downtown to pick up same day passport and waited with fellow desperate people, I maneuvered through the Philly airport alone, I flew across the ocean overnight with a baby who needed constant attention while awake and drooled and snotted all over me while asleep, I changed her in an airplane bathroom (eww), I maneuvered Heathrow alone, I mapped out the London Underground and successfully changed trains during rush hour, I tried not to look like I was about to collapse, I finally reunited my family. Then I collapsed. Then we had an amazing trip.


Gail's twins deserve major, major credit for helping me pull it off. Scott picked me up from the airport on Tuesday night because I couldn't bear to ask my super nice neighbor to circle back. Scott let me give him money for a tank of gas :) and that made me feel better. Then Nicole watched Bea all Wednesday and drove me back to the airport. They are two of the best people I know.


London was an outstanding city to explore with kids. We did about 100 tours and spent an estimated 1,000 hours traveling on "the tube." We bought $10 chocolate bars (not an exaggeration) at Harrods which Jon referenced all week. We walked from Buckingham Palace, through Hyde Park, through Kensington Park, to Kensington Palace because it all looks a lot closer on a map. I made a fancy latte every day in the hotel's executive lounge. We saw the Queen's motorcade! We watched tons and tons of soccer, both live and on TV. I treated myself to royal wedding commemorative trinkets. We got excited every time we saw a classic red phone booth, even the ones with dirty pictures inside. We slept in a very small room and loved the closeness. 


We are a family who takes their kids to Europe!

Stepping on Cheerios

Happy 26th post to me! I've been faithfully blogging for six months. Hard to believe. Every year of my life seems to fly by faster.


Have any of you followed the challenge? I hope someone, somewhere, has written something down. That's not asking much. Just a pen and a scrap of paper put away for later. Or maybe computer print-outs of your blog with your name written (super neatly using various colored felt-tip Sharpies) at the top. That's what I do and it's more than enough. Personally, I am feeling a sense of accomplishment. A little bit of me, okay perhaps a little bit too much, now exists beyond my head.


If you haven't done any writing yet, please know that I forgive you. And now that you are formally absolved, consider trying this writing prompt. It's super easy and mundane and I'm pretty sure my answer below may cause a narcoleptic episode.


Describe your typical weekday.


With every blog post, I imagine how my mother would have answered whatever question or idea I pose. I almost always come up blank. I have no clue how she felt about cooking, her most memorable Halloween costume, how she would spend a sudden windfall, what she was like at ten, her thoughts on heaven.


But this week's challenge would mean the most to me. Her daily routine when I (the youngest) was a baby? Fascinating! It's not a story or speculation or opinion. It's just life. As it is. At a frozen point in time. Which won't be how it is in another 26 weeks. Everything is always changing.


So here goes. Give yourself a quick pinch or grab a cup of caffeine. You will need the stimulation.


Some mornings I wake up and run. It's early and it's sucky. On mornings I don't run, I set the alarm for 7:15 and hit the snooze button once. A promise of coffee is all that motivates.


I then wake up the big girls at 7:30 and race downstairs to make breakfast – peanut butter toast for Lu every day and toast, eggs or waffles for Edy. Orange juice. A banana. Gummy vitamins. If I'm lucky, Bea will sleep through the entire morning rush. If not, she's up and needing things like a fresh diaper. It throws me off. I also pack lunches. Good ones. Balanced ones. And I always write a note. I bitch a lot about what a chore it is to pack lunches and sometimes I wonder if my crankiness counters any happy correspondence I jot on post-its (super neatly using various colored felt-tip Sharpies). It's all my fault. They are demanding of good lunches with sweet, creative messages because I've always packed good lunches with sweet, creative messages. It's impossible to stop now. Someone save me.


The bus is early a lot which is completely unfair. I am usually yelling and throwing backpacks and screaming "I love you!" and "Have a good day!" and "Don't step in dog poop!" as they cut across the lawn. If they miss the bus (some days it's super stealth) or if, for instance, Lu has a diorama due, I drive them and wait in the car loop. Is there anything more "suburban housewife" than driving your daughter to school while she carefully cradles an artfully decorated shoe box?


Now it's just Bea and me and more food prep. Cheerios and raisins that end up all over the floor. If I wrote a true "Mommy" blog (gag), I'd name it Stepping on Cheerios. Witty, right? I've been stepping on Cheerios for a decade now. You realize it's happening, but it's too late to pull back and then *crush* a dusty pile of crumbs.


Housework comes next. Emptying the dishwasher, making beds, laundry. It's repetitive and slightly soul-crushing, but the socks don't put themselves away. I also do some sort of cleaning because our cleaner decided to get a real job over a year ago and I'm sort of weird and private and don't mind doing it myself. Except for that it takes me so long to do anything with Bea underfoot. I turned my head for one second yesterday and she grabbed a water bottle and spilled it all over Jon's nightstand. Then while I was mopping it up, she went in the bathroom trashcan, which is in a drawer we try to keep shut, and got some yummy used dental floss. At 16 months (today!), you can't get mad, or yell, or discipline. It doesn't help. You just need to be on top of trashcan drawers and husbands who leave loosely-lidded water bottles on nightstands.


Bea also holds my pant leg a lot. It is very difficult to do anything efficiently with someone clutching your clothing while walking in unpredictable patterns.


Lunch is boring and never good. Noodles. Grilled cheese. Fruit. Yogurt. I eat what Bea eats because I'm too lazy to concoct something original. I also make sure I eat simultaneously since nap time is next and I'd rather not waste it on lunch. I always have grand plans for that precious 2 hour stretch. Grand plans.


Nap time arrives and I spend most of it on the computer reading silly articles or looking up ridiculous things like everything ever written about the actress who played Mary on Little House on the Prairie. Or tracking down viral videos I somehow missed. How did the honey badger slip under my radar?


When Bea wakes up, I squeeze in an errand. Typically it's a quick trip to the grocery store because I am the world's most terrible shopper. I wish with all my might that I could go once during the weekend and get everything I need for a week's worth of healthy dinners, but that takes a type of practical planning I do not possess.


Big girls get off the bus just before four. Then I get them snacks and dig through their bags to assess the homework situation. I also clean out the lunch boxes and do some more lunch-themed complaining.


Dinner is boring and never good. Chicken. Tacos. Meatballs. Spaghetti. Chicken. Sometimes it's before activities. Sometimes it's after. Sometimes Jon is home and sometimes he is in another city or country enjoying a big decadent meal with other adults who have smart and lively things to say.


When Jon isn't traveling (and a Flyer's, Phillies', college basketball or European soccer game is not creating an impossible to ignore distraction), he is the master of bath, book and bed. A pleasant and streamlined way to cap the day. When it's just me, it's a whirl of bubbles and rapidly repeated prayers. Luckily, all of my children love to sleep and happily crawl under the covers every night. I think this might be my favorite thing about them and I am not joking. It means their minds and bodies are content and I can finally relax.


When kids are asleep, I watch a little TV, do some more cleaning, and then melt into my own soft bed. That's what it feels like.


The end. My apologies if you are now sleeping, too.

Come on 311!

I was waiting for a substantial snow fall before posting this week's question. I thought it might be atmospheric to think about snow while it softly drifted outside your frosty window. But it has barely snowed this winter, just a bizarre October storm. I get nervous thinking about the weather and the environment and shrinking glaciers and trapped polar bears. But then I get more nervous about the 40 eggs I need to scramble and dye green for Lu's class in honor of Dr. Seuss' birthday and I forget all about global warming.


What memories do you have of winter weather?


I remember what most kids growing up in the Mid-Atlantic region remember. Waiting to hear if your school was closed, then sledding, crafting a fort, or committing to the tedious task of building a snowman. (A lot of effort for little reward.) Our school number was 311. On a snowy morning, we would anxiously gather by the radio and listen to the exhausted announcer read the school codes. One by one. Come on 311! Was there no easier way? And was it that much harder to simply read the name of the school district? Why a code? It's a mystery how we communicated anything back in the day. I guess we relied heavily on the classic phone chain. But few households had answering machines, so often the chain would fail miserably and families with names late in the alphabet were never in the know.


If there was enough snow to sled, we typically went to a church only a block away. It was a pretty lame hill, but it had two parts – a quick, steep start and then a long smooth finish. If you had an exceptionally good run, you would coast along the parking lot before coming to a satisfying stop. My family had two kinds of sleds. We favored the classic wooden variety that was best ridden lying on your stomach and featured a steering element and sharp blades that would sever whatever you ran into or over. The back-up sled was a simple metal disk that was basically a glorified trashcan lid. But if it was the right ratio of slightly crusty, icy snow, you could really fly and spin and totally wipe out in a huge painful heap, laughing hysterically the whole time until you realize you got snow in your boots and then it was time to head home.


In March of 1993, I was in the Bahamas for spring break with a group of college friends. We had virtually no spending money so brilliant me packed peanut butter, saltines and cinnamon pop tarts to last throughout the week. This seemed like a fantastic idea, but by day three, I was ready to climb a palm tree for a leafy snack. By day seven, I was desperate to get home and eat something, anything fresh and not foil wrapped. Despite no Internet, cell phones, or even a Bahamian phone chain, we were informed of a humongous nor'easter dumping several feet of snow on Pennsylvania and quickly proceeded to panic like only a bunch of girls with little travel experience and a dwindling supply of pop tarts can. Our flight to Tampa was not cancelled – yippee! – but our flight to Philadelphia was – bummer. We were stuck in the Tampa airport with no money (and possible signs of scurvy) for a very long time. I've mentally blocked it. It may have been 24 hours, it may have been eight days. I honestly can't remember.


In 1996, another big storm caused drama. I was now out of college and writing for an ad agency in Baltimore. I left a creative, fun, cutting edge firm in Bethesda to compose crappy copy for furniture dealers. There's only so many ways you can wedge "deep discounts" and "no payments for 10 years" into a thirty second TV spot. Ultimately you give up trying to do it with panache and you just do it. The real draw to the job was the opportunity to be a producer. I would write my craptastic copy, choose a voice talent, schedule studio time, then sit in front of the giant sound editing console (which is probably micro-small and digital now) and direct 65 year-old seasoned announcers on how to read my craptastic scripts. They must have hated me, so young and self-conscious, clutching my monogrammed Day-Timer with zippo life experience. Thank God for the super nice sound engineer who kept them happily chatting about the glory days of Baltimore broadcasting while giving me a kind wink. I just Googled him. Louis Mills. He died last year. Very sad.


Back on topic... a monstrous storm paralyzed the city in early January. The ad world can wait, right? No! I was expected to tunnel to the studio and cut a series of ads promoting the "Blizzard of '96" sale. Because that's when people really want to buy curio cabinets! And not pay for 10 years! It was so gimmicky and stupid. Driving in my craptastic (word of the day) Volkswagen Fox (remember those? of course you don't!), I spun out several times and hit an embankment or three. It was life-changing. I realized this sort of gig was not for me. Fortunately, the two owners broke up the company less than a year later and I started freelancing, meaning I became my own boss. And me as a boss would never expect me as an employee to drive anywhere in a blizzard!


At this stage in my life, I would describe snow as a mere nuisance. Shoveling walkways, digging out cars. A day home from school means lots of dressing kids up to venture outside for 15 minute intervals and then peeling off layers of cold, wet clothes. Then making "high maintenance" hot cocoa. One daughter likes it with Hershey's syrup and one likes it with Nesquick powder. Annoying. Bea will probably demand Himalayan dark chocolate coarsely grated. I swear they enjoy watching me work. So maybe it's not such a terrible thing that it hasn't snowed much this winter. For me, that is, not the stranded polar bears.


And for your viewing pleasure, 40 green scrambled eggs. Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss!