I heart Al Roker. So now you know.

I love a good summer storm. One that sweeps in all black and ominous, cracks lightening, shakes the house a little, pours buckets, then rolls away leaving everything fresh, clean and cool.


I don't like the inconvenience of losing power, or gaining a few inches of water in the basement. I'm not a fan of fear either, the kind incited by tired local weather people predicting doom from inside a giant concrete news station. Luckily where I live, storms don't pose a tremendous threat. Not that they don't hit hard and not that they don't cause damage, but it's nothing like hurricanes on the coast or Midwestern tornadoes.


(A few years ago, after a deadly tornado took out a town, the girls started praying for "the Midwest with their tornadoes" every night. The following winter, it felt like we should edit them out. It was old news. But that's strangely hard to do, like you're turning your back. And so we never did. I guess if it's not tornado season, there's still clean-up going on – of lives and property. So it stays, along with Haiti and Japan and "Aunt Gail, who we love so much.")


I have lived through many storms. The happy kind, the annoying kind, and the scary kind. I have been evacuated from a beach town twice. Once when it was 95 degrees and sunny as we sat in traffic on the one and only escape route. We sat and sat for several hot, frustrating hours. Oh, how I wanted to turn around and ignore the dumb radar, go for a swim in the rough surf and get swept away forever. It was really hot. And sunny. If I'm fleeing a storm, I want lightening striking the ground all around my dancing feet, while clouds swirl, hail bounces and sirens scream. Not really.


For me, the storm that stands out the most in my "stormy" life, was a hunk of a hurricane named Fabian.


It was September of 2003 and we were invited to a wedding in Bermuda. What fun!


We have friends who live in Bermuda (jealous?) so we arranged to stay with them for the weekend and leave Lu behind. She was twenty months and we had never been apart. But she was staying with Aunt Gail which meant a weekend of Lu-centric love and adoration. I wasn't worried, I was thrilled!


Unlike the Caribbean, Bermuda is rarely in a hurricane's direct path. As we were getting ready to go, we caught wind (ha!) of a storm that might breeze by the island causing rain. No big deal. A gray day in a tropical paradise is still a day in a tropical paradise.


As we were in flight, things changed. The hurricane took an unusual turn and had Bermuda in its crosshairs. It happened that fast. We landed and then we were stuck. The airport closed.


And there we were - on the top of a hill, on a chunk of land, in the middle of the ocean. To watch a storm gather strength, intensify, and rapidly approach our tiny patch of earth was both awesome and awful. We stayed outside as long as we could, taking in the gathering force, and then we hunkered down.


Did I mention that our Bermuda friends had a three month old baby? And that cell phone reception was spotty at best? We helped board up our friends' windows and then waited. Power went out so we played penny poker and Operation by candle light. And waited. It was loud and so, so surreal, but we made the best of it. I only cried a little. I missed Lu.


The next day, trees were bent in half, every flower in Bermuda had been blown to sea, debris was everywhere, and the bridge to the airport was washed away. The only bridge to the only airport. It was the worst storm to hit Bermuda in 50 years.


We turned on the emergency radio and they were re-airing yesterday's broadcast. Ugh, you laid back island! After many attempts, I finally got through to my dad at home. Lu was fine and Al Roker said the airport would be closed for at least a few days. Thanks, Al! Seriously, we were desperate for any information. You don't realize how much we rely on the steady stream of current details we are privileged to receive in our great country until you're without it.


The wedding took place in the hotel lobby where many of the guests were staying. There was no power, roof tiles were scattered about, and a few giant boulders had rolled (flown?) into the swimming pool. It was like a disaster movie set.


After nearly a week of squatting with our very gracious friends and waiting for word on the bridge, we managed to get seats on the first plane bound for home. It had been six days, but it felt like a thousand.


Being separated from your baby, experiencing the wrath of God, relying on the kindness of friends. It was emotional in all the clichéd and obvious ways. But it also made me love Al Roker and everything he represents – deeply and wholly – and that was unexpected.


What summer storms do you remember most?

There's destruction on the horizon. But we're still smiling!

Going for the funny bone.

The wedding resort.

A palm tree's unfortunate end. Ouch.

Padding for my Judgment Day file.

Last summer, the older girls did full day camp. For many weeks. I initially felt bad about it because my (glorious) childhood summers were never structured.


But I had Bea who's not a good "anywhere" sleeper. Expecting her to rest peacefully on a blanket in the shade at the pool or park while the older girls just "hung out" wasn't going to happen unless I staked a pant leg to the lawn.


I guess I should be grateful she's a good crib napper. (Loves her crib. Dives for her crib. When I give her one last cuddle before bedtime, she pushes me away.) If she wasn't, there would be no blog. There would be no clean underwear, either.


It all worked out. They had an amazing summer. Lu applied her intensity to tennis camp and swim team and Edy thrived at an "all sports" camp, in which "all sports" included hula hoops and haphazardly constructed obstacle courses. They are doing the same camps this year and couldn't be happier.


Did you go to camp? What are your camp memories?


As mentioned in a zillion previous posts, I spent every summer of my entire childhood at a swim club. I made my own fun. And it was fantastic. I can remember getting invited to a non pool friend's house or birthday party and having to put on real, dry clothes and how bizarre that felt. The wet, hot pool was my happy habitat for several perfect months.


Interrupted only by two quick camps.


For the record, these camps were nothing like the camps some of my friends attended. Eight weeks. One parent visitation. Now that's hardcore, use many bottles of bug spray and come out a changed person camp. That's camp where you outgrow your sneakers and forget what riding in a car feels like.


The first camp I went to consistently every summer was Vacation Bible School. This isn't the fun-filled "VBC" of today. There were no clever themes (Safari with Jesus!) or t-shirts, or convenient evening hours. The Vacation Bible School of my youth was a week-long, all morning, mandatory (my mom helped organize it) yawn-fest. It rotated each year between our Lutheran Church, a Presbyterian Church in the same town and a Catholic Church that scared me a little. It was always the same – we crafted God's eyes with sticks and yarn, enjoyed(?) bland snacks and watered down lemonade from tiny Dixie cups, and ran around playing games that saved souls or possibly just wore us out.


I have one detailed memory from Vacation Bible School. I was probably ten or eleven. My very best summer friend agreed to leave the pool fortress and attend with me. (This was especially kind considering she was half Jewish.) It made the week more tolerable for sure and less scary since the Catholic Church was hosting and our "counselors" were nuns.


On the last day, we picnicked along the banks of the Wissahickon Creek. It was lovely and very boring. Then one of the (slightly terrifying) nuns announced that there would be a contest. My ears perked. I am nothing if not competitive. At the end of the morning, they would give a prize to the two children who displayed the best act of friendship. Game on.


For the rest of the picnic, my friend and I were grossly sweet to each other. We held hands. We exchanged compliments. We had it all wrapped up, or so we thought. The nuns handed out laminated cards with the "Footprints" poem on it. They didn't have enough. An uninterested girl said to a poem-less boy, "Hey, you can have mine." And she won! Ridiculous, right?


My second consistent camp experience was a week long stay at Bear Creek in the Poconos. Another church camp! That must be worth something in my Judgment Day file.


I went for four summers starting when I was nine. Every year was a totally different experience despite the same setting, the same activities, and the same catchy Christian songs that bring you to tears (I recall a particularly graphic ditty that went "On the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away.." What tin soldiers have to do with anything, I don't know. But it was emotional around a campfire.)


One year I was very popular. One year I was not. One year I knew it would be bad from the second I surveyed my lackluster bunkmates, and one year was fun beyond belief. Midweek, we always trekked into the woods for a single night sleepover under the stars. If it was a good year, this was the highlight. If it was a sucky year, I'd cry silently and miss my mom.


And that's all the structure I enjoyed. The rest of my summer, I was swimming laps in full lotus pose, making up silly dives, climbing the locker room stalls (ewww), telling ghost stories under the pine trees, playing baseball in "the field," self-treating bee stings, annoying lifeguards, honing my shuffleboard push, perfecting my ping pong swing, slurping freezepops, cheating at UNO, telling fortunes, feeling free, loving life.


So what if Lu and Edy have structure to their summers. At least they don't have nuns.

A problem I share with the occasional dachshund.

A few weeks ago, Lu and Edy started calling Beatrice "Beat-rice" when she misbehaves. Which is often. "Beat-rice! Get off the dining room table." "That's not food, Beat-rice." 


I think it's hysterical. Her naughty alter-ego. Clever, funny and fitting.  Just add it to the rest of her nicknames – Bea, Beazy, Beaz Louise.


Have you had or do you have any nicknames?


I love nicknames. Probably because I never really had one. Or at least a good one. One that stuck. Where do you go with Gretchen? Gretch. Bo-ring. If you're my brother, you lobby for Wretch because it's mean and you even test out Grendel when your English class reads Beowulf. Thankfully, neither made it much further than our front door. Gretchen is simply not a great nickname name.


Oh, how I wanted a cute and sassy nickname. Just another name in general would have been nice. As it was, my neighbor's dog was named Gretchen. And a family up the street had a dog named Gretchen. And the class bully had a dog named Gretchen. All German Shepherds, though it's also a favorite among dachshunds. It was fun until age 10. Then it was humiliating until age 16. Then most of the Gretchens died off and the neighbors replaced theirs with a Heidi.


Back to nicknames.


My best friend had the best nickname ever. Ever. Her real name was Johanna Beth. Sounds like a Louisa May Alcott character who can't wait to let her hair down and try on her father's trousers. Formal, but with tom boy potential. Perfect start. Everyone called her "Joby." I know, it's the best. And it totally suits her. Her nickname even had a nickname – Jobis Wan Kenobis. Oh, to be so lucky.


When I first turned 21, Joby and I hit the Chestnut Hill bar scene. We loved to tell (the throngs of adoring) fellas that our names were Mardette and Josepha – two of my sister's honest-to-goodness childhood friends. Still makes me giggle. The silliest part, though, is the fact that in a sea of Jennifers and Lisas, Gretchen and Joby were just as unlikely.


Back to nicknames.


In college, my friend started calling me Gurchin Sea Urchin, which was quickly shortened to Gert. That actually hung on for a while. Then after college, when I was setting up my first email account, the woman on the phone was possibly deaf. (Yes, I set up my first email account over the phone. I also owned a brightly colored, super fat Mac that looked less high tech and more toy department.) I wanted to incorporate Gert, but the woman heard Bert and once she set my shiny new address, it was too much trouble to fix. My friend immediately stopped calling me Gert and started calling me Bert. And she still does.


Besides Bert, the only other nicknames I currently have are Gretty Ann, used only by an old friend I call Betty Anne, Gretchie, used only by my sister and her family, and G-$ (G-Money), Jon's wanna-be-hip invention. He really uses it. A lot.


When Lu was on the way, we chose to name our first born after someone. I always liked my mother's mother's name, Lydia Frances. But Lydia would have a nickname for sure. Lu (not Lulu!) was ideal. Cute, unique, fun. Lu MacKenzie. Sounds like a football coach who wears a fedora. I also call her Lu Bug and Jon calls her Lu Bear, which is annoying. We should just pick one and go with it. Too late.


I felt compelled to honor my other grandmother when our second daughter was born. I love the name Edith because it's classic. But of course, she needed a nickname. Went back and forth between Edie and Edy. I thought, by choosing the "y," she wouldn't be called Eddie by accident. (Only on purpose by some boys on the bus. Happy, confident Eee-dee doesn't care.) At home, she's Edy Pie. Or Pie Pie. Or just Pie.


Then we have Bea, Beazy, Beaz Louise. And the ever-present threat of Beat-Rice, which I'm afraid is a keeper.

Everything is worse with iron burns.

I can't take it. It seems like the entire world is finished with school or finishing today and my poor, sad children have another week.


Did I say poor, sad children? I meant, poor sad me because I'm done with it all. The idea of packing more lunches every morning and digging through dirty backpacks every afternoon makes me terribly cranky. Dirty, worn backpacks stuffed with a year's worth of crap being sent home daily in equally large portions. "Look, here's the project I did last fall on metamorphosis. It's 700 pages! And here's a 3-D soap sculpture of Clara Barton." I save some of it, but the vast majority gets tossed. Which I feel bad about. But I don't lose sleep because I'm so damned tired.


The stress of these last few weeks isn't helped at all by my poorly-timed PTO responsibilities. My neighbor and I are the only two suckers volunteers on a committee that "publishes" sweet little books for students. Crafting the books involves cutting fabric, manipulating cardboard, ironing. I don't iron well or safely.


Because we all get behind (listen, I know how it is) a whole bunch of teachers submit a whole bunch of stories at the very end of the year. Lately, if I'm not eating, sleeping, changing a diaper or writing this blog, I'm putting together an entire class worth of homemade books. One upside to this commitment? Reading the creative musings of elementary school students is pure entertainment. It's fascinating what children choose to write about. My children included. Edy's poetry book is exceptionally quirky.


Then there are the overlapping activities that combine with the school craziness to push my tiny bit of tolerance off a greater, crazier cliff. Softball and pre-season training for summer swimming. Every afternoon. And Lu still has homework every night. And studies show they need to eat dinner. There just aren't enough hours.


So I've got iron burns on my hand. A dining room table covered in papers, tests and projects. Dusty cleats and musty swim bags. Enough!


Have you ever felt completely over something. Finished, done, ready to move on without looking back?


Yes. My answer is yes.


When I was done swimming, I was done. 
I grew up swimming. I was on the summer swim team when I was four and soon started swimming year round. My high school team was ultra competitive and I planned to swim in college. Just as training started, one month into freshman year, my mom died. I took some time away from college and when I returned, the coach urged me to get back in the pool. It would help me cope. But I was done. Completely and entirely done. 100%. He wasn't happy, but I was sure. Good-bye subtle scent of chlorine that followed me everywhere. I would discover fun-er and less exhausting ways to get blood shot eyes.


When I gave birth to Bea, I was done. 
When I see pregnant women, there is no envy. There is no yearning. There is no sadness. I am so glad to be done having children. So happy. So over it. I am excited for the next generation of my family to crank out the next generation (wow, that makes me feel very old) and I will love the experience through them, but I will not want to be them. No, no, no. Pregnancy-induced heartburn is no joke.


When I'm done running, I'm done. 
Running fits in this category. Sort of. When I head out on a run, my brain adjusts to the length I plan go and when I finish, it always feels like I couldn't run another step. The beginning of every run is tough, the middle is nice and even, then the end is always a struggle. After two or ten miles. It's all about anticipation. A perfect metaphor for most journeys.


That's all I've got for today. I'm done.

See-saws and raspberries.

I know the key to harmony in all the universe, in every scenario. I know it and you probably know it, too. But most people don't employ it and I only do on occasion.


It's balance folks. A little up, a little down. A little right, a little left. Hard work and you should rest. Be selfish, but also give. Yin and yang. It applies to everything.


I think my marriage is a fabulous balancing act. We are different, but not too different. Similar, but not the same. Sweet and salty. Serious and silly. We've had great times, we've faced terrible times. Through and after it all, we are content. For fifteen years last week, we are a happily committed pair.


And about last week – it was long and sad, but thankfully there was balance. For every moment of darkness, there were incredible gestures of kindness. For all the cursing at fate and stories from the past, there was our anniversary to celebrate and the reminder that we have a great life, incredible kids with exciting futures, and lots of people who care.


How have your friends shown love and support during a difficult time?


It is humbling when an awful event happens and neighbors, friends, friends of neighbors, your kids' teachers, the architect measuring your kitchen, all rise to offer genuine compassion. Notes and flowers and dinners. Calls. Messages. Beer. Cookies. Distraction. 


My running partner took care of Bunsen when we were gone all day. She offered and I accepted. I hadn't considered that little, high maintenance detail. Letting out Bunsen is not so simple. On a regular afternoon, she's difficult to motivate. When it's hot... ooph.


Local friends brought us two racks of ribs cooked for something like 16 hours and another showed up with a roast chicken stuffed with garlic and lemons. Serious comfort food. Our very classy "neighbors up the hill" dropped off the biggest orchid I've ever witnessed in person. It's like hotel lobby big and beautiful.


Our good friends from Baltimore came to visit on Sunday (we had planned it a long time ago) then came back on Tuesday for the service. That's a lot of miles on I-95. And two of Jon's college pals drove the super sucky 5-hour stretch of Pennsylvania turnpike from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia for the purpose of (literally) standing by their "brother."


So much kindness that it even mellowed my anger at an unnamed relative who knows me well (or at least should know me well) but chose to ignore what she knows to instead make me uncomfortable at every opportunity with unwanted, wild hugs and empty statements. "I'm sure this is hard for you..." Thank you, thank you for pointing that out again and again. Of course it's hard for me to watch my husband mourn. Despite your belief, I'm not an icy bitch. Backing off would be a great gift right now, but you won't do it. Instead you'll force me to dodge your crazy arms or counter with a snide reply. It is passive aggression at its finest, in the worst possible setting.


Sorry for bringing negativity to my blog. Nothing like a true tragedy to make you lose all patience for bullsh*%! I feel better now.


Balance.


The good that see-sawed that bitter situation? My sister spent a few busy hours bonding with her goofy goddaughter. They hung out during the service because an 18 month old can sit still for exactly two seconds. Then she pops up. You can almost hear it. "Pop!" Speaking of sounds, Aunt Gwynie taught Bea to make raspberry noises. Which kind of backfired, because now when you mention Aunt Gwynie, this is her unflattering response. Ha!