You can't deny catchy.

I have divulged many personal details on my blog, yet writing about this week's topic leaves me apprehensive. People are so weird, possessive, attached to and completely righteous about their taste in music. Defensive, elitist, I could go on. But since my blog/challenge is to put "me" in writing (with the goal of encouraging "you" to do the same) and music is very connected to memories, it was time to go there.


At first I thought about simply listing my favorite songs, like if I needed to create a music mix to take on a trip to a far off and desolate place that doesn't have internet, what would I include? What songs can I listen to over and over again because the far off and desolate place doesn't have cable either and all the streaming music channels?


But then I decided this idea is terrible because everyone would read my post and judge my taste (which is, admittedly, nothing special) and spawn music debates that go nowhere. And furthermore, my supposed trip to a far off and desolate place sounds awful. I can't imagine surviving for long let alone jamming day after day to my ideal compilation.


Instead, I went through my iTunes library and came up with ten artists and albums that have meaning to me during a particular moment in my life. Just ten. So incredibly hard! Eventually, methodically, I created the list below with brief descriptive reasoning. Actually, I spent very little time putting it together because I have very little time in general. Every week it seems. So enjoy and don't judge.


1. Cat Stevens - Greatest Hits
My mom was a fan of Cat Stevens. His music reminds me of our old stereo tucked behind the sofa in the living room and the giant padded earphones that plugged into it. I liked the songs way before I could grasp the lyrics and long before Cat morphed into Yusuf. I became reacquainted with this album when I was a teenager. We listened while working long hours at the pool snack bar. When I hear "Wild World," I recall soft pretzels, creamsicles and the golden summers of my youth.


2. Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack
I almost chose ABBA - The Album. Both had intricate fold-out covers (sleeves?) with glamorous, glossy photo spreads. Say what you will about disco, but the groove-ability is hard to resist! Ultimately, Saturday Night Fever won out because I also owned the matching Sesame Street Fever album -- and I'm currently re-appreciating Sesame Street, Grover in particular, thanks to Bea.

3. Michael Jackson - Thriller
This is obvious. Thriller was released when I was a totally impressionable 13 year-old. I can still see myself boogying in the cafeteria at a middle school dance to "Wanna Be Starting Something." Yes, it was with Mr. Dorneman, the world's nicest teacher, but he had good moves. To this day, I am an uninhibited dancer. You (and the world at large) can thank Michael for that! The Thriller album cover adorned one of my 7th grade pocket folders and I may have kissed it on occasion.


4. REM - Document
I played the heck out of this album when I first learned to drive. It makes me think of freedom... and having one hand on the steering wheel while using the other to root around the floor of the car in search of the right tape. Then pressing rewind or fast forward while attempting to follow the newly memorized rules of the road. REM's lyrics were deep and didn't make much sense, but I was also incredibly deep at sixteen and didn't make much sense.


5. Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon
Every time I hear a song from this album, I turn to Jon and say with a sigh, "Pink Floyd reminds me of my high school boyfriend." It's like a pang of nostalgia. Even though he's sitting right next to me, and still sports a full head of hair, their music evokes a sense of wistfulness for a stage of life long gone.


6. Nirvana - Nevermind
We loved our dance music on the weekends at Ursinus, but a little Seattle grunge went a long way. This was the era of MTV Unplugged and the stripped down songs were really quite cool. It was also exciting to see people my age releasing music about my generation -- though, in truth, I didn't have a fully realized coffee addiction (yet), harbor tons of angst, or go weeks without washing my hair.


7. Indigo Girls
I was introduced to the Indigo Girls in college. Their self-titled album is a young coed's sing-along dream come true. All that harmony! After graduating, I saw them perform several times. The mid-nineties for me were filled with music festivals. So lucky! I worked for an ad agency and managed to get passes to many shows, but Jon sprung for Lilith Fair tickets one birthday and off we went together. It was both sweet and awkward. So many ladies. And lots of ladies who prefer ladies. And Jon. I became a big fan of Sarah McLachlan, Sheryl Crow, and Shawn Colvin as a result.


8. Lyle Lovett - I Love Everybody
When we first settled into our little house in Baltimore, I felt content. I am domestic at heart and finally had a place to practice my passion. It was nearly four years before we had Lu during which time I don't know what we did?? Had friends over for wine a lot?? Lyle Lovett reminds me of friends and wine and no kids.

9. Sting - Brand New Day

I love Sting. Have always loved Sting. This album came out right before the millennium when everything seemed so bright and shiny in our world. But mostly I loved this album because I love Sting. Have always loved Sting. (My Latin teacher mom thought his lyrics were smart. "Caught between the scylla and charybdis...") With Brand New Day, Sting proved he could be prolific. Having him around and relevant makes me feel less old and provides flow between the decades of my life. I love Sting.

10. Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood Soundtrack
I read the book, but didn't see the movie. Then I heard the movie soundtrack, produced by T-Bone Burnett, was fabulous. I bought it right after Lu was born and could not stop listening to the song "Selah" by Lauryn Hill. It's about the birth of her daughter - with Bob Marley's son for an additional piece of trivia. Even though my "baby daddy" wasn't rastafarian, it felt so close and familiar. There was also a bizarre, but upbeat, french song called "Lulu Revenue Dans La Village" to which I would swing around a laughing baby Lu. Makes me smile.


This list goes to 11! My bonus album is the original High School Musical Soundtrack. After many years of kids' songs and three hideous Wiggles' concerts, the High School Musical Movie and Soundtrack were like a giant gulp of water on the edge of a beautiful oasis after crossing a blisteringly hot sandy stretch for many, many miles. It was a relief when Lu could enjoy a song about more than counting or healthy snack choices. (Right now, Bea is watching Yo Gabba Gabba and they are singing "glasses, glasses, help me see much better!" My point precisely.) Now in an effort to stay current, I am a devoted fan of Radio Disney and fierce admirer of Selena Gomez and the Scene, not to mention Kelly Clarkson, Taylor Swift, Jessie J and LMFAO. Don't hate. You can't deny catchy.


List ten (or eleven) artists and albums that have had meaning in your life.

Frozen cocktails, hear me now!

I am taking a trip and leaving the kids behind. I am off to a tropical island without Jon. That's right, I'm escaping it all with a good friend I have known for more than thirty years. We are both moms of toddlers who are over 40 and overly tired. I plan to read a book, drink cocktails, have a few nice meals, and miss my family like crazy.

In preparation, I spent the morning digging through my summer gear and lining up my small army of Miracle Suits. I'm not pregnant and I'm not within a year of giving birth, but damn that tummy control is like an addiction.

On the very bottom of the haphazard pile, I found a hat.

In the spring of 2006, Gail had exhausted most treatments available but her cancer continued to grow. As a last attempt to slow the disease, she opted for an especially difficult course of chemo that caused her to lose a ton of weight and her hair – again.

A very kind family friend knew Gail was struggling so he arranged and funded a trip to Florida. She needed a break more than I could ever imagine on my very, very worst of stressful days.

Right before the trip, Gail celebrated her 41st birthday. I gave her an easy-to-pack straw hat that was quite nice, meaning expensive. Something she would have never bought for herself to wear on a trip she would have never planned for herself. Even though she deserved it. She deserved every expensive hat ever made, even the ridiculous kind that are more art than hat, and a trip around the world twenty times.

Gail died four months later. Gwyn and I carefully and tearfully went through her closet and decided to donate almost everything. Not the hat.

Unlike Gail, I don’t have a problem treating myself to expensive things every once in a while (Jon is somewhere nodding vigorously) but the trip I'm about to take is a real departure for me. Literally. From a thousand miles away it will be impossible to hear Edy yell a desperate snack request from the basement, or Lu stress about something right before bed, or Bea, my sweet Bea, scream with displeasure because I won't let her eat (another) eraser.

Most of us aren't facing a now or never situation like Gail, thank God. (Seriously, thank God now.) Comfort breeds complacency and soon years fly by. I've been meaning to get away alone. It’s been on my list. But activities and school and holidays and needy babies complicate scheduling and it just doesn’t happen. Until you make it a priority, which I decided to do a few months ago on a particularly frustrating day. It occurred to me, crystal clear, that I could benefit from an interruption to the monotony and a brief change of scenery.

Then yesterday it was reinforced when I got into a verbal back and forth with a surly TruGreen rep. This was odd because a.) I hate confrontation and b.) I am very respectful to people trying to make a living. When I told him we didn't want our trees and shrubs sprayed he asked a.) if I had "seen the weather lately" (smart ass!) and b.) when he could talk to my husband. Grrrr. Frozen cocktails, hear me now, I am on my way! Then Lu had a softball game in the spitting rain and Bea didn't want to be there and Edy played on a mound of red dirt in her new sneakers and Jon was at a work event. Okay, you get it.

So off I go with the easy-to-pack straw hat and my Miracle Suit collection, which I swear mated and multiplied while stored for winter. This is good because quality tummy control is not cheap.

I return on what would have been Gail's 47th birthday, hopefully refreshed, reinvigorated and once again reminded of how lucky I am to enjoy my life of monotony. Fighting cancer is many things, there are highs and there are lows, but there is never monotony.

What is something seemingly selfish you’ve been meaning to do and should move to the top of your priority list – right now – in honor of Gail's birthday?

Here we go.

I have three daughters. I am happy to have three daughters. We didn't have a third to try for a boy, though a boy would have been great, too. As preschool teachers often chant, "You get what you get and you don't get upset." Genius.


But with my houseful of ladies, I admit to a terrible foreboding feeling towards the bumpy years ahead when other people's opinions become paramount. For Lu, that storm is a brewing. Right off the coast, I see it forming. Should make landfall soon. Here we go.


Popularity is suddenly on her radar. Within the last few months it's become a frequent topic. Usually to inform me that she is not popular because the popular girls are, from her description, girly and flirty, of which she is neither. For a while she didn't care, but now it's having consequences. One of Lu's best pals no longer laughs at her jokes, acts silly at recess, picks her in gym. All interest has shifted to the cool group and Lu's heart is hurting.


My first instinct was to corner the cool group and give them the "what's up" on the precarious nature of 4th grade social standings. But I may have trouble securing a badge at the school office with "shake down" as my agenda. Instead, I gently offered Lu the same advice I rely on when feeling vulnerable and self-conscious. Because I still feel vulnerable and self-conscious. A lot.


"The way people treat you is less about you and more about them."


Trust me, the popular girls, and those desperately seeking membership, have the same fears and insecurities you are starting to recognize. Perhaps even more. And these thoughts of inadequacy, unfortunately, will appear and reappear throughout your life, for all kinds of crazy reasons. Then I told her that her mom will always think she's the coolest kid in town and that was probably my least impactful statement.


How would you describe your history of popularity?


My first impression of popularity and its undeniable magnetism was in 3rd grade. I had a friend who would play with me one day, then another girl the next, and we would fight over her constantly. I tell you, the girl was kind of a dud (I think of her and I see overalls) but the competition factor made me quite possessive. I wanted to be liked – more. My teacher lectured me several times. I think parents were called. It wasn't a big deal. The teacher was a dud, too, and I moved on.


Fourth grade was a great year. My popularity took a major turn for the terrific. By 5th grade I was voted captain of the safeties. I had popularity tucked neatly in the pocket of my knee-worn corduroys.


Ooooph. Then came 6th grade and the merging of three elementary schools. A whole bunch of better dressed girls arrived on my scene. I wasn't ready for mini skirts and teased bangs, lip gloss and neon fingerless gloves. I didn't just drop a few rungs on the popularity ladder, I fell off of it. Landed in prickly bushes. I spent the year riding my bike to school, hanging out with teachers, playing in the creek 'til dinnertime and wearing round-toed all-leather white Nikes everywhere every day.


Seventh grade offered some improvement. I started to care about my appearance, permed my hair and pinned it up on one side. Asymmetrical = always fashion forward. I wore Esprit coordinates and Forenza sweaters backwards. Backwards = confusing to most people especially grandparents.


By 8th grade, I found my groove and was cast as the lead in the middle school play. That was big time cool and despite the fact that I was loud but not particularly good at singing and wore ugly turn-of-the-century period costumes, I managed to catch the eye of a lowly stage crew member (Jon) who I dated (held hands with in the hall) for two whole weeks.


Ooooph. Then came 9th grade. I'm not good with transitions, apparently. Didn't like it one bit. Tenth was better. In 11th, I started dating Jon (again) and his friends became my friends. I don't regret much in life, but I regret giving up my group for his. It was a silly girl move that turned my well-liked status into a near invisible existence spent mostly in Eric Lebby's basement. Playing video games. Jon, who has always enjoyed much-deserved popularity for being a nice guy to everyone, somehow kept his favorable social rank and possibly picked up a point or two.


Seasonal side note: I can assess my summer popularity in a single, short paragraph. I "lived" at Flourtown Swim Club seven days a week from early morning until dark. My dad was the manager and my mom ran the snack bar. I was considered popular because I was always there. Always. And I could get you free french fries.


I cruised through college in the familiar semi-popular state that works for me. Not hated, not adored. Since then, I just strive to maintain. I guess the desire to be liked is a forever thing and worrying about how you measure up is constant. There are times I meet someone or face a new experience and the fear of being a let down, to myself or to others, is enormous. But if you roll with it, it will roll away.

Purple and yellow lack harmony on any color wheel I've encountered.

Easter is not my favorite holiday. Sorry. Had to get that out. I hate ham and you can't avoid ham. And the weather is unpredictable which makes dressing a family in cute coordinated outfits a real pain. It's a different date every year and that is additionally frustrating. Boo. Any holiday that forces lavender and yellow together is absurd. In my opinion.


I understand and appreciate the religious significance of Easter. The forgiveness of sins, of which I have many, and the opportunity to start new is an appealing notion. I particularly like feeling absolved during spring when everything is creeping back to life. The miracle of nature reawakening is a spirit booster for sure. But beyond the blooming bulbs and shocks of forsythia, my fondness ends and my allergies kick in and I get all itchy and irritated.


Furthermore, it's one thing to keep the charade of Santa Claus going with a kid who recently turned ten. Santa isn't at all realistic but he is human and he does get help from the elves and he's jolly and magic and you can always fall back on the magic. But the Easter Bunny is ridiculous. Big rabbit with eggs. Lu has been suspiciously quiet on the topic, though she did agree to pose for a picture. This mall Easter Bunny, with his hands folded and limp bow tie, makes me very nervous.

Lu is her solid and steady self. Bea is losing her shiz. 
Edy is over-compensating for lost shiz.
Bunny is plotting a bloody rampage.
Happy Easter!

Memories of my childhood Easters are fuzzy (like a baby chick that bites). I remember stressing over my outfit (then, as in now), going to church a lot, eating mounds of candy to the point of sickness, the strong scent of vinegar while dying eggs, the strong scent of hyacinth and lilies, passing on anything sprinkled or stuffed with coconut, and dodging ham like the plague.


Speaking of the plague, my church held a yearly egg hunt among graves and that was more fun than morbid. So many places to hide those sweet little pastel orbs! The graveyard at my childhood church is an anthropological gem. There are Civil War soldiers and a monument to a family lost on the Titanic. There are also several generations of my father's family and my poor mother plopped in the middle. I like my in-laws okay, but would rather not spend eternity as neighbors. One of these days, I might dig her up. Relax. It's just ashes and I'm just kidding.


My Nanny, my mother's mother, came to stay with us every Easter. She didn't drive so she would catch a Greyhound from New Jersey and we'd pick her up at a local bus stop carrying her suit case and always wearing a scarf to protect her sprayed-in-place hairstyle. Sadly, I don't have many vivid memories of her, except that she was soft spoken and very, very thin.


I do have fond memories of Passover and attending a Seder conducted by my best friend's grandfather. He was a central figure in the early days of Philadelphia's rock 'n roll scene. I thought it was neat then, but now I think it was an awesome honor. And boy do I love a square of matzo with margarine. I'd choose that over your best ham on your best day! 


What are your memories of Easter or Passover or the Spring Equinox if that suits you better?


P.S. I enjoy other pig products. Bacon, pulled pork, bacon. I will even eat ham in sandwich form on occasion with mustard and crusty bread. But I'd rather eat bacon.

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!