Because I'm Happy...And Other Little Bits & Pieces

I used to work on big cases for big clients, small cases for enormous clients, and gigantic cases for downright small town clients. I researched and strategized. I made outlines that were chapters long. The issues were complex, and life was even more complicated than that. (I'd love to tell you I don't miss it, but truth be told, I guess I do--in some respects). Today,  I spent most of my day folding used clothing and drinking in the bargain hunter's Mecca--the church garage sale pre-sale. I'm not a hoarder, but darn those hoarding tendencies! Today, my adoptees included a cast-iron dutch oven, harvest gold and avocado green Tupperware tumblers, a princess tent, some yard ornaments, a punch bowl (to be fair, I traded in the one that I already owned--not a hoarder), a cashmere sweater (!), and two country aprons. I dug through boxes of cables, used panties & socks (ew, really people?), and sorted water bottles from coffee mugs until late in the afternoon.

And throughout the day, I constantly caught myself singing: "I love you. You love me. We're a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?" Credit to the big purple dinosaur, Barney. Gigi has never seen his show, but she does enjoy his literature; every night she sings herself to sleep by reading Barney's book of nursery rhymes. And, this week, when I interviewed her as "Star of the Week" for pre-K, she told me that her favorite book is the I Love You book. There was a smile on my face.

Happy.

It also makes me happy that Gigi's favorite foods are Honey Nuts, Cheetos, and Fruit Loops. Second child syndrome. Her brother's favorites at that age were sloppy joe sandwiches and guacamole. Happy. Not necessarily proud.

What else makes me happy?

These two:

She loves her big brother. And sugar cereals. 

He's going through a serious phase peppered with childish curiosity: "Mom, how are you feeling today? Are you feeling okay? Do seals eat people?" Yes, this was all asked in sequence. In the car. On a Monday morning. For the record, he also would like to know if cats have kittens like moms have babies, and if so, well, then how do the babies get out of the cats tummy? Or better yet, how do babies get out of a mommy's tummy? If anyone has a six-year old appropriate answer, I'm all ears (glowing red with embarrassment). 

The first soccer game of the year makes me happy too:

Cutest cheerleader on the field. I'm going to make them re-take this picture when she's 14, and he's 17. 

This makes me pretty happy too. Dad's an awfully good coach. 

Those faces! A game well played. 

Some days, she looks so much like her daddy.

Fancy footwork makes me happy too. 

Not this happy. You know what makes me this happy? Running--when it's 60 degrees outside. 

Hello fall!

Every season, we ask him, "But did you have fun?"  The picture is a bit blurry, but I think the answer is still resoundingly "Yes!"

Little boy jokes make me happy too. "Hey mom," he told me today, "Did you know Bartlesville is a funny word? It sounds like you're burping!"

Of course, little girl dreams make me happy too: "I wish we had a fountain in our house. A princess fountain. A princess water fountain that we could drink from." 

Lately, I've devoted more time to volunteer service than to my computer. I'm behind on my shows, my blog, my books, and my house keeping. But, I've met (and I hope I've helped) people with problems far bigger than the ring around my bathtub. I have the opportunity of a lifetime to teach at a law school that not only places high value on service but that is also my alma mater. I learned to do a headstand this week in yoga class, and I can still run 5 miles at the drop of a hat. I picked up my violin for the first time in months and managed to eek out enough of a tune for Gigi to "Let It Go." 

It's almost November, and soon enough, I'm sure I'll join the minions in giving daily thanks for everything from fluffy towels to the great state I live in, earthquakes, tornadoes, monsoons and all. No doubt before then, I'll feel the pressure of a great thought just waiting to be expanded and expounded onto paper. 

But, for tonight, my thoughts are simple and happy. And, for now, that's who I prefer to be. 

The Other Half (Marathon)

About a year ago, I decided to do something about my fitness. My back hurt. I was tired. I was sad and grumpy, out of sorts, and kind of lumpy (thanks to Ann Dewdney and Grumpy Gloria for aptly describing not only a sad, fat bulldog, but also me).  Swimming is bad on my naturally golden locks, and my bestie had taken up running. I decided to give it a whirl.

I started out at a 14-minute mile. Yes, I was running. Yes, it really took me that long. Yes, I was proud I could run a mile. Then I ran 2, 3, and even 4. My times came down. I ran a 5K and a 10K.
I started to get ideas. Crazy ideas. I signed up for a half marathon.

My goals shifted. I aimed for a sub-11 mile, then under 10. Last month, I paced below a  9-minute mile for a whole 10K.I set a few more goals. My race plans were set. I was going to run a half marathon in less than 2 hours. I had the legs. I had the ambition. I had the shoes, the leggings, the sweatband, blister-proof socks, anti-chafe balm, and headphones. I trained. I cross-trained.

As race day approached, I hydrated. I ate protein and carbs. I could see the finish line, and I visualized the clock time and again (just like my old swimming days had taught me.) I envisioned the healthy breakfast I would eat on race day: a bit of cereal, perhaps some fruit, a relaxing cup of tea. I planned my outfit (key, as any girl can tell you): an adorable white running skirt, blue hat, blue shirt.

This morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m., took a shot of Imodium and assessed the damage. The stomach flu had knocked me down. I missed RJ's 6th birthday party and most of the 24-hours leading up to race day.

This morning, I ran my other half-marathon. The one I hadn't planned. I donned my old black leggings ('cause you know, Imodium) and scraped my hair into a ponytail. My pre-race diet? A cup of chicken broth and all the Powerade I could take down in 2 hours before crashing at 8:30 the night before the race.

By the 6:30 a.m. start time, we were walking away from the starting line and into a downtown office building, where we watched the radar for an hour of race delays. Rumors abounded. Cancellation seemed imminent (and I was secretly really happy).

At 8:15 a.m., the starting gun sounded, and we shuffled into the mass of discarded trash-bag ponchos. By mile 4, somewhere around the state capitol, I started to believe I could make it to the  halfway point. By mile 7, I had completely drained my handheld Powerade stash and was desperately seeking the next water stop. There wasn't enough water in Lake Hefner to adequately hydrate me.

Somewhere around mile 8, I started high-fiving toddlers and old men on the sidelines. At mile 11 I started counting down the distance instead of up.

And suddenly, 2 hours and 8 minutes later, I ran across the finish line.  I didn't break 2 hours, but I came close. Eight minutes isn't all that long in the grand scheme of things. Today, those 8 minutes were insurmountable. I'm okay with that.

It wasn't the half marathon I had envisioned. That will be some other race, some other day.

For now, I'm pretty proud of my other half-marathon--the one I finished!  (And I'm awfully proud of my racing buddies too):

After a 2-hour delay, we were ready to go!

We did it!

A Mom for Every Chapter

I've seen the cartoon showing the different stages we supposedly go through with our moms--the toddler's constant clinginess; the teenage rebellion; recognition somewhere in our 20's that mom is smarter than we thought; realization that mom won't always be there; and wishing there was a telephone line to heaven. It's spot on from the child's perspective, at least in most cases. I didn't rebel in the traditional sense, though asking to wear an Easter suit at age 8 instead of ruffles was a risky move. But I'm positive that I was able to turn the word "mom" into a four syllable protest when I was about 13.

Now that I'm a mom, however, I can recognize the phases of motherhood a bit more clearly. It's not so much that I appreciate my mom more now (I do), it's the recognition that moms are these incredible beings who morph seamlessly to become exactly what their children need at exactly the right time. For some, the moms for the different chapters of life are different people. Some lose their moms far too early, whether by death or more complicated emotional losses. My hope for them is they find their "moms" for every season of life--whether in one person or several.

I'm lucky. My mom is one person. Some of you know her, and you know she's Superwoman. But as her daughter, I'm only now able to appreciate that she was exactly who I needed her to be in every chapter of my life.

Obviously, I don't remember my diaper days. (My children might remember their diaper days--potty training has been a slow transition, sigh.) But now I know that a baby needs his mommy to be the center of his universe, his moon, his stars, and everything in between. Mommy is the snuggler, the rocker, the only one who knows exactly where to tickle behind his ears to induce a much needed nap. For those fleeting baby days, mommy is everything, compressed into one sleep deprived, unshowered, entirely exhausted being.

For toddlers, mommy is the best friend, the purveyor of all things fun and interesting, the alphabet teacher, the potty trainer, and the timeout setter. Only mommy knows the just right ratio of chocolate to milk, and only mommy can sing "Twinkle Star's" three (three!) verses.

Somehow, after toddlerhood, mommies know tiny nuances that help preschoolers bridge the gap between babyhood and childhood. Mommies know to ask how the school day was. They know how to talk to other preschool friends. Mommies stay up late nights learning the names of 137 little British engines, to keep the conversation flowing.

Somewhere around kindergarten, my mom became more than the snuggler and meal provider. She was the coolest mom ever. In second grade, she dressed as a witch for our Halloween party and made punch--in a bowl!  She was the Bluebird leader who helped us win the citywide Campfire art fair with a landscape made from drier lint (purple sweatpants make some beautiful lint.). She made me a rainbow striped dress for school and let me wear a sequined Thriller t-shirt for the first day of first grade (at a little Lutheran school--how times have changed!).  She made me learn my multiplication tables even though both of us would much rather be reading about Ramona Quimby (though I now suspect she might have preferred other literature on occasion). On top of all of that? She was (and is) gorgeous--long blonde hair, green eyes, a smile for miles, and the best perfume--not just for special occasions. She was my pack horse toting lawn chairs, coolers, overnight bags, and thousands of towels all over the state for swim meets. She made nice with the other swim team moms and organized more than her fair share of potluck dinners.

She was exactly what I needed. And it wasn't glamorous.

Then puberty hit. Early. And ugly. My skin was bad; my teeth were worse. I was bigger than all of the boys in my 6th grade class. I had a bosom--and I was 11. Mom knew. She bought me a pair of designer jeans because all of the other girls had them. She curled my bangs and sprayed 'em high. She packed a red patent purse with feminine products. She talked to me about boys and girls. She made sure I knew that girls were mean to me because they were jealous of my new figure (they weren't); because I was too pretty (I wasn't); and because I was too smart (smart mouthed, more likely). She was my confidant and friend. She listened to my preteen drama; watched the preteen movies; and didn't tell anyone that I was playing with baby dolls at the same time I was wearing my first bra.

It was a rough couple of years. And mom was exactly what I needed.

Then came 7th grade. It was hideous. Horrible. Life altering, and not in a good way. I had to leave my little Lutheran school for the free-for-all that was junior high. There is nothing meaner than a 13 year old girl, and I was facing a whole school of new ones. My bestie went to the other junior high. So did every other person I'd grown up with. Mom became my one defender. My spokesman. My white knight in an olive green circle skirt. She fought the system and got me transferred.

She was exactly what I needed.

I never hated my mom or claimed to hate my mom like a lot of teenage girls. She respected my privacy, my sense of style, and my opinions. She knew my limits and pushed the good ones. She made me practice my violin.  She embraced my teenage rebellion. I had the coolest skirts made out of neckties, and once, she drove me clear to Wichita just to try on a black knit catsuit that we both immediately decided was a very bad idea. But she let me try it on. My junior prom dress was a designer replica that was better than the real thing--in part because the seam allowances with just enough for last minute alterations when we realized that my swimmer's thighs were a wee bit, ahem, stronger than we'd realized. She encouraged me to meet boys but didn't judge when I much preferred to hang out with my besties. I made up curfews and rules like "I can only go on a date on Saturday night, not Friday." She played along. My friends thought she was horribly strict, but really, the rules weren't hers. I just much preferred to sit in her bedroom floor on a Friday night while she painted my nails. Saturdays were ours. We visited her bestie, and I listened to them gossip only as true friends can. We split lunch at a local grill. We cruised in her convertible--which she let me drive, because, as I may have mentioned, she is the best mom ever. 

She was exactly what I needed.

In college, she made sure my dorm room was a place I could call home (though I called home every single night). She (and dad--more on him later, 'cause he's deserving of his own post) came to every concert and every show--even the operas. She did my laundry; and we folded it sitting on her bed visiting about nothing and everything. She cooked every Sunday and sent me back loaded for the week because the cafeteria was scary.

She was exactly what I needed.

Mom was my wedding planner supreme. She handled a million details and made sure that I had the princess day every girl dreams of all while I studied for the bar exam.

She was exactly what I needed.

And now? My mom is my best friend. Obviously. She's incredible. But now? She's still exactly what I need. She loves my babies. She visits and does my laundry so that I can be the snuggler and spend hours learning the names of the little British engines. She knows when I've reached the end of my mommy rope and takes the little darlings out of my sight for an hour or so. She babysits. When the kids are barfing. And so am I. Did you know that she drove 100 miles just to bring me Gigi's homemade (of course) Halloween costume, only to turn around two hours later so that she could get back home for another trip? At the minimum, I owe this woman an oil change. But seriously, how do you ever say thank you to a mom? Moms are amazing. They not only wear a hundred hats, they know which hat to wear during which year at what event.

I only hope that I manage my closet full of mommy hats as well as my mom has--because she's still managing to be exactly what I need.

Recreating Perfect Moments--a/k/a Second Child Syndrome, Second Verse

"I a boy!"

"No, Gigi, you're a girl. You're mommy's big girl!"

"I not a big girl, I a person!"

"Yes, you are a person indeed."

"Nawwww Momma! I a person! Not a deed!"

Gigi is her own person. I know this. She knows this. But sometimes, I have an irresistible urge to recreate a moment that I had with her brother.  There was this one beautiful fall morning about two years ago. Gigi was so small that I was wearing her in a front pack. RJ was barely tolerating me, let alone his sister. One morning, in an effort to calm his tantrums and keep my sanity, we headed to the park. I happened to have a yellow bucket. The light happened to be just right. And, I happened to have my little camera in my backpack. It was magical:

A couple of days ago, in an effort to quell her tantrums and with high hopes for keeping my sanity, I tried to recreate that same magical morning.

She's her own person.

The morning wasn't quite so magical. And it created more tantrums than it quelled. I suspect, however, that someday I'll look back with a smile.

The light wasn't quite as perfect as it was two years ago, but the model certainly was.

She's a person, with opinions on her shoes, her outfits, her car seat, and her lunch (is it wrong to pay a child in Oreo's in order to get her to eat a chicken nugget?).

Secretly, she may be a little angry that her pumpkin patch photo doesn't quite have the same zip as her brother's:

She was not impressed. Second child syndrome. I hope she's not damaged permanently. 

So far, she seems to be doing just fine. 

And, we did find a little magic of our own that morning. 

Bright Shiny Childhood Memories

There are few childhood memories that adulthood hasn't dulled in one way or another. But, I'm fortunate to have a few bright and shiny memories to share with my children. Wentz Pool is one of those:

(I'm the one on the right; it was always so much more fun with good friends). I was a total babe. 

I grew up--graduated to sunglasses over goggles. But Wentz is still the same castle like fantasy. It's like swimming at a country club fit for Gatsby. 

GiGi was pretty excited at her first look over the pool. For RJ, this was old hat: 

And I do mean old hat (he wore it for three seasons.).

Been there, done that. (Nothing changes. That's what makes this place so fabulous.)

See the castle? It's still there. Actually, there are lots of them. 

She pulls off total babe better than I did. 

Although, I did fill out a bikini pretty well around her age (again, on the right).  

She's thinking about something. I just wish I knew what it was. 

My strong man. 

It was just kind of an ordinary Saturday in an ordinary town. But, for once, my memories of a not-so ordinary place weren't jaded by they eyes of adulthood. Wentz is still my Gatsby castle fantasy (I even had my senior pictures taken there, but those way pre-date digital photography and copyrights and all that).  I count myself lucky to be able to share my castle fantasy with my babies. (P.S. It's only $2 for adults and $1 for kids--pretty much worth the drive no matter how you do the math, and they have a concession stand that sells snow cones!). 

For Love of Pets

It's 3 a.m., and GiGi is crying. I stagger out of bed and squish...cat barf.  They upchuck on the carpet. They spectacularly miss the litter box. And once, in a feat of unmatched intestinal fortitude, one of them hurled over the banister from the landing to the floor below.

So, why do I keep these furballs around? Why does anyone? Pets are messy. They stink. Some of them toot too much.  My mom has a cat who's not right and who requires antidepressants to quell his habit of methodically stripping the fur from his arms and belly.

He's not right. We call this "Sleeping with the Enemy." Because he's crazy. As in, he'll rip your eyes out if you blink too loudly.  But we love him anyway. 

We love  all of them. 

These are my current purveyors of hair balls. 

They're pretty naughty, and they barf a lot. But darned if they don't keep my toes warm at night and my smile a little warmer during the day. 

And they're pretty to look at too. 

Sometimes, I hear people call their pets their "fur babies." But really, we all know that pets aren't our children. They're better in some ways. They don't backtalk. They don't cause stretch marks, and they don't require midnight feedings (most of the time--the not right one did, but again, he's not right).  They expect nothing but love. Their preschool teachers won't expect hand-sculpted cheese pumpkins for Halloween parties, and tuition for obedience school just doesn't quite compare to private school tuition.

They love us unconditionally--even when we're ugly, even when we're hateful, even when we've said things we shouldn't.  They don't care about our salary or whether our houses are big or small.  There's a homeless man that I see downtown nearly every day with his Jack Russell. That tiny terrier thinks that his owner is just as fine and fancy as any Wall Street banker. They listen without judgment. They let us use their fur as tissue to dry our tears, and they're the first ones we tell every secret. My Katty was the first one to know I was going to have a baby, and she dried my tears when I thought I had failed the bar exam.

They make the best pillows.

They are our confidants. Our comfort in the storms (though sometimes we're their comfort in these crazy Oklahoma storms).  They get our jokes like no one else--even the really bad ones. They bring out the silly in us. They are our best friends.

She was old and fat, and she preferred Hubsie's laundry to her litter box any day. 

And, she didn't like him much. But she still brought out the silly. 

Her brother was far more dignified and much nicer. 

Sir Windsor was the perfect knight.  

And, he knew how to waste away in Margaritaville. 

So, we clean our carpets. We lint roll our winter coats. We let them beg from our plates, and we share our bacon sandwiches.

And, we mourn them when they pass. They're not our children. They're our true friends. And, we miss them. That's the thing with pets. They're our best friends. Our true confidants. Our bringers of smiles. In the best of times, we can pretend that they'll never leave us. But we know that they will. And, when they go, they leave us with memories of slobbers, snarfles, and snores.  Of nighttime snuggles, stinky breath, and squirrel chases.  

We miss this big lug. He was the best. The best of the best. 

But, darned if these memories don't make me smile just a little bit. 

Because, he was a friend. A true friend. I'm happier for having known him. He was stubborn. He smelled--particularly after a tangle with skunks. He walked me rather than the other way around.  And, even though I miss him (and I know a couple of others who do too), I think we know that we're better for having played his Boxer games, smelled his Boxer breath, bounced his Boxer bounce, and walked his Boxer walk.