Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Week 15 - rewrite of adult memoir

I have found that as children get older, performances get longer - whether they are plays or concerts - and yet the seating arrangements stay uncomfortably the same.   As I walked toward the gymnasium I was debating my choices.  I could head for the folding, unyielding, metal chairs in the front to allow for pictures without framing it with shoulders and heads of the people in front of me.  However the chairs were always packed closely together and didn't allow for much personal space.  I decided that I would change things up and sit on the bleacher seats instead - same butt-numbing results, but the advantage of a higher viewpoint which comes in handy for large groups such as this one and the ability to spread out a bit.  People tend to leave a bit of space between each other on bleacher seats, and it's easy to shift a bit to either side when not impersonating a can of sardines.  At least with these concerts there is no worry of being unable to hear, microphones and speakers flanked the back to amplify the piece enough that even the parents at the top could hear clearly. 

High school concerts are the big leagues of the public school concert world, and programs are handed out at the entrance.  I took two, one for reading through and using as reference during the performance (and then as a fan once the air became sifling) and the other to tuck carefully away to take home and put in the scrapbook with the pictures I would take.  I had my digital camera, video camera, and tripod all stored in my handy camera bag, along with extra rechargable batteries and AC adaptors tucked in the side pockets.  Over my other should I carried my purse, hastily cleaned out at home and refilled with bottles of water and granola bars (mostly for my son after the concert), tissues and a foldable seat cushion for me (it was a large purse).  I saw a lot of familiar faces as I found a seat.  We were all like an extended family by now, seeing each other four or five times a year at these same functions.  I set up camp mid-way up the bleachers in the center section, just 5 rows down from the top where there were several wall outlets, just in case.  I waved at another mom heading up the steps with similar gear in tow.  She scooted past me and began setting up as well.  We chatted a bit while getting comfy, placing our jackets beside us to make sure no one encroached in our territory, and looked through the program commenting on the soloist selections and pieces that the children were performing.  The selection for that year was Jersey Boys, and I was pleased to see that there were several pieces that were familiar upbeat songs.

The audience hushed as the performers quickly and quietly entered and took their beginning places.  The boys all looked rather dashing in white dinner jackets and bow ties, and the girls in purple sequins with large tulle bows around their waist.  Scanning the layout of the group, I turned on the video camera and adjusted the zoom so that I would be able to see all of them and I wouldn't have to fiddle with the buttons except to zoom closer for the soloists.  The director stepped up and described the different pieces for the performance, introduced the soloists and walked towards the small band that would be playing the music.  As the band began, the singers all began the choreographed steps, smiles in place.  I spotted my son near the back with most of the other boys and snapped a few still photos of him, and them, as they stepped and moved to the music. 

I find that the show chior is aptly named, it is a complete show story with amazing vocals.  The opening song shifted to another as the ladies melted away and the gentlemen stepped forward.  My son took a step further toward the microphone and I zoomed in the camera as he began his solo piece.  I held my breath.  He had been practicing all week, humming under his breath and doing scales while in the shower, and it had paid off - he was fantastic.  I managed to get a picture or two of him before I had to dig for the tissues in my purse.  As his voice trailed off on the final note, the wave of applause built.  Technically the applause was supposed to be held until the end to keep from interrupting the following song, but since I didn't start it I didn't feel too guilty in clapping just as loud as I could.  Standing there in the spotlight, smiling as the applause (his applause) drowned out the continued music, his eyes met mine and I gave him two thumbs up.  I sat back comfortably on my cushion to enjoy the rest of the performance.  I thought of the amazing journey my son had brought me on, from school to school, group to group, concert to concert, and I was so thankful that he did.  All of it, every painful and butt-numbig minute, had been worth it for just this one night.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Week 13 - Review

I have always been a fan of book series.  Different styles, different genre - I just love a good story, and it's a great pleasure to finish a good book and know that there is another portion of the characters lives that I get to live along with them.  It's almost like calling up an old friend every month or so and catching up on things.  One of the first series that I became addicted to was the "Clan of the Cave Bear" series by Jean Auel.  In this series we follow our heroine Ayla from early childhood to eventual motherhood in the shadow of the last Ice Age.  When I had last re-read my final book in the series, I noticed in the author notes that she was working on another book for the series, I frantically went online searching for publication dates, in hopes that it was out and available at my nearest bookstore.  Sadly, that was not the case, I had to wait another six whole months for the next installment to arrive.  As the release date came closer, I pulled out all of the other books and dutifully read them all through in preparation, it would not do to read the new book without having the previous stories fresh in my mind.  Finally the day arrived and I plunked down my hard earned money on the counter, not even minding the extra I paid for hardcover when I usually went for the more comfortably priced paperback.  I waited for a quiet evening to crack open the cover and begin my new journey into "The Land of Painted Caves."

New mother Ayla was continuing her training of the Zelandonia and happily married to her love Jondalar, all was well.  The story drifted along, pausing here and there to remind readers, or to instruct those who had not read earlier books, of the history of the characters and land.  I noticed as I went along though, that there was a lot of that backtracking, a whole lot.  I understand the concept of not wanting to exclude readers that didn't have the history, but it became obvious that serious portions of this "new" book weren't new, but a recap of earlier ones. I plowed onward, optomistic that Ms. Auel would catch the new readers up to speed and the second half of the book would surge forward in time.

Ayla went to the grand summer meeting of people.  Her new introduction to everyone was over and this year she was able to look forward to familiar faces and catching up on news.  She was able to introduce her new daughter and juggled her duties as mother and wife with her new increasing demands of the Zelandonia, the spiritual leaders and healers of the people.  As the title foretells, as part of her training she is taken on a tour of the lands to see all of the sacred caves and their paintings.  There are lots of descriptons of stalagmites and stalagtites, dark echoing caverns, and cryptic lines and markings with the caves they visit.  All the while, Ayla is absorbing these with wonder and widom.  An chance meeting with a group of "outlaw" men from a nearby cave introduces the idea of retribution and justice in this early civilization, but Ayla and Jondalar return safely to their home in the Ninth cave as the summer closes.

Apparently winter in early civilizations is as boring as winter in modern times, because we skip forward to spring and Ayla's continued training.  Sadly the story detours to Ayla's history, as read in books one and two, and I get another chapters closer to the end of the book.  I must admit at this time I was waiting on the edge of my seat for some spark of new life to bring some conflict and excitement to the story.  While there was a captivating chapter or two when Ayla recieves her "calling" to the spiritual world, and the sacrifice she makes for that calling, the conflict never comes.  Unfortunately, although the author notes do not mention it, this seven hundred fifty seven pages is merely Ms. Auel's re-entry to authoring, and is apparently the groundwork for another book to follow.  I would recommend that avid Cave Bear fans reread the older books and wait for Painted Caves to come out in paperback to spare the $30 hardcover price, and wait for a couple of years for (hopefully) another book to come out that has that same spark and interest that the older ones had, yet this one sorely lacks.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Week 12 - Book Intro

As a gangly young teenager I was desperately looking for a way to reconnect with my stepfather.  He had been around since I was five and things were just like a "normal family" until I had gotten to about twelve.  Inexplicably, he and I never talked any more.  Our conversations became one sided where he interjected a monosyllable every once in a while before abruptly ending by telling me to go do "something."  I had no way of knowing, with my preteen experience, that it had almost nothing to do with me.  Looking back now, I understand the undercurrents of my parents' lives at that time and see more clearly that there was nothing that I could have said or done to make any significant change in my stepfather's grumpy disposition.  I never saw the drunken episodes or heard the arguments about his drinking between him and my mother, those were stories that I heard much later in life.  Long after the denial of being an alcoholic, the quitting cold turkey, the many falls off of the wagon, and finally the divorce in my early twenties - that was when my mother and I talked about those times.  But back then I was sure that it must be about me, and since it was I could, and must, fix it.

Since I was a young teenage girl, and my father a guy's kinda guy, there was little mutual ground for me to work with.  Still I gave it a shot.  That summer was interesting in many ways for me, since I learned a lot of new things from him even if it was with faked interest from the start.  That was the year that I learned to shoot a rifle, when I kept asking him about the one that we kept in the barn in case of raccoons or big rats.  He took me out and showed me how to shoot a few evenings a week for a month or so.  We shot some of the empty beer cans, ironically that he provided, off of the mound of dirt past the garden.  I learned how to change a bike tire tube, how to tell the difference between English and metric wrenches, and how to work a wood splitter.  All of these activities were rather short lived.  I assumed that I had not put in proper effort, and kept casting about for another avenue to reconnect.

He was never much of a reader, not for fun anyway, but I was.  I loved reading just about anything.  I actually had a secret goal of reading every non-fiction book in our little elementary school library before finishing eighth grade (I made it to the W's).  I had noticed on a little shelf in our living room that there were a couple of old, faded paperback books.  I had asked my mom and she had said that they weren't hers, so they must have been his.  I thought how perfect it would be if I read them and then I could talk to him about the books.   The covers were rather odd, an old Star Wars kinda look to them, and they were obviously old and well-read.  The title didn't give me any hint or clue as to what I was delving into, just a single word "Dune" with the smaller letters "Frank Herbert" underneath the silhouette of a man walking in a desert.  I knew my stepfathers liking for the science fiction stories - we watched Dr. Who on PBS and sat and watched Star Trek (the originals with Scotty and Kirk) every night - so I knew that this must be along the same lines.

Delving into the work of Arrakis, known as "Dune" to the natives was an amazing experience for me.  Not only was this a new and amazing adventure, but it was the first time that I found that grown-up books could be as interesting and attention-grabbing to me as the young adult versions.  It seemed easy to forget everything that I know and allow the author to paint a new universe, where monstrous animals lived, space travel was as common as cruise ships, and magic lived and breathed within societies.  The voyage of the teen prince to a new world was easy to follow, and lent itself nicely to my own tribulations.  While I was unable to use "Dune" as a vehicle to bridge the widening gap between myself and my stepfather, I was able to follow along with young Prince Leto through many stages of his life.  Through the reading several books in the series, I imagined my stepfather reading them at my own age, and I at least felt that while we were on different pages now, once we had both been in the same place, riding along on a highliner to a new unknown world.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Week 11 - Expertise

Seven days and counting to our family vacation, time to get to work.  The trip and reservations had been set and planned several months ahead, and left to sit quietly until now.  Our family, my husband, myself, and our four children are driving to Tennessee to visit with my mother for a week.
The lists begin, lists are as essential to me as breathing when planning a trip with our family.  Lists for the trip itself, we are driving fourteen hundred miles with two adults and four children in one vehicle.  Lists for the vacation itself, when we arrive in the mountains of Tennessee and our rented cabin.  And of course, the list for the trip home.  All of the lists are placed in the folder that will reside safely next to my co-pilot seat, along with the reservation confirmation paperwork, the registration and insurance information for the van, and an extensive list of phone numbers on the off chance a cell phone is lost along the way.

Packing begins.  Confidently, with extensive list in hand, I begin by tackling each of the kids dressers one at a time.  Carefully selecting only the choicest articles of clothing, ones that are comfortable for wearing in the car, are presentable enough to wear if we go to a nice restaurant for dinner, and will be warm enough/cool enough depending on the weather.  All goes into the quickly filling laundry basket.  Once the preliminary selections are finished, I pull out the kids backpacks and empty them of the residual school papers and broken pencils.  Checking off each item on the list as I pack, each backpack fills with the required number of socks, shorts, tshirts, and underwear.  Allowing each of the kids to have their clothes packed in their own backpack allows for easy packing and unpacking, but also allows easy access while we are traveling.  One bag for all of the extra shoes and sandals to keep any dirt, mud, or residual shoe smell safely away from the clothes.  The final backpack for all of the bathroom items that we are bringing, shampoo, contact lens solution, toothpaste, deodorant, etc - all safe in one place should anything leak.  The last to be packed, the only suitcase, would hold hubby's and my own clothes.  It also held the precautionary mattress cover for my son's occasional nighttime accidents, extra socks (which seem to disappear away from home much faster than they do at home), and any other incidentals that didn't fit in any of the other backpack's categories. 

With all of the items on my list checked and accounted for, I pulled out my tried and true LL Bean bag.  It's one of the bigger ones, but it was the perfect size to fit between the front seats under the slide-out cup holders.  This is what my hubby calls the Doomsday Bag, because if we lose it, we are doomed.  These are the basic essentials required to go any length of time with my children  in any vehicle.  In this bag goes a handful or two of pencils, a couple sharpeners, individual book lights for each of them to read (eternally optimistic), extra rechargeable batteries and the charger, every charger cord for the various electronics we are taking, and individual mini packs of M&M's and mini candy bars (never underestimate the power of chocolate as persuasion).  Topping all of this off is a gallon zip lock bag of the various medications that my son takes, the few my husband will need if his gout attacks, cough drops, antacids (my oldest son nearly killed us all after a bad BBQ sandwich last year), Nyquil, melatonin, and 3 large bottles of Advil.  Carefully placing the red striped bag near the now-assembled pile of backpacks, There is one last item on my agenda.  I grab throw five throw pillows from the couch (I always knew they were good for something) and open the blanket chest for five of the fleece throws I made last year. 

I call for all of the troops and explain that nothing, Nothing, was to be added, taken out, or messed with in any way unless I okayed it.  They all look at me with acceptance, knowing from past experiences the frantic animal I become if someone alters my perfected form of over-organization.  I point to the empty laundry basket next to the pile and tell them that if there is something else that they want or have to take, it should go in there, and we would see if there was space when it came time to pack up.  I knew that it would be overflowing by the time we left, and most would find it's way into the space left in my suitcase.  I gaze at the pile periodically throughout the time left before we leave, mentally reviewing if we had enough socks, or if I had forgotten anything vitally important; picturing in my mind how it should be stacked and packed in the van so that there would still be enough room for all of the kids.  My job for vacation is the provisioning and packing, to make sure we get there with all bits and pieces intact, and then I am on vacation.  At least until it's time to pack up again to come home.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Week 10 - Enlisting the Reader

I talk about my children a lot.  Well probably even more than a lot according to some people.  It just can't be helped, I stay at home full time with my four kids, and they pretty much determine what I do with my time each day.  After the kids all go to school, it's generally a small window of time that I get to myself to go through the mail and enjoy an extra cup of coffee.  Last week, as I leafed through the mail, glancing through the lastest sales flyers and sweepstakes winner notifications, I saw a rather thick envelope from my son's school.  Grimacing, wondering what new batch of useless information it might contain, I ripped open the envelope.

It contained a sheaf of paperwork regarding my son's recent evaluations and school progress for the year so far.  Somewhere within also would be the recommendations regarding his program for next year.  Steeling myself I begin at the top, trying to read and decipher as I went down the page.  As my eyes glazed over and the grocery list began drifting to the front of my mind, I realized I was not absorbing any of the information in front of me.  If you have ever had the pleasure of reading such a report you know that about four sentences into it, the "educational-ese" begins.  The first few are "I examined/observed such and such child who resides with none/both/one of their biological parents with 1/3/72 siblings, ages 3, 7, 9, and 105..."  blah blah blah.  Things I know and anyone who knows my kids or family knows, do they really need to put it in the report to tell it to me though?  Since no one without a signed and sealed declaration, and perhaps blood sample, can get a copy of the report, really does it require an introduction?  Perhaps its just to assure me that the person is actually talking about my son, rather than the 300 other children they are responsible for documenting on.  I wonder if it's like a form letter, filling in the blanks with pertinent information.  Of course that just leads me to think maybe its more like the old Ad-Libs books, adjective here, adverb here, word that ends in "ing" here... and when they are stumped for a good word they pull out the thesaurus and grab the longest word they can find, sounding sufficiently impressive and knowledgable. 

Luckily, or not as the case may be, I am familiar with the layout of this particular fill in the blank report, and there are handy section titles that direct me to the last paragraph or two of the report, "Conclusions."  My observations prove to be correct yet again, since this section is made of single syllable words and a couple of mis-spellings, obviously quickly typed or dictated and not properly checked for accuracy or complete sentences (note my son's name is spelled incorrectly, sigh).  The total sumation of the "conclusions" is that my son is receiving all of his current services and supports and making progress with said services.  In addition the writer, a consulting psychologist for many of the local school districts, determines that the services should continue until the next evaluation.  Phew, what a relief, my son is getting his services (which I observe and discuss with his teacher almost daily), making progress (which I see on a daily basis and again hear from his teacher), and should continue with the same regimin for another year (which is a relief since schools rarely manage to leave working programs alone without meddling with them). 

I notice the page number at the bottom, #14.  Fourteen pages to sum up essentially, it ain't broke so we won't fix it.  I wonder if the school has to pay the consultant piecemeal, per page of results per child.  I also wonder if perhaps it might be better to eliminate needless meetings and reports and fund some of the sorely lacking areas of the school budget.  Maybe an opt out option?  Certainly it might fund the notebooks that my daughters third grade class held a bake sale to pay for?

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Week 9 - Speculative

Times when I am doing something particularly boring or mundane I usually allow my mind to wander and think back on my life.  Looking back it's like looking up a large tree, the wide solid trunk is the now of my life solid and whole, buried beneath the surface the collective knowledge and nourishment are supplied by tendrils of the past,  and the branching limbs above and ahead of me are the various avenues open awaiting to be chosen.  I picture my tree of life and wonder if it would be quite so solid and round if I had done this, or not done that? Would it have smoother bark, less gnarls and knots in the wood, or would it have failed to thrive and be pitifully thin, awaiting a windy Maine storm to snap it in half or pull the roots up all together?  My husband calls it my What-if game.  He sees the glaze in my eyes as I wash the dishes or fold the laundry and ask what I am deleting from my life.  He doesn't understand the draw is not to delete from my life, but to wander through the alternate lives I might have lived if I had made different or better -or worse- decisions.  Since I am a firm believer in the adage of "Older and Wiser"  I feel that the wisdom I have gained allows me to reflect and determine if I was wrong or right, foolish or wise, hasty or thoughtful.

A recurring theme in my idle musing is the changes that my life would reflect had I not re-met my husband several years after we had broken up from our high school romance.   Invariably this line of thought leads to the eventual conclusion that I was indeed extremely fortunate that fate peeked down and aligned our lives to reconnect. Being rather cynical or, as I like to say, realistic, I then peek ahead to ponder my future should fate decide to withdraw that blessing from my life.  What would I do if my hubby were to leave, or heaven forbid, to die? 

I am the mother of four wonderful children, certainly a handful but an amazing group even if I do say so.  I am also a full time student at the moment, in the hopes that one day I can get a real grown-up job that will supplement our single family income.  Of course I am also a full time student because my children are full time students.  My youngest son, the next-to-youngest total, is currently in the fifth grade but was diagnosed with special needs when he was 3 three years old.  There are no ready-made after school programs or daycare centers for kids who require the constant one-on-one supervision - thus the stay at home mom/student status I currently enjoy.  Enjoy.  I do actually enjoy being home for my children, regardless of the snarky comments about third grade math homework and the constant mom taxi duties.  And while it is fulfilling and I think important for parents, rather than daycares and babysitters, to raise their children, I also know that someday there will come a time when my children will not need me to be there when they get off the bus.  Being a stay-at-home mom is important to me but being a stay-at-home wife is not on my list of things I want to do.

If suddenly I were to become a single mother of four, I would seriously need to re-evaluate my lifestyle.  I would obviously have to begin working to support my family.  Who would I find that could care for my children and keep them safe and happy?  Would I be able to find a job that would allow me to spend as much time at home while my kids were home and awake.  With the current scarcity of decent paying jobs, it would more likely be not one but two jobs that would be needed.  If I were able to find two jobs to juggle together, I wouldn't even know where to begin looking for childcare for my kids.  I know that I would be playing the lotto every week to keep from paying 3/4 of that second check for said care. 

Would my older sons begin to drift away from the lack of a male role model?  My oldest will be off to college in a year or so, so he perhaps would avoid significant damage from the lack of father at home, but what about my second son?  I would be studying sporting updates hard and long (and mostly unsuccessfully, I'm sure) to fill the shoes of my hubby.  Long nights of off color jokes and wrestling matches would unfortunately be out.  Would he be able to talk to me like one of the guys as he struggles with girls, grades, and life in general through high school?  Seriously I doubt it.  I guess ultimately my kids would most likely have to accept that while our life had changed, I would still be the same ol' mom that I was before.  Certainly I would be trying harder, stressing more, and doing everything possible to make up the difference, but we would still be missing a vital piece of our lives. 

As I have told my children so many times, certainly there are times when people change their lives, but more often than not, the things in your life change you.  It's those darn roots that feed the trunk of the "life tree".   While you think you can pick and choose which branch you will travel into the future, it's the roots that can determine the width and breadth of those branches, and whether they will carry you further onward, or snap suddenly under your feet leaving you to begin again with the present.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Week 8 - A Good Friend

As I sit working on the computer, my cell phone trills a familiar little be-bop tune beside me.  Looking down I see that my mother is calling again, it's no surprise.  Let me explain, I love my mother.  She is and has been my very best friend since the day that I moved out of the house at eighteen, before that she was just my mother and it was hard to be friends with the local law enforcement, so to speak.  Usually I talk with my mom a few times a week, calls when she is driving to or from work at a private college in Tennessee.  We laugh and joke about how she has to drive slower so that her people (cell phone coverage) can catch up with her as she goes around the bend near the T&J store a few miles away from her house.  Usually we talk about what she is doing today with her nursing students, how warm it is down there, or which of my kids are sick, grounded, or performing in various plays or concerts. 

Lately however we have had a new topic of discussion, and subsequently the increase in calls.  My mother had gotten a phone call from a nursing recruiter, telling her of a position particularly suited to her skills that had come available.  While that might be exciting in its own right, the catch comes in that the job is in Portland, Maine - some 22 hours driving time from her current location.  When she initially called me she told me to sit down because she had some news.  Idiotically I immediately ask if she is pregnant, after all news of such importance as to warrent sitting down before hearing it can only be impending marriage or pregnancy, and I figured I would go for the bigger shock of the two just in case.  She laughed and I relaxed a bit, and she told me about the job opening.  Ultimately the position is wrought with circumstances and considerations that can make your head spin if you think about it for too long - having to move, selling the house, buying a new house, taking a management position again - but also being closer to family and grandchildren, moving back to Maine that has seasons and snow, returning to the coast where her sweetie Tom has worked his whole life, being able to attend grandchildren's concerts and plays, gathering for holiday dinners and celebrations.  For every pro there is a con, and then for every con there is a pro, round and round it goes. 

While my mother is my best friend, I flatter myself thinking that I perhaps am her best friend also, and in times of trouble, strife, or heavy decision making, you call your best friend for advice - thus the phone calls.  But this also puts me in a particularly delicate position.  I love my mother and I want her to move back to Maine even more than I want a Sonic to suddenly appear across the street from my house.  As a daughter I want to do the happy dance around the living room and sing "Nana's moving to Ma-ine", but as a friend I don't know thats what I should say.  If it were me, I would want my friend to give me their objective opinion on what they think would be the best thing for me to do, but it's much harder to be a good friend to your mother who is your best friend.  I want to be selfish, I want talk about the Christmas dinners we could have and the weekend trips for shopping, but I don't know if that is the best thing for her to do.  I remember many times when I have spoken about the kids or going out to lunch with the girls when she would go silent and I could feel the silent tears gathering in the corner of her eye from so far away.  It makes my heart break to think that I have upset her, and try to gloss over the uncomfortable moments with depreciating comments about rotten children or potential food poisoning.

Rembering this, during that first call I was able to keep a detached calm and ask about the pay, moving expenses, and talk about how hard it would be to sell her house in Tennessee in the current housing market.  I didn't do the happy dance and sing.  I asked about her contract at the college and the student loan forgiveness she receives for teaching there.  I wasn't planning those shopping trips and weekend visits.  I was gentle and subtle, even and considering of the pros and cons of the situation.  When we hung up, I just sat staring blankly at the television.  Hubby came into the living room and saw my face, he asked me what was wrong.  I was confused, nothing was wrong, right?  I was happy that my mom might be potentially moving back to Maine, wasn't I?  I was suddenly struck with the problem, talking to my mom I had been the perfect friend, but a terrible daughter.  What if she was calling me to see my reaction?  If I wasn't all that excited about it, then perhaps she wouldn't put much consideration to taking the position.  Now tears were rolling down my face, as I realized my mistake.  I called her back.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Week 7 - Take #2

Middle school halls are typically crowded with milling students between classes, with one group or another wandering through the masses.  Each group is defined by, and defines its members by status and popularity.  One group, the popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded the young girls' attention.  Tommy Mason was part of that elite group.  He had the typical wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then).  He was the starting pitcher and co-captain for the baseball team.  As with most young men his age, he created an air of superiority when among the girls his age, and all but ignored them until he was sure she liked him first - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.

The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes near Christmas0time, drew significant attention in school.  All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off.  The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school.  It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so.  Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.

Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades.  The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten.  He said his bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell.  You couldn't see the white of his cast for all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates.  A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses.  As the anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April, Tommy Mason could be found hanging out with other veteran players talking about tryouts and new prospects. 

One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day.  Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main Street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town.  Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend. 

The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide.  The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself.  He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities.  The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy.
August 31, 1987 - In one small Maine town, the school year began with 63 eighth grade students, but ended with only 62. 

Eight children out of a million commited suicide in the late 1980's.  It was, and still is, the third highest cause of death for children under 18 years old.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Week 7 - Profile

**I was unable to contact the subject of this profile for permission to use their names, so have changed the names for privacy's sake**

The halls of the middle school were crowded with milling students between classes, but parted to either side as the group of boys sauntered through.  The popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded attention.  Tommy Mason was part of that elite group.  Wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then) were all the qualities that he needed to fit in. He was the pitcher for the baseball team, so was able to clown around with the other jocks after school in the locker room.  As with most young men his age, he ignored the girls until he was good and ready - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.

The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes, drew significant attention in school.  All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off.  The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school.  It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so.  Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.

Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades.  The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten.  His bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell.  You couldn't see the white of his cast with all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates.  A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses.

The anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April.  Tommy could be found hanging out with the other pervious players talking about tryouts and the new prospects.  One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day.  Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town.

Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend.  The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide.  The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself.  He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities.

The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy.  A nice town like this would never expect such a terrible thing to happen, but it did.  Popular and likable boys like Tommy would never feel so hopeless as to take his own life, but he did.  Sadness such as this should never live in the hearts of children, but it does, even today.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Theme 6 - Autobiographical Slice - Who I am

I was born in Kansas City, quite a distance from the little coastal town of Maine that I call my hometown.  My mother loves to tell the story of how she used to make all of her own maternity clothes, and would make little outfits for me at the same time.  My mother and father married after having met and dated in high school.  I have seen the pictures of them all dressed up for the prom, with the long pastel gown and the frilly tuxedo shirt.  There are also photos of them feeding each other cake, surrounded by friends and family at their wedding so long ago.  My father had enlisted in the Marines after high school and ended up being shipped out to Vietnam shortly after.  My mother discovered she was pregnant with me just about the same time.  She was 19 years old, a newly married military wife, and a soon-to-be mother.  I always remember the story she told about how I was born at shift change and how all of the nurses crowded around me in the nursery to take a peek before going home. 

I don't remember my mother and father splitting up, as I got older there was a lot of he-said, she-said.  It's all summed up in the fact that my father came home from Vietnam with a ready-made family that he didn't quite know how to deal with.  My mother moved in with my grandfather, her dad, while she went to LPN school.  I spent many afternoons toddling around the back yard while he weeded and pruned the strawberry bushes along the fence and his beloved peach tree in the center.  Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather's house, and of spending time with him.  As I grew older and went to preschool and later to kindergarten, it was always still within the general area where my grandfather seemed to be the center.

My mother remarried as I turned eight.  Her new husband worked in the same hospital but was originally from the northeast.  Suddenly my world was changing.  My mother was going to have a new baby, a little brother for me.  I had a new dad who talked funny and had a big moustache, and we were moving to New England where there was snow and an ocean.  I remember that when we moved to Bangor, Maine the kids all teased me because I talked funny.  It was so amazing when the snow was too deep for me to walk through it.  I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not moved from the Midwest.  Would I be using "y'all" and "purdy"?  Would I appreciate a lovely spring day the same way if it wasn't following a brutally cold and snowy winter?  I wonder if I would have met my husband if we hadn't lived in the same small town here in Maine, or if I would have had my four wonderful children? I wonder how my life would be different, and what would be the same.  It makes me wonder sometime, what little things in my life have made me who I am?

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Week 5 - adult memoir

I sat in the audience watching the children shuffle back and forth across the stage muttering and stammering their lines, reminding myself its the effort not the results that matter in the third grade play.  Surrounded by parents, I could hear them shifting around on the metal chairs, just as I was, optimistically trying to find a way to sit for the remainder of the performance without their entire behind falling asleep.  There was little chance of the parents themselves falling asleep since there were a couple "main" characters who must have heard "speak loud and clear" a few too many times.  One little boy in particular I will never forget.  His character was one of the many farm animals, the pig, but he had a remarkable amount of lines in the production. 

"OINK, OINK!!" 

Those were his only words (well what else does a pig say?), but he made four of five different entrances, and each time delivered in same exact way, yelling at the top of his lungs.  We, the collective (captive?) parent audience, chuckled each time, it was a nice marker to break up the monotony.  Halfway through, a tall red-headed boy stepped out from the wings.  He looked nervous and must have decided that if he didn't look at the audience he could pretend that they weren't there.  Clearing his throat carefully, he delivered his lines.  I don't remember what they were, but I remember that I was able to hear them over the shifting and shuffling.  Afterward, before he made his exit stage-right, he stole a glance out into the audience to where I was sitting. I gave him a big smile and a thumbs up.  After he exited, I allowed my mind to wander to what I was going to make for dinner and whether or not I remembered to start the laundry before I left the house, until it was time to clap and cheer as the cast came out for their final bows.

I have found that as children get older, performances get longer - whether they are plays or concerts - and yet the seating arrangements stay uncomfortably the same.  Sitting in yet another folding metal chair with a numb rear end, I decided that next time I would change things up and sit on the bleacher seats instead - same butt-numbing results, but the advantage of a higher viewpoint which comes in handy when attending a middle school band concert.  At least with concerts there is no worry of being unable to hear, microphones and speakers flanked the bank to amplify the piece enough that even the parents who stayed at home could hear it.  Sadly at this level there are few solos, and since technique is still rather questionable most songs are jauntily called "marches" while sounding more like a "funeral dirge."  They also sound remarkably the same. Having heard the trombone portion of these pieces many many times at home the week prior, there were few surprises aside from the accidental squeaks from one of the clarinets or saxophones. 

I shifted a bit more and glanced at the parent next to me.  She was sitting at an angle with her arms stretched out in front of her, holding a video camera not shifting a bit, to ensure a steady shot.  I wondered with a smile, seriously how often would that home movie be watched?  Honestly I was hoping that I would be able to get the tune out of my head in the near future, forget watching it over and over for fun (altough the idea of watching it while sitting on a couch was appealing).  It was also rather depressing when I rembered my son telling me the coolest part of playing his instrument was the little valve that he opened occasionally to blow the spit out of the long brass arm.  I guess I could be glad that he sat in the back row of the band at least.

High school concerts are the big leagues of the public school concert world.  Programs are handed out at the entrance.  I took two just in case, one for reading through and using as reference during the performance (and then as a fan once the air became sifling) and the other to tuck carefully away to take home and put in the scrapbook with the pictures I would take.  I had my digital camera, video camera, and tripod all stored in my handy camera bag, along with extra rechargable batteries and AC adaptors tucked in the side pockets.  Over my other should I carried my purse, hastily cleaned out at home and refilled with bottles of water, granola bars, tissues, and a foldable seat cushion (it was a large purse).  I saw a lot of familiar faces as I found a seat.  We were all like an extended family by now, seeing each other four or five times a year at these same functions.  I set up camp mid-way up the bleachers in the center section, just 5 rows down from the top where there were several wall outlets, just in case.  I waved at another mom heading up the steps with similar gear in tow.  She scooted past me and began setting up as well.  We chatted a bit while getting comfy, placing our jackets beside us to make sure no one encroached in our territory, and looked through the program commenting on the soloist selections and pieces that the children were performing.

The audience hushed as the performers quickly and quietly entered and took their beginning places.  Scanning the group, I turned on the video camera and adjusted the zoom so that I would be able to see all of them so that I wouldn't have to adjust it except to get closer for the solos.  The director stepped up and described the different pieces for this performance, introduced the soloists and walked towards the small band that would be palying the music.  As the band began, the singers all began the choreographed steps, smiles in place.  I spotted my son near the back with most of the other boys, all looking rather dashing in white dinner jackets and bow ties, and snapped a few still photos of him, and them, as they stepped and moved to the music. 

I find that the show chior is aptly named, it certainly is a complete show with amazing vocals.  The song shifted to another as the ladies melted away and the gentlemen stepped forward.  My son took a step further toward the microphone and I zoomed in the camera as he began his solo piece.  I held my breath.  He had been practicing all week, humming under his breath and doing scales while in the shower, and it had paid off - he was fantastic.  I managed to get a picture or two of him before I had to dig for the tissues in my purse.  What an amazing journey he had brought me on, from school to school, group to group, concert to concert, and I was so thankful that he did.  Standing there in the spotlight, smiling as the applause (his applause) began to swell, his eyes met mine and I gave him two thumbs up.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Week 4 - Childhood memoir

In my opinion, grocery shopping is just about the most unpleasant of the "household chores" that fall upon me as the full time, stay-at-home parent.  I never seem to time it right, so I am always squeezing through the jam-packed aisles, trying to navigate around unruly and wandering children, and avoid getting stuck behind the little scooter carts.  On top of all of the navigation issues, I have to remember what I need to buy, since I almost always forget my list on the counter at home, or in the car, or somewhere that I haven't remembered yet.  So as I am crawling down the aisles, I scan all the items on the shelf in an attempt to get everything that I need so I don't miss anything and have to make yet another trip. 

This week I clearly remembered my son yelling out from the kitchen about my lack of jelly options available.

"Moooommm!  We don't have any good jelly"

"We have three or four different kinds in there.  There's grape, blackberry, raspberry, and I think I have some of the blueberry stuff left.  What good jelly don't we have?"

"We don't have any strawberry! Geeze, how un-American can you be?  What's a PB&J without strawberry?"

It was true, we didn't have strawberry jelly.  I had this thing about strawberry jelly ever since I was a kid. 

One particular summer stands out in my memory.  I wasn't going to be babysitting everyday for Mrs. Adams this summer and I had been looking forward to long quiet days, with trips to the lake and camp out sleepovers with my girlfriends.  Just as school finished for the year, my mom and dad had bought this huge old cargo-type van.  It was brick red and I remember thinking how creepy it was since it was the kind of van you picture when you hear about kids being abducted, or creepy guys selling drugs.  It was almost completely stripped inside, no carpeting or vinyl covering the bare metal of the floors, walls, or roof.  It also had no seats in the back.  My parents, being rather clever I suppose, had bought a couple of school bus seats and bolted them to the floor off to one side, so that there were seats for us four kids to sit in, instead of sliding around on the floor.  Mostly I refused to ride in it at all, as a pre-teen there was no way that I wanted anyone to see me in it, although there were no windows in the back so that wasn't much of an issue, but it was the principle.

Mom was really excited this particular summer because we would be able to take the van when we went strawberry picking.  Instead of squeezing quarts of loose berries in the trunk of the car, we would be able to neatly lay out the quarts on the floor in the back of the van.  We all packed in the van and rumbled down the road towards the strawberry farm.  When we got there, we found a "good spot" according to my dad, although any spot looks "good" when you are in the middle of acres of strawberries, and I was sent to buy the quart boxes.  Usually we got ten or so.  I would watch the man carefully count out ten from the huge sleeve of odd green colored cardboard boxes, and pay him with the two quarters my parents gave me.  This time, dad pulled out his wallet and gave me a five dollar bill.

"Go ahead and buy a whole sleeve this time.  Mom wants to get a whole bunch of berries since we have the room to bring them home in the van."

"But that's a hundred quarts!  That will take forever!  And what in the world are we gonna do with that many strawberries?"

He just smiled and waved my objections away, turning to help my mom smear the little kids with sunscreen.  Handing the man the five, I noticed his smirk as he pulled one of the towers of boxes out of it's plastic wrapping.  He must have noticed the disgusted look on my face as I took the boxes.  I tromped away, up the mile long aisle of plants with the stack of boxes leaning on my shoulder.  Arriving back at our "base camp," I was waiting for Mom to see the huge stack and tell me that was way too many, but she didn't.  She just smiled and told me to set them next to the side door of the van.  My bothers and sister scampered up to get boxes to fill, although I knew that they would spend most of their time eating and throwing the berries at each other, leaving the actual filling of the boxes to Mom, Dad, and me.

We were there for hours.  I kept the van in sight, glancing now and then to see how many boxes were left to fill.  The stack of empty boxes was slowly shrinking, but even after all that time, it was still tall enough that it was leaning against the door of the van.  I heard Dad eventually call out for us to come back to the van.  Thinking that he was finally giving in and admitting that we weren't going to fill all of those boxes, I quickly filled my last quart, thankfully, and headed to the van.

As I rounded the front of the van, I expected to see Mom and Dad packing up, counting the quarts, and washing berry-stained faces.  Instead I saw Dad laying out a small blanket between rows and Mom handing out sandwiches from a large paper bag.  We weren't done, we were taking a lunch break.  Taking my sandwich and sitting on the bumper of the van I thought it was kinda funny that I was eating a PB&J with strawberry jelly in a strawberry field.  Chuckling I mentioned it to Mom, and she smiled along with me. 

"That's why we're getting so many berries.  I'm going to make jelly."

The smile slipped off my face.  I remembered the jelly making a couple of years before.  We had made eight or nine big mason jars full last time, but it was a long, tedious, nasty, hot, steam-filled memory of strawberries in my kitchen.  Looking in the van I could see that we already had three or four times as many berries as we had when we made jelly last time, and my stomach clenched.  Since it was summer vacation, and since I wasn't babysitting for Mrs. Adams this year, I was going to be home everyday with little chance of missing the great jelly-making.

I spent the rest of the day trying to think of suggestions of what to do with strawberries that wouldn't turn our house into a sauna.  Picking and picking and picking more berries, filling the stupid green boxes, hating the berries more and more and more.  Near dinner time we finally stopped.  The pile of empty green boxes was gone, and so was the floor of our van.  Two little spaces were left next to the bolted-down seats, so us kids wouldn't step on the stupid berries on the ride home, but the rest of the floor was covered in mounds of red berries.  You couldn't even see the green of the boxes anymore, since Dad always took a quart or two and poured them over the other boxes, just to make sure they were as full as possible, since we paid by the number of quarts.  I remember thinking, as the van rumbled off down the road, leaving the fields behind, that Dad could have just as easily spent the money he paid for all those berries on jelly at the grocery store - eliminating the need to make jelly and all of the steamy work that went with it.

We did end up making jelly that week, tons and tons of it.  I spent two whole days escaping the kitchen by hulling and slicing strawberries on the front steps of the house five quarts at a time.  Finally, surprisingly, depressingly, there weren't anymore to be hulled or sliced, and I was pulled into the kitchen work.  I don't remember a lot about working in the kitchen with Mom to make the jelly, maybe my mind blocked it out because it was just too awful.  I know that I spent a lot of time putting my hands into the kitchen sink filled with ice water after spilling hot water or even hotter, liquid molten strawberry on them. 

I have hated cooked strawberries in any form ever since.  Obviously after our jelly-making, we had dozens and dozens of jars of strawberry jelly.  We gave some to family or friends, but mostly we ate it - all summer, through the fall and winter, and again all the next summer, and on, and on, and on.  I wouldn't be surprised if my parents still had some of it in the back corners of the pantry in our old house.  We also were able to strike jelly off of every grocery list, 'well, we don't need jelly' they would say, chuckling like it was funny.  For the next five years, until I moved out of the house after high school, I had nothing but strawberry jelly for my morning toast or PB&J unless I was at a restaurant or friends house.  I didn't own strawberry jelly for years afterward, only buying some when my son wanted it for lunches after preschool.  Even today, I would rather eat toast plain rather than put previously molten, strawberry jelly on it.  I will never look at a strawberry the same way.

So in the store, standing before the plethora of jelly options, I looked for the tell-tale red label of strawberry.  Grimacing at the various brands and sizes, I grabbed the smallest jar of no-name brand of strawberry and continued on down the lane.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Week 3 - Tone, Travel

Every year my husband and I plan a family vacation.  Since we would rather not sell one of kids to pay for airfare, we usually drive to wherever we want to go. 

As a child my family would go on vacations like this, everyone piling in the pickup camper and tooling down the road for a day or two, headed for Disney World for spring vacation.  This is where I learned that driving through the night with small children is an AWESOME idea.  Sleeping children are happy travelers, as my father used to say.  My younger brothers and sister became bored quickly with the confines of the moving camper, familiar from previous years' vacations and travels.  They passed out early on convenient little fold out beds, strategically placed throughout the camper, and I would revel in the quiet little world I was in.  With my mother and father in the cab of the truck, I was left in back to keep an eye on the kids and get some sleep so that I could help navigate when one of my parents needed to take a break from the front.  As a teenager I spent less time sleeping than I should have and instead occupied myself by reading a new book, working on word puzzles, or occasionally foraging in the small camper fridge to look for the snacks my parents hid from the little kids.  Part of the fun and adventure of the vacation for me would be to see all of the cities, towns, tourist attractions, and billboards we passed on the way.  I would marvel at the different fast food chains we didn't have (Waffle House, really?), or the fireworks stands that were illegal at home (stupid, boring Maine). These were snapshots of daily life for these people living so far from my home.  I would spend hours lounging on the over-the-cab bed looking out the front window, feeling as though I was flying as I watched the lights and buildings zoom by in the dark.

Traveling with my children is a bit of a different experience.  We do not have a camper, or a pickup for that matter.  We have a standard, soccer-mom, 7 passenger minivan.  My husband and I plan out the route we to take, and since I have family living in a few different far-away states, we would will plan a trip to their house and look for interesting places and things along the way.  We do try to drive overnight, so that the kids sleep for a majority of the boring drive-time.  Rather than the comfortable fold out bunks, as it nears evening we stop for the last (hopefully) bathroom break of the night, and as everyone piles back in I have them take off their shoes and my oldest son passes out the small individual blankets and pillows stored behind the rear seat.  "Settling in" takes a while, complains ring out over the sound of the GPS directing back to the interstate.  Once everyone has leg room, whatever electronic item they need to amuse themselves (with headphones please), and no one is accidentally touching anyone else in any way, I try to work the kinks out of my back and neck from spending an hour supervising the controlled chaos.  Those are the times where I curse the laws against open containers of alcohol in a vehicle.  I spend less time gazing out the window, instead I pour over the maps (good, ol' fashioned paper ones I won't leave home without) and directions I printed out - programming all of the correct turns into our GPS that seems to have a diabolical sense of humor when we are traveling away from home - getting my hubby all set to drive safely without distractions like decisions about exits or interstate changes, so that I can get some of that sleep that I used to scoff at.

Driving across country, I admit, has lost some of it's mystique for me.  I know now that "South of the Border" is an insanely overpriced strip mall of crappy, not even locally made trinkets.  The neon billboards counting down the miles to the oddly, and somewhat creepy bow-legged cowboy monument, are annoying because they block out the small towns and the signs gas stations close to the interstate.  Waffle House can stay safely in the south where it belongs, since we narrowly missed disaster when my oldest son found a bulletin board tack in his pancakes, although they were nice enough to discount our meal 25% (insert sarcasm here).  Although they probably don't want us back anyway after Colby managed to throw up all the way to the bathroom, even though I did leave a 25% tip that time.  However, Sonic can build a franchise across the street of my house so that I have a lifetime supply of foot long chili dogs and cherry limeades.  The roller skates might be tricky in the winter, but maybe they could do ice skates instead?

Traveling with my kids has had its ups and downs.  It's cramped and everyone is sick of the van by the time we get there, but it's so amazing to close your eyes in one place and then open them and be in a totally new and different one.  I hope that they are able to remember these trips as adventures rather than torture.  Like when Branden was on the rope swing at the "crick" by Nana's house, or when Derek caught a snake in Grandma's yard and she screeched and yelled like she was on fire.  I want them to have these new and interesting memories of all of us together as a family - laughing and playing, learning and discovering - instead of just the sometimes monotonous lives we lead on a daily basis.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Week 2

Hello, my name is Bobbi and I am an addict.  Well, addict might be a bit too strong, but I have a serious thing for books, namely book series.  I have a couple series that I have read over and over, to the point that some of the paperback versions are missing covers, or have sadly creased bindings.  The problem with my reading is that it consumes me, to the exclusion of almost everything else.   I don't often read a singular book, thus my dependence on series - one book is not enough of the story for me.

So after Christmas, having no homework to do for a while, I grabbed my shiny new Borders gift card (thank you hubby) and decided replenish a few missing books from the first series that I read long, long ago.  I don't know where they went, but somehow they escaped in one of the many moves that I have made since leaving my parents house after high school.  My daughter went with me, and so we went to the children's area first.  She darted from row to row, looking for glimpses of Hannah Montana or the Jonas Brothers.  I steered her toward the childrens series section, thinking that we could get one and let her start on her own literary journey.   She resisted and settled in a small chair with something with teen Disney stars on the cover, but at least is was more words than pictures.  I pointed to the section across the way where I would be and told her that she should stay put or come to where I was.  I know, kidnappers and child molesters are around every corner, but I was within hearing distance of her and she has some serious screaming capabilities.

I wandered over to the stack and began doing the alphabet shuffle, down the row F, G, Gl..., back ot the next row, Go, Gw, Ha... ah He!  I found my author, and smiled at the familiar titles that greeted me.  I slid out the two titles that I was missing, excited that I would be able to read the whole series for the first time in quite a while.  But than I noticed that there were new titles, hmm.  I peeked around the end of the stack to see that my daughter was amazingly still reading her book, and went back.  New titles were along the same names of the ones that I was reading, so I wondered if they were new books in the series.  Flipping open one of the covers, I looked inside to the page where previous works are listed, where they have the handy-dandy listing of the Series and all of the books that fall in it.  Well most do, this one didn't so I have to resort to the back cover where there was a synopsis of the story.  I hate doing that, it spoils the story to know what happens, but I had no choice.  The same character names were involved, and I was excited to see that there were three, Three!, new titles.  I had gotten the first of the three so decided to add it to my two of the original series.  Mission complete.

Walking toward the children section, I saw my daughter, now sitting with a couple of other young girls, discussing which Jonas brother was cuter, her book lay forgotten on the table next to her.  As I collected her and put the book back, I asked if she wanted to get a book to read while we were there.  She declined, but asked if she could get a snack for the ride home.  I declined and we headed through the registers and back out to the parking lot.

Reaching home, we hurried inside to escape the gusting wind.  The boys half heartedly greeted us, absorbed in their own activities.  Hubby was in the kitchen.  He called out asking where we ended up going, and if we had fun.  I mentioned briefly that we went to Borders and he got a funny look on his face as he noticed the bulging bag I was carrying.  I mentioned the gift card, and the books I was missing, and by-the-way there were three new books in the series, but I only got one of them this time.  He smiled, saying he was glad we had fun, and asked what I wanted for dinner.  Unprepared for that question, I wondered what brought on this surge of domesticity.  The question must have shown on my face, because he smiled again and asked if I really was going to let those brand new books sit in that bag without starting one before dinner?  He knew me too well, one page of those books would turn into three chapters with dinner time long past.  I sighed, torn between the "I want to" and the "I need to." 

He shooed me out of the kitchen and started puttering around in the pantry, yelling out questions about ingredients needed for different dinner ideas.  I steered him in the direction of the taco shells and headed to my favorite chair, new books one hand and my coffee in the other.  It was going to be a long night of exploring new, but familiar worlds.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Thinking forward!!

Just a perfect title to what I will be doing this semester, thinking forward.  :D