Rite of Passage

I just returned from dropping my son, the boy, off at the ferry terminal to go to camp for four days with his fifth grade class.  One of the mom's said this was a rite of passage for her as much as for her daughter.  She is right--watching my youngest child go off is probably more traumatic for me than for him.  Thankfully, it was a bright sunny day and my sunglasses covered my eyes in case they leaked.

This trip marks the beginning of the end of elementary school.  Next year, he is off to middle then high school and then life.  It all happens in baby steps, with the occasional milestone marking the journey.  And today is one of those milestones.

My daughter is independent, brave and loves to travel.  She is unflappable so I was unflappable when I sent her off to camp.  My son loves life, has a deep sense of empathy and feels everything.  His joys are high and his lows are crushing.  He has entered a phase where he imagines the "worst case scenario" so he can prepare himself for anything.  The downside is he spends a fair amount of time looking into the belly of the beast, seeing horrors that are likely to never occur.  Those thoughts must have melted in the sunshine, as he laughed and smiled with his friends on the pier as they were waiting for the ferry.

When I woke up this morning, I was thinking of my friend Alice who lives Chicago.  When my son was a few weeks old, Alice visited us in St. Louis.  She asked to bring her new boyfriend (now husband) along and I said yes.  When they arrived, we went to the Science Center.  At one point during the visit, I was off with my three year old daughter.  Alice and her boyfriend took the boy.  The boyfriend was happy to show off his stroller pushing skills, and the two of them played family with the boy in tow.  We were separated for a half an hour.  While I completely trusted Alice, I felt like a piece of me was missing.  Was it a limb, or a small part of my heart?  I couldn't tell, but I didn't feel complete.  I am sure it was part of the bonding process and overflowing hormones that makes new mothers panic when they leave their offspring in a corner.  Something tells them they must go back and tend to the little one.

I was reminded of that feeling this morning.  A little part of me is at Islandwood today.  A friend of mine said it is like they are going to school, but for four days instead of six hours.  I am glad someone helped me to look at this trip in the "best case scenario" and pulled me out of the belly of the beast. Today is a day to pause and ponder my rite of passage.  I miss him, and I suppose that is a good thing.  I have to learn to share the boy with the world, as I shared him before with Alice and her boyfriend years ago.  Nevertheless,  I am glad it is sunny today so I have an excuse to wear sunglassses.

Dream App

I just read in the New Yorker about a man who created a dream journal app that will be launched in December.  It has a gentle alarm that eases people out of sleep so they can remember their dreams.  People then write about their dreams in the app, and the app will then catalogue the data so researchers can figure out what people across the world dream about.  What do rich people dream about?  What do people in California dream about?  How often do people dream about going back to high school or college and having to take an exam for which they didn't take the course?

The theory of relativity came to Einstein in a dream, as did the double helix to James Watson.  Which is fine, but aren't dreams deeply personal?  Didn't Einstein and Watson dream about their life work?  Would their dreams correlate to anyone else's?  I suppose this is what the researchers intend to find out. Yet, I wonder if the researchers would lump Watson's dream into the "ladder" category, and miss the whole point that this redefined what it means to be human compared to a rat or an elephant.

As I kid, I had very vivid dreams.  Over breakfast, I'd tell everyone about my dream from the night before.  My dad would roll his eyes, and remind me that my dreams were not interesting to anyone else but me.  My dreams weren't a good story, they rambled on, and went in random directions.  I understood they were boring to everyone, but they were fascinating to me.  What did they mean, and why?  This fascinating world was like traveling for me, going to strange dimensions of time and space.

As an adult, my dreams changes directions, and I followed.  For a stretch in my twenties, I would dream I was one of the "Friends," except I had no part.  Moral of the story:  Stop watching reruns before you go to bed.  My least favorite recurring dream was when I was in meetings at work.  Seriously, how boring was I that I was dreaming of sitting in a beige corner conference room, staring at one of my six colleagues writing on a whiteboard?  In the dream, the meeting had no content.  Or maybe I didn't remember it.  Message:  Have more fun outside of work so I could have better dreams.  Or get a more interesting job.  Or maybe I was pre-mapping the meeting, subconsciously preparing.  Maybe this was a good thing.  Look at what dreams did for Einstein and Watson.

Will I get this app?  Do I want to share my dreams with the world?  Part of me wants to keep them private.  They are mine, after all,  Should I let strangers have the privilege of peaking in my secret world and psyche? Or should I be part of this big experiment, letting my dreams mix in with dreams around the world?

The Time I Saved a Woman and her Baby's Life

It was just another sunny spring day, except it was within the week where there were several high profile traffic fatalities in Seattle.  It made me want to drive only after not having a drink for four years.  Seriously.  The city was shaken.  This, however, is a good story for that tragic week.  Another good part of this story was that I kept my cool.

I was driving to pick up my son at school to take him to a doctor's appointment.  This was a regular appointment--his ten year old check up.  I was on NE 50th Street and had just crossed over I-5 when I saw a late model Jeep turn on to 50th a few dozen yards ahead of me.  (If the US were metric or I were Canadian, I would have said about 30 meters in front of me.)  Smoke was coming out the tail pipe in a not so pleasant way.

"That car needs its emissions checked," I thought.

As I got closer, I smelled something burning.  "She needs her oil changed," I thought.  (Not that I have any idea how cars work.  Just a guess here.)

The driver stopped at the traffic light at Latona.  I hung back, not wanting to get too close to this poorly behaving vehicle when I noticed small flames coming out from under her wheel well.  I hung back for about four seconds, thinking I didn't want my car to catch fire.  I also assumed the driver would be getting out, and I wanted to give her room.  After five seconds, I realized the driver didn't know the car was on fire.

I pulled up next to her, rolled down my window and said, "Pardon me.  Your car is on fire."  My voice was about excited as the computerize woman who says, "We're sorry.  The number you have dialed is no longer in service.  Please check the number and try again." Maybe I was even more calm than that.  I was like Siri and the woman on my GPS combined.  The operator is a little snitty when she says, "Please make a note of it," as if she has been sitting there all day live responding to wrong numbers.

"I need to move my car out of the intersection and it won't move," the driver replied while fiddling with her phone.  She looked to be in her mid to late twenties, with curly brown hair.

"Your car is on fire. You need to get out of your car,"  I replied in my automated operator/Siri/GPS voice.

"But my baby is in the car."

"You need to get you and your baby out of the car.  I will pull around the corner and call 911.  You get out of the car."  There is an espresso shop on the corner.  In three tenths of a mile, left turn.   Please try again.  

I pulled on to Latona and got out my phone.  While my voice was even, my hands were not.  I could not type in my passcode to unlock the phone.  I tried twice and then I hit the emergency call button.

I told the 911 dispatcher there was a car fire.  I read a nearby street sign to make sure I did not have a bout of verbal dyslexia and give her the wrong location.

"Are there flames coming out of the car?" the dispatcher asked, in the same tone of voice as "Do you want fries with that?"  I imagine 911 dispatchers are trained to be remote car mechanics and figure which ones are real problems and which cars are overheating.

"There were flames.  I don't see them now.  I see red coals, though, underneath the car." I know it wasn't really coals, but something metal was hot enough to turn red.  "Oh wait, now I see flames again coming out the bottom."

"Is there anyone in the car?" she replied as if she were asking "Can I super-size that?"  I am not bashing this poor woman.  She probably deals with hysterical people all day calling about nonsense.  And then once in a blue moon the real call comes where there is a bona fide emergency.

"Yes, there is a woman and her baby in the car."

"A BABY??!!!"  This was said in the tone of voice of "There is a baby in a burning car???!! What could be worse than a baby in a burning car?"  Not much.  Two babies in a burning car?  "Is the baby still in the car?"

I was around the corner, so I got out of my car to check.  "Nope, not yet."

Silence from the 911 operator.  This was not good if the 911 woman was scared.  If Vegas had odds on who would be cooler in a crisis, a 911 operator or me, they'd be like 100 to 1 with the safe bet on the operator.  I tried to help the operator so I kept talking, giving a running commentary as if I were doing play by play for a football game on the radio where people can't see what is happening on the field.   "The mom is at the door, she is getting the baby out...and the baby is out of the car."

The dispatcher let go of her breath.  I think her heart began to beat again after pausing for a few moments.

"I'll send a fire truck and ambulance right away."

After the call, I walked over to the mom, who was standing about seven feet from the car, or two meters for the Canadians.  I didn't think it was a good idea to stand so close to the car.

"Let's step back," I said, looking at the baby.  The baby was wearing one of those hospital newborn t-shirts with the super wide neck hole.  The baby's face was lumpy and his head bobbled as if the night before he learned how to hold it up.

We all stepped back about twenty feet.  As we did, the hood of the car was engulfed in flames just like a marshmallow in a campfire.  Whooomp.  Then the fire went down.

"Diaper brain," a friend called it, the sense of life blurring by in those first weeks of motherhood.  This is was the mixed up time for this mom when her brain is being re-wired to take care of baby, when down is up and up is down.  Of course she couldn't leave the car.  Her child was in it.  She couldn't take her baby outside on the street.  That would be dangerous.  But she couldn't see the flames.  And I did.

"Do you need to use my phone?" I asked.

"No, my friend is coming," she replied.  "My cell phone had lost its signal, but I reached her."

"Very good," I said.  "Are you sure you don't need anything?"  The baby stared at me with his big brown eyes.

She told me she was fine, as she watched her car smolder.  This was all in the voice of a mother of a newborn who can't believe she is standing on a corner watching her car burn.

I drove off to school get my son for his check-up.  The fire truck raced by as I pulled away.  Unlike the other crashes, this one thankfully had no journalists, no television cameras, no tragic ending to make the town weep.  No story for the Seattle Times--just a story for me, a mom and a baby.

Lapdog

Two weeks ago, my family got a dog from the Seattle Humane Society.  It was a spontaneous purchase after two years of deliberation.  We got a Chihuahua Pomeranian mix, an eight pound lapdog.

I never thought I was a lapdog person.  According to one of the eight books on dogs I got from the library, lapdogs were bred to befriend the wealthy, people who had time to sit.  When I think of lapdogs, my first thought is of the fur balls sitting with dowagers on Downton Abbey while the servants bustle around.  I bristle at the thought of being idle.  When I talk on the phone at home, I am usually multi-tasking -- loading the dishes, folding laundry, making tea, sorting and stacking books or paperwork.  I didn't realize how much I move around until I got the lapdog and had to sit still.  The last thing I thought I needed was a dog who inspired inactivity.

My initial thought was "What a massive waste of time, sitting with a dog on my lap.  I could be doing a thousand other things."  Writing on the computer or balancing the checkbook is difficult with a dog on my lap.  I ended up hunched over the computer in a weird way that caused my back to ache.  I tried reading a book while Fox was on my lap, but it was awkward.  Magazines are fine, but I usually finish what I want to read before the dog is ready to get up.

Tonight, I came home from a meeting where the group hashed through a budget.  Budget conversations are always challenging -- someone wants to fund y, someone else wants to cut x.  The kids were in bed, and the dog was bouncy.  Lap time makes Fox sleepy, so I figured I'd help chill him out.   Instead of trying to read or do something else, I just sat.  Sat.  I did nothing except ponder the day and wonder about things.  I thought about a friend who lost a pregnancy, and wondered about a restaurant I used to frequent in Chicago when I was pregnant the first time.  Cafe Equinox on Lincoln and Belden.  I remembered their salads and going there pregnant and happy before I lost my own child.  I thought about our neighbor boy who when he met Fox for the first time today insisted Fox was a Golden Retriever puppy.  I laughed and thought what a surprise we would have if he were right--no more lapdog.  The little boy reminded me of me when I was eight, when I formed the world to what I knew.  I watched Fox breathe as I rubbed his back.  This was just as relaxing as a glass of red wine, minus the hangover.

The Pack of Furies

“She can’t be dead,” he said, and he sprang up, quivering from head to toe.

The most awful thoughts flashed through his mind in a jumble.  There are times when the most hideous suppositions besiege us like a pack of furies, violently storming the compartments of our brains.  When it comes to those we love, we come with all kinds of mad things in our concern.” 

                          -- Victor Hugo, Les Miserables, Julie Rose translation

My son has taken on a very deep affection for our dog, Fox, and it manifests in fearing for the small creature’s life.  Riding in the backseat of the car, the dog placed its paw on the automatic window button. 

“Mom, lock the windows,” the boy said.  “Fox might press the button accidently.”

A visitor came to the house and the dog slipped out the front door about two feet.

“STAY, FOX!  STAY!”  the boy screamed in terror, fearing the dog further slipping out of sight.

Walking tonight after dinner, Fox stopped to shake while crossing the street.  The boy’s father let the dog lollygag.

“You need to pull him,” the boy reprimanded his father. “You can’t let him shake in the middle of the street…”  He couldn’t articulate the rest of the thought, “because he could get hit by a car.”  Walking to the bus stop in the morning, the boy carries Fox across the street.

“He’s fine.  I am in control,” his dad replied.  This brought little comfort to my son.

“Why is it grown-ups can be strict and I can’t?” he said.  “Why do I have to wait to be 18 to be strict and tell people what to do?” 

I can’t imagine the boy becoming a father if he loves a dog this much.  The bigger the heart, the bigger the break.

This afternoon I had my own near miss when Fox ate a random berry fallen from a tree.  He started trembling, and I called the vet.  

“You should be concerned if he is lethargic, anxious or trembling,” the office assistant said.

“He is trembling,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said, and thought for a few seconds.  “Feed him.  See if that helps.”  I fed the dog, and he stopped shaking and otherwise seemed fine.  Nevertheless, he sat on my lap for the rest of the afternoon so I would know every time he quivered.  I imagined Fox living another twelve years, the thought forcing the furies to stay at bay.

Northwestern versus Ohio State

This weekend, the big ESPN college football game of the week is Northwestern versus Ohio State in Evanston.  This is the first time since 1995 NU has been featured in the big ESPN game of the week.  Both NU and the Buckeyes are ranked in the top 20.  The Wildcats beat OSU in 2004, the only win since 1964.  Usually the Cats lost by a margin of 40 points or so.

This upcoming game brings back some visceral emotions for me as a Northwestern alum.  In 1983, I was a freshman in high school living on Columbus, Ohio. That fall, OSU beat NU 55 to 7, the game a pivotal moment in my life.

My family had moved from Chicago in 1980 and my grandfather grew up in Evanston.  Coming from Chicago with professional sports teams, I didn't understand the hype about the Buckeyes.  I thought the marching band was pretty cool, with the script Ohio.  I came to view the Buckeyes as Columbus' version of professional sports, except the fans were more fanatical.  I did not understand the Buckeye flags, scarlet and gray tailgating vans, and pictures of Woody Hayes on the fireplace mantels.  In middle school, I babysat for a couple every Saturday there was a home game. They would leave at nine in the morning and come back around five, regardless of what time the game started. 

My freshman year of high school was the first time I actually watched an OSU football game.  The Buckeyes were always a strong team, and won most of their games.  Then they crushed the Wildcats.  Humiliated them.  Kicked their butts and ran up the score.  The Buckeye third string scored easy touchdowns while the announcers talked about the strength of Northwestern’s academic programs.  I hadn’t begun to think of where I would go to college, but during that game, I decided I wanted to go to Northwestern.

I didn’t know at that moment why I wanted to go to Northwestern.  Something about that game hit my subconscious.  Maybe I listened to the announcers and their patter about the music, theater, and engineering programs. 

More likely, I viewed Northwestern as the anti-OSU.  Columbus is a nice place to live and I have many friends who attended Ohio State and whose parents were on the faculty.  Nevertheless, I wanted to go to a school where school was the main event, not football.  I didn’t want to go to a college where half of the adults in town wore necklaces made of tree nuts and drank beer like they were twenty years old every weekend.  Lots of colleges have a strong focus on academics over football, probably most.  Perhaps I identified with the underdog, the scrappy little team that tried.  I grew up a Cubs fan, and I knew about long seasons of loss.

The Cats have a chance this weekend.  History does not bode well in their favor, but every game is a new game.  I can’t decide if I want NU to win or not.  Part of me would like to see David stake his claim against Goliath, as watching the underdog win is always great fun.  Beating the Buckeyes after years of loss would be awesome, too.  But the thirteen year old girl in me will still love them if they lose.  After all, that's how I fell in love with Northwestern in the first place.