Monopoly

I loathe this game.  I will never play it again, ever, in my entire life.

Don't play Monopoly with Claire Adele.  She will win.  In the last 35 games of Monopoly played in our home or on vacation, she has won.  I am not kidding.  In a game a few weeks ago, Pedro and I were playing with her and compared her to Donald Trump.  She said she was more like Putin.  I am not fully sure what that means -- does she think Trump is worse than Putin, or Putin worse than Trump?  I didn't ask.  Yesterday, she said she was like Donald Trump, minus the racism.

The goal of Monopoly is not to accrue the most money, but rather to drive other people into bankruptcy. She does that quite well.  Anytime she has $100 in her pocket, she buys houses or hotels. Today I landed on her hotel on Baltic and was driven in bankruptcy by the $450 rent as the second most humble property on the board had a hotel.  I landed in it three times.  What are the odds of that? Seriously. Either the dice are rigged or the Monopoly gods are out to get me.

Pedro has some kind of death wish with this game.  He keep wanting to play even though Claire Adele wins every game. Why does he want to continue to play? Seriously, I don't get it.  It is always his idea to play, even though no one ever beats Claire Adele. Ever. I need to throw this game in the garbage.  Maybe playing Monopoly is my maternal punishment for not getting my kids an Xbox or getting Pedro a smart phone.

We are on vacation in Bend, Oregon. As I am in a leg brace and on crutches, I cannot ski at Mt. Bachelor with the rest of the family.  When the kids are around, I feel like I should spend some "quality time" with them. This evening, Jack had the good fortune of making dinner so he didn't have to play Monopoly with the kids.  I had some perverse maternal guilt that if I don't play with my kids--especially while on vacation--that I will burn in some special kind of hell for bad mothers.  Even though I know this isn't true, I still feel this way.  My kids are fed, have clean clothes, etc.  They will live if I don't play with them.  But this is vacation. I feel like this makes up for the rest of the year where I have to nag them to do their homework, practice their musical instruments, etc.  Vacations are special, where we should spend time together as a family, interacting and talking. Yet, playing Monopoly isn't a game of kind and gentle conversation.  It involves Claire Adele whining about wanting Boardwalk and Park Place and pitching a fit when someone else gets it. And Pedro flips off his sister every time she collects rent from him. This is family fun? I should sue Parker Bros. for false advertising.

Hearing the game from his perch in the kitchen, Jack made a recommendation: why isn't there an altruistic game where you get points for being kind and generous, not screw them into bankruptcy?That is a good idea, and a game I would play.  But would my kids?

Skiing Accident, Part 4 -- Life Around the House

As I hobbled around the house, Jack googled ACL injuries. Lindsey Vonn, the Olympic skier, had a torn ACL.  She recovered and continued to ski at an elite level. I also think of FRD and all he accomplished from his wheelchair.  A man who at the time would have been called crippled saved the world from Hitler. While it is nice to see these successful people manage and recover from illness and accident, I'd rather have my whole knee. I am still hoping it is just a sprain and not something worse.

Part of my challenge is managing life around the house.  FDR was raised in a wealthy family, and I doubt he ever had to make dinner or do the laundry. The kids are helping out -- the Boy learned how to use the washing machine and drier.  I am learning a few new things, too, like I have to be very specific about where things are when I ask my family to find things for me.  I can't say something is "on the table" because we have three tables. I can't say "In the dining room" when I think it could also maybe be in the kitchen.  Part of this is my family's inability to look beyond their noses. They are learning. 

I was just getting use to putting more weight on my left leg and using one crutch when my knee slipped while I was getting into the car last night.  We live on a steep hill, and as I was getting in the front seat, the door began to close as gravity pulled it down.  My weight automatically shifted to my downhill hill leg--the injured one--and my knee slipped.  Now it is tender and I am afraid to put more weight on it. Argh. I was hoping my knee was just sprained and getting better.  With this slip, I've lost a little faith in my sprain theory.

My poor right leg is having a hard time, too, as is my right shoulder and left wrist.  I am doing my range of motion exercises with my left leg, but my right one doesn't get to stretch because it has to bear my weight.  I am thinking of going to one of those Silver Stepper classes at the YMCA with the seniors who exercise while sitting on a chair.  There used to be a television shows with exercises for shut-ins.  Maybe that is next on my agenda.

Another challenge is clothing.  My doctor said to wear my new break next to my skin. This is fine, except I have so few clothes that fit over the brace.  I have one baggy pair of cords, and two pairs of fleece sweatpants.  I have dozens of skirts, but this is not the right season for those.   I have old style baggy yoga pants, too, but those are too loose in the hips. They might slide less if the brace helps hold them up.  Maybe I'll head to Pacific Fabrics and make my own baggy pants, or pants with a larger left leg.  Surely, someone must have thought of this!

A few years ago, the Boy's Lego team had to work on Senior Solutions. The idea was to come up with an idea that would help people over the age of sixty stay connected, independent and engaged.  Why not come up with clothing ideas for people who are on crutches or use a walker? I've seen the little bags women put on walkers. What about when people need crutches? What about having little attachments to the crutches so people can carry things around?  Just a thought.

Skiing Accident, Part 3 -- Recovery

It has been more than a week since my skiing accident, and I am still on crutches and wearing a leg brace.

The day of my accident, a man died off the same lift.  The newspaper reported the location of the man's death as near the pass at the "Silver Fir" resort.  The Summit at Snoqualmie is the only ski resort at the pass, and Silver Fir is one of their chair lifts.  I wonder if the same Ski Patrol team who took me off the mountain had to recover the man who died in the tree well. Was it the same sled that held my warm body hold his cold one just hours later?

The Ski Patrol people were very friendly, warm and calming. They all smiled a lot. They must be trained to be kind to people who are in distress.  Do they teach doctors, nurses and paramedics the same thing? Those professions see difficult stuff on a daily basis, where I imagine the Ski Patrol folks might have day jobs that might be far less exciting than professional skier, like accountant and marketing manager.  I am guessing the Ski Patrols are chosen first on their ability to ski, and then on how well they take care of people. Half of the challenge is being a good enough skier to go down any hill under any conditions and bring people down safely.  Maybe these people were ski team people in their youth, or maybe just missed the bar to make it to the Olympics, although speed and agility are somewhat different skill sets.  Fast skiers I am sure are as agile, but an agile skier isn't necessarily fast.

One of the Ski Patrol women said her daughter asks every time she comes if she helped anybody.

"Today I can tell her 'yes'!" she said.  What would she tell her daughter last Saturday if she were on the team who recovered the man who died?

Skiing Accident, Part 2

It has been one week since my accident.  I have gone to two doctors and when I return from vacation, I will have an MRI to see if I have a torn ACL.  My knee is still swollen, but I can move it and bear a little bit more weight.  I have a new leg brace which bends at the knee.

Crutches are a pain in the ass. While they help me amble about the house, I have traded use of my hands and arms to walk.  The first morning after the accident, it took me what felt like forever to have a cup of tea, a bowl of yogurt with granola and an orange for breakfast.  That is it took forever to get to the table to sit down before I could eat.  I couldn't just carry the bowl with yogurt to the table.  I have to get the yogurt our of the fridge, put it in my bag, get the granola out of the pantry, put it in the bag, get a spoon, put it in the bag, until I had every thing ready.  Then I could go to the table and finally eat. The hardest part was making tea. I have to get water in the kettle, and then bring the kettle to the heat.  I also had to clean my travel tea mug.  I have to use my travel tea mug as I cannot place a regular ceramic tea cup in my bag without it spilling and making a ginormous mess.

The best Christmas present I got this year: a gift bag from my neighbor Ashley. I've been using the bag to carry things (food, books, my travel tea mug, etc.) around the house. Yay!

I am still using crutches, and I have not managed the art of climbing stairs.  These are the bane of my existence.  As much as I'd like to go outside, I am having to climb up and down the stairs on my butt, using a reverse push-up. It is even worse when it is raining and the steps are wet.  Yesterday, I tied one of Jack's old jackets around my waist so my bottom wouldn't get wet as I bounced up the steps.

Seventeen of these bad boys plus an extra five to get up to the porch.

While I am feeling rather useless not having full use of my arms as well as one of my legs, I am grateful that my disability is temporary and not permanent one. I am also grateful for everyone who helped advocate for the Americans with Disabilities Act.  My disability may be temporary but I am really grateful for ramps and elevators.

Skiing Accident

We took the kids skiing Saturday and I had an accident. I fell and I felt my knee pop. I got back up to ski down the hill, and as soon as I put all of my weight on my left leg, I fell again. Some people stopped, and I still couldn't put weight on my left leg. They called the Ski Patrol and they took me down the hill in the sled. The best part of the day was when the Ski Patrol asked Jack how old I was, and the ski guy said "She's twenty...." Jack said they couldn't tell because I was wearing a helmet and goggles. 

At the bottom of the hill at the end of the sled ride, I still couldn't bear weight on my leg. The Ski Patrol put me in the sled again and took me to the car. It was the second run of the day. Ugh. The snow was pretty fresh and fast, and it had a ton of moguls. I got going too fast and crashed. 

The bizarre thing is that my knee doesn't hurt. It is getting a little stiff and swollen, but that is about it. We went to the UW ER. They took an x-ray, which was fine. They don't do MRIs on the weekend. Another good thing is that I was wearing brand new underwear! This was good considering I had to get wheeled around the hospital in a hospital gown. 

The worst part was figuring out what I was going to do with our crap load of steps to the house. We have 17 steps on the first flight and five on the second. I always told the kids if I get hurt that I'd have to spend the week at the Silver Cloud Inn and they would have to fend for themselves. I called Ashley, our neighborhood, to see if I could use their apartment with no steps. They are in the process of renovating it, so I thought I might be able to crash there. She said it only has a bed and a tea kettle and that I'd be better off at home. She might be right. I had to sit on my butt and hoist myself up the stairs. I made it. I have no idea how I am going to get down, or out of the house. I hope I don't go crazy. Winter Break started today, so the kids will be home to help me out. Jack is working at Harborview starting Monday through Sunday. We are supposed to go to Bend, Oregon to ski the week after Christmas. Oh well. I'll probably be sitting at the house with the dog reading a book, watching movies or doing crossword and jigsaw puzzles. 

I have been taking yoga lately, which has been a good thing. I've been having to do lots of tree positions and standing on one leg, even some "Warrior 3" (I think it is "Warrior 3") to pick up things up that have fallen on the ground. 

The Boy said he wished that he was the one who got hurt instead of me. "I am young and you aren't." It is the thought that counts. I am glad he didn't get hurt. He has been really helpful so far, especially since I can't carry anything. I was shopping with my friend Lucy Thursday and I bought a cute little shopping bag. I was going to give it to someone for Christmas, but I might use it to carry things around the house since I am on crutches and don't have free hands.

Post-Production Blues

I went out with my friend Ashley for coffee this morning.  She used to be in theater, and it still active as a Board member on the Seattle Children's Theater.  We were talking about my election and her experience in the theater.  After a show, the cast and crew often get a case of the "post-production blues." She wondered if I had that after the election.  Yes, I do. I am glad there is a name for it, and I am glad this is normal in other parts of life, not just elections.

I don't want to give the impression that I am sitting around moping, but I have seen better days.

Maria v. James

My in-laws were in town for Thanksgiving this past weekend, and as such, we made plans for various types of entertainment.  On Friday night, we went to the 5th Avenue to see The Sound of Music and Saturday afternoon, we went to see the new James Bond movie, Spectre.

Given the challenges in my marriage over the past year and a half, I am not a big fan of romance movies, books or musicals.  I might make an exception for Pride and Prejudice.  Elizabeth Bennett will always be awesomely intelligent and strong, and Darcy will always be charmingly difficult, but I digress.

This version of The Sound of Music has more songs than the movie, as well as a more developed Baroness Elsa Schraeder.  In the movie, she is a wealthy widow.  In the play, she is still a widow, but also president of her own corporation, running the family firm.  In some ways, I feel more like Baroness Schraeder than Maria: older, in control of money, a realist instead of an idealist* and slightly bitchy, but in a good way.

I am also slightly cynical about equating marriage with love, and see "happily ever after" as a load of bullshit.  I see it now more as a legal union, protecting both parties of their rights to property.  I see Jack's behavior last year, and see this:

I found this on this blog: http://oh-elsa-darling.tumblr.com

This quote is so true, except men don't get it, especially when a young woman is fawning over them.  As Elsa implies, it is hard for a man to be immune to such behavior.  Of course, not all men love all women, other there would never be the reality of women waiting by the phone for a guy to call.  Thank goodness for cellphones in this modern era!  Now girls can be out on the town with friends instead of waiting by the phone on a Saturday night! Bravo! I digress.

So we go to to the James Bond movie, which I was very excited to see. I think Daniel Craig is the perfect Bond, and he is exceptionally hot for a guy of 47.  Skip the age.  He is hot, full stop.  He is so hot that he made Ralph Fiennes who is 52 and plays M look like a toad, and I adore Ralph Fiennes.  To be clear, I am talking about Ralph Fiennes from The Constant Gardener, not Voldemort.  Seriously, Fiennes looked horrible compared Craig.  Fiennes is balding, and his nose looked huge.  I think the director uglied him up on purpose.  Daniel Craig is the bride, and Fiennes is a bridesmaid.  M can't be the hottest guy in the film--that would be not good for the Bond franchise.

After the Bond movie, my son asked, "What happened to the woman in the first scene of the movie?" Very good question for a 12 year old boy, and also the whole point of James Bond.  Therein lies the difference between men and women.

Women want happily ever after, and men want a different chick for every night of the week.  Generally men cringe at the thought of watching a romantic comedy and women grit their teeth through action flicks.

But here I am in middle age, preferring the Bond movie to Julie Andrews. I never thought I'd live to see the day.  When I was in high school I thought Bond movies were stupid, boring, sexist and completely unrealistic.  Now, it was nice to see a delicious piece of middle-aged man eye-candy for two hours. And yes, it is more realistic that men are tempted by many of the women they meet.  In Bond's case, it is all of the uber-hot, smart, in danger and/or dangerous women who cross his path.  We don't see him cavorting with the chick selling him a latte.  Maybe the latte chick is hot, but she is likely not dangerous.

Interestingly, Bond has put Jack on alert.  He is now looking at Bond's clothes and deciding he wants taper legged pants.  He is convinced the Craig is hotter than he is.  Seriously. How vain is that? Oh no! A Hollywood movie star is hotter than me!  WTF? Do I bemoan that 100% of the women in Hollywood are hotter than I am? No. That would be like comparing a preschool painting to the Mona Lisa, or a third grader playing the recorder to Miles Davis.  Just don't.  It isn't fair.

So back to James v. Maria.  Bond wins.  Fifty years later, Bond is making new films, chasing new criminals and new skirts.  What is Maria doing? She is singing same songs she has been singing for fifty years. Why don't we catch-up with the Von Trapps at their new home in Vermont, and see a musical about how their marriage is going along?  Why don't we check in on Elizabeth and Darcy?  Because we know better.  See Mr. and Mrs. Bennett.  I am sure they were happy and in love once, too.

* This applies to some areas, not others.  I would like to think that if I were in Austria in the 1930's, I would have stood up to the Nazi's, but history hadn't fully played out by then.  Those people couldn't look into a crystal ball and see the future horrors.

History and Gov. Inslee

History and social studies were my favorite subjects in school, and I majored in history in college. When I see mass fear of people who are Muslim, it makes me terrified.

• Anti-semitism after WWI brought us the Holocaust.
• Colonialism brought us the Trail of Tears.
• The bombing of Pearl Harbor* brought us the internment of Americans of Japanese descent. 
• And for Americans of African descent, we brought them here as slaves, and then treated them with years of racism, which included "separate but equal," lynchings and now mass incarceration.

I don't think I am wrong to compare the situation in Syria to those previously mentioned.  So far, 100,000 Syrians have died in their civil strife. 

Thanks to Washington's Gov. Inslee for being a voice of reason in this conversation on Syria refugees. As you said in The New York Times, national security is an issue and we can address that.  But what about happens when we look at the 99% of Syrians who are being terrorized by a small group of their fellow citizens? I think of my 12 year old son eating nearly 3/4 of a pound of wild caught sockeye salmon for dinner. What does a 12 year old Syrian boy have for dinner, besides hopelessness and despair?

We look back at history and say what could have been done to stop the Holocaust, the Trail of Tears? Why didn't someone say something, do something?  In fairness, many did call this out, but there wasn't a mass outrage. The people who called it out, said it was wrong, were outliers.

This is the same moment now, where future generations will look back, either with pride that we did the right thing or wonder why no one spoke out.

I recall reading about the US methods of interrogation of people they suspected of dangerous international activities prior to the post-9/11 methods of torture.  I wish I had the reference, but the US would bring in these young men, and tell them that the US could provide their aunt needed dental surgery or their mother surgery to remove a tumor.  They would bring in the insurgent's relatives, and provide them with modern medical care. This was not Marathon Man dental care where Laurence Olivier tortured Dustin Hoffman, but real, best in the world, medical treatment for their families. The insurgents were eternally grateful, and were then willing to work with the US State Department.

The point of the story about US not torturing people is that we as Americans have done the right thing to fight terrorism. There are better ways than torturing political prisoners and turning back refugees. We can do it again.

* Note that my family of German and Italian descent did not get interred when Germany invaded Poland or bombed England, nor when Mussolini sided with the Germans.

Hangover

Last night, my neighbor had his 50th birthday party at Salare, a hot new restaurant in Ravenna.  The owner/chef worked under Thomas Keller at The French Laundry and Per Se.  It is exceptionally cool that a guy with these credentials opened a restaurant in our part of town.

The party had hors d'oeuvres--oysters, fried smelt, cheese puffs, buckwheat pancakes with creme fraiche and caviar--and champagne when we walked in, then a five course dinner with two kinds of wine, plus dessert. The last course, lamb, was outstanding.

Over the course of four hours, I had one glass of champagne, and maybe two glasses of wine. The waitress kept filling my wine glass and there was no bottle on the table to tell how much was gone. I never really felt drunk to tipsy or hammered over the course of the evening, but today I had a hangover.

What gives? This is so unfair. All of the hangover, none of the fun.

Free Time and Volunteering

Friday night, I was at a lecture with my daughter at Seattle Central College given by the actor Jesse Eisenberg and writer Sherman Alexie. Outside the auditorium, there was piano and someone was playing what sounded like Chopin. I have no idea what they playing, but they played loudly and with passion. I thought to myself, I wish I could play the piano. Then I thought, I have a piano.  I could learn to play. 

This begs the question of what will I do now with all of my free time. Should I learn to play the piano? Should I look for a paying job? Should I quilt until I go blind? Should I starting running and get some real exercise? Should I go back to trying to write? If I do write, what should I write about?

The two biggest questions I have are Should go back into education? and Should I ever volunteer again? Right now, I am leaning towards a very emphatic no for both. Back when I was a freshman in college, I had told a friend of mine that wanted to marry someone who made a good living, and then volunteer. She chewed me out that that was not a feminist way of life. Women should pursue their own careers and get paid for their work. I thought Oh my god she is right! What am I thinking? And I did have a reasonable career for many years after college.  I figured out what I enjoyed doing and worked hard. I wasn't phoning in a career until Jack finished his medical training and then I could sit around eating bon-bons. And then...

The line from John Lennon's Beautiful Boy seems to be so true: "Life is what happens to you when you are making other plans." Life got in the way, and I somehow became a volunteer against my grander plans.

So I know what I don't want to do, but there lies a vast path before me, full of time, and deciding how to spend it. I realized listening to the lecture was how much I like to write, and how much I have the practice and habits of writer, and I never really saw it coming. Someone in the audience asked Jesse and Sherman about their writing practice. They both don't have a practice, but rather they need to write or else they will explode. Jesse said he writes about things he needs to write about, even if it might go against his better judgement.  In his book Bream Gives Me Hiccups, he writes restaurant reviews from the perspective of a nine year old whose parents are recently divorced. No one asked him to write about that, but he did anyway. I suppose that is what happens when we have free time, and spend it in the ways we wish.

At the same time, there are many things we do not because we love them but we do them because they need to be done. I read an article recently that said "Do what you love" is worst career advice ever.  Most people would want to sit around reading books, doing yoga and knitting. If that were true, who would mine coal or run for School Board?

Grief

Part of losing an election is the grief and sadness that comes with it. Having gone through several grief including events in my life, I am discovering this one isn't much different than ones before.

1. Some people don't know what to say, so they are avoiding me.
2. Some people who I thought would be first in line to console me aren't there, while other people are popping out of the word work to show support.
3. Other people simply say, "I am so sorry you lost. I voted for you." This is perfect.
4. Some people are more upset than I am, and need me to console them. This is hard, but part of life when you are lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love you.
5. Seventeen years ago, people sent cards in the mail. Now people send emails or texts.
6. Some people are happy I lost. "You will save your sanity and your marriage by not serving not the SPS School Board!

Paris

As we all have heard by now, there have been terrorist attacks in Paris that have killed more than 100 people. I was on my way to hear Jesse Eisenberg and Sherman Alexie speak at Seattle Central College with my daughter.  The doors to the event were opened about 45 minutes before the event started. As I looked around the room, I saw images of the Eiffel Tower and pictures of other Parisian icons on the phone screens in the room.

I looked at the White House FB page, and read the text of Obama's speech where he talked about liberte, egalite, and fraternite. I then read another comment below, asking why we don't see the same outpouring of grief when there are tragedies in other countries, like Syria or Egypt, where these events are more common.

I can't listen to NPR because I am too distressed to listen to what I call "The Daily Death Toll" they have at the top of every news show: death due to natural disasters or war or bed weather. Whatever. They list how many people died in massive amounts across the world. It makes me depressed.

And yet, then man who made the comment on the White House FB page had a point. Why did every screen in the Broadway Performance Hall have a snapshot of Paris? Why do we care so much for these people and not so much about others?

I was born a francophile. I thought France oozed sophistication and elegance along with a rich intellectual and artistic heritage. The French are cool and smart. When I was in seventh grade, I got to visit France for the first time. I remember sitting in the bus as it was driving from Brussels to Paris.  I knew that this would mark the moment of before I saw Paris, and in minutes later would be after. 

More Americans have been to Paris than to Syria or Egypt. More Americans have seen movies from France or seen scenes that take place in Paris. American history is deeply entwined with the history of France, the country that abolished its monarchy, albeit in a brutal and bloody manner. We love Paris because we know Paris, and it hurts to see something we love in trauma.

You are in our prayers, city of love, city of light. You are in our prayers.

Brie and Matthew Inman

The campaign is over, as you all know. During the campaign, I had the habit of not eating too much.  I was out and about most of the time, so I didn't have time to snack between meals.  My meals were generally small since I didn't want to be on stage and bloated with a full stomach. I avoided certain foods, like beans so I wouldn't get indigestion.

Now that the campaign is over, I ate a half a pound of brie cheese in a week. I ate with the brie fig paste which is sweet and Triscuits which are crunchy. More importantly, Triscuits ensure I am getting enough fiber. Our old babysitter Miriam used to tease Claire Adele about her love of cheddar cheese.

"If you eat nothing but cheese, you will never poop again," Miriam told Claire Adele one day. That sentence has become part of our family's lore, and hence the Triscuits.

Instead on bon bons, I am drowning my sorrows in cheese. I suppose I should also be getting a reasonable amount of exercise to balance out my new diet. I saw a hilarious video about Matthew Inman and why he runs. He runs because he is hungover, eats corn dogs for breakfast and loves birthday cake. I love this guy. He lives in Fremont. I might stalk him. Not really because that would be creepy. Okay maybe just a little tiny stalking. Nothing that would get me arrested or anything.

No Email

For the first time in nearly a decade, I have almost no need to check my email. The only important emails I am expecting are about plans for events for my kids. I woke this morning, and all of my emails were shopping ads. No urgent must reads or "There is a meeting next Tuesday" announcements. All of my mail came in my "promotions" section of gmail.

I remember once when I was at Ernst & Young and my project was in dormant phase.  The project was being reviewed by the executive staff, and there were nothing to do until they gave us direction for the next phase. It drove me crazy. When I talked to my boss about it, she said to be grateful for the down time. Something else will come next.

Summer in a Day

My campaign for school board is over and I lost.  And I am very, very tired.  I took a nap this afternoon and slept for four hours.  The down side of napping in Seattle in the winter is that I missed almost half of the daylight.  I woke up at 4:00 and the sun was starting to set.  I felt like I was Margot in the Ray Bradbury short story, "All Summer in a Day." I woke up, and all I had to look forward to was night again.

Bullies v. Public Servants, and the Deep Freeze

Yesterday on the campaign trail, I was making some fundraising calls.  This whole concept of campaign is new to me, and calling people I don't know to ask them for money is challenging.

"Hi!  You have never met me, but please give me money!  You will get nothing in return, except a thank you note!"

There is more to it than that, but sometimes that is what it feels like.  I am not getting the money myself -- this is to fund our aligned visions of what a well-run district should look like.

I digress.

After lunch and after I took Claire Adele to the orthodontist, one of the people I called left me a message, so I called him back.  I am surprised when people call me back, but when I connect with them, I am often not surprised.  Most of the time, these people have a story they want to tell me about the district and they usually have interesting stories and opinions they want to share.  Most of these people don't harbor any ill will towards me, as I do not yet work for the district.

This guy who called me back was different.  He was difficult.  He tried to pin me down and ask me lots of harassing questions.  Part of me understands I am in the hot seat, and life as an elected official will bring in lots of angry parents.  It wasn't until later that I realized this guy wasn't angry at me.  He had an agenda, which I did not know.  He wanted to know how I would fix the district.  There wasn't a right answer to any of his questions.  To him, it was irrevocably broken, beyond what any human could repair.  Nothing I could have said would satisfied him, as he was predetermined to be unsatisfied.

And I had to sit there and take it, within reason.  I couldn't haul off and call him unreasonable.  I couldn't say he was a bully.  I had to smile, be kind, be respectful, and still be respectfully assertive.  he knew that by virtue of my position, I was stuck.

But that doesn't mean I don't have power.

I now understand the bureaucratic Deep Freeze.  The Deep Freeze is when a bureaucrat works with an outsider or advocate who is an intolerant bully.  They can't tell the bully to fuck off, so they can just not respond to emails, phone calls, or acknowledge them in public.

I asked him what he thought needed to be done to fix the problem, and that clarified for me what he was so upset about. Even still, I felt attacked because we so fundamentally disagreed.  I tried to find common ground, but wasn't looking for that.  He would only accept is position as the right one, never mind my years of experience.  He told me as much.

Sometimes I see advocates working on not getting the Deep Freeze.  I know some women who are borderline bullies.  They can be difficult to work with  They kind of know they are abrasive, but they really don't have the social skills or the desire to stop being abrasive.  So they avoid it by sucking up to the bureaucrat with obvious and over the top flattery.  It can be painful to watch.

And then there are the Super Bullies.  The bullies so grand that they think every word they think is straight from God's lips.  These bullies cannot be frozen, as at times the freezing process causes more damage than not freezing them.  So they are managed, I suppose.

Yet, the Deep Freeze doesn't solve problems--it puts them on the back burner and prevents them from boiling over.  Yet how do we manage the bully to protect ourselves from the blowback of their wrath?  Public servants have been struggling with this for centuries, I am sure, so much so that it is easier to go to war than talk.

State's Rights v. Slavery, and Ms. Cohen

When I was in middle school, we studied the Civil War.  Ms. Cohen was our teacher, and she was strict.  Super strict.  I think we had a nickname for her but I can't remember it.  She called everyone "Hey Buddy."  Not "Buddy" or "Bud," but "Hey Buddy."  And it was most definitely not a term of endearment, as in "Hey Buddy, quit making noise in the hall.  I am trying to teach a class here!"  "Hey Buddy" was code for "asshole."  She would point at students with her middle finger, which to 8th graders is both really funny and highly annoying.  Did she know she was doing that?  I bet so.

We didn't like her, but we respected her.  She was militant at times, yet we sensed she cared about what we learned. This is leaving me now perplexed.

Ms. Cohen was a fervent believer that the Civil War was over state's rights.  I remember her yelling at us, telling us we'd flunk is we every said the Civil War was fought over slavery.

"Never, ever say the Civil War was about slavery," she said many times.  "It was about State's Rights."

If there was one thing I learned that year, it was that.

What strikes me interesting now is that numerous articles are coming now saying, yes, the Civil War was fought over slavery.  See this article from The New Yorker.

Duh.

We were kids just learning about the Civl War and we knew the obvious: it was about slavery, and we had to be taught otherwise.

Why did we let ourselves be fooled?  I don't know.  I just trusted Ms. Cohen, who probably trusted a textbook.  Did Ms. Cohen believe this herself?  I bet she did, but nor did I think of her as one who would be interested in being an oppressor (except to her students.)  She did not strike me as inherently racist or biased.  In fact, my guess is that she was part of two groups that were persecuted.  She often told us about her vacations with "her sister."

Nevertheless, she stuck with this "State's Rights" mantra.  I wonder what she thinks now.  I don't know if she is still alive -- she might be.  I wonder what she thinks after years of teaching students history to come up wrong.  To years of being in the closet perhaps, and then to be free.  And all in the same week.

Office, Treadmills and a Run in the Woods

I am working on my campaign.  As you all know, I have been working as a volunteer for many years.  It is work but I never had an office like I did back in my consulting days.  The other day, I was downtown working with my fundraisers.  I had about 30 minutes between meetings, and they let me use one of their offices.

I plugged in my phone, pulled out my laptop, shut the door, and made a phone call.  It was the first time I had been in an office in years, sitting at desk doing work, and it was surreal.

People have asked why I am running for office.  As with anything this large, it is complicated.  After Ada died and Claire Adele was born, I got off the treadmill of the corporate world.  While Claire Adele napped, I wrote.  When the Boy started kindergarten, I started my advocacy career.  At the time, I didn't think of it starting a career, nor did I directly compare it to working at E&Y.  Instead, I thought I was finding a way to get to know people, solve some problems and use part of my brain that had been on hold for years.

Then it became a way of life, but a way of life that was opposite of running on a treadmill.  Running a treadmill isn't a bad thing.  I have a membership at the University YMCA, and I like to hit the aerobics machines, especially when it is raining or cold.  The temp is usually consistent, it is dry and I know I'll get a good workout.  I can choose the workout ends, and I never get lots or trip and fall.

Corporate life is like a treadmill.  The work is predictable, I knew I would get a workout, and it was reliably there.

Being an advocate is different.  It like running in the woods.  It could be cold one day, dark and rainy the next.  You could get lost or trip on a branch.

You could also find yourself running on a beach, or catching a sunset.

Both are good for cardio, but the woods are better for the heart.

Staring Contest

I was walking Fox the other morning and he saw a squirrel.  He tried to chase the squirrel, so I put him on a tight leash.  The squirrel ran by a tree and stared at Fox.

Fox stared back.

I stood there, slackened the leash, and wondered how long Fox would watch the squirrel.

They were locked in a staring contest for about two minutes.  Neither blinked or moved.  A jogger ran nearby, and Fox looked away.  The squirrel kept staring.  Finally, Fox and I left.

This got me wondering about the staring contests kids have, where they look at each other until someone blinks.  Why do we play such a game?  It is part of an animal instinct?

As I watched the game, I realized it wasn't a game.  It was a case of predator and prey, and who ever blinked first would lose.  If the predator turned a away, the prey could escape.  If the prey loses it, then he's dinner.

Middle of the Road

We just moved back into our house this week after living in an apartment across the street for three weeks.  We had the old carpeting ripped out and oak floors put in.  We had to move all of the furniture off the floor and we needed a place to keep our stuff and sleep.  Our neighbors bought the two flat apartment across the street from us almost a year ago.  Since then, they have been remodeling the place which had not seen any upgrades in at least a decade, maybe longer.  The windows were painted shut, for starters.

One of the best things about the place was we got to keep Fox there without any issue.  I was worried we might have to kennel him for the time we were getting the floors done, but we were very lucky we could keep him there.

The kids seemed to handle the adjustment to the new place just fine.  Claire Adele would hide in the kitchen of our house and check SnapChat as our temporary abode didn't have Wifi.  The Boy would sneak back to the house once in a while and play with his Legos, but otherwise he was fine.

Fox, our third child, struggled.  He wasn't used where we live being so close to the street.  He would bark and people walking by and at our neighbor's cat who rightful thought she owned the place.  We would eat dinner on the back porch of our house, and then return to the apartment in the evening.  We would bring Fox with us while we ate.

Sometimes in the morning, Jack would let Fox out to pee, and he (Fox) would bolt of out the yard, across the street and into our backyard to take his morning potty break.  When we would walk the dog at night, Fox would sometimes try to go back to our house.  Other times, he would head back to the apartment.

The day were were moving back in, I was carrying some bags back to the house.  Fox decided to walk with me, which was fine until he stopped in the middle of the street.  I called him to come, but he just stood there in the middle of our two worlds.  It was like he was paralyzed, not knowing which was to turn.  Fox wasn't leashed, and I was carrying a heavy load so I couldn't just drop everything and pick him up.

After a minute or so, he followed up up to the steps to our house, but I felt bad for him in his confusion, not knowing where he lived, stuck in the middle of the road.

Photoshop?

As part of my campaign, I needed to have my picture taken.  My neighbor across the street is a professional photographer and he did a fine job.  (I previously wrote about having my picture taken.)

I first posted a picture on my website and Facebook account, and then I submitted it for the Voters' Guide.  Now, I am at the step of getting campaign fliers made for doorbelling, where I knock on numerous constituents doors and ask them to vote for me.

In each draft of the flier, my photo kept getting bigger and bigger.  And I kept cringing and cringing.  I wanted a small tiny picture in the corner, something maybe the size of a dime, not a big more than half of the 5x10 flier.

The bigger the picture, the more I noticed my flaws, especially the little middle-aged double chin and the dark brown gum line above the tooth I broke in third grade.  I maybe could get plastic surgery to fix the chin, or lose forty pounds, but neither is going to happen before my campaign needs to print 5,000 fliers.  There is nothing to fix the tooth except Photoshop.*

I talked to my photographer to discuss my dilemma -- to photoshop or not to photoshop.

"I'll do whatever you want, Lauren," he said.  "I can do anything with Photoshop.  I can make you look like a Barbie.  I could even make you look like a man.  But I left it the way it was.  I think you look fine.  I take pictures of people without teeth and people who are wrinkled and disfigured.  You should own how you look.  "

I thought about Tina Fey.  She was knifed by a stranger as a child and she has a large scar on her chin which is covered up with make-up.   Tina Fey doesn't let the scar define her.  Does she cover it up at home, or go naked?  Has it faded significantly since she was a child?  I have no problem with Tina Fey covering her scar if it makes her feel more confident.

Before I said yes to vanity, I went for a second opinion.  I emailed a draft of the flier to my friend Susan, who thought it looked fine.  She didn't comment on the picture, so I asked.

"What do you think of the picture?  Is it too big?"

"No, you just aren't used to seeing glamour shots of yourself," she said.  "It looks great."

Glamour shot?  I was too busy looking at my gum line to see the picture as glamourous.

Then I thought about it.  Aside from the dark gum line from my broken tooth, I have a great set of teeth.  They'd be damn near perfect if it weren't for root canal and cap.  I have what is officially called a "winning smile," which is defined as having visible molars when I smile.  My photographer takes pictures of people without teeth, and here I am complaining about a tiny flaw in what otherwise would be perfect.

I ponder my double chin.  Sure, I could lose a few pounds, but I am far from obese.  Who am I to be so picky about my appearance?  I don't have a disfigurement, so I should be happy.  I let the picture go au naturale, and not photoshop.

* Poor Photoshop has to get a bad rap as the company that allows women to look twenty years younger, when they just make the software to enable such behavior.

Moving: Heaven and Hell

We are getting hardwood floors installed in the house this week, and we have moved into our neighbors’ duplex across the street.  They have been remodeling it for almost a year, and the work continues.  The previous owner did very little in the past decade, and the place was in need of major updates. 

We asked our neighbors about six weeks ago if we could move into their apartment.  They blanched, but said, “Sure.”

“I am happy to pay market rate for the whole month, and pay for utilities,” I said.

“Oh no,” the wife replied.  “You don’t have to pay me.  I am glad you are staying.  It will force us to get the place ready for someone to move in.”

The day before we moved in, the wife was telling us she was having the floor painted.  

“Egads!  You didn’t need to paint the floor for us!” I said.  “It won’t be dry in time, and we will just mark it up!  You should have waited until we moved out.”

“It won’t be a big deal,” she said.  “I will give it another coat as soon as you move out.”

Over the past few weeks, Elke, a college girl from Indiana who is helping me out around the house, helped me purge and clean before the move.  We had to clean out the basement to move stuff from the closet down there while the work is being done.  I’ve made a handful of trips to Goodwill and Value Village to unload stuff, plus a trip to the dump.  We’ve had numerous loads of recycling.

I thought that doing this (purging, cleaning, re-organizing) during a campaign might be a bad idea, but I find it a pleasant distraction.  There is a limited amount of control I have over my life as a candidate.  I can have control over the move, more or less.

The movers arrived yesterday morning to take our entire first floor and move us out.  We had far less to move, thanks to Elke.  The movers were supposed to arrive at 9:00 a.m.   They arrived at 8:40, just as the rain began.  It wasn’t a downpour, but it was heavier than a drizzle.  They were carrying the first load out by 8:50.  Kind of a bummer to have the only rain in a week happen while we were moving, but what can you do.

I walked into the apartment to see where to put the furniture.  Angela’s construction worker was laying down construction paper so our feet wouldn’t stick the floor.  They ran out, and had to run to Home Depot before we could finish the move.  The third bedroom was still a construction staging area, with an old water heater and lots of tools and wood debris.  We couldn't set that up as one of the kid’s room or move my desk in there, so we have extra furniture in the kitchen and living room.

But that wasn't all: there was no hot water heater, no oven, no cooktop and no refrigerator.  The shower wasn’t hooked up, even if we wanted to take a cold shower.   I had to bring over all of my hanging clothes, but there were no rods in the closet, so all of my clothes were draped on the couch.  It was a roof over our heads, but that was about it.  I told one friend we were moving out of one construction zone into another.  Jack joked that he wanted to see the thought bubbles above Angela and my heads when we had our previous conversation about using their space and she refused to take rent.

Lauren’s thought bubble: “I am happy to pay rent.  Please don’t think I am a mooch!”

Angela’s thought bubble: “Oh my god the place is a train wreck.  It will take a miracle to have it ready by the time they move it.  I can’t charge her for living a place that has no doorknobs!”

And I love the place.  It is not nearly the disaster it appears to be written on paper.  Our regular house is across the street, so we can easily go back and forth and shower, check the mail and access the internet.  My kids have the same walk to school, we still walk the dog on the same route.  But the convienence isn’t the whole reason I like it.

I feel genuinely happy to be living someplace else, and I don’t know why.  Back in my twenties, I moved every few years, from Chicago to Saint Louis, from an apartment in St. Louis to a house, and then from Saint Louis to Seattle.  With each move, came a cleansing and a purging, lightening the load.  It feels good to get rid of stuff that has hasn’t been used in ages, or to find new uses for old and forgotten things.  Angela needed shower hooks, and I had found an old set in the basement which I gave to her.  I lived in the same apartment in Chicago for all of my twenties, and I loved the place.  I also loved my house in Saint Louis.  Maybe I was longing for a change of scenery, and new location, a different perspective.  I’ve spent years looking at the house across the street.  Angela did a great job of picking a bright new exterior pain color, and has cleaned up all of the plants.  She fixed the retaining wall.  On the outside, it looks great.  But now I can sit and look out the window at my own house.  My friend Diane used to live in this spot, and she said we had a really cute house.  She would know, as she could see it all the time.  She was right.

Maybe I like this move because it is just like my place, minus the clutter.  There are no stacks of unread mail and magazines.  There are no stacks of notes from my countless meetings.  I don't have my hundreds of books.  It is clean and neat and tidy, but it also still my life.  It isn’t sterile like a hotel room or a vacation condo.  There is charm, and it is in my neighborhood.  It is like I have just lost twenty pounds:  it is still the same me, only better. 

“Better?” you are thinking.  "Lauren has no cooktop, no hot water, no shower curtain.  She is nuts."

Sometimes "nuts" and an upside down life beats the status quo.

Aviation

The Boy's Rocket Club went to Aviation Day at Seatac Airport two weeks ago.  Jack when along as a chaperone -- I think he was just as excited as the Boy to walk on the tarmac and see the planes up close.  One summer while he was in college, Jack worked at Eastern Airlines in Atlanta helping them audit flight maintenance records.  He wanted to throw luggage (if I recall correctly) to help build his strength for the swimming season.  Instead, he got a desk job.  In either case, he got to be around airplanes.

So the Boy had fun at Aviation Day.  The next day, Jack, the Boy and I ran into one of our neighbor's at the grocery store.  Jack has seen this man's son at Aviation Day, and told the father how polite and nice his son behaved in public.  Nick is a freshman at Aviation High School at Boeing Field.  Aviation High School is run by Shoreline Public Schools, and has a partnership with Seattle Public Schools.  Even though it is a public school, kids have to apply.  About 25% of the kids who apply get in.

We asked how Nick was doing.  We assumed he would be fine, as Nick's research projects in middle school were on historical airplanes.  The father gave us a run down of the school.

The dad talked about getting his son halfway across town everyday, but he didn't mind.  There are carpools and kids can take the bus.  It is a small school with about 100 kids per grade, and not much of the usual high school extras, like sports and music.  The kids can partake in extra-curricular activities at their neighborhood school.  All of the hassle was offset by his son's love of the program: "They get to take physics as freshman," he said.

The Boy listened, not saying much.

A few days later, we were talking to some other parents.  The topic of high school came up.  Because of the program he is in, the Boy has a few choices of where to go.  Jack and I have been heavily lobbying in to go to Roosevelt, the neighborhood school that Clare Adele attends.  It is a lovely school and Claire Adele has made plenty of friends.  The other schools are in corners of town, and he would have to take a city bus instead of walking to the school blocks from our home.

"Where are you going to high school?" the grown-up asked the Boy.

"Roosevelt," he said.  I was glad he was listing that as his first choice.

"I'm also considering Aviation," the Boy said.

Oh dear.  I hate driving.  I don't want to spent four years driving past downtown and back twice a day.  No!  And they teach the kids to fly and build airplanes. What?  A few years ago, kids died in plane crashes.  Claire Adele told me about the high death rate.  I thought she was exaggerating until I looked it up, and it was tragically true.

A few days later, Jack googled Aviation High School.  It turns out their First Robotics Team came in 24th.  Out of 3,000 team from around the world.  One of the reasons selling points of Roosevelt is that it has a First Robotics team, and the other two schools don't.  I thought about keeping it a secret from the Boy, not telling him that they have a great robotics program.  But I told him the truth.  His eyes widened, as if they weren't wide enough before.

Do I let the Boy chase the dream, or keep him grounded?

Three Goals and Left Turns

I was talking to a friend the other day and she asked me why I was running for office.   She wasn't looking for the sound-bite answer--she looking for introspection.  This is the role and purpose of good friends: to ask you questions that make you a little uncomfortable while providing a safe environment to explore questions that don't have simple or easy answers.

In answering her question, I started back in the beginning, when my life took a left-turn.  The first left turn was when my first daughter Ada died back in 1998.  I was never one to have a life plan that was laid out to the tiniest detail, but I had a general sense that I'd keep on the path that I was on.  I was working in consulting, learning how to manage, run projects, look at data and talk to people about things that were not making them happy.  It was interesting and challenging work, and I was thriving.  I worked with people I liked, who also liked and respected me.  

I was doing project work, which meant when the project was done, I would have to find something else to do.  I expressed this concern to my friend Julie from graduate school. She said, "If you do a good job on this project, the next one will follow.  Don't worry.  Projects will find you."  And she was right.  I learned to be content with a reasonable amount of uncertainty, but as long as I could develop my skills, I knew I could find work that I found interesting.  I worked with a leadership consultant, and she said she saw me one day working as a VP of Operations at a medium sized company.  I was slightly offended that she didn't see me as the president, but I figured that if I could be VP of Ops, then President could be around the corner.   

Then came another left turn.  Ada died and I had a miscarriage before I became pregnant with Claire Adele.  I was traveling three or four days a week, and Jack was working nights and weekends.  We had just moved to Saint Louis, where we had no family.  We would have needed overnight care, and that really wasn't feasible, both practically and emotionally.  We had a small apartment, with no place for an au pair to stay.  I also couldn't imagine how I could leave my baby with someone else while I traveled out of town.  

The third left turn came when my brother had a crisis with his schizophrenia.  I was laid grief stricken again for the second time in four years.

It was then I knew I wouldn't be returning to the traditional workforce.  I set three goals for myself at that point:

1.  Write a book

2.  Run for office

3.  Make a movie

Now I look at these goals, and ponder.  I've written two books, one about Ada and another about my brother, both of which are languishing unpublished.  Part of me doesn't want publish the book about my brother until my kids are older.  Even though only a handful of people read my books instead of hundreds, I wrote them nonetheless.

This makes me pause and think about my goals.  My second goal was to run for office, not win.  Why did I have the goal of "running" instead of "winning"?  Was I being a chicken or realistic?  Back then, I had no idea what office I might run for:  City Council?  State Rep?  US Congress?  Yes, I have fantasies about someday about being a US Senator.  I am lucky enough to live in a state where both of our Senate seats are held by women, which gives me hope.  

But that is not where I am today.  I've taken Julie's advice -- do a good job on one project and the next will follow.  Look for challenging and engaging work.

Running for office isn't only challenging and engaging, it is also meaningful.  I can make a difference in the lives of kids in Seattle.

Lauren's got a Brand New Bag; or Tale of Two Purses

This is my current purse.

I bought it for the trip to New Zealand because it is lightweight, study and has tons of pockets.  I was helping pack bags today at my son's school for their "Packs for Kids" program so kids who have food insecurity can have something to eat over the weekend, and all of the moms there had similar styled and shaped purses.  This purse is light weight, soft and very comfortable.  As a friend of mine said, "It is a mom bag."

It was decided by several members of my family that is purse was not suitable for me to wear while campaigning.  A floppy nylon bag was a little too casual to wear with a fancy skirt, a pressed while shirt and a black pumps.  I went downtown to the main shopping store and one of the sales associated helped me for an hour pick something out.

This is my new purse. 

It is a briefcase/purse.  It can fit a notebook, my calendar, and a small laptop.  I can put my campaign material in here and it stays flat and unwrinkled.  It has an over-the-body strap as well as two handles.  The handles aren't long enough for me to swing over my shoulder, so I have the bag on my arm as if I am Queen Elizabeth.  It restricts my ability to use my hands when I talk, a trait of my Italian heritage.    I can talk with one hand, but I lose my symmetry.  This purse is leather, stiff and uncomfortable since it doesn't fold against my body.  I went downtown this week to a luncheon and all of the women walking the streets had purses like this.  This is not a mom purse.

I am a one purse kind of gal.  I am not the type to have one bag for the day and other for the evening, or changing my bag to match my outfit.  I am far more practical and have a one purse for all occasions.  I have a hard time taking everything important (wallet, sunglasses, phone) out of one bag and putting in another, and then remembering to put it all back into my daytime purse.  I did that once, and found myself at the grocery store with a full cart and no wallet.  Not fun.

Now I am officially a two purse woman, and for good reason.  Yesterday, the Boy had soccer tryouts: nylon purse.  I came home, changed clothes, and went to a school district meeting while wearing candidate attire: briefcase bag.  I came home changed, and we went to the Bryant Blast and then to the Mariners game wearing mom clothes: nylon bag.  

At the Mariners game, the woman sitting behind me spilled her full beer down the back of my seat.  I was sitting up, so I was only slightly drenched.  Yet, a river of beer flowed down the steps of the stadium, and picked up my nylon bag before it was soaked. 

Yes, I need two bags.

Private

I am taking my blog private for the next several months, maybe longer.  As you may know (or may not), I am running for office.  I spoke with my writing teacher and mentor, and she recommended I take my blog down during the campaign.

"You have to decide if this could help you or hurt you.  If you only had a few posts, that would be one thing, but you have a lot here.  You are vulnerable and as your writing teacher, I am proud of you," she said.

But...

"Since there is so much there, something might come back to hurt you.  You might be better off taking it down."

My friend Eleanor agreed, but for a different reason.

"People who write blogs only write about themselves and what they do," she said.  "They tend to be exercises in self-absorption."

But I try to write about the challenges I face, difficult decisions, turning points, conflicts, places where I changed my mind...

"How many blogs do you read?" she asked.

None.*  Point taken.  I'd like to think--like many mom bloggers do--that I was channeling Erma Bombeck, catching those moments of home life and making them into something worth sharing, that others might find comfort, laughter or tears.

I am slightly mourning the loss of my blog, even though it is still here, but in a mode where only my nearest and dearest can find me.  My friend Diane said having an unpromoted blog and hoping people would find it on the internet would be like hoping someone would randomly pick up a piece of sand on a beach.  She is right.  Nevertheless, I liked putting thoughts and feelings on the internet and see what would turn up.  It felt like I was a kid riding in the car with the windows rolled down and my head leaning out with the wind in my face.  I was exposed, but not so much.  Writing my blog was a risk, albeit a small risk, but a risk nonetheless.  I love the creative outlet this blog gives me a few days a week.

A few new people were finding it, somehow.  I've had a few more readers here and there.  I don't know who they were, but maybe I'll find them again if and when I re-open my blog to the public.

Now I am open to a new vulnerability-- running for office.  I met a friend for coffee who once ran for office.  She sad she felt completely naked, out there shouting her opinion, vulnerable.

* I used to read the brilliant Hyperbole and a Half, but the author has since taken a break.

Losing

As some of you know, the Boy is rather intense.  This spring, he joined his middle school junior varsity soccer team.  The school is in its first year, and many of kids who are outstanding soccer players did not try out for the school team.  Other middle schools might four or five kids from elite teams.  The Boy's team has a few select players, at best.  In the first four games of the season, they have scored one goal.

The Boy was having a very hard time being one of the better players on his team and watching his team get crushed.  He seems okay if his team loses and he is a bench warmer: he knows it isn't his fault if better players than him lost the game.  If he plays poorly and the team loses, he often blames himself.

Two weeks ago, the Boy was playing defense, and the other team scored three times in about five minutes.  The Boy was visibly frustrated.  It didn't help that four players on the team were out because they forgot to turn in their grade sheets.  The coach pulled the Boy out of the game, and he was in tears.  He yelled at the coach, "I am NOT a center defender.  I am terrible at this position.  I can't play center D!"

I winced.  I hoped the coach didn't think my kid was an ass.

The next week, the Boy's team was getting shellacked.  They were down 0-4 at the beginning of the second half.  I worried the Boy would flip out again, but he didn't.  He kept playing without getting frustrated.  They lost the game 0-7.

After the game, the boys were off goofing around, shooting goals at one and other.  The Boy was smiling and laughing, something I have never seen after a 0-7 loss.  One of the moms and I approached the coach.  He asked if our kids were having fun.

"Tanner is having a blast!" she said.  The coach smiled.

"I am the Boy's mom," I said.  The coach pulled his head back slightly afraid.  "He is as serious as a heart attack."  The coach laughed.

"He got mad at me last week," he said.

"No," I replied.  "He was mad at himself.  I am so sorry he reacted that way."  I didn't explain that the Boy has been working on trying to keep his emotional reaction under control when he is trying his hardest and he feels like he is failing.

The coach seemed relieved that the Boy wasn't mad at him specifically.  People often forgive the Boy for being overwhelmed.  They see how much he cares and how hard he tries.   Nevertheless, it is hard to be around the Boy when things are falling apart.

When we were driving home, I asked the Boy about the game.

"When we were down 0-4, I knew we were going to lose.  I figured I might as well just keep playing."

I was happy for the Boy.  He is learning to face loss and not take it personally.  Sometimes you go out and put your heart into what you are doing, and it doesn't work the way you planned.  At least your heart is still beating.  I hope this serves him well.  It will either make him a fierce but calm competitor like Bjorn Borg, or conversely member of the Chicago Cubs.  Either way, I am glad he is outgrowing his John McEnroe phase.

"Gay" or Courage, Resilience and Hope

A friend of mine invited me to a luncheon today to support Navos, an organization that supports children and teens with mental illness.  I didn't know much about the organization, but since I have family members with mental illness, I was happy to learn more about it.

One of the speakers was a fifty-one year old man who is a leader in the mental health field.  I crossed his path in the lobby before his speech, not knowing he was going to speak.  We exchanged a few polite words.  "There are a lot of people here," he said.  I smiled and agreed.  I almost said "Isn't that a good thing?"  I am glad I held my tongue.  He was nervous about addressing the crowd, as he later mentioned in his speech.

As this man took the podium, I wondered what he was like in his twenties.  What path did he take to become a leader in his field?  I am reading Amy Poehler's Yes Please, and she talks about her days when she was a struggling comic, barely making ends meet.  Did this man start out of the gate as a promising young man, or did he emerge?  It is easy to see someone so successful in their fifties, and forget that they were once young and regular.

The man got up and said he had two good luck charms: one from his husband and one from his mom.  We learned this man was gay in the first five seconds he was on stage.

He talked about his own struggles with mental health as a teenager.  He struggled with his identity, attempted suicide, dropped out of school and got into a decent amount of trouble.  His mother was a strong advocate for getting him help, and he survived, clearly thrived.

It struck me as ironic that I was thinking this guy was "gay."  The original meaning of gay is lighthearted and carefree, which was quite the opposite of this man's adolescence where he felt depressed, hopeless and different.  I thought it was interesting that the slang term for homosexual covers up the heartbreak and loneliness that many of these kids go through as teens.  I wouldn't want to come up with a more depressing word for homosexuality, but perhaps the word "gay" keeps the emotional journey of these people in the closet.  Not all homosexuals go through periods of depression during their teens, but a disproportional number of gay kids have depression compared to their heterosexual peers.

What struck me as remarkable was his recovery from depression and his ability to become a leader in his field after a difficult time as a teen.  It was inspiring.  It also makes me grateful for gay marriage rights in my state.  While I am happy committed homosexual couples can now be granted the same rights as their hetero friends, I am equally happy for teens who are questioning their orientation.  Perhaps they won't feel as isolated or alone.  Perhaps depression among gay teens will occur at the same rates as the rest of the population.

After this man spoke, there was a short video where the counselors spoke.  One man said he hoped his patients could find courage, resilience and hope.  What a different this made in the life of the first speaker.

Birthday

A year ago, I wrote about how I was dreading turning forty-five.  At the time, I was mostly worried about what I was going to do next after years as a volunteer and stay-at-home mom.  This was about a year after Sheryl Sanberg published Lean In about women going all in with their careers.  Before I had kids, I was leaning in, taking the hard assignments and juicy projects.  After Ada died, I still worked hard.  I was traveling so much that I paid income tax in California for part of the year when my primary residence was in Chicago.   When I was pregnant with Claire Adele, I continued to travel.  I remember being very tired most of the time, changing time zones and having oddly timed flights.  Restaurant food and limited exercise didn't help.  I told one of my directors I was struggling, and she told me to get luggage with wheels.  My old bag was a fold over carry-on, and everyone though a new bag would solve my problems.  I did get a suitcase with wheels.* It was much easier to carry, but I was still exhausted.

As much as I liked the work and the people I worked with, I couldn't risk losing another child.  So I quit.  Fourteen years and two healthy kids later, I was itching to get back into the grown-up world and be productive.  I thought that would be the problem of forty-five.  It wasn't.

It turns out that last year was rougher than I could have imagined, in ways I could not have imagined.  I am happy to put forty-five behind me, put it to bed, and shut the door.  I am looking forward to this new year.  It can't be as bad as the last.

The first few days of forty-six have been fine.  I've started my new project, which is just like going back to work, except I have no boss.  I have dozens of people to talk to and get advice, but I really have to sort all of this out on my own.  I'll just have to finished Lean In to see what Sheryl Sandberg would advise.

* We took the suitcase I bought in 1999 on vacation this year.  The fabric between the zipper and the edge of the suitcase ripped, and Jack sewed it up with neon yellow twine.  The edges of the external pockets are fraying.  The good news is that no one will mistakenly bring this suitcase home from the airport -- it is too ratty.  The suitcase which served me so well will need to be retired soon.

What are my kids reading? Part II

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how when I was a kid there really wasn't much of a "young adult" book market. (See link here.)  There were a few books aimed at teenagers, but pretty much books were divided into kids books and regular books.  I lamented my kids reading so much YA, and wished they read regular books.

Last week, we were in San Francisco for Spring Break.  We rented an apartment on Telegraph Hill.  The neighborhood was lovely, as was the apartment.  Before we left, the Boy said he didn't want to be a tourist or do tourist-y things.  He wanted to hang out in coffee shops and bookstores and read.  Which is fine.  One night after dinner at a Chinese restaurant, we found a bookshop called City Lights Books, one of these old independent bookstores with a well curated collection.   We walked in a wandered around the first floor.  They had a large selection of poetry, architecture books and fiction on the first floor.  They were poking around, and I started to panic.  I thought this place looked cool, and I wanted to check it out.  I feared my kids might look around for three minutes, decide there was nothing interesting there, and want to leave.  I ducked down into the lower level, and read the sign of what was there.  The list had two dozen categories, including economics, history, philosophy, and political science.  I skimmed all of that, and stopped when I saw "Youth."

I hurried back to my kids and said, "There is a young adult section downstairs..."

As soon as those words spilled out of my mouth, I immediately regretted it.

The kids immediately dropped what they were looking and and went downstairs, as if I were admonishing them to another floor.  That was far from my intention.

I should have let them roam around on the main floor, looking at titles they might not otherwise find interesting.  I was ready to kick myself. I should have held that in my back pocket until they were antsy and bored, just the granola bars I kept in my purse when they were younger.  They were saved for an emergency, and I had used them before my kids had even fussed.  This was a rookie mistake, and I am not a rookie.

Claire-Adele was disappointed that they mostly carried series.  She ended up picking a YA book about an Asian American girl and her challenges.  (She reads stories Asian girls the way I read about the Holocaust at her age.  If there is a book on the topic, she reads it.)  The Boy picked up Soccernomics by Simon Kuper.

I could say I was one out of two, but that wouldn't be fair.  Both got a book they wanted to read, and that was the point.

I didn't get a picture of the bookstore, but this is close by.

The Crib

Today I packed up the crib and put it in the back of the RAV.  I am ready to drive to the dump.  This is a drop-side crib, and they have been deemed unsafe.  It is illegal to donate or sell one.  They cannot be posted to Craigslist.  Drop-side cribs must go directly to the dump.

Jack and I bought the crib seventeen years ago this summer.  It had rounded trim headboard with pear wood stain.  It was a light brown, with a slight hint of red.  Picture a darker version of honey.

We put the crib in the apartment on Belden next to our bed.  We set it up a few weeks before Ada's due date, just in case she came early.  We didn't know that she wouldn't come home.

I set up a plush mobile of the solar system on one rail, and a little Tigger animal on the other.  There was a little stuffed cow next to Tigger, and when you pulled its tail, it played music.  My boss at the time gave me her Laura Ashley crib bedding, a gender neutral lavender with a Hey Diddle Diddle theme.  We had a light yellow fleece blanket with a satin trim ready for the baby.

After Ada died, we packed up the crib, and put it in the storage locker in the basement of our apartment building.  Almost a year later, we moved to St. Louis.  The movers came and checked out our stuff.  "Hey," the guy said with a smile.  "I didn't know you had a baby!"

"We don't."

It took him a second to process, and his face dropped.  I imagined him thinking, Why would they have a crib if they don't have a baby...  I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he connected the dots.

The movers at the other end of the move were much more reserved than the ones in Chicago, and surprisingly, they didn't ask about the crib.  They might have figured it was a gift from a friend or passed on from family before the move.  These guys didn't see it sitting in our storage locker.

One year after we moved to St. Louis, Clair Adele was born.  She slept in her sister's crib.  The Boy slept in a crib we borrowed from Jack's boss, and then our family crib became the Boy's after Clair Adele moved to a regular bed.

I kept the crib so long, partially as birth control.  I figured I wouldn't have more kids as long as I had the crib in the basement, and I was right.  I feared as soon as I got rid of the crib, I would get pregnant.  Keeping the crib in the basement has served its purpose in that sense.  While I tell myself I kept the crib as birth control, I know that isn't fully true.  Perhaps I would have passed it on to a friend or relative when the Boy was done with it, but I couldn't give them Ada's crib.  Even thought I thought it was a beautiful crib, I am not sure anyone pregnant woman would want it.  They might think it was jinxed.  I wouldn't really blame them, even though Ada's death had nothing whatsoever to do with the crib.

Even though this crib had many years of happy use, seventeen years is a long time to hold on.  Ada would be driving now, and my forty-sixth birthday is coming up this week.  Time for the crib to go.