Freshman

Earlier this week,  I went to Curriculum Night at the Big E's high school.  Wow.  What a trip.  I've been to more than a dozen Curriculum Nights since my kids have started school, and this one was the best.  I loved it.

I don't know why I thought this evening was so much fun.  Maybe because the Big E is back in the assignment boundaries with all of the kids she went to elementary school with.  Our house was drawn into a different middle school zone, so there were only a handful of kids from the Big E's elementary in her middle school.  I knew very few parents at that school.  Here, I knew lots.  I saw parents of kids I knew from our elementary bus stop whose children are now seniors.  I felt like a freshman myself.  When I saw a good friend in "passing period," we squealed out hellos, as if we were teenage girls who were so wildly surprised to see each other at the mall.

This high school has been around for ages, and is a Seattle institution.  Collectively, her six teachers have about 180 years of experience between them.  Not kidding.  While young teachers can bring a happy, positive energy, the life experience of these teachers really came through.  They were easy and warm with parents, not nervous or eager to impress.  Jack joked:  "Does someone have to die for someone to get a job there?"  Yeah.

Maybe the parents brought a different attitude.  In high school, it is really up to the kid to decide how much effort and energy they are going to invest in their education.  With more pressure on the kids, there was less on the parents.  Instead of trying to prove their kids were worthy, they know their kids are standing on their own.  Teachers have x-ray eyes about the kids, and really didn't seem to care about the parents, but in a good way.  The Big E's Language Arts teacher spelled it out: "If your child is not doing well on the vocabulary tests, it is because they aren't studying hard enough."  Ouch.  And true.  I loved it.

While there are cumulative experiences that kids bring to high school, the ball is in the kid's court to decide where to go.  One parent asked with a little bit of resignation in her voice, "How does my child prepare a portfolio if they are interested in pursuing the arts?"  She was quick to qualify, "This is my child's decision.  I know nothing about how to do this.  Really."  She sounded kind of lost, and there was a knowing quiet laughter from the crowd.  The kids are starting to take control of the car and decide on their futures.  Our job is just to get the car out of the garage and make sure the kids know how to drive.  The kids decide where to take it.

Something about this is freeing to me as a parent, and I am surprised.  I didn't think I would be so excited to watch my daughter make her own decisions, but I am.  Perhaps I have a little bit of vicarious living here, watching her look at her future as a blank canvas on which she can draw, scribble, paint anything.

The Lion King

My kids hadn't seen The Lion King until yesterday.  The Boy is 11 and the Big E is 14.  We didn't get to finish it, so we will watch the end tonight.  The kids had been talking about The Lion King, mainly because Fox looks like a little Simba.

There are lots of different ways to look at this.  Someone might say I am anti-Disney, but the Big E has seen Finding Nemo 30 or so times.  We own the DVD.  We had to stop watching it when the Boy was about two years old and the shark attack freaked him out.

I am not a big fan of screen time in general, but that is not all of it.

Here is my shame:  I was the Chairman of the Film Board in college.  I ran a volunteer non-profit that showed six nights of movies on campus.  If I hadn't seen a movie, I had likely read about it.  I had a subscription to the now defunct Premiere magazine.  When I graduated from college and was living in Chicago, I'd read Roger Ebert, Gene Siskel, Dave Kehr and Janet Maslin.  This is a case of "The cobblers kids have no shoes."

Even worse, The Lion King holds a special place in my heart.  Twenty years ago, Jack and I brought this little boy I used to tutor to see The Lion King at the Water Tower Theatre on Michigan Avenue.  Khoa Le was the sweetest boy ever, and I was grateful his mother let us borrow him for the afternoon and fill him up with popcorn.  We took him shopping at the Disney store, but he refused to buy anything.  See?  The sweetest.

I would say this movie brought tears to my eyes and whatnot, but so far it is just a regular movie, except now I am singing "The Circle of Life."  And we haven't seen Simba take down Scar and bring peace to the land.  I suppose tonight I will cry.

Given my complete remiss at showing my kids important movies, here is a list of movies that they need to see.  (Note:  I am missing many movies created since the Big E was born in 2000.  Oh well.)

1.   Almost anything with a score by John Williams:  E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jaws, etc.
2.   Arsenic and Old Lace --  This is one of my favorite Cary Grant movies.
3.   It's a Wonderful Life -- I saw this when I was in high school on videotape.  About three quarters of the way through, I decided it was kind of a downer so I turned it off and missed the point.
4.   The Princess Bride -- Done.
5.   The Blues Brothers -- Best car chase ever.
6.   The Wizard of Oz -- My kids saw this at the Seattle Children's Theater, but I am not sure they saw it on the screen.  Oy.  Judy Garland is amazing.
7.   To Kill a Mockingbird -- Gregory Peck at his best
8.   Rear Window -- My favorite Hitchcock movie
9.   Casablanca -- Just because it is good
10. Ruthless People -- I wonder if I'd find it dated, but laughed so hard when I first saw this years ago.
11.  Something adorable with John Cusack
12.  Ishtar -- I saw this in high school with a friend and we were the only people in the theater laughing.  But we were laughing.

BrickCon 2014

Yesterday I went to BrickCon.  Yay!  It is an annual Lego convention held in the Seattle Center.  We started going when the Boy was in diapers and was propped up on Jack's shoulders.  When the Boy was two to three, he watched a mechanical ball contraption for 45 minutes, mesmerized.

Here are some of the super cool creations.  Enjoy!  In the meantime, I've got to get started on my Les Miserables themed buildings for next year.

Tiger Nest Monastery.  Very cool.  150,000 bricks.

Space Needle with golden orange top.  I wonder where they got that color?

I have no idea what Mouse Guard is, but this is cute and clever.

Mosaic Lego

Super cool castle.

Waiting for the Great Pumpkin.

Tardis from Dr. Who.

This one is called "Clean Up Aisle 12."  A dinosaur rampages a grocery store.

An Orca made out of mostly Duplo. 

The backside of the Tiger's Nest.

A few Lego fans.

Luxury

Some women don't need to have a man around all of the time.  They are content when their husbands travel or work all of the time.  They are happy as long as their men make good money and they are well stocked in fancy shoes and have an ample allowance to travel and go out to lunch with friends.

I am not one of those women.

I read an article this week in the Seattle Times about Satya Nadella, the new CEO of Microsoft, which got me thinking.  In 1994-1996, he got his MBA from the University of Chicago while he was living in Seattle.  He would fly out on Friday and would catch the red-eye back at the end of the weekend.  I am guessing he worked full days during the week.  (Maybe not.  I don't know.)  I don't think I could be married to a guy who was gone seven days a week.  What would be the point of being married?  This would assume the marriage implies some level of companionship at the core.  Maybe he worked extraordinarily hard during that time to stay close to his wife.  This is a quote from Nadella that was posted on NPR's website:

"At home, raising kids or maintaining a loving relationship, realizing that you have achieved something fantastic is much harder to see. For example: making sure you are at home, reading to your kids every night, just trying hard to be a great parent with just hope that it may make your children great people and parents themselves, but that for most people you won't know the result of your efforts for 20 years and nothing is certain."

I don't know if Nadella had kids while he was in business school.  But what if someone with his work schedule did?  I am not a woman who could handle that.

Which leads me to another point.  A friend of mine posted a link to this blog post on Facebook, Being a Stay-At-Home Parent is a Luxury...For Your Spouse.

http://www.babble.com/relationships/being-a-stay-at-home-parent-is-a-luxury-for-your-spouse/

In my fourteen years of being a stay-at-home mom, I never figured this out.  It is a luxury for Jack that I stay home and take care of everything.  He shows up at 6:30 p.m., and dinner is on the table.  If a kid is sick, there is no questions about who will take care of this child.  Summer camps and alternate plans?  All mine.  Who makes sure the kids leave for school on time and driven to soccer?  Who is home when they get home?

Yep.

I am more than a little sore right now.  Jack just finished working 19 days in a row, which for a workaholic, is like a boozer going to Mardi Gras.  The deal was when he was going to work a weekend, he was supposed to take a weekday off.  I told him he didn't even have to spend it with me.  He could go for a long bike ride or whatever.  He worked two weekends in a row with no days off.  Why didn't he take a day off?  "I have a bunch of deadlines and too much work to do."  No shit, Sherlock.  He always has too much work to do, which is why he is a workaholic.

"No, really, it will get better," he says.

The other day, I was flipping through the calendar when I saw twelve days overlapping two weekends marked out on the calendar when Jack is going out of town.  Did he discuss it with me as he was putting it on the calendar?  No.  I knew the trip was coming up and the month, but did I know it was 12 days including two full weekends?  No.  I asked him what he was thinking when he put it on the calendar, did he think to tell me?  No.  Did he think it was important to tell me?  No.  Am I seeing a change in behavior here?  Not really.

This spring, he was galloping up and down the West Coast while I was at home, taking the Boy to soccer try-outs and helping the kids finish up the school year.  Do I have any say in his schedule?  When does "luxury" become "taken for granted," and the person holding down the fort is ignored and dismissed, assumed they will be there to keep everything in place?  Treated like the staff at Walmart, who work when they are told to work or they don't have a job?

Okay.  That was super bitchy.  I am not treated like Walmart worker.  But the challenge of being a "luxury" to one's spouse is that it implies an inherent inequality in the relationship.  I am sure some marriages manage this just fine, where both parties have open and mutual communication, respect, admiration, etc.  But happens when that open communication isn't there?  What if I had plans during that time?  It wasn't even considered, which therein lies my problem.  I don't make plans because God-only-knows what the Job will bring in.

Back in the day when I working in compensation consulting, the partner at the firm I worked at was called by the Chicago Tribune.  A study had shown amongst MBA graduates, that men whose wives worked earned less than those who didn't.  It was statistically significant, but not socially so.  The MBA's whose wives didn't work earned on average $10,000 more a year.  I am assuming the women who worked made more than $10K, so the family as a whole had a greater income.

The partner called several us of into his office to discuss why this might be the case.  Years ago, I though it was because the men with stay-at-home wives asked to earn more, or they worked a little bit harder.  Now I think it was because the guys likely never had to say "no" to the job.  They probably never had to say "I need to check with my wife if I can take that trip," or "I can't work late.  I have to drive the baseball carpool."

The so-called "Mommy Wars" are more likely fought husband v. wife, than mom v. mom.  Sure, there are plenty of issues that need to be resolved, like equitable pay, opportunities for promotion, flexible work hours, etc.  I don't mean to diminish the barriers that exist for women to raise a family while working.  But much of that conversation starts at home before women even get out of the door.  My friend Eleanor who is in her nineties told me,  "Men don't want their wives to work.  You just need to go out and take control of your own life!  Don't wait for your husband to come around.  Just do it.*"

So what does this mean for me?  If my staying at home is defined a "luxury," it means it really isn't so much needed.  Sure, I like being a stable, predictable presence in my children's lives.  I like home cooked meals, even I don't like cooking them.  But I like being busy.  I like solving problems.  I like having something meaningful to do.  I need a sense of accomplishment.

It makes the idea of going back to work a whole lot less scary.  For me, anyway.  I am not sure Jack will feel about it.

___________________
* Eleanor very likely didn't use the exact phrase, "Just do it."  She has studied Shakespeare.  She is not likely to quote a Nike commercial.   A Nike commercial quoting her?  That could be possible.

Money and Teens: Allowance or ATM?

As you may know, the Big E just started high school this September.  Since then, Jack and I have become an ATM.  When she asks for money, we've been handing it out.  (Mostly me.  Jack doesn't carry cash, much to my annoyance.)  One of the issues is the Big E's campus has open lunch, and is surrounded by cute fast food restaurants and is near a Whole Foods and a Starbucks.

On the one hand, I'd like her to be social and have friends during lunch.  I don't want her to be the only one staying in, eating her toasted peanut butter sandwiches and gala apples alone.  On the other hand, I don't want to fund her frappuccino habit?  A Grande Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino Blended Creme is 410 calories.  I have no idea what one costs ($3.85?  $4.25?), but seriously, 410 calories that can be sucked down in two minutes?  I know she runs cross country, but come on.

"A creamy blend of rich mocha-flavored sauce, chocolaty chips, milk and ice. Topped with sweetened whipped cream and mocha drizzle." -- Starbucks.com

Read:  This is dessert.  And the word "chocolaty" freaks me out.  Is it or is it not real chocolate?

I've started asking other parents of teens how they handle money with their kids.  Are they an ATM, or do they give their kids an allowance and expect them to budget?  I had an allowance growing up, which was lunch money plus $5 a week.  Was this enough?  I didn't really need to worry because I had a male chauvinist pig* boyfriend with a job who insisted on paying for everything.  Another boyfriend had affluent parents who were the ATM.  I saved my money and took a trip to France my junior year.  If my parents had the ATM approach, I never would have been able to save up for something big.

One set of parents I talked to about money and teens has two boys, both of whom have graduated from high school.  One son was shy, so the parents took the ATM approach.  Anytime he asked to go out, they were happy, so they forked over the cash.  Their other son was an athlete, and they wanted to make sure he had enough to eat, so they funded his Rain City Burger lunch.  Both boys were on the frugal side, so they never had to worry about the kids over asking.  The kids pretty much spent money on what they said they were going to spend it on, so no worries.

Another friend said she gives her kid money on the ATM basis so she can control her daughter's spending.  She does not want her daughter buying clothes that would be suitable for a stripper gig.  Makes sense.

There is another crowd that gives an allowance, many depositing money to an account and giving the kid a debit card to manage.  Some give money for clothes, others parents give an allowance and still fund the non-optional things, like safety gear for sports or athletic fees.

Jack and I had this conversation with the Big E and she completely balked at the idea of getting an allowance.  I was shocked.  She said she'd rather ask for money when she needs it.  Little does she know that she could be amassing a small (very small) fortune as there are more weeks she doesn't need money than when she does.

Part of me thinks I am getting the better deal keeping the money in my bank account.  I have saved money for the kids to go to college, but very little of it is in their names.  I want to reserve the right to cash it in in case we need a new roof or one of us were to become disabled.

But therein lies the lesson: The Big E--and everyone else--should learn the value of saving for a rainy day.  And when the rainy day fund is full, time to fund a trip to Paris or New Zealand or whatever floats your boat.  The Big E could ask for money when she needs it, but then she will depend on us.  Having money means she doesn't have to ask.  If we give her money and allow to her spend it within reason, she gets freedom.

* I debated whether or not to refer to one of my high school boyfriend as a male chauvinist pig.  He was, and not because he paid for everything.  He thought he was smarter than all women because of his y-chromosome.  I could have a whole blog post on this dude, but I won't.  Well, maybe but I'd rather avoid thinking about him altogether.

What Would Joan Do?

My friend H was once told by a spiritual advisor that this might be her vacation life.  In past lives, she might have had might struggles or challenges, and this life was a vacation life, where things are easy and troubles small.  Yet, she struggles to find purpose and meaning in her life.

While I have faced challenges (losing a baby, my brother's battle with schizophrenia, Jack's workaholism, etc.), in some ways my life is a vacation life.  I am raising my two kids, and all of my basic needs for food, clothing and shelter are met with limited effort on my part.

I wonder what would happen if Joan of Arc were reincarnated as an American housewife, and everything were easy for her.  Would the Maid of Lorraine have a hard time sitting still?  What would Joan do?  Would she be happy driving her kids to and from school every day?  Or, would she be out there running for Senate, or leading the Occupy movement?  Would she take on bigger challenges now that her needs were met, or was the fact that she was stuck in the middle of a war inspire her to act?

Threesome (+1)

I was talking to a friend about Jack's workaholism the other day, and how he is better about connecting with the kids.  The Big E is running cross country, and Jack used to run.  He is taking an active interest her running, taking her shopping for clothes and shoes, and asking about her practices, the courses, and her times.  She is happy to talk about her progress, and notes if her times are getting better.  They have run a few 5Ks together in the summer.  She tells us the girls have named the hills around town.  In Ravenna Park, one is called Death, another Narnia.  Ironically, Narnia is the longer, steeper hill.

While I was telling this friend this story, she realized that her husband needs to take more of an active interest her two kids.

"Sometimes it feels like it is just the three of us," she said.  "We go about the day, and I take them places."

I knew what she meant by the threesome.  Sometimes it does feel like it is just the Big E, the Boy and I.  Our fourth at times is Fox, who snuggles up with me on the bed after Jack goes to work.

I spoke with a different friend this week, too.  Her son left for college this fall, and she is having a hard time adjusting.  She is of course happy for him, but she misses him, too.   She is also enjoying getting to know her younger son without the older one around.  Her threesome is now a duet.  I've known Leslie since the Big E was in first grade, and she is an awesome mother.  She was an uber-volunteer.  She was always supportive of what her kids were doing, but not helicopter parent.  She let her kids make their own mistakes.  She also worked part-time, keeping balance between her professional and personal lives.  While she was keeping home fires burning, her husband had built up his own company, which is now quite successful.  She looks at her part-time job, wondering why she didn't fully maximize her MBA and become a powerful executive.

"Lauren," she told me earlier this week, "You need to figure out what you want to do before E leaves for college.  You have four years.  You don't want to be stuck when she graduates from high school."

Passion and Lego

The Boy has been on a First Lego League team since first grade and he is now in sixth.  He is on a team with a handful of kids he has known since kindergarten.  There are two parts to Lego Club. The first part is the challenge where they have to create an innovative solution to a problem based on the theme of the year.  This year's theme is World Class: Learning Unleashed.  Teams have to create an innovative solution to help kids learn.  The second part is the robot game.  First Lego League creates a lego obstacle course and the team has to design a robot to accomplish tasks.

As part of the challenge, the Boy and I watched the TED Talk "How Schools Kill Creativity" by Sir Ken Robinson, Ph.D.*  This TED Talk is the most popular of all time.  He talks about how when Gillian Lynne was a little girl, she couldn't sit still.  Her mother brought her to a psychologist who told her that her daughter didn't have a problem:  "She is a dancer.  Send her to ballet school."  Years later, Gillian danced for the Royal Ballet and then became a choreographer.

I heard that Robinson (Sir Robinson?  Sir Ken?)  wrote The Element: How Finding Your Passion Changes Everything.  I went to the U District library and picked up a copy, hoping to find out what I direction I should take now that my volunteer job is over.  A friend of mine posted an article on Facebook about how to find your passion.  One question to ask yourself is "What makes you forget to eat and poop?"  (I suppose cooking could be a passion that would not create a proper response to this this question, but I digress.)  While I am in my forties and figuring this out, I am not worried.  I've accepted that my life takes a non-linear path, the unlike Jack, I didn't know what I wanted to do for the rest of my life when I was sixteen.

The next day, The Boy had Lego Club.  The Boy is really into Lego Club.  (He should have his own blog of stuff he has built out of Lego.)  As such, I am one of the co-coaches of his team, knowing that if I want to keep this going, I am going to have to step up.  Which is fine.  My co-coach though the Boy should have some solo time building the robot.  I was worried it would take to long for him to make progress if we only meet once a week.  We decided the Boy should work on the robot during the week.  The Boy brought the robot home along with a box of Legos to finish building.

Like the little girl who couldn't not dance, the Boy is a child who cannot not build.  When we came home, he went straight to his Lego room and got cracking on the robot.  I was not surprised.  I was not surprised when I had to call him three times to come to lunch.  Three hours of Lego Club wasn't enough.  Here I have a eleven year old boy who is so focused, and I can't figure out what to do next.

Jack and I decided to take a walk, and asked the kids to join us.  It was a beautiful day sunny and in the 80's; probably the last night day were going to have in a long time.  We went to Marsh Island and brought Fox along.  The Seahawks were playing the Broncos, reviving the Super Bowl of earlier this year when the Seahawks emerged victorious.  On our walk, Jack occasionally checked the score.  We got in the car to drive home, and Jack put the game on the radio.  The game was tied 20 to 20, and went into overtime.  When we walked into the house, Jack went immediately to the television to watch the end of the game.

The Boy went upstairs to finish building his robot.

* If I am not British, do I have to call him "Sir?"  Just wondering.

Truth Serum

I had a meltdown last week that last four days.  It started Wednesday morning and finished up Saturday night.  I was in crisis about my marriage, and it wasn't pretty.  It started with our marriage therapy session Wednesday morning.  I came in charging like a bull, without any idea of what I was doing.  I was having a hard time coping with uncertainty in my marriage and wanted to know how I could deal with things beyond my control.  It was pure emotion.  The therapist kept telling me to see if Jack's behavior was changing, was he trying to get his workaholism under control.  Yes, he is, but I was struggling with how to translate an intellectual solution to my broken heart.  My rational mind was either on vacation, or bullied into the corner.  One or the other.

After the therapy session, Jack had to go back to work and I went to Starbucks.  I was sobbing as I ordered my decaf mocha.  I was waiting at the end of the counter while the barista made my coffee.  She looked at me several times, so I decided to put on my sunglasses.  She handed me my mocha:  "I hope your day gets better, Lauren."

"Thanks," I whimpered as I slunk upstairs to drink my coffee and stare out the window.  Yes, this was a private, personal, pity party.  As I left Starbucks, the same woman who made my coffee came back up stairs, handed me a coupon for a free coffee, and gave me a hug.  I gripped her for about ten seconds.  I felt so much better.

I was hoping this wasn't a massive case of PMS, but two days later I got my period.  It was a full, Harvest, Super Moon, too, so anything and everything astrological was not in my favor.   Not that I believe any of that, but I like blaming irrationality on something beyond my control.

Saturday was the low point.  Jack was wondering about my lack of progress in healing after our marriage catastrophe in May.  He asked if I was considering divorce, but just lacked the will to do it.

In a moment of bizarre clarity, I said yes, I wanted a divorce.  I wasn't screaming or raging.  I was calm, which freaked Jack out.  A week later, I don't know if I want a divorce or not.  I wrote two other friends that I was struggling to find the lost love in my marriage, wondering how he could have hurt me so badly.  Do I still love Jack?  I don't hate him or think he is awful.  Rather, I feel blank or empty.

My friend Mary from Philadelphia called to chat.  I told her what had happened, and asked her advice.  Was I suffering  from a deranged case of PMS, or what?  I didn't feel irrational at the time, but the things I said were not in character.

"PMS is a truth serum," Mary said.  "It is a time when you can't tolerate bullshit.  Your barriers are down and what you are feeling comes out."

This is not to suggest that Mary thinks PMS is an oracle that must be heeded, or that I should pack it up and leave based on a few bad days.  I began to ponder my own behavior.  I don't want to imply that women are hysterical or should be discounted during that time of the month, but I wonder:  Why did I act so irrationally?

Maybe the problem is that irrationality isn't a problem.  Irrationality implies crazy.  I looked it up in the dictionary.  My New Oxford American Dictionary says this:

irrational |iˈraSHənl|adjective1 not logical or reasonable.• not endowed with the power of reason.
Not logical or reasonable.  What is the opposite of reason, the mind?  What is the yin to this yang?  Emotion and the heart.  My heart and emotion decided to start driving the car.  Yes, PMS might be truth serum, but this is for the truths in the heart, not the mind.

Is there a problem with this?  Perhaps, perhaps not.  My heart and brain have to work together to figure this out; neither can rule alone.  My rational brain tells me Stay married, try to work it out.  See the good in him.  See that he is truly sorry, and wants to make amends.  He is suffering, too.  Every now and then, the heart needs to stand up for itself, even if the truth it speaks hurts.  It reminds me that the events surrounding and prior to May 27 were intolerable, and the status quo cannot stand.

Which brings me back to the question of should I stay or go?  Jack's friend Chris said it's time to leave when you know he won't change.  My heart and my head will have to agree for this to work.  It is so hard when they don't.

Tantrums and Lunch, Part II

The Big E and I participated in a longitudinal emotional development study at Washington University in St. Louis.  The purpose was to study depression in children.  They had a sign up sheet at the pediatrician's office, so I put our name down.  They called, and voila -- we were enrolled as a control subject.  We started when she was three and she finished her last round of interviews and MRIs last November.

The study sends us a semi-annual newsletter, which I received yesterday.  They shared several articles  written about the study.  Here are two:

How a Mother's Love Changes a Child's Brain:  http://www.livescience.com/18196-maternal-support-child-brain.html

and How Supportive Parenting Protects the Brain:  http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/06/how-supportive-parenting-protects-the-brain/373496/

Initially, I thought it would be my kid they were studying.  Now I realize we were a pair.  I was just as much as guinea pig as she was.  I should have figured it when they wanted me to sit in a six hour interview asking me how often my kid cried in the past six months, and recount every episode.

So I am reading these articles on the study we participated in, which is very cool, when I came across a quote from Andrew Garner at Case Western Reserve University:

"Tantrums are emotional overload, not how the child feels about you."

This is the most important sentence I have ever read.  Ever.  Seriously, this is the secret to the universe for parents.  Maybe even non-parents.  I wish someone would have told me that on my first day of parenting, and every day thereafter.  I will frame this quote and hand it out to pregnant women at baby showers.  This would have saved me months, maybe years, of cumulative agony.

Yes, my children were exquisitely sensitive.  I would say are, but they are starting to mellow. Today, the Boy forgot his lunch.  Jack and I debated whether or not to bring it to him to avoid his first middle school meltdown.  Both Jack and I had meetings, and neither of us could swing by the school.  I had told the Boy he had money on his school lunch account, so he could buy in a pinch.  I was debating between letting natural consequences take their course (i.e., you forgot your lunch, therefore, you must buy your lunch and eat mediocre cafeteria food) versus a meltdown.  In the grand scheme of the world, eating cafeteria food is not the worst thing in the world.  He could still eat.  I was more worried about myself and the aftermath:  Would I get a call from the principal or counselor?  "Hi, your son forgot his lunch and there was a nuclear meltdown in the cafeteria.  Please come and get him."

But no, he was fine.  He came home from school, walked into the kitchen and brightly said, "There it is!" as he saw his grey bag on the counter and proceeded to polish off his lunch.   I asked if he bought a school lunch.

"No," he said, "I just begged for food.  My friend gave me a granola bar.  I was fine."  This, the boy who has such specific and high maintenance requests for food.

He made it through the day.  He found his way out.  He solved his own problem.  It isn't about me.

Lunch

Which child is pickier:  The child who will eat peanut butter on anything, or the child who wants a turkey, gouda and fig paste sandwich on baguette for lunch?  I think it is a tie.  If there were a metaphor to describe the differences between my two kids, this would be it.

For background:

The Big E = peanut butter

The Boy = turkey, gouda and fig paste on baguette

The child who eats peanut butter always has something to eat.  She never tires of the same thing over and over and over again.  The peanut butter child is steadfast and predictable, but also a little stubborn.  Her favorite restaurant is the Ram in U Village, and is hesitant to try someplace new.  As Rick said to Isla in Casablanca, "We'll always have Paris."  For the Big E, she'll always have peanut butter.  She follows in Ishiro's mold, the former Mariners baseball player who eats the same food every single day to maximize predictability in his life.  If it works, why knock it?

Peanut Butter cookies made by the Big E.  She is bringing them to a potluck with a sign that reads:  Contains: peanuts, eggs, dairy and gluten.  She considered topping them with bacon to please the carnivores in the group.

The Boy gets points for being adventurous and trying fig paste in the first place.  While he gets points for being adventurous (this was the same child who tried a raw oyster in Tofino), he can be rather stubborn and gets in ruts where nothing can make him happy.  Some days, he has something in mind that he wants to eat for lunch, only it doesn't exist, we don't have it in the house or it would take more time to make than we have before the bus arrives.  For the Boy, variety is the spice of life, as long it isn't too spicy, the bread is the right texture, and it is gouda, not provolone, which smells bad.

The Big E would eat dinner at the Ram every night, if she could.  The Boy once asked how much we would save in a month if we didn't go out to eat.  We told him, and he paled.  Now he thinks we should try to eat dinner at home for the rest of September.  The Boy will some day be a millionaire, yet will never spend a penny, poor soul.  Given my reluctance to cook, this is will be hard.  Last month, they both revolted against eating penne with red sauce, my go-to-in-a-pinch dinner.  They made up songs about why I shouldn't make it again.  On that, they agree.

Happy Anniversary! Heart versus Brain and the Ficus

Happy Anniversary!

Today is the one year anniversary of my blog.  Yay!  I feel like I need some super cute pink, yellow and green celebratory clip art with confetti here.  Maybe I'll find something.  Better yet, I should ask my daughter to look something up for me or make something herself.  She is really good at things like that.

I suppose Sept. 12 was an interesting date to start something new, given it is after the anniversary of the most tragic dates in recent American history.  By itself, it is a September day.  The kids are back in school, and it is one of those last days where summer is hanging on before it turns to fall.

I have had 158 posts in this time.  My first post was a list of my favorite quotes from Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.  I am still in my long-term relationship with Jean Valjean and friends, plugging away.  I hope to reach the end of the story soon-- I am well over halfway done and still have a few hundred pages left.  The hard part is knowing that I'll be done.  The best thing of any book is knowing you can always go back and read your favorite sections.  In that way, a good book never ends.  Take Where'd You Go Bernadette by Maria Semple.  This book struck a chord and I read it three times, each with a different perspective.

This past year, I was working on a quilt for the Big E out of her old dresses.  Most of the clothes are taken apart.  The hard step is figuring out what pattern to make.  Fear is holding me back.  I want to make something beautiful, but don't want to destroy my raw materials if I make a mistake.  I watched Brene Brown's Ted talk on Vulnerability last night.  I need to accept that what I create might not be perfect or as wonderful as I imagined.  But it might be better.  And "done" is better than "not done."

This past year brought the happy distraction of a dog into our family.  Thank you, Fox!

This year also brought the near collapse of marriage, which is still on life support.  The subconscious pain and struggle was typed into the ether here.  (I was going to say written on the page, but no.)  All of the pain my heart felt for years was brought to the attention of my brain and intellect on May 27 when I thought the world was ending.

I have been trying to figure out the theme of my blog.  Instead of picking a theme and writing about it, I just wrote and hoped a theme emerged.  Looking back, I would say the theme would be Heart versus Brain, the intellect versus emotion.  What happens when you heart feels things that your brain doesn't have words for?  I suppose that is one of the reasons Rough Draft is a reasonable name for this blog.  Sometimes the hardest communication in the world is between the head and the heart.

In closing, here is a picture of the ficus tree on my front porch.  (I often call these trees figs, even though I know they are ficus.)  I didn't write a post about this on my blog when this happened, as my life in too much turmoil to figure out what was going on.  Jack ignored my birthday this year.  (My neighbors and friends came to the rescue.)  My birthday is a few days after the Boy's, so it is impossible to forget.  Nope, he ignored it.  So, after the world crashed on May 27, I moved in with a friend on May 29. On May 30, Jack brought me a fig tree.  He took the Boy to Swanson's and they picked a tree.

I have always loved ficus trees.  I had a ficus in dorm in freshman year of college.  Between my junior and senior years of college, I got an internship at a telecommunications company.  They had a silent auction on a bunch of office plants as they were getting new ones.  In my junior year at college, I studied Game Theory.  I decided I'd bet $2 on each plant, knowing my maximum outlay would be $34 if I were to win everything.  I took a wild guess that not all of the plants would have a bid.  I was right.  I took home seven lonely plants that no one wanted.  I got two ficus trees, one I left at home with my parents.  When I graduated, I collected a few ficus trees for my apartment.  Instead of buying a Christmas tree, I would decorate my trees.  Jack would always tease me that I thought all growth was good growth, as I never trimmed or shaped my plants.  When Jack and I moved to St. Louis, we rented a minivan and brought the ficuses.  When we moved to Seattle, the moving company brought our cars and we flew.  There was no way to bring the trees, so we gave them to David, our next door neighbor who loves houseplants.

After I moved out on May 29 and almost ten years after we moved here, Jack realized what he should have gotten me for my birthday: a ficus for our home in Seattle.

Fox and the Ficus

Thanks to everyone who reads my blog and who has been my friend during this time.  I'd like to thank the Big E, the Boy and Jack for letting write about our lives on my electronic page.  I am curious what the next year brings.