He's Back

Five weeks after he broke his collarbone, the Boy was back on skis this weekend. The sports medicine doc--the same guy I saw when I tore my ACL--said the Boy could go on the greens and the groomers with his mom after six to eight weeks. No "sending it" until twelve weeks. Jack and I decided the Boy needed to get back on the mountain for his sanity and ours, collarbone be damned.

"The Boy doesn't fall when he skis," said Jack. "Well, he doesn't fall when he regular skis. That doesn't count jumps or rails."

"I am not worried about the Boy as much as I am worried about him getting plowed over by other people," said Dr. Kary. His own ten year old son got creamed by a guy the size of a linebacker the previous weekend while snowboarding.

Friday afternoon, I got a text from the Boy.

The Boy: Let's just say I have to go skiing tomorrow.

Me: Can you find a friend to take you?

The Boy: (Crickets.)

Hmmm, I thought. When I got home, I asked if anyone could take him.

"Nah," he said. "I am going to stay on the blues and greens." Jack was worked this past weekend. "Can you take me?"

I agreed. Saturday morning, the Boy woke me up. He came into my bedroom and started clapping. (I'll have to remember this the next time I need to wake him.)

"Let's get moving," he said.

Dude, I thought. It's Saturday. Let me sleep. "You can pack up the skis and equipment," I said, rolling over and hugging my pillow. He went to the basement and gathered the gear while I ate breakfast and walked the dog.

As we were getting on to I-90 from 405--about twelve minutes from home because I was driving wicked fast--I asked if he had packed my boots.

"Fuck," he said.

"I can rent boots," I said.

"No, you'll be happier in your own boots. and you'll need to use shitty rental skis. We can go back and get them." So we did. I drove back to Seattle. The Boy got my boots and we drove off.

"I didn't want someone else's parents to be liable if I got hurt while skiing with their kid," he said. The other part was he didn't want to ski with his friends on his first turn back.

"Besides," he said. "I am going to teach you how to ski. You need to improve your form. This will be work. This will not be cruising down the mountain for fun. This will be your job."

Since my ACL injury, I have been stuck on the greens. Last year, I asked my physical therapist if I should take a ski lesson to get my groove back.

"You might," said Evan. "That might help." I stalled on the idea because I wasn't sure I wanted to be pushed. I was comfortable skiing on the greens. I wasn't sure I wanted to make it to the blues.

We got to Summit West, the beginner hill, a place where my son would typically not hang out with his friends except for the dudes who like Wildside and the mini-terrain park.

The Boy hit the top of Pacific Crest while I was putting on my knee brace. I thought he might not be serious about teaching me until I got a text from him asking where I was. By time I got to the green lift, he was there waiting for me. On the lift, he asked in a drill sergeant voice "Do you want to ski better than you did before?" I almost barked back, "Yes sir."

"Let's go," he said. When we got to the top of the lift, he gave me directions. "Go down, do a few turns, then stop."

I followed his instructions.

"Your form doesn't suck," he said. "Try it again." After two runs, he was still amazed. "Your form isn't shit. Let's go to Pacific Crest. You can do it. You need to build up speed so it is easier to turn."

When we got to Pacific Crest, we watched me on a steeper section. "You lift your uphill foot when you turn. Don't do that. Keep it down. Roll back and forth from your uphill and downhill ski when you turn, Keep your skis flat in the middle when you are going straight."

I did what he said, and followed him down the mountain. I watched his form and followed his tracks. I watched his posture, and when he bent his knees, and tried to copy him like I did took ballet lessons as a kid.

Don't think, I said to myself. Just let your body mimic what he is doing. I was easily skiing the steepest hill I have since I tore my ACL. Here I was thinking I needed to hire ski instructor, when I have a coach right here in my family, and he didn't charge me $150 to spend an afternoon on the hill with him.

Everything was fine until the middle of the afternoon. The Boy and I were on the lift with two other people. I was in the far right side of the chair and the Boy was next to me. As we got off the lift, the girl next to Peter crossed her skis with him, and then his skis crossed into my path. I was afraid to get off the chair, until it started to turn and go back down the hill when I jumped off. The chair stopped, and the Boy and I were down on the ground.

Fuck, I thought. I've known people who have gotten hurt getting plowed over by nubes getting the chair lift. "Are you okay?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he said. I felt fine, too. We both survived the beginner crashing off the chair.

After that, the Boy wanted to go his own way. He wanted to hit the moguls and the black runs to shred the gnar. He left me for the afternoon. At the end of the day, he met at the bottom of Pacific Crest, and we did one last run together.

We both are back.

View from the lift.

Jack's Work Dinners and Focus on the Food

I might get divorced after I post this, but oh well. Four people read my blog, so it’s not like this is going to make the front page of the Seattle Times. The trade-off I make for not publicizing my blog is that I have more freedom to publish my more bitchy thoughts.

Here’s the deal: I had to attend a recruiting dinner for my husband’s job this week. This is a recruiting dinner where he is trying to woo someone to work for him and I get to go along as the wife. At best, these dinners are pleasant as people are generally polite and on their best behavior.

At worst, they are a fresh slice of Hell.

As the wife, I have to be exceptionally well behaved, which generally is not a problem. Since these are recruiting dinners, I can’t openly talk about my kids or complain about Trump or bitch about how much my husband works like I could at other of his work events where I know the crowd. Because of these high expectations, I usually skip the wine course. When I drink, my tolerance for bullshit reaches zero. The last thing that Jack needs is me corking off on something to a recruit. Instead, if they have kids, I talk about schools. If they don’t have kids, I talk about neighborhoods. Five years ago, neighborhoods were a safe topic. Now, not so much given the exorbitant cost of Seattle real estate, especially close to the hospital.

Me: "Can you drop a mil or more on a house that needs $250k worth of work?"

Them: "No."

Me: "Sucks for you. You should have moved here 2008."

Just as I am expected to be on good behavior, there is an assumption that everyone else is on their best behavior, too. That is not always the case, however. Like I said, the bad dinners are horrid. I almost got divorced after one a few years ago. Jack was recruiting a woman who I will call "The University Bitch." I've dropped the university name, as it might "out" her. The likelihood of her knowing my name and reading my blog is zero, so theoretically, I can say whatever I want. But that would be mean. Nevertheless, the University Bitch and her husband were on exceptionally bad behavior. I don't expect people to kowtow to me, but I hoped they would be reasonably civil. I was seated next to this woman so I could talk to her about schools and neighborhoods. I tried to make small talk:

"Jack did his training in Chicago," I said. "We lived there for a long time."

"I considered training in Chicago," the University Bitch said "but it was too cold. I visited when it was 20 degrees outside. I am so glad I went to ---- University instead. It was so much better."

After she insulted the town where I was born and raised, she never looked at me again for the rest of the meal. Which lasted three plus fucking hours. While her husband did talk to me, everything I said was met with a case of one upsmanship. They had three kids, all of whom were born since she was a fellow.

Me: My son is on a Lego robotics team. It is really cool.

Him: My kids built a computer from scratch.

Me: What do your kids like to read?

Him: <Listed a million books until he found one my kids hadn't yet read and talked about it like I was an idiot parent whose kids were going to end up on welfare because they didn't read The Pilot and the Pirate or whatever.>

If this were a blind date, I would have left. But this wasn't a blind date--it was for my husband's job so I sat there for three hell filled hours. I started this little mantra Focus on the food, which got me through most of the meal. If the company is bad, I thought, at least the food here is something to be experienced. The only good thing that came out of the dinner was that I tasted raw oysters for the first time, a win out of what was otherwise the worst dinner experience I've ever had.

We finished eating and the meal continued to drag on. At that point, I got up to pee and didn't come back to the table for fifteen minutes. No one noticed I was gone. When Jack got up to pee, the waiter came and the rest of the table ordered dessert. I ordered bread pudding. They ordered Baked Alaska which is a ten minute spectacle where the waiter sets the ice cream on fire in the middle of the dining room.

Jack and I got back to the car at the end of the marathon meal. As soon as the door thwumped shut, I said, "That was a fresh slice of hell."

"What do you mean? I thought it was great. She is top recruit. I need to hire her," he said.

"She and her husband were both horrid," I said. "If she treats me like shit, how is she going to treat respiratory therapists and nurses?"

"They all love her," he said. "I checked with them."

"Do they really want to move to Seattle?" I asked. "I know her husband has a job that requires him to be here three days a week, but something was off about the whole thing. They never asked about schools or neighborhoods."

"The husband already knows Seattle, so he probably didn't need to ask. I really need to hire her," Jack said. "She has a specialty that no one else in the division has."

"While was developing all of these magical skills that you so badly need, I've been at home taking care of your kids," I said. "And this woman is so awesome? What does that make me? Chopped liver?"

"I really need to hire her," Jack said. "You don't understand."

I was dumbfounded. He was right. I didn't understand. It was slowly becoming clear that I perhaps had made a mistake in placing all of my eggs in this basket that was being carried by someone else who didn't care about or consider my opinion.

"If you don't want or care about my opinion, why did you invite me to dinner?" I said. He did not reply.

Jack offered the University Bitch the sun, moon and stars. She sat on the offer for a long time.

"I think she using this as leverage to get a raise or promotion where she is at now," I said.

When she came back to Jack, she told him --- University had offered her the sun, the stars, the moon and all of the planets. Jack who made another offer which was then re-upped by her current employer. Jack's offer was the best he could do.

"You were right," Jack said. "She used my job offer to get a promotion where she is working."

So after a few year hiatus/ban from these events, I am back on the circuit, much to my dismay. How do I cope? My secret again is to focus on the food. Like a zen archer, I block out most of the other stimuli and drive all my attention on the menu. I prepare days in advance, visiting the website and imaging what I might eat. I figure out how I will get there from work and meet Jack there. I usually try to remember a few facts about the person ahead of time, like their name, where they are from, and if they have kids.

The day of the event, I was happy to be at work where I could focus on other stuff and not get stressed about the dinner. Before I left for work, though, I had to decide--should I drive to work so I would have a car at dinner so I could leave early if I needed to, or should I take the bus, which is far simpler? I decide to take the bus. I figured I could hijack Jack's car to drive home and he could catch a ride with someone else.

I was dreading this event before I got there. One of the women in attendance from Jack's group openly hates me. At dinner she dropped details about my husband that I didn't even know or bother to remember, like his marathon pace time which she announced to the table. She told the group stories she heard from Jack about my daughter whom she has met only a handful of times. Why was his real wife there when this other woman could fill in?

The only non-physicians in the group of seven were me and the recruit's husband, Bert. Bert and I got along swimmingly. It was great. This dinner greatly exceeded my extremely low expections. Bert is a mental health worker with a focus on kids, which I found fascinating. He asked me about running for School Board and was genuinely interested in what I had to say.

That was when I realized why I get invited to these events--I am not there to add to the conversation or offer an opinion. I am there so I can make the other non-physician comfortable, so he or she will have one other person to relate to at the table. Sometimes it doesn't work, but other times it does.

"50 Candles" and Dishwasher Soap

Last week, my husband took off work as the kids were on Mid-Winter Break. Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele were going to ski while I was at work. Plans changed when the Boy broke his collarbone, but Jack already had the time off scheduled. While he was home, he attempted to do more around the house, like vaccumming. One morning before I left for work, he asked--verbatim--

"Where do you buy dishwasher soap?"

I want his life. I wish I could have lived a life where I don't know where to buy dishwasher soap.

"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean do they sell it at QFC* or just at Bartell's?"

Still, I want his life. I told a friend at work the story and he asked what kind of soap we use.

"Some organic kind that doesn't have a bunch of toxic chemicals," I said.

"Fancy dishwasher soap," he said. "That's harder to find."

"Nope. We've bought the same soap for years. It's not like I switched to this last week."

Later that afternoon, I was reading "Fifty Candles" by Wendy Aarons on McSweeny's. This is where Sam from Sixteen Candles hits the halfcentury mark. I haven't turned the corner on fifty yet, but I'm close enough that my turn-signal is on. I almost died laughing when I got to the end.

Or, in my life "Good luck trying to figure out where to buy dishwasher soap."

The following weekend, I was at the grocery store and bought the dishwasher soap. I took a picture for future reference.

* aka Kroger

Drive v. Bus

I lied. This post is really (again) about the mass shooting in the high school in Florida.

Last night, Jack and I went to a YMCA event. It wasn't a fundraiser. It was an event for people who previously donated to the YMCA with free food and beverages and Eric Liu as the speaker so that when they call to ask you for money, you will say, of course and open your wallet very wide because you believe in an organization that promotes social equity by creating "weak ties" so we may have a decent, kind and respectful citizenry. "Weak ties" according to sociologists are the small interactions with have with people we kind of know, but not very well. These relationships are the glue that keeps society civil. When we have weak ties with people not like us, our society tends to have more social justice. This was a balm after hearing about the high school shooting in Broward County on Wednesday.

The next morning, I was dressed and on my way out the door to go to work when the Boy said, "I don't want to go to school."

I had driven the kids to school three times this week because

a) the Boy broke his collarbone,
b) the weather was crummy, and
c) I had to drive to work anyway those days, so I might as well drop the kids off at school on the way.

Today, I wanted to take the bus. I wanted twenty-five minutes on the bus to read the newspaper and another twenty minutes to walk from the bus to the office. All three days this week, the kids bickered and bickered and bickered as Claire-Adele wanted to eat the last piece of Jack's birthday cake for breakfast.

I was really looking forward to my bus ride this morning. I was relishing my alone time, so I could come to work relaxed, not annoyed and pissed off at my kids.

"Why don't you want to go to school?" I asked, looking at the clock, knowing I was going to miss the 8:11.

"I just don't," he said, slumping into the couch. I thought why he might not want to go to school: homework, missing ski bus, possible problems with friends. Last night, he said he, Milo and Anna had a deep conversation about school shootings in Chemistry class.

"Is it about your conversation with Milo and Anna yesterday?" I asked.

"No, not that," he said, and I believed him.

"Why don't you eat something. I can toast you a bagel."

"I'm not hungry," he said.

"At least get dressed," I said.

No answer.

"If you need to rest, I can take your phone and computer with me to work," I said in the kindest, least antagonistic way possible. I had to stay calm. Arguing with the Boy, telling him to get his butt of the couch and get to school would only make the situation worse, and I didn't want that. But I'd be damned if he was going to skip school and watch YouTube all day.

"I'll get dressed," said the Boy. And he did. He ate 3/4 of my breakfast sandwich, which was fine. I was glad he ate.

"I can give you a ride to school," I said. I needed to make sure he got to school. I didn't want to get to work and get a phone call from the attendance lady telling me my student wasn't there.

"I can walk," he said. The next bus didn't come until 8:26, so I hung out at home as late as I possibly could. I left when he was putting on his shoes. With a sprint up the hill and around the corner, I made it the stop as the bus was pulling up.

I sank into my seat and checked my email.

Then I read the newspaper, the front page, first article I saw in the New York Times:

Just 24 hours after a shooting that turned this city numb, Lori Alhadeff stood near 17 cream-colored angels with gold wings that lined the park stage where a vigil was held Thursday night. One of those angels represented her daughter, Alyssa, 14, who was killed in the massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School.

Trembling, she said she was there for her daughter, and she was there to talk to anyone who would listen. “My daughter is dead, but all these children out here have to go to school. A shooter should not be able to just walk in,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I hope she didn’t die for nothing.”

Here is a mom whose daughter died twenty-four hours earlier and she is worried about the survivors of the massacre, the kids who have to go back to school.

I lost it. I started crying on the bus. I was glad I was the only one on my team in the office today so I could come in with puffy eyes and no one would notice.

I should have driven my kids to school.

Valentine's Day (sigh)

Note: I was going to write a happy, upbeat little post on why Valentine's Day sucks, but first I need to comment on the school shooting in Florida. Now that both of my kids are in high school, this kind of thing scares me exponentially more than it did when I only had one kid in high school. And I am going to stop thinking "Thank God my kids are safe," which they are. Instead, I will think about the mom who doesn't get to think that tonight.

How much of collective human joy has been destroyed because of these shootings? How many people were planning a festive evening to celebrate their loved ones and then have to experience the shared grief of Florida teenagers and their parents? Should we all become numb--shrug and move on--every time something like this happens? Do we need a magic number of dead kids (say, a dozen?) for a massacre to make national news? Don't kids have enough to worry about these days that they don't need "I could get shot in school by a stranger" added to the list as a credible threat?

I came back from the YMCA this evening and I heard the news on the radio. My son heard about it on Instagram hours before I did. Teens hear about everything that happens anywhere moments after it happens. When I was in middle and high school, we would have the Dan Rather on in the background while we ate dinner. I mostly tuned it out unless something major happened like the Space Shuttle explosion. Now, my kids know more about what Trump said or tweeted today than I do. For better or worse, they are not shielded from the world events. I needed to check in with my kids this evening, to see how they are feeling--worried? angry? sad?

The only hope I have is that my kids and their friends will all grow up someday and call bullshit on allowing people with records of mental illness to have access to AK-47s. Or even anyone to have access to an AK-47. I get blue and moody on occasion and I wouldn't want me handling a weapon on those days. Seriously--even though the likelihood of me committing a mass killing I hope would be infinitely small, would I trust myself that I could keep such a weapon safe and out of the hands of someone who might want to do harm to themselves or others? What about the kids next door? I’d be most worried that the eight year boy next door would think it was a toy and gun down his sisters.

I remember years ago reading about Chechen rebels who attacked a school in Russia and killed more than 300 people. Back then in 2004, I thought that was an act of considerable barbarism. What would be the worst, most reprehensible thing a rebel or terrorist could do to a group of people? Attack their children. It is the lowest of the low. We even think of animals they prey on the young as awful. What birds are considered the worst? The ones that steal other birds eggs. The fox gets a bad rep for stealing eggs from the hen house (and probably a few hens, too.) 

And yet, we permit this to happen. I am not calling for repeal of the second amendment, but nor do I buy the argument that “a few school killings is the price to pay for freedom.”

A Ski, a Pole and a Bone; or "Karma is a B*tch"

The only thing that the Boy hasn't broken this season is his will... and boots. He broke a pair of goggles, too. He went shopping today to get new poles.

Orchids and the Empty Nest

This morning, Jack and the Boy went to hit the epic pow at Alpental where there is 34 inches of fresh snow at the top. I am not skiing after I pulled a muscle in my knee a few weeks ago. Claire-Adele is off at work.

Before they all left, Claire-Adele knocked on the shed door with a piece of paper in her hand, Jack trailing behind. (Jack was on call last night, so I slept in the shed instead being woken up every two hours by his phone. Insomnia is a bitch in my advancing age. I protect my sleep like a mother lion protects her cubs.)

"I got into Maryland," she said.

"The Honor's college and she was accepted into her major," Jack said. "You have to apply to major in Government and Politics, like you have to apply to study engineering at UW."

"Wow," I said. "Western is nice, but the opportunities for going to school in D.C. are..." I wanted to say "huge," but DJT ruined the word for me.

"Maybe she can get an internship with one of the Senators," said Jack.

"I'll need to increase my donation to Patty Murray," I said.

After Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele left, I was watering my orchids. One of them was growing out of control, which is surprising since orchids are high maintenance, slow growth plants. This one had roots growing out from between the leaves. It had roots growing out the pot and down the side. Some of the roots stretched out and tried making a home in the pot of another orchid. Orchids thrive in small pots, but this one had had enough. Its roots were screaming to escape its cramped, plastic home.

I went in the yard to my massive stack of plastic plant pots that should be recycled but aren't. Marie Kondo would have a cow if she saw this mess on the side of my house. She is only liked 33 years old. Of course she doesn't have clutter-she hasn't been on the planet that long. I have t-shirts in my closet older than her. (Maybe not, but close enough.) Anyhow-I found an old orchid pot, brought it in and cleaned it up. I went in the basement and found some orchid bark that I bought before Marie Kondo was born, and repotted my plant into a bigger pot.

And then I started to cry. Claire-Adele is like my orchid, screaming to be on her own, needing a bigger pot.

Soon I will be a partial empty nester, left with an empty pot with no orchid.

But this won't be all bad. As Claire-Adele gains her freedom, I'll regain mine as well. In the past few weeks, I have been hanging out with some of my empty nester friends. One's daughter left for college last fall. Another has two of her three kids out of the house. These are the women who are free after work to go to movies on a weeknight or accompany me the Pacific Northwest Ballet's studio rehearsals at 4:30 p.m. on a Wednesday. Most of my mom friends can't.

Claire-Adele is now more willing to hang out with me, too. Less than twelve hours before she got her acceptance to UMD, we went to dinner downtown Friday after both of us finished work. Jack was working and the Boy was hanging out with friends. I was glad I took this chance to hang out with Claire-Adele. If we were just at home, she might have gone to her home by herself, or I would have spent time cooking dinner. At the restaurant, we had no choice but to talk. I figured I'd take advantage of these opportunities before she moves away forever, like I did from my parents. This summer, we will go to London for a week of mother-daughter bonding before she leaves. And then, I'll hang out with my new crew of other empty nesters.

Obama and Letterman; and Further Evidence

This weekend I watched the David Letterman interview with President Obama on Netflix.

It was relatively dull. My heart didn't start pounding and my adrenaline didn't start pumping. At no point during the show did I start swearing. I yawned a couple of times because I was watching at night while I was folding laundry before I went to bed.

Which was all good.

I'd prefer my world leaders to be dull, not dramatic. Charismatic is fine. Crazy is not. I want to be able to sleep knowing someone competent, capable and stable is in charge, someone who geeks out on policy, who thinks before they speak, where the goal isn’t entertainment but running the largest democracy in the world.

Which is so different than what we have today.

Last week, people were saying Donald Trump is a racist because he called African countries "shitholes."

We as a country need to get something straight: the idea that Trump is a hater is not new news. The "shithole" comments were merely further evidence the guy is a racist. Add this comment to the pile.

We need a broader term than racist to describe Trump. Sure, he hates black people, but he also hates Mexicans, women, people of different religions, immigrants not from Norway, and my favorite (not) -- people with disabilities.

The first time I thought Trump was indecent was when he mocked a disabled reporter early in his campaign for President--before the wall, before the "pussy grabbing," before there were "good people on both sides" of a protest over a Civil War monument coming down. I was on the Seattle Public School's Special Education Task Force for years. When I saw Trump bullying the reporter, I thought: How can this man possibly advocate or support policies that make the lives better for people with disabilities when he is treating them cruelly? If Trump were a private citizen making fun of disabled people, I'd think he was a boorish, obnoxious ass, at best. But he's not a private citizen. His job is to protect the rights of all Americans and ensure we have solid relationships with other countries so our country can thrive.

There are numerous leaders from both political parties who are not asses. There are many Republicans who are much better human beings than Trump. John Kaisch and Jeb Bush wrote an opinion piece in the New York Times decrying Trump's goal to deport 200,000 Salvadorians who came here in 2001 after an earthquake destroyed their country. The people he wants to deport have children who were born here and are citizens. Really?

And does "not being an asshole" have to be highest bar we set for our leaders? Can't we do better? I hope so. I'd really like to have a week where my friends, family, dog walker and co-workers don't start conversations with "Did you hear what Trump said?"

Doppelganger

The New York Times recently ran an article about the Google Arts & Culture app where people can take a selfie and then the app matches your face to art in museums across the world using some kind of visual recognition software.

I tried it myself. This photo was taken with Apple Photo Booth about two years ago.

Here is what it found.

This Japanese deity is Fudo Myoo. He "uses his sword to cut through ignorance and his lasso to reign in those who block the path to enlightenment." His left eye is closed because he is pissed.

“Bye! Love you! Have a good day!”

Every day since Claire-Adele started preschool when she was three, I’ve said these departing words to her:

Bye! Love you! Have a good day!

When the Boy started school, I’d say the same thing to him. Sometimes I'd say it twice, once to Claire-Adele and then two seconds later to the Boy in the same chirpy voice.

"Bye! Love you! Have a good day!" Then so they would each feel special and not left out, I'd say the exact same words again: "Bye! Love you! Have a good day!"

How many times have I said this to my kids over the years? Let's do the math:

180 days in a school year plus 30 days of summer camp = 210 days a year

Claire-Adele -- 14.5 years (starting with preschool)

The Boy -- 11.5 years

26 years x 210 days = 5,460

I've uttered that phrase a lot. It has become rote, a habit, a mantra.

After I walked Fox the other morning, I stopped at the coffee shop around the corner and got something for the kids to eat for breakfast. At 7:03 a.m., there was a line and I started talking to Julianna, the barista who has been there for a few years. She knows everyone in my family, including Fox.

After I paid for my coffee and food, I left the shop. As I was walking out the door, I said

"Bye Julianna! Love ya! Have a good day!"

Yeah. I was tired, but not so tired that I didn't think it was funny. I caught myself and apologized to Julianna. I wondered how many times I have said that to my neighbors, friends, random people but never noticed.

"Don't worry," said Julianna, "I catch myself saying the same thing all of the time to my customers."

Childcare "Professional"

After work, I was watering my orchids and the Boy told me about his day. He was home from school today for MLK Day. He did his Day of Service by helping watch our neighbor's four kids (ages 2 to 11) jump on our trampoline this morning. At the end of the day, he told me how he was better at with kids than he thought he was. He said the mom thought so, too.

"Maybe I could pay you to watch the kids for the rest of the day," the mom told the Boy.

"I am not a childcare professional," he said. "I am the next door childcare amateur."

I laughed at his story. "Claire-Adele is a childcare professional," the Boy told me. "She gets paid to watch kids." Claire-Adele has a job watching kids at a downtown health club.

"You are a childcare amateur," the Boy said to me. "You never got paid to watch kids." 

How depressing, I thought. My expression must have appeared on my face.

"But you are a really, really good amateur!" he said.

Oy. What makes a professional, just getting a paycheck? What about my years and years of unpaid, 24/7/365 experience? Doesn't that count because I wasn't paid? WTF? I've raised kids for seventeen years and I am a lower rank than my daughter who is seventeen? What gives? Or does "Mom" rank higher?

Addendum: I was talking to a friend of a friend at an event this evening who got divorced after 25 years. For most of her marriage up until it ended, she was a stay-at-home mom, full-time parent, primary parent, whatever. She gave up her career to raise her kids. The fact that she wasn't "working" during her marriage became a major issue in her divorce.

"Why is it someone can choose to be a nanny and that is a career, that they are professionals, but if a woman choose to raise her own kids, that isn't considered a job? What gives? Aren't both people doing essentially the same thing, except one is getting paid and the other isn't?"

I hadn't thought of that. Good point.

Darkness and the PNW

I would have titled this “Hello Darkness My Old Friend,” but darkness never has been my friend, really. The darkness I am referring to isn’t Satan, Voldemort, Darth Vader or Trump. It is the appalling lack of daylight and sunshine in the winter months in the Pacific Northwest.

I’ve lived in Seattle for more than thirteen years, so you’d think I’d be used to winter darkness. But during those thirteen years, I didn’t have a day job. I was home or out and about during the day. Now I walk the dog in the dark and ride the bus home on the dark. January is grimmer without Christmas lights up.

I don't think I am suffering from seasonal affective disorder, but I am finding the darkness to be oppressive. It’s not as if I live in Alaska or Norway, but this is worse that what I experienced in the Midwest. When we went to New Zealand a few years ago over the holidays, I felt little like I skipped winter.  That was the year of two summer solstices. We grilled chicken and lamb on the beach for Christmas.

I decided to take pictures to capture the oppressiveness of the darkness--sunrise with Fox, city lights on the way home from work. Maybe the darknesses isn't as bad as I thought. Still, I'm glad the days are getting longer.