Sweet Uncertainty

Homeschooling does NOT suck!

2009-12-16T19:43:00.005-06:00

"Homeschooling sucks!"

Hmm. What does a homeschooler say to this statement? A homeschooler who just happens to be a ten year-old girl, cornered in gym class by a bespectacled peer equipped with a very haughty attitude?

Hayley reluctantly relayed the conversation to me as we drove home from gymnastics class Monday night. The girl had been talking about her school and how it was the best school in the area. She asked Hayley where her school was.

"I'm homeschooled."

"Homeschooled?! Homeschooling sucks!"

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does. Who wants to stay home all day? Who wants to do school at home?"

"I don't stay home all day. I go on field trips and I go to co-op once a week."

"What's co-op?"

"It's like a school for homeschoolers. We have really cool classes like Life in Medieval Times and Cooking and stuff."

"Co-op is stupid. I have friends at school. Lots and lots of friends."

"I have friends, too. Friends from co-op and Girl Scouts and 4-H and from my neighborhood."

"Not real friends. Not friends like mine."

"They're real friends to me."

"Whatever. Homeschooling is boring."

"It wasn't boring today. I got to go sledding this morning with my friends."

"Well, I have recess. I could go sledding then if I wanted to."

"And I get to sleep in. And stay up late. And study what I want to. And get on the computer to play even if it's the middle of the day."

Silence.

"And I don't have homework. Ever."

More silence. Then a glare, accompanied by, "Hmph. I still think homeschooling sucks!"

I listened to my daughter's entire re-enactment of the conversation. I'll admit, a tiny part of me wanted to march inside and tell that child in no uncertain terms just how mistaken she was. But the other part of me swelled with pride over how my daughter handled her surly classmate...and how passionately she defended her choice to homeschool. We continued the drive home and I thought to myself, "Well...at least this ten year-old girl doesn't think homeschooling sucks."

And hers is the only opinion I care about.

Kindness Is Contagious -- Help Spread It!

2009-11-12T06:24:00.006-06:00

Tomorrow is World Kindness Day and I want to celebrate. I want my family and friends to celebrate; I want my city to celebrate; I want the whole world to embrace the ideology of World Kindness Day.

I think about all of the times I am not kind, if not in my actions then in my thoughts. I think about being the recipient of someone who is not kind and how this can give birth to even more negativity -- namely, mine.

Kindness and the act of being kind is essential to peace and harmony -- not just in the world but in your community, in your friendships and in your family. Being kind is not hard and it doesn't have to cost money. All it takes is a willingness to be generous in your thoughts and actions. Kindness breeds kindness. Rapidly.

Try an experiment this Friday. Fill yourself with kindness and, most importantly, share it with others:

Start at home. Offer a smile and a hug first thing in the morning, even if your child (or spouse or roommate) wakes up grumpy or you're running late for work or school. Do something outside of your typical morning routine that helps spread a little kindness: it could be something as simple as feeding the cats or letting the dog out; or snuggling with your kids and reading books before the Getting Ready routine begins in earnest.

When you're driving to work or running errands, let that car pass you on the freeway, the car that has been tailgating you for the past two miles, and do it with grace. Better yet, switch lanes to make it easier for them. Let that other car circling the parking lot pull into the closer spot. Return the abandoned shopping cart to the store, the cart that is threatening to smash into some unsuspecting victim's car.

Hold the door open for someone. Thank a worker -- genuinely thank them -- for a job well-done. Let someone go ahead of you in the checkout line.

Jot a quick note thanking a co-worker or teacher or volunteer in your community to let them know you appreciate what they do. If you don't see them that day, drop it in the mail. Send a letter to someone...just because.

Go out to dinner and leave a bigger tip -- and an even bigger written thank you on the tab. If going out to dinner isn't in the budget or on the schedule, let your kids help out...without complaint. And thank them when they are done.

Tell all the people who hold a special place in your heart that you love and appreciate them, and that you are glad they are in your life.

There are so many simple, easy things we can do to make our world a kinder place. Best of all, kindness is contagious. Think of the impact you could make on World Kindness Day -- and every day -- if you simple take the time to spread a little kindness.

Remember, kindness breeds kindness. Not only in others, but in yourself.

Maybe some day we won't need a World Kindness Day to recognize that.

Sweet Samhain

2009-10-30T07:41:00.004-05:00

Today is Halloween. For the most part, our neighborhood is decorated for celebration: yards are bedecked with giant inflatable ghosts, houses are strung with blinking orange and black lights, and jack o'lanterns are perched like watchmen on front steps. The kids have been discussing their costumes with their friends for weeks and diligently scoping the candy aisle at the grocery store, cataloging available goodies and deciding ahead of time what they're hoping to receive when it comes time to trick-or-treat.

But there are the few houses that remain unadorned, that the kids will race past tonight, whose porch lights will not be on, whose owners will not be delighting in the clever or cute or frightening costumes, who will not be handing out candy to the eager and anxious neighbor kids. It makes me wonder: why?

Perhaps it's the economy. Times are tough and, when making decisions about which bills to pay, buying a bag or two of candy might seem like a frivolous and unnecessary purchase. I get that. Or perhaps those people have plans for tonight and know they will not be home to celebrate; maybe they chose not to decorate because they don't want kids to assume treats are waiting.

But part of me wonders if it is something else. I wonder how much of it is due to the belief that Halloween is a pagan holiday, something evil, something that shouldn't be celebrated.

Halloween does have pagan roots. I don't think anyone can deny that. Samhain (pronounced "sow-en", the Scottish Gaelic word for summer's end) was the traditional time to celebrate the ending of the Light Half of the year and the beginning of the Dark Half. It was a time of reflection and celebration, a time to spend with family and friends, a time to honor and remember those who had already left this life. The Church melded its own beliefs and rituals to this holiday, creating Hallowmas -- All Saints' Day. Their intention was to have people celebrate this holiday only; however, the original customs persisted.

I'm not going to delve into more of the history here; there are enough websites out there with far more thoroughly researched information than what I can provide. But what I do know, what I do believe, is that Halloween -- Samhain -- is not evil. Nor are its pagan roots.

In our house, we do a variety of things to celebrate this transition in the year. Despite the fact that it is not the meteorological equinox, I do see it as a clear delineator between the two halves of the year. The days are markedly colder and shorter, the trees have all but lost their leaves...winter is imminent. Using apples and pumpkin and other harvest foods, I bake as a way to celebrate: breads and muffins and other delicious treats to freeze and savor later. And I feel the shift inside of me, tiny deaths that always leave me a little melancholy.

At this time of transition, I do believe that the veil between this world and the spirit world is fragile and thin. We remember our loved ones who have passed on by setting up an Altar of Remembrance, complete with photos and notes and small gifts, too, should their spirits pass through during this time. It is a time to reflect, for us to talk about the friends and family missing from this life, gone but not forgotten. It is a heartwarming time, knowing their memories live on within us. And it is special to have a time set aside to do this, to create a beautiful and meaningful tradition that we can look forward to, year and year.

But we dress up, too. And we carve pumpkins and read silly Halloween stories and go trick-or-treating and embrace the new meanings of Halloween, what the old customs have morphed into. We celebrate the fact that it is a time for other barriers to become thin and fragile, the barriers between adults and kids. Think about it: on Halloween night, kids let down their guard just a bit and learn that the nameless neighbors can be OK. Adults let down their guard and learn that the neighbor kids are not always just a loud-mouthed group of hooligans: they can be sweet and endearing, or clever or frightful, in their costumes. And with donning a costume, kids and adults alike can let down the barriers of who they are; for one day, they can become someone or something else. This veil, the one between reality and fantasy, becomes thin and fragile, too.

I like to think that the barrier between Christians and non-Christians becomes thin, too. That people can see Samhain for what it is meant to be -- a time of transition -- and not something wicked or evil. In its purest form, this celebration is simply a way to recognize the turning of the year and loved ones who have left this life. A decidedly sweet celebration, I think.

When Life Gives You Apples...

2009-10-28T10:13:00.003-05:00

We made apple cider yesterday. We made it the old-fashioned way, using a hard press cider mill, after we collected wheelbarrows full of apples. Every apple -- mottled, dented, even slightly bruised -- was collected. We shook apples from the boughs and picked them up off the ground. We must have collected thousands of them! And we hauled them back to our host's driveway, the owner of the apple trees and the cider mill, a sweet and gracious woman who invited us to collect all of the apples we wanted -- for free! -- and who welcomed us to use her ladders and wheelbarrows and, most importantly, her cider machine.

Making cider is hard work. It takes a lot of apples (we should have counted, but hundreds were involved. Trust me.) to produce a gallon of apple cider. It takes all kinds of apples -- a mixture of tart green Granny Smiths and sweet State Fair, and yellow Golden Delicious -- to make a good-tasting cider. We loaded apples and cranked the wheel to mash them up. We watched the bucket below as it filled with apple cores and stems and pulp and when it was full, we moved it to the press. We hand cranked that thing and pressed down hard and watched as the sweet-smelling amber liquid rushed like a mini waterfall through the open slats of the bucket and dripped into the waiting container below. We took that container and funneled it through a sieve, into our empty containers, filling them to the brim with frothy, foamy, apple cider. And we tasted it, the hard fruits of our labor, the sweetest cider on earth. It was delicious. Divine. Like nectar, the drink of the gods.

After three hours of hard, strenuous work, we came home two gallons richer. I stowed them in the refrigerator and started making dinner. I was physically drained but I felt more alive -- renewed, refreshed -- than I had in a long time.

Because, you see, that afternoon I learned much more than how to make apple cider. I learned that life is a lot like apple cider. You need all different kinds of experiences -- the sweet, the sour and all the flavors in between -- to make a rich life. You don't focus on simply collecting the best experiences, the shiniest ones, the most perfect ones; you collect them all, bumpy, bruised, as ugly as they may be, because all of them are valuable and necessary. All of them are required to make a rich and vibrant life. Just like apple cider.

The past few weeks have been tough. They have been filled with an influx of emotions -- happiness, regret, remorse -- and I am finally at peace with all of them. I welcome them. I embrace all that I am and all that I have experienced because these are the things that make up me. It is my own personal recipe, a blended mixture that, I think, is a pretty sweet brew.

Everyone knows the saying, When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

I've got a new one: When life gives you apples -- all kinds of apples -- make apple cider.

I'm glad I did.

We Walked A Mile...And Then Some

2009-10-01T07:03:00.007-05:00

Our family participated in a charity event this weekend, a walk-a-thon to raise money for our sister school in Vietnam. It was a terrific cause with the money raised going towards helping these kids afford school, buy supplies and improve their classrooms. And I didn't want to go.

If it had been any other weekend, I would have been thrilled to participate. Really. But I'd just finished up an all-day homeschool conference -- you know, the kind you go to and volunteer at, where your feet ache from standing all day, directing foot traffic, and your mouth feels all stretched out from smiling so much? -- and I was beat. Exhausted. I didn't think I could walk five steps, much less a mile. But we had signed up and the kids were excited and I was not about to let the other families down who had invested so much time and effort in setting this up. I would go and I would somehow find my smile. And I would leave the 3 year-old home with Daddy; even though he'd had the kids the day before while I was at the conference, I figured he could handle the youngest while he stayed home and watched football. She'd have a much better time playing cars than traversing the trails in the Refuge.

My hope of leaving her home was looking a lot less promising as she followed me around the house, scrambling to put her own shoes on as I laced mine up.

"Don't you want to stay home and play with Daddy?" I asked, my voice much too hopeful.

Her lip quivered. "I wanna be wif you." And then her eyes welled with tears. "You were gone all day."

Yesterday. The conference. Guilt flooded me and I relented. It was an easy walk. Just a mile. She could do it. She'd hiked all throughout Yellowstone and the Badlands, hadn't she? Besides, it would be good practice for our trip to California later that week -- and all of our day-long visits to Disneyland.

So we headed out. I tried to be in a good mood as we drove -- late -- to the Wildlife Refuge, the location of the walk. I tried not to grumble as the wind whipped about and the skies darkened. I tried to smile as the clock ticked and we still hadn't started, waiting for those who were even later than me. And I tried my hardest not to complain as we finally started the walk and Julia decided she much preferred being carried than walking on her own two feet.

"Just let her walk," someone suggested as I lifted her into my arms. "She'll catch up."

Yes...shrieking at the top of her lungs. Since I didn't want to a) leave my child wandering aimlessly through the wildlife refuge or b) listen to her blood-curdling screams, I adjusted her on my hip and followed the trail. After all, it was only a mile.

I voiced this out loud and someone corrected me. Apparently, the title of the walk was slightly misleading. The coordinators decided Walk a Mile In My Shoes flowed a little better than Walk Two Point Five Miles In My Shoes.

"For real?" I asked. "It's really two and a half miles?"

Yep. Did I also mention we were hiking to the highest point in Sherburne County? On a steep and narrow dirt path? Single-file, with people going up and down at the same time? With poison ivy lurking dangerously close to the trail? And wild pumas just waiting to pounce?

OK, so I'm being dramatic. There were no wild pumas. But there was poison ivy -- and I was still carrying 35 lbs. of extra weight squarely on my hip. I was not a happy hiker.

But I did it. No, I didn't carry her the whole way and no, the hike wasn't that miserable. The scenery was beautiful and I was hiking with good friends, which definitely sweetened my rather sour deal. Still, I was happy to reach the parking lot. I was happy it was almost over and I could set the preschooler down, gather my belongings and go home.

I was heading to the car when the two older kids reminded me of the raffle.

"There are going to be prizes!"

"And we could win them!!"

So I heaved a big, heavy sigh and we stayed for the raffle. Which meant, of course, that we had to wait for everyone to get back from the hike. I thought I was the last one to finish but apparently some brave (i.e. foolish) souls had decided to hike the longer loop -- as if 2.5 miles wasn't long enough?? -- and were slowly trickling back in to the registration area.

Finally, everyone returned and we were ready for the raffle. The first ticket was being pulled from the box when we all noticed the dark clouds racing across the sky and the winds picking up in intensity.

"Let's hurry up with this," someone said. "Looks like it's going to storm."

No sooner than the words were out, the skies opened with a heavy downpour of ice-cold rain. The wind whipped furiously, hurricane-strength gusts that tore the tarp off of our tent and threatened to upend tables. Kids were screaming, huddling under tables or taking cover near the bathrooms while the adults raced around, grabbing items and throwing things into any available car.

The storm was an eye-opener for me. You would think, based on my day, that it would be the final nail in the coffin of my bad mood. But it wasn't. Instead, I felt invigorated. It suddenly hit home why we were doing this walk and my earlier surliness melted away with the rain.

I didn't have to do this walk; I chose to. When this was all said and done, I had a car to seek shelter in, a car with a wonderful heater that would warm my chilled bones in a manner of seconds. I had a cozy house to go home to and a microwave that could easily ready a hot cup of tea the minute I walked through my door.

The kids we were walking for didn't have those luxuries. If they wanted to better their lives and have any hope of ending the cycle of poverty they existed in, they had to make that walk. Even if it rained. Even if it was windy. Even if it snowed. Even if they had to carry a book bag or help a younger sibling along the way.

These kids did this walk every day, to school and back home. I doubted they complained and I realized -- rather belatedly, of course -- that I shouldn't complain, either. I should be grateful for walking that two point five miles today, grateful that I had the experience and grateful that, by taking part, my family was taking one small step in making someone else's life a little better.

It was definitely a mile worth walking. Well, two point five miles worth walking...

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2009-09-25T08:31:00.002-05:00

My house has been filled with heated conversations lately. Passion, frustration and anger have been frequent visitors in the car and around the dinner table as we discuss current events: namely, the country's reaction to President Obama's school address and a certain YouTube video of school children singing a song espousing the merits of our new president. I have been amazed at the uproar and backlash by these things and, more importantly, by the reactions I have witnessed in people.

This post is not going to be about me. It is going to be about my daughter, my kind and wise ten year-old daughter who listens intently when her dad and I discuss issues, who asks questions and tries to understand and vocalizes her own opinions in an attempt to make sense of the world around her.

I told her about the song video. I explained in very neutral terms what had happened -- simply that a school had an assembly during Black History month to sing about our newly inaugurated president. I told her some of the lyrics and asked her what she thought of them. She pointed out that she wouldn't mind singing it, because she likes President Obama. However: "But what about all of those kids who liked John McCain? They probably don't think President Obama is a good president. Did they have to sing it, too?"

Exactly, my dear. Exactly.

I told her that a lot of people across the country were very upset with the Democrats and with President Obama because of the song.

"But, Mom, it was ONE school. And it wasn't like President Obama asked the kids to sing it! I don't see what the big deal is."

Exactly, my dear. Exactly.

A later conversation stemming from the song video involved the president's school address from a few weeks back. Chris and I were discussing it and the reactions it received among conservative parents. Hayley didn't understand why the president couldn't address school kids. We explained that some people thought he would have a political message hidden in his talk. We explained that some people, quite simply, didn't like our new president and didn't want their kids exposed to him.

"Why?" she asked.

We went through all of the reasons. Differing political points of view. He's too liberal. Differing religious points of view. He's not Christian enough. She listened politely. Intently.

We mentioned his ethnicity and she about went through the roof.

"What? People don't like him because he's black? But, Mom, that's what the Civil Way was about. And that was fought over a hundred years ago! Who cares what color his skin is!!"

Exactly, my dear. Exactly.

My Day As a Pioneer

2009-08-14T11:22:00.003-05:00

I time traveled to the 1800s today. We visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum in Walnut Grove, Minnesota. We visited the banks of Plum Creek and saw the location of her sod house and picnicked and played. I didn't wear a bonnet or dress -- shorts and tank top were my attire in the 90 degree heat -- and our picnic didn't consist of 19th century foods -- unless they had Pringles and Chips Ahoy cookies and individually wrapped cheese sticks.

So. How did I time travel? What part of my experience made me feel as though I had left the 21st century behind? Well, see, apparently there is this tiny pocket of land in southwestern Minnesota that receives no AT&T coverage. None. Nada. Zilch. We were driving along through the quaint little towns of Hutchinson and New Ulm and my iphone would drop to a half bar or, even worse, flash Searching. Not that I was checking it while driving, of course. Goodness, no. Only at stoplights.....

I was OK with it at first. I drove past the endless corn fields and prairie, thinking I'd be fine once we got to the next town. But, no, things did not improve. In fact, the closer we got to Walnut Grove, the dicier service became. I think I actually gasped out loud when my phone read No Service.

I'll admit it. I panicked. Completely freaked out. Not because I was alone in the middle of nowhere without cell service -- we'd traveled down with three families, a nice little line of minivans and SUV's. Not because I was afraid of getting lost and the GPS feature on my phone was unusable. No. I was silently (I hope -- kids, did you hear anything?) cursing AT&T because I was out of touch. Unreachable. I had no access to phone...voice mail...text messages...email. Not just for a couple of minutes until we traveled to the next town, mind you. We had arrived. We were at our destination and I was unplugged.

What was I going to do? What if someone needed me? I had edits out; I had events in planning mode; I had Facebook messages! How was I going to survive hours without my connection to the outside world? The two friends who had Verizon (and thus service) were nonplussed. My other friend commiserated slightly; she had AT&T service, too. But her concern was that she wouldn't be able to communicate with the other cars as we were driving (this was valid, since we'd temporarily lost two of the moms on the way down).

I don't think I can count how many times I checked for service as we strolled through the buildings and grounds of the museum, hoping I could find a small spot that a cell service tower might reach. I was convinced it was there -- maybe to the left of the sod house, closest to the telephone line, or maybe in the center of the recreated prairie (yes, I did lift my phone skyward, hoping I might pick up on some random phone waves....). No luck.

We continued on to Plum Creek and I checked there, too. We were in the middle of some farmer's land, folding our $4 per car and inserting it into the tiny mailbox at the entrance of Laura's sod house site. Still nothing.

I gave up. I shoved my phone back in my pocket and settled down for our picnic lunch on the banks of Plum Creek. We spread blankets and munched sandwiches, swatted at bees and drank our lemonade. We chatted, we laughed. And, later, we explored the creek. We waded through the cool water and watched the minnows struggle upstream. We sank our feet into soft, squishy mud and squealed as it squelched between our toes. We found logs to crawl across and vines to swing on, out and over the creek.

We spent hours at the creek. Playing. Laughing. We listened to the birds sing and the bees buzz and the wind as it rustled through the willows and the tall prairie grass that lined the banks. It was beautiful. It was magical. I had the best time with my kids and friends. No distractions except what they and Mother Earth provided. I couldn't remember a better day.

We finally climbed back into the cars, soaked and mud-encrusted, sated and spent. I'd like to say that I kept my phone safely stowed, that I didn't check it until we got home. Um, no. I hadn't time-traveled that far. But, you know what? I'd go back...in a heartbeat. My day in the 1800's turned out pretty darn awesome.

Halloween and High School

2009-08-10T06:54:00.004-05:00

It was the evening of my twenty year high school reunion and I was bustling about, getting ready. I helped my three year old into her pink leotard and slipped her glitter-encrusted fairy wings on to her shoulders. Nick needed help squeezing into his too-small Shrek costume and adjusting his mask. Hayley sat at the table, waiting her turn. I adjusted her ponytail, pushing away stray strands of her long, sun-kissed brown hair before slathering the cool mud mask on her face, transforming her instantly into Spa Girl. With everyone finally in full costume, we loaded on to the golf cart and headed down to the clubhouse for costume judging. It was Halloween in August at White Birch Resort. It was also my twenty year reunion...and I wasn't going.

Not because I didn't want to. The logistics were just, quite simply, overwhelming. I was in Minneapolis and the reunion in San Diego. I was traveling that direction in October and had no reason to make two trips to the West Coast in almost as many months. Those were the reasons that dictated my choice. But, if I was honest with myself, I was a little hesitant about going...about seeing faces that would trigger memories, some of which I'd buried deep, and for good reason. Was I ready to dig up the past? Not just the pretty parts, the memories that would make me laugh and smile, but the sharp, jagged pieces that might slice at my heart just as easily as they had the first time around? I didn't know. This would have been the first time I'd seen most of these people since graduation. I grabbed my diploma that sunny afternoon in June of '89, walked off that football field and never looked back....not for my ten year reunion and not to keep in touch with people in even the most cursory sort of way.

My kids lined up for the costume contest and I watched them. I thought about all of the disguises I'd donned and the roles I'd played in high school. Those four years were like a perpetual Halloween. I tried on identities like a preschooler rummages through a dress-up bin, searching for items that, when put together and adjusted in just the right way, announced the perfect fit. I could relate to all three of my kids' costumes: Julia the fairy, a vision in pink, waving her magic wand regally through the air, sweet and innocent and utterly delectable. Nick as the misunderstood Shrek,with his green plastic mask that sported a blinding white smile, tough but tender. And Hayley the Spa Girl, simple and vulnerable in her bathrobe, the mud mask on her face hiding her...cleansing her, stripping away the old. I realized with a start that each one of these costumes represented me -- at different stages -- in my high school. Was it coincidence? Was I seeing things, making connections that weren't really there?

I didn't think so. I don't think my experience -- the roles I played on my quest to discover who I was and what I was all about -- was an anomaly. So maybe I took some things to the extreme. Maybe. But every situation -- the good and the bad -- shaped and molded me and made me the woman I am today. Two decades later, I finally feel like I know who I am. More importantly, I can say, with a smile on my face and with unmatched confidence, I like who I am, who I turned into after the costumes and disguises were safely stowed away.

I spent my night trick-or-treating with my kids, enjoying an extra Halloween, our Halloween in August. I watched them race from house to house, shrieking with delight and exclaiming over their bags filled with goodies and I couldn't imagine a place I'd rather be. Later, after we'd started a campfire and snuggled into chairs, I cracked open a Pacifico. It was after nine in northern Minnesota which meant the party was -- maybe -- just getting started at the House of Blues. I offered a silent toast to all of those high school friends converging at that club, hair and make-up carefully done, dressed to the nines. I hoped those weren't costumes or disguises. I hoped my former classmates were comfortable with who they were. Where they'd been. What they'd accomplished.

I hoped they recognized how special each of them were. Are. I hoped egos and reputations had been set aside and that my classmates could enjoy each other as the unique individuals they were. That was what I wanted and that was what I was missing, I realized. Not the party, but the chance to see my classmates with twenty years of life experience under their belts, with the disguises finally set aside. Halloween was over and I was sure they were all beautiful.

Hopping on the Twilight Train...

2009-07-31T09:38:00.011-05:00

Sigh. I can't believe I'm doing this. I feel as though I've sunk to new lows in the blogosphere of writing. Yes, I am going to write about Twilight. Yes, I realize there is probably nothing new to say about the phenomenon but I just have to add my two cents. Bear with me or move along. Your choice.

I've read the books. I -- against my will -- suffered through the movie (I use the term lightly). I am not going to write about Bella's struggles or Edward's virtues or the fact that the guy playing James in the movie far surpassed Edward on the hotness scale. No. I simply need to comment on this photo a friend sent to me.

No, this woman is not the new Bella and this darling little baby is not Renesmee. The story is that this mom showed up on the set of New Moon, baby in tow. She had a chance to meet a few of the actors and asked Robert Pattinson to pose as Edward biting her baby.

Um. What?! Back up. Wait a minute. Can we do a reality check here? Has every female on the planet lost touch with real life? Checked it at the door as they entered the realm of fantasy land? I think I see Tattoo....

Twilight is a book. The characters are not real.

I will be the first to admit that I loved Stephenie Meyer's story. It was compelling and romantic and dangerous -- a heady concoction that clearly spoke to millions of other young girls and women across the globe. I longed for Edward. I loved him. I agonized over what I would have done, had I been in Bella's shoes. I think every woman who has read the book (and enjoyed it) has projected herself into that role. And, I will also admit, it broke my heart just the tiniest bit that he wasn't real. He was a fabulous male, dreamed up in the imaginative mind of a great storyteller, and he did not exist.

Not once have I thought of the actors who portrayed the Twilight characters as real. Not once have I looked at Robert Pattinson and thought of Edward (sorry, ladies who love him...he was never my Edward). And not once have I had any desire to meet or drool over -- or offer my children in sacrifice -- to any of the actors who portrayed the bloodthirsty-but-restrained vampires from the books. My husband works for a company that sponsored a Twilight tour last fall and he did meet three of the characters from the movie. He had the opportunity to work one of the locations with Robert Pattinson -- and I could have gone, too, dragging my own three children along -- but he opted not to. And I never even considered it.

Because, see, I know that the pasty-faced guy with the smoldering amber eyes and the super-human speed and strength is made up. His face is caked with powder and cream and his own (presumably) beautiful eyes are covered by contacts. And his strength and speed are the result of really bad special effects, at least in the first movie. But there are clearly thousands, if not millions, of people who forget that this is an actor, a young actor who, in all honesty, is probably nothing like the character he is portraying on screen.

I feel sorry for these actors. My husband relayed a story from one of the Twilight signings last year in Chicago, told to him by a co-worker who was on site. The mob of teenage girls and adult women clamoring to meet "Edward" was out of control -- thousands of people waiting for a few hundred wristbands. Once inside, people began to shriek and sob as they saw him. Girls slipped him notes and hotel keys. One young woman asked him to marry her. Another unabashedly told him, "I love you." To this, Mr. Pattinson responded, "Why? Why do you love me? You don't even know me!"

There you have it, straight from the horse's mouth.

For those of you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, wondering how this is different from groupies that have stalked musicians and bands for decades, I'll offer this: at least they are playing their own music (unless, of course, they're Milli Vanilli...). They are writing their songs or playing their instruments or putting on amazing shows that compel people to fall in love with something they have created. An actor, on the other hand, is playing a role... a Dr. Frankenstein breathing life into a character that has already been created and defined by its maker. Nothing more.

I know, I know. The picture was done in jest, in fun. I should lighten up, right? And I'm sure the woman really did just want to visit the set and thought posing for said photo would be funny. And it is...kind of. But, if it had been me, I think I would have wanted a regular picture, one after the make-up was scrubbed clean and the scorching eyes were removed...a photo of me with a smiling Robert Pattinson. A picture of me and an actor. Of me appreciating the fact that, after it was all said and done, I was honored to be in a photo with him, not the character he was portraying. And, you know what? I think he would have appreciated that, too.

Piercing the Double Standards

2009-07-29T06:39:00.007-05:00

My eight year-old approached me the other day with a request. "Mom, I want to get my ears pierced."

"Oh." I was stumped as to what to say. "Um...why?"

"Because they look nice. Cool."

I hesitated. "I don't know...."

"Hayley got them when she was six. I'm eight."

Good point, I thought. And for those of you reading this, you might be thinking: Gee, what is wrong with this woman? Why would she allow one kid to pierce their ears at age six but is hedging over the eight year-old's request?

Because the eight year-old is a boy. That's why.

I have never allowed my children's interests to be dictated by gender stereotypes. My daughter will be the first to admit that she loved playing with Matchbox cars when she was little (still does sometimes) and my son is always ready to sit down and play Barbies with the three year-old. Nail polish adorns the fingers and toes of all three children in our household and it doesn't faze me in the slightest.

But earrings? I hated to admit it, but I just wasn't sure. Not because I didn't think he was ready for them or because he wasn't old enough; no, I was concerned about what people might think. If he would be teased. If people would think he was too feminine...too soft. But this was something he really wanted. My greatest hope for my kids is that they remain happy and true to themselves, regardless of what others might think, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to put these thoughts into action.

Still,I decided to ask for opinions. After all, I thought, who better to turn to than family and friends? Family and friends who have their own kids, or who are still kids themselves. I was ready for a wide range of opinions but what I wasn't prepared for was the vehemence of those views, the passion with which people expressed their opinions. I had no idea one small hole could create such a stir.

Some people said to just tell him no. Because I said so, because he was a boy. Those responses didn't sit well with me. I have never been the type of mom to say "Because I said so!" when my kids asked for a reason why. Well...not very often, anyway. And for a decision of this magnitude, it was definitely not an option. I looked at the second choice: Because he's a boy. Hmmm. I didn't like that one, either. Why do there have to be double standards for boys and girls? Why is one thing considered acceptable (by society's standards) for girls but not for boys, and vice versa? Because, I realized, this is what I was dealing with. Not whether or not he was old enough, or responsible enough to take care of them. His sister got earrings when she was six; why shouldn't he be able to? Why should it be any different for him?

A friend of mine said double standards are a fact of life. He was quick to ask, "If he wanted to wear make-up or put on a dress, would you let him?" Actually, I would. And he has. He has two sisters and a mom who adore make-up; what kid wouldn't want to emulate the people he's around all day long? For me to deny him the fun of reddening his cheeks or dabbing on sparkly eye shadow seemed like an unnecessary cruelty. It was harmless fun, as far as I was concerned. Does he wear make-up outside of the house? No. If he did, would I allow it? Sure.

Other people emailed me about how ridiculous they thought earrings looked on boys, or if I'd given any thought to the fact that people might (gasp!) think he was gay. Aren't looks a matter of opinion, I thought? I mean, I see boys with shaved heads or girls coming back from Caribbean vacations, their hair twisted into hundreds of mini braids, and I cringe. I don't like those particular looks but other people clearly do. I would never think to tell someone not to do it, simply because it wasn't my cup of tea.

As for the gay comment, my first thought was, "So what?" I love my kids as whole beings -- regardless of their gender, sexual orientation, IQ,...you name it. If a person chooses to judge someone simply by what they think their sexual orientation might be, I don't want to spend much time with said person. Close-mindedness is the biggest turn-off I can think of. Besides, does wearing an earring make a man gay? Is it some universal symbol of gayness I'm not aware of? Um, last time I checked, it wasn't. So if straight men can wear earrings, can't boys wear them too?

Still others pointed out that, at age eight, how can he really know if this is something he wants, if an earring is something he'll want to wear forever? Well, unlike tattoos, earrings aren't exactly permanent fixtures on a person's body. They can be taken out. And, again, it went back to the double standard: what if a girl changed her mind? Did any parent ask their daughter to think carefully about her decision to pierce her ears, to ponder the ramifications of not wanting them years later, to mull over the fact that she might have scarred lobes for the rest of her life? No parent I knew did that; in fact, I knew more moms who marched their daughters in to the nearest Piercing Pagoda to get the deed done, regardless of what that child wanted. So what if he changed his mind later? I was fine with that.

To balance the scales, there were several supportive family and friends, people who said there was nothing wrong with earrings on boys, who said he would look cute, who urged me to support him and to thumb our noses at society's decree of what was considered "acceptable." And I was grateful.

In fact, I was grateful for all of the responses I received because it really helped me define my role as a parent. I am here to support my children, to help them along on the precipitous path toward adulthood. There are some decisions I am going to have to make for them -- they obviously cannot eat cookies for every meal of the day, or skip brushing their teeth altogether, or watch R-rated movies -- but there are other decisions they will have to make for themselves. I can offer advice and I can offer my opinion but, ultimately, the choice will be theirs. I decided my son getting his ears pierced was going to be one of them.

I approached him the next day about the earrings. I told him my concerns: he would have to take care of them and leave them in for at least six weeks; he might get teased by kids and grown-ups; they might get infected and he would have to deal with that. All of this was told in a very matter-of-fact voice; I did not judge and when he asked for my opinion, I told him I thought he would look just fine with earrings. Cute.

"So," I said, standing up from the couch. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"To get your ears pierced." I glanced at my watch. "We've got three hours before soccer starts. We can make it to the mall and back."

"But --"

"Come on," I said. "Let's go."

He balked. "Wait. I think I want to think about it." He frowned at me. "This is a pretty big decision, you know."

I did know. But, I thought as I smiled to myself, at least it was going to be his.

Lessons from the Fair

2009-07-20T11:37:00.001-05:00

I survived the fair. There really should be a bumper sticker for this -- or at the very least, a flair button on Face Book. You know, a badge to wear proudly, to stick on my dirty, sweat-dampened shirt as testament, proof positive that I did it.

Each year, my kids become more involved with fair activities which translates to more time spent at the fairgrounds. This year it was Five. Days. Straight. Uh-huh. They entered 4-H projects. They worked the Children's Animal Barn (3 times). They performed in the 4-H musical (7 times). They participated in Performing Arts. They worked the 4-H Food Stand.

So, after spending more hours than I ever thought possible at our county's fairgrounds, I have decided to compile my experiences, to share my words of wisdom, lest you find yourself in the same position I was in (poor fools....)

#1. If you think an event will take one hour, plan for two. Or three. Or better yet, all day. The kids had several 4-H projects they turned in, all of which needed to be judged. Some of the lines were long -- you'd think there was a free screening of the newest Harry Potter movie. Actually it was better. See, each 4-H project translates into something every kid wants -- free money. Premiums. In our county, each completed project was worth anywhere from $2.00 - $3.00. Since the number of projects each kid could turn in was almost limitless, well...you do the math. It didn't matter how much money we parents had to shell out for tag board, glue sticks, ink cartridges, colored duct tape, printer paper, etc. (in our household, this easily topped out at almost a hundred dollars). I did, in fact, inquire what percentage of premiums I would be receiving from Hayley's profits....met by thin-lipped silence, of course.

But, I digress. The lines were long. Really, really long. So long that Hayley couldn't turn in all of her projects (a huge travesty since I'd already spent the money on supplies -- we weren't even going to make any money back on it! I suggested she save it for next year...) because we had tennis lessons to get to....and we'd already missed the first one a few days earlier....

So, don't plan any other scheduled activities for Judging Day and plan to be there all day. Truly.

#2. There is no such thing as healthy fair food. Oh, sure. There are stands that sell corn on the cob and fresh veggies, grilled meat and bottled water. Our 4-H food stand was one of them. And, believe me, I tried to eat healthy. I ordered the veggies and dip -- and gasped out loud at the quart of fat-laden ranch dressing that accompanied it. How am I supposed to resist that? It's sitting right next to my cauliflower and broccoli, practically begging me to eat it, daring me to dip those veggies in. As if I could resist. I salivated over the corn on the cob and was sorely tempted to order one -- until I saw Theresa drench those babies into a bath of melted butter. So much for healthy.

Another thing. Eating those healthy options lulls you into a false sense of security. As in, "Well, all I had for lunch was a tiny tray of veggies and dip. I can splurge on this ice cream cone. And cookies. And mini cinnamon donuts. And fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie. Come on, it has fruit in it!"

The better option is to just give in. Know, going into fair, that you will gain weight. And then eat those forbidden foods -- dive into the deep-fried funnel cakes and corn dogs, gorge yourself on cheese curds and ice cream floats. Hey, the fair only comes around once a year, right? You have the remaining 360 days to eat healthy (as long as you're good during birthdays and Thanksgiving and Christmas...)

#3. Choose your stance on the safety of carnival rides prior to the fair...and stick to it. Every year, there is some God-awful story about a child being flung from the ferris wheel or crushed by a runaway roller coaster. I'd never given it too much thought in relation to my life. I mean, yes, it's awful and I feel terrible for the families involved but they are, in fact, horrible freak accidents, not something to compulsively worry about. And even though I am prone to worrying obsessively over things that are unlikely to happen (sharks lurking at my feet every time I step into the ocean, anyone?), I am actually OK with rides. At least I was until we took a walk around the fairgrounds while the carnies were setting up.

OK. Did you know that those rides come apart? I'm not talking about four or five pieces -- some of them looked like Tinker Toy sets, waiting to be reassembled. And, honestly, I'm not sure the men putting those back together had the instructions. They were hauling out concrete bricks to position the kids coaster, duct taping parts of the Kamikaze together, wrapping rope around the banister to the steps of the Magic Slide. After I picked my jaw up off the ground, I turned to the kids and told them, in no uncertain terms, that rides were out this summer. Off limits. We'd be going to Disneyland in October, I told them. Far better to go on rides that didn't have to be disassembled every five days and hauled half-way across the country. Besides, I felt much better putting my trust in Cast Members and Disney Imagineers. I don't know why, but there is something...comforting...safe-feeling...about men who don't have facial hair and multiple piercings. You know, the Disney dress code.

Of course, my eight year-old son -- mini-lawyer in training and Disney fan extraordinaire -- was quick to point out recent Disney catastrophes. Monorail, anyone? Thunder Mountain crash a few years back? Was I just going to make everything off limits, he demanded? Driving in a car was dangerous -- people were injured in accidents every day. Would it be safer to walk to the fair? But then we might get hit by traffic. Maybe we should just stay home from the fair, he suggested.

I could only suffer through so much of his logic. I gave up. Gave in. One ride only. And next time, the Midway was off limits. We wouldn't even walk through that section of the fair. I would stand firm, be stern. Right.

I'm sure there's more. I'm sure there are other lessons I could share, other sage advice and words of wisdom I can pass on. But I'm too tired. I just spent Five. Days. Straight. At the fair.

A Grand Adeventure

2009-07-10T09:29:00.001-05:00

My cousin walked into the wilderness the other night, shunning society and all of its comforts and conveniences, leaving her family and friends behind.

OK, it wasn't quite as dramatic as all that. She didn't really disappear into the woods...she got on a bus. And she didn't go off alone, per se...there were fifty-some other kids who decided to embark on the same journey. Alycia took part in a Voyageurs trip, a month-long adventure into the wilds of Canada. She was going to spend the next month canoeing across lakes and hiking through forests, learning about teamwork and commitment, about endurance and survival.

The kids and I were invited to her Last Supper, a gathering for family and friends to bid their Voyageur farewell, to see them receive their Voyageur necklaces and t-shirts, to marvel over the paddles they'd decorated -- paddles they would use to navigate the lakes and rivers in the waters that straddled northern Minnesota and southern Canada -- and to reflect on all that this journey would entail.

As I watched her pose for pictures and chat with family and friends, I thought back to when I was her age. Seventeen, the summer before my senior year. Would I have done what she was about to do? No. Why not? My choice would have been dictated by a lot of reasons but, if I was honest with myself, the dominant reason that would have sealed my decision would have been fear.

Fear of what lurked in those woods and lakes and fear of the feelings and actions of the people I was surrounding myself. Most importantly, though, was the fear of the feelings I would harbor within. Would I be homesick and miserable the entire time? Would I be resentful of people not pulling their weight....or ashamed that people were thinking those thoughts about me? Would I be rejoicing at the beauty and splendor of the wilderness that surrounded me? Would the experience be so moving, so profound that it changed the very essence of who I was? I wouldn't know...because I was too afraid to find out.

I asked Alycia how she was feeling. Nervous and excited, she said. Not afraid. That word never crossed her lips and this amazed me. It inspired me. If she was afraid, she wasn't going to admit it. And if she wasn't - well, she was braver than I was at her age. Probably braver than I am now.

Family and friends were encouraged to pen a letter to their departing Voyageur. These would be carried by their adult guides and given to the kids at some midpoint in their travels. What follows is the letter I wrote to Alycia.

Dear Alycia,

So, I'm sitting here trying to think of something fabulously wise or witty to say to you. And I'm coming up with...nothing. I don't have advice for someone who has voluntarily chosen to rough it in the wilderness for 3+ weeks, turned her back on the comforts of society, and willingly abandoned the familiarity of home and family. Not because I'm not amazed by this – on the contrary, I am in awe – but because I don't have anything in my history to compare it to, nothing to measure it against, to say “Oh, well when I did that when I was your age, this is how it made me feel.” Nothing.

I imagine right now , as you read this, that you are probably lounging against the back of a tree. The rough bark is digging into your back as you seek shade from a relentless summer sun, swatting at mosquitoes as you methodically work your way through the stack of letters you've been handed. Some of those letters will be funny, some will be filled with words of encouragement and love. All of them will be from people who love you, who are filled with admiration and pride as they think of the adventure you are on, this journey you chose for yourself. All of them will be from people who, in some small way or another, wish it was them on the journey, too. People who wish they had the time, the money, the youth, and most importantly, the courage, to do what you're doing.

I can't profess to know the reasons why you chose to go or what you might take away from this experience. I do know, however, that it will be profound. You will come back a changed person – more grown-up, perhaps, more resolved or adventurous, more determined or courageous – or maybe all of those things. You will be morphing into the Alycia you are destined to be, the Alycia that is growing, evolving. You will be adding pieces to the puzzle that will, ultimately, encompass all of who you are. Y ou should be proud.

I know I am.

Safe travels, Alycia. I'm thinking of you every day. And I'm not afraid.

My Love Affair With....Fishing

2009-07-09T22:17:00.001-05:00

I like to fish. No, wait. That isn't exactly true. I love to fish. Adore it. If I were to go up to the lake and spend the entire weekend fishing, that would be just fine with me. My cousin thinks I'm crazy. We talked about it on a recent visit up north. She lounged in a chair, book in hand, while I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch, waiting for the men to ready themselves. You know, gather the poles and load up the tackle boxes...and grab the cooler full of beer.

"What on earth can you possibly find enjoyable about fishing?" She was not coming with us. No way, no how.

"What do you mean?" I demanded, my eyes wide. "What isn't there to love?"

She stared at me. "Hmm, let's see...baiting the hook?"

I grimaced. No, actually, I hated that part. We fished with all kinds of bait -- minnows, night crawlers, beaver tails, leeches. I tried to bait my own hook...I really did. I could get as far as taking the lid off the Styrofoam container of leeches. But touch them? I got shivers just thinking about them attaching, vacuum-like, to my fingers. No way. And the minnows -- well, it was sympathy that prevented me from scooping them out of the water-filled plastic bag and skewering them on the fish hook. I mean, they watched me with their massive, bulbous eyes and I could almost hear their tiny voices shrieking, Nemo-like, "Not me! Not me!"

I was slightly better with night crawlers and beaver tails (both worms -- betcha didn't know that, huh?). These I could actually dig out from their nest of brown earth and hold them in my hand. But pierce them with a sharp metal object? Nope. Couldn't do it.

So my choices, if I wanted to fish and hold out any hope of catching something, were limited to two: (1) suggest in a hopeful voice which bait I'd like to try and wait for Dad or some other brave male to offer BAS (Bait Assist Services) or (2) settle for the fake bait -- you know, the neon pink gelatinous blobs that resembled worms and reeked of fish guts. I could put these on with ease; the trouble is, and contrary to popular belief, fish are smart. They know when you're trying to pull a fast one...and they usually don't bite on smelly gummi worms.

"OK," I conceded. "I don't like to bait my hook. So what? I still love to fish."

She gave me the stare again, this time incredulous. "And when you catch a fish? You like taking them off?"

I chewed my lip. No, I didn't relish that part, either. I thought of the tiny sunnies and crappies that were drawn to my bait like bees to honey, too big to keep as bait themselves and too small to fry up. If left to me, they'd die a slow and painful death, gulping deadly gill-fulls of suffocating air as they waited for me to work up the gumption to wrench the hook free from their mouths. And the keepers? The larger pan fish, the bass and the elusive walleye (I'm convinced there is only one actual walleye in each of Minnesota's lakes) that, when you click your heels, clap three times and wish for a fish, magically appear on the end of your line? Yeah, I couldn't get those off, either. And don't even get me started on Northerns, which I know would, in fact, bite me with their razor-sharp teeth if given the chance. Don't even try to tell me otherwise. Vile creatures.

"OK. I don't really like that part. But -- "

She interrupted me. "And you get seasick, Beth. Even on the lake."

She had me there, too. If I could get sick on my honeymoon cruise, green in the face on an unsubmerged submarine and violently ill on a massive Navy destroyer, a pontoon bouncing over the wakes of speedboats and jet skis was bound to make my skin turn green and my stomach roll. And, if the wind wasn't blowing and the sun was too hot and the water was either too still or too rough, I did.

"Yeah..."

My cousin frowned. "So, what's left? What exactly is it that you love about fishing?"

I pondered this. What did I love about fishing? Clearly, it was not the mechanics of bait on, fish off. I wasn't much of a caster, either. I spent more time untangling my line from all of the obstacles I encountered -- boat cushions, the anchor, and the weeds I thinned from the bottom of the lake -- than casting out. I was slightly better at reeling in, except when there was a fish attached. A nibble that caused my bobber to disappear under the water created a knee-jerk reaction in me; usually, I reeled in too quickly or jerked on my line too hard and the fish would slip off, a close call averted.

So, what was left? I thought about this as the guys hauled the massive cooler across the lawn and shoved poles into the back of the truck. I closed my eyes and pictured me on the boat, sitting in the sunshine, looking out on the blue water of the lake, a blue so vivid it almost hurt my eyes to look at. I thought about my bobber dancing rhythmically along those blue waves, a slow, beautiful waltz. Fishing for me was calm. Peaceful.

Time stood still on the lake. I didn't have to remain focused on any one particular thing. If my gaze strayed from my bobber, a tug on the line would tell me a fish was nibbling. My mind was free and, like the bobber in the waves, I could dance from thought to thought, idea to idea. There were no demands on me, there was nothing I needed to do or respond to or think about. I could just be. Exist.

In those surroundings and in that frame of mind, I could fall in love with anything. Even fishing.