Fast Away the Old Year Passes…

In a matter of a few hours this year, 2011, will be in the books. Finished. Kaput. As years go 2011 has been a decent year– I can’t quibble about it. Still, I’m hoping that 2012 is better.

Twenty-eleven is certainly going out in a bad way. I’ve been miserable with a head cold. My right ear is throbbing. I’ve spent a lot of time with a hot water bottle wrapped to my head with a scarf. This only slightly distracts from the many layers I’m swaddled in– slippers, thick socks, leggings, sweats, two shirts, a hoodie, and a scarf for my neck, too. Like an urban bedouin. I stayed in bed for most of the day. I gave Robby a flatscreen TV for Christmas. Today I figured out the remote on it and how to access the OnDemand movies. This led to a trove of cinematic fun. The highlight of the day was an old Judy Garland movie (as opposed to a current Judy Garland movie?)  Me & My Gal… it was smaltzy. And unabashedly intent on getting viewers to either pony up for US War Bonds or join up to fight… Hell. I almost called the local recruiter. The lowlight was when I went off the OnDemand and fell into the brain-cell killing trap of watching Grease. It had been reformatted and modified for television. Grease is really quite a raunchy movie. I’d learned the lyrics to the songs listening to the album on Melle’s record player. We had no idea what we were singing about. There are lyrics that astound me now for their depravity. Half the songs were cut out– leaving some interesting splicing on television. In one song the editors were especially clever in the way they cut out a line here, a line there and still managed to put together a song that didn’t seem to miss much of a beat. My big beef with Grease is that I never liked the way Sandy looked at the end.

Robby came up to check on me at one point. I looked particularly beautiful in a blotchy skin, red nosed, tangled hair, puffy eyed kind of way. He managed to hide his revulsion when I reminded him that he’d married “all this!”

Jack didn’t venture upstairs very often. I think he figured out that laying low downstairs would get him more Wii time with Daddy.

A shower has done me considerable good. At least I’ll enter in to the new year with washed hair. (And a whole new Bedouin ensemble. Thank you, Momma, for the pink socks.)

I’ve been trolling facebook in the last hour– reading the posts of pals that are celebrating New Year’s Eve in varied ways. It’s quite the gamut. Half seem to be staying in. Half seem to be on their way to some fete or gathering. Zukie has a feast planned– crab legs and steak. Mandy’s spent the day in a Harry Potter movie marathon. Ericka has a butter tarts. Jen is disappointed with the lack of entertainment in Ann Arbor. Niece the Older and her boyfriend are watching Big Bang Theory and knitting. Several pals spent the day hiking today. Another came home from hospital with her new daughter in time to ring in the new year with her husband and son.

We’re both bummed not to be in Cincinnati with Chris and Susan and the gang making music and merriment. It had been our intention to hail in 2012 in fine style with friends. Instead Robby and Jack are playing Wii (Jack won’t let Robby scroll through the directions. This has led to some whining from Robby when he loses. It’s a power play that the son has won.). The little black dog is curled up on Robby’s legs. The little gray dog is curled up on mine. Within reach is the iPhone (with some new, downloaded tunes) and the Kindle (with a downloaded book and a season of Arrested Development to watch).

It’s not exactly Times Square around here– but I’ll take it.

Friend Ericka’s fb post said it best:

Here is hoping that 2012 will be the best year you (and we) have ever had but not the best year you (and we) will ever have.

Happy 2012 to us all.

Happy Christmas

Jack Rabbit is beyond excited for Christmas. His body is practically humming. His belief in all the magic of Christmas is at an exquisite peak– each morning he’s hurried to find where Bitte the Elf has landed in the house. At each reprimand he’s asked anxiously, “Mommy? Do you think I’m still on the Nice List?” Today we have, on our list of things to do, a batch of Santa Snickerdoodles to make. (Apparently they’re his favorite cookies. It came in by text.)

I’m pretty awful when it comes to presents. I like presents. I like the agonizing anticipation of which brightly wrapped package under the tree might be mine. But, honestly, the gift this year has been in watching Jack’s joy and wonder at each new yuletide discovery.

Tonight there is church. And lighting a candle on my Dad’s grave. A drive around town to see some of the Christmas lights. Tomorrow Jack will find a small mountain of presents under our tree with his name on them. Robby will be a happy boy, too. We’ll have visits to our parents’ houses and a wealth of good food. My mother will have the Christmas china out. My mother-in-law will have sectioned oranges and serve our drinks in the jingle bell glasses.

And, at the end of that long day there will be a very, very tired little boy. And two tired parents, as well– making Boxing Day all the better for it’s luxurious anticipated Pajamma Day.

I hope that there is Christmas where you are and that it is what you want it to be.

An Exercise in Exercising

Of the many adventures I’ve had in the last few weeks the most unbelievable is that I had a personal trainer. And that said personal trainer had me running on a treadmill.

I don’t run. Not unless there is either something really, really worth running toward (like, say, a Krispy Kreme doughnut truck tipped over…) or something from which to run (say, perhaps, a scary group of Death Eaters). Treadmills were forever ruined by the tag of the old Jetsons cartoon– poor George left stuck on the increasingly faster track while Astro-the-dog relaxes. “Jane! Stop this crazy thing!!” is forever entwined with the concept of treadmilling.

Still. I’ve been in need of some endorphins lately. Our family still feels a little shy of something. It’s not that JackRabbit isn’t enough– but sometimes it feels like there should be somebody with him. A sibling. A pal. A partner-in-crime. The older we get the less likely it seems to happen (though we still hope for some late season hail Mary pass or something. Or a nice infant left on the doorstep). People who exercise are always nattering on about the endorphins. I’m pretty sure they’re all in some kind of conspiratorial agreement to lie. Exercising makes me want to eat. And not a raw vegetable or lemon water– I want to eat some kind of thick, greasy thing. McDonald’s fries. A thick vanilla shake. The vanilla creme filled doughnuts from Dunkin Donuts.

The university where I work has a class in which the students are required to have a “client” to personally train. A guinea pig. It’s a win-win for everyone– the student gets practice in coaching a stranger (and sluggish, older strangers at that) and we lab rats get a free trainer for 6 weeks. I tried to get in on it last year but the students were already paired with faster responding volunteers. This fall I practically hit reply to the email posting before the poor professor had a chance to click send.

I was paired with the school’s women’s soccer team star. I googled her after we met. Well, actually, first I searched her in the campus directory… and she popped up in a recent article about our highly ranked soccer team. She’s the school’s high scorer.

If I hadn’t met her I’d have sprained an ankle or something out of pure fear. In the articles she was lauded, praised, and extraordinary. Luckily, in person, she was pretty down to earth and laid back. We set my goals– more energy. More activity. It’d be nice to lose some weight. And I wanted to win the Boston Marathon. (Okay– that last one I was kidding about. People poo themselves running marathons. Why would anyone run that long? that far? Shudder.)

Maegan ran a pre-test. The amount of push-ups I could do was nothing short of pathetic. I did better on the crunches. And held my own on the bike stress test. Over the next six weeks she had me doing intervals on the treadmill. The pre-programed courses on the exercise bikes. We walked outside in good weather. When it rained she had me in the university fitness room lifting my tiny weights. (There was a dark, dark day that had me working out at the same time as the school’s baseball team. The comparison between their teenaged bodies/heavy weights and me was ridiculous.) I do okay on the elliptical machine when I keep from cracking up over how much it makes me feel like Pheobe Buffay running.

She’s tortured me with this terrible stand where my dangling body is supported by my forearms. I’m supposed to raise my legs up in a crunch or straight out in front of me. It’s my least favorite thing to do. I think terrible things when I’m not pleading to God to keep me from having a hernia or something.

Seven weeks later and there’s enough of a difference to keep me using my staff pass to the fieldhouse. My BMI is lower. There’s some inches lost here and there. No weight loss– apparently gaining a little muscle will prevent that. I beat Robby at Wii boxing one afternoon– a major accomplishment.

Still no big endorphins. But I’m keeping an eye out for an overturned Krispy Kreme truck…

Done in by the To Dos…

Wow. It’s been a while. Sorry for the sudden drop off the earth.

I’ve been a little overwhelmed lately with Stuff That Needs To Get Done. Christmas isn’t helping. I had hopes this year to have a calm, quiet December– we stayed home on Thanksgiving and thought that would help. Ha.

There’s been a lot of Stuff. Work. Church. Meetings at church. School. PTO stuff at school. Youth Group. Volunteering. Traveling (yeah, we stayed in town to eat turkey but we went to Cincy for a much needed visit with our pals…). Dance recitals.

And yes– I know, you have a long list To Do, too.

I’ll pop up here again in a few days. Promise. Thank you for checking in.

On marriage. The good and the bad.

Wally wrote a blog post yesterday that might be one of my favorites of his. And that’s saying a lot. You can read it here. And you should read it.

Not to dump on Kim Kardashian– because really, I don’t care much for or about her and never have… which makes me feel a little guilty for not being kinder to her even though I don’t know her and wouldn’t want to know her necessarily. (Again, guilt for the unkindness of that.) But Kim’s the latest poster child for how marriage has lost value in our culture. (There are others, of course– a long list of people who have taken even the idea of marriage and pooed on it.) Most days that is what we’re bombarded with — the Kim Kardashians and the entirely unreal Housewives of whatever city and the latest celebrity marriage that will be over before I can get the magazine to the recycling bins across town.

We don’t much, as a culture, celebrate the good marriages. The great ones. We might make a mention of the famous people who have found longevity and happiness in theirs. More often we have to wade past the headline of the 44 karat ring that some athlete has bestowed upon some television tart.

And the longer you are married– the deeper you are married– you realize all the gray areas between falling in love, saying I do, and remaining faithfully in love until death parts you. Wally writes about that, too. From his post:

When I first fell in love I remember how much I wanted to be where she was. Lovers linger, waiting for the one we love to pass by, and postponing their departure.

This is often true of engaged couple and newlyweds, of course. The bride in Song of Solomon wanders the streets, looking for lover. “Have you seen him whom my soul loves?” she asks the watchmen. And then:

When I found him whom my soul loves,
I held him, and would not let him go.

We start that way. We tell all our secrets and all our plans. But it is so easy to lose each other again, in a whirlwind of children and career responsibilities. We joke about matters of the heart, and dismiss each others fears and insecurities.

Too easily we learn to let go. And too soon. We have to get the kids to practice and the casserole to the church.

We’re in that “take the kids to practice and the casserole to the church” phase right now. We went to Chicago a few weekends ago– a rare break from the act of orchestrating life for Jack and from all the duties we’re responsible for. We pulled into the city in the late afternoon and took great delight in selecting a quiet restaurant that evening where we could sit, lingering, over our small plates talking. I mentioned this to a friend yesterday and he laughed, understanding. His description of a typical meal out with their small children held the mad choreography of waiting to be seated (entertaining the kids), sitting down to a table (removing the knives and projectiles from their reach), figuring out what the children want to eat (scanning the menu for himself), trying to keep the children from doing anything inappropriate while they wait for their food, feeding the children (who pick and poke at the strange food and then are done after 90 seconds), gulping his own dinner while trying to keep his twins from fighting, the older child from mutinying, and then herding the family out of the restaurant…only to have indigestion later.

Not all meals are that way. But some are. It was a treat to sit unconcerned about anything but who would get to eat the last bite of pistachio pot au creme. I can’t say that we sat across from each other deeply in love or as lustily as we were when we first fell into love– but we were appreciative and grateful for the time alone and without interruption. We have good intentions to spend time together, away from Jack and the house and the long To Do list– but it is usually the first thing to be cut out of a busy week.

This Saturday we will turn 17. We don’t have any special plans for the day– mainly because I’ll be in New York with a gaggle of undergrad girls who are going to a conference. The irony that I’ll be in the one of the world’s greatest cities filled with amazing restaurants with nary a kid’s menu in sight is not lost on me.

Maybe next year. In the meantime there’s probably a casserole that needs to be delivered and a cub scout uniform that needs ironing. (Love you, Husband.)

Thanks, Katie and Wally for growing better with age. And setting us a good example.

Thanksvember

Say what you will about facebook and what it’s doing to our ability to actually connect to another human… but today I’ll argue that there’s a lot of good buried under the pile of game requests and stupid quizzes. (Though I like some of those quizzes.)

A lot of us take advantage of the “status update” to post something we’re thankful for. It’s just a November thing which is unfortunate. It’d be nice if we could stay positive throughout the year instead of just the run up to Thanksgiving Day… but I’ll take the wave of gratitude wherever I can get it.

Being grateful is a good thing. Having an attitude of gratefulness begats more joy, more appreciation, more kindness and tolerance.

And it’s eye-opening. Being grateful– ridiculously grateful for my little son– has me appreciating the small things that I too often take for granted. Today, for instance, I spent some time at his school in the morning. Jack goes to school in clean clothes (that have seen both soap and an iron), with a clean body (or mostly), a full belly. He leaves a house that is full of books and toys and age-appropriate movies and games to go to a school that has a beautiful new library filled with books, a classroom led by a great teacher, and a curriculum that encourages him to be an inquirer. I am grateful for all of this particularly in light of some of the kids in his school that have only the school, the good teacher, and the curriculum.

One little boy last week appeared in the office while I was working on the fundraiser with some of the other moms. Admittedly, we were discouraged by the lack of participation of some of the families that we knew should have been able to contribute. (Really, doctor’s family with the fancy cars? you couldn’t pony up a little support for the PTO fund?) I went out to make a copy and saw a tiny little boy pop up on his tiptoes to talk to the school secretary over the counter. He was late to school. And he asked, politely, if he might still have breakfast. She was harried and rushed but, in that moment, suddenly kind and patient. She sent him off to eat and told him to come back for his pass to class. I appreciated her sudden softness. And I appreciated the boy’s politeness. But more than anything I appreciated the choices I’d been able to offer Jack that same morning.

I’ll happily wade through the “So and So has sent you a request to live on their castle island and farm their artichokes” if it means I can be reminded of some of the other things I need to be more grateful about through the posts of friends and acquaintances.

Happy Thanksvember.

Sick Day

Yesterday was a blur of sleep and wishing I was asleep. I got hit hard by some bug. I woke up achy and sore throated and miserable.

And it was supposed to be a day of Jacky Mommy Fun. Jack had the day off school. The teachers had an inservice (or, if my theory is correct, someone in admin had the brilliant observation that Halloween was on a Monday and might make for an entire week of hopped-up kids… that a day off after the night of candy and treating might come in handy to all concerned…) so I took the day off, too, and had a short list of possible plans. Lunch with Daddy? Lunch with AunT and Keegan? (or both– lunch with Daddy followed by a lunch with the girls?) The Henry Ford to see the trains? Cookie baking?

When it hurt to open my eyes I realized that all versions of Plan A were going out the window. Plan B. I texted Momma, Trish, and Keegan. And Jack ended up having a wonderful day. He spent the morning and lunch with Momma and Eric visiting Granny and Hillsdale College. He spent the afternoon with Keegan and the evening with AunT.

Meanwhile, back at the sick ward, I moved from the bed to the couch and used an old headband as a means of covering my eyes from the harsh light of my usually dark house. Philbin and Hildy curled up on top of the mountain of blankets covering me and the three of us slept most of the day away. I ate some yogurt. I drank some juice. I slept. I was almost awake long enough to watch part of Grey’s Anatomy that was languishing on the DVR. Did I mention that I slept?

I don’t know what hit me– or if it had anything to do with the flu shot I got the day before… but oy. Not the way I was planning on spending 1/1/11.

 

A safety lesson from Anakin Skywalker

Jack’s school has a Halloween Parade today. I’m glad. I know there are all sorts of arguments for and against having this kind of stuff in school– and that we’re hanging on to the special occasions by a thread. Christmas isn’t Christmas in school anymore. It’s Winter Holidays. There’s little talk of Easter. Some schools are banning Valentines Day. Thanksgiving is getting a makeover to make it much more PC than our old “Indians and Pilgrims having dinner” theme.  A lot of schools have done away with Halloween. They’ve banned the costumes and the parades in favor of Fall Harvest Celebrations. This is shrouded in an act of empathy for the child who might not be able to afford a costume… but it’s really more about schools not wanting to bother with the headache of happy children. Show me the teacher that doesn’t have a couple of costumes stashed in her classroom closet for the kid that comes without one or forgets theirs at home.

Jack is Anakin Skywalker this year. He’s very specific about which Anakin– not the young, chubby faced Anakin but the older Anakin. His Dad asked, “The podracing Anakin?” Jack sighed, “No Dad, the Anakin with a lightsaber.”

Of course.

The lightsaber won’t be part of his costume at school. I had it packed in the bag with his fake boots and pleather vest and brown tunic.
“Mom! I can’t take my lightsaber!”
“Are you sure?”
“Mom! They said no weapons!”
“Are you sure they didn’t mean swords and knives and guns?”
“MOM! A lightsaber can kill someone in StarWars! It’s a weapon!”
“Good point. We’ll save that for tonight.”

Happy Halloween to you all. Boo.

Growing up

Jack lately is full of questions.

Some of them are easy to answer.

“MOMmy– did you cuddle me a lot when I was a baby?” (“Yes.”)

“What time are we going to soccer practice?” (“We need to leave by 5:40″)

“How do you spell ten in Spanish?” (“D-i-e-z”)

Some of them not so much. Today’s conversation on the way to school:
Jack: Who was ‘Chancellor Hitler’?
Me: He was a very, very bad man that did evil things to lots of innocent people because they were different than him. He thought being different was bad. How do you know about Chancellor Hitler?
Jack: He’s on the StarWars documentary. He had an army.
Me: Yes. Some of the costumes in StarWars look like the uniforms that Hitler used for his army. That makes them even scarier when you know about the terrible things that he had his army do.
Jack: But then he got arrested by the police and went to jail and everything was okay again, right?
Me: No. He killed millions of people– whole families. There was a whole war where lots of soldiers were killed, too.
Jack: Did his army all die?
Me: No. Some of them went to jail [YOU explain the Nuremburg trials to a 7 year old...] and some of them died but a lot of them weren’t ever punished. You’ll learn more about this when you are a little older– but for now it’s important to remember that Hitler was a very, very evil man.
Jack: He didn’t have any love in his heart. Not even for his own family.
Me: I think you have it, Jack.

——–

This week at school there’s a little “Spirit Week” to celebrate the end of the MEAP testing month. Yesterday was easy– “Backwards Day.” Jack wore his clothes backwards– which wasn’t entirely unusual for him with the exception of his hoodie sweatshirt. Today was “Crazy Hair Day.” We enlisted Keegan to come help him achieve the spiky hair he wanted. He looked pretty cute. And he liked the attention of Keegan fussing over his hair. We all remarked about how nice it actually looked– and then he got embarrassed. By the time we drove to school (chatting about Adolf Hitler) he was nervous. When we pulled into the parking lot he balked. “Mommy? What if I’m the only one with crazy hair today?” “Oh no, Jacky– there will be lots of kids with really crazy hair. Some of the mommies were on facebook last night talking about the funny things their kids wanted to do.” “Like what, Mom?” “Well– someone mentioned green hair spray. And someone mentioned lots of pony tails….” “So I won’t be the only one?” “Jack– look at yourself– it’s not even that crazy– you could wear it like that to church if you wanted. It’s handsome.” “Okay. I just don’t want to be the only one.”

And to think I thought Hitler and peer pressure were still a few years off. Sigh.

Chicago. Chicago.

Robby and I are going away to Chicago this weekend. I’m beyond giddy about it. We’ve been plotting the last few days about where we’ll eat, where we’ll sightsee, where we’ll window shop.

Jack is staying with Momma. He’s thrilled, too– he’ll have her to himself. They have a lot to catch up on — she’s been gone since June and he is full of stories for her.

We’ll take Jack to Chicago at the first opportunity. We have a grand plan in place that involves us picking up our Maddie at her college and driving to Chicago where her best pal, Ari, is in college and taking the girls out to dinner before turning them loose while we take Jack to the Museum of Science & Industry… But not on this trip. Maddie will be home for her sister’s Homecoming weekend and Ari has her mother flying in for parent’s weekend…

Not taking Jack with us is proving to be weird. We’re used to him being part of the package. We’ve spent lots of time in Chicago– with most of those trips taken without Jack– most taken before he was born, actually. Even so we’re having to rethink traveling. We’ve caught ourselves, several times, saying, “Oh we should—. No. We’ll save that for when Jack is with us.” (The list is growing for the With Jack trip. So far it includes the new Legoland, all the museums/aquariums, the observation platform in the Sears/Willis tower, and Navy Pier.)

We don’t have a lot of money for the trip so there’s also a list of Places We Can’t Do This Trip Because We’re Not Rockefellers (half of the restaurants, most of the shopping, and theater.) The weather is a factor– so we’re ruling out the architecture boat tours (which I highly recommend, by the way– fantastic way to see the city).  And we’re too far from the Christmas season for some of our favorite Chicago Things To Do (the Christkindlmarket, the Christmas trees, all the Christmas windows, and ice-skating by the spitting faces…)

Last night we discovered that our favorite Chicago restaurant is closed. (Brasserie Jo, if you were curious.)

Still there is the Lush counter at the State St. Marshall Fields (Yes, I know it’s Macy’s– but in my head it’s still Marshall Fields. It will always be Marshall Fields.) And the chance to eat out late at night at some quiet restaurant where there are no small children. We can sleep in. Someone will make my bed. We can get something decadent at Fox & Obels and watch the boats along the river. There is a Jamba Juice.

And there’s the chance to be with Robby. Is it Saturday yet?