Hear me Roar while I (try to) Bloom.

I am a woman. Hear me roar.

Well, actually, you can hear me roar sometimes and whimper other times. I am in my mid-forties, so I am definitely capable of both. Aren't all women my age like that? In the course of a normal day there are family responsibilities, work stress, the pressure of staying healthy, and most importantly, being the best woman possible in every way already mentioned. I have to be perfect and I cannot have pain. There is no time for pain.

Wait... What just slipped out? Yes. I said it. Blah blah blah and being the best woman possible in every way... Without pain. I am told through print and social media that I will only be worthy if I am an expert at EVERYTHING all the while not experiencing any side effects. We modern women have it pretty rough because if we can't stop, it is a lot of pressure. It takes it's toll on us.

And it has taken its toll on me lately in physical ways I couldn't predict. I guess I wasn't paying attention to the right stuff. I am imperfect, for sure.

Occasionally, when I look into a mirror, I take a second to notice that I am not a little girl anymore. I feel young, and I haven't noticed my reflection changing, but it certainly has changed during the last decade due to raising my own children. Upon close examination of my reflection, I see little lines that are deepening like canyons in the space between my eyebrows. They formed as a result of frowning at five year olds in my class who can't keep their hands to themselves. When I frown, I think somehow kids will behave. The lines also come from from forgetting that I need glasses to read and when I squint, I can see 12 point font better. Neither count is true. The result of frowning and squinting are lines and therefore middle aged facial status.

But it doesn't end there. My feet are also 46, though my podiatrist would argue that it is not an age thing. Yes. Podiatrist. It was inevitable.

I began to feel pain in my feet in March. I slipped on ice and over-turned my left foot. I then hobbled around on it, putting more weight temporarily on my right foot. I do not like to admit when I have pain, so I went months like that. I was a subtle version of a zombie kindergarten teacher, only I didn't chew on anyone's arm. The only person who heard me whine about my foot was my husband. He was lucky enough to see me at my worst... At the end of the day when I could hardly move anymore and was completely out of patience.

During the school year, I ignore things like colds and minor aches and pains. I work through the year and rarely take time out for myself. The kids need me, so I did what any teacher worth their weight in crayons would do... I waited until my yearly summer physical to mention it to my doctor.

"You should have come in sooner. Don't ignore things," he scolded me. He sent me for x-rays and a referral to the aforementioned podiatrist, a hyper man with a foot fetish. And I have joined the esteemed ranks of going to see a specialist who I could have had as a student in kindergarten. I could also (maybe) be his mother. He looked at my mangled feet and grinned. It was a sad day.

But, alas, even with bad feet, I am getting ahead of myself.

Back to hurting my foot in March and the hobbling... (No, not the Hobbiting)... that would have included second breakfast, which honestly, I would prefer.

Because of moving into a new home in early March, I was suddenly able to walk to work. It was lovely to do so, though my gate was less than normal. When the weather warmed up in April. I got a pedicure and wore flip flops because I felt free from the typical wool sock/boot combo of Vermont, and was ready to do some "foot flirting." With pretty toes, I hobbled like a hunchback through May and June, gritting through the pain. It finally became obvious that I should acknowledge the agony.

I was to the point where I was wincing at the thought of morning and dreading sunrise because I would have to put my feet on the floor. I would drag myself through the first few minutes of the day until my feet warmed up. This was new for me.

I described the symptoms to the esteemed foot doctor as he interrupted with, "You have plantar fasciitis!"

The plantar fascia is the thick tissue on the bottom of my foot. It connects the heel bone to the toes and creates the arch. My tissue is swollen... inflamed.

"My life is over," I sighed and leaned forward on the elevated lounge chair he had to help me into.

Unaffected by my theatrical emoting, he left the room, only to return with an ancient photocopy of the steps (don't mind the pun) I had to take to undo what I have done to myself.

"I see it a lot." He pointed to my x-rays on the computer screen. "Bad shoes. I'm guessing flip flops."

"Guilty." I thought of the many pairs I had come to adore during the summer months... The leopard spotted ones, the fluffy strapped and sequin strapped ones, a wooden pair of high heeled flips flops. The tears built up in the back of my throat. I choked them back.

"Get rid of them." He said plainly. "Step one (ha) is no more flip flops or bare feet. Not even around the house." Then, he kneeled before me and presented me with a gift. The man gave me Orthotics!

"These go in your shoes. And you need to shop in the aisle at the shoe store where the shoes are at least $120."

"Do you have stock in any company? What names should I buy?"

He rattled a few names off. I think I heard Nike and NewBalance, but it was hard to hear his voice over the loud cash register sound.

Argh! Seriously? I have to now insert a foamy thing into practical, ugly, expensive, shoes. So that you are experiencing my horror, would you please insert a loud moan into the blog right here for me?

I mean it. Moan out loud for me. I have to grow up. No more flip flops. No more "feet flirting." Not that it mattered anyway. Who am I kidding? I'm middle aged and married, and the only people looking at my feet were daydreaming kindergarteners who should have been listening at story time. Maybe a future kindergarten podiatrist will notice that I have bunions forming too.

I know I will miss looking at my toes. I like nail polish. They make great colors these days. I like having pedicures every now and again. Why bother anymore? Sigh. I grieve.

It didn't end there. The podiatrist gave me more to do. I have to ice my feet for an hour a day and stretch for about a half an hour. Who has time for this?

Grown ups have time for this. My own kids are big enough now that I can sit for twenty minute icing sessions. They can take care of themselves now.

So, that was a few weeks ago, and since then I have behaved myself. I dutifully stuffed the orthotics in my shoes and have worn them in and out of the house. I have iced my feet... Actually it has been pleasant, and I have been reading more too because I am being forced to sit still.

I have to admit I miss my colorful toenail flair, but the pain is gone.

At least it is gone in my feet.

Wait. They feel better! I don't dread mornings anymore. Wow! I am healing!

But now that I don't feel pain in my feet anymore, I noticed that my right shoulder hurts beyond what I can tolerate. During this (my last week of summer) I crammed in two visits to the chiropractor. He has cracked my neck, adjusted my back, and assigned exercises for me to do each day now too!

Who has time for this?

I have to. He tells me I have a misplaced rib that has to be worked back into place. Don't worry... I have up to twelve appointments that can be fit in before Christmas break. Sheesh.

Thank God school starts soon, because it seems like the more time I have to focus on myself and go see doctors, the more my body is falling apart or at least the more I am able to feel it.

Besides, I need to stop going to specialists and get back into my classroom and... How does the saying go? Bloom where I should be plantared. Plantar Fascitis. Roar!

Oops... I mean "Bloom where I am Planted". Or, where I should be planted, a 46 year old distracted from her imperfections by a bunch of little kids. Time to focus on planting seeds in little paper cups and putting them in the window to watch them bloom. Time for sitting on the floor to play with blocks or finger paint on construction paper while ruining my back from sitting in tiny chairs. Hopefully, I can still get up this year.

My turn to give (little) people assignments and exercises to do for a change.

Bring it on 2014-2015. My body definitely isn't perfect but it surely can't take summer anymore.

A Siri's of flaws

The battle began last week as we walked across the parking lot to the car. At first it was like every other day after work/school... My three kids and me schlepping our stuff. In the midst of the trek, I swore I heard a voice that was not of this world. I froze in my tracks. It was a voice, and not one that belonged to any of my children.

After a few frightening moments of questioning my sanity, I finally figured out that my phone was the one who was talking. Siri (a voice recognition system for iPhones), though muffled, was gabbing away, seemingly to no one in particular, in a pocket of my bag. I must have bumped it (with all the schlepping), and the phone was just doing its job.

She (the female voice, or Siri) said something like, "What can I do for you today?"

I ignored her, (Siri) because I find it difficult to delegate in the midst of chaos, especially to 'a telephone. Instead, I tuned into my children's conversation; they spoke over and to each other simultaneously as children tend to do. We continued to stomp along avoiding icy puddles while carrying a trombone case, several lunch boxes, backpacks, and bags of winter gear like skates, helmets, and snow pants. We arrived at the car, out of breath.

Siri would not be ignored. She spoke again, this time louder:  "What can I help you with today, SHEILA?"

I dropped my keys. Stupid phone. Sheila is my sister's name. The last time I was called Sheila by mistake was when my elementary school teachers were burnt out and confused, or my mother was overwhelmed or distracted. At times, my mother wouldn't just call me Sheila; she would say all of our names in a giant word, loudly, like this, "CHRISRICKSHEILAAMY!"

No, Siri, I am NOT my sister Sheila. I am me. My name is Amy, I thought.

Initially, it was sort of funny, because I had had one of "those" days where anything that could go strange, did. I chuckled, grabbed the phone out of the pocket and turned her off. I have the power to do so. Ha! I won!

For now.

We talked about it... The phone and I. Later that night, after the kids were in bed, I pushed the button for Siri to appear and do her thing.

"What can I help you with tonight?" She asked politely.

"My name is Amy." I said firmly.

"No, your name is Sheila, but would you like me to call you 'my name is Amy' from now on?"

"What? No! My name is Amy!"

"That is what I said. If you want, I will call you 'my name is Amy' from now on, Sheila. Would you like that?"

"No. I am Amy."

"Okay 'no, I am Amy'. Would you like me to call you 'no, I am Amy" from now on?"

"Ack!" I turned her off again, resisting the urge to throw her out the window into a snow bank.

Please don't tell my phone that I am mad at her. I don't know if she could handle it. She may blow a gasket.

Do iPhones have gaskets? Probably not. She may punish me, then. She may erase an important meeting off my calendar, claiming the iCloud is full. She may forget to track a glass of water on my water app or add calories to my Lose It app, throwing me off my health game and New Year's resolution. No, my phone can't know I am REALLY mad.

But enough about my phone and back to my sister, Sheila. My phone thinks I am Sheila. But I am not.

I am younger than Sheila, by six years, which has always worked well for me. She blazed the high school trail with good grades, so I rebelled by getting bad grades. She went to a small college, so I went to a bigger one. She majored in literature, so I focused on writing. I am taller, so she's cuter... Thinner... Lucky her. She blazed the parenting trail before me. Her boys are big enough to have deep voices now and mine have to be reminded to flush and wash their hands EVERY time they use the bathroom. Sheila works in the comfort of her home while wearing pajamas for her job. I play emotional wack-a-mole in public school every day as I engage 5 year olds in what we are now calling "common core." And I can't wear pajamas unless it has been declared "pajama day" at school.

That about says it all. We are not the same Siri, so why the hell are you getting us mixed up?

Seriously. Someone help me.

Maybe I should examine how Sheila and I are alike to see if I can determine why the phone is confused.

Let's see:
We have the same last name.
We have similar voices.
We love adventures and trying new things.
We think the sun rises and sets on our kids.
We like to read and write.
We live in Vermont.
We both know how to knit.
We have the same parents.
We like the show "LOST".
Our phone numbers share the same area code (802).

I showed my friend Java the phone. I held it up and asked Siri, "What is my name?"

"Your name is Sheila, but since we are friends, I call you Amy." Siri said contentedly.

I talked to my father about the phone mixing up his two daughters. He was a computer programmer for most of his adult life. He has dealt with the black and white thinking... The binary ness of a program like Siri.

He gave it some thought and declared, "Tell the phone 'never call me Sheila again'... That'll fix it."

I did just that. Her response? "Do you want me to call you 'Sheila' again?

"No. I am Amy. Amy. Amy."

"I will call you Amy. Amy Amy."

"I want you to call me 'Amy' from now on."

"Okay 'Amy from now on' do you want me to call you 'Amy from now on' from now on?"

"No!" I shouted.

I didn't talk to her for two days. Finally, I picked her up, and hands shaking, I summoned Siri. "What can I do for you today 'Amy. Amy. Amy'?"

"Call me Amy." I said calmly. I had thought of the most challenging question of all for Siri. I wanted to know if she could figure this out and I thought it would be a nice distraction from our typical conversation. "AND, what am I wearing?" I asked her.

"Ok 'Amy AND' Would you like me to search the Internet for 'what am I wearing?' for you 'Amy AND?'"

"Yes."

Siri searched. She came up with, "It is likely that you are wearing clothes 'Amy AND'."

There you have it. I was wearing clothes. My outfit was implied in my sentence and able to be found on the Internet apparently. I will never win with this Siri program. People have suggested I call tech support. Other's say I should demand a free phone. Nope. I will win this battle with Siri. I am not a computer. I have feelings and a soul and I am stubborn and I will win.

I gave it some more thought and finally figured out why my phone wants to call me by my sister's name. It is completely my fault. I told her too.

When I first met Siri, I summoned her. When she asked me what she could do for me, I said the two words I now regret: "Call Sheila." I wanted her to call my sister and the phone heard, "Call ME Sheila" even though that is not what I said. The rest is history.

Since I have met Siri, I have come to the conclusion that dealing with phones and five year olds is the same. They both take what I say literally and every single word that leaves my mouth better be perfect, because they depend on me to give very clear instructions. That is a lot of pressure, isn't it? Every word!

And at times, kindergarteners can be as mixed up as Siri. Recently, a child said to me, "Mrs. Braun... She stuck my tongue out at her."

I paused and, like Siri, I couldn't process what the child was trying to say. My response: "Uh... Did you like it?"

Child: "No!"

Me: "Then tell her you didn't like it."

Child: "Otay."

As always, a good night's sleep will give me the patience I need and the clarity to find the words to say to Siri and to my brood of five year olds. I will wake up tomorrow with a new approach to getting through to all of them: kids and iPhones alike. What other choice is there? I have to try it all over again... It is what I do.

I teach... Therefore I am... Not... My sister.

When Sheila reads this, I hope she doesn't stick my tongue out at her.

Where For Art Thou?

I will tell you where I am... home. I am finally home after being a passenger in the car for about two hours as we drove needlessly around in the Vermont wilderness in the dark in search of money and avoiding black cats. What? Complex? Yes. Ridiculous? Yes. Funny? Yes. At least we all finally found the humor and spent some "quality time" together, or least that is what I am telling myself so I can feel better about it. It all started when I opened my big mouth and told my children that "Brave" and "Avengers" were playing at the drive-in. They were very excited about it and so was I. It seemed like a great idea until my friend told me that "Brave" started at 9:30 (after sundown)and "Avengers" started at 11:00. She said that the movies would not be over until well after 1:30 IN THE MORNING. Parenting dilema #1: Do I make my children happy tonight and cranky tomorrow due to utter exhaustion? What type of parent does this? I engaged them (my reasonable children) in a conversation about the late hour and how they would normally be in bed by the time the movie started. They took it like any other kids and refused to see what I was trying to tell them. They attempted Puss-in-boots faces, negotiating, and finally just simply gave in and said that they understood and did not blame me for saying no to the movie after all. What great kids. My oldest even said he knew that I was just trying to be a good mom and that it was "ok." But then my younger son, at about 9:00 came up and grabbed my hand, "Mom... are we really not going to the movie? Not even the first movie?" Parenting dilema #2: Should I give in? They have been working me hard for hours with the faces and the guilt and now the "innocent" clarification on how the rest of the evening was going to be. What type of parent does this? I completely lost my mind. "Fine!" I threw my hands into the air. "I give in! Let's go. It'll be great... even though both of you are going to be asleep in the car as we go across a mountain to get there! I can't wait to see a movie that starts at 9:30 at night! And then another one after that!" And then they looked up at me and said, "Oh mom... we don't have to go." "What?" I was dumnbfounded. "Oh, we're going! And not only that... we're going to have fun!" Famous last words. We stopped at the ATM on the way through town. My husband reached for his wallet. Nope. No wallet. I had mine. I gave him my debit card and announced the pin. Oops. Wrong pin. I gave him another pin. Nope. Wrong again. And another... ooops. "I have to type it to get it right," I said defensively. The ATM machine was angry at us. We drove over the mountain to go to the movie and decided to go to our bank in Randolph. By now, I knew the pin. I shouted the correct number out. It had come to me when I wasn't under such pressure. We drove through the ATM again. Correct pin number, but by that time the bank thought someone had stolen my card and is trying to get money out of my account. Nope. ATM will not release funds. Too many attempts! It was the right pin number, but the card would not work now. My husband decided we should try another bank instead of our bank. Nope" again. "I have the checkbook!" I announced. "I think we paid them a check before at the drive-in. Let's try that!" Nope. My husband would not give up. "We could go use the debit card in a gas station or store to buy something somewhere and take out extra cash." This time I said no. The closest store/gas station was miles away and I assumed the card would not work. I didn't want it to work by then. To me, the signs were very clear that we were not supposed to go to the movies tonight. Sometimes I have to pay attention. "It is just not meant to be!" I said. My husband and children couldn't quite wrap their minds around it. Suddenly a black cat crossed our path. I shouted to assure myself that my husband would not hit it. I am superstitious. Maybe you are too. I just really don't like when black cats cross in front of me. It feels like an omen of some sort. If we had seen the cat before we left home, I would have insisted that we stay home. "A black cat in our path. That's not good." The kids wanted me to explain why. I tried to lay it all out, the laws of the universe some of us buy into like open ladders and salt over the shoulder etc. I simply passed my ridiculous beliefs onto my children. Not good! We crossed the mountain discussing these important concepts. About halfway up the mountain, another black cat made the trek across the road in front of us. Now, instead of just me, I have the kids joining in on the insanity: "Ah! A black cat!" We all shouted at my husband. We rounded a corner and drove close to the edge of the road where our recent hurricane had taken a guardrail. My son laughed hysterically at the thought of avoiding a black cat and careening over a cliff. We almost made it home without seeing another black cat, but we went through a section in the hollow called "Julie's Ark"- a farm with hundreds of cats (and hundreds of other cute creatures). We were almost to the corner when a black cat darted out and we ALL (including my husband) shouted in response. He tried to argue that the cat was brown, but the rest of the family wouldn't hear of it. "It's black! It's black!" We all shouted. It was bizarre. I have never seen so many cats out and about. There were more cats than other cars... you know, rural Vermont and all. "I just want to go home!" I shouted. "Me too!" Shouted the boys from the back. Ahh. Mission accomplished. My kids wanted to go home. Alls well that ends well. We had some quality time together, and we didn't even have to see the movie.

Paisley

The first paisley piece of clothing I ever owned was a pair of oversized men's pajamas from the thrift shop. My mother was not impressed, but I washed them THOROUGHLY and wore them all through my college years to study in the library and eat in the cafeteria. I was known on campus as the girl with the bright red lipstick... But I am sure people also whispered about those pajamas and how they were kind of ridiculous. Eventually the pajamas fell apart and I had to dispose of them in the dumpster behind the dorm... Sad day. To satisfy my paisley fix, I found an oversized paisley "mu-mu" that had giant black buttons with sparkly rhinestones at a yard sale. Again, I wore the dress until it was in shreds and we had to say good-bye. There has really not been much paisley in my life since then. It's been about 25 years, which is very strange because I really do like paisley... A lot. But after a 25 year hiatus with paisley, it is back. I have been talking about my Mid-life crisis to whoever will listen. Yesterday I trapped my friend Dana for a few minutes and I shared the concept of a portable thrift shop in an Airstream. "You could serve milk and Pepsi like Laverne and Shirley." Dana said. "Chocolate cokes," I was charged with enthusiasm, "and vanilla cokes!" I had a vision. I saw myself in a 1950's style aqua paisley apron. Note to self: keep eyes open for an apron like that. Then today I was deluged with paisley. Is it a sign? Of course it is. If you know me, you know I have to take it as one. I talked to my friend Barb, a graphic designer, who has great taste for how things look. She supports my portable store idea too, so I was "picking her brain" for input. "I think it would be nice to see how you would paint it." She said supportively. "I see color, but I want to honor the silver too." Then I added, "What do you see?" "Paisley." There it was again. Paisley! Note to self... The apron has got to be paisley. Aqua... Paisley. Later on today, my friend Java approached me. Now bear in mind, she has the name Java because she was a teen in the 1950's era and it was her nickname due to the fact that she loved coffee. She had her hands behind her back and she pulled out an apron and held it up in front of me. Guess what it looked like! You can see the pattern. It is obvious what pattern and color this apron was because you know that is just how things go for me sometimes. Call it coincidence. Call it intuition. Call it a sign... It doesn't matter. Java was holding an aqua colored paisley apron in her hands. It was actually reversible and had a little pocket on each side. "Pinky promise me that you won't take it if you don't like it. I just thought you might want this for some reason," she barely finished her sentence before I embraced her and tied it around my waist. "It was my mother's." Java was smiling, but she also had tears in her eyes. A gift of love! I didn't have any idea what to say. "I can't believe this! Yesterday I pictured an apron just like this. I put it out there and you show up today with exactly what I wanted? This is amazing." "I don't know why. It had been in storage for... 16 years. I just thought you should have it." "It's your mother. She has spoken. I would be honored to have this apron!" Within 20 minutes, hands shaking, I logged onto the Vermont Small Business Development web-site and signed up for a course in writing a business plan. Java's mother has spoken. Now all that remained on my list of affirmations was a child. Some random kid has to validate my idea. I thought that it happened at recess when a little girl (fairy) approached me with a "magic wand" (stick). "Just say your wish, and I will grant it. Anything!" "I want a 1958 Airstream." I said, knowing that this fairy didn't know what an Airstream was. I am superstitious however, and so it doesn't hurt to have a playground fairy placing wishes into the cosmos. "Tada! Done." If only it were that easy. Kid validation... Check... Nope. The true validation came later when a different little girl walked up to me at baseball practice. "Here!" She smiled as she handed me two pieces of aqua paisley fabric that she had cut off from the bottom of her pants. "You told me you liked this fabric awhile ago. Now you can have it to make a bag." Kids say the darnedest things. And aqua paisley no less... Not a bread crumb trail, but one clearly marked with paisley.

My Mid-Life Crisis/44 year-old style

Is 44 a good time for a mid-life crisis? I don’t know, but I’m having one. More than likely, I am about mid-way through this journey. At this point- in the mid-forties-ish, most of us evaluate our lives. We take a moment and look back on our decisions. We also simultaneously look forward with eagerness while we judge ourselves harshly. Am I satisfied with myself? Mostly. Am I content with where I stand? Never. It’s been great and exciting and rewarding life so far, but I feel a rumbling inside myself and it is not indigestion. It is my inner voice. What is next, Amy? What now? Don’t worry, I won’t leave my husband or anything crazy like that. But I’m going to take a leap of faith, follow the signs, and… well… I shouldn’t tell you everything at once. So, what am I planning? I am going to do what all entrepreneurs do and follow my passion to make a new path. I love to write, express myself through what I wear, and shop for second-hand clothing. So… I am going to make my own clothing store, and I am going to write about all the steps as I take them and share them. You can read about it here. This blog is #1. I will tell you in the blog how this vision came to be. You can follow the story and leave comments or suggestions. I am open to what you have to say because I have never done anything like this before. So… Like all my big events in my life, the whole thing started with my own words. I “put it out there” to the universe a few months ago when I told my husband and a few friends that I thought that we needed a funky second hand clothing/furniture store in our town. I said it often to anyone who would listen and I kind of wanted it to be me. One day The Red Barn opened on School Street and it brought great joy to my heart. Even though it wasn’t me, someone had made it happen and how cool is that? I watched as the owner decorated the space, painting the inside, adding shelving, lighting, and wonderful trinkets and art with a playful flare. One Sunday I approached the door, and though she wasn’t open for business yet, I knocked. Rhoda answered with a smile and let me in. We had never met, but this being the small Vermont town that it is, we had of course heard of each other before. I told her how happy I was that she had done this and that we really needed something like this in our town. I asked her if she was going to sell any clothes. Nope. I took an extra bold step and asked if perhaps she would be willing to rent some space upstairs to me in the summer so I could sell some funky clothes on consignment. “Probably not. I don’t like dealing with clothes. I am way better at the ‘stuff’,” Rhoda said. End of conversation. I left her store feeling sort of secretly happy that clothing wasn’t her thing because it really is mine, and perhaps I can still have the corner of the second-hand market in our little town somehow. Some day. Some way. It’s my passion. Months passed. I still kept searching for the right venue. I am never afraid to pursue things and ask questions and follow trails. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? So, Memorial day weekend, and my first day off in a very long time. My husband was generous and hung at home with the kids while I went to Seasoned Books in town and had breakfast with a friend and talked about all sorts of things like the fact that our town needs to purchase another school bus. We talked about the various uses for a school bus if the school needed to buy a new one and we started “brainstorming” lots of uses.

Then we scanned the town wide yard sale on the green. At the Park House yard sale, I was led by a woman who knows my taste, to a table of great jewelry from the 1970’s so I bought myself some great flare. I also got a lovely outdoor vase for my garden. I lost track of time. The last thing I had to do before heading home was purchase some mulch at the Hardware Store because I wanted to garden on my birthday. Mulch=Happiness. Car loaded, I looked across the street at The Red Barn as I started my car. I am so happy that she has made that work here in our little town, and it is a great location… School Street. School Street… School Clothes… Old School Clothes… It hit me! I could buy a school bus and take all the seats out of it and replace the seats with racks and racks of clothes. I could have a TRAVELING thrift shop. What a concept! Only a few problems surfaced when I thought about it… I don’t have my CDL License and buses are big and buses are expensive and use Diesel. I could kill someone driving around in something so large and I should not be a teacher who kills someone while I am driving around in a bus. But… I am a dreamer so I kept dreaming as I prepared to go home. I had played “hookey” for most of the morning and should head home to see the husband and kids. I looked up School Street to check for traffic. None… as usual… A gust of wind blew. A big gust of wind. I looked at The Red Barn across the street and watched as the wind grabbed a vintage beach umbrella that was set up outside the store. It tumbled across the front of the store and stopped. I was on my way home… but I didn’t like seeing the umbrella tumbling, so I pulled across the street and parked my car, got out, and approached the umbrella. Rhoda came out of the store at the same time. We both grabbed the umbrella top steady it. “Thanks,” She smiled. I let go, and she closed the umbrella, moved it back, and leaned it against the red siding. I had already decided to go inside her store… after all, I had been bargain hunting all day. What’s another 15 minutes of dawdling? Well… life changing… that’s what. It was a recipe for a mid-life crisis decision. It was the weekend I was turning 44 and I had “put it out to the universe”… months before. I was searching for something. Something unusual… I looked around inside her store and bought my son a marble. The antique marbles were 20c so I gave Rhoda a quarter and told her to keep the change. Big spender… We small-talked. I told her my idea. I would get the bus and clean it out. I would call it “Old School Clothes.” “Hey… I have an 1958 Airstream for sale. It needs to be gutted out, but it is able to be moved. You could do fairs and flea markets. I was going to sell hamburgers out of it… but someone is doing that already, so that can’t happen.” My brain latched on to the idea. HMMMM… buy a classic ‘Silver Bullet’ Airstream and open a business inside of it. I have found a vessel… or… more accurately, it found me. And it is not that huge of a financial commitment. It seems crazy. To quote my mother, the wise one who gave birth to me 44 years ago (today), “When did you become so obsessive compulsive?” This was her response when I asked her to come and see the Airstream. She wouldn’t budge because she was in her nightgown. I wanted her to take my picture next to the “Silver Bullet”, and I wanted her opinion about whether I am too much of a dreamer to think I can remodel the inside and turn it into my mid-life crisis dream come true. My mother always tends to point out the negative sides of things, which keeps me tethered to the planet. So I always go to her with my crazy ideas so she can talk me out of them. My response: “Mom, I have always been this obsessive about things.” (Notice I didn’t say compulsive… because I am not.) So… this is where we are right now. I have chatted about the idea with people besides my mother, and no one seems to laugh. People have tilted their heads slightly, but no one has called the authorities to check me into the mental institution. My husband seems to think it would be roomy inside. I could buy it and start cleaning it out this summer. I could perhaps attend a few markets and begin to earn some of the money back that I think I may invest into this crazy idea. But here is the best part of all of it… If things don’t work out as I am seeing them, my family can always just take the blessed Airstream on vacation in the summer. It would be useful to keep up dry in case of rain, which tends to happen around here. Not bad for a mid-life crisis, you know? At least I want to share the rest of my journey with my husband and kids, not trade them in like pieces of consignment clothing. But wait, is there a mark-up value on a man who is wise enough to get me a massage for my birthday? Yes… that’s right… priceless… a man to share the future with as long as he is willing to stay the course. I look forward to seeing him take a maul to the inside of this Airstream after I ask the bank to support my business plan. Man, I have work to do. Stay tuned, dear reader.

A Passing Glimpse

Today was officially our last summer day, so I wanted to have a “do nothing” day. We finished school shopping this week with new backpacks, lunchboxes, shoes, and outfits. We were on the go all summer between summer camps, soccer, trips to hotels and amusement parks, camping, train rides and swimming lessons. I think we had only one day all summer when we never left the house. This morning I was ready for a “do nothing” day. Do nothing? Yeah, right… with three kids in the house, we were all climbing the walls by about 10:00 am.
So I packed lunches in their old lunchboxes, and by early afternoon, we had set out to “walk” our favorite trail, The Robert Frost “Interpretive Trail” in Ripton, Vermont. Some of Mr. Frost’s poems are posted along the way where walkers can pause, read, and reflect on the words written by the famous poet. Now, notice I said walkers can pause etc. Have you ever gone on a hike with children? They (at least mine) don’t move at a walking pace. They run, skip, hop, jump… but they don’t walk. Ever.
They ran ahead and shouted, “Mom! We’ll wait for you at the bridge,” or “Mom! I’m going off the path and I’ll meet you at the next corner.” That sort of thing.
While I walked, and sometimes I paused, read, and reflected on the words of several poems. Like this poem:
I often see flowers from a passing car
That are gone before I can tell what they are.

I want to get out of the train and go back
To see what they were beside the track.

I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;
Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt--

Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth--
Not lupine living on sand and drouth.

Was something brushed across my mind
That no one on earth will ever find?

Heaven gives it glimpses only to those
Not in position to look too close.
This poem makes me think back to the first time I took my kids to the Robert Frost trail. My older son stayed within ten feet of me and my younger son held my hand. The idea of a third child, especially a foster daughter, had never crossed my mind. And we swiftly walked the mile loop, NEVER stopping to read a single poem. It was as if I was in the train car that Robert Frost referred to in his poem, and my children, the engineers, were driving it at full speed. That’s how it is. All parents say it, “Don’t blink because they grow up so fast!” Robert Frost said, “Heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in a position to look too close.” Do they mean the same thing? I think so.
All of Robert Frost’s poems talk of nature and are symbols of life and death. This particular poem reminds a lot of the last official day of summer. It was a great day, from which I can’t really pick my favorite moment. Was it when the kids ate their lunch in the arms of a giant pine tree? Was it when we all made fairy houses in the forest on the side of a steep hill to protect the fairies from impending Hurricane Irene? Was it when the kids crossed the brook barefoot? Was it picking wild blueberries and mulberries and staining our fingers and lips? I don’t know. They were all moments I can try to grab and hold in my heart, but Mr. Frost called them “glimpses.” He was right… the fall comes and then the winter comes and soon everything is covered in snow and then we are all older.
In the car, my younger son said to me, “Mom. Today’s your last day of summer vacation as a 43 year old.”
My, he’s tuned in. And it’s his last one as an eight year old.
Ahh! I could cry. I want to grab my kids and hug them and tell them to stop growing, but that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Maybe instead of getting all sentimental, we can enjoy the last bit of today by watching a bad kid’s movie together. I’ll guess I’ll pop the corn.

Iceberg Lettuce

As a kindergarten teacher, I have to teach my students how to rhyme. Seriously! Rhyming is not a skill that comes naturally to a child, and whether or not a child can rhyme is graded on the report card. I ask each kid questions like, “Does the word frog rhyme with the word dog?” Now bear in mind, I have probably just pulled the little darling away from something fun in the classroom like “dress-up” or “block corner” and I have to force him/her to stand next to me and answer a bunch of questions. Leaving no child behind, you know? Some kids are very honest. They look up and say “I don’t care!” Other kids will stare at me blankly and shrug. A few others will answer “yes” or “no.” You see, knowing if something rhymes is a predictor of future reading ability. When I teach this concept, I try to make it fun. I randomly fit rhyming into conversation all day long. I say things like, “Sit in your chair… Claire.” (No one is actually named Claire). Or I say “Get back in line… Calvin Klein!” (No Calvin Klein either). It gets a little pathetic when I do it at home though. My husband knows to ignore me when I start talking like Dr. Suess on crack. Here’s my token phrase… “Don’t panic. We’re not on the Titanic.” I’ll say it to a student who is frustrated over a lost glue stick cap or a broken crayon because nothing could possibly be as bad as being on the Titanic and hitting an iceberg. It’s a good phrase. I take complete credit for it. I made it up. And I actually used it on myself… last night. Do you know what prompted it? Well, a piece of Iceberg Lettuce… what else? A tiny piece of green iceberg lettuce almost made me cry last night.
I know, you’re thinking it is JUST A GARNISH. Why did a piece of lettuce set you off?
Well, I will begin at the beginning… or I will try.
First of all, I have to explain why I am so fragile right now. Lettuce put it this way (ha ha), it has been one “hell of a winter!” We keep getting smacked with snow, and many of us are ready for spring. We have gone skiing, sledding, snowshoeing, and of course we have braved the elements shoveling and scraping. Enough is enough already. We’re almost through our wood supply and we had our WORST STORM THIS YEAR ON MARCH 7th! It actually was a record snowfall! AHHHH! Over two feet of snow piled up on the roof again. Many people think March is a spring month; not in Vermont! To have that Maple Syrup we are all so proud of, we have to have freezing nights and warm days and during those warm days, the snow melts and slides off roofs.
Remember that little detail.
The other thing that gets rough is that the snow has to get plowed and piled somewhere. We’re running out of room for it right now in our community. I struggle opening the doors to our car because the snow is piled up on the sides of the driveway. I feel like I live on top of a toboggon run.
A Honda Element is not the easiest car to exit in a narrow situation on a hill. The doors open in an unusual manner. The front door opens like a regular door (to the right), and the back door opens to the left. The front door has to be open so that the back door can open. I like it that way, because my kids are trapped in the car until I open the door to let them out. But then I have to grab my stuff, open their door, stand and wait for them to hop out with their stuff. And then they often bump the door, which smacks shut and knocks something out of my hands.
Here is a list of what I am usually carrying:
My Blag (purse)
My backpack
My laptop
My luncbox
Invariably something else too
I can hear you shouting, “DOWNSIZE!” “Carry Less!” or “Take two trips moron!”
Right. I live on this steep, steep, steep, hill and I don’t want to take two trips. I just want to get home and put my stuff down and put the busy day behind me.
And besides, during March in Vermont, people try not to make any important decisions. At this point in the year, everyone gets a little antsy with “Cabin Fever”, so it’s just not a good time to change daily routines, jobs, or marriages. So although I should perhaps downsize and put my wallet in my backpack or something simple like that, I simply can’t shift gears right now. Nothing changes in March. Wait until April. I’m trying to be a good Vermonter, stay the course, and be patient. Grass will appear again and then I can think clearly. I’m sure of it. I’ll make changes to my routine then (and not my job or my marriage if all goes well).
Besides, I always feel as if I need all these vessels with me. I’m a mom and I’m busy with many commitments. If I didn’t have my backpack, Blag or lunchbox, I would need something from inside one of them for some undeniable reason. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but I just like to be prepared. Besides, I only have to bring the laptop back and forth every other day. The tech guy told me it has to show up at school every “coupla days to stay anti-virused.” The tech guy doesn’t live on my hill.
So, last night, I got of the car, opened the back door for the boys, and gathered ALL my things to prepare to climb the mushy summit. Although it had been snowing in the morning, it was now sleeting and the snow underfoot was slippery slush. The kids climbed out. Earlier, we had gone to the library, so there was also a giant “Where’s Waldo” book that had to go up the hill too. We had gone out to eat (a rare thing) so I was carrying take-out food for my husband in one of those flimsy Styrofoam containers. Now, you can see where this is going, can’t you?
Foreshadowing: slippery slush and snow-piled roofs that melt and slide onto paths and decks
I put my coat, hat, and mittens on and took a deep breath. I am a roadie. I am a woman. Hear me roar. The kids climbed ahead of me. It was pretty dark. We hadn’t left any lights on that morning, but we followed the tobaggon path past the snowman and onto the steps.
My son warned me, “There’s alotta snow on the deck, mom.”
“It must’ve come off the roof today.” I grunted.
“Why?” He yelled. I was well behind him.
Fast. Intense. Wants to know information. How dare he at 8:00 pm on a school night? I don’t have the energy for answering questions on a Thursday while carrying way too much uphill in slush!
He is that kind of kid. He wants an entire explanation of “why” the snow would come off the roof and I have to give it to him right then and there. He doesn’t care that I am causing myself to slip a disk because I am acting like a Grand Canyon pack mule. He is carrying enough of his own stuff to worry about helping me anyway.
“It melted.”
“Why?”
“It was over thirty-two degrees today. The snow warmed up and slid off.”
“Oh.”
By this point I was at the top of the slushy steps and I paused to catch my breath and prepare to step onto the giant mound of snow that was blocking what should be my path to my door. He had already made it to the door.
I took one giant step and one little step. Upon completion of my little step, I suddenly realized I had stepped on the tail of my own long winter coat. Everything in my hands and on my arms went flying as my exhausted brain tried to process the situation.
Now. If you are ever in this situation, (I know, you’re thinking “I never will be because I don’t live the way you do”) here is what happens: you’re brain will instantly make a decision on what to save. My priorities were my husband’s dinner and the laptop.
Well, things didn’t really go as planned. EVERYTHING went flying! It landed on the soft snow (the lap top is fine) I managed to snag one thing: a small piece of iceberg lettuce. Mid-air. Seriously.
My one son, bless his little heart, said. “Mom, are you okay?”
My other son, bless his heart, said, “Will we have time to watch tv tonight?”
I answered both of them at once, “Don’t worry about me boys, I’m fine!” Under my breath I said to myself, “Don’t panic. You’re not on the Titanic.” I could’ve laughed or cried at that point, either one would’ve been appropriate. I did what I had to do. I got up, brushed myself off, grabbed what I could find in the dark and went inside.
I don’t think I stayed awake too long after that. It had been a long day.
But this morning, I looked out the window to see my neighbor shoveling our toboggan run (driveway). It took me a second to realize that he was shoveling the driveway because the snow had come off his roof and completely covered the driveway. This meant that until the snow was removed, I could not get to work.
Ah… Friday. I made the necessary phone calls and got ready for work. “Oh well,” I thought to myself out loud, “I have no control over the situation. Don’t panic… We’re not on the Titanic.” I reminded myself.
We weren’t actually that late after all. My neighbor actually shoveled the entire thing pretty quickly. We left the house. I had forgotten that there was a giant mound of snow on the deck that we had to climb over. I took a deep breath of cold Vermont morning air and climbed the pile and descended the steps.
Then suddenly I saw something GREEN! I was a little confused at first. For a second, I thought it was grass. I thought it was spring. Silly me. It was just a misplaced piece of lettuce from last night. Iceberg lettuce. Garnish.
Ah… Friday. The end of the work week… and one day closer to spring. We’re almost there.
“Iceberg dead ahead!” I said to no one in particular.

Frozen Open and Snowed Out (Wine Not)

This blog is an attempt to fully understand myself and admit that I actually am a high-maintenance person. I have been in denial for about 30 years about who I truly am. I’m sorry. Please forgive my rant.
I always talk about how small our town is… I just figured out why… people don’t live here because about this time of year, it gets difficult! Very difficult!
I’ve decided Rochester, Vermont isn’t a real place. This snowy land is a snow globe on some bored child’s dresser. He shakes it at night before bed, and we citizens of this post card town wake up to lovely flakes flittering from the cloudy sky every morning. I believe it to be true. It is unreal how much snow we have as part of daily life here for MOST of the year. I’m looking out the window now. It’s coming down now AGAIN. As I watch, it’s dancing and covering my car in its daily layer of powdered sugar.
Normally doors are frozen shut and people get snowed in. Not us. It was worse this week for us… it was a tough week.
Last Saturday, we left our snowy mountain valley to go to the big city of Burlington, Vermont. Just as we drove about a mile north of our town, tiny snowflakes started to dance in the sky. “It’s just snow showers,” my husband and I reassured each other. It snows every day.
It does. We’ll be fine… ha… ha… please insert a wicked laugh here…
Snow is a four letter word. Don’t get me wrong. It’s pretty and can be fun too. But after it piles up for months, where do we put it all? How do we deal as the paths become narrower?
There are people who actually make a living removing snow around here. They shovel walks, plow driveways, and push snow off of people’s roofs. It took ten men eight hours to remove the snow from the top of the school this week. That made for a wonderful learning environment in kindergarten as the snow blower went back and forth on top of us. I wondered if it would fall on us. In hind sight, I should have hired one of those men from the roof at school to clear the roof over our deck at home. But I’ll get to that soon…
People who don’t know snow think there is only one type. This particular snow was the best snow for a snowball fight. It was just the right consistency. A person (like me for example) could grab a bunch and crush it instantly into a ball with minimal effort. It didn’t hurt to be hit by one of these snowballs. They were easy to make and even easier to throw. In fact, I hit both my kids and my husband in the head, and they laughed about it and in turn hit me in the head. Good snow! Great fun! The battle we had lasted at least twenty minutes. We were soaked and laughing by the end. Our dinner post snowball fight was warm and delicious. On the way to the restaurant, my oldest son kept hitting us with snowballs.
We of course realized last Saturday, that this wasn’t just snow showers at all; we couldn’t read the snow covered street signs. I couldn’t see to drive as the snow fell off the car roof and obstructed my view. It was a serious snowstorm. We didn’t expect that the weather was going to be so treacherous. The snow changed texture as the air changed temperature. A few hours after the snowball fight and dinner, we were driving home no faster than 35 miles per hour on Route 89 in icy conditions. We took our time.
Along the way, we actually saw “snow lightning”. It exists! I have never seen it! Have you? Its bright blue light reflected off the snow and lit up the mountains as we crawled along. It was actually lovely when it flashed. I felt honored in a way. I’ll always cling to that visual memory because it was gorgeous and dramatic. Apparently, some people live their entire lives and never see “snow lightning”. Cool, huh? Yep.
Until it changes to a different consistency again… which in Vermont can happen every ten minutes or so…
We arrived home at about midnight and our driveway hadn’t been plowed yet. The snow had certainly changed. It was now soft on the inside and crunchy on the surface. Each step we took toward the house UPHILL, our feet sunk and stuck about a foot in. The kids were disoriented because they had fallen asleep in the car and had to be led to bed. Insert sigh here…
Upon entering the house, it seemed cold, but I thought it was because we were damp from the storm.
Nope.
We had run out of oil in our furnace. Oops. Insert another sigh here…
Now, to our defense, our furnace is in the basement and the bulkhead to the basement is covered with snow. We are supposed to check the level of the oil and let the company know when it is time to come and fill it. Oops. And trust me, I just don’t think of things like that. I probably should, but there are so many other things to think about, you know? And we can heat the house with our wood-stove. And we’re not calling them to bring oil on the weekend. Too expensive! We’ll call on Monday… famous last words…
So to recap the week, we went without heat and hot water for FIVE NIGHTS AND FOUR days, my husband dealt with his second flat tire, struggled to close his car door because it was frozen OPEN, and we shoveled our way INTO the house (the snow slid off the mudroom roof onto the deck one day). Yes. Winter is bliss.
We (my husband) called on Monday to have the guys come with the Texas Tea… black Gold… oil… They couldn’t come. They were busy. They never came on Tuesday… ahhhh… we finally got our water back and our furnace primed and flushed out (or whatever) on Thursday.
And I NEED HOT WATER TO BE A GRATEFUL AND PLEASANT PERSON… can you tell? High-maintenance. Yep- that’s me.
Each day through the week, I felt grimier because I hadn’t showered… Snow is good… I chanted… snow is good. But I felt cranky…
On Tuesday, I took my class snowshoeing for the first time. Snow is good…
As the days wore on, my hair clung to itself… snow is good…
As my skin began to feel slimy, I watched the many sleds flying down the hill behind the school and kids shrieking with joy. Snow is good…
As the week wore on, I felt pretty haggard. My friend Claudia stopped her car in the parking lot and rolled down her window.
“Hey!” She smiled cheerfully.
“Hello.” I half grumbled.
“You look nice.” She said sweetly.
“What?” I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I spilled it all right there and then. I couldn’t possibly look nice! I hadn’t bathed in days.
She invited me to use her bathtub that night. “We have hot wata!” She said in her New York accent. Now she has a HUGE antique claw foot tub; I have wanted to take a bath in that thing since I first saw it a year ago at her daughter’s birthday party. Okay, I’m weird… but have you ever taken a bath in a HUGE antique claw foot tub? Has your friend Claudia ever given you a glass of white wine to sip casually as you soaked in her HUGE antique claw foot tub? Winter is bliss…
Try it sometime. Especially after you haven’t felt hot water against your skin for days… snow is good… hot water is good… my glass of wine was half-full and life suddenly got better as it emptied.
See, as I sat there in the hot water at Claudia’s house and reflected on my week, I realized something. We adults forget how fun snow can be because we have to work so hard to maintain things. We have to shovel it and move it off bulk-heads and scrape it from our car windows. We have to scrape it from roofs or snow will collapse on pathways and break the roof rake (yep), and give chickens warm water every morning. We have to stack the firewood in preparation and stoke the fire to warm our Vermont homes. We have to drive slowly and carefully. I realized that my body was probably aching a little bit. No wonder I was cranky. A hot bath soothes the muscles too.
I closed my eyes and relived our family snowball fight. I remembered how nicely the snow packed in my gloved hands. I thought of my class and their little smiles as we crossed the deep white stuff for the first time in our snowshoes without sinking to our hips. I thought of the “snow lightning”. Certainly I wouldn’t have seen “snow lightning” without snow, right? Snow is good… in fact, it’s great!
So now I’ve come to admit it… I am a high-maintenance woman. I ask a whole lot. I need a HUGE antique claw foot bath tub filled with steaming hot water and a glass of white wine. After my skin had turned red, I pulled the drain and listened to the gurgle. The drain took all my troubles away. Ahhh…
Sorry… I am who I am. I need hot water. Now I’m ready for another week. And now it’s just five more weeks until spring, according to the damn groundhog. Oh, but that would be in Pennsylvania. In Vermont, we have to double it, because mud season has to come first, you know? Stay tuned…

Ass Over Tea Kettle

Any day that starts with a tea kettle frozen to the top step outside the door is bound to be interesting, especially if there is no way to open the door. Today was one of those days.
HOW did the tea kettle come to be frozen, you ask? Because, among other things on his “honey do” list yesterday (like call in “frozen” to work), my husband did me favor and gave the chickens their morning water. He then set the tea kettle down outside the kitchen door and walked to our neighbor’s house to borrow a blow torch.
Yes, I did say blow torch.
See, in addition to our washing machine seizing up, our pipes were frozen in the living room (3 problems.) Most people would consider using a blow dryer on the pipes, but I don’t use such modern appliances such as cell phones and blow dryers.
It was a Manic Monday. It was 20 degrees below zero, so we had a two-hour school delay because children couldn’t be outside. Bus drivers needed the heat of the sun to start buses. Teachers couldn’t warm their brains enough to teach reading and writing and arithmetic. Car batteries struggled to turn over. My iPod couldn’t register any sign of life until I brought it inside for an hour.
And we have chickens? I can’t imagine being a chicken right now. How do they stay warm? It must be intolerable. You’re probably thinking “They’re animals”, right? They have adapted to the cold with glycerin in their feet and their thick downy feathers. Well, that may be true but they aren’t laying eggs right now. They are free-loading, but I can’t say I blame them. There just isn’t enough light in the course of a day for a chicken to consider the urge to drop an egg.
The appliance man who came to fix the washing machine told me that when his chickens stop laying eggs, his family eats more chicken soup. I don’t have the heart to kill them because they don’t lay eggs in the winter. It’s not their fault it’s wintertime.
Though not a chicken, I am an animal too. I’ll prove it. As soon as I realized I couldn’t open the kitchen door this morning, I think I may have growled… at my husband in an animal-like fashion.
It sounded something like this: (when you read the following, please make sure to sound angry)
“When you give the chickens water, please make sure to put the tea kettle back on the stove! I got stuck to the step. I can’t open the door.” Now you’re thinking I should be grateful that he did me a favor the day before, and I should focus on what is right and not wrong… preserve my relationship… but I couldn’t OPEN THE DOOR TO GET OUT.
I tried to reach my hand out the door far enough to pull on the handle. I wasn’t strong enough. I tried to pour hot water onto the step and then pull on the handle. I still wasn’t strong enough. I finally decided to go out the OTHER door with a pot of water and go AROUND the house to the chickens. I figured I could kick the tea kettle off the step on my way back inside after I gave them water. I was in a huge hurry because mornings are rushed with packing lunches, getting kids dressed, breakfast, chickens, and of course there’s the added stress of opening the mud room door that gets stuck in the winter because of the frost heave that forms under the deck. I had to put the pot of water down and yank on the door handle with all my might to open that door to get out. Claustrophobia anyone?
So there I was stomping (like a brat) out the other door with a pot of hot water, but I quite didn’t make it as far as the chicken house. There was a bit of ice coating the stairs (that were already covered with snow), so of course I fell (ass over pot of water in this case.) A string of profanity flew from my mouth that probably woke up the neighborhood, or at least my neighbor who was scraping his windshield.
“Son of a %#NFKGHD&SUSFKF!@*(&&^55sdfhiugivbjbgg*&&%#%#%9082327!”
The pot flew into the air and the water landed on me. I couldn’t believe the water didn’t freeze in mid-air and smack me on the head like I had seen it do on the internet.
I stood up and shook like a hosed-down dog and stomped to the door with the pot in my hand. I pushed my way through the frost heave and slammed the door (so it would stay shut of course.)
Now the expression on my husband’s face was priceless. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. He needed to figure out how to respond without laughing because he knew I was not in the mood… and of course there wouldn’t be time to stop and laugh in the morning. I’m sure you have gathered our mornings are rushed.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I fell down the #$*&^$^$$&^% stairs. I’m taking a shower.”
“How ‘bout I take care of the chickens this morning?”
Good answer. “That would be great.” Water and fury dripped from my lips, “When you’re on your way back in, could you please get the tea pot from the back steps?”
My kids probably didn’t notice the incident, but after my shower, I paid them both 50 cents because I swore (twice, 25 cents per swear), and apologized for my animal-like behavior. They didn’t care. In fact, Desmond went to school and shared the story with his class during sharing time. By mid-morning his teacher asked me if I was okay since I had fallen down the stairs.
When I took the car to the shop in town to get the oil changed that day, I was convinced that Mike (the mechanic- yeah- I know “Mike and the Mechanics”) would ask me if I was okay after falling down the stairs. I’m sure he knew. Like I said, my neighbor saw me when he was scraping his windshield.
As the day progressed, I became able to laugh and see the humor in what had happened. I fell “on my ass over the tea kettle” and how many people can claim that? My husband and I exchanged laughs about it via email and later on that night we sat down to dinner.
We always say what we are grateful for before we start to eat. We hold hands and take turns and say what we are happy to have in our lives. When my oldest son shared, he said his token “I’m glad we’re not slaves,” AND he said, “I’m glad my parents are not split up.”
Full stop. Think about that.
He’s right. He should be grateful his parents are not split up because there are only three sets of parents in his class who are still married. It is something to be grateful for.
So now it’s time for what I’m grateful for. I am grateful to be married. I’m grateful my husband helps around the house – inside and out-. And believe it or not, I am grateful that I live where it’s cold, because if you want to preserve something you always should put it in the freezer.

In the Middle of Somewhere

• Author’s note: Please know that the names of everyone (except my husband Nick) have been changed to protect the innocent and humble.

We like it this way… in the middle of nowhere. We can see the stars at night (when it’s not raining or snowing.) We can say “hi” to EVERYONE (I do mean everyone) in the local grocery store. We can call the store and ask the clerk to add a red onion to our husband’s cart as he passes through the line (who needs a cell phone bill?) We wave when we pass each other on the road, AND… the biggest and best part about living where we do is that we stop to help each other if we are in need. Here’s a great example.
A week ago, Nick got a flat tire on his way to work at about 8:30 in the morning along Route 100. Route 100 is our biggest road with on lane flowing north and one lane flowing south. Now, a flat tire is rarely timed well, but Nick says this one was particularly badly timed because the temperature was cold, his shoulder hurt, and the roads were snowy and slick.
He got out of the car to grab the donut (and not one with frosting on it from Dunkin.) Just as he was about to change the tire and push on with the day, a man named Keith (*not his real name), stopped to offer help. Our connection to Keith is that he has a daughter in my kindergarten, and he was just coming from depositing her at school for the day.
Never one to refuse help, Nick agreed to the offer. Now he had help and good company and good conversation. A bad situation suddenly turned better.
They changed the tire and Nick was about to head off to work. But Keith offered to take my husband’s car to the shop for him. He switched cars with my husband so that Nick could take the car to work(about ½ hour north on Route 100.) Nick was on his way to work feeling grateful. The offer from Keith was generous and far above and beyond what any person should do.
If you can imagine, it gets better.
My husband called to tell me the story mid-morning. “Did you hear?” He asked. It is a small town, so I probably should have already heard. Most of the town probably knew Nick had a flat tire before he did.
Keith and his wife stopped by school to have lunch with their daughter. I expressed my complete gratitude as soon as I saw them, but they were very humble about it. “It’s what people should do for each other.” Keith said. “His car is done. Now, where does he work? We’d like to bring his car back to him.”
If you can imagine, it gets better.
They drove the car to Small Dog Electronics http://www.smalldog.com/
and presented my husband with the car. They would not accept any gas money from my husband or money to pay for the snow tire that had replaced the flat! Just flat out refused (please don’t mind the pun.)
Just knowing that we live in a town where people help each other is a beautiful thing. But what do you say to people who are like this? Is thank you enough? Do you mail them an anonymous card with money in it? Would that be enough?
I don’t know the answer to that. I just try to remember the deed and realize that people are naturally good inside and that they want to help whenever they can. I am sharing the story, so that you too can feel good too. Though evil exists, so does goodness. The goodness outweighs the evil. Almost erases it.
And I will try to never forget the good deed, with a “pay it forward” attitude. Perhaps I will have a chance to help someone some day. I will stop and help (unless it’s changing a tire because I don’t think I can remember how to do that.)
Nick wrote a thank-you note two days ago.
The same day I gave them the note, Keith was backing out of his driveway, and his car slipped and got stuck on a log in a ditch. The injustice! Some people believe that no good deed goes unpunished. I still don’t believe that. The glass is half-full. It has to be. It’ll work out. Keith is a good person. Everything happens for a reason.
He and his family live on a dead-end dirt road, so NO ONE would be driving by to help him. As soon as I heard about the situation from his wife, I told her that she could use our AAA towing option to get the car out of the ditch. Hooray! I can help!
Maybe it would help, but I wonder sometimes about our AAA. Around here, there is only one shop that will send a truck out for AAA towing, and it’s located in Rutland, which is almost an hour’s drive. We have had AAA come to us and it can sometimes take up to 3 hours before they arrive. But it’s paid for. And they can get cars out of ditches! It’s always the same AAA driver. Maybe he’s the low guy on the pole, so they send him to the “Heart of the Green Mountains.” I don’t think he’s awesome at the job, but he tries. He broke a hole in our bumper once and had to pay us cash to get it fixed. He towed our van and slipped into a ditch last winter and they had to send a tow truck for the tow truck. Each time I see this AAA guy, I can tell he is nervous about coming here. He even told me once that his GPS doesn’t work and he always gets lost around here.
Despite all of the woes of AAA, Keith’s wife seemed grateful for the offer because they had tried a small pick-up and a chain and nothing was working. I reminded her to call us for help later if they needed AAA. She said that she would. I silently hoped that the AAA guy would pull through and do a good job this time. I also hoped he wouldn’t get lost.
They never called… but…
if you can imagine, it gets better.
Keith’s wife came to school yesterday morning smiling sweetly as always. I asked her about their car and if everything was taken care of.
“It’s a great story.” She answered.
So, here it is. She went home two days ago and told Keith about our AAA offer. They were standing outside in their driveway on their dead-end road. She had barely finished her sentence about us offering AAA when they heard a rumbling noise on the road.
It was AAA.
On a dead-end road.
On the way another call.
Keith waved the truck down, and the car was pulled out of the ditch.
Now, do you believe that? I think it’s great. They live on a dead-end road and the AAA truck driver was LOST! The GPS doesn’t work. Do you think it’s the same AAA driver? I do. It’s Vermont. It’s just how it is here.
We like it this way… in the middle of nowhere. We can see the stars at night (when it’s not raining or snowing.) We love our local grocer. We wave when we pass each other on the road, AND… the biggest and best part about living where we do is that we stop to help each other if we are in need.
But I’m not calling it “the middle of nowhere” anymore. I’m calling it “the middle of somewhere.” Because it is. Vermont’s special, and we know it. We know it well. It’s good here.

All My Egg in One Basket

I have two boys. I refer to them as “Irish Twins”… thought technically, they aren’t. I looked up the definition of “Irish Twins”. The children have to be born within the same calendar year to be considered as such. So mine aren’t, but before my older child turned one, I was already pregnant with the second one. I just like to use the term "Irish Twins" because I feel more justified about how busy and crazed my life feels most of the time. The early years were busy, and although my boys are able to buckle themselves into their car seats and carry their own back packs now, I am still incredibly busy, lots of tiny things, but especially Legos.
Why Legos? I’ll get to that later… bear with me.
My boys are very different children, with different passions (#1 trains) and (#2 perfection). They are close in age, so they are at different stages and places in life, but sometimes they hit milestones at the same time. For example, they both learned to ride their bike on the same day. Truly, I ran between both bikes, holding on to back of their little bike seats and as I let go, I watched them teeter away side by side. It was an amazing feeling and it was weird to have them both “get it” at the same time.
As a mom, I sometimes try to freeze and savor the moments. The moments pass by as quickly and as slowly (did that make sense?) as a child newly riding his bike in a superhero helmet; if you’re a mom, you understand and you know it’s true.
But I digress. Back to the point: this blog is called All My Egg in One basket, and I did mean egg… not eggs. Let me explain: For purpose of this blog, “egg” is a metaphor for motherhood. Yes, I have two children, but I am one person and the experience of mothering them is mine; it is my one chance at this. Mothering is rewarding and exhausting and I have to say that I wouldn’t have it any other way. I have thrown myself into the experience from the moment they handed me my screaming oldest son. I’m doing my best 24/7.
However, there are moments when my best just isn’t good enough. Sometimes I need the support of others.
And it is all because of Legos.
Man, they are tiny. Have I mentioned that they are tiny? And of course there’s the fact that some of those Legos are TINY! And they bounce and they are important to 7 and 8 year old boys. Legos are good for developing/maintaining fine motor skills. They are great for working at visual/spatial mastery and creativity beyond the directions that come in the box. They are colorful, versatile, fun, and I like them too.
I really like them until an important piece gets lost. It happens a lot. Just yesterday, my son had brought his Lego creation to school. Somehow from the time he left class at the end of the day until we arrived at our van to leave, a tiny gun was missing from the side of the ship. The custodian was vacuuming so we knew our time for resolve was limited. We retraced our steps. We re-walked the entire school. Up and down the hall… in the gym, in his classroom, his brother’s classroom, my classroom. Nothing. No gun.
We had finally resolved ourselves to the loss. But then, our school cook noticed we were desperately scanning the ground for something.
“What’re you looking for?”
“A Lego gun.” My son said sadly.
“A tiny one.” I added, exhaustedly.
“Did you look over by that truck?” She asked.
“No.” My son was fighting back tears at this point.
“I saw you there earlier. You were flying your ship.” She happened to look out the kitchen window at the perfect time to see him spinning around in circles in the front of the school. She walked over to the truck and looked down and suddenly, SHE found the tiny black gun. That helped my evening go much smoother I have to say. Thanks Kristi!
We used to play with Mega Blocks when they were very young. They are too big to lose, but this past Christmas we took the major Lego Plunge. They come in boxes of 850 pieces or more (AND EVERY TINY PIECE IS IMPORTANT- IT’S A PUZZLE) with visual directions. And Legos can be found on EBAY too ($18.95 for “a lot” of 200 Batman and Star Wars Legos from someone in Texas). It arrived today and before dinner the “lot” became two ships. The boys were having a great time and enjoying playing with Lego Droids… side by side. Not fighting… mostly. It was grand… until…
Until one of the Lego ships was spinning around in the bathroom (I don’t know why, it’s the smallest most crowded room in the house), hit the toilet, and broke into pieces. Everything was found but the tiny, tiny, tiny, Droid Helmet. Some mothers would look for the helmet and others wouldn’t. I think it all depends on what is going on at the time of Lego loss.
We have lost other tiny things. My younger son lost his tooth at school and then LOST that same tooth in his grandparent’s car. That very tooth turned up about a week later! Can you believe that? My older son lost his tooth at school and then LOST that same tooth on the bus! The bus driver actually found it while sweeping the bus that afternoon. Can you believe that? A little girl in my kindergarten class lost her tooth and then lost that same TINY tooth near the classroom door when we were on our way home. I found the thing under the door frame and had to slide it out with an untwisted paper clip. Can you believe that? I can. I’ve lived these moments and remember them vividly because in the life of a young kid, it is a BIG deal. Therefore, to a nearby adult, it had to be a big deal too.
My husband lost his wedding band into a snow bank at Christmas (right around the time the chickens started laying eggs). After searching for his ring repeatedly with a metal detector, he found it on the FIRST DAY OF SPRING! He proudly wears two bands now: the original one that he found (thankfully) and the temporary one that my mother “loaned” him from her jewelry box. It bothered him a lot when he couldn’t find his wedding band. It was troubling to him. It was frustrating to him. It was annoying to know there was three feet of snow sitting on top of that TINY thing for the entire winter. But it was found after all. As the snow melted, it allowed itself to be found.
And now as I type, my younger son is deep asleep near another tiny lost tooth- one that he lost today (of all days). He is awaiting the arrival of the Tooth Fairy tonight. And I will capture the moment. Before I collapse into deep slumber myself, I will go up and steal his TINY tooth, replace it with a quarter, and kiss his warm forehead, for the days of losing teeth are numbered.
I noticed that baby teeth and Lego Droid helmets are the same size! To both of my kids, they are equally important.
So, as a mother, I feel I need to do the best I can to treat all the tiny things with respect as well. I feel the importance too. If it’s important to my child, it has to be important to me too.
But the experience of mothering with Legos around makes my nerves feel as fragile as the first egg that came out of my chickens.
If you have ever read any of my other blogs, you know that I have a chicken coop. I wanted fresh eggs and so I (we) built the coop and awaited the arrival of chickens. They arrived (if you build it, they will come). My friend gave me two hens (Thomasina, named by my son the train fan) and Susan Salari (named by my son who likes The Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe) and then my neighbors added two more hens, (Odd Job and Plastic Bag II). Another two chickens came a few months later (Bob) and (Junior)... don't ask. So, we now have six chickens and they lay about two eggs a day. Perhaps one chicken is laying eggs, and other five are slackers.
-So I have to add here that just tonight I got three eggs… something must be wrong. They must have heard me blogging about their “slackerness!” (slakyness)? Oh, you know what I mean.
I remember the first ceremonial first egg; it came on the Winter Solstice (the shortest day of the year). This egg’s arrival cracked me up (sorry about the pun on the use of the words “crack” and “egg” in the same sentence). The picture you saw at the beginning at this blog is off that first egg. I held it with the almost the same wonder as a newborn. I gave it a bath and put it in a basket and took a photograph so I could remember what I was feeling.
This is what I do: I take the pictures. I freeze-frame the moments. Most of the moments are the ones you can capture on film, though some can’t be captured on film.
Take for example today. I wouldn’t have wanted to freeze-frame the moment I began to look for the Lego Droid’s helmet because I had to lie down on the bathroom floor and search. I took the baseboard off the wall. I swept dust bunnies. I shook out towels and rugs. I was ridiculous.
I typically pride myself on not being too obsessive about things. I don’t know what came over me today. Three years back, when everyone was flipping out about Thomas the Tank Engine and the fact that he had been painted with lead paint, do you think I worried? Nah. I actually knew people who put their entire train collection in boxes and shipped them off to have them completely replaced. I’m not that good; I’m not that on the ball. I just told my kids to keep the trains out of their mouths.
But with Legos, I get a little crazy. This past Christmas, we spent three days just working on Lego ships and Lego trains. I don’t even remember if we ate (kidding). But over vacation there was a day when two little neighbor girls came to visit, and when they came into the house, somehow the Legos went flying. I actually found the two TINY TINY TINY missing pieces. One was crammed in the cushion of the recliner and the other somehow ended up in the trash. Can you believe it? I don’t think I will ever understand how these things happen.
You can tell I’m into Legos. But I don’t take a picture of the structures that they make. Maybe I should start. I will probably forget the colors and shapes of the elaborate creations, and believe it or not, I will probably forget how it feels to step on a Lego in the middle of the night. Or I will forget how my sons can actually sit together and work for hours on one Star Wars ship and then proceed to playing an elaborate battle without actually arguing about how to fight.
But today, I had my favorite Lego moment. I just didn’t want to forget it, so I decided to sit down and write this blog.
I had been searching in the bathroom for about five minutes for the TINY Lego Droid helmet to no avail. I even called on Saint Anthony (patron saint of lost items) and I’m not even Catholic. Oddly enough, I managed to look behind the door and find the back of my earring I had lost at 7:30 this morning. All day, I used an eraser to hold the earring in place. That felt good. I ran my hand along beneath the baseboard. Nope. And then, I sat in the perfect position to locate the little black piece. Aha!
“I found it!”
“You found it?” My child asked. There was such gratitude and disbelief dripping from his voice.
“This is it, right?”
My son paused from flying his ship just long enough to wrap his arms around my neck and whisper into my ear, “You’re the best.”
I closed my eyes. I felt it. It felt good. I can be a good mom. I seek and I find.
I may not be able to get it together to box up poisonous trains and send them back to China, but I can crawl around on the floor and find TINY Lego Droid helmets. It’s all in a day’s work. It’s part of being a mom.

It’s the TINY things that count.

Two Roads

The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.






The Robert Frost Interpretive trail is close to my house in Vermont. I’ve walked the trail many times and read all of the posted poems that are along the way. In the forest where Robert walked and spent many hours writing, the trail is a treasure. If you are ever near Middlebury, Vermont with absolutely nothing else to do… check it out.
If you attended a high school English class, you probably participated in at least one session of interpretation of The Road Not Taken. What did your class decide? For the purpose of this blog, I’m going to revisit the long-ignored skill of poetry analysis. Come along with me; you can participate.
I think the most common thought on this poem is that Robert Frost was advising his readers to take the figurative road that is traveled less. In other words, march to your own band and beat your own drum. If everybody goes right… then, dear reader, go left.
The poem The Road Not Taken is displayed on the Robert Frost Interpretive trail after a bridge that crosses over a lovely brook. The first time I came upon it, I found it very funny because beneath the poem, there is a giant arrow pointing to the right. I actually laughed out loud at the arrow and turned left. I think Robert Frost would find it funny that most people come across the bridge, read the poem, and follow the arrow. This trail is a one-mile loop and in seven years of taking this trail, I have never seen anyone (but me and my family) walking the “wrong way”. In my opinion, in order to honor Robert Frost, there is no other way to do it.
I think the poem has another meaning, and in this blog, I will show you what I mean. I think Robert was looking at life in a linear way and saying that no matter which path he had decided to take in his life, he would have ended up exactly where he was supposed to anyway. I agree with him and I actually put this theory to the test. Like Robert, I couldn’t travel both roads, but I’ll describe for you how I tested this on one of my typical days.
The other day, I had many things on my list of “things to do.” I had to have an actual list that I wouldn’t forget anything. Most of the things on the list had to do with checking up on the well being of my oldest son because of… well, put it this way… a few nights before, he had an extremely bad day that ended with a trip to the emergency room. We had some follow-up appointments with his doctor (for his arm) and the dentist (for his tooth). Aside from appointments for him, I had to “squeeze in” (don’t mind the pun) a mammogram for me, swimming lessons, a lunch play-date, and grocery shopping. Did Robert Frost have busy days with lists as long as mine? Doubt it.
I am spoiled living here in Vermont. We don’t have to build any extra time into our day for traffic. Not many people live here, so the commute is simply the commute on a country mile. I build travel time into my day, but never consider that there will be anyone else on the road.
However, upon leaving home that morning for our appointments, my kids and I were suddenly stuck behind a slow car. Then we came to the stop sign that is about a mile from our home. The car ahead of us turned right and I began to think. If we went right, we would drive a paved road with a slow car in front of us, and make a trip through town. If we went left, we would drive a dirt road with no one in front of us and could avoid town.
Thinking of Robert Frost I made a decision to turn left.
Now this was July 13th. Historically, I haven’t always liked July 13th. It may sound weird, but I dread the day, and not because I have Triskaidekaphobia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triskaidekaphobia … I don’t. I’ve simply had two life/death/harrowing close calls on July 13th, so I don’t know why I scheduled anything on July 13th. I usually don’t leave the house on that day. It’s the one day during the summer that I like to stay very close to home. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking I guess. Enough said about that.
I guess I woke up that day kind of dreading what the day had in store… or –if you will- what travelling “the road” would bring for us. But back to the story… we were turning left…
About another mile up the road, we came upon a GIANT tractor mowing the sides of the road. It was moving slower than I walk! We could have parked, got out of the van, and walked the 13 miles to Randolph faster than this tractor! I gripped the wheel, thought of Robert Frost’s appreciation of nature and examined the lovely Maples on both sides of the road as we crawled along. Finally the tractor turned and we were on our way at a faster pace until…
We came upon what the locals call a “Vermont Board Meeting” (two pick-up trucks facing opposite directions, side-by-side, engines off, drivers talking).
Protocol at a “Vermont Board Meeting” is:
1. Pull up behind them.
2. Stop.
3. Wait until they finish their conversation.
4. Wait until they notice you.
5. Watch them start their trucks.
6. Smile and wave at the driver who finally drives past you going the other way.
7. Try not to curse and hold a grudge as the truck in front of you begins slowly.
8. Never pass the truck in front of you… that would be rude.
9. Drive behind the truck until (finally) one of you turns off the road.
I would say that by this point, I was in a pretty large hurry. (I use the pronoun “I” because my kids were oblivious to the situation). It was very hard on me that the person in front of me was driving slower than the speed limit. I wasn’t going to drive like a maniac, but when the truck FINALLY turned right onto Middle Hollow Road, I didn’t consider thinking about Robert Frost’s thoughts on views of ponds as I went left.
I never see cops on Bethel Mountain, but there was our constable parked at the top of the mountain. I wasn’t speeding, but he was a reminder to safely stay the course. I waved, maintained the speed limit, checked the digital clock, and plugged on. Until…
School bus!
Why would there be a school bus in the middle of the summer? Why would it be picking up children? Why would it be driving very slowly (in 1st gear) down the east side of Bethel Mountain?
I know why! Because I had appointments to keep, that’s why!
And then I thought of Robert Frost again and looked at the view. From the top of Bethel Mountain I could see all the way to New Hampshire. I reminded my kids of the beauty. I smiled, “You live in Vermont. You’re so lucky!” So, we were behind a school bus. We could be stuck in 3 lanes of busy traffic near a congested city. We weren’t. We could see many mountains far away and a blue sky decorated with clouds like cotton-candy. I held the wheel and down-shifted into first gear too.
Well, we made it to our first appointment with the doctor… late. But they were very forgiving and let us in anyway. Heck, I’ve had to wait for them on many occasions. The doctor discovered that my son’s collar bone had actually been broken! I’m glad we had a follow-up appointment. The ER doctor missed the fracture because my son’s collar bone and one of his ribs over-lapped and it was hard to see. We fitted him with a strap-on brace (that he’ll wear for two weeks) and headed to the drug-store for IBUProfen for relief from his pain. When I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, I saw my mother’s jeep parked there.
She had a doctor’s appointment the same day, and a dentist appointment too. Same doctor’s office. Same dentist office. Weird, eh? I suddenly wondered if they had made it on time. Probably. It occurred to me that they probably had turned right when the roads split; they had taken the road “more traveled”. They were always on time to appointments.
My kids and I spent a few minutes parked near the train tracks so we could watch the Amtrack train come in. Our timing was great; it zoomed by us with great vigor and my son with the broken collar bone felt great after that experience. Fortunately, we were able to make it to the pool on time because there were no mowers, trucks, or busses out and about. While at the pool, I casually mentioned to my friend Alyssa that I had a mammogram at 1:30 and was not looking forward to it.
“What are you doing with the kids while you’re having it done?”
“Oh, they’re coming with me.”
“To the hospital?”
“Yep. My mom would usually watch the kids for me, but she has a buncha’ appointments today too… so she can’t.”
“Leave them here at the pool with me. I’ll watch them.”
My day suddenly seemed easier.
On the way to my mammogram (back to the same doctor’s office I had been earlier in the morning), I saw my mother’s jeep again, driving the opposite direction. I beeped and waved, but they didn’t see me. It seemed funny to see her in Randolph… so far from home and our paths kept crossing. I thought of Robert Frost again as my mother took one road and I took another. My mother’s mouth would be wide open for her dentist ay 1:30, just as I my breasts were being squished for my radiologist.
And speaking of being squished… I have to comment on just how weird a mammogram is. Let me describe it for those of you who have never had the pleasure. The radiologist held the door open for me and I entered the tiny, overly feminine room. The breast squishing machine took up about half of the space. She immediately told me to remove my shirt and step up and place my breast on a little platform. She warned me that she would be pulling on me and to get ready for my “picture”. It all happened so fast. We had just barely said hello and suddenly she is grabbing one of my most tender parts of my body and pulling. I almost asked if she was a gardener, she was so talented at grabbing and pulling. I need her to go to my house and weed my flowerbeds. Then she made me grab onto the handrail and hold my breath. She went behind a small divider and said, “Hold your breath. Stand still.” I heard a BEEP. I was pinned there. Stuck, and incredibly uncomfortable, I tried to find beauty in the room like I know Robert Frost would have. I couldn’t. I could hardly stand.
“Okay.” The radiologist said abruptly, “hold your breath again.”
BEEP.
Then it occurred to me: What if the power went down in a hospital? Is there a generator that kicks on immediately? Would I be trapped there? Would I survive hours in that position if I had to? I could write a ton of poetry in that time, and I don’t write poetry.
Fortunately, the power did not go out. The radiologist released the machine’s grip on my flesh and handed me a bizarre pink shirt/shawl/cover-up. This perplexed me. Why should I cover myself considering she’s already seen my breasts and pulled them almost half-way across the room? Why bother?
She fussed with the “pictures” to be sure they were good enough. Then she made me slap my breast up there again.
We repeated this scenario over and over and over again until she had every possible angle of both breasts. I thought of my mother in the chair at the dentist’s office with her mouth gaping. Normally, I wouldn’t want to be at the dentist, but at that particular moment, I would have switched places with my mom gratefully.
It ended. I thanked the radiologist and asked her, “How many years have years have you had this job?” (I don’t know why I did that, but I suppose I didn’t want to be rude… you know… small talk).
“Twenty.” She said proudly.
“How many breasts would that be… times two?” I asked without thinking.
“Oh, God. I don’t know,” she smiled casually, “a lot… my boyfriend thinks I have the best job.”
“Does he realize that most of the breasts are over 40? That’s when they start to sag.”
“He doesn’t care, I guess. I’ve told him. He still is jealous of my job.”
My kids had splashed and swam the entire time and seemed quite happy (of course they were… they weren’t getting a mammogram). In fact, the one without the broken collar bone wanted to continue playing with Alyssa’s kids for the rest of the afternoon. Alyssa agreed to it and since we had another appointment with the dentist… my afternoon just got easier again. One kid grocery shopping and a one kid trip to the dentist would be much easier.
So, onward we went to the grocery store. Shopping with one child was a dream. My son seemed pretty tired from swimming and since he had a broken bone, I told him he could ride in the wheelchair cart. By the time we were done, the groceries were piled around him; he looked so content, like a cat in a pile of clean laundry.
We arrived at the dentist on time. Have I mentioned that this dentist is not our usual one? Our regular dentist was on vacation so we had to go to the only other dentist in town because of my son’s front tooth emergency. I stood at the counter and gave them ALL of our insurance information because it was as if we were first time clients. They needed to know EVERYTHING and that took time… 15 extra minutes of our time. I slid paperwork across to the administrative assistant at the dentist’s office.
“Fiske Road. Rochester. That address seems familiar.” She tapped her pen.
“My mom shares the same address.” I said rubbing the counter, “She was actually here today.” I told her my mother’s name and we shared a “Vermont is so small” moment.
“She was just here!” The woman laughed.
“Yes, and now she’s heading back to another doctor’s appointment in the same building where we had one earlier today.”
Probably humoring me, she seemed to find what I said to be interesting.
The dentist checked my son’s mouth (everything was AOK) and then spent a ton of time talking about trains with him. It was great because my son forgot about his collarbone for a few minutes. Distraction is fantastic, you know? I was relieved about his tooth.
We left the dentist’s office and went BACK to the hospital because my neighbor had been in the birth center that day. She had been in labor since the night before and so we figured perhaps the baby had been born. We wanted to meet our new neighbor if it was possible. My mother’s jeep was parked outside; she was still at her doctor’s appointment.
No baby had been born yet, but I had the honor of holding my neighbor’s hand while she had a few contractions. I thought of Robert Frost again. Had he ever seen a woman in labor? It was a lovely and mysterious experience. In the hall outside the room, my son’s face was priceless. He had never heard anything quite like that before. He told me his collarbone didn’t hurt as much as having a baby probably did. I wonder if he’s right. Apples and oranges I’ll bet…
Our list was complete. On our way out of the hospital, we stopped at a garden courtyard and sat for a few minutes on a bench. There was a fountain, some lovely flowers and birds chirping. We sat near a gorgeous yellow bird and listened to his song until my son was ready to go.
When we were on our way back to the car, I could see my mother’s jeep pulling out of the parking lot. They hadn’t seen us. I smiled to myself… timing… timing is so important. Our paths were not meant to cross that day. Oh well.
We headed for home with a plan; we would stop at Onion Flats Restaurant for an ice cream cone for my son. It had been an ice cream cone day. In his mind, ice cream =summer, and after all, he had a broken collar bone. Isn’t ice cream medicine for that? Onion Flats is an old fashioned drive-in restaurant where we have had many an upside-down meal… (ice cream first, meal later).
My mother had the same idea! She was already savoring a root beer float. I took the space behind her jeep and ran up to say hello. Our paths had finally crossed.
“How was your day?” I asked her.
“Crazy.” She sipped her straw. “We’ve been all over the place.”
“I know. I saw you. We were all over the place too.” I smiled.
No matter how we travel the road, we end up where we are supposed to. My mother took her path and we took ours, and although different, we converged at Onion Flats because we were supposed to. On a summer evening we shared both conversation and the road back over the mountain on the way home. The clouds were building toward a storm. Even my son noticed.
We came to the place in the road on the way home where a choice can be made on which way to go home… two roads in a wood. We can travel home either through town or country road.
I had to pick up my other son from his play-date so I turned toward town. My mother, on the other hand, took the road less traveled… and that made all the difference. I’m sure she got home first.