writing muscles

My friend Jeff is a writer and he told me to write every day. That was Saturday. Today is Thursday. It’s the first day I’ve written. I don’t understand why it’s so difficult to do something that I find so easy and fulfilling, something that is therapeutic and that I hope to make a career of someday. It’s kind of like going to the gym. It’s hard to get in a routine but once you’re hooked, it’s almost impossible to quit. Kind of like smoking for most people. Wouldn’t it be funny if they had to make a gym-otine patch to get people to quit working out. Hey, man! You’re getting too fit. What’s with the six pack? Dude, you need some help. I’ve got a support group you have to join.

So Jeff says, just write something – anything - every day. It doesn’t matter what it is, it’s just good practice for your writing muscles. You never have to show anybody. You don’t even have to save it. It’s just exercise. Letting your creativity stretch and get warmed up before the big race.

I kind of like it.

It reminds me of therapy after Steve (the first guy I thought I would marry) and I broke up. Barbara, a granola looking woman with frizzy brown hair and a kind of plain face, was my therapist. She always offered water and then supplied me with an itty-bitty Dixie cup chock full of lukewarm water. That’s not much liquid courage for an hour of self-reflection, is it? Barbara suggested that I write a daily journal to help me sort through all of the emotions of being dumped, to help me figure out who I was, who I had been and even more important who I wanted to be and how to get there. It was like a word game, a verbal map to the soul. So I did it. I wrote. And I healed. And she would ask me if I edited my thoughts as I put them down on paper. Duh. Of course I did. The reason why? Why would I feel as though I had to pretend, to hide or correct this raw expression of my thoughts and self. Uhhh, the obvious answer. What if someone read it?! What if someone figured out who I really was? What if they knew I had deep, dark thoughts, some that were not nice. Some that were just silly or cruel or that I had done some of the things I’ve done.

And, even worse, what if I was the one who figured out who I really was. Frightening thought for someone who had hidden inside a shell, a shadow, a shadow shell for almost her whole life. Always letting other people invent me. Sometimes I wonder if I still do that. There was a character on Star Trek once (bear in mind this is when I used to be a Trekkie because the guy I dated was a twice-a-day Star Trek junkie) who was called a Mesomorph and she basically became whatever her mate wanted her to be. If they liked WWF she was a great wrestler with a penchant for tight shiny spandex and body slams. If they were a foodie, she prepared amazing French cuisine with the perfect wine pairings. If I were on Star Trek, I’d be a Mesomorph. Which is actually probably better than being a Klingon or one of the green slimy chicks. So anyway, here it is, 13 years later and I wonder if this will be the true test. Can I write without editing? And then the bigger test, can I write and share it with people? Writing is somehow like dropping your pants and walking down the sidewalk. It allows people – the ones who know you best and the ones who know you not at all – to see who you really are. All the flaws, all the dimples in your butt, all the unshaven hair that you can usually hide under your clothes are hanging right out there for everyone to see, and critique, and relate to, and comment on. Like they say in Vegas, you’ve got to bet big to win big. Or is it, lose big to win big? I think I’ll stick with bet. Sounds a little more like I’ve got a chance to win with that one. Tomorrow, even more personal insights and growth…and another hour at the gym. Every literary workout deserves a corresponding physical exertion, don’t you think?

paranoia

Lake Powell is a beautiful and amazing place and oodles of fun. But there is no denying that it can be a dangerous place, if you're not careful. Especially for little kids. You hear about the tragic stories and your heart always breaks while you file the story away for future paranoia. But a couple of years before Tagg was born, we witnessed it first hand.

We were cleaning up our boat, Liquid Courage, in the slips on a sunny Sunday morning in October after a quiet, perfect, romantic weekend celebrating his birthday with just the two of us. All of a sudden people were running down the docks screaming "Kamberlie", asking if we had seen a 3-year-old little girl with blonde hair. We hadn't. The first time they ran by, we went back to cleaning and packing. But after the second fly-by, when the tension in their voices had ratcheted up and we figured that she maybe hadn't been wearing a life-jacket, the panic in the air was palpable and we joined the search, even jumping in the water and diving below the docks following little trails of bubbles. After 45 minutes or so of futile searching, the docks went eerily silent. Like the countryside in the mid-West before a tornado. Unnerving.

I will never forget looking across the slips to the houseboat where her family was. It was kaddy-corner from us, the boat was still pulled about half-way out of the slip so volunteer searchers could swim around the edges and under the boat. There was a young blonde man on the top deck, head in his hands, staring bleakly at the water below. It's a picture that I will never, ever forget. The traumatic certainty. The indescribable despair. The unspeakable guilt. They all twined together to form a perfectly tragic tableau that I am certain that young man and his family did not deserve. Scott and I ran away. Fast. We did not want to be there for the inevitable. Hope had rushed from those docks so quickly that she pulled the very air you breathe with her and left only an unquestionable vacuum of tragedy in her place. As we race to our car, they gave us a lost child flyer and then searched our car as we left the park. The divers found her body a week later. Like the picture of that man on the top of the houseboat, Kamberlie's name and smiling blonde mischievous face is etched in my memory for all time.

So, needless to say, the thought of taking our precious 1- and 3-year-old babies to the lake was nothing short of terrifying. How do you keep them safe for a whole week with all of the water which is hundreds of feet deep in places, the engines with their carbon monoxide fumes, the heat, the bugs (you remember the Arachnophobia story, right?), the slides, the cliffs, the sun...so many hidden dangers for a paranoid mom! Heck, our nephew found out the hard way a few years ago that he had a pretty sever peanut allergy. One stray peanut M and M, 3 hours from medical help and we were dousing him with Benadryl and hoping we wouldn't be summoning LifeFlight. You just never know.

So we debated not even bringing the kids, but it's a family trip and we are all family. So that's when it's time to kick in it into parenting overdrive. So we got geared up...the more shit you have, in my opinion, the safer you will be, so we:

• ...bought two little Pea Pod sleeping tents from One Step Ahead so the kids would be confined at night - no sleep-walking out the back door and into the water. We'll deal with the therapy for fear of confined spaces later. The tents were awesome! The kids actually had a ball playing in them before and after night time. And they fold up to the size of an over-sized Frisbee. Highly recommended!
• ...brought carrying-slash-containment devices...the Maya wrap and a Baby Bjorn backpack. Perfect for Sloane. I would face her out from my chest in the backpack so she could see what was going on and still have my hands free to help put stuff away or grab Tagg's hand. And the Maya sling is great if you want to put the baby on your hip but still have use of your hands. And sometimes your sad little biceps just get tired of holding 25 pound babies on your hips.
• ...invested in some Toddler Tethers. I only say "invested" because much like the stock market, sometimes you put money in expecting a great value and you don't get much out of it. The little wrist strap was okay for Sloane who just couldn't wear her lifejacket 24x7 (believe me, I tried. it's just mean), hates holding hands because she's so independent and loves to run...straight for the water. The tethers gave her a little freedom for our evening walk on the sandstone to throw rocks and gave me a head-start if she bolted for the water with no officially-sanctioned flotation device. Which she did. 
  
  For Tagg, we had heard that people strap one end from kid-ankle to adult-ankle...just in case. But between the tent and the fact that he was utterly exhausted every single night, we never needed to worry about more confinements for him. Frankly, I wouldn't buy these again. Not easy to clip on to a life jacket and you don't seem to get much more value than if you just tied a rope to your kid or hooked them up to a dog leash. 
• ...overpacked sunscreen, bug spray and 1st aid kits. Plus a book about how to deal with emergency toddler medical issues. Shut up. I didn't have cell service so no access to Google and WebMD, which usually help me function as my own cheap physician. We did find out that the foaming Coppertone Waterbabies sunscreen is a huge hit with the kids. They will put this stuff on, by themselves, all day long. Tagg still begs for it. Mwahahaha! Evil plans at work.

So we had plenty of safety gear but frankly, I think it's mostly just having our paranoid-parent antenna up and at high alert all day and all night long, all the time. Your radar is constantly scoping the surrounding area for potential danger - they could fall off that, eat that, go underwater there, skin's looking a little too pink, where's the hat, when did you last drink water or juice. You screech "NO," "STOP," "CAREFUL," and holler cautions all the live-long day. Diversionary tactics are key. Leave the death-trap, sweetie, and come play with some cottonballs. Wait. Dammit. Those are bad too, if you put them in your mouth!

The parental relay was in high-efficiency mode. Me: You have Tagg? I have Sloane. Scott: Yes. I have Tagg. You have Sloane? Me: Yes." And then you're on duty till the next hand-off.

I'm a pretty paranoid person on a good day, but this was like Olympic-quality baby patrolling. But the good news is that we made in through the trip without one sunburn, one band-aid...not even a diaper rash. Very happy about that!

So we got back from the Lake and we were both exhausted! I wonder how soon we will be able to wind down and get back to normal. Or maybe this is the new normal.

happy birthday, mom!

 

Today is my beautiful mother's birthday. I am not sure how old she is and I don't really care. She is not defined by the number of years in my eyes, but by the love and patience and humor and joy she shares with everyone around her every year.

Having a Michael Jackson moment at
the Grand Canyon, before there was such a thing as
Michael Jackson moments. This may explain my fear of edges,
and my love of red sandstone cliffs.

I was looking through old pictures tonight, after running into mom and dad sharing a lovely, romantic dinner at Tuscany, and I can't always remember the moments or the outfits or the events but I do remember so clearly the love. Mom taught me to cook, to sew, to love reading and 50s music, to appreciate a good crossword puzzle. She has been an inspiration for patience and unconditional love and dedication.

I'm not sure who was teaching who how to cook
in this one. And, why-oh-why, was I always wearing a
mid-riff belly shirt?

I love her quilts, every stitch is an "I love you." I love her blue eyes which transmit clarity and honesty. I love her hands, which have always hugged us and shared and created with us and led all of us to be good people, and now they do the same for our grandchildren.

I love my mom's jacket, the three Xmas stockings and
the fact that the shit-eating grin on my face
in this picture is identical to the one Sloane gives me.
I think they call that "paybacks." 

Mom with her girls in 2010.

Family cruise in Cabo...those ARE my kids!

I love that she taught us to draw and paint, and do puzzles, and crochet and needlepoint, and make pottery, and plant flowers and plants, and bake bread and iron everything from shirtsleeves to pillow cases. I love her potato salad and Thanksgiving dinner and french breakfast muffins and that she gives my dad shit when she beats his ass at cards and that she gets tipsy off two glasses of wine or one margarita shooter with the sombrero on and a whistle-blowing amigo shaking her head when we're in Cabo. I love that she will rock out a Wii wakeboarding run or hula-hooping and just as easily makes Jello, feeds you Sprite and puts a cool rag on your head when you have a fever.

Mom with her next-generation girls (notably Ute fans) in 2010.

I love that she hand-made us angel food cakes with custom frosting for every single birthday and hid Easter egg baskets for us until we were in our 30s. I love that she drew paper dolls for us and helped us make dresses and outfits for them to wear with the little tabs.  I love that she is a more passionate football and basketball fan than most guys I know. I love that she has 300 snowmen and Santa Clauses and her house looks like a Christmas shoppe (intentional E on the end) during the holidays. I love that she tells me I am a good mom and a good wife and a good person and that I see pride in her eyes when she looks at me.

Happy birthday, mom. I love you more than you know.

we call it the muppet tree but...

...but seriously. What the hell is this?

After some research (thanks Google) it seems to be a Cotinus coggygria also known as a smoke tree. Which is actually a shrub. Whatever. It looks like something out of a wacky cartoon or a sci fi movie. Weirdest tree I've ever seen. I was totally ready to rip it out but now that it has a name besides "weird muppet tree" I'm kind of digging it. It is nothing if not unique!