Mission Impossible

              I’m on a mission.  Actually, at my directive, my whole family is on a mission.  Our sanity and health depend upon the success of this task.  Our job is to keep The Catling awake during the day.  She has become a Demon of the Night, and we need to suck the energy out of her during the daylight so that she putters to a quiet purr at night.

                These cold winter days are making this nearly impossible.  Being of the heat seeking variety of feline, Lyra the Catling finds a warm spot to occupy and quickly drifts off into a content dream.  Since all the dog beds and sofas are empty I am fooled into thinking she is outside playing or wrestling her brother downstairs.  But, no!  I walk into the living room to find her sprawled out, belly-up in a golden sunspot under the picture window.  When the long shadows of winter fade into evening, our gas stove works like morphine on her small frame.  Once curled up below the flames, the most movement we see is her brief joyful twinkle as she gazes up at the fire with pure love, as if the iron box was her own mother.

                What are the stakes?  Imagine yourself in a deliciously deep slumber, when a furry, purring beast, with un-retractable claws (a birth defect) that are as sharp as a box of needles, climbs onto your face for a love session.  She rubs her face on your face, and can’t help but give love bites to your nose and chin. When she is rested this session goes on and on and on.  You lock her out of the room, only to have her poking her paws through the gap beneath the door, pulling and scratching at the wood.  You give up and let her in.  She is quiet for a moment, but then starts playing hockey with the objects on your desk.  At last she gets bored and decides to play ricochet ball on the wooden steps with her bouncy balls.  The last game is a relief, because at least the sound is distant and happy.

Even Alfie the Turtle can't get her to move

                On a normal mild-weather-play-outside-chase-butterflies kind of day, Lyra’s bed-time love session would end after a couple of minutes as she falls asleep from exhaustion.  But these cold winter days leave her no choice but to sleep all darned day to leave her refreshed for a night of play.  I do my best to disrupt her daytime naps.  I pet her, poke her, move her, play with her, even drag her limp body across the carpet far away from the heat source.  But she persists and drags herself across the carpet to bask in the radiant warmth.

Lyra sniffing catnip and dreaming

 Today I attempted to tease her by hog-tying her tiny legs with my pony-tail-holder while she snored on the dog bed, but she didn’t even notice.  She merely smiled and stretched while the hair-tie sprung away from her toes. This evening I put catnip right under her nose.  She just closed her eyes and inhaled, dozed off and had the best psychedelic dream, ever.

                I will have to admit defeat today.  Tonight will no doubt be long and torturous for the humans in the house.  It’s a lucky thing for Lyra that she is the Catling, a diminutive runt so innocent, dimwitted and adorable, or she might be in big trouble.

Spoons - A Human Experiment

       

      Recently we left our teenage daughters at home for the weekend.  They were invited to join us for the little get-away, but as the semester had just finished and they were exhausted from finals week, they chose to sleep-in at home and laze around watching Netflix all weekend.  Before departing I took their grocery list and stocked them up with their favorite goodies to assuage my Mommy Guilt.  Then I put the dog in charge and left.

         My only request was for them not to go brain-dead on screens and to keep the kitchen reasonably sanitary by rinsing and putting dishes into the washer I had just emptied.  They pretty much pulled that off – at least to their own slovenly standards.

         What stuck with me upon our return, though, was not how they have become independent human beings and were able to cook and clean up after themselves.  Not the thought of how close they are to leaving our nest and becoming real adults out on their own.  What struck me was how many spoons they used! 

Not so many forks or knives, but every single spoon from the drawer was now soiled and in the dishwasher waiting for a steamy spa treatment.  The long-handled, delicate dessert spoons, the regular meal spoons and even the fat soup spoons were all used up.

If this had been just my junk-food daughter, I would get it.  She would just go from ice-cream container to yogurt cup to cereal bowl – I could totally see her subsisting on scooping food from container to mouth.  But this weekend included my health-conscious daughter who enjoys eating whole foods and creating healthy dishes.

Could it be that spoons are the only necessary instrument for eating and everything else is finger-food?  Are forks only required when eating with others and we need to appear to be civilized by gingerly piercing food rather than scooping it – in other words, when parents insist?  I do remember that my own childhood job was to set the table – eight complete settings that included forks, knives, spoons and napkins for 8 people.  On nights when we had chili or some other definite spoon-shoveling food, my mom would demand that I lay out the other utensils, even though there was nothing to cut, spread or stab on the table.

Let’s all try an experiment.  For the next week we will only put spoons on the table at meal time.  We will watch and see.  Will our families be able to eat all foods by scooping?  Will they even notice the lack of other tools?  Will we all decide to clear out our utensil drawers to make more room for scooping devices?  I’m beginning to understand that nursery rhyme a little better.  It is now obvious why the Dish ran away with the Spoon!

                

Grown-Up Playdates

Some days I just want to go back to preschool.  Life is good when your day is filled with plates of food arranged into happy faces, strictly enforced afternoon nap times and your most stressful responsibility is to put your toy trucks and stuffed animals into their proper containers.  While those reasons alone are enticing enough for me to put a time machine on my wish-list, there is a more compelling aspect of the preschooler’s life that I wish we had as adults.

Picture yourself at the preschool Lego table, minding your own business, building a most awesome atomic space rocket, when another short person walks up and starts assembling a stunning launch pad complete with count-down clock.  BAM!  You suddenly have a very-best-friend.  You spend the morning running around hand-in-hand, giggling at nothing.  Then at your request your Mom sets up a play-date complete with fishy crackers, juice-filled sippy-cups and piles of brightly colored interlocking rectangular blocks.  No political arguments, social faux-pas or religious toe-stepping to worry about.  Sure, there may be a squabble over who gets to smash the block tower or be the police officer at the pretend toy robbery, but as soon as the cookies and milk are served, all ill-feelings are forgotten and a new game begins.

Sometime along the path of growing up, maybe during the years of becoming “cool” in later elementary school or among the awkward growth spurts of the lanky and lost middle schooler, making new friends becomes less natural and highly over-thought.  “Will she think I'm stupid?” they worry.  “He’ll laugh at me.”  The invitation to 'hang out' may never be made.  Opportunity lost.  No new friend.

We adults have our stand-by friends and our co-workers with which to share a beer or coffee and some small talk, but wouldn’t it be nice to just see someone who looks interesting and say, “Hey!  Come on over and we can finger paint, race some hot wheels and eat mac and cheese!” without the fear of being judged?

In recent years I have found a way to do this without a time machine – become a volunteer.  I know that many of you figured this out decades ago, but I couldn’t find the right volunteer spot – I hate committees and I’m really bad at selling things or begging for cash.

 I feel extra fortunate to have a gregarious group of gals that I call my pals, and they have a habit of volunteering me to join them in all kinds of endeavors that help the community.  Since we run, we end up passing out water or awards at fundraising runs for awesome causes like Girls on the Run or organizations that support homeless mothers and children.  We have used our elbow grease to help other trail-loving groups build paths through our beloved hills.  One season I even became a door-beller to raise funds for the Healthy Kids Campaign at the Y – I was terrible at it and they didn’t ask me back, but it felt good to try and I did raise a few dollars for the cause.  Whatever the job, it can be a great excuse to just hang out with like-minded people and giggle at nothing.

At each and every one of these events at which I have volunteered, I end up feeling like the beneficiary rather than the helper.  My social group grows with the new friends I meet, these playmates stretch my comfort zone and teach me something fresh and I always leave with that glow in my gut that tells me “I done good.”  It certainly doesn’t feel like ‘work’ in the adult sense of the word.  I like to think of these commitments as Grown-Up Play Dates. And afterwards I

celebrate by arranging my lunch into a big smiley face and taking a good ol' afternoon nap.

One Moment Can Last Forever

I’m angry.  At nobody in particular, just mad that life can be so cruel.  And I’m frustrated that there is nobody to blame, nobody who can fix this and make it go away.   Furious that one split second in time can cause such devastation.

Now, for no good reason, our community has lost a young life, one so well-loved and full of potential.  A high school has lost a leader and a friend to all.  The hospital has lost a cancer-care volunteer. A college has lost an honors scholarship recipient and the world has lost a future doctor who had the potential to find many cures for many things.

A family has lost their heart.

When a child is born, that tiny baby fills a hole in their parents’ hearts that they never knew existed.  Although this family will now be painfully aware of that missing piece for the rest of their lives, that hole is not vacant as before, it is lined with years of laughter and tears, memories and beauty and smiles…plenty of smiles.

This young soul had touched so many in the most positive ways that her legacy will bring comfort the very ones that are hurting so badly today.  The awful, dark haze may last a long time, but at some point the clouds will part, just a little, and memories of her brilliant smile and young accomplishments will peek through to sprinkle bits of hope back into the lives of those who loved her.

As much as we desperately want to, we can’t fix this tragedy.  But we can reach out to folks in need.  Lend an ear or a hug, offer a meal, and be sure to keep the good memories flowing.  As one tragic moment can last forever, so will every beautiful moment and smile that she shared with those left behind.

Missing Mike

               Nine years ago my brother Mike and his giant slobbery dog Nellie came for Christmas.  Mike didn’t believe in breaking a dog’s spirit through obedience training.  Nellie was a good-natured beast with tons of play energy.  She and our elderly mutt Ginny got along just fine.  However, when one of our cats would peak around the kitchen corner Nellie would explode in a thunderous bark attack.  Mike politely held onto her collar, heaving against her lunges, to avoid a blood bath.

               Around twilight the house filled up with a small group of in-laws and a few friends who joined us for our traditional Christmas Eve barbecue and an evening filled with clumsy animal antics, torn wrapping paper and laughter.  His gifts to the girls were always unconventional – that year an assortment of red, green and white 4 foot ropes neatly finished off on the ends which they STILL play with today. Late in the evening after company left and the mess contained, Mike helped put out the cookies for Santa and he and Nellie went to sleep on the futon downstairs. The kids went to bed and we all dreamed of sugar-plums prancing.

               Christmas morning Mike and Nellie joined us under the tree to watch the little girls squeal in delight over their Santa gifts – fancy new mermaid and historical dolls.  Nellie’s habit of unpredictably lunging at whatever caught her eye kept our oldest, most skitterish daughter on edge, so Mike was sure to keep this lanky pooch within his own arms reach.   Yet I can still hear that devilish giggle from him each time the dog lurched, causing Delaney to clutch her new doll in fright.  After an indulgent breakfast Mike and I took our dogs on a long, soaking walk in the Bellingham rain.  All four of us were dripping wet down to our skin by the time we returned home. 

Once they dried off, Mike and Nellie piled into his car and took off down the road.  Later we met up again at our parents’ house for more indulging in presents, food and family.  A pleasant and unremarkable Christmas, the kind so many of us take for granted each year.

Then, eight years ago sometime in mid-December Mike called late one evening, as was his habit, just to let us know that he and Nellie had broken out the Charlie Brown Christmas music and were decorating their Christmas Rock.  We were busy wrestling the kids to bed and let the machine take the call.  I could hear the tinkling piano music in the background of the phone recording.

I made a mental note to call him back soon to reiterate the invitation to come for Christmas.  He was a bit of a holiday nomad, so you were often unaware if he was coming until the moment he knocked on the door.  But this was full-on Nutcracker season and we were buried in tutus, ballet shoes and very tired little girls.  I didn’t get a chance to make that call.

Mr. Stone, the sixth-grade teacher, had been fighting a bug and entered Winter Break feeling poorly.  With his girlfriend on a business trip and his own stubborn independence, Mike declared the next couple of days as his own to rest up.  Those couple of days passed and his quiet became suspiciously silent.  Meningitis had swooped in and taken Mike from us.  Nothing could fix it or change anything.  Our sailing, mountain climbing, biking and hiking Mike was gone.

I had learned two important things.  One was that you don’t leave someone who doesn’t feel well all alone to get better.  The other was that you sometimes don’t get second chances to talk to someone who matters.  I’d like to say that my life has changed for the better and now I am the Diva of Keeping in Touch…but I’m not.  I try a little harder, but my efforts are still kinda lame.  And I still miss my brother terribly.

I’m not a resolution-y kind of person, so I’m not going to declare that 2014 will be the Year of Keeping in Touch.  But maybe I’ll call someone today, just to say hello.

I Run, Therefore I Am...a Runner!

     The question that makes me want to stamp my feet and scream the most is, “Oh, how many marathons have you run?”  This is that inquiry that inevitably comes from the mouth of the new acquaintance who just found out that I like to run.  It doesn’t matter if this person runs themselves, has another sport that occupies their time, or even if they’re the good ol’ couch potato type that prefers knitting to sweating.  I cannot count how many times I’ve had this conversation.

      When I politely answer, “None,” the next question is stated in future tense, “Do you plan to run a marathon?”  I say, “No.”  At that point there is usually the awkward pause that I feel the need to fill with an explanation.  There are several rationales that I can share, but my pride usually wins and I feel the need to say that “Yes, I have run over 26 miles on the trails during a training run.  But No, I have not run a marathon “race” in which I received a number, finisher’s medal and official time.”  If that isn’t enough I sometimes mention that pounding every step of 26.2 miles on pavement while navigating through hundreds of bodies is not my idea of an enjoyable outing.

     The person may respond with, “Don’t you want to do one just so you can say you did?”  Sometimes I get defensive or cranky and feel like saying, “Of course I could but I don’t want to!”  or “Hey honey, let’s take this outside!   Lace up your shoes and I’ll kick your b*** in a 5k right now!”

      When it comes down to it, anything I say sounds like an excuse and I leave the conversation feeling like a loser, my new acquaintance convinced that I must be a jogger or a poser without the 26.2 credential.  The fact is I don’t need a race number and a PR to quote to make me proud of my sport.  I resent anyone who implies that I can’t be a real runner without the so-called pinnacle race, The Marathon, on my resume.   Of course it could be that I am overly-sensitive.   These people are most likely making polite conversation and not passing judgment about my athletic ability. 

      The simple truth is that I love to run.  I love the physical challenge of climbing a hill with nothing but my legs and lungs to carry me.  I love getting out in nature during a rain storm and feeling the rain drip down my face.  I love having been on the mountain for two hours before most people have read their Sunday paper.  I love the long and meandering conversations with my buddies while we weave through the woods.  I love that chill that comes on after I’ve finished a hard run and the sweat cools on my back. 

      Although running does not require racing, occasionally I will sign up for a trail race or shorter road race to test my mettle.  Afterward I’m always glad I did.  But all I really need for a purely joyful experience is a pair of good shoes, my dog (human company not required, but always enjoyed) and a lovely trail.

      I run, therefore I am…a Runner.  I don’t need to prove that to anyone!  And don’t ask me about my marathon PR, thank you!

(This essay originally appeared in the December issue of Northwest Runner)

It Ain’t Rocket Science

               Recently a friend challenged me to come up with my entire parental philosophy (and philosophy of life – as those seem interchangeable) in 30 characters or less.  A quote from the late Nobel Prize winning ‘Jack of all Physics’, Richard Feynman, came to mind: “What do you care what other people think?”  Mr. Feynman was not only a brilliant Rocket Scientist, but a raucous, rebellious and fun-loving character.  He used that quote as the title of his second memoir in which he explains, among other things, how he flamboyantly demonstrated the failure of the O-rings from the Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster in front of the presidential Rogers Commission using a simple glass of ice-water and pliers.  He was a different kind of thinker and not afraid to show it. The way Mr. Feynman lived his life and reflected on it inspired me from a young age.

              Therefore, if I had to define my philosophy in a few words, I would steal that quote and add one thing.  (Yes, I’m aware that I’m already over the 30 character limit by 4 measly letters, so I’m going to go for broke here.)  “What do you care what other people think…as long as you’re up to good?”  That’s only 54 letters, yet they pack a whole-lotta meaning.

               First of all, if someone is up to NO good, they should certainly be looking over their shoulder, worried about who may see, who may judge, who may call them on the trouble-making.  A pang of guilt will and should make a person suspicious of what others are thinking.  That cloud of remorse around one’s head can make the world seem a darker place.

However, if you are up to good in your life then you should not be concerned about who is watching, whether observers approve or even if they want to pick a beef with you.  Because you are doing good things in the world and the judgers can go and gossip or stress-out about it all they want.  Not your problem.  At all.

               I believe that your only job is to live life with integrity.  Consciously choose the path that will leave you with a sense of pride in your heart at the end of the day.  Making gobs of money to buy trivial things will not soothe the soul or bring happiness.   Fashion and trends may be impressive to some, but have nothing to do with the good feelings that come from helping others, conserving resources or generally making the world a pleasant place. 

               How do we better ourselves and the world?  Make conscious choices.  Spread smiles any way you can.  Talk to the retired couple walking their dog – make friends.  Slow

down and help the guy in the electric cart at the grocery store to reach the frozen vegetables on the top shelf, rather than grumbling to yourself that he’s in the way.  Be silly.  Find joy and the joy will become contagious.

               Speaking as a self-admitted social dork with a reasonably good heart, I don’t worry about the judgment of others.  Because if I did, I would be living in a constant state of geek paranoia.   I love the quote from FDR presidential advisor Bernard Baruch, “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”  Although these words were originally referring to seating arrangements at the dinner table, it is oozing with greater meaning in life.  To me it means that if someone will avoid me because I’m a harmless goofball, then they have my blessing to take a wide berth!

               Well, this turned out to be a really long explanation of a phrase that was supposed to stay under 30 characters.  Mary - I know I exceeded the limit, but I was able to keep it to 670 words!?  Even though my parental philosophy/philosophy of life stretched out to be ridiculously verbose, it’s certainly not rocket science.

               What would you boil your philosophy down to?  (In 30-50 or so characters, please!)

P.S.  This 30 character game apparently sprang from Mary’s son’s request for a meaningful quote from his Mom to have inscribed on his graduation ring.  Awesome.   I guess my kids should shop for a much larger piece of jewelry to commemorate their own graduation!