The Kids Are Alright...Right?

I've read two blog posts today that have me thinking about my son's personal safety. One was written by Lenore Skenazy at her blog, Free Range Kids. She wrote about her 10-year-old-son's train ride that ended with police, a train conductor, and Lenore trying to come to to terms with the fact that the boy had just taken a train ride—gasp!—all alone. The other was over at Strollerderby and was about one mother's confidence in her sons' ownership of pocket knives. Knives that could come in handy if the boys ever found themselves in a tussle with an adult who means to harm them. Yikes. 

Lenore has written before about her child's adventures in freedom. You may have read her widely-covered article about her son negotiating New York public transportation to find his way home from a retail store. Parents all over the country cried foul as they vilified her for trusting her son to recall what he'd been taught about personal safety and danger avoidance. 

My husband and I discussed the article for some time, he more ready to cheer and I more ready to simmer in skepticism. And this is interesting because he grew up fairly sheltered in a small California town, while I ran around Cincinnati taking the bus from morning till night. So why am I so reluctant to nurture the same independence in my own son? Well, given that he's only six, I'm pretty sure I don't need to teach him the bus routes to downtown Minneapolis just yet, but there will come a time that I'll need to let go. We only recently gave him an errand to do on his own, delivering an envelope to a neighbor's house on the next block. He was so proud when he returned, and I was too, as I breathed a sigh of relief. I know it's time for more miniature outings for my son. 

Sooner than I'd like to admit Henry will be asking to go to our nearby grocery store, drug store, or McDonald's, to spend some of his allowance. And why shouldn't he? When I was just a few years older than he is now I visited our local Kroger's at all times of the day and night. I shopped at the drug store and ate at the restaurants and ice cream shops and went to $1 movies at the local theater. I did this without my parents, or even my big sister. I walked blocks and blocks to and from the bus stops and I ran around downtown like it was my backyard. 

Am I a hypocrite? I feel like one. I want to say without hesitation that I'll encourage my son to try his wings and let him develop street smarts of his own. I want to say that I'll happily send him off to the bus stop or the light rail station. I want to declare with certainty that my son will make good decisions because I've taught him well. Will I give him a pocket knife? Probably not. It's just not something that's been done in my family. But the fact that a child might actually need a knife to fend off the boogie man someday? That's going to keep me up nights. 

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Do you hear it? The magical sounds of the season? A distant string of sleigh bells? Holiday music coming from the stereo? No? Oh, that’s due to the chorus of coughing in our house. Henry was nearly done with his cold, we thought, but his cough still lingers. Husband has it now, too, and I’m smack in the middle of it. Happy Holidays! The biggest bummer for me is that I’ve lost my singing voice. I’m no Martina McBride, but I do love to sing (and I sometimes wonder what might’ve happened had I applied at a music school....) especially at this time of the year. Unfortunately, I sound like a poor imitation of someone who can sing. Which means the nightly bedtime ritual of singing to my son has become less about singing holiday songs and more about “let’s get this over with.” I doubt he’s critiquing me, but if I can’t stand the way I sound, he probably can't, either.

I’ve also been baking and cooking holiday cookies and candy. This year, I made the fudge that I always make, only without the added fun of plunging my hand into the boiling sugar, milk, and butter. That was my trick last season. Delicious fudge, now with added essence of Jenni! I also made Ina Garten’s Rugelach cookies, which is time consuming but oh-so-delicious! We also have peanut butter blossoms, at Henry’s request. He remembered them from last year and he loves taking the Hershey’s kisses out of their silver wrappers, lucky for me. This coming weekend we’ll bake sugar cookie cut-outs: it’s just not Christmas without them.

Today I picked up an ornament for Henry and one for my husband, building on a tradition I started several years ago. So far, I think I'm the only one who's really enjoying this particular ritual. I think my husband, Tim, usually forgets to buy an ornament for me, and he's forced to go back to the local Patina or Bibelot shops at the last minute to see what's left. But what I'm hoping for is to create a trove of ornaments that Henry will someday take to his own home and hang on his own tree. Thinking that far ahead makes my heart ache. I want him to stay 6 years old forever.

Personally, I'm as excited as a little girl for this Christmas. I have very special gifts for both of the men in my life, to be hidden beneath the tree after both men are in bed on Christmas Eve. I cannot wait to see their faces Christmas morning. I bet I won't even mind when Henry gets us out of bed at 4 a.m. I've been pretty cognizant lately that things may be very different for us next year, if one of us loses our jobs, heaven forbid. So maybe I'm a bit like the ostrich this year, denying there's a recession and stubbornly insisting on buying presents for the big day. But I'm after something deeper, too. I want to have one special day where the words "can't afford" and "trying to save money" aren't part of the conversation. That may come soon enough. For one day, let us feel the thrill like children, laugh like fools, and eat like crazy.

Now pass those cookies!

Gift Giving, and Other Questionable Choices

My son is six years old. Still so delightfully innocent in many ways, and growing more and more worldly every minute, too, much to my dismay. I'm hearing about things that he's witnessing or participating in at school that are curling my hair. But last weekend, he made a request that stumped my husband and me for several days. I'm still not convinced we gave the right answer.

Son announced that he would like to buy a gift for a classmate, a girl that he sits next to in first grade. "Mom, I really want to buy her a present. I told her I would," he said earnestly. I didn't know what to say. A first-grader buying another first-grader a gift? Why? We're used to buying gifts for birthday parties, but this was a first. At first, I thought it wasn't a great idea, but I wanted more information. 

I asked why he wanted to do this. He told me he had promised her a gift. Ah-ha, I thought, maybe he's trying to buy her friendship. He also told me that he had given her a drawing or a note recently, and that she hadn't been any too impressed with it. So I figured he was trying to win her favor with a little gift. Then, he got specific about the gift: he wanted to buy her a tiny stuffed puppy he had seen at Target. A puppy he had wanted for himself. So, now he wanted to buy an item for someone else that he actually wanted for himself. Are you trying to get her to like you better, I asked? He said no, but I still wondered if that was part of the equation.

Some parenting decisions are fairly cut and dried. This wasn't. My spouse and I pondered over this for three days, and still came to different conclusions. Husband thought we should allow son to spend his money and to see what the outcome would be, learning a lesson if the recipient was still cool toward our kid. I thought it would be better to discourage spending money on someone who was not even really a friend, and offered to bake cookies as a gift as an alternative. In the end, we didn't let our son spend money on a trinket, and he brought her homemade treats instead. And the girl? She didn't care for the chocolate-covered pretzels at all. Frankly, I don't think she's that keen on our young man—that or she's incredibly difficult to please. 

I recall vividly wanting to give gifts to teachers I was crazy about and older boys that I had crushes on. I tried to give my third grade teacher a pair of earrings that had belonged to my grandmother. Luckily, she returned them and gently explained that I should keep them for myself. Its hard to know what to do when you're young and you have strong feelings for someone, and I'm still not sure if we made the right decision about this gift issue. I want my son to be generous of spirit, but how do I encourage that if I discourage gift-giving? When I was his age, I didn't have an allowance burning a hole in my pocket, or a parent offering to bake cookies with me to give as gifts (bless her heart, a single working mom, she didn't have time!) So I'm in uncharted territory here. I'll do my best. 

Crimes of the Mother

For a short time when I was a little girl, my family lived in New Jersey. I loved the junkyard across the street with a small creek running through it. I was forever bringing home "treasures" to share with my mom, who diplomatically tried to tell me to take the item back to the junk pile. Deer were often spied in our backyard, though not by me, by my older sister. Unless she was making it up to annoy me. "The deer was JUST there a second ago..."

We weren't in New Jersey for very long before we moved back to Ohio, but I have one vivid holiday memory from that time period. I think I was about 5 or 6 years old, and we were driving to Pennsylvania to visit my Uncle and Aunt. I was sick with the stomach flu, which must have made the drive especially fun for the rest of the family. I recall hearing my mom tell my dad to put me in the car with my pajamas on, and he made me get dressed instead. I was miserable. 

By the time we got to Pennsylvania, I felt much better. Good enough, in fact, to swipe a little box from beneath the Christmas tree and open it up. There were a pair of earrings, sparkling up from the white velvet. Just the treasure a little girl would want to find. Until she realized that she'd done something terribly wrong. So I hid the earrings outside the door, in the snow, and went back to playing with my sister. Naturally, my parents and my Aunt and Uncle called me out and I got quite a scolding for my thievery. 

Now that I'm a mother, I'm expecting my own child to repeat some of my mistakes, and I'm trying to remember to go easy on his first offenses. So far, his gaffes have been so full of innocence that I've had to fight against the urge to laugh or smile when they're reported to me, though I often fail. Lately we've had some difficult discussions at home as Henry struggles with goofs he's committed at school and his powerful desire that I not find out about them. Even the principal says she's caught herself grinning as she's trying to correct Henry's behavior. If trying not to laugh is my biggest challenge, I'm a lucky parent. 

Check back with me when my son is a teenager. See if I'm still trying not to laugh. 

Over the River and Through the Woods

When did it get to be mid-November?

Suddenly I need to create a Thanksgiving menu, figure out whether my husband is working on that Thursday, decide if I'm baking pies this year or visiting Baker's Square...so much to do. This holiday crept up on me, despite my excitement at this time of year. Excited, yes, but ready? Not so much. 

When I was a child, Thanksgiving was usually spent at my grandparents' home in Cincinnati. Arriving at the house, we would enter through the breezeway, like a little room connecting the garage and the kitchen. On the breezeway would be pies cooling, fresh from the oven. Cherry, pumpkin and apple are the pies that I recall. Once inside, my uncle and aunt would greet us, and I'd hear football coming from the family room. There was always lots of activity in the kitchen, of course, and we were immediately called on to do our part. I love the pictures of my sister, brother, and me wearing too-big aprons and standing on chairs to reach the kitchen counter. 

Dinner always meant crowded plates and a crowded dining room. I remember gaping at my uncle's plate, which was so full of food I thought it would topple over. Lots of stuffing and crescent rolls, gravy, turkey, and cranberries. Once the feast was over, it was time to clean the kitchen, which was always a bit dramatic. I don't ever recall seeing a man anywhere near the kitchen for clean-up duty, and as we hid in the family room, Grandma would come in to ask if anyone was going to help clean up. Which meant us kids. Since I only have one son, if I tried this technique with him, he'd be lost in the kitchen after a major holiday dinner. Maybe when he's older I can revive this tradition (she said sarcastically...)

Later in the evening, coffee and pie were on the table, and my sister and I were brushing our aunt's long hair while the adults talked. I have such warm memories of these holidays. Now, we live hundreds of miles from our families, so Thanksgiving is usually a very quiet day with just the three of us. Occasionally, family will make the trip to join us for the long weekend, and then our little house is full to bursting. These are fun times, too, though its always a relief to hear the solitude after having a houseful of company. 

The day after the big turkey, we put the small Christmas tree up in my son's room and hang the ornaments. I would have loved having my very own tree in my very own room when I was a little girl! This year, I might attempt hanging lights on the house. Its all part of making some memories for my child, like those I have from my own childhood. 

Hope

I am still reeling, weeping, shouting, and shaking my head in near-disbelief. The man who spoke at the 2004 Democratic National Convention and who brought me to tears, the man who I said would be our first Black president, has indeed become president. With nary a misstep, with a sober, careful campaign, and with dignity unmatched by any candidate in recent years, Obama is our next president. I am moved almost beyond words.

So, I'll let others speak for me. For they do it so much better than I, this expression of joy with such eloquence. 

A man interviewed on NPR said, "Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Obama could run. Obama runs so our children can fly." 

A columnist in The New York Times described challenging her children to back up their opinions when it came to politics, or any other topic for that matter. "Don't tell, show," she said. She writes this week about trying to find a way to impress upon our children how very magnificent it is that our first African-American president has been elected. 

On national television, Colin Powell choked up as he described the emotions felt when he knew Obama had secured the vote. A careful, elegant, and well-respected United States secretary of state brought me to tears, as I listened to him talk about this historic event. 

In the comments section of a major daily newspaper, the mom of a bi-racial child told of the remark her daughter made as she watched the election results with her parents: "Mom, he's brown like me!" Oh, did I weep.

On election day, as I drove to school to pick up my son, a bald eagle landed in a tree directly above my car. I parked immediately and got out, to gape at this magical, evocative creature, on this, the most important political day of my life. After a few moments, he gently flew away. After I had my son in the car, a half hour later, and as we drove toward the polling place, we saw the eagle again, soaring right ahead of us. I excitedly pointed him out to my son and we shared the joy of the moment. What a day to see an eagle! On this of all days. Then as we parked at the polling location, we once again saw the eagle flying overhead. "Mom, he led us to the voting place!," my son exclaimed.

There are no words, kiddo. There are no words. 

The Very First Goat

Just when I think I know something, my son Henry asks me a question and I find myself fumbling for an answer. This morning's question made me smile because of its depth and also its innocence.

"Mommy, what was the very first animal?"

Well, since I'm not sure what the first animal was, I'm silent for a minute.

"I mean, when I look at a goat, I know another goat gave birth to it, and another one gave birth to that one, and another one gave birth to THAT one. But what was the very first animal? How was it made?"

I tell him that all life started as cells, and some cells got together and made a lump of cells, and from that they made another lump, and eventually that lump was more like a creature, and its pretty likely this creature lived in the water.

"But what was the very first animal?"

Then I try to explain how a lump of cells changes into a fish or a turtle or a mosquito, but since we're on the phone for this conversation and I'm at work, I cannot get too deeply into evolution. 

Soon, Henry has lost interest and I'm back to work, but his question stays with me. He's a quick one. He's been asking all sorts of intriguing (and impossible!) questions lately. He asks about spirituality, and we talk about things he's heard at school. My favorite was at around this time last year,  when he still rode the school bus. Over dinner, Henry informed me that angels had visited the German Shepherds in a field. Then he wanted to act out the story. I got to be the German Shepherd. You know, the dog. That was priceless.

I love that my son is curious, and I hope I'm able to foster his curiosity, to encourage his questions for a lifetime. After all, I'm 37 years old and I have questions every day. Mostly, I hope he is always seeking. There are too many people on this earth who think they have all the answers, and they have stopped seeking, stopped questioning. They send me email filled with messages that offend me and are wholly untrue. They shout at the top of their lungs about their version of the facts, dismissing the possibility that there may be another side to the issue.

They make my head hurt.

So I'm delighted when Henry asks me questions, and when he questions what he's heard. We could all use a little more questioning, a little less certainty, if you get my meaning. We could use a little more wondering about the very first goat. 

Tis the Season

I know, I know. 

It's only mid-October. But I cannot help it. I'm a sucker for the holiday season. From the beginning of October, I've got a little sparkle in my eye as I decorate for "Fall-oween," with pumpkins and pretty leaves and scented candles. I play Christmas music in November, a tradition my spouse has come to, ahem, tolerate. I start Christmas shopping this month, and I start asking my sisters what their kids might like from Santa. And, I'm sure, my sisters roll their eyes at my questions, because sane people don't start shopping—or even talking about shopping—this early. 

But I'm not deterred. I love every minute of it, and those minutes fly by so quickly! Before I know it, its late December and I'm in mourning for the anticipation, which is what its all about for me. I love making lists, making plans, making (and eating!) pies, and making myself nuts when my plans outgrow my pocketbook. 

What I wish for most this year is that All Our Siblings (and we have more than ten...) would join us in giving to a worthy cause instead of giving each other presents. With so many families in need this year—families that until this year never set foot in a food shelf—we'll be donating cash and food to our local Second Harvest. Last year, my sister joined us in our effort to help others. We sent fun stuff for the kidlets, and gave our time and energies to local and global charities. I know I'm guilty of forcing my opinion on others, and at this time of year I'm no different. I want everyone to make the same choices that I do. I'm bossy that way. But I also know in my heart of hearts that this season is about each of us reaching out in our own way. Maybe one of these days I'll actually behave like a grown-up. 

Another of my favorite holiday activities is reading stories about this time of year. I love to read history, to learn how people celebrated in years past. I also love to find little gems, examples of how other families have lived through this time of year. I recently read a story that made me sob. While we are young, this season is all about that new sled, new X-Box, new game, and new toys. As we grow older, we realize that this time of the year is really about our hearts. 

And lots and lots of pie. 

And, Palin Is Funny

This made me laugh out loud, at work, which is a good and rare thing. Enjoy.

Palin Is Dangerous

Sarah Palin has been scaring me ever since she accepted the invitation to be John McCain's running mate. Her deer-in-headlights look and hot temper indicate to me that she is a woman who knows she's in over her head but her ego refuses to allow her to step aside for one more qualified. Up to now, I've trusted that she would dig her own grave with thinking people, but today's news is so desperately alarming, I must write about it here. Every person in the world needs to know this before they go to the polls. 

From today's New York Times (which cited a recent Washington Post story): At a recent rally in Florida, Sarah Palin was speaking to a crowd of supporters when someone in the crowd yelled "Kill him!" as Palin mentioned Obama in her speech. Others shouted epithets at an African-American member of a TV news crew. Palin did nothing to stop the hateful shouts. She never stopped her speech to admonish those spouting hate. So, by not doing anything, she endorsed what they were saying and doing. 

If she professes to love Americans, does that include only white Americans? We already know how she feels about our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters. Was she secretly in agreement with what those racists were spewing, and that's why she didn't respond? That's what I take away from this item. I urge you to share this with your friends and family members that may be voting for McCain and Palin. This woman is dangerous. As a woman who has struggled to find the right words (i.e., answers to direct questions) at the right time, her actions are doing the talking for her now. 

Great Misconceptions

Last year, our son took a non-verbal test along with the rest of the kindergarteners at his school. He tested off the charts in reading and reasoning. We were invited to add his name to a waiting list at the gifted magnet school, but for some reason we did not do it. Now, we are in the fourth week of first grade, and he's bored. On the first day of school, he sadly told me he wanted to go back to kindergarten. He'd had a fantastic teacher, and the class was wonderfully dynamic. Heck, I wanted to go back to kindergarten, too! 

So now we're diving into the world of advocating for our gifted child. I've already learned not to talk about this with other parents. They don't understand how it breaks my heart that our son isn't being challenged, and that the school is content to allow him to languish. Well, he's languishing himself into an upset stomach every day. We chose this particular school based largely on its reputation and their claim that they "teach to every child's ability." So much for that.

Giftedness is nothing to smirk or crow about, especially if your child is suffering due to his or her abilities. Gifted kids will check out mentally if they aren't being challenged. They learn quickly to dread school, which is utterly horrible to witness when they were so excited about it at first. Kids who are inquisitive and imaginative at home will sit silent in the classroom, fearful of being teased or just plain disgusted that they are having to sit through a lesson they already learned. Because I work for a publisher that publishes books about giftedness, I've learned a few things about how to reach out to our gifted students and make them feel like part of a community, not to exclude them for their learning abilities. I'm not an expert-I'm a rookie who's read a few books written by people in the field who know what they're talking about. I want to help my cheerful, happy boy rediscover his passion for learning. 

The last thing I want to do is tear my son away from kids he's known since preschool and heave him into a new school where he knows no one. But what choice do I have if the principal refuses to make any changes for the kids who are learning at a different level from their age peers? Mine is not the only kid who is a gifted learner. Where are the other parents? Picking their children up from other schools, I imagine. 

Perfectly Imperfect

I love reading other parent blogs, especially those that are well written and clever. I admire sardonic wit (well, any wit, actually) and sarcasm. And I especially love reading about other families' humorous anecdotes. But what I'm growing weary of is the wealth of bloggers that seem to lead charmingly perfect lives. Where are the whining kids, the meltdowns, the daily worry? Or are these not the topics that other parents want to read about?

My son is a hoot, to be sure, and he's begun to test out his own personal sense of humor. He knocks me out with his questions. "Mom, do McCain and Obama disagree?"  Ummm, ya think? And I swell with pride when I can almost see his brain growing when he masters a new task. But he's also a very normal six-year-old. He has trouble losing. He is miles away from grasping the difference between feeling an emotion and expressing it. He sometimes seems to be a year or two younger than his friends. And almost every day, we struggle to help him understand which social behaviors will endear him to others and which might distance him from his peers. Isn't anyone else going through this with their children? 

At a neighborhood bonfire and hot-dog roast last night, the host saw the stress on my and my husband's faces as we tried to coach our son through incident after incident. We're all in the same boat, she assured us. It was tremendously comforting to hear this from another mom, but later that night we realized we still have a million questions. Where are the blogs about helping your child develop resiliency? About other young boys who love to sing and dance and who draw quizzical looks when they express that love? About kids who are reading well above their grade level but who still seek comfort objects many attribute to younger children? 

I adore my son and I celebrate his strengths and his uniqueness every day. We encourage having your feelings in our house, and we try to teach tolerance above all else. All I can hope for is that our son will be met with the same level of tolerance that he feels for others. How do we explain to him how important it is to learn to get along with others, when we don't see that being reciprocated all that often? So many questions. Where's that owner's manual? 

A Bump in the Night

Earlier this week, as I was trying to fall asleep, I thought I heard banging. After a few minutes, I heard it again. Someone was banging on our front door in the worst way. By now, I was out of bed, looking out of the front windows. There were two or three police squads in front of our house. That's when I got dressed.

My husband was just closing the door as I reached the main floor of our house. "What is it?" I asked. He told me the police were responding to an alarm at our neighbor's house, and they couldn't reach anyone at her home. Her lights were on, her front door was ajar (though the front porch door was closed and locked) and all seemed quiet, but try as they might (and boy, did they try) they could not find a living creature at home. They asked us if we had a key to her house, which we didn't. I tried to go back to bed, but by now I was wide awake with worry. If her alarm was going off, why wasn't she responding to the banging on her own front door? Was she in trouble? Was there someone in the house with her, preventing her from getting out? 

Eventually, the police left, and we noticed our neighbor's lights had been doused. I tossed and turned all night. We should have a key to her home, as she should have one to ours. I was upset that the police didn't try to force their way into the house (even though I know that the police cannot just break your door down if your alarm goes off... but still). I was a little scared. 

The next day, I was a bit of a train wreck, having had no sleep. I was on the watch for our neighbor, and I was relieved when I heard that she had merely slept through all of the excitement. We exchanged keys and cell phone numbers, and laughed over what now seemed over the top. But inside, I still felt a little cautious, a little more aware that things can and do happen, that danger can come into our home in the middle of the night. It's good to know that one next-door neighbor is looking out for me and my family, and I for her. 

Careful What You Wish For

Sometimes it seems that we never get what we want, or what we think we want, doesn't it? We wish for money, or a pony (in my case, I'm still waiting for that pony...), or any number of things. But then, when we finally get something we wished for, we don't even realize it for the longest time. 

Just recently, my husband and I were quibbling about the weather. We had an unusually long winter here in Minnesota, and by May, Tim was more than ready for some heat and sunshine. I had to admit I was weary of being cold all of the time, but I don't mind the winters like he does. When summer finally did arrive, Tim was delighted when the mercury climbed to ninety and the humidity poured in, which wasn't very often. As August passed, he harrumped that we had had very few days that were warm enough to swim. All the while, I was wishing for autumn. I come alive in the cool, crisp weather, and when its hot outside, I'll curl up with the air conditioning, thank you very much. During the last week of August, we traveled to the North Shore, where it was deliciously cool and fall-like. I was in heaven! Upon arriving back home, the real summertime returned, and how: the temps soared into the nineties and it was as muggy as Florida. And then, just in time for the first day of school, the temperature plummeted about 25 degrees in one day. We went from summer to fall in a matter of hours, and its been cool ever since. Just today, I realized, I'd gotten my wish. 

Earlier this summer, our cat was accidentally let out of the house. I didn't realize he was gone until he'd been gone for 24 hours, and then I was desperate. He's old and ornery, and he's never forgiven us for allowing his brother to die three years ago. And boy is he vocal about it! He yowls day in and day out. Not the cute little kitten mews that some adult cats have, but a "What the heck have you DONE to me??!" yowl. He makes me insane some days, and I  (I hate to admit this) found myself thinking, well, he'll be gone soon. Then he got out of the house and he truly was gone. I had gotten my wish, and how horrible it was. I searched the neighborhood, convinced that he'd been injured in a fight with a bullying tomcat. I finally had to tell our son that the cat had gone on an adventure, and he might not come home. Then, that evening, after three days of liberty, he came home without a scratch on him. He's still yowling and still making me crazy, but I'm a wee bit more tolerant of it now. It wasn't his time to go. I'd gotten my wish, and then had another promptly granted. Creepy. 

Do we recognize these things when they are so seemingly mundane? How hard we wish on those evening stars when we're young. How fervently we wish for a windfall, or a cure, or a job, or a new car. But when our small wishes are granted, are they any less magical? Only if we don't pay attention. 

Love Your Neighborhood

 We came together with our neighbors yesterday to share a potluck lunch, play games with the kids, and get to know each other a bit better. This neighborhood party fulfilled a wish I've had for a few years—to re-live the block parties I remember from my childhood in Englewood, Ohio, a suburb of Dayton. We would decorate our bikes and trikes, play Red Rover and eat hot dogs. That was more than 25 years ago, so things have changed, of course...I live in the city now, and we chose to forego paying for the police permits and sawhorses to block off our street, but we had a lovely day for our party anyway. Even while the adults took turns chasing balls into the street. I'd been told by one somewhat dubious neighbor that the folks on our street "just don't do things like this"—but she had just as much fun at our little gathering as everyone else. And we're already discussing a backyard bonfire and a Christmas luminaria party. I'd call that neighborhood spirit!

Our neighborhood was named the Best Neighborhood in Minnesota for 2007 by Minnesota Parent magazine, a fact I like to share with visitors who don't get to the city much. You can see it in their eyes, the uncertainty about where we live. Older homes, racially mixed, lots of Obama signs, litter, proximity to the busy University-Snelling intersection: not exactly a pristine-looking  (read: safe-looking) part of town. But spend any time here and you'll soon discover what we have in the more than four years we've called the Midway area home. Our neighbors are politically active, they care about their homes and their children, they vote to fund education and they come together to creatively solve problems like speeders on our side streets and to fundraise for our park's repairs. 

There's lots to love in our nearly-century-old houses, too. Our old house has beautiful woodwork inside, as do many of our neighbors' homes. Our ceilings are tall, our wood floors glow with the patina of age, and our minimal square footage means we spend less time doing housework than our neighbors in the Summit Avenue 'hood. I've worked on our garden every year we've lived here, and just this year I planted our first vegetables and herbs, inspired by the homeowners two doors down. This is the kind of neighborhood where neighbors do more than lean over the fence to chat: we actually walk down the street to have a real conversation with one another about the tomatoes you're growing and how my phlox is doing this year. 

In addition to chatting with neighbors I see all of the time, I met two people at yesterday's event that I've lived next to for years but had never met. Did we have a bouncer for the kids, police on horseback, and carnival-quality games to play? No. But we had a few soccer balls, a game of mini-golf, great homegrown and homemade food, and lots of laughs. I'd say our shin-dig was a great success. Can't wait 'till that bonfire later this Fall!

What A Stranger Taught Me

"Excuse me, little lady, do you have any scrap?"

As I pulled weeds from my very neglected alley garden, I looked up at these words and saw a pickup truck filled with metal of all kinds, and a muscled, stocky man covered in sweat. I thought for a few moments. Did I have any scrap? We had just rented a Dumpster and gotten rid of so much! But then I remembered, we still had the cast iron sink, original to our old house, sitting in the garage. It was worth some money as a vintage plumbing item, I knew. I offered it to him.

He hesitated. I bet he thought it was a stainless steel sink. But I opened the garage door and showed him. "That's worth something. I'll take it." He pointed out that the fittings were brass and the cast sink was "heavy scrap." I offered to help him load it into the truck—it had to weigh 200 pounds. But he dragged it and lifted it without much effort. Then he raised both arms over his head and exclaimed, "I'm goin' to the scrap yard!," with such enthusiasm I felt good about giving the sink to someone who needed it. We chatted for a while, and then I noticed he had old bike frames in the truck, too, and I had an old bike to get rid of. I had planned to donate it, but the brakes were shot and I didn't think I could donate something that was broken (Well, my husband thought that. I wasn't so sure.) 

When I showed him the bike, he immediately asked if I was sure I wanted to part with it. He could fix the brakes, he said, and give it to his daughter, who would love it since it was blue. Then I felt even more sure that I was doing the right thing. His whole face lit up as he told me how much his daughter would love it. I told him I'd had it since I was 11 or 12, and he said, "What are you now, 25?" Well, if I had been unsure that he was a nice guy, that sealed it. But as we talked some more, he revealed that he had worked in concrete and other heavy labor for 25 years and then had an accident that had taken out most of his neck, and he showed me a deep, disturbing scar on the back of his neck. I shuddered. He told me he still experienced phantom pain in his body, and that the painkillers he'd been taking had stopped working. He said this all in a conversational way, as if we were talking about the weather. He thanked me and proceeded to drive slowly through the alley, searching for more scrap. I knew I had just met a good person, and I felt good about helping in the small way that I was able. I also knew that I was damned lucky to have my health and my salary. I am also pretty lucky that I don't have to ask strangers for handouts. 

 I hope he made a killing at the scrap yard that day. 

Like the Ingalls Family, Only Not

There sure has been a lot of media coverage of home folks growing their own food this year, have you noticed? The New York Times has been a great source of both inspiration and frustration for me, as I read the many articles about people with tiny lots growing enough produce to sell at local markets. I long to eat zucchini and tomatoes and pole beans from my own yard, like we did when I was young and my grandparents had a large garden in the side yard. But for now, when I look into my own side yard I see two thriving pumpkin plants and two pitiful corn plants. It's late July, and our corn will be ready by about October. When we drive by fields full of corn taller than I am, I have to wonder when these farmers sowed their corn, given the cold and wet spring we had in Minnesota this year. I guess that's why we're not farmers: lack of know-how. 

Because I love the Little House books, I've been reading and rereading them since I was young. I am especially fond of the parts of these books that include descriptions of cooking and growing food. Ma made her own cottage cheese by scalding milk: this sounds like a recipe for a ruined pan and, possibly, a fire on the stove, were I to try this myself. In the spring, Laura and her family delighted in eating creamed potatoes and peas, tomatoes in sugar, and fresh lettuce dressed in vinegar and more sugar (which I also ate as a child, thanks to my Grandma). In the fall and winter months, they ate vinegar pie, green pumpkin pie, Hubbard squash—so rock-hard was this squash that Ma had to split them open with Pa's ax—and smoked meats. All this reading about providing for yourselves makes me wish I'd dug up a much larger piece of yard for a much larger garden. My son brought home a single bean plant that is now yielding slender, pale green beans. Would that we had planted a whole seed packet of these, I love green beans! My son, not so much, though, so I'd be able to enjoy them all by myself. 

Our neighbors have dug up most of their backyard and turned it into a garden. They share lettuce and tomatoes with us, and I'm always reminded of summertime at my grandparents' house in Cincinnati. My grandma grew up on a farm in Michigan, and she made delicious meals, some she called "concoctions." I wish I'd had an appreciation for all that she did in the kitchen while I was at her hip. I wish she'd taught me how to put up preserves. And I wish I'd inherited her cherry pitter, a heavy metal thing that clamped onto the edge of the countertop when we'd picked enough Bing cherries from her tree to bake a pie. Given that we had cherry pie for Thanksgiving, I have to wonder now, were those cherries that grew on her tree, and that she saved for the holiday? Did she make her own pie filling by making cherry preserves? I guess I'll just have to wonder. 

That's what we call a "WHOA, big fella!" landing

"I'm really glad I'm still alive!"

Not the words you want to hear when you're on an airplane, and certainly not from your own child.

As Henry and I wrapped up our trip to Ohio visiting my family, we boarded the 9 AM flight to MSP. It was a little chilly on board, so I covered Henry with my jacket while we taxied. Once we were in the air, the cabin suddenly felt like an oven. Not a gradual rise in temperature, but a sudden skyrocketing up to intense heat. All of the passengers were fiddling with the dials that control the air flow, looking around the cabin to see if we were all feeling the heat. I started to fan Henry's face and he said, why are you pushing hot air on me? Excellent point!

Soon, the announcements began: "We know that there's a problem" and "Folks, we're looking into this, please bear with us." Then the alarms went off. That's when I reached over and tightened Henry's seat belt. He asked why I was doing this, and I told him we'd be returning to the airport soon. Sure enough, the captain came on the loudspeaker and told us we would indeed be returning to Columbus airport. When we descended to the runway, the captain stopped the plane IMMEDIATELY. There was no slow deceleration, no gradual decline in speed. We stopped. (And we applauded.) So hard and abrupt was our landing, that we had to deplane on the runway, and get back to the terminal in shuttles. According to the captain, the brakes melted. I was never so happy to step onto a runway and get some fresh air. That's when Henry made his "I'm so happy I'm alive" statement, which everyone laughed at, but I think we were all thinking, "So am I, kid!"

I knew right then we would be a day late getting home.

After a lovely night at the airport Holiday Inn, Henry and I arrived home to Daddy and our own beds. It will be a long time before we fly again. Later this year, we're heading up north and we'll be driving for about four hours. I can't wait. 

Props

Catherine Newman is one of my favorite writers. I've been reading her online columns since I was pregnant and her little boy was two. Now her son is 8 and her daughter is 5, and every Tuesday I go to her column and share a little piece of her world. She has such a way with words, that I envy. So, take my word for it, check out her column (and her blog) for a great read. Cheers!

Other kids' parents...

Last weekend, we went downtown St. Paul to check out the Flint Hills International Children's Festival. The weather was perfect—sunny and not too hot—and we all had a glorious time, listening to music, dancing, and playing with flags, balancing sticks, juggling apparatus and more neat (and free!) stuff. Cyril Paul played with his band, and Henry was delighted to see him, the same musician that had visited his school for a week as an artist in residence. I discovered that I still love to dance, to live music, in public. Bless my husband's heart, he semi-danced with me while I twirled around to the caribbean tunes. I felt like a kid again, and it was wonderful.

Later, while we stood in a very long line for a balloon creation, my day darkened a bit. The woman standing behind me had a very little boy with her. This poor child was clearly tired,  and he kept sitting down on the grass. The woman with him—good lord, I hope she wasn't his mother—continually barked "Stand up!" at him. Over and over again. She didn't offer to hold him, she didn't acknowledge that he might be exhausted, all she could muster was snapping angrily at him to get off of the damp grass. After about ten minutes, I couldn't take it any more, imagine what that little boy felt like. His face was full of pain. I wanted to pick him up myself...and carry him away from that mean old bag. I desperately wanted to turn around and give her a piece of my mind. I desperately wanted to yell at her, to tell her that this tiny boy (he truly looked like an elf) deserved a little compassion. Was she standing in this line for his benefit or for hers? Isn't it time to call it a day when a child cannot stand up any longer? Why was she caring for a child when she seemed to lack any semblance of a care-taking gene? Was she really more concerned about a grass stain, or damp shorts than she was about his well-being? 

It took me a little while to calm down once we left that line and moved on to the butterfly tent. Henry loved the tickling feet  of the butterflies as they crawled on  his arms. We really had a wonderful day (so wonderful that we went back the next day). But I am still worried about that tiny child. Does he have any joy in his life? Is his entire day filled with barking commands? I certainly have my moments of hideous motherhood: I'm impatient, I lose my temper, I forget sometimes that whatever activity we're doing was supposed to be FUN. But I hope above anything else that I will always think about Henry's best interests. And I hope I'll let him sit down if he's tired. 

If a tree falls in the yard...

Last Sunday, we were enjoying a movie with our son when I commented, "Boy, it is gusty outside." Just then we heard a loud crash. Thinking something had blown over in the kitchen, Tim went in that direction and saw a limb from our neighbor's tree in the yard. So we went to the back door, and discovered that half of the door had been taken out by the killer tree limb. It wasn't until we had moved the limb that I realized we should take pictures of the damage. It turns out that our insurance deductible is more than the cost of a new door, so we'll be paying for this ourselves. Figures!

What I found most interesting about this experience was the lack of a kind word from our neighbor. This was not her fault, of course, but if my tree had taken out her back door, I would have apologized at the very least. I would have appreciated an offer to help chop up the tree and an offer to haul the lumber to the yard waste center (part of the joy of living in St. Paul: we burn fossil fuel to drive our leaves and limbs to a central location. Makes perfect sense.) Heck, I would have appreciated an "Oh, Dear!" But, it was radio silence. We've been neighbors for several years, and she's been a guest in our home. I guess Tree Impales Neighbor's House doesn't warrant comment. 

I can't help but wonder, after all, how well do we know our neighbors? Or ourselves? I'd certainly like to think I would try to make it right if my property damaged or destroyed the property of another person, but would I really? Would you? It's easy to be self-righteous when it's not our tree, so to speak. So, today will be spent cleaning up the tree limbs and shopping for a new door. And saying hello to our neighbor. Because life goes on, and hopefully we'll be neighbors for a long time. She's quiet, she doesn't throw loud parties, and she keeps her sidewalk shoveled. If you've ever lived next door to a less than ideal neighbor, you know what a treasure she is! 

And So it Begins

I've always been opinionated and passionate about lots of topics. Just ask my family. I come from a long line of opinionated women. My husband tells me I should run for city council, but I know I'm too far left for that...so when he suggested (for the tenth time) that I could start a blog, I finally saw the light. 

So who am I? I'm in my thirties, I'm a mom, I'm a publicist and a former newsie, I'm a Democrat, and I love to laugh out loud...too loud, occasionally. I long for more patience with my fabulous son, and I consider it a grand success of a day if I don't feel the weight of my Guilt Necklace at the end of my parenting day. I work for a local publisher after spending nearly 6 years at the governing body for the airport, and in television news before that. So I have lots to say about current affairs, news coverage, and politics. 

One of my goals with my blog is to capture even a smidgen of the wit and talent I admire in other writers' work. I intend to write about all kinds of topics...motherhood, restaurants, customer service, the pending election, the daily battle I face with the squirrels raiding my flower pots...whatever causes me to interrupt yet another DVD my husband and I were quietly enjoying by saying, "You know what I read/saw/heard/experienced today??!!" 

And so it begins.