Thursday, March 23, 2017

3.23.17 #sol17 Hamilton



I missed blogging yesterday. I would feel bad about it, but I was crossing something off my bucket list. I was in Chicago at Hamilton.

My 40th birthday, the morning I received
Hamilton tickets. Best. Present. Ever.
Greg surprised me with tickets for my 40th birthday, which was back in December. For the last 3 months I've been counting down until this moment.

And last night was the night. We arrived in Chicago late yesterday morning. We checked into our hotel, the Silversmith, which was charming and perfect (there was a window seat! I've always loved window seats!) . Our dentist had recommended trying Lou Malnati's pizza while we were in town, so we headed eight blocks for some deep dish (I gave us dispensation for our Lenten sacrifice of pizza. I mean, c'mon. We were in Chicago. Jesus gets it.)

We meandered back to the hotel where I took a nap. If you read my earlier blog post about naps, you know that this was a perfect way to spend my holiday.

Then we headed back out. We had dinner and drinks and then headed to the theater. It was a packed house and the excitement thrummed. As the lights went down, I squeezed Greg's leg. With the first note, I choked up. It was perfect.

And I didn't stop feeling enthralled and joyful and captivated for the entirety of the show. You know how sometimes you're so excited for something, and you build it up in your mind and then when you actually go through it, it's never as great as you imagined? This was the opposite. This experience exceeded every expectation.

Like so many people, I've been listening to the cast recording for more than a year and know all the words. My kids have a favorite ("My Shot"). I watched the PBS Special. I devour every little clip of Lin-Manuel. Going into this show, I felt like I knew it. But seeing the stage, and the role of the lighting (the lighting felt like a cast member!) and seeing the actor's expressions all elevated the experience. It was holy.

And of course, all I can think is how lucky I am to be alive right now.


Tuesday, March 21, 2017

3.21.17 #sol17


Today I try out an "Around" writing about my sister Katie. It's a style that I was introduced to at the Ohio Writing Project's 4-week Writing class. It was always one of our most favorite ways to write. 



Around 1986, a blue-eyed beauty, Kathryn Norine, rounded out the Wolford girls.

She was calm and clear-eyed. She loved her sisters and her parents, and smiled all the time. Because her sisters were 10 and 7 years older than her, she got lots of snuggles and hugs. She was a real life Cabbage Patch doll.


Around 1990, Katie carried her Teddy everywhere and loved playing Barbies.

Katie has keeps us all young. She brings light and life into every room. My friends loved to come to our house and play with her because it allowed all of us to recapture a little slice of our childhood, which was still visible in our rearview mirrors. Even when she was six, she could play with anyone -- the neighbor kids, her sisters, her cousins. She has always been the great unifier.


Around 1994, Katie sat the top of the stairs, through she was supposed to be in bed, listening to all the fun she thought she was missing.

As the youngest, Katie always felt like she was missing out on the action. She usually was. Though she also got to experience things with our parents that we didn't. She went to play with mom, watched baseball with dad. She knew too much too soon; how could you not when you have two teenage sisters? She was the first in her friend group to find out lots of secrets and would often educate her girlfriends. Katie heard the refrain, "Do NOT repeat this at school" pretty often.

Around 2007 Katie became an Aunt Katie.

This was a role Katie was born for. She's a tree climber, a book reader, a song singer, an Uno player. She loves her niece and nephews and  shows them how to be good people. She has sleepovers in the basement, plays games when everyone else is sick of it, and makes them follow the rules.

Around 2009 Katie wandered off the path.

These things happen. And they're often the events that make us stronger and that has been true for Katie. That's her story to tell, not mine, but I have watched her with worry, with trepidation, with frustration and now with pride as she has found her map and righted her course in the last few years.

Around 2017, Katie will cross a stage, take her diploma and enter into a legacy of teachers. She will be amazing.

Katie was a born teacher. Kids are drawn to her. She looks them in the eye, holds them to high standards, and really listens to them. Her future classroom will be a place of light and love and learning.

My sister Katie is one of the most beautiful people I know. She lights up a room and makes everyone feel happier for being around her. She's funny and kind. She completes our family and makes us all better people. And she's so much fun to be around.

Monday, March 20, 2017

3.20.17 #sol17 Writer's Group



I should be at my writer's group right now. My friends Holly, Megan, Jill, Val and I are in a writer's group. Unfortunately Greg had a meeting tonight, so I had to miss. And I'm missing them so much. So I thought I'd write about them.

Our writing group has met exactly once. We didn't write at all. We laughed and shared. We caught up and talked about writing (a little bit anyway). We ate and drank. We communed.

And that community has been so powerful. It motivated me to actually start this blog challenge. Holly has been slicing for a few years now, and I always read her posts. An experience that Megan had earlier this year had me thinking on my drive home about a piece she should write; I was so excited I texted her as soon as I got home. And getting to spend time facilitating professional development with Jill, Val and Holly had me thinking about all kinds of smart writing.

So you see, though we didn't officially share writing during our group, we did the work of building a community. We're doing the work of writers -- thinking, sharing, collaborating, rehearsing. And writing.

This blog challenge has offered the same for me. It has been amazing to be part of a community of writers. Getting comments on posts is wonderful, but even without those comments, I'm feeling so empowered by seeing everyone else's posts. I'm loving the generative power of reading each other's works.

An unexpected surprise has been the feedback from folks outside the challenge. Friends have sent me messages about their own experiences that relate to something they read in my blog. Or family members reach out to affirm something I've written. My mom even texted me the other day because she thought of some topics.

Knowing that there are actual people reading my writing has reminded me how important it is to participate in a community. To be held accountable. To have a real purpose. To engage in our own learning.

In my work, I spend time with lots of different kinds of students: teachers in graduate school, undegraduates as well as young students. I want to find ways to create the same space for student writers. I want to do more than just school writing. I want to help them find a community.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

3.19.17 #sol17 Justin's Snuggles



"Mama, can you snuggle?" My 7 year-old hardly ever calls me Mama anymore, so even though I'm tired, and even though I still have work to do tonight, and even though I am done mom-ing for today, I take a deep breath and I snuggle.

I lie next to his little body in his narrow twin bed. He's surrounded by a menagerie of stuffed animals. There's Puppy H. and Ghostie, Piggie and Froggy. The newest addition to the collection, Pikachu, is nestled in his arms. His most beloved Wormy is never too far. Wormy's still the one we find in his arms in the middle of the night.

He turns on his side, eye to eye with me. I wrap my arm around his body, feeling his belly rise and fall with his breath. He tangles his feet around my legs. I love the smell of him. It's a mixture of boy and outside and toothpaste (sometimes). Who knows what we talk about it those moments: dogs, school, Pokemon, his brother, Disney. Sometimes we barely talk at all (although anyone who knows Justin knows that's not typical. This kid can talk).

After a few minutes, I tell him, "Okay, Mister, I love you." He usually says "One more minute." I relent. Of course. After half a minute, I wrap it up.

Our newest routine:
"I love you the most," Justin tells me, kneeling on his mattress and wrapping his arms tightly around my neck.

"I love you most-er."

"I love you the most-est, most-est, most-est." He laughs at the silliness. And I pretend to groan, outdone in the superlative game. Every night it's the same dance.

I leave his room, head downstairs and go about my evening.

Justin is my third child, the baby of our family. I used to complain about how my youngest sister got away with more, or was treated differently. Now I realize that with your youngest, you just hang on a little tighter.

He won't always be our baby. And honestly, he's not my baby anymore. He's transforming into this boy, this big kid right before my eyes. But someday soon he'll be too big to snuggle. He won't want me to lie next to him anymore. He won't place his chubby hands on my cheeks. He won't make up silly games to keep me next to him for just one more minute.

And since I am not the mother in that ridiculous Love You Forever book (I know this book evokes strong opinions in people, but seriously, c'mon. She carries a ladder to his house? If my mother-in-law did that, we'd have a real problem.), I know that there will be a moment when I have to just let him go.

But, while I can, I'll take a breath, I'll snuggle. I'll try to slow down the moment.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

3.18.17 #sol17 Currently

Inspired by Jen I thought I'd try the "Currently" structure today too. I thought about what I'm currently doing literally as well as things that are happening in my life right now.
Currently…
Watching:  Greg and Jacob watch Jurassic Park together for the first time; Sneaky Pete on Amazon Prime; Goldbergs with my kiddos (they're finally at an age where I feel like we can watch sitcoms together). Survivor; this is one of the few shows Greg will actually sit down and watch with me. 
Listening:  to the Missing Richard Simmons podcasts; Emma and her friend making musically videos in the basement; Jacob making his little tic sound that is driving me totally nuts.
Appreciating: that I was able to sleep until 9:45 this morning (that hasn't happened in YEARS!); that Greg's spring break started today; that I have a husband who likes to grocery shop; in-laws who will drive 5 hours to come stay with our kids; that I can take Emma shopping and buy her new clothes, even if she hates shopping.
Loving: connecting with my girlfriends over coffee, or lunch, or a beer, or at exercise class. And that I got to do all of those things this week - finally; lazy days; baseball season; soccer season; Justin in his karate uniform.
Eating:  too much. trying to eat more greens and less sugar. Why can't vegetable taste as good as sugar does?
Drinking:  Dt. Pepsi. Miller Light. Water. In that order. I'm working on reversing the order. 
Wishing:  I didn't have to try on bathing suits tomorrow. That I still had my 30 year old self's metabolism; that I could be more comfortable in the skin I'm in now.
Planning:  to see Hamilton this week; to go to Florida soon; where our extended family will go for our annual Father's Day trip; how to lose 20 lbs by the time we get to Florida on Friday (making chocolate chip cookies tonight is probably the first step in all the diet books, right?). 
Reading:  texts from my sisters and mom; slice blog posts, Velva Jean Learns to Drive; getting ready to read The Hate U Give; tweets, mostly about teaching and Trump.

Friday, March 17, 2017

3.17.17 #sol17 Pool Sneaking



"Mom! We are going to get ARRESTED!" I hissed from the shadows.

"Oh, c'mon, Ang. Just get in here," my mom whisper-laughed.

I was eight. My mom was 28. It was a warm summer night in Florida and we were swimming in a pool, one of my favorite things to do. There was just one catch.

It wasn't our pool.

My mom, a fearless free-spirit, would pair up with her best friend Lola and lead us on so many adventures. I, the oldest, rule-following daughter, hated these adventures. They made me nervous and reckless.

I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Lola and my mom were young moms together in Ft. Myers, FL, before it became the place where everybody's grandparents spend the winter. Between the two of them, they had four daughters, me the oldest. Both of their husbands worked hard, long hours and so these two young women were left to figure out how to entertain us all in a place not yet reached by cable tv.

Neither family had much money at the time, and my mom reminisces that there were plenty of days when she and Lola were digging for change in their couch cushions to wrangle enough gas money to make it to the beach for the day.

Some evenings we'd go to the beach, watch the sunset, then sneak into hotel pools at night, sliding into the pools from the corners, from the shadows. These were the days when pools on the beach were fenced in and it was just a matter of opening a gate to get in. So Lola and my mom, bold as brass, would head on in. I don't think they were ever told to leave. Really, who cares about two women and their gaggle of kids?

But I didn't know that at the time. I remember never allowing myself the satisfaction of full submersion. I'd hide off in the shadows with only my feet in the water. I would watch my sister and my mom splashing quietly around, laughing. I'd feel simultaneously jealous and judgmental of their recklessness.

Other times we'd cruise the neighborhood looking for model homes that had a pool in the backyard. On those evenings, Lola would park her car (in the driveway? on a side street?) and we'd head out back. On these visits we had to be so quiet. The risk level just about sent me over the edge. We'd take a quick dip, just long enough to cool off, before we'd race back to the car and head home.

At the time I thought I had the craziest mom in the world. She exasperated me. Now, though, while I still think I had the craziest mom in the world, I find myself trying to recreate her sense of adventure with my own kids. While we never do anything as daring as sneaking into pools, I do try to instill a sense of wonder in our lives. That feel of magic and adventure defines my childhood and is one of the best gifts my mom gave us.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

3.16.17 #sol17 Podcasts





I spent a LOT of time in my car going from meeting to meeting today (I think I drove close to 120 miles today). And I listened to lots of podcasts. I really love podcasts. With my work, I end up spending a good bit of time in my car, so podcasts are a perfect way to make the time go quicker. In fact, I look forward to my commute so I can catch up on podcasts.

What's on my list now?

This American Life: I have loved this program since I was 23 years old when I first heard it on a drive back from Athens, OH. It was a piece by David Sedaris about trying to speak French and I laughed so hard I was crying.

You Made It Weird: Pete Holmes is one of my favorite comedians. His podcast is epically long and meandering and I love it. He interviews all kinds of people, but my favorites are when he interviews other comedians. He can be a little talk-y on these, but I enjoy him. Today's podcast with Phoebe Robinson was one of the best in a while.

Nerdist: Chris Hardwick is a great interviewer. Sometimes the people he interviews are boring, so I skip those, but sometimes they're great. And those I like.

Fresh Air: Terry Gross is amazing. She's the best interviewer of all time. Marc Maron's interview of her was amazing.

WTF: Marc Maron is also a great interviewer (okay, yes, there's a theme here. I like comedy and interviews. I love interviews about comedy). I skip him riffing and playing music and just listen to the interviews.

Pod Save America: These guys are former Obama staffers and twice a week they break down the craziness that's going on in the world. They're a little bro-y for me, so I haven't decided if I'm going to subscribe or just listen when I feel like it.

I know there are so many other amazing podcasts. And I realize that I need to add some women and diversity to my list! I did just subscribe to Two Dope Queens today and can't wait to get caught up on their hilarious take on being a woman.

I also want to love teaching podcasts (Penny Kittle's Book Love podcast was a gift to all educators). But I listen while I drive, so I can't take notes.

What do you listen to?




Wednesday, March 15, 2017

3.15.17 #sol17 The Important Thing About Emma

Emma was reading through my blog posts yesterday. She loved the one about how her Aunt Emily and I used to fight.

 "I wrote about you," I said. "Do you want to read it?"

I showed her the post I wrote to her. I watched as her eyes scanned the lines. 

"This isn't about me," she said. And I realized that it wasn't. Not really. It was about my hopes for her. My dreams for her. But she didn't recognize herself in the lines. So, today I decided to write about Emma: 


The Important Thing About Emma
* with thanks to Margaret Wise Brown's The Important Book

The important thing about Emma is that she is brave. 
She likes gymnastics, especially the flips. 
She wants to grow her hair longer. 
And she likes french toast sticks for breakfast. 
But the important thing about Emma is that she is brave.

The important thing about Emma is that she is kind.
She's a peacemaker with her friends. 
She loves sleeping 
(and is worried about next year when she has to get on the bus at 7).
She makes musical.ly videos. 
But the important thing about Emma is that she's kind. 

The important thing about Emma is that she sings. 
She plays soccer, 
and wants to play trumpet, 
and likes doing math. 
But the important thing about Emma is that she sings. 

The important thing about Emma is that she's a sister. 
And a daughter.
And an oldest.
And a grand-daughter, and niece, and cousin. 
But the important thing about Emma is that she's a sister. 

The important thing about Emma is that she is Emma. 
She has brown eyes, and straight hair. 
She has long legs, covered in bruises. 
She just got done with braces (phase 1). 
But the important thing about Emma is that she is Emma. 


Tuesday, March 14, 2017

3/14/17 #sol17 Greg



My husband is a teacher. He teaches high school math at a small private school where he's also the department chair. And on Honor Council. And on the Long-Range Planning Committee. And the Varsity Golf Coach. So, as you can imagine, his days are full. He's teaching and lesson planning, mentoring and counseling, facilitating and attending meetings.

Greg is an amazing teacher. He helps kids who thought they would never understand math, say that they finally get it. He's gifted at explaining complicated concepts in multiple ways. I have never, in 15 years, heard him utter the words "That kid just doesn't get it." Instead he searches for new ways to frame it, or explain it, or illustrate it. Until it clicks. And it almost always does.

Then the man comes home. And before he can even take off his tie, our kids are on him. "Daddy!" they shout when they hear the garage door open. They want his help with homework, or to show him a trick they learned. Many nights, he makes dinner as I rush off to a meeting. Or, he coaches our kids' sports teams. Or he does private tutoring at the public library.
Greg and Justin on their way
to baseball practice

As soon as we finally get the kids to bed, do you know what my husband, the teacher, does? He puts his workout clothes on and does a 30 minute P-90 X video. Then do you know what he does?

He grades. Or lesson plans. Or makes screencasts. Or revisits his notes. Or returns emails. At the kitchen table. Until it's time to go to bed.

And while this might not be his schedule every night, it's his schedule most nights.

He is the hardest working person I know. If he's lucky, he gets 20 minutes by himself (I'm not counting the exercise time; that hardly seems like it should qualify!). His alone time usually involves hiding in the bathroom playing spider solitaire on his phone.

Nearly every other teacher I know works a similar schedule.

In my own work life, I teach teachers. In this role, I have spent six out of the last eight Saturdays at conferences, and workshops, and classes with teachers who take their own time to continue their professional development. Where in these schedules does Ohio Governor John Kasich imagine these teachers will have time for an internship? (If anything, Kasich should come intern at a school.)

Does Betsy DeVos understand how teachers spend their time? (She should; I tweet at her every time I'm with teachers...) As I watch teachers continue to be undermined in the media by our government officials, I seethe at the characterizations being put forth.

I know Greg's students, their parents and his colleagues appreciate him. I know that we, his family, appreciate him. I just want other people, the people who make choices about teachers and their lives, to appreciate him, and all educators, too.


PS: I know tons of people work really hard (my brother-in-law Joel being one of the other hardest working people I know). And I know lots of my friends' husbands work long hours too. We could all write similar blog posts. But this is my blog, so I get to brag on my husband. (And later I'll write one about how awesome it is that he gets to be the full-time parent for a month in the summer.)

Monday, March 13, 2017

3/13/17 #sol17 It hit me tonight ...




It hit me tonight.

I'm out of ideas.
I've tried writing about chop sticks and church.
I've started a reflection about Emma's flushed cheeks,
made a list of the sweet things my youngest said today,
wrote a scene between Jacob and me.

I've contemplated writing about
snow days,
or snooze alarms
or stand-up comedy.

I've drafted a column about cooking,
an essay about catholicism,
a poem about my husband.

It's not just that I'm out of ideas,
I'm out of steam, stamina.

Even when I have the ideas,
I can't get past the starting,
past the telling.

I'm having a hard time finding
my way to the showing,
to the part where I surprise myself.

Oh, wait.
There it is.

It hit me tonight.




Sunday, March 12, 2017

3/12/17 #sol17 My anti-ode to laundry



What's the opposite of an ode? Because that's how I feel about laundry. Good Lord, I hate laundry. I just finished folding three loads of kids' laundry. And in five days I'll do it again. I'm both horrified by how few pairs of underwear I folded and mystified by how many pairs of pajamas my kids own. How does that happen?

And really, I don't mind hauling the laundry to our basement machines. And while I have a hard time remembering to rotate it (who among us hasn't rewashed a load or two in our day? Though, honestly, the privilege of being able to do that always embarrasses me, so I'm trying to do better.), I don't mind managing the process.

My favorite part of the laundry process is folding. Yes, I love the smell of freshly laundered t-shirts. And if it's still warm from the dryer, it just feels so cozy. Mainly, though, I like folding because it gives me an excuse to sit on the couch and watch tv for a bit. If I could do all chores while streaming Netflix, my house would be so clean.

What I loathe the most about laundry is putting it away. The kids laundry gets shoved into drawers and inevitably I fall down the wormhole of re-organizing the drawers. Which leads to switching out seasons, or pulling out clothes that are too small. And before you know it, I've created an even bigger mess, so I end up shoving it all back in the drawers, making it worse than before.

I hate putting my own laundry away too. In our bedroom we have a huge, comfy chair. Greg calls it my chairdrobe because it's always covered in piles of clothes -- stacks to be put away, clothes I plan on wearing again, scarves that don't fit on the hooks. You know, just the stuff of my life. (I guess Greg has a floordrobe...it's just hidden on his side of the bed.)

So, while I'm thankful that we have clothes, and machines to wash them, and closets to hold them, I can't wait for the day when my kids take over this chore (which reminds me...I should start working on that).

Saturday, March 11, 2017

3/11/17 #sol17 How to Live, to Emma




How To Live

with thanks to Charles Webb
and Tom Romano for introducing me to Mr. Webb


to my daughter, Emma, on the cusp of turning 10

Continue to be brave, sweet girl. And vulnerable. Try to name your feelings, and to feel them deeply. Don't be afraid to cry, but try to figure out what your next steps will be while you're crying. Have a favorite blanket, one that you can crawl under and find peace when the rest of the world feels hard. But crawl back out and face it head on.

Hold hands: with your mom, with your best friends, with your future spouse. Let the touch from the people who love you heal you. Eat your vegetables. And the cupcakes. Wear clothes that make you sparkle. Look in the mirror and tell yourself you're beautiful at least once a day. Develop laugh lines. Always throw your head back and let that laugh rip.

Play basketball and soccer and relish the strength of your legs pumping and your heart beating. Keep flipping. Do it more than just gym class as you get older. Get your nose pierced, or your ears or even your belly button. I'd really prefer you not get a tattoo. So if you do, make it small and secret.

Live on your own. Carry your groceries up a few flight of stairs. Learn how to check your oil and tire pressure. Don't be afraid to ask for help. Have the kinds of friends who will help you move. Go to a beautiful movie by yourself at least once. Eat dinner in a restaurant while reading a book. Be your own best company.

Watch bad tv, read trashy magazines, read smart books. Go to church, wherever that church may be -- the woods, the ocean, the building. Seek out friendships that fill your soul. When relationships feel like too much work, tap out. Except marriage. That work can be the most beautiful work of your life.

Stand up for yourself. Use your words as weapons, and your fists if you have to. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you don't deserve to take up space. Fill a room with your sparkle and your smarts. Ask questions. Listen. Reflect. Speak out every time.

Stand up for what you know is right. Sometimes that's hard and feels scary. So take a breath and try to figure out your center of gravity. Walk the walk. If you're embarrassed to bring a partner home, let that tell you something, and listen to it. Maybe not at first, but eventually.

Remember from where you came, my girl. Call your mom. Take care of your brothers and let them take care of you. Know that you are known and loved and seen. You take up space in this world, and the universe is better because you exist.


Friday, March 10, 2017

3/10/17 #sol17 Things My Feet Have Touched Today





Things My Feet Have Touched Today

The cold tile of my hotel bathroom.
The sidewalks of Pasadena.
The restroom of an El Taco Loco as the Uber driver had to make a pit stop.
The lush, green carpet of Janet's backyard,
the leaves from the avocado tree under my feet.
Venice Beach.

LAX,
the long security line where I met Theo Vonn
(of Road Rules fame. "Is your name Theo?" I leaned over and asked.
He grinned, said yes.
After telling him I liked his podcast (the fan-girl line of the aughts?)
he asked where I was from. He was headed to New Orleans for his birthday.
So much we can learn about each other in just a few words.
He was lovely and sweet.
And made me feel simultaneously old and like a school girl.)

The security floor as I stood in my barefeet
and received a pat down that was the most action I've seen in days.

The bathroom tile at CVG
where I changed from flip-flops
to flats so as to guard my toes agains the cold.

Now, home. Where they belong.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

3/9/17 #sol17 Jacob's voicemail



"Hi, Mom. It's Jacob. Um, so this morning, I had an asthma attack and a panic attack."

These are the words I heard on my voicemail tonight from my 9 year old son. I'm in California for work. He's in Ohio. I am heartbroken that I'm not with him.

Immediately, I called my husband. "Tell me everything," I demanded.

It turns out that our boy woke up this morning and was congested. So congested in fact, that he felt like he had something in his throat that he couldn't get out.  His body sent him into a coughing fit, trying to dislodge the phlegm. That coughing somehow sent him into a "what if" spiral that mostly focused on "what if I'm drowning like that commercial warned that sometimes people can drown from fluid in their lungs and what if that's happening to me and what if, what if, what if..."

My husband tried to calm him down, tried to soothe him. He put him in the bathroom and ran a steamy shower. He tried to reason with him. He tried to talk him through it. Finally, Jacob calmed down.

After a visit to the pediatrician and a confirmation that he's healthy and fine and indeed, he had a panic episode, I am left feeling so helpless.

You see, I know this "what if..." spiral too well. I hate it. I know how it can bring you to your knees and despite all rational reasoning, it's voice can loom larger than any other.

Looking back, I realize that I've always struggled with anxiety to some extent, but three years ago a hormonal shift happened in my body and I suddenly couldn't manage it on my own. Where in the past my anxiety manifested in a shortness of breath and a sense of unease, suddenly I was struck with chronic insomnia. Even writing about it gets the anxiety stirring a bit. Luckily the medicine has given me the ability to quiet those stirrings and put them in perspective.

But, now, my son. Ever since the election and the killer clowns he's been having little episodes. We thought he had asthma. Or allergies. Or anything that could explain his shortness of breath. But one night as I laid with him in his bed trying to soothe him with Vix and an inhaler, I saw something familiar.

I don't think he needs medicine. Yet. Right now we'll focus on teaching him mindfulness and helping him work through the moments. But my heart will continue to ache as I try to protect and support him while also trying not to project my own anxiety on him.

And so I'll take deep breaths. Be mindful. Pray more. And thank God for my own anxiety medicine that will help me help him.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

3/8/17 #sol17 LA Minute



Lelalois whipped her Ford Expedition through the parking lot, trying to get us back on the main road in this thick LA traffic after we'd missed a turn. "I think you make a right here," I instructed as I looked down at the map on my phone.

She didn't budge. I looked up to see why. "We're not going anywhere," she said.

There he was, a slight Asian man. He wore a light jacket, despite the California heat. In his left hand he carried a green cloth tote, a cane in his right. He wasn't walking, exactly, as that implies movement much quicker than what he was doing. He inched his way across the sidewalk, heading towards the waiting city bus. Lelalois and I had been rushing, missing turns, having to loop around, trying to reach our next destination. But now, there was nowhere to go. As he shuffled in front of us, we both stared.

"This is out of a movie," Lelalois chuckled. I agreed. "He must have left this morning to get here," I joked.

But then something happened to us both. As he creeped across the canvas of the windshield, we shifted our perspective. We became humbled by his grit. We were awed as we imagined the perseverance it must take when your body doesn't work the way you want it to anymore. But, still, this determined man kept going. One step at a time, regardless of how quickly he was going to get there. He just kept shuffling, one foot in front of the other. He became lovely to us, a reminder of fortitude and strength.

As I watch the news footage from today's latest awfulness coming from our White House, I am reminded of the power of one step at a time. I am thinking of the man from today and the lessons I can learn from him. We have to just keep doing the next right thing, shuffling ahead, even if we don't know how long it will take us to get there.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

3/7/17 #sol17 Uncle John


Uncle John


Tonight, I was struggling for a topic. Then, as I sat down at my laptop, my cell phone rang. It was my Uncle John, my godfather who lives out in Vegas. I haven't talked to him in a while and it was so good to hear his voice. We were going to both be in LA at the same time this week, but he was calling to say that his plans got changed.

I decided to write about John using a poem structure Kate Messner writers about in her book 59 Reasons to Write. I used my grandparent's old phone number to help structure the number of words in each sentence.



My Uncle John lives
so far away.
We don't see him often,
but he's a constant presence
in the family's lore.

When he comes back home,
his voice, his laughter,
his story-telling
fill the room.

He's sick now. Cancer.

I heard his voice tonight:
Quieter, softer, sadder.
My throat is thick with tears.

He's so far away,
but constantly present,
In my thoughts, in my heart.

Monday, March 6, 2017

3/6/17 #sol17 Erin

She rode her bike up to my grandma's house and walked the couple of steps up to the porch. I immediately noticed her hat, this sailor's hat with her name embroidered. It was all the rage from Cedar Point that summer. I myself had a quirky sense of style, but even I didn't know anyone who wore a hat. I thought it was a little bit weird, and mostly pretty cool.

Erin Frankenfield lived around the corner from my grandma (and the house my family would later move into) and she and another future classmate were there to officially welcome the granddaughter of their teacher. We became friends instantly. 

I've been blessed with a decades of countless beautiful and amazing friendships, but even now, nearly 30 years later, if you ask me to think about a best friend, Erin pops in my head first. She was the first friend I made after we moved to Ohio the summer before 6th grade. From the time we were 11 to the time we were 15, we were inseparable.

I remember sleepovers at Erin's house when we would wait until her dad left for third shift before we would sneak out of the house, stuffing our sleeping bags with pillows and Cabbage Patch dolls in case anyone checked on us. We'd wander the neighborhood, sometimes TPing the neighbor boy's house, sometimes sneaking into people's pools, often just roaming. I'm astonished by our audacity. We were fearless. 

We would drool over Johnny Depp and Evan Dando. We'd sneak into her teenage sister's room to read her diary (sorry, Gretchen!) and ride our bikes endlessly around the South end of our small town. We would play the Ouija board and scare the hell out of ourselves. We'd camp out in one of our backyards, staying up way too late, playing 7th grade version of Truth or Dare with our boyfriends or telling ghost stories. We had our own secret wave, the way you do when you're young and think you've invented everything. 

As we got older, Erin and I drifted apart the way people do sometimes. Every so often we'd circle back around to each other, but we made new friends and had different circles. I'm so grateful to have had such a strong friendship during those formative years. 

Erin and I recently hung out at our 20th class reunion and it was so fun to laugh and connect with the person who knew me best for so many important years. Everyone should have a friend like Erin once in their life, one who's kind a little bit weird, and mostly pretty cool. 

Sunday, March 5, 2017

3/5/17 #sol17 What I Love About Naps



What I Love About Naps: Delicious Decadence

I must confess something that may change your opinion of me. I am a serious napper. It doesn't happen all the time, or even every week, but when I'm able to take a nap, I feel like I've won.

Naps are delicious. I love them on slow, rainy days. I love them on sunny days -- closing my eyes while the sun still shines feels like a stolen treat.

The best part of my naps is my napping blanket. I know that's weird for a 40 year old woman to say, but there it is. It's perfect; heavy enough to create a cocoon, but light enough that it doesn't weigh me down. My preferred spot to nap is in our bedroom, box fan whirring. I lie on top of my regular blankets, of course -- any respectable napper knows that getting under the covers is a bad idea.

Last month my whole family was hit by the flu, four fallen soldiers. Not me, though. Even after a week of cleaning up messes and wiping noses, I remained healthy. Greg teased that the secret to my health perhaps lies in my naps. I think he's on to something.

We hurtle through our weeks; karate, soccer, work, meetings, birthday parties, family gatherings. We have calendars synced, notifications popping up, emails tugging at our attention. We are being pulled in so many directions all the time. A nap restores me. There's something about pushing pause on life that makes me able to be more focused, more productive, more present.

I won't get a nap this weekend and I'm already looking forward to next weekend when our pace might be a little slower after another crazy week and I can hibernate for an hour.


Saturday, March 4, 2017

3/4/17 #sol17 Erie, PA




Erie, PA 

Every summer Greg and I load the kids into the van and head five hours north to Erie, PA where we spend a sacred week in the house where Greg grew up. Family pours in from all over -- Philly, California, across town -- as we all soak up as much time as we can together.

Greg's parents live in a beautiful place, where the distance to the lake is measured in footsteps. Their backyard overlooks a cliff which overlooks the lake. There's a stand of trees where my father-in-law hangs his hammock. Many nights he heads down to the hammock with one of his 10 grandkids, swinging and watching the sun sink behind the horizon.

Up until last summer my in-laws had a pool in the backyard where we would spend hours swimming. Every summer my kids would end up bringing home a case of swimmer's ear, but the memories of learning how to swim were worth it. The pool is gone now, but as the kids get older, we're finding new ways to make memories.

At least one of the nights is filled with a bonfire by the cliff, the s'mores piled high as the fire dances across our faces. We catch fireflies and listen to the waves crash against the rocks. Greg's godmother Janet and her 20-something daughter Angela travel from LA to be with us too. It is a marvel to watch Angela enjoy a midwestern summer night as she marvels at lightning bugs and green grass everywhere. We always order pizza and wings from Gary's Superette, the convenience store my father-in-law started, now owned by my brother-in-law Joel. It's the only time all year I eat chicken wings.

Sleepovers with cousins is a highlight of this week. Joel's family lives in the same town and so the kids love to swap families and sleep over with their cousins and Aunt Anita. My sister-in-law's family travels from out of town, so every night at Nana and Papa's is a sleepover.

After the little kids go to bed, my teenage nephews and I make The Best Nachos In The World (the secret is in the layering). We play Balderdash, or Apples to Apples, my sister-in-law Carrie usually succumbing to contagious laughter, tears rolling down her face.

My mother-in-law Judi always has a stash of her chocolate chip cookies ready for us to plow through. She hides them in the laundry room and soon "putting clothes in the dryer" becomes code for stuffing our faces with cookies. My brother-in-law Vince, the most vigilant about what he eats, probably does the most laundry all week.

The moments we spend in Erie are some of the happiest memories of our whole year. I feel so lucky to actually look forward to spend time with my in-laws. I know not everyone feels that way. Our family makes us who we are, even if we don't get to see them every day.

One of my favorite moments actually happens when it's time to leave. We all pile into our van and as we pull out of the driveway, my nephews chase our car down the driveway and onto the lane shouting, "We miss you already." As they get smaller in the rearview mirror, we wave furiously. I turn around in my seat, already looking forward to when we'll get to see them again, missing them already.

The Faulhaber Five by Lake Erie most summers since 2008.

Friday, March 3, 2017

3/3/17 #sol17 Toilets and Torture

Toilets and Torture


"OhmygodI'msosorrypleasedon'ttellmom."

An apple had just exploded in my eye and my sister Emily, three years younger, was immediately filled with regret for hurtling the fruit.

This feeling of disaster followed by sisterly solidarity wasn't an unfamiliar pattern. As children, Emily and I fought incessantly. So much, in fact, that our traumatized baby sister Katie at one point requested to move in with Puff Daddy and the family. Our mom used to make us plan prayer meetings for each other in the hopes of divine intervention. Aunts and uncles avoided us.We were awful. 

There's a reason only adorable
baby pictures of us exist.
I think we must have refused to be
photographed together as middle schoolers.
Things Emily and I damaged over the course of middle school:

  • A toilet. For real. While sitting on the pot, Em blocked me from opening the door by using her feet to push against the door. I pushed back too hard and suddenly water gushed everywhere as the bowl cracked. 
  • Front door window panes. She locked me out and I pounded on the window. In my fury, the window shattered. 
  • The picture window at the bottom of the stairs. After a fierce chase through the house, one last shove resulted in another broken window.
I can remember vividly the blinding rage, followed immediately by desperate accord. We'd cook up a story for our parents, usually involving one of our knees popping out of place (we both had weak knees, so this story was both entirely plausible and earned us sympathy. Bonus!). 

It wasn't until we'd moved out of the house and had jobs and our own identity that Emily and I were able to broker some peace. Now, she and Katie are my best friends, the first ones I call when I'm stressed or happy. I can hardly believe that we are the same girls who went out of our way to torture one another. 
Jacob (9) and Justin (7).
Fighting. Again.

Recently my boys, 9 and 7, have started to remind me an awful lot of Emily and me. They just bug the crap out of each other. Breathing the same air is a form of torture. I am so tired of intervening and peace-making. I'm about to resort to prayer meetings in my own hopes of divine intervention. I can't wait until they move past this moment and become best friends they way my sisters and I are now. 

I just hope they don't break any toilets in the process. 





Emily, Katie and Angela



Thursday, March 2, 2017

3/2/17 #sol17 Respect the Bubble

Respect the Bubble

I love spin class. When I had twin babies, spin class was the thing that got me out of the house and back into shape. Ten years later, it's always the exercise the draws me back. Which brought me here, to this class.

She was a new instructor; well, new to me as this was my sixth class back and I hadn't met her yet. Yoga music played in the background. Not my favorite kind of music to spin to, but I was willing to give it a shot. We were already well past the designated start time. Annoying, but I was trying to withhold judgement. Mostly.

And then she approached me.

"Your seat is too low. Here, let me adjust it." This stranger, without even an introduction, reached underneath my bottom and lifted my seat up.

"Um, that actually hurts," I mumbled, face starting to flush as I noticed everyone around me watching.

"And your tension isn't right. Add more. You should never have it that low. And your elbows are locked."

I tried to protest: "I've actually done this before." She ignored me.

I was humiliated. Here I'd been feeling pretty confident about my return to spin class. I know how to hover, how to sprint. I know the seat needs to be at my hip and my knees shouldn't lock out. But here this woman, who didn't even take the time to ask me my name, was adjusting my positions, telling me I was doing it all wrong.

She was, as my daughter says, popping my bubble -- invading that sacred personal space we all maintain.

I seethed about this moment for days. I chafed (literally and figuratively!) at her intrusion. I have avoided her class.

A week later, I realized something. Maybe I kind of do the same thing to students. How often have I grabbed a piece of writing and started commenting on it without even looking at their faces? How often have I focused on all the things they're doing wrong without once asking them what they think they did well? How often do I pop their bubble?

And that led me to consider two things.

First, maybe that instructor wasn't trying to humiliate me. Maybe, like me, she was feeling crunched for time and that she needed to hurry up and get to the teaching.

But, I also can't forget how I felt as the student: singled out, shamed, stunted. And so, I'm trying to be intentional about the ways I talk to other writers about their writing, whether those writers are 14 or 40.

I want to remember to respect the bubble.


Wednesday, March 1, 2017

3/1 #sol17 Things To Worry About ...

15, Maybe 16 Things To Worry About When You Start a Blog

*with thanks to Judith Viorst

Nobody could maybe read this thing,
or worse yet, they could read it and not having anything to say.
I might use incorrect grammar,
or split my infinitives.
Maybe my students will read it
and learn something too personal. Or not personal enough.

Or maybe I'll run out of ideas on day three.
(Birth? Bad Breath? Babies? Do people care?)

I could write and the computer could freeze
and lose all my work.
Or I could link it up in the wrong spot.
(Permalinks? Comments? Images?)

Stacey might kick me out of the challenge.
Or Holly might laugh too hard at my embarrassing story (or worse, not hard enough).
Betsy DeVos could read it and maybe tweet that I'm what's wrong with teaching.

Or.
Maybe this will be beautiful.
Maybe it will be exactly the thing I've been missing.
Maybe this blog, this community, this moment, will be the kick start.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll remember how to walk the walk.