History in the making

I voted today. Early. It was an experience that I was not at all prepared for. I figure, go in, fill out the absentee ballot, head on home. Voting. No big deal.

What I found when I arrived at Vet's Memorial was a parking lot filled with cars, tv news cameras dotting the sidewalk, and people...people everywhere. The line wound down the stairs and then snaked back and forth before straightening out into the Bhrem room where in person absentee voting was taking place. In all, I stood on line for an hour and 45 minutes before I had my ballot in hand and headed to the privacy booths to make my choices the old fashioned way -- pen on paper.

As I waited, I struck up a conversation with the woman standing behind me. She was friendly and excited. And the excitement built as we made our way through the maze of people, following the ones before us. She kept track of our time and provided little updates every half hour or so. We talked about the election and the significance. We were grateful that we could feel safe to gather in this public way to cast our votes and not fear for our lives.

I would be hard pressed to estimate the number of people there. The crowd was huge. The lobby area was warm and got warmer as we waited. Watching the people, I was filled with a sense of something bigger than myself, something akin to community happening right before my eyes. Throughout the line, people chatted in groups of two or three. Some people had come together and others were strangers. There were tall people, short people, fat people skinny people, men in suits, women in jean jackets, mothers with tiny babies or two or three toddlers. The news media was there and they periodically stopped with cameras and microphones to speak with someone in the line. Even as we waited and the temperature in the room rose, the line remained orderly. No one complained when the man behind me stepped out of line to use the restroom and then returned. There was no whining or moaning. In fact, nearly everyone there was smiling.

I have voted in numerous elections and probably the past six presidential elections but it has never felt this way before. It was as though the air was charged with anticipation of change, positive change. As Carol and I chatted, we noted how different things had been when her 91 year old grandmother was a young woman. I commented on just how different things would be when the little baby beside us, who looked to be no more than a month or two old, had grown to reach our ages. It felt as though all those who had fought for voting rights, fairness in voting, and fairness in general were gathered there with us in that lobby and that they were cheering us on. It felt like we were making history.

Ohio hurricane

When I told the girls that it was going to be a little more windy and maybe rain a lot on Sunday due to the hurricane that had come ashore in Texas, I had no idea what was in store. In fact, until the power started flickering and I looked out to see the glider swing in the backyard upended, I wasn't even aware that the winds had arrived.

Around 4:00 yesterday afternoon, the power flashed sending the girls racing up the stairs from the basement screaming at the top of their lungs. "The lights just went off and on, Mom!" They had done the same in the living room, knocking off the tv I had just switched on to see if there was some kind of storm warning alert. It took a few minutes to get the set back on, and the weather channel listed nothing - no storm warnings, no wind advisories. Not satisfied with that, I was just tuning in to a local station when the power went out for good.

The girls were happy to be the bearers of the flashlight as they went into the basement and brought up puzzles for Malaika to work on. Adia and I sat on the couch and worked our way through her I Spy book. I made some calls and found out that our friends in the area had power, but it went out while I was talking with her on the phone. Friends on the west side had returned home from an outing to the zoo to find the large tree in their back yard split and half of it fallen. During the course of the storm, the other half fell and took the power line down with it. Our minister had made it to the church where the power was still on, but since my car was in the garage and I wasn't up to fighting to get the door up manually, we decided to stay home.

We are blessed with a wall of windows in the living area of our home, so we didn't really feel the lack of lights. The house was eerily quiet, broken by only the beeping of the battery back-up for my electronics - a wise addition as, in this situation, it undoubtedly saved the thousands of images on my external hard drives. It was warm and humid outside and without the air conditioning running the house warmed up a little more than it would have otherwise been. But we were comfortable.

As the twilight descended, I cracked open the refrigerator and made a round of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. The girls topped their meal off with applesauce. The wind died down a bit and I went out and fastened the cover on the grill most securely and tucked the chairs tighter around the table on the deck. The girls didn't argue about getting into their pajamas before it got too dark upstairs. And they found little flashlights on their belt-clip radios.

By 7:30 they were ready for bed. I don't know if it was the excitement or the novelty or nerves, but they both went right off to sleep as though it was much later in the evening. I spent a little time by candlelight talking with my mom and reading some of my coursework for church. But it was early when I blew out the candles and went to bed, too.

The power returned sometime in the middle of the night. I heard a beeping that I thought was the battery backup coming back on. When I got up to investigate it, I found that it was the alarm system panel in the bedroom, so I silenced that and went back to sleep. The cell phone rang twice early in the morning - once when my friend called to reschedule our meeting for this morning because her kids were home from school as well and once when Kindercare called to say they would be closed due to the power outage as well. I heard Malaika stirring about the time of the second call, so I scooted down to her room to tuck her back into bed, tell her there was no school today, and warn her off going in and waking her still snoring sister. The kids slept until after 9:00 a.m.

We were lucky. None of the trees in our backyard were broken or uprooted. Just down the street, several trees lay on their sides with the roots on the wrong side of the ground. Chain saws buzzed all afternoon. We went out and filled a plastic garbage can with sticks and branches and pulled a pile of larger branches around the side of the house on a tarp to await next week's yard waste pick up. The clean up took us about an hour. The only casualty was the glider swing - the frame was wrenched apart and the swing seat unhinged.

Adia and I ventured out to the store in the afternoon while a friend stayed with Malaika at the house. The store was open and operating under emergency lighting. There was no refrigeration at all. The freezer blocks sat cordoned off with yellow caution tape. We picked up two loaves of bread, some applesauce, and toilet paper and Adia was able to complete her Girl Scout homework assignment.

After dinner, the girls played in the backyard with the neighbor kids until bath time. After reading to them, they both went right to sleep. I waited up for the news. A category one hurricane (minus the rain) had passed through on Sunday. Winds ranged 75-80 mph. That explains the one branch I pulled out of the ground this morning. It was sticking up, but when I grabbed it, it wasn't loose. In fact, I had to give it a good yank as it was buried in the ground a good few inches.

There will be no school again tomorrow. The news reported that some places are looking to get power back by Sunday afternoon. (It's Monday night as I write this.) There is an ice shortage and residents are encouraged to conserve water. News cameras showed large trees down all around the area, with numerous of them falling into homes. At least one man was struck and killed by a tree outside his home. My friends on the west side were still without power when I talked to them this afternoon on the phone.

We are fortunate. I prepared last night's dinner for the girls tonight. They both got baths. For good measure, I backed up the images on my external hard drive. As I head off to bed now, I will say a prayer of safety for those who remain without power, without food and water. Tomorrow will be another quiet day as the city recovers from the hurricane.

Through a different lens

I don't know if it was this complicated in previous school years. Maybe it is simply the added complexity of third grade. Or maybe it is that in my juggling I now have more balls in the air than I did in the lazy days of summer. Whatever, the transition into the school year has been much more challenging than I remember.

Memory is a funny thing, like a soft focus filter on a portrait lens. It takes the harsh edges off, given enough time. Worry, on the other hand, stops action like a super fast sports lens leaving hands, feet and contorted mouths in crisp, mid-motion detail. I think maybe it is time for me to change my lens.

My daughter struggles with reading. I am not exactly sure what the struggle is and so far, I'm not having a lot of success getting anyone to explain it to me. One day she reads through with little difficulty and the next day, she has trouble brining out the little words, prepositions and subject pronouns in particular. She gets frustrated. She yells at me, "You're not helping me." I feel terrible. I am not a trained teacher. I don't know how to help her. Sometimes she can sound the words out, which is the only way I know to help her decipher them, and sometimes she gets all the syllables correct but cannot string them together into a recognizable word.

She labors over writing assignments. I have yet to identify if that is because she labors over the act of writing itself (her handwriting borders on the illegible) or if it is because she labors inside her mind over the construction of what she needs to say. "I can't think of anything." "I don't know what to write." I try to help her think about what she wants to say, work it out orally and then move toward the writing of it. But she often is not able to tell me even what she is thinking.

I can tell by her mutterings that she feels unsuccessful: "I can't do it." "See what the problem is with me?" "I'll never get it right."

I have spent the past six years of her life working to find her the help she needs, trying to figure out what makes her tick, and searching out strategies for helping her bring out the success that I know is inside her. She is smart. She is curious. She asks me pointed questions about the working of the world that sometimes require a trip to the internet for the answers. She remembers details of conversations that we have had that I do not and will remind me in a way that seems to say, "Mom, we talked about that, why don't you remember?" Yet, I do not feel any closer today to an answer to the question of how to help her, how to get her educational experiences to match her learning mechanisms and needs, than I was when she started preschool. Navigating the supplemental support system at the school is cumbersome at best and most often painstakingly slow. I am afraid that by the time an answer is found it will be too late to help her.

In the meantime, I am left with the image of her getting out of the car this morning. She was happy and excited because they were allowed to bring a stuffed animal to school. The class filled their marble jar and voted for reading with their animals as reward. She unbuckled her seat belt and slung her backpack onto the seat to wriggle into to it, but for just a moment she stopped. She held against her chest her Siberian Husky, Hugdog, wearing a pink velveteen skirt and matching hoodie jacket with a red rose embriodered on it and gray Joe-Cool sunglasses between her blue eyes and her furry, pointed ears. Time stood still, as she placed a slow, gentle kiss atop her dog's furry head. Then she got into her back pack and, with Hugdog tucked safely in her arm, walked toward the back door of the school building.

School days...

School started Wednesday.

It was an occasion met with mixed emotions. Not one of us really fancies the idea of a 6:30-7:00 a.m. wake up call. In fact, Adia and I decided that school would be much better if it ran from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. instead of the 8:00 to 2:25 p.m. they have now. I don't think we'll get many takers for that idea.

Despite the early hour, and the looming promise of renewed homework, Adia was excited to start third grade. I am happy to report that she is attending the same school that she has been in. The assistant superintendent, along with the school principal, made a ruling to allow her continued attendance despite the enrollment numbers showing a full third grade there. In fact, the email and letter that I received from the assistant superintendent both referred to the decision being based what was in Adia's best interest. The letter was revised from what I had been sent earlier in the summer to state that transfer requests would be granted based on availability at the chosen school and/or the well being of the child. I was delighted and more than a little bit impressed with the school district's responsiveness. Adia is in class with the teacher she was recommended to be with, and one with whom she has a good standing relationship. I am hopeful that this year will prove to be a good one for her.

Not to be out done in the excitement department by her sister, Malaika was convinced that she was going to be starting kindergarten. Alas, she has another year of pre-K before she is old enough to be enrolled in public school. I am happy that the district started voluntary full-day kindergarten classes this year, and I hope to get her enrolled in one of those next fall.

Despite the lack of change in venue, Malaika was quite anxious to get to wear her new school shoes. From the day we brought them home, she asked me every morning, "Today I can wear my new shoes?" I told her that, no, she could wear them on the first day of Adia's school. On Tuesday, I reminded her that she could wear her new shoes the next day. I'm sure that the excitement didn't help this already bed/sleep resistant one on Tuesday night. She had trouble staying in her bed, in her room actually, and kept running in to bother her sister who truly just wanted to get some sleep. Eventually, though, the pitter-patter of little feet subsided and quiet snores could be heard from the blanket heap in the middle of the bed. When I went in to check on her before I went to bed, I saw something white sticking out from the covers. On closer inspection here is what I found: one four and half year old, fast asleep, with one shiny, brand-spanking-new sneaker on the foot sticking out of the bed. Her satin pj leg was pushed up to her knee. I had to peek beneath the comforter to see, and yes, indeed, there was the other shoe as well. I'm just sorry it was too dark to take a picture.

I did, however get the traditional first day of school pictures of Adia. No school bus pulling away from the house shot this year. It's the mommy bus, aka the Prius, that will be doing the school runs. No matter, she looks like she's ready to go, doesn't she?

The big bad wolf

Being the only parent is not fun. There is only me for the kids to be angry with, and they are angry. They are angry their dad isn't here. They are angry that I set limits and hold to them. They are angry they do not get their way with whining and crying and fit pitching. They are angry that I hold them to a standard of respect for adults and the rules of the world.

And there is no one to back me up. When a limit is being pushed, I stand alone while they hurl their best at me trying to make me bend and break, give in and take away the consequences. I don't. Still, it hurts. In fact, it breaks my heart regularly. I don't like being yelled at. I don't like being criticized and told how mean and uncaring I am. I don't like being accused of never, ever, ever doing anything nice for my children. I don't like being challenged at every turn. You would think I was running a prison camp the way they go on about it. The indignities of being required to make your bed and pick up the floor of your room. The outrageousness of being expected to carry your own beloved stuffed animals and your new clothes all the way upstairs to your bedroom.

The thing is, I know they are sad. And I know, surely better than they can imagine, how sadness that is difficult to feel is eclipsed by anger directed at any convenient and available target. I know that while they yell at me and call me names and tell me what a big bad old wolf they truly think I am, their little hearts are just filled up with too much loss. And I wish I could take it all away and leave them with more sunshine. I am doing my best to bring what sunshine I can. But nothing I do or say will bring their daddy back. And when they want him, I am a very poor substitute.

What they don't know, what doesn't get said - after all they are children and it isn't appropriate for them to think about - is that when they are tucked into bed dreaming of magical places, I am left with the echoes of their anger and sadness that I am powerless to assuage. I am alone with my doubts and my worries about whether or not I am doing the right thing or am being too hard on these girls that are still trying to navigate the loss of their father.

They want to act out and know that I still love them, to know that even in the midst of a tantrum that they will get a hug. They want to come out of their rooms ten times and beg me to come up and give them one more kiss, turn Ellie on one more time. They want to know that I am there, and they need that. And I am. I am here. I may huff and puff from time to time, but I haven't blown the house down yet.

Maybe the big bad wolf just wanted a hug, too.

Gratitude Lists

Malaika: Getting to go to Bunny Park, playing in the water, and I ate lunch.

Adia: Going to Bunny Park. Playing with friends. Getting to help carry things to the park. Going to the grocery store. Picking out something for the church picnic. Helping you make lunch and load the car. Helping you do the laundry.

Me: Fun afternoon in the sun with the girls and friends. Listening to the girls playing their make believe games on their new (plastic) phones. Cool breezes and big fluffy, white clouds. A shower that washes off the crunchy leftover sunscreen. The sound of rain against the windows lulling me to sleep.

Good night. Sweet dreams.

Girls Night In

It was a spur of the moment fashion show. My girlfriends who'd dropped by for the evening, the girls and I all congregated in my bedroom and while they gathered on the bed, I started putting on the dresses I'd bought at the Irish Festival. This is the kind of evening that the cool teenagers on tv spend with all their BFFs. I can definitely see the appeal. We had a blast.

I was in the closet changing outfits when I heard the girls squeal, I'm not sure about what. The next thing I heard was fits of giggles and laughs. Adia was nearly doubled over in laughter when I came out of the closet for another round of oohs and ahhs. My girlfriend said through her laughter, "Adia, you better run to the bathroom, You're going to pee your pants." Adia couldn't have run if the house was on fire. She was laughing with her mouth wide open, eyes wide and bright, and she turned and squeaked to my friend, "No I won't!" Which sent everyone into another round of giggling.

Laughter is hard for me to describe in words. It has been such a long time since I have seen and heard Adia laugh like that. She used to do it all the time, but the past year has been especially difficult for her. The sound of her full out laugh is lilting and bell-like. It rolls off her tongue uninhibited and her eyes dart and twinkle with mischief of the very best kind. She throws her head back and her smile is deep and wide showing the expanse of her mixed adult and baby teeth. And when she tries to talk it rushes out in great gushes of words that sometimes get lost in one another. If you ask her to repeat herself, she will only laugh harder in the attempt to do so.

Malaika's laugh was more of a squeal tonight, but she can giggle with the best of them, too. She has a variety of laughs, ranging from this squealy laugh to a little chuckle and on to full out belly laughs when she is being tickled. She is the most ticklish person I've ever known, and the best way to shift her out of a funky mood, be it sulky or angry, is to tickle her just a little. Laughter then replaces anything that was trying to keep a toe hold.

Laughter is a balm. Somehow, it sneaks it's way into those places where the hurts lie and loosens the grip on them just a little. It wraps itself around the angry places and leaves a gauzy film there that makes it harder to see and feel the angries any more. Laughter is a blessing.

Growing up, I never had girlfriends that I did this kind of thing with. When I shopped, I shopped alone. My bedroom was my private sanctuary and only the occasional out of town guest spent time there with me. I always had the sense that I was missing something. I'm glad I am not missing it any more.

Unlikely angels

Every Wednesday for over a year now, nearly without fail, the girls and I walk into Skyline Chili for dinner and kids' night. Hot dogs cooked on long rolling metal tubes, soft shredded cheddar cheese, monkey dishes full of oyster crackers and, best of all, a craft.

Green, pink, and blue plastic beads strung on a purple pipe cleaner make a bracelet. A paper plate face sports a blue pompom nose, gold glitter lips, and red pipe cleaner hair. The pink foam door hanger declares, "Adia Princess," complete with crown, green sparkle glue and a blue frog. Rainbows of construction paper illustrated with short black marker lines and a circular red scribble.

Every week it is the same thing. Adia eats four hot dogs, no bun, cheese on the side with Sierra Mist in a blue paper cup with a plastic lid. Malaika does the same, though she eats only two dogs. Last week they switched to drinking Root Beer. Most weeks we also share a plate of cheese fries. Dessert in the summer: red, white, and blue rocket popsicles. In the winter, it is individually wrapped two-packs of Oreo cookies. I vary my choices. Sometimes it's a small 3-way onion. Other times I prefer a cheese coney with everything and a garden salad. The blue cheese dressing is served in a cracker dish.

We are greeted like everyone who enters: "Hi! Welcome to Skyline!" But sometimes our meals are on the table before we get through the door and across the room. The assistant manager and the cooks have been there longer than we've been going. The servers change periodically, and sometimes they are gone for a while then come back. One night not long ago, a young man came and sat down with me while the girls were at the counter working on their creations. "How are you doing," he asked. "Do you remember me?" I told him I did and commented on not having seen him in a while. He proceeded to tell me about the hiatus he took as an underwear picker for Victoria's Secret. He wanted to pay off his car before starting college in the fall. We had a good laugh about the hog heaven it must have been, surrounded by Victoria's delights all day long, though the work was tedious. He was glad to be back in the kitchen and was looking forward to heading to Miami University (of Ohio) with academic scholarship money.

The assistant manager has worked his way up from cook and was proud to show me his manager's badge when he was promoted. He regularly jokes with and teases the girls, and has taught Malaika the art of the High Five: Up high, down low...too slow. He blows a lot of steam, but it has been fun to watch his transformation since the promotion. He has the face of someone who has spent plenty of wild times and sports a block O tattoo on his shoulder and, up until a few weeks ago, a long ponytail coiled up beneath a blue Skyline cap. After deciding he was serious about making manager, he had his long blonde locks corn-rowed, because he'd always wanted to try it, then he unbraided and cut the length of his hair off leaving a spikey short do in it's place. He seems more confident to me, less volatile and frustrated than when we first started going in. And he handles well the easy socializing that makes for a good manager in a sit-down fast food joint. He always takes a few minutes to sit with me and see how things are going, tell me of his latest misadventures, and chase the girls into peals of laughter.

This is not the place one would expect to find angels. But there they are. A tall lanky high schooler with an attempt at a mustache bends over the counter to help my four year old glue the pieces onto her work of art. The two cooks - strong, silent types - step out from behind the steam tables and chat quietly, if briefly, before returning to scoop huge piles of spaghetti onto plates and cover it with chili piled high with cheese. The pretty, shy girl who never says much but has an infectious laugh calls out, "Now, that's what I like to see!" as the girls giggle when a foam circle launched from a plastic fork by one of the servers bounces off her head. And tonight, showing a little more softening around those hard edges, the assistant manager does me the favor of taking the family portrait that I didn't think I would ever get.

Things I carry

The truth.
My shoulders back, head high and chin up.
Sole responsibility.
The final say.

The weight of secrets not my own.
False tales told with me as a supporting character.
Inside knowledge only a few believe.
The spectre of lies about which I am not yet aware.

M&Ms in a paper ice cream cup.
A handful of Swedish fish.
Organic lemonade in a plastic bottle.
A yellow binder filled with other people's memories.

Faith and doubt, in separate boxes.

Stones of betrayal.
A black and blue heart.
Breath-taking pain.
Buckets full of white hot tears.

Too much of a good thing

Spontaneity. I am beginning to think that it is the purview of adults.

Having finished the errands and details of the day by 3 p.m., I decided to spring the kids' from their summer program early, take them for ice cream, then let them spend some hot afternoon sun time in their new twirly sprinkler. They were jumping up and down squealing when we got into the car. Seems ice cream is always a hit. Adia practiced her reading skills and told Malaika all about initials while they ate their junior twist soft serve cones. (Don't worry, mom ate ice cream, too. Gotta love those Blizzards; today I tried Heath and Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies...mmmmm!)

At home, I changed out the old hose and hooked up the twist and twirl sprinkler (thank you, Aunt Toni!) while the girls got into their bathing suits, then the water was on. I think the grass was the only one happy about it. "Eeewwww, it's COLD," Malaika screeched. Adia just stood cross-armed and scowled at the water that danced through the air inviting her to join. She was having none of it. "I want it warm," she declared and tossed her head for emphasis.

I was in and out of the house busy, but the screams - not of joy - brought me to a stop on the deck. "What are you girls doing?" I'm sure that I planted both hands on my hips with my right hip probably cocked a bit higher than the left. The girls pointed at one another and in stereo, "She hit me!" I issued a warning and told them to get into the sprinkler. The grass, still, was getting the best end of that deal.

After about 15 minutes of backyard squabbles and grass watering, I went out and turned off the sprinkler. Adia ran after me hollering, "No, no, don't turn it off! Move it to the other side where the other side where the warm water is!" Apparently, she mistook the relief of a sprinkler in Saturday afternoon's hot for water from the hose being not so cold when it came from the other side of the house. Malaika stuck with, "No, I do! No, I do!" with a little rolling on her back in the grass to boot. She is still convinced that this move will eventually work, like Jerry Seinfeld's character from The Bee Movie, "Maybe this time, maybe this time, ..." I told them they could play, go out and swing, anything, but the water was off the table. When they kicked each other on the way to the swing set, I sent them both to their rooms for time outs.

Adia went kicking and screaming, but with a little back rubbing, she finally fell asleep. Malaika took hers quietly then came down and played with her happy meal toy at the kitchen table. I was able to make a couple of phone calls before the end of the business day. After the nap, things looked a little brighter and the evening proceeded without much ado.

I guess maybe the best bet is to save the fun stuff for the weekends. Either that, or I should don my own swim suit and go out and join in the twirly sprinkler's dance.

When Irish eyes are smiling

Some days, Mommy gets a present. After having a houseful of friends and fun and staying up late then sleeping in late, I got out of bed this morning and told the girls, "Get dressed. Let's go to the Irish Festival." The unspoken: Mommy wants to shop. The girls were happy to oblige and squealed their way into clothes. With our cereal bar breakfasts in hand, we headed to the car.

Being half Irish and raised with plenty of Irish tales and music, I have always loved the Irish Festival here. Miles of booths with scrumptious Irish fare; beautiful Celtic crafts, jewelry, and clothes; and stage upon stage with every kind of Irish music and dancing you could ever imagine. It is a balm to my soul and a joy to my heart to spend the day shopping, eating, and toe-tapping.

The best part of it all is that both of my girls are festival goers. This is one area where we all agree and we are game for whatever festival happens to be around. We love the food and the fun, and we don't mind walking and braving the heat to enjoy it.

In the beating of noon-day sun made our way across the festival grounds through the marketplace until we found a booth filled with beautiful Celtic style dresses. I honed in on a section filled with rich hues -- emerald greens, Caribbean blues, and deep, royal purples all decorated with Celtic knot and weave designs. To my delight, the dresses were sized and I quickly found a small and medium to slip over my shirt and shorts in the makeshift dressing room with woven Celtic blanket walls. The girls crowded into the little room with me and gave me their opinions on the dresses. I chose a purple one and one with a fanciful pattern of blues, greens, and purples with gold spirals scattered across.

As a reward, it was time for lunch. Adia has been eating, and loving, fish and chips since she was two years old, so we set out for the traditional fish and chip booth. Right beside it was an open picnic table shaded by a small tree where we enjoyed our fish - at least Adia and I did, Malaika turned up her nose and ate the chips - and listened to some traditional fiddle music.

Along with all the booth wares and music, the festival is chock full of teaching about all things Irish. Storytellers abound, traditional Irish dwellings and games are set up, and then there are the Celtic Canines. After eating, we traversed the grounds until we came to the canine village where there are dogs hanging out with their owners who are more than happy to share all the details of their particular breed with you as well as tales of their beloved animals. The dogs are used to and eager to greet and accept all the love and attention you care to shower upon them.

We made our way down the row, spending a good deal of time with the friendly Wheaton terrier, Fergus, who never met a stranger and licked our faces then let us scratch under his chin - his favorite spot, according to his owner. The red Irish Setter, Molly, glided through her space while we learned that this breed are pointers and used in bird hunting. Adia set the pace and we moved from breed to breed until, finally, at the end of the row, we were rewarded with her favorites.

From the time she could walk, Adia has always loved the enormous Irish Wolfhounds. Being raised with our Siberian Husky, she never had a fear of any dog and was happy to stand nose to nose with the gentle giants. She headed right over to a very large gray one laying beside his owner. We learned that he was 10 months old and his name was Davidson. Adia knelt at his head and Malaika at his tail with me in the middle. He was the largest, I think, of all the wolfhounds there at the time, and that included two adults nearby. I could only marvel at just how large this dog would be when he is full grown at age two. As we chatted with his owner, Davidson stretched out to his nearly three foot length and rolled onto one side, sprawling right over my foot and laying his huge head in Adia's lap. She looked at me and giggled and did not break her petting motion. There being adoreed by strangers, the giant closed his eyes and fell asleep. Adia could not have been more delighted.

At the informational session we learned that wolfhounds, in addition to having been traditionally fast and effective hunters of the Irish wolf, are very much people dogs. They want to be where you are, preferably with a part of themselves touching against or draped across you. We were also told that they meet a person once and from then on are fast friends. "They never forget a person," the speaker said.

With the educational program finished, we made out way back down the row of animals and we spent some more time with Davidson who was finally starting to wake up from his afternoon nap. I think Adia would have taken him home if he'd been offered. Each breed got another petting as we made our way out. And we were off in search of shaved ice to cool us down.

Traditional "fiddledy-dee music," as my Irish friend, Una, called it accompanied a shaded rest while the girls ate their rootbeer flavored ice. We followed the sound of the drum beat from there to the Celtic Rock Stage and whooped it up with a great band called, Scythian, until they finished their set. The girls clapped and danced and followed along with the hand motions as directed.

When there was a break for band changes, we headed over to another maketplace area where we found a fresh offering of Celtic wares. These cotton beauties were died in earthy tones of green, rust, and a beautiful merlot red that caught my eye. After pulling on shirts and a skirt then a dress, I left with I think it the most stunning dress I've ever seen, full of embroidered designs and lacey insets that made me feel elegant wearing it even over my day clothes.

After just a couple of songs from yet another style of Irish rock music, it was getting late and there were still a few chores awaiting me at home. Sadly, but without any shenanigans, we began our trek toward the exit. Our final stop was at a booth I'd spied on the way in that held, beautifully carved in a Celtic font, wooden signs bearing names and words and symbols of all varieties. Together, the three of us chose the first of what will be many welcome signs in multiple languages that will grace the entry way of our new home - Failte, flanked by the thistle on one side and the shamrock on the other. The perfect homage to my Irish and Scottish heritage.

We were hot and tired, and the girls were hungry again as we made our way to the car, yet in grand Irish tradition, we retold our favorite parts of our afternoon adventure as we drove home. Adia loved the music and the dogs. Malaika favored the rootbeer ice. And me? My favorite part was spending the afternoon sharing the things that I love with the two girls I love the most.

"Everyone has a story..."

It's true, of course. We all do.

I'm sure that even the secretary for the assistant school district superintendent has one. Despite the school district's open enrollment policy, my request for in district transfer to keep Adia in the school that she has been attending for the past three years was denied. After our move, while we're still in the same school district, we are just a little bit outside the boundary line for that school which, without in district transfer approval of the district administration, would send her off to a new school in a few weeks. The secretary returned my call requesting an appointment to come in and talk to someone about this decision. When I reiterated that there were some extenuating circumstances in this case that I wanted to talk to the assistant superintendant about, she said, without breaking her verbal stride, "Everyone has a story..."

And maybe the secretary's story goes something like this: I just returned from vacation and my desk is piled with complaints and requests from disgruntled parents who don't want their baby to have to adjust to a change of school despite the two years' warning that have preceded this year’s redistricting. And maybe her story also includes just how much she wants to impress her new boss when he starts at the end of the week by clearing as many of these disgruntled families from the slate before he even sees the stack. Maybe, she thinks, if I just reiterate that denials of in district transfers are strictly numbers based decisions and that the requested school just does not have an open space these parents won't take it personally and will just move along with the flow like leaves in a log jam suddenly freed and carried downstream with the current. Maybe. Everyone has a story.

I, too, have one. My story. My family’s, my children’s, my daughter’s. Ours is a year of upheaval and chaos ending tragically in crisis. My husband – who was in the process of trying to divorce me and take custody of my children from me – was killed in a car accident rendering me an unexpectedly single parent, my children suddenly fatherless.
My oldest was already reeling from the rift in her forever family and the premature introduction of the new love of daddy’s life. She was angry – at me, at him, at them – and with her various internal processing twists and turns only able to act it out in misbehavior and lengthy, loud, physical fits. Left with only her mother, she took the full force of her emotional upheaval out on me.

I was an ill equipped single parent at best. Coming straight off a war where I’d been fighting for my life and livelihood, I was dropped into a maze of a different, yet equally disorienting and confusing, variety. In the midst of legal meetings and financial consultations, living in a new-to-us condo and still not unpacked from a hurried move, I had both hands full with children who didn’t completely understand why their daddy wasn’t coming home. They didn’t want him to visit them from the spirit world. They wanted to spend the weekend at daddy’s house as planned.

My oldest didn’t want to tell her second grade classmates what had happened. She holds all her feelings deep within her and she keeps her true thoughts hidden away from her mother, maybe even from herself. She has been tested and shown to have slow processing ability. It’s just the way she’s wired. She relates to the world in her own atypical way – there isn’t a readily available name for it, no convenient label that then translates into a predictable series of defined treatment steps and medication doses which will render her an average child. So, I was surprised when her former first grade teacher told me that when she expressed her condolences, Adia put her cheek ever so gently against the teacher’s cheek and allowed herself to be hugged. The tiniest gesture, the hugest statement: “I am comfortable here. This is safe.”

Safe enough, even, to go kicking and screaming in her pajamas because she flat out refused to get dressed and ride cooperatively to school. Safe enough to jump with joy when the morning vitamin is “a lion, mom, for Lion Pride!” Safe enough to allow the pride she feels to be expressed aloud when she shows her grandparents and her aunt, in fact anyone who will sit down a moment and listen, the photobook of field trips and special events from her second grade year.

I guess it goes without saying , then, that changing her school – the only thing in her life that has not changed in the past year – would be a really bad idea.

So, that’s “my story” or part of it anyway. Everyone has one, yes. Every story reflects a life, reflects the personal and sometimes extremely painful experiences of a specific spirit, one individual for whom that “story” is more than just a story.

A prize surprise

Adia had a break-through at the pediatrician's office. Maybe it was theater camp coursing through her veins. Whatever the reason, she spoke to her pediatrician today and that is the first time in the three years she's been seeing him regularly that she has done that. She still wouldn't look him in the eye, shake his hand or give him five, but she did speak to him. In fact, her talking to him got louder as the time went on.

You might call it a small victory, but the doctor went out in the hall and in his booming voice told his colleague that Adia finally talked to him. While I was chatting with the other doctor, who we don't see often any more because of her part-time work schedule but who had been the girls' regular pediatrician when both were babies, Adia was invited as a reward to go into the doctor she'd spoken to's office and select a prize from the Treasure Chest.

She was gone a long time. She is meticulous and likes to inspect the many prize choices before making up her mind. I am sure that she fingered through the various treasures and examined the details of many pieces before making her choice.

She was shyly proud as she skipped down the hall to show me her bounty. "Oh, you found yourself a little lipstick, Adia," I said. She beamed and nodded, popping then replacing the cap on her new prized possesion. I finished up chatting and then we headed off to the restroom before leaving.

"Does your lipstick have a flavor?" I asked. Silence. "Does it smell good?" She shrugged. "Well, let me see it a minute," I said. She handed the tube to me. What I found when I plucked off the cap was not a lipstick at all, but a tube shaped eraser, a pink ringed white circle with a little heart in the center.

"Oh, this is cute, honey. It's an eraser," I said. My daughter looked at me, her face stricken, and her huge brown eyes crowned with a tear that held steady just above her lower lid. I put my hand on her shoulder, "Don't cry, honey. It's okay. Are you disappointed?" She shook her head sharply and said, "No, I'm not. I'm not."

For the rest of the day I just couldn't get that heart-broken look out of my mind. Sometimes mom is such a clunker. "It's okay." No, mom, it's not. She was proud of her lipstick. That was what she wanted.

I think we'll be making a trip to the drug store for some lipstick on the way home tomorrow.

Off to the movies

The girls and I went to see Wall-E the other day. This is not an accomplishment as I am sure that most children their ages were lined up on opening day. However, it felt like an accomplishment to me. Both of the girls are sensitive to sounds and they don't really like the overwhelming stereo booming of today's movie theaters. They are also highly tuned 'scarey-o-meters' and if anything seems remotely dark or even a little gray, they do not want to have anything to do with it. This is not a position that I argue with because I think it is good for them to fill their heads with ideas other than those of monsters out to destroy the world and the like.

So I was, in fact, quite surprised when I suggested that we spend an afternoon at the movies and they both agreed. The last one we saw was The Waterhorse at Christmas time, and while they enjoyed it, there were enough scary moments where the waterhorse's fate was uncertain that they had said, "No movies," for months. I hadn't even suggested anything until this one came along. And I figured Wall-E was a pretty safe bet.

For the most part I was right. But like all films, there's nothing to rave about unless there is some conflict, no matter how mild, and some level of peril for the protagonist. So when the little robot's fate appeared uncertain, I found myself holding the popcorn tub between my knees and both hands gripped on either side by a girl.

We were happy when all was well in the end. They went off to school and told all their mates about their movie time with mom and continued to parrot the two-toned "voice" of Eve, "Wall-e, Wall-e," with the accompanying increase in volume. I don't know when they might agree to venture with me again into the loud darkness and watch another adventure unfold. Until then, I'll hold onto my own memory of both their little hands gripping mine and smile.

Two hands, two eyes, two girls

Sometimes, two is just not enough and, at the same time, too many. Today case in point. Both girls had riding toys along at our adoption group picnic - Adia with her scooter and Malaika with her recently mastered bicycle. Adia is cautious, at times overly so, and I don't worry about her wandering off or taking risks on her scooter that she doesn't have the skill to manage. Malaika, on the other hand, will do anything and go anywhere that enters her mind. So, you can be assured that before she was allowed to don her helmet and take off, I laid out the boundaries to my little one: you can ride as far as the steep hill driveway but no farther, and under no circumstances are you to go up or down the steep hill. She nodded her understanding as she rode away after her sister's scooter.

I am sure there is a law of physics that states that when both hands and eyes of the responsible adult are occupied with a clean up (or loading or preparing or phone related) task, the children must find trouble, preferably of the injurious kind. I gave the girls a five minutes and we are going to leave warning while they were riding past the shelter. Both heads bobbed. I loaded the first aid kit onto the cooler and strapped it in then stuffed my empty aluminum cans into the recycling container. When I came out from behind shelter counter, I noticed Nadine sitting on the ground at the bottom of the steep hill with Malaika in her arms. I called out, Did she crash? Nadine shook her head at me and mouthed, She's fine. Still, a mom has to check. When I reached them, Nadine said that Malaika had just been coming down the hill so fast that she lost control of her bike when she hit the grass. She's been riding a two wheeler for a total of three days, mind you. The riding part she has pretty well down, but steering and the finesse to navigate tricky situations are a little shaky.

I looked her over and found no real scraps or scratches, no bleeding or bruising. So, I told the girls to wait there while I went to the restroom and grabbed the cooler and we would head out. There was no line. I thought I moved through the necessities rather quickly. Yet, when I started down the path with cooler in tote, I saw Malaika's bicycle still laying in the grass but no child waiting. In fact, neither of them were there. I asked Maree, where is Malaika, and at the same moment saw her walking up the steep hill pushing a pink razor scooter. Who's scooter is that? I asked aloud. Maree said it was one of theirs. I started to call to Malaika to put the scooter down and come get her bike, but before I even opened my mouth and took in a breath, she flipped that scooter around to face down the hill, put one foot in the center of the riding platform and pushed off. Malaika! I called. No! Get off!

It was too late, or it was inevitable. She rode a foot or so before the scooter went one way and she went the other.

She came out unscathed but for her wounded pride. We didn't even need the band-aids that we'd brought along. I'm sure she wished that she had shown me and proven that my precautions and limits were silly and overly protective. Instead, she had to abandon the scooter to the parent of its owner and accompany me on foot to the bottom of the hill to retrieve her bicycle. That, and the admonishment that if she wasn't going to follow the rules she wouldn't be allowed to bring or borrow riding toys in the future.

Deep snuffling sobs accompanied her as she pushed her bicycle up the hill to the car. Mommy, she sniffed, I need a tissue. We'll get one when we get to the car, I replied. Mommy, I need a hug. I know, Malaika, I said, and sqeezed her shoulder. I know.