Cry Me a River

I don't have one of those walk barefoot in the snow to school stories (uphill both ways of course). In fact, you can subtract snow from any of my childhood stories because that's what California will do for you. But I do have a limping with crutches in the rain story.

During a soccer tournament in high school, I tore a ligament in my ankle. I can still remember the sound and the mud that greeted my fall. I can remember how the swell overtook that bone that sticks out (maybe the fibula?)...anyhow, it was awful. Crutches are awful. Trying to fit into shoes with an air cast is also awful.

On one of the earlier days of my injury, I found myself without a ride. I waited and sulked and finally started walking, the not so terrible distance, home. But with each step I felt the pain and humiliation growing. The pain under my arms was growing as the crutches started rubbing and my ankle was throbbing. And I was feeling sorry for myself. So sorry, in fact, that I started crying. I would look at every car pass and think, why aren't they stopping to help me. I surely look pathetic enough. I started blaming each and every person and my pain and sorrow started to mix with anger. I had decided that it couldn't get any worse. And at that very moment, it started to rain. Rain. I had an umbrella, but it was useless as my hands were very much engaged in walking with the crutches. So, I had two choices: to keep going in the rain, or stop and stand with the umbrella. The martyr in me pushed me on.

I still was crying, but I was less angry and more resolved. I somehow accepted what was going on. And it was then that a friend drove by. Hannah, you may not remember, but I will never forget. In that moment, you were my salvation and hope all rolled into an Astro minivan.

~ ~ ~ ~

Last night, I heard that same pop. My ankle isn't as swollen, but it is the same one. My injury that won't go away. And as I was carried off the soccer field in tears, I couldn't help but remember what had happened Junior year so long ago. My drive home was filled with some of the same reactions, but decidedly more of the acceptance. I stopped holding on to the "what-ifs" and started thinking about the "what next's."

I have noticed that if you spend too much time re-living "the moment" it becomes larger than life. You make it bigger by all of the effort you spend thinking and rethinking and analyzing and reanalyzing. I have decided that the "what could I have done differently" stops becoming effective when it isn't about affecting change in the future.

And I want to live life looking forward (even if it with a big large boot that makes me look helpless).

At the Heart of it

A ride where you get to be inside an artichoke...this is Chase's heaven on earth.

Offensive Odors

I have a very sensitive nose. If there is a noxious perfume within a mile radius, I am sneezing and my eyes are watering. I have actually tried to search out a perfume I can deal with - it is a life long search in which I have been fairly unsuccessful (oh, except my Jo Malone phase - that was lovely).

But the point is, I don't like many smells. That offensive odor that comes seeping out of manholes especially on a cold morning where the smell has a shape, the pungent urine smell that finds its home near the end of subway platforms, the strange smell that comes from the Bay at certain tides--what is that?, the skunk that continues to remind us of his life--long, long after his death (I guess he died fighting), the stench from a disposal that wasn't turned on (woops - my bad). But the smell that is the worst is the day-after food-in-car smell. You bring something home: Chinese, Rotisserie Chicken, McDonalds, whatever. And then you get in the car the next day, and it is still there. The smell that once was. That smell, I loathe.

Oh dear, suddenly the smells I am writing about seems to be overtaking me. My throat is itchy, my nose needs rubbing. It's like reading Perfume all over again (Paris was one stinky city back in the day). I am wanting to cleanse these thoughts; after I mince garlic I pour lemon juice on my hand. So, that's what I'd do. I'll end with the "less than" smells...less offensive than the ones I've mentioned...the cleansing, fresh, delicious scents. Grapefruit Juice. Tide. Babies After Baths. Lime Blossoms. Rising Bread Dough. Almond Extract. Ahh, much better.

My Mom

My mom recently had a birthday. I collected thoughts from loved ones and this is what I wrote about her...

The art of finding sea glass is more complicated than it seems. The first task is finding your spot. If you are at our very own Pebble Beach, you’ll dismiss your shoes and sink your feet down into the rocks – deep into the heart of it. You can’t just reach in your hand and pull out a perfect turquoise oval, you must begin a mini excavation. In fact, the process of sifting and sorting is slow. It takes sharp eyes and a patient search. But when you find the stone that has been worn smooth by friction and age, you hold in your hand a true treasure.

This is the art I learned from my mother. But with all things in our natural world, if we look closely we can see that a true principle can be applied everywhere.

I have learned to from you how to find; truth, primarily. I have learned that looking and finding is a rewarding process. That time, itself, mustn’t be rushed. I have learned that great rewards are worth the struggle.

To a mother who has made struggle elegant, and yet always so real, I thank you. Your real is such a beautiful thing. Beautiful in the way you roll around on the trampoline, beautiful in the way you get caught up in the Yahoo Ocean painting, beautiful in the way you hold a leaf blower (or the way it pushes you and you hang on), beautiful in the leaves you press between glass, beautiful in the way you infuse a story with vigor, beautiful in the way you listen and love. You are a beautiful treasure. Love, Ang

Trophy Generation

I've been told, not directly, but clearly, that I am a part of the trophy generation. You know, the generation that got trophies for showing up. We'd pay our money, get a jersey, and by the last game we would have our trophy. Win, loose, who cares -- we had good self-esteem.

But the point being made to me, was that we (yes, I played AYSO, and yes, I got many a trophy) are a generation of less actual skill. There is less true accomplishment on the piano, the classroom, or even the soccer field. That we feel so good about the part we give, we feel as if though we master a skill earlier than we really do.

Now, I don't know if I agree or disagree. The jury is still out. But this is what I know. I took an intense literature class in college. One in which we were reading a lot of Renaissance Literature and for the final we had to identify the author of different passages. Everyone in my class failed miserably and Professor Young was dumbfounded. We literally had a conversation in class about what had happened. He had resurrected a lesson plan from fifteen years earlier and decided to follow the syllabus with us. We seemed to have similar discussion, have insight and comprehension. He had no idea we weren't on par. And in the end we couldn't go the distance. He, without so many words, told us that we were not as smart as older classes - or as hard working - we just assumed we were getting it and weren't putting in the time. Yikes.

I also know that I played soccer last night and had the greatest time in my life. The team we were supposed to play forfeited and we ended up playing a pick-up game with any and all of the full-time indoor soccer-ites. Only a few of them spoke English, and I resurrected my Spanish - falling in love with Dolores and Sylvia (loving, by the way, to say my v's as b's again). Shouting, al lado and al dentro...scoring like crazy and just playing better because I was having so much fun. At one point, I stole the ball from our own Ronaldinho and the crowd cheered for me - people I didn't know who were getting into the game and respecting my play. I felt so good. Happy. I was so happy. And perhaps had I not gotten those trophies I didn't earn, I wouldn't have been having such fun. Perhaps...

GOOOOAL

James made his first goal in his soccer game today. He beamed and jumped and put two fists in the air! I am so proud of him.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

Awhile back, I offered up a double dare (no slime machine, but still fun). Today, I want to throw out a new one. So, I've decided that Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is quite the under used word. Its the biggest word, we've ever heard...and of course, you should use it carefully because it can change your life...but today I simply dare you to use it. Drop it into a sentence and it will spruce it right up! I double dare you.

Nobody Told Me

Nevada should be blown off the face of the earth (and the salt flats for that matter).

This isn't exactly my sentiment, but the thought that runs through my head whenever I drive from California to Utah (with Grandparents who lived there and now siblings, it is just a reality). You drive along I-80 fighting the head nod, and the droopy eye syndrome. You roll down your windows, sing Blues Traveller at the top of your lungs, you maybe even try to remember all 50 states and state capitals (Massachusetts - how could I have forgotten you). And all the while you drink your Coke -- to stay awake of course.

For me, Coke drinking isn't regular - In fact, I don't like sodas at all. They seem crazy sweet and way too carbonated for my taste. I've always called myself a purist, because water is my beverage of choice. But I have friends that like the 40 ounces in any form they can. I never got it. It never seemed to keep me that awake - and it couldn't be for the Diet Cokey taste.

But then yesterday happened: a combination of little sleep and lots to do and a headache on top. And why I thought of a Coke, I'll never know. But at about one it seemed like my only option. I couldn't stop 'til I had one. And like magic, my headache and my droopy eyes left. So, why didn't anyone tell me about the magic? I'll I can think about it getting myself another Coke (although I still don't like the taste).

Artichokes

This morning at Borrones, Chase made a declaration. "I love these artichoke waffles."

You see, Chase's favorite food as late is the artichoke. But, truth be told, it is the butter he is dipping them in. He tried crab a few weeks back and said, "I like this, it tastes like artichokes." But it isn't the artichoke, it is the butter. So when asked his favorite food, his answer elicits an ahh--what a great eater. But my ears hear the truth: My favorite food is butter.

Foreign Affairs

This is what I heard, after a thud, thud, thud stampede down the hall:
"If you don't give me Brazil, I'll rearrange the features on your face."

My sweet James wanted a puzzle piece Chase had swiped and then thrown into the darkness under the couch.

Empty Up Top

I'm afraid it has happened and isn't going to change. Yesterday, I went to the grocery store for the basics: 1% milk, lactose free milk, bread...you get the idea. But, there was one item on my list that I couldn't forget: celery. I HAD to get celery. It was the one item we needed for dinner, and the main reason that I got in my car. But with my car full of bags of groceries and about a block from home it hit me: I've forgotten the celery. So, either I am missing a celery-size piece from my brain or else I'm loosing my short term memory. Can I blame "mommy brain" -- I don't think so. I think that each moment my mind is slowly turning to cream of wheat, no matter what I read, or what I do. I walk into a room and think to myself, you needed something in here, what was it? It then takes another ten minutes before I remember. I am sadly running on about half a cylinder...the attic is dusty and there is definitely no light on. And as I write, the only image I can think of is that empty headed scarecrow (he was a friendly bloke, though). And I keep singing this: "I've got no brain to hold me down" ...a song NOT from Wizard of Oz. In fact, it is from Pinocchio. And he is singing about freedom, "I've got no STRINGS to hold me down." Brain, String, Whatever. Something is up there, but at times I simply wonder what is to become of me. Perhaps just seven and eight grocery trips in one outing...

Lazy Susan

I think that one of the greatest inventions ever is the Lazy Susan. It is in the shape of the wheel, but I am certain that wheel has gotten way more attention...rolling around on every car, showing off, frankly. But Susan is much more quiet, humble, really. And now that I am not reaching into the dark and never-ending abyss that is the corner cupboard, but rather spinning Miss Susan to see the baking powder, salt, Nesquick I am happy again. I never loose my dear friend almond extract, now. Thank you, Suze.

But, I think that most people are missing out on how much a Lazy Susan can do. For example, when my kids were little, I had two Lazy Susans in their bedroom. After a move, they were too big for the new cupboards, but I couldn't part with them. After a week or two, they proved to be the best toy we had. It was a toy facilitator. We would line up the Little People, and then spin away. The slow spin keeps the children standing, a fast one sends them flying. And if you put something right in the middle, it will stay put, regardless of how fast you are spinning Susan. I know, you may be wondering if I am being serious, but I am. It is really one of the best toys around - kids would come over just to play with it.

Anyhow, my final thought, why oh why do we call poor Susan lazy? She isn't, plain and simple.

Well, I'm off to spin my Busy Susan.
Cheerio.

Remember

I found this picture, and immediately wanted to kiss James' four year old cheeks and scoop my barefoot one year old up into my arms. I want to, somehow, go back and make sure I was really living every moment. Because the truth is, I feel like I am prone to forgetting. My world is busy with the now. For example, this morning, when the clock was chiming eight o'clock Chase exclaimed, "The clock is telling us good morning!" His excitement was enchanting and in that moment I think every age is my favorite age, especially this one (whatever this is at the moment). But I don't want to forget. So, as of this moment I can't decide if time is my friend or my enemy. But as for today, my mantra will be: remember.

Vacant

A good friend told me my blog is a vacant expression of what it once was. I used to air out the truth as I saw it and now I merely write on the periphery my own life. I put just enough out there to be safe, proof that I am indeed living. But not enough to expose myself. But occasionally I feel the urge to say more. Don't get me wrong. It isn't that I want to write more substantial thoughts, it is actually the trivial stuff I've been holding close to the chest. Like yesterday, when I spent ever so long contimplating how "Monte Carlo" had become a cheap synonym for Vegas. And somehow the place Monte Carlo made me think of the 70's and Farrah in all her hair flipping glory. It made me think of old Bond films and the colors yellow and brown. And how, although these things are cool once again, Monte Carlo won't be. Maybe the final nail in its coffin was having a car named after it (although the casino wasn't much help either). But then my final thought was that if I had a chance to actually go to Monte Carlo, I would go, and I would probably love it. And that ended the flip and the flop and a tangent no one really wants to know about. Yes, this is really how I think.

Bella Donna and Hydrangea

I've been doing flowers again...

now if I could only take pictures like her or her.

Fall means Football

Chase kept turning to me saying, "Mom, this is my FIRST football game." He loved every minute of it. Of course, he was busy watching the Stanford Band and the band's mascot (a tree)...he danced and danced and ate a licorice longer than him. James loved it too, but less for the music and more for the stats. His eyes never left the jumbo tron or the field. He was reading names, memorizing stats, and filling me in on anything I was missing (like the Quarterback's name - I'm not great at details or sports in general). Isn't it funny that so much fun can be had in such different ways: James the sport, Chase the atmosphere, and for me it was the company. Go Stanford!

Hold Your Breath

I had a long "to do" list for the summer...but in truth, it was a "want to do" list. And one of the things I wanted to do the most was paint the Great Barrier Reef with the boys. It was the last thing we did before school started. Chase ended up naming it the Yahoo Ocean, the inspiration hit half way through the painting of the blue background. James carefully made sure the humu humu and the parrot fish had all the proper markings (his hiding puffer fish is adorable too). And Grammy ended up doing the majority of the fish.

Here they are swimming with their fish friends. I swam too, jumping in with a shout, "Yahooooo!" I just couldn't resist a refreshing swim in an exotic reef.

The Hills ARE Alive

The other night, we were watching Sound of Music (my attempt to watch something other than a cartoon with my children) and by the time Maria had done her spins on the hill and begun to sing, "The hills are alive..." James had already ran and found one of our favorite books: Giggle, Giggle, Quack. He turned to this page with triumph. His little eyes twinkled as he showed me. He understand it on a deeper level and loved it. He kept saying, "Moosic, Mom, they are watching The Sound of Moosic - get it?!"