Oh, The Joys

Tree Pose

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 16 Jan 2018 14:26:00 +0000

The Rooster, in her never-ending quest to ridicule her parents, decided to demonstrate the proper technique for “shirt yoga.”

K and I have been going to yoga classes lately. We both complain of not being able to hold the balancing poses very well.

There’s a pose called Tree Pose where you have to stand on one leg with the bottom of the opposite foot resting against your calf or thigh.

(I think it’s thigh if you’re young and calf if you’re old. I put my foot on my calf in case you weren’t sure about me.)

Then you put your hands together at your heart and stay there for… probably 45 minutes.

If you are K or me, the toe of your lifted leg sneaks down every 10 seconds to keep you from tipping over.

(It is a known fact that if you close your eyes, the yoga teacher can’t see you failing.)

Anyway, as usual, one or the other of our children is sure their youth and vitality can rub off on us if they only show us the way.

The Rooster told us we needed to try shirt yoga.

Huh?

“Let me show you,” she said.

She lifted her right leg all the way up to her hip (To. Her. Hip.) and wrapped it twice in the fabric of her t-shirt so that the shirt was holding the leg up for her while she balanced on the left leg.

She pressed her hands together at hear heart with a smug, short-cutting smile on her face.

But there is justice in the land as I have always known.

Her balance waivered. (Like it does even for all the best yoginis) and she began to teeter.

Her right toe tried to sneak down to the floor to restore order to the body balance only to find it was trapped inside the doubly wrapped t-shirt material.

She went clattering to the floor in a sea of arms and legs. (Cymbals may have dramatically clashed for emphasis.)

I couldn’t see her anymore because she fell behind the footboard of my bed (where I was leisurely reclining).

I heard her mutter “ow” and then I laughed until I wept.

“Aren’t you mother of the year?” she said.

I am, I am indeed. And I think I’ll stick to old, lady yoga.

Save Yourself from the Apocalypse with Two Easy Yoga Tips

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sat, 25 Nov 2017 22:04:00 +0000

My daughter asked me if there was someone in my yoga class who was “Miss Perfect.”

I told her there were lots of people who were stretchier and stronger than me.

“In fact,” I told her, “today the yoga teacher said that to survive the apocalypse you needed to be able to lift the weight of your own body and also be able to RUN! I think she must have been kidding though, because what apocalypse could she be talking about?”

My daughter leveled her gaze at me. “The one you die in, Mom.”

#NailedIt -#WeirdThingsYogaTeachersSay

Refined Young Ladies & Gentlemen

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sat, 11 Nov 2017 13:28:00 +0000

Last night K and I were volunteer chaperones at The Rooster's cotillion class.

Cotillion has been updated from the days of white gloves and the fox trot and is now more of a professional preparatory class.

The kids learn how to properly wear a nametag (high and right), how to sit in an interview, how to introduce themselves, how to conduct themselves in a fine dining environment and many other ways to behave correctly in a professional setting.

The Rooster was dismayed to have us in the room and announced the following ground rules:

1. Don’t touch me;

2. Don’t talk to me;

3. Don’t look at me;

4. Say your daughter’s name is Cathy and that she goes to a different middle school than mine.

One trick they learn is how to hold a small appetizer plate and a drink in their left hand so that their right hand is free to shake hands with professional contacts at a networking event.

[Put the middle through pinky fingers of the left hand under the plate and the thumb and pointer finger above the plate. Make an “o” with the thumb and pointer finger and hold your drink there.]

The teacher paused to remind the children that when they wanted to take a sip of their drink, it was critical to take it out of their left hand and sip it with their right or else all the food on their plate would fall to the floor.

[You would think that would be obvious, but the teacher told the parents she had cleaned enough food up off the floor to know that it wasn’t.]

As volunteers, K and I were asked to mingle with the kids, introducing ourselves to them after they got refreshments to make sure they were prepared to shake our hands and say the right things.

[The Rooster was mortified.]

K and I enjoyed confronting the unsuspecting 6^th graders, greeting them, telling them our names, thrusting our hands out for a handshake, and waiting.

Most of them managed to shake our hands, greet us, introduce themselves and follow up with a “nice to meet you.”

One boy had his plate and cup in the wrong hand when K approached him.

He thought for a moment, raised his eyebrows in a questioning way and with a hopeful look on his face, lifted a fist offering K a fist bump.

The kids were served some sort of mini cupcake.

One young girl had the plate and cup perfectly balanced in her left hand.

[All good so far.]

She picked up the cupcake with her right hand and realized she was stuck.

[How was she supposed to get the cupcake wrapper off??!!!]

Suddenly, she was illuminated.

[An idea!]

She jammed the cupcake muffin top between her teeth and peeled the wrapper off while holding the treat steady with her choppers.

[Eureka! That worked!]

There was a moment of triumph, followed by a moment of terror and despair.

[Now what?]

Her hands were full - cup and plate in one hand, cupcake wrapper in the other.

The mini-cupcake’s muffin top remained squeezed between her teeth while the cake end protruded from her face torpedo-style.

I could almost see her brain wringing its hands.

She hesitated for a moment, then, in a flash of inspiration, threw her head backwards and swung it from side to side until the whole cupcake fell backwards towards her tonsils.

She closed her small mouth around the too large pillow of cake and choked it down.

I had to restrain myself from thrusting out my hand at that precise moment, “Hi, I’m...”

The boy paired with The Rooster told her he was sure she had cooties. Eye rolls ensued.

A “swing dance” ended the evening in an awkward, vaguely robotic, spate of flailing about.

Want to go back to middle school?

Why You Should Question the Need for Tape

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sun, 08 Nov 2015 14:36:00 +0000

My friend John was at home, at peace, cooking dinner.

His three-year-old son, known as “The Entropy Elf,” (so known for routinely propelling life toward chaos), climbed up onto the kitchen counter and reached for one of the many items placed atop the refrigerator (specifically to keep them out of his reach).

John, wanting to get him out of the way of cooking, asked what the elf wanted.

"Tape," the elf answered.

Fine.

John gave the elf some tape.

The Elf returned. “More tape, please.”

His request was granted.

This happened a great number of times before John decided to ask the key question.

“What do you need the tape for, small elf?”

“I show you,” the elf said taking John by the hand and leading him into the living room.

There, in the center of the room was a box.

The tape, as it turned out, was necessary for attaching each and every slice of the family’s deli roast beef to the sides of the box as well as, at the top, a bowl of left over black beans.

“I’m building a robot,” the elf said.

Are the Toilets on Tatooine LEAD Certified?

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 01 Sep 2015 12:05:00 +0000

"Please welcome to the panel, Ms. Flarty Flargenhammer, the Vice President of Sustainability at Star Wars Hotels."

[Okay, her name wasn't Flarty Flargenhammer, but he DID introduce her as the VP of Sustainability for Star Wars Hotels.]

He didn't stammer.

He didn't catch himself.

He stepped off the risers and the panel discussion started.

"Did the crowd get all over that?" I asked my husband who was retelling the gaff to me from the sustainability conference he was attending?

"Nope. Nothing."

My colleagues, all marketers and internet people, would have all had their hands instantly raised.

"Do you recycle on the Death Star?"

"...and do you think Han and Luke would have died in the trash compactor if you recycled more?"

"Are the Imperial Shuttles hybrid or electric?"

"How to you achieve farm to table in galactic space?"

The poor woman from Starwood Hotels would have had no idea what hit her.

Suspicious Activity

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Thu, 27 Aug 2015 18:12:00 +0000

Lately, bikes have been stolen in my neighborhood with increasing frequency.

A few days ago, this message came out on the neighborhood list serv:

Hi all,

I just wanted to let you all know that the bike stealing is continuing.

On Saturday morning 7 am, someone went into our garage and stole 2 adult size mountain bikes.

One black male was seen walking down my driveway by a neighbor with one of the bikes.

We are not sure if there was an accomplice.

The part I find most upsetting is that my children were awake by then and sitting in the living room when the brazen thieves snuck past.

The police were notified. Keep everything locked folks!

Best,

Neighbor #1

That message was followed by this response from another neighbor:

Neighbor #1,

I am so sorry your bike was stolen.

Please consider how you send out this message next time.

If the purpose is to notify us to secure our personal items to prevent theft and alert us to crime in the area then just let us know that the bikes were stolen.

If the purpose is for us to be on the look out for a specific person that may still be in the area then please have your neighbor convey more information about the person that he saw on your driveway. (For example, height, weight, clothing, any specific characteristics etc.)

Writing "black male" is not helpful. It perpetuates the suspicion that is cast on all "black males" as criminals in our country and in our neighborhood.

Let's not perpetuate these stereotypes in our neighborhood.

I believe that we all have the potential to create a welcoming and inclusive community here.

Best,

Neighbor #2

Which was immediately followed by:

Seriously?

Wow.

I obviously posted the message to let my neighbors know that the stealing of bikes is continuing to happen.

And that is happening at times when most people are home.

When our kids are home.

Not only bikes that are left in the front yard, but that thieves are going into garages.

I included the only information that I had about the person who stole from me.

A person was seen, I described that person with the information I had. End of story.

I would really appreciate it if my post would be seen as a notice to my neighbors to secure their stuff so that hopefully they are spared a similar incident, not a questioning of my character.

Neighbor #2, if you have concerns about my post next time you are welcome to address me personally, privately.

Neighbor #1

While I totally understand that neighbor #1 felt publicly shamed – or perhaps even publicly accused of being racist, I can’t help but wish she either didn’t respond at all or that she treated Neighbor #2 the way she wished she had been treated herself.

I wish she had spoken personally and privately to neighbor #2.

The messages that followed on the neighborhood listserv felt like a taking of sides.

Support for neighbor #1 vs. support for neighbor #2.

It felt divisive.

Admittedly, it didn’t go on for as long as it has in the past.

Like the time when an African American, male classroom aide at the local elementary school was sitting on the school grounds eating his sack lunch and the police were called.

The debate that followed that incident went on for ages.

And it was ugly.

The call is always in response to a complaint about “suspicious activity,” which is a complaint our police chief has to take seriously.

The problem is that the “suspicious activity” reported turns out to be the activity of being a person of color in this neighborhood.

My community, which was once extremely diverse, is becoming less and less diverse.

The strong school system and welcoming nature of the place has attracted more and more families.

Increasingly, the neighborhood's once uniformly small 1,200 sq. ft. bungalows are being torn down and replaced with 3,000 sq. ft. homes consuming the majority of the cozy lots on which they sit.

The rise in property values is pushing out the elderly and the low-income members of the community that gave it the diverse feel that drew people to it in the first place.

The process is circular and we, the residents, spin round and round.

What neighbor #1 might not have known, is that the husband of neighbor #2 is African American.

In the not too distant past, he was taking a morning walk with a hot cup of coffee.

It was drizzling outside, so he had the hood of his sweatshirt up.

The police were called.

“A man with a gun is roaming the streets of our neighborhood!” they were told.

The police raced to the scene to question neighbor #2’s husband.

The gun?

Was the coffee cup.

Despite having committed no offense, he was required to show proof of residency.

Our neighborhood isn’t gated. It’s public space.

Even if he wasn’t a resident, wouldn’t he have the right to walk on the public sidewalk?

Still, he had to prove he belonged here.

I have never had to do that.

To believe that neighbor #2’s carefully worded request is an attack is to misunderstand her perspective and her experience.

I don’t think she meant to suggest that neighbor #1 was a racist.

I think she only hoped to remind us that just because the person that stole the bikes was a black male, we should remember that not all black men are "brazen thieves."

I don't find that reminder offensive.

Talking about race is hard.

But it's important.

Sources of Gratitude in the last 24 Hours

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sun, 28 Jun 2015 14:56:00 +0000

One.

Nigeria outlawed female genital mutilation.

Two.

An Indigogo campaign to raise funds for Bree Newscome's court fees has raised more than $98,000.

Three.

I am grateful for strength and stamina.

I went to they gym yesterday and lifted weights.

I got through it.

Outward Expressions of Grattitude

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sat, 27 Jun 2015 15:56:00 +0000

Last night I watched a Ted Talk on Positive Psychology delivered by Shawn Achor.

I was struck by the bit at the end, the five things you can do for twenty-one days to increase your positivity.

(It's not that I'm relentlessly negative, far from it, but like anyone, I could always take being MOAR positive.)

So the five things are:

Start each morning with an outward expression of three new things for which you are grateful that happened over the last 24 hours
Keep a journal
Exercise regularly
Practice meditation
Commit to doing random acts of kindness. - one email of gratitude a day.

In thinking about an "outward expression of three new things" for which I am grateful, this blog is the place that came to mind as a place to put those thoughts.

I haven't written here in a long time.

Recently, I've realized I miss it. I like to write.

So anyway, I'll put them here. No one is watching this spot anymore anyway.

Three things that happened in the last 24 hours for which I am extremely grateful.

1. The Supreme Court Ruled in Favor of Same Sex Marriage Nationwide.

2. President Obama Eulogizes The Reverend Clementa Pinckney in Charleston, South Carolina with Amazing Grace.

3. The Mayor returned from three weeks of sleep away camp. Oh, how I missed him.

Whizpoppers

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 12:00:00 +0000

In Roald Dahl's novel, The BFG, young Sophie is kidnapped and taken to a land occupied by giants.

Recently, I've been reading this book to The Mayor and The Rooster.

In the giant's world, their equivalent of soda fizzes downward instead of upward.

Instead of causing burps, soda causes, well... the opposite, an activity know to the giants as "Whizpopping."

When a giant releases whizpops, he is lifted off the ground and filled with a sensation of elation.

This is such a fun experience that whizpopping itself is a sign of happiness among the giants.

Reflecting on the chapter where we learned all this, The Rooster smiled at me and said,

Mama, you're the happiest person I know.

Hey, No Fair!!

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 19:47:00 +0000

K usually wakes up the children, but he had to leave the house early the other day.

We do it differently, the waking up.

K plays an out of tune guitar and sings a made up morning song that might remind you of alley cats meowing in the night.

I prefer to climb in my children's beds and snuggle them awake.

On this particular morning, I climbed in with The Rooster first and rubbed her back and talked with her until I knew she'd get up and get dressed.

Then I moved into The Mayor's bed.

Because relating to seven year old boys seems to require an element of rough housing, I didn't rub his back so much as gently transition him into several world championship wrestling maneuvers.

As I climbed out of his bed, I said,

You'd better get up and get dressed quickly because I left a fart in your bed.

And then, unbelievably, from The Rooster's room I hear,

HEY! NO FAIR! YOU DIDN'T LEAVE A FART IN MY BED!!

Seriously?

They will fight about ANYTHING.

The joys.

We All Face It Alone

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 13 Jul 2011 15:27:00 +0000

Roo woke up this morning complaining of a stomach ache and wouldn’t eat.

I gave her medicine, I tried crackers, toast, juice... she just nibbled.

She stayed in her pajamas and wouldn’t get dressed.

She stayed home from Art Camp yesterday complaining that she was sick and she does have a cold or allergies, but no fever.

I kept encouraging her to do one thing at a time and I got in the shower.

While I was in there, she came and stood next to the shower curtain.

“I miss you when I’m at art camp,” she said in a small voice.

I pulled the shower curtain aside.

“Is this what your stomach ache and sickness is really about, Roo?” I asked. “Are you nervous about art camp?”

She nodded.

“Is it too new? Is it that you don’t know anyone there?”

She nodded again and started to cry.

She went for a full day on Monday and seemed animated and excited by her time there, but my Roo has a hard time adjusting to new places and new people. She's just as shy as can be until she feels safe and comfortable.

When I got out of the shower we talked about bravery, but Roo cried all the way to art camp.

She kept trying to wipe away the tears and get her game face on, but she was scared and nervous.

I thought maybe she’d grown out of this, but I suppose not. I felt ashamed not to have understood what she was feeling when she stayed home yesterday.

Am I too distracted?

I talked to the art camp director about Roo and she promised that she would help her make a special, new friend.

Roo fell on me crying one last time, kissed me, wiped her tears and walked into the classroom with the camp director.

I looked back at her as I left, but she was blurry.

I cried all the way to the office.

Some People

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 27 May 2011 02:04:00 +0000

My son, who was busily schooling me on the art of meditation...

[learned where?]

...said,

...some people sit like this [cross legged] and some people sit like this [lotus] and some people hold their thumb & finger in a circle like this and some people...

On and on went the 'some people's, so I said,

Some people call me a space cowboy. Some call me the gangster of love. Some people call me Maurice.

My son rolled his eyes.

I blame Grandma Seattle for playing The Steve Miller Band so much when I was a child.

Chicken Breast Threat Level Orange

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 19:28:00 +0000

I never intended to pose a threat to airport security but on the way out of town, I realized that the fluid filled sacks in my carry on luggage might very likely cause alarm, attract attention, and, frankly, mortify me.

Two days ago, I learned that many of my female colleagues were planning to wear floor length gowns to our office's 'black tie optional' event though I had assumed we’d go with cocktail length dresses since we'd be working the event.

I scrambled, asking friends if they had anything formal I could borrow.

One friend (who shall remain nameless for reasons that will become clear as the story unfolds) loaned me a strappy, red number.

When I tried it on, she eyed me critically and said, “You’re going to need the chicken breasts.”

[That's the face I made too.]

She went to a drawer and pulled out two silicon filled sacks and told me to drop them in my bra.

“Trust me,” she said.

I was skeptical, but lo, said chicken breasts propped up the tired, old girls and gave them renewed vitality.

Who knew?

I borrowed the dress and the…items, loaded them into my carry-on luggage and headed for the airport.

Only when I was underway did it occur to me that the two squishy objects might be an issue at airport security.

Would they unpack my bag and expose my udder subterfuge?

[swidt?]

Thankfully, the Atlanta airport security employees let the… support group… sail through the line, but agents at Reagan National Airport were not so easily duped upon my return this morning.

My bag was in the x-ray machine when I heard the TSA agent call out to a colleague.

“What do you think that could be?” I heard him say.

There was a pause.

I piped up, “I can tell you what they are,” I said, “though I’m embarrassed about it."

I wondered how suspicious I looked.

The second agent leaned over to his colleague and whispered with authority and confidence, “PUSH UPS!!”

He turned and faced me with a wink and my luggage rolled towards my blush colored face.

I left DC grateful that TSA agents understand that some “secret weapons” are completely harmless aboard an aircraft.

[And for the record, I didn’t end up wearing the silicon support group. I went with the basic black cocktail dress... because I am a chicken.]

Proof:

Shown here with @Genuine.
I'm especially fond of the way the shadowy light makes me look like I'm missing my two front teeth. Changing blog name to Oh, the Trailer Park now...

UPDATED: Proof that I actually have all my teeth.

When Less Really Is More

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 16 Nov 2010 15:57:00 +0000

"You are too disciplined about turning off the DVD after just one episode," I say.

"We should get some sleep," he says. "We shouldn't stay up too late."

"I am not feeling appreciative about your discipline," I say.

He smiles devilishly.

"You might appreciate it later," he says.

"How much later?" I ask.

He laughs.

"In, like, ten minutes."

His eyes are twinkling.

He raises his eyebrows.

He smiles.

It's on.

Interventions

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 22:07:00 +0000

She opened the bathroom door and screamed,

"Hurry up!"

She shut the door, but opened it right back up and started yelling again.

"Don't get dressed again. Leave everything off except your underwear."

She half closed the door, then changed her mind.

She grabbed her daughter by the arm and dragged her out into the dressing room of the ballet studio with her pants at her ankles.

I was quietly helping The Rooster change into her leotard and tights.

There were fifteen other five year old girls in the room in various stages of dress all getting ready for ballet class.

I had noticed the woman even before she started yelling. She was sitting listlessly beside a baby boy - maybe eighteen months old. She looked extremely depressed and tired.

Her daughter started to cry as she was dragged by the arm out of the bathroom.

"You're a MESS!" her mother screamed and roughly wiped at her mouth with a tissue.

The girl continued to sob while the mother barked out orders.

Softly at first, I spoke...

"Take it easy."

Then I said it a bit louder.

"Take it easy."

I tried to keep my voice even and calm.

"Let's just take it easy."

She turned.

"Are you talking to ME?" she asked.

"I am," I said. "There are a lot of kids in here."

She told me it was inappropriate of me to talk to her.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that you seem really angry and there are a lot of kids in here."

"I'm NOT ANGRY!" she insisted. "I'm just FRUSTRATED."

I felt so sorry for her. We've all been there. I could empathize with her situation.

"I'm so sorry you're frustrated," I said, "but there are a lot of kids in here." I concentrated on keeping a calm and even tone.

"The fact that you are STILL talking to me tells me that you suffer from some serious control issues."

[I tried not to laugh out loud because OMG I totally DO have control issues!]

Regardless, I looked her in the eyes and tried to seem kind.

"There are a lot of kids in here," I said again, this time as gently as I could.

She didn't say anything else.

I took the Rooster to her ballet class and waited in the lobby.

The frustrated mom spent the duration of the class in the dressing room.

I sat there second guessing myself a bit.

I wondered if it would have been better for me to mind my own business.

As a mother of two small children myself, I certainly understand her frustration and I know I'd be furious if a stranger called me out.

Still... there were a lot of kids in that room and she was so angry.

The Silly Run

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 16:10:00 +0000

"Do the silly run, Daddy," she says.

Every morning, we drop K off at the commuter rail station.

As he leaves the car, the silly run is often requested.

My husband then morphs into what I can only liken to a rocking chair with boat propellers.

His arms fly out like airplane wings.

His lower legs rotate at the knee joints and spin at odd angles.

He zig zags, serpentine in great S curves past expressionless commuters and motionless people quietly waiting for the bus.

Inside the car, there is laughing and sometimes applause.

He'll pause, halfway to the station entrance and throw kisses back towards us.

K is normally quiet and mild mannered.

He's an introvert. He's shy.

I hope my kids remember his silly run long after he's gone.

It is a true act of love.

How to Embarrass Your Offspring on Foreign Exchange

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 18:15:00 +0000

"No way! You actually have the shirt!" he said.

My good friend David is in South Africa for six months.

He's a visiting professor at a university in Johannesburg.

Recently, he was startled and surprised when an American student walked into his office wearing the shirt.

"What do you mean?" the unassuming student from Indiana asked.

After a bit of back and forth, David realized that the student didn't have a clue about what he was wearing.

It was the The Mountain Three Wolf Moon t-shirt.

(If you aren't familiar with The Mountain Three Wolf Moon t-shirt, then I *highly* recommend you take a break and read the Amazon customer reviews for this product.)

[Seriously. Go read them now.]

David showed the Amazon reviews to the poor, unassuming student from Indiana.

After reading many reviews, the student said,

"Oh, man! I'm SO embarrassed! My mom sent me that shirt."

This had me howling.

[Like three wolves with a moon.]

Do you think his mom knew about it?

I totally hope so.

The Dawn of Influence

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 00:23:00 +0000

Last year, The Rooster was a fierce pirate girl for Halloween.

This year, she asked to do this look again.

She was all set until it was time to get dressed.

Then she started crying hysterically.

She was afraid that her very best friend, who is tom boyish, would laugh at her.

In the end, she wore purple sweatpants, a red t-shirt with a batman emblem, a batman cape and a batman mask.

Though I have heard The Rooster's friend say she doesn't like to wear dresses herself, I have never heard her criticize anything Roo has worn.

I found myself distressed and alarmed by the amount of influence my daughter already allows a friend to have over her.

As we left the house to meet her friend, Roo looked depressed.

"What's wrong, Roo?" I asked.

She flipped a corner of the batman cape in the air and rolled her eyes.

"It's not your best costume ever," I said.

"I know," she said and sighed.

She is only five.

Transparency & Transition

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 20:31:00 +0000

Last winter, I took a job in social media and I find that after I spend all day at work blogging, tweeting and posting to Facebook, I'm spent.

I really miss the way that regularly blogging here offered me a chance to reflect, even in small ways, on what was happening in my life and how I felt about it.

Since going back to work full time, I sometimes find that I'm not sure what I think or how I feel about anything because there's no time to stop and consider.

Life is one long task list it often seems.

Yesterday I found out I'll be speaking at the Mom 2.0 summit to be held in New Orleans from February, 14-16.

I'm super excited to be going because I know I'll love seeing some of my favorite bloggers and meeting new ones.

When I saw the announcement though, it was the first time that I have seen my professional blog linked to my personal one.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I haven't taken down any posts here, but this new job in social media has forced my once (at least semi-private) identity to merge with my professional identity.

I don't mind, per se.

I mean, I stand behind the stories I've told here. I've been honest, I've been myself.

I've been transparent.

I'm not sure I'm used to being so completely transparent in a work context.

That's one thing I'd like to explore with friends at Mom 2.0.

More and more of us are translating our blogging experience into new career opportunities.

The blogging community helped me write through the process of becoming a mother.

This community was invaluable to me in that long path to integrating the idea of myself as a mother with the idea I had of myself before I became one.

I'm hoping that I'll write more, and that we can talk more, about what it means to be online personally and professionally at the same time.

Interested?

(Oh, and I probably have to talk about volunteerism too, because that is what I've always been all about professionally and now everything's all mixed up and jumbled together.)

So here we go...

Laying It Down

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 18:12:00 +0000

I was cutting the crusts off the bread for my kid’s sandwiches when my friend Michael looked at me and said,

“That is so wasteful. Look at all the bread you have to throw away!”

Our families were away together at the beach and Michael and I had returned to the beach house to make lunches for everyone.

This was three months ago.

Since then, every single morning when I make school lunches, I remember this comment and seethe.

Day after day, I mutter my unspoken retort,

“It’s just as much of a waste if they throw their sandwiches away uneaten!”

I'll at least admit that it has occurred to me that I’m being ridiculously silly about it.

So when our families went to dinner together last night, I told Michael it had been bothering me.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I only meant that children in general are wasteful with their picky eating habits. I didn’t mean it as a personal judgment.”

“It probably says more about me than it does about you, Michael,” I told him, “that I’ve been hanging on to it all this time.”

Michael looked at his plate then back at me with a sheepish look.

“Well,” he said, “remember when we went camping?”

“Three years ago?!!”

“Yeah, well. You were surprised that our family didn’t shop at the Farmer’s Market and you said that every time you walked into a regular grocery store and saw ‘the endless aisles of cardboard boxes,’ you asked yourself ‘where is the food in here?’ ”

My husband laughed out loud recognizing the quote as something both of us have said. Many times.

“I’m sure I did say that,” I confessed.

“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” Michael said. “The food? ...is in the boxes.”

We stared each other down for thirty seconds and then burst out laughing.

The Worst Are Full of Passionate Intensity

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 23:54:00 +0000

She lives in a bushy area of the sidewalk next to a four lane road that we travel every day on the way to The Rooster's school.

Her four shopping carts are filled with plastic garbage bags and storage tubs.

She is always wearing a sweat stained, gray t-shirt, blue jeans and a backwards baseball cap.

Her carts and belongings are often strewn up and down the sidewalk in front of the U-Store-It facility, one of the nicer business establishments on this lonely, industrial stretch.

I'm puzzled by her presence there. She's alone, far from downtown - way out in the county.

The only things nearby are a grocery store, a funeral home and, about a mile up the road, there's a small county hospital.

Every morning and every afternoon my children look for her and ask about her.

Why is she always there? Why doesn't she have a home? What does she do when it rains?

I have found myself wondering lately if we should stop and offer help. Maybe the children would learn something about compassion...

We've yet to stop. I'm tentative, hesitant.

Though the organization I work for serves the homeless, my focus has always been on youth and education.

I don't have any direct experience with this issue.

At first, I think it's the approach that worries me.

What would I say?

I visualize myself trying.

First, I find somewhere to park my ridiculous mini-van, unbuckle my children from their car seats and march the three of us over to her like the Von Trapp family.

And then what?

What if it all goes horribly wrong in front of my kids?

I can think of a thousand reasons not to approach her.

Morning and afternoon we pass her and I finally realize why I've been stuck on this one.

I've been thinking about stopping for all the wrong reasons.

This homeless woman isn't there to teach my children a lesson.

If I can't stop and offer her help simply because she might need it, then I shouldn't bother stopping at all.

Why My Husband Is So Darned Appealing

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:36:00 +0000

When he receives obvious spam, like this...

-----Original Message-----
From: Maria Levy Mwanawasa [mailto:sanaali@bigmir.net]
Sent: Monday, August 16, 2010 3:17 PM

Subject: Hello

Hello Dear,

I know this mail will come to you as a surprise since we haven't discuss it before, but kindly bear with me at this moment. I have a special reason why I wrote you first in the dating site. My situation at hand is miserable but I trust in God and hope you will be of my help. My name is Maria Levy Mwanawasa. I am 22 years old and I held from Zambia, I am the daughter of late President Levy Mwanawasa, the former President of Zambia. My beloved father died on the 19th of August, 2008 in the French Hospital after he was hospitalized for a stroke. well, You can read more detail about they death of my late father here.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26287278/

I am constrained to contact you because of the maltreatment which I am receiving from my step mother and my uncle. They both planned to take away all my late father's treasury and properties from me since the unexpected death of my beloved Father. Meanwhile I wanted to travel to Europe, but she hides away my diplomatic passport and other valuable documents. Luckily she did not discover where I kept my father's File which contained important documents.I am presently staying in the Mission camp in Burkina Faso. I am seeking for long-term relationship and investment assistance.

My father of blessed memory deposited the sum of $6.4Million US Dollars in a local bank in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I had contacted the Bank to claim the deposit but the Branch Manager whom I met in person told me that being a refugee my status does not permit and according to the local law and the agreement between my late father and the bank does not authorize me to carry out the operation. However, he advised me to provide a trustee who will stand on my behalf. Please I need your Assistance in this regard. I had wanted to inform my stepmother Mrs. Maureen Mwanawasa about this deposit but I am afraid that she will not offer me anything after the release of the money. Therefore, I decide to seek for your help in transferring the money into your bank account in your country or any safer place. while I will relocate to your country and settle down with you.

It is my intention to compensate you with 30% of the total money for your assistancend the balance shall be my investment in any profitable venture which you will recommend to me as I have no any idea about foreign investment.

Please your kind reply is need and I beg you to maintain absolute privacy because my stepmother is seeking for me to provide infrmation on the account details for retrival of the money.

Yours Sincerely,

Maria Levy Mwanawasa.

He responds like this....

-----Original Message-----
From: K, Man of The House of Joy
Sent: Monday, August 16, 2010 3:28 PM
To: 'levy2@lajt.hu'
Subject: [POSSIBLE SPAM] RE: Hello
Importance: Low

The poetry of this moment, this unbridled act of generosity, this happenstance is so incredible that I have broken out in song. I sing for the generosity of the human spirit. I sing for the good fortune you should choose me. I pray my words of thanks soar to the ears of God.

This luck is made more incredible by the unbelievable happenstance that I knew your father well. We spent many an evening relaxing after a fine meal on the patio of the presidential palace in Lusaka, discussing the human hardship in Zambia and in Africa. He demonstrated great insight into the human spirit and evinced such compassion. He remains a great hero of mine.

I weep knowing the cruelty you must endure at the pampered hands of your Uncle and step mother. Godspeed to you.

I will gladly share with you any and all personal information that might effectuate our happy business cooperation.

While it has been awhile, I think I can recall enough Bemba and Nyanja to offer my good wishes in your home tongues. "Zee pinga war galun ta fisna."

K

They Were Strangers to You

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 00:52:00 +0000

“Mommy, do you have a Dad?”

“Yes, Roo. Pop is my Dad.”

She was quiet, thinking.

“But Grandma Seattle un-married him.”

“They did get un-married,” I said, using her language, “but he’s still my Dad and she’s still my mom and they still love me the same as when they were married.”

She was quiet again.

“What did it feel like when they got unmarried,” she asked.

“What did it feel like to me? I was sad, I guess.”

“How was it sad?”

“Well, things weren’t the same.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like Christmas. We used to all have Christmas together, but after they decided not to be married, I had to choose where to spend Christmas – with Grandma Seattle or with Pop.”

“Who did you choose?” she asked.

“I took turns for awhile,” I said, “and now we all have Christmas with Grandma New York so I don’t have it with either of them.

“What did it feel like when you got a new Dad and a new Mom?” she asked.

“What do you mean by new mom and new dad, Roo?”

“What did it feel like when Grandma Seattle and Pop decided to marry other people?”

“You mean when Grandma Seattle married Mark and when Pop married Nana?”

She nodded.

How did it make me feel? I wondered what to say.

My mom’s (now-ex) second husband was both physically and emotionally abused as a child.

The bruises of his early years seemed to remain forever purpled beneath any cocksure hide he ever tried to wear.

I think my awareness of this made me more tolerant of him - especially at times when I otherwise I might have found myself impatient with the way he repeated things he’d already told me or came across as the foremost authority on whatever was being discussed.

What does it feel like, she asked...

My father’s wife talks a lot -- more when she’s nervous or anxious.

She’s often both nervous and anxious.

She’s kittens and rainbows to my sushi and gourmet coffee. We’re both clichés, but not necessarily complimentary ones.

My Dad’s wife has ideas about the way our ideal relationship should look.

I think she wishes I would let her to provide me with comfort and closeness like a second mom or at least a treasured confidant, but it’s not something I need or want from her.

I don’t feel that kind of connection and I don’t pursue it.

I think she routinely feels rejected and hurt by me though it is not my intention to make her feel that way.

I am grateful for the companionship and care she provides my father.

“What did it feel like when they decided to marry someone else?” Roo wanted to know.

A long time passed as I struggled with how to respond.

“They were strangers to you,” she said, somehow finding the right words on her own.

It did feel like that, strangers suddenly part of my family.

“I don’t want that to happen,” she said in earnest.

“I don’t either,” I assured her.

My mind drifted to the impending separation of our close friends.

Soon they plan to tell their children, friends of our children, about their decision to separate.

We will have to talk about it with our kids too.

I will have to find the right words because while I support anyone's decision to end a marriage and trust that the choice has been made for good reason, I lament the way it causes the little ones to fret.

Going There

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 12:00:00 +0000

It was our year to get kicked out of the house.

There were too many people, not enough rooms and someone had to go.

In fairness, it was our turn.

As a bonus, Grandma Seattle said the kids could stay at the house with her...

...which made us think we might just show up at 10:00 a.m. and leave at 4:00 p.m. every day! Huzzah!

Instead of staying at a Motel 7 by the side of the state highway, we decided to splurge and stay at Berry Hill.

My relatives thought this was an extravagance, and it was, but all my life my Granny talked about this great southern mansion that had fallen into disrepair and its once resplendent wishbone staircase.

It was finally restored in 1999 and I'd always wanted to stay there.

Before the Civil War, Berry Hill was owned by the richest man in the state of Virginia.

And here comes the tricky part...

Berry Hill was home, as I understand it, to three thousand slaves.

Three. Thousand.

There was a room near the registration desk where guests could find continental breakfast items and K and I found ourselves in there one morning when an older, African American guest came and sat at the table next to us.

We talked about the fact that the coffee was tepid and exchanged small talk.

He told us that he was retired from the Army and now working for a federal agency in Washington, D.C.

"What brings you to this part of the world," I asked him.

"My wife grew up here," he told us, "but she hasn't been back in twenty years."

And here's where it got really tricky...

"She grew up around here?" I said with a wide-eyed look. "What's her last name."

He told me.

I took three deep breathes.

"That is the middle name of both my uncle and my cousin," I said.

There was a pause.

Only the day before, at the tiny, rural community pool near my Granny's house I had been gobsmacked and at a loss for words when someone actually said to me,

"Around here, we say that if you share a name with someone, you're kin to 'em, you used to own 'em, or both."

The man at Berry Hill and I looked at each other for a few, long moments.

"It's too bad my wife isn't down here for breakfast," he finally said. "I bet she would have been interested in meeting you."

He seemed to mean it, but there was suddenly both a strange intimacy and an electric tension to the conversation.

I didn't know what to say, so I did what I always do and fell back on idiocy.

"Well, maybe it's for the best," I said. "If she was here, we'd have to go to counseling and then write a book together."

He laughed. I smiled. We were released.

After he left, K said, "I'm surprised you went there. You don't know him and he doesn't know you!"

Maybe K was right. Perhaps it was forward, presumptuous even.

Still, if I never go there, if I never talk about it - the things that my ancestors did and those they did it to - how will I ever overcome them?

On the other hand, I exercised a certain privilege in going there.

If our roles had been reversed and he had been the one to realize the possible familial connection, it's most likely he would not have mentioned it, not in the shadow of Berry Hill.

What is the path forward?

Night Swimming

noreply@blogger.com (OhTheJoys) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Sometime in the mid-1960’s, my great grandfather, Granddaddy Bee, donated land to a local trust to build a community pool in the rural Virginia farmland where my grandmother grew up.

Other gentlemen farmers from the area contributed resources and a small, country swimming pool opened to serve the local population.

There has never been a lifeguard on duty there.

No whistles are blown.

No one shouts, “no running!” and there’s no such thing as “Adult Swim.”

There have been numerous jumps off the pool house roof into too shallow water, many attempts to capture a greased watermelon bobbing in the pool long after dark has fallen, hundreds of vigorous games of beach volleyball in the sandy court behind the pool and thousands of cans of beer fervently sipped by underage drinkers.

A life time of memories of my summer visits to my great-grandmother’s house, and later, after she and my grandfather retired there, to my grandparents house are inextricably linked to this country pool, lost in time.

Before my grandparents moved back to the farm, I rode from my great-grandparents house to the pool in the bed of a pick-up truck along with remnants of hay and silage, bumping and tossing from one side of the truck to the other on the uneven country roads and dirt lanes.

My grandparent’s house sits on a piece of the family farm land adjacent to the pool and, since they built there, getting to the pool involves only a walk down a rough path mown the length of the overgrown meadow separating the two properties.

These days, we clomp through the spiky, minefield of balls from the Sweet Gum trees pulling wagon loads of floating rings and pool toys for The Mayor, The Rooster and their cousins.

Just as it was for me, The Mayor and The Rooster are related to almost everyone they meet at the pool.

On the fourth of July, they spent the entire day back and forth between the pool and my Granny’s house.

I don’t think clothes or underwear every came out of their suitcases that day.

I lost count, but upwards of 50 relatives stopped by for our annual covered dish affair.

My Aunt bought 20 pounds of pulled pork barbecue and some obscene amount of slaw.

[Which meant there was some serious over-eating to be done on my part!]

After dark, that same Aunt doled out glow stick bracelets and necklaces by the gross.

The children looked like aboriginal glow aliens.

My cousin Colin set off a cache of fireworks purchased at the state-line and, while his display didn’t have quite the same awe factor that a municipality’s fireworks might, there were no crowds, nor issues with parking.

There were only “ooohs and aaaahs.”

We appreciated the show. We clapped. It was perfect.

Afterward, my cousin Kaycee insisted on being baptized in the pool, having never been baptized in real life.

And so it came to pass that she was baptized.

On our last night in Virginia, my cousin Leslie stopped by after dinner to tell me she was at the pool with her kids.

The Mayor and The Rooster changed back into their still dripping suits and dashed back down the path to the pool.

When the sun sank, and the sky darkened, we flipped on the pool’s night lights.

“Pool Party!!!” The kids screamed.

They swam until long after dark, squealing and shrieking, reminding me of being little and up late at this pool.

I remember thinking something incredible must have been happening to be, not just awake that late, but swimming and playing in the pool after dark.

I smiled watching my kids have the same experience, while playing with the children of one of the cousins with whom I did the same things.

Bat wing flashed in the brightness of the pool lights as they swooped over the pool again and again catching their evening meal and I was grateful for them and for all of it.