Outside the Lines

I like to color. There! I said it! My secret is out. Coloring is fun and I don’t care who knows it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say there are few things in life more exciting than the moment I receive an unspoiled coloring book and a fresh box of crayons.

I’m lucky because I share my home with three children. My house holds a mass of magnificent markers, caverns of colorful crayons and piles of petite pencils. And I can choose from thousands of coloring books, like Spiderman, Cinderella, or The Fluffy Bunny. Plus, I have a perfect excuse to color my heart out without raising eyebrows. “I was just entertaining the kids.” I smile as I dab a few shades of green onto the grass beneath Snoopy’s toes. In reality, the act of rubbing pastel pink across the page feeds my sense of self.

While I color, my mind is in the first grade and I relive the first moment I popped open a box of Crayola 120 Count - with the built in sharper, of course. I see myself turning back the lid and gasping with glee as my eyes consume a rainbow of pinks, reds, blues and greens. They are lined up in neat rows with their heads held high. I giggle as I study each perfect little soldier, so shiny and bright and beautiful. I savor the scent of wax as my fingers skim each cap, tenderly addressing the troops and promising that they will all get a turn to shine.

I carefully consider how each will contribute to my grand designs. Slowly, I pull out the first color, roll it between my fingers and read the label. Hello, Brick Red. You are strong and dark. I can use you to shade the chimney. There you are Burnt Sienna. Though you are a dull clay hue, you’ll do nicely for the flower pot on the window sill. Turquoise Blue, you are so soft and calm. You will span the sky scape save for the orb of brilliant Lemon Yellow at the top. The flower bed will be Magenta, Mauve and Mulberry. And pretty Mountain Meadow, you will cover the grass.

Coloring books, I am certain, should not be reserved for children. And its a crime against society that such appears to be the case. The sensation of the waxy tip gliding across dull white pages and creating brilliant dreams feeds my need to believe in magic. Watching a small piece of the world get slowly and neatly brighter creates an immediate sense of victory. Good over evil. Triumph over tragedy. The sensation of a sweet scented marker swishing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, slowly filling in the gaps and details, feeds a focus on beautiful ideas and exhilarating wishes. At less than five dollars a shot, it’s the cheapest form of therapy money can buy.

If I had my way, several copies of The Coloring Adventures of Scooby Doo and an eight pack of primaries would be standard issue at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Think how much calmer everyone would be if they could renew a license after turning the Mystery Machine into a Midnight Blue and Melon mini-bus. It might even help improve smiles on the ID Photo cards.

If I were in charge, airports would be littered with My First Looney Tunes Coloring Book and a thick set of Magik Markers. Then no one would care that their flights had all been delayed two hours because of a thunder storm in Toledo while their luggage had been diverted to Topeka. And the biggest concern would be remembering to place the cap back on the Razzle Dazzle Rose.

More coloring books in the hands of adults, I am convinced, could be the missing step to World Peace. I propose that the United Nation's next order of business should be to declare an International Day of Coloring. And henceforth, all border disputes among hostile nations should be settled by holding a Free Drawing Fiesta.

So my friends, you are free to envy me. Because I am one of the lucky few. My position as a parent permits met to sit for hours, smiling at my children and coloring to my heart’s content. I can color the sea Canary and sketch the sky Salmon. I can draw Denim daises and paint Purple pandas. I can become one with the wax. Zen and the Art of Coloring Books!

And, most important, I can color outside the lines. And no one can stop me!

Tiny Bear's Christmas Adventure

Author's note. I had to write a short fictional piece for my creative writing class. I remembered when my niece Katelin was little; she had a tiny white bear that Santa brought her for Christmas. She named him Tiny Bear. So my story is based on Tiny Bear and my imaginary tale of his Christmas Adventure. Its a bit corny. Buts its written for the three and four year old age group. So please bear with me (oh, sorry for the pun) as I tell you about...

Tiny Bear's Christmas Adventure

A small white polar bear peered over the edge of a cliff at a red cottage dripping with snow. The cottage windows were cloudy so you could not see inside. And they were made of clear plastic. The little house was made from ceramic. The bear was stitched from a soft cotton cloth and stuffed with beans. And the cliff was just a pile of red and green throw pillows.

The bear belonged to Corey and Corey belonged to Mom and Dad. God brought Corey to Mom and Dad over three years ago. But now that she was almost four, Corey always took time to remind Mom and Dad that she was not a little kid. “I’m a big girl” she squeaked in her high pitched voice. Then, just to prove it, she stood tall on her tip toes, threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin high in the air.

As for the little bear, he had arrived in Corey’s stocking the year before. Corey loved the little bear and named him Tiny. Corey slept with Tiny every night until the end of January. Then, after the Christmas decorations were put away and the novelty of the Holidays had worn out, she forgot about the white bear the way Spring forgets about Winter. So Tiny spent the remainder of the year sleeping with a pile of ducks, bears, dogs and cats in a small blue basket at the foot of Corey’s bed.

But when Mom pulled out the decorations in November, just after Thanksgiving, Corey remembered Tiny and how happy he made her feel. So she fished him out of the pile of toys and brought him downstairs to play under the tree among the little cottages in the miniature village that Mom had placed there on a bed of white cotton. Now, on the day before Christmas, Corey and Tiny were playing their favorite game – hide and seek.

When Corey closed her eyes and counted to ten, Tiny snuck in and out among the pretty pink, blue and red cottages and churches, being extra careful when crossing the train tracks, and looking for the perfect hiding spot. Last round, Corey found Tiny nestled in the lowest branches of the Christmas tree. This time, he was sitting behind the large white and green church, the one with the bell, tower while Corey closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she finally located him at the church, Corey shrieked with glee, plucked him up and cuddled him close to her heart.

Corey had just placed the small bear behind the legs on the tan leather chair and was getting ready to count again when Mom came into the room. “What are you doing Corey-bell” she smiled. Corey laughed and hopped into her mother’s arm. “I was playing hide and seek!” she giggled. Mom giggled back, scooped Corey off the floor and carried her upstairs for her bath.

Tiny looked around. He wondered whether Corey would be back to finish their game. From upstairs, he could hear her chattering with Mom and splashing in the tub. After that, he heard the sound of the tub draining and little girl feet pattering down the hallway. And finally, the sound of Mom's feet walking into Corey’s room to read good night stories. Then all was dark and the night grew quieter and quieter.

Tiny sighed and settled himself against the leg of the chair. I guess Mouse will get to sleep with Corey tonight, he thought. Tiny didn’t mind sharing Corey with Mouse. After all, Mouse had known Corey since they were babies and even spent summer vacation with her last year when the family went to the beach. But even if he couldn’t sleep with Corey, Tiny still missed the warm spot in the basket with his other friends and the soft sounds of Corey breathing while she dreamed.

A few hours later, when the house was still and cold, Tiny was feeling lonelier than ever. Maybe Corey would forget about him and leave him under the chair for a hundred years. Or maybe the cat would catch him and toss him around, tear a hole in his ear and then drop him behind the couch where he would be lost forever.

Peeking out from behind the chair, Tiny made a bold decision. He would make his own way back to Corey and the soft, warm bed. It was a long way to the stairs but Tiny felt encouraged and set off on the trek.

Tiny was only half way to the stairs when he heard a soft padding. It was the cat. Tiny made a dash for the dining room table and hid behind a thick brown leg. Soon, the gigantic orange striped tabby slinked into the room, rubbing its back against the furniture and sniffing at the air. Tiny tried to make himself as small as possible and held his breath until the cat pattered out of the room.

A few minutes later, Tiny started off again. This time he made it all the way to the stairs. But when he looked up the long dark passage, he suddenly realized that he was too small to scale the mountain in front of him. Tired, lonely, and certain the cat would return, Tiny sat down to cry.

Just then Tiny heard another noise. But this time, it wasn’t the purr of the cat. Instead, it was a soft tinkling sound, like a miniature bell ringing. Then, out of nowhere, a chubby hand wearing a soft red mitten reached down, plucked Tiny off the floor and carried him up the stairs.

A few moments later, the soft red glove gently laid Tiny in Corey’s arms where he neslted close to her heart. Before Tiny settled in to sleep he looked up to see who had rescued him. The white bearded face winking back at him was familiar and Tiny recalled a similar night just one year ago when a red gloved hand had placed him in a green Christmas stocking and brought him to live with Corey. Before the cheerful man disappeared through the door, Tiny waved his paw and whispered “Merry Christmas, Santa.” The tinkling of a miniature bell told Tiny that Santa had heard him.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Our House to Yours

A few days before Christmas, I sat down with Eric to help him write a letter to Santa. He found a clean piece of paper and selected a narrow red marker. Then he began to scrawl “Dear Santa” at the top of the page. After a few pleasantries about being a good boy, Eric got down to business and made his Christmas requests. His list included the normal first grade boy items – a skate board, drums, Pokemon cards and a guitar. But one item in particular stood out. Eric asked Santa for a twenty dollar bill. And in his seven year old heart Eric had complete faith that Santa would deliver.

Now truth be told, Eric did pretty well on Christmas morning. Though he didn’t get everything on his list (Mom nixed the drums which Santa explained in a note to Eric), most of his wishes were granted – including a crisp twenty dollar bill that Santa left hanging out of Eric's stocking. Eric was elated.

I hesitate to tell this story because I know some might see it as yet another example of how Christmas has become over commercialized or that today’s youth are selfish lot. But I know this kid. His heart is more pure than Galahad. So I suspect the real meaning goes deeper and is much more subtle. And I believe I have found it.

The meaning of this story can be summed up in one word: Faith.

Because that is what Eric’s seven year old heart is filled with. He believes in God. He has faith that Mom and Dad love him. And he knows without question that Santa will slide down the chimney Christmas morning, that he will eat the cookies and drink the milk, and that if a small boy who has been good makes a reasonable wish, Santa will make it come true. And everything happened just as Eric expected because he believed it would.

I know what you are thinking, “It’s easy to believe in magic when you are seven, especially when Santa knows that Dad has a twenty dollar bill in his wallet. But things are different when you are all grown up.” I disagree.

The difference between child magic and grown up magic is that grownups have forgotten that magic only happens if we help it along. If you caught the animated version of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” (circa 1972) involving a mouse named Albert, you may understand. In the story, Albert and his father help create a Christmas miracle when Santa almost bypasses the tiny town of Junctionville. As Albert and his dad work on their miracle, they sing the song “Even A Miracle Needs a Hand.” The lyrics go like this:

Miracles happen most every day
to people like you and me
but don’t expect a miracle
unless you help make it to be

You hope while I hurry
You pray while I plan
We’ll do what’s necessary cause
Even a miracle needs a hand

You love and I’ll labor
You sit while I stand
Get help from a next door neighbor cause
Even a miracle needs a hand

So let's get back to Eric. It’s not like Eric made a wish and then sat back and waited for the magic to happen. He had to work for it. First, he had to be good. Bear in mind, he's a seven year old boy. Asking him to “be good” is like asking the rain not to fall. Then he had to do something nice for someone else. So he left milk and cookies for Santa and oats and carrots for the reindeer. Then he had to ask for what he wanted. Hence the letter and the list. Finally, he had to believe that his wish would come true. He had to have faith. And he did. And with all of those ingredients mixed together, the magic happened.

If a seven year old boy can help make magic happen, so can you. You just need to know the secret formula. And it’s simply this:

1. Be good.
2. Be nice to others.
3. Ask.
4. Believe.

If you think I am making all of this up, think again. Check out the Bible. The same formula can be found there.

1. Be good. “In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:16
2. Be nice to others. “Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share.” 1 Timothy 6:18
3. Ask. “So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.” Luke 11:9-12
4. Believe. “And Jesus said unto them ...’If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible to you.’” Romans 1:17

Yep, it’s in there. Eric knows the secret to magic and now you do too. And it’s a real, grown up kind of thing.

So, next Christmas if I hear Santa is giving out twenty dollar bills again, I’ll let you know so you can be good, leave some cookies, write a letter and have a little faith. Or you can just try it out all year and see how it works out for you. In the meantime, have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from our house to yours.

To Santa With Love

Mr. Kris Kringle
1 Santa Clause Lane
North Pole
The Arctic Circle

December 26, 2009

Dear Santa:

Thank your for the marvelous Christmas presents you brought me this year. I know the items you selected were not on my list but somehow you managed to pick the perfect gifts for me.

My favorite gift is the enormous kiss from Beth. It was just my size and fit perfect. She gave it to me right after she opened the doll you brought for her. First she cradled and hugged the doll and hummed “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to it. Then she stumbled across the room and threw herself into my arms and planted a slobbery wet kiss on my lips. It tasted like fruit loops. I am going to put the kiss in the treasure box under my bed. Then when I am eighty five, I’ll pull it out and use it to help comfort me to sleep when I take my afternoon nap.

I also liked that you turned Emily into a Santa Helper for the day. She lent me a hand when I was putting away the Legos you brought us last year. The job took twice the time with her help but in the process Emily taught me some important things – like the fact that Roho means Red and Rosa means pink. She also gave me a big spoonful of patience. I know I’ll be asking you to send me a Santa Helper again next year.

Finally, I very much appreciate the giggle from a seven year old boy. I know this is a precious and rare gem as Eric is starting to outgrow giggles. All too soon he will be too embarrassed to sit on his Mommy’s lap and exchange Knock Knock Jokes. I will put the giggle in a picture frame so i can look at it every day.

It’s a wonderful thing to wake up Christmas morning and find someone has stuffed your stocking with joy and happiness. So for that, Santa, please accept my genuine and eternal gratitude.

With deepest Love,

Me.

P.S. Next year if you happen to have a spare dishwasher in your sled feel free to leave it here.

The Best Christmas Ever

Christmas at the little house on Third Street was a grand occassion. The windows blinked with red, green, blue and yellow bulbs and strands of garland were laced throughout the house. Everything had been cleaned and shined to get ready for the big day. You could taste the sweet anticipation of the holidays.

Christmas Eve belonged to Nana. She spent weeks preparing - baking batches of homemade chocolate cookies, decorating and shopping. Nana always made orange juice punch and poured in a smattering of homemade wine. It was the only day of the year that the children were allowed a tiny nip. All the candy dishes in her house were full of treats and, as part of the celebration, the kids were allowed to help themselves.

Christmas Eve dinner consisted of Nana's version of a traditional Lithuanian fair - kielbasa, pierogies with butter and onions (my favorite), ham, green beans, fish (no one liked the fish soup except me, Theresa and Nana), and oatmeal cookies and cakes for dessert. You needed at least 13 types of dishes on the table - representing the apostles and Jesus. Before dinner Dad would say grace and pass around the Christmas wafer - an unleavened bread that resembled the communion wafers from church. Then Nana would raise her glass and say “Here’s to a good year and hoping that we’re all here again next year.” Nana gave the same toast every year until she passed away in 1992.

After dinner the kids opened gifts from Nana. But we had to wait until Christmas morning to open presents from Mom and Dad and Santa. Sometimes Nana had homemade gifts, like hand-sown dresses or knitted slippers. Other times she gave us store bought gifts like jewelry or clothes. One year Nana knitted each of us little dolls dressed in blue and white cheer leading out fits. Mine had blonde hair. I always cherished most the things that Nana made herself and I still have the doll.

One Christmas Eve, after Mom tucked us into bed, I couldn't sleep as the butterflies danced in my tummy. The anticipation of the next day was too much. Tina and I sneaked out of bed, peeked out the window and searched for Santa’s sleigh among the stars in the winter sky. Eventually I drifted off and dreamed of the wonders the morning would bring. Tina woke with the sun. She shook Theresa and then me. The three of us scrambled into Mom and Dad’s room at six a.m. and bounced on their bed to wake them. Dad called Nana so she could sit with Mom and Dad around the Christmas tree while the kids tore open their gifts.

Mom and Dad tried to hide from us how poor we were. That year, Dad had been laid off from his construction job. Money was really tight now. So Mom collected all the change in the house and managed to scrape together $20 to buy presents for the kids. That year, Santa brought me a doll with red hair wearing a navy blue dress. I remember a baby carriage and a sled. And there was a fort to put together - with cowboy and Indian figurines. I liked the little farmhouse best because it had a chestnut horse and a caramel colored horse, and a red and white tin barn with plastic split rail fences to build a corral.

It turns out that Mom bought all our presents with $20 at a second hand store. But I don’t think Santa brought anything for Mom and Dad that year. After Theresa, Tina and I opened our gifts, and the living room was buried in an avalanche of wrapping paper, we hugged and kissed Mom and Dad and said, “This is the best Christmas ever.”

And it was.

Can We Keep Him, Dad?

Author's note: I've been holding this story back because frankly, I am not sure which facts are true and which my brain made up as the years passed. So anyone reading this who was there, just consider it a work of fiction.

This is the story of a dog named Tramp. Its about how a family was blessed by a small white mongrel who brought joy to their hearts. And its about how difficult it can be to make a final act of kindness to a beloved pet. I hope you will forgive me, but it’s a sad story. And if you see tears in my eyes, its because the story still impacts me today.

It was a warm summer day, just after I had completed the first grade, when my older sister Theresa discovered a dog hiding under Mom’s red and black Ford. Theresa and my younger sister Tina lay on their bellies in the dust, peeked under the car and talked to the dog. I sat next to them. I could see that the white mop of hair hanging into the dog’s eyes was matted and dirty. When Theresa tried to coax him out, he growled a little and backed deeper into his lair. We couldn’t understand why he was so scared.

But Theresa was determined to make friends. She ran inside and stole some lunchmeat from the refrigerator. We spent the day tossing bits to the dog. He would come out just far enough to snatch our offerings and then dart back to his haven. When Dad came home from work, Theresa told him we found a dog. “Can we keep it?” she pleaded. “Absolutely not.” Dad decreed. Case closed. “But maybe he’s hurt. Or lost.” Theresa reasoned, “At least come out and see him.” Reluctantly, Dad agreed.

Outside, Dad crouched down and peered under the Ford. A black nose peeked out at him. Somehow, Dad convinced the dog to leave its shelter. “But we’re not keeping it.” He warned. Then Dad fed the dog properly, gave him a bath and combed the tangles out of its snow-white hair. No one knew where the dog came from. And since he couldn’t tell us his name, Dad called him Tramp. It didn’t take long for Dad to fall in love with Tramp. And even though Tramp became “our” dog, he loved Dad best of all.

In those days, people didn’t keep their dogs on a leash or a lead. And hardly anyone had a fence around their yard. So the neighborhood was full of dogs following their kids from one game to the next. If Tina went to play in a friend’s yard, Tramp tagged along. When I went for a walk, Tramp was my companion. While Theresa played baseball, Tramp romped in the outfield with the other neighborhood dogs. Tramp protected us from the dangers of life, like nasty squirrels. And he brought us amazing gifts, like slobbering wet tennis balls and sticks.

Sometimes when we were in school and Dad was at work, Tramp would wander off on his own. We always imagined that he was out playing with his doggy friends. And we never worried. We knew Tramp would be home in time for dinner.

A few years passed. Then on one cold and blustery autumn day, while Mom was fixing dinner, she heard Tramp howling at the bottom of the back stairs. She went outside to check and found Tramp sitting on his back end supporting himself with his hind legs. His back paws were sprawled out on each side at unnatural angles. Tramp couldn’t walk. Dad gently carried Tramp inside. We didn’t know how it happened, but Tramp was hurt …bad. The next day, after Theresa, Tina and I went to school, Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet. When we got home that afternoon, Mom was alone, and she was crying. Tramp was gone.

I cried uncontrollably. So did Theresa and Tina. We all loved Tramp. But Mom asked us not to let Dad see us crying when he got home. So Theresa, Tina and I went to our room and comforted each other.

When Dad returned, he didn’t say anything. He just stood on the back porch and stared blankly at the mountains behind our house. Mom told us not to mention Tramp to Dad. He was too upset. So after that we hardly ever talked about Tramp, especially to Dad, because it always made his eyes fill up with tears. It wasn’t until I graduated from high school that I learned why. Mom told me.

Times were tough. It was the 70s. There was a recession, unemployment and all that comes with it. Mom and Dad did all they could to make ends meet. But there wasn’t much left over after the bills were paid. When Mom and Dad took Tramp to the vet, he told them there was nothing he could do. He’d have to put Tramp down. The cost was $25.

Twenty five dollars may not seem like much today. But back then it was a lot of money to a struggling family. It could feed the kids for a week. And besides, Dad’s paycheck was already spent. So Dad and Mom brought Tramp home. After Mom hugged him good-bye, Dad gently wrapped Tramp in a blanket and carried him to the car. He took his hunting rifle. And they drove into the mountains together.

When Mom finally explained to my what happened, I couldn’t say anything. Later, I took a walk alone in the woods behind our house and cried. But I wasn’t crying for Tramp. I was crying for Dad. I knew that it was the hardest thing he ever did. I still think of Tramp often. And when I do, I remember how he would romp and play with us and bring us so much joy. And then I think of Dad and how difficult and courageous and sad it was for him to do the final act of love for Tramp.

There is a happy ending. A few years later Theresa begged Dad for a new pet. So Dad brought home a chubby brown beagle puppy and gave it to her. We named her Daisy, after the wildflowers that grew all over the mountains that surrounded our house. Daisy and Dad became best friends. Their favorite activity was to go for walks chasing rabbits up in the mountains. The funny thing is that they never caught any rabbits. But I suppose that could be because Dad never took his gun.

The Beast

I recently signed up to take an online creative writing class at a local community college. I was a bit disappointed when my first assignment was something as dull as sitting around and observing a lit candle. Sitting is not something I do well - unless I am on Facebook to play Mafia Wars. But unfortunately for me the assignment in no way involved online social media or organized crime.

I also convinced myself that having an open flame with three kids bounding around sounded like a spectacularly bad idea. You might say a bit of pyromania paranoia took over. So, I did what I always do in such situations...I broke the rules. (Yea, I'm a rebel.) So, instead of slumping in my chair while squinting at the Yankee Scent of the Month, I merely imagined a candle while cleaning the family room.

Now, most of the other students in the class, being a bit more normal than I (and having had the benefit of actually following instructions), wrote about how peaceful they felt with their candles. They used words like relaxing, flickering, fragrant and dancing lights. Then there was me.

In my mind's eye the flame was something fearsome - like a lion in a cage, trying to break free and attack me. I am hoping this does not represent a deep seated resentment for Zoos - though I admit that I get freaked out about Circuses. More likely it represents an aversion to cleaning. If you'd ever seen our family room following a two year old tornado you would understand. Regardless, that's when I decided I'd better kill it (the fire) before it killed me (be assured, I would never kill a lion).

I'm certain there must be something deeply psychologically wrong with all of this and with the fact that I ended up writing a verse instead of a story despite clear instructions to the contrary. Or maybe I was just being a Pink Bird. Or maybe I'm just trying to justify my laziness. Or maybe I just made up all of this in a desperate ploy to entice you to read my ramblings further, in which case it appears to have worked fabulously and we should all conclude that I am brilliant (patting self on back).

In any event, please indulge me while I tell you about The Beast.

The Beast

A tea candle
Set on a shallow saucer
On my desk.

A mountain
Of bills and papers
Towers over.

Its flame stretches,
Grasping violently.
Craving to lick the pulp
And nourish its anger.

Frantically jerking,
Gnashing the chain
That anchors it
To its prison.

Small drops form
And ooze down its skin.
They gather
In a puddle
Of molten wax.

I inch closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Foolishly.
Like a cat stalking a wasp.

A few breaths separate me
From the beating light.
I inhale a wisp of smoke.
I taste its rage.

Suddenly
The blade lunges wildly
Lashing and biting
At my nose.

Drawing back
I study the trapped beast.
It will not be tamed.

Amused,
By its struggle,
I breathe deep.

With one quick blow,
I snuff its glow.

Random thoughts on Baseball, Bats and BC

“That umpire is as blind as a bat!” Ken shouts at the television. “Actually, Dad”, seven year old Eric corrects, “not all bats are blind. Most use echolocation to see where they are going.” Its hard not to appreciate seven year old logic even if the erroneously called strike prematurely ended the inning.

Ken's passion is sports. A few years ago during the Women’s Soccer World Cup, he set his alarm for 3:00 a.m. so he could watch the game live instead of catching the tape delay at a more reasonable hour. And in the days BC (before children), he played softball, baseball, volleyball, soccer and rugby – sometimes all in the same day. Eric is a lot like Ken. He has tons of enthusiasm and throws himself into the things that interest him most. Right now, he is engrossed in learning about three subjects – hockey, bats and Pokemon. It would make him really happy if he could find a Pokemon that was also an ice skating bat. Ken and Eric are alike in another way. They both can chatter the tail off a squirrel. Sometimes when we are driving Eric home from swim class the only way we know Eric is no longer awake is that he has stopped speaking. Like his Dad, he has a million thoughts in his head all trying to escape at the same time.

Emily, is more like me. She is bright but will often sit thoughtfully by herself as if she is drinking in the emotions of the room. She has a fiery temper that can scorch and burn if you’re not ready for it and she isn't afraid to speak her mind. Both of us have full, loud laughs that erupt from our bellies and burst out of our throat. Of course, Emily's fashion sense is far superior to mine. I could never pull off a lime green halter top with fuzzy pink bunny slippers.

I’m not sure who Beth resembles most yet. She’s very determined and strong willed (translate pig headed), a bit like me. On the other hand, she’s a fountain of energy, more like Ken. But her mischievous smile is all her own.

Like most parents, I secretly hope the kids will inherit my best qualities – like enthusiasm and empathy – and avoid my worst – like my temper. On the other hand, I am excited all the ways that Eric is uniquely Eric, that Beth is uniquely Beth and that Emily is uniquely Emily.

Taking Air on an Old Flexible Flyer

A light snow flitted from the grey sky. The frigid air stung my nose and my toes felt like ice cubes. I rested for a moment from shoveling a narrow path in the wet snow and assessed the state of the chore at hand. Dad and Theresa worked the path along the front sidewalk while Tina and I labored at the side of the house.

Only a short stretch remained barred. It was still morning and our labor would persist for another few hours. After shoveling the walks in front of our house, we would tackle the walk way in front of the next door neighbors – a kind elderly couple that we had known for years. Then we would walk to Nana’s house and clear her walks and driveway before stopping at Uncle John’s to do the same.

For some reason, the wind whipped harsher and the snow felt frostier when hard work was involved. But I worked diligently so we could finish the job faster and be released to spend the remainder of the day romping in the winter white world. Finally, having completed our task, Theresa, Tina and I raced to the garage and hauled out the old Flexible Flyer. We towed it to the top of the hill on Second Street and prepared for the first sledding day of the winter.

As the oldest, Theresa asserted her right to the inaugural run of the day. She lay on her stomach and grasped the steering rungs tightly. Tina and I shoved from behind until gravity took over and the little sled zipped down the hill. My turn was next. Not as fearless as my older sibling, I sat upright, holding the thin rope that would steer the rickety sled. Tina sat behind me with her arms wrapped around my waist. Theresa pushed.

At first the sled rails clutched the earth, refusing to move. Theresa pushed harder. Suddenly, the sled jolted forward and we started our descent – slowly at first and then quicker and quicker. The trees on the side of the hill whipped past in a blur as we gained momentum.

A few seconds later, we took air for a brief moment after bumping over a small mound of snow. The feeling of flight was exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Finally, on reaching the foot of the hill, our pace slowed until we came to a quiet rest. Tina and I rolled off the sled onto the cold earth gasping for breath and hooting with delight. We scrambled to our feet and lugged the sled to the top for another run. For the next few hours, the three of us wore a path down the slope as we repeated the thrilling ride.

Finally, as the shadows began to darken, we reluctantly slogged home. Once inside, we piled wet hats, gloves and boots in a corner. Our cheeks, which had turned pink, warmed to their natural color and our noses stopped running. Mom served us a cup of hot chocolate with a hearty bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup. As we sipped and slurped, we chattered about our day’s adventure and we planned to do it again the next morning.

Changing the Subject

“The waiter just called me old!” I lamented as I watched our table server head back towards the kitchen. Ken had no sympathy. “What’s the big deal? He just called you Ma'am” he sighed. “He implied I was old!” I sputtered. “You are old to him” Ken replied. I can tell he immediately regretted his response. He tried to drop his fork on the floor to distract me from the conversation but it was too late. So he just leaned back in his seat and braced himself for the storm surge. “First of all,” I spat, “I am not old. Second, even if I were old, I don’t LOOK old.” “Do I have to answer that?” Ken muttered.

We’ve had this discussion before. You would think by now Ken would know that the less he says the better. Plus I’m fairly certain his wasn't paying much attention and that he was actually watching ESPN on the TV hanging over the bar behind me. I was tempted to tell him I planned to sell the house and spend my life exploring the Yucatan just to see if he would nod and say “Yes, Dear. Uh-Huh.”

As I sipped my caffeine free diet Coke, I wondered how the scene would have played out if I were lunching with my friends instead of my husband. So I mentally hit the rewind button.

Scene One, Take Two. A bustling yet quaint restaurant at noon. And action! The camera pans through the crowd and slowly settles on a small booth in the corner. Zoom in. Three established, fashionable and stunningly attractive ladies are chuckling together as they sip a glass of red wine. The part of me is being played by Marissa Tomei…….

CUT!!!

Right, even I’m not buying that one. Let’s try again. Take three. And...... Action!

Same restaurant, same booth. Erin, Cathy and I are shoveling chips and salsa and belly aching about everything you can imagine. The waiter arrives and takes our order. Just before he leaves, he utters the offending sentence “Would you like something to drink, Ma’am.” All of the air is sucked out of the room as my lunch mates gasp and I growl, “No. Thank You.” As the waiter slinks away from my evil stare, I turn to the girls.

Me: “Did that urchin just call me Ma’am? He was implying I’m old!”
Cathy: “He’s such a child he thinks anyone who doesn't need a learners permit is old.”
Erin: “Just for that he only gets a 14% tip....Actually, do you mind if I give him 15, I can’t do the math for 14?"
Cathy: “Besides, you are not old. And you look fabulous. Is that a new blouse? I love that color on you.”
Erin: “Hey, did anyone watch Glee last night?”
Me: “Are you kidding, my house is permanently tuned to Nick Junior. I think we watched Wow Wow Wubzy for the thousandth time.”

As the camera fades to black we hear the sound of hens clucking.

Now, I know you are thinking, “Is there a moral to this story?” Yes. There is. Gentlemen, if your wife asks if you think she looks old, for Pete’s sake, just compliment her blouse and change the subject. Consider that my Public Service Announcement for the day.

Cut! That’s a wrap folks. Let’s pack it up.