I miss my MTV

I miss my MTV. The original one where Vee Jays Nina Blackwood and Martha Quinn introduced the latest Police video and where British synth pop and west coast hair bands competed for air time. The one that played music. Good music. Unusual music. Interesting music. Fun music. Am I the only one who longs for the days when MTV stood for “MUSIC” television and not the “watered down, twenty-four hour, second-rate, reality TV” station?

Being in touch with the hits of the day will often define whether you are "in" or "out." A few weeks ago I cruised Main Street blaring the Pop 80s station on my satellite radio. It was a cheerful autumn afternoon and the sun warmed my cheeks through the windshield. So, naturally, I rolled down the windows and cranked the volume to 11. In my best shower voice, I crooned along with Def Leopard. “Pour Some Su-gar On Meeeeeeeey.” (I tried not to think much about what the lyrics actually meant.) There I was jamming along, bopping my head and tapping the steering wheel when I noticed a group of college kids on the corner laughing at the crazy old broad making a fool of herself in a minivan. Oh! My! God! That crazy old broad was me! I blushed, rolled up my window and turned the radio to the AM news channel.

I’m the first to admit that even when “cool” was the cool word to use, I was tepid at best. I could never pull off the Madonna "Material Girl" look and my powdered blue Member's Only Jacket was not nearly as exclusive as the name implied. But even so, I find myself a bit nostalgic for the days when I could read People Magazine’s “What’s Hot and What’s Not" quiz and not find me in every “Not” photo. - Honestly, I had no idea that pantyhose were passe! And in my defense, I only wore them because I forgot to shave my legs.

Even more than being cool, I miss the times when I could tune to the local FM station and recite the words to more than half the play list. Last time I listened to a pop channel the only thing that made any sense to me was a commercial for Lube Pro (Note to self, make appointment to have oil changed.) This point hit home recently when speaking with a newer attorney in our office. Megan is a recent graduate - attractive, intelligent and confident. I suspect she'll be my boss someday. During a raucous lunch attended by a boisterous group of lady lawyers, I mentioned the song "My Baby Takes the Morning Train." She gave me a blank stare. "Sheena Easton?" I said hopefully. Stare. "For Your Eyes Only? We got Tonight?" I queried with increasing desperation. Stare with stifled yawn. "Am I really THAT old?", I pleaded. She deftly changed the subject before I could corner her into opening up a can of reality on me. I'll be sure to thank her when she administers my performance review ten years from now.

Of course, its hard for me to be hip when the last concert I attended was either "Dora The Explorer on Ice" or “The Doodlebops! Live!” Although the poofy cotton candy hair and pink fluorescent tights that Dee Dee Doodle sported reminded me a tiny bit of the time I saw Poison at the Spectrum and Brett Michaels pranced about in a pink and black leopard print leotard. Unfortunately, the sad reality is, we don't listen to Twisted Sister in our house. We focus more on The Disney Princesses' Greatest Hits. Occasionally, I may get to listen to Hanna Montana or the Jonus Brothers. To be honest, I don’t mind so much hopping and dancing the Hokie Pokie with Beth (age 2) and singing “Ten Little Monkeys” with Emily (age 4) instead of blaring Aerosmith so loud that the house shakes. But I still yearn for the day that I find a familiar tune on MTV to help me feel an itsy bitsy bit hip again.

Maybe hipness is in the eye of the beholder. A few weeks ago as I drove Eric (age 7) home from ice skating, I heard him humming and singing softly to himself in the back of the car. “We got the beat, we got the beat, we got the beat…..”, he chanted. “Hey bud,” I asked, “What’s that song you're singing?” “Oh, just something that’s on my Kidz Bop CD that we got from McDonald’s.”, he replied, “It’s pretty cool.” I smiled and hummed along. It felt good to be cool again.

P.S. Megan - The song Eric was singing....it's by the Go Go's....in case you were wondering.

What Do Thanksgiving Turkeys, Pine Sol and Clean Cotton Have in Common?

I have a confession to make. I don’t really like turkey that much. And I’m not a great big fan of pumpkin pie. What I do like is the idea of a Thanksgiving turkey roasting in the oven and a hot pumpkin pie cooling on the counter. And what I like even more are the aromas that saturate the air when the poultry is cooking and the pie is baking. As I drink in the scents of the bread with onion and celery stuffing steaming inside the bird, my mind shifts to a lazy holiday many years ago in the cozy little home of my youth. I can picture Mom puttering around the kitchen wearing an apron decorated with gold and orange leaves. And I can hear Dad snoring on the recliner after drifting off during the afternoon football broadcast.

Fragrance is a powerful memory. For some people, the smell of pine means Christmas trees. But for me, the fragrance of pine harkens back to spring cleaning. It reminds me of a cool April morning when Mom would fling open the windows and doors to welcome spring. A quiet breeze would roll against the drapes. Then Mom would spend the day scrubbing the floors and walls with Pine Sol until the entire house smelled like a forest glade. By the time she was done, the windows and walls twinkled like diamonds and the whole house felt fresh.

In the spring time, I also love to bask in the smell of lilac. It immediately transports me to the rows of lavender trees that lined the backside of our property and the countless spring mornings I spent humming a tune while resting beneath the branches. When I sense lilac, I can almost see the sun beams trickling through the green leafy tree limbs and dancing in the grass. It makes me want to skip work and spend the day chasing butterflies instead.

Fresh laundry is another aroma that makes me smile. Recently, Ken purchased a Yankee candle that advertised its scent as “clean cotton.” We lit it in the laundry room and I found myself reliving a memory in Nana’s backyard. I could see Nana standing nearby shaking out white sheets and beige towels and carefully pinning them to a thin rope line. While Nana worked, a small brown sparrow perched on the fence and called softly to its friends. Then Nana left the laundry to waft in a gentle wind until it was ready for her to neatly fold into her small yellow basket.

Sometime this February, as the wind rocks our house and the snow swirls on the driveway, I’ll heat up cups of steaming hot chocolate for my kids. We’ll pile marshmallows on top and then sit together at the kitchen table laughing and dunking cookies into our drinks while we play Candyland. Then, years from now, when my kids are grown, they’ll revisit that memory every time they smell a cup of cocoa.

Fake versus Real: Settling the Debate

Exhausted from a long day of gorging on left-over turkey and watching football, Ken and I had just settled into bed. It had been a fun Thanksgiving weekend and we were ready to relax. Suddenly, the tranquility of the evening was disrupted by a thundering crash from our living room. Fearing a semi had just smashed through our front door, Ken and I raced downstairs.

There we encountered a most gruesome site and I realized that we were witness to a heinous crime. Douglas, a young and innocent fir tree who had come to spend the holidays with us, lay sprawled across the floor. His strings of blinking red and green lights, which previously adorned his trim figure, were strewn on the carpet. Broken ornaments littered the room. Douglas, I could see, had been viciously attacked. Two sets of tiny paw prints heading across the kitchen tile gave me a clue that the culprits may have been our cats – Trixie and Smokey.

In hindsight, I should have realized that dragging a fresh cut pine into our home was a bad idea. But in my mind I had created visions of the family establishing the kind of idyllic traditions that would later be played out in the Donny Osmond Christmas with the Family Holiday Special. As a result, we had spent Friday tramping about the woods in ankle deep snow trying to locate and cut the “perfect” tree. After we stalked it, chopped it and strapped it to the hood of our car, we carted it home and draped it with pretty glass baubles and twinkling lights. This, I now know, was a very bad idea.

The sweet smelling tree, I have come to understand, was nothing more than a huge pile of pine scented catnip - as well as a most excellent scratching post. Before it relocated to our home, I’m sure its branches housed thousands of robins and red birds. A squirrel and some mice certainly spent time playing in the limbs. And I would not be surprised if a couple of bunny families had built a village against its base. Think of it from the cats’ perspective, this tree was full of every aroma of every living thing that a cat would want to devour. The only thing that would have made it better would be if I had decorated it with catfish fins and halibut heads.

Trixie and Smokey, I know would not have tortured me in the same manner. I am certain they would never bring home an unusually large plant that reeked of chocolate cupcakes. And if they did, they would not have plunked it in a bucket of water, laced it with electricity, covered it with glass and naively believed that I would not attack it at the first opportunity. Trixie and Smokey, unlike me, are realists.

Over the next two hours Ken and I kept up our spirits as we righted the tree, restrung the lights and swept up the broken decorations. “At least no one was hurt.” I offered weakly before we collapsed into bed. Then, less than four hours later, like a scene out of Ground Hogs Day I found myself repeating the entire affair - this time, with considerably less humor. At six o’clock the next morning, as we picked up the tree for the third time in less than twelve hours, Ken turned to me and snarled “Merry F***ing Christmas.”

At this point I had two clear options to choose from. The first, I was fairly certain carried a penalty of twenty to life and would leave me a widow. Though I felt I would likely be acquitted by an all female jury, I decided not to risk it. So I went with Plan B which merely involved shooting eye daggers at Ken. After that I stripped poor Douglas to his birthday suit, yanked him to the curb and left him to the elements.

This year, our tree will be a sturdy and fragrance free model - the kind that spends eleven months in a box under the basement stairs and has never met a rabbit. And if we are lucky, it will remain devoid of cats until after we drink in the New Year.

One Pink Bird....

Last week at Emily’s preschool music class the teacher lined up all the kids. There were ten of them and she told them that they were all blue pigeons sitting on a wall. The teacher began to sing, “Ten blue pigeons sitting on a wall.” Almost immediately, Emily interrupted. “I’m a pink bird!” she insisted in her high pitched, squeaky four year old voice.

The teacher started the song again, “Ten blue pigeons…..” But Emily was not discouraged. Once again, she piped up “I’m a pink bird!” Finally, the teacher acquiesced and altered the lyrics of the song to say "Ten blue pigeons (and one pink bird) sitting on a wall." A few Moms glanced at me with an “I’m so sorry your child is behaving so badly” look. A couple of others muttered a soft “tsk, tsk” under their breath. And a few laughed. I beamed. I beamed because my four year old daughter was the only pink bird in a world of blue pigeons and she wasn’t going to let anyone tell her otherwise.

A few days later, I told the story of the pink bird to a friend at work. He chuckled and said “There has to be a lesson in that story somewhere.” He was right. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that tiny little Emily was trying to teach us all three very important lessons. Let me share them with you.

Lesson 1: Be the Bird You Want to Be (You have the power to define who you are.)
Lesson 2: Stand Out in the Crowd. (Be a pink bird in a world of blue pigeons.)
Lesson 3: Celebrate your Pinkness (We are all a bit different and that’s OK.)

Let me explain some more.

Lesson 1: Be the Bird You Want to Be.
Though just a child, in her innocence, little Emily understands something that is very important but that many of us have forgotten. She knows that she is the only person with the power to define who she is.

Unfortunately, in our grown up ways, many of don't realize this. And in missing this point, we allow other people to tell us who we are. They see us as a “wife” or a “mother” or a “doctor” or a “waitress.” And they pin labels on us and set expectations as to what we should say and do and what we should want or be. They tell us we are blue pigeons and we believe them. And we live our blue pigeon lives hopping in the park pecking bread off the ground with the other blue pigeons, following what the flock has chosen for us. And that, my friends, is the greatest lie of life.

Because the reality is that I am the only person who can define who I am. You are the only person who can define who you are. All it takes is the courage to stand up and say “Hey, I’m not a blue pigeon. I’m a pink bird!” The reality is that I have the power to be the bird I want to be. And you have the power to be the bird you want to be. And nobody anywhere has the power to tell either or us otherwise.

Lesson 2: Stand Out in the Crowd.
As we grow up we attend school, we get a job, and we become part of a community. And all around us there is a tremendous amount of pressure to “fit in” and to “go with the flow” and to “follow the crowd.” And thousands of people do just that every day. They eat lunch at TGI Fridays and they attend Chamber of Commerce Meetings each month. They wear neatly pressed suits and ties and keep their hair trimmed. And by all means, they try not to draw any undue attention to themselves. And there lives are dull and gray. And they are miserable.

But not Emily. Emily is special. She’s sweet and funny and most of all, she is unique. And she knows it. And more important than that, Emily is not afraid to stand out and be different. And she doesn't care what anyone else thinks about that. When she wakes up and dresses herself in an orange striped t-shirt and purple and pink plaid pants she is screaming to the world “Look at me, I’m unique and special and I love myself.” That’s the power of being four, I guess.

But imagine what your life could become if you took the advice of that four year old girl. Suddenly, you wouldn’t care that you were wearing white after Labor Day or that you left your Christmas lights up well into February just because you thought they were pretty and still felt like celebrating. Suddenly, you would be free to stand out in the crowd and enjoy all of the ways in which you are unique and special. And all of the opinions of all of the people who were telling you all of the things you can't do wouldn't matter anymore. Suddenly you would be proud to discover that you are a pink bird in a world of blue pigeons.

Lesson 3: Celebrate your Inner Pinkness.
It’s not enough to understand that you are a pink bird in a world of blue pigeons. To be fully alive, you need to embrace your inner pinkness. The truth is, we are all a bit different. Rather than try and ignore what makes us each special – or worse yet, try and hide it – we need to celebrate it.

Emily celebrates her inner pinkness every day. “Honey,” I say, “Please put on your jammies.” “No, Mommy,” She responds “Tonight I am a mermaid.” She dons her mermaid princess costume and crawls into bed and falls asleep smiling from ear to ear. Emily doesn’t care if the other Moms are snickering or saying “tsk, tsk.” She is happy - really and truly happy. And that is enough.

Be remarkable! Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. Understand that you are uniquely you. And love yourself exactly as you are – with all your faults and foible and failings. Because your inner pinkness makes you the most wonderful, special person in the world.

Three such beautiful lessons from such a wise young girl! But of course, we all know that it’s not always easy to be pink. Someday, when Emily is thirteen she may succumb to peer pressure and spend copious amounts of time just trying to fit in. She will darken her feathers and try and make herself look just like all the other blue pigeons. She’ll stop playing tag with the butterflies and will sit dully on a park bench marking time with the flock. But I promise you, when she does, I’ll be there to remind her that in her heart she is a pink bird and meant to fly high. Because pink birds are a rare and precious breed.

I Want To Go To Kindergarten!

"I want to go to Kindergarten!!!!!", Emily flailed and screamed at the top of her lungs as I carted her out of Eric’s classroom. It was Eric’s second day and I had allowed Emily to join me as I walked him to school. I thought she would enjoy seeing a real kindergarten classroom up close. She did enjoy it. She enjoyed it so much that she refused to leave. So while other happy families strolled through the corridors with smiling children, I was lugging a shrieking pre-schooler out of the building.

Despite the tantrum, I’m glad Emily is excited about the idea of attending Kindergarten. Eric was too. And he’s even more excited now that he is in first grade. The public elementary school a few blocks from our house is a fresh, new building filled with pleasant and enthusiastic educators. The principal is a cheerful man who works hard to create a positive and enriching experience for all of the children. It’s a little bit different from my own primary education.

For eight years, from September through June, I sat stiffly at a tiny desk in a cramped classroom in an ancient building. There was no air conditioning to make us more comfortable on the muggy June afternoons and precious heat on the frigid January mornings. I dressed in a dreary uniform every day. The administration had selected drab brown jumpers with a plain white blouse. I wonder if they feared that infusing any color into our dressings would cause a rebellion, anarchy, chaos or worse.

I don’t recollect all of my teachers. Yet what seems to stick with me is how many of them looked drained and surely as they lectured and dictated from in front of the chalk board. I wonder if any of them ever woke up burning with excitement to start their day of building great leaders of the future. I can’t recall the name of our principal. I imagine it was something intimidating like Sister Claudius St. Bernard. She was a stern woman in a starched navy apron with thin lips who wore sensible shoes. Discipline and order reigned and I never had an interaction with her that approached a smile or a kind word.

But I suppose my school days were not completely unpleasant. I remember playing magnificent games of kick ball in the play ground during lunch recess. A more congenial sixth grade nun once read “Charlotte’s Web” to us, making it a favorite of mine to this day. Though our classroom was not a hot bed of new ideas, we were sufficiently schooled in the basics. Still, I often wonder if there shouldn’t have been more.

While my own grade school memories don’t reflect an ideal scholastic setting, I suspect it was pretty typical of the times. I do believe our school tried hard to do what they thought was best given what they had to work with at the time. Still, it comforts me to think that we’ve learned something in the past 30 years about what enriches children. I think many teachers today are better equipped and have a passion for their vocation – at least those that I’ve met.

Every time I visit Eric’s class, my heart runs over. It’s bright and warm and welcoming. The educators are smart, friendly and encouraging. Eric’s teacher has a wealth of knowledge and experience and is always challenging the children with fun and exciting new ways to learn and grow. I guess that’s why I can truly appreciate Emily’s yearning to be a part of the experience as soon as possible. As Emily beat her fists and kicked her legs I smiled slyly and wondered what people would think if I suddenly started stomping and yelling "I want to go to kindergarten too!!"

You Can't Have Too Many Friends Who Love You

A few weeks ago, Eric invited his friend Abbey over for a play date. They've been pals since preschool and have kept in touch now that they are both in first grade. It was a sunny autumn afternoon and they played let’s pretend together on the swing set in our backyard. When I asked Eric what games they were playing he said they were puppies. Later, Abbey and Eric created some art. Eric made a yellow star with glitter and glue for Abbey. Abbey made an enormous pink and purple heart for Eric.

That’s when Abbey told me a secret. “Eric and I love each other”, she confessed, “but not like moms and dads. We love each other like friends.” It was so sweet my heart almost burst. “Honey”, I said, “You can never have too many good friends who love you.

It’s true. You never can have too many friends who love you. You know who they are. The people you can count on to give you a lift on a dreary day. The ones that make you laugh so hard that you spit milk out your nose. And the ones who give you a strong shoulder to lean on when you feel weak.

I’ve been fortunate to have some great friends in my life. From the time I was four until we relocated to separate coasts, my friend Michele and I were best pals. We helped each other heal the wounds from spoiled relationships while eating copious amounts of mint chocolate chip ice cream and listening to gloomy power ballads on a cassette deck. In college, I had three fantastic roommates each with their own energy and spirit. Val, Jen and Julie aided me as I navigated the confusing path from teen to adult. In the process we had a couple of beers (as well as one or two hang overs), threw some parties, and laughed out loud till the landlord came knocking on the door. After a late night of celebrating (whatever might have been important enough for a college student to celebrate) we would watch MTV or “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure” into the wee hours of the morning. Another favorite pastime was playing hours and hours and hours of volleyball before heading out for a few drinks.

This past October I flew to Arizona to spend a long weekend with three great friends. Sherry, Erin,Kim and I had all worked together and shared the common complaints of our occupation. We lounged by the pool in the dry sun for hours and sipped froo froo drinks. We told secrets and stories that made us laugh so hard our ribs hurt and scared away the other hotel guests in the process. We celebrated each others accomplishments. And we helped each other heal from scars – some recent, some more remote. Every once in a while, I need a weekend like that to remind me to keep my friends close.

When I look around, I realize how lucky I am. I have three fantastic kids. I have an awesome husband. My parents, sisters, in-laws, nieces and nephews are wonderful too. I’m fortunate that I have such great friends and family who all love me in just the right way.

As time goes by, Eric and Abbey will probably drift apart. She’ll find playing puppy dog games is less interesting than puppy love or shopping for new shoes. Eric will become consumed with racing BMX bikes or skateboarding or driving a convertible. They won’t schedule play dates and will stop sitting next to each other in the cafeteria. But some day, when Eric and Abbey are both pushing forty, I think they’ll each look back and remember what a beautiful thing it was to have a good friend to love.

How Curious George Made Me a Better Mom

"Mama, read eggo." Bethy snuggles into my lap. We are sitting on the floor in her room surrounded by heaps of books. She wants me to read her Dora the Explorer book for the 100th time. I know exactly which one she means - the one where Dora and Boots adventure with cousin Diego (or eggo to Beth) to save baby Jaguar. As soon as we finish "eggo" she picks up her Find the Ducky book and we laugh together as we read it again and again and again and again.......

At two years old, Beth's interests are plain. She appreciates chocolate cake, a tickle on the tummy, and reading books about her favorite topics: ducks, Dora and doggies. Her favorite color is yellow, like a duck. Her favorite songs include "My Bunny (bonnie) Lies Over the Ocean" and "Itsy Bitsy Spider." Even though we are singing it for the tenth time in a row, Beth giggles as if it is brand new. I feign fascination when the spider is washed out, yet again. But it’s Beth’s favorite song and when she smiles and insists "Again! Again", I oblige.

One of the best pieces of parental advice I ever received was from my sister Theresa. She passed on wisdom that my Aunt Betty and Uncle Jim shared with her. Simply put, she told me to "be interested in the things that interest your kids. If your kids like basketball, then you like basketball. If your kids like swimming, then you like swimming." I keep this idea in mind every day and do my best to apply it.

When Theresa shared this wisdom, I understood her meaning clearly. She didn't convey that I should share my passions with my children. She didn't advise that I spend time engaged in interests that I have in common with my kids. She didn't tell me to try and be their friends. She told me to be interested in whatever interested them. The underlying message was that being able to communicate with your children about things that are important to them will go a long way when it comes time to communicating about important things.

During her youth, Theresa enjoyed sports like basketball, softball and volleyball. On becoming a Mom, she looked forward to the days of passing on her passion. But when my niece Katelin and my nephew Daniel were small, they didn't share her enthusiasm for all things athletic. Rather than force them into years of therapy because "Mom made me play soccer when I hated it", she switched gears. Instead of focusing on what she liked, she helped her kids find their passion and then enjoyed it with them. As the kids grew older, she continued to communicate with them on all sorts of issues. She's following the same plan with baby Mary who is almost three.

As a result of Theresa’s advice, I can name at least ten different Pokeman and their associated powers. And I even know that Dragonoid is a Bakugan, not a Pokeman. Since Eric likes to play ice hockey, I make it a point to skate with him from time to time. I have read the Disney version of Sleeping Beauty enough times to tell you that her real name is Aurora, that her father is King Stephan and that Maleficent is responsible for the evil curse. I know that Emily will correct me if I get any of that wrong. I have read most of the Magic Tree House series and watched enough episodes of Dora the Explorer to last a life time. I have attended countless tea parties and know how to pretend to be a very convincing Power Ranger. And I enjoy every blessed moment of it.

Being in touch with what interests my kids comes in very handy. One time last year, I had to take Emily (three at the time) to the hospital for some tests. Before going, we read Curious George - the one where he goes to the hospital. She learned enough about hospitals, doctors and nurses for me to convey to her young mind what would happen during her visit. The next day, as we sat in the waiting room, we talked about George together - sharing a common experience past and present. More recently, seven year old Eric and I enjoyed a spirited discussion on fairness and following the rules. We used soccer and hockey to give examples of how rules are often made to keep us safe and to make things more fun for everyone. And we talked about what to do when someone acts in a way that isn't fair.

I don't kid myself. I appreciate that right now I have little kids with little problems. Eric’s biggest concern is that he can’t tie his shoes by himself. Emily worries most about which stuffed animal will share her bed. And Beth’s biggest problem is a poopy diaper. There are no boyfriends, college applications or driver's licenses getting in the way yet. I'm just hoping that being involved in their lives today will pay off big in the future. But even if it doesn’t, I’m going to have some really cool memories to look back on.

Rainbows Belong to Emily

It is a dramatically beautiful autumn morning. The air tastes fresh, like a drink of water from a bubbling mountain spring. The sun has just poked its head over the horizon and beams of warm light bounce off the brown and yellow leaves of an immature ash tree. The rays dance among the tree branches and then spill into the grass to play with the breeze.

A plump brown rabbit rests in the neighbor’s yard, munching its breakfast, wiggling its nose and reflecting on the day to come. When it notices me approaching, it twitches its ears good morning.

I am standing in my driveway, having just come out to retrieve the morning news. Just then my eyes are drawn to the western sky. That’s when I see it, stretching its hues across the corn fields, a pink rainbow. I stop and hold my breath.

And the first thought that finds my consciousness is that it would thrill Emily to behold this vision. That’s when it occurs to me that Rainbows belong to Emily.

Rainbows belong to Emily,
As do ponies, pixies, and rings.
Emily, you see is my princess,
And she owns all of these pretty things.

Eric owns ninjas and Spiderman.
He lays claim to cars and to trucks.
Bethy owns Dora’s adventures.
And she is also partial to ducks.

A green car is mine.
A blue one Ken claims.
And the house is in both of our names.
We all own two cats,
Or perhaps they own us.
Isn’t it all the same?

But whatever we own,
Whatever we see,
Whatever we feel or do,
There is only one thing
I know for certain.
And this I know is true.

Bethy owns bubbles and baubles.
She'd pick blankets too, if you asked.
Eric takes scooters,and skates and bikes
And things that go too fast.
But a rainbow is sweet and perfect,
And even though I know it won’t last,
Because it is pink and pretty,
It belongs to Emily.

Suddenly, the rainbow fades like a dream that drifts away when you wake. The rabbit is still sitting nearby, smiling at me. I wave and say "Good Day" before it hops back to its family. I turn back to the house to rejoin mine. Emily, alas, is still asleep. And I dare not wake her lest she miss her pretty dreams.

On Top of Old Smokey

My kids love to play camp out in the living room. Emily drags out her Tinker Bell cot and Eric locates some new double A's for his Spiderman flashlight. Beth burrows under a pile of covers and feigns snoring sounds. They dream they are resting in their tents after trudging for miles across barren plains. In reality, they feast on marshmallows, graham crackers and bits of chocolate. It’s hardly a woodsy escapade but for two preschoolers and a first grader it’s just about right.

Before I had children, oh so many years ago, I enjoyed wandering in a quiet wood. I suppose it’s because a ring of short hills, part of the Appalachian range, encircled our little home - so different from the corn fields the surround me now.

In autumn, when I was little, Mom would take us for hikes through the trees on a bright Saturday afternoon. We would follow a brook or wade through paths of red and yellow leaves. Eventually, we’d reach a small pond where Mom would rest while the kids searched for bugs and rabbits. Then Mom would show us how to identify a birch tree, strip away the bark from a twig, and chew the thin syrupy taste from the inner core.

As I grew older I yearned to return to the woods and soak in the sunshine and fresh air. When I was in college my roommate, Jenny, would often persuade me to ditch my Friday afternoon Calculus class. We’d jump in her brown hatch back and set off for a hike at the Delaware Water Gap. We’d climb rocks, trod streams, and tramp through brush without any concern or cares.

One November, shortly after we graduated from college Jenny phoned with a spectacular idea. What did I think about heading down to Shenandoah National Park for an early winter camping trip? Even though most of my camping up to this point had been setting up a tent in August at Jellystone Parks Campgrounds, I was eager to go along. A few days later Jenny and I and a half dozen other twenty-somethings were cruising west on Interstate 66 to Front Royal, Virginia. Our camping supplies included sleeping bags, tents, flashlights and matches. Though the sun shined brightly, the temperatures reached a mere forty two degrees and were falling.

The sun had set by the time we reached our camp site at Matthews Landing on the top of Sky Line Drive. Other than a raccoon who was intrigued by our presence, the camp grounds were deserted. Even the pit toilets had been closed for the season (and you all know what that means). By now, the temperatures had dropped to below freezing and there was a sharp wind whipping over the mountain top and biting at our cheeks and noses.

Our friend John, the most experienced outdoorsman in the group, took charge of starting a camp fire from leaves and kindling. The rest of us, bundled only in ski jackets and scarves, wandered off to unearth logs for the fire. I suppose I hadn’t planned well as my jacket was much too thin for conditions. Soon, my whole body trembled from cold. I remember finding a thick group of short trees and crawling in amongst them to escape the bite of the wind. I stayed until I heard the crackle of the camp fire calling me back to the group.

Then, like a scene that only occurs in Broadway musicals, or among college students, someone pulled out an acoustic guitar and started strumming camp songs and Beatles tunes. Soon we were all singing Kumbaya at the top of our lungs, roasting hot dogs on sticks and downing hot chocolate spiked with Baileys. Above us, a million stars danced along to the music while a handful of snowflakes flitted down from the sky. The only sounds were the music, the spitting of the fire and the howling of the wind and the night air tasted clean, pure and beautiful. It sounds kinda corny now, but I remember thinking then that it was the best adventure of my life. In truth the best adventure was still around the corner.

As I help my children set up their living room camp site, we imagine ourselves huddled together around a snapping fire. They poke invisible hot dogs onto imaginary sticks. And we sing about a farmer in a dell and a dog named Bingo while we drink apple juice from sippy cups.

Both camping trips were cozy and comforting and I feel lucky to have been able to be a part of each of them. And while it’s true that my days of camping on the top of Old Smokey on a blustery November night are probably behind me, I am still living the best adventure of my life - the adventure of motherhood.