It's Okay to Disagree--Just Vote.

Like most kids, my girls are sponges who absorb any information thrown their way.  They are extremely gullible convincible and can be talked into most anything.  Lena was once convinced I needed Ginsu knives because the commercial on TV said every kitchen needs them.  Ginsu knives aside, their latest infatuation and opportunity for absorption is the election of our new mayor.

Sadly, our former mayor passed away only a few months into office, creating an unexpected scramble to fill the mayoral seat.  I liked our former mayor.  We used to work in the same building and we’d talk about fishing and politics.  He’d smiled at my then baby and toddler and herd them back to my office when they escaped down the hall.  I was really excited to see what he would do as leader of our capital city, and his death was extremely sad and unfortunate.  I don’t want to be voting for a mayor, because I already voted for the candidate I wanted.

Without reading any information on either of the new candidates, my vote was swayed by the majority of my like-minded friends who almost unanimously chose the same candidate.  Pretty soon, this candidate’s name was plastered in my world and I barely knew the other candidate existed.  Yard signs went up, fundraisers were hosted, the former mayor’s son made a public endorsement, and my Facebook newsfeed was scattered with endorsement for this candidate.  I still knew nothing about the candidate except all my friends wanted her to win—and so did my children.  Say what?  How does a six year old and eight year old know who they want to be mayor?  Easy, they absorb it from their surroundings.  Apparently, their step-grandparents are big fans of this candidate and held a fundraiser which my kids attended.  I’ve been hearing from my girls non-stop that I should vote for this candidate because that’s who they are voting for (if they could vote).

Yesterday, before driving over the Douglas Bridge, the girls and I drove through a lively intersection overflowing with supporters for both candidates waving and holding signs encouraging horn-honking and interaction.  Truthfully, this has always made me uncomfortable.  Aside from the fact there are enough distractions while driving, I loathe getting stuck in the intersection and being forced to awkwardly make eye-contact with someone while I’m busting out Adele’s “Hello.”  I usually do my best to stare straight ahead and restrain myself from flipping them the bird because I know they are probably really nice people, but right at that moment, I just find them annoying.  Their signs are not going to help me choose a candidate, so for me; they may as well not be there.  My girls however think it’s awesome, so I find myself shrinking lower into my seat as they wave to the supporters and even blow them kisses (okay, so they blew one kiss, to their step-grandfather, but still, kisses were blown and not by me). 

Noticing I was not participating in the hoopla, my girls once again told me who they were voting for and told me they were glad that even though our family is divided, we are all voting for the same person.  This is where I put on the brakes, figuratively speaking.  I was quick to inform them that they had no idea who I was voting, which left them speechless.  Stunned, Lena asked me who I was voting for.  I told her the truth: I wasn’t sure.  Yes, it was less than 24 hours until Election Day, but I still hadn’t done my research.  I asked them why they wanted their choice to win and why they were voting for her.  They said they didn’t know and that they are only voting for her because that’s who their dad, step-mom, and step-grandparents are voting for.  I pushed them harder and asked them if they knew the candidate’s stance on anything.  After explaining to them what “stance” meant, they still couldn’t tell me anything.  I told them that I planned on doing some reading and research that evening to get some facts about each candidate before making my decision.  Lena amazed me by asking if I could share those facts with them so they could decide who they wanted to vote for. I told her that was an excellent idea and I was proud of her for not feeling she needed to vote for who her parents want to win.  I then blew the cover off the whole discussion by admitting that the majority of the time, I don’t vote the same way as my parents! (Gasp!) Aurelia was quick to pipe in “and they still love you.”  Yes, they do still love me.  It may have been questionable during the 2008 presidential election whether I’d ever be allowed back in my parent’s house, but we all got over it and at the end of the day, we still love each other, no matter our political differences.

Rocking the "I Voted" Sticker

Last night, as I lay in bed sandwiched between my girls, I read some stats on the candidates and came up with my decision.  It doesn’t matter who I chose because at the end of the day, I know I made the right decision, and that decision is to just get out and vote—no matter who you choose. 

The bottom line is, we are all different and have different beliefs, but I love you just the same. 

PS- There’s always this option:

Being Able to Celebrate is the Best Gift of All

Ah, birthdays. Once we become adults we are taught to “dread” our birthdays and not make a big deal about them.  Another year older, more wrinkles, more gray hair, what’s there to like about that?  I’ll tell you what’s to like: you’re here.

I have friends who downplay their birthdays and make a point to tell their family and friends to not make a big deal about it.  Me on the other hand?  I want to stand out in the street dancing and singing, “It’s my birthday!  I’m still here!”  I want to have a party with my family and friends and celebrate life, my life and their life.  We are here!

I loved birthdays as a kid because let’s face it, my mom threw the best birthday parties.  They weren’t fancy, no pool or movie theater rental.  They were simple homegrown sleepovers where mom would make homemade pizza, we’d play silly games that my mom made up and we’d all cram on the floor in our sleeping bags and wake up to mom making waffles in the morning.  I can recall every friend that was at those parties, but I couldn’t tell you a single gift I was given, which is exactly how I want to remember it. 

As I got older, my mom stopped throwing me parties and I jumped on the “it’s just a birthday” bandwagon.  No biggie, nothing to see here.   But then, I got cancer.  The first birthday after I beat cancer, an ad for the American Cancer Society came on the TV with famous people singing Happy Birthday.  The idea behind the commercial was, imagine a life with more birthdays and less cancer.  I sat on my couch with my peach-fuzz hair growing back and sobbed my eyes out.  I would never again, ever, take my birthday for granted.

I have a friend celebrating a birthday today. A friend who spent the last 2 ½ months in intensive care fighting for his life and today, on his birthday, he is being discharged.  I sent him a Happy Birthday message and he replied back, “Best birthday ever!”  I then told him they will be the best from here on out.  I truly do believe they just get better with age.

I don’t expect my friends or family to throw me huge parties on my birthday, in fact, I don’t expect them to do anything or even remember, but that doesn’t mean I won’t walk around grinning like an idiot floating high on the knowledge that I’m still here and I am HAPPY to be another year older. 

When people get excited about your birthday and want to do something for you—be happy!  Don’t give them the “I don’t do birthdays” or “let’s just get this over with” look.  They want to do something because they love you and they are happy you are on this earth.  We never know when our last birthday will be, so celebrate each one like it’s the best one ever.

Me, smiling big on my 39th birthday

Let it Go

It’s been three months since I wrote my kick in the butt post and I feel it’s time for a check in to see how everyone is doing with their self-butt kicking.  I’ve heard from so many folks how that post hit a nerve—in a good way.  Well, that just makes my little old heart swell.  I believe it’s so important to reflect on our life and take inventory on how we are doing.

So, how are we doing?  Since my own New Year’s Eve butt kick motivational speech, I’ve been trying to focus on happiness and letting things go.  Yes, I am going to say it.  Let it Go!  (Cue parents everywhere covering their ears and cringing).   As my One Hot Mess Alaska Blogger friend Libby refers to her, “That bitch Elsa,” has a good point.  I hear from so many friends that they just have too much going on.  Between jobs, kids, commitments, appointments, and life, we just don’t seem to have any time to breathe.  I look at my friends and they all look so tired and worn out— sorry friends, but it’s true.  It looks like they’ve been hit by a bus, or hit a bus. 

Speaking of hitting buses, a few months ago, I did just that.  Yes, I plowed my SUV mom-mobile right into a parked school bus.  Granted I was going under five miles an hour, but I somehow managed to total my car. I don’t know what happened other than I got vertigo, started seeing double and drove for a mile and a half pretty much unconscious before I snapped out of it and convinced myself it would be a good idea to pull over— right into a school bus.  I actually said out loud and very matter-of-fact to Aurelia, “Oh, look at that, momma hit a bus.”  In her head, I’m sure Aurelia said, “No shit, Sherlock,” because that’s the type of thing my five-year old would say if allowed.

I spent the day in the ER while the doctors tested me for strokes, MS, and cancer; and the police tested me for alcohol and uncontrolled substances.  Cause you know, the first thing I do every morning is wash my crack down with a bottle of Crown before driving my kids to school.  After having me stand on one foot while looking up and counting backwards by seven, mind you I find these tasks difficult while sober, they failed me and went straight to the blood test.  Negative. Take that coppers.  No one could find anything wrong with me, but I had a hunch what was going on.

The night before the incident, I was lying in bed envying celebrities who check into hospitals for exhaustion.  How awesome would that be? Someone would bring me food.  I wouldn’t have to make it, I wouldn’t have to serve it, I wouldn’t have to jump up ten times during eating it to get someone more milk or stand guard in the bathroom enforcing hand washing after toilet use.  I would be oh so polite and say “please” and “thank you” and “this tastes amazing” as I eat my instant butterscotch pudding IN BED while watching Judge Judy.  For a girl who has spent a lot of time in hospitals, it’s not a good sign when you start to wish you could rest in one.

Simply put, I was drained and I needed to slow down.  Between one full-time job, one part-time job, being a single-mom of two active girls, and wrestling with my Type-A personality which is always trying to please, I had shifted into overdrive and burned out.

Where is that balance of getting done what absolutely needs to get done and letting go of the extras while still finding time to enjoy life?  This equation is a difficult one for me to solve and I’m always open to ideas.  I have found meditation really helps me.  I find it very hard to press the mute button on my overactive Type-A brain.  My mind wanders like crazy from “What I am going to eat for lunch” to “Did she really say her cousin was in prison” to “Was that tumble weed or a giant fur ball that just scurried across the floor” to “Man, I need to brush the dog” to “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a maid” to “No, no, if I could have one splurge, I’d prefer a live-in massage therapist” to “Why are my eyes open” to “Let it go and just breathe!”

I can last anywhere from 5-20 minutes and over time; I’ve become better at shutting my brain off.  I tell myself, “That’s nice, move on.”  I don’t get frustrated at my random thoughts anymore and once I can acknowledge and dismiss them, I can go back to concentrating on breathing.  What a difference it makes.  My head is clearer and I can be productive without feeling overwhelmed.  Just like appointments and meetings, I schedule in time to meditate and do things I enjoy.

I also have to say no a lot more, which can be very difficult, but it has improved my life tenfold.  Saying no can be so hard when you want to be a pleaser, which I always do.  But there comes a point where saying yes to everything takes a toll on your body mentally and physically.  Most of the time, it’s not even the act of saying the word “no”, it’s just the act of not volunteering and saying “yes” which as it turns out, is totally okay to do.  Someone recently told me if they didn’t volunteer to be the chair of a committee, no one would and the whole thing would fail.  I told them, “So it fails.”  Yeah, it would suck, but eventually, someone else may step in and fill those shoes if they deem it important.  I told my friend if it’s causing him that much stress, then he’s probably not being affective at it and it’s not worth it to always feel bad or guilty for not giving 100%.  Let it go.

I also make sure to listen to plenty of music and get outside as much as possible.  Sometimes it’s just stepping outside and sitting on my porch with Yasha the wonder dog after I’ve put the girls to bed.  Yasha is an excellent listener and sometimes she will even let me lay my head on her and use her as a pillow as I gaze up at the stars.  From my porch we’ve seen the northern lights, shooting stars, goats on the mountain, porcupines scurrying across the road, and seals playing in the channel.  All things I’d be too busy to notice if I was too busy to stop and breathe.

I’m also a big believer in keeping your heart young.  Which reminds me, *shameless plug* I’m singing at the Alaska Folk Festival on Sunday April 12^th at 8 PM.  Coincidentally, one of the songs I’ll be singing is Brandi Carlile’s, “Keep Your Heart Young.”

Remember; secure your own air mask before assisting others around you.  If you don’t take care of yourself first, everything else goes to hell in a handbasket.

P.S.- Lena's Birthday is Saturday.  She has a class party on Friday, a family dinner/celebration on Friday night, and a kid birthday on Saturday.  I am making ONE cake.  Hear that universe?  One freaking cake.  Dixie cup ice cream for the class, cupcakes made by a dear friend for Friday night, and ONE single layer (no boats this time) cake by me.  See, I'm letting it go.

New Year’s Eve Motivational Speech 2015

The past four New Year’s Eves, I’ve had the same resolution- work towards being happy.  This is a work in progress and I have cancer to thank for this. 

For as much as I hate cancer and how it can rip lives apart, I have to admit, for me, getting cancer was an awakening.  I can say this because I had one of those cancers that has a 90% 5-year survival rate.  I was lucky—extremely lucky.  This April will be my fifth year in remission and I still thank my lucky stars I got one of the “good” ones.

So where does the sense of awakening come from?  After my diagnosis and the initial shock, sadness, and rage wore off; acceptance sunk in.  Acceptance caused me to pause and evaluate where I was in life.  Was I happy?  No, and I hadn’t been for some time.  I had given up my career in museums and my dream of being a museum director to get married, have a family, piecemeal jobs together (usually working two part-time jobs, if not three), and I was in an unhealthy and unhappy marriage.

We all change as we get older.  Our bodies change, we become more mature (maybe), our values may become more pronounced, and heck, we may even start to like Brussel sprouts (if there is enough bacon fat added to the skillet).  But deep down, the bright light that makes up all that is you should still be present.  My bright light had been extinguished years before I was diagnosed with cancer.  I was a mere shell of a person on autopilot just trying to get through the day.  I was working to make everyone else happy while completely neglecting my own need for love and nurture.  I wasn’t receiving it in return and I had forgotten that it is something we all need to thrive.  I continued to take care of my physical body.  I exercised and ate a mostly organic diet making great attempts to stay away from hormones and preservatives.  But when you are deprived of love and support, it’s hard to be mentally strong.  I lost all sense of who I was or used to be and went on autopilot where it was easier to feel nothing than it was to notice love's lack of presence. 

I continued to smile for pictures and trained myself to laugh without emotion.  My parents noticed it.  My long-time friends noticed it.  They all hinted that I wasn’t the same, that something was wrong.  A small few who knew the details of my situation urged me to wake up and be the bad-ass girl they used to know.  But, the girl that didn’t take shit from anyone and wasn’t afraid of anything was nowhere to be found.  The girl that remained was frightened, worn-down, and timid.  The old me would have noticed my situation from a mile away and told the girl to wake up and look at what was going on around her.  But I was no longer that girl.

I clearly remember the defining moment when I relit that flame inside me.  Spending a lot of time in hospital waiting rooms and chemo infusion rooms, I rediscovered my love for music.  I hadn’t been listening to it much and I certainly wasn’t buying anything new. When I got sick, a dear friend, who was dismayed that I had not heard the last four Indigo Girls albums, burned them for me and mailed them to me.  And, just in case the IGs are reading this, I did end up purchasing them for myself.  The first one I listened to was from Poseidon and the Bitter Bug which had just come out.  I was coming out of a four day chemo haze and had just returned home from dropping my mom off at the airport.  The song Fleet of Hope came on and the world around me paused.  I walked over to my arctic entry, which at the time had the only view of the water from my house. I stared out at Gastineau Channel and swam in the lyrics, and then drowned in my own tears.

"When I was a girl
All of my fancy took flight
And I had this dream
Could outshine anything
Even the darkest night
Now I wait like a widow for someone to come back from sea
I've always known
I was waiting for me”

It was a slap in the face, waking me up from a six year blur of unhappiness.  At that moment, I realized how precious our life is and how lucky we are every day to be here. Damn lucky. If we’re here on this earth, we should be happy.  I decided at that moment I wanted to be happy and I wasn’t going to let anything or anyone get in my way.

I had a long way to go.  It was February and I wouldn’t be done with my treatments until the end of July.  I also knew after that, I had to make some big and difficult decisions.  I listened to Fleet of Hope almost every day, and with each treatment, I realized I was one step closer to healing not only my cancer, but my soul.

The past four years has been a long and hard haul.  I’ve had to let go of resentment, anger, and regret— which has been a huge challenge.  Hardest of all though was learning to feel again.  Finally out of my numbness and autopilot, I was forced to face head on all that I had been through since I had stopped feeling years before.  I spiraled into deep depression, something I had never experienced.  Let me tell you, that stuff is the real deal.  It is dark, it is painful, it feels hopeless and you can’t just snap out of it.  I found my way out with the help of new friends who took me in and showered me with love and kindness.  I also had the help of a wonderful therapist and anti-depressants.  No shame.  If you have diabetes, you need insulin.  If you have a broken arm, you need a cast. If you experience depression or have any other type of mental illness, you need help as it just won’t go away on its own.

I learned you can’t just wake up one day and put on that thrift store sweater and Doc Martins from high school and say, “Today I am going to be the person I used to be, the person I used to love and be proud of.”  Nope, it doesn’t work that way.  It takes time to re-ignite that flame and sometimes you have to work extra hard to make sure it doesn’t go out.  I’ve had old friends tell me they feel like I’m back; I’m the girl I used to be.  But I know I’ll never be that girl again who looked out into the world with unjaded eyes ready to take it head on.  Honestly, I think I can be better than that girl.  Knowing what I know now, I appreciate things so much more and I’m more cautious about diving in without knowledge of what rocks lie below.  I still dive in from time to time, but I try to remember to wear a helmet.

I’ve regained so much confidence in the past two years. This past year, the girl whose idea to cut down the trees in the front yard to expose the view of the water, which was shot down time and time again, took a chainsaw to those trees and now she sits with her coffee in the morning gazing out at the water, letting light into her windows and her life. This girl who was taught to pinch pennies and made to feel guilty spending money on herself, took a frivolous trip to France and Switzerland exposing her daughters to the world of travel and culture while feeding her own desire to travel.  And the best part is, she can enjoy it all, feel it all, and be confident in her decisions without feeling scared or guilty.

I hope I never have to go through cancer again.  Going through nine months of surgeries, chemo and radiation are no cakewalk, and I have lasting side effects that are always there to remind me.  I don’t have much dexterity or feeling in my fingertips due to the nerve damage the chemo caused.  I have two prominent scars from surgeries and a blue dot tattooed in the middle of my chest placed for radiation alignment.  And if those daily reminders aren’t enough, I get reminded a few times a year when I have to wait for the results of my post-cancer blood tests.  I have a love-hate relationship with these reminders.  I see the scars in the mirror and they remind me of what I’ve been through.  I'll admit, the past four years have come with some major hiccups that try to knock me down.  But each time I'm faced with a challenge, I look at my scars and remind myself I've been through worse.

Am I thankful I got cancer?  Nope.  But I am thankful for the second chance I’ve been given to wake up and enjoy my life.  As we go into 2015, I urge you all to look at your life and take a good hard assessment.  Are you healthy?  Please take your health seriously, I can’t stress this enough.  Have a weird mole?  Get it looked at.  Feel a bit run down and not sure why?  Go see your doctor.  Experiencing depression or anxiety?  Get help— it’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Are you happy and feeling like you are living your life the 18 year old version of you would be proud of?  If not, what changes do you need to make to feel again and care enough about yourself to live your life to the fullest and be happy?  Don’t wait for something catastrophic to come along and kick you in the butt like I did.  Instead, bend over and let me do it for you.  Consider this your official kick in the butt live your life and be happy motivational speech of 2015.

Get out there.  Live your life to the fullest.  Never stop loving yourself.  Realize you are worthy of being loved and feeling happy.

 

 

First Class and Decent Sushi

On our recent trip to France and Switzerland, I wanted to have all accommodations and travel logistics in place prior to leaving Alaska. Traveling with a five year old and seven year old is a far cry from my 1999 European backpacking expedition of  hopping on and off trains with little or no plans and sleeping in dodgy hostels, park benches and train stations.  Aside from having accommodations in place, I also wanted to book train tickets in advance.  When I booked tickets, I somehow managed to book first class tickets for two out of three of our trips.  Paris to Angers was first class, as was Angers to Geneva.  The atmosphere in first class was completely stuffy and quiet—not the best place for kids who are excited to be on their first train.  First class was filled with French businessmen who gasped and tightened up as we boarded the train as though we were wearing shirts that read “WE HAVE EBOLA!”

Prior to boarding the train, I pulled my girls aside and had a talk with them about how we board.  This is what we covered:

• Move quickly and stay close to mom. 
• When I point to your seat, sit down and don’t argue about which seat you’d rather be in. 
• Don’t ask me immediately for a snack as I’m struggling to remove the backpacks from my back and put them on the luggage shelf. 
• Don’t poke your sister. 
• Don’t scream “SHE POKED ME!” when your sister pokes you. 
• Don’t ask to use the bathroom in a loud voice.

Upon boarding the train, we had an amendment to the rules adding, don’t talk above a whisper.  As the men stared at me and my children, it became my goal to prove them wrong.  I envisioned them telling me at the end of the ride, “Your children were perfectly behaved.”  This did not happen, but I have to say, my kids were nearly perfectly behaved, and we managed to get a few smiles.  There were only a few times Aurelia spoke loudly and there was only one squirmish that ended quickly when I threatened to “turn this train around.”  They had no idea I didn't have any power in turning the train around so they got their act together quickly.

Our second first class trip was from Angers to Geneva.  I had the same talk with them and stressed the part about being quiet.  All was well except for Lena getting sick, puking in the bathroom, and then coming back to loudly and proudly announce, “Mom!  My puke was chocolate puke!” 

Our third and final trip was, dare I say, second class.  The girls did not know about different class tickets–  that is until we sat in second class.  Immediately there was a difference.  The seats and accommodations were nearly identical to first class, but the atmosphere and people were a far cry.  The biggest difference was that my children were no longer the only children.  Immediately we were thrust into noisy families complete with whiny kids, crying babies, and short tempered parents.  Food was smashed all over the seats and floors and our seats were jostled with kicks and side punches.  I was excited to not have to constantly give my kids the “sssssshhhh” finger, but my kids were not amused.  Lena sat glumly in her chair staring at her pan au chocolate.  I asked her what was wrong and if she had wanted a plain croissant.  She looked up agitated and said, “Mom, I want to sit somewhere else.”  Assuming she meant she wanted to trade seats with me so she could be forward facing, I told her all she needed to do was ask politely if we could swap seats.  She looked at me like I was an idiot and said snarkily, “No, I want to move to a different car.”  They both went on to ask why this train was so different from the others.  I explained that before we sat in first class and now we were in second.  Aurelia, who had been trying to get comfortable for a nap looked up at me and said, “That’s why I can’t sleep!  I can only sleep in first class!” Well, well.  The same topic was revisited at dinner that night when Aurelia was growing tired and wanting me to hold her at the table.  I reminded her that if she had taken a nap on the train, she wouldn't be this tired.  She informed me that if I had booked a first class ticket, she would have napped, so technically this was my fault.

The last night we were in Paris, the girls spotted a sushi restaurant and asked if we could eat there.  Not wanting to eat sushi my last night in Paris, I told a white lie and said the sushi in Paris wasn’t as good as the sushi in Juneau and let’s just wait until we return home.  They seemed okay with this, but Lena did ask the waiter in a very French restaurant if they had sushi.  I am fairly certain there was spit in Lena’s food.

As we boarded our flight to Iceland, Lena asked me why some people were boarding and going left and we were going right.  I told her that first class was at the front of the plane.  She jutted out her hip, stuck her hand on her waist and said, “Mommy, we told you we didn't want to travel in 2^nd class!” Aurelia, who decided to look on the bright side added, “At least we get to go home where they have decent sushi.”   The stewardess overheard this exchange and gave me a look like, “You’re in trouble.”  I responded with a silent, “I know I am.”

Planting the Bug

In a little over a week, I will be boarding a plane from Juneau to Paris with three small backpacks and two small children in tow.  As we get closer to the trip, my nerves start to get the better of me.  On the best of days, even with a normal schedule, I struggle as a single-parent.  I use the term “single-parent” loosely as I am fortunate to have an ex who is a very devoted father who I share custody with.  He has the girls half the week and I have them the other half.  On the half that I have them, I consider myself a single-mom, just like on the half he has them, I consider him a single-dad.  It is a challenge, and I thank my lucky stars that I am not a single-mom seven days a week because I can honestly say, I don’t think I have the ability to do it.  I would manage, but I would most likely spend a lot of time rocking back and forth, clutching my knees to my chest on the floor of my bedroom crying. 

So why am I embarking on a two-week vacation to Europe with a five and seven year old?  Good question.  I admit when I bought my tickets this summer it was a moment of insanity.  It’s been a long time since I have bought tickets that require a passport, and I've never bought them for my kids.  The moment on Orbitz.com when I actually clicked purchase, I nearly threw up.  I was shaking with excitement, fear, and this overwhelming thought of “What the heck have I just done?!”  At that very moment I realized I was probably crazy.  For starters, I’m not rolling in money; so truthfully, putting three plane tickets on my credit card was weighing on me when I thought about all the other ways I could spend the money.  Practical things like house repairs, car repairs, or the rainy day fund (which I keep telling myself I need to establish).  I have always felt guilty spending money on “fun” things.  It’s the way I was raised.  Even at 37 (I can still say I’m 37 for one more week), I still worry what my father will say. My parents were never frivolous with their money and my dad didn't really start spending money on fun things for himself until he entered his 60s.   Family vacations were always spent ferrying to and driving through Canada to visit family in Washington and attend Fish Expo so dad could buy fishing gear.  There were no trips to Hawaii, and definitely not Europe.  I haven’t told my dad I’m going to Europe.  I know my mom has told him, but I haven’t mustered up the courage to tell him myself I’m spending my money on a fun-trip instead of replacing the rotten wood on the side of my house.

The other fear I had was that aside from me thinking I was crazy, others would think I was crazy too.  Don’t let crazy out of the bag- and with purchasing these tickets, I did just that.  I imagined people saying, “Why waste your money taking kids on a trip they won’t remember?”  The thing is, out of the several dozen people I've told, only one person made that comment.  Instead, I've been blown away by the encouragement I've received and the comments of, “Wow, that’s awesome!”  Even when telling my mom, I prefaced it by telling her my cancer taught me life is too short and you never know when you won’t have opportunities and I don’t want to have my life filled with regret.  I expected some hesitancy on her part, but even she said, “You’re so right.  Life is short and you need to enjoy it while you can.”

So, why am I taking my kids to Europe?   I am not taking them so they will remember going to the Louvre and seeing the Mona Lisa or to take pictures of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower so I can show it to them later and say, “See, you were there.”  I’m taking them there so they can experience something different than what they know.  There is an awkwardness that accompanies traveling, especially for the first time.  And it’s not that I want my kids to be uncomfortable, but I want them to realize that things are not just what they know them to be.  They are going to hear a language other than English.  They are going to experience smells that you can only smell in a city that is over 10,000 years old. They are going to see their mother confused while trying to communicate.  They will eat foods they've never heard of and can’t pronounce. 

My favorite professor and friend, Dr. William Husband, told his Russian history students on the first day of class, “I don’t expect you to leave this course remembering every date and name, but I do expect you to walk away with a general understanding of the history and culture.”  That sums up my reasons for taking my girls.  They may not remember all the specifics, but they will have a memory of the feeling they get while traveling to a new place. 

Traveling and experiencing different cultures has left an impression on me far greater than any diploma I can frame and hang on my wall. It has helped define me and leave me craving more with the understanding I have so much more to experience and learn.  If I can share this experience with my girls, and plant the travel bug in them; all the  better.

Bath Time Blues

When you have two young children, bath night is the worst night in existence for the single-parent.  There is usually a lot of tears on bath night, and most of them are mine.  My kids are past the point they are able to bathe together.  Not because they don’t fit, but because they fight and they can’t agree on the same water temperature.  My dainty seven year old with sensitive skin prefers the water lukewarm to the point ice cubes would not melt for at least an hour, while my Brillo Pad-skinned four year old prefers it piping hot, creating so much humidity in the bathroom, one may think they just entered a steam room.  So, separate baths it is.

Bath nights at our house are Sunday and Tuesday.  My youngest requires almost 12 hours of sleep, which means from the time we arrive home at 5:00 after picking them up from their separate child-care facilities, I have exactly 2 ½ hours to make dinner, help with homework, bathe two children, read them stories, and get them into bed before the four year old succumbs to nuclear meltdown.

What follows is a typical bath night scene in our house:

Mom: Okay, it’s time for bath.  Who is taking a bath first?

Seven year old: Not me.

Four year old: Not me.

Seven year old: I said it first.

Four year old: I don’t care, I took it first last time.

Seven year old: No you didn't

Four year old: YES. I. DID!

Seven year old: Mom, who took it first?

Mom: I don’t remember.  Figure it out— now.  

Four year old: Well, if I take it first again, she (pointing at her sister) can’t do anything fun while I’m in the bath.

Seven year old: That’s no fair.

Mom: She will be doing homework.

Seven year old: MOM, no fair!  Well, what will she (pointing at her sister) do while I am in the bath?

Mom: I don’t know.

Seven year old: Well, she better not be allowed to do anything fun.

Four year old: Fine, I’ll take the first bath.  Jeez.

Mom: Great, I’ll run the water.  (to seven year old) Please, get your homework out.

Four year old: Mom, I need toys.

Mom: You know where they are— don’t take the cheese grater.

Four year old runs to kitchen drawer and grabs a handful of measuring cups, funnels, sifters, spoons, and something she is smuggling under her shirt.

Mom: Put the electric hand mixer back!  It does NOT go in the bath.

Four year old: Fine, jeez. (drops hand mixer on the floor where she is standing.)

Seven year old: Mom, do you want to see the dance I just created?  I’ll do a show for you.

Mom: After you do your homework.  Have you got it out?

Four year old: (calling from her bedroom) MOM!!!!!! MY legs are stuck in my PANTS!

Mom wanders into bedroom to find four-year old lying topless on the floor with her pants stuck around her ankles, kicking ferociously to free herself.

Mom: (freeing daughter from the wrath of the tight leggings) Here you go; now pick them up and put them in the dirty-clothes and get in the tub.

Four year old: MOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!!! You touched my heel!  You touched my HEEL!  I hate when people touch my heel.  Now it itches.

Mom: I am sorry; I did not mean to touch your heel.  Get in the bath and maybe it will stop itching.

Four year old: Fine. Jeez. (stomps off towards bathroom.)

Mom lifts herself off the bedroom floor and makes her way back to kitchen to do the dinner dishes.  Mom notices seven year old has not got her homework out and is instead sitting cross-legged on the floor with one hand on each knee, eyes closed, meditating.  Mom is impressed, but impatient.

Mom: Get your homework out.

Seven year old: Mom, I don’t even have much.  I just have to underline something in a sentence.  Five seconds, max.  Oh, here this is for you.

Seven year old thrusts paper in mom’s hands.  Mom starts to read letter from teacher.

Four year old: MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!! (screaming like she’s just had her arm cut off.)

Mom runs into the bathroom, narrowly missing hand mixer still on the floor where four year old dropped it, fearing the worst only to find daughter unharmed on the toilet, still not in the bath.

Mom: What is it?!

Four year old: Mom, (pointing to fingernail polish on counter) can you please paint my nails when I’m done with bath?

Mom grumbles something inaudible and makes her way back to the kitchen where she finds seven year old using the kitchen stool as a ballet barre.  Mom begins to read letter from teacher and gets two sentences in when blood curdling scream calling her name comes from bathroom.  Mother runs into bathroom to find four year old in the tub unharmed.

Mom: What?

Four year old: Mom, I need cups.  Can you go get them for me?

Mom: I am fully capable of getting cups, but I will not be bringing you them.

Four year old: (realizing this is her mother’s standard response to any request when not prefaced with a “please”) Mom, would you please go get me more cups.  I will love you forever and you will be my best friend.  I need more cups.

Mom: Yes, I can get you more cups but you need to know that the need for more cups does not call for you screaming my name like something was hurting you.

Mom returns to kitchen, deflation beginning, looks in cupboard for plastic cup— empty.  Looks in clean dishwasher which hasn't been emptied yet— no plastic cups.  Looks on counter and finds two dirty plastic cups, quickly rinses them, and returns to bathroom to deliver the cups.  Drops cups in tub and realizes her socks are now wet.  She is standing in a puddle of water.

Four year old: MOM!  I didn't want them in the water, I wanted them on the edge of the tub!!
Mom: What have I told you about water on the floor?

Four year old: Oops.

Mom grabs towel and cleans up water.  Mom decides to leave towel on the floor to collect the inevitable collection of more water.  Mom wanders back into kitchen to find seven year old hanging upside-down off the couch.

Mom: Homework!

Seven year old: OK!

Mom reads letter from teacher trying very hard to focus while seven year old hits her with a barrage of questions about what she is reading.  Mom grabs homework packet to find 15 pages of homework to be spread out through the week.  Well, look at this, the mother thinks to herself; it’s more than underlining a sentence.  SHOCKER!  Mom explains homework to seven year old only for seven year old to argue and tell her that it’s not mandatory she does any of it.  Mom explains to pick one sheet and start on it.  Daughter chooses sheet where she has to write her spelling words three times.  Mom, enjoying the two minutes her name was not screamed, begins to do her dishes only to get her hands wet when another terrifying scream comes from the bathroom.  Mom dries hands, and moseys back to bathroom where the boy who cried wolf awaits.  Mom trips on hand mixer noting to pick it up on her way back through and arrives in bathroom to find four year old standing up in tub pointing at their cat who is sitting on the lid of the toilet.

Four year old: Mom, Chillcat is staring at me and freaking me out.

Mom: He is just a cat.

Four year old: Yeah, but I’m naked in the tub.  Hasn't he heard of privacy?

Mom: Now you know how I feel when I’m using the toilet and you’re standing here asking for something.  Deal.

Mom turns to walk away and hears four year old scream her first legitimate scream of the evening.

Four year old: Chillcat scratched me.

Mom looks at Chillcat who is shaking his wet head, obviously the victim of the water-logged washcloth sitting at his paws.

Mom: Serves you right.

Mom goes back into kitchen to discover seven year old balancing the pencil on her nose.  Looks at seven year old’s homework.  She has written one word.  ONE WORD.  “milk.”

Seven year old: Mom, look.  I can balance this pencil on my nose.

Mom: Homework.

Seven year old: Mom, can I have a glass of milk?

Mom: Homework.

Seven year old: But I’m really, really thirsty.

Mom: Homework.

Seven year old: Milk would taste so good right now.

Mom: Homework.

Mom grabs the dish she’s been trying to wash for the past ten minutes when, yet again, her name is screamed from the bathroom.  Mom trudges towards bathroom, tripping, again, on the hand mixer and finding herself so angry, she kicks it across the room narrowly missing the dog.

Mom: (arriving in bathroom) What?

Four year old: I need shampoo

Mom: Well get your hair wet and I’ll give you some.

Four year old: But I don’t want to get my hair wet.

Mom: Your hair needs to be wet for shampoo.

Four year old: No, it doesn't! (Mom turns to leave) Fine!  I’ll get it wet.  Jeez.

Mom squirts shampoo on daughter’s hand.

Four year old: I want swirlies.  That is not swirlies.

Mom: I am sorry; I can’t always make the shampoo come out in swirlies.  Sometimes it just comes out in a glob.

Four year old: Well, now it’s ruined and I don’t want to put it in my hair.

Mom: It is NOT ruined.  It is fine.  Put the shampoo in your hair, now.

Four year old: Fine. Jeez. (slaps palm with shampoo onto her scalp dramatically.)

Mom: (turning away to go back to kitchen) Tell me when it’s rinsed and you’re ready for conditioner.

Mom returns to kitchen and trips over dog who has buried her head under the bed, leaving her body out in the path resembling an ostrich with its head stuck in a hole.  Dog groans at contact with foot and so does mom.  Mom falls to the floor in a heap, nose to nose with the dog. They exchange sympathetic looks as they both lay on the floor.  Dog sticks her head back under the bed, mom considers this maneuver as well when seven year old screams “MOM” from the kitchen.  Mom doesn’t bother standing.  She crawls back to the kitchen stopping halfway back to rest.

Mom: (from the floor) What?

Seven year old: I was the only one who knew how to spell “milk” in class.

Mom: That’s great dear!  How many times have you written it? (no sarcasm in her voice whatsoever)

Mom stands to look at seven year old’s homework to see that she has written “milk” twice.  TWICE.  Nineteen more words to go, each written three times.  Awesome.

Four year old: (screaming from bathroom) CONDITIONER!!  NOW!!!

Mom stomps back to the bathroom.

Mom: Excuse me!  That is not how you call me.

Four year old: Well, you told me to call you when I needed conditioner.  (she is right and she knows it.)

Mom reaches for conditioner and warns four year old in advance swirlies may not come out and it’s going to be fine.  Miraculously, the conditioner squirts out in swirls onto palm of four year old.  Four year old is so excited; she waves her hand around only to fling the conditioner on her mother’s shirt, also hitting the cat who is still on the toilet lid.  Neither mom nor cat is amused.  Mom aggressively squirts conditioner onto palm of four-year old’s hand and it comes out in a glob.  Four year old opens her mouth to protest but she can see her mother is on that scary edge, so she quietly backtracks and slowly puts the conditioner in her hair.

Mom: Please let me know nicely when you are ready to get out. 

Mom walks back to kitchen and looks at her bed as she passes it.  She longs for the soft down comforter and the fluffy pillows, imagining herself stretching out on the bed, peaceful, asleep.  Just then, Chillcat, sensing her longing; jumps off the toilet lid and jumps onto the bed sprawling out, exposing his belly and yawning.  Screw you Chillcat.  Mom walks back to kitchen pissed at the cat.  She realizes the four year old will be getting out of bath soon and the seven year old has only completed writing one word three times.  Nineteen multiplied by three to go.  Life is good.  Mom sits down with seven year old and helps her stay concentrated long enough to knock out six more.  Mom realizes four year old has been eerily quiet, so mom says a special prayer that four-year old hasn’t drowned or isn’t painting the bathroom with fingernail polish.

Four year old: (from bathroom and very snidely with an English accent) Mother, please bring me my robe and towel. (At least she was polite.)

Mom goes back into bathroom, forgets towel and robe, leaves bathroom, goes into children’s bedroom, stumbles over four-year old's clothes that were obviously not put in the dirty-clothes hamper and grabs robe and towel for four year old.

Mom: (while wrapping up child in robe and towel) Dear, what is the rule about leaving clothes and toys on the floor for people to trip on?

Four year old: They get thrown away. 

(For the record- mom has never thrown anything away because she has found the mere threat hastens the pick-up of said item.)

Mom: That’s right and guess what I just tripped over?  Your dirty clothes.

Four year old: That’s okay, I don’t like that outfit anymore.

(Well, that backfired.)

Mom: Pick it up, now, and then go pick out your pajamas.

Four year old: Fine. Jeez. (stomps off)

Mom returns to kitchen to find seven year old only has one more to word to write left on the assignment.  You mean she could work this fast all along?  Mom praises seven year old on job well done and tells her she will get her a glass of milk.  Seven year old, obviously confused, plainly asks mom why she was getting milk.  Mom takes the glass intended for milk and pours herself a glass of wine instead.  Mom sees the pot of macaroni and cheese leftover from dinner and grabs the wooden spoon and takes a bite.  She did not eat dinner because dinner was spent getting up and down retrieving clean forks, pepper, salt, ketchup, milk, water, etc.

Seven year old: Ahem (raises eyebrow and crosses arms across chest) please use proper manners mom.

Mom lifts her head out of pot displaying cheese sauce smeared on her upper lip.  She growls at her daughter through clenched teeth.

Seven year old: (unfazed by her mother turning into a crazed beast) Mom, this is so cool.  I just used one of my vocabulary words…. “proper!”

Mom: Bath.  Now. 

Mom goes to refill her wine glass only to realize that the box of wine is empty.  She lifts the box, tilts back her head and places the spigot over her open mouth squeezing and shaking the box for all it’s worth.  Mom puts box down only to see both daughters, now both of them naked, one bathed, one not, standing in the kitchen watching her shake the last bit of life out of a box of wine.  They will talk about this very moment one day in therapy.

Mom: (with crazed look in her eyes) Bath! (pointing at seven year old)  Pajamas! (pointing at four year old) NOW!!!

Mom composes herself and tells seven year old that no, the water is not too hot, and yes, she is aware there is a very wet towel on the floor.  She then tells her seven year old that she is going to try to put her little sister to bed early and that she is going to trust the seven year old to put the shampoo and conditioner in her own hair and she can stay in the bath as long as she wants.  Seven year old is excited by this prospect.  Mom goes into children’s room and trips over four year old’s dirty clothes which are now accompanied by a wet robe and towel and seven year old’s dirty clothes.  Mom loses the ability to care and wrestles limp four year old into pajamas.  Mom tells her four year old to get a book.  Four year old gets book.  It's the book mom hates to read the most and the four year old knows it.  Mom reads it.  Mom tells four year old to get into bed, which is actually the tent that was set up over the weekend and has yet to be taken down.  Mom lays with four year old who complains her nose and heels itch.  Mom pretends to rub magic oil on daughter’s heels and nose.  Mom lays with four year old for 30 minutes, sometimes losing consciousness.  Four year old brings mom back to life by poking her in the face.  Mom finally realizes her seven year old must be sitting in a block of frozen ice, so she grabs an ice pick, err, seven year old’s bathrobe and towel, and goes to rescue her child from the bath while telling four year old to stay put.  (ha!)

Seven year old: Mom, this is sister’s bathrobe.

Mom: Oh.  Yeah.

Now in full on zombie mode, mom helps seven year old with pajamas and reads book to seven year old and four year old who by now has snuck out of bed.  Seven year old complains it isn't fair that four year old got two books and her only one.  Mom explains if she reads another book, that would make four year old have three books compared to her two. Seven year old complains loudly and goes limp forcing mother to drag her to the bedroom, err tent, and tells both her kids to get in bed.  Both kids get in and pull the covers up, err, zip the sleeping bags up, and are quiet.  Mom kisses them goodnight. 

Mom realizes she forgot to have them brush teeth.  Mom does not care.  Mom goes to leave tent to muster the last energy she has to clean up the dishes from dinner (and let’s face it, breakfast dishes are in there too).  Just as she is about to leave, four year old screams out for her not to leave.  Mom takes that as a sign she is to lay on the floor and rest.  Mom reads article on PBS.org about wild animal mothers who eat their young.  Mother is interrupted by a glass-breaking scream from seven year old which makes four year old and mother scream as well.  Seven year old points out giant spider on the inside wall of the tent.  All three of them shudder and squirm.  Mom jumps to grab Kleenex and gets back into tent only to find utter chaos has broken loose as the spider has fallen off the wall and into the girls bedding and sleeping bags.  He is on the run.  The mom wants to be on the run.  The girls are screaming and thrashing about, the cat is clamoring to get out, and the dog is whimpering from under the bed in the next room over.  Realizing that sleeping in the tent with a runaway spider is not an option for these girls, and not wanting to transfer potentially spider infested covers to their bed, mom tells the girls to get out of the tent and sadly admits defeat by telling them to go get in her bed. The girls happily get into their mother’s bed, afterall, this has been their goal all evening long and they just won.  Just when quiet overcomes them, the seven year old starts to cry.

Seven year old: Mom, the spider is going to get out of the tent and come into your room and bite us while we sleep.

Mom: The spider does not care about us.  Besides, Chillcat probably ate him already.

Seven year old: Please mom, I won’t go to sleep until you zip up the tent.

Mom goes and zips up tent and goes back in room to report back to seven year old.  Mom sits on bed and rubs seven year old’s back until seven year old is asleep.  It is now 8:30 p.m., which is still early in the adult world, but the mother feels like its 3:00 a.m.  She heads back to the kitchen (stopping on the way to free the cat who she zipped up in the tent) and takes inventory on kitchen catastrophe.  She strikes a deal with herself that she can let the dishes go if she packs the lunches for tomorrow because waiting until morning to pack the lunches is never a good idea.  Mom gets lunch boxes out, clears a spot on the counter, and sets them down.

Mom: (out loud and to herself) Screw this.

Mom goes back into her room and looks for a spot on her bed to lie down.  There is no spot as the four year old and seven year old have taken up the whole bed.  Attempts to push the four year old over are unsuccessful.  Mom considers crying for a brief moment.  Mom remembers there is a couch in the living room.  Mom rips pillow out from four year old’s head, trips over the dog while leaving the room, and heads for the couch.  Mom lies on couch and convinces herself that it’s okay to go to sleep at 8:45 p.m. because then she will wake up at the crack of dawn and pack the lunches and clean the kitchen.  Mom secretly knows this will not happen, and she accepts it. Mom falls asleep.  Mom awakes at 2:00 a.m. and can’t go back to sleep for three hours because the cat thinks this is a great time to have a party.  Mom hurls pillows and books at the cat.  Mom falls asleep at 5:00 a.m.   At 6:45, mom is awoken to Woody Woodpecker’s annoying laugh on the TV and seven year old daughter sitting on top of her.  Mom smiles, knowing she has successfully completed bath night and thanks the powers that be that she only has to do it twice a week.