A Bleak Christmas

I've been here a week. And I'm definitely the wrong person for this job.

I came to St. Louis a week early so I could help out with my dad's cancer treatments. It didn't start off well. When my parents pulled up to the curb at the St. Louis Airport, I could tell immediately that my dad was altered. He couldn't hold his neck straight and he was in so much pain.

I wanted to do everything I could to help, I really want to help out. But the very next morning, as I offered to help out with dad's breakfast, he started harping on me about not cutting his orange right. He turned to my mom and said, "Can't you give simple instructions?" I had been considering staying for several months to help out, after that comment, I reconsidered.

Taking Bianca out of her kindergarten and putting her in a kindergarten in Columbia would be hard, but doable. Putting my writing on halt, and hoping they'd still want me in February or March would be hard, but doable. Finding a new OBGYN while I'm here would be more expensive and a little bit of a hassle, but doable. Finding someone to watch my dog while I'm here and Eric's in India would be a task, but again Doable. But not being appreciated is hard for me.

I've been driving dad to work every day. Sticking around while he gets some stuff done at the office. Taking him to radiation treatments and MRIs at St. Anthony's Hospital about a half an hour away, and he's always giving me "constructive criticism" about how I should drive--which lane I should be in, and when I should drive slower or faster. It's grating me. I wish I could let it slide. After all, I know he's on morphine and percoset for the pain and he's not feeling well. And I'm trying.

But I'm just not optimistic about what's going to happen here. I feel like life's kicked me around so much, I don't expect much. My dad, on the other hand, does. His doctor told him that one out of one hundred cancer patients are healed not by any medical way, but just a miraculous healing. The radiation isn't supposed to kill the cancer; it's supposed to help with his shoulder pain. The chemotherapy pills he's taking aren't supposed to kill the cancer; there's just a 40 percent chance it will stop the progress of the cancer. The outcome looks bleak. But he's so enthusiastic that he thinks he'll get this miraculous healing.

I wish I could agree, but I can't. I just stay quiet. I worry that he'll lose all hope if he doesn't get this miraculous healing. He's expecting it now. And I'm not. Why would God let me keep my dad?

Yesterday, my dad had a brain MRI. The doctors think the cancer is in his spinal cord (hence, his stoop and being unable to hold his neck up). They think it may have spread to his brain. I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen.

My sister Susannah's moving out here now. Looks like she'll take over, and they won't need me anymore. I should be relieved, grateful, something. But I can't feel.

I wish I had no presents to buy. I wish Christmas just wouldn't come this year. I wish we could just wallow in our misery. Maybe he'll get a Christmas present--a miraculous Christmas healing. But I'm not optimistic, and I'm not expecting it.

Call me realistic, call me pessimistic, call me a scrooge.

A Simple Balance Sheet

It's five years this month. Since I've been so-called "cancer free." I guess that makes me eligible to have my face plastered on a bill board with "Five years cancer free" as the caption. My friend Kari and I used to joke about being up there together, as she became five-years-cancer-free last year.

But another person who is five-years-cancer-free this month is my nephew, Collin. He was five years old when he was diagnosed with a Wilm's Tumor, the size of a basketball, they said. (Why is it they always compare tumors to sports balls? My liposarcoma [tumor] was the size of a football, they said.) But after months of torturous radiation and chemotherapy, he pulled through.

So, I guess we should be celebrating. After all, this is the offical medical time that doctors consider you healthy. But this week, we found out my dad (and Collin's grandpa) has cancer. Not just any cancer, but bone cancer that resulted from a kidney (with cancer) that was partially removed nearly two years ago. Guess they should have taken the whole thing. He didn't need the other one anyway.

I've been trying to make sense of all this to no avail. Why my dad? Why our family? Can we handle yet another tragedy? To borrow from one of my favorite books, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, "Where was God, the Bloody Fool? Did He have no notion of fair and unfair? Couldn't he read a simple balance sheet? He would have been sacked long ago if He were managing a corporation, the things He allowed to happen . . ." So maybe I'm being dramatic. But all the world seems unfair to me now.

And then I remembered something my mom told me while we were waiting at the hospital to see if Miranda was going to make it through the brain swelling in the aftermath of the car accident--that my dad plead with God to trade her life for his. But it didn't work. She didn't live through it.

This got me thinking. Had my dad already tried that when Collin was sick? Did he offer himself then so that Collin would pull through his grade-four cancer? Had God accepted his offer?

Yesterday, I found out that my dad had offered himself up when Collin was sick. Maybe that's why God wouldn't accept him for Miranda. Maybe he had already agreed to give Collin back his chance for my dad's life. Timing seems a little ironic to me. Exactly five years ago.

I don't know if God works this way. But I can't help wondering.

The verdict's in:

We had the ultrasound this morning. We're having a girl! I'm so happy!

Here's an ultrasound photo. If you look hard, you can make our her profile. I think she kinda looks like me. What do you think?

Trying to remember to be thankful on Thanksgiving

Yesterday was an interesting Thanksgiving. We don't have much family around--except for some cousins and extended family on my husband's side--so we went to Eric's Aunt Joanie and Uncle Bruce's house. We brought my sister's mother-in-law's famous creamed corn (which isn't nearly as bad as it sounds--it's actually the highlight of most meals).

I like Eric's family. We had a good time. The food was great. We played games after dinner while Eric watched the Cowboys game. We ate pie.

After a while sitting around and talking and letting our stomachs settle, we got on the topic of videotapes. Aunt Joanie--an avid camera/video camera person if I ever knew one--said she had some video tapes with Miranda on them. We pored through her plastic baggies of labeled video tapes with any months that Miranda was alive, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

I often thought after the funeral that I'd much rather have a photo someone dug up of Miranda than a bouquet of flowers or plant. The flowers die--rather quickly. The plants die--it takes longer, but they still do, especially since I have Eric in charge of watering them while I visit home for a month every summer. But just to have another glimpse of her. Because that's all that's left. But even better than a still picture is a video image of her moving--alive and moving and real.

So I sat on Joanie's bed last night and watched video tapes and Miranda came alive for me--for a while. I saw videotaped footage of the night of the Harry Potter party--ten days before the accident--when we were walking around the Barnes & Noble. Miranda was so wobbly. I forgot how recently she had learned to walk before the accident, wearing a pair of sandals I still haven't found. I saw footage of her playing with a wand we made. I was holding her, so close I wished I could just have that night back. Just hold her one more time. But all I had was a rewind button.

I left last night with red eyes. Joanie was worried I would be upset. Of course I would cry. I got back another glimpse of her I didn't have last night.

It's hard on a day that I'm supposed to be so grateful to not hate everything about life. To not be bitter I only got 15 months with her. It's hard to be thankful that I got those 15 months. It could have been 13 or 12 or 2. I'm trying to remember to be thankful, but it's hard.

The gifted child

So, I was watching a re-run of Judging Amy yesterday (this seems to be the only show, besides Desperate Housewives, that I watch anymore) and an interesting subject came up. Amy was trying to get her daughter into this "gifted" program in school. Well, she found out after having an independent test done that her daughter is not gifted. She was just an average, normal child.

So, I've been thinking about this a lot. For the last several months, I've been feeling like I'm trying to keep my daughter up with the smartest kids in her kindergarten class. Doing extra work with her every night. Re-reading books. All that stuff. So, why is it that we all want our children to be the smartest or the most gifted?

I was an average, normal child. Not the smartest, but not the dumbest either. I turned out okay. And everyone has different gifts--many of them not noticeable in school. So, what does it really matter if my child isn't gifted in reading and writing and math?

As I try to reason this out, I know that it actually doesn't matter. And that even if Bianca is the least advanced in her class, I'll love her just the same. So why does it still make me anxious? Why do I still feel like this is a race to get her to read more or to get her into the math-group at school? Will it change anything if she is gifted? Or if she's not?

Obviously, I'm still trying to mull some things out in my brain. What do you think about this?

Voting for my fore-mothers

This weekend, I picked up a coffee table book recapping the 20th century. As I browsed through its pages, I came across a small story on a woman who marched for women's right to vote. At the time, they thought that if your husband was voting, there was no reason for a woman to vote. For obviously, they would vote the same way?!? I suppose I shouldn't judge; that is the way the world was then. But I read about how badly these woman wanted the right to vote. So they could have their voices heard as individuals, with separate opinions, even from their husbands.

So I was on my high-horse yesterday. If you called me or talked to me, you may have gotten an earful on how our fore-mothers fought for the right to vote and how important it was to them and you better get out there and vote. I don't know how correct this percentage is, but I heard that only 15 percent of women actually vote. This is why those women fought and fought, so that most of us wouldn't even leave our houses or make the time to punch in a couple names.

Well, I went and voted. I stood at the voting machine and I put in most of my names. I knew most of the big names and who I wanted to vote for. But then a huge list of judges came up, and I was supposed to say whether they should be voted off as judges or retained. I didn't know any of them. I reasoned that it's sad for someone to lose their job, so I voted to keep them all. All the while, wondering what I was actually voting for.

Then I came down off my high horse. Yes, I'm standing here voting, but what's the point of doing it if I don't really know what I'm voting for? Am I actually helping anything? Would this make my fore-mothers proud? No.

As I left the middle school, I hung my head and stuck the "I voted" sticker onto my shirt and thought that next time I have to do my homework first.

Cowboys Against Cancer

This weekend, we went on our annual trip to Wyoming. It's a short fun drive. About three hours if you're driving slowly. The highlight of the drive was our stop in Evanston, where we entered the most amazing McDonald's I've ever stepped foot in. We walked in and were greeted with a roaring fireplace surrounded by soft comfortable chairs. The playplace was equipped with saddles for the seats. There were TVs all along the walls, including in the bathroom. And even better, the McRib is back. A perfect beginning to a great weekend.

We got into Green River around nine. This weekend, we really got to experience Wyoming. We went up on the bluffs and shot clay pigeons. This was the first time I've ever shot a gun in my life. I didn't hit a clay pigeon, by the way. Eric did and he loved it. And Amy is so good at shooting. It's amazing how much you'll learn about a friend you think you know after you see her with her family where she grew up.

That night, we went to the Cowboys Against Cancer benefit. It's a huge deal. The Governor of Wyoming and other dignitaries come every year. We ate duck and even got to dance after the auction. And you don't even want to get me started on the auction. I nearly had to hold Eric's hand down he wanted to bid on this adorable long-haired chihauhau puppy. Sure, I agree it was cute, but we already have a chihauhau (and Eric, I no longer believe you hate Tigger--I know you secretly love him now) we can barely tolerate.

There's a moment during the event when they ask all the cancer survivors to come up on stage. Most of us hobbled up there--I felt a little out of place. But it was at Cowboys Against Cancer last year as I stood on that stage looking out at everyone that realized it was a big deal that I survived cancer. I never honestly stopped to think about it. Yes, it will be five years next month. And it is a big deal. And it's almost as if it never happened. This year, I stood up there again and remembered it's a big deal that I'm alive. There was a time when I thought I would die and leave Eric and Bianca alone. All the cancer survivors got a little bag of stuff-including a thermos, hat, pins, a tool kit, and other stuff. And you know how I like to get something free.

The next morning, we packed up our stuff and headed home. We'd had a great time. Amy's dad and his wife treated us like family. They even had surprises for Bianca, as if she were their granddaughter. We stopped at the amazing McDonald's on our way home and got here shortly after, where Tigger (our chihauhau) greeted us excitedly by running back and forth in the family room. As Bianca says, he was crazy loco.

I unpacked my bag and my Cowboys Against Cancer gift bag for being a cancer survivor. Bianca was disappointed that there was nothing in there for her. She complained a little and asked why I didn't take her to the Cowboys Against Cancer "store" to buy some things. So maybe I'm a little dramatic, but I looked at her and said, "Bianca, you're lucky to have a mom." And I think I need to start remembering that more than I do, that I should be grateful that I'm still here.

A Weekend Away

We're going to the Cowboys Against Cancer benefit in Wyoming in November. We went last year too and had a blast. As I'm planning to head out of town, I've been thinking about something that happened last year that I've just got to put down. It's so funny I don't want to forget it.

When we arrived last year, we stayed at Amy's mom's house. Her grandparents were staying there as well. Her grandfather is a nice old man, who is a little hard of hearing, who was very successful in his career and talks to you as if you were in a job interview. After the grill of what my husband does and what I do, I nearly asked him if I had gotten the job.

As our kids, Bianca, Devyn, and Jaxon were running around the house, playing and getting into everything, we quickly learned that "Grandpa" didn't know Amy's kids' names. I believe he called them, "hey you." It wasn't a big deal, but Amy and I must have mentioned it in passing while the kids were somewhere nearby because we soon realized our kids listen a lot more than we knew.

Bianca and Devyn were getting into Amy's mom's jewelry box--losing at least several pieces of jewelry--when Grandpa entered the room. He turned to Bianca and asked her how old she was. She had just turned four, so she stated proudly that she was four. He was trying to tease her a little, so he insisted that she was only three.

"No, I'm 4."

"No you're not, you're only 3."

After going back and forth four or five times, Bianca got fed up. She put both her hands on her hips and replied loudly and adamantly, "I'm four. I just had my birthday and I know I'm four." Grandpa finally thought the game was over, so he agreed, okay she was four.

Bianca waited a minute, then turned to Grandpa again and said, "And by the way, her name is Devyn."

To which Grandpa responded, "What? You're seven?" Amy and I tried our hardest not to burst into laughter right then and there. But we've laughed many times since, retelling the story.

I hope we get to see Grandpa again this year. I'll make sure Bianca knows she's five this time too, just in case.

The names we choose. . .

. . .and the little mouths that try to say them. I've been thinking a lot about baby names lately. My husband and I have a pact. If it's a girl, I choose. If it's a boy, he chooses. Simple. I've already got my girl name picked out. I'm about 95 percent sure. Every one I tell tries to sound nice about it, but I know they don't really like it. Even my mother, whose name is included in this choice of mine, doesn't like it. "It'll grow on me. Just like Bianca did." She tries to console me. Or is she consoling herself? Hmmmm.

And she didn't like the name Bianca when I first chose it over five years ago. Few people did. I was warned by everyone. "Are you sure?" But I was sure. It was the one time my husband and I completely agreed on something. Bianca Elizabeth. A whole mouthful of a name for such a small baby of six pounds. And she grew right into that name, as if any other name would have been as mismatched as the outfits Bianca puts together.

When she turned two, I got a real laugh, though, out of her little friends trying to say her name. Here is a list of things Bianca was called:

Binca; Bonca (both of which eventually inspired the little ditty we sing to her sometimes even now which goes "Binca, Bonca, makes Bianca"--yes, we're kind of a weird little family); BIanca (with long I sound, like Bionic); Ganca; BiGanca; Biaca; and last, but not least, Bilancala, which her two-year-old cousin repeatedly called her when we visited in California this summer.

Don't get me wrong. I actually think it's all pretty funny. Now, very few of her friends say her name wrong. And when I think of her, nothing but Bianca would have worked for my precocious five-year-old. It's the perfect name.

Of course we all probably think that. But the question is: does your child grow into the name or does the name evolve in your mind to be like your child? What do you think?

Oh, and by the way, if you'd like to know the 95-percent-sure name for a baby girl, just ask and I'll tell you, as long as you promise not to say "Are you sure?"

Musings

When Bianca was two, I became pregnant with Miranda. The realization that I was pregnant came one week after I'd started a new job, as my husband was out of work, and I thought the pregnancy couldn't have come at a worst time.

Eric stayed home with Bianca while I worked and he looked for a job. I'd always been home with Bianca before that. I'd made a decision that I would be at home with my children, as much as I wanted to do the career thing.

But as financial necessity required, I went back to work and worked full time pretty much until a couple days before Miranda was born. When Eric's job opportunities finally panned out. Call it a miracle; if you're the religious type, call it God telling me that he was keeping us in mind; call it a coincidence. Whatever you call it, I came home and stayed there with my kids after Miranda was born.

When Bianca found out I was pregnant this time, she asked me when I was going back to work.

Funny how kids associate things together, things that wouldn't normally go together. Like I have to be at work to be pregnant. Hopefully I've fixed her perception on the pregnancy thing--that I don't have to go back to work this time. (Well, except for the really part-time thing I'm doing.)

But the funny thing is, I worried a little as we were trying that if we did get pregnant, Eric would lose his job. Maybe it's not just kids with the strange associations.

Will I Shine or Get Stuck in the Headlights?

I've been given a chance to do something. And I feel like I'm about to walk on stage knowing all my lines and choke. Just stand there with a deer-in-the-headlights look. If you saw me tonight, you'd see it too.

Some of my earliest blog readers will remember a time I nearly choked tears out of a blog over an injustice in my very own hometown of Herriman, Utah, after realizing they were holding soccer games at the cemetery where my Miranda is buried. No one would listen to me. So I offered to write a story for the Herriman Herald, a brand new newspaper in the city, so I could have my voice heard. The soccer games were stopped shortly after.

I continued writing for this newspaper as a volunteer. I didn't need money. I did it for several reasons. First, I liked having my thoughts read by other people and I liked even more when people would come up to me and tell me what they thought about what I wrote, whether they agreed with me or not. Second, I love writing. Third, I was keeping my resume current (you know a person out of the workforce loses 50 percent of her earning potential after two years) and building my portfolio. Fourth, it's something to focus on when my main other focus was grieving over my daughter.

But last month, I wrote an article on a city production of Bye, Bye Birdie. Not only did I think the musical wasn't very good, but I felt it was painful to sit through. I'd seen high school productions that were more professional. It was painful to watch, but not as painful as trying to sound optimistic while writing an article about it. I tried to bring out its good points (which were few) and leave out its bad (which were many). I turned it in. Several weeks later, the paper appeared in my mailbox. The front page was a glowing review of Bye, Bye Birdie with two full pages of color pictures from the play. The article wasn't my article at all. Wait, I take that back. One paragraph, which was my synopisis of the Bye-Bye-Birdie storyline, was mine. Nothing else. But the real problem was that my name was on this article, along with the man's who runs the paper.

I emailed him explaining how upset I was that my name was attached to something that didn't represent my feelings at all. The email back implied that I wasn't enthusiastic enough about the production and they felt they needed to spice it up a little. That's fine, but don't put my name on it.

Then Sunday night, a very thoughtful and very-well-connected neighbor called me and suggested I write for a paper that is credible and will actually pay me to write for them. I was all ears. Of course that's a better situation. I jumped on it. He called a friend of his, an editor for the Salt Lake Tribune's Close Up section in my area, and suggested I free lance for him. I called the editor the very next day and he sent out contractor paperwork for me to fill out.

The papers came yesterday. I leafed through them and was excited. Now I'm starting to get anxious: I have not a thought in my head. I don't know what it is--the pressure, the chance I have to write for something credible, but I'm drawing a blank. I'm supposed to come up with story ideas about my community, specifically the Herriman area, and the one piece of advice is "Think People." I want to have some great ideas, but everything that comes to my mind has already been done or isn't good enough to land me a return offer to write for them. I'm having writer's bloc, and I haven't even started writing yet.

I'm skeptical. Maybe I should just stay where there's no pressure, no money, and no credibility. Am I good enough for this? Sometimes I think it's my chance to get somewhere better, sometimes I think I'm going to flop. Right now, I think you can probably guess what I'm thinking. I need ideas. I need a good story. And I need . . . some confidence.

Queen for the Day

Yesterday was Bianca's 5th birthday. And I'd heard this idea from a friend that she lets her kids be queen (or king) for the day on their birthdays. They get everything they want to eat, don't have to clean up--just get everything a child desires.

I've been feeling a little guilty since I didn't let Bianca have a birthday party this year (too much work to have 12 four and five year olds running around my house) so I thought this would do it. It'd make her feel special without a big party.

So I told her that she was queen yesterday. She loved it. She wore a crown. She went to breakfast with her dad before kindergarten, then we brought donuts to her kindergarten class, so when I picked her up and brought her home, she was so stuffed she didn't want lunch. I didn't make her eat anything. But she pretty much grazed on snack foods and candy all afternoon. She picked her favorite dinner, which incidentally is cheese brats, and then I made her cupcakes--chocolate cake with white icing & sprinkles. Just as she'd picked out at the store.

We didn't do much else--just opened presents, let her stay up a little later to play with her new toys, and then put her to bed.

This morning, I got a phone call that Bianca threw up in the carpool on the way to school. She was coming home.

Maybe this whole Queen-for-a-day thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. She can be queen for her birthday, but will probably be throwing up the next day. Sounded like a great idea, but I urge any of you who likes the idea to use with caution.

A Nap and a Map

Lately, between two and three each afternoon, I'm so tired that all I can think about is stealing away and getting a short nap. I know this has something to do with pregnancy, so I try to give in to my desire for a nap.

Yesterday, when the magical time appeared, I asked Bianca if I could put in a movie and take a short nap. "No, I want to read books." I'm not one ever to say no to books (it seems like lately, everytime I ask if I can read to Bianca, she says no--she'd rather ride her bike or play Uno or anything other than read, so I take advantage of it when she says yes.) So, we sat in the recliner chair and started reading.

First, she picked "Tuff Fluff" (which I'm sure nobody's heard of but is about a stuffed duck who loses his brain, while a detective is trying to figure out where it's gone, all of this is happening at 3:29 a.m.). I read the whole thing and reclined the chair a bit to get a little more comfortable. Next, she picked "Good Night Gorilla" (when I saw the zookeeper's wife all nestled in her blankets in bed, I was eyeing her pillow jealously and my eyes seriously started drooping). Bianca then picked "Stellaluna" (which is about a bat who tries to fight against his natural bat urge to stay awake in the night and be more like the family of birds that raises him). Do you see a connection here? Because I certainly did. Every book Bianca picked made me more and more tired.

Finally, we came to the stapled together book that the reading teacher sent home from school on Monday, called "A Nap and a Map." Sure, I can understand it. Those are easy words to sound out. N-A-P, nap! Bianca loves to read it. But every picture in that book had a bear taking a nap in a pan or on a map. (I worry about rereading the book too many times as Bianca has a tendency to memorize very quickly, so I won't know if she's actually reading it or not.)

By the end of "A Nap and a Map," I finally convinced Bianca that it was time. Time to put a movie in and time for me to go lie down in my bed. And she went for it. She was even so good as to tell anyone who called on the phone that I couldn't be disturbed because I was napping.

It felt good. I needed the nap. And at the end of all that torturous reading, I would have been just as likely to fall asleep in a pan or on a map as in my bed.

Warning: This blog contains religious matters

When I was in high school, I told some of my friends I wanted to live in Utah when I married. I thought it would be a nice safe place for me to raise my kids. My friend Jody laughed the very next day when we were watching Channel One (the high school morning news program we watched in home room every morning) and the program revolved around the gang problem in Utah. I don't think I thought that ever again. Especially after my first semester at BYU. It was then I decided "I will never live in Utah."

Well, I didn't plan for it to turn out this way. Usually, if you say something aloud such as this (or that you will never marry a redhead), it happens to you. I married a guy from Texas, I'm from St. Louis, and we can't seem to get out of Salt Lake City. We didn't choose to live here. We just sort of ended up here. And it hasn't been horrible. In fact, I've grown to like it here--especially my neighborhood with its abundance of kids. And I honestly don't see many gang members.

But it was the Mormons that turned me off. Sure, I'm Mormon. But that doesn't mean I want all my neighbors to be. I like being different sometimes, but here, my religion makes me just like everybody else (for the most part). And there's something different about Mormons in other parts of the country. They seem to stick together more. But I really am very happy here in Herriman, Utah.

Until Wednesday, when Bianca came home from kindergarten and asked me straight out, "Mom, are people who don't go to church bad?" I couldn't believe it.

I asked, "Did somebody tell you that?"

"Yeah." Turns out, she had seen someone smoking a cigarette and a discussion with a friend turned into this statement. Maybe I should reconsider this LDS-based private school . . . well, I would, but for the fact that she's reading after one week in the "reading group" at her kindergarten.

I immediately told her that there are good and bad people who go to church, and there are good and bad people who don't go to church. Going to church or not doesn't make you good or bad. Neither does smoking or not. Do I want Bianca to smoke? No. But that doesn't mean that this person they saw smoking is bad.

I worry that this is the kind of thing she's going to hear over and over again if we stay here. That if this child doesn't go to our church, he or she is bad. Or that she shouldn't play with this child. That's the exact opposite of what I want her to learn and the opposite of what Christ himself would want you to do.

Guess what? I grew up in a part of the country where I was the one people didn't want their kids to play with because I was Mormon. I know how it feels, but I hope I would feel this way regardless.

Reflections (yet another Herriman Herald article)

When I was in kindergarten, my teacher Mrs. Smith sent notes home to my mother about how she just knew I was going to be a great artist one day. In fact, her exact words were: "I never had such an artist. You had better get ready to have a famous person in your family!" I loved drawing. I drew and drew and drew when I was a child.

Then something happened. I must have gotten carried away with life because I soon forgot how much I loved to draw and twenty years later, I found myself crying over lost opportunity as I scoured a box flooding over with my artwork and these notes attached. I had never even taken the offered art classes in middle or high school. I wish I had.

Because now when you hear about budget cuts in schools, it seems art programs are the first to go. Even though school administrators undoubtedly know the important role of the arts in a child's education. More specifically, that the arts boost your child's creativity and imagination and problem-solving skills and if you delve even further, his self-esteem.

The National PTA offers an annual art Reflections Program, which does not cost the local school district. This program is designed to encourage your child to produce artwork in the following areas: literature, musical composition, photography, and visual arts (including but not limited to drawing and painting). In Utah, the categories are extended to include an additional four: dance, theatre, 3D and film and video.

Each year, approximately 60,000 students in Utah enter artwork in the Reflections recognition program. It's an exciting program and may propel your child to realize talents that he may not have known existed otherwise. Or if you're well aware of a talent, it's a chance share it and be recognized for it.

This year's theme is "My Favorite Place." Artwork should be created around this theme, whether it be an abstract idea or exactly what it seems—your child's favorite place to be—whether that's his room, or his tree house, or on stage of a theatre performance. When I was a child, my favorite place was probably sitting on a barstool coloring as my mother baked chocolate-chip cookies.

Please encourage your child to submit works of art for the Reflections program. You won't regret it. If nothing else, it's something you can add to that box of promising artwork for your child to find when he's 25 and looks back on his childhood.

After much reflection this morning, I think I might sign up for a drawing class. It's never too late, right?

A Herriman Herald article that never printed

I've been begging the Herriman Herald to let me have a column. They didn't agree, but I wrote a column-like article. This is it.

My Autumn Woe

I love the onset of autumn. The crisp air, the leaves turning color and fumbling to the ground, wearing sweaters, and Halloween decorations. I fasten the doors just a little more quickly this time of year. Not because I'm worried about the cold seeping into my house; rather, I do it because I'm trying to seal out my long-time enemy, the mouse.

It's this time of year that the mice start planning ahead for the cold, hard winter ahead. First, they move into the hidden crevices behind the stagnant lawnmower or the bulk bottles of weed killer you set aside until next spring. Then they—I'll never understand how—find their way into your basements, your couches, your bathroom drawers, your pantries.

First, you detect some large specks of dirt that keep reappearing in the same place. Wait, that's bigger than just your ordinary dirt. Those are mouse droppings. You're on high alert. You start planning your revenge and can't stop until you've exterminated him.

Our visits from these not-so-cuddly guests seem to be an annual event at my house. We've tried everything in the book.

I started out more sympathetic to the little guys. As my husband says, "They're just trying to make it in the big world." I researched the most humane ways to force them out of my living space—soundwave plug-in devices that are designed to agitate the mice and warn them it's time to leave. I dropped close to $50 equipping each room in my house with these devices, to no avail.

Next, I tried the glue trap, which is baited with scent and supposed to hold the mouse within its gooey confines until you can release it out into the wild again.

But the most effective tool for ridding your house of these pesky little guys is the traditional wooden trap. You know, the one that's been around since your grandparents were young. The kind on which you put peanut butter, cheese, even chocolate to lure them toward it. Then whack, they never even know what hit them.

I suppose that's why after all these years, the mice never seem to wise up. The traps are so effective, they never get a chance to warn their friends. It's all over for them.

The worst part is opening up the pantry door to see a motionless brown lump with long pink tail hanging limp behind. As I said, I've been dealing with this problem for years. I remember when my daughter, who's five now, was nearly two when she opened the bathroom drawer and exclaimed, "Mouse is sleeping."

You can only hope it's not too messy. Although I find a morbid satisfaction with finally capturing him, I wish there could have been another way. A more humane way.

But let's face it. We just want them out of our space. So that you don't go crazy in the middle of the night when you hear a little scratching in your bathroom and you get up for hours until you've gone through each drawer, wiping them down, by which time the mouse is long gone in a safe and secluded spot leaving droppings in another room in your house.

This is an age-old problem. One we'll be dealing with until the end of time. Herriman is definitely no exception. As for me, I'm making sure I'm stocked up on the cheapest mouse trap around, the most inhumane of mouse traps, the traditional mousetrap.

How involved in your child's life is too involved?

When I was in high school, my sister and her best friend had this huge fight and falling out. I guess other girls in the school got involved because several weeks later, this girl withdrew from school and her parents put her in the local catholic high school. I scoffed that I could't believe her parents wouldn't let her fight her own battles and would let her just run away from her problems.

Yesterday, I sat outside talking to a neighbor as I witnessed peripherally two neighbor kids gang up on Bianca and tease her until she went inside. I didn't want to intervene. (I know I'm accustomed to doing that because she's an only child and I feel this urgent need to protect her.) I kept talking and kept an eye on the situation. Bianca came out and rode her bike by herself. A couple minutes later, the girls were sitting on my front lawn and I heard one of them say, "Bianca's the stupidest friend I have."

I can't remember exactly what I said, but it was something to the effect that she wasn't acting like a very nice friend.

As I sat reeling over this situation last night, I was tempted to never let her play with this friend again. I resolved that if she calls, I will say "Until you can prove you're a kind friend, Bianca can't play with you." I want to keep Bianca inside where the world is kind and arrange playdates with kids I know are kind to her.

My question (especially to all you veteran moms out there) is: Am I being overbearing? Should I let her figure this out herself? My guess is if this friend called and asked her to play and I said no, Bianca would be mad at me. Kids are forgiving. I'm not nearly as forgiving as Bianca.

I know I have a lot of learning to do as a mother, but I wish I knew when can I protect her and when should I just back off and let her figure it out for herself.

It's official

Something's been wrong lately. Nothing I eat tastes good. And I have to eat a lot. And I'm incredibly tired and crabby. Just ask my poor friends who see me often. Just ask Bianca.

I suspected right before Eric left for India, but he wanted me to wait to find out. I told Bianca what I suspected. And she announced to her entire kindergarten class on the first week of school that we were having a baby. I almost waited until Eric got back, then did it the night before and had the positive test waiting for him.

We're all excited. I am, as much as possible, while I'm not on the verge of vomitting and eating stale saltines in bed.

Bianca said she wants a brother. She already has a sister. I think I'd like to have another girl. Deep down, I know I shouldn't think this, but I feel like why couldn't God just give me Miranda back? Wouldn't that work? I could start all over, do everything just right--why is that so wrong to think? But I know it is.

Because I know I'm supposed to love this child for the individual that he or she is. That this child is not replacing Miranda. And I'm sure I will, when I see her. (For the sake of clarity, I'll just be referring to the baby as a girl, as there is an 80 percent chance that after two girls, your next will also be a girl.)

It's ironic though. The due date is going to be very close to Miranda's birthday. I'll be pregnant during the same seasons. So, as my friend Brenda would say, they'll be the same sign, which is important. Maybe this child will be laid back and low key as Miranda was. I'm crossing my fingers that this child will get those amazing green eyes and olive skin tone.

Someone should have written "What to expect. . .

. . . when your daughter grows hair." The other day, one of the neighbor girls told me that I should fix Bianca's hair every day. Look, you can put it in ponytails, braids, buns, all sorts of things. "Thanks," I smirked. "I didn't know that."

I never understood how moms got their kid's hair perfect. You know which kids I'm talking about--the kids whose hair in the evening is just as pristine as it was first thing in the morning. The parts are perfect. Not a hair out of place, all gelled up.

I've struggled with this since Bianca grew hair--she was bald for the first year and a half. As soon as I would fix her hair (even with gel and hairspray sometimes), she would take a blanket and play ghost and end up with her hair worse than it began when she crawled out of bed in the morning. Depending on how much energy I had, I'd try to redo it or just throw my hands into the air and give up.

This morning, I decided to try to put Bianca's hair in two ponytails. I got my brush, the clips, and started the part. "What are you doing, mom?" she asked as she gripped onto her hair.

"I'm fixing your hair for kindergarten."

"I don't want ponytails."

"Why?"

"I don't want to look like a baby."

I did it anyway, and she promptly pulled them out. I warned her, you will not play with your friends outside today if you don't leave your hair in. There was wailing, and screaming, and a lot of tears. Finally, I gave up and continued doing the breakfast dishes. She inched a little closer. "Okay, you can do it."

I had to slap the ponytails up very haphazardly as she was already several minutes late to leave for school. As I waved goodbye to her this morning, I wondered whether I should have just let her be that child that looks like she never gets a brush run through her hair. Maybe that would be better than both of us being frustrated every day.

Feels like an Indian Christmas to me

I don't know if they celebrate Christmas in India. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Muslims and Hindus don't; after all, it is the Christians who celebrate Christmas. What I do know is that yesterday (the day my husband Eric returned home from his two-week stint in India) felt like Christmas to me.

It's hard to have him gone. I'm an independent woman, but I admit I get a little paranoid in the middle of the night when I hear noises and I'm in bed alone. Bianca and I eat a lot of mac and cheese and party pizzas; I don't actually cook. But I also don't get relieved from mom duties either--no girl's nights without having to hire a sitter when he's gone. It is hard on me, but it's all worth it when he comes home. Because when he gets here, his bags are bursting with presents.

Eric goes to the Indian markets where he can buy things for a tenth of what you would pay in the U.S. Beautiful beaded and embroidered skirts, beaded curtains, intricate gold-threaded pillows, marble coasters, amazing rugs, and some of the cutest kids clothes you've ever seen. And it's all so cheap. Bianca asked for Indian shoes, some clothes, and some sequined pens. And she got them. I got way more than I expected.

He swooped in late yesterday afternoon, handed out his presents, then had to rush off to go to his fantasy football draft. A lot like Santa, I thought. He comes, barely makes an appearance, and then he's off again. It wouldn't have surprised me had he driven off in a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer.

But to tell the truth, I would have been fine even if he hadn't had time to go to the Indian market and shower us with presents. But it does make his return even more exciting. Dare I say a little like it would feel to actually spend Christmas in India?

First Day of School

Today was Bianca's first day of school. She was so excited. We put on her uniform, packed the final things in her way-too-big-for-her backpack, and drove her there. It's about a 20 minute drive. I brought her in, with a camera in tow, and got her settled in her classroom. I didn't feel that stupid--other moms were clicking pictures along the way. But I never seriously thought I'd be that mom. What can I say? This is a huge day for Bianca.

I had to stick around, as they had a flag ceremony at 9. All the parents were invited to stay. I was required to stay, as I had volunteered to be the yearbook editor (as part of my 20 service hours to the school) and had to snap pictures. I should have volunteered for something much less time-consuming. I'll learn. Remember, I'm a rookie at this whole PTA mom thing. (For the record: I did go to one PTA meeting and realized that it's definitely not me and that I'd never been less interested in anything more in my entire life. No more of those for me either.)

At the end of the flag ceremony, a couple police cars with lights blaring were parked to the edge of the street right next to the school. The entire street was blocked off. The kids were ushered inside. I left. I didn't think much of it until tonight when I heard from a friend on the street whose child is in Bianca's kindergarten class that it was a drug bust. And the school had a complete lock-up. One of the guys in the house had a gun. "Oh yeah," Bianca told me after my friend did, "the door to our classroom was locked today." Thanks for telling me now, Bianca.

It's funny. I felt like I was so ahead of things, giving her a head-start at her eduction, at a school that teaches a foreign language and has all these advanced programs. Where she wears her little MacDonald-plaid skort and knee socks. Now I feel like I'm sending my child off to a bad part of town. Too late now, tuition's paid. At least they busted them, it should be drug-free now, right?

Besides that event, Bianca's first day went fine. She loves her teacher, and most of the kids in the class were nice, and she excited about going back again tomorrow. With this new information, it's hard for me to be quite as excited.

I am having one major regret: I should have taken a couple pictures of the drug bust for the yearbook. I can see the caption already: New School Year Starts Off With a Bang.

One Last-Minute Final Vacation

Ever since I got back from Oregon, I've been fixated on buying a house in Astoria. I've been wasting tons of time perusing the real estate web sites and I found two perfect vacation homes: one little blue bungalow or shack (old but in mostly original condition) and a yellow Victorian. I was set on it. I had talked to the realtor. I had my trip back to Oregon planned. Since my husband's in India, I had my dad fly into SLC from St. Louis to drive with me and check them out. Then a couple days before I was set to leave, both my houses sold. Just like that. Within 24 hours of each other. I was heartbroken.

My dad still arrived on Sunday. We decided instead to drive to my sister's house in L.A. and visit her. She's a little sad that she lives there because she has none of her family around (I feel her pain), so we thought we'd visit. Plus, I still hadn't seen her baby Anna who was born in June. So, dad, Bianca, Tigger (yes, we brought the damn dog), and I jumped in the car and started driving.

It reminded me of when my dad used to fly out after my semesters in college and drive back with me to St. Louis. We'd drive through the night. Back then, I'd drive until two or three in the morning, then I'd relinquish the reins so I could get a couple hours of sleep. Every time, without fail, I'd be startled awake and we'd be parked in some random rest area or strip mall and dad would be sleeping. I'd promptly grab another Coke and pull dad out of the driver's side and start driving for another hour or so, then it would happen all over again. That's just the way it was.

This time, it wasn't quite as bad. But it's funny how that rule (you know, two people must be awake at all times) is fully applicable until somebody gets tired--"you don't mind if I take a quick nap?" "No dad, go ahead. I'm wide awake."

I drove through Las Vegas with an entire sleeping car and watched the lights and the magic of the city unfold before me (while listening to "Big Band" hour on a local radio station--have I ever told you how I feel like an old soul?--I guess that'll be another blog down the line). It's beautiful until you drive through the heart of the city, where I was stalled in traffic at 10:30 p.m. (I guess that's the city-that-never-sleeps' rush hour, huh?) and it's not quite as beautiful when husky, bleach-blonde, scantily clad women are eyeing me from their stately bill boards along the freeway. Ahhh, every city has its good and its bad.

We got there around two in the morning, tripped to sleep on an air mattress, and woke the next morning. We had a good time. Bianca got to play in the waves at the beach two days. We went to the park. We had a great little barbecue one night and roasted s'mores, and even set up the tent so the kids could "camp" in the yard (however, Bianca wouldn't stay in there without me, and I prefered the air mattress inside).

Jewel (who I used to love through college) was playing a free concert Wednesday night at The Grove (an outdoor shopping mall), so we braved the crowds and went. I ate a pretty mediocre pretzel dog and waited. When Jewel finally came on, I couldn't see her. People were crowding my personal space. People everywhere. If you get up, your chair is gone. Someone snatches it before you even notice it's gone. And I realized, that's it, that's why I could never live in California. There are so many great things about it--the beach, the weather, the palm trees, the breeze, but it's so wonderful that EVERYONE wants to enjoy it and the EVERYONE part is what brings it down. I couldn't live amongst the billions.

We left yesterday and were stuck in stop-and-go traffic in mid-day for hours. It's good to be home. I staggered in around 2:30 this morning, played my messages, and found several frantic messages from a neighbor who was wondering why my blinds weren't closed at night. I'd left in such a hurry on Sunday, I hadn't even told anyone I was leaving. One of the best things about living in Salt Lake City: my neighbors who are always watching out for me and who I've gotta tell next time I'm leaving on a last-minute vacation.

Just some girls around a campfire

I'd been eagerly anticipating this night for months--well, ever since Christie G. convinced all the girls in our book club to forgo our monthly comfortable book-club night to brave the wild--the wild outdoors, that is.

Christie G. and Amber jointly own a pop-up camper; we could all go camping, discuss the book around the campfire, then spend the night (most of our book-club nights extend beyond midnight anyway, so what's a couple more hours?), then head home in the morning.

I jumped right on board. I used to love camping when I was a child (we didn't have a ton of money and there were so many kids in my family that anytime we went anywhere, we had to camp) and hadn't been but once with my husband, who isn't exactly a roughing-it type of guy, a couple years back. It would be great.

And it was great. Sitting around the campfire, I saw the exact moment I'd envisioned in my head in the days prior to our trip. It's rare to actually get the moment you hope for. The camp site was great, we had a nice view of the creek, and there was so much to eat and drink you couldn't want for anything.

The firewood Christie'd ordered wasn't waiting for us, so a man from the campground brought some by. He told us about the big, bad bears lurking in the woods, trying to scare the prissy girls that think they could hack it in the woods alone. We were more afraid of "Chester Molester" coming back and reaching his paws up through the opening at the edge of the camper. Bears weren't really the problem.

We did talk about the book. No one liked it, The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard, which I tried not to take personally since it was my book choice this month. Reading this book just proved one thing to me: Just because you can put words together poetically doesn't mean you can write a book. This book had glimpses of truth surrounded by a boring plot line and mundane, uninteresting characters.

I'm trying to take it less personally, but what I couldn't take less personally was when Christie G. came dancing out of the camper with her copy of the book and started ripping pages out and throwing them into the fire. Ha ha, I see the irony: she was throwing The Great Fire into the great campfire, but it didn't help my anxiety to see the printed page massacred. It hurt me to watch. Still not taking it personally. I didn't write the book.

We ate tons of food, played the "Imaginiff" game, then laid in our beds in the dark and played truth-or-dare. Just no dares, I know I was too afraid to go out there alone and do something that would end up being incredibly stupid or scary. It was like the slumber parties of yore (or even bedtime at college for me) when we'd sit up talking until one or two of us drifted off and the rest followed shortly after.

We woke the next morning, built another fire, ate more junk food, and then headed home. It was a night of bonding, definitely of much too much sugar, and an epiphany. We're a group that doesn't need more than what we already have. Who could want more than a night full of intimate talk, good friends, and that wonderful smell of camping in your clothes?

My baby's growing up

Yeah, I know she's not a baby anymore, but she's all I got and sometimes I still carry her around (although as a mom, I know I shouldn't do this for a 4-year-old) and I let her climb into bed with me in the morning and we even pretend she's a baby (she crawls around the house with a bottle she prepares herself and says "goo goo"). But today I have proof that she really is growing up: today we took off the training wheels and she rode a two-wheeler.

This was precipitated by the other girls her age on our block that have been riding two-wheelers for a week or so now. I know she's felt a little left out; she doesn't ride as fast as they since she still had training wheels. Sometimes (which is so rare I knew something was wrong), she'd come inside and let me hold her and didn't even want to play with her friends who were still outside. She felt left out since she was still riding a bike with training wheels.

Tonight, after the coaxing of a couple neighbor kids and Bianca herself, I grabbed a wrench and a screwdriver and sat on the sidewalk and took the training wheels off. I didn't want to do it. I was convinced she really needed those training wheels. I was scared to death she wasn't ready. But I took them off and I held onto the seat and then I did it: I let go. And she kept going. By herself. I couldn't believe it.

She still has some work to do: she needs me to push her off at the beginning, but I promised her I'd teach her how to do it herself. I'm pretty sure I'll be spending quite a bit of time outside tomorrow. But at least she needs me for a little while longer. Well, at least until school starts in two weeks and she's in kindergarten and will probably never look back again.

When she was riding her bike tonight, I instructed her that she shouldn't look back, that it would break her balance. But I guess in the back of my mind, I always want her to look back and see me there and care that I'm there. And I'll try my best not to let her fall, even though I know I can't catch her everytime. But I sure as hell will try.

The End of the World

Okay, so I've been hearing all these rumors--still not even sure what exactly this whole August 22, 2006 being the end of the world thing is all about--and I'm a little scared. No, not scared, actually more intrigued.

So, don't get me wrong: I don't actually believe it. But tonight as I sat at a table at The Pie eating a Greek pizza, Eric told me that tomorrow's been predicted as the end. Hmmm, I thought. Interesting.

Unforunately, we said this in front of Bianca who kept asking, "Is tomorrow really the end of the world" to which I answered, "No." Just to have her ask again and again. As we walked out of the restaurant, Bianca asked if she could swim in the fountain that has a plaque stating: No swimming or wading. "No, of course not." Then I thought, wait, if tomorrow's the end of the world, what's it going to matter? So I said, "Sure Bianca, jump right in--tomorrow is the end of the world." Well, she didn't jump in, but the guy walking past gave me an interesting look. Yes, I know what he was thinking.

As I drove home, I started thinking about why the end of the world wouldn't be such a bad thing. I'm not afraid of death. In fact, I welcome it. Sooner I can see Miranda. I wouldn't have to worry about vacuuming the carpet when I get home or order that book for Bianca's kindergarten class that I keep putting off. I was a little upset, however, that I've been working on my novel for so long and would never get to finish it.

But what would I do tonight if tomorrow really were the end? Hmmm, I'll let Bianca stay up late with us, won't make her brush her teeth tonight, and I'll leave the dirty dishes in the sink. Okay, that's the best I can do. I'm not going to go skydiving off point of the mountain just to say I've done it. It's just not me. I've never wanted to do something like that.

Regardless if the end is tomorrow or not, my world is about to change tomorrow. As my husband flies off to India again. I guess I'll go down and do the dishes after all. I wouldn't want to start off my new world alone with a sink full of dirty dishes.

What makes you smarter?

A couple months ago, I heard about a study done with a group of people who were taking two IQ tests: one with no expectations, the other assumed the people taking the test were college professors. The test-takers did considerably better, averaging around 10 points higher, when they were thought to be college professors. It seems ridiculous--or does it?

I'm in two writing groups. One I joined with a group of people I didn't know. I just heard they met at the B&N and I showed up and go every other week. The members are just ordinary people. Two of them write fantasy, one science fiction, and one suspenceful romance. Okay, I bring my chapters and they critique and I always feel a little like I don't know what I'm doing, as a writer. In fact, once, one of the people asked me if I'd never written anything before. It hurt my feelings, of course, but I brushed it off and kept going. But when I review their work, I never feel like I have anything important to bring to the table and they treat me delicately, like a child, when they're reviewing my stuff. I always drive home feeling a little empty--is this project worth continuing?

I met my other writing group after we were all taking the novel class at the Writer's at Work Conference (with Bret Lott) in June. We've continued meeting as a group. Once a month. One of the guys, Scott, decided to organize it and invited the top writers from the class. The group consists of a surgeon, a physician, a professor at the U, a lawyer, and the others I'm not even sure of. And they don't pigeonhole their work into any particular category. And when I attend these meetings (as I did last night), I feel like a professional writer, a good writer, and I feel like my opinion of their work really matters. It makes me want to keep writing, all the time. And I felt good on my drive home, planning how I'm going to start scheduling more writing time into my days.

So I wondered, what is it about this that is so different? Is it the expectation that I am smart (when the others think I am) as in the second writing group or am I just always the same, just feeling differently by how the first writing group makes me feel, like an amateur?

I still don't know the answer, but I guess I'll keep writing.

Dante, could you have been . . .?

Last August, shortly after the accident, a pigeon (or rock dove, if you will) showed up on the roof of my house. Just appeared there one day and sat gawking at me with its beady little eyes. And never left.

I've always liked birds, especially since that bird-watching class I took in college. At first, I was amused. Bianca and I named him Dante. He'd strut past between two shaded underhangs on my roof depending on the time of day and from where the sun was shining. We liked him.

I thought it, but am not sure if I said it aloud then, that maybe, just maybe, Dante was the spirit of my baby Miranda who had died just weeks before in the aforementioned accident. I shrugged it off mostly, but babied Dante, just in case. I even sometimes left food out on the sidewalk for him to nibble.

I started getting fed up with him weeks later when I noticed he was leaving bird droppings on my porch from the perch where he sat all day. I set a box underneath, to catch the poop, in my lame attempt at keeping the mess to a minimum. And then he brought his girlfriend to our roof to live in peace. Bianca and I promptly named her Dorian and continued to tolerate them.

Two months later. The mess is out of control and my roof is spotted and I have no patience with the birds left. I don't know what to do. I research how to get rid of pigeons on the internet. The most helpful piece of advice I found was to get a peregrine falcon as a pet to demolish them, albeit this advice was not humane.

I didn't get a peregrine falcon. But I did tie some balloons onto the roof to bob in the wind and scare them away, which worked like a charm, for a couple days until the helium of the balloon deflated. I then decided to tie plastic shopping bags on the roof, again to make rustling noises and flap in the wind. Didn't work. My last futile attempt came in the form of a gag gift we'd received once that I found under our bed. It was a motion-sensored toilet that sang "Flush the toilet, flush, flush, flush" to the melody of Rockin' Robin. I climbed onto the ledge and set the plastic toilet squarely on the rain gutters. Then left. It was the perfect plan, but alas, it didn't work either.

Another couple months. Snow on the ground. Dante shows up with his no-good, free-loading cousin DeWayne who moves in with Dante and Dorian. Eric brings a pellet gun home from work. He shoots it a couple times, not truly intending to hit them, and they fly away. A couple days later. All three are back. We're all fed up and Eric aims a little closer and hits DeWayne on the wing. Dante and Dorian fly off, leaving DeWayne who can now not fly. He waddles off down the sidewalk (which was the last time I saw any of them).

Last month, I was reading Bianca "Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens" each night before bed when I was struck sick with the following paragraph (mind you, Dante was not a swallow, but still):

"[Peter Pan] has still a vague memory that he was a human once, and it makes him especially kind to the house-swallows when they visit the island, for house-swallows are the spirits of little children who have died. They always build in the eaves of the houses where they lived when they were humans, and sometimes they try to fly in at a nursery window, and perhaps that is why Peter loves them best of all the birds."

What do you think? Am I crazy or just plain mean? (By the way, animal rights activists are not allowed to have an opinion here.)

Walking Down Memory Lane

Dani and I started our after-dark walking ritual shortly after the accident last year. We chose after dark because I was worried to see people I knew and knowing they knew the worst thing that can happen to a woman happened to me and even worse, they'd ask about it as they tried to avoid looking straight into the horrendous gaping wound on my forehead. Nevertheless, we've been walking at night fairly regularly throughout the entire year. And a lot of weird things have happened during those night walks (I'm not even going to mention--well, okay, I will in passing--the guinea pig running loose through the streets that bit a chunk out of my finger or the night all the cats were racing through the neighborhood after visible mice).

But last night, we got to take an amusing trip down memory lane. It all started as we were walking by a house with a driveway stuffed with trucks and teenage boys and two giggling girls. As we walked by, we heard "Hi" and said hello back. The two girls ran over to us, "I like your outfit." I'm sure they were talking to Dani because I was wearing pajama bottoms. We said goodbye and kept walking.

We turned around at the top and headed back by this house about twenty minutes later. The girls saw us again and ran up to us and said, "You guys are cute." We thanked them and they stepped into our pace, wanting to walk with us for a bit. They were 13. And cute. And wore a little too much make-up. As we were walking, I heard one of the girls say, "Do you think I should do it right here?" The other one nodded. Then the girl started running on the street and did a round-off back handspring. I smiled inwardly. And said, "Wow." The other one started blurting out, "I do kick boxing, and I sing, and play the piano and the guitar." We kindly dismissed them after a while and told them to be careful around those guys and they shouldn't be dating guys who can drive at their age. And were they okay staying at that house?

After they giggled and ran off, I admitted to Dani that I used to do back flips anywhere--at gas stations, the beach, restaurant parking lots--to get attention when I was that age. My insecurities were that I was never the prettiest of my friends (I've always had really pretty friends) and I needed some way to stand out. I used the one thing that came naturally to me--tumbling. Yes, an obvious, far-fetched cry for attention, I now see.

Then Dani admitted the other one was like her--well, I play the piano and I sing and I do this and this . . . We both laughed, walking off, realizing that we had just met ourselves 15 years before.

The girls had gasped when we told them our ages. But I have to say, I like the person I am at 30 three times as much as I liked the crying-for-attention girl I was at 13.

My Organized Life

MY ORGANIZED LIFE--TAKE ONE: While I was in St. Louis in July, I resolved I would begin life again organized. I decided to get a planner at Target for $3--the kind normally sold to college students, I suppose. I started filling it out. Unfortunately, I forgot to add "pack new planner" onto my to-do list for July 25, because I returned home without my new life-altering planner. I called my mom and she found it in the room where I was sleeping. She asked me since I left it, could she have it? Of course it would cost just as much to send it as to buy a new one, I said sure. It's yours, mom.

MY ORGANIZED LIFE--TAKE TWO: I only had three days here before I left with my husband Eric on our trip to the Oregon coast, so I swung by Target and bought a new one. I nearly forgot to go, as I didn't have a planner to put it on my to-do list, but managed it between stocking the house full of groceries for Bianca and grandma and pulling cash from the ATM.

A couple days into our trip, Eric and I were fighting over what to do in Cannon Beach. Unlike Eric, who likes to just get into the car and see where it takes us, I wanted to plot out our week. We fought for an hour, then spent the next fifteen minutes putting everything we wanted to do in my new planner:

TUESDAY: Drive to Tillamook to tour the cheese factory (boring--I wish we hadn't listened to that damn girl at the bed & breakfast who said we just had to do it). Eat at Newman's at 988 (which turned out to be an overly stuffy too-expensive-to-feel-comfortable-in restaurant that left me hungry as they ushered me out, which gnocchi always does, why do I keep ordering it?). So much for that. We ended up fitting a nap into our day that was not scheduled into the planner, but I'm glad I made room for it.

TO DO: Find conch shell large enough to hear the ocean for Bianca. Stop letting Eric pick fights with me about planning things. (He scribbled in later: Stop provoking Eric into a fight.)

WEDNESDAY: Eric golfing nine holes in Manzanita (while I do a little writing at the B&B by the fireplace watching the ocean view from my window). Check out the caves at Hug Point. Drive back to Astoria to retrieve my jogging clothes I'd left on Monday. Then pick up a pizza and eat at our room. Yes, I was sick of eating out already. Too much seafood. However, the pizza was filled to the brim with crab meat. Good, nonetheless.

THURSDAY: Five-mile hike at Cape Falcon. (Unmarked two-hour nap before dinner) Dinner at Nehalen River Inn (best food of the trip by the way)

FRIDAY: After B&B breakfast, check out of Arch Cape House and drive to Ashland. Grab a quick bite. 8:00 pm. A Winter's Tale at Oregon Shakespeare Festival. (Worth every penny.) Ridiculous hour drive to our B&B in the mountains.

SATURDAY: Drive home.

As I sat in the car long after I had the patience to be pleasant, I marked in my planner things I need to do in the next several weeks: finish getting pieces of uniform for Bianca to start school, shop for school supplies, get-to-know-teacher meeting, get my chapter two ready for my writing group meeting next week. My vacation is over. I'm now the mother of a kindergartner and have a lot of responsibilities. Much more than last year. I'm pretty sure Bianca gets reprimanded if I get her late to school in the morning. Now, with all these added pressures, I've got to stay organized.

AND CUT--THAT'S A WRAP

An Astoria Morning

We got to Oregon on Saturday. Eric and I had never had a honeymoon when we were married seven years ago, instead we had to travel to St. Louis and Dallas for receptions--no money or vacation time left after that. So, here we are, alone and together. (Bianca is at home with grandma Quigley for the week.) And it's nice.

Yesterday, right outside the Hotel Elliot where we're staying, we browsed through the Farmer's Market on the street. And took a walk by the water. And drove over to Long Beach, Washington. Then ate at The Wet Dog Cafe, and had frozen hot chocolate at a local ice cream shop. It was great. No worries about a certain four year old. But even though I should be enjoying my time away, I really do miss her a lot and have been calling twice a day.

This morning, I woke at 6:30 am to go jogging. I went two blocks down to the water and jogged along the trolley tracks. It was beautiful. And still. There's something about jogging somewhere that breaks the boundaries between tourist and local. The locals wave and say "good morning" to you in a way they don't when you've got a camera dangling from your wrist. I noticed all the blackberry weeds growing along the waterfront, mentally noting to come back after breakfast for a mid-morning snack.

Astoria reminds me a bit of Key West. My friend Hilary and I spent a summer living there, the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. It has that dingy, old, but rich and beautiful feeling. We leave the windows open at night to let the cold breeze in to take in all the smells. Yeah, it takes me back a bit. I remember being considered a local, since I worked there as a hostess, and I loved being a local. It was great. It's funny, how much the locals despise the tourists but need the commerce to keep their little communities running. I don't blame them, who likes people intruding into their place to take in a couple days of beauty, acting like that's all they need, when it's there every day? I wish I never had to leave, as long as Bianca could be here with us.

When do religious differences begin?

A couple days after I arrived in St. Louis, my friend Hilary told me about the Lutheran Vacation Bible School that her mom volunteered her for. It was happening in July. Would Bianca want to come?

Hmmm, I thought, why not? Hilary and I were inseparable through most of my school years. She is Lutheran; I'm LDS. But we always did everything together. She went to all my churchs dances and youth conferences and activities; likewise, I went to all her churchs outings and sleepovers. We were both Christian. But I'd heard that typically Lutherans think there's something wrong with the Mormon religion. Not sure why, but I'd just heard that. It didn't bother me. Most people didn't like Mormons where I came from.

I decided to sign Bianca up. At first, from the sound of it, Bianca thought they were going to teach her how to read the Bible. I laughed, and told her she'd learn about Jesus, just like she does at regular church on Sundays. I filled out the application (wrote Bianca belonged to the Church of Jesus Christ--generic enough?), paid the $7, and dropped her off at the Lutheran church on Monday night. The parents were supposed to read the message each night as they dropped their child off, which I did, then left her playing. Each night was a Jesus story from the Bible, like walking on water and washing disciples' feet. Stuff we believe in. No problem. Plus, at four years old, would anything be that different from what she learns at our church? It's basic. Jesus is good.

I felt just fine about it. But my husband was unsure. We discussed it a bit, he was wanting to know if Bianca knew which church she belonged to. She was running through the dining room when I stopped her and asked her if she knew what religion she was. She was so tired of hearing about all this Bible school stuff. She huffed irritably, put her arms on her waist, and blurted, "Mom, I know Im a Lutheran and a Bible." I couldn't keep myself from laughing. She fell to the floor, as she always does when she knows I'm laughing about something she's said. I tell her it's good to be funny. Everyone wants to be funny, but she gets angry when I laugh at her. I nearly fell on the floor myself, from laughing. Obviously she doesn't know what religion she is and really, does it matter at this point?

Bianca loved Bible School. The theme was Jesus is a treasure, and they spent the week learning about different kinds of jewels--rubies, emeralds, amethysts, sapphires, diamonds--and connected them with a Bible story, and she got to make treasure chest crafts and dig up jewels from the sand box. She's been in treasure-seeking mode ever since we went to Micah and Karma's house, where the house's previous owners used jewels in their landscaping, and Bianca spent every day there filling a plastic baggie with jewels, treasure-hunting. So this was right up her alley.

On the final night of Bible school, my parents and I went to see the program in the sanctuary. Bianca stood up front with the other kids singing every word to all the songs. She knew them all, and all the arm movements that went along. I smiled watching her, as I always do no matter what church we're at. She got a bagful of treasures to take home. I was glad I put her in bible school.

A night later, as we were in the car, Bianca kept singing one of the songs they learned in Bible school--Jesus, Jesus, is our greatest treasure, he loves us, he loves us--and she sang it over and over until I was singing it myself. We were getting out of our car and my mom said, "Well, if anyone hears her, they'll think what a good little Lutheran kid." And yeah, they probably would. But what's the harm in that?

Both our religions teach about Jesus. Should we as parents teach our children that there's something wrong with other people's religions or being involved in a religion other than your own? I don't think so. What's Christian about that? I believe that every religion that teaches others to be kind and love Jesus and maybe think about each other as children of God is good. Am I wrong?

The St. Louis Experience

My days here in St. Louis are dwindling. This weekend, as I perused my mental checklist of things I must do while I'm in St. Louis, I realized that I hadn't yet eaten at White Castle. I have several restaurants that I have to have while I'm here: Imo's Pizza (St. Louis style pizza, which has become comfort food for me since I moved from this area, if you can believe that), Steak 'n Shake (for those amazing shoestring fries with cheese), Giannino's (for their house salad), and of course White Castle (for their amazing tiny cheeseburgers).

So Friday evening, we decided to swing by White Castle in South County on our way to the Magic House for their free night. We stood in line and ordered our food and waited what seemed like twenty minutes for our food. I was so hungry and excited to eat. My sister-in-law Karma went up to the front to see if our food was ready and it just so happened that mine was. Being the wonderful sister that she is, she grabbed my tray and was walking toward me. I was sitting at the table and saw by the smile on her face, as she walked angelically toward me, like floating, that she was bringing my food. It was just like slow motion, I watched her walk toward me, then mis-step, tipped the tray, then recovered all the food but Bianca's orange soda, which fell on its side, knocked off the top, and cascaded down the table and continued its waterfall right into my lap.

I jumped up, stunned, shocked, and didn't know what to do. My sister Betsy and Karma grabbed all the napkins they could and started dabbing. But I looked down at my now-orange completely soaked shorts and stood in disbelief. After several minutes, I recovered enough to sit back down (at a different table, as the one we were sitting at was now being doused with a dirty mop by an underpaid teenage employee) and tried to eat my cheeseburgers. They didn't taste quite as good as I remembered them being, shivering, my knees trying to knock together but they kept getting stuck together from the sticky orange soda filming my legs.

There was no way I could go anywhere after this. But we called my parents, who brought replacement clothes for me, from the waist down. I peeled the wet shorts from me and peeled my sandals still stuck on my skin and covered my sticky mess up with clean clothes. I still didn't want to go. But tonight was the free night. But Bianca really wanted to go. I said, fine, only for an hour. But we went and I soon forgot about feeling gross and sticky and Bianca had a great time. And we stayed until it closed at nine, and I'm glad we did.

But this brings me to another thought: Would I do something even if I didn't want to, just because it's free?

My other list of things I must do in St. Louis is go to all of its free attractions, which are numerous. (I don't work for the tourism marketing department for the city of St. Louis, despite how this may sound.) But St. Louis is the city with the most free attractions of any city in the U.S. While we're here, we go to the free zoo once a week (and get there before nine to ride the carousel free and get into the children's zoo free); try to see every musical showing at the Muny, to see in the free seats; go to Anheuser-Busch's Grants Farm (which is just like a zoo, but a little different nevertheless, even it is better than the Hoogle Zoo in Salt Lake); different museums, like the art museum, history museum, mastodon museum; if I happen to be here in June, I go to the free Shakespearean festival. There's so much here to do, and I love it. But am I doing it just because it's free or would I do it either way?

I don't know. Have you ever been to a restaurant when you're so full you can barely walk, yet the server brings out free dessert? Do you eat it, even though its painful, just because it's free? I don't think you want to know what my answer is to that, but I think you already do. I eat it. And I run myself silly around the city of St. Louis the entire month I'm here. It's all free. I'm like a kid in a candy store. And even though I'm miserable and have a tummy ache, I'm still eating.

Today's my last full day here, and if you're wondering, I'll be at Powder Valley, a free nature conservation area stocked with trails and wildlife. Oh, and by the way, my dad tried to entice me to go to the Monroe County Fair tonight, as it is the only free-admission night, and I declined. So there you have it, I guess I only do the free things I really want to do. But I really love to eat dessert.

The Second Morning After

This morning--the second morning after the storm raged through St. Louis leaving 500,000 without electricity in 100 degree weather, including my brother Micah and his wife Karma, who slept on the couches here at my parent's house, not to mention my parent's completely booked bed and breakfast--I went to the city park to run.

As I ran, I looked around at the many fallen trees and branches lying helpless and deadening on the ground. Branches and smaller handfuls of leaves lay unattached, littering the path. The clean-up crew hadn't come yet.

I hopped over the small branches and thought about next year, how unless you were here and saw what the storm took from these many sky-stretching trees, you probably wouldn't even know there once had been more.

I thought about how I must appear to most people a year after a tempest ripped my life apart. And how if you met me now, you may not realize that I used to be a different kind of tree. After my friends and family picked up the branches and scattered leaves, I probably looked pretty normal. But I know where my branches used to be and what leaves I'm still missing, even if passers-by don't see it.

I continued running my five miles this morning, watching the ground closely for branches that might trip me up, staring at the path. And I remembered last summer when I'd see discarded Cheerios on this very path, dropped by Miranda as my mom or dad strolled her as I ran, and remembered how I smiled seeing them--just picturing her sticky little fingers jabbing fistfuls of Cheerios at her mouth, dropping most of them. And despite all the branches and leaves, the path seemed awfully empty this year. One year later.

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Tornado Warning

Last night, we had a good 'ol Midwestern scare. I remember well spending evenings from my childhood tucked away in a dark, windowless room in the basement, playing boardgames by candlelight. When the sky started turning a greenish gray color last night, we knew it was for real. Breaking news on every channel, tornado warning.

I had dropped Bianca off at Bible school at six. I was in the house with my parents, a little irritated that I was too agitated about Bianca not being with me to spend my only free time here reading or doing a little writing. Instead we watched the news reports. I wanted to go get Bianca. She would be scared of course. She would need her mom. I could almost hear her crying for me. But decided the worst place you want to be during this kind of storm is in a car. I decided to wait, knowing that the Lutheran church where she was had a nice big safe basement.

Another ten minutes passed and the electricity was out. Of course it would go out. I saw large tree branches whipping past the windows and my parents's trees cracking in half and edged a little away from the windows. Made my way to the deepest part of the basement. We lit candles. I thought more about Bianca being alone and scared.

The storm passed through around 8:15. Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to pick her up from Bible school. When I went to get her, I found her happily eating an otter pop with not a worry in the world. The whole town of Columbia had no electricity, but the basement of the Lutheran church was lit up like heaven with a generator. Bianca greeted me happily, just like normal. We went out to the car.

I asked Bianca, "Were you scared?"

"About what?" she asked.

"The storm."

"No." The leaders hadn't even told the kids that there was a storm brewing or a tornado warning. Smart. Even though, at one point, the kids were all ushered into the bathrooms where it was safest.

"Really? Not even about the tornado?"

"Tornado?" Then she started crying. "I'm scared, mommy." Of course she's scared of tornados. We saw The Wizard of Oz last week. I held her close while we ran through the rain into the house. Then hugged her a little more.

I put Bianca right to bed, read her Peter Pan by candlelight. Then stepped upstairs to play Kings in the Corner with my parents, also by candlelight. A little after nine, the power flashed back on. Our air conditioning was back, the lights were back, the TV back on. Then I read a couple chapters and went to bed. And I wondered how often I manipulate my child into being scared so that she'll need me more, need me to wrap my arms around her so that I can feel better, so that I feel like I kept her safe.

If I only had a heart

Last night, as Bianca and I were sitting in the free seats at The Muny to see The Wizard of Oz, I reflected on the tin man and why he's dearest to me. Why I relate with him more than the others. This is what I came up with (disclaimer: these quotes are not exact, just the best I could remember from last night, so don't quote me):

If I only had a heart (the tin man)

Today's my husbands birthday. I'll call him and say happy birthday and go out to lunch with my mom in his honor. But I'm not with him. I'm still in St. Louis as I have been for over two weeks now, and have another two to go. I think that being able to step away from my life like this is owed to me. I do it every summer and plan to continue doing it. I usually miss his birthday or father's day or some other important day and he takes it in stride.

As the one-year marker of the death of our child approaches (July 28 to be exact), I'm distracted by the many things I'm doing here. I just spent three days with my friend Hilary, where we shopped, went to The Magic House (a childrens museum), even let Bianca and Caleb (her son) go fishing. We're going to the zoo and the art museum and the history museum and Grants Farm and the Arch. But my husband goes to work and comes home to an empty house and I know the one-year thing is bothering him. But I'm distracted; he's not.

The Heart is Useless so long as it is still breakable (The Wizard of Oz to the tin man)

We know a little something about having our hearts broken. I still feel it every day as I go through my constant outings. I feel it every time I see a child who's just learning to walk (as Miranda was when she passed away) or a child who is the age she would be now. I feel it every night as I'm tormented either with dreams of holding her as she was or my dreams about death. And I feel it every time I don't have anything in my arms, and they're hanging there useless instead of feeling the weight of her in them.

A Clinking, Clunking, Cavernous hunk of junk (the lion describing the tin man)

Yeah, I feel like that too. Sometimes the guilt I feel travels through my body until I feel hard and cold and useless. I feel guilt in so many ways--the fact that I was at fault in the accident, where I put the car seat in the car, that I didn't let Miranda have as many cookies as she wanted, that I wasn't a perfect mom, that I never will be.

The success of the heart is judged not by how much it loves, but how much it's loved by others (The Wizard of Oz to the tin man)

And although sometimes I don't deserved to be loved, I am. By my wonderful husband who puts up with a lot from me. And who is, for the most part, usually supportive whether it's my writing, my book clubs, my moods, my night walks, or just me. By my daughter Bianca who forgives me every time I yell at her. By my friends who accept me and are still around. And even though she's no longer with me, I know that I was loved by my baby who always stopped crying in my arms and was never happier anywhere else than at home.

If I had just had my hearts content, I would have never gone beyond my own backyard (Dorothy)

As I go through my life, I realize that there's not much else as important as my family. As I've said before, if I'd only just known how truly happy I was exactly one year ago, at least I could have appreciated it. How was I supposed to know?

What did you inherit from your dad?

Jogging in St. Louis is like trying to run in a sauna. A tangible, wet heat that makes me sweat big globs visible through the back of my t-shirt. But I jog every other morning here in St. Louis, just like I do at home. But here, in lieu of an alarm clock, my dad raps on my door at 6:15 a.m. If Bianca's still sleeping, just dad and I go. If she's awake, my mom comes along and pushes her in the stroller until my hour is up and we meet at the playground afterward.

Today it was just dad and me. We drove to the park with the top down in his Solera convertible (yes, he admits it's a bit of an after-mid-life crisis thing) to the Columbia park, where they have a twisty, one-mile-long path through woods and past the playground. Sounds like a nice father-daughter morning, right? Well, it's not what it seems.

My dad is a competitor in every sense of the word. On the fourth of July, I was frustrated that we were going to be late for our barbecue at my brother Micah's house because my dad was dinking around the house and bet him a McDonald's sausage biscuit that he couldn't get us to their house on time. Yes, it was all of $0.99 on the line, but you better believe he made it there right on time. You see, competition and money motivate my dad.

While we were jogging this morning, he ran alongside me at the start. For about a mile and a half. I told him I'm a lone jogger. No talking. I need music. Then he stuttered into a walk. I waved nonchalantly, even exhaled a heavy "see ya later," then jogged on. A quarter mile later, I was startled by a sprinter running past on my left. It was my dad. He stopped several feet ahead of me, then walks again. I continue jogging on, shaking my head as I go past. Another quarter mile later, he does it again. It's like trying to shake a clingy dog off my ankle. He's so competitive. He can't let me win.

I'm reminded of my trip here to St. Louis last summer when my sister Susannah (you know I love you, Susannah) decided she had to jog with me. I told her distractedly that I prefer to run alone--keep my own pace, not able to make conversation between heavy breaths--but she thought it would be a great bonding experience. She always gets her way. I relented. We'd run and she stayed with me the entire time, until 50 yards to finish, then she'd kick it, dash past me with Olympic-caliber concentration, and win the race. I tried to tell her I'm not competing with her. I jog for the sheer enjoyment of it. She scoffed. Everyone wants to beat everyone else. Yes, she's a competitor like my dad.

Eventually, my dad admitted defeat and stopped trying to zip past me every quarter mile. We met up afterward. But I've realized through this experience that we all inherit things from our parents. My sister inherited my dad's competitive nature, I guess I inherited his frugality. It's okay. I'd rather be cheap than have to beat everyone at everything.

When do I get my happy ending?

I hate happy endings. I know I'm in the minority. Most people like them in books and movies because we don't usually get them in real life. And that's exactly why I don't like them. If I can't have one, why should this fictional character?

I realized I was starting to have a dismal perspective on life when I began devouring the complete works of Thomas Hardy. And I would find myself dissatisfied at the movie theatre when a movie would wrap itself up, all perfect and exact at the seams, with a pretty little bow.

On Friday night, I went with my friend Hilary (my best friend since grade school) and her husband to the Muny to see "Aida." The Muny is this great outdoor theatre that rotates musicals each week and sets aside 1200 free seats each night. It's amazing, if you can stand the humidity and the mosquitoes. And I can. The story ends with the star-crossed lovers being buried alive together. I loved it. No one pulled them out of the tomb at the last minute. They died together in each other's arms. Aida was great--the performers were fantastic, the music was great, the temperature seemed to be a little cooler that night, and I got my tragic ending.

School Uniforms as Equalizers

Bianca starts kindergarten in September at a private school. They require a particular uniform, of course.

I wanted to buy it this month, as the store has ten percent off in June. It's not as easy as it sounds. The store is pretty screwed up--only open on from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and it's located downtown Salt Lake. I kept wanting to go by and never got a chance. Today, a friend of mine from the neighborhood went by and picked up an extra skirt for Bianca.

She stopped by my house on the way home. It's okay. It's a pleated, black-white-red plaid skort. It's $40. I spent $40 on one piece of clothing. I only wanted her to pick up the one.

As I wrote out a check for my friend, I thought about how I was so exited that Bianca would be wearing a uniform to school. How it's an equalizer. No kids are judged by how much money their parents make, based on the clothes they wear. Everyone looks the same.

Then I realized that no way in hell would I ever normally pay $40 for one skirt. Ever. I'm a 75 percent off shopper. I pay $10 for a complete outfit at Dillard's after-season sale for next year. School uniform as an equalizer? Whatever. The thing I'm most realizing that in order to wear an "equalizer" uniform, your parents have to shell out quite a bit of money. Simple as that. I don't think of them as equalizers anymore.

To even things out, I think I'll buy the rest of the uniform--the knee socks, white shirts, and black pants--at Target if I can get away with it.

I'm in a Good Book Club

As I sat across from Bret Lott, on a picnic table littered with blossoms from a nearby tree, he asked me who I was. Not just who I am, but what makes me tick. I don't remember how, but my book club came up.

He asked what we were reading.

I responded, "Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc."

He said, "You're in a good book club."

I smiled. "I know." And it's true. I know.

We've read our share of bad books, but we read good ones too. But that's not really why this book club is good.

I sat down to read in my still house, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the tick-tock of the clock on my wall, and I smile again. I read aloud. About Joan of Arc. But not just about Joan of Arc. About Joan of Arc in Mark Twain's words. I pause and reread and say the delicious words slowly and enjoy them again, if I choose to.

I know I've got a great book club. As Amber says, we'll still be reading books and meeting when we're old and gray. We'll talk about books and sex and our grandchildren. Every third Thursday. I look at this clock and know it will cease its ticking and die years before this book club does.

Soup, Anyone?

I love my friends. I'm so lucky to have many, many good friends. I'm not even going to mention the ones I talk to all the time (you know who you are). Too many wonderful, maudlin things to say. And I don't want to come off as a sap. But I had lunch today with my old work friends--Debi, Debbie Reynolds (not the actress), and Leslie. We worked together nearly five years ago at Novell Connection magazine. We were like family.

I dropped Bianca off at Eric's work so he could take her to McDonald's, then let her play some web games on the extra computer in his office. She loves going to daddy's work. His office is full of candy and sugary drinks. I stop off there sometimes just to pick up something sweet if I'm running errands in the area.

After I dropped Bianca off, I met my friends at Zuppa's. I love this place. We had a little rain this morning, so soup was the perfect lunch. Especially, the creamy Wisconsin Cauliflower, with a piece of bread and chocolate-covered strawberry on the side. I could eat there every day. Well, in the winter for sure.

There's something amazing about the way you can not see someone for such a long span of time--we usually get together once every three months--and we just connect and talk about everything. But mostly catch up. We remember all those people that we used to talk about in each others office for hours--relatives, good friends, kids. There's so much to talk about. I love these women.

After the magazine we worked for went kaput, we all went our separate ways. Leslie and Debi moved on to Creating Keepsakes; Debi went to Niche (where I worked several months in 2004 as well). But I still feel like we're family. They came to Miranda's funeral and watched me transition into a person they undoubtedly didn't recognize. (They'd known every single idiosyncracy about me, right down to my spending habits.) Grief tends to change a person. Just ask my husband.

It was at a similar lunch at the same Zuppa's in August when they convinced me now would be a perfect time to sit down and write that novel I'd always known I'd write. They encouraged me, and checked in on me about it, and they supported me. I'm not saying that I'm going to be a great novelist someday (although that is my dream), but if I do ever publish something, these women will be near the top of my "thank you" list.

As we were leaving, a worker came to collect our trays. None of my friends had eaten their chocolate-covered strawberry. As he slid the plates over, I gasped. "You're not going to eat your strawberries?" I gleefully grabbed each one and piled them in front of me. Debi smiled, put her arm around me, and said, "Jeana, you're back."