A Prayer for the Living

When seniors Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold stormed into Columbine High School and murdered 12 classmates and one teacher before committing suicide on an April morning in 1999, I was an 11th grade English teacher in Charlotte, NC. That afternoon, I sat on a desk in front of the television in my empty classroom, paralyzed by the story playing out on the news.

That could have happened at my school, I thought. Could have happened at any school. And I was terrified, trying to imagine what I would have done if I'd been the teacher facing the end of a loaded shotgun.

This past Friday, when the news alert landed in my inbox with the headline "'Several' Students, Adults Dead After Elementary School Shooting In Conn.," I was frozen again. But this time the fear was different. This time I wasn't in a North Carolina classroom -- this time, my son was.

The rational part of my brain knew he was fine, knew the situation was unspeakably horrible but also hundreds of miles away. Still, the rest of me -- all the mom parts of me -- needed to get to my son as quickly as possible and hold him close.

Since Friday afternoon, I've read pieces of articles, heard bits of stories, all of which stop me in my tracks and reduce me to tears so that I'm forced to look away. After Columbine, I was scared. But Sandy Hook has pierced down under my skin, broken into my heart in ways that I cannot really explain except to say that I am a mom now. When I think of those in the school who were both teachers and parents, I cannot even comprehend what they experienced.

I hear the story of the police officer who slipped his badge under the door so the kids in hiding would know it was safe to come out, listen to the rabbi talk about trying to help a grieving mother breathe, read about one father who found his child alive and another father who didn't, imagine the terror everyone must have felt -- and my brain simply starts to shut down. My heart constricts, my stomach drops, I can't breathe. If my child were among the missing, I am certain that I would simply cease to exist.

And yet these parents are still breathing, in spite of it all.

So that is all I can think to pray for today. Please, God, help the survivors to breathe. Find air for them to fill their lungs so they can find a way back to living. Make space for them -- the parents and students and teachers -- to catch a breath now and then that will be deep enough to force the pain out and lift them up to the light for just a moment.

Dread

On Friday, I go back to my dermatologist.

Thanks to my (ahem) delicate skin, she keeps me on a pretty short leash – every six months, I’m in her office for a skin scan.

If you haven’t had a full body scan with the dermatologist, then you might not know that they check everywhere. Even places where the sun literally doesn’t shine.

My dermatologist is blessedly fast, with a light touch and a chatty demeanor, which makes it all go by more quickly. But I’m really dreading this trip. Dreading the idea that she might find another basal cell lurking beneath another ordinary looking pimple on my face.

I’m not ready to do this again:

But I’ll be there anyway. With my fingers and toes crossed. Until she looks between them for skin anomalies, that is.

Because you know what’s even worse than that surgery pictured above?

Letting a basal cell run its course like one of these.

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If you actually clicked that last link, you'll understand when I tell you that I had intended to put a real shocker of a photo in this post -- but I couldn't do it. I wanted to show you what happens when you let a basal cell eat away at your skin for years and years untreated. But the pictures that I found -- just like the ones my skin surgeon showed me from her own cases -- made me gag so much that I couldn't look at them long enough to copy and paste into this post.

If you didn't click that last link, then let me just remind you to wear sunscreen, keep your hat on and schedule regular visits with your dermatologist. It's not sexy, but it's a helluva lot better than the alternative.

Photo notes: Bottom left is the spot circled before surgery; center and top left are during surgery; top right is last month after a much-needed makeover, showing where my hair is finally growing back; the rest are the in between stages of stitches and infection. Also, that long white scar in the middle of my forehead is the remains of my first basal cell, which was removed three years ago.
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Recurring

The dreams started on Tuesday.

I’m climbing the stairs to the third floor of the main building. I can’t tell if I’m sweating because of nerves or simply because there’s still no air conditioning. I can’t catch my breath. The floor slopes strangely as I race down the hall, my eyes scanning quickly along the numbers ticking across the wall.

I have no idea which locker is mine, much less what combination will tumble the lock into place so I can retrieve my books.

And there are so many books. I don’t know where they came from, but I find myself carrying enough textbooks to crush an average 9th grader. They’re not my books, not my locker, and no one is listening.

Suddenly I’m in a different hall, different building, but just as lost. Where the hell is Mr. Saunders’ calculus class? And why is it always calculus that I can’t find? I keep checking my schedule, printed on carbon paper from the guidance office. Every time I look at it, there are new classes, new room numbers typing across the page.

Wandering into the back of the nearest classroom, I discover that I’m in biology. Lab day. I haven’t studied. It’s not my best subject. The teacher looks angry. I try to blend into an empty desk, hope that she won’t call on me. I have no idea what is going on or how to get out.

And then, both a blessing and a curse, I’m awake. Pippi is at the side of my bed. “Come lie down in my bed, Mommy?”

I should probably be glad that I never have the dream where I show up naked at school.

Or maybe I should just put on my big girl pants and get over the fact that my 20th high school reunion is this weekend. Crap.

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Tenth Anniversary of 9/11

Home.

All I could think about in that moment was getting home. As fast as possible.

I'd been sitting in my Tuesday morning graphic design class in the basement of Carroll Hall when some journalism student ran past shouting something about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center.

Silly undergrads, I thought. Those kids will do anything for attention.

And then I could hear the news coverage suddenly playing live on the big screen in the classroom next door. Not a joke at all. Not even close.

A quick check of my email showed a message from my almost-husband sending me to CNN's website, but by the time I clicked the link the internet had screeched to a halt along with the rest of the watching nation.

Home. If I can just get home, I said to myself, I'll be okay.

As classes ended abruptly across campus, I stepped outside into the bright blue day and called P to come get me. I didn't think I could walk the mile back to our house.

Looking back on that moment, I'm struck by how many people just wanted to be home at that same instant and weren't able to call someone to come get get them. How many people were waiting by the phone to get that call, but it didn't ring.

P and I spent the rest of that day hugging each other and watching the news and cleaning our house, as if eliminating the dust bunnies from our hardwood floors would somehow eliminate the threat of terrorism in our country.

Then four days later, we got married.

It's a strange thing to share the week of my wedding anniversary with a day of national terror and destruction. But it's also a powerful reminder of how blessed and lucky I am to have been able to call my true love that day and have him scoop me up and take me safely home.

Sending prayers for all those who are missing loved ones from their homes today.
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Friday's 5: Type-A Mom Conference

I'm about to do something that, two years ago, I would never have expected. I'm leaving Friday afternoon to go to a blogging conference.

Yeah, I know -- it sounds crazy to me, too.

But it's a lovely, fall weekend in Asheville hanging out with smart, interesting, clever blogging mamas (and some daddies, too) -- which honestly sounds like a lot of fun.

Except that now that I'm about to go, I've decided it's a supremely bad idea. Now that I really think about it, going to a blogging conference goes against all the reasons I actually like blogging. Here's why:

1. Clothing: When I'm blogging, I can be in my jammies, my sweaty tshirt or whatever I happen to have on. No one sees me and no one cares. At a conference, all that goes out the window. Suddenly I have to think about what to pack and what I could possibly wear that didn't come from Target or Old Navy.
2. Location: When I'm blogging, I'm at home. Doesn't take any planning or traveling or coordinating. I just sit down at my computer and start. With this conference, there's the four-hour drive there, the four-hour drive back, plus the cost of the hotel in between.
3. Timing: When I'm blogging, I squeeze in time during Pippi's nap or after the kids go to bed. My husband probably gets slighted the most, but I try to write when it's not taking time away from anyone else. This conference means I'll be gone for three days -- Daddy will be parenting solo. He's more than capable, but he's going to be one tired man by Sunday night.
4. Editing: When I'm blogging, I don't have to be clever on the first try. I can edit, tweak, delete, add, link and change to my heart's content. In person, at a conference? It's all live, with no time to rehearse.
5. Popularity: When I'm blogging, I know that at least five of my relatives and two or three friends are going to read every post. It doesn't matter if I don't have hundreds of subscribers as long as someone I know leaves a comment now and then. At this conference, there will be actual blog celebrities in the house. Meanwhile, I'll be loitering in the lobby with a pocket full of Triangle Mamas business cards hoping someone recognizes me from my avatar @convertiblelife.

Okay, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'm going to get over myself. Truth is, if I get to hang out with the Triangle Mamas and some of the other talented local bloggers I've already met, it will be a great weekend -- no matter what I wear or say or do. 

And at the end of it all, I'll get to come home to my sweet family and appreciate them that much more for having been away.

Traveling mercies -- see you next week!

Sleep-Overs

Last weekend, I spent about 24 hours away from home -- I was actually less than two miles from my house, but we could have been in China for what it felt like. Because for that 24 hours, I had no responsibilities for anyone or anything other than me-- no kids, no husband, no house, no job. It was my first time having a "sleep-over party" with a girlfriend since I don't know when -- and just like when I was a kid, I was the last one still awake and talking after everyone else fell asleep.

The time away with a dear friend (whose daughter was at home with another friend) was both strange and lovely -- strange to feel so solo, with no one asking for a sippy cup or to be held or can I do this or that, yet lovely to have time to finish a complete sentence or just be still for a bit. We saw a Sunday matinee movie, ate take-out for dinner in our hotel, slept late, got pedicures and had lunch outside, all before I resumed my regular life picking up Junius from preschool. I missed everyone at home, but being away for even just a quick "trip" made me that much happier to be back with them the next day.

This weekend, we have a different kind of sleep-over planned. This time, Junius is the one getting away -- and I think he's even more excited than I was last weekend. I, however, am terrified.

He's going for his very first sleep-over ever -- staying with Nonna and Grandpa for one night. I'm sure he'll have a blast, and I know they're thrilled that he's coming. But somehow I just can't believe that my baby boy is old enough to spend the night both away from home and away from me. What if he misses me and Daddy? What if he wakes up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep? Or, gasp, what if he doesn't even notice that I'm not there?

Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths.

At least I'll have the Pip to keep me busy as she cries out in the middle of the night demanding, "Where my pacie go, mommy?!"

Sigh. I'm going to need a good nap come Sunday afternoon.

The Illusion of Safety

If you see my kids sledding next year, please don't laugh at them. It's not their fault they'll be wearing helmets -- and hopefully by then I will have convinced them that the head gear serves an aerodynamic purpose, so your laughter will only ruin their sense of speed.

The real reason they'll have helmets strapped onto their sweet little heads is that I called 911 for the first time last Sunday after our four-year-old friend sledded into a metal mailbox post. It was a total fluke -- nothing dangerous or risky, just good old-fashioned sledding on a Sunday morning. If the sled had dumped her a couple of inches to either side, she would have had a face full of snow and a reason to stay inside drinking hot chocolate for the rest of the day. Instead, she had a terrifying gash down the side of her forehead that ultimately required 10 x-rays, a CT scan and 20 stitches.

Thankfully, our friend is fine -- we knew she'd be okay when she started yelling at the paramedic because he suggested Mickey might be her favorite Disney character instead of one of the princesses. Her parents, however, still need some time to recover.

The whole accident left me shaken, reminded of how delicate our lives are. Accidents are random -- that's what makes them accidents, and also what makes them so scary for us parents. I prefer to believe that if I do all the right things -- make my kids wear helmets, brush their teeth, buckle their seatbelts, look both ways -- that I can protect them. But any one of a million random moments takes everything out of my control.

So I do what moms have done for centuries: I make rules. No jumping on the bed, no running with scissors, no crossing the street without an adult, no talking to strangers, no swimming after you eat, no sledding without a helmet. The older they get, the scarier the world seems, the more rules I make.

At the end of the day, I know I can't bubble-wrap them into safety. Accidents happen, even when I'm right there watching them. But the rules help me survive, give me the illusion that I have some control. Otherwise, I'm this close to becoming That Mom -- the helicopter type who never lets her kids have fun -- and that's not a safe way for anyone to live.

Floyd, Fear and Flying Far

Ten years ago tomorrow, I boarded a plane at the Greensboro airport en route to Cardiff, Wales.

I was terrified. I don't like to fly under the best of circumstances, but my connector flight to D.C. was to be the last (tiny) plane out before the airport closed due storms from Hurricane Floyd. The turbulence from bad weather alone would have been enough to tie my stomach in knots.

But my fear of going halfway around the world to live for a year -- without my family, friends or even a passing acquaintance -- meant I hadn't eaten or slept much for the few days preceding the flight, leaving me a weak, sniffling disaster with a passport and a whole lot of luggage. If not for the support of one of my dearest friends who waited with me at the D.C. airport and another BFF who made a care package to keep me entertained on the flight to London, I might not have survived the trip.

When I arrived at my flat in Cardiff the next day, alone and exhausted, I was certain I had made the biggest mistake of my life. That night, I began my first journal entry with these words:

"I am courage. At least that's what Mom said when I called her from my host Rotarian's house sobbing at 5 p.m. She said that courage isn't being unafraid; it's being afraid, but still facing your fears. So, here I am, facing them."

She was right, of course (moms usually are), although it took several weeks before I believed her. And the year, spent studying magazine journalism at Cardiff University as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, was one of the best decisions I ever made.

In celebration of that decision and in thanks to my parents for helping me find the courage I needed a decade ago, I'll be posting excepts from my year abroad over the next month -- some snippets from my journals, but also copy from feature articles I wrote while I was there. Since I wasn't tech-savvy enough to be on the forefront of blogging in 1999, I'm taking this opportunity to relive the experience now -- hope you don't mind coming along on the trip.

Lost in Marbles

As Pippi strolled past me with her miniature grocery cart, I waved to her and she tossed me a big flirty grin. Then I turned back to Junius, who was fixing a plastic breakfast of eggs, bacon and spaghetti with meatballs.

After a moment, I noticed that Pippi hadn't circled back to us when she got to the corner, so I stood up to check on her. That's when I realized there was no corner, just another opening that connected to the rest of the play area. And Pippi was nowhere to be seen.

It was a busy Saturday morning at Marbles Kids Museum, the kind of day when I would have preferred to go to the pool and avoid the crowds. But Junius had asked so nicely and I was tired of always saying no. So we went, just the three of us.

My eyes darted around the chaotic space, searching for her shaggy little head among all the other toddlers -- how do you find someone so short in a crowd? I raced around the loop twice before grabbing Junius by the hand for fear that he might disappear, too. After a third frantic circle, Juni struggling to keep up with me, I could feel myself starting to panic.

Surely she was in here somewhere, I tried to rationalize. But what if she'd followed someone out of the gate and they hadn't noticed? How far could she wander without being stopped? What if someone had taken her?

We dashed to the information desk, telling the woman there that I'd lost my child. I started spouting out details, which she relayed through her earpiece to the other staff members -- 18 months old, sandy hair, pink shoes, flowered dress. As I described her, she sounded like any one of a million little people playing in the museum. I wrestled with my lungs to make my breathing stay at a normal rate.

After making Junius promise he would stay at the desk, I darted back into the play area to search again. Another staffer met me there, saying, "I think someone found her." I looked up, expecting to see her crying for me, searching as desperately for her mommy as I had been for her.

But she was playing happily at the little cash register, just a few feet from where I'd been sitting for our pretend meal. She must have been two steps behind me the whole time I was searching for her, not even knowing that she was lost.

When I scooped her up, thanking the staff and heading to the desk to retrieve Junius, it felt like she'd been missing for hours. In reality, it had been less than five minutes -- but it was the longest one of my children had been lost, and it was more than enough time to leave me shaking and exhausted.

Firsts Night

Saturday night was a momentous one filled with "firsts" for our little family. The big event was Junius's first camping trip -- he went to Hanging Rock State Park with his dad and Grandpa (my FiL). They hiked to a waterfall (see photo of Juni and Daddy), rowed in a boat and slept in a tent during an overnight rainstorm. Juni had a blast, and the big guys had fun sharing the experience with him and each other.

Pippi and I stayed with Nonna (my MiL) while the guys were out roughing it. We took naps (or at least they did while I got some contract work done), went shopping, ate dinner in a restaurant and slept in our beds. It was lovely and civilized -- and too bad that Pip isn't yet old enough for pedicures at the salon.

But even though we weren't out camping, Pippi and I still had our share of firsts...

• It was Pippi's first night without Junius since we brought her home from the hospital. Seems funny to imagine, but in her whole life (minus the first couple days), she's never had dinner without her brother, never had breakfast without her brother, never gone to bed without her brother in the next room. She had an unusually tough time in the restaurant during dinner -- could have just been crabby, but I honestly think she was starting to miss Junius. She was VERY excited to see him when they returned home on Sunday.
  
  
• It was possibly my first night in almost nine years without saying goodnight to my husband. We've certainly spent nights apart because of business travel or weekends with friends, but I don't think I've ever gone to bed without at least saying goodnight to him. Felt really strange and kind of icky.
  
  
• It was probably the first time I went 24 hours without talking to my husband. I expected to get a call sometime during their trip since both my husband and Grandpa had their cell phones with them. When I didn't hear from them, my brain leapt straight into the deep end -- car wreck, bear attack, rock slide, lightning strike, whatever irrational disaster you can think of. The rational part of my brain told me they simply didn't have any reception in the park (which turned out to be true), but sadly that tiny part was no match for all the crazy scenarios that nearly drove me over the edge waiting by the phone. I was so relieved to see them arrive home on Sunday that I proceeded to yell at my husband for not making a Herculean effort to call me and tell me that they were neither injured nor dead.
  
  
• It was only my fifth night away from Junius (out of 1,483 days in his life) -- of the other four, one was a getaway with my husband (so luxurious and restful!) and the other three were spent in the hospital when Pippi was born (neither luxurious nor restful). Don't get me wrong -- I'm looking forward to a night away from both of my children sometime this year, but it still just felt weird not to see him, tell him good-night, tuck him under his blanket before I went to bed.

The good news about all of this is that Junius has convinced his dad that they should bring Pippi and me along on the next camping trip -- might be the ONLY way I'll ever get invited to camp again with my husband (I'll save that story for later, but let's just say the first trip didn't go well and may have caused him to reconsider his intentions to marry me). Honestly, I'm not a huge fan of sleeping on the ground, but at least I won't be waiting by the phone if I get to go along for the ride.

A Good Substitute is Hard to Find

He just wanted to be helpful. I was making my lunch, and Junius asked if he could join in. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

But when I watched, stunned, as his eyes began to swell shut and welts broke out across his face, I suddenly realized he was allergic to my sandwich. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the kind I'd eaten a hundred times since he was born, the kind he'd never wanted to eat himself but had just helped me make.

Somehow we made it three-and-a-half years without discovering that Junius has a peanut allergy -- but last December, it was painfully obvious why he never liked peanut butter. He hadn't even eaten any of it that day -- just got a little on his hands closing my sandwich, then rubbed his eyes. After a quick dose of benedryl, a frantic trip to the pediatrician (thankfully it was a weekday and his breathing remained normal), an epi shot and a long nap, he recovered from the reaction unscathed. A few weeks later we visited the allergist to officially confirm what we already knew.

Since then, we've stopped buying peanut butter altogether, even though my husband and I both love it. Just seems too risky to have it in the house. But I miss the ease and the tastiness of a good PB&J for lunch. So when my neighbor offered me a sample of SunButter that she'd gotten in the mail, I figured it was worth a try.

Turns out I can't get Juni even to taste it -- he is understandably afraid of anything that looks remotely like peanut butter. But Pippi and I have really enjoyed it. Although you wouldn't mistake it for real peanut butter, it has enough of the consitency, texture and flavor to make a good sandwich. And in addition to being Juni-safe, it's also "nutritionally superior" to peanut butter (according to its website).

All that to say, if you're not allergic to peanuts, you're probably happier with the real deal. But if you're looking for a substitute, this is a good one.

Note: I have received no compensation from SunButter to write this post. There's a lot of hullabaloo these days about blogging with integrity. I'm assuming the six of you who read this blog aren't worried about that, but please let me know if you have concerns. Trust me when I tell you that none of the marketers seem to have discovered my little blog, despite my hopes for lots of free "blogola."

Tackling the Chicken

I just cut up two raw chicken breasts into pieces and browned them to use in tonight's dinner.

[Pause while the people who know me well pick themselves up off the floor and start breathing normally again.]

Yes, that's right. For the first time (probably ever), I took two raw, icky chicken breasts, cut them into pieces and cooked them on the stove.

As I've written before, for years, I didn't touch raw meat at all. I ate a lot of cereal. After college, I worked up to cooking ground beef or salmon fillets and, in the past couple of years, chicken breasts and pork tenderloin -- but only when I could plunk the whole thing into a dish and bake it.

Want to know how I got through it without breaking down? Imagined I was the Swedish Chef. "De cheekin smooshin. Bork, bork, bork!"

Now I'm going to Clorox my hands for the third time and take a nap.

Photo from guardian.co.uk.