Music from Lost Time

Tucked way in the very back of my upstairs hallway closet, there's a storage bin filled with pictures, maps, brochures, coins and other bits from the year I lived in Cardiff, Wales. I filled that bin when I returned to my parents house after the year studying abroad and have moved it from house to apartment to duplex to apartment to at least three more houses over the past 15 years.

My intent, of course, was to make a series of photo scrapbooks that would capture all the beautiful places I went and all the things I accomplished that year. I planned to have albums that I could flip through to treasure the memories or share stories with my children of the great adventure mommy had before they were even an idea.

And yet, more than a decade later, everything is still shoved into that same plastic bin -- much to my husband's chagrin.

Thankfully, treasured memories aren't dependent on neatly organized photo albums. Sometimes, a particular scent or sound -- or even a cartoon glass -- can be enough to conjure up the most vivid picture of a day long gone.

Today it was Spotify that served as my Proustian madeleine, courtesy of a playlist built around a mix tape that had been my sound track during that year in Cardiff. A fellow American scholar studying at Oxford became one of my favorite friends that year -- we visited each other and marveled that we, with our parallel lives and similar tastes, hadn't crossed paths sooner. The mix tape she made for me offered an entire Gravity's Pull album on one side, harkening back to the days when we didn't know each other at UNC, and a collection of tracks from Nancy Griffith, Nikki Meets the Hibachi, Shawn Colvin, Del Amitri, Shannon Worrell, Soul Miner's Daughter, Rebecca Riots and more on the other side.

I listened to that tape, my walkman tucked into the pocket of my weather-proof coat, every day for months as I walked to class, to the city centre, to a friend's flat, to the train station, to museums and galleries and castles and pubs. The songs rang of strength and friendship, searching and wonder. They were my constant partner as I found myself able to live so far from home, able to succeed on my own in a way I hadn't been sure was possible.

When I came back to the U.S., I was still listening to that same tape as I walked the halls again at UNC, where I found myself surprisingly ready to meet the man who would be my husband.

This morning, more than a decade gone by, I listened to Dave Matthews hum out his "Christmas Song" on the Spotify playlist that I finally built based on that mix tape. There's no tape deck in my car anymore, but I didn't want to give up the tape -- iPhone to the rescue.

Although I was driving roads in Raleigh, running ordinary errands on this ordinary day, I had the extraordinary sense of being transported through space and time I thought were lost. I felt the blessings of being known by a friend discovered in a moment when I needed that connection more than ever. I recalled the confidence borne out of finding my own way. I pictured the path I walked from my flat toward the capitol, the details of my room, the oceans of daffodils filling the gardens, the faces and voices of people I haven't seen since I returned home after we completed our degrees.

And I smiled to myself, holding the treasure of that year and that entire dusty storage bin in my mind.

Love in the Time of Back Scratching

When she’s older, I hope my daughter remembers the back scratching.

Actually I hope she remembers all of the wonderful, caring, selfless things I do for her – like make dinner every night, paint her nails, “help” clean her room, take her to playdates, buy her clothes, do her laundry, color pictures, play Go Fish, take her to the ballet. But if she only remembers the back scratching and it makes her smile, that would be a good start.

Most nights I’m the one putting her to bed. We read a book, say prayers, then turn out the light – at which point she immediately asks me to scratch her back. Sometimes she also requests a song or a story, but always the back.

“If I’m very still and very quiet, mommy, will you please scratch my back?” she asks, anticipating the requirements before I can say them and turning her face to the wall so her back is pointing at me.

I’m always exhausted at this point in the night. Ready to be done with bedtime so I can have my own time to write, read, watch TV or (gasp) be with my husband. I don’t actually like doing bedtime because the whole routine just makes me tired.

But I cannot say no to the back scratching request.

When I was a kid, I loved having my back scratched. Okay, I still do. My mom, a pianist, never had long nails, but she had the gentlest touch and the patience of a saint. Sometimes, if I managed to randomly sit close enough to her hand, she would absent-mindedly start scratching my back simply because it was there and that was what she did. It’s a most ordinary and yet most intimate gesture.

One day, if Pippi is lucky enough to have her own exhausting little person to put to bed, I hope she’ll catch a memory of snuggling under her blanket with her soft, small back sticking out. I hope she’ll recall my weary fingertips running circles across her pajamas and her skin, through her fresh-from-the-bath hair.

And I hope she’ll know in that moment that – despite all the times I wasn't what she needed me to be – I have always loved her.

Sharing My Collection

I am a collector -- not in any official way, but more in my approach to the world. I collect family photos, my children's drawings and baby clothes, posters and tchotchkes from traveling, lots of books, letters from friends. I even collect actual friends.

Being a collector is part of why I write this blog. I like to collect ideas, stories, memories to share and revisit.

Letting go is not my strong suit.

When each of my grandparents passed away, I inherited pieces of furniture from their homes. Over time, I accumulated scores of items large and small between things I received directly from them and things I scavenged from my parents' attic.

Some of the furniture I took was purely functional. But many of the items hold personal significance. There's the picnic table that my grandfather built out of the hatch cover from an old ship -- he taught me to pick crabs at that table when I was a kid. It weighs a ton, but makes a quirky rough dining room table under the crystal chandelier from my in-laws. Or there's the antique sofa that my grandmother saved specifically for me, her only grand-daughter -- we recovered it in red corduroy to make it less fancy, but the curved feet at the bottom still set a grand tone.

But after years of taking in these hand-me-down treasures, our decor sometimes looks like we did all our shopping in the Dead Relatives Collection -- and there's only so much space for keeping furniture in our house.

So when we started talking about decorating Pippi's big girl room, I realized there were two pieces I was going to have to let go. One was a white dresser with glass knobs that had been in my room and my brother's room when we were kids and then in both nurseries when my children were babies. The other was an upholstered rocking chair that had belonged to my grandmother before serving as my reading chair in my teens and 20s and then my nursing chair in my 30s.

I considered selling them on Ebay or Craig's List, but never seemed ready to make the leap to post them online. Too much hassle. I thought about taking them to an antique store or consignment shop, but just couldn't bring myself to do it. No one else would think the furniture was as valuable as I did. How do you put a price on something filled with memories of multiple childhoods? It sounds melodramatic, but how could I haggle over the space where I rocked my children to sleep?

And then I found the Green Chair Project, a nonprofit organization co-founded by Jackie Craig and Beth Smoot in April 2010 to take quality donations from people like me (who have too much furniture but have a hard time letting go) and get them to people in transition (who actually need the items). The Green Chair makes the furnishings available for a nominal fee to individuals and families identified and referred by its partner agencies.

What makes The Green Chair different is that their warehouse is actually staged and decorated. It's not a pile of castaway junk that no one wanted, left behind for others to dig through. Instead, visiting The Green Chair is like wandering through any other furniture store or consignment boutique, allowing the recipients to shop with dignity as they furnish their home and create nurturing environments for themselves and their families.

I don't know who has my dresser and rocking chair now. But I like to imagine that somewhere there's a mom making a new life for herself and her baby, tucking away tiny onesies or snuggling together to nurse before bedtime. Or maybe it's a little girl who loves books as much as I do, happy for her own space to curl up and disappear into a story.

Letting go wasn't easy -- but somehow giving away the furniture instead of selling it seemed like the best way to honor the memories that have no price tag. Letting go created a new opportunity to be part of someone's next chapter. Letting go opened up space in both my house and my heart.

And I still get to collect the memories.

Love Letters

My dad still uses the mail. You know, the write with a pen on paper U.S. postal service lick the envelope stick on a stamp drop it in the box kind of mail.

It's one of the many things I love about him.

I started getting letters from him when I went away to college -- that was pre-email (ahem) and pre-free-long-distance-on-my-cell-phone (cough) days, so mail was a primary communications tool with my family. But even now, when he's got email, cable phone and texting at his fingertips, I still get the occasional envelope in the mail box from my dad.

More often that not, the envelope contains an odd assortment of newspaper and magazine clippings. Occasionally, one of them is a wedding announcement for someone I knew in high school, although those have become less frequent as I've gotten older. Sometimes it's just something quirky that caught his attention. Or it's something relevant to a part of my life or recent conversation we've had.

The recent pile you see here includes a photo feature about fathers and daughters, an op-ed about Mitt Romney, an op-ed about Art Pope and The New Yorker and a spotlight on a local restaurant owned by my college roommate's family. Always a hodge-podge.

The articles are generally interesting or at least a little trip down memory lane. But what really makes me smile when I get a collection in the mail is knowing that on any given ordinary day, while he's sitting at the table reading the paper and eating his morning bowl of cereal, my dad is thinking about me.

LEGO KidsFest for the Whole Family

When I was a kid, I used to play LEGOs with my little brother. He would build all the cool Star Wars ships, while I tried (in vain) to make him sort everything into neat piles. You know, gray pieces with gray pieces, ittybitty light pieces with other ittybitty light pieces. As much as I enjoyed playing with the tiny bricks, I loved organizing them even more.

Getting everything arranged just so was always so satisfying. Like on those cooking shows where they already have everything measured out into those perfect little dishes before they start preparing the recipe. Sadly, my brother never bought into my plan -- but he did make some very cool space ships and he always let me be Princess Leia.

Now that Junius has graduated from the chunky blocks to the small LEGO pieces packed into enormous sets, I have a new partner -- and because he's such a smart OCD first-born kid, he's much more willing to follow my system, as you can see in this photo. [Notice that we've packed up the trains from his train table and dedicated the entire surface to LEGO-building. Reduces the risk of those teeny tiny parts winding up in my vacuum cleaner.]

When he gets a new set, he lets me hand him the pieces for each step. It's like being a surgical assistant. "Long blue piece, mom." [Press said piece into his waiting hand.] "Long blue piece, Junius."

But this Friday, there will be no tiny piles of pieces on Junius' little table. Instead, there will be millions and  billions of LEGOs in more than 150,000 square feet of space... because this Friday we all get to go wild with the hands-on LEGO KidsFest at the Raleigh Convention Center.

Honestly, I'm not sure which one of the four of us is more excited. And here's a sneak peek at why...

Add your own little square to Creation Nation

Check out larger-than-life creations of your favorite characters

Watch the mystery mural evolve

And that's not even showing you the Big Brick Pile, the monochromatic group build, the Race Ramps, the LEGO Master Builder Academy and the DUPLO Build Area.

Crazy. Good. Fun.

So now you want to join us, right? We'll be there on Friday from 4-8:30 p.m., but you can also get tickets for sessions on Saturday (morning and afternoon) and Sunday (morning and afternoon). Each session offers the same exhibits and activities. All the details for the Raleigh tour are online -- they'll be in Cleveland in November and Hartford in December if that suits you better.

Follow me on Twitter this Friday to see what we build -- and I promise I won't spend the whole evening trying to group all those LEGOs into tidy little piles.

Images courtesy of LEGO® KidsFest

Full disclosure: The nice folks at LEGO KidsFest are giving me four free tickets to the Raleigh show. But I promise that my enthusiasm for those tiny bricks is all my own.
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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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One Great Day Plus Ten Amazing Years

The first time I went to an Eddie from Ohio show and heard lead singer Julie Murphy Wells belt out the band's a capella "Great Day," I leaned over to my date and whispered that the song would make a perfect wedding processional. 

Less than a year later, I married that date -- and although we didn't play the song during our wedding ceremony, we did use it to make our grand entrance into the reception.

Even with the red eye, this is one of my favorite wedding pictures. A candid photo from a friend, it captures how very happy we were in the moment. When our friend and emcee DSR introduced us as the song rang out through the room, it truly was a Great Day -- what a blessing to be together and to have so many wonderful friends and family there to celebrate with us.



And so today, on this Great Day ten years later, with blue skies, green grass and beauty surrounding us, I am counting my blessings. A lot has changed in the past decade -- and not all of the 3,650 days were easy ones -- but every day together will always be a Great Day.

Related anniversary posts:
- For My Husband (or, Our First Dance)
- A Decade of Dancing
- Happy 9th Anniversary
- Naming Conventions
- Tenth Anniversary of 9/11
- Thankful for Blue Skies
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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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Camping: A Personal History

If you've ever met me, you probably know that nothing about me suggests I'm a camper. Happy, yes. But not a camper.

I have, on a few occasions with varying degrees of success, attempted to play a camper on TV. Or, more accurately, at a campsite.

Hanging Rock, 1991

Car camping. The way nature intended for us to camp. Freshly graduated from high school, my girlfriends and I drive up to our campsite, unload 47 bags (I'm just estimating), hike around the trails, lounge near the waterfalls in our bikinis, stay up too late talking, and use the bath house for showering and fixing our hair.
Verdict: Camping success. But no need to do it on a regular basis.

Somewhere around Nantahala, 1997

In an attempt to be way cooler than I actually am, I foolishly agree to go on a white water rafting/camping expedition with a high school group being supervised by some of my friends and fellow teachers. I borrow some gear and miserably fake my way through the whole trip, including hiking in to our campsite carrying everything with us. The constant rain and chill dampen my spirits (and my hair) beyond repair.
Verdict: Camping fail. Nothing good can come of sleeping in cold rain.

Outer Banks, 2001

My sweet fiance (at the time) persuades me that beach camping is the best. Being a lifelong beach girl and devoted bride, I believe him. We drive from DC to the Outer Banks with no air conditioning on the hottest August day of the year, arriving at our campsite in time for a brutally icy shower before dinner. After a sleepless night battling bugs and sweat, my husband-to-be declares he's packing up the tent and doesn't speak to me for the next several hours. We go to a hotel and sulk for the second night of the trip.
Verdict: Camping fail. Thankfully we still got married six weeks later.

Hammocks Beach, 2011

Only my lovely son could persuade me to try beach camping again -- and only he could convince his dad to let me. So last week, at Junius' request, we took our first full-family camping trip. My husband, to his great credit, spent time and money ensuring that we'd be prepared for success. Will have to write more later about the lessons we learned, but how could I not love a trip that included this:

Verdict: Camping success. Just don't push your luck past one night.
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Bibliophile

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step toward recovery, so here goes.

Hi.

My name is Cyndi.

I am a bookaholic, a binge-reader. And it's causing me to lose my mind.

Last Saturday night, instead of going to bed at a reasonable hour so that I could have the energy to get up at 6 a.m. with my children while we let the Daddy sleep on Father's Day, I stayed up late reading. Actually, I stayed up until 2 a.m., plowing straight through to the end of my book. Captain Saturday by Robert Inman. Nothing was wrong, I just couldn't stop reading.

I've probably been like this ever since I started reading Morris the Moose Goes to School at age 4.

Before I knew it, I was devouring The Chronicles of Narnia, Nancy Drew and The Bobsey Twins, the Anne of Green Gables series, Little House on the Prairie and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms.

Then it was lots of Judy Blume and some of these favorites, followed by every one of the Sweet Valley High books (which I borrowed from my friend's collection a couple at a time).

At some point in high school, someone loaned me copies of The Handmaid's Tale, Bonfire of the Vanities, Skinny Legs and All and The Cider House Rules -- it was like feeling the power of the ocean for the first time and realizing that backyard swimming pool wasn't so refreshing after all. For my senior English class, there was Heart of Darkness and The Metamorphosis and plunging into Hermann Hesse's Demian and Narcissus and Goldman, then Ibsen's plays like A Doll's House and Hedda Gabbler -- that was the year I decided to be an English teacher.

In college, I didn't have as much time for "pleasure reading" -- but being an English education major meant I got to read plenty for classes. Rediscovering American classics like The Scarlet Letter and The Great Gatsby, finding whole new territories in One Hundred Years of Solitude, wandering into the amazing North Carolina writings of Kaye Gibbons, Clyde Edgerton and Lee Smith, taking women's studies lit-based classes with A Yellow Raft in Blue Water, Madame Bovary and Tracks.

I also dated a boy whose parents owned a bookstore (I may have had a harder time letting go of them and their shop than I did him) -- they introduced me to more Margaret Atwood, Tom Robbins and John Irving plus Doris Betts, Michael Lee West, Robert Inman, Ferroll Sams, Alice Walker, Barbara Kingsolver and more.

Once I started teaching, there was even less free time to read, so I spent my summer breaks diving through the high school reading list -- The Bluest Eye, Ellen Foster, A Raisin in the Sun. When I left teaching for Wales, I read the British versions of Bridget Jones and the first three Harry Potter books while I learned all the local lingo.

I've always consumed books as much as I've read them -- but it seems that the less time I have to read, the more likely I am to binge once I start. Which makes me afraid to start a book. Which makes me afraid to put it down once I start. And so the cycle continues.

More recent reads include Water for Elephants (which I finished early on a Sunday morning while plying my children with cartoons), The Help (which I practically swallowed whole while abandoning my children to friends at the beach), Lift (which I read sobbing on the beach while my husband entertained the kids) and the first two books of the Clockwork Dark series by my friend John Bemis (book three should be out soon!).

And of course, there's Anne Lamott -- one of the few non-fiction writers I've really followed, starting with Operating Instructions (which, if you are a mom or plan to be one you absolutely MUST read). Oh, and there's always David Sedaris, too.

Clearly I could go on and on. And on.

So you tell me... are you able to read just one chapter a night? or do you find fiction impossible to put down? And what titles are the ones that kept you up until the wee hours? Not that I need help staying up too late, mind you, but I'm always up for suggestions.

Note: If you're planning to buy books, please go to your local independent bookseller. If there's not one in your area, you can borrow mine -- Quail Ridge Books and Music will let you order online, send you a confirmation from a real live person, and ship your books straight to you.
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What Happened to Your Head?! Or, Why I Wear Sunscreen

Yes, that's my forehead.

I got these stitches over the weekend in Pakistan.

Would tell you more, but without appropriate security clearance I'd have to kill you.

Okay, okay. It was actually pint glass to the head during a pub brawl after Wills & Kate got married. You should see the other guy.

All right, fine. I got attacked by the dermatologist. Skin surgeon, to be exact. My second time having Mohs (rhymes with "nose") surgery on my forehead. Don't really recommend it, but it's better than letting a basal cell carcinoma turn into some other more frightening form of cancer.

I blame Garden City Beach, SC, summer of 1987. Me in my first teen-age bikini -- floral, with ruffles (it was the 80s, after all, and I needed the help). He was tall and thin with a great smile. We spent a couple hours talking and flirting in the ocean, no sunscreen to protect my face from the bright sunshine and the even brighter reflection off the water.

When I woke up the next day with a headache, I looked in the mirror to find my purple, blistered forehead had swollen to twice its normal size. The bad news: my parents wouldn't let me out of the beach house during peak sun hours. The good news: the boy still thought I was cute enough to send me a mix tape (Guns N' Roses, Metallica and U2, 'cause he was that cool) when he got back home.

Now, more than two decades later, I'm paying the price.

So in case you needed a reminder to wear sunscreen and hats this summer, take another look at those stitches. I can promise you the boys do not think they're a turn-on. Thankfully, my husband loves me, even when I'm wounded.
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In Case the Birthers Ask

Given that everyone is all hot about the President's birth certificate these days (really? like there's nothing else we need to be talking about?), I feel I must make a confession.

I am not a Tar Heel born.

There, I said it. It hurts a little, but it's true.

I am still a Tar Heel bred. And when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead. But when I was born, my parents were living in (...wait for it...)

...Pittsburgh.

Gasp! Shocking, I know.

My dad took a job with U.S. Steel after he graduated college, so my parents were living in Pittsburgh, PA, when their first bundle of joy arrived. Because I was only nine months old when they packed up and moved us to North Carolina, I've always considered myself a life-long Southerner.

But if you asked me to prove my NC pedigree, I'd have to show you something other than my birth certificate. Things like... eating barbecue and Krispy Kremes, loving sweet potatoes (the state vegetable!), saying "y'all" regularly, having two degrees from Carolina, drinking sweet tea and Cheerwine, knowing how to shag (the dance, people -- get your British minds out of the gutter).

You think if I go to a NASCAR race, that would be enough to silence any birther questions?
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Saving Summers at Governor's School

Do you remember when you knew you weren't a kid anymore?

I don't mean losing your virginity or buying your first beer -- I mean the moment when you knew you were a person who would actually turn into a grown-up responsible for your own choices, someone who existed beyond the space of your family.

For me, that moment was in July 1990 at St. Andrew's Presbyterian College, where I attended Governor's School East. It was the summer before my senior year of high school -- the first summer I'd spent away from home, the first time I'd had a roommate, the first time I went somewhere and didn't know anyone. (Also, the first time I fell for an older guy, but that's another story.)

Thinking back, I'm not even sure how to explain it all. But I can remember very clearly sitting at night on the campus tennis courts (there wasn't a lot to do in Laurinburg, which was probably a good thing) talking with a friend who I'd just met a few weeks earlier but who seemed to have always been there. And there, sitting beside the service line, I had this out-of-body, existential sort of teen moment.

Somehow, without my parents around and without all the familiar trappings of my own room or locker or school friends, I suddenly realized that I existed separate from all those things. Like I was floating out into some parallel universe. And yet, all those people -- and the objects I'd left behind -- were still there, going on living without me.

And for a moment, I forgot who I was. Lost track of the me that had always been there, the one that belonged to those other people and places -- and I realized I was someone else. Instead of daughter, student, sister or friend, I was simply and independently Me.

It sounds a bit ridiculous when I write it down like that, but I've been thinking about that moment a lot lately.

You see, the North Carolina legislature (like governments across the country) is slashing through the budget to try to make the state's ends meet. And one way they've proposed to do that is to end all funding for Governor's School.

While I recognize the difficulties our legislators are facing, I know that cutting the funding allotted for this fantastic program will do much more harm than good. By eliminating the oldest statewide summer residential program for academically or intellectually gifted high school students in the nation, North Carolina would save $849,588 -- a drop in the $2.4 billion deficit. Meanwhile, 800 students each year from across the state will miss one of the great opportunities to explore life, learning and culture beyond the walls of their own schools and communities.

One of the things that made Governor's School so impressive is that it was, until very recently, free for students to attend. That meant that any student who was nominated and selected by his or her district -- not just those whose parents could afford it -- could attend. If state funding is reduced or removed and students have to pay to attend, the program will no longer be accessible to all. And that fact will change the very nature of the program.

Those six weeks in 1990 changed me in ways I cannot explain. It was without a doubt the absolute best thing I could have done that summer.

If you had a similar experience in high school or just value this sort of program, I encourage you to take a moment and let the North Carolina legislature know -- start with the House and Senate committees on education appropriation or just write to your own representatives. Our state can do better -- and our students deserve more.
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Cry, Cry, Cry

When I was a kid, sometimes I'd get weepy for no apparent reason.

I'd pad quietly through the house, looking for my mom. Often she'd be sitting at the piano, so I'd climb up on the bench beside her.

"I feel like crying and I don't know why," I'd tell her.

And she'd always tell me that was fine. That it was okay to cry, to let it out, even if there wasn't an explanation or an answer to go with the tears. Then she'd listen to me let go, holding me just a little so that I knew I wasn't alone.

That's how I feel today. Like crying, but I don't know why.

Maybe it's because my children were apparently conspiring to kill me between 4 and 9 a.m. today while my husband was away overnight. Because every time I turn around, Pippi is naked -- even after I've dressed her and am waiting at the door to leave for the morning. Because neither one of them will ever. stop. talking.

Maybe it's because I seem to be physically incapable of going to bed before 11 p.m., no matter how exhausted I am. Because my sinuses are clogged with pollen-induced snot. Because my right wrist and hand ache so much I can't hold a pen properly.

Maybe it's because there's yet another hole in my kitchen ceiling. Because I had to grocery shop with Pippi today. Because it's gray and cloudy.

Or d) all of the above.

Thanks for listening.
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Putting My Teeth Back Where They Belong

In fourth grade, my classmates and I used to pretend we had braces by unfolding a paper clip and bending it across our top teeth. We'd click it around and try to talk and act like we were older and cooler than we really were.

Why did this seem cool? I have absolutely no idea.

(As an aside, this was the same year we were smuggling someone's dog-eared copy of Judy Blume's Forever into our desks and flipping to the racy parts. We were young and sheltered. It was a small school. Who knows what made us do these things.)

Then in fifth grade, I got actual braces on my top teeth. With spacers. And neck gear. It was quite a look. Especially as I was learning to play the flute that year.

But all that metal did its work, making enough room in my too-small mouth for all those adult teeth. In one year, I had a beautiful smile and felt good about my straight teeth.

Now, almost 27 years later, I'm back at the orthodontist's office. Turns out, your teeth continue to move your ENTIRE life. So if you don't wear your retainer FOREVER, then all that time as an awkward metal-mouth pre-teen will be for naught.

So here I am, teeth wedged into plastic, hoping that invisalign can magically (and somewhat painfully) bring back that straight, beautiful smile. It's actually not as bad as I thought it might be (after wearing them for a week), but it does make me talk like I have a slight cold. And my kids think it's crazy to watch me "put my teeth back in," like some 90-year-old grandma.

I don't feel nearly as cool as I thought I was with that paper clip retainer jingling in my mouth -- but at least this process should be more effective.

A Decade of Dancing

Ten years ago today, during my graduate school spring break, I wandered through the Musee D'Orsay and saw this painting ("La Danse á la Ville" or "Dance in the City") by Renoir:

Then a couple of hours later, I found myself strolling across this bridge (Pont Neuf, the city's oldest):

And before I realized what was happening, this man was kneeling in front of me with a diamond ring sparkling in his hand:

He looked up into my eyes and said, "Je vous demande commencer la danse de nos vies ensemble..." (Translation: "I'm asking you to begin the dance of our lives together...")

I gasped, clutching my heart, and stammered, "Oh my gosh! Are you SERIOUS? Is it REAL?!" (Translation: "Yes, a thousand times, yes!")

He smiled at me and slid the ring on my finger as a misty rain fell over the Seine. We wandered around Paris in a daze for nearly an hour before finding ourselves back on the bridge and then stumbling into Côté Seine for a champagne dinner.

Ten years later, my answer would simply be: Oui, bien sûr. And what a dance it has turned out to be.

Renoir photo: wallyg. Bridge photo: Gregory Bastien. Husband photo: Evolve Studio.

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Pippipalooza 2011: Always My Baby

The party continued today -- presents in the morning, cupcakes at preschool, cupcakes at a friend's house, Chick-Fil-A dinner with more friends. Being three is so much fun that she's not even complaining (much) about having to give up her pacie.

So yes, she's turning three and we're finally enforcing the no-pacie rule. I know we should have done it sooner, but we weren't ready to rush her out of being a baby. Pippi is both second child and last child. I'm okay with being done, but I didn't think it would go by so fast.

And with the second child, it all moves so very quickly. But it's also less stressful and, in some ways, easier to remember than the first time. I actually think back fondly on Pippi's early weeks, even with the exhaustion and the c-section recovery -- and that's really saying something, given that we sold our house, husband started a new job, we moved in with my parents, we bought a new house and then moved to Raleigh all within her first four months.

Today's topic: Three early memories I cherish

1. On the scales: In that picture above, Pippi doesn't look too happy. Downright furious, in fact. But at that very moment, I was thrilled -- because I could actually see her. When Junius was born, they whisked him away as soon as the doctor wrestled him out of me -- meconium and all sorts of mess. With Pippi (at a different hospital), the nurses weighed her and cleaned her right beside the operating table -- so even though I couldn't hold her close, I was still present for those first moments.
2. In the boppy: Her first week at home, Pippi seemed like the miracle baby. She slept at night and took naps in the bassinet -- both things her brother never did. Her daddy and I were mesmerized by the sight of her sound asleep, tucked into the boppy on the couch with us while we watched HBO's John Adams miniseries. It was our first sign that we might survive another newborn. (Note: She woke up the following week, but it was still better sleep than our first year with the J-man.) 
3. Nursing before bed: Because the rest of our home life was turned upside down during those first months, I treasured tiny moments of peace to snuggle with Pippi. Once we moved in with my parents (bless them), I'd sneak upstairs to nurse her before we put Junius to bed. Just Pippi and me in the half-light of early evening, nestled into my parents' enormous bed listening to the muffled sounds of busy life from downstairs. It was only 30, maybe 45 minutes -- but it was still our peace.

More Pippipalooza 2011:

The Party Girl

The Official Announcement

Her Own Way

For My Brother

When my brother and I were little, we were fast playmates -- until we started fighting, of course, but we always made up eventually. Legos, house, Star Wars, school, Battleship, cops-and-robbers, kick ball, we played it all.

Part of what I love about having two kids is watching them play together and remembering those fun times from my own childhood.

Now that my brother and I are (allegedly) grown-ups, we've found ourselves on very different paths. I did the more-or-less traditional college-job-grad school-marriage-job-babies route. My brother? Not so much.

Only four years apart in age, but light years apart in other ways -- and yet we're still those same two playmates at heart, still able to make each other laugh.

This week my younger (but now much taller) brother is starting out on a new path.

It's his story to tell, not mine -- so we'll leave it at that.

But I thought that with all the collective strength and positive energy (and prayers, if you say them) out there in the bloggy world, that maybe we could send him off with a powerful force of hope and light to guide his way.

He's picked a much harder path than I did. But I'm trusting that his road-less-traveled strategy will pay off in the long run.
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Wordless Wednesday: Happy Anniversary

Sept. 15, 2001

Naming Conventions

When my husband and I went to the county courthouse to get our marriage license before our wedding, we asked the woman there if we would be able to use the license to change our names at the social security office.

"Sure, honey," she looked at me. "You just take this with you and they'll change your name for you."

"Right," I replied. "And for him, too?"

She looked at me like I'd just sprouted a second head. After going around that same exchange again, she finally sighed and said, "If he's going to change his name, too, he'll need a lawyer."

Weeks later, we took our forms and our marriage license into the social security office, bracing for more crazy looks when we explained that we were taking each other's name and making a double surname for our family.

"These forms are correct?" the social security clerk asked, barely looking up from his desk.

"Yes," we replied.

"Do you want a hyphen in there?"

"No." (My husband felt like we had enough punctuation already with the apostrophe from his last name, and who was I to argue with a man who volunteered to take my name along with his own?)

"Okay. You'll get your new cards in the mail." And that was that.

Now, nine years and two kids later, we all have four names -- and I love it and hate it at the same time. It means the world to me that my husband was willing to change his name, too, without being asked. And it was important to me to keep all of my names while also taking his. We weren't following anyone's tradition, but we did what felt right and symbolic to us.

The downsides are that monograms are really tricky and no one understands what our last name is. Sometimes I don't mind when people skip over my contribution to the double name, but I never know where we'll be alphabetized at will-call or the pharmacy. It's also a lot to put on a kindergartner just learning how to write his first name, only to discover that he has three more to figure out.

I thought of all this on Sunday while reading the wedding announcements (oh, come on, like you never read them). There were only two weddings listed, but both involved grooms with double surnames. For both marriages, it looked like the husband planned to keep his double surname as is, but each bride had a different solution to her married name.

In one case, the bride simply took the groom's hyphenated surname. In the other, the bride created a new hyphenated surname with her maiden name followed by the groom's second surname. That made me wonder what they've discussed doing for kids' names. And did the groom's mother feel slighted that her daughter-in-law didn't take her part of the surname?

Regardless, it's nice to see people finding their own ways through and around the married name conundrum. And if either one of my four-named children ends up marrying another four-named person, I'm promising now to stay out of the way and let them figure it out for themselves -- as long as it's something they decide together.
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