The American Dream

We had an actual vacation planned for spring break. Kind of new for us. Most of our vacation days are used for family events and holidays. It was time. Time to take the kids on a trip. Take a break. As a family. All of us. For eight days. Eight days.

Isn't that the American Dream? Load up the wagon, hit the road, sing songs, play games? There's a whole movie franchise about it and everything. Only I'm more interested in the modern version that includes an airplane, tablets and iPods so no talking is actually required. Because, somehow, my children have opinions. This makes my mother laugh, while confusing to me.

Flew into San Diego on our way to Lego Land for the first leg. Drove to Carlsbad. To a hotel we booked online. A hotel with an unbelievably talented photographer/photoshopper/marketing genius. Genius.

And when we tried to call the front desk to report there was no hot water but couldn't because the phone didn't work, well, we just laughed. Because, vacation.

It was slightly crushing to walk to Lego Land and pass by the 5 star resort the husband had just worked on, the week before, but had no vacancies the week we needed. We looked at it longingly. All fancy. With it's hot water and working telephones.

There were two plusses to the hotel we stayed in. Which, really, is a motel. Possibly owned by the Bates Family. One, it had a pool. Young humans are happy in a pool. Two, it had continental breakfast. This is a great chance to stock up on processed foods to keep you going strong all day long in a theme park surrounded by a lot of other children.

The first morning, as I sat in the 'Lanai Room', I laugh just typing that, watching the other people I realized a couple things. One) I am far too entertained by my own narration of others and two) for every couple of young humans in the place there's at least one adult whose spirit is broken. Broken. Possibly irretrievably.

They sit there at the table holding a cup of crappy coffee, hunched over, like inmates look (on TV of course), eyes darting back and forth, eyeing up the last banana, while their completely wound up children race around the room and/or watch Cartoon Network on one of two really large, really loud wall mounted units.

But this is family vacation, right? This is the American Dream. Work hard, buy a house, take your children on some adventures, hope most of them go to college. Repeat.

So, your spirit dies a bit. You age. From all the noise, noise, noise.

In the end the young people had fun. And, we had fun. We laughed. A lot. We ate ice cream instead of actual meals. We got sun. We did vacation.

We did The American Dream.

Austin City Limits

They say you never forget your first time. The giggles, the pain, the conversation in the alley.

Wait, what?

Back in the fall of 2008 I had a new job, newish baby and a trip. A couple nights away from the baby were welcome - in so many ways.

There was of course the awkward part of taking the breast pump through airport security. Funny thing - they treated it like a bomb in Texas. I was pulled aside while they thoroughly inspected my clearly nefarious bag.

In Portland, "This a pump?"

"Yup."

"Have a safe trip."

But, I digress…

As the plane was descending, we were beginning to plan our evening. Our meetings started the next morning. We hadn't been to Austin before and wanted to check out the sites. Tracey, ever the planner, asked for ideas of something to do.

"I'm thinking tattoo."

"Really? Awesome."

Becca smiled from across the aisle. Keith, also across the aisle, was not amused.

After dropping the bags at the hotel we headed out. Basically wandering aimlessly down 6th street, taking in the bar scene. It was fun. Loud music and cheap drinks. Where every night is apparently 'ladies night'. 

We popped into a couple tattoo places. They were brightly lit and very busy. Seemed sort of like McDonalds. Lots of UT sorority girls getting their letters or butterflies tattooed on their ankles. A few getting 'Hook 'Em Horns' on the insides of their bottom lip. (Yes, apparently that is a thing.) Didn't seem like my kind of place. I didn't want a pick it and stick it tattoo. And, Keith, playing the role of sitcom dad forced to be out with three wound up girls, was trying to, without pushing, get us out of the tattoo establishments.

We moved on. Got a drink, had some dinner, back to the hotel.

The next night we were unsupervised. Cue ominous music.

And, we were on a mission. First stop dinner and drinks. Followed by a couple more drinks and food from a taco truck. (This was also during a horrible Halloween candy binge that miraculously didn't kill us - I'm still sort of shocked by the candy AND the taco truck now that I look back.)

And then we saw a sign:  Sailors Grave Tattoo

There was an arrow pointing down a dark alley. One lightbulb hanging there. Sketchy.

It wasn't at street level. Becca and I made eye contact.

"I'm all for the tattoo, but this place? I'm not sure."

Tracey was looking up, studying the building.

"This place is good."

I'm pretty sure we could have gotten tetanus just standing there, "How can you tell?"

"There are plants. They have plants in the window."

"I can get Hep C tonight and you think we're good on 'plants'?"

"Yes."

And with that, we headed up a narrow staircase.

Ole.

We walked out an hour later. Tattooed! My first tattoo!


I'm a Taurus. Where better to get a bull tattoo than Texas? My Taurus is between my shoulder blades. Less chance for sagging there, I think. That thing needs to look good for another 100 years. At least.

Keith had been texted that night and informed of the situation. Sitcom dad wasn't pleased. We hadn't been left alone that long. I'll never forget the look on his face the next morning. He was sitting there, reading the paper, waiting. Dr. Seaver was displeased.

It was the start of something. I joke that it's something in the ink. Addictive. I don't know. 

I don't have any 'pick 'em and stick 'em' tattoos. 

What I have all have meaning - to me.


There's the Wizard of Oz quote on my rib cage that I got after my dad died. After a particularly fun night out with the same friends, plus Vikki. It was the line I closed with when I spoke at his funeral. "Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable." This also goes right along with being a Taurus. My heart is covered in wounds that will never heal. I'll just never show it.

The Pisces below the Taurus - Henley and Madison are the same sign. They are everything.

Thank you Tin Man.

The word 'Today' on my upper back as a reminder that this is it. You better live it. Live in the moment. Because no matter what, even if that bull is on my back for another 100 years, it's not long enough.

The subtle white ink on my wrist that says, 'Let it Go'. A reminder for me to stop holding on to everything. All the anger and disappointment - let it go. This was before that bitch Queen Elsa made that phrase every parents worst nightmare.


The anchor on my achilles. Keep me grounded. Above the anchor and wrapped around my ankle an excerpt from the William Ernest Henley poem, Invictus.

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

You can't really say it better than that.

This is my life. My body. This is me. And yeah, I get it. They're permanent. I doubt that when I'm old and looking at my tattoos I'll have regrets. Because I'm pretty sure I'll have the awesome memories of getting them.

Lucky Number 7!

Seven! The girl is seven. 7! It's shocking to me. I know that everyone says it. It goes by so fast. It's true, it really goes by fast. Too damn fast!

Always smiling.

Madison wanted to be in this world. 18 cycles for the boy. One for Madi. She was a challenge for months before she was even born. She tried to get out early. A number of times. And then when she was out, they held her up. A little tiny thing. She was cold. Always cold. Needed to be held all the time. Or she squeaked. A cute little squeaky sound.

That cute little squeaky sound is long gone. Gave way to a loud voice. She knows what she wants and she means business. To sum up: She Takes no Shit. Her long term goal is to be an anesthesiologist. Short term goal - get me to wear jeans less often. Odds are that she'll be done with med school before I start wearing jeans less but good luck to her. I wish her all the best. I do.

She's most comfortable in a tutu and some shade of pink. She's sassy and smart and makes me laugh, a real laugh, at least once a day.

It's scary to me how smart she is. How she just 'gets' it. She loves learning and craves knowledge.

She's kind. She says 'I love you'. She makes cards and draws pictures and gives them as gifts.

She properly uses air quotes and calls her brothers friends 'nerds'.

She is not what I expected seven years and one day ago. She was born small. Well, small comparatively. 6 pounds, 11 ounces. We didn't have clothes to fit her - we didn't expect a 'newborn'. But there she was - tiny. Head had to be supported, feedings were every other hour. Poor little thing couldn't eat enough to sleep any longer than a couple hours. The exact opposite of her brother.

And now, well... she's small. She's average height. But, she's 42 pounds. Barely registers on the graph. I've been asked at the pediatrician's office, more than once, if we're on WIC. Um, no. I can actually afford to feed her. She's just small.

She has straight brown hair. And most shocking - brown eyes!

She was supposed to be sturdy and have blonde curly hair and blue eyes.

I don't think this will be the first time she doesn't do what I expect.

Always properly dressed.

A 42 pound pink tutu wearing girl was just the start of the unexpected. She'll pull out a nerf gun and nail you between the eyes. She plays rough and can be aggressive on the soccer field and then pull on her ballet 'gear' and do that too. I don't know the terms, obviously...

I don't want time to go by too fast but I'm excited to see what the next years bring. Other than the teen years, we can probably skip over those.

I am excited to see the adult she becomes, if she does go into medicine, how she handles her bourbon - you know, the important stuff.

But most importantly, I'm excited to see tomorrow, or next Tuesday, or whatever happens next. Because this girl keeps things interesting.

Or, as she would say, "Seriously, Mother."

Always happy.

Always beautiful.

Always badass.

 

Pants on Fire

I'm a liar. There I said it. A full on pants on fire liar. It's a miracle I don't burst into flames right now. Right now. Miracle.

Biggest lie? Or most frequent lie? They're the same. What is it, you ask?

I'm okay.

Say it all the time. I won't say that every time is a lie. Because, well, that would be a lie. But, like a lot of stressed out women I say it all the time. When I don't mean it.

Because, guess what? I'm not okay. I'm tired. So fucking tired. All the time. And stressed, and rushed and busy. Not to mention frazzled, frustrated and a whole lot of other things that also start with 'f'.

The house needs cleaned, the dogs need walked, I need my run, the kids are hungry, we need groceries, laundry. Oh my God, the laundry. Soccer practice, dance, projects. Oh, and we both work. Which I don't really complain about because I do like it and it's better for me to be out of the house 10 hours a day. Or I'd be doing God knows what all day long. But, it most certainly wouldn't be 'okay'.

The other day, a friend asked if I was grumpy. I was. I was really fucking grumpy. And kind of sad. When she asked, I made a joke and moved on. Wouldn't want anyone to know. Can't ever be not okay.

I'm sitting here kind of mad at myself. What is with me? And then I justify with: Everybody does it.

Isn't that true? Jesus. Everyone says that they're okay. It's the universal lie. It's like cheating in the most famous bicycle race in the world because everyone else does. Cough, cough.

When you boil it down though, my public face is pretty damn happy. A few people have seen me not happy. A smaller subset of that has seen me actually angry and/or sad. 

That is not recommended. Nope, non emotional is best. Put my broken smile on and fake it.


Okay?

Doing Time on Cedar Street

In 2007 I started watching a house.  Let's go with 'watching'. Stalking is a such an ugly word. Said house looked perfect. From the street.

The asking price was high. A two comma price tag.

Time went by and it sold and I kind of forgot about it.

About three years ago, it was back on the market. Short a comma this time. But, still too much price.

Around then we actually started getting serious about moving. We loved our house, our first home but we'd outgrown it. We bought it when we had no children. Now with two, the two small 'kid' bedrooms and open floor plan were killing me. There were toys everywhere. No guest space. As much as we loved it there, it was time.

And so, we met an agent. Told her - new house please. Must be new. No projects.

But, while we're looking, there's a house down on Cedar Street. I just want to go in. It's been in the back of my mind. Let's go in, see that it's a wreck and then cross it off our list.

We did that. Except for the crossing off our list part.

But, price was still too high.

Looked at other houses for almost a year. She sat there on Cedar Street. Stoic. Waiting for a family. I would stop by and visit every once in awhile. She was vacant. I don't like to use the term breaking and entering but I was sans agent quite often.

Finally, with a stroke of luck for us and a worn down previous owner we bought her.

Oh, pink tile. How I don't miss you. At all.

Matching exactly zero of the requirements given. We bought her.

No projects? How about infinity projects?

New? How about 106 years old?

She had character - moxie, if you will. She was ugly. Oh, boy was she ugly. But, under all that green carpet and the pink and orange walls, there was potential. She was the girl with the good personality.
The girl with suchaprettyface.

I named her, Stella. It fits. I yell at her a lot. When I'm not yelling at one of the previous owners. Mentally of course. Although I'm pretty sure I catch glimpses of one of them wandering around the driveway from time to time. He's no longer of this earth, so to speak.

So, I got out some tools and carefully burned the house down.

Here's the thing about old houses. They stand the test of time. They're standing there crooked, but they're standing. Everything is crooked around here. Even the floor. It's a little disconcerting to walk down hill to the kitchen. It honestly drives me crazy(ier) but I'm working on letting it go. Which is very difficult for me to do. When my eye twitch acts up, I try to make a note of the needed repair, add it to the list and walk away. If I didn't walk away at least some of the time, I'd need additional mental healthcare.

With all that's been done, there is still much to do. It keeps me out of trouble, mostly. Five rooms of green carpet removed, three to go. 16 rooms have been painted, I think. Four to go. Plus the basement. The leaky basement. A new sump pump on the list - because sump pumps are fun! Wait, what? In the least, a new sump pump will make me less bitchy. And that's good. For all of you.

And then there's the outside. The sun has faded some of the pink. It's kind of salmon colored now. It's due to be painted. There will be much scraping, scrubbing and painting.  And then the re-staining of the sidewalks because you can't have pink sidewalks if the house isn't pink anymore. Right? RIGHT?

The projects won't end unless I win a large lottery. And even then, they won't end, they'll just be larger in scale.

So, this will keep me busy for a long time. Probably for forever. At least until I'm the one wandering around in the driveway...

The Boy

The boy turns 11. At 3:20 on the 19th. Double ones. Time is traveling at a rate I don't want to acknowledge.

Birthday.

The shoulders are getting broad. The last couple baby teeth are trying to hang on. The retainer is in. The braces are on the way. The clothes are coming in adult sizes now. Everything is moving so, so fast.

He's funny and sweet and kind too, I think. He's quick with an, "I love you." And he'll follow it up with a hug. I hope that never changes.

When he got home the other night he asked me if I had heard about the kidnapping in town. My mom heart sank. What a terrible thing.

And then he followed it up with, "It's okay. He woke up."

Good stuff, that is.

We've had our challenges. He's had to fight hard to get where he is in school. He tries really hard and I couldn't be more proud of him. 

I know that those challenges are just the beginning. He's a strong willed stubborn beast. I have no idea where he got those attributes. I fear the teenage years. The social challenges, the mean kids, feeling left out. Those things were terrible enough when it was happening to me. Happening to my boy, that is unfathomable. 

We'll go through the challenges, he'll get busted on a couple things and get away with a few more. He'll use those blue eyes and his charm to get out of trouble. At least a few times.

The girls will come - they are starting to be noticed. Which makes me more than a bit uncomfortable and I'm sure that will result in less sleep.

The next 11 years will produce some major change. Height, weight, voice. He won't actually live here any more. If all goes as it should. A lot of milestones coming at us soon. I'm excited, terrified and sad all rolled into one. 

No matter what happens, he'll always be my little guy. Even when he's too big for my lap.

Ladies man.

Mans man

Man about town.

Running!

So, I don't know, five or six years ago I ran a bit. Did a couple 10k's. Not very well. I enjoyed the competition of it, even though I wasn't very good. My times were terrible. And then, a bunch of stuff happened. I had a pretty stressful year and I just sort of quit.

You know what? It's way easier to be heavy and out of shape. Way easier. Just sink down into that couch and let it all go. It's so, so, so easy.

And then, one day, I just sort of snapped out of it. Years later. And in terrible shape. Terrible shape.

Started 'running'. And by running I mean staggering down the streets of the Grove. Intermixed with walking and limping. There may have been some crying in there too.

Signed up for a couple runs. Had a little fun. Got a little more motivated, ran more. Which leads to even more running.

Last weekend I ran a 10k. The whole thing. For the first time. No walking. I'm not sure if it was the course or the weather or just my mood that day. As far as the course goes, there were some rolling hills and a mile or so that was gravel. Felt very much like home. Right down to the broken down barns and beer cans in the weeds along the way. It was sunny too. Which makes the average Oregonian pretty happy. We get damn near cheery.

About midway through, I had a thought. "I'm actually running.”

It was a very 'What About Bob?' moment.

I run. I'm a runner.

And, if you don't get that reference, Lord help you, because I can't.

I run.

My best mile time since high school. 9:59.

Now, for a real runner person that's not a very good time. But, for a nearing 40 sturdy farm girl/clydesdale - that's a really freaking good time. I'm not exactly built for speed. 

My legs are very different lengths, which gives me a very strange gait. I have the 'family walk'. It's sort of a staggering, shoulders slumped, hands cupped backward, limp. Not the moves of an efficient land animal, by any means. Generally speaking, if you see anyone from the family running - you should too. Seriously. There is danger near. You don't have to run faster than the bear/murderer/zombie - you just have to run faster than one of us. But, some how I've taken all that disaster, for lack of a better word, and made it work.

I'm looking forward to the next run. Can't wait to challenge that mile time. 15k is in less than a month. And, oddly enough I'm excited about it.

Exited? About running?

Yup.

It's the damnedest thing.