Into the light of the dark, black night

The other day I was lounging on my sofa; it is next to a big window that faces the street. As I was reading, I heard the clip-clack sound of someone running in shoes not designed for said activity. I looked up, and one of the college students who lives next door was scurrying past.

"Huh," I thought, and went back to reading.

One and a half sentences later my doorbell rang. There she was, standing on our front porch.

"A baby bird fell and is in our driveway," she announced.

It honestly took me a split second to realize why she was telling me this. Oh, she wants me to come help her, I brilliantly deduced.

"Would you like me to come over and help you?"

A look of gratitude flashed across her face, "That would be great! It just fell onto my driveway. I don't know what to do. It's just laying there."

At this point I'm wondering what she thinks I can bring to the situation. Not that I mind helping, not at all, but I couldn't figure out why she needed assistance.

"Do you think we should put it back in it's nest?" I asked. "They say you're not supposed to do that because then the Mama bird will boot it."

She just looked at me with an uncertain look. I was thinking that was probably the best route to go...better than leaving it laying on the ground, right?

I wasn't prepared to see what I came across. I'd pictured a cute little birdy, unable to fly, confused and looking up at the branches from which he'd fallen.

Not. the. case.

This tiny little creature didn't even look much like a bird. It didn't have feathers...just pink skin with a few scattered tufts of down. The beak and legs looked soft, as if they were molded of orange jello. The poor thing was prone on the cement, its entire body struggling to gasp for breath. There was something trailing out of it; I wasn't sure if it was intestines or the poor thing had lost the contents of its bowels from the landing, or the stress.

It was clearly not going to make it.

I looked at the girl- well, woman really, she's probably twenty or twenty-one- and I knew I couldn't tell her that.

"Ummmmm, he looks pretty badly injured," I said. I looked up, trying to find the nest. "Where is the nest?"

"What nest?"

"The one he fell out of."

"Oh, he didn't fall out of a nest. His mom was carrying him and dropped him. He fell pretty far."

Ugh. Either a Mama bird is going to start dive-bombing us for hovering over her baby, or she's rolling her eyes at us for doting over the runt she dumped.

"Well, let's see..." I stammered.

She asked, "Should I get a box and some towels?"

I looked at her and realized that despite the fact that she's somewhere around twenty years old, she was looking at me with the same expression my four-year-old daughter does when she's got a boo-boo (medical term), Please, make it all better.

That's why she came to me...she needed a grown-up. Right now, even though she's technically an adult, she needs someone to take control.

"Yes, grab a box and some towels. He's going to need to go to a vet. Do you have a car? Can you take him? I can't, I have to get my son from school in a few minutes."

She said she could and ran off to get the emergency medical supplies for the bird, and I stood so that I blocked the sun beaming down on the poor bird. I imagined the bird being taken into a vet's by this sweet college student, and them graciously thanking her and telling her, Don't worry, we will take good care of him.

And then looking at each other after she left, wondering what they should really do.

I looked at the little orange beak, opening and closing as the bird tried to breath. I pictured a little dropper, guided by a vet's had, hydrating the bird drip by drip. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe he'll be okay.

The student rushed back and handed me the box full of towels. I really, really didn't want to do this...but I crouched down and gingerly attempted to scoop him up. His little body was limp and I was horribly afraid I'd squish him, but after a couple of attempts I was successful and placed him in the box, his makeshift nest.

"Thank you so much," the student said with a huge sigh of relief.

One evening a couple of months ago I walked by her house while taking my dog for a walk. It was dark outside, so the large picture window facing the street glowed like a movie screen. The dining table was filled with laughing students, and the aroma of their meal reached me on the sidewalk. I smiled, remembering back a couple of decades to a dinner party I threw while at college. I got all nostalgic for those years of young adulthood....the burgeoning independence, the future wide open before me all full of hope and promise, the developing friendships you just know will last forever. I have to admit, I was a bit envious in that moment as I passed by.

Looking at the student before me, baby bird in hand, that memory flashed through my head. I realized how young she really is, how much I've grown in the past twenty years, and that no matter how enticing the trappings of her world might look from a brief outside glance, no way would I want to return to it.

"I'm really glad I could help," I answered.

Good-bye, Yellow Brick Road

Dear Sir Elton John,

I’d like to thank you for helping me when I was in third grade.

There was this talent show thing. I fiercely wanted to be in it, but I didn’t know what my talent might be. I settled on baton twirling, as it was something I had recently taken up and it made me feel kinda cool.

A friend and I decided to try out together, and we chose your song "Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)" as our background music. We rocked! AND we were chosen to be in the talent show. Woohoo! Throwing that baton up into the air as I spun around and caught it, while hearing you croon, “Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, that’s all riiiiiiiight!” is truly one of my favorite memories of my school days.

Suffice it to say, I have quite the soft spot for you in my heart.

So, back in 2004, when you accused (United States) American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” because an African American had been eliminated from American Idol Three, I shrugged it off and made apologies for you. I figured your heart was in the right place, and hey! You had my back in third grade.

I know, you don’t need me to make apologies for you, but I did anyway. I’m pretty loyal that way.

Later, when an African American ended up winning that same year you called us racist, I thought you’d retract your accusation. You didn’t. I assumed you were on to better and bigger things.

Fast forward to today. Rather, yesterday. Nearly four years to the day that you accused the American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” (really, a pretty heavy accusation, I must say), you have leveled a new charge against the people of the United States.

So, now, you are calling the people of the United States misogynists. Why? Because Hillary Rodham Clinton isn’t kicking Barack Obama’s ass in the Democratic Primary?

A bit ironic, no? Because, what if she were ahead in the delegate count? Would we then be incredibly racist because Barack is African American?

Sorry, but your accusations are starting to ring hollow, Sir.

But we still have Paris our baton twirling rendez-vous. That was all good. Thanks for the memories.

Sincerely,
Christine

Hello mirror, it's me, Christine

I was looking in the mirror the other day and realized that it was the first time I'd done so in a long time. Oh, sure I give myself a precursory glance several times a day...but it's been a while since I really looked at myself.

I used to be known for being a bit, well...vain. I paid attention to my my hair, my clothes, my face, my body. Not that I was "fancy," mind you; I just spent time on myself and wanted to look good. Looking good made me feel good. I never left the house without showering and throwing on some makeup (the bare minimum was eyebrow pencil, mascara, lipstick, blush). My clothes were casual but hip, and my shoes. Sigh...the shoes. And my mom and husband could attest to the fact that my concern over hair color and style bordered on the obsessive (when you've got fine, straight hair like mine it NEEDS attention).

When did that stop? Sadly, I don't know...was it a gradual thing? Or did I slowly stop paying attention to one thing, then another, then another, till I turned into the me I am today? I can't believe I don't know the answer to that question. I do know most days now I simply throw my hair into a pony, squeeze my body into a velour track suit or something (sorry Fussy), brush my teeth and wash my face, and run out the door. Where am I? This isn't me.

It's been ages since I had a beauty regime. I am lucky if I wash my face twice a day. Where are all the little bottles that used to line my bathroom shelves? I miss them. The cleansers and toners and exfoliators and wrinkle creams and hydrators and skin rejuvinators and moisturizers moisturizers MOISTURIZERS.

I'm done with the frump. I'm taking back my high maintenance self. This month is chock full of changes (moving) and vows to find my soul again (NaBloPoMo and NanoWriMo most notably) and getting in shape again (Mrs. Flinger's Weight Loss Wars). I'm going to start staring at my face in the mirror, examining pores, wondering it that is a new wrinkle, plucking errant hairs and experimenting with new products.

P.S.: Thanks Slackermommy for the motivation.

Feeling all patriotic. And self-absorbed (What? Me? On my blog? Surely not!)

Happy Fourth, everyone.

If you asked one of my friends from high school (or college, or through my twenties for that matter) what my favorite holiday was they'd unhesitatingly answer, "The Fourth of July." There was something about the electricity of the day, the "Oooohing!" and "Aaaaahing!" over the fireworks, and the consistency of the celebrations that appealed to me. No matter where I lived, I could count on fireworks.

Probably because it meant so much to me, I remember every Fourth of July since I was very young. I'll spare you the entire list, but here's a sampling:

When I was six we laughed as our dog, a huge husky, jumped into our car through an open window at the first fireworks boom. We discovered then that he hated loud noises. Sorry about that, Bandit.

At eight, I listened to the fireworks as I snuggled in my bedroom; it hinted at adult things about which I had no idea.

When I was thirteen, I peeked at the the fireworks from my bedroom window and felt connected (in the visceral, obsessive way only an adolescent can do and still be healthy) with a boy I liked who I knew was at the festivities downtown.

At fifteen, three of my friends and I laid on a picnic blanket, staring up at the West Point fireworks show over the Hudson River. I was moving from New York to the Midwest a few days later...the fireworks were my last hurrah with my friends.

When I was seventeen I went to a fireworks show on a first date with a boy that became My First Boyfriend. We dated for nearly three years; next to my husband he is by far the sweetest boy I dated.

At nineteen I celebrated the International Freedom Festival (a joint celebration between Detroit and Windsor over the Detroit River) with My First Boyfriend's family on their boat; the wakes of barges tossed around the private boat we were on, music blared from adjacent yachts, I was young and in love.

At twenty-one I watched fireworks from the rooftop of a 19th century Michigan State University lecture hall onto which my friends and I had climbed via fire escapes. We smoked, drank beer, and felt exhilarated in the way you only can when you are free, confident, and the world is before you.

When I was 23 I spent the Fourth of July on a beach in Greece, toasting my friends back home. I did the same at 27.

At 31 my husband-to-be and I spent a Fourth of July with a bunch of friends, watching fireworks from a golf course that we had snuck onto.

At 33 we watched fireworks from the second story balcony of our new home, barely visible above the trees in our backyard. Our baby son slept.

At 35 we watched the tips of our new city's (new state as well) official fireworks from our second story window. Our toddler boy slept.

At 38 we were in our present home, same city (same state as well!). We drove to the opposite end our street, about 1/5 of a mile from our far west cul-de-sac, from which we looked past the corn, the protected wetlands, the rice farms, towards the Sacramento River. We could see the explosions of a nearby city's show. Our baby daughter slept and our son was thrilled he was allowed to stay up so late.

Today all five of us walked to a neighborhood block party...potluck breakfast followed by a "parade" behind a firetruck. A quarter mile later, the kids took turns alternating between squirting the fire hose and being squirted. It's a tradition that has been going on for over thirty years now; our family has participated for the past four years.

I still love the Fourth, but it isn't my favorite holiday anymore. It's not as exciting to me. I don't need it anymore; I don't need its electricity, its "Oooohing!" and "Aaaaahing!", its consistency. I have it in my life everyday now.

Or, maybe I'm just old and lame. I dunno.

Tempus fugit

It's nothing new, how these months keep going by faster and faster, the years whizzing past so quickly it's hard to keep them in focus. Modern life may exacerbate the situation, but the lamenting of the fleeing of time is as old as...well, time itself.

Then there are those days that shove the proverbial calendar in my face, "CHECK IT OUT! TIME IS PASSING! AND YOU CAN'T GET IT BACK!"

Today was one of those days. My baby boy turned nine.

NINE.

Tomorrow he finishes third grade.

THIRD GRADE.

It was the first thing I thought of when I awoke, "It's my boy's birthday today. Tomorrow he finishes third grade." As it turns out his birthday was also a huge day for the entire third grade class; I spent most of the day at school watching their productions, hanging out in his classroom, jumping from shady spot to shady spot during the end of the year picnic. My daughter was with me, and she spent much of the day pointing at her big brother and calling out (inappropriately but in that way that makes everyone around her go, "AAAWWWW!"), "That's my BROTHER!" She was a trooper.

After the picnic, I lugged her, our picnic paraphernalia , my camera, our waters and the rest of the crap I had with me the half mile back to our car while she snuggled into me. Her tired arms circled my neck and her sweaty head snuggled against my cheek while the corner of a Dora the Explorer book that stuck out of a bag over my shoulder kept poking my triceps with each step (after the same bag banged into my thigh...WHY did I bring my lead weights with me?), I knew* I was going to drop my 2K worth of camera/flash that I was barely holding onto, I stank from the hours outdoors, and I was terrified that my kids were going to be up all night with a sunburn**.

Nevertheless, I reveled in how sweet she is, how sweet my boy is, how much I love my life and where I live, how amazing my husband is and how I love him, how lucky I am in general (sure, part of me was trying to distract myself from my physical discomfort but really I was just marveling about how flipping LUCKY I am).

Why are those moments of utter joy so fleeting? I would think that we'd hold onto the joy, what with how fast tempus does fugit. But I know I spend far too much time complaining. My friends complain. My husband complains. My kids complain. Why are we all complaining so much about the little things that comprise our daily lives, then also complaining about how fast time flies?

* I didn't
** Nope, they fell asleep promptly once in bed and their fair skin was still see-through.

I'm gonna make it after all

Ugh, I was a wreck of a bitch yesterday. It started with the old woke up on the wrong side of the bed excuse combined with the syndrome of EVERYTHING is falling apart at the seams. Every other moment I felt like I was putting out fires, then turning around and hearing bad news, then being head-butted by the most ugliness humanity has to offer, then finding out that life as I know it is probably crumbling under my feet.

At least, that's how it felt.

So I called my Mommy. She always makes me feel better (belly poking notwithstanding...and honestly I invited it when I asked her, "Do I look like I've gained weight?").

Anyway, today I called her to talk me down, which she did. She always can; no one else helps me like my mom. During the course of our conversation, my daughter kept interrupting (the audacity!) and whining and yelling. Eventually I lost my "cool" and bellowed, "KNOCK IT OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It's almost like my daughter didn't understand how badly I needed to talk to my mom. I mean, sometimes a girl just NEEDS her Mommy.

Later that night, as I was putting the kids to bed (my husband still at work, or at a fantasy baseball meeting, whatever) my daughter disappointed me. Out of respect for her three year-old privacy I will refrain from sharing (she peed on my bed) but let's just say she knew better.

I lost it.

I yelled at her, "YOU KNOW BETTER!" then lugged the linens downstairs to the laundry room, cursing myself because I was so behind on laundry that I didn't have enough to scrape together to make my bed properly. I bitched and moaned and complained and blamed everyone I've ever met.

Even as I did so, I knew I was acting like a lunatic. I didn't care. Some weird, primal, reptilian part of my brain actually enjoyed entertaining the thought of punching a hole in the wall. Another part of my brain worried that I had in fact lost it, and that this was The Beginning of the End.

This morning I woke up on the right side of the bed (and no, there is no subtext here). As soon as I opened my eyes I knew I wasn't in the same dark place that I was yesterday...that was certainly a relief, but I wondered what the hell was wrong with me yesterday, and felt heaps of guilt about my inability to keep my emotions in check the day before. I felt great today, except for that guilt.

As the day went on I was relieved to find that little things that would had set me off yesterday I was able to deal with in a rational way. While that was reassuring, I felt the echoes of yesterday tugging at me. You wouldn't have been so level headed yesterday, eh? Why NOT?

Mid afternoon I unexpectedly started my period (Wait! What is that sound? The out-clicks of all my male readers?). OH! THAT is what my deal was yesterday. I wasn't descending into lunacy, I was just PMS'ing.

Since being an optimist isn't my strength, I've come to the conclusion that at the age of 41 (and a half), since my periods are now not following the normal pattern of utter predictably (yes, I have neglected to share with you that my last cycle was nearly a week late) that I have entered perimenopause. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.

And no cheese for a week

So. My mom was just here visiting for a week; a great time was had by all.

But there was the moment that she poked my belly and told me yes, it was time to lose some weight. You don't want anyone asking when the baby is due, do you?

OUCH.

I used to be the kind of girl I now resent, the one who could eat anything without a thought about my weight. But the years have changed that, for a host of reasons, and I am now the kind of woman the lithe young me secretly thought had to be at least a bit lazy...the love handled/muffin-topped/back-fatted/sweatpants wearing person who has just stopped caring. I do care; I'm just not used to having to exercise willpower, and so the pounds have slowly, insidiously accumulated.

But fortunately I am also one of those annoying people who exclaim, "I love working out!!!" and really mean it. I do, and if I miss a couple of days in a row I get cranky. Unless I am totally out of the habit then I don't mind going months without working out, but that's not my normal MO, and hasn't been for years.

I have an elliptical and a few times a week happily sweat away on it through two episodes of Family Guy or one of The Riches or Ugly Betty...or I'll read a mag, or listen to my iPod. I suppliment on off days with squats and lunges and push-ups and crunches and DVD's and Fit TV. And then later in the day after the kids are in bed I will consume twice as many calories that I burned. I simply cannot do that anymore.

A few months ago I signed up to run a half marathon this summer. I ran this same race two years ago...well, I ran/walked it (I pretty much only run straight through if it's three miles or less) 3.5 minutes of running, 1.5 minutes of walking, repeat for the next 13.1 miles, which was about 2,713 times for the 1/2 marathon if I recall correctly.


But I kind of hate running, at least long distances. I can get into it ocassionally if all the stars align correctly and my iPod is charged. My body isn't built for speed; I bulk up fast but just don't have those slow twitch muscle fibers on my side. I'm a fast twitcher.

Which is kind of why I chose to mix-up my workout with running. I think it is good for me to challenge myself physically like that, shake it up, you know? When I was running regularly a couple of years ago I had the long, lean muscles of a runner. Still with fluffiness over them in areas, but NOW with the bulky muscles I am sporting along with the mucho extra pounds, I am feeling HUGE.

I jump started training for the half marathon today...ran/walked 7 miles (the old routine of running 3.5/walking 1.5 for as many reps as it takes to get to 7 miles). I have a blister on my butt from my undies chafing. Nice. It's a good look.
I'll let you know next Sunday if I am down any pounds or inches or if there is anything going in the right direction.

It's the mineral make-up

Yesterday afternoon one of my 8 year-old son's friends told me, out of the blue, that I looked too young to be a mom. I take my compliments where I can get them, so this 41 year-old ran with that one.

Just then the doorbell rang. I was about to mention my graceful aging to my friend as she stood in the doorway when the kid came running around the corner and announced, "I should probably tell you that I am somewhat color blind in the red and green range...I think that's why you look young to me."

And so it goes.