The Magic of an Ordinary Birthday

Today is my 39th birthday. Even though it was an ordinary weekday of juggling responsibilities, I spent it doing things I enjoy: Wrapping gifts, taking and posting pictures, writing captions, receiving mail (wonderful early response to the annual appeal... insert shameless plug here: http://www.hospiceoforleans.org/index.php/how-you-can-help/), signing thank-you letters, drinking coffee, eating... and eating ...and eating: Italian cookies, General Tso's chicken and Clark bars, listening to classical music (insert shameless plug #2 here: http://interactive.wxxi.org/listen#fmstream), being sung to (including by three lovely ladies in their 90s... a trio of nonagenarians!), getting text messages (including one from a favorite septuagenarian -- my Dad), chatting with my bestie in Britain and my big sis in Brockport, hugging and kissing my kids, picking up after them (ok, not a favorite activity, but sweeping beats stepping on Cheerio crumbs... or light bulb shards, as was the case this evening), checking Facebook (thanks for the love), and all the while, praying fervently for friends traversing a treacherous valley. I regret that I did not get out for a run today, but tomorrow is Saturday, and I shall stride my way into my 40th year!

Ready, Set, Say: "Clark Bar Improv Cake"! In the above series, left to right, 1) We prepare for our official birthday photo (no, Cordelia, you can't have a Clark bar yet), 2) Lucy checks Mommy's teeth for residual broccoli bits from the General Tso's chicken, and 3) The rest of us finally realize we're being photographed, while Delia still gazes longingly at the deliciousness in front of her.

  

“Here ends another day, during which I have had eyes, ears, hands and the great world around me. Tomorrow begins another day. Why am I allowed two?” ― G.K. Chesterton

Throwback Thursday: The time we met Capt. von Trapp

My sister Brenda has been archiving old photos and came across these doozies the other day:

First, Christopher Plummer (so dashing, as ever) with classical music radio host Mordecai Lipshutz at WXXI public broadcasting station (where Brenda works), circa 1993 (?), when Plummer came to narrate William Walton’s Henry V with the RPO. 

The station staff had strict instructions NOT to bother the Plummer, but Bren and I were undeterred, armed with a postcard we were determined to get him to sign.

 

Captain von Trapp was gracious to us when we produced this postcard of him as the evil General Cheng. 

As you can see, we were pretty excited. (Believe it or not, these dorky dresses were very much in style at the time.)

Still wearing my cousin's clothes, with gratitude and pride

Today would have been my cousin Karin's 40th birthday. She died almost 5 years ago from a rare, aggressive form of kidney cancer. In this picture, she is celebrating the wedding of her brother Greg to her new sister Cathi. I inherited many of Karin's clothes, including this dress, and I still wear them with gratitude for the privilege of knowing Karin.

Here is an excerpt from "My Cousin's Clothes," a reflection I wrote Dec. 31, 2008, 16 days after her death:

Karin’s funeral was on a Friday. On Saturday, my mother and I planned to fly back to Buffalo. However, the weather postponed us – as it turned out, by three whole days. We returned to the Faulkner homestead and were greeted, well, like family. That evening, standing in the kitchen, Karin’s mother Nina looked up at me and inquired, “How tall are you?” She wanted me to go through Karin’s clothes – “She won’t be needing them anymore,” she said.

The next day, I found myself standing in the closet of a cousin a barely knew in person, but knew intimately through the written word, her blogs. Even though Karin’s accounts were remarkably detailed, I don’t recall her ever mentioning her favorite brands and clothing styles. I found them uncannily similar to mine (the main difference that many of mine are thrift-store finds): Lands’ End, Coldwater Creek, Talbots, Jones New York, Christopher Bank – solid colors, mostly; a tad more pink than in my closet, and a few more florals; V-necks, like mine; mostly separates (finding a good fit is hard for us tall girls). I took a deep breath and began assessing the shirts, one at a time, looking, considering, sliding each hanger to the left. How on earth would I decide what to take and what to leave? I couldn’t possibly take them all. I didn’t feel I should. But Nina seemed determined that I should take some. The prospect seemed to comfort her. And I certainly wanted to comfort her, if I could, even in this seemingly small way.

Going through Karin’s clothes, I identified with her in a way that I believe – and I hope – will render me forever grateful for each day that enjoy the privilege of living. At 35, Karin was just one year older than I. (Will I have only one more year to live?) She was two inches taller than I. (So why do her gowns fit me to a T? Strange – “like the cousinhood of the traveling dress,” I mused.) “Why am I still here, and not she?” I fairly shouted inside myself. Then the tender line of the French musical Les Miserables came to mind: “Oh my friends, my friends forgive me, That I live and you are gone. There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain goes on and on.”

I proceeded through the shirts, the skirts (I left the trousers – she was two sizes slimmer); the gowns, inexplicably, fit perfectly; and I took just one pair of pajamas, soft ivory cotton with a pastel harp print. Then I looked down and realized: her shoes might fit me (we tall girls have big feet). I slipped on a pair of pink ballet-style Crocs – princess shoes, I thought – and they fit. I nearly gasped. Wearing the garments of a deceased person bore one kind of weightiness. To literally walk in her shoes … it felt like too much! As if, somehow, it would be up to me to carry on with her living. Not her life, of course, but my own, in memory of her … in honor of her life and death … in honor of the fact that I can live and breathe and love and, if I choose, blog! So why wouldn’t I?

Karin’s husband Steve heard my gasp and my declaration: “Oh! Even her shoes fit me!” He stepped into the room, I think to reassure me that he didn’t mind my going through her things. “You sound awfully sentimental about shoes,” he teased, and he added: “Karin was sentimental about everything. I’m not.”

Nor am I, normally. But, stepping into my cousin Karin’s shoes, trying on her clothes, taking them home with me, and embracing my children at the door, I have carried another song in my heart: “I will never be the same again, I can never return, I’ve closed the door, I will walk the path, I will run the race and I will never be the same again … the Glory of God fills my life, and I will never be the same again.”

Here is Karin playing "Silent Night" on the harp: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1naZ-16tBXw.

'Words can't bring me down'...but Birthday Bash sure can!

OK, so here's the sitch: Two weeks of bona fide running workouts and the scale hasn't budged. It's as if my body is saying: "New job, big change, no way am I gonna let this go!" (Or maybe she's saying: "You can run all you like. As long as you keep eating cookies, ice cream and pizza to your heart's content, I'll be content hanging onto this comfy poundage, thankyouverymuch!")

I'm really fine with how I look. I mean, sure, I'm 20 pounds up from my vegetarian apex last fall. But even so, I'm still 20 lbs ahead of where I was a year ago. And my height works to my advantage -- 20 pounds on me "blends in" better than on a shorter person.

The problem is that the pounds are literally weighing me down when I run. And want to run. I love to run. Would I choose to carry two 10-lb weights with me on a 5-mile jaunt? Of course not! But I am, essentially. I just need to remember this next time I'm tempted by one of the weird ice cream flavors Tom brings home from the grocery store. (Curse you, BOGO!)

"If you tear up this note I will still love you"

I think it's in The Secret Life of Bees (in the book--I'm not sure about the movie) where the protagonist's father makes her kneel on grits as unusual punishment for various misdeeds. You know, grits--the small, hard mealy stuff that Southerners cook and consume for breakfast, lunch and dinner (at least, in the movies they do).

Today, cleaning my 9-year-old son's bedroom, I felt like that girl. Not like I was being punished, exactly, but like I was kneeling on grits. Only instead of the Southern staple, there were seemingly millions of very small pieces of plastic punishing my nerve endings: Legos. Lots and lots of Legos. And while yesterday's nemesis was potholder loops*, today's tedious pick-up item was something I didn't have a name for until now: K'Nex. I could have swept and/or vacuumed them into oblivion, but creativity-supporting mom that I am, I collected them, one ubiquitous piece at a time. On my knees. And even now, I'm smiling from the pleasure of accomplishment, thankful I have this time off to serve my family in such a lowly way. Sometimes, it literally is "the little things"...

Best find! Little sister to big brother...

*My Facebook status a day ago: "Today I cleaned Lucy's room, aka the Island of Glitter, Paper Scraps, and Misfit Toys. (Please may I never see another potholder loop as long as I live!)"

Here are a few other "things that made me go, 'hmmm...'" (you can click on the pictures for a closer look, if you like)

Toolbox half-full of water. ("It's for my Orbeez," son explains.)

File drawer containing formerly stuffed snowman head

Fuzzy slipper containing four partially eaten Lifesavers

After hibernating behind nearby shelf, "Elvis Dumbledore" returned to his perch

A Plug for the Count

I confess up front: I am motivated to write this because I want to win a $300 gift card to Target. However, having said that, I really do appreciate this program...

1-2-3 Magic. Sounds like a cheesy marketing ploy, right? Well, it gets your attention, and it certainly got mine. I first heard of the 1-2-3 Magic parenting method when I started as client services manager at the Care Net Center, where I worked from August 2008 until last week.

When I first signed on to work at Care Net, I thought I'd be working with women facing unplanned pregnancies, and I was (somewhat) prepared to do that. I did work with those women, but I also found myself facilitating another of Care Net's important programs: Parenting classes. Everyone calls them "classes," but they're really one-on-one information/coaching sessions, where clients with kids of all ages can vent about their parenting challenges and gain access to new ideas and insights for managing those challenges with grace.

If I had been told, before I agreed to take the client services position, that I would be billed as the "parenting expert" in those sessions, I probably would have stayed at my previous job. But, come to find out, I could learn right along with my clients. And while I still don't consider myself an "expert," the program that has yielded the best results for my family (less yelling, more loving) is 1-2-3 Magic by Dr. Thomas Phelan.

It really is very simple. And it really takes a great deal of discipline on the part of the parents. The kids (as is typical, I suppose) adapt much more quickly than the grown-ups to the method, which simply sets out the expectations of the household and then enforces them--consistently, nonviolently, with liberty and justice for all.

I won't explain the program here, I'll just endorse it and refer you to your nearest public library or favorite media retailer to discover the details for yourselves. And, by the way, I really recommend the DVD because then you and your spouse and/or parenting partner(s) can all watch it and learn together. The DVD has some decidedly dated elements to it (mainly the hair and clothing styles of the presenters), but it is nevertheless well-done and timeless in its content.

Let the magic begin! http://www.123magic.com/

Just a few more quote-able quotes from Lucy…

Lucy sporting her new shoes

Buckling into the car yesterday (en route to Walmart, for an 11^th-hour purchase of dress shoes before her piano recital): “I don’t know about you, but I am thrilled about next year!” (when she won’t have to sit in a booster seat anymore)

*             *             *             *             *

Sitting on the porch this morning, waiting for the bus (sans brother, who isn’t feeling well this morning — I sure hope he isn’t afflicted with the horribleness I experienced over the weekend):

Lucy: “Do you think I’ll ever be better than Reuben at anything?”

Me: “You’re better at being Lucy!”

Lucy: “Yeah, but I mean like better at a sport or a game or something.”

Me: “Oh, probably — when you’re older, there will be something you’re better at…”

Lucy (exasperatedly): “Yeah, when I’m, like, 56, and I get a job!”

Reuben revels in post-duet triumph

 *             *             *             *             *

Another one sitting on the porch, which needs to be painted a.s.a.p.

Me: “We need to paint this porch.”

Lucy: “Ooo, can I help?!”

Me: “Sure. But first I need to sand it.”

Lucy: “That’s your job!”

            (pause)

Lucy: “Well, maybe I could help… But I’ll need a mask. And some gloves. Because I do not want any splinters!” {insert Z-snap here…she’s very expressive, this child!}

Proof of divine comedy

On Friday I posted my complaint about gaining weight, ending with the "Downward, Dawg" (oh, aren't I so clever?). The next morning I awoke at 4:30 a.m. feeling *sicker than a dog* and lost 5.5 pounds in one day! I vomited with such vehemence and frequency that I frightened my children. And this on what is annually one of the funnest days in A-Town: Strawberry Festival Saturday: 5k/8k race, parade, fried dough (ughhhh...the very thought...)

I am so glad my dear husband was able to chronicle the day for me and for everyone else who had to miss it. If you haven't checked out his new news site, please do! http://www.orleanshub.com/index.html

I am also grateful to my nurse friend who came to check on me when everyone else I knew was running the race, and to those who filled in for me at various parts of the day when I was supposed to be contributing to the festivities (and had been looking forward to it!).

And most of all, thanks to my Mommy, who came to my aid, watching my kids and bringing me ginger ale and crackers. I couldn't keep them down yesterday, but I tried again this morning and (so far) have succeeded. "If at first you don't succeed..."

Extraordinary...ahem...achievements

http://gallery.sarahmascarah.com/yoga-on-the-web/

One thing I'll say about myself: I am really good at gaining weight! I mean, some women brag about how quickly they can pack on poundage in mid-age? I am so naturally talented at this that I even excelled as a lass. Heard of the Freshman 15? My first year of college, I gained twice that amount in half the time! Yep, 30 pounds in the first semester alone. (I mean, that's gotta be some sort of record.) Recently, I have seen the scale creep up 10 kilos in 2 months (that about 22 pounds, for you non-Euros). However...HOWEVER!!! This morning I am pleased to report that I ate apple slices with (a modest amount of) almond butter for breakfast, rather than polishing off the leftover cake from my farewell party last night. Those who know how much I relish buttercream frosting can appreciate what an accomplishment that is. Onward and Upward! Er...Downward, Dawg!

Backpack Treasures from The Middles

A short list (and a classic photo) to break this blogger's silence

Things that face almost certain doom in my household:

1) Puzzles
2) Card games
3) Pairs of socks

The West Academy Club for the Mechanically Declined, ca 1985

My Dad and my next-door-neighbor dad used to joke about their mutual lack of handy-manliness. Both musicians (though of decidedly different ilks -- my dad: classical, next-door-neighbor dad: country), they semi-kiddingly formed a private club for the "Mechanically Declined." They took turns being president or vice president. If one or the other was caught successfully fixing something in his home or yard, the other was promoted to the presidency of the club. They went back and forth for years.

A more typical way of teasing our own weaknesses might be to say: "When they handed out {X, Y, or Z Quality}, I must've been out to lunch." Or, "I missed the line for {brains, beauty, spelling ability, or what-have-you}."

All that is to say, I think Tom and I BOTH missed the line, the boat, the doling-out of housekeeping prowess! Combine this lack of knack for neatness with four kids and you get a messy house that swallows up puzzles, cards or any games with small pieces, and socks...lots and lots of socks!

I've fallen...but I CAN get up! (A slightly bizarre self pep talk)

C3PO in Fondant @ Cake Central http://bit.ly/10kfFso

I'm wearing winter like a coat, a 12-pound layer of C3PO (Cake + Cookies + Candy = Pounds On!). Easter is here. I'll celebrate by nibbling on the contents of my children's baskets while I stuff them...and myself -- black licorice jelly beans ("The kids won't like that kind anyhow"), Cadbury Mini Creme Eggs ("These are really gooey and they'll make a mess if I let them have too many"), and Reese's Pieces that come in carrot-shaped bags that I fall for annually. And then -- Then! -- I'll "set my face like a flint" toward the Albion Strawberry Festival Race...the 8k!!!!!!!! Oh, yes -- "I am determined to start afresh."

A scene from Pride & Prejudice, Maria to Lizzy: "Lady Catherine was so severe about the only right way to place gowns, that I couldn't sleep! I am determined to start afresh."

Wifely grumps and grounds for gratitude

I don't like it when Tom buys the coffee
Because occasionally he brings home the wrong blend
And I can't stand the taste of it for the week--
Blechhh!

I don't like it when Tom makes the coffee
Because he almost always puts the filter in funny
And gets grounds in the bottom of the brew--
Blechhh!

I don't like it when Tom buys the milk
Because he sometimes picks the Walmart kind
   (which has a pink cap on the skim,
   which looks too much like the red cap on the whole)
And I end up pouring skim milk into my coffee
Double blech--it's watery and sedimentary!

But, man-oh-man, I love that man--
Who shops for groceries and serves me coffee
And washes the cups I drink from,

Grounds and all.

Why my brother used to call me "Amazon Girl"...

Albion McD's, 1982. The other girls are 6 mos-1 yr younger than I. What can I say? Boltons know how to grow 'em!

Good enough, doggoneit!

I am jealous of people whose last name is “Goodenough.” I just saw someone’s name like that—the friend of a friend on Facebook. So-and-so commented on _______ Goodenough’s status: “so cool!!” That was the comment, as well as my sentiment about that last name. Granted, Rivers is a pretty, poetic (and pretty poetic) moniker. So I suppose it’s good enough. (Ha!)

As you can see, I’m still geeking out over National Grammar Day yesterday. National Grammar Day! (Spoken in repeat-for-emphasis mode, à la Josh from Drake and Josh. Only the parents of tweens and teens who read this blog are likely to understand what I mean about that.) To celebrate the occasion, I attended a webinar put on by Poynter called, “This Ain’t Your Grandma’s Grammar.” I lapped it up like a kid with an ice cream cone on a steamy summer day.

My book group recently read a memoir called Angry Conversations with God. Even though I had enjoyed hearing from the author, Susan Isaacs, at last year’s Festival of Faith and Writing, I didn’t like the book as much as I’d hoped I would. I won’t get into the various reasons why, but there was one part in particular that resonated with me. Isaacs is describing her adolescent angst in finding her place in the world (start with “My brother Jim...”):

Excerpt from Angry Conversations With God: A Snarky But Authentic Spiritual Memoir, By Susan E. Isaacs

When people talk words, they’re playing my note! Especially the kind of word talk associated with Poynter, which bears a decidedly journalistic bent. Yesterday’s speaker, Roy Peter Clark, distinguished between the old-school grammarian and the more practical rhetorician I think I am. Some people are pedantic about enforcing the right-proper rules. Other folks like me just wanna live our lives and try to tell some good stories. My stories, other people’s stories, God’s Story. There are many situations, of course, in which carefully constructed sentences are most suitable. But other times it’s cool to let it all hang out, spout a cliché or two, and pick a sentence to end a preposition in. (OK, that’s a forced example, but you get the notion.) Clark said the key is knowing when to don your tuxedo and when to wear the wrinkly tie-dyed T-shirt. I suppose the ability to make that distinction shows a certain level of panache in itself. 

One of my college professors said that the meaning of piety was “what properly goes with what.” I’m not sure that’s a spot-on definition, but I do believe in the power of context. And in that spirit, I’m giving myself some grace. I’ve been hard on myself this winter for packing on a few pounds since last summer. But—hello!—it’s winter! Many mammals hibernate in this season of scarcity, bleakness, and cold, so isn’t it natural that I’d be inclined to consume a few thousand extra calories between Christmas and Easter? In this climate/context? You bet! I was so excited to be wearing a size 12, and now I’m back up to a 14. But guess what? It’s Goodenough!