"A Naughty Little Breeze"

Tonight the Bigger Girls and their Grammie put on a little "play" with some little creature figurines and a few props. The Big One was the narrator and Middlest One was the figure-mover. All persons involved were the "naughty little breeze"... you can see them blowing the breeze (with the feather), and moving the little turtle into his place. Then Grammie singing and The Big One narrating while Middlest One creates the action.

Off on an Ice Cream Adventure

Hi ho hi ho to Baskin Robbins they go...

The two bigger ones are off on a quest with Grammie and Grandpa Jack to find that Holy Grail of Kid-dom... the Ice Cream treat. Yum-o!

The Soccer Mom Mystique

I am a Soccer Mom. For 5 1/4 seasons I have held this title (among others) along with millions of other moms around the world. And to those in the world who aren't Soccer Moms... there is this air of mystery about those of us who are. It's like all those anti-Soccer Moms out there are wondering how the hell they can avoid meeting the same fate. "My kid plays Little League and I spend all my time driving Davy to his games and practices, but at least I'm not a Soccer Mom (shudder)". Or even more frequently: "I'm never having kids because there's no way I'm going to ever be one of those!" Being a Soccer Mom is now as big of a cliche as being an 80's Yuppie in the world of the 2K-oughts. I know that sounds melodramatic, but think about it for a minute. Even I remember thoughts like these passing through my brain at various points in my life. I had similar thoughts about mini-vans. And yet, here I am.

There seems to be this idea that the woman whose kid plays soccer somehow lacks the feminine mystique, the je ne sais quoi, that other women possess (or at least think they possess). What we seem to represent is the total sellout to convention and old-fashioned expectations of women and mothers. We (apparently) cannot possibly be a Soccer Mom and still maintain the image of What We Used to Be. Take as an example a recent commercial for the Nissan Quest (I think it was). The bottom line was "if you want to be the cool soccer mom on the team, you need this car". As if there's no way you could achieve any level of hip-ness without it. Stifler's mom you are not.

And why is that? What's wrong with us Soccer Moms that women dread the day that they will be initiated into the fold, rather than enjoying the fact that soccer is (usually) fun for our kids and great for their bodies and minds? Heck, you might be nurturing the next David Beckham or Mia Hamm. Okay, probably not, but even if you're not... you're obviously a cool mom because you care enough about your kid that you are willing to be one of those in order to broaden his or her horizons. Doesn't that count for anything? It totally counts. And I have bad news for those of you who believe that you aren't One Of Us, just because your kid plays baseball or plays in the band or runs track or does drama.

The truth is that it doesn't matter what activity your kid does. If you are a devoted follower of that activity and your child's Number One Fan, you are a Soccer Mom. Soccer was just lucky enough to be picked as the activity to label the so-called "cliche" mom. Probably because most of us in White-Picket-Fence-ville have kids who have or will have played soccer at some point in their lives. It's the American way, right?

I think there's something about the Soccer Mom which elevates her to the next level in the parenting corporate structure. It's like getting promoted from mail clerk to mail manager or something like that. There's nothing wrong with being a mail manager and there's nothing wrong with being a Soccer Mom. As a Soccer Mom, you get to watch your kid do something that truly doesn't involve you. You can cheer them on from the sidelines, which as parents, we should do through the whole of their lives right? It's a step in the right direction... the way you want your kids to go. To live and play, with you right off to the side screeching encouragement. That's the way it should be...

We're all Soccer Moms.

To Dog or Not to Dog... Yorkies are the Question

I'm not a fan of dogs in general. I like dogs, and I certainly don't mind being around them, but I'm not all that interested in all the stuff that goes along with having one. But lately, I've been having this sort of alien feeling that I need to have a Yorkie. I was talking about it with some friends last night, and one of them suggested that I go and pick up a dog from the animal shelter. I hope I didn't offend her when I said: "but I don't want a dog I want a Yorkie ". This brings up two important points in this inner battle I'm waging...

1) Do I not consider Yorkies to be dogs?

and

2) What is it about Yorkies that qualifies them over other breeds, to win a place in my heart?

The answer to both of these questions is the same... Yorkies are definitely dogs, but they are so small that they are like an eternal puppy, which is the state that I really enjoy in dogs. Small. And small means small poop, small piddles, small(er) food bills, small doggie slobber. And Cute. I never met a Yorkie that wasn't as cute as all get-out. Now there are other breeds out there that I have a definite fondness for, but I can't imagine choosing to add them to our family. It's all about what you want in a new family member. And that's where dogs have it over humans. Dog breeds have definite personality traits that make it easier for we humans to choose. There's no way to choose the personality of a new baby, but you can start heading down the right path with the right choice of dog. Of course, with dogs (as with babies)... you get what you get, you don't get upset (to quote from Middlest Beauty's preschool class mantra).

All that being said... it is incumbent on all of you people out there in Bloggerville to talk me out of my cute little poochy-poo. This is like a psychotic sort of baby fever for me... but like my dog-not-loving spouse says: "It's so much easier without a pet in the house". I'm with him on that. Really.

But the house is emptier too, if you know what I mean.

Thank Heaven for Recessed Lights

Before and After Shots of my Kitchen Light Project. Ignore the mess... I beg you. And the patchy drywall on the ceiling. Handyman Hubby has (justifiably) not had a chance to fix those yet... as the lights were only installed 22 hours ago. Unlike I, who have had plenty of time to clean up the mess and simply haven't.

Iron Chef Megan (Gross Out Warning)

Anyone who has ever watched Food Network... and more specifically Iron Chef America knows that there is a world of food out there that most of us had no idea was there. And could probably live our whole lives without knowing was there. Take this week's episode for example: The theme ingredient was garlic.... mmmm.... Delicious, sweet, pungent... essential to any good cook's kitchen, the ubiquitous staple of any cuisine. Yes. And apparently sucking the brains out of a roasted squab head is a tasty way to enjoy the flavor of garlic. Sorry for the visual, but that's what they did. Seriously. Kind of like slurping oysters.

Now ordinarily, I'm a big fan of ICA. I've even got a TiVo season pass to the show. I love to cook and what better way to learn new and interesting ways to spice up (no pun intended) the kitchen~ and quickly too? But, there's cuisine, and then there's just plain crazy. And yes, I'm being culinarily closed-minded, and a little bit of an anti-gourmand. But come on... ewww.

I pride myself on having a family that will eat just about anything I put in front of them (with the definite exception of Shorty, my finicky gourmet). And they always seem ready to try new things. If the main ingredient is something the girls recognize, they'll try it no matter how it's prepared. Chicken a la King, Chicken Piccatta, Chicken Pad Thai or Chicken Paprikash. "What's for dinner?" they say... and I reply "chicken"... "Yummy!"... and everyone is happy, even my little carnivore, Ms. Finicky. So, I like to think that they can stomach a slightly more high-brow level of cuisine. But, to quote Tim Curry, from one of the funniest movies of all time: "Monkeys' brains, while popular in Cantonese cuisine, are not often to be found in Washington D.C." Likewise, squabs.

I guess the kitchen's not in Kansas anymore, and most of the time that's fine with me. But I draw the line at brains, tripe and talons (yes, there was actually a talon gripping a clove of garlic on the plate). I especially draw the line at sucking things out of heads. I raise my glass to raising my children to be epi-curious individuals, but you won't find any squabs in my kitchen. And I hope I won't find any in yours... shudder...

The goal of cooking is that people will eat the food, right?

A Sisterly Moment

Here are the Beauties enjoying a quiet moment watching Avatar on the computer. Shorty woke up from her nap yesterday and would have no one but The Big One. What a way to win over the big sister! Cuddles and Avatar.

Bonk Bang Bling

The last 24 hours have been rough on my Beauties. All three of them look like they've been through the wars. As their mommy, I suppose I should be more concerned, but I'm sitting here chuckling to myself. I'm thinking that, as much as a skinned knee stings or a bonked head aches, these scars-in-the-making are like badges of honor from kidhood. I hate to see my kids suffer, but the truth is that the fun they have while getting the booboos is what they will remember. The only memory they'll have of the ouch is the mark they will bear on their skin. We mommies can attest to this basic human trait. We tend to forget pain... but we remember the good things that come out of it.

The warm weather has brought out the best in all of us. Our energy levels are soaring right now. The kids are having a blast getting filthy and sweaty in the summer-like sun. The bushes, trees and dirt are calling to all of us. To us adults they're saying: "Trim us.... plant us... water us!" To the kids (the true citizens of spring and summer) they make a more thrilling call: "Climb us... crawl under us... dig us up!" Who could resist that siren song? They can't, so they do it. And sometimes they get hurt in the process. And in a way, we hope that they do. Obviously, nothing too bad or lasting... we parents aren't sadists after all. Just the little ouchies that feel better after a little cleaning, and a little soothing and a SpongeBob Bandaid slapped on: the proof of time well-spent. These little booboos even have a small parenting bonus. They give us the chance to get those cuddles that we get less and less of as they grow up and away.

And speaking of growing up... my own Middlest Beauty made one of those choices I'm always going on about. She decided that she wanted to get her ears pierced. Since this is something I've never objected to, it didn't take her long to convince me that it was a good idea (about 45 seconds). I even told her that it would hurt a bit and she told me that it was okay: "I don't mind if it only hurts a little." Of course, my Mommy Gut was clenched in knots about it, but I knew this day was coming with my little Princess... so why not just get it over with? Soooo... after a brief consultation with the Princess's father, she and I took a trip to the mall. There were a few tears; that's true. But there are now two beautiful flower-shaped bits of bling in my daughter's ears. And she's very proud of herself for surviving.






The bottom line is: I think that "Ouch!" should be the name of the National Anthem of Childhood. It's not that I'm sitting here going "Oooh... Johnny should fall out of the tree and break his arm" or "yippee, Janie fell down and skinned her knee on the asphalt." But the true nature of leading a life is that those little ouches are bound to happen. It's what the kids come away with that counts. Whether it's simply a memory of fun that will last forever, a healthy constitution from leading an active life... or perchance, a bit of bling, our kids are rewarded for that small penance they pay in scrapes, bumps and bruises.

And we mommies and daddies can only hope that their reward will be great.

Spiritual Enlightenment for the Struggling Housewife

For generations, women (and okay, a couple of men) have struggled to make things work in the home. And it is a struggle. For approximately 995 or 996 of the last 1000 generations, there was NOTHING to make this daily struggle easier. For 20,000 years, not much changed and all women had to fall back on at the end of the day was a belief in a higher purpose, a great reward at the end of all of their travails. It was only the deliverer of this great reward that varied...call Him Jehovah, Mohammed, Ganesh, Buddha or Good Ole' J.C. ... the result was the same. The human race saw The Point and kept the struggle alive.

The aforementioned deities have had (and still do have) a well-deserved place in our hearts. We are, by nature, a species that wants to band together. We want to believe. We want a community of people with beliefs in common and most of us want to be a part of it. That's great. Really. But, here's the part that would have gotten me burned at the stake in less enlightened times: I believe that the struggling housewife achieves spiritual enlightenment from a second source. That source is called modern convenience.

Technology has been gradually lifting the burden of work off of the backs of humans and into the circuit boards and engines of our friends The Machines. Now don't go all Terminator on me and forget what these Machines are good for. Would you be sitting there reading my masterwork if not for the magic of computation? Would it not take you a week to commute into the city for your job that now (thankfully-hah!) only takes 2-3 hours out of your busy day? And for those dear to my own heart... we Housewives... we don't remember the days when we had to beat our laundry on a rock with a stick. We don't remember the days when we had to sweep the whole house with a switch broom. We mommies certainly don't care to remember the days before epidurals, breastpumps and (oh my) Sitz baths.

I'll argue that the best modern convenience is one that most of us (but not me) haven't yet had the pleasure of enjoying. That would be The Robot that cleans the floor for you while you sip iced tea and lift your feet every once in awhile. This is the path to true spiritual enlightenment. We housewives no longer want to wait for the ever after. We're part of a society which wants our reward now. Instant gratification is the name of the game, Baby. Enjoy that iced tea and the calisthenics. The five loads of laundry, unmade beds, and germy bathroom floor can wait. Come to think of it...so can the kid's runny nose, spelling homework and escaping ants from the ant farm. We're busy reaping the benefits of living in the Modern World. The only thing most of us are missing is the deity herself. The Cleaning Lady. Oh no, wait... that's me:

The Domestic Goddess.

I guess I'd better get to work.

I am Mower, Here me Roar

Just a quick addendum to my earlier post:

I did it. I mowed the lawn. Woo-hoo.

Not that I think I deserve a medal or anything, but I seriously haven't done that since I was about 16 or so. So you all can ignore me while I contort myself enough to pat myself on the back.

Now I'm going to go have a shower.

A Beautiful Day Makes a Beautiful Yard... (maybe)

Ahhhhh... the sun is shining! At last! The warm air has arrived. I couldn't be happier. I almost feel like I could head outside and mow the lawn. Almost, but not quite. It doesn't matter though because my body feels nice and warm for the first time in weeks. I'm truly grateful. I might even dance (but probably not).

This weekend promises to be perfect. Mid-70s and sunny. In short, gorgeous. So, FINALLY the big task has become MULCH the YARD. KILL the WEEDS. MAKE the yard BEE-YOOTiful. Really exciting stuff...but it will look good when it's done. There are 50 bags of mulch stacked up next to my house waiting patiently to be laid out. They've been there for more than month. With any luck, they will have killed the grass underneath them so I can make a new plant bed. I'm dreaming of peonies and lilacs and other beautiful flowers that I'm sure I'll kill within a week. But a girl can dream, right?

I just can't wait to get at it...mainly because I won't be the one who has to get the get-go going. If you think I've mowed a lawn in the last 15 years, you're crazy. I'm not even sure I know how to turn one on. That's how bad it is. If you think I am capable of dragging a 3 cubic foot bag of mulch across a yard, think again. Okay, maybe one, but no more. However, I must admit I'm a mean hand at killing those weeds. Squeeze, spray. Squeeze, spray. Spurge, clover, dandelions... tremble in fear. I'm on my way out... Hey, it helps, right?... Right?... Hello? Okay, fine, maybe not...

There comes a time in every housewife's life when getting the job done means delegation. If that means hubby humps the mulch bag, then great. Or if writing a check gets your lawn mowed, even better. I'm not ashamed to admit that while I'll do anything around the house, around the house is not my forte.

Here's rule number 2 in the Guide:

Housewives manage the house, but under no circumstances should they be expected to do everything. Delegate, delegate.

We must protect our manicures along with our offspring, right?

Who knows though? I just might mow that lawn anyway. What the heck?

American Idol: Parenting 101

I just want to take a moment to talk about Sanjaya Malakar. But from a slightly different point of view. It's the simple truth that he's got minimal talent and just didn't belong on a show like American Idol...even if you remember past puppy dogs like Kevin Covais, John Stevens and Jasmine Trias. There's always one, every year.

However, I've never seen one of them inspire so much controversy as poor Sanjaya. People boycotted the show over him. WTH? For me, I watched every week in fascination as he continued to warble out his cheeseball song choices. And my personal admiration for him grew. At the beginning of the Top 12 competition, my heart bled, not for him, but for his mother. I cannot imagine how hard it must have been to watch him and then listen to the criticism he faced each week. It takes a strong momma to sit back and watch anyone belittle your child for any reason. And she had to watch the whole country turn him into a whipping boy. If it were me, I'd have been begging in my heart for him to get voted off the show.

The thing is though...he outlasted more criticism than any other competitor that I can remember. And he did it with his head held high. It's like the ultimate gauntlet run. On the one side you have the tomahawks and the bolas and whatever other weapons they choose to use. On the other side you've got the ones rooting you on, forcing you through the lineup. And he came out the other end. I'm sure he made his momma proud.

It's a perfect example of what we have to do...we have to let our children live their lives. No matter how hard it is for us. We may know in our hearts that they will fail (but even then they may surprise us). Or we may not be sure, but it's not up to us to make the choices for them. All we can do is hope we gave them the tools to make the right choices.

So, anyway. I say Sanjaya scored one on the masses. And he didn't have to win the competition to do it.

This Teacher Didn't Teach

When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that I was a teacher and I used to dream that that was what I would do when I finally grew up. That was the only job I could think of that I wanted to do. I even taught my little sister how to read when she was four. We had a chalkboard and "lesson plans" and everything. To me teaching was the perfect job, because every kid knows...kids are awesome...so what better way to spend the day, than head to head with a room full of kids? The one thing I failed to see was that if I was going to be the teacher, I wasn't going to be one of the kids anymore. And as a grownup, it's a whole different ball of wax being in a room with 26 rambunctious youngsters. I admire and respect those hearty souls who do manage to do it, but I am the first to admit that it's not for me. This was the first serious career decision I ever made: nope, not going to be a teacher.

That being said, every so often, it's loads of fun to spend some time in the classroom. Especially if it's your own child's classroom. Take this morning, for instance...

First, a little explanation: There is an organization in our area that sponsors a supplemental art instruction program at the local schools. Each month a parent volunteer (or two) teaches a lesson on the work of a particular artist or genre. Then there is a project which goes along with the lesson. We do eight of these lessons per year in every grade at the Big One's school. This is my big chance to play teacher again. And the beauty of it is...it's outside the curriculum, so if all they take away from it is the name of the artist and maybe a memory of fun, then we as the "teachers" have done our job. It's the ultimate job for the teaching enthusiast-with-no-experience.

Back to today...this month's lesson was about ARCHITECTURE. I did not teach the lesson, but I was there to set up the project and help wrangle the heathens into submission. After a lovely presentation on the gothic, neoclassic and modern (among other) styles of architecture...the children came pouring out of their classroom into the pod. After a nearly futile ten minute scramble to organize the kids into groups of four (which, by the way, were already assigned before they came out of the class), we managed to get them settled down to their project: each group must design an elementary school~ front, back and two sides elevations. If you've never tried to explain an elevation to a second grader, it's much harder than you might think. Especially when you throw in the mix the plaintive cries of "all of our pencils are broken"... and "where can I put the pool table?"... and "can we draw whatever we want?". So much for the 20 minute presentation. Well, long story short...I don't think we've discovered the next Frank Lloyd Wright or Eero Saarinen, but it was still loads of fun seeing what the kids managed to produce.

Here's the point I want to make: Even though teaching is not something that I feel I would be good at...there is a level of satisfaction that comes from being part of the crazy mix in the classroom. Knowing the kids, letting them get to know you. Spending time admiring their work, correcting mistakes, guiding their creativity. It's more than satisfaction...it's a privilege to be able to be so involved. And the school/teacher spend all their time thanking me (what's that about anyway?). As a parent, there is so much to be gained from these little opportunities. It's allowing yourself the chance to take a peek into the world your child enters almost every day of her (or his) life. Just being a part of the class dynamic for an hour can give you more insight into your child's life than a weekend spent in their sole company. There is a chance to learn all sorts of things about your own child, about her friends, about her teacher, and about the school.

You can pretend all you want that you are the teacher, but the one who's really learning is you.

Bad Mommy Tuesday ?

I love Tuesday. It's my favorite day of the week. It's the one day of the week when I almost never have anything on the calendar...when the only thing I have to do is get the girls up, feed them breakfast and put the Big One on the school bus. But it's also the one day of the week when I feel like I earn my stripes as Household COO. And the Fly Lady be damned... because I do it all in my PJs... well, at least until I have to go out to the store (Trust me, Safeway's not ready for me to do my shopping like that). Tuesday is the day when you are most likely to walk in my house and smell that oh-so-fresh scent of recently mopped floors, clean (and~oh my~ folded) laundry, sparkling toilets and furniture that you can't leave a stripe on by running your finger over it. This is true, but please note that I said "most likely" not "sure"...

Ironically, the day that is my best Household COO day is also the day I chalk up as the worst Mommy day. Sometimes you have to make a choice, and when you have more than one responsibility, the one you really love can't always be the priority. And on Tuesday, the kids are not the priority. They are safe and fed... they have all their toys to play with. Sometimes they even have friends to play with. But they also spend more time watching the good old boob toob and playing computer games then on any other day of the week (The truth of the matter is that my kids spend too much time staring at screens, but that's a whole other post to be written). And that's not the main issue here. Because here's the rub: remember, I said that Tuesday is my favorite day. Does that mean I prefer cleaning and maintaining the house to playing with and entertaining my children? And if I do, does it mean I love my children less? The answers are yes, and definitely NO (in that order).

Does it make me a bad mother that I would rather mop the floor than play Candy Land with my daughter? No, I don't think it does. It's true, that quality time with your children is the most important thing we (as parents) should devote our time to. But the fact of the matter is...there are other things that need doing. It's all in how we choose to spend our time that makes the difference. Now, I'll admit that even though Tuesday is my worst mothering day...the others are no great shakes either. I've already said I'd rather clean the house than spend hours moving Pooh Bear from one end of a board to another... but...

It is my goal to raise smart, happy, healthy children with a realistic view of the world. I want them to love and be loved, to enjoy the company of others, and to be able to do the things that will make them productive members of society. In short, I want all the things for my children that any (good) parent wants for their offspring. That is one of my goals for this life that I've chosen (and, frankly, been lucky enough to be given). But, I'd be kidding myself if I said this was my only goal in life. I want to be a good mother. But I also want to be a good wife... and since I've chosen to be a Housewife... I want to be a good one of those too. Like any career chosen, I want to be good at what I do, and I want to like it, too. I may have a distance to go... but I'm getting there, I think.

Tuesday just gives me a chance to think about these things... it brings into focus what I think is a realistic way to look at stay-at-home parenting. I think it is unrealistic to think you can spend all your time at home playing with your children. We mommies (and yes, some daddies too) have a job to do... and managing a household is more challenging sometimes than managing a billion dollar corporation. That's what makes it the best career choice in my book.

And in case you're wondering... yes, I do play Candy Land, sometimes.

So Much Work, But So Much to Say

I really should be working. This is the refrain heard day in day out all around the world, in offices, homes, schools...you name it. And yes, I'm saying it right now. And I'll admit to a little bit of work today. The dishwasher has been emptied and reloaded. The children are dressed (for the most part). The white laundry is in on "whitest white" setting. Belurp, belurp. And lunch has been picked up off the floor (also for the most part).

But there is something preying on my mind right now, that is causing a huge mental block in my ability to accomplish anything more. It is the tragedy that is unfolding as I type this at Virginia Tech. The University is so far from here, but this feels like something close to home and I am grateful to myself for keeping my children in the nest today. There are no tragedies here (that I am aware of), but to be able to see my children and know that, right now, they are safe, is a huge comfort to me. It breaks my heart to think of all the pain that one person has caused in Blacksburg today. And so much worse...there is no justice to be had by the victims, because the shooter is dead by his own hand. Coward.

But, like so many of us, I can turn this around and make it about me. About my family. It doesn't even relate to me or mine, and yet at the same time, it does. We feed off this kind of news...as a society we can always make the drama about us. And this is drama of the highest order; Pain, death, shocking behavior... what a waste. For me... I want to learn from this. But what can I learn? That the only way to keep my children safe is to keep them by my side for always? That I should never turn psychotic and get my hands on an automatic weapon? I don't see any lessons here. None of this makes sense.

We're bringing up our children in a world gone mad: every generation has said it. And it will continue on long after we're gone. And for every one of us...the drama unfolds, but the work never goes away. And the job of making sense of the madness is at the top of the list.

My deepest heartfelt sympathy to all the victims of this tragedy.

High Winds and Mental Health

Brrrr. Spring has yet to sprung here. I'm freezing my patootie off today. And I'm falling over dead tired. I think Mr. Edgar Allen Poe said it best:

"Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered,
`tapping at my chamber door -Only this, and nothing more.'"

"Visitor" and "gently"...like hell. Try wind gusts so strong that two of my deck chairs ended up at the other end of the backyard. For the whole night. And going strong as I type. And apparently that's nothing compared to what we're supposed to get later on. I hope my trees survive. I hope my roof survives. I hope my sanity survives.

The girls and I are taking a mental health day today. After a night such as the one past, I think that I (at least) deserve it. And Shorty too. Poor little thing screeched her way through much of the night. Who can blame her? Her window is front and center on the mosh pit that our deck must have been during the night. And what a concert, too. The wind plays some mean guitar, I can tell you. And the exhaust fan damper plays a mean bass drum.

So it's now 11:29 am. We are still in our PJs with no intention of changing that any time soon. I've gotten two things accomplished so far today. I turned on Roomba in the dining room (cookie crumbs are hell on carpet) and I started this blog. I'm on fire.

Take it from me, though...lesson number one in the Guide should always be:

"The mental health of your self and all those around you is paramount to a successful career in home management."

These days can be bliss, if the wind doesn't get knocked out of you.

In the Beginning...

In the beginning, there was a girl (and a boy, but the girl didn't know about the boy yet, nor did he about her). The girl spent the first half of her life wandering the earth with her parents and sister, settling here and there for a time or more. In all the wanderings, she gathered amazing experiences and memories to carry her through all the rest of her life. Sweeping vistas, dirty cities, freezing winters, balmy tropical breezes, fascinating cultures and a dozen or more different languages. Friends and relatives, spies and piano teachers, nannies and future war heroes.

After years of following her family, the girl settled into life at college...the longest time she would have spent in any one location up to that point. There were a whole host of new experiences to add to the growing list. Classes, of course. Countless papers. Don Quixote. Parties. Booze. Eek.

But the best, by far~ to go along with a hard-won B.A. in Spanish Language and Literature~ the bane of feminist existence, to hear it told: the dreaded M.R.S degree. Yes...the girl got herself a man. Okay...a boy. But together they grew up and became the woman and man they are today. And is that so terrible?

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship...the end of wandering for the girl, but the beginning of a new kind of journey. The kind of journey that never ends. Or so she hopes.