Bird Brain

They say things come in threes. Yesterday at Grace's OT therapy session, when I went to pay, I was embarrassed to open up an empty wallet--no credit cards, no debit cards, no check book. Then I remembered that earlier in the morning I had taken out my wallet's paper jungle to find the post-it note that had Grace's new therapy time written on it.

Then later at U-Mall, I spent a good ten minutes walking around the parking lot trying to find my car.

Finally, I ordered food for the family from Japan Express. We were tired of eating off the Christmas ham. I sat waiting for our food to be prepared while I sipped a "suicide" soda (remember those?) of mainly diet coke with a splash of sunkist and read a new book, 'The Thyroid Diet.' When the lady called out my number to tell me my order was ready, I looked up, put my book away, fished my keys out of my purse and walked confidently to the door without my food. "Um, Mam! Your food." I walked the walk of shame back to the counter to get my food, right in front of a table of guys. I had to laugh at myself. It reminded me of the Dana Carvey skit where he and his buddies order food from a drive-thru, pay for their food, then drive off without their food, laughing hysterically as if the joke's on McDonald's.

The joke is definitely not on McDonald's. I hope 2007 is a better year.

New Logo

Here are the logos David presented to me. I've already picked the one I think I'll go with, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on which one you like best.

Back in Black

I think this template's black background makes our photos pop--gonna try it on for size for a bit. Also, David's working on a new bird spot logo. Just after he spent $40 on bird spot tees for the kids (a great surprise to all!) and I spent twice as much on shipping than I did the coffee mug I ordered for David with the original bird spot logo on it. That still hasn't arrived.

The 31 Days of Christmas

Christmas Day has passed, but we're still celebrating as packages continue to arrive in the mail and we plan to drive to Boone for our "Second Christmas" Saturday morning. We've been getting ready all month--even longer, really--by doing just about everything imaginable at Christmastime. We've looked at the outside lights and decorations and even set up our own modest porch window display. We've baked cookies and pies, made hot chocolate and decorated gingerbread houses. We bought a tree, decorated it, and have commented for seventeen days straight how it's the most beautiful tree we've ever had. We've watched the Christmas specials on tv: Rudolph, the Grinch, A Charlie Brown Christmas--twice. I watched 'Bad Santa' on Christmas night and laughed all the way through, despite the expletives being bleeped out. We went to holiday parties and the Chapel Hill/Carrboro Christmas parade. The kids sat on Santa's lap and told him one thing they really wanted. The kids called Santa on the phone. We've read Christmas stories and listened to Christmas music at night and in the car ad nauseum. We shopped. We wrapped. We ripped open gifts. We sent Christmas cards (not all of them yet...don't give up!), and received cards and letters and pictures of our friends' children. We role played exactly what we'd do on Christmas morning, tip-toeing in to see what Santa left. The kids played along, too. We recited over and over what we hoped Santa would bring. We covered how and when he would come and we left cookies and milk for him and carrots for Rudolph. We went to the 5:30 PM Christmas Eve service at church and didn't "shush" the kids when they talked through the singing or got out of their seats to dance and fidget in the aisle. We waited for Granddabs to arrive and could hardly stand it when we saw and heard his car pull up. We ate chocolate and drank Irish coffee (with Irish Whiskey, of course). I baked a ham and made mashed potatoes, biscuits, green beans and pecan pie. And chili the night before. My dad read "Twas the Night Before Christmas" to Grace and Johnny (and me) as he's done on every Christmas Eves for the past thirty-six years.

We garnered all of the excitement and anticipation and joy and marvel and magic to see the kids' faces on Christmas morning when they discovered that Santa had brought them each exactly what they'd asked for: a Fairy Wish Dora for Grace and a Batman Lego car for Johnny. And even though the Lightfoot family was split up into three places (make that four) this year, and though it wasn't the constant come and go with cousins and friends and wonderful food and desserts and Christmas Eve at Sadie's, and Daniel, Kate and me all sleeping in the same room, and roaring fires under the huge live wreath, and JT drinking my grandmother's Maker's Mark, and kids' poker games using nuts and candy as chips and the 'real' annual Hearts and Poker games (my dad misses those, G) at B's house; in essence, the Christmases past spent in KY, surrounded by all the ones you love, it was real and pure and healing for me to hear Johnny spontaneously tell David and me that he loves us, and for Grace to gush that it was all she'd hoped for and for Johnny to say (only fifteen minutes ago) that this was the best Christmas ever.

Christmas Present, Christmas Past

Flashback: Christmas, 2003

Goin' Postal

I'm very frustrated right now. I've been trying all week to buy stamps to slap on my Christmas cards that are written, sealed, and addressed. Wanted to mail them out Monday, then Tuesday, then yesterday, hopefully today. I've been unable to get stamps! I know I could have ordered them online, but I didn't want to wait several days to get them, and now, here I am several days later, without stamps! The DIY stamp machines at the PO have been messed up in some way or another, every time I've tried to get them!

So, if you're on my Christmas card list, you're still getting a snail mail card from me, don't worry.

My frustration with this year's stamp-buying even bled over to our somewhat regular after dinner dance party last night. Last night's soundtrack was MJ, and when "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' came on, I changed the words slightly:

Keep On With The (Post Office…Stamps)
Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The (Post Office…Stamps)
Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The (Post Office…Stamps)

Trust me, it was funny at the time.

And speaking of going postal, our extended holiday officially starts tomorrow...All four of us, off work, outta school, and at home for eleven days straight (other than an overnight in Boone). I'm entertaining any and all invitations for playdates--with or without the kids.

Men are From Where?

Lactose Tolerant

Every night since Thanksgiving, the four of us have been 'relaxing' at the end of the day to Delilah on 93.9 FM. After the kids are bathed, pjs on, and teeth brushed, we all retreat to Grace's very cheerful lime green and pink-motifed girly room and cozy up on her queen-sized futon of a bed for stories and Christmas music. All's well for a split second until Johnny grabs Lammie and Grace screams, and then Grace goes nuts because the "cubbers aren't right, Mommy! Noooo! Pull the sleeping bag all the way up to my neck!" Then David says, "screw this," and gets on the floor...then Johnny wants to go "sleep with Daddy," but seconds later he wants back in bed beside me, but accidentally (or was it an accident?) brushes up against Grace's leg and she screams out, "No, Johnny! You're in my spot! Leave me alone!" Then Johnny starts crying because his feelings are hurt and Daddy screams for everyone to "SHUT UP!"

Relaxing indeed.

Once everyone is finally settled into their spots and the lights are out, we listen to Delilah and her nauseating sentimental radio program, which currently is focused on holiday traditions and Christmas music. As people call in to request songs, they share bits of their lives, the good and the bad. It never fails, the caller can say:

"We feel so blessed, Delilah, because we just adopted a baby girl after ten years of trying to get pregnant, and she arrived just in time for Christmas, and we just can't believe how happy we are and how wonderful life is,"

or

"Hi, Delilah. My name's Jimmy and I'm nine. I don't have any brothers or sisters. And I don't think Christmas is going to be that good this year. My dad ran off with my teenaged babysitter and my mom squandered all of our Christmas money buying 'educational' lottery tickets. And my dog Banjo? He ran away too. And my best friend told me he didn't want to be friends anymore. And the girl I have a crush on told me that I stink and that I have a face only a mama could love. I'm just feeling really sad,"

and Delilah responds in her saccharin-bathed voice, "Is that right? I have just the song for you."

Multiple Choice

At Blinky Burgers restaurant, two hamburgers and five orders of French fries cost the same as four hamburgers and two orders of French fries. If the restaurant charges $1.50 for a single order of French fries, how much does it charge for two hamburgers?

A. $2.25
B. $3.00
C. $4.50
D. $5.00
E. $6.00
F. Who the Hell cares?
G. Who's buying and when are we eating?

The Importance of a 5-Point Harness for Kids' Car Seats

This is not a funny post. It is sad and eye-opening. If you are a parent of a child that weighs under 80 pounds, please watch this video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azgBhZfcqaQ

I think I know what I'll be asking Santa to bring this year.

The Story of My Life

I spent the morning at the General Store Cafe in Pittsboro, one of my favorite places in the world to hang out. I love the food, I love the ambience, I love the Irish music, the bluegrass music, and the salsa music you can hear there several nights per week. I love the friendliness of the staff and the fact that the owner supports many local community groups and causes. I love the way it's jam-packed with cool stuff on the walls and on the shelves, and how you can go there to start up a conversation, or be by yourself, holed up in the back with your cup of coffee and a book, either one you brought or one you picked off of their shelves. So it was the perfect place to spend the morning while Grace was in school down the road. I came prepared with my laptop and Kaplan GRE study book and figured I had a solid three hours to cram in what I could in my few days left before the exam.

I find a semi-private table with a power outlet as my battery is running low. Got my coffee and my breakfast burrito and I was ready to hit the GRE book, something I haven't given proper attention to these last few months. This pleasant young woman walks up with a laptop too and says, "I see you're here doing what I'm doing," and when I see that her sweatshirt reads, 'CAROLINA School of Social Work,' I say, acknowledging her shirt, "Well, actually I am applying to the School of Social Work, and I'm taking the GRE on Friday."

She's a second year UNC Law student who also has an MSW from UNC. But the sweatshirt is her husband's: he did the program part-time. Really? Does she know my friend A.M. who's a first year? We talk about Law School. We talk about the School of Social Work and what I'm currently doing and what her husband's currently doing, and what she'd eventually like to do, and what my eventual dream job is. Wait, I ask. Her husband did an internship at UNC hospitals? Would he know S.T? Why yes! And would she by chance know J? Yes indeed! J is my neighbor! And ABM is my second cousin! And JH finished the program a few years ago, and we've known each other since the third grade. After talking for about thirty minutes, I ask her name. Her name is EB, but she's only been married two years, and her maiden name is EH. She tells me to please have AM e-mail her. She knows things about the Law School that most first years don't learn. She knows a ton about the MSW application process and how your GRE score matters little compared to the letters of recommendation you get and that 3 is an arbitrary number and she really recommends me asking S.T. (a recent graduate) to write a letter on my behalf.

At least a half a dozen times we both say, "Oh, just one more thing, and then I've really got to study." But one more thing turns into five more things, and we're still having this great conversation an hour later. She lives near me and she's offered to babysit if we ever need someone. She used to go to my church. She asks me if I've considered applying for the 'cooperative' which is an agreement to work for an NC Department of Social Services for so many years after earning an MSW in exchange for tuition payments. When she hears more about my experience and interests, she says that she hopes I somewhat consider the cooperative but very much hopes I consider going for my PhD in Social Work and not stopping at the MSW level. And she strongly recommends that I talk to K in the program before my application is reviewed. She tells me over and over that I'll get in, even if I bomb the GRE; she's seen it happen time and time again.

My solid three hours have dwindled to just over an hour. We agree that, no really, we'll stop talking so we can both get some work done. But first we exchange e-mail addresses. I take a practice Verbal test and a practice Quantitative test. I do pretty well on verbal and pretty bad on the math.

I've heard it, I've read it, I understand it: how well you do on the GRE has little to do with how much actual knowledge you have. It's all about knowing the techniques to answer the questions correctly. Today I was going to spend three good hours reviewing those techniques that I've been sort of learning in the last few months. Because I believe that a good GRE score will increase my chances of getting accepted into the program. But instead, I spend my time making a very valuable connection with a bright young woman who pours me multiple glasses from her fountain of knowledge of how to increase my chances of getting accepted into the program. The irony is not lost on me.

Not Mad, Just Disappointed

David and I often get frustrated with our children even when they're not overtly acting ugly. Like when Johnny pours shredded cheese onto his plate, but 88% of it lands on the floor. Or when we say, "Grace, please try real hard not to spill your milk," but she does. And it's chocolate milk. And she's wearing a white shirt. When situations like those happen, I've been known to say, "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

Like this past Friday evening, when in a haste to make room for our Christmas tree in my car, I had to put a box of unwrapped Christmas gifts in my room, unhidden. When we got back from getting the tree, Johnny ran back to my room and told me to leave the room. I asked him why? He said that he wanted to be in there by himself for a little while. I said, "Ok, but don't look in that box, ok?" He promised he wouldn't. After a minute, I sent Grace in to see if he'd looked in the box. He didn't fess up at first, but when I pressed him, he admitted that he'd peeked in. He said it was just grown-up stuff, though, no toys. (Ha! He didn't look hard enough. There were books for him and Grace. He got to peek, and I'm still happy b/c they'll be surprised). When Johnny saw the look on my face after he admitted to doing something I'd asked him not to do, I said, "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

Yesterday I go to pick up the kids from school, and their teacher tells me with a grin and a chuckle that Johnny gave the entire playground a full-moon yesterday for who knows why. "Wait," I said, "You pulled down your pants and showed your bottom to everyone on the playground? Why did you do that?" "Because, um, some people were running one way and some were running the other way." Huh? After telling him that was absolutely not appropriate to do anywhere in public until he was at least in college, I added, "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

The fact that the Tarheels have already lost some basketball games? Not mad, just disappointed.

That Grey's Anatomy was a repeat last week? Not mad, just disappointed.

That George Bush is still in office? Not mad, just disappointed. Real disappointed.

Meanest Mom in the World

There was this segment on 'People Falling Down' last night where this kid goes up to this pinata and pulls the strings (that's how they're made these days) so all the stuff will come out. All the stuff starts coming out, and instead of any candy or any toys, it's completely filled with raw vegetables. Broccoli, cauliflower, and baby carrots rain down to the kids' horror while the grown-ups double over with laughter. That is so something my mom would have done.

Nothing Compares 2 U

Someone who was at our house recently asked, "What, do you have a professional photographer follow you around all the time?" due to all of the nice black and white photos we have up in our living room. A lot of that credit goes to my dad, some to me, a little to David, but most goes to Genevieve Fridley who took Cooley family photos one year ago that we used for our 2005 Christmas Card. It's by far our best yet, and we don't know how to follow up with this year's card. Genevieve, come back!

December 10, 2006

Earth Angels

A few nights ago I attended the Orange County Literacy Council's Annual Appreciation Banquet up at the Big Barn in Hillsborough. We've been going to these for years--in the beginning just David and me, then David and me and a baby, then David and me and a toddler and a baby, then just me and a pre-schooler and now just me. We finally gave up on bringing our kids the year Grace kept yelling out--tourette-style--"BOB!" at random intervals during the program. People do bring kids and babies, and the entire evening has this wonderful family dinner-type feel. Chicken, rolls, and drinks are provided and the rest is a true potluck or "cover(ed) dish" (as southerners like to call it). I love these types of meals, because people always bring a dish that they can do well, so the food always tastes really good. (And I noticed that people always eat what they brought). It's along the same lines as why I also love those church fundraiser cook-books with favorite recipes submitted by individuals--no one is going to put in a recipe that doesn't turn out well with their name associated with it.

Admittedly, I'm not the best cook, but I'm not the worst either. I brought sixteen mini pecan pies to the dinner the other night, and I'm proud to say that all of them were gone by the time I left. I picked up a different dessert, homemade fudge, because this man convinced me to try it. He said he knew it was good because his wife made it (see?). There are a few dishes that I do really well, without fail. Pecan pie is one of them. So is my potato salad and tunafish salad. And homemade waffles. Can't say that "Sarah's Famous Dry as a Bone Chicken" makes the list.

Tuesday's dinner was a feast. There were close to 100 people there and good food in abundance. After dinner, the next item on the program was for adult students to go up to the mic and read a short piece they wrote about their learning, their experience with their tutors, whatever they wanted to say. Several people got up and read slowly and even haltingly, but they were reading. And they were reading what they had written. One woman read that even though she has a long way to go in her education, she voted for the first time ever this year. This woman was in her 50's. One man is an aspiring minister and he read one of the first sermons that he had written. Two years ago he virtually couldn't read or write at all.

Then "Wendy" came up to the podium, a very pretty Asian woman, probably in her twenties. Her accent was heavy, but she read slowly and deiberately. She told us how she came to the US two years ago and wanted to go to college here as she is too old to go to college in her country. She said that when she found out that there was a place where she could go and people would help her with her English reading and writing for free, she didn't believe it at first. Why would people offer that kind of help for free? In her country, people warned you about getting something of value for free, it just didn't happen. She then told us that her country is China. Wendy described her tutor, "Jack," a middle-aged educated man with a kind face and clear blue eyes. I strained my next around the room to see if I could get a glimpse of Jack. She said that at her first meeting with Jack, she was so skeptical that he was really there of his own accord to help her with her goals. She thought to herself, "What does he want from me in return?" and then read to us that it was as if Jack was reading her mind that first day. He said, "Listen, I've been given a lot of help throughout my life, and now I want to give something back. There's a lot about your country that I'd like to learn, so just as I help you learn, you'll also be helping me learn." And their student-tutor relationship was forged.

We laughed as Wendy talked about Jack helping her when she got her first speeding ticket. She giggled awkwardly when she had trouble pronouncing "insidious," and other words, but we all rooted for her silently as she read through the words she 'd prepared. She shared how kind and smart Jack was and how much he helped her each week. She described that he offered to increase their sessions to three times a week in the months leading up to her TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language) exam.

Then Wendy's voice cracked in the middle of her next sentence and her face scrunched up. There was a long pause. She started again, "Here I was in this strange..." He voice stopped and Wendy began to cry. Moments later, she apologized and tried a third time. "I was in this strange country..." and then she started weeping. Here she was in front of 100 people struggling to get the words out, but she couldn't finish. Jack humbly walked up beside her at the podium and put his arm gently around her shoulder. It was one of the most beautiful and pure and unscripted moments I've ever witnessed. Wendy wiped away her tears, and she was able to finish. "I was in this strange country with a strange culture, and there was this man who sat with me every week, and helped me with my reading and writing. Jack is what we would call an 'honored elder' in my country. Jack will always be my Angel."

Javaaaaah

A few years ago in a moment of guilt after forgetting our anniversary, David decided to invite me to be a member of his book club. I was honored; when and where did we meet, who else was in it, and what were we reading? He said that he was the only member, we met at home, and this month's book was The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen (yes the one that Oprah picked for her book club, the one where the author didn't really like being picked by Oprah, and the one who then made some sort-of apologies, but not really. Read about the Oprah/Franzen deal here).

David was many chapters ahead of me, but I'm a fast reader and I caught up with him. We'd lie in bed at night each reading our copy of "the book." I'd periodically say, "What part are you on?" and he'd tell me and we'd talk about what was going on with the various families in the book.

We both quite enjoyed the book and we keep referring to this partwhere this older man is on a cruise talking to his friend. He says, "Sometimes I can't sleep at night because I'm so excited about the cup of coffee I'm going to have the next morning." David and I will be hanging out at night and one of us says, "Are you already thinking about the cup of coffee you're going to have tomorrow morning?" "Yes. I can't wait."

Strong and black. That's how I like my coffee. It's kind of pathetic when the best part of your day is the twenty minutes in the morning when you're drinking your delicious java--or even more pathetic when it's the time you spend anticipating the next day's fix.

All Kinds of Ridiculousness

The word that keeps popping up in my mind as I reflect about the party David and I attended Saturday is ridiculous. So, here's my Top-5 List of Ridiculousness from the other night:

#5 The light display in the neighbors' yards heading to the party. A ridiculous amount of
lights, to be sure, but still a visual delight.

#4 How ridiculously happy party-goers were when Sally R. walked into the room. She
herself said that it was the nicest welcome she's ever gotten.

#3 The fact that David and I drove over an hour, each way, for this party. From the
host:"It's ridiculous that you drove that far to come here."

#2 The fact that David knew neither Mr. or Mrs. Host, and that I only knew Mr. Host, from
college, but hadn't seen or spoken to him in over ten years. My dad: "Sarah, that's
ridiculous. You don't even know those people." "Yes I do. I went to college with him,
like twelve years ago." "Yeah, but you don't know...maybe he's become an ax-murderer in
the last twelve years. "Maybe. But for all he knows, so have I."

#1 On the drive back to Chapel Hill after the party. David: "That guy in the band? With the
dreadlocks? He looked ridiculous." "You do know that was a wig, don't you"

Best Friends, Forever

It was an innocuous gift, really, just a yellow, plush, stuffed lamb given to me by a co-worker at one of the many baby showers thrown for me the summer of 2001. I always kept lists of who gave what, and thank goodness, because otherwise I would have never have record of "Who gave me this, Mommy?" P.S. gave it to me, and a part of me wishes she knew what a cornerstone her gift was in my daughter's five year existence. From the onset, Lammie has been Grace's "lovey", her security blanket, her best friend.

We've never left the house overnight without Lammie. Still don't. And each night at bedtime, Grace bites and chews on Lammie's ears and nose, and rubs Lammie's softness against her feet, comforted moment by moment, until she drifts deeper and deeper into dreamland.

In February, 2003, my mom ended up back in the hospital at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem. Kate and my dad had a room at the Hawthorne Inn, where we usually stayed when we went to visit her at the hospital. The Hawthorne Inn has free shuttles to the hospital from the hotel, so lots of patients' families end up staying there. It's also a Conference Center, so non-patient families end up there too. In the middle of February, 2003, the Hawthorne was packed. There was some type of youth convention going on and the hotel was swarming with young people everywhere.

Grace was 18 months old and still in that stage where I packed everything but the kitchen sink in her diaper bag for overnight visits (or even visits to the mall, for that matter). Or I guess you could say, I was in that stage of brining along everything that she might need. Grace and I were only staying one night, and David wasn't along for this trip. So after spending the day visiting in my mom's hospital room, Grace even napping on the foot of her bed, we made it back to the Hawthorne to retire for the evening. Our room was up on like the third floor, I think, and I remember the struggle of schlepping Grace and the over-stuffed diaper bag back up to our room, Lammie hanging out of one of the side pockets. When I got settled, Grace fed, bathed, changed, and her port-a-crib all set up, I couldn't find Lammie anwhere. Did we leave Lammie in my mom's room? In the car? Where was Lammie? I looked everywhere in the room, in the car, called my mom's room--no sign of Lammie anywhere. My heart sank and the pit formed. Grace didn't know it yet, but I potentially had just lost the best friend she'd ever know.

My dear sister Kate, always lending a helping hand when I'm in need, set out on a mission to locate Lammie, complete with reward posters drawn up and everything. She went down to the hotel lobby and talked to the receptionists. She asked every young person she saw if they'd seen a little yellow stuffed lamb anywhere. Eventually, the rumor made it back that yes, Lammie had been spotted and was put on a bench right outside of one of the elevators. I was hopeful, but still panic-stricken. When was that and where was Lammie now? Kate's reward posters said to knock on Room 305 if found, and that was her and my dad's room. I had to leave the next morning and they were staying for at least one more night.

I don't even remember how Grace ended up falling asleep that night. I have a vague memory, perhaps distorted, that I strolled her down the halls, back and forth, back and forth, in her umbrella stroller until she nodded off. At any rate, she did fall asleep and slept through the night but that's more than I could say for myself. I was totally distraught and couldn't stop crying. I called my mom's room and she talked to me from her hospital bed, trying her best to comfort me. She said, "Sarah, you've got to calm down. It's just a 'thing' and it's not the end of the world. It will be ok. No one is hurt, and it's going to be fine." It was the last time my mother would mother me. "But I lost her best friend," I sobbed, "and there's no way to replace it." I hadn't gone out, like the parenting books recommended, and bought a replica of Lammie just in case this very thing happened. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Grace would have known the difference.

Everyone was trying their best to help, but every time I thought about Lammie being gone, I just lost it in a sea of tears. Driving back to Chapel Hill the next morning, I called David, just sobbing uncontrollably. I blurted out, "David, you won't believe what happened. I lost Lammie. I lost Lammie. Lammie is gone!" He said, "Wait, slow down. You lost who?" For a minute, and from the sound of my voice, he thought I was calling to tell him I had lost our daughter. "NO! I lost LAMMIE. In the hotel. It must have fallen out of the diaper bag." He tried too to console me, but I was a complete wreck. I think we all know that the tears weren't just falling at the thought of losing Lammie.

The story has a happy ending, in one sense, that is. That evening after I'd gotten back to Chapel Hill and settled back in, the phone rang. It was my dad. He was ecstatic--Lammie had been returned! My heart flipped again, I couldn't believe it! A couple from western NC was staying at the Hawthorne Inn, making trips to Baptist Hospital to visit his sick sister. They had seen Lammie on the bench in front of the elevators and picked it up and took it to their room. They also saw the posters that Kate had plastered on every hall, saying that if found, please deliver to Room 305. Reward Available. They'd knocked on my dad's door hours after I'd left. It was a humble man, probably a blue-collar worker based on my dad's description, and my dad reached into his wallet and handed the man a twenty dollar bill and said, "God bless you." (I thought my dad didn't believe in God). But then, the story wasn't over...a few hours later when my dad and Kate were leaving their room again, they saw a little piece of notepaper that had been folded and slipped under the door.

The note said, "Here's your money back. It is reward enough knowing that a little girl got her stuffed animal back."

Hey Ya! Found It!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGnYw-OuCnI

Elves, Peanuts, and Band Aids

Elves:

We watched part of the movie Elf last night, and I have to say, it was way funnier the second time around than the first. I couldn't stop laughing last night, but when I rented it two years ago and watched it on Thanksgiving Day, I was sorely disappointed. Maybe it had something to do with the post trauma of almost having to visit the ER when Johnny (15 months at the time) landed face-first on a wine glass, shattering it to pieces but somehow coming out of it completed unharmed. We can laugh about it now, but we weren't laughing too much two years ago.

Peanuts:

We switched it from Elf to A Charlie BrownChristmas that I hadn't viewed in years. Despite Grace's mutiny at having to watch the Peanuts Gang (she claimed the Charlie Brown show was "poopy"), I got a total kick out of the kids' dancing scene during the Christmas play rehearsal. If I could find a clip of that, I'd post it here. Because each child is doing a distinct dance that is cute, but, well, totally freakish. I mean, what about the kid in the yellow shirt that has his shoulders all the way up to his ears dancing back and forth, looking kind of like Frankenstein? Freak-dancers. All of them.

Band Aids:

My holiday season is never completely kicked off until I hear "Do They Know It's Christmas" from Band Aid, and Grace and I finally heard it on the way to school this morning. It's the only Christmas song that gives me goose bumps the first time I hear it each season and it remains my favorite holiday song. I guess it just always takes me back to my first school dance--7th grade, 1984--(the year the song was released), and how it came on at the end and we were all dancing around. Whenver the song comes on now, no matter where we are in the car, I make my kids sit there and listen and sing with me until the song is over. This morning I told Grace it was my favorite Christmas song and she said, "It's my favorite, too, Mommy."

Can I Get a Blogroll Please?

Please note that I've finally added a Blogroll to the right. These are blogs from people I know, people I used to know, people I don't know but wish I knew and even possibly from people that I know but wish I didn't know. If you'd like your blog to be added, please send me the link (hint, hint, Otto and Grunt!)

The End of the Innocence

Santa brought me a digital clock radio for Christmas the year I was twelve. I loved it. That's the same year I found out the truth about Santa. The girl neighbor that lived across the street was two years older than I was and her brother was my age. S was like a big sister to me and I looked up to her in more ways than one (she was also tall). A few days after Christmas when some of us were hanging out at our house playing Monopoly and drinking hot chocolate, S told me that she was going to get me a clock radio for Christmas but her mom talked to my mom and my mom told her she'd already gotten me one. Alrighty then. It was official. The truth about Santa was finally revealed to me at the tender age of twelve. I suspected as much, but it still stung.

Johnny's my literal child. I think he'll figure it out first. He's three and he's already asking why Santa doesn't just come in through the front door. When I tell him it's because we lock the doors at night he asks, "Can't we just leave the door unlocked on Christmas Eve?"

My dad called home from his office a long time ago when Kate was five. It was around Christmastime and she answered the phone. I don't even think it was premeditated, and I remember him saying he didn't even change his voice, but he told Kate that it was Rudolph. I can still remember the look in her eye and the sound in her sweet little voice when she said, "Mommy! Rudolph is on the phone!"

S has no idea that she outed Santa. I see her and her family each week at church--maybe it's time for her to know. On the other hand, maybe not.

Best.Christmas.Ever.

Looking back, it had to be Christmas, 1982. Since there were three kids to buy for on an English Professor's salary, we learned early not to expect the expensive gifts our friends all seemed to be getting. Name-brand clothes (Jordache jeans, Izod shirts) we owned were hand-me-downs from our neighbor across the street. Those neighbors had everything and had everything first: Huffy bikes, MTV, Atari, boom boxes, their own TVs in their rooms, skis, curling irons, you name it. We spent a lot of time hanging out at their house.

So Christmas 1982 rolled around and the five of us exchanged gifts right there in our living room in front of our artificial tree because of Daniel's allergies, and maybe in front of a fire, because it was Boone and it often snowed on Christmas Day. I was 10 years old, in the 5th grade, and can't recall a single gift I opened that year. Maybe a diary, maybe a new jigsaw puzzle, maybe a latch-hook rug kit (I loved those things!) After all of the presents were unwrapped and we were all basking in the Christmas-Day-new-stuff glow, my dad casually walked over to our old worn couch, looked behind it and told us all three to come over. And as we did, we gasped at what we saw. Right there in our very own living room was a brand new Atari system! And not just any old Atari system (Atari 2600, like everyone else on our block had), but the hot new Atari 5200 that no one else we knew had! And so it was, the Lightfeet had Atari 5200, with games such as Pole Position, and Centipede, and Breakout (I became the Breakout Queen, and to this day, I'll challenge any one, any day, any time) and for a good two weeks, the neighborhood kids all wanted to hang out at our house.

The Difference Between Girls and Boys

Grace: When I get bigger, I'm gonna be a Mommy, like you, and run a haff maraffon.

Johnny: I just licked ear wax off my finger. Does that mean I have germs in my mouf?

Benefits of having a girl: always finding a hair barrette or scrunchy when you're running late.

Benefits of having a boy: being able to find a spot, pretty much anywhere, for him to pull down his pants and pee.

Thanksgiving Top-5

We drove up to Ohio to visit David's family for Thanksgiving. Here's my Top-5 List from the trip:

#5 Grande Black Coffee at Starbuck's in Beckley, WV on the drive home
#4 Sandy's traditional meal
#3 My "headache" that bought me an entire morning in the hotel room by myself where I could
read what I wanted, and watch whatever I wanted on tv.
#2 The prosthetic noses that David fashioned out of Silly Putty
#1 The noise and the laughter coming from the basement where the kids were in Hog Heaven
playing with their cousins they'd just met.

Full of Thanks

I'm at home today, without a scanner, but if I had a scanner handy, I'd scan in pictures of the turkeys Grace and Johnny each made at school listing what they're thankful for.

If I remember correctly, Johnny listed that he was thankful for water and superheroes. I'm looking at Grace's right now, and here's what she lists:

1. I'm happy when my mom smile(s) and laugh(s) real hard.
2. I'm happy when my daddy plays dollhouse for a long time.
3. I'm happy when when my mom picks me up.
4. I like playing Simon Says with Johnny.

And I'm happy that they're happy and thankful about these things. Gobble Gobble!

November Rain

The title has nothing to do with this post, other than the fact that as I was driving home from the gym I noted that it was November and it was raining (and cold) and they've been playing a lot of Guns 'N Roses on the radio lately.

I just got back from they gym where I took this weight training class for the first time. Have you ever been a member of a co-ed gym where there was an "It" class--be it Spinning, be it Pilates, be it Step Aerobics, whatever--and you wanted to join it but felt self conscious and intimidated because you didn't feel like you were fit enough or didn't fit in enough, but always peeked in from the sidelines and heard the cool music pumping and the instructor's whooping and and wished you could be a part of the glory one day? Every gym I've ever attended, (that's two total) there's been one of those classes and it reminds me of the "cool" table in the junior high cafeteria, and I've never joined the "It" class.

Today I did. It was a small class due to the rain and the holiday, and everyone was nice enough and helped me figure out all the accessories: free weights, bars, big balls, small balls, jumpropes, ladders, ankle straps, etc. I did pretty well keeping up, but it was definitely not easy. At the end of the class, this very fit, athletic guy stood at the doorway, and the exchange that ensued went something like this:

Sherry: Hey, Buddy. Where have you been? I didn't know you were here tonight. When are you going to come take my class?
Guy: What class is it? (and he looks around the room)
Sherry: Hard Bodies. (He looks around again)
Woman in Class: Yeah, Hard Bodies with Sherry...can't you tell?

The guys looks around curiously and his gaze lands right on me and my jiggly bits (aka my stomach)

Me: Don't look at me, this is my first class.

Any Given Sunday

At first blush, yesterday looked like it would be any given Sunday, but at the end of the day, it was pretty darn memorable.

Church: I'm one of the teachers that rotates every third Sunday to "teach" Johnny's 3-year old Sunday School class. Teaching three year-olds basically involves reading a Bible-themed story, doing a craft, and singing with Miss Beth. Yesterday, it involved chaos control as every one of the boys in the class had major separation issues and cried most of the time. Yesterday's lesson involved Joshua and Jericho and a wall, and trumpets and tearing down the wall and all that. As suggested by the 'Class Pak,' I brought in blocks and noisemakers so the kids could build a wall, march around the wall making noise, and then--the best part of all--knock down the wall. Worked like a charm. We're into music in my family and we have lots of instruments around the house. Two guitars, a piano, four penny whistles, a flute, lots of drums, a couple of harmonicas, a zither, lots of maracas, egg shakers, etc. etc. etc. I picked through our music basket and put about 15 noise-making instruments in a bag and threw our cardboard life-sized bricks/blocks in the bag for the lesson.

There's something about seeing toys from your own home in another setting that young children really dig. I've seen it at the cooking class with Johnny when he asks, "Mommy, is that our blenduh? Is that our wooden spoon? Is that our stainless steel bowl?" "Yes, yes, and yes." He just beams, and seeing that makes me beam. Yesterday at church, Johnny and Grace (she joined our class) got a real bang out of sharing their musical instruments and blocks with the other kids in the class. And have you ever met a kid that doesn't like to shake a maraca and knock down a block tower all at the same time? Yesterday's Sunday School class was a big, big hit. The rate of return far exceeded the effort of investment.

To top it off, Paula Spencer said hi and called me by name, and since I'd just finished reading her really good and highly recommended book Momfidence, (I found it!) it felt like a celebrity recognizing me. And then to top it off with a cherry, I got something out of the sermon that was about hope in the face of disappointment and all that.

Raking Leaves: I was going to go running while David raked the leaves with the kids, but seeing just how much fun they were having (the kids, not David), I decided to join them. The ground was damp and cold, but that didn't deter Johnny and Grace from frolicking full on in the leaf piles David raked up. Then Johnny found the mud. Like little piglets, neither could resist getting their hands, (and feet, and arms, and legs, and face, and tummies) deliciously feelthy. They both came running after me with muddy hands and my shrieks, "No! No! Don't touch me," only made them laugh and try even harder. I had on scrubs and sweats and instantly made the mental switch from don't-you-dare-touch-me-with-those-muddy-hands-and-I-MEAN-it! to don't-you-dare-touch-me-with-those-muddy-hands-with-a-twinkle-in-my-eye.

I let them get me. I let them bury me in leaves, head to toe, and wipe their muddy paws all over me. I let them take most of their clothes off and paint themselves silly with mud. We pretended like we were puppies digging through the leaves, just wide-eyed and laughing the whole time. I climbed a tree and acted scared of coming down. If you ever want to know what kind of messages you're giving your children, try switching gears and be the one who's afraid. They will say to you exactly what you've said to them. Grace and Johnny offered me their hands, and their hearts. They said, "It's ok, Mommy. You can do it. Use your courage. I'm proud of you." I got down from the tree and then decided it was time to start making a little fort out of cut bamboo (that we have in abundance in our yard) and the trees that make a perfect triangle in our yard. An hour gone by at least, David was almost finished raking, and it turns out, we needed his help to cut the bamboo even more. Johnny, Grace and I got started on our "A-Stand" fort but decided to call it quits, for now. It was time to clean up so I could put on my fancy clothes and get ready for the Elizabeth Edwards reading. As we padded through our hall to the bathroom, I thought about Paula Spencer and all the chaos and fun she and her family has. Reading her book made me feel ok with our chaotic, carpet stained house--lucky even--because the juice stains, markings on the wall, stuff everywhere, means there are kids around, and kids make me happy, and even though during the trying phases of mothering I often tell myself, "This too shall pass," I also know that that phrase applies to all the fun stuff too and that before I know it, my kids won't be begging to jump in leaves with me anymore.

Elizabeth Edwards: Even though I love getting dirty with kids, I also like putting on new dresses, precisely applied make-up and fixing my hair. Elizabeth Edwards spoke at the Siena Hotel last evening for an Orange County Literacy Council benefit, and the whole experience completely exceeded my expectations. All of the good things you've heard and read about Elizabeth Edwards are true: She's smart, funny, charming, wise, warm, and extrememly down to earth. She told us of a Senators' wives luncheon for Laura Bush that was part of a "work day," but that she showed up in overalls when everyone else had on expensive suits, some with sequined collars. She talked about being at UNC in the 70's and protesting the Vietnam War and feeling like she had to do something and then feeling part of a bigger crowd and how that connection and feeling a part carried with her when she found an on-line grief support group when her teenaged son Wade was killed, and then the universal sisterhood that she feels with women who have or have had breast cancer. She talked about at one point thinking that the most important thing she could pass on to her children was the idea that "anything is possible," but the terrifying reality of those three words. She talked about the unlikely and the likely pockets of support she's found throughout her life--the connections she's made--from her hairdresser, to her mailman, political figures, and how it's important to build bridges before you need them. She answered questions candidly and honestly and didn't tell the audience necessarily what she knew they were hoping to hear. She encouraged us to speak of those we've lost to each other--even if it's been ten years since your roommate's dad died--that not talking about the person who is gone is actually harder than remembering that s/he is not here. She talked about a lot of things and hit on so many levels and was just as gracious with her time as she could be. I was really impressed with her, as the entire audience seemed to be, and when I read what she wrote to me in her book Saving Graces, thanking me for being generous with my gifts, and about blessings and loss, I remembered that earlier today Johnny asked me what a "blessing was."

Today was a blessing.

Ok, Now Simon Says "Don't" Vomit

Guess what Johnny did at the first of what was supposed to be two birthday parties attended today? Yep. Lesson learned: When kids say, "I'm sick," sometimes they mean it.

Random Friday Three

1. I just got carded buying a bottle of Pinot Noir. (Admit it: you've been a fan too, ever since the movie Sideways came out). My question is, do I really look that much younger than my years, or could it have been all the tension, stress, and built-up aging that had just been washed away during my 90-MINUTE MASSAGE! (That I got for 20% off by paying for it during Lucy's Card Week).

2. Ohio State vs. Michigan: The "Game of the Century." My dad reminded me why I should even care. Because we lived in Columbus from 1974-1980 and used to see High Street get boarded up during these match-ups, and we used to go to the games and cheer with my dad endearingly (and spill hot chocolate on bald guys in front of us...but that's another story)

My dad: "O-H!"
We Kids: "I-O!"

This game will be way more exciting than anything Carolina has put out all season, so, "GO BUCKEYES!"

3. Johnny dropping the F-Bomb in the privacy of my car: funny
Johnny dropping the F-Bomb at school: not funny
Johnny's classmates dropping the F-Bomb and saying they picked it up from Johnny (who
picked it up from Daddy): time to start washing some little (and big) mouths out with soap.

Momfidence Is...

I discovered Paula Spencer about a month ago when there was a little flyer in Johnny's Sunday School class announcing that she was doing a book reading at a local indepedent book store to promote her new book, "Momfidence! An Oreo Never Killed Anybody and Other Secrets of Happier Parenting." Paula's not only a Chapel Hill resident, writer, and mother of four, but she goes to my church. I found out that she writes a monthly column for Woman's Day magazine and has written hundreds of freelance parenting articles, the same sort to which I aspire.

I've talked to her twice at church, once when she mistook me for another blonde thirty-something mom with young chidren (that explains the big smile on her face when I walked in the room and sat down beside her to sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes," only to discover she thought I was someone else).

Then I recently approached her at our church's Halloween Festival to tell her that I was really enjoying reading her book...emphasis on WAS enjoying it...but that it has mysteriously disappeared somewhere into the Cooley Bermuda Triangle, to which she replied, "I understand. Why do you think it took me 10 years to write this book?"

It's a great read, but I'm only halfway finished as I've had to resort to going to Barnes and Noble on my lunchbreaks for a Starbuck's coffee and a couch to catch up on a few chapters since I still can't find my copy at home. I relate to so much of what she writes, like filling the bath water up with bubbles, and letting the kids splash around to clean themselves, no parental scrubbing necessary; or letting them eat candy for breakfast the day after Halloween; and keeping the house just straightened up enough so that one doesn't trip over any UPO (unidentified plastic objects) but not giving a second thought to hospital-cornered-made-up beds, or sending young children to school in adorable preciously smocked outfits.

I relate to and laugh at her stories but at the same time am one of the moms with habits that she eschews, like collecting sea shells on my recent trip to the Outer Banks with high hopes of glue-gunning them to a one-of-a-kind homemade picture frame, or keeping our pantry stocked with organic foods, flaxseed and Kashi's Go Lean breakfast cereal, or, God forbid, letting my child sleep in bed with us.

Paula good-heartedly satrizes "Attachment Parents" who "wear" their babies and do the family bed, and breastfeed through the toddler years while she clearly favors commonsense approaches to making parenting easier if that means storebought birthday cakes and sitting on the benches at the playgrounds while the kids "work things out" on their own. The truth is, I was a sling-wearin, playground-hoverin, grinded my own baby food mom, and we still let Johnny crawl into bed with us in the middle of the night. At the same time, I also Ferberized Grace (it worked!), let my kids drink real root beer once in awhile, and sometimes don't make them brush their teeth every single night. (They're gonna lose the baby teeth anyway, right?)

Paula's blog is snappy, refreshing, and funny, even if I don't agree with everything she says...plus, when I mentioned that I'd like to write for magazines too, she told me that if I ever wanted any help or advice, just to call...

Momfidence is...
Being happy that you're a little bit Carol Brady and a little bit Roseanne Barr
and the wisdom to know when to be whom.

End of October

Nut Jobs

OBX Race: We Did It!

Yesterday David ran the Inaugural OBX Marathon, and I ran the Half. We went with our friends Chris and Leisa, who both also completed the Half-Marathon. We're all appropriately tired, sore, and proud of ourselves.

Chris drove the four of us from the Raleigh area to Kill Devil Hills while our kids stayed home with aunts, uncles and grandmothers. We four told stories, and laughed, talked about politics and our kids, and enjoyed a leisurely drive to the coast. The weather was gorgeous on Saturday, sunny and in the upper 70's. After going to the Race Expo to get our numbers, chips, and look around at all the vendors, we checked in to our hotel and had just enough time to take a quick walk on the beach before attempting to find that pasta dinner we'd heard runners need the night before a race.












Before dinner, we drove out to Kitty Hawk then over the three-mile bridge into Harbinger to visit my friend Trish and her family who moved into their new house from Raleigh just a month ago. The Eldridges were great: beautiful new home, beautiful family, settling in to a slower-paced life in the Outer Banks, all was good. They suggested this great restaurant called Tortuga's.

Very hungry by that point, we set off for Tortuga's or whatever else that came our way that looked good. The first place was too expensive and everywhere else was just too crowded. We never did find Tortuga's, but we pulled in to an Italian restaurant and walked up to see how long the wait was. We stood and stood and stood and couldn't get a single employee to look us in the eye. Yes, we saw that they were busy, but how long until a table might be free? More people came in behind us and then even more. Pretty soon there were at least twenty potential patrons standing in line just to get the word on how long the waiting list was. No. one . would. look. us. in. the. eye. or. give. us. the. time. of. day. After no less than twenty minutes of standing there (I know, we could have walked out earlier), a frazzled waitress said, "Do you have reservations?" "No," we replied. "Well, we're not seating anyone unless they have reservations."

Fine, but couldn't she have told us that twenty minutes earlier?? We drove around some more getting hungrier by the minute and almost settled on crabs from Dirty Dick's, but when all was said and done, we made a "run" for the border and ended up at Taco Bell.

We were in our rooms by 8:00 PM and asleep not long after.

The 5:00 AM alarm came too soon, and looking back, how foolish the four of us were to waste the opportunity of a child-free Sunday morning of sleeping in in favor of getting up pracically in the middle of the night! Especially when we knew the forecast was calling for thunderstorms! Are we totally nuts? We made it to our shuttles, though, everyone dressed for success, including Barbie nipple bandaids for David. We wished David good luck, and were off to the starting line.

Leisa's knees were bothering her, so she didn't pretend to try to run with Chris and me. Chris was committed to a walk/run combintation, and I was committed to running with him. I'm so glad I did, I couldn't have done it without him. This is the guy I met my sophomore year in college, the guy who was a JV cheerleader for awhile. The guy who always had energy and tried to cheer people up during late-night fire drills. The guy who wore his (clean) underwear on his head into the dining hall one morning as a joke and the same guy who talked me into jumping into the Mill Creek Apartment swimming pool in February one year a long time ago. If you needed a coach, someone to keep you on pace and to encourage you the entire way, there's no one better to do that than Christopher Tyler Jones. So, Chris and I stuck together the whole time, thanking people who cheered us on, pumping other runners up, and just basically keeping the mood fun and light the whole way. About mid-way, he said that at our pace, we would finish the half-marathon in about two and a half hours. That wasn't good enough for me. I wanted to average a 10-minute mile even with taking minute-long walking breaks. So, we picked up our running pace at around mile 7. After gagging down a gel pack (hate those things!) I felt strong and great, and like I could "break away" at the end for an even better time. That was our plan. Chris said, "Just stick with me." My heart felt good, my legs felt pretty good, just a few aches and pains on the righ side of my body. Even going up the dreaded hill went fine. Then at about mile 12, he really kicked it, and I kept up with him until the last half mile or so and that's when I told him to go ahead. My breathing felt a little labored and I felt like I might throw up, so I slowed it back down and ran on in over the finish line by myself.

Here are everyone's stats:

David: 4:14:58.25
Chris: 2:19:57.65
Sarah: 2:20:48.15
Leisa: 3:02:29.55

It did start to rain very hard soon after Chris and I finished our race. So, Leisa and David got caught in it. I have to say that the most difficult part of the day was not the running, it was the waiting, cold and wet, for almost two hours, for David to run around the bend and finish. I was so anxious for him to finish (for his sake and ours) that I misidentified him three times! When I did spot him, however, I can't tell you how proud of him I was, and how excited we all were to cheer for him on the last stretch.

I think we all accomplished what we set out to do, and I think our times will be better next time. Yes, I think there's going to be a next time.

A quick report on the homefront: We didn't call Kate too many times, but each time we did, there was an air of all-Hell's-breaking-loose. I think she forgot how demanding and exhausting it is to take care of two very active children, and how there's just no such thing as "running into Weaver Street to get a quick cup of coffee." Nothing's that simple with Grace and Johnny in tow. Apparently, Grace ran off from Kate in the Chik-fil-A line at Southpoint Mall and in the time it took for Kate to blow dry her (very short) hair, Grace had methodically ripped out every single page to Johnny's beloved book "Cars and Trucks and Things That Go," and then laughed about it when Kate reprimanded her. Welcome to our world.

David and I promised to bring the kids back a surprise, so in addition to giving them our race finisher medals, we gave them each a new Whoopie Cushion that we picked up at Walgreen's. Take one guess at which surprise they liked better.


The best thing about returning home (second of course to the hugs we got from the kids) is that Kate washed and neatly folded every piece of our laundry--a task that hasn't been properly done in over five years. The kids and Kate had a good time, I think, and I think she'll agree to come back...in a year.

Shut Up, and Read!

Most of you reading this know that I've been a long-time volunteer with the Orange County Literacy Council. When I returned from my one-year stint as a VISTA Volunteer in rural, northwest Florida, I immeditately connected with the local OCLC and soon became a volunteer in the Family Reading Program, later a trainer on the tutor training team, later a board member, and now, ten years later, I'm the chair of the fund development committee. Ironically, in these past ten years, I haven't actually helped an adult learn to read, but I did in college and in Florida. One day I'd like to get back to that, the heart of literacy volunteer work, in my opinion.

Adult Literacy. Adult Illiteracy. Breaking the Cycle of Illiteracy. I think most Americans, conservative and liberal alike, would agree that being able to read and write well is very important. I think we'd all agree that Reading Is Fundamental. But are we really tuned in into how important this issue is and how linked this issue is to a whole host of other issues in our community like poverty, crime, school success, the economy, racism, etc? Personally, I think the word "literacy" is one of those words that when you hear it you think it's important but you may gloss over all the implications this word packs into the big scheme of being a full citizen in Twenty-First-Century-America. I'd like to stop using the word "literacy" to reach people to become involved, but shift to the connection people have with "reading" and try to light the fire from that angle.

We have to reach the adults that for whatever reasons have made it into adulthood without being able to read and write well. What I like about the OCLC, is that we exist to help adults mean their own personal literacy goals, however large or small those goals are. If they want to pass their driver's test, tutors can help them meet that goal. If they want to pass the GED, (high-school equivalency exam), that's another level of tutoring. Many people express interest in reading the Bible (let's not start with the King James version, please!) or a story to their children.

Parents: can you imagine if you did not the have the skills to read a story to your kids? Do you know how bad you would wcieg uriems eodkgm psodlgmd tkwosisim bjdigmdh oskdmg bjeure, dinogn? Tragic! Breaking the cycle of illiteracy begins with reading to your children. Every day. I've done quite a bit of work with comprehensive Family Literacy programs where the model integrates four components: adult education, early childhood education, parent and child together time, and parenting time. Studies show that approaching "literacy" as a familial unit is more effective than an isolated approach. In other words, the whole, (holistic) is greater than the sum of its parts.

When I started volunteering for the council, I was part of the Family Reading Workshop Team and we were a traveling dog and pony show that went around Chapel Hill and Hillsborough putting on workshops to people that lived with or worked with young children, stressing the importance of reading to them. Often. We didn't teach people how to teach kids to read, we just shared the gospel about how important it is to read to your children every day. I was committed to the work back then, but now, as a parent of young children, the fire has been lit in a whole new way. I know I'm preaching to the choir, because I know you parents read to your children, (and I know you're steps above thousands in the Chapel Hill community by virtue of just being able to read this blog), but--take literacy enthusiast, Mem Fox, the author of many children's books but also the author of a fantastic book that I read recently called "Reading Magic." Ms. Fox states,

" If parents understood the huge educational benefits and intense happiness brought about by reading aloud to their children, and if every parent-and every adult caring for a child-read aloud a minimum of three stories a day to the children in their lives, we could probably wipe out illiteracy within one generation." Right on, Mem!

And for those of us who can read and enjoy reading, do we really need to be convinced of how wonderful it is to read with young children, especially your own? It's staggering how many ways new parents, particularly moms, can feel guilty about what they are or aren't doing with their children. I'm telling you, never once have I questioned whether I was doing the right thing when I was reading to Grace and Johnny. Reading to them is my panacea of parenting, a perfect activity that has immesurable rewards for all of us. Of course I want them to become good readers and writers and students and all that. But the sheer joy of cozying up with them in a chair or in bed to read Shel Silverstein poems, or Richard Scarry's "Cars, Trucks, and Things That Go", or "Miss Nelson Has a Field Day", or any of the hundreds of kids' books we have, it's priceless, just priceless.

Reading to children is the most important twenty minutes of a parent's day, in my mind. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

So I'll get off my soap box now but leave you with some of our favorite kids' books in our house...and a personal request from me to you to read to your kids every day, and support your local literacy program!!

1. Goodnight Moon
2. Have You Seen My Cat?
3. Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!
4. Drummer Hoff
5. Big Red Barn
6. Barnyard Dance
7. The Bear Snores On
8. The Pigeon Has Feelings Too
9. Chrysanthemum
10. Harry and the Lady Next Door
11. Sheep in Jeep
12. Giggle Giggle Quack
13. Where the Wild Things Are
14. Hop on Pop
15. You are My I Love You
16. What Mommies Do Best
17. What Daddies Do Best
18. The Mitten
19. No Nap!
20. The Snowy Day

Kickin' Ath

I worked like a dog last week getting ready for a big event that the Lucy Daniels Foundation sponsored this past Saturday, our inaugural lectures on "Potential Space," the first one titled "Art as Healing & Healing as Art." Each year for this lecture, we're going to pair a creator of things and a psychoanalyst. This year the creator was Thomas Sayre, local and world-renowned sculptor, and the anaylst was Salman Akhtar, MD, also a poet and of Indian descent.

Each day last week I worked until @ 7:00 PM, drove home to tuck my kids in bed, then continued working until about 10:00 or 11:00 PM when I fell into bed, to begin the routine in the morning. This year, I'm the director and the assistant so I get the pleasure of hosting the event, hob-nobbing with the big dogs, welcoming the audience of 120 + people, handing out honoraria checks, etc. you know-director-level responsibilities. But as the assistant, I was responsible for putting together all of the packets, printing the name tags, and keeping up with over a hundred details involved in making the event happen. Anyone who has done any type of event planning (personal weddings included) knows that the devil is in the details.

So the week went pretty well...David and the kids even had flowers delivered at work last Thursday. The card read, "Sarah, Kick ath...yeth! We love you! -David, Grace, & Johnny," and each time I read it I think of the young woman who had to write out the card. It makes me smile. The flowers themselves make me smile too.

So the week was chugging along and by all accounts I was kickin some major ath. Then I woke up Saturday morning with a headache from here to Montana. One that made me sick to my stomach. I started the most important day of my career thus far vomitting in the bathroom thinking it was going to be impossible to pull it together to finish the 75 things I needed to get done by 12:00, not to mention have the presence of mind/body/spirit to stand up and do the welcome and introductions. David told me that he'd help in any way possible. He told me that I could overcome the headache/upset stomach if I just relaxed and really set my mind to it. I was a determined little bird and had no other choice but to buck up and deliver. I left the house at 7:30 AM (not to return until 11:00 PM), and drove to work praying, meditating and listening to
number 10 on the Garden State sound track. Over and over and over and over. It has a very calming effect on me.

It was the most remarkable turn-around that I've ever been a part of. I pulled it together and by 9:00 AM I was running up and down stairs handling all the last-minute details like a champ. So what happened? Do I believe in God? Yes. But I also believe in myself a great deal and can't help but wonder that when we pray to God to help us get through this or that, could we really be chanelling profound energy from within our own deepest, highest spiritual states? Did I just suggest that I was God? I'll leave you with that to chew on for a bit.

If Saturday had been any other day, I would have stayed in bed and felt miserable all day. Instead, I rightly earned another feather in my cap in the spirit of "whatever it takes." By all accounts, I kicked some major ath.

Elizabeth Edwards Supports the Orange County Literacy Council

Join us to meet Elizabeth Edwards, new author (of the fall release, acclaimed memoir Saving Graces) and dedicated reader (two of her favorite books are Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird and Eudora Welty's The Optimist's Daughter). She will speak at the Orange County Literacy Council's Fall Fundraiser, held for the first time at the elegant Siena Hotel. The program will benefit the Orange County Literacy Council and the work they do to break the cycle of illiteracy throughout the county.

November 19, 2006
5pm until 7pm
The Siena Hotel
1505 East Franklin Street, Chapel Hill

Tickets have just gone on sale for this limited seating event. Advisory Board Member Frances Gravely will introduce Mrs. Edwards, who will share stories from her life as the wife of John Edwards, as a cancer survivor and as a new resident of the Chapel Hill area. Mrs. Edwards' book focuses on the grace she encountered when friends and family and strangers supported her after her husband and John Kerry lost the 2004 presidential election. Soon after, she learned she had breast cancer. It is this combination of involvement of friends and strangers alike – a saving grace – that makes the OCLC work.
Tickets are $65. Call 919.933.2151 for reservations.
Seats are limited.

People Falling Down

I'm working on some substantial posts, but for now, I'll leave you with this.

Have I mentioned that we like to laugh in my family? We especially like to laugh at "people falling down"aka "America's Funniest Home Videos." For years my dad has been taping theses episodes and then showing them in Boone at family gatherings. Grace and Johnny have caught on that watching "people falling down" with Mommy, Daddy, Granddabs, Uncle Daniel and Aunt Kate ranks right up there with dancing around naked with pull-ups on their heads as some of their favorite things in the world to do, and I have to agree with them. When have you belly laughed that hard and that consistently as when watching "people falling down?" It makes even the most respectable well-composed adult laugh in that way that catches one off guard--a laugh in which one loses control, and even their breath, momentarily--a laugh that is irrepressible but comes from very deep within (and is, of course, the very best kind) and even gets funnier when you see the person beside you losing it. The best way to watch "people falling down" is with a rewind button. You just can't seem to get enough of the guy slipping on the ice and the look on his face. If you haven't watched it in awhile, grab your kids, and settle in on Sunday nights, 7:00 PM on ABC.

Our Pez Collection

Fact is Funnier Than Fiction

I don't see myself ever writing stories or blog posts about made-up people, because the people I encounter every day provide all the material I need.

Since when did Trick-or-Treating start before it got dark? I didn't get home from work yesterday until almost 6:30 PM...with all of the candy to pass out, and supper, picked up from Harris Teeter. David and the kids were nowhere to be found. Lots of people were already walking around our neighborhood. I lit a candle and put our jack-o-lantern out by our mailbox, turned our porch light on and emptied the candy into a bowl, changed clothes, and then wondered why everything felt so rushed. A few minutes later, David, Batman and Belle came walking back up and they had already been out for close to an hour. What? David said that when he, Grace, and Johnny drove up at 5:30 PM, there were already kids walking up our driveway. He rushed inside and the only candy he could find was the loot that the kids got at the parties we went to this weekend. So he started to give away their private stash! Also, he told me, he panicked, and gave some little girl some crayons. That weren't even new. From Grace's and Johnny's private stash. On the radio the other day, I heard a DJ talking about the guy at the end of the street that runs out of candy and starts handing out pennies. They warned everyone to buy enough candy so they don't become their street's weird-guy-that-gives-out-pennies-for-Halloween. David became that guy! By the time that I got home, Trick-or-Treating was almost over! But we did get some customers and my kids helped me pass out candy. Grace was giving out huge fistfulls, but the kids didn't mind, and I didn't either because I didn't want all the extra candy hanging around our house.

And since we're all into "ET" at our house, we started pretending that ET and Elliott were out in our neighborhood Trick-or-Treating. Grace wanted to be Gertie, Johnny wanted to be Elliot, and they, of course, wanted me to be ET. Please tell me that I in no way resemble something that looks like this.

Today I took Grace and Jonny for their annual physicals. Grace is 44 1/8 inches tall and weighs 38 lbs. Johnny is 42 1/4 inches tall and weighs 44 lbs. He's a rough and tumble little hoss, but he still wants to be held and cries tears when he gets his shots. It was very difficult getting through their check-up without losing my cool. Luckily there was this moment during the eye exam where I laughed out loud and got shot a dirty look by the nurse:

Nurse: Ok, Grace, it's your turn. Stand on that black line, and cover up one of your eyes with your hand. Ok, great. Now look at this chart. Do you see the shapes?

Grace: Yeth.

Nurse: Ok, great. Now what shape am I pointing to?

Grace:

Nurse: Ok, Grace, am I pointing to a circle or a square?

Grace: A rectangle

And speaking of delightful developmentally delayed people...after dropping the kids off at SFFA, I swung by Whole Foods for lunch. The bagger must have thought the salmon, fruit, and pasta I was buying looked really good, because out of the blue she said,

Bagger: What did you have for dinner?

Me: (pause) Oh, you mean for dinner last night?

Bagger: Yes.

Me: Oh, I had quesadillas.

Bagger: Mmm. That sounds good.

Me: (pause) What did you have for dinner last night?

Bagger: Rice. But it wasn't very good. I'm hungry. You have a great day.

Tricks-N-Treats

This morning I saw a grown man dressed up like a big, bright, yellow banana...Or wait, was it a man dressed up like a banana, or was he just happy to see me?

'Mon Canes!

I went to my first Carolina Hurricanes game last night, and it was a good first game to go to, because the Canes beat Tampa Bay, 6-4. Anna's seats are really good, lower level, 10th row, perfect for viewing the Canes' franchise record of scoring 3 goals in 43 seconds. Too bad that was the very minute I was out buying nachos...just kidding, I saw it.

On another note, Fall Daylight savings does no favors for parents with kids five and under. These days last forever. Today the kids woke up at 6:00 AM, and no, not the 'clock-says-7:00-but-it's-really-6:00' , but the 'clock says 6:00-but-it's-really-5:00.'

Happiness Is...

1. Putting your hand in the pocket of a pair of jeans you've put on for the first time this season and finding an unexpected five dollar bill...and then later at the checkout line at Walmart taking the five dollar bill out and realizing that it is really two five dollar bills.

2. Perfect parallel parking on Franklin Street during a weekday lunch hour and having a fellow motorist give you 'thumbs up' for a job well done.

3. Hitting play on your iPod during your morning run and realizing that your husband has loaded a bunch more songs...good songs, from bands you'd all but forgotten about.

4. Coming home from work on a cold, rainy, evening and being greeted by your kids who are so excited they're out of breath trying to explain to you the plot of "ET," a movie they've just discovered.

5. New posts on your favorite blogs and comments on your blog from people you didn't know read it.

What Does SARAH Stand For?

I accidentally found this on the web today...but I kind of liked it.

But You Don't Look Depressed

I've been taking an antidepressant for about two and a half years now, and, well, I'm still depressed. The pit is back, or still here, and that really depresses me. Do I have "real" depression? Whatever that means. Or do I have a depressed mood-- or depressive symptoms--on occasion? Maybe it's actually anxiety and I've been on the wrong medication all this time. Or maybe it's not depression at all, but symptoms of my thyroid disorder. Or disease. My Thryroid Disease- Autoimmune Hashimoto's Thryroiditis-the type I'll have for life, where my body is destroying its own thryoid gland, resulting in extreme fatigue and depression, and therefore, the pit.

And take my progesterone deficiency (please--take it far, far away!) with unopposed estrogen lurking around. Is the progesterone deficiency/estrogen dominance and resulting brain fog, mental confusion, and Pre Menstrual Dysmorphic Disorder causes or effects of my under-active thryoid? Are these hormonal imbalances precursors to one another or do they exacerbate each other--or both? Does it matter? Will I ever know? And where does my adrenal fatigue fit in? My extremely low cortisol levels that have been clinically proven, mixed with low blood sugar, (hypoglycemia) food sensitivities, and migraines that make me vomit. Like yesterday.

Don't even get me started with the stress in my life: a demanding job, two small kids, one of whom has special needs, continued grief over the loss of my mom, and trying to manage this insidious chronic illness that just doesn't seem to get better. The world is too much with me sometimes, and just when I think I have things figured out, the pit comes back.

What does the pit feel like? We've all felt the pit at some points in our lives. Depressed people just feel it more often and more deeply. Or so I guess. I'm still not even sure I have depression. Take this checklist, for example. I don't feel worthless, but I do feel guilty. I'm not suicidal but I am sad and irritable. My depression surfaced after the birth of my second child, but I never felt like I had postpartum depression. But, the pit. You know, that pit in your stomach feeling that you get when you absolutely dread something that is coming up--like maybe a test that you haven't studied for, or a conflict at work that you have to resolve. Or that hollow feeling that you get when you realize the one you love doesn't love you back, or the emptiness you feel because you'll never talk to your mom on the phone again. Ever. Except in your dreams. Like when she calls you from Heaven and tells you that you have your glow back. But then you wake up and you don't have the glow, you have the pit. And the jitters, and heart palpitations. You tell your therapist who says it sounds more like anxiety, but then you find something on the internet that links a racing heart to an over-active thyroid, and that it's common for autoimmune thryoid diseases to sometimes flip-flop back and forth between hypo and hyper.

You're thankful that the internet leads you to Mary Shomon, thyroid patient, writer, and advocate, but frustrated and even a little scared that with a few key words typed into google, this site comes up that links autoimmune thryoid disorders with MS, a disease that runs in your family, that your paternal grandmother had.

I don't think I have MS, but I do think I have a multi-gland endocrine imbalance that is screwing my brain chemistry up in ways that make me think I am going crazy sometimes. Because I'm usually a sharp thinker who can focus on many details at once. But then once a month, religiously on day 12 (women will know what I'm talking about), it's like my brain stops working and I forget why I go into stores, and I worry about myself driving home from work because my brain is just in a fog, and I have a terrible time concentrating, and I feel so much utter tension and inexplicable rage that just stays with me until I rub my brain cream on. The bio-identical compounded transdermal, natural progesterone cream that I have to get at a drugstore in Cary, that I rub on my arms that makes me feel almost like myself again. The cream I absolutely cannot function without anymore. But then I get home and want to just lie around, and at the same time, I don't want to. I want to see David and my kids and hear about how everyone's days went. But I don't have the energy to play Batman with Johnny or make up one more story about "boy going to the dentist" for Grace. I just don't. So, I lie around and play quiet games with them, and plead with David one more night to fix supper and bathe the kids. I always have energy to read to them, but too often fall asleep alongside them, just to wake up the next day in the same vague daze.

I don't question why all of this is happening, it makes sense to me. On March 7, 2003, the day before my 31st birthday, my mom died after a lengthy battle with non-hodgkins lymphoma. Five months later Johnny was born. Two months after that, we thought Grace had autism. That was a triple dose of real life thrown at me and enough to tip my endocrine system into distress.

I have good days and bad. Good enough days to think I can actually run a 1/2 Marathon in less than two weeks. But bad enough days where David tells me I'm bringing everyone down and bills pile up and get paid late (again) and where I forget about dentist appointments and wake up on Saturday just to tick off each hour waiting for an acceptable time to call it a day and crawl back into bed.

But most of the time, the outside world doesn't notice. I've had colleagues and even doctors tell me that I don't look depressed. One co-worker put it this way: "It's not that you ever seem depressed to me. But when you've just come back from a family reunion, or a weekend away, or a night out with your friends, or when you talk about your blog or reconnecting with friends, it's striking, really striking how bright and up and alive you seem. It's almost like you're high or something."