Welcome to my world

My life has been reduced to waging a battle of wits against a 9-year-old, neurotic yellow lab.
For several years, we've been using old baby gates to corral our two dogs. The procedure was nothing more than a mild nuisance. And, until about two months ago, it worked.
Then, the universe shifted and threw our household's canine alignment completely out of whack.
One moment, the dog is merely borderline annoying, yet still endearing. The next, he is full-on paranoid schizophrenic, chased by voices only he can hear.
In this newfound desperation, he (the one in the back) figured out that all he had to do was push the gate until it crashed to the ground, leaving him free to wander the human world.
The problem hasn't been so much that he escapes, but rather what he does when he roams freely throughout the house without any surveillance.
Under our watchful eye, he lulls us into complacency and sticks to the dog bed or the carpet. When we're not around to know better, he skulks through the house, finding comfort on a couch or a pile of clothes in the son's room (which, I would say, is well-deserved since the clothes should either be in the dresser or hamper). In his wake, the dog (not the son) leaves a blanket of dog hair and dog stench.
We responded first by propping chairs up against the gate. It seemed like a reasonable measure.
But we quickly discovered, it was no match for the muzzle. Each night we would awake to the sound of a crashing gate followed by the skitch, skitch, skitch of doggy toenails on the kitchen floor, hightailing it for the great beyond.
Because man is always drawn to a challenge and can always build bigger and better, the husband made a seemingly more sturdy gate from leftover wood flooring. We fortified the new contraption with three chairs and went to bed reasonably assured of our superiority.
The next morning, our household awoke with an air of celebration. The wall stood. The dog was still in the kitchen. Seriously. This was a monumental achievement of epic proportions.
Unfortunately, we wouldn't know it for a few more days, but the jubilant moment was short-lived.
Several more weeks passed. Some nights, he stayed put. Others, he found the super-canine strength and agility to batter down the gate/chairs contraption.
"Maybe he really has thumbs," suggested one daughter.
We stepped back and reassessed the ground floor configuration of our house. Maybe instead of gating the dog into the kitchen, we reasoned, let's just gate off the rest of the house.
One gate blocked the stairs to the basement. Another gate cordoned off the stairs leading upstairs. I threw a third gate on top of the living room couch. The homemade fence protected the tv room.
Once again, we outwitted the dog. A week later, though, he stuck his damn nose between the fence and the woodwork to gain access to the tv room. We reinforced the fence with dining room chairs. He still managed to move the entire contraption with his snout.
Many people might have noticed the pattern, accepted defeat and given into the inevitable. Not me. I refused to wallow in the defeat of dog hair.
It was then that I spied a pair of 35-pound hand weights sitting on the floor. I put one on each chair. Hah! Try moving that!
It took a couple more days, but he did. It's got to be the thumbs.

Sometimes, love doesn't make sense

Me: "There's this new online newspaper and they say I can write for them."
Husband: "Are they going to pay you?"
Me: "Uhhhh, no."
Husband: "Why would you want to do it, then?"
Why, indeed.
Why, when I couldn't find a newspaper job right after college, did I feel so blessed to land an internship at a small, N.H. weekly that didn't pay, but compensated me with gas money and a nice tote with the paper's name on it?
Why was I thrilled when this same internship bestowed on me the awesome authority of writing up obituaries AND the police log?
Why, when I finally landed my first real newspaper job, was I so excited that I accepted without asking how much I would be paid?
Why didn't I even think about being paid until I called my father with the tremendous news and HE asked me how much I was being paid?
Why, when I found out that the weekly pay was $180 (this was 1984), did I still happily report to work the first day and pretty much every day for two years?
Why did I (and others) withstand the all-consuming fear of not making deadline, missing a story, getting something wrong, all in exchange for writing up whatever occurred in the course of daily life in our readership area?
Oh, I could go on. Working in newspapers for 17 years was, in some ways, an abusive, dysfunctional relationship. But, unlike real abusive, dysfunctional relationships, newspaper work used to be amazing fun.
I left the ink-stained world in 2000, before the technological explosion of online media, when the burden of being an editor of a small, daily paper in South Dakota became too much to juggle with a family of four young children and a husband who traveled for his job.
Since then, I've freelanced for anyone who would pay and print me. I wrote about stuff I knew (kids and families) and stuff I didn't (soybeans and stadiums — yes, there are markets for both). I wrote a book about South Dakota State University.
But, a blossoming second career as a yoga instructor (at a whopping hourly rate of $12) sidetracked my writing ... until this new opportunity arose at http://www.thepostsd.com/, thanks to the creativity and tech-saviness of people much younger than me.
So, here I am, with a new lease on my former newspaper self, writing and in love all over again. Sure, it's early in the relationship and the job doesn't pay much at the moment, but minor detail.
I told the son about this new venture and how I broke a story on H1N1 on the SDSU campus.
"Mom!" he exclaimed. "You've got your mojo back."
Indeed, I do.

There's nothing good about saying bye

I wake up this morning with dread churning in the gut. The mind pings back and forth in emotional upheaval.
Our oldest daughter is returning to college.
Sure, I should have gotten used to this. She was gone all last year, coming home only for holidays and the summer break.
But, here we are again, saying good-bye and sending her off for what seems like forever — to a first apartment. This means she will stay there next summer.
It is so final. So ending. So done. Nineteen years together and that's it. From this point on, she will only visit, not live here.
At the same time, on the other end of life's spectrum, there is my 86-year-old father, coping with the inhumanity and unfairness of aging. Worn out body parts. Forgetfulness. Falls.
There again, is the finality. A winding down of what has been.
And, with both the 19-year-old and the 86-year-old, there lies a huge, roiling vat of uncertainty. What will they do? How will they cope? Will they be safe?
Letting go means worrying every time the phone rings or every time it doesn't.
I tell each one about the need to — please — think things through. Make good choices. Be aware of unintended consequences.
Neither one has a convincing, solid grasp of common sense — she hasn't gained it fully, yet, and he's kind of lost it. Both are stubborn, too.
How crazy that at 48, I am the fulcrum of wisdom? In the void of knowing what is right and good and best, I emerge as the knowledge source?
Those who have traveled this path before me have said this is what it would be like as the family landscape shifts. But, like labor and childbirth, you never fully understand it until you experience it firsthand.
The cell phone rings and jars me out of this deep, disturbing contemplation. It is the daughter.
"Dad is freaked out," she reports. "He wants me to get pepper spray and mace."
Hmmm. The thought of a viable, protective force helps settle my unhinged mental state about life beyond control.
I'll take that spray in a plastic shield, please. And, make it a double.

Putting the fun in dysfunction

We are hours away from ending our 3-week family vacation, visiting family and friends on the East Coast.
Getting here was a highly-organized initiative that involved stuffing 5 adult-sized humans and one 11-year-old into the family van with eight duffle bags, two totes of casual/beach/running shoes, two pairs of rollerblades (unused), one set of Perfect Pushups (barely used), the 11-year-old's blankie collection, a couple of pillows, six iPods and two coolers for food and drink.
We set out from South Dakota at 7:15 p.m., Sunday, Aug. 2, and arrived in Westport, CT, about 23 and a half hours later. Tomorrow, we do it all in reverse.
Looking back on the three weeks, I find it amazing that 1) we are all still alive, 2) we are still talking to each other and 3) we had fun most of the time.
This is no small feat, considering that despite swimming in the same genetic pool, we are six people with six definite agendas that, often times, are diametrically opposed.
Sure, we tread on common ground — eating, running and going to the beach — but from there, the potential for discord ramps up and peace-keeping efforts grow a little dicey.
In addition to visiting family, we had the singular pursuits of college tours (son), work & Bruce Springsteen concert (husband), shopping (two teen-age daughters), random play (11-year-old), and laundry (me).
Along the way, the van got a flat, but no dramatic rescue or side of the road tire change. We got lost driving from Boston to Cambridge. The six of us stuffed into a two-bed hotel room for two nights. And, unsupervised and unknowing, the 11-year-old played with a wind-up "Little Pecker" toy in a quirky shop.
True, there were tears and bickering. Mostly, though, there were good memories. And, if that's not enough, we've still got another 24 hours in the van to work things out.

Peanut butter, running & kids

On this cold, gray, dreary morning, wondering where summer is, I run along the streets of my small, Midwestern town feeling coddled and removed from the world's reality.
Most people are already at work. Kids are out of school. Few, if any, cars force me to the side of the road. Here in middle America, I run in the middle of the street, no worries about road camber or careless motorists.
In fact, there are few real worries at all ... at least, in comparison to what goes on in other places. And this is what often troubles me.
I live in my own little corner, where life is reasonably good. As each day passes, we are safe and happy, a roof over our head, food on our table.
Sure there are squabbles, but nothing too threatening. This week's worst crisis aside from the crappy weather? A thunderstorm Monday night took out the satellite dish feed and reduced us from two televisions to one for three full days, forcing our family of six to seriously evaluate priorities. (Basketball and hockey playoffs, and the Red Sox vs. Yankees series won out.)
Half a world away, though, a cousin of a friend has taken on the daunting task of making a difference at an up close and personal level. Four years ago, she, along with her husband and kids, left Minnesota and resettled in Haiti.
Tara Livesay writes on her blog http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/ about the daily trials and tribulations of life in Haiti with deeply touching and often humorous insight, helping women and children at the most basic level of survival.
On this end, so far removed from the suffering, it is impossible not to feel helpless. But now, Tara is giving us a way to join her efforts.
Setting her sights on the Twin Cities Marathon in October, Tara is seeking sponsors who will donate $1, $2, $3, or more dollars per mile, at three levels: $26, $52, $78, or more.
ALL FUNDS RAISED will be used to benefit malnourished children in Haiti — the poorest country in the Western hemisphere — through the Medika Mamba program, which is an incredibly simple and inexpensive way to save the life of a child.
Medika Mamba is an energy dense peanut butter, heavily fortified with protein and nutritional supplements. The name Medika Mamba means “peanut butter medicine” in Creole. It costs only $68 to save a child’s life using Medika Mamba, which costs $4.25/kg. It takes an average of 15 kg to cure a child.
You can learn more here:
http://medsandfoodforkids.org/
Check out this link to see Tara's pictures of some Medika Mamba graduates:
http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/2009/05/medika-mamba-graduates.html
Then, go here to contribute to Tara's marathon effort to nourish the most vulnerable inhabitants of a world that is too often heartless and unforgiving:
http://livesayhaiti.blogspot.com/2009/05/marathoning-for-haiti.html

Time is not on my side

Sitting here, staring down the last day of school and wondering, as always, where does the time go and can I please have some of it back?
The year has three major points — first day of school, Christmas break and last day of school. Everything else is sandwiched in between; just one, long, dizzying blur that speeds up and slows down at random. It's a real life version of the whirling thing in the playground that you spin and hop onto.
One moment, I'm knee-deep in diapers and bedtime chaos. The next, our last child is done with fifth grade.
After 13 years, we have no one left in elementary school.
Part of me thinks that when fall arrives, I'll just keep walking down the block to school even without a kid in tow.
The next one up is heading into 8th grade (on the verge of high school!) and the one after her will be in 11th grade, one year away from graduation. The oldest is done with her freshman year in college.
Who needs to look in the mirror? These kids are a continuous, looping reminder that I am getting older ... every minute of every day.
At what point did I really think that having kids would keep me young?! Whatever that magic was has stopped working.
Worse yet, they think I'm old, not cool. My jokes are not funny. I should not sing out loud. No longer am I at the center of their universe, but rather some fading light in the nighttime sky.
I know they mock me, even though they insist they are not. I can see it in the roll of the eyes and hear it in the heavy sighs.
Can I really be two steps away from the nursing home?
The only consolation is that this will come full circle. I know. I did the same thing to my parents.
The only difference is, of course, I am so much more cooler than my parents were.

Reality bites

It is the dawn of a beautiful spring day, a rare and blessed event in this God-forsaken land we call South Dakota.
A pale blue seeps into the sky as the sun rises and starts taking the chill out of the morning air. Yesterday's rain has greened up the lawns and settled the dirt. Buds are bursting into leaves on the trees and bushes.
Heading out on the daily run, I have every reason to feel joyful, bounding across the miles carefree and effortless. And yet, every step feels leaden and tired.
As blessed and reaffirming as running is, the sport can be equal parts painful and depressing. How can it be that you feel like a gazelle one day and a sodden, lumpy piece of dead wood the next?
Other than the mirror or old photos, I know of nothing else that serves as such a cruel reminder that not only does life go on, but often times it just flat-out stomps on you from head to toe.
Days and weeks pass with a mixed blessing of runs good and bad, mediocre and forgetful, so at what point do you get to the tipping point?
Or, more importantly, how do you know it's not just a bad cycle of runs, but rather the start of the long, slow decline? When do you go from trying to improve to trying to hang on?
Running, like life in general, is much more enjoyable when you are feeling good, all powerful and ready to conquer the world. No one wants to slog through mile after painful mile, reminded every step of what once was and no hope offered for what will be.
The only comfort is to crawl back into bed, pull up the covers and push the aging, aching thoughts out of the head. Then, another new day appears on the horizon, seemingly like every day before it.
Within a few steps, though, instead of yearning for the couch, the body responds to what I am asking of it. Running feels not quite effortless, but not dreadful either.
The heart sings and the spirit soars. I'm back, and ready to fight on ... at least for another day.

Parenting lessons learned along the way

Contrary to appearances, I really haven't strayed too far from my original goal of writing on a regular basis.
True, I haven't had a post since the beginning of the month, but that doesn't mean the mind is empty or the motivation is lacking. It's just that sometimes, you go through a spell where you get so caught up in the daily grind, thoughts lose traction and the wheels just spin.
In the meantime, perhaps with the hope of attaching purpose to the day, I started to keep track of the many parenting lessons that reveal themselves at a random interval in the life of a child.
If it seems as though a lot of the entries are related to laundry ... well ... welcome to my world.

• Dirty laundry multiplies at twice the rate of clean laundry if you have two children — any more offspring and the accumulation rate ratchets up exponentially.
• Do not ever believe a child's promise to take care of an animal.
• The moment you finish cleaning the kitchen, a hungry child will appear and beg for a meal or snack.
• To a child, it is completely fair for a mother or father to tend to the needs of all and pick up after everyone, but wholly unfair for a child's scope of responsibility to extend beyond him or herself.
• Your children will surprise and disappoint you, bewilder and confound you, make you laugh and cry, but, overall, they will rise to and often exceed expectations.
• Until children are about 10 or 11 years old, parenting is mostly physical. After that, let the games begin.
• It is the rare child who plans ahead and makes a pre-emptive laundry strike. Most prefer to wait until the last possible minute, then retrieve a dirty piece of clothing that has been percolating in the stench at the bottom of the hamper and insist that all life will cease if the item is not washed, dried and ready for school in 7 minutes.
• If you give a child an excuse, he/she will use it. Likewise, given the opportunity, a child can rationalize or justify any behavior.
• Children need rules, limits and consequences, but typically do not want them.
• Babies and toddlers possess an innate instinct that sets off an alarm the moment you dare to take time for yourself, and then they realize that they need you instantly.
• Every child, regardless of ingredients, is different.
• Children of even the most loving, supportive and smart parents will screw up.
• From the moment you learn you are pregnant, you will worry about your child forever.
• Given the option, most children would prefer to live among piles of clean laundry rather than put clothes away.
• Sack lunches made with loving care will be left at home despite umpteen reminders to place them in backpacks.
• When you ask a child to produce an item such as a coat and he/she says it's in the bedroom, that often means the item is lost.
• The declaration of no homework on Friday afternoon will be replaced with panic about a forgotten assignment by Monday morning breakfast.
• No matter how bad the test grade, there are always others in the class who did worse, which many children think should soften the blow of the bad grade and put it in a better light.
• Some children, when threatened to put away laundry dammit, will put clean, folded clothes in the hamper and send them through the wash again.

Life, one deep breath at a time

Near the end of a yoga class last week, as we pressed our bodies up into Pigeon pose, the right knee bent and the left leg stretched out long behind us, one of my students declared: "Doing Pigeon is like eating candy."
We all laughed, taking delight in the analogy and enjoying the deep stretch of the hip. We knew exactly what she meant.
That is how good Pigeon feels at the end of a yoga class, when the muscles are warm and loose, the hard work is done and the mind is finally freed of all clutter.
The comment also led me to think of the transformation taking place every day, several times a day, when I teach yoga.
People of all ages, shapes, levels of fitness, and walks of life — they wander into the studio, shedding winter clothes and the myriad details of their day. For 45 minutes they turn off the busy thoughts and turn their focus inward to body and breath.
At least, that is the intention.
Every day, all day, our minds are racing to the task at hand or any number of burdens demanding resolution. Sure, a good workout helps to cope with the chaos. The physical effort mixed with the escape does wonders for both body and mind.
But, the good time ends. Re-entry into reality — like coming home to South Dakota from a January vacation in Mexico — can be brutal and shocking.
The peaceful bliss can disintegrate in the amount of time it takes to go from one side of the door to the other.
Yoga, on the other hand, smooths out the edges and instills a more lasting calm. I'm not completely certain why and I haven't conducted scientific research to back up my claim, but I think it's because yoga forces us to shut everything out, even if it is for only 45 minutes.
Unlike a run or a swim or a bike ride, when we are constantly feeding on the incoming stimuli of the world around us, yoga is fully and completely about us and all that is within. We breathe. We stretch. We align the body.
In the time span of one class, nothing else matters. There is no judgment — no fast or slow, no good or bad, no extra pounds, no ugly body parts, no unpaid bills, no complicated relationships, nothing to cook for dinner, no laundry to put away.
Perhaps the best part is in the last five minutes of class, when we lay down on our mats, the lights out, we close our eyes, listen to the music and think solely about each breath as it comes in and out of the body.
Each breath only here for a moment and then replaced by another new breath. It is hypnotic, spellbinding and almost a little mind boggling. How often do we actually stop and pay attention to the one thing — the breath — that gives us life; the one thing that allows us to do all that we do? Never.
Oddly, it takes time and practice to slow down to a pace of such nothingness, when the breaths flow in and out as if they were waves lapping at the shoreline.
But, once we ease into the comfort of being alone, quiet and content within ourselves, the feeling never completely leaves us. And, returning to that place becomes increasingly natural and constant.
People tell me I'm crazy to teach 10 yoga classes every week. Honestly, I think they're crazy not to.

Mother of the Year, Lifetime Achievement

Clearly, my life is no thrill-a-minute, full-of-wonder daily experience. I just went two weeks without any inspiration — nothing — to write about.
But then, out of nowhere, or so it seems, my mothering instincts fall short and lo and behold we've got writing fodder.
For starters, I learned yesterday that a friend puts stickers on baggies in her young daughters' lunches to promote healthy eating habits.
Me? I always thought "Eat the damn carrots or no dessert!" worked pretty well.
What am I? A mother of four? And yet, my capacity to screw up can be astounding.
I thought our 11-year-old was capable of self-supervising her homework after a week-long vacation. Failing to cross-check her claims, I sanctioned a few episodes of Hannah Montana and an hour of playing Webkinz on the computer.
Two days later, she reported that she had been so busy catching up on her homework, she didn't have time to study for a science test at any point during the weekend.
"So, Mommy," she explained, "I got an F."
I gave myself an F for parental involvement, or the lack thereof.
I also should have known better when, on an impulse, I caved into the 13-year-old's request for a flashy, new water bottle as a reward for her daily running efforts. Since my usual answer is "no," I thought I'd try "yes" for a change.
She was excited and motivated. I felt warm, fuzzy and a bit smug in my all-loving, all-knowing mother mode ... until hours later, when I actually read the inspirational statements printed on the bottle.
In addition to such nice thoughts as "Breathe deeply and appreciate the moment," "Your outlook on life is a direct reflection on how much you like yourself" and "Friends are more important than money," there was this:
"Children are the orgasm of life. Just like you did not know what an orgasm was before you had one, nature does not let you know how great children are until you actually have them."
Yikes. After 19 years of parenting, you might think I had explored all potential lapses of judgment. Yet, here I was, wading in over my head into the unchartered waters of not sex, but sexuality. Note to self — thoroughly read all items prior to purchase.
In hindsight, it sounds bad, but I actually weighed my options — point out the problem and suffer the embarrassment of talking about orgasms with a 7th grader or keep my mouth shut and let her deal with the fallout when her friends check out the bottle.
I sucked it up and broached the issue as delicately as possible with as few words as possible, mumbling something about something inappropriate. Then, I bought her another bottle with only one, completely safe comment on it: Green is the new black.
Hmmm. Wonder what adventures in motherhood await next week.

Thought for the day

Blizzards to the West, flooding North, tornadoes South, global financial ruin, wars, famine — you name it, we've got problems.
And yet, amazingly, there is still time and energy to waste on the crazy woman the press has dubbed Octomom.
OK, sure, I am part of the problem. I actually viewed the CNN web page video report headlined, "Nurse: Octuplet mom fed babes for show."
Clearly, the only ones who should be watching Octomom are the authorities at Child Services. As for the three CNN news anchors and Dr. Phil ... I hear they need sandbag volunteers in Fargo.
But, just to bring you up to speed, in case you missed the vapid details of what our news outlets deem worthy of attention, here is the latest:
Octomom — the single mother of 14, the last eight of whom were birthed as octuplets — is in a new home (somehow, I missed that event), with her kids, and until recently, with the help of nurses provided free of charge by the organization Angels in Waiting.
The latest news surge came after Octomom fired the nurses. She says they seized control of her house and her babies.
Meanwhile, the nurses filed charges with Child Services on several counts, including that Octomom is failing to adhere to such basic motherhood standards as feeding her children.
According to the claims, Octomom only sought to feed her babies when cameras were present to record the moment. Otherwise, she left the mundane task to the nurses.
There is so much sad, disturbing and wrong about this story, it's hard to know where to begin and chances are nothing has been left undiscussed.
Still, I get this sick feeling that somewhere between Octomom, her lawyers and media handlers, the nurses and their lawyers, Child Services, and the media, there are eight tiny babies and their six older siblings who face long odds of experiencing a childhood that even remotely resembles normalcy.

Mother of the Year

I know we're only two and a half months into 2009, but ladies, put away the cookie sheets, park the minivan and forget about Mother of the Year.
This year, that coveted, much sought after award is mine ... all mine. And, honestly, I wasn't even trying.
It's been nothing like past years, when in moments of medical brilliance, I've ignored all signs that ultimately led to raging ear or urinary track infections, outbreaks of shingles and pink eye, and an allergic reaction to sulfa drugs.
Nope, for 2008-09, I've been responsible and vigilant, working all angles of preventative health care, from flu shots to dentist visits, healthy eating and exercising regularly. The worst we've suffered in this worst-of-all winters has been a few bouts of stuffed noses and mild coughing. No illness a few overdoses of Nyquil couldn't cure.
Consequently, it didn't seem particularly alarming when Child #3 started a subtle, yet constant whine about not being able to see.
Occasionally, she'd cite such complaints as her glasses didn't work, someone else's glasses worked better and sitting in the front row didn't help. And, I do recall some mention of headaches.
Now, in hindsight, these issues may have demanded more serious attention and prompt action than I offered. But, in my defense, she does tend toward the dramatic end of the spectrum.
In the interest of full disclosure, however, I should admit that it took about a year for me to accept that, maybe, her older brother truly was seeing double, which only took nine months of vision therapy to fix.
Still, it seemed reasonable at the time to do what I often do at the first whine — tell 'em to suck it up and hang tough. After all, if the skin tone is good, the eyes are clear and the appetite strong, what can be so drastically wrong?
Well, apparently, sometimes they really can't see.
After two months of fielding her complaints, I finally made an appointment with the eye doctor.
Somehow — oops — two and a half years had passed since her last visit. In that time, one eye worsened by five lenses and the other by three. And, no, she hadn't kept up with those eye exercises.
To ease any permanent scarring from my maternal incompetence, I ignored all sound financial judgment and let her pick the frames she wanted. Kate Spade? Two hundred dollars? Not a problem.
But, my feel-good moment was fleeting. In its place, all I could feel was a suffocating sense of guilt over having ignored my poor, blind child.
As we drove away from the office, she started screaming with excitement: "Omigosh! Look! I can read that sign! Fourth Street! And that one! No parking! Omigosh! Omigosh! This is so weird!"
Once at home, she found a new thrill everywhere she looked.
"Mom!" she squealed, standing on the stairs. "I can see the time on the clock from here!"
Objects had defined lines. The picture on the television was clear. It was as if she could see for the first time.
Oh my gosh, indeed.
If I was any kind of stellar example of motherhood, a shining beacon in the sea of maternalism, I suppose I would take a vow right now to honor and listen to my children from this point forward.
But, I'm thinking, what fun would that be?

Kids say the darndest things

After nearly 19 years of raising children, I finally heard the few simple words that make the journey of parenthood all worthwhile.
"I didn't appreciate our family until I went away," our oldest daughter told me when I visited her at college last weekend.
First, I thought I was going to choke on my food and cry at the same time. Then, I fought the urge to fall to my knees, raise my arms to the heavens and shout "Hallelujah!" I didn't want to cause a scene in the restaurant.
Unexpected, unprompted and unplanned, the acknowledgment that we were appreciated, that all we have done all these years was noticed and had value — the revelation completely and forever altered this parent-child relationship.
From her mouth to my ears, my heart leapt with joy. I knew in that single instant, that pristine moment, that I had reached a new milestone in parenting.
Like a farmer in the field, it's been head down, butt up, toiling thanklessly — and without expectation of any thanks — since the first diaper change.
In the early years, you do stuff you never imagined you would; details never fully explored in the parenting books. You function on no sleep, clean up puke, fish stool samples from the toilet for diarrhea testing, comb scalps for head lice, and entertain 10 five-year-olds for a birthday party.
You do this and more. You sacrifice. You put their needs first. You love unconditionally. You do it — all of it — because that is what parents do, or should do. And, more importantly, because you would never think not to do it. It's in the hard-wiring.
As the years pass, parenting takes a new form. Gears shift from physical to mental and emotional. The exhaustion wrought by infants and toddlers is replaced by teens testing the wits and fueling self doubt.
Every limit, every rule, every consequence, every spat ... we second guess ourselves and reevaluate what once seemed reasonable and rational.
Are we crazy? Are we too demanding? Are the expectations too high? Should we have come down so hard or were we too easy? Throw in cell phones, facebook and driver's licenses, and the potential for disaster multiplies exponentially.
We worry. We reassess. We gain and concede ground. Are we right? Wrong? Did we over/under react?
And then, after moments like last weekend, we're left wondering whether we're genuinely wise and gifted or particularly lucky that we just might be doing okay.

Escape from reality

What is it about running that instills such clarity of mind and singleness of purpose?
Is it the simplicity of the effort? The stripped-away bareness of time spent pounding the pavement or roaming the open trail?
It does not matter the weather, nor the mood; if the body creaks and groans in aging protest. Lace up the shoes and head out the door. One foot in front of the other. Easy. Unfettered. Free.
And, miraculously, the wisdom borne in this moment is unlimited and unrivaled.
Alone or with friends, I find there is no problem or issue so vexing that it cannot be solved on the run. From marriage spats to parenting dilemmas, what to serve for dinner and all the way to global warming, there is no greater perspective than that gained on a run.
Somehow, out on a run, the chaos dissipates and a clear understanding emerges of all that is within us and around us. It is a glorious peace of mind, a calm amid life's storms, a sense of everything being right in the world. It is both self discovery and self preservation.
But, as it always does, the run ends. We re-enter the alternate reality, more difficult and complex. The ease of life on the run evaporates.
Therein, lies the key to the daily run.
Whatever we seek, the run will bring us there. Whether it is one mile or many more, slow or fast, we rise above the fray and escape the madness.
I can't imagine a life without it ... the run, that is, not the madness.

The accidental runner

I've been running for about 11 years now, but people often mistake me for a lifelong runner. I find this odd because any running I did prior to 11 years ago was under protest.
I first learned to hate running at boarding school, when I played field hockey and lacrosse. Running was a source of punishment rather than joy. Lose a game, run laps. Win a game, run laps. Bad practice, miss practice, complain, sick ... run laps.
Basically, running laps around the field was the cure-all and the end-all for anything that might ail a teen-age athlete.
Once, I joined in the school's annual Bemis-Forslund Pie Race, a 4.3 mile distance. If you ran under a certain time, you earned a pie. That was the only solace to my four point three miles of misery.
In college and in my early 20s, I turned to running out of desperation. I did it because I had to do something. But, the effort felt forced and foreign. There was no flow, no fun.
As the next decade passed, I dabbled in other activities. Lap swim. Lifting weights. Aerobics. Spinning. After baby #3, a friend and I turned to walking as an escape from our kids.
Then, with less available time and family/work pressures mounting, we sped up and broke into a run. Two miles a day. Once a week, we pushed ourselves and did a "long" three-mile run. Baby #4 forced a hiatus, but only momentarily.
Somewhere along the miles, I'm not sure of how or when, running took on a new status in my life. No longer hated, but sometimes still painful and miserable, running became a part of my day, and, ultimately, a part of me.
I ran my first 5K and experienced the first-time flush of accomplishing something I never imagined I could. Next up was a half-marathon, and a marathon, more halfs, 5Ks and 10Ks, and then one more marathon.
Just like life pre-kids and post-kids, I now see myself in terms of before I ran and since I started running. I like myself and, consequently, my life a lot more since I let running in.
In 11 years, no matter how lousy I feel on a run, I have never come back from a run wishing I hadn't gone. Instead, I am always thankful that I mustered the good sense to get out the door.
With running, as with life, I've learned to embrace the moment, good or bad. There is no one without the other. The runs that hurt make me appreciate the ones that don't.
While I cannot anticipate how I will feel on any certain day, I do know that whatever the feeling — joy, disappointment, frustration, satisfaction, pain, agony, bliss — it will pass and I will go on.
Today, I find equal parts amazement and delight to look back on the evolution of running in my life; how running has changed for me and within me. Running, I found, suits me. Who knew?

Temperature's rising

With all due respect to President Obama, at this time, on this day, after a dreary, bitterly cold winter and another eight weeks to go, this is what hope and change mean to me right now — buds on the lilac bushes and snow melt on the streets.
Forget the economic crisis, partisan politics, health care coverage, national service programs and the war in Iraq.
This is about me and the promise of winter's end.
Sun, blue skies, temps rising into the 30s (!) and an afternoon run before picking up kids from school. Talk about heaven on earth.
I am giddy with anticipation. No thick, wind- and cold-proof pants. No double layer of socks. Ears and face are free of fleece. Hands are bare. And what? Only two tops? There hasn't been this little between my body and the outside air since October.
We meet at 2:15 and set out on a run that is as liberating as I had imagined all morning. Just thinking about running in temperatures so far above zero for the first time in so long is nearly exciting as the actual run itself.
At 36 degrees, the air gives off a slight scent — mud, grass, wetness, even dog poop — that had disappeared into the frozen nothingness of winter. The chirps of the first returning birds break the months of crisp silence.
In the post run glow, I'm struck by the same thought as I am every time this part of the year rolls around. As miserable as winter can be, it makes the warmth that follows all the more sweet.
The same goes for running outside through these horrendous months.
True, we slog through the ice and the snow, the cold and the wind. Yes, it is miserable and borderline crazy. But the test of will, the push past limits ... there is an undeniable sense of self discovery in the struggle and a pure joyousness in the survival.
Of course, such reflection and appreciation don't come so easily in the thick of the battle; on those days when surrender sings the siren's song and the lure of doing nothing beckons slyly.
Only now, when it is clear that the worst is behind us and the best is yet to come, can I sit here smugly at my computer and wax philosophical about the brutality of the journey.

Thought for the day(s)

Last week's mail brought belated holiday greetings from a friend. Her best intentions in December to be more timely got sidelined by a furnace crisis. So, here she was mid-January, bearing news of the latest family developments.
She also included her thoughts on an editorial in Prevention magazine by Ardath Rodale about a lecture given by the Dalai Lama:
"He was seated on a chair and, at 73 years old, she said he seemed to be the youngest person in the room. She wrote about his insights into the purpose of life. He said compassion, forgiveness and tolerance are essential to our existence as well as self-discipline and contentment.
"All humanity must work together for the well-being of each other and for our planet. (The Dalai Lama) encouraged everyone to reach out to others with a warm heart and with respect, and begin each day with thankfulness for our beautiful world and for the joy of sharing our lives with one another."
Just something to think about.
Such wisdom won't solve the world's problems or make our own individual struggles dissolve (although, it would be nice if life were so uncomplicated). But, this approach may just help smooth the waters and spread a little peace.
Some days, I suppose, that could be as good as it gets.

All in a morning's run

Friday morning's run started out in the same manner as mostly every other run this winter — cold, gray, windy, nothing short of unspectacular.
Heading down Main Avenue, trudging through the last mile and deep into our own little world, we were chatting about nothing memorable, when a young man jumped out of his car.
A small piece of paper clenched in his hand, he glanced around, confused at his surroundings.
"Do you know where City Hall is?" he asked.
"Yeah," we answered, pointing down the block. "Just go to the stop sign, turn right, go to the end of the block, turn left, and you'll see it on the right hand side of the road, just a few blocks down."
The directions didn't set in.
"I need to get to City Hall, and I'm late," he said. "Can I drive there? Can I walk?"
We repeated the instructions, and then started discussing the options amongst ourselves, failing to take his hurry to heart.
"If he's driving, maybe it'd be easier to go that way," suggested Ann, pointing the opposite way.
"Doesn't he take a right?" Shelli asked, thinking of the county courthouse.
Colleen shrugged her shoulders, staying out of the fray.
"No, no," I said, "just go down the block, turn right, then left, then it's on the right."
More confused looks.
OK, let's simplify this. Walk or drive?
Walk.
"Can you run?" we asked.
"Yes!" he said.
And with that, the four of us, along with our newfound running partner, took off down Main Avenue, heading for City Hall.
Suddenly, the drudgery of a cold, winter morning run turned into a mission. We had a purpose.
This was most excitement to occur on a run since the December morning when I slipped by the post office and almost got run over.
Not ones to run in silence, we took full advantage of this unknown young man.
Name? Andrew. What are you doing? Taking a test to become a police officer. Where from? Jamaica.
Jamaica?!
"Why'd you come here?" we asked.
"For a girl," he said.
The four of us sighed in unison. A girl.
"She still here?"
"Yes," he said. "That's why I'm trying to find a job."
We all heaved another sigh.
Four middle-aged women. Husbands, kids, houses, dogs, cats. Schedules. Meals. Laundry. Sometimes, it seems the only thrill is escaping together for the daily run.
And, here was Andrew, trading in Jamaica — Jamaica! — for South Dakota because of a girl.
We arrived at City Hall and said a quick farewell.
Bounding down the street, we laughed about Andrew's story, our chance meeting and the sequence of events that dropped him into our life for six blocks.
The pure happenstance of the moment took the ordinariness out of the day and gave a newfound appreciation for our small town and our time together, even if it was only six degrees.
Only in Brookings, South Dakota. Only on a run.

Hope is alive

Yes, hope is alive this morning, and it takes the tangible form of pavement in all its rough, black and gritty glory.
After 6 weeks straight of sub-zero temps with and without the wind chill, we finally begin today the long, slow climb out of winter's abyss.
Oh sure, there will be more cold. There will be more snow. But, there is an imperceptibly tiny taste of the end.
Spring will come.
On a superficial level, the South Dakota winter is like an annual life test. It is hard. It is nasty. It is cold and it is brutal. It knocks you down, kicks you in the teeth and stomps on your back.
You scrape yourself together only to get thrown back down. Survival, at times, seems unlikely. You question your mortality, your fate, your ability to endure.
But, just when it feels as though hell truly has frozen over and you cannot go on another day, patches of pavement start to emerge on the street. The five-foot high snowbanks begin to recede. The thermometer climbs into the teens and low 20s.
And then, driving down Eighth Street South, I see the true splendor of the world unfold before me in the three simple words on the Medary Acres Greenhouse sign:
Dirt is coming.
The sun breaks through the clouds. My heart races. Tears of joy run down my cheeks. Angels sing. A renewed will to live bubbles up from the soul.
Dirt is coming.

Never again?

After walking into the Holocaust museum in Washington, DC, visitors pick up an identification card based on gender.
Each card gives a brief history of a real person who lived during the Holocaust.
I was Bruna Sevini, born Sept. 22, 1923, in Trieste, Italy. My son was Max Rosenblat, born July 1939 in Radom, Poland.
Riding up in the elevator to the fourth flour of the museum to start the tour, we discovered how our assumed lives played out.
While awaiting deportation to Germany, Bruna was in a prison in 1944 when it was hit by an air raid. She and others escaped to a convent, where they were liberated by British troops on Sept. 23, 1944, the day after her 21st birthday.
Max was three-years-old in August 1942, when the Germans rounded up all the Jews in the Radom ghetto where he lived with his parents. Max and his mother were herded into a railroad boxcar and taken to the Treblinka extermination camp. The pair were gassed upon arrival.
Reading our fates gave only a slight hint of the unimaginable hell that was about to unfold before us.
From top to bottom, each floor took us through the sequence of Hitler's rise to power, the rounding up and extinction of Jews, Gypsies and other non-Ayrians, the world's slow reaction to the horror, and finally, thankfully, Hitler's downfall and the liberation of those left.
Throughout the exhibit, photos and artifacts chronicled one of the bleakest moments in world history.
There were piles of musty, leather shoes taken from prisoners as they arrived at concentration camps. There was a table, upon which dead prisoners were laid and the gold from their teeth extracted. There was a boxcar used for transporting men, women and children to their death. There were crude, wooden bunkbeds, where prisoners slept five and six to a bed.
The misery of the Holocaust journey played out in every step, on every wall, in every room.
We left the museum through an exhibit on Darfur, where an estimated 3 million people have been displaced and more than 200,000 killed since 2003 in a scorched earth campaign of murder, torture and rape of civilians. Some reports put the numbers even higher.
And so, here we are, in 2009, only 65 years after the Allied troops liberated concentration camp victims.
Never again? Hardly. Think Bosnia and Serbia. Think Rwanda. Now Darfur.
The first link below will send a postcard to President Obama, urging him to abide by his campaign promise to stop the genocide in Darfur.
The second is a petition to the UN secretary general, asking him to take several key steps to ending the atrocities against the people of Darfur and the devastation of their country.
http://addyourvoice.org/?utm_campaign=Postcard&utm_source=savedarfur.org&utm_medium=textlink
http://action.savedarfur.org/campaign/savedarfurcoalition

Obamarama, baby, continued ...

Crazy.
That is the one word that keeps coming to mind when I think of what it was like to be in Washington, DC, for the inauguration of President Barack Obama.
Not crazy insane — just pure, mind-boggling, overwhelming, over-the-top crazy.
How to put into words the experience of being among the millions who traveled from all corners of this country and beyond to witness history unfold?
How to explain the awed look on so many faces, young and old, every color skin? Why people would stand in the cold for hours, jammed together in not enough space, yet content to savor the experience?
So many people assembled for so many different reasons, as individuals and as a sum greater than its parts. To cheer the triumph of an entire race. To celebrate the unleashed potential of generations to come. To pray for peace among people and nations. To renew faith in the troubled economy. To take pride in the call to service. To believe for perhaps the first time that we, as a people, can do better.
Add to this unimaginable, sweeping sense of monumental change, millions of people filling every space on every street of the nation's capital ... so full that it was — literally — impossible to walk. Stuck in a mass of humanity for an hour or two, trying to get somewhere, but going nowhere.
Somehow, everyone staying fairly calm and respectful of others. Somehow, the moment at hand making everyone realize that the all-too-often human instinct to sink to the lowest common denominator was inappropriate and unacceptable on this day of all days.
And then, to think that this force, this swelling tide of hope, has come from one man.
One man has inspired to incredible proportions a people starved for leadership and a clear and defined break from what we have known.
I am not certain of how or exactly when we got to this place, where we are so desperate, where we are so weary of the factions, the hatred and the bitterness, that we will pour by the millions into the streets just to grasp even the tiniest shred of this historical moment.
On Tuesday, among the masses, you could reach out and actually feel and hold onto the emotions. This display on the grandest scale imaginable makes me think that, yes, change will come.
It makes me think that despite all our differences — in color, in belief, in political persuasion — we can come together. We can live in peace. We can lift up those less fortunate. We can leave a good world for our children's children. We can do better.

Yes, we did!

Just a couple of photos from Sunday's activities — the We are One concert at the Lincoln Memorial, which drew nearly a half a million people; and the Jefferson Memorial at night.
More later.

Obamarama, baby!

Walked up to the airline gate in Minneapolis Friday morning for our departure to Washington, DC, and immediately entered the Obama zone.
From the older, black woman with waist-long dreadlocks, Obama hat, sweatshirt and "That one for president" pin, to the crazy campaign volunteer lady, who was telling everyone her story, and a young guy in an Obama staffer sweatshirt, it was one, big Obama fest.
No different here in D.C. From the metro to the streets to all the public landmarks, everyone is gearing up for the festivities. Workers toiled into the night, putting up thousands of portapotties, wire fences and bleachers.
In front of the Lincoln Memorial, they are erecting a massive concert set-up, complete with stage, sound systems, lighting and massive video screens (yeah Daktronics) for the "We are One" concert on Sunday.
Our hosts, who have witnessed many presidential inaugurations, say they have never seen anything like this. It is amazing to be a part of this historical moment.
We stopped by the Russell Senate Building yesterday and picked up our tickets to the inauguration ceremony and our keepsake inauguration invitation. Also scored an invite to the South Dakota Society Event. Good thing I brought my best jeans.
Gotta run ... too much to do and not enough time.

Beyond cold

OK. I quit. Done. Finished. Uncle. Winter, you win.
The actual air temperature — no wind involved — is now at -17 and predicted to drop to somewhere around 25 below zero by morning.
Throw in some windchill and we're talking -35 to -40.
How cold is this? Too cold to run outside. Too cold to even start school on time. Nearly every district in the state is keeping school doors closed a couple extra hours Thursday morning.
Fabulous. The temperature is supposed to warm up to -20 by 10 a.m. By comparison, today's high temp of -8 was a heat wave. We're not supposed to climb above zero until about noon on Friday.
With the exception of a few random days in the teens or 20s, we have been hunkered down in the single digits and below since early December, which brings to mind a few questions.
For instance, where in the heck is global warming when you need it?
I'm also seriously wondering, how did the settlers survive in this stuff? We've got all the modern day conveniences — heated homes, heated vehicles, Ugg boots, warm weather destinations — to cope with the cold and it's still horrendous.
I can't imagine living in a one- or two-room hut, cooped up with my family for months in bone-chilling cold. It's challenging enough being together for a family vacation on the beach when it's 80 degrees.
So, the most pressing question is, why did they stay? Once they knew what it was like, why didn't they move on and save us from this misery?
Now, I'm moving on.
All the brave talk of running through this crap? Forget that. I was delusional. I'm shelving my shoes with screws in the soles.
Tomorrow morning, we'll drop the kids at school at 10:15 and meet for coffee instead of a run. Going to kick back, kick up the feet, sip some hot brew and share laughs with the girls.
Hmmm ... that would be a group run except we get to drink coffee and stay warm. Gosh, life may be unbearably cold, but it is good.

Screw you, winter

I did something yesterday I never imagined I'd do — walk into the local hardware store and buy 12 half-inch screws to drill into the soles of my running shoes.
The concept seemed perfectly reasonable. We've had 20-something inches of snowfall this winter. And, what has fallen still sits on the city's streets.
This has driven many people to head for the tropics, like Omaha, Kansas City or maybe even Mexico.
With one child at college, three more at home and me unable to come to terms with a 9-5 job, going for a run is about the only trip that falls in my budget range.
But, I didn't want to get into that with the hardware store man. Just the screws, sir.
He gave a little sideways glance and repeated after me, "You're going to put these in the soles of your running shoes?"
"Um, yeah," I said.
"Boy, that's ... uh ... dedication," he said, clearly searching for a suitable adjective that wouldn't insult my mental health.
Whatever. Six weeks into the worst winter of outdoor running in at least 10 years, and I am too far into crazy to turn back.
What actually is crazy is that the damn screws worked. Weeks of slip-sliding along icy streets covered in a snowy mush? Done! Tight hamstrings? Gone! Run inside? Not a chance!
All for the whopping price of 84 cents. Can't get to Mexico on that, but it sure gets me out the door.

To hell and back

The end of 2008 and the start of 2009 will go down in Dunkle family history as our descent into Car Hell.
As life events go, Car Hell does not rank among the worst. Surely, we are blessed, and if something must go wrong, I'll take it in the automotive department.
Still, the only way to move on from a mess is to try and make sense of it ... see how it fits into the grand scheme.
Car Hell began in mid-December with a smash not heard around our world.
You might think, two, big, yellow labs, who spend their days either sleeping or monitoring every movement within 90 feet of the house, would notice vandals smashing in the back windshield of their owner's car. But, you would be wrong.
You also might consider that it would have been much more appropriate for the vandals to choose the front windshield of our 20-year-old Volvo wagon, which was already cracked and needing replacement. But, no such luck.
Seventeen years in this house and the worst we've experienced was drunken college students making off with parts of our wooden fence, presumably for use as bonfire material.
So, cursing the vandals and counting our blessings, we pony up $350 to replace the windshield.
But, before we could get the Volvo to the body shop, the severe cold, which has yet to loosen its grip on South Dakota, stops the engine. Mechanic — $150.
The husband's Durango is next. Dead battery will not revive. New battery — $150.
Out $650 we don't have, but still counting blessings and looking on the bright side, wherever and whatever that might be.
Within days, we're back up to nearly a full fleet. Three of four cars are on the road, making this family with four drivers heading in different directions much happier.
Happiness is shortlived. Driver in morning traffic suddenly slams on brakes, Durango skids across black ice, slams into car and gets totaled. So much for the new battery. No injuries, though. Just a lot of cursing by other driver.
Lonely, unused 1988 Jeep hauled into action, but won't get going without a jump. Husband suspects alternator. Another bill looming, but a new day dawns in Car Hell. Bad battery still under warranty. This one's on the house.
I've been around long enough to know that life runs in cycles — the good, the bad, the ugly. The problem is, when you hit a good cycle, you tend to forget about the other possibilities.

A dog's life

Great. It wasn't enough that my human relationships were complicated, conflicted and messy.
Now, the movie "Marley and Me" has me reexamining my relationship with our dogs.
I thought things were going pretty well. We provide food and water, keep a consistent stock of rawhide chews and let them lay around without lifting a paw to help.
They, in turn, do basically nothing unless, of course, you count filling the yard with their poop and the house with their hair a contribution to society.
Or, when they are moved to action, they stand in the doorway and sniff your crotch when you're trying to walk inside with 10 grocery bags, three gallons of milk and laundry detergent.
So, yeah, on occasion, I have yelled, "Get out of the way you idiot!"
Yes, I have screamed, "you dumb dog," "fat pig," "get off the furniture," "you stink," for any number of offenses, ranging from leaving a gargantuan pile of crap on the kitchen floor to chowing through 20 pounds of food in one week and suffusing the air with really stinky farts.
Add in the skin tags and fatty tumors of the older one, and this pair truly is a joy.
Seriously, though, I do enjoy their big, hairy presence in the house.
Call them what you will, yell at them, and they still wag their tails silly if you look at them with the slightest hint of affection. They can be snoring in a full-on, dead sleep, yet sense your gaze and jump up, bounding over for a pat, forgetting that the last 99 times they did this you told them to go back and lie down.
Hmmm ... unconditional and undying love. Sounds a little like motherhood.