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.