Life–at warp speed

It's the last day of school, a cause for celebration of the impending freedom that comes with summer. Yet I'm feeling the pull of life zipping me along at lightning speed. Isn't there any way to slow down this ship?

As of today, I am officially the mom of a senior in high school. What an exciting time for him! And yet he's also adjusting to the new world order. Last weekend he began work at his first job as a dishwasher at the Winking Lizard in Avon. We paid a visit to the bank to open up his first checking account now that he gets direct deposit (now that's a change from when I was a kid).

He listened carefully as the bank manager explained online banking, receiving his updates via text, his options with respect to new banking regulations (we opted to have his debit card declined when over the balance rather than suffer the cost of overdraft fees) and the responsibilities that come with a first checking account.

As we walked out of the bank, I told him he was a big boy now. He was suddenly very quiet. I asked what was wrong and he replied, "Life is suddenly moving very fast."

Wow! Yes. It. Is.

Ryan turns 18 in November, time to register to vote and for the draft. He's making decisions about his future--what career to pursue, what college to attend, whether or not to pursue playing football in college.

He's our first, so for better or worse, he's our guinea pig. Hopefully, we haven't done too badly by him. I know that I couldn't be more proud to be his mom. But in the quiet moments of the day I ponder pushing the pause button on life. Actually, it doesn't even have to stop, but I wish it could slow down. I just want to marinate for a while.


Another sign of the speed of life

Today, my parents are off on a month-long trip out West. They are both officially retired. My dad retired a year ago, but my mom just retired from MetroHealth on Wednesday. After years of angst about the security of their golden years, she has embraced the freedom. She called me Wednesday night, as giddy as a young girl at the prospects ahead. I couldn't be happier for them.

Safe journey, Mom and Dad.

Natalie Merchant's enchanting music

I'm dating myself now, but there was a time when the 10,000 Maniacs was part of my life's soundtrack, a cassette regularly popped into my car stereo for driving music.

Natalie Merchant, lead singer of the Maniacs, has released a new album of children's music called Leave Your Sleep that I found absolutely enchanting to listen to at 6:15 this morning. Her eclectic collection of tunes is set to classic poetry from a variety of nations. The King of China's Daughter is a song that has stuck with me all day and reminds me so strongly of my niece Natalie. Here is the text of the poem.

The King Of China's Daughter

The king of China's daughter
So beautiful to see
With her face like yellow water, left
Her nutmeg tree.

Her little rope for skipping
She kissed and gave it me
Made of painted notes of singing-birds
Among the fields of tea.

I skipped across the nutmeg grove
I skipped across the sea;
But neither sun or moon, my dear,
Has yet caught me.

Music has always been a special language for my niece that I don't fully understand. As a child on the autism spectrum, she has profound insights that are expressed in unusual ways. She describes songs by color, just as she describes people as colors. I'm yellow she always tells me with a big smile. :)

I wonder if she would call this "a blue song." Think I'll buy it for her and see what says.

Are YOU ready for some football?

It's football season in my house. What does that mean? Thursday freshmen games, Friday night varsity games and Saturday afternoon 5th-6th tackle. 

Patrick is playing wide receiver and safety on the Bay High freshman football team. My son, who at 120 pounds has the distinction of being the lightest player on the high school roster, made three fumble recoveries last week against Westlake. 

Michael is playing center and nose guard on the 5th-6th Bay rec team. He's the shortest guy on the line, but he's the loudest one on the field. Can't wait to watch him in a live game.

After the trials of previous seasons, Ryan is the QB on the Bay High varsity team. So far the team is 1-1 after a heartbreaking loss to Westlake last Friday. But they are working hard and have a great attitude going into this season. You can watch video of his TD pass at the modern-day sports marvel that is Al & Larry Sports. Now where's my wallet....

Thursday miscellany

What day is it? This mid-week holiday has thrown off my internal calendar.

Tony and Eva got nothing on Big Mike and Steph
That's right, our good friend Big Mike is finally tying the knot this weekend. Most of our friends married the summer of 1994 (when I was pregnant with Patrick) and we had 10 weddings between May 15 and Labor Day weekend. So we've waited a LONG time for this one.

And so has Big Mike. He's found a wonderful woman and we're looking forward to celebrating with them all weekend. My hubby is in the wedding, so we're fumbling around trying to figure out logistics for the day, forgetting all that goes into weddings.

DANNY: "After the church, we'll take the boys home, chill and then head the reception."

ME: "No, you are in the wedding party. You'll have to go for pictures. I'll take the kids home and chill, grab a ride from someone else and meet you at the reception."

MIKEY: "Does this mean Hunter and me will be cousins?"

Hunter is Steph's son from her first marriage who is the same age as Mikey. Mikey seems to think Big Mike is his uncle. I had to explain that while he and dad are close friends, they are not related. Although I believe somewhere down the line, they are like fourth cousins by marriage or something. It's all very confusing, very West Side Irish Catholic. They're all related somehow.

Anyone having Road Runner problems?
Saw a post on a writer's forum recently about problems with Road Runner e-mail service. Is anyone in Northeast Ohio having problems? I've been pitching right and left and I'm concerned that maybe I should resend from Gmail account. For the record, Road Runner service stinks.

Still looking for Web designers
Got a few names, but I'm still looking for possible Web designer for my site. Please send me an e-mail with "Web designer" in subject line if you've got a suggestion.

Small world
SPJ launched another marketing push to editors and freelancers to promote our Freelancer Directory. As the contact person on the release, I had the pleasure of hearing from a few folks I haven't seen or heard from in a dozen or more years.

Great "works" display
Bay Village isn't exactly known for its fireworks display, but last night's show was better than in recent years, lasting 20 minutes from test to finale. But there were some new works, including one that looks like a waterfall in the sky. Very cool.

Settling into another summer

There's typically such a whirlwind of activity that accompanies the end of a school year that it takes a few weeks to settle into something resembling a routine.

We're getting there ... slowly.

My work schedule has been hectic with several big writing deadlines and lots of pitching. But, as I've done in the past, I hit my desk at 6 a.m. and try to finish up by 1.

Two out of my three boys were grounded for the first weekend. One for being tardy for dinner (I know that's harsh, but I need to lay down the law right out of the gate.), the other for a solo adventure to catch frogs from a retention basin at a nearby park. Although it sounds as if it was a harmless little-boy adventure, I'm afraid I panicked at the thought of him either A) being abducted from a secluded park; or B) falling headfirst into the rather large retention basin.

I'm not anti-park and I do allow him to play at one closer to our house, but this one is isolated and there are always contractor vans parked in the lot with dudes probably (harmlessly) eating lunch. My protective Mama Bear instinct just doesn't want to chance it with my little guy.

So expectations for checking in, arriving home in time for dinner (I'm a huge proponent of family dinner time.) and being responsible for chores and things have been clearly set and, so far, followed.

My older two boys have been hounding me about cell phones. Ryan had one until he was pushed into a friend's pool in early May with his cell in his pocket. Of course it's toast. But I told him I wanted to see his year-end report card before we talked new phone. Plus I was utterly agitated at the teenager expectation that all things, regardless of cost, get instantly replaced.

Report cards arrived this week and everything looks good. Now I can deliver on my promise of a new phone or phones. Patrick is something of a nomad this summer, cruising around with his posse on his bike. He's good about telling me where he's going, but not always about where he will end up. So now I'm thinking I may get him a phone as well.

All of these events — kids being grounded, replacing phones, waiting for good grades, etc. — illustrate the challenges of sticking to your guns as a parent. Dan was out of town the first weekend of summer, so I was flying solo. It is certainly a huge pain the neck for me to have two grounded boys sulking around the house.

It would have been easier for me to un-ground them and let them play. And the cell phone issue? Let's just say Ryan not having the phone is more of a pain for me than it is for him, especially given his sports schedule. But I wanted him to know I was serious about ending the school year academically strong.

Point made.

Now if only I can get them to remember to shut the bathroom door when I'm on the phone in my office across the hall...

Maternally Challenged says it best

By now you're probably familiar with all the hullabaloo over Leslie Bennetts' book "The Feminine Mistake: Are We Giving Up Too Much?" and Rebecca Mead's New Yorker review. If not, I've linked in order to fill you in.

Hat tip to Jill for recommending Tracy Thompson's blog Maternally Challenged. In her post April 16 post, "Now I Get It! We Did It To Ourselves!" Thompson speaks for many, including me.

Check it out!

Skunked! A new solution

We've been racing around every morning since springing ahead. The early morning darkness is lulling us into needing that extra 20 minutes of sleep that is the difference between a leisurely morning and rushed frenzy.

With the middle school bus at the corner, Ryan grabbed his shoes from the garage and yelled, "It smells like crap in the garage!" (dripping with his typical teenage hyperbole).

I opened the door for the dog and was overcome, I mean literally blown backward, by the scent of skunk. Riley (our 3-year-old lab) just looked up at me sheepishly.

Patrick almost vomited on the spot, Ryan grabbed his backpack and hauled tail to the bus stop and I, still in my PJs with only half a cup of coffee down, realized that my day would not entail any kind of creative work. So I locked Riley outside and with Patrick heaving, jumped in the car and drove him to school (with the windows down to ease his reflux).

As I got back in the door, Danny was screaming about how much work the dog is, how she's trashing our house, etc. But he had a director's meeting at 8:30 and couldn't stick around to help.

I still had to get Michael up for school and, thankfully, he listened when I told him I had a mess to deal with Riley and could he please, please, please get up quickly.

Our attached garage goes right into our family room. The odor was floating into the family room and I felt as if it was pervading the entire house. While Mikey ate breakfast, I Googled "dog sprayed by skunk" and "eliminate skunk odor."

The tomato juice recipe, I had heard, stains the dog's fur. Riley is a yellow lab (actually almost white) and so this was not an appealing solution. Instead I found a homemade recipe involving large amounts (and potentially combustible combo) of peroxide, baking soda and dish detergent. (See recipe/instructions below.)

Outside in the driveway, I grabbed my traumatized pup and began scrubbing around her neck and shoulders. It was hard to see a spot where she got hit and I'm thinking she was maybe only misted instead of receiving a direct hit. Once I used up my supply, I traipsed into Walgreen's for rubber gloves, oodles of Febreze, dog shampoo and more supplies for my deodorizing mixture.

For the next hour, I scrubbed Riley—first with more peroxide mixture and then giving her an all-over bath. She was miserable, but so was I. She kept running away, trying to hide behind the front shrubs, but somehow we managed to get her cleaned up and dry enough to finally go in the house.

Inside I sprayed Febreze in the entire house, unsure if it was actually in the house or just in my nose. I sprinkled the carpet with Febreze carpet deodorizer (that Riley walked through and got all over the wood floor). I started my vacuum and of course the belt blew. I had no backup belt so it was back to the store.

My sister-in-law told me that her mother-in-law recommended setting out bowls of apple cider vinegar to absorb bad odors. So I also bought a gallon jug of apple cider vinegar. Amazingly, that worked very well.

It was a long, exhausting day yesterday but today the house smells nice again -- very linen-y, which is my favorite Febreze scent. It reminds me of clothes drying on the line. Riley is slightly less traumatized, but still a little skittish.

For what it's worth, here's the recipe for de-skunking:

2 bottles of peroxide
1/4-1/2 cup of baking soda
1 T. Dawn dishwashing detergent

Mix in a large bucket and let foam. Wearing rubber gloves, use cloth to scrub affected area making sure to keep out of eyes, nose and mouth. Let stand for 10 minutes before rinsing. Apply again until odor dissipates. Bath entire animal as usual.

Don't let mixture sit since it can explode!

Friday madness of varying degrees

Been a crazy, hectic week filled with deadlines, travel, parent meetings, practices and the delivery of one new dryer. That's right, the old one finally went to that great laundry junkyard after I learned that while I was gone last week it had run continuously for two days before anyone noticed.

So...as of a few minutes ago, I now have a brand-spanking new dryer that runs quieter than the old one (that can be good or bad) and a light inside to help you find those errant socks. I'll be testing its drying ability shortly since I've got a week's worth of laundry for five overflowing from the laundry room.

Press regularly and wrongly frames mommy madness
I recommend reading E.J. Graff's essay in CJR this month titled "The Opt-Out Myth." I start all such stories holding my breath and ready to rage at one turn of phrase. But then I read this:

The moms-go-home story keeps coming back, in part, because it’s based on some kernels of truth. Women do feel forced to choose between work and family. Women do face a sharp conflict between cultural expectations and economic realities. The workplace is still demonstrably more hostile to mothers than to fathers. Faced with the “choice” of feeling that they’ve failed to be either good mothers or good workers, many women wish they could—or worry that they should—abandon the struggle and stay home with the kids.

The problem is that the moms-go-home storyline presents all those issues as personal rather than public—and does so in misleading ways. The stories’ statistics are selective, their anecdotes about upper-echelon white women are misleading, and their “counterintuitive” narrative line parrots conventional ideas about gender roles. Thus they erase most American families’ real experiences and the resulting social policy needs from view.

He suggests that Joan Williams study, "Opt Out Pushed Out? How the Press Covers Work/Family Conflict," should be recommended reading on every news, business and feature editor's desk. You can download a PDF of the report here.

The reason? "If journalism repeatedly frames the wrong problem, then folks who make public policy may very well deliver the wrong solution."

If women are happily choosing to stay home with their babies, that’s a private decision. But it’s a public policy issue if most women (and men) need to work to support their families, and if the economy needs women’s skills to remain competitive. It’s a public policy issue if schools, jobs, and other American institutions are structured in ways that make it frustratingly difficult, and sometimes impossible, for parents to manage both their jobs and family responsibilities.

BINGO!!!!

Jill and I have been singing this tune for several years now, but it bears repeating. The Judith Warners of the world focus their "research" on such a narrow segment of the female population — namely the less than 10 percent of white, highly educated, well-paid professional women. This includes journalists who "increasingly come from and socialize in this class."

And so we read anecdotes from their "personal rearview mirrors" in a number of influential pubs — The Atlantic, Newsweek, Time, etc.

I suppose I also am guilty of the "my-friends-and-me" approach to this subject, but I come from a lesser privileged class. I know plenty of women who stay at home because their husbands have careers that afford them that luxury. I know many more who work in some capacity to make ends meet, some who do so because they want the financial and professional security and others who simply have no choice.

But I know an increasing number of women who used to live a life of privilege, who have gone through painful divorce and who have failed to maintain their professional skills prohibiting them from entering the workplace at a professional level. It's incredibly painful to watch smart, educated women anxious about their skills and ability to do a job that may have evolved exponentially since they were last employed and yet having no choice but to dive into the waters.

Aside from the fact that census numbers do not support such trend stories, the basic fact is that the word "choice" in these circumstances is rarely the reality.

Williams establishes that “choice” is emphasized in eighty-eight of the 119 articles she surveyed. But keep reading. Soon you find that staying home wasn’t these women’s first choice, or even their second. Rather, every other door slammed.

Where does that leave us? With stupid bosses who ask when we reveal we are pregnant whether or not we can still handle working on an investigative series. And it gets worse because it also blocks meaningful public policy.

By offering a steady diet of common myths and ignoring the relevant facts, newspapers have helped maintain the cultural temperature for what Williams calls “the most family-hostile public policy in the Western world.” On a variety of basic policies—including parental leave, family sick leave, early childhood education, national childcare standards, afterschool programs, and health care that’s not tied to a single all-consuming job—the U.S. lags behind almost every developed nation. How far behind? Out of 168 countries surveyed by Jody Heymann, who teaches at both the Harvard School of Public Health and McGill University, the U.S. is one of only five without mandatory paid maternity leave—along with Lesotho, Liberia, Papua New Guinea, and Swaziland.

I'm still waiting for mainstream article that takes a realistic approach to this issue. Or, hell, maybe I just need to write it myself.

Bragg beauties
I had not read Rick Bragg's "All Over but the Shoutin'" until this past weekend. He signed it: "For Wendy, Here at home, Rick Bragg." I am so sorry I hadn't picked it up sooner. He is a beautiful writer and so firmly rooted in his family. This was a book I constantly read aloud to my family, to anyone within earshot, including the dog. Some of my favorite lines and phrases were:

"I had about as much business at Harvard as a hog in a cocktail dress..." on applying for a Nieman Fellowship with less than six months of college education.

"There was a young man Alex Wright, a tall, thin guitar picker from California, cool as the other side of your pillow." Writing for St. Pete Times about the homeless in Miami.

"I don't buy all of it or even most of it, what those preachers said. I don't think you have to do anything to get into heaven except to do right. If you have ever pushed a wheelchair for somebody and nobody paid you, then you might get in. If you ever peeked inside an old person's screen door and cracked open their loneliness with a simple 'hello,' you might get in. My momma will. That, I know. Even with her hands pressed to the dusty top of a dully glowing electric box, she was closer to God than most people will ever get. I take my peace from that." On how his mother was ashamed to go out to church in public, but prayed with Oral Roberts.

"I cannot fix everything that is wrong, flawed or broken in my past, in her past. I cannot recast those years in smooth, cool marble, and believe that my meddling will make things all better again. The name of the child is etched into her head, her heart, her soul." On wanting a new grave that marked the name of his baby brother who died during birth.

"I had grown up in a house in which there were only two books, the King James Bible and the spring seed catalog … He had bought most of them at a yard sale, by the box or pound, and some at a flea market. He did not even know what he was giving me, did not recognize most of the writers. 'Your momma said you still liked to read,' he said." On the gift of two boxes of books his father gave him just before he died.

"One by one, the editors of the New York Times came by to pay my mother homage, to tell her what a fine son she had raised, and how proud they were of me, and for her. Joe Lelyveld just said, 'I know who this is,' and smiled. Gene Roberts came up and talked Southern to her, and others came up to say kind things, welcoming things." With his mother at the Pulitzer luncheon.

"I had seen my mother cry from pain and grief and misery, when I was a child. I had never seen her cry from happiness until they called out my name and I walked up to get that prize, then handed it to her." On receiving his 1996 Pulitzer Prize for feature writing.

Where are the sports?
Chuckled at Harry Jaffe's Washingtonian column pondering the absence of Washington Post sports columnists. That Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser are missing is not so surprising. I'm sure it must take gobs of time to come up with the witticisms and criticisms they hurl daily on PTI (that's Pardon the Interruption on ESPN for the uninitiated). Last week Michael, my 8-year-old, complained that they never talk about sports on PTI. I can't stand the volume and hysteria of the show. I much prefer to READ them then listen and watch them.

My March Madness picks
I've got the Georgetown Hoyas winning it all.

Shoo flu

We're on Day 7 of a flu-ishness marked by on and off fever for day or day and a half followed by cold symptoms — cough, runny nose, congestion, headache and sneezing.

The last, and I would argue worst, of the bunch just dragged in from work with the headache and chills. My own bout struck on Saturday as a fog rolled into Bay Village and I sat watching Patrick consume a cold cut combo at Subway. My teeth began to ache, my head pound and I was unable to regulate my body temperature.

Thankfully, I'm on the mend at about 90 percent today. The big guy isn't so lucky.

Remembering an early love

Growing up we always had a celebration between Christmas and New Year's. Today is my grandfather's birthday and had he lived he would be 87. Behind my Dad he was the first man I loved unequivocally.

We were kindred spirits in a way, enjoying each other's sense of humor, outlook on life, idealism and romanticism.

We also shared some physical traits. Relations always told me how I had his "Roman nose." Our middle fingers on each hand turn outward at the tips and our detached earlobes hang rather low. My mom and I also share these traits as well as a romanticized fondness for Grandpa.

He could be an exasperating male chauvinist, particularly infuriating my headstrong modern-thinking grandmother. But he was never that way with me. He instilled in me the sense that my brains were just as beautiful as my smile. And that even when my smile was filled with braces and when my movements were only those of an awkward gangly young girl so unsure about herself that I could still be beautiful in his eyes.



I never felt unsure or insecure or irrelevant around him. He made me, and probably the rest of us, feel as if we were the most important people in the room. His attention to what we had to say, his interest in our thoughts was an early introduction to the headiness of conversation that would help to shape my choice of career.



When I first moved back to Cleveland and took a job with Sun Newspapers, I was unable to afford my own apartment. My grandparents took me in for six months so I could save some money and eventually move out on my own. I enjoyed their routine, two highballs, a toast and a kiss before dinner each night. Grandpa and I would stay up to watch "Newhart" and "The Tonight Show," laughing about the same stuff.

We would quietly read together; he in his Lazy Boy, me cuddled on the sofa. He was forever misplacing his [gl]"asses" (which is what my cousin used to call glasses when his was little). And he would ask me all kinds of questions about my day and my job and politics and culture. Maybe it was all an act, but to me he always seemed genuinely interested in me.

The man I married is not unlike him. In fact, I think Grandpa got a kick out of Danny, calling him my crazy Irish boyfriend. He used to call Danny a brown-noser, but he was really no different than Grandpa.



On my wedding day, I remember pulling up to St. James' Church in Lakewood and he was the first person I saw. My favorite photo of that day is him pretending to shield his eyes from the bride before walking into the church. He and my grandma delayed their 50th anniversary party because of our wedding. Of course I didn't realize that until we were at their party in October and Grandpa, ever the emcee, introduced Danny and I last and explained that because we had to get married in August, they were forced to delay their party.

I danced with him that night and my mom and I said later that it was the last time we did. His health began to deteriorate, first in what seemed minor annoyances. His legs weren't steady and walking became difficult. He was hospitalized several times. I was one of his regular visitors.

The last time I saw him was in Fairview Hospital a few days before he died. I had stopped there after picking up Ryan and Patrick from daycare. Grandma and my mom said he'd like to see me. I was worried about bringing the boys and their runny noses up to see him. But Gram assured me that it would make him happy to see them. Ryan was 2 and Patrick only 5 months old. Ryan climbed onto his bed, saw the band-aid on his bald head and said, "Grandpa do you have a boo boo?"



He laughed heartily at little Ryan. A few days later in the early morning hours with Gram by his side, his heart gave out.

Over the summer, I had the chance to go through his trunks filled with all kinds of things he saved over his lifetime. The contents of the trunk tell of the hopes, dreams and experiences of him as a boy and a man. I need to get back because I'd like to talk to my Gram more about their lives and I'd like to just sit and remember with her.