A class act

My children started out their education in a Montessori school. For five of those years, they were in the Pre-Primary/Kindergarten class under an excellent teacher by the name of Sharon Root. This year Mrs. Root is retiring after 26 years at the Montessori school.

One of the hardest things that I have ever done in my life is to turn my children over into someone else's care. I was nervous that first day when we met Mrs. Root, but within two minutes, she had won me over with her gentleness and soft voice. She took Madison into her room and into her heart, and for three years, she helped my shy, little toddler grow into an independent young lady. My youngest daughter was already independent by the time she began Mrs. Root's class, but after three years, Darcy too thrived and blossomed with Mrs. Root's guidance.

They say that in every student's life there will be a teacher she never forgets. I now know that in every parents' life, there will be a teacher that her children will have they will always remember. Sharon Root has nurtured my children with love and kindness. She provided a safe environment for them to learn. She helped them with self-assurance, independence, and she taught them the learning skills they will need for the future. She started them both out in the world of education. We could not have released our children into a better pair of loving arms.

Mrs. Root, we love you and adore you, and Tom and I can not thank you enough for all you have done for our children and our family. We wish you well in your new endeavors. You are the teacher we will never forget.

Everything is Rosie

I first saw Rosie O'Donnell in a movie. I'm not sure which one, but she was funny. The one movie that I do remember is A League of Its Own because some of it was filmed in the Indiana city that I grew up in. My mother's best friend was actually one of the softball players that the movie was written about, and she is in the Baseball Hall of Fame. So we went to the cinema and saw it several times. I thought Rosie was funny. I liked her.

I didn't really get to know her (as much as anyone can get to know a celeb) until she did her show. When she talked, I heard my voice. When she gushed over her guests, I felt like she knew it was how I would act. Except for the fact that she grew up with no mother, was a fabulous student, had a great sense of comedic timing, and actually did something with her life, I felt just like her. Most of the time, I saw myself in her. I was sorry when the show ended.

I read an article on her blog about a month and a half ago, checking in. It was like rediscovering an old lost friend. I'm glad she is back.

See My Food?

Last night my husband and I joined a good friend who was celebrating her 40th birthday. As it was also our 11th wedding anniversary, it was a planned night of partying and good times. One of her friends chose a Japanese restaurant for all of us for dinner. I had a picture in my head of all of us seated around a grill with an Asian chef twirling and juggling knives as he deftly sliced and diced my chosen meal of either beef, chicken, or shrimp or a combination of all three.

The emphasis I would place on this image in my head is COOKED food.

Unfortunately, that image was quickly squashed when I realized that I was in a house of sushi. While we did gather around a table, a chef did not come out to thrill us with his knife dexterity or his cooking knowledge. Instead, a fisherman who'd reeled in his catch earlier plopped it down in the middle of our table. Where I am sad to say, my fellow tablemates sucked down these poor creatures like they were in an episode of Survivor, or worse, Fear Factor.

As much as I pride myself as one willing to try things, I draw the line at a meal that might up and walk off of my plate.

There was yellow-tail, tuna, salmon, and gasp, eel. Oh, and the octopus was on the menu as well, but no one signed up for that tasty dish. It was all wrapped in a beautiful bed of rice tied tightly with a rope of seaweed! Most of my tablemates opted to ignore the rice as some were on low carb diets. Instead, they slurped on the raw seafood in the middle and left the rice shell to sit forlornly on the plate.

To start things out, they served a soy-based soup with pieces of floating tofu and ended with a complimentary dish of birthday green wasabi ice cream. The smell alone was enough to kill me. When I want the scent of raw sea creatures, I prefer to be sitting in the sand on a private beach somewhere watching seagulls eat the sushi. It is a miracle that I was able to hold down my diet coke.

Thankfully, I was able to wash away the scent and the taste of my tempura (a sushi bar isn't exactly great at cooked food either) with a coconut creme pie martini from the bar we ended up at later in the evening. I went to bed, hungry. But what an exciting experience for my anniversary.

Happy 40th Birthday, Veronica! May you never meet a mermaid in the next 40 years of your life!

Stirring the cauldron

I have decided in the last month or so that I need to study religion. My husband, one day, was bemoaning the fact that I'm always griping about the fanatical religious zealots out there who do not believe that women have rights to their bodies, their country, etc. He felt that I was missing out on the right things a church has to offer, like potluck dinners and other social activities.

Now mind you, he did not feel that we needed to start attending church, which I offered to do each and every Sunday, he just felt like I wasn't embracing the pleasant side of religion. This got me thinking. I grew up in a household where religion was left up to us. I have attended churches of all faiths, including Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, Catholic, Presbyterian, and non-denominational. After all, was said and done, I chose to sleep in on Sundays.

I have come to a point in my life where I want to study the whole religion art form and know more about the history of religion so that I can enlighten my children when the questions begin. After spending the day in Salem, Massachusetts, on vacation this past month, I have decided that I shall start with Wicca from the Pagan religion. (NOTE to anyone in my shoes: It probably isn't a good time to announce this to your Catholic in-laws and non-religious parent on Easter).

Today I spent some time at the computer researching Wicca. I found a Wicca guide named Pythia (you take a second name if you chose), who led me through various phases of the Pagan religion. As a Wiccan, you can choose to worship a God or Goddess or several deities of your choosing. You do this by meditating, and sometimes the deity comes to you through meditation. This then led me to the different myths regarding said deities. As I read about the various mythologies, I came upon the Greek and Roman myths. I love Greek mythology. I once took a class in college about the myths of Greek and Roman times. T

The book we used was written by our professor. I remember it as not only informative but quite humorous, as was this professor. Years ago, before my house at 8200 was cut out from under me sold, I tried to find this book in my collection of textbooks. It was not to be found. Today I tried to find the book online.

Without my professor's name, nor the title of the book, I was not daunted because hello, it's the age of the Internet. I started with the University's website. I ventured into the faculty and narrowed that down to the English department. Only one professor from my days at the good ole University is still teaching there. He looked WAY older than I remembered him.

I tried to find the faculty from the 1980s, but it was a no go. This then led me into my closet and into my keepsake box. There I found an envelope full of my report cards from college. In 1984 I took the Greek Mythology class and received an A. The professor's name is not on the report card. I searched for faculty from 1984. Then, suddenly, in the middle of googling, his last name popped into my head: Richardson. Dr. Something Richardson.

I could see the man in my head in the classroom teaching Greek Mythology. I typed in the University and the name Dr. Richardson, Richardson's Greek Mythology book, Dr. Richardson, English Professor Dr. Richardson, etc. To no avail.

I got almost every faculty list of every school that ever had a professor that ever attended the University. I got to know Anthony Richardson, who taught at the university, but not in the English department. I found a Richardson who writes about the Islam faith, but alas not the Richardson I was looking for, but I just kept on googling and reading article after article until WHAM, the name Don popped into my head. That was it!

Dr. Don Richardson. Even having that, finding him was still hard. I ended up at the University's library's online facility, where I discovered that Don Richardson had written a book titled, Great Zeus and All of His Children: A Mythology Book for Adults.

Amazon could get that book for me in about 1 to 2 months. I turned to eBay and half.com, where I found the book, ordered it, and will eagerly await its arrival. The whole process took me about two hours, and I did not have time to get back into my research of Wicca as I had to pick up the kids from school and transport them to their various after-school activities.

While transporting, I had time to think back over the information I had amassed so far regarding Wicca, and it came to me that perhaps my deity to worship is Dr. Don Richardson.

Seven years ago

Today is the anniversary of the death of my father. As I do every year at this time, I tell my daughters about my father.  I like to recall memories and recant some stories and just let them know that I did have a father. The month of March is a bit hard leading up to this day, but once the day has passed, I feel that it is okay to let go.

Today I am in Boston on vacation. Today I didn't really sit down at the dinner table and start talking about my father. I mentioned it earlier in the day while driving to downtown Boston, and my elder daughter giggled at the story of how much she used to follow my father around the house. That was about it. Instead, I kept the memories and the stories inside.

It isn't easy to talk about with others. My mother has a different view of my father, my brother isn't into having these types of discussions, and my husband really doesn't know what to say. It truly is a personal event and not one that can be explained to those who have never experienced it.

I miss you, Dad. I miss the funny remarks you would utter during a serious conversation that would break the tension and lead everyone down a different conversation path.

I miss your laugh that would end up in a cough.

I miss your big chest and your gigantic hugs.

I miss the way you could make others laugh....especially me.

I hate you never got to see Madison grow and that you never met Darcy, who is you in so many ways.

Life continues without you, but I still think of you in so many ways.

Today is one of them.

What Floridians do for spring break

I sit working on my new blog, comfy within the confines of the warm house in Arlington, MA. The computer desk faces two large windows that look out into the snow-covered backyard where my oldest daughter likes to spend quiet time. She was born in Florida, but there is Hoosier blood running through her veins.

She loves the snow. She is oblivious to the chill. She sits in the frozen snow on her knees as she carves out snow hearts and builds tiny snowmen she names "Snowie." Yesterday she went out at dusk dressed only in her clothes, her earmuffs, and gloves. She "forgot" her coat.

We never forgot our coats, mainly because our parents were determined to keep us outside in the snow for hours. We were shoved feet first into outfits that covered us from head to toe. We could hardly move in our snow outfits, and heaven forbid if we had to pee. When you went out in the snow in Pennsylvania or Indiana, you were out until you couldn't feel your feet, your fingers, or your nose. Then, and only then, were you allowed back inside the house.

I forget what it is like to enjoy the snow. Once you hit driving age, snow becomes something you dread. It's a chore to scrape it off your windshield and to start up your vehicle to warm-up enough to keep it moving down the ice-covered roads. Yesterday when I accompanied my daughter outside in the snow, I was putting up a good front for her, but as we stomped our way through the frozen backyard, I could feel myself loosing up.

I helped her build a snowman and told her stories of how my father helped us make faces on our snowmen using spray paint. We tried to create a snow fort, but the snow has been here for days and is no longer soft and fluffy. To build, you must first kick in the snow with your boots to loosen it. The time of rolling the snow over and over until you have a big ball has passed. Instead, our snowman was one piece with a flat hat, two sticks for arms, rocks for eyes and a nose, and a twig for a mouth. I forgot that my head was cold. I enjoyed myself. But not half as much as I enjoy watching my daughter make her own snow memories.

Everything will be just fine

Me: "Did you bring the digital camera?"

Tom: "Yes, I brought it."

Me (peering at his only piece of carry-on, his laptop): "Where is it?"

Tom: "In my luggage."

Me: "Your luggage? What luggage? Oh, my god, your luggage that you checked in? Are you stupid?"

Tom: "What are you talking about?"

Me: "You don't put important things in your check-in luggage. That camera will be gone. Gone! And it isn't even your camera. I can't believe this."

Tom: "Oh, stop. It will be fine."

We arrived in Boston yesterday to find our luggage missing from the carousel. We waited as it went round and round with everyone else's bags on it. Then it stopped. I thought it would be interesting if the crowd surrounding the carousel would suddenly start circling, but instead, we all groaned and waited for the block to be fixed.

It eventually started up again, but alas, the only piece of our 4 pieces of check-in luggage that arrived on that carousel was the car seat. At this point, we were hopeful, but after ten more minutes of watching the same luggage go round and round, we realized our luggage was not there. We turned around to enter the Delta office, and there, sitting against the wall, were two pieces of our luggage. That left one suitcase to track. Do I need to say it?

The suitcase with the digital camera.....missing.

Gone.

It did not arrive from Atlanta on this plane or the plane before it or the plane heading into Boston next. Within 24 hours was the word we received from Delta. They would deliver it once it arrived.

Me: "I knew it. It's the suitcase with the camera, isn't it? What were you thinking? I just watched a report on robberies that occur behind the scenes at airports. My god, I can't believe it."

Tom: "And all of those people were arrested too."

Me: "Right like there aren't more thieves to take their places. I never would have put my camera there in the first place. Never."

Tom: "It will be fine."

The suitcase arrived about 20 minutes before midnight after we had already retired for the night. It sat out on the front porch overnight. The camera was there, packed in the top, out in the open. I thought about removing it for just one minute, but I didn't.

Of course, had that been my suitcase, the camera would have been gone. Not that I would have even packed a camera in the case, to begin with, but it would have disappeared. It would have been gone, but for my husband, it was just fine.

Tom: "See, I told you. You worry too much."

It Just Goes So Fast

Well, it happened. My baby lost her first tooth. She kept at it, wiggling it when she woke up in the morning, shaking it when showering, wiggling it on the toilet, wiggling it in the car, wiggling it every minute of the day until she felt it was ready enough for pulling. She jumped on her father the minute he came home last night and conspired with him in the bathroom.

Darcy: "Pull my tooth, Daddy, pull it!"

She then proceeded to yank on the tooth herself until it bled. She just kept pushing the tooth forward.

Darcy: "Pull it!"

Her father wiggled it, and then he twisted it. She didn't move. He pulled and twisted, pulled, and twisted.

Him: "Does that hurt?" He was worried.

Darcy: "No." She glanced at him. "Yes. No. Well, just a little, but pull it. Just pull it."

He pulled it out, and she bled. She was full of joy. Stuffing a tissue into her mouth, she danced around the house, showing us all her missing gap and the pulled tooth. 

She ran into the room to show me. I looked into her smiling face at the empty gap, pulled her to me, and burst into tears. I sobbed and sobbed.

She stood there, letting me cry, and then quietly, she put her arm around me and patted my back.

Darcy: "I'm just growing up now, Mommy."

It's In My Blood, but not in my State

I am from Indiana. I am a Hoosier. I grew up with a basketball in my hand and a basketball goal outside my house. We spent hours in my driveway playing pick-up games, Horse and just shooting free throws. Our basketball goal was regulation height with the free-throw line precisely 15 feet from the basket and painted on our driveway. When you got depressed in Indiana, you didn't go see a shrink...you went outside and shot hoops.

On the weekends, we watched Indiana college basketball. Everyone knew that you did not call our home during IU basketball games. If you did, you either didn't get an answer, or you got the cold voice of my mother answering the phone with, "Who is this? Indiana is playing basketball."

I grew up in a college town. When they had a home game, we were there. We would deck ourselves out in the school's purple and white, grab our UE #1 foam fingers, and head to the game come rain, shine, or snowstorm. We only missed a game if we were out of town on vacation, but that was rare as we did not schedule a vacation during the basketball season. When March comes, Hoosiers are inside watching basketball. In Indiana, basketball is life.

When I moved to Florida, I thought I had left the United States when it came to basketball. Basketball goals were only found at the recreation centers. The only goal I've ever seen outside a rec center was in the street, and it was one of those kid goals that could be lowered so everyone can dunk.

Hardly any natives watched basketball on television, and the only fans that came to the college games were college kids. And can I tell you how bad the college team was? Our Indiana high school teams could have played circles around the University of South Florida Bulldogs. It was a sad sight, but as long as I was able to have cable, I could get my basketball fix. When March rolled around every year, I put in early for my days off to experience the madness. I never had to worry about getting those days. I was usually the only one who requested them. I carried my basketball in my trunk, and when I got homesick, I'd head to the court across the street from my apartment. Some of my first dates with Tom were on the basketball court.

As the years rolled by, I started watching less and less basketball. Indiana was rarely shown on television anymore. I married, moved away from the courts, and eventually lost my Indiana connection. Tom and I use to have a competition each March Madness in filling out the brackets, but that stopped about 5 years ago when Tom stopped picking. I use to bet each year with a Kentucky friend of mine when Kentucky would play Indiana, but eventually, that died off. Little by little, basketball started disappearing in my life. My mother could not believe it when she would call to discuss a game with me and would discover I wasn't even watching. I tried to explain it was a Florida curse.

Last week she called me and admitted that the curse had gotten to her. She said she understood now how it happens. There is sunshine, warm days, the beach, the water, and the golf course all a stone's throw away from our homes. Basketball does not dominate the Sports section of the paper. Games are not announced on the radio. Even March Madness, unless it is played here in town, takes second fiddle to the arrival of Spring Breakers.

Don't get me wrong. I was born in Indiana. I'm a Hoosier, always will be a Hoosier, and basketball will still be in my veins. But I realized that I had become a Floridian after 16 years when I sat down to watch the final laps of the Daytona 500, listened to the Auto Club 500 on the radio, and am now wondering who will be in what pole position for Sunday's UAW-DaimlerChrysler 400.

The Tooth Fairy Is On Strike

Last week my friend's daughter discovered that her tooth was loose. Very loose. She was thrilled about it in the beginning, but after finding out that she would be the first girl Kindergartener in her class to lose a tooth, she cried. She did not want to set the trend. Now, mind you, there are only three girls in their Kindergarten class, one of whom is my daughter, and my daughter would kill to lose a tooth. So as soon as she saw her friend's loose tooth, she found a loose tooth in her mouth. "I have a loose tooth," she announced on Friday as she climbed into the van. She attempted to wiggle the tooth. "It is loose. Really. I do have a loose tooth. Really." I felt the tooth, and it wouldn't budge, but I assured her one day she would lose her teeth, but that time was far into the future. "You are still Mama's baby," I told her. "It isn't time for you to lose teeth."

Yeah, well, four days later, my baby's tooth was loose. 

MY BABY'S TOOTH IS LOOSE. 

And not one, but two. Two teeth have popped out of Darcy's gums and are waiting to take their place in her mouth.

She is ecstatic. I am horrified. She is running around crunching on apples and calling her grandmother to get the tooth fairy bag. I am running behind her cutting up the apple and telling her the tooth fairy is on vacation.

When did this happen? When did my baby start to become a little person? It feels like yesterday I was changing her diapers, nursing her, and rocking her to sleep. Now she is turning six, moving to the other side of the school and losing her teeth. It happened quickly, and I wasn't ready.

Working It...

I have my husband's cold now. I am truly miserable with heavy sneezes, soreness from blowing every three minutes and that achy feeling that makes you just want to go back to bed and pull the covers up over your head.

The difference between us, however, is that I can't just go back to bed. For some reason, SAHM's do not have sick days. We do not get paid to lop around in our bed whining about our miserable head colds.

I still have to wash the laundry so that one daughter has clean uniforms and the other daughter has her rest time blankets for school. I have to make out our menus for the week so that I can get the grocery shopping done tomorrow after I have gotten my children up, dressed, fed and taken to school. Oh, and in between that I shall make lunches so that they have nutritious, please no chocolate allowed, meals and snacks to consume.

Tomorrow is my errand day. That means I have to return library movies and books, shop for our groceries, shop for upcoming events (and those that have passed), mail any packages that must be mailed (sorry dear brother, that birthday gift will eventually make it to IN), and at some point get my sorry, fat ass to the gym so that I get in my 90 minutes of exercise that the federal government tells me I need daily for good health. Then I shall pick up my children from school and start the nightly process which includes homework, extra-curricular activities, dinner, bathing, and American Idol. Then, and only then, will I be able to tumble into bed.

Psst: I'm still in the mode of having my husband home for three days. How am I doing?

My kid is not a rock star

Today I had to go to our local recreation department to purchase tickets for my daughter's ballet recital. This is my daughter's first year in this ballet company. She's spent the past two years with a laid back ballet teacher who taught her beautiful things about the world of dance while the parents sat back and gossiped. 

It was a glorious hour for us all. When it came time for the recital, our teacher handed out our tickets, we got as many as we wanted, and the seats were not reserved. This year was a whole new ball game.

I first received a letter from the ballet company telling me that my daughter was performing on the first day of two days of recitals. Tickets were to go on sale today, and this year they would hold a lottery drawing so that it would not be necessary to have parents show up at 6:00 in the morning for a 9:00 AM ticket sales opening. Huh?

The lottery was to begin at 8:45. I arrived at 8:47, and that was only because I was awake. I had initially set my alarm for 9:00, figuring that sleep was more important than a front-row seat. The woman at the door cheerfully informed me that the doors were now closed and that I had "just missed the lottery."

I really wanted to respond with, "Yes, I came late on purpose as I don't play the lottery because I think most of the money that is supposed to be going toward children's education is being mishandled."

But I figured that joke would fall flat, so I smiled and said, "Yes, I see. I do, however, wish to purchase tickets, and I certainly hope that is still a possibility."

To which she responded by handing me a number. The number was 71. So, despite the barren parking lot, there were somehow 70 people ahead of me inside the locked room participating in the lottery.

Listen, people, this is your child's dance recital, not a concert for Toby Keith!

But I had read the letter, so I was prepared, and I sat down in a vacant chair in the corridor and opened the book I had brought with me. Within minutes the closed doors to the lottery room opened and mothers, and one father, began spilling out of the room in two groups: those grumbling about their numbers, the way this was run or their lack of breakfast, and those cheerfully clutching their low numbers and discussing how this process was much better than the year before and where should they go for breakfast in the next few minutes.

Lotto Numbers One, Two, and Three lined up in the purchasing room where Lotto Number One then proceeded to Ticket Lady Number One. Ticket Lady Number One was where LN1 chose her seats from a poorly run off copy of the theater's seating chart. LN1 then moved to Ticket Lady Number Two, where said tickets were tallied into monetary numbers, at which point LN1 then moved to Ticket Lady Number Three, where she turned in her tally and paid her bill, checks and cash only, please.

The lone father looked at me and said, "I figured out that they will probably do if we are lucky, 30 people in one hour at this rate."

Are you kidding me? Do we not live in the age of computers? I can get tickets to see Toby Keith via my computer at home, sitting in my bathrobe and sipping coffee!

But I smiled and continued reading my book, despite the claustrophobic feeling that was creeping inside me as the corridor became jammed with ballet mothers who were not willing to move an inch for other people who were here for recreation classes. I was sure that at some point in time, a brawl would break out, and I would be a police witness. Fortunately, for me, my heroine appeared.

My friend has been a part of this ballet company for two years now. She did not appear at 6:00 AM last year but opted instead for purchasing tickets the following week. She ended up way in the back where she sort of recognized her daughter's face, but she countered this by buying the video the company sells of the ballet performance, please do not bring your own video recorder as it will not be allowed in the theater.

She had arrived today at 8:30 AM and was a part of the lottery where she picked the number 8. I did a remarkable job covering up my hatred for her at that particular moment, as having a friend with the number 8 was not going to help me any as the company had limited our purchases to a total of 8 tickets, thus once more fixing a complaint from last year where those 6:00 AM mothers then proceeded to purchase 1,000 tickets for several other ballet families who were still home in bed.

However, my friend, while standing in line behind Lotto Numbers 5, 6, and 7, heard Lotto Numbers 4 and 5 purchasing 8 tickets for the Saturday performance and 8 tickets for the Sunday performance! It seems that some children perform in both recitals, no proof necessary.

She then inched her way into the corridor, whispered in my ear how many tickets did I need, thankfully ignored my loudly grumbling of "it doesn't matter that I need 6 tickets because you need 8 and we are on different days, and they aren't going to let you buy those tickets for me anyhow", and purchased my 6 tickets when her number was called, 4 rows behind the orchestra pit, thank you very much.

Guess who I'll be taking with me to the Toby Keith Concert on August 6th? Yep. Cheryl.