Strength

Strength noun. the quality or state of being strong; bodily or muscular power; vigor.2. mental power, force, or vigor.3. moral power, firmness, or courage.4. power by reason of influence, authority, resources, numbers, etc.5. number, as of personnel or ships in a force or body:a regiment with a strength of 3000.6. effective force, potency, or cogency, as of inducements or arguments:the strength of his plea.7. power of resisting force, strain, wear, etc

What is strength?

I've always thought of strength as those guys on the Ironman TV shows, you know, the ones where they have a race carrying a car or move a 500 pound ball. Strength is tall buildings with thick steel beams. Strength is soldiers in combat or firemen saving lives. Strength is a woman standing up to her abuser or a child fighting cancer. Strength is beautiful. Strength is one of those things that I always admire, but never truly understand.

Last night I learned a lesson about strength.

Yesterday we flew to Seattle, and by 'we' I mean me and the kids. For some inexplicable reason I decided that taking an evening flight with 3 kids (ages 5, almost 4, and 17 months) was worth the almost $200 per seat savings. Note: we only bought 3 seats because holding a 35 pound pile of wiggles and giggles on a 4 hour flight also constituted a brilliant plan. In another stroke of genius, I saved more money by not shipping our stuff or checking our bags - we simply carried on 4 people's belongings for a 2 week trip. The funny part is, had our flight not been delayed, this actually could have gone rather well. The kids are seasoned travelers, we pack light, and they are generally pretty helpful.

We arrived at the airport at 4:00 for our 5:15 flight. My wonderful husband dropped us off at the perfect spot. I only cried a little when we said goodbye. There was literally no one in front of us in the security line. All 3 of the kids politely walked through the metal detector one by one, and no one even fussed. We arrived at Gate A20 by 4:15.

. . . Only to find that our the gate listed a different flight departing for Madrid, Spain and a long, long line of unhappy people. Another passenger said, "If you're going to Seattle, they moved it to Gate A23. Ok, not too bad, but at A23 we found no evidence of a flight to Seattle. We trekked to the nearby sign board only to find that the flight to Seattle left Gate A23 at "estimated 7:30."

While I already felt tired and I knew the baby hadn't napped well, I fought back the urge to yell something or just cancel the trip and go home. The girls had spied a pretzel shop which I knew sold dairy free options for my food allergy kids. I explained the delay to the confused children and offered pretzels and a trip to the airport play area. They happily accepted. (To whomever invented airport play areas: You are the best person in the world!!!) Each little girl struggled to carry a bag as well as the pretzels and the little guy toddled happily along. We reached the play area with only a minimum of trouble, but I could feel the migraine starting. The monthly hormones combined with stress of disrupted travel and the back strain from carrying all the luggage started to add up.

We ate and played for only a few minutes before we needed a trip to the not-so-nearby restroom. (To the person who invented airport play areas: they should include a bathroom! Kids go a lot!) I had no choice but to take 3 kids, 7 bags, and some pretzels with us so a 3 year old could pee 4 drops. I insisted that everyone at least try and the baby insisted that he get to play on the toilet too. Thirty minutes later, we returned to the play area. The migraine hit and I fought the nausea hard. I decided that throwing up in the floor might be a better option than another trip to the bathroom. (To inventor: trash cans?!!??) Luckily that wave passed. A nice father sitting nearby struck up a conversation with me while my son and his daughter played. He even brought me a hot chocolate when he went to get his own drink. His wife was there to watch their child. Wonderful kind strangers are the best! Then the 5 year old had to poop. Yes, really.

Finally the time of our flight neared. I allotted 30 minutes to walk the 10 gates down the concourse. We loaded up, but by this point the kids' tempers had started to flare. I ended up carrying the baby and all but 1 bag. The pain from last week's foot surgery flared up badly and I could barely see to walk through the blinding headache. Tears filled my eyes as we trudged on. By some miracle we made it to the overcrowded gate after several stops along the way. It took the whole 30 minutes.

No empty chairs remained. I chose a relatively unoccupied plot of floor and started divesting myself of children and luggage. The kids all 3 obediently sat while I rummaged through the remains of the free snack pile in hopes of something dairy-free. After locating 3 bags of pretzels I collapsed on the floor beside the kids. A few tears leaked out as I obediently opened tiny packs of pretzels. The pain in my head overtook me and I fought the blackness tugging at the corners of my eyes. A grandfather seated nearby engaged me in polite conversation. My son made friends with an older lady and her dog. Our flight time moved 21 minutes later. I wondered if I would survive the trip at all.

When it came time to board I corralled the now-pretzeled kids and channeled their excitement for seeing Grandma and Grandpa. After the lengthy wait, they agreed to board the plane relatively easily. My 3 year-old made a friend in the boarding line and the 2 little girls giggled all the way down the jetway. I loved seeing her emerging social personality and the distraction helped us all get onto the plane in good spirits.

By the time we arrived at row 34, my arm ached from hauling all the baggage almost as much as my head hurt. I located overhead bin space and wrangled the suitcase and 2 bags into it. I settled the 5 year-old in her seat and then the 3 year-old and I sat down across the aisle with the baby in my lap. Luckily, watching the other passengers board the plane entertained the children while my mind relaxed a bit. All of the kids seemed happy and our seatmate turned out to be a sweet young lady who didn't mind a seat next to a wiggly preschooler.

With the airliner finally packed to capacity, the flight attendants began the usual motions while I made a quick trip to the lavatory. As we began to move, I sought the airsickness bag while hoping I didn't need to use it. I managed to turn Frozen on the seatback TV through my bleary eyes. Another harsh wave of nausea hit and all I could do was clutch the armrest and try to keep my pretzels down. My vision swam and I fought for consciousness. As I faded in and out, I tried to sound normal answering my kids' innumerable questions, secretly thankful for the built-in electronic babysitters.

Somehow the wave passed and a twinge of relief washed over my body. As I awakened from my stupor I noted that an hour had already passed. The flight attendants neared with a beverage cart and all 3 of my kids remained happy and pleasant. Thankfulness flooded my mind that I had lasted through another wave with no problems. I sipped some ginger ale and accepted more pretzels from the flight attendant. The remainder of the flight defied my hopes in terms of small-child behavior.

About 45 minutes before landing my 5 year-old fell asleep. My 3 year-old didn't sleep at all - surprisingly she handled things really well with no potty accidents, no tantrums, and a cheery, helpful attitude. My son snoozed on me a bit towards the end of the flight. He has never slept on me his entire life, and I have to admit, it felt really sweet. I entertained a momentary sense of loss that I had never let him fall asleep curled up on me.

A few minutes before landing I began trying to wake the oldest up, and realized that she slept soundly. (Aside: I'm that mom who never, ever bends bedtime at all. Not one time have my kids ever fallen asleep at a friend's house and been carried home. They've only stayed up past bedtime for the 4th of July fireworks. They don't sleep in cars and never miss a nap.) Even after a long sit on the runway, finally parking, and re-parking, the plane, and most of the passengers deplaning I couldn't rouse her. I felt awful that I wouldn't be able to just carry her off the aircraft like I noted other parents doing with their sleeping kids. I realized that with three kids and the luggage, not only did I need her to wake up, but she would have to walk and hopefully tote her bag.

I finally managed to get her up enough to stumble down the aisle while I hauled the grumpy baby and the 3 year-old walked with a nice lady who held 2 of our bags. Once inside the airport I secured a giant backpack on the 3 year-old, convinced the half-awake 16 month old to walk, and stacked the duffels on the rolling suitcase. Looking around it dawned on me that we had a trek in front of us from the far end of the airport to the pick-up area where grandma awaited.

We inched along with the kids doing their best to just keep moving. The baby stumbled, my arm began to shake under the weight of the bags and the oldest child just cried. I know that she's easily overwhelmed and struggles in new situations. I felt awful watching her fight with her emotions as she bravely trudged through the cold airport. My younger daughter's back hunched under the bulk of her large bag, but her joyful spirit remained.

As we neared the exit, my luck ran out. She couldn't carry it any further. She'd tried repositioning it, but her little body just could not handle the weight any longer and I could see her struggle, not wanting to disappoint me. I located a small space beside a wall and we stopped so I could try to figure out another plan. I looked at my tired kids, our luggage, and the crowded busy airport pondering what to do. My own back ached and my limbs threatened to give out. My toe throbbed in pain, but I had no choice other than to keep walking. As I reached to take the bag from my frustrated toddler, my son took off after a dog another passenger walked nearby. I turned to catch him.

When I looked back, I watched my 5 year-old, with tears running down her exhausted little face. With a wisdom beyond her years, she sized up the situation, saw my need, and stepped up to offer a solution. As she took up the backpack from her little sister and put its weight on her own shoulders, she whispered "Mommy, I'll take it."

Tears flooded my tired eyes and we walked those final steps to the car - not the tears of illness, exhaustion, or sadness, but instead tears of pure pride. I witnessed the definition of strength in the quiet whisper of a girl who looked beyond herself as she reached out to help someone she loves.

My First Ice Cream Cone

For those of you who knew me growing up (and, ok, probably a lot of you who know me now), I could easily be described as rigid.  Tough. Inflexible. Uncompromising. Or some other such adjective, maybe with a slight negative connotation.

In many ways, that can be a good thing. I hold my values dear, and don't give allow them to be violated. I have strong personal boundaries and I don't hesitate to stand up for what I believe in. When I make a decision, I stick to it, no matter what. Now if you are meeting me for lunch, you can be 100% sure that I will arrive, pretty much on time. I may be violently ill, dragging 5 kids, and passed on an opportunity I waited 6 months for, but I will be there - and the funny thing is, I will enjoy the lunch! (Ok, so I've also probably never met a lunch I didn't like!)

So you are wondering what this has to do with ice cream, right? Well ice cream should be served in a cup. I decided that at a young age. So young that I don't remember when or why. I just know that I always chose a cup. And if cups weren't available, I ate the ice cream and threw away the cone. I never even tasted one. And I never considered doing so. There was no need. I had made a decision: cups. And I stuck to it. I never lamented my lack of cone eating, or wondered if I would like the cone. I simply did not consider a deviation from my decision.

This week I took my daughters out for ice cream. My 4 year-old ordered first and selected a bubble gum ice cream in a cone with sprinkles. It looked tasty. My 3 year-old then asked the employee if the cones contained dairy. After learning that the chocolate dip did, but the cones did not, she selected dairy-free raspberry sherbert in a cone with sprinkles on top.

At this point, I still have no idea what came over me. I ordered chocolate ice cream with cookie dough mixed in a chocolate-dipped cone with sprinkles. Now I'm sure to most people, that's not a big deal, but for me . . . . well, it's a first in a lifetime decision.

I sat at the table with my little girls happily eating, with me making the biggest mess of all. I had no idea what to do with the drippy thing. It kept crumbling onto the table, my face, and my pants. I have no idea how people eat these without making a mess. More practice, perhaps?

My 4 year-old held her cone up giggling that, "we match!"  We said, "Cheers" and tapped our cones together. Such delight from such a simple thing.  I felt delighted too. Trying something new turned out to be fun (and delicious) and opened up a way to share joy with my daughters.

Maybe I'll try more new things . . . . .

Schism

Split. Rift. Division. Fracture. Fissure.

Sometimes it's time to break up.

I've realized that my Magic blogging has taken on a life of its own, and thus it needs a place of its own.

I've created a new home for it on my new blog A Judge's Journey, where I will still be chronicling my path through the Magic: the Gathering judge program.

This allows my judge friends to read about the game we love and spares them the details of my personal life. It also removes the over technical judge-speak from my personal blog.  My hope is that this move creates a better experience for my readers of both types.

I welcome your thoughts and comments, and as always  Thanks for reading!

DDR and ZPD

You know that feeling when you make that jump? When you actually feel yourself get better at something? When something clicks in your head?

I did that tonight!

In our house we have an In the Groove arcade machine. It belongs to my brother-in-law who is overseas in the military. We play it sporadically, and lately we have been playing a lot. We have fun friends who come over and play with us and sometimes just my husband and I play for a workout. Tonight me, my husband, and a guest played for about 2.5 hours.

During that time, we each achieved new milestones.  The songs in the game have difficulty ratings ranging from 1 (easiest) to about 15(most difficult). For me, I passed my first 6. Our friend passed So Deep (a 9) with dramatically improved technique. My husband passed Determinator (a 12). I have been playing in the 3/4 range for years, and because my play was interrupted by pregnancies I never really advanced. Over the past few weeks I've been reaching for more. I've tried a few harder songs, but have just been unable to read them. Then tonight, it happened, I could just see it. My brain could make sense of things that yesterday it couldn't.

I'm not sure what changed exactly, but it did. Like riding a bike. Once you 'get it,' you never go back.  You may have days that are better than others, but you will never again go back to pre-getting it days.

The zone of proximal development, often abbreviated as ZPD, is the difference between what a learner can do without help and what he or she can do with help. It is a concept introduced, yet not fully developed, by Soviet psychologist Lev Vygotsky (1896–1934) during the last ten years of his life.

In my education courses in college, this effect was studied as Zone of Proximal Development or ZPD. When someone is in their ZPD they are at the point where they can learn the next step. If they are below their ZPD then they may be refining their technique or perfecting a talent, but they are not actively acquiring a new skill. If they are above their ZPD, they may learn bits and pieces, but they lack the scaffolding to truly understand and internalize the concept. This is not to say that there is not value in all three stages. However when you are trying to advance in a area of your life, you need to actively seek ZPD experiences.

In parenting, my ZPD is with my three-year-old.  My four-year-old and I think very much alike, so I feel like I understand her well and often play to her maturity and intellect to help her handle the stresses in her life. My baby's easy, happy disposition makes him a pure joy and he currently poses little challenge for me. My middle child's energetic personality and complete disregard for order and how things are 'supposed' to be confuses me. I don't understand how she thinks, but I am eager to understand her worldview. Luckily for me, she enjoys expounding on pretty much everything and has enough energy to put me in my place repeatedly. I feel like when I have success connecting with her, I am in my ZPD.

In my cooking, vegetables are my ZPD. I can grill just about any type of meat and I can produce a wide variety of pre-cooked side dishes. Breads and baking - well, I don't go there. But creating good tasting vegetables comprises my current endeavor . I enjoy purchasing a random vegetable (usually selected by my children) and then figuring out how to make it both nutritious and tasty.

In my Magic judging, my ZPD is currently floor judging at larger events.  Head Judging puts me in a little over my head, and floor judging a small event has become mundane. If I desire to advance, I will need to keep working with my mentors to find appropriate opportunities to develop my skills.

I could list examples all night because in every area of my life, I have a ZPD. And so do you! However some people actively seek out opportunities to improve, and others don't. Sometimes staying below that ZPD is safe and comfortable. Sometimes we get too ambitious and try to work about our ZPD which can lead to frustration and failure. Sometime we don't care about advancing a specific area or task, so the ZPD becomes irrelevant.

But tonight, I fought in my ZPD and won. I selected songs that challenged me, but that I could almost do.  After about 3 songs, I considered giving up.  I felt kinda tired, and my body suggested calling it a night. I almost did it, but I pushed through it. Sometimes that stubbornness manifests itself as determination and takes on a positive connotation.  I forced my legs to move when they wanted to rest and after about 2 hours they were doing things I never even imagined.

I'm so excited to have taken a giant leap tonight!  That feeling of success is what keeps a person coming back time after time (golfers, I'm talking to you!). So I'll leave you with the reminder that when frustration strikes, look for that 'next step' or ZPD and it will move you in the right direction even if you can't yet achieve your final goal!

Writer's Block

In my much younger years, I first heard the term 'writer's block.' I assumed that a writer's block was an implement used for writing, like a quill pen or an inkwell. Perhaps archaic and definitely not used currently (at least by anyone I knew), but certainly necessary for writing. It must be a rectangular object that sits on a desk and serves some purpose in the writing process. Or, my imagination surmised, it could be a special seat used for writing - a block that you sit upon. I wondered if I would ever get one. Unfortunately I have not yet acquired a physical 'writer's block,' but I certainly have lots of the conceptual kind.

I don't actually have writer's block, because I am not a writer.  That's right. I'm not a famous person with published novels who gets paid to write.  I don't even aspire to be someone like that. Those people are highly intelligent, supremely motivated, and generally brilliant. I'm just a silly girl who enjoys writing as a hobby. It's not my job. It's nothing serious. It's just a way to maintain my sanity in this crazy, ever changing world. I write to process my thoughts. To examine each event that has occurred in my life, compare it to past experiences, and seek the meaning behind it. I only started this blog because my handwriting is too awful for a paper diary,  . . . and because I do too much editing.

So as I sit here contemplating the half-dozen half finished blog posts I'm stuck on, I can't have writer's block. I'm just still working on them.  And when I realized that my best posts tend to be about what's on my mind, I also realized that what I'm actually thinking about is writing.  I know that's getting a little 'meta' for some people, but hey, you guys have stuck with me this far on my writing journey.  So I thought I'd take a minute to share a bit of the process.

The Idea
Most of my blog posts are born as in idea in my crazy mind. I ruminate on it for a few hours or a few days and mull over ideas and angles.  Then finally, it hits me!  I see the perfect way to approach a subject, or find the perfect quote to introduce a topic, or stumble across the perfect example to illustrate a concept.

The Draft
Then I dash for my computer and frantically commit my musings to text. It usually comes out in a burst and my husband often asks what I'm so excited about as I attack my keyboard. I may also ignore food, kids, pets, or nuclear explosions caused by a toddler in my living room when I am writing the first draft. My single focus is to get the 'meat' of the post onto the screen.

The Edits
While I write I pay attention to spelling and some grammar, but mostly it's about content. I never publish anything the day I write it. I have to get away, sleep on it, and seek other eyes before I consider it finished. As I re-read my posts, I edit for flow and clarity. I rarely need to massively re-write, but I often find myself filling in additional details or removing superfluous ones. I consider my audience (parents, Magic judges, friends) for each post and try to keep it relevant. Once I am comfortable with it, I ask someone else (usually my husband) to read it before I publish it. Another person's perspective can be difficult to hear sometimes, but it adds a lot to the final product.

The Finishout
My final steps before publication are to make it look the way I want it to look. I add formatting such as bold or italics. I add links to relevant content. I insert pictures if the post needs them. I preview the post to ensure that things came out the way I intended them to.  I add the tags that create the searchable categories for each post. Then, finally, I hit the 'publish' button. There's always a feeling of completeness that accompanies that button. As a completionist, it's the best part. My final step is to head over to facebook and add a post introducing the blog post, since most of my readers enter my blog that way.  (I do hope to skip that step at some point in the future, but for now, I'll go with what works.)

So it's funny, writing about writing. I started out frustrated because my ideas wouldn't come, and now I've filled up this page with passion and a post that I'm excited to share with you.  So you see I didn't have writer's block at all; I was just writing about the wrong stuff.

Apology Accepted

What are the most powerful words anyone has ever spoken to you?

Many years ago, I played a video game called World of Warcraft. I served as the leader of a group of 30-35 guys who played together in a pretty tight-knit group. In truth, I was the 'mom' figure to this bunch as well as the personnel manager.  I hand selected each member and handled all their concerns, complaints, and needs in terms of playing the game, as well as being a personal friend/confidant to many of them.  When it came to actual gameplay, I employed a Raid Leader (or dad figure) to bark the orders and get things done.  Our roles fit together nicely and while I wore the 'Guild Leader' tag, we led as a team.  All of our Guild Leader/Raid Leader discussions, disagreements, and flat out arguments privately never spilled over to the raid.  In front of the guys, we presented a unified front and stood behind one another's decisions. 

One of my Raid Leaders was a guy who went by the name Zygore.  He was a funny redhead from Kansas City who had served as Guild Leader in the past, but real life had taken him away for a time and then he returned as my Raid Leader. We worked together well, and we played 'good cop/bad cop' exceptionally. Most of the time we were on the same page seamlessly, but when we weren't . . .  well, there were fireworks. 

After one particularly bad explosion, I offered him an apology. Now that's pretty hard to do in the first place, swallow your pride and say "I'm sorry." Additionally, a true apology includes an admission of guilt, a request for forgiveness, and a promise that it won't happen again. I expected him to really let me have it at that point (and I would have deserved it), but instead he simply said, "Apology accepted."  Then he moved the conversation on to the next topic we needed to discuss. While the opportunity to bring up my mistake presented itself multiple times, he never did. NEVER. He never again brought up that issue. Never made me feel guilty. Never chided me about that mistake. Never reminded me not to do it again. It's as if it vanished. We both moved on with cool heads and clear hearts. I also never forgot that moment. Funny thing, I can't remember what I apologized for, but I will never forget the feeling of that forgiveness. 

Not too long later he made a mistake - a big one. He breached the integrity of the game in a way that was counter to our guild's values. And he did it in front of everyone and then laughed it off. I felt (understandably) furious. I debated kicking him out of the group. Later that night, I unloaded on him. (Not my finest moment.) He started to defend his unconscionable action, but then stopped, and apologized. He outlined a plan to make things right that included a public explanation and apology to the guild. A part of me wanted to nail him to the wall, but luckily I recognized the opportunity to offer forgiveness.  "Apology accepted." Accepting that apology did not change the plan to right the wrong or the consequence that came with his action. And he willingly accepted that consequence.  What it did do was allow us to move on without malice between us. I later marveled at the freedom I felt in not holding a grudge or being mad at him. 

It's been at least 6 years since that conversation, but those words still heal. When I struggled with forgiving my first husband for issues in our marriage, that same model of forgiveness and acceptance helped me recover and move on with my life. When things at work went insanely bad, I learned to let go and not hold grudges. 

This week, someone close to me hurt me. I'll not go into detail because the details aren't relevant.  He would never intentionally hurt me in any way.  He made a decision that I ultimately agreed with, but the result didn't turn out the way either of us had hoped. When I expressed my frustration over the situation, the temptation to blame him danced in my head.  I refrained. And later, he apologized. A simple, sincere apology.  "Apology accepted."  The relief washed over me.  I let go of my anger, my hurt, and my frustration.  Those words turned what could have be an angry fight into an opportunity for us to share our feelings and work through the situation together.  Skipping the blame and the pain freed us to spend our time healing the hurt rather than dwelling on it.  That painful experience has brought us closer together.

So I'd like to share a challenge with you, my readers. The next time someone apologizes to you, try accepting their apology. Not with questions. Not while demanding an explanation. Not if you are secretly planning to get them back for it later.  Really, truly, accept their apology and let yourself release the pain and the hurt. Instead focus on the steps to rectify the situation and move on from the incident together. I hope you'll find it as powerful as I have.

"Apology accepted."
The most powerful words

Migraine

Pain. Pain.

My head is in pain.

Stabbing right behind my right eye.

Run to the bathroom . . . again.  Sick.

Bloated, achey. Pain.

Curl up in bed. With an icepack on my face. Can't move. don't move. Moving hurts.

Relief starts to wash over me as I drift off to  . . .

Baby cries. Pain. Noise. Pain. Movement. Pain.

Husband gets baby.

Settle down again. Pull covers up. Pain.

Try to relax.

Not . . . going . . . to  . . . be  . . . sick.
Willpower.
Stay in bed.
Not going to be sick.
Pain.

Start to drift off.
Cat meows.
Cat won't shut up.
Husband quiets cat.

Pain.  Stabbing in my eye. Move icepack.

Finally escape to sleep.

Not a real sleep. Not a restful sleep.
A state of unconscious blackness. A deep, dark place. It swallows me whole and consumes me. Never want to leave.

Baby crying. Nap is over.

Sit up to get baby. Pain. Tears roll down my face.

Stand up. Wobble. Hold nightstand.

Toddle to bathroom. Stomach heaves.

Wash face.

Trudge upstairs to get baby.

His sweet face makes everything worthwhile.
Smile. Coo. Change diaper. Try to pretend I'm ok.
Tears stream. Baby doesn't know.

Take baby downstairs. Make bottle. Load car.

Thank husband.
(Without him I would never survive these days.)

Pain stabs my every move.

Drive to preschool. Pick up 4 kids. Smile at teachers. Make small talk. Load kids, and lunches, and backpacks.

Drive to loud, brightly lit, obnoxious hair salon. Wish for a spa. Remember promise to kids regarding hair salon. Drag self from car. Unload baby. Unload kids. More pain. More tears. Manage to keep it together to go inside.

Kids have a blast. I try to survive the experience. Wish for an out of body experience.

Finally leave.

Load kids. Load baby. Get in car and cry. Pain, nausea, exhaustion, overwhelmed.

Explain to 4 year old why I am crying. "Mommy doesn't feel good."  She suggests that we go to the doctor. Thank 4 year old for her concern.

Drive to botanic garden for preschool class.  Pain.

Spend an hour outside in brightly lit noisy place with large group of preschoolers. Try to make small talk with other moms. Feed baby bottle. Baby does not want to be put down. Thank nice garden club ladies for doing crafts with my kids. Receive live crickets to take home.

Pain. Take kids to restroom. Go in stall alone to be sick.

Recapture escaped cricket.

Make it to car. Pain. Collect crickets to hold until we get home.

Take niece and nephew home. Hang out with kids and brother-in-law while kids eat suckers I forgot I promised them.

Release crickets in garden.

Make it home. Husband is there with open arms. And dinner. Husband is the best.

Husband puts kids to bed.
Husband tells me to go to bed.
Husband washes bottles and cleans kitchen.

Husband is the best.

Wake up sick at 1am.

Husband gets fresh ice pack.

Cry myself back to sleep trying to escape the pain.
It won't leave.
Can't sleep.

Write blog post.

If you've never experienced a migraine, please understand that is has been miscategorized as a headache.  It is not an "ache in the head." It is an all consuming full body pain. It includes the feeling of being stabbed in the eye repeatedly. And the forehead. And the neck. And the aches of the flu. And bloating, gas, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, and heartburn. It comes with a level of hormone/emotional disturbance that makes you cranky, and weepy, and irritable, and confused. The visual disturbances are scary. The level of exhaustion compares to what I assume you feel after running a marathon then taking a sedative - you can't snap out of it. And it sometimes lasts for days. The pain comes in waves, with periods so intense that moving is out of the question and periods that it might be just a headache, but it never really leaves. There is no relief until it runs its course.

If it weren't for the love and support of my family, I'd never get through these days. From my children's sweet compassion to the purring cat in my lap, almost everyone who knows me has been touched by my migraines.  I fear 'migraine days.' I never know what they will ruin.

My husband deserves better. He deserves a wife who can keep up with her chores. Who can take care of the kids. Who doesn't fall apart emotionally. Who isn't constantly being sick. He didn't sign up for this. He signed up for a wife who could hold her end of the bargain. Who could cover his weaknesses with her strength. Who could help make him a better man.

LOVE. He loves me. Even when my speech comes in bursts and pieces because the pain makes it too hard to think of the words. He's there for me. His strong arms wrap around me and he tells me that it will be ok. I apologize - he shushes me. He says that this is the 'for worse' part. I never knew what love meant until I had a husband and migraines. 

Life isn't always pretty, but being able to celebrate the good and the bad, and share all those moments with the ones you love is what's truly important in life. So let go of the 'perfect life' images and enjoy all of what life has to offer. You will find good in the bad and bad in the good, so celebrate it all - together with those who mean the most to you. 

Mr Conditioner

Meet Mr Conditioner!

He's a super cool guy that visits my kids during bathtime.  He does silly things like dances on the showerhead, then falls off and gets wet. He talks in a deep voice with an odd accent. He enjoys making a "bloop" noise while dispensing conditioner into children's hands. He likes to play peek-a-boo from behind the shower curtain. He also inspects children's cleanliness before allowing them to do their hair. He is generally delightfully funny and makes bathtime more pleasant for all involved. His conception was a moment of parental boredom, and he now holds a prominent place in our nightly routine.

Last night my 4 year old asked, "Mommy, how does Mr Conditioner talk?"  I kinda laughed it off, so she continued, "Mommy, how does Mr Conditioner talk and move? Is it really you?"

I was floored. I have made no secret of what I am doing. My arm is clearly attached while he dances and does flips. She can see my face while I am talking in my 'My Conditioner voice.' I thought this was extremely obvious to all involved.

Furthermore, my 4 year old is a precocious child in many ways. She recently declared that she wanted to get her ears pierced. When I started in on my spiel, she cut me off with, "Mommy, I know that it will hurt for a minute, but I won't fuss, so can you please drive me to the ear piercing place?"  I could come up with no better response than to grab my car keys. She got her ears pierced (one at a time!) with no fussing and cleaned them twice a day for 6 weeks with no prompting. She also cleans her own room, enjoys cooking, and can read. This child can competently order a meal in a restaurant, pay with a credit card, and give our phone number for the rewards program. We have discussed birth, death, girls marrying other girls (she wanted to marry her widowed great-grandmother), life being unfair, and many other difficult topics. She's basically a really short adult most of the time.

So did she really not know that I am Mr Conditioner?  She looked disappointed when I told her that it was really me. 

This incident made me really think about the line between fantasy and reality, or perceived reality.  

If you know me, you know that we don't do Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, or any other such people. When we see a costumed character, my kids know that it's a person in a costume for fun. And yes, they still think it's fun. We also don't do TV, so my kids have little experience with most characters. We do read a lot, so my kids have seen talking animals and such, but we discuss that it's all pretend.

I have read that kids have trouble understanding the difference between real and pretend.  I never understood that statement until last night.  

It makes me question why we live in a society that fills kids heads with nonsense about princesses, Santa Claus, and talking cars.  Why do we work to make our kids believe all this?  I have seen parents go to great lengths such as letters from the Tooth Fairy, or having 'Santa' on speed dial on their phone to call when their child misbehaves.   It seems that many parents use such things as a way to control their child.  Parents say it's for their child, or for fun, but really is calling 'Santa' because your kid was rude at dinner really any fun?  Maybe we need to redefine fun?

I've also seen way too many kids who are devastated when they realize that their parents have been lying to them the whole time.  It seems to me that that type of behavior destroys our parental credibility.  So you lied about the Easter Bunny huh?  Did you also lie about drugs being bad for you?

So while this conversation had definitely provoked some serious thought, Mr conditioner/mommy being silly will be back tonight for my kids' bath.  I'll just make sure that they know that Mommy has as much fun being Mr Conditioner as they have giving him high fives.

Passed

Since you already know the backstory (if not read Failed!), and I'm sure you guessed the result by the title of this post, I'll skip the announcement and cut right to the fun part.  The story of how it came about. The truth is, it was a group effort. I could not have passed that test without the support of a bunch of L2s, so here it is, a list of the most important things they said to me.

Jason Daniels: Our job is to make sure players play legally, not to make sure they play well.
As I contemplated preparing to be a Magic judge, I believed that I would first need to become an accomplished player.  I thought that I would need to be able to educate players on the proper plays in various situations and serve as a sort of 'coach' to new players. Since I was a new player myself, I had a long way to go towards that end. However, Jason explained that our role as judges is to ensure that players make legal choices and follow the rules. That makes the game fair and fun for everyone. Our job is not to help them actually play; their own skill will be needed for that. We serve as neutral arbitrators to help players with difficult situations and provide them a resource for resolving problems.
Thanks Jason for taking the time to chat with me at that GPT and open the door for me to become a judge.

David Carroll: I think it's fair to say I liked you from the start.
I played my first game of Legacy ever with a deck David let me borrow.  I also got my first penalty ever with a decklist David gave me.  Afterwards he taught me an important lesson: always verify your own decklist.  While he did apologize, he did not take responsibility. And he's right.  My deck and decklist are my responsibility, and I tried to take the lazy road and turn in the one he handed me sight unseen.  In every interaction with David, he has pushed me to be a little bit better.  Correcting my terminology in Slack, providing feedback on my cover letter, pointing out the 1 question I missed as room for improvement. David liked me enough to never let me settle for less than top tier.
Thanks David for holding me to the highest standards.

Jim Shuman: When are you taking your L1 test?
Jim walked up to me in the middle of a match at the Hunter Burton Memorial Magic Open and asked me that. I struggled to figure out how to play while having that conversation.  Ok, I struggled to play anyway, but trying to talk and play . . . almost impossible.  But when Jim walked away, my opponent looked at me in semi-awe and said, "You're a judge?"  I had wanted to judge that exact event, but couldn't because I failed my certification test. Playing in the event while my friends judged made that stand out to me even more. Jim helped me realize that while I'm not actually a certified judge yet, I am a member of the judge community and have the support of other judges.
Thanks Jim for giving me that boost of acceptance and encouragement when my frustration level was the highest.

Antonio Zanutto: You can't do math while running from a lion.
The night before my L1 test, coincidentally also the day I met Antonio, he was helping me study.  We stayed up late going over scenarios and I expressed my nervousness.  He explained that I would need to relax enough to think clearly while taking the test.  His poignant way of stating such a pragmatic fact really struck a chord with me and made me smile during the actual test.
Thanks Antonio for the last minute advice that made all the difference.

Josh McCurley: You ARE a judge. 
I don't think either Josh or I want to count the exact number of times he made that statement to me. After I failed my first L1 exam I fought the urge to give up.  Magic is a complicated game and maybe learning the rules was too much for me. I was also frustrated that my plans for judging upcoming events had been changed.  That I had learned some things wrong and needed to re-learn them.  That I'm a girl in a man's world of judging. That my husband was better than me - lots better.  Josh was there to talk me off that ledge-several times.  He offered me a listening ear, late night jokes, and answers to all of my million questions. No matter how upset I got, he was the level-headed one who reminded me that even at L0, I was a judge. He showed me a multitude of ways to get involved in the program and offered his name as a reference, and little by little, I stepped out of my box and into my new role.
Thanks Josh for all the good conversations and for never letting me lose sight of my goal.

Brian Leonard: I'm proud of you baby.
My husband, the L2. While it was a roller coaster of a ride, sometimes filled with frustration, jealousy, tears, or long study sessions, there is no one I would have rather been with than you.  You were the first person to support my goal, and you put up with me through the good times and the bad. You shared your knowledge while still allowing me to chart my own (albeit rocky) path. You never gave in to my fits of frustration, and you never let me win unless I was right.  The night I won my first rules debate against you was a turning point for me and since then you have let me build up a belief in myself.
Thanks baby for loving me, supporting me, and sharing this journey with me!


I'd also like to add a few quick "thank yous":
 . . . to Chris as Area 51 for letting me help with some FNMs.
 . . . to L2 Preston May, the guy who saw me fail and saw me pass, and encouraged me both times.
 . . . to Jessica Livingston, Mitchell Nitz, Trevor Nunez, Steve Wise, and all of the #trainingroom crew.

You read my blog

You read my blog.
(Please pronounce read as "red" not "reed.")

You are a friend.
You are a former co-worker.
You are the parent of a student I taught 5 years ago.
You are a judge.
You are a friend of a friend who saw it on facebook.
You stumbled around on the internet and found it.

I was surprised.
I never really expected you, or anyone, to read it.

For years people told me I should start a blog. Or write a book.
I've always enjoyed writing, even when I was in school.  I tried journaling, writing for my high school's literary magazine, and posting funny vignettes on facebook.  I actually wrote the introduction to my senior yearbook.

I write for me.
I write to process the events of my life and better understand myself. It helps me make sense of the chaos in the world. It helps me to find new perspectives. It helps me to see what is important.

Last week, a friend said, "You put it on the internet, so you must want someone to read it."

Wow!
Time stopped for a moment.
Did I really want people to read it? The obvious logic says yes since I did in fact make it public.  But I guess I just never thought anyone actually would.

This led to several days of profound introspection.  I sought the answer to 'why I put something so personal on the internet.'  In some ways, I'm still seeking it, but I'll give it a try.

I want to be real.  I want to celebrate openness and honesty. I want to be able to share the truth.  If you've read Ender's Game, think of a Speaker for the Dead. I want to be able to share things the way they really are without having to hide behind what I am "supposed to" do/say/think/feel.

I think that's why you read it - because it rings true.  Because you like it unfiltered. Because you want to share in my emotions - joy, pain, love, exhilaration, loss. And maybe because despite my flaws, you accept me anyway.

So thank you.  Thank you for reading. But more importantly, thank you for sharing in a piece of my life.

She was real to me

Today would have been her 1st birthday.

Her name was Cynthia Geraldean Leonard.
She was due April 5, 2015.
I miscarried her in August of 2014.

It was early.  We hadn't told many people. I wasn't showing. Hadn't been to the doctor.

I was sick, as I was with every pregnancy.  I knew for a few days.  I bought a test.  It was confirmed.  I was excited.  I told Brian.  We were excited.

Terrified, but excited.  After thinking we were done after our second child, we had decided to try for a third (and planned on a fourth after that). Getting pregnant was easy, and after 2 uncomplicated pregnancies, we expected the best. I started to pull out my few remaining baby items.  I had actually gotten rid of most things after our second, but a few items remained.

We had a boy's name picked out.  In fact, we had it before our first child was born . . . it just took us a while to get to use it.  For a girl . . . well, since our first daughter's name starts with A, and our second starts with B . . . yeah.  We both love names with family ties, so we chose Cynthia after my aunt Cindy who died when I was in college. My aunt Cindy was a beautiful, creative woman with a heart for others and a gift for hospitality.  She was active in her church, involved in charity work, and hosted amazing family gatherings. She could cook the most delicious treats and she always made me feel grown-up and special. We selected Geraldean as a middle name after Brian's grandmother Gerry. She is the sweetest woman and full of energy and smiles. She loves on our children, encourages me as a wife and mother, and cherishes all things family. These two amazing women embodied the things we hoped our daughter's future would hold.

(Note: I miscarried before we knew the child's actual gender.  I choose to remember her as a girl.)

As my excitement built, we told Brian's parents, and mine.  I preferred to keep quiet for a while because about some things I'm just a private person, but Brian loves to share, so share we did. And our families shared in our joy.

While I'll skip the details of the actual miscarriage, suffice it to say that it's an emotionally traumatic moment, with a very anticlimactic physical manifestation. If you have experienced the death of a loved one, you may know the exact feeling of which I speak.  A life leaves, silently, slowly, and you are left feeling empty and alone, but when you look around, everything looks the same as it did before.

I told Brian the next morning.  We cried together.  We grieved together. After a few days, he told our families.  A few consoling comments aside, no one ever mentioned her again.

It does not make me feel any better to forget about her. It does not help when you pretend she never happened. And it really hurts when you say things like, "at least it was early" or "well, good thing you already have 2 healthy kids."

When I got pregnant with our son later that year, I even heard a few comments implying that he replaced her or some how erased her loss.  I disagree. I am delighted to have him, but he is not a replacement or a consolation prize.  Each child is unique and wonderful in his or her own way, and I prefer not to compare them.

Last year her due date fell on Easter Sunday.  A day to celebrate life and resurrection. A day of hope. It was a hard day. Seeing families with babies in Easter dresses, watching my daughters play and laugh, feeling my son kick in my belly - all those joys juxtaposed with the sense of loss made for an emotional roller coaster.  While new life was all around me, the life that would never be was still deep inside me.

As time passes, the loss is less acute, but the questions still cross my mind.  What would she look like? Would she like bananas? What word would she say first? Would she love the outdoors? Could she sing like a lark?

A mom's heart never forgets.  And so today, on what would be her 1st birthday, I choose to remember her by sharing her with you, whomever chooses to read this.  And I ask a favor of you: if you know a mom who is grieving the loss of a child, speak up.  Don't say nothing for fear of making her sad.  The saddest thing to a mother is that no one remembers her child.  So share the memories, the tears, and the lost dreams, and grieve together with her.

Tales of a polyester shirt

When it comes to clothing, I'm usually a "function > fashion" type of mentality, but every now and then, I splurge on something fun and fashionable. I've been trying out Stitch Fix for a while now, and love some of the things they send that are outside of my normal comfort zone.  I recently purchased a cute polyester top for summer.  It has lace detailing I love, is in a beautiful shade of green, and fits perfectly.  I waited patiently for a day warm enough to wear it, and on Tuesday it happened!

I was preparing for a fun day with the kids.  I was picking up my niece and nephew, then taking them along with my two girls to Jump for Fun, which is a bounce house place.  Then we planned to eat lunch, run some errands, get manicures at Sharky's, and attend a class at the Botanic Garden.  My wonderful husband offered to stay home with the baby while we did this. (My husband is extra awesome because he can watch the baby while working from home.  My baby is awesome because he basically sleeps all day.)  My hopes of showering and styling my hair were foiled, but I did my makeup, and donned the shirt. I would be lying if I said I didn't get a rush of excitement from feeling so 'normal' by wearing a 'real shirt' for a change.

I was late getting out of the house due to my primping, and yes, being late in the morning is pretty unusual for me, but that's ok.  After retrieving the children, I pulled into Starbucks for a morning treat (very unusual!), but aborted the mission when I realized I'd left my gift card at home.  I turned it into a lesson for the kids on being responsible (aka Mommy was not responsible enough to bring money, so Mommy has no treat).  My 4 year-old told me to try again next time.

The bounce houses went well.  I sat on a bench and watched the kids jump.  I chatted with other moms.  I felt proud of my shirt.  I even got a compliment on it!

When we came home for lunch, well. . . I picked up the baby, served food to the kids, and then noticed a small spot on the shirt.  I went to my closet, changed into another shirt, and realized that my new shirt said DRY CLEAN.  Some quick internet research revealed that "dry clean" and "dry clean only" are different.  The former is a recommendation; the latter a command.  I very carefully washed out the spot with Dawn, then hung the shirt outside to dry in the sun.

I went back outside to find the shirt on the ground with oily fingerprints all over it.  I washed it in the sink with more Dawn, discussed in detail with a certain 3 year-old not to touch the shirt, and re-hung it.  When I returned, it looked fabulous!

I put it back on and started getting ready to leave.  I fed the baby a bottle, and picked him up to burp.  He immediately spit up (for like the 3rd time ever in his life!) and it ran down the back of the shirt.

I put the baby down, washed the shirt, hung the shirt to dry, admonished the toddler, and hoped for the best.  I didn't even bother changing shirts this time.  So wearing only a bra, I put the baby down for a nap, packed our stuff, and told the kids to get ready to go.  Luckily I remembered the shirt before getting in the car.  I left for the afternoon wearing a slightly damp shirt with a faint baby-ish odor that still looked amazing.

I later began to lament the "I remember why I can't have nice things" logic, when it dawned on me:  I have something much better than a fancy shirt.
Six things actually:
1. a wonderful husband who takes care of my every need
2. a beautiful daughter who is sweet, insightful, and helpful
3. another daughter, who is funny and loving
4. a charming niece who is kind and creative
5. an active, athletic, and cuddly nephew
6. and an adorable baby with an infectious laugh

So in conclusion, there's nothing wrong with having an awesome shirt, but making the shirt the focus of the day was an utter failure.  I'm sure I'll wear the shirt again, but the oily fingerprints will serve as a reminder to me that we are defined not by what we wear, but by what we love.

Bath Thoughts

Things that actually happened while bathing my children last night:

1. I uttered the sentence, "Is that poop or acorns?"
Yes, both of those are realistic possibilities for things that might be found in a bathtub with 3 children.  More accurately, those are in fact things I might see coming out of the large cup of water one child just poured over another child's head.

2. I washed the same child's hair 3 times.
No, it was not that dirty.  I simply forgot which child I had washed.  Then I did it again.  Sometimes a mommy brain just shorts out.

3. A bottle of conditioner had a conversation with a 4 year-old.
I might have been behind the shower curtain using a really deep voice to pretend to be conditioner talking, but that bottle of conditioner stole the show.  He tried to make a mess on the walls, floor, arms, feet, etc, until my daughter showed him that he went on her hair, and even then he protested.  Glad she finally won!

4. I fell asleep on the rug in the bathroom floor.
It was only for a second because as soon as I 'fell asleep' I was tackled by a soggy toddler who suddenly had a really good reason to get out of the bath.  Good thing she got out or I might have slept there all night.  Note: pretending to fall asleep is dangerous - it's far too easy to cross the line into actually being asleep.

5. It was acorns.

Thank you Robert Sanderson!

Before reading this post, please take the following quiz.
Quiz

So, how did you do?

I got 74 on my first try.  Without even knowing what the quiz was about.  Yes, I can still spell Botswana and Azerbaijan from memory.  I also know that Montevideo is the capital of Uruguay and that Georgia is the "Peach State."

A trip down memory lane . . .
When I was in 5th and 6th grades I had a history teacher named Robert Sanderson.  He was from England and had attended a prestigious boys boarding school.  One time he told us a story about setting a golf ball on fire and it bouncing around his chemistry lab.  He was the toughest teacher I had ever encountered at that point in my life.  He graded hard, had ridiculously high expectations, and didn't accept excuses.  He called me "postage stamp" because of my tiny handwriting.  (His requirement that our 'current event assignments' be a page long motivated me to purchase a small notebook so that my pages would not be as large.  I think I still had to write more than most of the other kids, so he allowed it.  I was surprised that he let me slide on that one.)  Anyway, he was an amazing teacher.

Rwanda is north of Burundi because my grandma Wanda runs down to South Africa.

On our report cards both History and Geography were listed.  For History we received a grade for history class, and a mark for conduct.  Since it was the same class, somehow Geography and Geography Spelling appeared on the report card.  Now spelling wasn't really my thing . . . and spelling geographically was even less my thing.  I received my first ever C+ on a report card for Geography Spelling.  While I ranted that it wasn't a real grade, it hurt.  It hurt enough that I studied my buns off . . . and learned to spell the names of all the countries of the world.

Bolivia is in the middle of South America because it is located in the bottom of the "bowl."

At the time learning names of countries, their locations, capitals, etc. seemed somewhat useful in life - maybe, someday.  (At that age I also had no idea that the names of countries could change due to things like civil wars and revolutions.  I thought that Czechoslovakia would be there forever.)  While on some level I accepted that being an 'educated, well-rounded person' involved learning a lot of random facts that may or may not ever prove useful, I was also a twelve-year-old who didn't want to memorize a bunch of stuff.  Luckily for me, I was a motivated twelve-year-old who cared both about grades and about parental approval of said grades.

Austria is Hungary for Turkey.

Now, as an adult, I could probably count on one hand the number of times that this knowledge has been actually useful, and most of them have been while playing Trivial Pursuit or trying to win a pointless argument.  In fact, until my sister pulled up this quiz on my computer, I don't think I have thought about Mozambique or Tanzania ever.

Madagascar.  I'm 'mad' to be out of 'gas' in the 'car.'

Looking back, I can now see that learning the names of those countries was in a sense just a pointless memorization exercise.  The value was not in the content itself, but in the experience of learning it.  I was learning how to learn.  The what was just a vehicle.  In fact much (most?) of what we learn in school is really the how.  As time passes the what changes.  New scientific discoveries are made (there are atomic particles smaller than electrons?!), countries come and go (what happened to Zaire?), and new ways to do things are charted (my husband discovered a new method to find the potential function of a conservative vector field in Calculus 3).

Guacamole is very similar to Guatemala. In shape and in spelling.

As time passes, the world grows, evolves, and shrinks. There is so much more knowledge overall,  much of it disproves earlier theories, and it is all so accessible - from anywhere.  Those who know only facts will find themselves left behind if they do not also continue to change.  Learning how to learn is a tool that allows for personal evolution in a changing global environment.

So thank you Robert Sanderson, and all of my other amazing teachers - especially the really hard ones - for giving me the biggest advantage in life: the ability to never stop learning.

Another fun Mr. Sanderson story: One time in 5th grade he assigned us to read a chapter in our American history textbooks.  I read 3 of the 4 sections.  We had a quiz the next day, and I missed a question over the section I did not read.  This particular question dealt with Robert Fulton, the inventor of the steamboat.  My last name at the time was Fulton.  He asked me about it in front of the class.  I (stupidly) also said that my dad's name is Robert Fulton.  He never let me forget that mistake; I will also never forget who invented the steamboat.  The next year, he called me out of my math class in the room next door to come in and relive this mistake for another group of 5th graders.  I will NEVER forget that Robert Fulton invented the steamboat - ever!


P.S. If anyone by some random chance knows Robert Sanderson, who taught at The Oakridge School in Arlington, TX in 1992-1994, please pass along my thanks to him!

By His Side

We've been married for 5 years.  FIVE YEARS! I'd say 5 long years, but really, they have flown by so fast that if he hadn't reminded me, I wouldn't have known it was that long.


We met playing World of Warcraft online.  (If you are not familiar, it's a massively multiplayer online role-playing game, or MMORPG.)  I was the leader of a large, competitive raiding guild.  He was a player looking for a new guild home.  Three years of playing together later, he was the Raid Leader (a very prestigious role) in the guild and we worked together to run the group, along with the help of some exceptional officers (Penimus). I attended an unrelated conference in his city . . . and he asked me on a date.  He ended up moving to Texas to be with me.  We took a 3 week tour to drive around the country and stay with many of our raiders (Blizzazed). He proposed at Blizzcon in 2010 in front of some of our raiders (Paz).

Then, we retired from WoW and settled down to start a family.  Those were some good years in terms of our lives - we had 2 kids, bought a beautiful home, he found a great job and started working on a degree, etc.  But they were some tough years in terms of our relationship with each other.  The strains of daily life, kids, mortgage payments, college, etc. took their toll.  We drifted apart even while living together.  We shared common goals and both strove to meet them.  We both did our parts to make life work, but it was work.  Somehow, we lost the 'spark.'

Two years ago, some of Brian's friends invited us to play Magic: the gathering, a trading card game.  Brian took to it immediately and before long was attending (and winning) tournaments.  I was a bit slower to come around.  I tried to be supportive, but I think I only succeeded in being mildly resentful, and jealous.  He went to play every Friday night, and some weekend days too, leaving me alone.  It wouldn't have been as bad, but with work and school I barely saw him anyway.  I began to hate the game.

One day Brian and I talked.  More accurately, he called me out.  He reminded me that we met playing a game.  He was a gamer when I met him, and so was I.  He proposed at a gaming conference. Many of our best memories were from our gaming days.  Wow! (ok, pun intended)  That hit me pretty hard.  He was right.  And I changed.  I stopped giving him a hard time about playing and became much more supportive.

One Friday night, I went to watch him play.  It was fun.  Enough fun that I gave the game another try.  It still took almost a year of intermittent play for me to come around, but last May I played in a huge competitive tournament with him in Las Vegas, and my spark ignited.  After that trip I couldn't wait to play again.  The passion for the game began to consume me as I learned the rules, tried new decks, and attended every Friday night that I could get a babysitter. Now don't get me wrong, there were frustrations: complicated rules, lack of babysitting, expensive entry fees, and I am still not allowed in the group chat due to my gender.  But overall, the good outweighed the bad, and excepting the time I took off when our third child was born, I've played weekly since.

Which brings us to our 5 year anniversary, and our anniversary trip - to a Magic Grand Prix of course!  My wonderful mother agreed to keep all 3 kids for the weekend, so we entered the tournament.  We decided to cut costs by joining forces with some friends, so we and 3 guys rode together and shared a room.  Now if you are imagining a 4 hour car ride filled with beef jerky and fart jokes, you're right on the money. We piled into a decent sized hotel room where Brian and I were able to pay extra for the "bed spots" and all dumped our bags to head for the convention center.  After playing Magic until 9pm, we headed out for our anniversary dinner. I had originally hoped for sushi, but by that late was dying for pizza.  Brian managed to find a fantastic local dive-y place 12 blocks from the hotel, so after a brisk hike, we squished into this hole-in-the-wall and managed to order some food.  It was well worth it as the pizza was amazing!  And yes, for my anniversary dinner, I ordered pizza and beers and served them to table full of guys.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Saturday and Sunday we played a lot of Magic, and I overheard a lot of guys talking about their wives being mad at them for playing, or discussing what they had to do to get their wives to let them come.  It made me sad that these men had to beg, bribe, or sneak to enjoy a hobby.  Saturday night we piled into a too small Uber for a night of fajitas and margaritas, and had a blast.  Sunday morning came early, but we all survived the day.  As I drove home that night, with a carload of sleeping guys, it hit me . . . when we are gaming together we are sharing a passion, not just a purpose.

I'm so lucky to be married to a man that not only invites me to join him, but encourages me to pursue my own interests as well.  As with WoW, we each play our own way and do our own thing, but sometimes a mid-round shoulder rub, or holding hands in the registration line is a nice bonus too! So after some trial and error and a 3 year gaming drought, I realized that I where I most want to be is playing by his side.

Good Things

Way back when I was a teacher . . . I attended a workshop at which we were told to greet students by asking them to name a "Good Thing."  While I won't go into the details of the horrors of teacher trainings, I will state that generally these well-intended ideas are actually insane in the real practice of teaching.  Like while trying to run to the restroom, fix broken lockers, take attendance, and grab a bite to eat in a 4 minute passing period, I should also stand at my door and have this meaningful exchange with all 42 students in my class.  Supposedly asking someone to name something good puts a positive spin on everything and sets a good tone for the class, blah, blah, blah . . .

For some inexplicable reason, I decided to employ this particular strategy with my World of Warcraft guild Officer Meeting.  This weekly meeting began at 11pm and lasted approximately 2 hours where we would discuss the week's raids, our raiders, plans, goals, problems, and upcoming content.  It included a written agenda, homework, and reports from each of 5-7 officers.  To my officers' credit, they tolerated some pretty crazy stuff from me (the Guild Leader) including having them write peer reviews of each other, and making them sit out if they were not completed on time. Looking back they were some of the most phenomenal human beings I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  Anyway, I started each meeting by making them each share a Good Thing.  A few of them protested or said it was stupid or that they couldn't think of anything - one guy even left the guild over it, seriously. But one guy, Penimus, told us each week about the sandwich he was eating.  Sometimes he even told us with his mouth full about what a great sandwich it was.  I am sure that he was just doing it to get me to shut up and move on, but I usually asked about the sandwich and its vegetables, dressing, or some other detail.  It became a weekly ritual to celebrate the sandwich. At the time I suspected that he thought I was insane, but looking back, he was brilliant. Pen found a way to celebrate a small thing in life and really, honestly answer my question each time.

Fast forward to tonight:  It was a rough evening.  All 3 of my kids wanted everything, at the same time.  I had had a taxing day with my plans being changed a million times, the painter no showed, my daughter got in trouble at school, and I'm stressed getting ready for this weekend.  Trying to get dinner on the table was a nightmare: husband would not be home till 9, daughter got baby's food all over him and everything else in sight, other daughter kept licking everything, food does not cook when you turn the incorrect eye on.  By the time we sat down to dinner an hour late, the fact that I put shiitake mushrooms in the pasta was irrelevant.  As is our nightly ritual, I asked my girls to name a Good Thing for the day.  My 3 year old responded with, "We are finally eating."

I started to tell her that her answer was unacceptable because it was shallow and a bit pointed (at me!), but I thought back to Pen and his sandwiches . . . and I agreed with her that it was a Good Thing.  Just like those sandwiches, tonight's dinner was Good.  We have food to eat.  We ate it together.  The girls even helped prepare it.

It took me a lot of years to realize that the point of Good Things wasn't the big stuff.  It wasn't about being valedictorian, winning the lottery, being homecoming queen, or making 100 on a test.  Good Things is about finding joy in the mundane.

So I ask you, name a Good Thing that happened today ________________________  .

What do you represent?

Recently, after making a bad decision about getting on the highway at close to rush hour, I had the pleasure of sitting in traffic with 4 toddlers in my car for over an hour, while listening to their favorite toddler music CD.  While stuck on a 2-lane bridge of stopped cars, each waiting patiently for their turn to move approximately 18 inches at a time, there was that guy.  You know the one, the one who cuts back and forth between lanes honking at everyone as if he is somehow going to go somewhere faster than the rest of us.  The one playing his radio loudly and glaring at all the other drivers who are complacently knitting while they wait. Everyone should keep knitting in their car . . . but I digress. Also, please note that my use of the word 'guy' does not necessarily mean that this driver is male - I just had to call him/her something.  So after watching this person's antics for about 15 minutes, while we were still both on the same bridge, his license plate caught my attention.  The custom plate featured a religious symbol, and the text on the plate referenced a part of the religion's cannon, more specifically an evangelical quote threatening others with the 'wrath of God' should they choose not to believe.  Wow! Based on this person's driving, I would be more fearful of the wrath of the religion's followers than their God.

As I sat there letting my mind wander idly while the car's engine idled, I had to ask the question, "If you are going to emblazon your vehicle with a religious symbol, should people expect your behavior to be representative of that religion's ideals?"  Of course if we discount the corner-case scenarios like 'the car was stolen and the driver was actually the thief' and assume that the owner/driver did in fact pay extra money for the privilege of representing his views and values, one might also assume that  he wanted others to notice this.  Therefore, one could also assume that either he is in fact a member of this religion and chose to evangelize vehicularly, or that he spent a lot of money and effort to demean a religion.  (You know, like raiders who vote in the opposite party's primary election.)

If you look around, you see lots of examples of people wearing or advertising their values:

• Boston Strong bracelets
• A T-shirt that says "Nerd? I prefer the term intellectual badass"
• A yard sign: Wow Windows and Glass
• Kids in superhero capes
• Dads in superhero capes
• "I love Molly" on a tattoo
• "Make America Great" button supporting Donald Trump
• "My kids is an honor student" bumper stickers
• 31 Bits jewelry made in Africa and sold to raise money

Each person is subtly (or not so subtly) saying "This is what I believe!"  They are also saying, "I want you to see what I believe."  They want to advertise their politics, religion, child-raising, socially responsible consumerism, or social status.  Some may want to start up conversations wth like minded individuals.  Others may prefer stirring up debate and controversy.  Some may hope to attract a mate or at least deter the ones they don't want to mate with . . .

The next step in this journey is of course to ask myself, "What do I represent?"

Well, my first thought is that I smell like an ad for Enfamil Prosobee baby formula.  And maybe Secret Unscented deodorant.  Im driving (ok, sitting in the driver's seat at least, even if it's not moving) of a large red SUV.  Yes red, a midlife crisis color of car.  It contains 5 car seats - thus I represent a preschool, right?  I am wearing Clark's shoes that may dad bought me (so do I represent comfortable, high quality, but not the highest fashion shoes? or do I represent the coolest dad ever who is an awesome shopper?)  Plus sized jeans (Don't go there!)  A Magic the Gathering t-shirt from a 5 day tournament in Las Vegas. A watch and wedding ring (like all good wives should).  So in summary I represent . . . a conglomeration of all the parts of me: A parent, a gamer, a person who values family, a person for whom fashion is not the top priority, a person who is comfortable with herself.

So if you see me, I hope that what you see is me.

And if I see you, well . . . maybe you should think about what I will see and what you represent . . .

Failed!

I failed today.

I fail every day in the little things like 'I forgot to empty the cat box' or 'I wore my underwear inside out all day.' But failure in the BIG things is pretty rare for me.  It only happens when I step outside my box and reach for something new.  I love a challenge.  I love the feeling of learning, working, struggling, and coming out on top.

I've had a lot of success.
My accomplishments include:

• Yearbook Editor
• Spanish Club President
• Golf Team Captain
• High School Valedictorian
• Bachelor's Degree
• Master's Degree
• Won UIL, MathCounts, and Future City competitions and awards
• Married to the man of my dreams
• World of Warcraft Guild Leader of a Top 200 US ranked guild
• Bought the perfect house
• 3 beautiful kids and a TON of parenting milestones
• Gotten every job I have ever still wanted after the interview
• And too many more to list . . ..

The last failure of this magnitude that I can remember was in the 7th grade (over 20 years ago).  I tried out for cheerleader.  I was not cute, terribly athletic, or perky in any way, but I saw those cool girls and wanted to be one of them.  I went to a few classes and thought I knew what I was doing, but I was in way over my head.  I came home, cried, and thought the world was ending.  (I was a preteen girl - the world WAS ending!)  My parents helped me to see that the world was not in fact ending, but that there would be other opportunities.  After some mourning, I got busy - I attended cheer classes, tumbling clinics, practices, and anything else I could for an entire year.  And the next year, I tried out again and made the squad.  While I still get that sick to my stomach feeling when I think back to that day of finding out that I didn't make it the first time, I'm now glad for the experience because it taught me how to fail - and fail hard - and still bounce back.  And as an adult looking back, I can see that I am a better person for it.  

I'm so glad that I have the guts to try - to go for it - to stretch myself into new territory.  I'm used to great success and little else.  In fact, so used to it that I've forgotten what it feels like to fail.  

To be fair, I knew I was reaching on this one before I even started.  I have been playing Magic for less than a year.  Many players were playing when I was in 7th grade - literally.  Most players testing for judge certification have played a lot more Magic than me, for a lot more years.  It's a complicated game.  It has a lot of complex rules to memorize and even more intricate interactions among those rules.  I have studied - a lot.  I have done everything I knew to do including asking others to help, reading the rules online, taking practice tests, playing JudgeTower, following forums, interacting with other judges, and trying to immerse myself in the mindset of a judge.  While I learned many, many things, it wasn't enough.

I failed.

And that's ok.  I knew going in that rules were not my strong suit.  I was still struggling with some concepts that I needed to know.  I also had some misconceptions in my head form mistakes I made while studying.  In the end, I failed by 2%, which means I was close, but I didn't get there.  

My judge mentor said, "I think you are ready for the task in attitude. And that is what makes great judges, not all the v rules stuff. :-)"[sic]  While his undeserved compliment certainly assuaged my bruised ego, it also led to some serious introspection.  I 'studied' the wrong things.  I worried about how judges look, how they act, and how they interact because I was worried about the interview.  I was worried that this man would see me, a female new player, as not worthy of being a judge.  I tried to figure out what questions he would ask me and how to answer them to convince him of my worth.  Looking back, my efforts paid off, and I must have seemed fairly competent because he only asked me 1 question, "Do you have any questions for me?"  Needless to say, I had no idea how to answer that one.  There were millions of them running through my head - tricky rules interactions, queries about working at larger events, fears of handling tough situations, details of infractions, and even wondering about the possibility of further advancement - but I didn't dare ask any of them right then.  He was busy simultaneously working with 4 judges/candidates and I was too nervous to think clearly, so I just took the test.

But I didn't know the rules well enough to pass.  I missed 3 questions about the exact same mechanic, giving the same incorrect answer 3 times.  I missed 2 questions by not reading carefully enough.  I missed 2 more questions by just getting them wrong.  And the last question I missed my mentor said he would have chosen the same answer as me.  So overall, I missed enough things in enough different ways to conclusively say that it was me - not the test, bad questions, weird wording, or any other reason.

I would actually guess that the rules test is a 'non-issue' with many judge candidates because the longer you play the game, the more rules you learn, which leaves me, the new player, at a decided disadvantage of my own making.

So while I could use this time for anger, frustration, sadness, or laying blame, I think I'll skip all of those and do what I did 20+ years ago when I failed.  I'll pick myself up and go study the rules a little harder, because when the opportunity to test comes up again, I will be prepared.

Food Allergy Mom Tips

My daughter has a food allergy.  It took almost 2 long, miserable years to find this out.  We'll save that story for another day.  For today, here are a few tips for food allergy moms.

1. You are you child's advocate.  Be proactive.
This is the most important thing.  Your child does not drive and likely does not plan their own social calendar, so when you are making dinner reservations or booking a transatlantic flight, be sure to consider your child's needs.  Think in advance about where you are going and what food you might encounter there.  Call ahead and ask about the allergy menu or alternative meals.   Be willing to change plans for your child.

2. Assume nothing!
You would be surprised where allergens pop up.  Read the labels.  "I don't think this contains allergen" from a confused looking waiter or well meaning friend is not reliable information.  Do not feel bad asking for the package and/or not letting your child eat it.  Better safe than sorry.
Example: Carmel apples contain milk protein.  There is whey in the caramel.

3. Educate yourself.
Learn to explain the difference between a food allergy and a food intolerance.  Don't feel bad about educating people who want to criticize you, your child, or your parenting.  Lactose intolerance is a body's inability to process a sugar due to lack of an enzyme.  It is not the same thing as a non-IgE milk protein allergy.

4. Carry snacks.  
Since food opportunities will pop up unexpectedly, make sure you have something your child can eat with you.  Keep something non-perishable (dried fruit is great) in your purse/car that you child loves to offer when that unplanned treat stop does not include food that your child can eat.  If your sister suddenly decided to pull in to a frozen yogurt shop on the way home from the zoo, but they don't have vegan yogurt, break out the dried strawberries!

5.  Skip "Kid's Meals."
Many restaurants offer great, healthy options that are allergen free, but only for adults.  Don't be afraid to order them for your child.  Many places will let you substitute them into a kids meal for no charge. If not, just pay for it - your kid is worth it.

6.  Find cupcakes.
Since most children regularly attend birthday parties, you will need an alternative to the usual cupcakes/cakes/cookies served.  Locate a local bakery that allows you to purchase 1 allergen free cupcake as needed.  Before each party, contact the party mom and ask about the flavor/color of the cupcake or treat being served.  Explain your child's food allergy and that you will provide their treat.  This step saves you from their inquiring glare on party day when you do not feed your child their likely-expensive special goodie. Contact your bakery and have a suitable replacement created.  Bring it to the party and discreetly replace your child's dessert at the appropriate time.  Some party moms will be super cool about this, some are not, but do what's right for your child.
Note: I had one awesome mom friend who actually bought a dairy-free cupcake especially for my daughter and showed it to me before the party to confirm that she could eat it.

7. Teach your child to speak for him/herself.
No matter your child's age, he/she knows what's going on.  Make him a part of the solution.  It will reduce his frustration with not being able to eat foods to which he is allergic.  Empower him to make food choices that are safe and yummy.  My 2 year old daughter told a preschool substitute teacher that "I can't eat goldfish because I'm dairy free."

8.  Eat the allergen in front of your child.
Don't live in an allergen free bubble.  Your child will see other people eating it.  Make that normal and ok.  This is preferable to your child finding you hiding in the pantry sneaking a bite of a particular food. Explain that the food makes their tummy hurt, but that it is ok for other people to eat it.  Offer them a delicious alternative then have a snack together.

9.  If it happens, don't panic.
If your child's allergy produces an anaphylactic reaction, then please call 911 and use the EpiPen.  Panic will still not help in this situation.  Deal with the reaction and move on.  Note what caused it and be more careful.  You may learn the hard way, but you will learn.

10. Hope they grow out of it.
While this is unlikely in many cases, it's ok to hope.  And don't feel guilty about it.  Having a food allergy is stressful for you, and your child, and that's ok too.  You can work together to make it as manageable as possible without letting it put a damper on fun times!

Tuesday Night Lights

Tuesday Night Lights

Brisk wind grazes my cheek, rushing past the edge of my plastic poncho’s hood.  I lean back, welcoming the rough chain links that support my tired spine.  I glance at the clock and see 4:39.  “Man, halftime is short,” I think to myself as I set the rusty scoreboard controller on the damp bleacher next to me and stand up to stretch.  It is a cool October night, with drizzling rain – perfect football weather.  Our 8^th grade B team handily won the first game, now the A team boys are fighting for the second.

I glance around and my eyes take in the scene behind the bleachers in a field that is more dirt than grass.  Boys are grouped up by age, engaged in various football drills.  While there are no pads, helmets, or teams, these boys are learning to play.  Tough dads bark orders and little boys hastily comply.  The older ones are running tires, doing knee-highs, and perfecting a three-point stance.  They attack these simple drills with faces made of stone, never wavering in their determination to be the best. 

On one side of the field a teenager wearing a sling on his arm speaks to a group of rapt elementary age students, explaining to them how important the line is in protecting the quarterback.  They nod appreciatively and marvel at the high school jersey hanging from his broad shoulders. 

Preschool aged boys, egged on by proud fathers, take turns clutching a football tightly and running through an obstacle course of plastic cones.  “Take care of the football!” reminds a large man high-fiving them as they pass.  Off to the muddy edge, a group of toddlers play with nerf footballs under the supervision of older sisters as their mothers watch the ‘big boys.’  The girls point and stare at the boys practicing while feigning disinterest when the boys return their admiring gazes.  The mothers evaluate each boy as well as the men coaching them.  They exchange appreciative nods at jobs well done and knowing looks when a reprimand is given. 

“Miss, I got you some nachos,” chirps a voice behind me.  I turn to see a former student wearing a band T-shirt holding the nachos and a drink form the concession stand where she is working tonight.  I reach for my purse and she stops me saying “Don’t worry about it.  It’s on us.  Thanks for keeping score tonight.”  She grins and trots back down the steps towards the hut on the side of the field house.

I hear the twang of the aluminum bleacher as I plop back down to enjoy my snack.  My eyes travel off past the scoreboard to the varsity practice field where even from this distance I can hear the whistles blowing and the bodies crashing into one another.  I watch young men pushing themselves to their limit running, blocking, tackling, and kicking.  Tonight they wear simple practice jerseys, once white, now the color of grass, dirt, and sweat all worked in over many weeks. 

Past them, on yet another field, I see the junior varsity team doing conditioning drills.  Without complaint, each boy runs, drops, rises, and runs again.  With aching legs, they continue the drills.  I see a boy fall out, and 3 others grab him and pull him along.  The coaches don’t intervene, but they know that the bond these boys form will carry them through the toughest games of the season.  As their practice ends, some of the boys head for the field house, but many don’t.  They drag themselves back onto that well-trodden field for a few more reps.  The coaches watch in silence, with approving nods.

In the distance I can see the stadium.  The lights are on, and the grounds crew is hard at work mowing and painting, preparing for Friday night.  Its tall bleachers and covered press box would be much more welcoming than this cold bench right now, but playing on that field is an honor reserved for only the high school’s elite.

All too soon, the harsh metallic buzzing ends my reverie.  I set the clock for 8 more minutes and watch our soggy huddle break up as the boys rush back onto the field.  Their exhilaration seems contagious and the cheerleaders break into wild giggles.  Despite the rain and the mud, their love of the game shines through.  

As I watch them slog through each play, my mind drifts over the football memories in my head. Stories my dad has told me about his own playing days filled with tough coaches and even tougher players.  I remember watching games perched on my grandfather’s hospital bed in his final days.  Freezing while bundled in all my ski gear attending the playoffs with my dad. Buying and selling tickets in the parking lot and learning the language of the scalpers.  Attending South Grand Prairie High School’s homecoming with my parents and hearing my mom tell her drill team stories.  Listening to my Uncle Brent cheer on the Cowboys as my grandmother did her victory dances.  Football intertwines family, passion, and character. 

As I look around me I see another generation growing up under the lights – not the Friday night lights that bring prestige and honor. The ones filled with long, hot practices, tough coaches, endless conditioning drills, and no spectators – the Tuesday night lights.