Deep Thoughts

My daughter threw up last night. As a mother, I wanted to rush to her, take her in my arms, and tell her everything would be alright. I wanted to make her feel better. As the person who mops the floor, however, I just had to take a moment to step back and marvel. I must say, when my kid does something, she does it big. The fallout  was spread three feet wide, five feet long, and (I kid you not) produced a splatter zone that was up to eighteen inches high in some places. Floor, mopboard, cabinet, and door - nothing was spared. At least it was on hard flooring. I shudder to think of what would have happened if it would have been on the carpet. I think that would have been cause to just torch the place and start anew. At the very least, FEMA and the National Guard would have had to have been called in.

But, there were no reinforcements coming, so it was up to me to handle the situation. I honestly did have to stand there for a moment and just try to assess how on earth I was even going to deal with it. There weren't enough paper towels in the western hemisphere to tackle this mess, and all of the rags I considered using were trapped in the bathroom, on the other side of Lake Lost-It. So, I headed outside, filled a bucket with water at the spigot, and grabbed the mop. Thirty-five minutes and three bucket-dumps later I had made a path wide enough to get in to where the rags where stored, so I could start on the woodwork. Needless to say, there are more diverting ways to spend an hour, but none more worthwhile.

What is it about being a parent that makes us able to handle such situations? There are no classes that teach you how to clean up puke. And, it's a task that most people would avoid at any cost. Yet, there I was, at 10:00 at night, mopping away with a smile on my face. What is that intangible element that makes us willing to deal with boogers, and puke, and poop so willingly - even joyfully? You can't bottle it. You can't buy it. It can't be concocted or forced, or even pretended. That's right, ladies and gentlemen - it is love, pure and simple, and it wells up from a spot somewhere deep, deep within us when we need it most.

Which, I guess, is a good thing. I've always believed in fighting fire with fire, so to speak, and the only way you can deal with something that literally comes from deep, deep within (like my daughter produced all over my bathroom floor) is with something that figuratively comes from deep, deep within. I'm just glad that expressing that deep, maternal love doesn't leave a splatter zone, and can be safely done with carpeting and soft furnishings around. 

Wedded Bliss

Today is my best friend's anniversary. She and her husband have been married for nine years. That's really saying something, especially since they were both  younger than average when they tied the knot - a factor that often predicts marital failure. Despite that, and other challenges they faced, they've crossed a pretty important threshold today. According to the census bureau, most first marriages that end in divorce do so before or during eighth year.Wow. Congratulations guys - you've beat the odds. I always knew you would.

I have been thinking a lot about marriage lately, not only because of their anniversary, but also because there are some weddings marked on my calendar this summer that I'm looking forward to attending. In just a few weeks I will watch a young couple who is madly in love with each other - positively aglow with excitement - exchange vows. Their exuberance is contagious, and I can't help but smile when I think about them. They are beautiful. They are filled with hope and possibility. They are ready to take on the world, and they have no idea what they're getting in to.

None of us do, really. I was only nineteen when I got married, and I have never - not even for a moment - regretted that decision. However, marriage is not always what I expected it to be. There is something more permanent and powerful about the forging of two lives and souls than anyone can anticipate. I sometimes think, 'gee, it would have been nice if someone would have sat me down before my wedding and told me what it's like to be a wife.' Of course, there's no way to express how wonderful and challenging it really is, is there? I'm now in the position to do exactly that for a young person just ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, but I'm not sure what to say.

Should I tell her that she will not be the same person several years from now that she is today? How do you tell someone that the individual they're madly in love with will not be the same one they celebrate their tenth anniversary with? Moreover, how do you convince someone that those changes are ok? That, with all the challenges you will face together, you're not going to want this man to be the one standing next to you in the delivery room, or the emergency room, or the hospice room of your dying parent? But the person he will turn into will be exactly who you need him to be? How do you tell someone that you will literally watch parts of your new spouse - aspects of him or her that you dearly love - disappear with each passing day, only to be replaced by new characteristics, traits, and habits? How do you tell a giddy young bride-to-be that the defining elements of who her fiancee really and fundamentally is, will be all that remain as the years pass, and those elements might not be the ones she thinks they are? 

Should I tell her that there will be times (moments, hours, even days) when it won't be fun to be around her husband? When she might not really like how he's acting, or think that she doesn't even really like him? And, worse than that, there will be times when it won't be fun for her husband to be around her. How do you tell someone that only fairytales end with the effortless 'happily ever after?' In the real world, relationships require constant attention, work, and compromise - especially those the are happy forever after. In fact, as near as I can tell, that is one of the defining elements of what makes a marriage successful: the commitment to the marriage itself (and all the effort that entails) as well as the commitment to the person you are married to.

Should I tell her she'll sacrifice more than she realized she could? Should I tell her that sometimes she'll carry burdens that are bigger than she deserves? Should I tell her that sometimes she will be a bigger burden to her husband than he deserves? Should I tell her of the immensity of emotion - both in the depth of pain and the height of joy - that she will endure? The worry she will feel? How much of a comfort she will be to him, and what comfort he will provide to her? The pride at being joined with such a wonderful human being? The feelings of being inadequate for the tasks required? The enormity of what it means to be everything her husband needs her to be, in every area of their shared lives, for now and each day to follow? Should I?

I think, instead, I will sum all of that up into two little sentences, and tell her every truth about this important endeavor that I know by simply stating (as others did for me on my wedding day), "Congratulations! God really knew what He was doing when He created the blessing of marriage." Yes, I think that is exactly what I will tell her, and I will sincerely mean every word of it.

Stats and Facts

Wow! I just discovered a feature of Blogspot.com that I had never noticed before. While I was wasting time fiddling with the tabs entitled 'comments,' 'settings', and 'design,' I completely overlooked the best one of all - 'stats.' That's right, this tab allows me to see statistics and information about this blog that I never could have even imagined were available. Through the wonder of modern technology and a bit of mysterious digital magic people call the internet, I can lie in bed at 11:00 at night and check in on who's checking me out. Cooooool.

First off, I must thank you (my faithful reader). Without your pageviews, the 'stats' tab would be a very boring place, indeed. But, because you've been willing to read my brain droppings and check in every once in a while to see what new adventure I've been having, I can share with you some fantastic statistics. For example:

•People have come to find this blog in a variety of ways. Most are linked from Facebook, but some did a Google search to get here.

•Some of the people who did a search for the blog used the predictable search words of 'andreafarrier' or 'andreafarrierblog'. However, four people managed to find their way here (apparently) by searching for 'winter cartoons.' And, a whopping 18 visits to this page came about because someone searched for 'scared deer.' Who knew?

•The top five posts (by sheer number of views) were: Getting My Hopes Up (52), Corrupting the Youth (55), O! The Humanity (61), Moving On (78), and Rondo Meets Bambi (207). (What on earth made that one so popular!?)

•Apparently my readers mostly use Internet Explorer (47%), but Firefox is gaining popularity (34%). Someone out there, however, is using a browser called Flock, and has viewed my blog five times from it. Who are you, oh mystery Flock user?

•You are clearly a PC crowd - with 86% of the pageviews coming from Windows, and only 8% from Mac. There have also been 25 views from IPhone users, and 6 from my Blackberry contingency. I'm so proud to have such a diverse, tech savvy following.

•And, finally - the part that made me actually giggle aloud in bed - I'm thrilled to announce that, while the vast majority of my pageviews come from the U.S., I have been read in ten different countries, including 50 views from South Korea, 21 from India, and 12 from Iran. We're like a giant, online family from all over the globe. Makes me smile every time I think of it!

So, what does all this mean? Well, first off, I can see that I'm going to have a new, time-consuming hobby in checking the 'stats' tab at least a dozen times per day. You can be assured that there will be much rejoicing at my house when new search terms or countries pop up.

Secondly, I might start trying to be more “professional” in my posts in light of the much wider audience than I previously knew. Nahhh… probably not. The only change this new information is likely to bring is an increased sense of gratitude that people really do want to read what I have to write. I am humbled and overjoyed beyond words. Thank you!

This Just In...

I am a news junkie. Whether it's the outbreak of World War III or a mild rainstorm headed our way - if it's being covered, I'll follow it. I try to limit myself to local newspapers. And, thankfully, we do not have cable (or the cable news networks), so I am saved from being tethered to the television 23.8 hours per day. However, I still check headlines on the internet, watch my evening news (on at both 9:00 AND 10:00) and even make my husband pause in his channel surfing so I can watch the 30-second teaser that they put on during commercial breaks.

I am fascinated by the news, and everything it entails. Do the wardrobe people not see that red is not flattering for Tiffany? Is the mic purposely turned up higher on the sports report, or is John just that much louder than everyone else? Just how do you gracefully make the transition from a story about five people dying in a grisly car accident to a feel-good piece featuring fuzzy puppies and babies? Why is it ok to decorate at Christmas time, but the set remains unchanged the other 11 months of the year? How come they make the the poor weather intern stand in the cold to give his report? I mean, what good does it do us to watch him give a detailed explanation of the situation when we could just stick our head out the back door instead? Hmmm.... Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?

Of course, the most interesting thing to me is how a station decides what does and does not make the evening news. Since I live in a rural area, there isn't a whole lot going on. We get about two murders a year, and a handful of break-ins. Our news reports are heavy on the 'human interest' stories, and I think that's great. Andy Warhol is attributed with quipping that someday everyone will have their 15 minutes of fame. For those of us who live in the sticks it's more like 15 hours. I've been on TV and in the local newspaper more times than I care to recall, and not even one of those was the police report. My husband's been the news, as have all three of our children. It's not that we've done amazingly notable things, you see, just that we've done things others might be slightly interested in, and we're willing to talk about it publicly. In rural Iowa, that's all it takes, and that suites me just fine.

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go weed the garden. Perhaps I'll discover a buried treasure or a new variety of insect. It's possible that my tomatoes will be the biggest in the county this year, or that I'll end up with a cucumber with the face of Jesus on it. If nothing else, I can always take my extra produce to the local farmer's market and get a few bucks for it.  No matter what the outcome of my work this afternoon, there's a chance you'll hear about it in our local news at either 9:00 or 10:00, or in next week's paper. Just a few more moments to add to my 15 hours of fame.

All In a Day's Work

Last night before I tucked her into bed, I asked my four-year-old daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up. She smiled, cocked her head, and said, "A superhero." Given the recent devotion to classic DC comic book heroes and their related action films and cartoons at our house, I didn't give much thought to her answer at the time. However, this morning, as I made breakfast, I happened to glance out the window and notice that my Amish neighbor was plowing for all he was worth in the glorious May sunshine. With each furrow of rich, black, Iowa soil that he turned over, I think I better understood what my youngest child was saying.

You see, I'm sure that my neighbor doesn't consider himself a superhero, even though he literally feeds the world by his humble, daily chores. Neither, for that matter, do most people as they plod through life. Work - even with the most rewarding tasks and the most convivial environments - is generally associated with stress, headaches, ungrateful bosses, difficult coworkers, deadlines, paperwork, micromanagement - the list goes on and on. How does this happen? How do the imaginary games and grand dreams of our early childhood, and our idealistic and passionate striving of early adulthood lead to everyone simply having a job they can barely tolerate and doing work that is uninspiring and wearing? Surely something's wrong here.

I vividly recall being four years old and swaggering around town with a sense of distinct pride because my daddy was a plumber. That meant that he knew all sorts of magic about such important things as pipes and wrenches - substantial, heavy, necessary things. The kinds of things that remain a complete mystery to most people, hence the need for such a capable, vital, professional man as my dad. But, more than that - beyond just knowing things that were unknown and unknowable to other people - he also had a job that made a difference in the world. There's not much more welcome sight than a plumbing van when your toilet is clogged or a pipe is endlessly spraying water all over your carpeting. I think I totally had it right at four years old, as does my daughter today - my dad was (and still is) a superhero, and we all can be as well.

That's it then. In order to become a superhero we should quit our jobs and become plumbers, right? Not exactly. My mom worked in Human Resources and saved jobs, marriages, and families by her encouraging words, willingness to listen, and genuine care for people. (The candy on her desk didn't hurt things, either.) My sister is a pharmacist, and her careful work (as tedious as it can sometimes be) literally saves lives and prolongs health and vitality. My husband works at a waste water plant. And - even as inglorious of a position as people generally think that to be - what he does ensures that we will have safe, sanitary living conditions today, and clean rivers and streams for generations to come. Every person I know - from my grandmother who proofreads the local paper, to a former student who bags groceries at the mom-and-pop store in town - goes to work with a cape under their uniform, though whether they ever use their powers is truly up to each individual, each and every day.

You see, you don't have to pull people from burning buildings or dive from the top of a skyscraper in order to be a superhero. All it takes to unfurl your cape and unleash your good deeds upon a populace in desperate need of being saved is for you to recognize your own ability to make the world a better place right where you are. There is not a single job on the face of the planet without merit or the opportunity to make a positive impact in someone's life. For, as Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance, and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence."

So, if you'll excuse me, I've got some villianous dust bunnies to slay and a date with destiny at the dishwasher. It's not an easy job, mind you, but somebody's got to protect the slumbering citizens of this household. As you can see, I'm choosing to embrace my inner superhero as I head off to do the tasks at hand, and I hope you'll do the same.

Sincerely, We The People!

Dear Elected Official -

I am writing to you with a very personal plea, but one which I think, if answered with real honesty and courage, will serve the people of this nation, and yourself, very well. I have heard the uproar. Been to the rallies. Seen the news stories. Cast my vote. I, like so many others, have moved from ignorance, to apathy, to anger, to action. I believe that very path is what has brought me to who I am today - an engaged citizen, fully awake, and unwilling to slip again into the dangerous stupor of believing that being taken care of is more important than being vigilant. I know my role in this process - understand what, "We, The People" is all about. Because of my new-found realization of  my responsibilities in this Republic, I'd like to better help you understand yours.

You are a leader, but not because of who you are, or what you do, or any special skill which you might possess. You lead because people have chosen to put you at the front line of the battle to fight for a government that does nothing more or less than serve the basic needs of this great nation. It doesn't do us any good if you succumb and are unable to fight. It does not do us any good if, paralyzed by fear or the enormity of your task, you roll over and relinquish your duty. It does not do us any good if you jump trenches and work for the enemy. The only way that you are benefiting the people who sent you is if you stand alert - day in, and day out - ready to fight on their behalf. Any other action you may choose to take is cause for a dishonorable discharge, and we will not hesitate to call you back home.

Please let me be clear - the metaphor of battle is not meant to justify demonizing an opposing party or allowing passion to ignite to violence. You are not there to fight with arms, or even words - for a witty fool is still a fool, nonetheless. Instead, the tools you will use in your fight are noble ideas, exemplary character, and practical solutions. The enemy is not, and never has been, a political opponent or colleague from the other side of the aisle. The tireless enemies that you must fight each and every day are the very same ignorance, apathy, and anger that all the rest of us struggle against as well. I'll say it again - you are not a leader because of special skills or because you are a special person, but because you have said you are willing and have been chosen by your peers to be a representative of our shared civic strife. You do not bear the burden alone, nor is your battle any harder than ours, only more public.

That's right - your election has brought you into the public eye. I admonish you to remember that every gleeful, triumphant thought you have about the place in the sun you have attained only robs you of the opportunity to be mindful that being seen also means being watched. Though you may feel liberated from old bonds and a million miles from your humble beginnings, we are paying attention, and require a level of uprightness from our leaders that is only surpassed by the level we require from ourselves. No, we do not expect you to attain perfection, though you should be racing toward it each and every moment, just as we are back home. It is not always in what place that you finish, but how you run the race that matters, and your job is to ensure that every photo flash and video segment catches you striving toward noble ends and righteous acts. If you pause to pose, you will surely stumble.

Be courageous, then, and thoughtful, on our behalf, and we will remain loyal and grateful for your service. Just as you would not want us to forget how much you give of yourself to represent us, do not forget that the resources with which you are entrusted have come from our sacrifice and toil. They do not belong to you. You did not earn them. You are not entitled to them. You may not spend them as you wish, but only as it serves this nation well. Be sure that you are more concerned with who has your heart and mind, than simply who has your ear, when making decisions. Remember that you have been chosen to speak and act on our behalf, so knowing when and how to be silent and full of grace is equally as important as knowing when and how to speak boldly and move decisively. I pray that you may have the wisdom to know the difference and the strength to act rightly in each moment.

And, finally, do not ever forget that we would much rather welcome back a weary and wounded hero than one who could not discharge his duties faithfully, or refused to come home at all. For, as disappointing as it may seem to lose a hard-fought political race, it is infinitely worse to lose your sense of self, your honor, or your soul. We do not desire that your service on our behalf be such a burden for you that you regret your decision to lead. Just be sure to act in such a way that your service on our behalf does not become such a burden for us that we regret choosing you, either.

Sincerely,
We The People

Family

We all grow up with the weight of history on us.  Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies.  ~Shirley Abbott 

This week I went to the funeral of my first-cousin-once-removed. I didn't really know him well, and yet he was as familiar to me as my childhood blankie and the sound of my mother singing a lullaby -a constant in life that is both distant and ever-present at the same time. I guess you can say that family is like that. At least, it has been for me.

I grieve for today's generation, which doesn't know the comfortable embrace of extended relatives and relationships. My parents recently moved back to the small town where they grew up, fell in love, got married, and started a family. Though they had left the town before I was born, we visited at least half a dozen times per year throughout my childhood, often for a week or two each summer. Both of my grandmothers still live there, as do my parents' classmates, aunts, childhood friends, cousins, et cetera, ad infinitum, amen. I cannot tell you the name of the street that the school is on, where people go to hang out, or which neighborhood is the most affluent, but this place is in my blood - figuratively and literally. I know and am known in a way that is profound and eternal. In the Ollie Ollie Oxen Free of modern life, most people don't have a home base to go to in order to be safe. I'm glad I do.

So, there I was - surrounded by my family. In the laughter and noses and smiles of those around me I saw my grandfather, who has been dead for ten years. I heard the voice of my deceased great-uncle, whose legendary kindness and gentility were proven to be solid and true and factual by their very presence in his own children. I stood in the center of the room and the center of the generations and witnessed the past and the present and the future all sharing coleslaw and memories and genetics together. My children. My parents. My grandparents. The whispering voices of those long-departed relatives whose faces smiled up at me from the photo albums, whose life stories were being vigorously reported, sorted, and distorted. We were all there. I wanted to stand on the table, wave my hands in the air, and yell, "Hey! Everyone! Don't you get it? This is important. What we're doing here - what we are - it matters! It is everything!"

But, of course, I didn't. Partly, I didn't do so because every family needs a black sheep, and I am not anxious to move to the front of the line for that job. However, I also didn't do so because, while it's true that family is important and it matters and it's everything, it's also not true at all. Those same cousins and aunts and nephews have already gone back to their jobs and their lives, and nothing has changed. The fact that I am my grandfather's granddaughter doesn't mean a thing now that I have driven back to the home and job and town where no one knew him or all the wonder that his life encompassed. Even those who live together in that little community will cease, once again, to be family in any practical sense of the word, instead resuming their civic, societal, financial, and emotional relationships with one another.

So, there you have it. Family is at once everything and nothing, all rolled into one. I suppose that our genetic heritage and all of the other elements that make up who we are in a more philosophical / spiritual / emotional sense have similar roles. You cannot see your DNA, and probably don't often stop to think about it, but it defines you nonetheless. You are most aware of how much of it you share with others when you are in the presence of those with whom you share it most, and it makes you proud. I am forever my grandfather's granddaughter, and know that it is something special to be able to say that, even if no one else around me does. So, here's to family - including all the love handles, rogues, receding hairlines, dearly departed, and coleslaw that we share. Lowell - you will be missed, but your heritage, humor, love, gentility, et cetera, ad infinitum carry on, nonetheless. Amen.

Painting...

It's after 1:00 a.m., and I'm still up. In most cases, people who are up at this hour are either:

• Just getting back from a night of partying
• Sick
• Sick from a night of partying
• Addicted to Spider Solitaire

 Thankfully, I am not sick, and I gave up Spider Solitaire a few months ago when it started interfering with my Fecebook time. However, I am also not up late because I've been boozing, carousing, and painting the town red. I'm up late because I have been painting my bathroom.

Painting holds a strange fascination for me. It is Home Improvement 101 - a task easily doable by anyone with opposable thumbs and a tolerance for fumes. It is cheap, fast, and effective. (Those are the same qualities that I look for in diet plans, small kitchen appliances, and laxatives, by the way.) Anyway, I never cease to be amazed at what a profound difference a coat of paint can make in a room, though I must clarify that I mean that in both its best and worst possible ways.

I am not good with color. I once decided to paint my daughters' room a nice, cheerful yellow. So, I went to the paint section of my local hardware store. After staring at 14,768 different colors of yellow, I pulled the last one that was visible before temporary blindness set in. (Apparently, staring at a wall full of different shades of yellow has the same effect as starting at the sun. That, or my brain did its best to protect me from the sensory overload I was experience by tuning out my vision for a moment so I could escape. Either way - I wouldn't recommend this as a way to fill your Saturday afternoon.)

Once I got home, I immediately set in covering the deep blue walls of their room (which had been my dreadful attempt at creating an 'under sea' feeling) with the cheerful yellow. Big mistake. The blue had at least been sleep inducing, as it was depressing and dark. I swear to you, my daughters didn't sleep more than 20 minutes at a stretch for the first three months after the yellow went up. I don't know if it was the incandescent brightness of the paint, or the hum it seemed to emit that caused the problem. I had never before really understood what people meant when they said some colors are, "loud" until I put what can only be described as Screaming Yellow paint on the wall. Paint - 2. Annie - 0.

My problem, I guess, is that I don't get color. I have a friend who can go on for several full minutes about a particular shade (or hue, or tone - or whatever color people refer to color as) that she saw months ago on the sole of a homeless man's shoe. I always hear people talk about things like, "a slightly lighter shade of green, with a touch of mauve" or "a deep orange, only without so much brown." What!? Look - I learned everything I need to know about color (and much else) in Kindergarten. Green is a combination of blue and yellow. Orange is a combination of red and yellow. Unless my teacher was lying to me, there ain't no mauve or brown in either of them, right? This is almost assuredly why I almost failed art in high school.

So, this time I'm determined to make my painting transformation a dramatic positive experience, in an attempt at both improving my bathroom and redeeming myself from the last go around. (Heaven only knows what health problems a bad color could make when applied to a bathroom, after all!)  So, after much deliberation, I went with white. I even called my friend to let her know that I had made a sensible, fool-proof decision. Her only reply was - and I'm still pondering this in my every spare moment - "what color white?" Seriously?

I'm glad to say that, despite having had to stay up til the wee hours of the morning, I'm pleased with the results. The white made the room look bigger, neater, cleaner, fresher, brighter - everything a person wants out of a new coat of paint. (Paint - 2. Annie - 1. Take THAT, Screaming Yellow!!)

As I was wearily rinsing out my brush and tidying up a few minutes ago, I wondered if I had made the right choice in staying in and doing home improvement projects instead of going out and partying. In the end - I think I chose wisely. I bet my can of paint was cheaper than a round of drinks. Plus, I actually burned calories this evening, instead of consuming them. And, most importantly, I'm not sure I can be trusted to paint the town red anymore. After all - I might pick the wrong shade...

Oh, The Humanity!

I took my girls to the pool to go swimming last week. That, my friends, is a very loaded statement. Lurking within those 38 innocent little letters you'll find such thorny challenges as unflattering swimsuits, pre-teen hormonal power struggles, and the endless quest to convince everyone that we're something we're not. Just think - all that on a Thursday afternoon!

I have a love/hate relationship with swimming. It's one of the few 'exercises' that I truly enjoy. I love the feeling of being weightless and the muffled silence that washes over me when I'm floating on my back. I love the fact that I can be just as competent and capable in the pool as a skinny little fitness trainer, and that my children are impressed with my aquatic prowess. I love the smell. I love the sounds. I even love the biting taste of Chlorine. What I don't love, however, is the uniform.

I admit it - I hate going out in a swimsuit. My body and I, surprisingly, get along well. It's done a lot for me - more than I deserve, actually, especially in light of how I sometimes treat it. When we're at home together, watching TV and eating popcorn, I get along famously with my body. We're happy together working outside, relaxing on a lazy Saturday afternoon, and even dressing up and going out for a nice dinner.  However, despite how much it deserves my respect and admiration, I still have a hard time taking it out and showing it off.

Usually, I find myself in the locker room of the pool staring in the mirror at glaringly white legs, save for the scattered bruises and stubborn hairs that refused to relent to the onslaught of the razor. My suit (like most of the rest of my clothing) was purchased several years ago at a Goodwill store. It is a marvel of engineering, and contains more spandex than most whole aerobics classes. However, even with all of its wrapping and cupping and contouring, I still take the long walk to the water's edge painfully aware of the incongruity between how I look and how I am "supposed to" look.

Funny thing, that - "supposed to". As I helped my children into their swimming gear, I noted with a wince how quickly they were growing up. My oldest is getting leggy - not quite graceful and full-grown yet, but her awkwardness has its own sense of purpose, and therefore sense of beauty as well. The same is true for my six-year-old, who possesses the sturdy and utilitarian frame that goes along with the constant growth and activity of children her age. And, my baby! She is still young enough to have the delightful rounded belly and dimpled knees of toddlerhood, though they are now coupled with slender legs and graceful fingers. As she finishes her transition from baby to child, she appears to be all spare parts and mismatched pieces, but the overall effect is glorious. It is all with all of them, really.

As I hurriedly walked the few yards from the locker room to the pool (never running, mind you!) with my face down and eyes averted, I almost ran smack-dab into another middle-aged mom with the same posture. In our passing glance we shared a story as old as time itself. There we were - enormously blessed with healthy children and the time and energy to be able to spend with them, and all we could think about was our own perceived failings. But - and here's the key - our floppy arms and stretch marks are every bit as indicative of the wonder and power of our bodies at this stage of our lives as the characteristics I marveled at in my children are at their stages of life.

I took the opportunity during the rest of our pool visit to glance around. (Furtively, of course, with the adage, "stare not lest ye be stared at" in the forefront of my mind.) What I found was not rolls and wrinkles, sags and cellulite. Instead, I discovered humanity - those distinct qualities that mark our very humanness . We are all incredibly and wonderfully flawed, and that is what unites us - from the chubbiest newborn baby to the frailest senior citizen. There isn't a single body in the world just like mine. It had its own separate destiny and need to be unique from the very first second it was created, and still tells my story in its every curve and nuance.

I wouldn't wish away a single moment of any of my pregnancies, despite the battle scars they left me with. I may regret, for the sake of my waistline, that I indulged in a shared dessert last time my husband I went out on a date, but I'm glad I did it nonetheless. Does this mean I will trade my downcast, shamed shuffle for a swinging strut next time I'm at the pool? Probably not. But, perhaps I'll take the step of at least looking up when I walk from the locker room to the water's edge in order to see, acknowledge, and appreciate the humanity showcased in each and every shape and size of body around me. Who knows - someday I might even come to do the same for my own.

(Painting entitled 'Hesitant Swimmers' by Shanti Marie.)

An Open Letter to My Parents

Dear Mom and Dad:

This apology letter is long overdue, but I didn't realize it until now. You see, having been a parent for almost eleven years, I think I've finally come to realize that there are some things I need to say to you.

1. I'm sorry I hung on you. As a kid I used to wonder how much difference it could possibly make when I 'rested my hand' on your purse or in your pocket while we were shopping. Apparently the hand of a six year old really can weigh upwards of 100 pounds. Who knew? Must have something to do with increased gravity at malls and grocery stores. I get it now. Sorry. 
2. Please forgive me for kicking the back of your seat while on long car trips. Ditto for putting my feet under your seat. Ditto for anything else in any way associated with your seat. I used to think you had magic powers because you could tell when I was pushing my toes into the springs in the bottom of your seat. Now I know that it doesn't take magical powers to detect such a major annoyance, just to keep from slapping the person causing it. I get it now. Sorry.
3. I offer my deepest apologies for having let well-intentioned, but undermining, guest speakers at school make me doubt your parenting skills. I don't know why I thought that a dental technician student or a burned out ex-Cop would care more about my oral hygiene and overall health than you would, but I guess sometimes I did. Thanks for being sure that we always had access to quality toothpaste and never had access to meth while we were growing up. Above all, thanks for not being the kind of parents that cause the schools to have to bring in those guest speakers. I get it now. Sorry. 
4. Wow - what was I thinking when I wore some of those outfits? Though I swore I would never, ever say this at the time - you were right. They looked ridiculous. Yes, they looked like everyone else's clothes, but that makes it even more sad. So, I'd like to offer my apologies to not only you, but also to all of my friends' parents as well. I'm sorry for the attitude we gave and the shameless begging we engaged in just so that we could look like total idiots. I get it now. Sorry.
5. If I could, I would go back in time and un-say the words, "When are we having dinner" about ten thousand times. I don't know why I couldn't keep straight in my head that dinner time always came sometime between when the after school cartoons ended and it was time to go to bed, but apparently I couldn't. Despite the fact that you never failed to feed me once, I tested you every single night of my young life with that annoying and pointless question - often multiple times in one evening. Wow. I get it now. So sorry.
6. Words cannot express how badly I feel about having dropped clothes into the hamper that were not really dirty just because I didn't want to take the time to fold them and put them away. Sometimes I feel guilty when I hear that we are on the verge of a world-wide water shortage, since I know it's my fault in large part because of all the extra laundry I created. Worse yet - the problem I started is only going to get bigger because of my three children. Just fair warning. I get it now. Sorry world. I advise you to enjoy the cool, refreshing taste of drinking water while you still can.
7. Sorry for breaking stuff. I know that you know that I didn't mean to do it. But, I also now understand how heartbreaking it is to come in and see a beloved family heirloom scattered in a hundred pieces all over the floor. Or, have to pay to repair or replace an appliance due to gross misconduct on the part of the young user. (That goes double for the time I ruined the VCR by over zealous application of Pledge while dusting.) I get it now. Sorry.
8. I'm sorry for being surly. Seriously. I don't know what else to say except that sometimes it is your patient example - and ONLY your patient example - that is keeping me from sending my own pre-teen to go live in the yard. I get it now. Sorry.
9. I should never, ever have begged for toys. I had more toys than I needed - certainly more than I deserved, especially in light of the fact that I usually left them out where they would get broken, lost, or stepped on late at night by a weary parent just stumbling to bed to get a few hours of sleep before the chaos erupted again. I am so sorry for begging for new toys, for crying over broken toys, and especially for not picking up my toys. I sooooo get it now. Sorry.
10. Finally, let me apologize right here and now for all the tiny things I did to strip away the dignity you worked so hard to build when you were an adolescent and young adult. For loudly blaming that farting sound my little bare legs made on the wooden pew at church on you, Dad. For falsely claiming that Uncle Mark was pulling in the driveway as you hurtled across the living room, clad only in a towel and a deeply worried expression, Mom. For interrupting every kiss and romantic overture with a hearty, "Ewwwww..." For all of the compromising photographs I took, the embarrassing things I inadvertently said in public, and for requiring you to be at my beck and call for bottom wiping for all those years. I get it now. Sorry, and thank you.

Above all, Mom and Dad - thank you for allowing me to live to adulthood.

I only hope that these apologies (and the future apology letters I know I will end up writing - especially once my children reach the teenage years) will somehow make your golden years a bit easier. I'm sorry I haven't said sorry earlier, or more often.

I want you to know that you have my full support if you choose to fall asleep at family events, nap in the middle of the day, and insist that you be home and in bed by 8:30 every evening. After all, there is not enough time to make up for all the sleep I caused you to lose, even if you do live to 120. (Which, of course, you won't, since all that sleep deprivation took a toll on your health.) Sorry.

Rest assured, I can promise you this - I will gladly let you embarrass me in front of my friends, wear whatever clothing you think looks best (even once your eyesight goes and you're pulling items randomly from the closet), turn the TV up as loud as you want, take up tedious hobbies, wear ridiculous glasses and forget to put in your teeth, and even spend all of my inheritance on ceramic knick-knacks and commemorative plates with obscure politicians on them.


The only thing I ask is that you please, please, please don't ever tell my children how much like them I was at their age...

Derailed

Well, well, welllllll - looks like my day just went awry. I was planning on going to Des Moines for another round of heckling legislators and keeping the world safe for democracy, but find myself at home instead with a sick kiddo. Sheesh... I hate it when that happens. I had plans. I had a schedule. I had a meeting! Instead, I'm forced to stay in my jammies, snuggle down, and watch movies with three of my all-time favorite people. Don't you just hate it when your day gets derailed?

I mean, think about it - there is order in the rails. They're safe. They always stay the same distance apart. Always go in the same direction. Always have a smooth path and plenty of room on each side. They are the original superhighway - blazing fast and capable of getting you where you say you want to go. Just be careful - purchasing a ticket on the railroad of life does have its price.

Oh, sure - the rails are an easy, reliable way to get from point A to point B, but what if you want to get to point C? Or, worse yet, what if you think you want to get to point B, but really need to get to point X? You know - point X. The place where the grass grows tall and tangled and the hum of the cicadas is deafening. The kind of place where you lose your sense of past priorities and gain your sense of self. Point X is usually messy and fragrant and muddy and giggly and all sorts of other un-rail-like things. I'm pretty sure the only the way to get to those vibrant, life-changing Point Xes is by plunging headlong off the smooth and graveled path and into the unplanned, unchartered, unrailed goodness of life.

Sure, lobbying is important, and I'm grateful for the chance to do it. Eventually, I will wander through the deep grass, skip across the meandering crick, scramble up the steep bank, and hop aboard the next train leading me back to plans and schedules and meetings, and the safe clickety-clack, clickety-clack of my life on the rails. However, today I'm going to revel in these de-railed moments and make the most of my time in Point X.

The Apathy Party

I am a very politically active person. (Wish I could say the same about my physical activity level...) I like to consider myself as informed as the average Jane on matters of national politics, and much more so in regard to issues in the state of Iowa. I vote. I contact my elected officials (sometimes much to their chagrin). I read the news, keep up on current events, and like to indulge in the occasional online poll. This brings me to my musing for the day - since when did Apathy become a political party?

I just finished clicking 'yes' on a rather controversial question. After taking an online poll like this, readers are generally rewarded with the chance to see the current results. On this issue, the 'yeses' accounted for 94% of answers. 'No's' were 5%, and another 1% answered 'No Opinion.' Really? No opinion whatsoever?

I mean, it isn't like this was a complicated question with answer options that were nuanced and only subtly different. It also wasn't as though participants were awakened out of a deep sleep, blinded by a bright flashlight right in the eyes, and forced to come up with an opinion as a matter of life or death. This was a voluntary poll. You had to 1.) see the poll 2.) think about the poll 3.) decide whether or not you wanted to participate in the poll 4.) click on the link to the poll 5.) click on your desired answer, and 6.) hit the submit button. Who does all of those things only to register their opinion as 'No opinion'? Apparently a full 1% of pollsters - that's who.

I would like to say that this was an anomaly, but it's not. It seems that lots and lots of  people these days are under-informed, under-active, and (here's the crux of the issue) proud of it. I helped with a political campaign for the first time this year by making cold calls to un-registered constituents. At first I balked at the idea. I mean, how much difference can it possibly make for me (a stranger with no credentials) to call people I don't know and tell them they should vote for somebody just because I said so? Apparently, quite a lot. It turns out, cold calls from genuine-sounding volunteers makes a big difference in helping undecided voters know who to choose at the ballot - as much or even more so than pre-recorded calls from political figures. Who are these people who don't know who they want, or why, or even what party they most closely align themselves with?

After having people promise to vote for my candidate just because I sounded nice (they actually said this to me) and even asking me to tell them who else they should vote for (and making me wait while they got a pen and paper to write my suggestions down) I am firmly convinced that the two party system is no longer our political reality. No more are there just Republicans and Democrats - or even Green Party, Libertarian, or Tea Party members. I'm guessing that an alarmingly-large portion of voters could rightly say they belong to the Apathy Party.

The good news, of course, is that even if they do frustrate pollsters by insisting on having no opinion, at least these folks won't spend hours and hours volunteering for a candidate you don't like or take your parking spot at rallies. Even better, all it takes is a pleasant voice and a few suggestions to get them to swing their vote to your favor. All in all, even though I'd never join it, I guess the Apathy Party isn't all bad. And, one thing's for sure - at least they're not                     s. 

[In the interest of remaining politically neutral and not offending anyone, the last word has been redacted. Maybe I'm more suited for the Apathy Party than I thought...]

70 Days

Wow - it's been 70 days since my last post. Seriously - 70 days!? How did that happen? That's how long ancient Egyptians used to mourn for their fallen Pharoahs. Seventy days is the length of time it takes to grow a bell pepper, to hatch a bearded dragon, or create a fully developed sperm. (Thank you, Google, for those fascinating facts.) Seventy days is almost 20% of a year, 10 full weeks, spans over 3 months, and equates to 6% of my total life thus far. What on earth could have been so important for the past six million seconds that I haven't been able to find a spare hour to write? Honestly, I don't really know.

It's awfully easy to 'waste' time, isn't it? My guess is that the lack of posts these last many weeks is due, in large part, to winter. I think I have expressed in the past that I have a distaste for the cold and snow, to put it mildly. Like so many others who live in the frozen tundra, I lack motivation to do more than... well... eat, rest from eating, rest up for eating, eat again, and sleep during the winter months. I am, essentially, a bear. Now that things are starting to warm up,  I am able to take cheer from the slow, agonizing, horrible demise of the snow drifts. It's amazing how a little motivation can go a long, long way.

Another element that consumes me during the early part of the year is the Iowa Legislative Session, which lasts from January through April. I have been pretty apolitical on this blog up to now, but that is certainly not for lack of vigorously-held beliefs or first-hand knowledge about the system. In fact, I'm a lobbyist for a small-but-important subset of home schoolers in the state. Trust me - after going to the Capitol at least once a week for three months, I pick up more than enough blood-boiling potential fodder for the blog. But, let's be honest- politics isn't exactly pretty stuff. I always say that there are two things you never want to watch being made if you have to partake of them - hot dogs and laws. I'm perfectly happy writing detailed descriptions of digging in the dirt, scooping poop, and butchering animals. But, I don't believe in being indecent, so I've stuck to the more genteel things in life, and left my political fervor unwritten. Who knows - I might just get a wild hair and change that policy, but for now I'll stick with ranting in the car on the way home from Des Moines and save you all from the unpleasantness.

Perhaps the biggest reason I've been unable to write for you - my adoring blog fans - is that I've been writing for all the rest of my adoring fans. (Or, more accurately, fans-to-be. I'm expecting my following to increase by at least a factor of 1.0000043 in the weeks to come.)  I may not have Dr. in front of my name, or any fancy initials behind it, but I can at least now say that I'm a published author. That's right - the 3rd article, on page 7, of the newly-released Chicken Soup for the Soul : New Moms is by none other than yours truly. Of course, it was first published right here on Musings, so I really do love you most of all, even if I do tend to neglect you when life gets cold and/or busy. It's nothing personal, you understand. I've just been mobbed by the media, held for hours signing autographs, and been forced to pose for countless photographs with adoring fans. Fame can be such a pain.

In all seriousness, though - I am very grateful to have been chosen to be published in the book, and even more so by all the kind words and encouragement from friends and family. (The event was even published - complete with photo op - in my two local papers.) I am also so thankful to have been able to take the last many weeks 'off' in order to rest, relax, and double up. Now, watch out world - it's time to jump. I'm praying for restorative sunshine, fascinating new personal challenges, and the chance to exercise my 'writing muscles' more often than ever before.

And, just for fun - here are some links that are relevant to this blog post: 

Kalona News Article:
http://www.kalonanews.com/articles/2011/02/19/topstory_slideshow/doc4d5c0bd11c8f4542256060.txt

Amazon Link to See Chicken Soup for the Soul : New Moms:
http://www.amazon.com/Chicken-Soup-Soul-Inspirational-Stories/dp/193509663X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1298143006&sr=8-1

To Find How Many Days, Etc. Between Two Dates:
http://www.timeanddate.com/date/timeduration.html

Chilly Chuckles

I have mixed feelings about winter. Pretty to look at, sure - but, I'm still not such a fan of any season that requires its own special wardrobe and heavy equipment just for basic survival. The combination of cold, dark, and dreariness can sometimes make it hard to stay upbeat and positive. If you're having trouble finding humor in the doldrums of winter, take a gander at this collection of cartoons. They're sure to tickle your funny bone and make your day brighter!

Iowa

I am not a native-born Iowan. For those of you who are, likewise, not from the state, you probably do not understand what this means. To be a true Iowan, at the very least, your grandparents and parents must have grown up here, and you are most likely related to at least half the people in the county. During my elementary years, I used to marvel at how everybody in my class knew who you could pick on, and who you couldn't. Family duty required you to stick up for your first cousins, see, but once you got to the seconds and 'once-removeds' the lines got fuzzy. I was the only one who wasn't related to anybody, so I was fair game for everyone.

Fortunately, I married in to an old-time Iowa family from this neck of the woods (yes - that is the proper way to describe my general geographic area), so I have learned the joys of what it means to be any relation to... As in, "are you any relation to the Farriers who live in Brighton?" Yes. Yes I am, and it feels good. I can now catch the question before the words are even fired, while they are still being loaded and the eyebrow quizzically cocked.

As much as I do love this state, and all of the down-home, wonderful, traditional elements that it embodies, there is one thing I will always despise about the land between two rivers - the winters. Our average January temperature is a balmy 17 degrees Fahrenheit, usually coupled with a thirty-mile-per-hour wind and blinding snow. And here's the thing - that's exactly what the weather was like in December, and what it will continue to be like in February. Winter is not a season here. It is an endurance trial. The best we can hope for is good company, plenty of hot cocoa, and something to smile about. The first two are your responsibility, but I hope this list, compiled from various anonymous emails I've received throughout the years, will at least help you out with the last:

You Know You're An Iowan If:

• You design your kids' Halloween costumes to fit over a snowsuit
• You have more miles on your snow blower than your car
• Driving in winter is actually better than any other time of year, because at least the potholes are filled with snow
• You've ever gotten a snowshovel stuck on your roof
• You describe 0 degrees as 'a bit chilly'
• You've ever called in 'snowed in' to work
• You've ever gone to work when you should have called in 'snowed in'
• You consider drilling a hole through 18 inches of ice and sitting on a bucket in a blizzard a sport
• You're either as white as a sow's belly (winter) or you have a farmer's tan (summer)
• You've worn shorts and a parka at the same time
• You just stick your head out the window until the ice clears so you don't have to bother with your scraper each morning
• You've ever used your heater and your A/C in one day
• Your labor day picnic has ever been moved inside because of frost
• You own a separate vehicle just for winter
• You've driven a four-wheeler or snowmobile to work or school
• You don't stop golfing for the season until the snow is deep enough you can't find your ball
• Your New Year's resolution to exercise more means shoveling the neighbor's walk as well as your own
• Despite how hard the winters all, you still love this state and are proud to call it home