No more Minivan Mama

Standing in a cold spring rain, I took one last look inside my old, white minivan. The papers had been signed, the deal was complete. All that was left was to check under the seats and in the back one last time for any "personal effects." That's what the salesman called them, those bits of life's shrapnel scattered here and there. A new era had dawned and, for the first time in eight years, I was no longer a minivan Mama.

I pocketed the Tic Tacs from the center console and dislodged yet another baseball from underneath the passenger seat. Eight years is a long time to hang onto a car these days, especially one as beat up and, frankly, ugly as our van. There was a huge dent in one side from a careless driver, one of the plastic pieces had popped off a seat bottom, and the pervasive scent of Baseball Boy Funk you could never quite Febreeze out. I remembered the first time we saw it, the trepidation I felt as we pulled into the car lot in Oklahoma City. A minivan? Seriously? I couldn't see myself as that kind of Mom. I drove sports cars and cute little SUVs, like the one we'd piloted into the lot. It held the batbag and stroller just fine, thank you. It did not, however, hold seven people and their luggage for a 16-hour drive to Ohio, a trek we were slated to make in mere weeks for a family wedding. The salesman cajoled me with the Stow-n-Go, the dual temperature controls, the extra outlets in the back. I could see my future playing out before my eyes, the reality of being the mother of two very active little boys meshing with the convenience of this white monstrosity. "If we can get a DVD player installed," I heard myself saying, "I'm fine with it." Because let's face it- I was done listening to The Flake's stories about how when HE had to ride from Los Angeles to Kansas every summer all HE had were two MAD magazines and a stick to occupy himself. Screw that noise and pass me another Disney movie. As I doled out more Goldfish to an ever impatient six year old and his near-the-brink baby brother while the paperwork was "processed", I realized the truth: I was a minivan mom. Truth be told, I was before I even stepped foot on the lot. I just didn't know it yet.

We made the 16-hour drive to Ohio, our family, grandparents, and an uncle all comfortably marveling over the space, the ease, the fact that you could hook the XBox up to the DVD player and play Madden 05 while crusing along I-70 at 75mph. Technology! It didn't take long for me to embrace the minivan culture. Zoo excursions with the playgroup became carpool affairs. Ice cream trips after ballgames meant three or four friends giggling in the backseat. Stowed seats made room for clunky wagons, and there was no more wrestling oversized strollers into the trunk. The minivan life? It wasn't so bad.

It became the go-to for Girls' Night and getaway weekends, six friends piled in for a night on the town, joking about watching bad porn on the DVD player. We flipped down the seats for tailgates, loading cooler after cooler, canopies, chairs, and a mini-grill. We discovered that you could easily pack a 6-person tent, canopy, three gravity chairs, three bag chairs, grill, four coolers, and suitcases for three women going on a five day Camp-and-Concert excursion in northern Minnesota. The van hauled Christmas trees and birthday bikes. It was loaded up with flats of flowers and bags of mulch as we set about the nebulous task of giving our home what the realtor called "curb appeal". It was loaded down with our most prized possessions, the ones we didn't want the moving company to handle, when we made a 300 mile move to Kansas City. It was the first thing we unloaded at our new home. It has driven a thousand miles to and from ballparks. It has housed bat bags and shoulder pads, pool floats and snow sleds. A hundred on-the-go meals have been eaten in it's seats, from Dallas to Minneapolis. It didn't like to start in cold weather... ever. It's gas mileage was suspect. Did I mention that it kinda smelled? But it was ours... through thick and through thin, it was ours.

But now it isn't. As I checked the glovebox one last time, it's replacement smoothly slid into the parking space beside me. It is as new as the van was once upon a time, no owners until now. It's leather seats hold no Cheez-it dust or sunflower seeds, it's floormats are not only pristine- they're all there. It doesn't have a DVD player, but it has in dash navigation, traffic, and weather, satellite radio, a five disc changer, and the ability to sync to my phone with Bluetooth. It SMELLS GOOD. It gets 50 miles to the gallon yet looks like a sportscar. It is sleek, it is new, and it is HOT. It doesn't even require a key to start, just push a button. It only seats five, four if you want to be REALLY comfortable, but that's okay. My boys are no longer little bitty with big needs. One will be learning to drive in a few short months as it is. We don't travel in packs any longer, and for entertainment the boys have phones and tablets and chapter books at their disposal. The minivan time has passed. It is time for it... and me... to accept that and move on.

Yet as excited as I am for our new purchase (it really is beautiful, by far the finest car we've ever owned), I'm sad. It's hard to leave behind this piece of my life, covered with it's sports stickers, honor roll paraphernalia,  and memories of vacations past. Saying goodbye to the van means saying goodbye to that piece of my life, acknowledging that time has moved on and we have outgrown it's benefits. There are no more carseats left to buckle, no more bulky strollers or chunky wagons to maneuver. I am not the mother of babies any longer... but the mother of young men. Young men have a habit of growing up, moving on, and there's not a whole lot I can do about that but smile through the tears and embrace it.

With an air of finality I shut the van's door one last time and hand the keys to the salesman. It isn't mine anymore. I pull my "Support Pirates" magnet off the back and give it a final pat on the bumper. I hope they fix the door and give it a good cleaning before putting it on the lot. Maybe THEY can get the boy-smell out. I hope it finds it's way to another family, one needing more room for carseats and soccer bags and clunky wagons and bulky strollers, and I hope they cover the back with honor roll proclamations and sports stickers. I hope they find a way to cajole it into starting on cold winter days. I hope all of this as I slowly back out of the parking space, stealing one last look at our past before heading out onto the highway and out into the life that lies ahead.... and really, pretty excited about the gas mileage we're going to get while getting there.  

Monday Morning Coffee

The alarm goes off at 6am. I try to smack at it, but realize that Flake moved it out of arm’s reach. Somewhere inside my groggy mind I’m wishing for a  hockey stick. Eventually I am able to find my screeching nemesis and slap the snooze button. I only sort of squash Flake’s head in the process.

6:15 and it’s at it AGAIN, and somewhere in the foggy recesses of my brain I remember Ace has to be at school 45 minutes early for a practice. Crap. It’s five degrees outside but it feels about -35 outside of the covers as I’m trying to locate my slippers, robe, and mittens to make the trek upstairs to awaken the slumbering wildebeest of a fourteen year old. Four times. Four times until he finally springs from his bed in blind panic and hurls himself into the shower, all the while screaming WHY DIDN’T I WAKE HIM UP EARLIER?

I start the coffee.

7:10 and Flake asks where I put the keys; he wants to start the car. We share a hearty laugh at the idea that I actually KNOW where the keys are. Fifteen minutes later and five minutes before Ace has to be at school we locate them in a bin of GI Joes. I’m sure there’s a good reason for that. I offer Ace a coat I know he won’t take but feel I HAVE to offer in order to be a Good Mother. Secretly praise myself for having at least instilled enough sense that he’s wearing pants rather than shorts. Rescind this as he tells me he brought his laundry down because he wants to wear shorts tomorrow.

I drink some more coffee.

7:45 and Flake is back as the Z stumbles downstairs, loudly proclaiming he is FREEZING. Sometime in the night he has swapped his super warm and fuzzy fleece Ninja Turtle jammies for a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from four years ago. Z is NOT a morning person and I work quickly to present him with his customary bowl of Lucky Charms. The milk is chunky. He is not amused. Neither am I, as I’d been eyeing the Honey Nut Cheerios with some interest. I send him to the shower with promises of pancakes. After I finish this coffee.

8:30 and I can hear Z singing about how much he hates Mondays while he brushes his teeth and combs his hair. I make his lunch, same as every school day- peanut butter and grape jam, an apple, a yogurt, chips, and V-8 Fusion pouch. I check his backpack to make sure I didn’t miss anything, extracting a half eaten granola bar and something glued to a clothespin. I fill up his water bottle and throw in a wrapped, uneaten granola bar for snack. I manage to find BOTH gloves, but no hat. Where’s his hat? I can’t send him to school without a hat. I ask if he knows where it is… he might have left it at Grandma’s house this weekend… two hours away. I make another cup of coffee and go try to find the Emergency Backup Hat so the office staff doesn’t call CPS for my kid having frostbitten ears.

8:45 and I’m back downstairs with the Emergency Backup Hat and what appears to be the 453 changes of clothes my children have made since Saturday evening. Deposit laundry in laundry room on top of OTHER laundry and remind self NOT to wash Ace’s basketball shorts. Argue with Z about wearing Emergency Backup Hat (“But it’s SPIDERMAN and NOBODY is wearing SPIDERMAN” is not a valid reason when Morning Meteorologist Kaylee Dion is telling me that four people have been reported having just frozen in place outside… just FROZEN. Like THAT.) and eventually smoosh it on his head with assorted empty threats. Is lunchbox in backpack? Yes. Are water bottle and uneaten granola bar in backpack? Is library book? No. Crap. What library book? Am reminded that, two weeks ago, he checked out a book on the Winter Olympics. Tear house apart trying to find said book while wishing I could start my own caffeine IV drip. Make note to ask nurse friends if this is doable.

9:05 and Z remembers that he took the book back LAST week, after he’d finished it. Give kisses and send him out the door with Flake and a reminder that we’ll be picking him up a half hour early for his doctor’s appointment. Retreat back to kitchen to clean up morning routine shrapnel and… start a cup of coffee. Decide the laundry and dishes can wait while I read the news… or rather play on Facebook and Buzzfeed while pretending to read the news.

9:15 and Flake returns from the school dropoff run and prepares to head down to his home office to start the day’s conference calls.“Didn’t we just buy coffee? We’re almost out… how is that possible?”

“Not sure,” I murmur, taking another sip of hot, delicious coffee. If I concentrate, I can see sounds. 

The Beach

The vast majority of what I write here is for fun. I love to make people smile, I love to make them laugh. I’m all about the happiness. Because of that I’ve wrestled a long time with this posting, on whether or not to post it here, on whether or not it belongs. In the end, though, this is my space… and as much as I love to create happiness, that’s not ALL of who I am. For those who truly just want something light, I suggest checking out some of my other posts. But I do hope you’ll come back to this one eventually.

A lot of very important people in my life are dealing with grief right now… some are right in the middle of the storm, some feel like helpless bystanders. This is a post that I realized NEEDED to be written… not just for myself, but on the off chance that it DOES make a difference to someone. That can be just as valuable as laughter. These days are not easy ones… but they are ours.

It’s Sunday and I’m probably at the grocery store, pushing my cart from aisle to aisle, throwing in the usual bits and pieces that make up my family’s diet: hamburger; chicken (always chicken); apples for the boy whose only fruit or vegetable consumption is apples, peanut butter and jelly for the lunchbox. Bread. I will smile and chat with the few people I see that I know before heading to the checkout lanes. I’ll hand over my coupons (not many; I still can’t get the hang of couponing), swipe my card as I accept their thanks, and then trek out to the car to load the bags into the trunk. I’ve deliberately parked at the edge of the parking lot, and not to prevent someone from dinging the doors of our lovely Honda, or for the extra steps I can ratchet up on my pedometer. It’s so when I sink into the leather seats I can just sit for a while, absorb the quiet, and close my eyes without anyone staring at me, or impatiently honk as they wait for my parking spot. It’s so I can take a deep breath before turning the key. Today is a day that requires extra breaths, even all these years later. Today is a day that requires more quiet time.

It was sixteen years ago today, January 26^th, that we held our daughter for the last time. Sixteen years ago that my husband and I crossed the threshold into a parallel universe. That she was only twelve days old when we said goodbye has no bearing on our grief, nor does the fact that she was premature, that she was ill, that the cards were stacked against her from the beginning. In a parent’s eyes there is always hope, there is always something worth fighting for… until it’s taken away. There is truth in the statement that a parent’s heart grows to accommodate all the love she’ll feel for her child. It’s just that when that child is gone your heart doesn’t shrink. That piece just feels empty.

Many of the people reading this will know little to none about our journey, even those whom we consider close, personal friends. We were young when this happened; newlyweds. We were still figuring out how to live a life together when it was all torn apart.  Some that do know may not think about it. It’s been sixteen years, closing in on two decades, another lifetime ago. We don’t talk about it… so why should they? Why don’t we talk about it?

Of all the things that have been written about grief, in books and online, I seldom see how damned LONELY it is. How isolating. How, even when you are in a room full of people, you can feel utterly and completely alone. Grief is a lonely journey because it is a SOLITARY journey. No one else can know your grief, not your parents, not your best friend, not even your spouse. No one knows because they are not inside of your head, they have not had to make the choices that you have made. No one has the same questions, the same guilt you carry. Those that grieve with you will often grieve differently, need different things, things that neither of you can give. Grief is lonely, and loss has become a four letter word. As a society it makes us uncomfortable. Dealing with someone’s loss is a minefield that no one wants to traverse, and that’s understandable… but it’s also why eventually we stopped sharing our story, our daughter. Eventually you grow tired of your heart dropping over the averted eyes, the condolences, the sense of not support but pity that you know will eventually become a reason for people to avoid you. And so you stop. At least that’s what we did. We relied on our closest and oldest friends and our family for the support we needed and we tucked our daughter inside of our hearts.  And then times passes… and suddenly it’s sixteen years later and you realize that while everyone talks about how to handle the immediate aftermath… no one talks about how to survive the journey. They tell you to find your “new normal”, they tell you to find your blessings, and some may have the gall to tell you to just “move on”. They’ll tell you all of that, but no one talks about how. No one talks about the path from devastation to restoration.

Imagine that you are on vacation. Everything is going well, you’re having a great time. You decide to go parasailing. You’re flying along in the air, looking at the beach and the sea below you… when something happens. Something completely unexpected, something everyone told you could never happen while parasailing. Suddenly you’re plummeting down, falling to the sea, the world a blur of water and sky over and over and over again until you hit. You fell from just the right height for the impact not to kill you, but not so close that every part of your body doesn’t feel completely broken. The seas are rough, horrible, churning and sucking and spinning you as if you were caught in God’s own washing machine. You can’t find your way to the surface, and when you finally do you realize it doesn’t matter as wave after wave hits you, beats you, throws you back into the abyss. You can’t breathe. You can’t see. You can’t scream. All you can do is exist.

Eventually there is a break, a small break in the waves and you are able to catch your breath and get upright, just long enough to find the beach. It’s so far away it seems you’ll never make it back. You can see people standing there, waving to you, screaming. You see just enough before another wave hits you, and then another, then another. This goes on for a while… the brief break before the waves start again. You don’t know what’s better or worse… the chance to catch your breath or the repeated realization of where you are.

Then there’s a break that’s a little longer… long enough that you can paddle in a bit, until your toes touch the sand. You’re still too far out to help, but this time when the waves cease you can wiggle your toes into the sand and regain your equilibrium. Your head is above water enough to shout back, even if what you’re shouting is lies: I’m okay. I’m going to make it. No, there’s nothing you can do. I’ll be fine. Just give me time. I’ll make it back.

But eventually… eventually it feels less like a lie. You go from digging your very tippy toes into the sand to standing flat footed… to taking steps. The waves still hit, they still take your breath away, they still choke you and make you wonder if you’ll ever make it out. Sometimes they knock you to your knees, dragging you back under water, threatening to carry you back out to sea. It’s hardest to stand back up after those. But you do. And, when you can, weak in the knees and exhausted from the battle,  you take another step.

Eventually you realize that the waves aren’t dragging you under as much. You realize that you’re not staggering… but walking. You realize you’ve made it to the beach. When you look around, you notice that some of the people that were there at the beginning have gone, and you’re not sure when that happened. But you’ll notice others that never left, and when they take you by the arms and pull you to the sand you’ll discover that sometimes it was their shouted words that kept you fighting towards the surface when the waves would knock you back down again. In that moment you take a deep breath. You have survived.

You have survived… but the beach is now your home. Others don’t understand that… after what you went through, don’t you just want to leave? Don’t you want to go home? Of course you do… of course you want to go back to what was familiar and comfortable… but you can’t. This place is yours now. You build your house, and as you do you see other little houses along the beach… others who have been trapped in the waves and spit out on the shores.  Eventually you may walk down and say hello, see their house, but not yet.  Time passes, and the beach becomes comfortable. You grow used to the sound of the sea roaring so close by. You grow used to the way the water still laps at your toes, never really going away. Storms come… some worse than others. Some threaten to drag you back to the ocean’s depths… but you find a way to hang on, to fight back, to wait until the waves recede and you can catch your breath once more. And when strangers marvel at how you do it, how can you live your life so close to what almost killed you, you just shrug. There’s no other way. The sea has become a part of you now, both its fury and it’s gentle nostalgia. You are not the person you were before you plunged into its depths. You belong to it now, and it to you. It is up to you to figure out how to handle that relationship.

My house on the beach has grown over the years. With work and with time my husband and I found a way to merge our houses into one, we found a way to give each other what was needed. We added on two new rooms for our boys. Their rooms are far away from the water but they can see the waves. Their sister is not an unknown entity to them. They celebrate her birthday each year with us. They visit her grave, bringing her Winnie the Pooh statues and flowers and even baseballs. They have not grown up without her. Our friends visit and we’ve even invited new friends in to see over the years… and those closest to us did not avert their eyes. Instead they asked for a tour, asked to see our pictures and our momentos. Some even held our hands and walked along the water’s edge with us. They taught us not to make assumptions about how people will handle our struggles.  Our home has become one that, while created in grief and in anguish, is full of love and happiness. We have our sandbags against the storm. We have learned how to evacuate when the seas threaten to rise too high. But that doesn’t mean we don’t still wade into the water sometimes. It’s just that we know to hang onto each other now… and we know how to find our way out.

For those who are still in the waves, for those who are still struggling just to get their heads above water… we are on the beach waiting for you and we will be there as long as it takes. We will throw you a floatie when you most need it, but we understand that finding your feet is something only you can do. We will tell your friends to keep shouting, keep encouraging, to just KEEP LOVING YOU, because it matters, the voices in the darkness matter so very much.  Each step forward you make is a victory. How long it takes you to reach the sand is not important… just know that the sand is there. That we are here. That we are here, and we love you, all of the broken and bruised pieces of you.

Honored

A quick note- I wrote this originally back in February, but for some reason it didn't post. So I'm posting it now. Why? Because I can. 

I'm a pretty lucky parent most of the time. My kids are pretty well behaved (well, except when around each other for more than a few minutes at a time. But we haven't had bloodshed in, oh, minutes!), they're pretty well liked, and they do pretty well in school. And that last part? That's pretty important to us. It's not so much the grades, but that they are performing at their own personal best. Sometimes it can be a struggle, beating back the procrastination beast, letting a few things slide for a while. It's a lesson our 13 year old is beginning to learn as advanced classes and a social life battle for supremacy. Somehow, though, he made it work, and here we are again at honor roll awards night. 

Secretly I'm just in it for the awesome bumper stickers... HOW I LOVE THOSE BUMPER STICKERS!

I made him dress up this year, which pretty much turned me into a mix of Stalin and your choice of North Korean leaders. He almost had a reprieve when we discovered not a single Mom-Approved item from HIS closet was going to work, unless the Urkel look has come into fashion. 

I should have known. He's taller than my 5'8" these days. But discovering that he and his dad have the same inseam was a little much for me. Upside? No last minute shopping. That was an upside for both of us. His father owns enough button downs and pairs of dress slacks to outfit the entire seventh grade. His closet space is twice that of mine, for crying out loud! OK, I'd better stop before I start retribution shopping at Gap.com

These nighttime assemblies move pretty fast, given the amount of kids they go through. Sixth and seventh grade go in the evening. Eighth grade gets breakfast. I wonder if they'd switch that to a lovely after-school snack for my sake? I don't do well with mornings. Ah, well, the things we do for our kids....

"Maybe if I don't look the principal directly in the eye I can stay under his radar
and avoid turning into stone..."

Nine semesters in a row of straight A's, Kid. Not too shabby... not too shabby at all. 

Don't sweat the small stuff... cherish it.

Sometimes, no matter how much I adore those two boys of mine, I end the day wanting to pull my hair out. 

It's simple, really. All I asked was that they pick up the living room while I folded the laundry. Such a simple task, especially divided between the two of them. So is it any wonder that I felt my frustration grow, little by little when I walked down the stairs...

It's little stuff, but it drives me nuts. Was it really easier to step over the monkey rather than pick it up and put it away? 

And are we going to take bets now on the frantic shoe search that will occur just minutes before the bus arrives tomorrow morning? 

I suppose I should be grateful that at least ONE shoe made it over by his saxophone case. 

One. No clue where the other one is. I suppose that could be his jazz musician name. 

One Shoe Tupin. Has a nice ring to it. 

Pretty sure the water jug isn't the dog's, that is,

unless she's laying off the more understated "whine until 

they fill my water dish" method and is going with 

the time honored "guilt and manipulation" method. 

Don't get me started about laundry. Please. 

And I know we're all super excited that we're getting the Imagination 

Movers episodes again, but did we really need to leave the TV on? Who's

listening, the cat? 

It just wears on you, you know? I walked through the house, the frustration building, reaching a resounding crescendo as I walked into the basement and heard the video games. Sure, I thought, do as little as you can and then run downstairs and turn on the XBox. Not likely, kids. 

And then I stopped. I stopped when I saw this:

It doesn't look like anything... just two boys, on the sofa together, hanging out. For me, though, it was a reminder that there are more important things in life than making sure each sock made it into the basket. There's almost six years of age difference between my boys, six years that seem even farther apart with each day. When those quiet moments of togetherness come.... I'm not going to stop it. 

Sure, maybe they should have double checked their work before heading downstairs. And no, it isn't anything life altering that they're doing- just talking together while one plays and the other watches. It's those kind of quiet moments, though, that I want them to look back on someday. I want them to look back and smile. Because they're special, and they grow more special every day. They can pick up their shoes on their way back upstairs, after all. Moments like these don't come back. 

And neon green vampire teeth trump putting socks away any day, I suppose. 

Weather Reports in BOLD FONT

I wish I had more time to write tonight, but I don't. See, we are under a
WINTER STORM WATCH. 

Hrm. I don't think I made that... urgent-y enough. Let's try again.
We are under a

!!!!WINTER STORM WATCH!!!!

Better.

Yes, I know I live in the midwest, and yes, I realize it is February. But people! This is a WEATHER EVENT. There is a WEATHER EVENT bearing down upon us and I am NOT PREPARED.

Well, I'm sort of prepared. There is a (clean! Yes, clean!) trash can full of firewood in my living room. No, I"m not joking. My man, he knows how to take care of us even when he's not around for the WINTER WEATHER EVENT. And he takes care of us... by filling an oversized rubbermaid trashcan full of firewood and depositing it in the living room.

There's been rumor of a potential "event" for the last week or so, but last night someone posted a weather map that predicted up to 20" of snow for our area, which meant that it was getting real, yo. And today our local weatherfolk began creating their graphics for the upcoming onslaught.

I've become more than a little jaded about the weather forecasts lately. After three years of crazy snowfall (who can forget the Blizzard of 2011... am I right? AM I RIGHT?), it's been dry pastures around here. Too often we've had a lot of this..

 but got this: 

Or, you know, something like that. 

But I don't know, I"m buying into this a little bit. Enough that I decided maybe I should stock up on a few things. A few important things. Like transportation needs

And important nutritional supplements

And... well... dammit, it's supposed to snow. Don't judge Mommy. 

Obviously tomorow will be spent preparing for the coming onslaught. We need ice melt. We need a frying pan that can be utilized over the fire in case of POWER OUTAGES. We need  MARSHMALLOWS AND HOT COCOA THAT IS RICH AND CREAMY. Obviously I will be on top of it all. How could I not be? I have a trash can full of firewood in my living room. 

Wow, bro! Look at that firewood! oh, yeah, and new sleds, too... but the firewood!

Carpe Crustum! er, Momentum. Carpe Momentum!

One of the 'side effects' (if you will) of having  my particular brand of ADHD is impulsivity. It can manifest itself in your words (lack of a brain-mouth filter), in the risks you take, in the activities you choose. For me it was always a tendency to realize a sudden very deep NEED to purchase fifty lego MiniFigures and a webcam RIGHT NOW, things I wouldn't call harmless but certainly not as risky as, say, getting intimate with Jose Cuervo before starting your neighborhood drag racing career. And MiniFigures really are freaking awesome.

BACK ON TASK. I work pretty hard to curb the insanity. I put the legos back before I make it to the checkout. I try to think before I agree to do something that borderlines on insanity. I've managed to stay employed and married and somewhat solvent, so I figure I'm doing okay. But I have to be careful about walking the line between managing life and living life. because sometimes it's good, really good, to throw caution to the wind and just do what you want. If it feels right, it isn't necessarily wrong, know what I mean?

I've been on this line of thought since the beginning of the weekend, after I read an article online discussing the publishing of photographer Steve McCurry's images taken on the last roll of Kodachrome to come off the assembly line. If you're not a photography geek, stay with me anyway. You've heard of Kodachrome, I'm willing to bet. Paul Simon had a Nikon camera (good choice, Sir), and he loved to take the photographs...so much that he begged his Mama not to take his Kodachome away. There's a national park in Utah named after it. Some of the most famous editorial images in history were shot on Kodachrome film... amazing color, a certain crispness and contrast... Kodachrome was good stuff. Real good stuff. But if time marches on, technology is a freaking rocket launcher, blasting us into the future before you can say "duck face." In 2009, Kodachrome paid the price for digital's western expansion.  And after December 30, 2010 it would be nothing more than a memory. A piece of nostalgia for those of us who remember what 110 film looked like, or the ice blue light of a flashcube burning out.  The last lab left not just in the United States but on EARTH- on the whole damned EARTH!- was Dwayne's Photo in Parson's, KS.

Not New York City. Not Chicago. Not Los Angeles, or Seattle, or Atlanta, or Dallas. Hell, not even Kansas City! Parsons, Kansas. Ten square miles of southeastern Kansas small town, ten thousand people, a few hotels, a nice little community college, and the last place on earth where the K-14 process of film development was done.

And that's where my impulsivity kicked in.  It was the morning of December 30th, cool but not frigid, and beautiful. Lots of sunshine. I was watching the news, and damned if everywhere I turned wasn't talking about Dwayne's, wasn't talking about Parsons, wasn't talking about the end of an era. I'd shot Kodachrome; not a lot (I used more Tri-X 400 because I could use the school darkroom), but some. And the more I watched and read- the New York times, the BBC, Time, Newsweek, CNN- the more I started to fidget. The more I started to contemplate. Parsons was, after all, only three hours away. I grew up in Southeastern Kansas. I knew the way. I could even stop in at my parents' house along the way and see if my dad had any cake. (My dad makes REALLY kick ass chocolate sheet cake. I can be bribed to do just about anything with the promise of his cake. To be fair, it started as my mom's sheet cake, but it's morphed into his, but jeez, I don't care WHO makes it, SOMEONE MAKE ME SOME CAKE.)

It was getting into the afternoon. I had a lot to do, really, still catching up after the holiday season. The husband was home, but working in his home office. Not that any of that MATTERED, though. Every reason in the world I shouldn't have gone, but by a little after 1 pm I was southbound.
Call it impulsivity, if you will, It was impulsive. I'm grateful to have a spouse who shrugged and said "Why not?" and waved as I pulled out of the drive. I'm glad to have parents who just laughed when I called with my plans and had coffee (BUT NO CAKE) for me on the way back. For me it was living in the moment, realizing that there are some things you can't do another day, that you can't get back, and for those moments you've got to say 'Screw the housework. I love you kids, but Mama's taking a break."  You've got to jump in your Parrotmobile and drive three hours to arrive at a little photo lab just a few minutes before closing... or, you know, whatever strikes your personal fancy.

Next time, on Hoarders: Kodachrome...

I was nearly trampled by a couple of guys with some SERIOUS gear as I slipped into Dwayne's at a quarter of five. I watched as a couple of very worn women in bright yellow Kodak Kodachrome t-shirts answered phones and answered questions. I bought a roll of film- I don't shoot film often anymore, but it seemed like the thing to do- and two of the Kodachrome t-shirts, one for myself and one for a friend. The woman that helped me was friendly, but obviously beat. The interviews, the photographs, the curious onlookers amid the seemingly never ending deluge of mail: thousands upon thousands of rolls of film.  A man from Arkansas with over 1,500 rolls, nearly 50,000 developed slides of trains. A woman from London who took her first ever trip to the states to hand deliver three rolls and shoot five more. Hundreds from Germany, dozens from Johannesburg, 199 developed rolls headed to a college in Taiwan.

She could have handed me my stuff and waved me off with a smile. I had my trinkets. I had my adventure. I was THERE. But it's southeast Kansas, see, and the people down there don't just send you off when you mention you drove three hours for a t-shirt and a look. They offer you a closer look. So as the minutes ticked down closer to five, closer to closing time, I went back. It was the mail room first, boxes of developed and packaged slides ready to be sent out all over the world scattered everywhere- on racks, on tables, on the floor. There was pallet after pallet of bagged packages, thousands of rolls that had squeaked in under the wire. The door opened and a frazzled looking FedEx driver pulled in another overloaded pallet. "That's it for me today." "That should be the last of it all," my tour guide replied. Sure enough, it was almost five. There in front of me were the final rolls of film to squeak in under the wire.

The tour continued- the chemistry room, the enormous slide reels Dwayne's makes and sends out all over the world, and even the baths and processing station for Kodachrome film. I watched as one of the "Kodachrome Girls" took a length of newly developed film as it came down, turning it into slides. You don't think about that sort of thing, you don't think about the fact that there was a person somewhere whose hands were all over your vacation memories, your childhood mementos, your family history.
It was ten after five by this point. It was time to go home. I said my goodbyes and stepped out into the fading light. The lock clicked into place behind me. Dwayne's had closed for the night, and every canister of Kodachrome film that would ever be developed was safely inside. It hit me then that this wasn't just a lark, this wasn't just Heather being Heather being silly and going on a trip. This was the end of an era that was unfolding around me. History in the making.

I needed one last shot. I ran across the four lanes of 32nd street and stood in someones front yard. There wasn't a lot of light left, and I'd forgotten my tripod in my rush to leave the city. My lens was beginning to show signs of trouble, and I'd find out within a week or two that I had issues with the focusing elements. I was also, unbeknownst to me, about six hours from being almost ridiculously sick. But there in front of me was a moment. The drive through window for film drop off was typical, hours and policies neatly noted beneath the large, red "KODACHROME LAB" decal across the top. It was perfect, and I wasn't the only one that thought so; the same image was shot by dozens of others, some for major media outlets.

But, see, it's me. And perfect isn't always good enough. I got downright magical. I was standing there, getting ready to take my shot, perfectly happy with my day, when a woman walks towards the window. She's wearing the yellow Kodachrome shirt, she's moving with purpose. In one motion she flips the "OPEN" sign around to "CLOSED", turns, and walks away. Kodachrome processing had, indeed, CLOSED.

I looked around. There was no one else there. No news media, no writers, no curious onlookers. Just me and Lucille (my Nikon D300), alone with history. So I took the shot. I took it, ran back across 32nd street, got in my van, and drove away.

It's just a picture. Not even a very good one. It's soft, it's grainy, it really could have used some better composition. But it tells the story... and it is the only one that exists. Though the last roll of Kodachrome was actually processed on January 18th, 2011, for the world it ended just a little after five on a cold December evening, and I was there. And I was there because... because I did it. Because I lived in the moment. Because I listened to that voice inside of me that said "you will regret this if you don't go. The laundry will wait. Your children don't need you to hover while they play video games. Go." I listened, I went, and I will never, ever regret it.

 You probably don't have ADHD like I do. You probably don't struggle with the need to BUY LEGO MINIFIGURES UNTIL YOU FIND THE SHAKESPEARE ONE!!!! But I'd bet dollars to donuts that you talk yourself out of listening to the voices in your head. (the good ones; don't listen to the bad ones. Keep your neighbor's cat out of the oven!) We let the "shoulds" override the "wants" in our life far too often. There is nothing wrong with giving in from time to time, when it feels right.  We're more than slaves to our jobs, our families, our homes. We're more than a to-do list or a work description. We can be anything. Even a part of history, no matter how obscure.

But I still wish there had been cake.

Mams don't take my Kodachrome away.... oh. Too late. 

Mobile Cheese

I’ve been thinking about this post for a long time, composing and recomposing in my head, trying to figure out exactly what it is I want to say.  There are so many different opinions, different thoughts, different ideas of what is “right” that it can be hard to figure out just what it is that YOU believe (metaphorical you; I’m not sitting here chastising you for being waffle-y at all.). I’ve done a lot of reading, a lot of research, and a lot of hard-core thinking about this over the last several weeks. What I say probably won’t be popular with a lot of you, and I’ve come to terms with that. But I believe in what I believe in.

Mobile photography just may change the way we see the world.

What? You thought I was tackling gun control, didn’t you? Please… I’m not THAT sadistic.

If you work where I work, though, and if you hang out with some of the folks I hang out with, you know that this is a pretty surprising, possibly even inflammatory statement to make. After years of preaching the value sensor size, the value of glass, the value of understanding exposure and the background of photography, I’m just throwing it all out in the trash? What’s next, instagram weddings?

(…well…….)

"Baseball Brats"
They go where the team goes...

This wasn’t an instant thing for me. I love the feel of my Nikon in my hands, the steady weight of it, the balance between lens and body, the way my body adjusts as I raise the camera to my eye to compose an image. There’s just something about the entire process of taking a picture with a nice, sturdy, DSLR or the like that feels… good. It feels right. And the feeling of dumping the images into Lightroom, seeing what you’ve done, what’s good and what’s crap? Reminiscent of watching anxiously over the vat of developer to see, out of the darkness, what emerged. I love the work process, I love the feel of it, I love the art that is photography.

But damned if I don’t love the ease and immediacy of my phone.  

"Summer Dreams"
Parking lot carnival, Belton MO

I tried not to, I really, really did. But in the two years since I gave myself up to the smartphone, I’ve come to realize that for many of us- especially parents- the best camera? It’s the one that’s actually with you.  I don’t take my Nikon to the bus stop (usually). I don’t take it to the elementary school lunch room.  I don’t carry it through the house or to the grocery store or have it on and ready during family game night, even if Pinterest tells me I should. But I ALWAYS have my phone (don’t we all?). So it seems that those priceless little moments that take us by surprise, those moments we just want to wrap in a box and store carefully inside our hearts forever and ever…. Well, we kinda can.  

But it’s not real photography, someone from the peanut gallery sneers. It’s crap! It’s a fad!

"Stolen flower in an air vent"

As breathtaking as my piece "Stolen flower in an air vent"  might be, I don’t think anyone would necessarily call it art. There are people out there, though, capturing some amazing things with the tap of a thumb, especially in the realm of photojournalism. Take, for instance, photojournalist Ben Lowy’s Hipstamatic image of Hurricane Sandy… that made the cover of Time magazine. Or Lowy’s award-winning photo series iLybia- a look into the Arab Spring of 2012 as few were able to capture. It seems that everyone, even in the far flung corners of this crazy world, is so used to the spectre of the bumbling phone enthusiast, juggling apps and contacts, maneuvering through life with one eye down, that no one notices, no one cares when the eyes come up, the phone raises… and in an instant a moment is captured. What is the reaction to that same person when they raise a DSLR, adjust the lens, take the stance, and fire away? You don’t NOT notice that. People are keenly aware of the camera. But a phone? Seemingly invisible. And so photojournalists find new ways to bring us images from across the globe that tear at your guts in a way others have not, a personalization of an existence that we can’t even fathom.

"Summer Haircut"

But I don’t intend on going to Syria anytime soon, so how does this apply to me? Simple- getting candid, inspired images inside a war zone is, I’d guess, just as difficult as getting candid, inspired images of my thirteen year old. And the moments are just as fleeting. 

Photography tells the world "This is who we are. This is our life." You can argue that, in today's overly digitized, over-sharing culture, that no one really NEEDS to know who you are, or, indeed, WHY you are. I'd argue that the culture of "oversharing" is one of the tenets of photography. It's a need to share with the world YOUR vision. It's a desire to share with the world what is important to YOU. Mobile photography and the era of Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr have just taken it out of the gallery and into the palm of your hand. Maybe, just maybe, we can begin to take the first steps towards tolerance and global understanding. 

"Vampire Bunny Attack"
Tournament Lunch Break

(of course, I'd settle for a culture of tolerance and understanding in my living room.)

Does this mean that I’m going to give up my Nikon, pack away my lenses, and give myself completely over? Not quite, and neither should you. If you ever find the need to capture something more than ten feet away, I don’t suggest giving up traditional photography methods anytime soon.  Same goes if you know you’d actually like prints. Our kids may be totally happy with the idea of ePictures on senior day, but as of right now, I prefer my portraits frameable, thankyouverymuch. Easier doesn’t always mean better… just as fancier doesn’t always mean right. It’s a balance.

As a photographer, I appreciate the fluid evolution of digital photography. I love the fact that mobile photography takes some of the elitism out of the art- the concept that, in order to capture great things, you must have the best possible equipment. As a parent, I love nothing more than flipping through my phone’s gallery and seeing all of those magic little moments, neatly packaged up for my heart- and assorted combinations of cloud and solid storage methods- to hold onto forever. 

"The View From Coronado"
Coronado Beach Sunset, San Diego

Pinned

Did you know that if you do 50 jumping jacks, 5 push ups, 20 crunches, 30 mountain climbers, and a thirty second plank hold before EACH SHOWER, that you will lose 10 pounds of belly fat and gain a perfect six pack? And did you know you can turn a tablecloth from Target into a really awesome rug? AND did you know that you can bake a pan of blueberry oatmeal that will taste JUST as good on day six as on day ONE? And did you know that a little Elmer’s glue, a little Mod Podge, and a dash of glitter will turn you into Nate freaking Berkus… but hopefully with less leg hair.

I am convinced that somewhere in this great big world there is a little room, and in that room is a bitter little woman with nothing  but a laptop and an endless supply of coffee, posting and reposting thousands of ways that women can torture themselves for not being PP- Pinterest Perfect.

Pinterest is an evil bitch.

That's right, be jealous of my t-shirt scarf
and trendy glitter/paint glass ornament. 

I know of what I speak. How many nights have I, stooped in boredom, decided to just “take a glance”, just an itsy-bitsy glance at Pinterest, something to while away a few minutes while I wait for the dog to finish doing it’s nightly deed. Suddenly it’s 3am, the dog is pissed as hell out on the deck, and I’m twitching out as I pin yet another recipe I’ll never make or “upcycle” that will languish unfinished in my garage. I’m salivating over delectable baked goods I’ll never find the time to make,  adorable treats that will never be decorated (no matter how “super simple!” it is to turn a Milano cookie into a sheep).

It’s such a love/hate relationship, that Pinterest thing. Everything looks so easy! So simple! And so ECONOMICAL! Hit the thrift store and turn this busted down frame and handful of Jock Jams CDs into a wedding-worthy frame! A bottle of glue and two drops of food color will turn ordinary glass into delicate artwork! Crayons and a hairdryer? GENIUS! And glitter… my GOD THE GLITTER.   

Contagion: Craft Room
Nothing spreads like GLITTER....

(whomever said glitter was the herpes of the artwork really did herpes a grave disservice. This crap is everywhere and I can’t get rid of it. Glitter on silverware? Really? What the HELL was  I thinking? Who let me on the computer past two am again?)

When reality hits me I see Pinterest for what it is… a way to share ideas we’ll never follow up on, a way to pretend we have spare time and extra craftiness in our lives when, in reality, we’re lucky to take the time to match socks from the laundry. It’s the concept, the idea, the dream that somewhere there is a woman dressed in a perfectly matching palette, wearing her t-shirt fringe scarf lovingly crafted from one of her husband’s old upcycled vintage tees, her hair in a perfect fishbone braid she learned off a blog page, effortlessly planning two months worth of meals on a $50 budget (with heavy crock pot usage, natch) while redecorating her palatial home on a budget comprised of the spare change she found underneath her newly reupholstered sofa…. 

How does this HAPPEN? I think I have glitter in my EARS.

And maybe, just a little, we hope that this shows us the way- not necessarily for the perfect home, or the perfect marriage, or the perfect life (though hey, we aren't arguing if that's a byproduct)... but that somehow we can figure out just exactly how we can squeeze 30 hours worth of needs into a 24 hour day. Surely these scarf making, cupcake baking, canvas painting people know the secret, right? So even as we waste precious hours clicking and pinning and oohing and ahhhing, hours we don't really have... we can't stop. Somewhere in those pins likes The Answer, like a bedazzled Ark of the Convenant. 

Not that it will matter if we do figure it out, though. We’ll be too busy cleaning up all of this damned glitter. What the HELL? 

Taking the Plunge

We're going to pretend the last six months didn't happen, aren't we? Of course we are. 

Really, the rate things are going around here it was going to take something epic to get me to post a blog. I mean, seriously- who turned my treadmill on high and where's the key to this damned chain??? Anyone that tells you your life will calm down and you'll get more sleep once your kids are older is LYING TO YOU. LYYYYINNNNNGGGGG.

*cough* Anyway.

But seriously, we are talking epic here. Monumentous, even. Something I never, ever thought I'd be saying again. I mean, I thought I was done with all of this, thought I was done with it years ago. But here I am, ready to take the plunge again.

I'm having a garage sale.

(ha! Bet you thought I was going to say I'm pregnant, didn't you? HA HA HA HA. Wait, you didn't? What, was my delivery off? Not sincere enough? Crap.)

I know that, as a card carrying Suburban Mom I should be well versed in the subject of all things yard/garage sale related. You can't spit on Saturdays without hitting a neighborhood sale around here. I've avoided them, though- having one, going to one, driving by one (ok, maybe not so much that last part). Nothing to do with garage sales, no sir, no ma'am. And it's all because of David.  Well, to be more accurate- it's all because of David's MOM.

Once upon a time, back in the Oklahoma Years(tm), I was a part of this kickass online group of moms. We all had kids within a year or two of each other, so we'd organize playdates and nights out. It was so awesome having other people to talk to during those hellish playground hours. Seriously, any mom who tells you that she just LURRRRRRVEEES spending hour upon hour with her special lil' Chiclet romping through the playground without a single adult soul to talk to? LYYYYYYING. Or on drugs. Or maybe both. Probably both.

We saved each other from that. We'd turn all of the kids loose and then we could sit back and chat (or gossip... because really, that's what we were doing. Let's be honest here. There's always good dirt in the Mommies group. Always.) and everyone was happy. We were so happy that we decided to throw a six family garage sale. It made sense at the time.

Six families! Boy stuff and girl stuff and baby stuff and toddler stuff and mommy stuff and daddy stuff and EVERYTHING YOU COULD EVER WANT THAT WAS SLIGHTLY TO MODERATELY USED IN ONE GARAGE!!!!! My garage, to be more specific. This was one of those moments that I volunteered myself and within two seconds really wished I hadn't. I could just feel all the ways it could go wrong festering in my stomach like bad tequila (wait, is there such at thing...?). I suppose it made sense logically, though, to host at my place. We lived in a nice open neighborhood, unlike the moms that lived on base nearby. The streets were wide and spacious for cars to get through, unlike the moms that lived on tiny little streets. We had a big-ass garage... that pretty much sealed the deal right there. Plans were made, permits were filed, signs were made, and on a Thursday night we gathered all the men-folk an' chillern to sort, price, separate, and 

organize.

(I'll pause for you to laugh at the idea of ANY of that getting accomplished with six husbands and nine kids running loose. OK, you can stop now.)

It WAS fun, though... eating pizza and riding around sticking signs in the ground and making fun of the guys playing basketball. And to be honest, Friday went pretty okay. One mom showed up with Krispy Kremes at 6am, another started the coffee, and by 7am the doors were thrown open on a gorgeous June morning and we were ready for business. We sold a lot of crap, made some new friends, and let our kids entertain themselves. Really, it was like one long day at the park.

And then came Saturday. Two days was good. The third day... the kids are getting cranky. The moms are getting tired. Patience is wearing thin. We'd been up late the night before. Chris- who was three at the time, had gotten a new lightsaber Friday night and simply COULD NOT GO TO SLEEP due to the excitement of it all. The thing LIT UP. He was so amped he ended up just crashing on the sofa at about one am, sending me staggering to bed shortly after, the idea of my six am alarm making me cringe. But six came, and I dutifully got up and started the coffee. There were going to be a lot less of us that day; most of the moms had other things that needed to be taken care of, but in the interest of trying to make a little more dough I agreed to open for Saturday (I know, I know.) My help for the day would be David's Mom.

You know that mom on the playground that's always JUST this side of judgemental... she looks at you with a sympathetic smile and mourns how hard it must be to have a child that eats sand/can't climb the monkey bars/has an affectation for Wilson Philips songs. She likes to be in power because darn it, her way is the RIGHT way. Add in a nice heaping spoonful of social awkwardness and a penchant for yoga pants and you've got David's mom. And a little of David's mom went a long, long way. When she arrived just before seven I was half irritated- she was supposed to arrive no later than six-thirty. When I saw that she had four year old David in tow, I found the other half of my irritation. We'd had an agreement, we mommies- Saturday morning the kids were staying at home. In fact, that's why a few of the moms couldn't make it, and hey- I respected that. We wanted to have a couple of hours of sales, and then it would be packing up and separating what people wanted to keep (nothing, really) and what people wanted sorted to take back home (anything David's mom brought). Cranky pre-schoolers and such work don't mix. They don't mix at all. It was the decision that was made. It was MOMMY LAW. Until she came wandering up the drive with her sugared up four year old at 6:50am. 

All I asked was that she not take David inside. That's all i asked. We had a front yard full of toys, and he was wide awake. All I wanted was for Chris to be able to sleep another couple of horus, to spare myself the agony of the sleep-deprived toddler. I was even super specific: "Could you do me a favor and keep David outside? Chris had a hard time sleeping last night and didn't crash on the sofa until well after midnight. I want to let him sleep as long as I can." I even said THANK YOU. Thank you for doing what I freaking asked.

So naturally I shouldn't have been surprised when my seething husband hissed out the front door at me. "What the hell is this kid doing in here sitting on Chris?" Sitting... wait, sitting ON? ON my kid? My sleeping (well, not anymore) kid?  Oh, right. Because naturally "please keep your kid out of my living room where my kid is sleeping" translates to "Go ahead and give your kid a donut for each hand, plop him RIGHT DOWN ON TOP OF MY KID'S LEGS ON THE SOFA, and turn on cartoons as loud as you can." Right.

It went downhill from there. I don't even want to get into the story of her lying in a recliner moaning about how taxing the day had been while directing me on what stuff to pack for her. I can already feel that little vein in the side of my head throbbing.

So that, good readers, is why I don't do garage sales. Until now. And obviously the only thing that can convince me to bust out the marking pens and color coded stickers once again is something very powerful, very powerful indeed.

Pinterest. I need to redecorate. I need money for primer and canvases and Mod Podge. LOTS of Mod Podge. Freaking VATS OF MOD PODGE. I'm not even sure what mod podge is, but it gets mentioned a lot on pinterest.

Freaking Pinterest. Only it could convince me to sell my crap so I can redo other people's crap. Evil genius.