Waiting for Riley

I am often astounded at the passage of time. I’m not sure how the very same two years can at some times feel as if so much has happened, and in other moments, as if two years ago was only yesterday.




Two years ago, Riley was born. Riley is my niece, the daughter of my best friend Holly. Holly and I have been friends for over 20 years. Regardless of where we’ve lived and what we’ve had going on, there has never been a time that we haven’t talked almost every day. She is my sounding board, my biggest cheerleader, my touchstone. She knows me better than anyone, can talk me out of being crazy without pissing me off, and makes me laugh harder than anybody. She is one of my favorite people, and I am grateful for having her. I know that I’m lucky.

I was waiting for her to have a child for a long time. I had my children years ago, and seeing her with my children made me yearn to have that relationship with her kids. In 1999, when my daughters were only 2 ½ years old, and 9 months, we took a trip out to California and visited “Auntie Holly.” She had met the girls, but these few days was going to be the longest amount of time that she’d spent with my kids. We ran around Los Angeles all day, and were figuring out in what order we’d make dinner, get everyone a bath and watch the kids. Georgia, two-and-a-half and strong willed, instantly voted for a bubble bath with Auntie Holly. Always a good sport, she agreed. I went into the bathroom to check on them and Georgia shouted me out of the bathroom from behind the mounds of bubbles, only their little faces showing with grins “GET OUT, MOM! This is me and Auntie Holly’s bath!” Auntie Holly laughed, and agreed, so I let them be. They came out clean and happy, and I handed baby Holly (just 9 months, and Auntie Holly’s namesake) off to her and went to take my shower.



Auntie Holly, then, was not the most domestic girl. She done some babysitting, but wasn’t terribly proficient with kids. She didn’t really cook. But when I came out of that shower, she was standing in her kitchen trying to make Mac and Cheese with her namesake comfortably on her hip like a monkey, and my two year old yammering at her in only her underwear from a chair she was standing on to supervise. I stood there in my towel watching Auntie Holly smile at them, and make dinner, the three of them so comfortable and happy. I could see that they loved each other now, these people that I loved so much separately, coming together on their own. I will never forget the sweetness of that moment. And in it, the wish for Holly’s children to come into the world, so that I could love them that way.



Riley was born two years ago today, December 18th, 2007. When I first saw her little face, not even cleaned off yet, I thought “Oh, there you are. Its you.” Not just because I’d been waiting for her, but as if I knew her, as if I recognized her somehow. The room was a flurry of activity, and after an hour, when everyone finally headed out to get a late lunch, Holly and I sat on her bed with this baby we’d both waited for.



“Can we unwrap her?” Holly asked me.



“Of course we can. She’s yours! Let’s check her out.”



So we did. We took off blankets and the funny Onesie’s the hospital puts on newborns. We counted toes and fingers, kissed her belly and her feet, looked into her eyes, talked about her hair and the birth and how well her husband Neal did. We watched her startle, listened to sneezes and smiled at yawns. We giggled and laughed and discovered this amazing little gift that had suddenly arrived after so much waiting.



I stayed a night in the hospital with Holly while Neal went home to take care of the dog and get the house ready. Holly was exhausted, but wanted the baby in the room, so I took her with me on the sleeping cot, and would give her to Holly when she needed to eat. We lay in our beds and talked like teenagers, like we always do, only now there was this whole other person with us.



Like most newborns, Riley had a strong startle reflex. Somehow, it got both Holly and I going, and we spent a good part of the night falling asleep and then startling as if we were going to fall out of bed. Over and over we all did this, until I finally said “Okay, this is ridiculous. The baby can’t help it, but we can. NO more. We need our sleep.”



We talked on and off through the night, during feedings and while we fell back asleep. I laid on the little cot, with tiny six-pound Riley curled up to my chest, staring at her face. I had nearly forgotten how easy it is to fall completely in love with someone that you just met. She stared up at me with these beautiful dark eyes and I sang to her softly, her tiny baby breath no more than a whisper. And I loved her more than I even thought I would.

I don’t know how two years have gone by. Two years since I first saw her face, and knew her already. Two years and my best friend has become this unbelievably capable, confident mother. She cooks well now, and handles the grossest parts of parenthood better than I do. She has grown leaps and bounds as a person from raising this baby into a child, from becoming a mother. I’ve never been more proud of her.

And Riley, she is talking and busy and amazing. She scoots through a doorway that Holly and I are blocking, and as she touches our legs to part the way for herself, she says “BEEP BEEP,” without so much as a giggle. Her mothers’ finely tuned twisted sense of humor is coming out already.



She climbs up on the couch with me, with her favorite blanket and a baby, settles onto my lap for a miraculous half an hour cuddle. I miss the times of walking the floor with her and holding her tiny body to my chest, but she’s so busy now. Still, there are moments when she wants Auntie Michelle, and I get sticky fingers grasping for me and wet kisses on my face and tight hugs where she squeezes so hard back. And with that comes the knowledge that she loves me, too.

Happy 2nd Birthday Riley. You were so totally worth the wait.

On being thankful

More than anything, I am thankful for my family. When I say this, of course I mean my children, my parents, my step mother, my brother, and all my aunts and uncles and cousins. All of the people that make up what are considered family to me. But usually when I refer to “my family,” I’m meaning my cousins on my dad’s side, the nine children who were born to my fathers’ brother, John, and his wife Patsy. The people who now make up such a large part of my daily life.

I grew up with them. As a child, they would wrap me in a blanket and two of them would swing me. They played “ghost in the graveyard” and tag and told me stories. I watched them play in every sport imaginable. We were together on holidays and camping trips and countless weekends. And they were my favorite place to be, always. I felt happy and lighthearted and safe with them. I felt home, and by the time I was old enough, I started spending extended time in Beaver Dam with them. By the time I started to drive, I chose to spend much of my free time with them, doing whatever they were doing at the time. Just enjoying them. Whatever bond or closeness I felt with them, they always reciprocated. I think I was eight or nine years old when my cousin Greg told me that I was his favorite cousin. We both have a lot of cousins, and even at that age I knew this was an honor. He told me that I was like a little adult and we just got each other. I remember thinking “Yes, we do get each other.”

I left an amazing mountain life in Colorado and returned to Wisconsin so that my children could be raised within the safety of this family, so that they could come to see and know this unconditional love that I was raised with and that has been such a pivotal part in making me who I am. My daughters have blossomed in the richness of this love.

It’s been suggested that our family may in fact be “unhealthily close,” as we are so enmeshed into each others lives. Nearly anything is suitable for open discussion at the dinner table, and while this is sometimes uncomfortable, this closeness and communication comes with a moral compass that breeds accountability. We don’t have to agree, but seeds get planted, and we love and support each other regardless.

The oldest of my nine cousins is named John after his father, and was nicknamed Butch. Everyone in my family gets a “y” sound added to their name at birth which remains regardless of education, age or station in life, so he’s Butchy, even now that he’s a grandpa. Greg is Greggi. Joe is Joey. I’m Shelly. My little brother, who has his Masters degree, is still Marky. This just is how it is.

Butchy is my godfather. He graduated high school on the day I was born, was married shortly after and his oldest daughter Jen is just a few years younger than me, so we grew up as playmates. Butchy is the patriarch and leader of the family now, since his father and his mother passed away in 1994 and 1995. It’s a large brood to lead, but he’s taken it on with a strength, maturity and poise that he seemed to always have possessed instinctively. I go to him for advice on big and small questions in my life, because he always makes me look at things in a way that I would’ve have otherwise. He is one of the wisest people I know, and he provides something of a fatherly/ big brother/ friend role that I never forget to be thankful for.

My family probably isn’t like most families. First of all, there are so many of us that any sort of gathering always resembles an invasion. Second, we aren’t small. Genetics always plays some part, and our particular family has a predisposition to obesity. I never give it much thought, not when I was young and not now. One of the best life lessons that I’ve learned from them is that appearance doesn’t mean a thing. They are the kindest, funniest, and most loving people that I know. They show who they are with their selflessness and their moral convictions by living their lives well. They taught me that beauty, which fades and is fleeting, doesn’t matter to begin with. They taught me by how they live their lives that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. I know that it’s because of them that I don’t look at people the way most of the world does. Physical beauty doesn’t mean anything to me. I fall for honesty, kindness and sweetness, in friendship and in love. Because those things always matter.

Two of my cousins from this family are gone, both Paulie and Frankie leaving us too young due to heart problems. Paulie passed in the early 90’s before even his parents, at 34 years old, and Frankie just five years ago at 45… I wouldn’t say that the void will ever disappear, but it seems to me that it takes up less space now. Maybe it’s that we continue to fill it up with new members of our family.

So for our Thanksgiving, we cram into my cousin Diane’s house in Milwaukee, a tradition for over a dozen years. We have “cuddle puddles,” which refer to all of us cramming into small spaces together. Part of this is necessity, because there are so many people and only limited space, but even when we have room to stretch out, we’ll all still squeeze onto the same couch together on purpose. It’s funny, because I don’t even like movie theatres due to the inevitable close proximity to strangers, but I will press into a tiny spot with my cousins, and feel at home. We all like our cuddle puddles.

The girls and I head to Diane’s house early to help her prepare the imposing amounts of food it takes to feed so many for one meal. Anyone who does this gets named her “kitchen bitch” and there is a general good-natured jealousy about who is and has been the best kitchen bitch. But I’m not particularly competitive, I just come early to have more time with my family. Georgia and Holly clear things in the garage to make space for serving later, they decorate the tables and get to work peeling mounds of potatoes.

I’m tired this Thanksgiving. Two days earlier, I had to go to the doctor for some strange vague symptoms that turned out to be a nasty bladder infection. I curl up on a small love seat in the midst of the cooking and organizing, thinking I’ll feel better if I rest for a bit. Diane takes a moment out from of her monstrous job to gather a pillow and a blanket for me. Without a word, she lifts my head and tucks the pillow beneath me, and lays the handmade afghan over my curled up body. Without meaning to, this simple act reminds me of her mother, but also of Diane herself. I feel bathed in safety and love in a way that money could never buy. She makes me feel precious and cared for like a child, magically without saying a single word, and then just gets back to her daunting task.

Dinner varies from someone yelling “Dennis! The gravy is not a beverage!” and meaning it, to being tucked in so tightly at table that no one can get up to reach the rolls on the far table, and the solution being to throw rolls across the room to every person who wants one. Yelling is fine, even encouraged, because it’s always for fun. I almost never hear anyone in my family yell out of anger, it just isn’t our way. Plus, we seem to live by the philosophy that almost everything is funny eventually, and that laughing makes life way more fun.

The youngest of my nine cousins is Joey. He’s just over 4 years older than me, and his son Willie and my daughter Georgia are 8th graders at the same middle school. Georgia and Willie are wrestling after dinner, running around playfully beating each other their own shoes. They chase circles around a table, each hopping on one foot because the other foot is bare. When Joey asks why they do this, Georgia tries to tell us but is laughing too hard to make any sense, and has to keep her attention on her elusive cousin Willie. They remind me of myself and Joey when we were young, tormenting each other in the name of fun. I silently pray that they will be this to each other forever, like how I’ve always had Joey.

Holly and Georgia play with Jen’s three year old daughter Nora, the baby of the family. It reminds me of myself playing with Butchy’s youngest daughter Nellie when she was small, although she is now married and has already done a tour of duty in Kuwait. A stream of family members hoist my tiny eleven year old around, jokingly locking her out of the garage, or dumping her into a cuddle puddle across the house. It reminds me of my cousin Chrissy putting me onto her back when I was little, taking me for a brief ride down the stairs, a quick and efficient show of affection before she headed out to one of her many softball games.

Our lives are such a circle, especially if we choose to stay within it and watch it grow and change.

A tradition for Thanksgiving is standing in a circle in the garage (which is where we serve the food because the whole house is taken up by the seats needed for 40 people.) We all join hands and Butchy leads us in a prayer. I’m very spiritual, though not religious in any organized sense, but I love this tradition. Some years we go around and say what we are each thankful for, but some years we are just blessed with too many at dinner and we merely stick with Butchy’s words. It’s one of those years.



This year, Butchy talks about how special it is that we all still join together on this day. He says that he thinks it would make his parents proud, and their parents, and their parents before them. That this is where we come from, and why we’re all here. I think of my aunt Patsy and Uncle John, who I loved almost like grandparents and still miss, and I have to bite my bottom lip to hold back tears. I can feel how proud they are of our group, who don’t just gather for one or two days, but are in each others lives so closely all year. I feel them as if they are there holding my hands.

Butchy reminds us that this is rare, that we should be thankful for the type of family that we have. And he says that we should “Give it back. Pass it on to the kids, and keep it going…” I looked around at all of these people who I know and love so well, gathered here because we are so thankful for each other. I look to my right and I think that my cousin Frankie is still with us in some ways, as his youngest son Mark, whose hand I hold in mine. I looked down to my left at my daughter Holly, who is already looking up at me with green eyes so much like my own. She squeezes my hand tighter and I pull it to my abdomen and clutch it to me. And I pass it on.

blessings...

We don’t get to choose the shape or timing of the blessings that we receive in this life. They come to us like the weather, and we merely choose our clothing accordingly and get on with our day and our lives. Or we don’t, and we end up soaking wet or freezing because we believed so surely in the forecast that we refused to be prepared for any alternative.




This concept is hard for me. I like to try to shape the world around me as if it’s Play-Doh. It doesn’t work. I know this. I’ve learned this lesson over and over in my life, but I still try. Which I suppose means that I haven’t really learned this lesson yet, or that there is still more there for me to understand.



I’m not saying that there aren’t choices to be made or that those choices don’t have an impact, because at times, they do. We are beings that can choose. We can get up and do the next right thing. We can use kind words or hurtful ones. We can take care of our bodies or harm them. In daily moments, there is always a choice.



Even big moments, we can choose. We can pick up and move away, or stay put and ride it out. We can attempt to leave important people or moments behind us. But in my experience, the important stuff chases us from within anyway, refusing to let go or become party to failed relations.



For the big stuff, I often feel like life is just a speeding train. And when we think that we are shaping the outcome, we're merely riding inside, touching the window with our own unique fingerprints. We're trying to change things, but in reality, all we’re doing is smudging up the glass, and obscuring our own view.



So I’m setting the Play-Doh down, and only listening to the forecast that I see and feel outside my window. I’ll set some comfort items aside for contingencies. I will sit down inside the train and keep my very own unique fingerprints to myself on my lap. I will look out the window as this one life of mine flies by, and I will try to see the world around me for what it is, and not what I wanted it to be.



I will be thankful for the blessings, exactly as they come.

A Part of the Whole...

There are a million tiny stepping stones across the river of my life, and if I hadn’t chosen or been placed on this path, this exact one, I would be somewhere else entirely. I would be a whole other version of myself.

I can think of moments when I did choose. Moments that I stood at a clear crossroad and made a choice that impacted my life in some monumental way. I moved out west to Colorado. I didn’t move to California. I moved back to Wisconsin. I chose to return to school. Those moments had an obvious and instant impact.



But so many of the moments were not so clearly defined. They were merely me living my life, and little by little the choices that I made each day changed the shape of the outcome as a whole. I’m sure these smaller moments had just as much impact, but I didn’t notice them. I didn’t pine or stress or worry over them. I simply lived my life, and the changes came, like how the seasons turn. One day I just noticed the difference.

So often we hear the analogy that life is a highway that we travel. We talk about the things and places and people that we’ve left behind, as if that’s even possible. As if the important events and circumstances of our lives are merely temporary, and that they can be cast off and then forgotten. As if once we’re finished with them, these things and people and emotions are no longer with us.

But I don’t think that life is a highway. I tend to think that life is more akin to how a tree grows. And that every storm, every season of sunshine, every drought and spring freeze and warm summer night becomes a part of us. A part of the whole. The storms of our lives leave their mark, sometimes they even make parts of us come crashing to the ground. Sometimes we can pick up the pieces and sometimes we just have to clean up the whole wet, ugly mess and do something with it. But inevitably the warm windy days of summer, gentle spring rains and hot humid days come, so startlingly fruitful that we can watch leaves grow by the minute.

Regardless, it all resides within us, like rings within the tree. These moments, whether painstakingly awful or unbelievably beautiful, grow within us, in every branch, through every limb. They don’t leave us, because they are a part of who we are.

Still finding my way...

What did you think of last night before falling asleep? What was the first thing to cross your mind this morning when you woke up? Now that I’ve asked, do you wish you could re-think it? (I did. I wished those thoughts hadn’t been so mundane and functional, that they had been about what really matters.)

Because for me, what I care most about in this crazy life is love. People, of course, and places, experiences, animals and adventures. Flower gardens and hand-sewn quilts, canoes, sunsets and weeping willow trees. I am ultimately infatuated and curious about the human condition, especially when it comes to love. Whatever it is that you wrap your heart around, that is what I’m most interested in. Who still makes your heart beat so fast after so many years? Who kissed you first? Who makes you blush? What did you feel the first time you saw your child? This is what matters to me. And though it’s not at all the sort of things that you can just go up and ask people, it seems to be what I think about.



I can’t explain it, but I care way more who and what elicits your broadest smiles than I do about what you do for a living. I wonder where you lay your heart when you’re sad. Who gets the most terrified or elated parts of you? Where is your safest place? Who knows you by heart? To me, these things supersede everything else a thousand times over, and say so much more about your character.

I’m thinking about all of this because I’ve been waffling a bit when it comes to writing here. I didn’t really know this, not until I noticed a trend of mostly writing about my pets. Which is fine, they make for excellent characters, but that really isn’t the point. I think the point is that I’m unsure what I’m willing to lay out, what I’m willing to answer to. I don’t know what to let out into the light and what to leave as merely mine. It’s also been brought to my attention by a few people that the things I don’t write are present anyway, as if they are conveyed somehow by the tone of my voice. This makes me wonder if I should just start introducing the elephants in the room. If maybe I’m supposed to.

So what do you, wonderful person who actually comes to this site to hear me ramble on about my life, what do you want to hear about? You take time out of your busy day to read my words, and I wonder what it is that you think about…

I’m not making any promises, but I do wonder. And I’d love to hear your thoughts, your stories, and your answers to any of the questions that I’ve posed…

Edgewater Park

I don’t know what it is about that park, the long, thin plot of land that hugs the shore of Beaver Dam Lake just north of town. It’s beautiful there, for sure. The sunsets are phenomenal, the views quiet and peaceful most of the year.

But there’s something else, some quality, something that feels like power. I’ve had places like that before. Quiet beautiful spots to sit and think and walk and just be. But there is some magical quality that I find at Edgewater Park that draws me back, like I belong there. Like there is something for me to learn, if I can listen closely enough, if I can be wise enough to hear it.


Beaver Dam Lake is long, shallow, and always windswept. But the section of the lake at Edgewater Park seems to have its own climate. There are days that town, just two miles to the south, is cold, windy and bitter, and the lake at Edgewater is tranquil as a mill pond. There are days that town is perfect, sunny and warm, and this marshy park is icy and raw. As if it didn’t hear the forecast.


My friend Rhino introduced me to the park when I got my dog last December. Sometimes he'd bring his yellow lab, Molly, to play with Somewhere, the yin and yang labs sliding through the snow, darting in and out of brush and prairie grass as we walked. I had forgotten how much I liked walking around outside investigating, even in the winter. I started coming to the park almost everyday, and the whole world would slip away for a little while. I felt warm and safe, despite the cold and snow.

I went to the park the evening of Obama’s inauguration. I was happy, mostly because I was so proud of how far we’ve come as a country, as human beings, to stop looking at skin color and be able to look at the person within. I forgot my camera, so I had to use the one on my phone, which totally didn’t do it justice. The sky looked like it was glowing. The whole sky. I’m sure that I’ve never seen anything like it.

There was an ice storm in March, a rainy black night that froze everything in its path. The morning sun melted most of it, making driving safe again. I didn’t think of what the park would look like, I just took the dog for a walk. The entire park, every weeping willow and cattail, was covered in thick, melting ice. It sounded like a waterfall. Every branch and twig was coated in a layer of ice, and the whole place looked as though it had been set in glass.

There was a storm in April, just as the first twenty yards of ice melted around the shore. It was just a spring thunderstorm, some wind, a little thunder, a lot of rain. The next day I took Somewhere to the park for a run and found mounds of ice stacked along the shoreline. From a distance they looked like large piles of snow left by a plow, but once I got closer I realized they were ice formations, pushed up onto shore from the storm. Gigantic piles of glittering delicate ice that looked and sounded exactly like breaking glass. I couldn’t imagine the violence created by forcing this ice onto shore. I was mesmerized, and took about 300 pictures, in different lights, for two days.

I went to the park to fish with my cousins a few times this summer, but mostly I avoided it. It was full of people grilling, and there was an ebb and flow of motorized watercrafts coming from the boat launch that inevitably made my stomach hurt. Once they invaded, I retreated. I’d sometimes grab a quick look at a sunset, shoot a couple pictures, but the park itself felt distant. And at least for the time being, no longer mine.

When I went there with my cousin Joey just after Labor Day, we sat on the far pier, goofed around talking in funny accents while he fished. I was feeling confused and sad and beat up by life. Joey and I didn’t really talk about the stuff I had going on, mostly he was just there, making me laugh. When he shone his light into the water, we took a double take. The lake itself along the shore was thick and green; Joey’s bobber resisted the heavy liquid. I wasn’t surprised. It made perfect sense to me that the lake would be pea soup at that particular moment. Also not surprising was that it stuck around for weeks.

I went out there last week, on a whim. I had spent the cold, rainy morning watching movies (which I rarely do and should really do more often) and just decided to check out Edgewater Park. I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was completely vacant. I drove up by the boat launch and realized that the lake was dead calm, despite the lingering wind and rain in town, across the whole state.

I’ve been going there for nearly a year now. I know it by heart, but it always surprises me. I never tire of its views, its sunsets and storms. And maybe this is what I’m supposed to learn, or be shown. That there can be violent storms, beautiful sunsets and safety all in one place. That this is life, at its best and its worst. That not everything that’s scary or painful has to do with me, it’s just a part of the whole. And if you don’t like it, wait it out a little. There are bound to be more surprises, and you’ll never guess what comes next.

Sparky

I realize that I need to stop blogging about my pets. I will, really. After this.

Sparky, the Big Gray Asshole, is not the world’s nicest cat. He’s not the world’s meanest cat, but he isn’t exactly cuddly. And we like cuddly. We’re spoiled by Football and his 3am wake up calls for a quick snuggle. Sparky gives warning paws with claws extended to anyone who pets him for too long. Affection is not Sparky’s best quality. Sparky’s best quality is actually alerting the world of famine because the bottom of his food dish is visible.

At this point, Sparky kind of does his own thing. He hides out under beds and chairs. At out last house, he just hung out in the bathroom, since that’s where the food and the litter box lived. Not like he couldn’t get around, he just didn’t want to, so we set up a little bed in there. We’d say hello when we were in the bathroom, but given the inconsistency to his acceptance of it, (and his glowing eyes) our affection towards him is limited. Plus, he doesn’t come out that much. I found him lying on my bed the other day and I was so surprised that I snapped a startled “What the hell do you want?” at him.


Sparky steals sleeping spots and sitting spots, and then gets pissed when someone wants them back. He’s been dragging poor Football off my bed by the scruff of the neck for years, for the sole purpose of filching the warm spot. This infuriates me, mostly because Football is the last guy in the world to deserve it. And can you imagine being jolted out of sleep by someone dragging you off a bed by your neck?

He has yet to mess with Somewhere’s sleeping spot, because that’s her kennel. And her nasty pond scum-grass clipping-fall leaves-blanket is in there. So Sparky just steered clear of it, until yesterday.

I don’t know when he got in there, I just notice that he’s in there, sleeping. All stretched out, belly up, happy as can freaking be…

“What are you doing?” I ask him. He just stretches, doesn’t even look at me. Somewhere comes over, hockey checks my leg and starts to pace. She looks like Lassie trying to tell Timmy there’s another kid in the well. I tell her its fine. I figure they’ll work it out, he can’t live in there.

He stays in that kennel for five hours. Yep, five. I drag him out of there, triggering a low growl from the Gray Assole, but I have to put the dog in the kennel, because she was on my bed and I want to go to sleep. This new arrangement isn’t working for me. And of course Sparky started it.

I was talking about this to my daughter Holly as we fed Sparky one day, saying that we sort of tolerate him because he’s our cat and part of the family. He isn’t the nicest cat, but it just is what it is.

“Huh,” she says, pondering this. “I wonder if that’s how he feels about us.”

We both turn to look at wide eyed Sparky, waiting at our feet to be fed, howling because his food dish is almost half empty.

“Sparky would sell us up the river for scrap metal, for sure. Still, he’s family.”

The Girl Cave

I’m in the process of cleaning out my garage. It’s just a little one-car garage, but I spent the summer staring warily at the closed door, thinking that if I really worked, I could make my car fit in there before the snow flies.

So I go out there, open up the door, and the garage is, of course, just a sea of boxes and bags. Everything is balanced precariously within the chaos, as if one sneeze could bring it all down. The trampoline is scattered in pieces and our grill provides a base for a bag of old toys. Clothing of every size and style since birth for all of us is stuffed into cracks between boxes in plastic recycling bags. And I’m pretty sure the stuff is multiplying when no one is looking. This was fine, when we had the huge house with a full attic and basement. But now we don’t have the space, so the stuff can’t just lie around anymore.

I’m going to be honest here and say that I think there’s more than one reason that cleaning the garage is normally a boy job. I wrestled (literally) with a leaking garden hose for over a half an hour before I could roll it up. I won, but the hose gets credit for keeping me totally pinned for the majority of the fight. I finally got it onto the hose thingy, but it’s ugly workmanship and I don’t ever want to do that again. Like the wasps and the faucet filter, this is not a Shelly job, not if she can help it.

Once I made some actual headway (meaning that boxes got stacked high and an actual path was formed) the room took on a cozy quality. I started looking at the loveseat that we had standing up on end in the chaos, thinking about putting it beneath the garage window in back, with the end table beside it. Holly, my helper who is always up for an adventure, gave me all the encouragement I needed. We moved a table, a bunch of boxes, and the trampoline before we could move the couch into the corner. Then we took down the extra kitchen chairs and set them up, went into the house and made Lean Pockets for dinner, and sat out there eating them on the couch with a blanket over our laps. We named it our girl cave.






Maybe this is why the garage is normally not girl territory?



But in our house, all we have is girls. And since I have to do the hose rolling, and the car will probably never fit, we just made it homey.

Football the cat

My cat Football is afraid of the heat in our new apartment. Yes, since I am apparently incapable of regulating my own body temperature, I have turned on my heat. It’s environmentally irresponsible to turn on my heat this early, I know this. But in my own defense, I don’t get hot, so I don’t use air conditioning. The girls get hot, but I make them lump it. Still, I have to listen to them. So I do go out of my way to protect the planet, but I can’t function normally wearing two sweatshirts in my house all day long, September or not.

So, Football. This is a story about Football. The heat kicks on and he hightails it into the kitchen to curl up on the linoleum. I’m not sure why this feels safe, but it’s also his spot for fireworks. For thunderstorms, he actually cries, so we wrap him in a blanket and sit with him, or carry him around. Or we tuck him into the covers of a bed. I know, he’s a cat. But he’s a really pathetically sweet cat who, despite having a big strong name like Football, just isn’t very brave.

He was the tiniest kitten I’ve ever had, so little that he scared me. The lady at the farm was going to give him to some college kid coming in the afternoon if I didn’t take him, and I couldn’t have that. College kids can’t even keep plants alive. He was too young to be with us, even Sparky the Big Gray Asshole knew this, and so he would grab the tiny orange kitten by the scruff of the neck and carry him up the stairs to us when he cried. We all followed suit and my mom started saying “That cat is proof that you need another baby.”

I was coaching the girls in flag football the fall that we got him and this is probably where the name came from. We threw around names like Favre, Lambeau, Packer, even Jon Gruden. I saw a theme developing and ran with it. “Let’s name him Football!” I thought that it was genius. The girls, even at six and eight, thought I was nuts. Everyone thought I was nuts. Still, the name stuck. My cousin Greggi commented once on how funny it was that we still call him that. Of course we call him that, that’s his name.

I should state for the record that, despite the name, we never kick him or throw him around. We do rub him on the TV for luck during football games (imagine that), but that’s the extent of his duties per the name. My mom got into the habit of putting dryer sheets in her rocker during football season, to rub over the cat during close games, to help with the static.

Truth be told, I love Football more than any cat I’ve ever had. He is the gentlest soul on the face of the planet. He doesn’t allow yelling, at all. It doesn’t matter if the yelling is “I am soooo freakin mad!!!!” or if it’s just calling the girls for dinner, its not permitted in our house. Football immediately runs to the yeller, climbs up near their face and bumps his face into theirs, trilling. As if to say “Be nice… (bump, bump…) We only cuddle and give kisses… (bump, trill in ear, scratchy nose kisses) Just be nice...”

I especially love that he does this because he is afraid of everything. He wouldn’t go into our old basement for nine months, just wrapped himself around my neck like a monkey and cried (without using his claws, mind you. He still has them, but he wouldn’t use them, ever.)

He still thinks that our dog Somewhere wants to eat him. We’ve had the dog for nearly a year now, and they may play on occasion, but Football definitely still thinks that she wants to eat him. He won’t even scratch the dog, and she asks for it, believe you me. He just swats at the air near her face when he’s had enough of her shenanigans.

So I sit here on my computer writing, with Football the cat curled up in my lap, hiding his face from the scary heater. When I lean down and say “Hi buddy…” he comes out of his hiding spot for exactly three seconds, just long enough to squeak at me gently, kiss my nose twice, and tuck back into being afraid.

Maybe bravery is overrated. It’s obviously not meant to be everyone’s purpose. Truthfully, I’ll take the gentlest soul on the planet any day.

The Zen of Choey

It’s ten pm and I’m eating guacamole for dinner, because my mom made it for me with avocados from my Aunt Carolyn’s avocado tree, and because I can. It’s an easy dinner, and I don’t want to create more dishes. I drop half a chip on the floor for Somewhere, who is begging on my right, and a few small pieces for Sparky the cat, who is sitting on my left. Sparky was on the computer desk, all twenty plus pounds of him, but I shoved him down. He was invading my space.

Somewhere inevitably finishes her chip first, and circles the back of my chair to take Sparky’s chips. “He’s going to kill you in your sleep for that,” I tell her as she crunches the small pieces, though we both know it isn’t true. Not that I don’t think Sparky has it in him, because he does. His nickname is The Big Gray Asshole. But Somewhere sleeps in a kennel, and he can’t get in there. Sparky is in the corner now with his gold eyes glowing, reminding me of the cat from Pet Cemetery. I’m talking to my animals like people. I should get out more.

“It’s a beautiful night for fishing. I’m just saying,” I text to my cousin Joey, but we all mostly call him Choey these days. He doesn’t answer me for a while, so long that I figure he’s gone to sleep.

“Yup. I’m goin fishin,” Joey texts me. I tape a note to the computer for my already sleeping children that says “Fishing with Uncle Choey. xo Mom,” and I high tail it out of my house.

I don’t actually fish, I just go along, help carry stuff, hold the light. They bring me a chair. I just like being out by the water and my cousin Joey makes me laugh way more than most people do. We just sort of get each other. Joey says that I’m the female version of him.

We sit and watch the moonlight play in flickers on the water. I think that they look like laser lights, but Joey says that out past his bobber, the lights look like showers of sparks hitting the lake. Its cool out, I have the hood of my sweatshirt up, but it’s nice. There aren’t going to be that many nights left to sit out comfortably and enjoy the night sky.

We talk about what we would let people do to us for a million dollars. I don’t know why we start playing this game, we simply jump around from story to story until we find things that makes us laugh until we cry. Being with Joey always makes me feel like I’m twelve years old. The sensibility from that time in our lives has carried over, and when we’re together, it’s as if we just never outgrew it.

Joey says someone could shit in his mouth for a million dollars. I cover my mouth, which is open out of both laughter and disgust, and I lean away from him in my chair. To make his point, he tilts his head back and opens his mouth to the night sky. As we laugh until we cry, Joey says “I can brush my teeth in Jamaica, on my new damn boat.”

Choey has created a language. I’m not exactly sure what it is, some combination of Russian and Indian accents, with the occasional dip into Yooper. I’m envious of his ability to speak it and wish I could imitate him saying “Shut hole in face now.” When I try, Choey tells me “Zis can’t be taught. Zis just comes, it comes one day. Wait, not try so hard, Chelly…”


I don’t have a first memory of my cousin Joey. His father and my father were brothers, and we spent so many weekends at their house while I was growing up that my memories of Joey and his eight siblings fall into the category of always having been there.

Joey is the youngest of nine, and the closest in age to me out of all of my cousins in that family. At just over four years older than me, Joey was close enough in age to play with but old enough to be cool. He would baby-sit us when our parents went out to dinner. I remember watching Saturday Night Live for the first time with him, swearing for the first time with him. I remember that we did a lot of laughing.

Joey’s mother, my Aunt Patsy, passed away in the fall of 1994. I had the hardest time going into the church for her funeral, and when I finally did, I felt hot, ill, and dizzy. I leaned my head down and closed my eyes, and the image of blue herons flying around the loft of the old church appeared in my mind. I love blue herons, with their shy nature and knowing eyes. They calmed me down, made me able to sit in that church.

After the services, everyone gathered at my Aunt and Uncles apartment on Burleigh in Milwaukee. Joey and I took the bikes and headed for the park, where the Milwaukee River runs through at merely the size of a stream. We rode our bikes the short distance from the traffic and strip malls and world, and tucked into some trees along the river bank. I didn’t know what to say, so we didn’t say anything for a long time. We just picked at the grass and listened to the river. Then I told him about the blue herons I saw in the church, that they made me feel better, like she was somewhere safe.

“I’ve never seen a blue heron,” Joey said, casting his eyes down at his fingers playing with the grass. He looked like a little boy, I thought, but he’s a man. A man who just lost his mother.

Out of nowhere, a blue heron flew in through the trees, and landed in front of us in the river. We didn’t move, or talk. We just sat by the stream in the middle of Milwaukee and looked at the blue heron that suddenly floated in. It stayed for a few minutes, watching us, and then flew off again from wherever it came from.

“That was a blue heron,” Joey said to me.

“That was a blue heron.”

Joey and I have been close our whole lives, and then when I moved to Beaver Dam to be with my family on a daily basis, Joey and I drifted. I’m not sure what happened, he seemed to back away and I let him, figuring that not everything has to do with me, and that things have a way of coming back around. We were friendly and still had fun together, but we didn’t go out of our way to hang out like we always had. It stayed that way until this summer, when I struggled with a lot of different big life stuff. The storms of my summer left me ultimately happier and better off, but in certain respects, heartbroken. Joey saw this, watched it all build up and unravel. Suddenly whatever space Joey and I had standing between us was gone, and he was back. Just like he always had been, making me laugh and forget about life.

I didn’t get what I thought I wanted, instead I got what I was meant to have: My cousin Joey and I, bobbling in our little twelve year old universe together.

Last Sunday night, Joey and I are fishing at Edgewater Park, on the far pier. I love this park, and I’m a firm believer that it holds some special powers over the cosmos. I’m fairly certain that it didn’t let the summer come this year. I was watching the Packer game at home when Joey asked me to meet him for fishing. I was already recording the game, so I went. I walk down the small pier and sit on the bench seat next to Joey.

“Here,” he says to me, shoving something at me. I fumble around in the dark trying to find whatever it is. It’s a small foam piece, on a wire.

“It’s the Packer game!” I echo out onto the lake as I put it in my ear. Joey and I sit side by side and listen, doing our own commentary. We take the earpieces out for commercials. With 2:35 left in the game, the Packers are down by two. Joey says that this is the shit that Favre took care of and the kid better step up and make it happen. I grunt in agreement.

Joey leans forward for his soda and pulls the earpiece out of my ear. I gasp aloud, as if someone just threw a baby in the lake. Joey thinks my reaction is the funniest thing he’s seen all day, so he dangles the wire in front of me as I shriek “Joey, it’s the end of the game! Jesus, do you know me at all?”

The kid pulls it off, and the Packers take the lead, but the Bears come back fighting. When we hear Lambeau is on its feet, we stand too. The pier is wobbly and I stand there next to Joey, so close we’re nearly touching, listening to the Packer game from one of my favorite places on earth. I am certain that there is no place else I’d rather be.

Fair Weather Friends

I have been trying to figure out how it is that people can think that Brett Favre is a traitor.

He gave us sixteen years. Sixteen years of getting his ass slammed to the ground every Sunday. Two Super Bowls. He played sick, hurt, broken. He played in Americas un-friendliest stadium for Monday Night Football in front of the world, the night after his father died. He never missed a start.

But now, Favre isn’t a Packer. He went to the competition, so he’s the enemy. Never mind the fact that never once in all those years did he show us that he was anything but a straight shooter and a stand up guy. Or that he is his own man with his own set of fingerprints, who should be free to be the architect of his own life and his own legacy.

We expect him to remain faithful to his Packer fans, who throw stones when he plays the game he loves over the state line. He doesn’t throw them back. We loved him for his edge of your seat sensibility when he was here, but we hate him for it now. But did we ever love him, if we can turn so fast? Maybe we are the fair weather friends, who only cheer for him when he stands on our soil.

Collapsing Puppy Disorder

I’ve taken Somewhere to the dog park three times on this long weekend. It’s a sort of breakthrough for us, as we’ve been treading carefully with Somewhere when it comes to exercise.

As it turns out, I am the proud owner of a collapsing puppy, although the experts gave this disorder the snappy name of Exercise Induced Collapse (EIC). Basically, it’s a genetic defect that does not send a signal to her hindquarters after intense physical exercise. The only other symptom that occurs with a collapse is overheating, which the dog will pant off. It’s rarely fatal, but there is nothing that can be done for EIC. We must simply be diligent in watching her, and stop her at the first sign of wobbly legs. Severe attacks can leave some damage to the function of the legs, and I feel like we used up a few get-out-of-jail-free-cards already while we were trying to figure out what was wrong with her and how much exercise is too much.

It really sucks that this had to happen to her. The disorder is mostly linked to labs and lab mixes, and as it seems to be the case with the small percentage of dogs with this disorder, she is energetic, excitable, muscular, and truly an athlete. Before this began, I took her to the park nearly everyday, sometimes letting her run with her dog friend, but often just using the Chuck-it to launch the ball for her. She is extremely fast and never seemed to tire, and was up for a run regardless of cold or wind or rain. In hindsight, the only warning sign was her habit lying in puddles in the melting snow this spring, trying to cool herself off.

The first collapse Somewhere showed was this June. We were staying in Kenosha with my best friend Holly. I was working t-shirts at a softball tournament, my oldest daughter was playing ball, and my youngest was bouncing back and forth between the tournament and Auntie Holly’s house. Auntie Holly graciously took all of this on, as well as the care of Somewhere while I was out working all day. Somewhere constantly badgers her dog, Bella, another small lab mix who looks strikingly similar to my dog at first glance. Somewhere follows Holly’s toddler around the house, constantly kissing her, begging for her snacks, and near-missing her while trying to herd the baby into a stationary position.

It was the first really warm week we had of actual summer. I has finished my long weekend and was hanging out in Auntie Holly’s backyard. I mentioned getting packed up to leave and Auntie Holly turned to my daughter, her namesake. “That’s funny, Hol. You’re mom thinks she’s going to leave. She worked all damn weekend and fell asleep on the couch watching 90210 with me and she thinks that you’re going home tonight. That’s funny.” She turns to me. “You’re not going home.”

My youngest only smiled, and retreated into the house. I laughed. Yes, we would stay. If she wanted her house filled with the three of us and our puppy for another night, we would stay.

Through all of this, we were throwing the ball across Holly’s small fenced back yard for Somewhere. She is relentless. She will chase that ball until she collapses, literally apparently. She brought the ball over to us, and then stumbled, as if she was drunk. We both laughed a little, nervous and surprised. Somewhere still looked happy, a bit confused maybe, but fine. Then she did it again. Her back legs splayed out behind her straight, but as though they couldn’t support her. She didn’t seem alarmed, and walked toward us like a wet noodle. I asked Holly if she thought that maybe she got into something, ate something toxic, but Holly has her house and yard and her life toddler proofed. Somewhere was more likely to get into something at my house, and we hadn’t been there for days.

She was panting hard, so Holly ran into the house and got some water for her. She drank it all, and perked back up instantly, as if nothing had happened. Her legs appeared normal, and she was back to following the baby and Bella and bugging us with the ball. We chocked it up to dehydration and took her in, gave her more water. She truly acted normally so quickly that I would’ve questioned if it had really happened if I didn’t have Holly there to see it as well.

A week later, I took her to the dog park at dusk. It was warm and humid, but the sun was down and the air is as cool as it was going to get. Somewhere had had plenty of water, and I’d brought some along because she’s a snob who refuses to drink out of the communal dog bowl at the dog park. And may I say, thank god.

I chucked the ball for her, and she ran with her friends. Just like that, as if a switch has been flipped, her back legs were noodles. She noticed, but only that something was off. She was dragging herself over to me until I made her lay down. She was panting, so I gave her water. I put water on her body. And just like last time, she perked back up as if nothing happened. But I am not crazy, she couldn’t walk. She was dragging herself.

What the hell is wrong with my dog?

She was up and chasing her pit bull puppy friend, Tuesday, as soon as she was able. I stopped her. I took her home. She came in the door, ate dinner, drank more water, and picked up one of her favorite hobbies, tormenting Football the cat. She’s fine? How is she fine? I called the emergency vet number.

I was told that it was most likely heat exhaustion, that there was a rash of cases due to the sudden heat. I was told that some dogs handle the heat better than others. Get her to lay low when it’s hot, limit exercise unless it’s early or late, and push fluids.

It was going to be a long summer. I ran that dog at the park everyday for a reason. She’s energetic and loves to run, and we all like her a lot more if she gets her exercise. If she didn’t get enough exercise, she’s going to drive us crazy and I was going to have to figure out how to sell her on e-Bay from my phone. I was not very happy about this little twist, but not really concerned yet. We’d figure it out.

I make her lay low. It stays hot. But she doesn’t bring me the leash every five minutes. She badgers me about walks a lot less than I thought she would. We were moving that week, just across town, but I had to leave town again for three days for work before I moved. I was busy, and scattered. If I remember correctly, I was already having like no fun on a bunch of levels. But Somewhere had been so good, so I decided to take her with me across the street to return something and tell the neighbors when we were moving. We wouldn’t stay long. She could play with their little terrier, Skylar. It was late, nearly dark.

She chased Sklyar around their tiny yard for just over five minutes, and she went down. What surprised me, and her, was our neighbors reactions. They were scared. And now so was I, and so was Somewhere. She dragged herself over to me and collapsed on my feet. She looked up, worried, and I realized that we were scaring her.

“It’s okay, buddy.” I told her. “It’s all good. You’re okay. We’re getting you some water. It’s okay, girl.” I tried to sound sure, to feel sure. She didn’t believe me. She perked up with the water, and immediately ran for the porch where Skylar was being kept, then collapsed on her way down the stairs. I laid her down again, and when she perked up the second time I took her home. Within five minutes in the cool house, she was chasing Football the cat, eating and drinking normally, and being her usual goofy self. Still, I couldn’t shake the look on my neighbors faces, or how they shooed their nine year old in the house to protect her from what was happening to my dog. I frantically called the vet. They told me I could take her back out in heat and drive forty minutes to their animal hospital, where for the bargain price of 400 to 500 dollars, they would run some tests. I said no thanks, as once again she was fine. I called my cousin Joey.

Joey was the right person to call. I was really worked up. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t really have the sensibility for collapsing puppies. I’m generally all flowers and sunshine, and I don’t even like hospitals, or medical tubing, or deep scratches. This was a lot to handle, and the neighbor’s reaction made it clear that this was not okay. Joey told me to call his vet in morning, and that he would even go with me if it made me feel better. He told me to go play with my puppy and not worry. I felt better, because I knew I wouldn’t have to be alone, because I was really sure that there was something really wrong with her and they might have to put her to sleep. Joey just offered to go with me, which was perfect, since I’m not very good at asking for help.

I had to leave Somewhere at the vet. They could only get her in on a drop off basis, so I had to fill out a bunch of paperwork, talk to them and then leave her there. Our house was mostly packed and in a state of disarray. My mom had moved into some Senior apartments the month before, and my youngest daughter was at camp on the East Coast. Georgia took to hanging out with her cousins, which is what always happens in summer. When I came home without Somewhere, my gentle-souled cat, Football, clung to me like a monkey and mewed, and I figured he thought that I was selling off our family one piece at a time, and that he was next. So I sat down in the empty sitting room with him and cried too.

As it turns out, Somewhere is perfectly normal, which just shows that the vet didn’t spend enough time with her. She puts tennis balls in my refrigerator on purpose and puts herself in the kennel after she barks. She is far from normal. But other than a very slight elevation in her kidneys enzymes, which varies among dogs anyway, she was totally healthy. The vet mentioned the possibility of Exercise Induced Collapse, but she was going to have to do some research on where and how we could do this genetic test. I did some research on my own, and am positive that this is what she has. Onset of symptoms is typically 12-14 months, and she had just turned a year. We’ve avoided exercise, but not activity (like riding in the car) when it’s hot and humid, and she hasn’t had another episode in the heat. What’s also interesting is that when it’s warmer and sticky, she lays low. She doesn’t bring me her leash or bump me with her nose to go to the park. When it gets cooler, she’s back to nagging.

I don’t bring the Chuck-it much anymore. I feel like it disappoints her. She can only chase hard, her paws sounding off the grass like hooves, for a few minutes. She wants an hour. I’m redirecting her energy into playing with the other dogs. Truth be told, she could use a light duty job somewhere a few days a week, maybe stocking some shelves. She is under stimulated, and has taken up the hobby again of relocating our prized belongings without harming them. Still, we have to search for cell phones, keys, and clothing, anything we use often.

We’ve only had one more episode, teaching us the lesson that we cannot just let her run even when it is cool. She played for a little over ten minutes one night, running hard with some friends dogs after the ball, and collapsed. One of the dogs she was playing with wandered off in search of a greater adventure than a collapsing puppy with a scared owner, but the four month old puppy sat right down on the grass with us, leaning against both Somewhere and myself, as if to say that he was fine with whatever we wanted to do. I was surprised that such a young puppy could so totally understand the quality and concept of friendship.

And I suppose that I am growing into someone who can handle owning a collapsing puppy, because I’m doing it, and I’m getting better. She ran with a dog at the park the other night, and I watched her closely. I knew it might be too much running, but this time I didn’t panic. My eyesight is keener and I noticed the very first leg wobble. I laid her down and she patiently waited it out. She got up normally, and then slowed herself down. I guess that she’s also starting to understand that our lives just aren’t the same.

The Quote Board

When we moved into our new place, I bought a couple of dry erase boards to put up. My original thought for them was notes to each other, the receipt from the last orthodontist appointment as a reminder to make the new appointment, that kind of thing. Instead, the only thing that happens on them is we write the funny things that get said around us down, replacing them only with something funnier.

Best story so far...

We are hanging out of the porch, over looking our quiet green backyard, our clothesline that I love to fill with our clothes, and all of our neighbor’s rooftops. I love my porch more than any other place in the world probably. It's peaceful, and encourages happiness.

Holly is performing her gymnastics feats on the tops of the stairwell and porch railings, as if they are parallel bars. She only makes me a little nervous, but she scares the hell out of her cousin Sammy, who’s been staying with us on and off this summer. Sammy just graduated high school, and has a very well developed sense of humor for her age. Plus, she’s a straight shooter. She calls life as she sees it, because she believes in herself enough to own her own spot of soil in the universe already.

Georgia is talking, not necessarily for the purpose of communicating, just talking. We all half listen, me sitting in my purple chair with my feet up on the cooler. I thought of getting a table to put my things and my feet on, but then where would I put the cooler? This just seems easy.

We probably have a wasp nest somewhere near our porch. They show up pretty frequently, but they leave easily enough. They aren’t taking over. And really, wasp nests are not a Shelly job. I would have to go ask for help to even investigate this problem. So far, we’re living under a quietly-ignore-the-wasps policy. Don’t piss them off. The only problem so far has been that Somewhere doesn’t observe this very well. She keeps trying to eat them on our way up the stairs.

A wasp comes near Georgia on her end of the porch, and she kind of spazzes out. She starts yelling, running around. I yell to her from across the porch, not even sure if she’ll hear me when she’s in freak out mode. “Bee’s can smell fear, Georgia!”

Sammy, without missing a beat says, “Yeah, and you reek.”

Until yesterday it was on the message board. We hadn’t found anything crisp and edgy enough to knock it out of first.

My mom, Pat, recently moved into some senior apartments. She has a plethora of health problems, but at the moment is fairly healthy. Her cardiologist orders a heart monitor once a year and yesterday just happened to be her day to wear it for 24 hours. The monitors have a large box to record information that protrudes out of the belly of the wearer. Yesterday, my mom’s new friend Millie was coming over to my mom’s apartment to grate zucchini, because apparently my mom has a fancier gadget for that sort of thing.

When Millie knocks, my mom opens the door and says “I’m not just happy to see you, Millie. I’m wearing a heart monitor today.”

Obviously, I owe my mother a great debt of gratitude for my sense of humor, although my dad is kind of warped in that department, too. Still, the joke was lost on poor Millie, who stayed silent. But I got a new winner for the quote board…

Stinky Days

The girls are flying to Washington, DC to go see Holly’s dad and grandparents in Virginia. I’m going to miss them, of course I will. They are the center of my universe, but I’m excited for the break. It’s been a hectic summer and I’m tired of hearing “Mom” every five minutes. I’m ready for a little quiet. Rob, Holly’s dad, schedules the flight for Friday night at 7pm out of Milwaukee, and I plan on going on to Kenosha to see my best friend Holly after I see the plane off.

Everything is going so well getting ready for the airport that I finally stop assuming something is going to go wrong. Then the dog craps in the parking garage, despite just having gone an hour before. I will myself to not see it as an omen as she crouches down on the pavement, as far from the car as she can get with her leash, while we ransack the car for a plastic bag to clean it up. The kids think its the funniest thing ever, and I’m wishing I hadn’t brought the dog, but I’m staying overnight at my friend Holly’s so I don’t have a choice. The girls say their goodbyes while I clean up the thankfully solid pile.

The girls and I find the AirTran counter easily, and talk amongst ourselves while we get checked in. I’m given envelopes to fill out, and told that since Georgia is over twelve years old and can accept responsibility for herself and her sister, there will be no unaccompanied minor fees. This is wonderful, because those can be expensive. Some airlines charge $100 dollars, on direct flights in which parents are still in charge of making sure the child gets to and from the gate.

We are informed that the plane is on time, we’ve already eaten and we still have time, so we nose around in the book store, all of us coming out with a used book. We wait in a long security line, and then head to the gate.

I should’ve realized something was up when there was no one at the counter as we arrived, not until twenty minutes before the plane was to take off, despite the computerized sign reading that the plane is scheduled to leave on time. When the woman from the airline finally arrives, she gets on the loudspeaker and informs the crowd that our plane is here, but the crew is still stuck in Atlanta, where there are severe storms. The flight crew is scheduled to arrive by 10:30 pm, but in the meantime the airline will work on getting a different flight crew. An enormous line forms immediately.

I confer with the girls, more thinking out loud than anything else, while they read their magazines. Holly informs me that we should just go to Auntie Holly’s house and try again in the morning. Georgia says we should wait it out at the airport and be done with it, both talking to me without looking up from behind their magazines. I call Rob. He says to get in the ridiculously long line and find out about flights in the morning, make sure they are allowed to fly on the last flight of the day, and then let him know.

The ticket woman, who is all teeth, forced fake smiles and frazzled, assures me that the girls will get on the flight later this evening without problem, then tells me the morning flight is booked. We could hope someone would be willing to switch to the evening flight, otherwise we could try the same flight the following evening. I don’t want this process to take days. I just want to get out of the freaking airport with as little drama as possible. We will wait it out. She gives us food vouchers. We make friends with the woman next to us, a grandmother from Minnesota traveling with her three year old granddaughter, Hallie. The grandmother offers, in a funny little accent that reminds me of the movie Fargo, to take care of the girls if I need to leave. She’s harmless, I’m sure, but I tell her that I’m waiting it out, too.

The girls and I share pizzas, bananas and bottles of water before the stores close up for the night. Security shuts down, and we are forced to stay in the concourse because re-entry isn’t permitted once security closes. We are officially being held hostage by the airline and the airport. I silently hope my dog isn’t eating my steering wheel.

We make friends with a young guy with a laptop and fancy phone, who calls me “Ma’am” in his southern accent, and informs us that the flight from Atlanta with our flight crew aboard hasn’t even left yet. Which means were screwed. He says “Y’all talk funny,” which is kind of the pot calling the kettle black if you ask me, but he’s keeping us more informed than the airline, so he’s forgiven.

I call Rob again, who tells me to go the counter and tell the person there that they are putting my kids on a flight in the morning to DC, on any airline, and that they are paying for it. I’m willing to give it a shot, but this isn’t really me. I don’t bully very well. My downstairs neighbor hated me when I moved in because I have a dog, apparently she was attacked as a child. I feel bad about this, but it wasn’t my dog, and it is what it is. I just kept making her carrot cake and cookies until she softened.

When I get back, an announcement had been made that a plane is arriving out of New Orleans with a flight crew for us. They will be in by 11:30 pm, the plane is already over Indianapolis. I don’t have to yell at anyone. We will all be allowed to leave this god forsaken airport, and soon. We settle in with the grandma and Hallie, taking pictures and talking. Three year old Hallie has a fascination with cavities and informs us that she wants to be a dentist. The girls are tired but ready to be on their way. We gather our stuff to head to the restrooms one last time before boarding. The grandma, whose name I never did get, suggests that we see if the kids could sit with her and Hallie, that its late and she wouldn’t mind switching if I wanted, so she could keep an eye on them. We head to the counter to make it happen while my girls take Hallie to the bathroom. They get back just as it’s my turn at the counter.

Another employee is at the counter, one I haven’t seen in all of the past six hours. She’s blunt and short with me immediately, and she has a less well-intentioned forced smile. She asks for the passenger name and I tell her, and then pull out the envelopes. She takes one look at those envelopes and asks how I would feel about the kids flying on the morning flight. I tell her that I wouldn’t feel very good about that, my kids are getting on the plane tonight, thanks. She tells me that they actually aren’t, they are unaccompanied minors and they aren’t permitted to get on the last flight of the day. And then, to be sure I know who’s in charge, she says “We have no choice but to make other arrangements.” This is when I lost it. I will admit that I lost it, or that it wasn’t my shining moment, anyway.

“My kids and I have been held hostage in this god forsaken airport for over six hours, and I’d been assured a dozen times that my kids were getting on an airplane tonight if we waited it out, which we did. All I wanted to do was let the kids sit next to this nice lady and her grandbaby, and you’re telling me my kids can’t get on the airplane? NO. You are putting my kids on this goddamn AIRPLANE!”

To which she said, “I’m calling the sheriff.”

This is funny. Funny because I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. I’m so squeaky clean at this point in my life it’s almost sad. I would’ve been scared by the threat if it weren’t for the fact that I was so mad. So I laughed. I really wasn’t trying to be a brat, it just seemed so funny. The woman behind the counter didn’t like the laugh.

So I ask, “You’re calling the sheriff? For what?”

“Ma’am, you raised your voice at me. And swore.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that was illegal. Hey, swearing and raising your voice is illegal everyone, just so you know! They’ll call the sheriff.” I might as well address the crowd, the line has stopped moving completely and they are all doing nothing but watching us anyway. I don’t really like being the center of attention, but I am a firm believer that if you’re going to do something, do it right. Or at least get the masses on your side.

I chuck my cell phone to Holly and say “Call your father”. The woman behind the counter tells me to get out of her ticket area. Freakin’ gladly, lady. She’s already on the phone, and two other employees are trying to calm her. She’s pointing at me. Pointing. Still talking about the goddamn sheriff. I’m five foot three with shoes on, not even 150 pounds. And I’ve been recently run through a metal detector. Come on. I don’t even have three ounces of liquid to my name to throw at her. Somehow, it’s Georgia who’s talking to Rob on my phone now, and she’s in tears. Did I mention that the dog is still in the goddamn car?

The other woman who’d been at the counter all along comes rushing over to me. She asks for the kids envelopes, and pulls the boarding passes out of them and hands them to me. She says “You didn’t pay the unaccompanied minor fee, right?”

I’m thinking, what the hell, now they want money?

“No…” I say, trying to get calm.

“Okay, that means that your holding the kids boarding passes, which means they are just passengers. These envelopes are for unaccompanied minors, so I’m going to rip them up. You didn’t pay the fee, and they are not unaccompanied minors. Do you understand?” Her voice is soft. She’s risking something for me, I know this.

“I understand.” I tell her, and she rips both envelopes in four and tells me to get the kids in line. The grandma is right behind me, telling me that she switched her seats by the girls. Three passengers I never talked to in all our hours of sitting there tell me that their sorry for how that woman treated me. I’m stunned into silence. I just nod. I’m surprised, because I feel like an asshole. I lost my temper.

The kids get on the plane. I pace the windows, wishing I could make out their little faces through the tiny airplane windows. The pissed off sheriff-cry-wolf woman walks over to me. I turn to her but don’t say a word.

“I heard a rumor that you might think that I was rude to you before,” she says to me.
I raise my eyebrows and say “Might be rude? I had three people I didn’t know apologize to me for how you treated me. That’s rude, lady. I don’t want to talk to you. The kids are on the plane, and you know, I don’t want to upset you or anything. Don’t want you calling the sheriff.”

“I’m trying to make this right, ma’am.” She says. I scowl at her, because I can’t think of how she can make this right, unless she has some magical power of turning back time that I am unaware of.

“I have a two year old,” she tells me.

“Yeah, I’ve had them, too. Twice actually.” I say, but I don’t think that it’s any kind of excuse. Cowboy up, life keeps moving whether you're ready or not.

I just want her to go away. It was a bad night, for everyone, and I just want to be done with her, so I tell her. “Please go away,” and she does, but I have to say it twice. I crumple into a seat by the window cross-legged, look out at the plane getting ready to taxi away and try not to cry. I don’t want to give that Sheriff bitch the satisfaction, more than anything else. I page through pictures on my phone for distraction, and as a reminder that there is life outside this airport.

When the plane taxis off, I head out. I call Rob and tell him the plane is on the way, and hightail it out of that place. I don’t even think about getting a pass for parking until I’m in the parking garage when it’s too late to go back in. I no longer care. I walk to the car to find Somewhere smiling at me through the window, the car intact. She didn’t even eat the oatmeal cream pie that one of the girls left behind. It’s crumpled and smashed, she’s obviously moved it around the car, but it’s the only evidence of her being in the car all evening. She can be a miraculously puppy. I climb into the driver’s seat and she leans her face into my shoulder immediately, as if she can tell what kind of night I’ve had. I cuddle her, giggle when she kisses me, and instantly feel better. We’re going to Auntie Holly’s now, a safe place where I feel almost as comfortable as I do in my own home. All is good.

Now, if this were anyone else’s life, the story would end here. But this is my life, chock full of experiences that make for great story telling.

I am fifteen minutes from Holly’s house when she calls. Apparently, her backyard and dog have been sprayed by a skunk, again. This has been Holly’s nemesis in life for the past two years, skunks. I’ve heard the stories of gagging and an odor so noxious that it takes days to clear out of your nostrils, loads of laundry and bottles of Febreeze to get the smell out of the house. I never thought that she was exaggerating, I’ve just never smelled skunk close up.

I smell it as soon as I turn onto her block. She’s waiting in her front yard for me, because the smell is too strong to handle being in the house. It’s late, so I let Somewhere out of the car without the leash and repeat the phrase “Stay with me,” about four hundred times. She does as she’s told. Holly helps me with my bags, and we head into the house. It’s honestly horrendous in there. The living room is toxic, but the kitchen is deadly. Holly’s dog, Bella, gets into the house somehow, and with her, the most offensive odor ever, with the possible exception of vomit on your person. I grab Kleenex, shove it up my nose, and start spraying Febreeze. My dog is foaming at the mouth from the smell. Bella is still wet from being sprayed. We shove her back outside, put Somewhere in the toxic living room with a bone, and get ready to deal with Bella. It’s well after midnight.

I ask Holly for some clothes to help clean up the dog with. She returns with an old sweatshirt and a pair of Capri pants. I come out of the bathroom with them on, but due to my short legs, the pants that are Capri’s on Holly are just pants on me. They reach my ankles. Just like I knew it would, this cracks Holly up, which isn’t so easy to do, being that she’s been walking around gagging since she called me on my way from the airport. She gets her husband Neal to come see my outfit, who doesn’t find it quite as funny as we do, and mostly just wants to go to bed. Holly explains to him that going to bed isn’t an option, he’s helping us. We open windows, light candles, stick more Kleenex up our noses and head to the backyard with a vat of tomato juice and a gallon on apple cider vinegar.

Neal digs around for gloves to use, but we aren’t sure if they contain latex and I’m allergic. I don’t want to take a trip to the emergency room or chance an armful of blisters, so I dip my bare hand into the tomato juice and start smearing it on their dog. Bella looks at me with sad eyes, as if to say that I am always nice to her and this doesn’t fit her idea of me. I apologize aloud to her, and continue mopping her with tomato juice. Holly and Neal join in, and soon the driveway looks more like we’ve been hacking up a deer than washing a dog. Their driveway, and all of us, are covered in thick red goop. This sucks, just like the airport did, only in a different way.

At least we have each other. If there is anyone in the world I could pick to go through this with, it would be my friend Holly. As her mother always says, the two of us could have fun together stuck in a cardboard box. And though I wouldn’t call the process fun, we are doing a surprising amount of smiling for such a nasty task. We spend a lot of the time listening to Holly wonder aloud what purpose skunks have, wishing them banned from the planet, and telling Neal that he’s the hunter and the man, and he needs to get his gun and take care of the skunks. The image is great, mostly because Holly and Neal live in the heart of Kenosha, where you could accidently hit someone throwing a ball too hard for your dog. A loaded gun in the city is probably not the best idea, but Holly’s been through this particular game three other times. She’s over it.

By the time we get to the part of this process where we take the hose to Bella, the girls call to say they’ve arrived in DC. The ride was bumpy, they could see lightning and they were afraid. I tell them that I’m standing in Auntie Holly’s’ back yard, up to my elbows in tomato juice and skunk odor, and suggest that we all start over tomorrow. That we need to have extra fun the following days to wipe this god awful day off the planet for good. They whole heartedly agree, as does Auntie Holly, whose nodding at me from behind the stream of the hose.

We get the dog tolerable enough to put in her kennel for the night, change into different clothes, and head to bed. It’s after 3am, and I’m beyond exhausted. The house smells, and so do I. All I smell is skunk. I roll over my day in my head, thinking of what I could’ve done different, and how so many things in this life aren’t in our control, they just carry us along for the ride. And how some days, life just stinks.