How Babies Are Made (*gulp*)

On the way home from school today, Jacob asked me, "Mom, are you happy that you made me?"

"Actually," I say, "happy isn't a big enough word for how happy I am that I made you. I'm much more than just happy. Are you happy that I made you?"

Jacob gave me an enthusiastic "Sure! Who else would I play the Slugbug Game with?"

I agreed, and we talked about how happy we were that we were a family. Still riding that emotional high, I asked him, "Are you happy that Daddy made you, too?"

Silence in the car. His silence because he knew that he didn't come from Daddy's tummy, my silence because I had just walked right into the worst possible conversation I could have stumbled into with him on a Friday afternoon.

"Daddy didn't make me," Jacob protested.

I stammered back, "Uh, well, uh, no, Daddy made you, too."

"How?" came the tiny, wondrous voice from the backseat. Oh, crap.

"Well, you see, um, I mean, it takes a mommy and a daddy to make a baby." Ohhhhhh, crap.

Nothing but thoughtful silence in the backseat. I start counting to myself, beads of sweat popping out on my forehead, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five ... until he responded with ...

"Slugbug blue. What are we having for dinner?"

A Good Day

I knew that today would be different when I turned the shower faucet off. As I toweled off I could hear the strains of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" coming from Jacob's room. [It's my fault, really. I became pseudo-obsessed with the tune after seeing the Glee-inspired rendition last spring, and promptly put it on my ipod. Jake then stole it.]

I crept down the hallway, wondering if I'd see a Jake-shaped lump under the blankets or a boy half-draped over the end of the bed as he wondered how long he could get away with staying in bed. To my surprise, I saw a seven-year-old fully dressed for school, stacking Pokemon cards and placing them in his storage case. I watched him for a full two minutes before he noticed me. He said to me, "My alarm went off. You were still in the shower. I was bored. Already made my bed. Gonna get a jump on the day."

A jump on the day? Was there some kind of mind-meld performed on my child while he slept?

It didn't stop there. He zoomed through his a.m. to-do list and was waiting for me patiently at the door while I scurried from room to room, turning off lights, searching for my pumps, lifting couch cushions for keys.

Fast forward to 7:00 p.m. I'm just getting home from an extra-long day at work, and he has just arrived from soccer practice. He greets me at the door with a hug and a kiss and asks me how my day went. I return the favor. He tells me that he got his homework done before recess, earned two tickets for good behavior in class and earned two "Caught Doing Something Good" tickets for helping others. And he wonders aloud if there are enough vegetables on his sandwich.

7:30 comes, dinner is done and he's putting the finishing touches on his presentation of a diorama for tomorrow's class. His presentation is on a Magic Treehouse book about Louis Armstrong. I select "What a Wonderful World" on my ipod and we set it to repeat. I ask him to dance, and we twirl around the living room.

Sing it, Louis.

Tomorrow might bring the Jacob I'm a bit more familiar with. The one who whines about every third thing I say, the one who would rather burrow under his blankets than straighten them out. But I love that Jacob as much as the one I got to spend time with today. He may take a bit more patience those days, but he's worth it.

And that Jacob is just as good a dancer as the one I danced with today. Play it again, Louis.

So Long, Summer

Today we closed the chapter on Summer 2009. Yes, I know that fall technically doesn't begin for a couple of weeks. But Jake starts 2nd grade tomorrow, after 12 loooooong weeks filled with theme camps and day camps and a few weeks in Michigan, Arkansas and here at home in between.

For a last day of summer, it was a good one! Jake's on his first competitive soccer team, and they made it to the finals in the Labor Day Classic in La Jolla. That meant an early morning game against a tough team. They were tied at the end of the second half, resulting in a nail-biting sudden death period ... still tied up ... and penalty kicks. Although they lost by one goal, they fought valiently.

Soccer brings out the hunger in The Boy, so we celebrated by going to breakfast. Followed by a nap. Followed by a long bike ride through the neighborhood ... the bikes must have gone ignored for a while, each and every tire needed a re-fill.

We ended up elbow-deep in pizza toppings and salad greens as we made dinner. Once the pies were in the oven, Jake practiced his air guitar to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." Good times.

The Boy is nestled snugly in bed, waiting for his fave Chris Rice song ("Love Like Crazy") to wake him up for his first day of school tomorrow.

Loved today. Can we do it again tomorrow?

Fiscal Lesson Too Soon?

On the way to church today, Jacob said, "I want to buy a house."

I could tell from the corner of my eyes that Joel lit up as I did with the opportunity for a life lesson here. I started off by saying, "That's a great goal to have, Jake! Start thinking about that now, because houses are really expensive today, and will be even more so when you're an adult."

Joel took the baton from there, saying that college would be pricey, too. We tag-teamed with tidbits about fiscal reponsibility such as credit card usage, savings accounts versus stocks, how much of of his allowance he should be socking away in each jar (the "cross" jar is for church and charity, the "$" jar is for savings, the "Jacob" jar is for spending), how he really needed to strive to get his chores done every day, how financial guru Dave Ramsey's kid was challenged to buy a car and saved enough money for a luxury model, how he could get a lawn-mowing job someday, how his dad wishes he had bought a house decades ago, but that buying it together made it more "our" house, the proper order for life moments (read "college, career, marriage, kids") ...

Amidst all this excited chatter from his parents, I noticed that Jacob was noticeably absent in this conversation. I glanced back to see his head tilted all the way back, mouth fully open, eyes closed. And I heard him mutter, "Or maybe I don't."

OK, so maybe the stocks piece was a bit too much?

So Far, Yet So Close

Have you met Tracey, my sister? If you happen to see me around Facebook, you've been subjected to a healthy dose of sisterly banter about everything from road trips to purses.



Growing up, we were separated by just two years and 303 days. Sometimes a wall separated our beds, sometimes just a few feet. We fought. Oh, how we fought. The topics didn't always matter ... it might have been a snatched toy, a misplaced record. The fight that is perhaps best-remembered (especially by our grandmother) involved my sister screeching at me when I wasn't even home. She had painstakenly ironed her creme shorts, then jumped into the shower. While she was otherwise occupied, I spotted the perfectly pleated pair and -- without even a second's hesitation -- I grabbed the shorts, put them on, and left to go out with my friends. My grandmother still shudders at the aftermath.



We sleep a little farther apart now. About 2,342 miles apart, really. She's still in Michigan, I'm in San Diego. We're separated in other ways, too. She's a homeschooling pioneer and a Republican, I'm a school district administrator and a Democrat. But no matter how far apart we are in politics and lifestyles, I can't help but put her on my list of those I admire most. She's a fantastic mother, wife and all-around human being. She's not afraid to stand up for what she believes in, and her activism continues to grow. I may not always agree with the opinion she's voicing, but I love her conviction and courage. Tracey and her husband are the godparents to my 7-year-old son ... and I have no doubt that he would be in the absolute best of hands if something were to happen to my husband and me.



My sister and I only see each other twice a year, and I truly hate that. Once we set dates for trips we begin to count wake-ups until we get to hang out again ... even if it's months in advance. Our sister time is often filled with boutique shopping, jewelry making, photography chatting and blog sharing (check out her Building Cathedrals blog). My folks love that their girls are best friends. And she truly is my best friend. She's the one I turn to when I've had a tough day, when I have a karaoke goof, when I want to share an experience from my travels, or when I need to make sense of a motherhood moment.



During my last trip to see her in June, I vented about wishing we could live within driving distance. She agreed, but then put it all into perspective for me. She told me that she knows sisters who live a few towns away, but they spend less cumulative time together in a year than she and I do across the span of a couple of trips. Access doesn't necessarily mean quality time. She's right. And while I wish I could drop by for a chat or a hug, I know that she's just a text, tweet, status update or phone call away.

"Check Out My Dot-Com"

The Boy is about to hit a major milestone. He will turn seven and two-thirds on Monday. He thinks that sounds so much older than just "seven."

Like any typical kid, he just can't get older fast enough. When the neighbors across the street put their "slug bug blue" up for sale, he begged me to buy it for him so he had a car to drive when he got his license. He already knows who he's going to marry -- and has known this for about three years now -- and has, in fact, proposed. She accepted, but I'm pretty sure that she's not aware that this truly is a long-term plan of his.

But this boy who would be a man in a heartbeat also has some trouble letting go of some of his more childish characteristics. Like his love for all things Pokemon (shirts, notebooks, video games). And his need to still burrow next to me on the couch, or crawl into bed with beside me when he wakes up just a little too early on a Saturday.

One of my favorite things about all kids in general is their propensity to tweak the English language to their liking. Pasghetti is a nationwide phenomenon, but Jacob always used to enjoy milkaches (milkshakes) and lalos (balloons) on a weekend outing. He has since mastered pronunciation, but his awkwardness with some phrases leave me smiling.

Just today he was asking me about boxing gloves, and whether you could really open and close your hands when you were wearing them. I told him I didn't really know. So he grabbed his guitar and made up a song on the spot, that went something like this:

Hey there, can anyone tell me about boxing gloves?

I wanna know, wanna know, wanna know right now.

Can you open your hands when you're wearing them?

Send me the answer on my dot-com.

After I appropriately applauded, he took his bow, and said, "I really need my own dot-com, Mom. That way I can tell people to check out my dot-com."

I still don't know whether he meant an e-mail address, a website , or -- gasp! -- maybe even a blog. But I didn't correct him. I love his phrasing. He still lets me kiss and hug him when I drop him off at school or camp, but he's starting to get embarrassed when I fuss over him at soccer. So while we're in this no-man's land between boy and man, I'm going to enjoy every bit of "childhood" that we have left.

Why Someone Calls Me "Mom"

Now that you've met my dad (through my eyes, at least), I'd like to introduce you to the inspiration behind my favorite job ... being a mom.

My earliest memories of my mother are of her staying at home to take care of my sister and me. She sacrificed a lot to be our wake-up call, our welcome-home committee and our very own Cruise Director Julie. I give her a hard time because I can remember coming home from kindergarten (a TOUGH half-day!) and asking her for a peanut butter and jelly andwich, to which she replied that I'd have to wait for her to finish dusting. To be fair, I'm pretty sure my five-year-old mind warped that reality a bit before tucking it away to be brought up in times of adult whininess.

As much as I love her dearly for being there for us as kids, I love her even more for her next sacrifice. Mom gave up her free time and even some of her family time to go back to school and to work. It took her years, but she earned her Bachelor's degree as a mom, juggling school responsibilities for both her and her daughters.

Now that I'm a mom myself, I realize just how difficult that must have been for her. She probably worried she was giving up too much to achieve her goal, maybe even fretted over the time away from her husband and kids. What I do know is this: I waited far too many decades to tell my mom that I am incredibly proud of her for her sacrifice. What she imprinted upon me was an intense motherly devotion, the life lesson that becoming a student and a thriving member of the workforce as a parent does not mean you leave your innate "mother-ness" behind.

After my son, Jacob, has been tucked in for the night, I spend much of my time reading books about leadership in education, learning how to navigate my team through a maze of state and local concerns. But I realize now that the person I have sought to emulate the most isn't a superintendent, a highly-paid consultant, or even an author. It's my mom.

She made who I am today possible for me, a reality. She taught me that I can have it all... I can be a leader, a trusted friend, a creative soul ... but more importantly, I can be Mom, too.

I love you, Mom.

The first love of my life ...

I know that every daughter loves her father. I would never assume to love my dad more than my sister does, nor more than any other daughter in the world loves her father. But my dad truly amazes me. He gives, and gives, and gives. And just when you think he's done, he gives some more.

My dad had to put up with a heck of a lot of crazy antics when it came to rearing me in Michigan. For those of you who knew me at all as a child, a pre-teen, a teenager, a young adult, an adult ... wait, I'm not sure I like where that was going... well, you know what I'm talking about.

I've never been the one to take the easy road. I didn't like to take my parents' advice as much as I liked to learn things the hard way. Of course, I didn't realize that's what I was doing at the time. My Dad dealt with the phone calls gracefully, and if he dreaded the ringing of the telephone, he never showed it.

"Dad, I wrecked the car."
"Dad, I've got a flat tire."
"Dad, I wrecked the other car."
"Dad, my car's making a weird noise."
"Dad, what kind of tires should I buy?"

When I moved away after college, if the phone stopped ringing for any substantial length of time, my mother would tell him to get in the car. She wanted him to "look at me" and make sure I was OK. Usually, this sixth sense of hers was on the mark. And he never questioned it, he just packed up the car and came for a visit.

Four grandchildren later -- his four angels, as he calls them -- the man is still a force to be reckoned with. He's tough as nails when he wants to be, but gladly turns into a puddle of goo when my son or one of my nieces calls his name. And family is everything to him. When my mother needs to spend weeks and months away from him to take care of my grandmother, he sacrifices to make that happen. He's there for her with just a phone call, even though he'd rather they not spend that time apart.

I'm 38 now, and my 66-year-old father is still a major guiding force in my life. And he still gets a few of those calls every now again, since my husband is admittedly not a handyman.

But I know that whether I call him to ask about motor oil or just to tell him I'm thinking of him, he'll be there.

I love you, Dad.

There's Never a Dull Moment ...

... when you travel with Jenee. This girl brings out a seriously silly side of me that I usually only get to display when my sister is in the vicinity.

I first met Jenee when I got suckered into attending a weekend-long camp with a group of unruly high school kids. This wasn't your typical s'mores and campfire songs camp. There was some seriously in-depth subject matter on the agenda here ... race, religion, sexual preference ... and how the preconceived notions of both students and staff get in the way of a peaceful and nurturing campus climate. A truly moving experience. That was ten years ago. I didn't run across Jenee again until my first day on the job where I work now, three years ago. I was being introduced to my staff and to school personnel with whom I would be working closely, and there she was. Little did I know that our work together would take us across the nation. What I can say with great certainty is that cities such as Washington, D.C., Albuquerque, and now Dallas will never be the same after having known us.

A few weeks ago -- and later this week -- when you run into Jenee or myself you will meet "WJ" (Working Jenee or Working Jodi). But when we're off to a conference, you will have the distinct pleasure of catching a glimpse of "VJ" ... Vacation Jenee/Jodi. We're away from the day-to-day stressors of the district, our minds are being fed by experts in the field, and we have plenty of time in the evening for good food, great wine, and thrills-a-minute karaoke.

Tonight was one such evening (sans karaoke). The VJs were taxied to a Dallas mall to check out some Bobbie Brown wares at Nordstrom's and stopped first for dinner and La Crema chardonnay. Five glasses (combined) and two makeovers (also combined) later, we found ourselves back at the 7-Eleven across from our hotel. Jenee was having a serious string cheese deficiency and I fancied myself a fountain Diet Coke. While waiting in line to check out, a tourist in front of us began to search her backpack frantically for her wallet. Our super-hero counselor-like skills kicked into high gear and we told her to take a breath and search again... no need to worry and hurry quite yet. As we waited, the line grew behind us. A local with an armful of 7-Eleven fruit (I know, right???) and beverages began to display her impatience. Jenee turned to face her and said, "She think she's lost her wallet. We can all relate. YOU can relate. So you can WAIT."

You see, Jenee has decided she needs to be more assertive these days. Standing up for her rights and the rights of those around her. So when she sees a fellow patron being hurried, or a conference-goer not rewarded for her participation as are the others around her, she speaks up.

But the cape-wearing Jenee (HJ for hero?) has to fight for time alongside the giddy out-of-town Jenee on these trips. VJ often wrestles her way to the surface, because she's got a job to do. She hunts down karaoke joints for me to croon at, she startles serious presenters by loudly protesting "WHAT?!?" when he says that there are no youths in the room (she's sooooo anxious to avoid the big four-oh), she leans over my shoulder to ask about every magazine and sudoku puzzle I'm perusing on the plane, and, frankly, she needs to be entertained like my 7-year-old.

I guess the upside to that is that she applauds loudest at my singing, breaks up the tension in a boring seminar presentation, and doesn't puke like Jacob does sometimes during landings.

You gotta love her.

What I Wouldn't Give for a Basement ...

Really, can anyone explain to me why us Californians are relegated to above-ground living only?

What I affectionately refer to as our basement is actually our nursery. Jake moved into a new room several years back, so his first space soon became a spot to put items that were "in transit." As in, "let's just put this box from the new vacuum cleaner in this room until we're sure it's working correctly." No surprise, I suppose, that the box is still there, so many months later. The room is now where treasures go to rest, then get lost, then die a slow, painful death.

If I had a basement, I could close the door and not think about it. But the nursery is smack-dab in between my son's room and mine, and I have to walk by the door dozens of times a day. Sure, the door may be closed, but it taunts me ... after all, I know what's behind it.

So a couple of nights ago I decided that I needed to see just how bad the room had gotten. Have you ever seen the TV shows where an organization and design team descends upon a family to "save" them from their clutter? And when they show you the "before" images of the room, you tell yourself that the mountains of junk just have to be for show. Surely the producers hauled in extra boxes and bags of dust-covered trinkets, kids' school papers and coupons clipped and never seen again for ratings, right?

That's what I always thought. But I'm ashamed to say that our "basement" was starting to look like the trigger point for cameras and fuzzy microphones to suddenly appear on our doorstep. I had to take action.

I warned the boys that I was going in. They weren't to bother me for anything. I cracked the door open and shoved a laundry basket full of Jacob's too-small clothes out of the way so that I could get in. As the door swung shut behind me, I knew I was trapped by my own despair. I wouldn't emerge from the room until I had made some serious headway.

An hour in, my stomach started growling. I unearthed some Scooby-Doo fruit snacks from a bag brought in from the car that landed ... and lived ... in the nursery. I couldn't stomach the thought of it, so I ignored the hunger pangs. Anyway, I had brought in reinforcements (Diet Coke and a water bottle). They would have to do.

The room was stuffy, so I dug through the closet for a small fan. Finding no flat surface available to set it, it perched precariously on a stack of magazines yet to be sorted through and recycled.

Fan working ... but still getting warm. Locks of hair continued to fall from my ponytail, fighting containment. Much like the nursery. Resourceful as ever, I found the extra shoelaces from Jacob's school shoes in a plastic box filled with odds and ends. Oh yeah, you read that correctly. Shoelaces. Darn, I'm good. I tied it around my head as a makeshift headband.

Two hours later, I had nearly burned up the shredder, filled several containers of recycling and fizzled out of all remaining energy. That was enough for one night. Plus, I had to use the restroom, and I could not come up with one logical way to solve that issue in MacGyver fashion in that room.

Triumphant at all that I had accomplished (OK, the room still isn't ready for Martha Stewart's blessing, but Rome wasn't built in a day, right?), I threw open the door and stepped out into the hallway, breathing a deep sigh of satisfaction. I walked right into The Boy and The Man. They stopped, looked at my shoelace-tied hair, the sheen of sweat on my brow, and the cloud of dust accompanying me from the room.

And Jacob looked into the nursery, looked back at me, and said, "So when are you gonna start cleaning out the nursery?"

Uncle.

Success or Failure? You Decide.

Our 48 hours free of TV, video games and, in general, all things that beep and hum, began Friday night at midnight. We started the "OTG" (Off the Grid) experiment in the hopes of reminding The Boy that life isn't all about what's next on Disney XD or which video game to beg for next. To be fair, The Man and I were in on the punishment -- er, the plan -- as well. No net-surfing or soccer games for him, no blogging and texting for me.

Friday
11:03 p.m. I hear the drone of the TV in the living room, accompanied by The Man's snoring. Do I go in and turn off the TV so that it's already in its rest mode for the midnight start? Nah. I'm reading. And sleepy.

Midnight. I wake up, pull the paperback off my chin, and realize that The Man has come to bed and the house is quiet. OTG is a "go."

Saturday
6:45 a.m. I awake to the sound of a toilet being scrubbed. I check my hands to be sure it's not me. Am I in Heaven? Back to sleep.

7:15 a.m. Awake again, this time to the sounds of The Boy and The Man playing chess. No noisy cartoons in the background, no soccer game. Yep. It's Heaven.

7:30 a.m. I'm up, I'm up. Time for coffee. The Pup, sensing the change in the air, gets antsy and promptly pees in the bedroom. Great. It was time to start cleaning the house anyway.

8:30 a.m. Jacob: "I'm bored." Sigh.

9:03 a.m. The Boy is heard playing his electric keyboard in his bedroom. Well, battery-operated. But it's a slippery slope.

2:00 - 6:30 p.m. A flurry of activity commences. Run to Target, buy birthday gift for classmate, go to Cub Scouts meeting, then off to the birthday party. The Boy is accepting of our weekend rules. He doesn't whine and beg for anything at the store, even declines eating a cookie at Cub Scouts because he knows he's off to a party. I am triumphant.

6:30 p.m. Joel: "I'm bored." Double sigh.

8:30 p.m. I'm pooped, so it's back to bed with a book. The Boy is in a deep slumber, likely dreaming of the fence staining that Sunday holds for us. I suddenly hear the creak of the TV cabinet, the soft click of the TV turning on, followed by the murmuring of soccer scores. The Man has caved.

Sunday
5:00 a.m. Repeat: Creak. Click. Murmur. But at least the TV gets turned off again before The Boy gets up.

9:30 a.m. When we are leaving mass, The Boy turns to me and says, "Know why I like church?" [I tense, wondering if your eyes can actually pop out of your head when you explode at hearing the word "donut."] "Why, Jacob?" I ask. "Because you get to learn more about God. Plus there's a lot of religion in there," he says. It's working!

10:30 a.m. The first can of fence stain is popped open. Ah, the sweet smell of elbow grease. And since we have six elbows in action, this should be good.

1:00 p.m. Two elbows left working. Both mine. The other four bailed out on me in search of turkey for sandwiches about an hour ago. But we accomplished a lot and killed two cans of stain. Need more to finish the project anyway, so it's a good time to stop. I walk into the kitchen to see stain footprints on the wood floor. Grrrrrr.

2:00 p.m. The Boy has decided to move out. To the patio. He cites his ability to hunt coyotes with trashcans and that he's willing to sleep on two chairs pushed together. I tell him that it sounds like he has a good, solid plan worked out, and I go take a shower. When I emerge, a decidedly happier person, he has moved back home and needs a bath and calamine lotion. Better not to ask at this point.

4:00 p.m. The Man tells me that he's bored and wants to check e-mail. I give him The Look. He says, "well?!?" "I'm not the boss of you," I say, continuing The Look. He sighs, returns to the living room, and I hear him taking turns reading a book about pirates with The Boy.

6:45 p.m. I've escaped to my scrapbook room for some hard-earned crafting and glue-sniffing. I'm just hitting my stride when I hear the sounds of something being shredded. In the bedroom, The Pup is clearly done with the OTG experiment. One of my purse bags (yes, boys, there are bags to hold purses) is being ripped to pieces.

7:00 p.m. While scrapping, I hear the telltale ticktock of the 60 Minutes introduction and a deal being brokered to let The Boy watch TV starting at 8:00 p.m.

Sigh. I give.

For you doubters out there, I lasted the whole 48 hours. And when I woke up this morning, it was to the blaring of the Zack and Cody and a wrinkled brow when I asked The Boy what he thought of our experiment. Then I turned my phone on and saw 15 new messages.

But what you could hear around our house for the two days before was on a whole different level. Conversations about inventors, God and animals. Prayers. The satisfying swish and swoosh of paint brushes and rollers, and occasionally a screech when someone got splattered. Birds, soooo many birds. And a ceiling fan that I really need to have looked at.

If you ask me, it was a success. I can't speak for the other four elbows.

Survivor ... Sevilla Style

This weekend you won't catch a glimpse of me around here. I won't be blogging, I won't text notes to my fam and friends, I won't get caught up in even one iota of Facebookery. If you want to see me or say hello, you'd better catch me in person. Why such tech-free solitude? Because The Man and I have cooked up an experiment for our little three-being family (The Pup won't be implicated in this one) to get us back in touch with a simpler life and an "earn what you get" philosophy.

For 48 hours, the televisions will be turned off, the ipods left charging, the Nintendo DS and the Wii lying idle. The computer will be at rest. The cell phones will be off. Nary an electronic pulse shall emit from the Sevilla household for entertainment's sake. And on top of that, we've selected a family household project to tackle ... staining the fence.

Why the Laura Ingalls Wilder transformation? I haven't turned total granola girl, believe me. The seed that grew into this experiment was planted about a year ago. Our 7-year-old has grown into a nasty phase ... the "because I'm worth it" phase. He has an incredible sense of entitlement when it comes to screen time and what he might gain out of every minute decision made. And it's been grating on my nerves. So much so that whenever he mentions being more excited about the donut after church than going to the mass itself, I snap like a school headmaster and screech, "That's IT! No donut for you. Do you think Jesus appreciates you choosing a fried ring of sugary bread over Him?!?!"

To try to keep Headmaster Falula (nice ring to that) at bay, we're trying a radical take at this weekend. We'll go for family walks and bike rides. We'll stain the fence. We'll play board games. We'll read as a family and pray as a family and enjoy some silence together.

And if by Sunday at midnight, if we're all still alive ... and not in jail ... then we'll venture out of the compound for a matinee and lunch.

So if it looks like I'm ignoring your texts, calls, messages and e-mails, don't worry. I am. But I'll get back to you on Monday.

Cover me ... I'm going in!

Today I had a rare Mom-ent. The house would be vacated by so that The Boy could play in a couple of soccer games and The Man could cheer him on. I would have at least three hours to ... to what? Typically I waste about half of my free time wondering how I should spend it. Should I take an uninterrupted nap? Go shopping without having to say NO at every endcap? Prepare a home-cooked meal? Those of you who know me well will know what the least likely option is.

For today's moment of bliss, I hesitated not. As The Man's car pulled away from the house, I pulled my hair into a ponytail, gritted my teeth, put The Pup in the kennel and pushed open the door to Jacob's room.

Wow.

We had just emptied his old dresser to hawk in the yard sale yesterday, so bits and baubles of toys and socks went everywhere. And then on top of that layer The Boy set up a tent and tunnel set. All I knew was that the most important thing that had been lost in that room was my sanity from having to walk past it daily and enter it to look for school uniforms. And I was going in.

The treasures that a boy covets are strange indeed. Rocks lined his windowsill from Arizona and Michigan (no wonder my suitcase tipped the 50-lb mark). Plastic beads from his preschool days mingled with Ninja Turtles. Pokemon cards marked the place where he had left off in a Captain Underpants book. Lego creations were left hastily in battle-mode, getting ready to attack a stack of erasers.

As I culled the mounds of toys for stray Happy Meal plastic parts and orphaned game pieces (that I can only throw away when Jake's not around to protest the disregard for his precious things), I realized yet again that I love the way this boy's mind works. His creativity warms me to the depths of my soul. His love for his family and his friends knows no boundaries. I found notes that he had written to his dad, birthday wish lists, pictures he had drawn for his cousins. And when I came across the sympathy card he made for us when our dog passed away in December and I saw the big red heart that he drew on Kai's chest (we had just found out that he had a large heart tumor), I paused yet again to marvel at his thoughtfulness.

The Boy's room is most always a mess. But everything is in just the right place in his heart.

Good Intentions Paving, Inc.

So I had the day off today. A real day, with no associated work-guilt. You know, the guilt that seeps into your pores when you take a sick day. Those thoughts of "did I remember to tell XYZ about ABC?" And "what if a board member or the superintendent needs me?" And "how will my office survive without me?"

No, today was a glorious holiday that my son and my husband did not share. All about me. Me, myself and I.

What to do? Big plans were crafted, dreamed about, the stuff of freedom and me-dom. My day would be full of catching up on my DVRd shows, taking a well-deserved nap, playing with my puppy, Sadie, and finally taking some time to moisturize deeply. And, if I felt like giving a nod to the household duties, I'd unload the dishwasher and spray some lemon-scented Pledge near the front door to give the boys the illusion that I had scrubbed and toiled over the furniture and fixtures all day long. It would be a great day.

Then comes my reality. It rained all day, which would normally be a fantastic bonus for me. Love, love, LOVE the rain. We just don't get much of it in San Diego. But when you add a rainy, stormy day to a 10-month-old rescued puppy who's not yet fully housebroken, you get calamity central. With a lot of cursing and gnashing of teeth.

So, already spending the day with paper towels in hand and a scowl on my face, I faced my "other" list of things to do. And four loads of laundry, two stripped and made beds, one organized pantry, one scrubbed refrigerator, umpteen polished tables, seven ironed shirts and some glistening countertops later, I sat down. And I caught up on all of 30 minutes of "Lost." (Darn it all, I'm still about three shows behind!)

Now, what would today have been like if the characters had changed? If I was at work and the hubby were home? Do I really have to answer that?

One of these days, I'm going to have a me day. But I think I'm going to do it outside the house. In a hotel. Far away from home.

Who am I kidding? I wouldn't know what to do with that freedom. I'd probably make lists of things I need to do once I got back home, sent 642 work e-mails and worked on my son's college applications. He'll need them in a decade.

Weekend Warrior

You might not agree with me on this one, but that's the chance I take when I put digits to keyboards.

I think the success or failure of a weekend is dictated by my war wounds. Do you? For some reason, when I go to bed on Sunday night and face another five (or six, or seven, depending on the projects and deadlines going on at the time) days of office work, I review my pain level.

This past weekend, for example, was a bit low on the work-to-rest ratio. So I didn't feel nearly as accomplished as I would have liked. Sure, I spent much of the weekend in my near-constant battle to clean and re-locate things that I'm constantly losing in my house (I'd love to call myself organized, but that's a lofty goal). But that's a given. Cleaning is a never-ending battle. And when you live with two males (The Boy and The Man), you'd better throw a healthy dose of disinfecting and desoccerating the house. But when the chapter closed on the 2nd weekend of the new year, I was feeling a little blah about my to-do list.

Not nearly like the weekend before. I spent the first 09 weekend deeply entrenched in checkmarks. I chalked up not one, but TWO, trips up the top of the ladder. Once when I climbed on top of our house to trim a tree that was forever "resting" on our roof. And once when I climbed up into the top of our garage to pull down one of Jacob's old bikes. Now before you ponder the wherabouts of The Man during these 2 jaunts, let me put your minds at ease. He was safely ensconced inside the house making sure the television and computer still worked. Phew. He was making sure that the electronics in our home are at the ready. Not that he refused to help me. He was never consulted on these endeavors, and didn't know about the tree-trimming until The Boy tattled. And he found out about the garage-attic scaling when my sister-in-law helped me back inside the house and we informed him that I had fallen from the top of the ladder (which, just so you know, is NOT A STEP), bounced off the top of his old Honda parked in the garage, and landed in an awkward position where I was half-leaning on the now-lopsided ladder and half "hugging" the car to stop my fall. Yeah, it hurt. Quite a bit. But I have quite a giggle when I imagine what it looked like in slow-mo. I actually enjoyed the ensuing hours of propping up my leg and forming a bag of frozen peas to my knee.

I really have quite a lot of Lucy (of "I Love" fame) moments on the weekends. Mostly because I don't take the time to prep something as I should, or take safety precautions as I should. I don't sweat the details until I have to ice some part of my body, basically. And then I cover the evidence in various ways. Move certain rugs or bookcases in my house and you'll discover where I dumped out gallons of paint (or actually stepped IN a gallon of paint ... whole foot ... in primer, no less).

But I digress. At least last week I ended my weekend with bruises and aches and the remnants of red spray paint on my wrist from finishing a few craft and home projects. And I loved it.

I'm hoping that this next weekend brings achiness and crankiness of a different sort. We're in the midst of the process of adopting a rescued German Shepherd, and the timeline works, we'll be spending much of this 3rd January weekend playing catch and running around with a new pup.

Wish me achiness!

My (Soon Not to Be) Secret Love of All Things DC

I've taken a trip back East to our nation's capital three times, all for work-related conferences and meetings. Each time I go to DC I try to bookend my stay by a day or so coming and going so I can take some time to be a monument-ogling, Metro-surfing, politico-watching tourist.



My most recent trip put me in DC at an odd time. We were knee-deep in presidential ads and mud-slinging. Knowing first-hand how Cali was reacting to the muck, I was more than curious to see what the atmosphere in the eye of the storm would be like. I was impressed -- but hard-pressed to find do-dads that actually slammed either candidate. And believe me, I looked ... mostly because a colleague begged me for some anti-McCain trinkets.


Elmo went along with me, of course, because that's how my son finds out about my solo trips. And our flight back was scheduled for September 11. Many of my fellow travelers around me seemed nervous for the timing. Not me. I figured it was likely the safest day of the year to travel. But as I took my last tours of the city in the morning on 9-11 before my afternoon flight back to San Diego, I marveled at the pomp and circumstance of the day. All around the city, flags were at half-staff. Soldiers of every branch of the military, in full dress, spent the day visiting the memorials and marching around the Mall.


For one day, I felt like everyone around me wasn't concerned with who would be our next President. Each and every tourist and Washingtonian alike seemed to just take a moment to breathe, to take in the world around them, and to remember. And I was never more proud of my country and the world in which I live.