Yesterday was Saint Patrick’s day, and, as is traditional in our house, the leprechauns visited in the wee hours of the dawn, upturned furniutre in the living room, and left some assorted goodies for the kids. Upon awakening, my oldest son, Anton, a clever fellow of ten years, located his leprechaun booty, but then retired back to bed. Throughout the rest of the day, he lacked his usually gregarious temperment. In fact, he was grumpy and almost morose. I didn’t determine the nature of his problem until half through a walking trip to the local store.

We were still a good mile away from our humble abode when Anton commented something to the affect that “Come on, Mom. You really bought that stuff this morning, didn’t you?”

Wide eyed with astonishment and shock, I denied this vehemently.

To which he replied: “Like leprechauns would really bring me a Creme Egg, an Easter pencil, and Army guys.”

I immediately hypostheized that the leprechauns had gotten to our house late in their evening’s efforts amd had run out of truly “St. Patricky” stuff.  Besides, hadn’t there been some sort of recall on gold chocolate coins?

“Exactly,” he pounced. “I heard Nanny (my mother and his grandmother) tell you something about a chocolate coin recall. That proves you did it.”

At this point, my eight-year-old daughter, Anne, who hadn’t really been paying attention to the conversation, broke in. “Are you a leprechaun, Mom?”

It was time for some serious back pedaling. I went with the lame old line that “everyone has little leprechaun in them on St. Patrick’s day.” My two littler ones let it go at that point. But not Anton. He was like a pitbull. Finally, leaning close so that only hec ould hear, I whispered: “We’ll talk about this tonight. With Dad. So enough.” I waggled my eyebrows in a threatening fashion and he winked at me.

I had stopped him from corrupting the innocence of his siblings, but I had only delayed the inevitable with respect to addressing the nature and existance of leprechauns and other magical beings with Anton.

That night, Anton, my husband, Oliver, and I conversed outside, while grilling. The whole burning charcoal thing provided us with the subterfuge to exclude Anne and five-year-old John. We explained to Anton that though there was magic in the world, I had, in fact, planted the morning’s loot. He was okay with this, but then the big questions came.

“Well, what about the Easter Bunny?”

“We do that, too, honey.”

“Really? But I saw a giant bunny outisde my room one morming. Do you guys wear a costume or something?”

“No.”

“But I saw something. I know I did.”

Then came the big question, the one I’d been dreading: “What about Santa?”

I debated perpetuating the dream for a little while longer, but it would have been delaying the inevitable. He wanted us to be truthful. So, though it was painful, we came clean.

Afterwards, he was crestfallen. The world for him was little less magical. I kept trying to reassure him; Ididn’t want him to lose faith in everything miraculous. I assured him that the ability to “hear the bell” (this is a reference to The Polar Express) is more of a state of mind and heart than anything else. Sometimes, logic just doesn’t work and you have to take the leap of faith.

I told him all of this and then I had him read that famous letter to Santa from Virginia, the little girl who’s friends did not believe. And at the end, I felt maybe not better but reconciled. I think he’s okay, too. Everyone I have spoken to assures me that they weren’t permenently scarred by “finding out.”

Easter is next weekend. We saw a bunny in front of our house this morning. Anne, our daughter, wondered whether this was the Easter Bunny. Anton responded: “He must be on a scouting mission.” Then, he winked at me.

Things have changed. Anton’s growing up, and that’s good. Besides, having him “in the know” means it will be a lot less stressful to bring in presents on Christmas Eve.

        Sometimes it feels like life will never change. You’ll always be breastfeeding or changing diapers. You’ll never get a full night’s sleep or have any time to yourself. You’ll never be able to shower without someone shouting in a need or desire at you. But then, suddenly, and with very little warning, life does change in some huge, transforming way. Perhaps a friend or family member moves away or passes on, maybe you start a new job or return to work, or maybe, as in my case, your youngest child goes off to kindergarten.

            The question for me is how do you feel like a queen when you’re castle is empty?

            I’ve spoken with friends about my mixed up feelings of loss and confusion and pride, and they invariably fall into two schools: those who wonder why I’m not throwing a lawn party and those who seek to console me. The first group points out things like my life should be so much easier now. I’ll be able to grocery shop kid-less, which means I won’t have to say “no,” at least thirty times and I’ll be able to get out of the store without making a dozen kid-driven impulse purchases. As I am a full time college student, my life should be much easier in terms of getting to class and getting homework done. I may even have time to exercise. I can go for walks without begging, pleading, and threatening my threesome to “keep moving.” Yes, life will be easier, but it will also be quieter, neater, and much lonelier.

            Forgive me for being maudlin, but I miss all of them. And there is such finality to the youngest one going, which makes it even more poignant. There will be no more library story times for me, no more kindermusik, no more snuggling in my bed after lunch on a weekday watching “Dora the Explorer.” My son is ready for more excitement. He said he wanted to learn how to “wead and wite” (he still struggles with the letter “r”). Still, he, too, is somewhat overwhelmed by his life changes. Just the other night, he told me: “I miss you a lot at recess.” I felt my heart clench.

            This is what we want for our children, right? For them to go out and on their own, knowing that we support them in their new endeavors and adventures. But I guess I wasn’t quite ready for how it feels. We weren’t even sure our youngest was going to go this year; his is one of those troublesome summer birthdays. In fact, we only decided to send him to kindergarten on signing day. Maybe it’s better this way. I had less time to worry and obsess.

            I’m very happy for our boy. When he came home from school the other day, he was so excited about learning a song. And even though he’s tired, he has a twinkle in his eye and his usually jaunty step. I think he’s adjusting. I’m the one who’s struggling. But then I still miss the sound of diapers swishing between little legs as they run through my house.

            Life changes, I know. But it’s just that when you think you know the routine, when you’re comfortable, life shoots you off like a comet on a new trajectory, and it can take a little while to adjust.

I used to be of the opinion that the only good reason to start running is if one is being chased. However, a few months ago, I learned that my younger sister, ten years and no children younger, was training for a half marathon. On the phone, she raved to me about how great she was feeling, how energized, about the joys of running, and about how you can burn more than 800 calories on an eight-mile run. Suddenly, I found myself seriously considering running with a goal, a half marathon, in mind.

I got my husband on board with me. After all, both of us could work on the whole fitness/weight loss thing. We could motivate each other, bond over long runs, share the agony and the ecstasy. We picked a goal and printed out a Half Marathon schedule off of the internet. We also bought some books on running, the better to understand the essence of our sport.

I’m not going to lie to you, I’m far from a gazelle. I’m not exactly springing along with the wind in my hair. I trudge along, sweating profusely, and walking people pass me. Still, the miles increased slowly but surely, as did my appetite. I must admit eating ice cream after running five miles eliminated most of the guilt.

 We purchased water belts and shirts and shorts constructed of breathable materials. We weren’t quite ready for the ipod leap, but we did invest in pedometers. After long runs, we collapsed on the couch and commiserated about how grueling it all was.

Now, at this point in the story you are probably expecting to hear that, yes, we achieved our goal. We triumphantly finished the race. Sorry to disapoint, but that’s not quite the case. We got up to eight miles on our long distance run, within spitting distance of the thirteen required for the half marathon, then, I must admit, we lost our will power to go forward. On the weekend of the race, instead of running we decided to go camping with the kids. Still, something was accomplished. We’re fitter, stronger, more confident and more knowledgeable about running. I think I could possibly go the distance on a half marathon. I know that there is one coming up in six months right in town . . .

Every summer, I get frustrated with the whole bathing suit dilemma. Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I was a bikini girl. I wasn’t a string or thong chick, though I must admit I did attempt to wear what I can only refer to as “butt floss” on my honeymoon. I was a cute, sometimes ruffled, sleakly cut, generally Victoria’s Secret bikini girl. I didn’t go in for camoflauge or jungle patterns, but my bikinis were flirty and fun.

But then I moved to the Midwest. On the first day at the local YMCA pool, I was stunned to see more tank suits than I had ever encountered on the beaches of South Florida. But still I busted out the bikini. I would still bare my abs even though they were now pale, undersea-creature white.

The problem arose on the bikini front after having three kids. The bottom line is that stretch lines and flabby belly do not enhance the bikini look. I try to look at them as badges of honor, but I also have to be realistic. So where do I go from here? I don’t want to wear the tents/skirted things I wore while in the throws of childbirth or breastfeeding. The skirted things have an element of failed acceptance of declining appeal. Or perhaps, they look too much like what Victorian ladies wore for days at the beach.

So enter the tankini, preferably with the built in bra. It says, or at least I hope it does, I’m still fun and have a healthy body image. It’s far better than the thousands of dollars of plastic surgery which might return me to my pre-pregnancy figure.

Hey, I’m good with my tankini. Since I’ve entered the “cougar-generation” as opposed to that of the “sweet young thing,” I’ve had to make some concessions. Now I shop with the three kids and preferably not my glasses when trying on suits. At least that way, we all get a good laugh out of the experience.

Besides, my four-year-old says I look beautiful and that makes me feel far better than rock hard abs ever could.

Recently, my husband and I purchased a boat. It’s a used boat, a ‘91 Alumacraft fishing boat. We had always talked about getting a boat, in fact, it was a dream of ours. But the dream was more for the kids, especially our oldest son who is fanatical about fishing. Then, one Friday night, my hubby had a beer or two and was reflecting on how quickly our children were growing. After all, it is only nine more years until Anton graduates from High School. Oliver, my hubby, concluded that the time for action was now.

The thing is neither Oliver nor I know anything at all about boats. But we did the rounds of the local boat dealerships. We researched online. As we are complete newbies, we were leery of buying from a private owner. We also spoke to people. On a windy Saturday, we ended up finding just the right boat tucked into the back of a used boat lot. She isn’t flashy or fancy looking, but she is sturdy and comfortable. Her sides are relatively high, so that John, our youngest, won’t fall over, and five of us can sit inside. Also, our minivan can pull her. The sides of her hull are somewhat scratched and battered, but that just makes us a little more comfortable docking her. In essence, she looked like something that could be part of our family.

After a few days’ of negotiation, she was ours. My parents thought we were demented. We told them that the boat’s name was “Gitchie,” from “Gitchie Gummie,” which is how some indigenous people refer to Lake Superior. John, our prechooler, calls her “Boatie.” My parents refer to her as “Eddie,” a not-so-subtle reference to the Edmund Fitzgerald, a ship which famously sank in those same cold waters.

The thing is, yes, we’ve made mistakes with her. I’ve rowed more than once after flooding the engine. (I had wondered why the DNR makes you buy an oar.) We’ve dinged the propeller. We’ve struggled with loading and unloading, and we’ve yet to catch a fish. The weather has been cold and the lakes, choppy, but we’ve had a blast. Being together on a seventeen-foot boat is truly quality time. But the thing that I didn’t foresee is how Oliver and I would bond over the boat. We’ve had to work together and learn together. I’m pleased to say that he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable going out without me. It’s an area where we complement each other in our cluelessness; neither of us brings any old knowledge to it at all. I think that learning something together helps a couple to appreciate each other more.

I will definitely post more about our new adventure. Until then, enjoy the warm weather and sunshine and set sail on your own summer adventures.

                                                           

            There have been two major obstacles to the continued peace of my marriage: two piles of laundry, one dirty and the other clean, that lurked in our basement laundry room. I know that there are bound to be issues between my husband, Oliver, and I on those mornings when I am awakened by him rifling through his drawers, grumbling, and flipping on lights. These are sure indicators that he cannot find any clean clothes for work.

            But my failures in the laundry department do not stop here. My five-year-old knows better than to check his drawers for socks. No, he has to go down to the laundry room and match his own pair out of the communal sock basket. He even knows to match a pair for his sister and baby brother while he is down there.

I wash and fold a minimum of two loads of laundry a day. But it is a challenge to get the stuff folded and put away while managing the three kids. Bad things happen while I am down in the laundry room. Sounds are muffled, and I cannot see what the kids are doing. Thus, I try to spend as little time as possible down there.  

Oliver used to get so frustrated. On a Saturday, he would size up the twin peaks and go after them, a driven man. To circumvent such a waste of valuable family time on a weekend, I used to rush downstairs early in the morning and throw in a huge towel load. Invariably, the washing machine would turn sideways and thump wildly, exposing my inadequacy on the laundry front.

An accountant, Oliver once asked me: “When you do laundry, do you employ the LIFO (last in first out) or the FIFO (first in first out) method?”

Part of the problem is that our kids could literally go two weeks without having any clothes washed and have something clean to wear every day. We have benefited from having the youngest family on my husband’s side. My sister-in-laws have been very generous, and passed on all of their outgrown kid clothes to us. One of them has three boys, which means that my oldest has three of everything in various sizes and states of repair.

Second hand kid clothing is great, but I have found that we have to draw the line at shoes. Currently, we have thirty-two pairs of kid shoes at liberty in our house, and only four of them actually fit our kids. In addition, we had three outbreaks of athletes foot before it dawned on me that the problem was not where my kids were walking barefoot, but what shoes they were putting their feet into.

With respect to the laundry, I was always hoping for some very motivated elves to move into our basement and shoulder my burden. But even that would not totally solve the problem. Small children cannot dress themselves without dumping all of their neatly folded garments out of their drawers. My three-year-old daughter has been known to empty out entire dressers in a fit of pique. In addition, she has to match colors and accessorize in ways that I never considered doing.      

Every morning, I spend at least ten minutes involved in a fashion discussion with Anne. I find myself saying things to her like “Capris are in right now.” This is also a child who wore only pink for almost a year. Our color palette has expanded, which is a mixed blessing. Now she sets out at least two or three outfits before she picks what she is going to wear for the day. Of course, she only wears clothing when we are actually going somewhere. When we are at home, she generally has on a pink satin leotard or her Little Mermaid bathing suit.

            The laundry situation had become a major bone of contention in our marriage when my mother-in-law decided to intervene. She is not one to interfere. But she became a witness to my dark and dirty secret while babysitting for us one day. She suggested that we employ “The System.”

            “This is the way that I have always done laundry. You separate clothing as soon as it comes down the laundry chute. Once you have a full basket, you toss it into the machine. As soon as the clothes are dry, you fold them, and you bring a load up whenever you go upstairs.”

            This may sound obvious to most people, but for me, it was an epiphany. At last, the twin peaks fell. There are still problems. Oliver periodically catches me up by doing a few loads, particularly if we have a red light laundry emergency which results from some unpleasant bodily function. I still do not iron, and no matter how much Oliver gushes about how wonderful line dried clothing smells, it seems like too much effort to me.

            My mother tells me that “Communication is critical in a marriage, that you both have to offer your

positions and then come to a mutually acceptable compromise.” This is the greater lesson that we derived

from the laundry dilemma. We had to meld our beliefs and methods to come up with a system that was

workable for both of us. But I do keep hoping that those laundry elves will eventually make an appearance.

 

The snow and ice are melting, slowly to be sure, but I am definitely ready for some sunshine. This time of year, I would like to pack up and go away somewhere warm and romantic. I keep thinking about Portugal or Spain, Barcelona is lovely, I’ve heard. And then there’s Italy, the hubby and I have always dreamed of going to Italy. I love the history, the sense that so many other people have walked through these same streets that one can feel in old European cities. There are some cities in the new world, too, which have this feel of “ancient ages.” Montreal and Quebec City in Canada come to mind, and let’s not forget Rio or Buenos Aires in South America. I think I need to start work on a contemporary romance set in one of these exotic locals. The hero will be dark and handsome, brooding and carrying a secret. The heroine must be adventurous and bold. I feel the ideas begining to brew…

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This blog entry originally appeared at Simply Romance Reviews. I truly enjoyed writing it and people seemed to enjoy reading it, so I wanted to share it here. 

As we head into the holidays, as a married woman and half of a “couple,” I believe it is normal and right to reflect on the romantic gifts which I have received from my mate over the years.

My husband, Oliver, a “guy’s guy” and a man of few words, has surprised me over the years with some very tender and thoughtful gifts. The first one that comes to mind is a tiny glass Pegasus that he picked up for me at a truck stop in the way to a horse show. I am a professional horsewoman and a girl, at heart, who never outgrew her love for horses. At the time, Oliver was a professional roller hockey player and completely terrified of horses.

He placed the tiny figurine in my hand when he got back into the truck. He didn’t really say much, just: “It made me think of you.” But what he meant was: “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’m willing to go beyond my world and what I know to get to know you and yours.” I still have the little Pegasus in my jewelry box, though it’s wings and legs are broken and lost, I still feel warm and loved when I glimpse it.

Another very meaningful gift which my husband gave to me was far more traditional, a diamond engagement ring. But the “how” of it and not so much the “wow” of it makes it very unique and special. I refer to my ring as “Oliver’s truck.” You see, he used the money from the sale of his black truck, which had cool Yosemite Sam rubber mats and an amazing sound system, in order to buy me a beautiful diamond ring. The truck was important. It represented becoming a man to my husband. He’d bought it with the signing bonus which he had received for signing his first professional hockey contract. His father, who died before Oliver and I met, helped him to pick it out. When I asked Oliver how he got the ring, he just said: “I sold my truck.” But what he was really saying was: “I’ve given up my dream of playing pro hockey to stay here and be with you, even if I have to do a job I hate, like selling cars, you and our life together are my new dream.”

The next unforgettable gift came several nights before Christmas in the first year of our marriage. Oliver and I were less than flush that year and I was seven months pregnant and very sick with preeclampsia. I was completely miserable, unable to move around or do much of anything at all. He brought me the first three books of the Harry Potter series. I’d wanted to buy them, but hadn’t gotten around to it. He said: “I thought you might like these.” What he meant was: “I know how hard this pregnancy has been on you. Hang in there. It’s only a little longer now, and it’ll be well worth it when the Wookie (our pet name for our unborn son at the time) comes.”

The final gift I would like to mention came on the heels of failure on my part. I’d sent a book which I’d labored over and loved to an agent who was “thrilled” with it and with representing me. For more than a year, she sought to sell that book. The publishers inevitably responded, “We like it, but…” or “If you make these changes, then…” In the end, this agent e-mailed me that she was done trying to sell it and wished me the best in my future endeavors. Did I fail to mention that she was also the third agent who’d loved and failed to sell my book? I was very down upon receiving this message. I’d been working at writing and marketing my writing for years, and there had been moments, with this final agent, when it had seemed that we were so close.

That night, Oliver gave me Stephen King’s On Writing. I believe that this is one of the best books on writing and the writing life which I have ever read. I’m not a Stephen King fan, but I could really relate to his insights. A note from Oliver accompanied this present. There was a pink smiley face on it and he’d written: “Don’t give up, it’ll happen one day.” I don’t think I need to paraphrase this message, but I can tell you that it meant a great deal to me that he believed in me even when I was questioning myself.

These gifts and others have immeasurably richened my life not because of their natures, their “thingness,” but because through them, Oliver, has shown his love for me.

This Blog entry was orginally posted at Romance Junkies. But I think you may enjoy it, so I’m posting it here for posterity. 

How can one be a feminist and read and write romance novels? I believe that admiring strong, empowered women and seeking to portray them in one’s work is not contrary to the ideals of romantic love that we find in the most popular genre in the U.S. today, romance.            

Of course, there are the “virgin-to-the-sacrifice” books. These are the ones where the unbelievably gorgeous nineteen or twenty year old ends up with the thirty-five year old multi-millionaire businessman or English lord with whom she achieves a perfect and immediate sexual and emotional union. This sort of formula is typical of many Regency and even some Contemporary Romances. Not to be judgmental or negative, but these books irritate me. In addition to the power balance inherent in such relationships, they don’t seem to give the readers any credit. I’ve heard many of the criticisms of romance readers, we want the “candy” or the “frosting” of life portrayed in our books, not the real meat and potatoes, the material of substance. I don’t buy that. While some readers may go for the “save me” sort of heroine who gets swept away by her Prince Charming, I prefer the kick some b–, Lara Croft type of leading lady. I’m thrilled to say that the romance genre is truly broadening its horizons these days. The type of heroines that we see portrayed are of a variety of ages, sizes and shapes, who are often definitely not virginal, and who have jobs, careers, and interests of their own. They aren’t just blank slates for their men to “write on.”           

This gets me to Barbie. As the mother of a daughter, I care deeply that I write about spunky women who aren’t perpetual victims. I want them to have some “sass” to them, women who are on equal footing with their men. But our society constantly feeds our girls different messages. Look at the Disney princesses for example; almost all of them, with the possible exceptions of Mulan, who isn’t a princess, and Belle, are simpering weaklings who are waiting for their Prince to make their worlds all better. Barbie has been the most popular girls’ doll for decades. She is blond, statuesque, and has no nipples, though she does have huge breasts. My theory about this, and I’ll admit it may be paranoid, is that male manufacturers can sexualize her with large breasts, but nipples would make her more than just an object of fantasy. Nipples would conjure up images of motherhood. Now I’ll admit that Ken is also anatomically incorrect, but not in the same way. It’s not like he has part of something, as in the case of Barbie and the breast/nipple thing.            

The media and toy industry try to sell our little girls very warped visions of what they should aspire to. There have been some improvements. The Bratz dolls, even though they always wear skimpy clothing, are ethnically diverse. I have also seen a pregnant Barbie and a veterinarian Barbie. But I guess my conclusion is that many romance authors actually promote female empowerment in a way that our society needs to. We write about the full spectrum of the feminine experience within the context of loving relationships, arguably the most important part of life. We write about young women and old women, professional women and stay-at-home moms, those at the beginning of relationships and those who rediscover love in a decades-old marriage.           

Though our society seeks to limit and define romance in ways that are often harmful to women, romance writers sometimes empower our ladies and lead the charge to greater equality of the sexes. I hope many of you are with me on this one. Admire a heroine who challenges her mate, who asks tough questions, and stands with her man when the fates are against them. A dynamic relationship between a well matched pair between whom the sparks continue to fly until the last page is a far more meaningful happily-ever-after than simply riding off into a sunset.