In Case You Missed It

The sunrise was beautiful this morning.  So beautiful, in fact, that I had to run upstairs, pull open my night stand drawer and rustle around in the dark, (all without waking up Nora who'd come into my bed last night after having not one, but TWO bad dreams) until I found my camera.  The real one.  That's not contained within my phone.  Just so I could take these:

Okay, so I'm no photographer.  But you get the gist:  It was a good one. 

xoxo

S-

The Evolution of A Fan

I knew what my husband was when I married him:  a cyclist, through and through.  I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him;  riding into Nash Hall,  smoothly maneuvering the corners and the students lounging in the hallway.  Without even a hint of worry, or fear of falling, or knocking into someone or something.  He and his bike were one.  

And all these years later, they still are.   I should know.  I'm his biggest fan.  And throughout the twenty-one years of our marriage, I have proudly cheered him on.  At criteriums, road races, mountain bike races, and, most recently, cyclocross races.    (Yes, I even have my own cowbell)  I have picked him up at the finish of  200 mile rides looking spent and happy.  I have seen him covered in mud and blood after a day in the trails.  I have seen both his skin and spandex ripped after wipe-outs incurred on his commutes home.  Consequently, (as wife and Number One Fan) I have also been honored with the task of washing said spandex: the shorts, the tights,  the leg warmers, the arm warmers, the shoe covers, the gloves.  (Being Number One Fan isn't always a glamorous job)  

But I have loved every minute of it; because he has loved every minute of it.  Whether he's out riding with friends, or tearing it up in a race, he's happy.  Whether he comes in first, last, or right in the middle, he always has a smile on his face at the end.  Because he's doing what he loves.  

Being married to Dave has also made me a huge fan of The Tour de France.  Every July our DVR is set to record each day's stage.  And we come together every night, eager to hear the day's events from Phil, Paul, and Bob.  And while I don't know every rider on every team, I certainly know all the big guns.

Over the years, I have cheered on Lemond and Lance, Big Mig, and Ulrich, just to name a few.  Recently, the next generation of riders have captured my heart: Tejay, Taylor, and Tyler, (Hey, he's from Washington)  And the Schleck brothers have been my "ones to watch," in the mountains.  I have seen crashes, blood, and popping collar bones.  Consequently, I've felt the suffering of those forced to drop out, due to injury.  I have seen riders storm other team buses, ready to "put the hurt on" a rider they believe raced badly.  And, like all fans who have watched their idols behave in an unsportsmanlike manner, or violate the rules of their sport, I've had my heart broken.  This summer was no exception.  When Frank went home early, because he failed to pass a drug test, and when I saw this on the newsstand, 

Yes it does

the disappointment set in, yet again.  

And yet, I return every July;  for I really do love everything about this race.  The crazy Speedo wearing fans, the endless fields of sunflowers,  the history of the chateaus Paul shares with us, the beautiful white cows, and, of course, the drama of the riders.  To me,  The Tour is more than just a race;  it is a spectacle, to be savored.  

Thus, making it to The Tour is definitely on the top of our Bucket List.  However, since traveling to France is not a possibility, at this point in our lives,  my husband and I recently opted for an American race to make our fan debut:  The US Pro Cycling Challenge.  We picked two stages: Beaver Creek, and Boulder, packed one kid, one van, and set out on a road trip that would include camping, Yellowstone National Park, and, of course, bike riding.  Not to mention an opportunity to see Big George, before he officially retires.  

Despite my interest in The Tour, I've never been one of those "serious fans."  I have never felt the need to know the stats of the individual riders: their finish times, their overall times, how many heart beats per climb, what they ate for breakfast, how often they get massaged.  And I've certainly never seen myself as The Stalker Fan.  The fan who follows behind,  screaming begging for an autograph, or picture.   I never wrote fan letters.  Never sent them cookies.  Never joined their armies or followed their Tweets or Face Book posts. (Probably because I am the only person in the world without FB)  My fanaticism has always been on the quiet side, shared only with my husband, my daughter, and my dad, (who has recently become a huge cycling fan, despite not even owning a bike.)  I simply, watch and admire from afar, (the couch in my TV room).  

The last few years, however, I've really become a fan of one rider  man: Jens Voigt.  And I say man, rather than rider, because I admire him for more than just his bike racing.  I mean, he's shown the world he can ride.  He can break away.  He can stay away.  And, obviously, he can climb  a hill.  But more importantly, he seems to embody the kind of athlete we should all  aspire to become.  We should want our children to aspire to.  Someone who is fiercely competitive, but always has a good attitude.  Someone who works his ass off, but has a smile at the end of the day.  Someone who cheers on his teammates, even when he, himself, has a bad day.  And then someone who will go home, have a beer,  take his kids geocaching, and take his dog, Linda, for a walk.  (Okay, so I have recently discovered his blog:  Hardly Serious with Jens Voigt.  OMG maybe I AM a Stalker Fan.)

Maybe it's because I'm getting older.  Maybe it's because I know how hard it can be to get my butt up a hill.  (Notice I'm saying hill, NOT mountain)  Maybe it's because I'm a parent, and he is a parent.  But he seems to have his life in balance.  Maybe he just seems like a cool guy.  Whatever it is, I enjoy watching him and rooting for him.  

That's why it felt like a dream come true to see him, in the flesh, at this year's US Pro Cycling Challenge.  I first laid eyes on him at the finish of the Beaver Creek stage.  You know the one where, apparently, he said, have a good ride boys.  I'll see you at the finish.  

As I watched him ride up the hill, all alone, with a smile on his face, I couldn't believe it.    Here he was.  Here I was!  And I no longer cared that the announcer was mispronouncing his name.  Instead, I felt like a proud parent.  Happy that my kid had won.   And then he rode passed me, and I found my voice:  "Go Jens!" And then he was gone.  Off to pee in a cup, or change out of his sweaty riding clothes, or shake some one's hand.  Whatever it is they do.  But I was happy.  I had seen what I came for:  My Guy had taken a stage win.  When I commented to the guy next to me, (a Boulder resident who was really hoping to see Taylor Phinney win) that Voigt is my favorite, he smiled and replied, "it's always nice to see your favorite win."  He's obviously been to A LOT more races than I have.

And then it was back to the bell ringing, for Levi, and Chris Horner, and Big George and Tejay.  And for my dad, who was watching from his chair at home, taking care of my dog in our absence.   And for all the fans who have never been to a race like this.  

And then it was over.  The riders had all crossed the line and were beginning to make their way back down the hill,  back to their race vehicles, or hotel rooms, where massage therapists and big plates of pasta were waiting for them.  Unless you were on the Colombian team.  Apparently, they only got a Bento Box and a Coke.   (After riding 97 miles!)  Said Taylor Phinney fan reported that they were on a VERY TIGHT budget.  I told Dave we should take them out to dinner.

Not ready to say goodbye to all the fanfare, and catch the shuttle back down the hill, we decided to wander through the festival one last time.  And I'm so glad we did.   Because while I was standing in line for the bathroom, (I know, how embarrassing) I heard Dave say, "there he is" and I knew exactly who he meant.  And there he was--AGAIN!  Walking RIGHT PAST me  in his fresh, new, orange and white jersey.  (most aggressive rider?)  And I didn't know what to do, what to say.  None of the sentiments flying around in my head seemed right:  Hey Jens!  Good Job Jens!  I think I, finally, muttered a quiet "congratulations."  (Shyness, I learned, is not a quality that comes in handy for a fan)

Needless to say, he didn't hear me.  He didn't even see me.  He was too busy commenting on some other fan's t-shirt.  Hey, that's a cool shirt!  Really?  All it said was  Jens Jens Jens.  Well, I guess that's enough to get noticed.  Stupid Stalker Fan!  And then he was gone again.  Whisked away by his posse, all smiles and laughter.  Where he was going?  I don't know.  They did, however, appear to be heading toward the back of the Fat Tire tent. (I'm just sayin!)

Oh well, I probably looked a little ridiculous anyway.

Just a little ridiculous 

The next day, while Jens and the boys (I say this as if I know them)  were riding from Breckenridge to Colorado Springs, we were making our way to Boulder.  And I'm so glad we did.  Because Boulder is a great town.  And Friday was a great day.  After checking into our room, we rode our bikes on the Boulder Creek Path, played at the playground with Nora (who was in dire need of play time) and then ate a delicious dinner at The Mountain Sun Pub and Brewery.  Let me just say their seasonal beer, the one made with ginger, was delish!  Afterward we walked the Pearl Street Mall and enjoyed the "musical and acrobatic talents" of Boulder's finest.  We finished off our evening with a stop at Ben and Jerry's before calling it a night.  

The next day was race day.  So, of course, my husband wanted to climb up Flagstaff.  To see just what the riders would be enduring.  (When he commented later that he got passed by a girl, I said, "don't worry honey.  It's the elevation.")  So he went for a ride,  and Nora and I hit the LARGEST toy store I have ever been to.  And thanks to Grandpa Dahl, who had given her souvenir shopping money, we spent an extraordinarily LONG time there.  Finally, after perusing EVERYTHING in the store, Nora settled on a horse figurine.  Really!  And before we knew it, it was time for the riders to make their first lap through town.

And just as a side note:  In case you ever get a hankerin to attend one of these races yourself, let me say, the crowds are huge!  (100,000 according to the guy at Vecchio's Bike Shop) And they were all lined up next to me, while the VIP tent, which was directly across the street, was practically empty!  I was ready to jump ship, fork over our last few meal dollars,  just so I could have some elbow room, and a photo that didn't contain the cell phones of every other spectator.  Thus, my advice:  if you've got the extra dough, fork it over.  It will be money well spent.   But I complain digress.

And then, there they were!  And Jens was in front--again!  Holy Cow!  He was going to win another stage!  I could just feel it!  Maybe it's me!  Maybe I'm bringing him good luck.  Me and my cheering, my bell ringing, my banner waving.  Heck, my mere presence must be just what he needed!  I must be his muse!  (Do cyclists have muses?)   So, of course, I texted my Dad: The same dad I previously mentioned.  The same dad who was, at that moment, at home, in his chair, watching the very same scene-minus all the camera snapping cell phones.   "OMG!  Jens is out front again.  He's going to win again!"  He didn't text me back.  He knows I get a little excited.

And then we had three hours to kill, until the riders came BACK through town on their way to the finish.  So, of course, we went in search of food.  And after a VERY long walk, we found it:    Salvaggio's Deli.  What an Italian Deli is meant to be.   I was SO impressed with my "Italian," (I know original name) I took a picture of it and immediately sent it to my friend Angie, who just so happens to be Italian. (by adoption, but whatever)

The Italian

After our big lunch, another playground session for Nora, and another LONG walk BACK to our room,  we checked in on Dave's Pro Cycling Challenge App to see when we needed to be back at the race.  We learned we basically had a thirty minute window,  between 3:00 and 3:30, wherein the riders could show up.  Thinking we had PLENTY of time, and we were only going a few blocks, we hopped on our bikes and headed out.  And then we heard them: the sirens announcing the arrival of the first riders.  We pedaled faster, making it to Mapleton and Broadway with just enough time to toss  our bikes behind a big shrub, cross the street, get the camera lens off, and unfold my GO RADIO SHACK banner  before Jens (yes Jens!) and the first few riders zoomed by.  Again, I yelled:  "Go Jens!"  Again, I'm sure, he didn't hear me.  And then, in all caps, I texted Dad again:  "HE'S GOING TO WIN AGAIN!"

Then, with our schwag in hand, we sat on the curb.  And waited.  Long after all the riders had passed.  After the medics and the sweeper car passed.  After the spectators faded away.

Thank You Team Bissell!

And read the updates, via Dave's Iphone, until we learned that Levi took the overall lead.  Sutherland took the stage win.  And Jens took third.  And then we took Nora swimming at the Spruce Street Pool.

On Sunday morning, over beautiful lattes at The Laughing Goat coffee shop, we decided to skip the Time Trial in Denver.  We'd seen enough.  We'd seen Jens win.  We'd seen him almost win a second time.  We'd seen Big George in one of his last professional events.  We'd seen Tejay and Levi and Chris Horner.  In short, we'd been blessed with the honor of watching these amazing men race on two separate occasions, more than most fans ever get to see in a lifetime.  And that was enough to make us completely happy.  If we'd only seen Phil and Paul (and Bob), our trip would've been complete.  Well, that will have to wait until we make it to The Tour.

For now, we were going on our own ride, with Nora, to the Boulder Reservoir.

Riding to the reservoir with my favorite cyclists 

Because it was almost time to go home.  Because it was hot out.  And because Nora needed some Nora Time.  I mean that kid was a trooper.  We drug her all over: on foot, in the car, on the bikes, just to see some crazy bike riders, with nary a complaint.   So, thanks Nora for being such a great traveler.  Thanks Jens for putting on such a good show.  And while you are definitely in the running for Sonja's All-Time Favorite Cyclist, the standings, as of right now, show the #1 and #2 slots are taken.  

xoxo--
S

Clinging to Summer Just a Little Longer

I've had a hard time saying good bye to Summer this year.

Thus, I haven't completely embraced Fall.

Even though Nora Jane is back in school.
Even though our anniversary (Sept. 21) has come and gone (21 years!  woo hoo!)
Even after we dropped Anna off at college.
Even though the first day of Fall has come and gone!

So, even though last night was just a typical Tuesday night,  you can see that I tried to pretend Summer is still here.

My Roaring Campfire

The Fixins

The Toastmaster

Gooey Goodness

Dave, watching old SNL videos on his IPAD.
He wasn't TRULY in the moment
And as you can tell by his jacket, he HAS welcomed Fall.  

What you can't see, however, is that my legs, despite their proximity to the fire, were COLD.  Because I was wearing a skirt.  Because it's still summer!  

xoxo-
S

On Life With a Hoarder

Remember that sweet little girl I wrote about the other day? 

The one I was going to miss (I do miss) when she returned to school?  Well, she has a problem; she's a hoarder.

The seriousness of this "problem" came to light the other day when I went in search of her wallet.   I realized I hadn't seen it since the day we went on vacation, when she pulled out the spending money her Grandpa had given her, to purchase souvenirs.  But I don't recall seeing it after we returned home.  Not that she takes it out of hiding regularly, she is a saver through and through.  Currently she's saving for a video game player; a Nintendo DS, I think.  I'm not completely sure.  Once I hear  the words Nintendo, or X-Box, or Apple, my hearing falters, my mind wanders.  I'm just not interested in gadgets. 

As I stood in her doorway, however, I realized finding said wallet would not be an easy task. Nora's bedroom is not huge and contains just the standard eight year old furnishings: a closet, Anna's old twin bed, a small nightstand, that long ago belonged to my Grandma, and a dresser, that actually began life with us as her infant changing table and has yet to be upgraded.  On one wall there is a built-in book case (filled to capacity) and a small nook that her dad converted into a working desk.  And that's it!  And, yet, I had NO idea where to begin my search, because Nora's room, is completely filled with crap stuff.  "Stuff" that she simply cannot live without.

To Nora (and hoarders everywhere, I suppose) everything she owns has value, everything has a purpose.  Or contains a special meaning, or memory.   And everything needs to be displayed.  To help with the latter, a few years ago, I gave her a special wall chart--complete with pockets!  A place for her to display her most prized possessions.  And she filled it--full!  Full of photos, drawings, special cards, stories she'd written, poems her sister had written, certificates for perfect attendance, birthday party invitations, and thank-you notes for gifts given at said birthday parties.  And that's just to name a few!   But then there was no more room.

So what did she do?  She moved on to the walls, of course.   And on this day,  I no longer saw the beautiful, butter yellow walls that I know are in there, (because I painted them).  Instead, I saw "Nora's Life," in collage.  I saw her hand-made paper bag puppets, used targets from the gun range, horse posters, maps of America, letters from her teachers, notes from her sister, pictures of her girlfriends.  I even saw a sandwich baggie filled with some of my old junk!  Namely, an old race finisher's medal and a pair of old Christmas socks.  (I. don't. know. why.) And, because she likes her "stuff" organized, she labeled it:  "My Mom's Old Stuff," before proudly hanging it on the edge of her book case.   (Ironically, she gained possession of these goodies whilst I was in the midst of one of my own "clean out my closet" sessions.  But, while I was busy making "keep," "throw away," and "donate" piles, Nora was right behind me, rummaging for her next treasure!  What's that old expression?  One (wo)man's junk is another (wo)man's treasure?

Herein lies one of the biggest differences between mother and daughter:  I don't keep "stuff."  And despite the state that you will very likely find my desk in, should you stop by unannounced,  I hate clutter.   I have designated one closet shelf for the purpose of keeping special mementos, from the girls or my husband, and that's it! I don't even bring the mail into the house without looking through it, removing the junk mail, and putting it directly into the paper recycling bin. The same goes for Nora's "Monday Folder."  When said folder arrives at home, filled with a week's worth of  school work and notes from school, I follow the same practice:  Look, Sort, Recycle.   Of course, Nora doesn't know this.  She probably thinks I keep every paper she has ever written.  Maybe I should bring her into the loop.  Explain to her the problem one encounters when one refuses to let go of the unnecessary.  Maybe, then, she could regain some wall space.

But it isn't just wall space I'm after.  Nora hasn't restricted the presentation of her treasures to just her bedroom walls.  Oh no!  There is NO free space in this room whatsoever!  Her window sills are lined with an array of toys and tools.  From the old;  a buck tool,  a K'nex car she made with her dad, and a pink plastic flower pot, complete with a bobbing daisy, to her most recent possessions, and mementos of our summer vacation;  a set of handcuffs purchased at a Lodge in Wyoming, and a cowbell given to her by an adoring fan, at the U.S. Pro Cycling Challenge in Boulder, Colorado.

And it doesn't stop there.  Her bed has become a homeless shelter for every stuffed animal in the North Tacoma Territory.  And her "library..." Let's just say it has expanded beyond containment.  Until recently, the overflow simply spilled out onto the floor.  When that became a problem, (i.e. her mom told her to pick them up) she "organized" them, by topic or author,  and neatly stacked them around the perimeter of the room.  But (I ) she didn't like the look of that.  (I) She wanted them contained.  So she brought in my old running shoe boxes, filled them with as many books as she could (which wasn't many) and lined THESE around the room.  But that didn't work either, because she couldn't get the lids to stay closed.  So, in a last ditch effort, she replaced them with my biggest and best  Tupperware and Rubbermaids.  And they worked mom!  Each of her books had found a home.  And her room looked like we had just moved in.

Now, I'm no expert on hoarding,  but I have seen enough day-time T.V. to know that once you choose to box and pile your junk belongings behind your sofa, (or, around the perimeter of your room) rather than recycle, donate, or dispose of it, you probably need some help.

Thus began Project Clean Sweep.  

Since Nora was at school, I only had a few hours to complete my mission and, hopefully, find said wallet.  So it began.  I recycled an entire rubber maid container filled with hand-made paper airplanes! (Is my child the ONLY child who will spend hours making boxes of paper airplanes?)  I threw out the bag of "My Mom's Old Stuff."  I emptied her walls of garbage and ancient letters from school.  I took those old running shoe boxes, and crammed them full of tiny stuffed animals.   And then I hid them under her bed.   At least she can't say I got rid of them.  (The word enabler is suddenly coming to mind.)  

And maybe that's what I am.  Maybe this is all my doing.  Maybe I haven't shown her how to let things go.  But then I looked to her window, and the string of memories lining its base, and realized I couldn't say goodbye to these treasures either.   Wasn't it just yesterday, she and Dave sat at the dining room table, heads bent together, referring to the sheet of directions only when they got stuck, and assembled that K'nex car?  And that pink flower pot?  It was just last Christmas, at her school's Holiday Gift Shop, that I let her buy it; because she'd wanted to have "something pretty in her room."

So I left the car.  And I left the flower pot.  Right next to the cowbell and her buck tool.  I did, however, throw out the stick,  that had been laying there for who knows how long.  In short, I emptied her room of the real junk, and left her the rest--to say goodbye to, when she's ready.

And I'm happy with the results.  Her room looks cleaner, fresher.  The yellow walls seem to shine a little brighter.  Her bed now has plenty of space for me to sit and read with her at night.  And, most importantly, tucked deep inside her sister's hand-me-down purse, underneath a bandanna-wrapped feast for one (three very hard, very old Fig Newtons, one package of Toy Story Fruit Snacks, and one brown Tootsie-Pop), I found the missing wallet! 

Hidden inside this little satchel:
Nora's Little  Meal to Go

It makes sense to keep her wallet in her purse, that's what we girls do.  What I don't know is why she stashed a pouch-full of snacks in there as well.  Was she preparing for The Next Big One?  Was she recently upset with her family and planning to run away, hobo style?  Or was she just making sure she had something to get her through the night the next time pizza is on the dinner menu?  (Yes, I have a child who does not like pizza)  Whatever her reason was, at the time--it was important to her.   

Thus, Nora (and her purse) clearly demonstrate the irony of hoarding.  How despite the value or significance or importance hoarders initially place on their possessions, eventually, like the possessions themselves, the significance and importance are forgotten.  And that's what I'm counting on.  I'm hoping Nora will have forgotten exactly what was hanging on her wall, because it lost its importance. That she won't remember exactly how many stuffed puppies used to reside upon her bed.  Instead, I hope that when she enters her room after school, she will (A) thank me for all my hard work, (I can dream right?) (B) enjoy the serenity her room now offers, and (C) maybe, just maybe, she'll spot the GO RADIO SHACK banner I hung on some cleared wall space--

That's My Girl:  Cheering on her mom's favorite team

so she'll never forget how much fun we had last summer riding bikes, camping, counting antelope, and following Pro Cyclists all around Colorado.  

(Hi.  My name is Sonja.  And I am an Enabler.)

My Girls DO Love One Another

I have known for a long time that these two girls love each other.  And from time to time they show me.  Today was one of those days.....

Nora, having dinner with her favorite person:  Big
(On Anna's 19th birthday)

This morning I was TIRED and I did NOT want to get out of bed.  

Not when my husband kissed me goodbye.  

Not when I heard Nora padding down the stairs in her stocking feet.  

Not even when Jack started whining, because he needed to go outside.  Just ONCE I wish that dog could simply follow David downstairs in the morning.  Afterall, he's already up!  And he'd be happy to let him out.  To play with him.  To pet him.  To love him, before he has to leave for the day.  But no!  Today, like always, Jack waited for me.    

Not even when I rolled over and came face to face with Big.  Anna, my fully grown, soon to be headed back to college, nineteen year old, was sound asleep RIGHT NEXT TO ME.  She'd had a bad dream during the night, and like her sister had done the night before, she crawled into bed next to me.   How could I leave?  How often do you get the chance to snuggle with your grown up girl?  So I lingered.  Just a few more minutes.  

But then, she, too, got up.  Ugh!  I rolled back over, cracked open one eye,  (I didn't have the energy to fully open both of them yet) and shouted,  "It's 6:49 a.m.!  Why is everyone up already!  Mom's tired!"  Or, at least, I tried to shout.  My cries came out much more muted and garbled than I'd hoped for.  And I'm sure neither Jack, who is deaf anyway, nor the girls, who were already downstairs at this point, even heard my complaints.  

So I laid there, listening.  I heard the back door open when Jack, happily, went outside.  I heard it close again, after he, even happier, came running back in,  expecting a treat from the pantry.  I heard the sound of dog food hitting his empty food bowl.  I heard cupboard doors open and bowls clang onto the counter.  I heard the rattle of spoons as the silverware drawer slid open and shut.  Life was carrying on.  

Reluctantly, I threw back the covers, wrapped myself in my robe, firmly grabbed hold of the handrail, (I was still functioning with only one eye) and ambled down the stairs.  When my eyes focused, I found the girls in the TV room with Jack, on the floor, at their feet.  Anna was checking in with her world via her phone, and Nora was knitting.  

What was going on? This was NOT our normal morning routine!  Normally, Anna wouldn't even be out of bed at this hour!  And, while Nora would be out of bed AND fully dressed, she'd still be sitting in her bedroom reading.  Unless she was really hungry.  In that case, she would carry her book and her pink blankie downstairs, to her stool under the kitchen island, and read quietly, while she patiently waited for her breakfast.  

Just how long had I stayed upstairs?  I never fall back to sleep once I've woken up, regardless of how tired I am.  (It's a curse.)  But, apparently, I slept this day away.   So I looked to the kitchen for signs, clues that would prove to me my name was not Rip Van Winkle.  And there, on the counter,  they were:  an empty box of Life Cereal, and a dirty bowl and spoon which had yet to make it into the dishwasher.  Okay, my world was still right.

"You guys already ate?" I asked.  

"Ya, Anna fed me.  And I fed Jack," said Nora, without even looking up from her work.  

"Well, what else do you want,"  I asked Nora, while opening the refrigerator door, expecting to pull out more breakfast items.  Certainly one bowl of cereal wouldn't be enough.  Not when yesterday's breakfast consisted of two waffles, two bowls of cereal, and two glasses of juice!  But I didn't hear her reply; because staring back at me, from the second shelf, all dressed in its new black lunch bag, was Nora's lunch!  

"Did you make your own lunch?"  

"No, Anna made it for me."  

My head was spinning.

  

Nora fed Jack. 
Anna fed Nora. 
AND Anna made Nora's lunch.  

Said lunch was comprised of one sandwich, one baggie of goldfish crackers, one box of orange juice, one chocolate pudding and one Hershey Bar.  (Anna's all about nutrition) Attached to said Hershey Bar, was a sticky note that read, "a sweet treat to get you through the day."  Or something to that effect.  I didn't see it all.  When I realized I was reading something private and, obviously, not meant for my eyes, I closed up the bag.  

Instead, I asked Nora if she wanted to swap out the o.j. box for an apple juice.  When she said, "No.  That's okay,"  I knew.  She loves her sister.  A Lot!  So much that she'll even drink orange juice if that's what Anna gives her.  And Nora HATES orange juice.  

But Nora loves Anna.
And it appears Anna loves Nora.  

Big snuggling with Little earlier this summer

And it appears my morning jobs were done.  All before I'd even had a cup of coffee!

So what did I do?

What I do best:  I went to Starbucks and got treats!  Because I love both of them!

xoxo--
S

Let's Party!... Not!

Recently, I was invited to a "party" at my neighbor's house.  And the minute the invitation was placed in my hand, I knew I would not go.  But I took it anyway.  I smiled and listened to the details; the time, the date.   I looked through the pamphlet at all the deliciousness for sale and nodded my head at the appropriate times trying to keep up with her enthusiasm, leaving her, I'm sure, with the idea that I might attend. 

I should have been straight with her.  I should have told her right then.  But I didn't.  And when I saw her name on my phone screen the day before the party, I didn't even answer.  Coward that I am, I just sent it to voice mail. 

You see, I have a problem.  I simply do not go to "parties," which demand require that I purchase something.  

I don't like being forced to buy something I don't need and/or don't really want.  I don't want to sit on someone's couch flipping through the glossy pages of some catalog, hoping to find something that I can use, or at the very least, that's not too expensive.  And I don't want to sit through The Spiel:  The Host describing how her products are simply better than any of the others on the market.  And  how buying said products from my friend, (right now!) will put her well on her way to becoming the next in a long line of Independent Consultants.  How her family will reap financial freedom simply by hosting three parties a month!  And how,  I too, could have all this and more (what's more than financial freedom?) if I just signed up (right now!) to host my own party.  (Not that my husband wouldn't love it if I could bring in a little cash from time to time.)

So I don't go.  Yet, still, I get invited.  As a matter-of-fact, I have a friend who has been begging me to "host" one of her jewelry parties for over a year.  And with the exception of my wedding ring, and the occasional pair of earrings,  I don't even wear jewelry!  I realize these hostesses don't really care if I am there or not.  I am simply another body, another potential customer.  Another name to add to the list, thereby improving their chances of having a good turnout, a good sale. 

Does my choice not to attend make me a snob?  I hope not.  But just so we all understand my rejection isn't personal, let me explain. 

Just because I am not shopping from you, doesn't mean I am secretly shopping elsewhere.  I'm simply NOT a shopper.  It's not something I like to do.  Unlike many girls,   I don't rely on "retail therapy" to get me through a funk.  I'm not a clothes horse, a shoe addict.    Heck, I don't even buy the everyday things I need until I'm in DIRE need of them.  I have a few staples in my closet that I wear over AND OVER AND OVER.  I only stop wearing them when they become old enough to get transferred to the "clothes for yard work"  shelf.  

So I avoid The Mall.  Unless it's Christmas, or one of my kid's birthday, I rarely go.  And I NEVER  wander the stores aimlessly, just to browse.   If I'm actually taking the time to go to The Mall, I know what I want.  I get in.  I get out.  I always feel bad for those old men sleeping  waiting in the over sized massage chairs while their wives stroll, without a thought of their husbands' comfort,  through Sears and JC Penney.  I don't know how they even fall asleep under that horrible fluorescent lighting and constant chatter from the pesky girls asking to straighten my hair, or trim my eyebrows--with string!? (Not that I don't need both of those done on a regular basis, but....ew!  Where have those strings been!)

This declaration does not, in any way, mean to imply that my family goes without.  Because, believe me, they DO NOT.  Especially BIG.  She has PLENTY of clothes, shoes, handbags.  And she has jewelry spilling out of bowls, glasses and boxes.  Little, too, despite being less interested in clothing at this point, has bookshelves SO FULL of books, they have begun to appear in stacks on her bedroom floor.  Or in boxes she dragged up from the basement (to keep things neat, Mom).  Or piled high on her night stand and window sill. I do not, however, shop for my husband.  Over the years, I have tried.  And I have failed.  Because the man is six foot six.  He weighs 190 pounds.  And, simply put, he has to try things on, because returning things to the mall is about as much fun as shopping in the first place.  

So, there you have it.  In today's consumer driven capitalistic society, I am a freak.  Right?

Wrong!

I said I don't like going to The Mall.
I said I don't like buying clothes.
I said I don't like people telling me what to buy.
I did not say, I never buy anything.   There are a few frivolous items I spend money on.  In completely random order, here are a few of my necessary evils.

Although I have a perfectly good coffee pot sitting on my kitchen counter AND a working espresso machine hiding in my pantry, I buy overpriced coffee.  Sometimes twice a day!  (Oh the shame!)  And despite the electronic age that I am living in (and typing on) I still buy books.  The old fashioned ones; with the pictures on the cover, the pages made of paper, and the photo of the author in the back.  And I buy plenty of books for my kids.  As demonstrated above, I should own stock in The Scholastic Book Company and Barnes and Noble.  (My husband,  the Family Gadget Guy, has advanced in this department ahead of the rest of us.)

And I buy shampoo.  Yes!  Shampoo!  The expensive kind.  I know, go figure.  But this is a new development.  And while this goes against every fiber of my being, (or at least everything my dad ever taught me about spending) a few months ago, my hairdresser had me try a new shampoo and I "fell in love" with it.  And I don't "fall in love" with things often.  But this shampoo, has helped my poor old itchy scalp like no other shampoo has.  And I have tried them all.  While I could easily give a glowing report on this product,  (this is neither the time or place) suffice it to say, if I could find a shampoo that performs as well in a cheaper bottle, I would be in heaven.  But I have not.  So, I simply shell out the bucks, and justify my spending by looking inside my closet.  Now, if I could just get my teenager to keep her mitts off it!  

Finally, I buy flowers.  I love container gardening.  I love putting different plants together to see how they look.  I love watering them, tending to them.  Recently I saw a sign that read, "I love gardening because it always brings a promise of tomorrow."  I loved that! While I don't need don't need candles, jewelry or prepackaged dips in my pantry, I do need tomorrow.  Or at least the promise of tomorrow.  I need to know that I'm going to wake up, get a goodbye kiss from my husband and see my daughter off to school.  I need to know that I'll be able to go for a run, or ride my bike.  That I can dig in my garden.  Or, drink a cup of coffee while tapping away on the computer, or reading a good book.  Because these are the things that make me happy.  

So, to all of my friends who have invited me to candle parties, jewelry parties, and Mary Kay Make-Overs, I'm sorry I couldn't didn't make it.  More importantly, I'm sorry I didn't just tell you up front that I wouldn't come.   I didn't want to hurt your feelings.  But if you ever decide to throw a coffee, book, or gardening party, I'll be there with bells on!

xoxo-
Sonja

Well, Shoot...Summer's Over

Hard as I tried, I could not stop the inevitable.  Labor Day did actually arrive, and with its passing came The First Day of School.  I had been dreading this day for weeks.  Summer had been a great one this year.  The weather  had been cooperative and Anna was home. We took some great short trips with friends, rode our bikes, and hung out at the pool where Nora Jane grew gills and fins and became a fabulous swimmer.  It was the perfect balance of productivity and leisure.  Mostly, though,  I just enjoyed being Nora's mommy.  Anna is nineteen now and far too cool independent to hang out with her mom for too long.  But Nora's only eight; so I'm still cool, still funny.  And she delights in everything and anything we do.  Whether it's a walk to the park to play with friends,  a bike ride around the neighborhood, a day of boating, a trip  to the local street fair to listen to music and eat junk food, a camp trip,  or a patient wait for Old Faithful to erupt followed by  ice cream cones from the gift shop (along with about a million other Yellowstone tourists.)  It's all fun to her.   

In short, she was simply fun to be around.  And she was my buddy.  The buddy Anna used to be.  And I didn't want her to leave.  Because life would once again be quiet. And it's only third grade!  Who really needs third grade? :)  But mostly, because I would miss her.  I mean just look at her.  Wouldn't you miss that face too? 

Nora Jane and her bountiful strawberry harvest

I even told her so.  She indignantly replied, "Mom!  I'm only going to be a minute away!"  Apparently, she was ready.  

Oh, I wasn't in complete denial.  We had gone school clothes shopping earlier in the summer.  No waiting around til the last minute this year!  No sir!  My kid is going into third grade, and I am finally going to be one of those well prepared parents.   But then I wasn't.  I didn't want to be.  Not yet.  So, the thought of everyone returning to school, simply got pushed to the furthest recesses of my mind.  I wasn't going to think about it.  I was going to live in the moment.  I was going to enjoy the sunshine and the barbecues, the s'mores roasted to perfection in the back yard, the bike rides to the frozen yogurt shop, which opened up much too close to my house this summer.  

But, as we all know, time stops for no one.  Not even me.   And as summer was coming to a close,  and our long awaiited vacation to Colorado to watch the U.S. Pro Cycling Challenge became a reality,   I knew I couldn't live in denial any longer.  Or could I?  As I closed the back hatch of the very full van, the night before we left on vacation, I, once again, closed the door on school.  I was going to keep summer going, just a little longer.  

Packed and Ready

So, with just over two weeks of summer left, I postponed the purchasing of  paper, binders, and unsharpened pencils.  We weren't ready to go home and   spend what seems like hours sharpening them to perfection.  I put off buying  sticky notes, erasers, and red correcting pens, that only seem to come in bags of twelve, although your child only needs two.  Instead, I spent money on campgrounds and hotels.  T-shirts, hats, and water bottles from cycling races. Swimming sessions at pools and reservoirs.  Meals eaten out and meals cooked over camp fires.  And, of course, coffee.  There was The Very Good from The Laughing Goat Coffee House in Boulder, Colorado.  Then there was The Very Bad from some coffee shops that should be ashamed of themselves!  Oh, and gas.  To Colorado (and back) is a long drive.  

And we had a great time.  

And then, all too soon, it was time to go home.  And everyone knew it, except me, apparently.  Anna, who had stayed behind to tend to the cat and the house and that pesky summer job, texted and said, "are you guys heading home soon?"  And on what should have been our second to last day, both Dave and Nora agreed that it was time to get home.  (Even though we were still thirteen hours from home.) "That's okay, mom," said Nora.  "You guys can just take turns driving and if I get tired, I'll just go to sleep."  And at 8:00 p.m., that's precisely what she did.  She closed her book, turned off her headlamp, snuggled under her pink blankie, and said, "Goodnight!"  Well, there was no stopping at that point.  Spokane was in the headlights.  Which meant home was a mere five hours away.  So we made the big push.  

Waking up the next morning, (IN MY OWN BED!) having slept through the night with ABSOLUTELY NO FEAR of being eaten alive by a hungry Grizzly Bear, I realized, through my fatigue, that I had only one week left.  A mere seven days!  But I didn't think about any of that, for I had STUFF TO DO!   Our fridge was empty.  I don't know what Anna ate while we were gone.  The grass needed mowing, the flower beds needed weeding and watering, the dog needed to be picked up from Grandpa's, and the sun was still out!  So, instead of going school supply shopping, I threw back the covers and informed Dave that we were going for coffee.  And we were taking the car, (despite having just completed a 2200 mile road trip,) because I was too tired to walk.     

And Nora didn't want to go supply shopping either.  "Maybe tomorrow,"  she said.  Cool with me.  But, eventually, she, too, realized summer couldn't last forever.  So on Tuesday, September 4th, (the day BEFORE school started) with our supply list in hand, off we went to Target.    And, of course, they were out of almost everything.  But we got what we could, threw it into the van and walked across the parking lot to Office Depot where we bought the rest.  We drove it home, spread it out on the dining room table, where she reveled in her  booty like a kid on Halloween night.  Then, with Sharpie in hand, she labeled everything,  put it back into the bag, and set it by the door,  where  it sat until we marched it to her classroom later that afternoon for the Meet-n-Greet with her teacher.  

And then it was here:  The Big Day.  Unfortunately, this was one of those days when I needed to be in two places at once.  Since this was impossible, I left Dave in charge of First Day of School, while I drove Anna to WWU to meet with her academic advisor.  I was sad to have missed Nora's first day, but since I am a Control Freak, I left Dave with strict instructions for breakfast, hair brushing and, most importantly, the taking of The First Day of School Porch Picture.  Which he did.  

Wearing her U.S. Pro Cycling Challenge T-Shirt!  

And the BFF picture.  Which he also did.  

NJ and Mer: Ready to face Third Grade Together!

And then it was 3:30.  And we were walking home from school.  And she was telling me her teacher is really nice.  And they'd already taken some tests.  And it's going to be a hard year.  

And it was like Summer had never even been here. 

xoxo--

Sonja