Heptadecagon

(Will be back soon.)

I had "The Talk" with Aaron yesterday. Just like with the girls , he knew some things about the care and keeping of his body, and a large number of the right anatomical parts. He'd even heard of the sperm and the egg, although his idea of sperm came from an episode of The Simpsons that Tim allowed him to watch, which meant that all sperm (in Aaron's mind) come with a face like Homer's. (Go, Tim. One of your greatest parenting moments. Glad that viewing The Simpsons didn't constitute our child's entire education on sex.) Aaron had been asking quite a bit about how a baby was made, and considering he's in fourth grade, I thought it was high time I told him. To be quite truthful, I had planned on telling him over the summer, but each time he asked, Melina was around. And she just doesn't need to know those details yet. Aaron took in the information well, if you can call a blush that erupted over his entire body as taking it well. His smile grew bi

Every wrinkle that scurries across the landscape of my face, can be traced back to a pathway of memories, some beautiful and others not. None of which I care to forget.

If you are irritated by every rub, how will you be polished? ~Rumi

She stood at the back of the old, wooden chapel, shivering from the cool breeze that snaked through the loose front doors. The day had dawned bright and a little too cold for her tastes, yet nothing problematic. And it didn't matter of course--she was anxious to be done with the day. To get everything over. To finally be married instead of getting married someday . And, she was ready. She had been ready for a long time. The music filtered through the double doors that separated the narthex from the nave. She imagined the faces of her friends and family--sitting quietly in the oak pews--and smiled. It was going to be a good day. No, make that a great one. To her left, stood her dad. He cut a fine figure in his gray tuxedo and freesia boutonniere. His right leg tapped a staccato beat and his fingers drummed against each other as he accessed her, indicating he was nervous. Why? She thought. He had no reason to be nervous. Not this time. She looked into his eyes, where she thought s

Scrub, scrub, scrub. My fingers press against the lemon-scented disinfecting wipe in an attempt to take away the gunk at the bottom of the bathroom sink. I know that the wipe is better for taking away germs and not the detritus of the fairies who live inside my house. But the wipe is handy and available-- like a one-night stand-- and so I press my fingers again, with more force this time, and push the quilted white paper around the plug at the bottom of the sink. It picks up small bits and pieces of whatever lays there, but never the entire smudge. I stop my hand from moving and peer into the sink. My nose is close to the faucet and I hear the single plink of a leftover drop of water as it falls. I lean in closer, thinking (always thinking)-- I've performed this action now for several days. The same one, over and over, and over again. The grime leaves for a moment, but with constant use, it's back again, as if nothing will change its mind. But maybe it

We've lived here since August of 2003. Way back then, we had only two little toddlers running around (with hopes for more) and I had visions of working full-time in my head. But when we moved, things changed. I realized that I needed to get acclimated to our new surroundings, and I wanted to get the girls through the transition as well. Plus, I really didn't want to have the kids in day care full-time. So I poked around and found my current part-time teaching gig at the local community college. Each quarter or semester since then (not counting summers or the few brief breaks I've taken) you'll find me behind the podium spouting talk about the sodium-potassium pump, the appendicular skeleton, or how the hormones actually work. As you know, within the last couple of years, however, I've realized that I want to make a change. From teaching to writing. So far, I've combined the two pretty successfully. (I won't say completely successfully until I've got a

Dear Universe, The only thing I ask for today is that the kids behave for picture day. Which means I don't want Melina to scrunch up her nose at the camera, nor do I want Aaron to twitch his lips to the side and cock his head, all while rolling his eyeballs such that when the pictures come back, I shake my head and wonder where I went wrong. Oh, and I'd like world peace. So I guess that's two things. Thank you. Chris

Apparently, Shadow is a grumpy old man and Toby is Jacob Marley. What?!? Let me explain. Last Friday, I paid for a certified dog trainer to come to our home. (See, I told you I'm trying to help this Toby character. He's my responsibility, and I'm doing my best to integrate him into our family.) Anyway, the trainer came in with her loud mouth and curse words (I liked her quite a bit because of those characteristics), so the first thing I did was to thank the Good Lord my kids weren't home. The second thing I did was to listen to her, because she got to work right away. Partially stating the obvious, the trainer explained that "Shadow is old and set in his ways," and that "Toby has to learn to deal with it." Can I get an Amen to that statement? But then, the trainer also went on to say that Toby has no impulse control and that I, being the one mostly at home, must help him develop it. I must also teach the rest of the family how to help Toby de

I go to church for many reasons, most of which I won't go into here in this forum. The only problem is, I haven't been that happy with the church we go to. I don't find the congregation all that friendly, and they aren't that welcoming to the families who don't send their children to school there. And the sports program? Don't get me started on that. The year the girls participated in the sports program was one of the most revealing years of all. You might wonder why we bother to go to that particular church in the first place, right? Well, I'm lazy. And it's in our neighborhood. Which means if I really had to, I could leave my house at 7:55 a.m. to get to the 8 a.m. mass. Which is where we were this morning. Sitting in the pew, participating in the rituals of the mass, and listening to the voice of Fr. N. He's not my favorite priest: he tends to subscribe to the more you say the better method, and we all know that's not true. So there I was

My mom and her sisters don't get together that often. One lives in Maine, another in Michigan, and the last two in Missouri and Southern Illinois. It takes time and energy for the four of them to meet up, and at their ages, they don't have much of either of those. But back in July of this year, we had the opportunity for a family reunion. The four sisters and their families gathered together for one very hot weekend in St. Louis. There is so much I could write about these women. The zany times, the angry times, the depressed and down times; the childhood memories that I've heard about from my mom, and the memories of their own parents. But those times and memories are their stories to tell, not mine. What I do want to document, though, is the first picture in a very long time where the camera caught all four of these lovely ladies with genuine smiles on their faces. It's easy to see a family resemblance here. It's easy to see the sisterly love. This photo is a b

We bonded over a bowel movement in the dairy section of the Dorothy Lane Kroger. Well, I guess it was the lack of a bowel movement, really. Not on my part, but on hers. I don't remember much else about her--what she was wearing, how many children she had with her, or what type of yogurt she was getting. I just know that it had been hours, days really, since she'd had a proper bowel movement. I'm not sure what made her confide in me, the lady in threadbare shorts with four kids in tow. The woman who was searching for a healthy yogurt alternative amongst all the sugar-laden dairy products. Maybe it was the length of time I had been standing in front of the yogurt section that did it: the sheer number of minutes I stood there convinced her that I was dedicated to the cause and that I was okay to speak to. But confide in me, she did. "I'm looking for something for my gut," she said. "I gotta get my insides moving, if you know what I mean." The woman&

The word of the day today is PATIENCE. Because I need to have more of it when: The receptionist tells me that my doctor appointment isn't until 9:30 a.m. and it is 9 a.m. (I knew the appointment wasn't until 9:30 a.m., but I had been told to arrive 30 minutes early.) I smile at said receptionist. I wait in the examination room for one hour before the orthopedist walks in, without an apology for my wait. After my appointment, I stop at the bank, where I am the first in line. I stay as the first (and only) in line for seven minutes. I wonder what the tellers are doing behind the counter, but I don't stomp my feet, as my inner child directs me to. I'm choosing to think there is a reason for these delays today. That maybe my course of action has been directed differently for a purpose and maybe that purpose is simply to remind myself that on the path to becoming a more patient person, I have a very long way to go.

Sick. I feel sick. And not sick-to-my-stomach sick, thank goodness. I have a cold, and sometimes, those can be brutal. It's too early to tell if this will be a knock-me-on-my-ass sort of cold. I'm hoping it isn't. But in the meantime, I'm sick. I'm tired. I have to get Zoe to the dentist to get a tooth pulled and I have to teach. All while my head is screaming and my nose is dripping. It goes without saying that I'd rather curl up with a book (one in particular, mind you--I'm reading Julie Lawson Timmer 's Five Days Left and I ' m really enjoying it...great debut novel.) Or even watch television (now you know I'm not feeling well). So that's it today. Short post. Whiny post. But that's How I Really Feel.

A good friend of mine reminded me that acceptance and accountability go hand in hand. And she's right. While years ago I would get defensive at someone pointing out my inability to accept someone, I'm now at the age where I consider what she wrote a gentle nudge. To become a better person. But here's what people don't know. I actually try to practice acceptance on a daily basis, because along with accountabilty, we should be not only tolerant of everyone, but accepting. And I am, mostly. It's easy to be accepting or tolerant of people we don't know, or people who do not afffect us each day. But when those people and their actions (and inactions) affect me and the people I love, then I tend to be less accepting of them. I'm wrong. I know this. I expect everyone else to accept me as I am, but to be honest, I try to change when I hurt other people. I look at what I did and move toward understanding how not to let it happen again. I'm not always succes

It came down to an issue of salt and pepper. An issue so minute, really, but one that summed up their lives in three small words. "Do you see any salt and pepper?" the woman asked. Her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips spoke of her displeasure. "I like salad with salt and pepper." She stabbed her fork into the lettuce leaves and moved the onions away to the side of the plate. Her tired eyes scanned the table, once, for the seasonings. Not finding them, she clucked her tongue while her fork resumed its assault on the salad. As she started on her own meal, the woman's daughter stared in horror at her mother. What was her mother thinking? Could salt and pepper really make or break a salad? Did something so trivial, so petty, truly ruin the meal, as her mother's countenance would indicate? The daughter met the eyes of her sister, who mouthed, "What ever happened to eating what's put in front of you?" Good point, the daughter thought. Good point

I write about so much here. What started as a let's-keep-the-family-informed sort of blog has now morphed into an outlet for my creative self. And I hold back very little. I've told you about my extra long facial hairs, how my pubic symphysis feels, and that Tim has had a vasectomy. I've revealed that I'm not a very good Catholic (and I would have said that before Tim had the vasectomy) and that I want to publish one of the novels I've written. I've spoken about death, life, and maybe even the after-life (I'll have to check on that). All topics are welcome here, I think, although there are still some personal subjects that I don't believe are appropriate to touch in this forum. The girls, especially, like to read the blog. Sometimes, I let them, sometimes, I don't. I still haven't allowed them to read the post from my 41st birthday . I lied to them, and I'm not proud of it, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat. So when they ask to read so

Every year since 2001, I wake up thinking about the Twin Towers. Even now, 13 years later, I clearly remember where I was on that day, what I was doing, and what I was wearing. I remember the warm breeze of early fall in Michigan and the blue skies that spread across the region. I remember Krystyna, the histologist, coming into the lab all in a dither. I had been struggling to tie a mouse muscle onto the force transducer, but I knew, just by looking at her, that my problem was the least of our worries at that point. Krystyna's voice trembled as she told Cheryl and me what had happened. We all looked at one another, our eyes wide with amazement, and decided to close up the shop for the day. We scurried back to our computers to try and find more information on what was happening. I even left my own lab to check in on a friend at the dental school. His cousin worked in one of the towers and hadn't been heard from. A short while later, we found out the cousin was safe, but only b

On today's installment of Tell Me How You Really Feel , we're talking Common Core. Specifically, Common Core Math. Now don't be afraid, FRN. I'm not really talking math today because the Common Core guidelines have a funny way of making math not really about math. Truly, I jest. But sometimes you look at how that information is being taught and it's no longer about solving the problem. It's about recognizing that the problem even calls for math. Think I"m nuts? Google Common Core Math examples and see what you find. And don't even get me started on matrix math and bar models. (I guess I should add at least this little tidbit: I think math should be understood and liked by more people, and because that is what the Common Core is attempting to do, I commend them. I just think that sometimes, you shouldn't fix what isn't broken.) But what I want to tell you about are the worksheets the Common Core provides, one of which Aaron came home with this

My index finger clicked on the mouse, causing the drop-box to appear on my screen. Once I found what I was looking for--the bookmark for where I teach--I wrinkled my face up in fear as I clicked on its site. My fingers keyed the password in quickly, although I was in no hurry to get to the actual destination. My silly reaction is because I proctored my first test yesterday. And to say that the results weren't pretty is truly an understatement. Including a freebie question, my mean was a dismal 56.5%. Yes, you're seeing just fine. The average score was, indeed, a failure. I had promised the students that I would post their scores yesterday afternoon, but after seeing that score, I had to amend that promise. I had to write a quick email and tell them that I needed to really peruse the scores and see what had occurred at eleven o'clock in the morning on Monday, September 8. Because in my mind, something supernatural must have happened. Maybe a load of aliens inhabited my

"You want to hear something crazy?" I asked Tim the other morning. "Crazier than finding a dog on Craigslist?" "Okay, that's not crazy. We found a babysitter that way, why not a dog?" Tim flashed a stern look my way. I knew what it meant: We did find a fantastic babysitter via Craigslist. The dog, not so much. Maybe it wasn't my finest moment. Maybe Toby didn't show us his true colors when we went to meet him. Maybe the planets were not aligned properly. (Maybe it was those damned fairies again.) The bottom line is, we're having trouble with this dog. Or more specifically, Shadow is having trouble. Here's how a day in the life of Toby goes: I think I'll sleep. Oh wait, I need to eat. Here she comes with the food...the woman who found me and brought me into this heaven of a house. And there is is again. FOOD! Oh glorious FOOD. I can't wait to eat you all in one gulp. Yep, there it goes. Let me see if I can go steal fr

If you have a dream, you cannot simply talk about your dream. You must do anything and everything within your power to get you to that dream. Even if it means going outside of your comfort zone.

"Toothpaste belongs on the brush," I tell my children in an earnest voice. I hold up a sample toothbrush, the sort someone received from the dentist ages ago. The bristles stand tall and the plastic is smooth in my hand. A perfect example of a toothbrush. I go through the motions--all of them--slowly. Opening the cap of the toothpaste, squeezing it onto the brush, and then replacing the cap. "The tube goes back into the cabinet." My voice is monotone to my own ears and I'm sure my expression holds nothing but boredom in it. "You brush, then rinse, then replace your brush back into the cabinet. If follow those steps," I pause and look at the four beasts in front of me, "you get clean teeth and you don't get toothpaste on the walls. Got it?" The twins roll their eyes and move back toward their chairs, where their books wait for them. Aaron looks at me with a protest on his lips, but knows better than to even try. He shakes his head and

so much depends upon the minute protons aligned by magnets inside the scanner (MRI scheduled for next Tuesday. In the meantime, still no running.)

I think Wednesdays are going to be Tell Me How You Really Feel days...posts where I tell you how I really feel. I know what you're thinking. Something like, Shoot, all this time, she's not been telling us how she feels? She kept the truth from us? She's pulling the wool over our eyes with each post? You might feel like you've been hoodwinked (great word, no?), but it's not true. You see, I tend to bob like a cork in water with posting. Some days, I feel like a poem needs to come forth. On other days, I have a strong urge to complain. And sometimes, I just feel like I learned a lesson and I need to share it. And since I always worry that I don't have much to say (stop laughing at me right now), if I have a regular topic for one day of the week, maybe I'll put a little less pressure on myself to produce something, anything, for this blog. And so (drumroll, please) today's Tell Me How You Really Feel is directed at (can you guess...) a literary agent.

When I was in the last stages of my pregnancy with Melina, I was convinced that I would deliver her at 38 weeks. Not during the 38th week, but at 38 weeks, right on the money, just like everyone else to whom I'd given birth. So when 37 weeks and 6 days came around, I figured that I'd wake up the next morning and labor would begin. But it didn't, and I wondered why. So I looked around my life, and realized that there was no way I could have a baby come into the world at that moment. The house was a mess, the laundry had to be done, we didn't have the pack-n-play set up in the living room, and most importantly, I hadn't found someone to come take care of the kids while I headed to the hospital. It was clear to me that I had work to do, even though work was the furthest thing from my mind at that point. But I toiled to get everything done. The mess cleared away easily as we progressed into 38 weeks day 1 and day 2. Tim set up the pack-n-play on day 3 of that 38th w

That no matter how many times I stop, breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, count to ten and then back again, I have a very long way to go until I can state, with honesty, that I possess enough patience to deal with my dog.