"I'm NOT saying you're fat."

Bought Wilder a new mattress yesterday. New sheets. New pillow. Washed every piece of bedding and  put it all back. Comfy and inviting. He was so excited.

And last night he slept in bed with me.

The mattress is too hard, he says.

This morning, I get up and tell him I'm going to go lie in his bed to see how bad it is. As I'm walking into his room ...

"OK, mom, but if it's more comfortable for you, it's because you're heavier."

"I know, Wilder."

"What I'm trying to say is ..."

"I know, Wilder. It's fine. I know what you're saying."

"I'm NOT saying you're fat. Or big."

"I know."

"You sure?"

"Yes, kiddo."

He's a good boy.

Also, right now ...

Hunterisms

Jerry told me about something Hunter said just now, before he left for work, that I need to get down before I forget it. But first, it reminds me of something I was telling friends last night at dinner.

A friend was mentioning how her 2-year-old does not like her hair be in a pony tail. He always pulls it out.

Hunter was the same way, and when he was around 3, he told me once: "Mama, take your hair down. The sun does not shine on you when your hair is up."

And when Jerry got home yesterday, they had this exchange:

H: Papa, my favorite part of the day is when you get home from work. Is it your favorite part of the day, too?

Jer: It sure is.

H: That's because your work is not alive, Papa. And we are alive.

Man, I love the way that kid's brain works. 

Proof that I love you, W

Wilder will be 9 this year. I don't write about him (or really, much of anything else) on this blog lately. He's got to that point where he deserves his privacy, and so I don't need to be writing about the minutiae of his life here on the Internet.

But I also know that eventually he'll probably be reading this blog, if for no other reason than it will provide some sort of fodder or proof for his therapist. And so today, teenage or grownup Wilder, I want you to know that I did something that proves my devotion to you.

We all forgot something important, leaving it here at home when your dad took you to school. He called me, saying, "We forgot xxx." What it was isn't important. But I knew it was important that you have it, and so — thinking I could still catch you if I moved fast — I grabbed the thing, threw on a pair of sneakers and ran out the door.

It wasn't until I got to the school and saw you'd already gone inside that I realized what I looked like. Let me paint a picture:

• I'm wearing oversized, black velour pants. Not cool-yoga-mom pants. More like "I've given up on life" pants. (I haven't, btw, I just wear these to bed sometimes because they're comfy.) They have a draw string — it hangs down to my knees and flaps in the wind. 

• I have on a sweatshirt with rhinestones on it. Seriously. Like, a bedazzled sweatshirt. It can look cute with the right pair of skinny jeans, but with the rest of my ensemble, I might as well be wearing a sweatshirt embroidered with cats or something equally hideous. 

• NO makeup. Totally still puffy-eyed and there were salt deposits under my left eye from my allergies (which make it water non-stop). 

• Dude. The hair. We stayed up late last night to see the "blood moon" — it's happening four times this year, how cool is that?? — and when we finally went to sleep, apparently I crashed so hard that my hair was in a unique state of unkemptness when I woke up. So much so that I took pictures because it was that nuts. 

(Also, I didn't have on a bra. OMG.)

In this state, I saw a teacher still standing in the side doorway, near your classroom. "Can I please go in and give Wilder xxx?" She graciously didn't treat me like a mental hospital escapee and said, "of course." 

Thankfully, I found you just inside your classroom door. "Wilder!" I shout-whispered. You heard me right away and came and got xxx. I didn't make eye contact with anyone but you — part embarrassment, part belief that if I didn't make eye contact, they couldn't see me. But I'm sure some of them saw me, and I'm sure they wondered if your mom has a really ugly, lazy and maybe insane twin sister. Or at least I hope that's what they wondered. 

Anyway, I love you, kid. Sure, you probably already know that I'd get hit by a bus to save you, but when you were 8, I also sacrificed my dignity for you. That's true love. 

The Sweet Spot

Today is one of those days that you feel like you might just be doing something right as a parent. And just for posterity's sake, I want to record it. Because there's no doubt that in the next week I'll be feeling like a failure again. It's just the way the parenting merry-go-round rolls.

The picture above is of the boys, having dragged chairs out to the sidewalk, waiting for their Pop to get home. They do this every once in a great while. I hope we never forget that they do this. They love that man so much, and sometimes they'll remember just how much just before he gets home, and then this happens. It's been a long time since I've worked outside the home, but I have to believe that coming home to this must feel freaking awesome.

My moment happened earlier this morning. We walked Wilder to school for his first day of second grade. We got there, he skipped off to hang out with his buds, they chatted about lord knows what (probably Minecraft), then the bell rang and he ran to get in line. This year, I didn't even think twice about it. He's in second grade; of course he's excited to get in there and get this year started. But then, as I talked to some other kid's dad, I saw him running across the grass toward me. "Don't get your hopes up," I thought to myself. He probably just forgot something. And then before I had a chance to think another thing, he flung himself into me, hugged me tight, said "I love you, Mom. Bye! Have a great day!", turned around and ran back into line.

My whole life made sense at that very moment, I swear.

"You got a good one there," the dad next to me said.

Yep. I do. Sometimes I am very, very lucky.

Pep talk

The sole reason for this post is probably that I need a pep talk. From me to me. So feel free to abandon ship on this one.

I don't know at what point it happened, but I stopped caring. About my body ... about keeping it in good enough shape to serve me well into my advanced years.

And then this thing with my hip happened. I have no idea if it's a result of my apathy, but it's there, and it's not going away. No one seems to know or agree on what's wrong and, while that's frustrating as hell, one good thing has come from it: It's gotten my lazy ass to the doctor and to the physical therapist. Where one thing has become abundantly clear: I'm worse off than I thought.

My body might as well belong to someone 20 years older than me. 

I could make a lot of excuses. Back-to-back knee surgeries. Two pregnancies —one complicated — and two c-sections followed by the raising of the kind of kids I tend to have — the GIGANTIC kind. And there would be some validity to those excuses. But mostly, I just gave up trying to make a comeback from those things. I guess I thought if I wasn't getting fat, I wasn't that bad off.

Truth is, there are people who are much larger than me who are in much better shape. They might not be able to wear a single-digit size (to which I'm clinging with the tips of my fingernails), but they can run and bike and swim and touch their toes and they don't need an extended recovery period afterward.

And now there's this hip. And it's not getting better. And no one has figured out a treatment plan to make it get better yet. And so, beyond going to PT and doing everything they tell me to do and then some, I can't forge some massive comeback plan and emerge triumphantly from that with a new stronger, fitter me.

In its own way, that fact — that I'm not able to go all Sylvester Stallone Rocky-style on my own ass — is its own blessing. For two reasons:

1. If I could just start chipping away at this problem with a some big, grandiose strategy for Operation Make Kris Strong Again, chances are I would do it, probably half-heartedly, get semi-successful results, and then go about my business. And maybe go right back to being a shiftless shit.

But the fact that I can't is making me consider — and I mean really consider — why I let it get to this point. I can't physically dive into anything, so I'm having to do the same thing mentally and emotionally.

Jerry tells the boys that their mom is the toughest woman they'll ever meet. While that might have some truth to it in terms of my just plain stubborn resolve to not let life take a baseball bat to my heart, it does not, in any way, apply physically.

And his insistence to them that this is true about their mom makes me feel somewhat like a fraud. 

So, why did I give up? Why did I let my inner bad-ass fade away?

I don't know the answers yet, but I'm hoping that by not being able to hit the pavement or the court or the pool or the gym, I might be able to figure them out.

I can't pretend, and so I have to be real with myself. 

And ...

2. If there is one thing that has been true of me damn near my whole life, it's that I don't perform nearly as well without a huge mountain looming in front of me. Tell me I can't do it and I'll prove to you that I can and I will. Give me a challenge and I'll rise to it, and I will tell that challenge to fuck right on off the whole time I'm overcoming it.

And so, that stubborn resolve I mentioned a minute ago, yeah ... it's there. I've been wanting to lose 20 lbs. for, oh, about 20 years now. I realize that 20 lbs. is not 150 lbs. and that makes it even more pathetic that I haven't been able to do it.

But now I'm betting I can. Because if I were anyone else looking at me right now — the sad lazy gimp who can barely even touch her toes — I'd bet against her.

And of course it's about much more than losing the weight. I could blather on about how I want to return to my former physically strong inner bad-ass, but I did that last year after my friend Karen died, and I've proven, in a very embarrassing way, that I was not up to the task. I'm not better than I was a year ago — I'm worse.

And let's be honest, that formerly strong inner bad-ass never really existed anyway. Maybe for a brief moment in time she was there, but mostly she was too busy ordering cocktails and being concerned with making people laugh and deflecting any attention away from her insecurities.

And so there's today. And today I think I can do it. Today I'm betting on that gimp, because I know her better than anyone else on Earth and, hip be damned, I thinks she's gonna rock this motherfucker. 

Fireworks and sunshine

Last night, at bedtime:

Me: What's your favorite season?

Wilder: Autumn

Me: Why?

Wilder: Because the trees change to all different kinds of colors and they look like they've become fireworks. And the grass turns yellow so it feels like you're walking on the sun.

Sigh ... I love him.

Namaste?

Not expecting superhero powers, but if yoga can make me
slightly less lame, that would be good.

For years friends have been trying to get me to do yoga. As recently as six months ago, my attitude was something along the lines of "hell to the NO."

I suspect it was more unfamiliarity than anything else, but there's also the small matter of my knees. After two ACL repairs (one of which left my right knee with tons of numbness and, where there wasn't numbness, a lot of nerve pain), I just didn't think I could do it.

Have changed my mind for a lot of reasons:

Pain. I'm pretty much living with constant pain right now. Hip, back, shoulders, neck ... you name it, I've got it. Some days and some areas are worse than others, but it's there, and I know I shouldn't be living like this. Incidentally, I've also started going to a chiropractor, something I swore I'd never do after growing up with a dad who frequently espoused the crook-like qualities of the chiropractors he came into contact with in the insurance business. (And for the record, I think even my dad has gone to a chiropractor at this point — turns out I might be the most stubborn and dumb member of my family). So anyway, yeah ... pain. Ouch. Enough's enough.

New friends. I'm friends with these women who I've met through Wilder's school. And they're all fit. Like yoga-practicing, running-at-4-o'clock-in-the-morning fit. Anyway, turns out if you hang out with people who all move a lot more than you, you start wondering why you're such a lazy bastard whose biggest physical accomplishment for the day is chasing your fence-jumping dog down the block. Now, believe me, I will never run early in the a.m. Just not programmed to get out of bed that early. But running at midnight? I can see myself doing that. I'll take pepper spray. Or a taser. Or Betty. And beware, hookers (you know who you are) — come spring grandma's gunning for your butts on the tennis court. (Combining hookers and butts in one sentence might have been ill-conceived, but it stays ...)

Depression. A few months ago, my meds started not working. So I went to the doc and she doubled my dosage. Back to a moderate amount of depression. But I know, sooner or later, that same thing is going to happen again, and I'm pretty sure I'm on the highest therapeutic dosage for the anti-depressant I'm taking. And I don't want to try this drug or that drug and see what the side effects are ... given my side-effect history lately, I'm thinking it's only a matter of time before I take something that makes my eyes bleed or I spontaneously grow a goiter or somesuch. So I gotta figure something out that doesn't involve the pharma-industry. Hey! I hear exercise helps your mood!

The xBox. Not what you were expecting for No. 4, eh? A few months ago, I got this Kinect "game" that has a bunch of workouts on it. Dance, cardio boxing, tai chi, etc. And, you got it, yoga. Jerry and I have done it a few times together and I'm always surprised by how good I feel afterward. My body hurts less, my mind focuses more, my mood improves. Yay for modern technology! And I've been able to do it in the comfort of my own living room, and have proved to myself that I can actually balance on one foot for longer than two seconds. It's also proved to me that yoga is one helluva workout. I stay in one place for just under half an hour and I'm sweating by the end of it. And even somewhat breathless.

Anyway, I start a bonafide yoga class — one with other people who are presumably better at this than me — next week. I'm really hoping that the benefits outweigh the embarrassment because, honestly, I am so out of alignment, so inflexible, so, so incapable and unbalanced (not mentally ... although, yeah, that too ...), I can't imagine what a challenge I am going to present to my instructor.

If you do yoga and want to offer me a few words of encouragement, please do. I'm gonna need it, I think.

Oh, and PS! I forgot Reason No. 5. If you haven't seen this video, watch it now. Talk about the transformative power of getting your ass off the couch.

For Karen, the birthday girl

August 2010. Together again after a 10-year exile in Texas.

Today is my dear friend Karen's birthday. Last year, a few days after this day, I met her at a park — me with the boys and her with her girls, Reagan and Peyton — and we did what we always did: Watched our kids play together while we talked pretty much non-stop. I remember that day that our younger kids kept climbing this one structure at the park that they couldn't get down from. We kept taking turns, interrupting our conversation, to go over there and pull the both of them down. Then they'd start climbing right back up again and we'd repeat the whole process every five minutes. We kept shaking our heads and laughing, more amused than annoyed.

I don't think either one of us tired of seeing our kids play together the way we had when we were little. They interacted so well, all four of them, and I know it always did my heart and her heart good to see that. It was always a reminder of how long we'd been friends, and to see that cycle repeating itself ... well, it just doesn't happen very often. There have been very few constants in my life other than good friends, and Karen was the oldest and dearest of those friends for me.

It was about two weeks after that day that I got a call that she was gone. Her heart simply stopped working the way it's meant to, and she was gone.

I'm not sure a birthday ever passed — mine or hers — that we didn't call one another. A couple of weeks before she died last year, I pulled out a box of old letters and cards, went through them and threw many of them away. If you know me, you know I'm prone to tossing things out at any give moment. I rarely regret it, but I do regret that that day I threw away a bunch of birthday cards that Karen had sent me over the years. She was always good at sending cards, way better than me. Rather than send her a card, I would usually torture her on her birthday by calling and singing to her.

I can still hear her voice, and I'm glad for that. It was a voice that always made me feel better. But I'm so sad today that I can't hear her voice. That I can't insist she get out of the house and meet me somewhere for dinner and cocktails. That I can't attack her with my singing and hear the smile in her voice as she thanks me for that.

I think Karen knew how much she meant to me. I know we both expected to be old ladies together, and I wish I could have wished her happy birthday on her 80th. I don't know what happens after we die, and I'll never presume to know, but I do hope with all my heart that when I do die, I get to see Karen's face again and hear her voice in some other dimension. And I bet she'll say this: "About time you got her. C'mon, let me show you around and let's catch up." Hopefully they'll have Crown and Cokes in this dimension and we can share a few.

Today I'll do what Karen would want me to do. Spend some time with my kids and spoil them a little — we're going to see Wreck It Ralph, and we'll buy popcorn and candy and soda and I'll get them good and sugared up and laugh as much as possible together. I never knew anyone who was as dedicated to spending as much time with her kids as Karen was. I suspect she knew she was short of it, and pledged to make the most of what she had.

There's a good lesson in there. I hope to be an old crotchedy grandma one day, but you never really know. We've got to make the most of the time we have. If you take anything from this post, even for a day, take that — go spend some time with those who mean the most to you, and make sure to laugh. Love the very simplicity of being with someone who makes your heart feel full.

Our first apartment together. CU-Boulder. 1991.

Happy Birthday, Karen. You were the most true, honest and loyal of friends. 

I miss you with my whole self.

Hurt

Yesterday, Hunter had a stomach bug and a high fever, so Jerry took Wilder to school. He told me last night, when he'd gotten home from work, that dropping him off had been unexpectedly emotional. Watching Wilder's first-grade class walking into school, and drawing the inevitable parallels ...

I got what he was saying, but I didn't really get it until this morning, when Hunter was feeling better and so we resumed the norm of H and I taking Wilder to school.

As we walked up, I saw a lot of moms giving their kids lingering hugs. Taking their kids faces in their hands and telling them how loved they are. I, too, gave W an unusually long and tight hug, kissed his head and told him all the usual stuff (be good, have fun, make wise decisions, remember how much I love you ...) and he trotted off to get in line.

I looked around for Hunter to make sure he was still nearby and, seeing him, I looked back to Wilder. And there he stood, with all his first-grade buddies. And I started to cry. It was such a spontaneous response and I instantly wanted to stop — not because I was embarrassed (hell, all us soccer moms, and quite a few dads, are crying a lot more these days, I'm pretty sure — but because I didn't want any of the kids to see me. They need to feel safe at school, and seeing your mom or someone else's mom fall apart outside the school doors doesn't help that.

As I tried to pull myself together, I saw tear-blurred images of innocence. Pink and lavender coats. Little boys huddled around one another, mostly likely discussing all things Ninjago or Skylanders. Backpacks with kitties and Mario. Missing front teeth. Little-boy hair sticking straight up and tangled little-girl hair. Laughter and boisterous talk.

For fuck's sake, what the hell is going on? And how do we make it stop? How do we keep our kids safe in a world gone increasingly mad?

Please stopping is a SKILL, people

Scene: Me, singing Bob Marley

Hunter: PLEASE STOP. Stop singing.

Me: Why? You know, I help pay the mortgage around here. And I'm 40 years old. I think I've earned the right to sing in my own house. Plus, I'm a pretty good singer when I try.

Hunter, silence. And then: Yeah, but I'm a better "please stopper."

Hmph.

Brothers

I've been taking the boys pictures every six months — February and August — since Hunter's first August on Planet Earth. In my mind's eye, they became beautiful framed photos that I could put on the walls so that when I'm an old lady, I can look at them and miss them and forget all the hours upon hours of torture they've put me through. (Note to adult Wilder and Hunter: Well worth it!)

But my mind's eye does not always make it to reality, especially when you spend a lot of time moving, and then moving again.

Now that we're in our forever house (or at least until the boys go off to college and I can start traveling house), I finally gave my mind's eye mass and volume and then put that mass and volume up on the damn walls.

You can see in the third picture down in the photo on the left that Wilder has his arm around Hunter. And in every picture since. This is not forced or staged.

Brothers. Love them. Love that they love each other.

First day, first-grade notes

Wilder walks into school with his friend, Gavin. Photo by Michele Nakari.

Today was the first day of first grade. Wilder was excited to go back to school (well, at least until he found out his brother was going swimming without him while he was there) and was as collected as can be until we turned the last corner.

Kids everywhere. Bikes. Scooters. Kids getting dropped off in cars. Etc.

"I'm a little scared," he said.

"You OK?" I answered.

"Yeah. Scared, but still mostly excited."

Looking "very handsome," as he requested when I fixed his hair.

So on we went. He saw his principal near the front door and wanted to swing near her to say hi. On our way, we were singing some silly little made-up song together. When we got about 20 feet from her and a bunch of fifth-graders whose new job it is to help the flow of the drop-off lane, he says to me: "Shhh. That's enough now."

We say hi to the principal and go on our way. At some point he's grabbed my hand and is clinging pretty tight to it. As we're getting ready to turn the corner toward the back of the school, where they all line up to go in, I glance down at his hand and ask him: "Are you sure you want to be holding my hand?"

"Oh, right." Jerks hand away. "Thanks, mom."

Sometimes it's your job to keep them close. And sometimes it's your job to help them realize they can get a little further away.

My heart both hurt and soared to see him heading into that building. The first day of the next 12 years of going to school every single weekday. It will be a lot less time with that boy that I have loved more each day of the last 2,500 days or so. But he's getting more independent, more comfortable in his own skin, making a little life of his own. And, as someone who has cherished and fiercely guarded my own independence my whole life, I can't help but be so proud and happy for him.

I might post some more photos as soon as I get them downloaded and edited. Sometime this week I'll post more about Hunter and the adventure we're getting ready to embark upon. He's never had me to himself, and it couldn't come at a better time. 

Baseball chronicled

Yes, I am a blogging fool today. I figured since I've basically neglected this space for so many months, I may as well try to pump some life back into it. I plan to post a couple more times today, if the day doesn't get the better of me. We now have a long list of to-dos: work out, take Betty to dog park, go to regular park, lunch, quiet time and then paint.

So below are some photos from Wilder's baseball season. I was his head coach, which was a position I never really felt suited for, but it got more comfortable as the season wore on. And, luckily, I had about five parents who acted as assistant coaches for me.

These photos are taken by my good friend Michele Nakari. She is an amazing shooter. Her son Gavin is Wilder's buddy and Gavin was on the team, too. I'm so psyched to have these memories, so thanks, Michele! Most of the shots are of Wilder, but there are a couple at the end that I just love.

Wilder tags out a runner. This was HUGE.

At bat. He struggled so much at the beginning of the season, but by the end, he was hitting at almost every at bat. I was a proud coach and a prouder mama.

Go buddy!

Headed for first.

High-fiving a coach.

High-fiving another coach (aka "Mom")

Nice baseball duds, eh?

I love this shot so much.

I love this one, too, mostly because I look like a real coach in it. Wilder looks scared, but he wasn't. I was explaining to him that since no one was on second base, he did not have to run unless I told him to. I told him to, he scored, yay!

This is me consoling one of my players, John. He was bummed that he struck out, I think.

When I interviewed for the (volunteer) coach position, the rec coordinator asked me what I hoped to accomplish as a coach. I gave all the usual answers, then told him I hoped the kids would have fun and make lasting friendships. He said no one had ever given him that last bit as an answer before, that he really loved that and that he could tell I was a mom. I think this picture proves that we met that goal. :-) It was, I think, our second to last game.

Brave Wilder

A couple of weeks ago, the boys and I met some friends up at the Broomfield library for a program about space. I can't remember who the speaker was, but a younger scientist guy from Boulder. He was great with the kids and the program was pretty great, too.

At the end of the program, they allowed a limited number of questions from kids in the audience. They chose them all at once and the kids were asked to come line up by the microphone. Wilder's hand immediately shot up. I knew it would. Wilder has a crazy curious mind and asks the best questions. He constantly has me learning new stuff.

So he walks over to the lady with the microphone and somehow ends up first in line (probably because he "cut" — he's delightfully curious, yes, but also completely oblivious to what or who is around him most of the time).

I see him there with that little microphone held up to his face. My heart pounds for him. I am horribly afraid of speaking in front of a huge group of people I don't know.

Anyway, you can see in the video how he did. He told me afterward, "I was scared, but I did it anyway. It took me awhile to get my question out, but I did it."

That boy is not only crazy curious. He is crazy brave. "I was scared, but I did it anyway" ... that is a theme with him right now. I'll tell the roller coaster story another time ...

This morning ...

This picture has nothing to do with this post, but I know most everyone who comes here really comes for photos and not my ramblings, so here are two lovely photos of both my handsome boys. And later today I will be posting more photos from the last few months, including some baseball photos from Wilder's season and more. So come back!

This morning, I had just barely cracked my eyes open and decided to roll out of bed when I heard a voice hollering from our family room downstairs.  "MAMAAAAAAA!?"

I could tell it wasn't an urgent matter, so I ignored it. You see, Wilder has this habit of being EXACTLY LIKE ME and yelling through the house to get someone's attention. A habit I picked up from my own mother. A habit that I abhor in my own self and that I'm trying to break for both Wilder and I. (Jerry, reading this now, is marveling at what he thought was a giant dollop of hypocrisy: "Huh. I didn't realize she knew she does this too.")

Anyway, back to this morning. Wilder continued to put a high-decibel voice to my name. Repeatedly. So I finally gave up and yelled back, willing to have this very loud, multi-level conversation.

"WHAT?"

"(unintelligible YELLING!!!")

"WHAT???"

"IS MY BIRTHDAY IN THREE MONTHS????"

"YES. A LITTLE LESS THAN."

"YES!! AWESOME!!!"

End of conversation. I have no idea what that was about or what prompted it.

So I went on my merry way, doing what I believe 99 percent of the population does upon awakening: I had to pee. Hunter shows up at the door.

"Mama. Who is going to make my coffee milk?"

(Aside: Yes, I let my 4-year-old have a tablespoon of coffee laced with sugar and milk each morning. Go ahead — judge. But I started drinking coffee when I was 4 and look how I turned out. Perfectly fine. Although now that I think about it, this post seems to not be making any point other than that I've let my kids develop my very own bad habits. Oh well, there'll be therapists when they grow up, too.)

So back to H's coffee milk.

Me, in a mood to screw with him now that both boys have made the mistake of actually expecting me to answer questions before my first cup of coffee: "I don't know! Who will make your coffee milk for you???"

Hunter, giving me a look that screams *duh woman you're so dumb*: "You."

Me: "I don't know if I can. I'm not in charge."

You see, Hunter has taken to telling me that I cannot possibly be in charge because PAPA is in charge. He's bigger, you see, and also — presumably — male. There is a definite lean toward sexism in this house lately, with Wilder telling me last week after I declared that one half of two police officers seen talking to each other was a woman. No, women can't be police officers, they insisted. To which I invoked that classic parenting tactic known as giving them a choice: They could either choose to believe their mother that women can indeed be police officers or I would march their butts back there to meet said female police officer and let her know they don't believe she has the chops for her job.

They chose to believe. Good boys.

Anyway, back to coffee (this really is rambling, eh?)

Hunter: "You are in charge. Papa went to work, so now you're in charge."

Me: "But Papa didn't give me permission to make your coffee milk for you, so ..."

Silly me. Thinking I might actually either make a point with Hunter or get him to at least admit that I am, on very often occasion, IN CHARGE DAMMIT. But, alas, this is Hunter I'm dealing with, so ...

"Forget it. I'll make it myself." And off he goes.

Now that right there is a habit of mine I'm proud he's picked up: stubborn independence. 

That Voice You Don't Hear Anymore ...

Despite not having written much about her here since her death, I think of my friend Karen daily. Miss her daily. Wish she were here every day. Wonder "what the hell ..." and "why the hell" and all those things.

Karen and I, CU, 1990 (oh the hair ...)

Tonight, I called her husband, Eric. Since school ended, I've only seen Karen's girls once or twice and I miss them. For those who don't know, Eric has worked his tail off since Karen's death to ready their house for selling so that he, Reagan and Peyton can be closer to his parents and other family. He put the house on the market in early June — it sold in five days. He'll soon be closing and moving, to where I don't know yet. But though he and R&P will still be close enough to visit often, they won't be quite as close. Reagan certainly won't be going to 1st grade five minutes from my house.

Anyway, I called to invite E and the girls over, or to have him drop them off here if he needed some time alone or wanted to do some packing, etc. It's the first time I've called Karen and Eric's home phone since she died. I figured Eric probably wouldn't answer (I screen most of my calls and kind of figure everyone else does, too) ... ... ... and yet ...

I wasn't prepared at all to hear Karen's voice still on the answering machine. Her warm "Hey ..." right at the beginning there.

It socked me right in the gut. To be able to pretend, for a millisecond even, that she's not gone. That I won't ever hear that voice again they way that I want to. When she said, Hey ...," I wanted to say "Hi, how are you? Where have you been? What happened? Why can't you just come back?"

Grief is like that for me. It pretty much reduces me to the mentality and questions of a 5-year-old. Can't you just COME BACK, dammit?

Anyway, I left a message, but not after having to pause for a long time to try to collect myself. I didn't want to hang up, although I almost did. Instead, I left a message, my voice wavering and tears on the ends of my words. Hung up and lost it.

Then it's always to the keyboard. Must type to deal. Must share to deal.

When I sat down, it occurred to me that I never posted the eulogy I spoke at Karen's memorial. I almost did at the time, but it didn't feel right. Karen was a very private person, and it felt too soon and too raw and too something I probably can't define.

But I want to post it now because it speaks so much to how I felt about that girl. I hated writing it, I hated getting up in front of people to say it through tears, I hated that it took that damn occasion to say those things about her, as opposed to to her, while she was still here.

But when I wrote it, I wrote it with so much love and laughter and yes, probably a quart or so of tears.

Anyway, here it is. For you, K, again. Miss you so much.

I met Karen when she was Karen Nalezinek — the new girl at McPhee Elementary, in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the spring of 1979. We were 7 years old. On her first day of school, I was assigned the task of showing her around, pointing out where the library was, helping her navigate the lunchroom, that sort of thing.

I’m pretty sure that was the last time it was ever me showing Karen how things worked in the world.

From then on, it was so often the other way around. Karen was my North Star of a friend. She was dependable. She was constant and consistent. Always there, whether it was for guidance, for advice or just to listen. Karen was a really good listener.

In college, we sometimes jokingly referred to her as “mom.” And I think she sometimes secretly loved it.

But I don’t want to give the impression that Karen couldn’t have fun. She could be a serious person, someone who sat back and observed what went on around her — but she could also, in a big way, let loose. And when it happened, it was like being given a gift. When I think about some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, Karen was usually right there beside me. There will never be a time that I’ll be able to hear the song “Baby Got Back” and not thing of Karen, with her huge smile, cutting a major rug.

Her presence and her friendship are so deeply woven into the details of my life that I find myself wondering how I’ll go on without her … we were going to celebrate our 40th birthdays together in Palm Springs in March, along with these girls beside me. I can’t yet fathom that she won’t be there.

Karen was, to put it quite simply, just like a sister to me. I loved her with my whole heart, my whole life. And I know, because of Eric and the girls, that she was so incredibly happy when she died. There was nothing more she wanted from this life than to be with them, and I want them to know that they are not alone — that they are loved by so many people and that we will walk beside them through this.

That Karen was so happy and blessed when she left us gives me so much comfort. We should all be so lucky, and we should all have the good fortune to have had a friend like Karen Emily Nalezinek Mraz in our lives.

The Essence of Wilder

I'm still lying in bed when Wilder walks groggily into my room. "Mama, where's Papa?" "He's downstairs." "Oh." He turns around and starts to wander off in search of Jerry. And then ... "Oh, Mama!" He flies across the bed, puts his little long arms around my neck and gives me a squeeze and then a kiss. "I'm sorry, I almost forgot." Because that's just the way Wilder is. Such a sweet, sweet boy.

In which I inadvertently teach my kid the word "ass"

Yesterday, Wilder woke up and started chattering to me about how if you took the letter "c" of "crook" you'd have "rook." If you took off the "c" and "r" you'd have "ook." Etc. As an aside, let me explain that A) Wilder apparently thinks things he learns at school are things I have never heard of in my life; and B) Wilder never stops talking these days. He follows me around the house in a stream of consciousness that is at times brilliant, at times hilarious and, of course, at times EXHAUSTING.

Seriously. Try listening to a 6 and 1/2-year-old talk about the things inside his head all day. I guarantee you that most of it is the mutterings of an mad person in a nuthouse.

At any rate, this "take the letters off and this is what you get" was clearly something he had been thinking about a lot.

So later in the day, we went to the park and were heading back to the car to go home for lunch. Hunter was being Hunter — all "let me look at this roly-poly for 10 minutes and quit telling me to walk, woman!" He was also in ultimate sulk mode because his friend Calder was still at the park, riding his bike WITHOUT TRAINING WHEELS AND WHY WOULD I NOT GO HOME RIGHT NOW AND TAKE HUNTER'S TRAINING WHEELS OFF AND BRING HIS BIKE BACK SO THAT HE COULD RIDE WITH CALDER?!?

See those all-caps? That is what it's like living with a mercurial 4-year-old. Also, I have been suggesting for months that we take Hunter's training wheels off and he usually reacts as if I'm plotting to kill him. So there's that.

And you people wonder why I indulge in the occasional massive glass of wine ...

So anyway, let's just say I was trying very hard to keep my exasperation in check and herd two boys — one babbling non-stop and one yelling at me that he had a bug on the bottom of his shoe, and me yelling back that it was because he had stomped said bug (I mean, really ... duh.  C'mon Hunter, how is this not obvious to you?) — back to the car.

I was desperately in need of something to make me laugh.

Enter: Wilder.

Somehow, the word "glass" came up.

Me: What happens if you take "g" off of "glass?" 

I was trying to direct his constant yapping into something more educational.

Wilder: It's "lass."

Yeah. You see where this is heading, right?

Wilder (loudly): And if you take off the "g" and the "l," it's ASS!

Me (furtively looking around to see if any of the parking lot denizens had heard. Yep, they had.): Well, that's right. But that's actually kind of a bad word that grown ups say, so let's not use it too much, OK?

Wilder: What?! What does it mean??? (He MUST know what all words mean these days.)

Me: It's a bad word for "butt."

Wilder ponders this for a second. As we walk right by a woman getting into her car.

Wilder: So if I said "Hunter has a BIG FAT ASS?" ... that's how I could use that word?

You can't imagine how many times I was asked, "Mama, why are you laughing so hard?" in the next 30 seconds.

Yes son, that's right. It would be a proper use of "ass." Well done.

My new ride

I am officially an adult now. A soccer mom stereotype. Go ahead. Laugh at me. My 22-year-old self is. And I keep telling that lazy hooker to shut up and go have another beer.

Above is my new car. Really, it's our new car, but Jerry has ceded it to me, since I haul those two gigantic boys around with me most days. We traded in his Land Rover (he mourns; I silently sing "Hallelujah!" over and over again) and now he drives my Explorer (or Exploder, as he calls it — again, more mourning).

I am not the type to fall in love with cars. I don't fall in love with most things material, really. Any object in this house is always at risk of being tossed to the curb if I find it in a place it should not be more than once. I do not form sentimental attachments to things.

But this car I am getting very, very fond of. Tonight, as the sun goes down, I am already planning on picking up CO 128, heading toward CO 93, drinking in the beautiful light and the Flatirons view, turning up the music very loud, holding Jer's hand and listening to my pajammied little boys chatter in the back seat.

It is the Friday night plan of a boring 40-year-old woman.

Shaddup, 22-year-old self. I don't even think you have a car.