tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70090679434298324812024-02-19T19:26:52.622-05:00One Thing I Learned TodayNicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-59701400036540075972014-07-01T21:47:00.002-04:002014-07-02T08:56:01.396-04:00Breaking down in the middle of the road can turn your day around.<div>
Today, my life felt like a Zen Short of sorts.<br>
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When I left work, I was cranky and annoyed and frazzled. It hadn't been a feel-good day. And I was jetting out early to take Kai to the pediatrician—for shots. I needed to take the Escape, typically Jon's vehicle—a shift in plans that had prompted a hissy fit (mine) over mud-caked cupholders, fast food wrappers and abandoned softball snacks (which, this morning, I <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">angrily referred</span> to as "old nuts"). The car also contained toys, preschool papers, a college diploma (not mine) and two sets of skis that someone who was a small child in the 1960s must have worn. I have no idea of their origin.<br>
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Before work, I had removed all of these things from the car and tossed them onto the mudroom floor. I rinsed out the cup holder. So as I was pulling out of the parking lot of my employer, the Escape was uncluttered if not clean. It was all good. Turns out, not so much.<br>
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About halfway to Kai's school, the radio stopped working. And then started working again. The dash went blank and then flickered back on before all "computer" displays disappeared for good. I started feeling anxious, wondering if I should bail on the kid pickup, feeling lucky that Kai wasn't in the car already. I kept going, pulling into the Hannaford-plaza turning lane to get off the busy road. I glided to a stop. For good. The car was dead.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">As for as car breakdowns go, my today's Escape escapade was charmed.<br>
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My first response: gratitude. The old Escape had chosen this relatively safe place to throw in the towel; I was by myself. I called the pediatrician and cancelled the appointment. Then I started flipping out. I called Jon and told him I had no idea what to do next (really?) and that I was SO hot (what?) He told me to calm the f*ck down (in much nicer words), call the car insurance and get the hell out of the hot car. So I did. And that's when the magic started happening.<br>
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<ul>
<li>The Progressive man dispatched a tow truck.</li>
<li>Someone called the police and two officers came out to investigate the the mysteriously abandoned car/direct traffic/get the car the hell out of the middle of turning lane. They directed me to get back behind the wheel and put the car in neutral and then they pushed me into the Burger King parking lot. </li>
<li>Since my car was still sort of blocking a driveway, Officer Jamie stuck by and told me amusing stories about his day, then invited me to sit in his air-conditioned car. He offered to clear off his front seat so I wouldn't look like a criminal in the back. I declined and offered to get him an iced coffee at Burger King. He declined.</li>
<li>I got my own iced coffee—with real cream because didn't I deserve that?—and parked myself on the curb with the beverage. I posted pictures of my broken-down car and my calmed-down face on Instagram.</li>
<li>Seeing my post, recognizing my location as one near her home,<b> KIMBERLY FREAKING DROVE OVER WITH A LEMONADE POPSICLE. FOR ME.</b> </li>
<li>Blown away by her kindness, I babbled a bunch of nonsense, gave her a hug, snapped her photo (for Instagram!) and vowed to be the kind of incredibly thoughtful person that does things like this much more often.</li>
<li>Dave from Handy's arrived. He instructed me to get into his air-conditioned cab. He loaded up my car. He asked me what happened and, when he heard, he diagnosed a bad alternator.</li>
<li>Then he drove me and the Escape with the bad alternator to Darren's shop WHERE OUR VAN WAS READY, after having gone in for a routine service this morning. (Which is why I was driving the Escape in the first place.) What? How lucky is that?</li>
<li>I switched Jon's softball gear into the Escape—his after-work game was close enough to walk and now he had an awesome excuse to go out after the game and grab a ride home with someone else.</li>
<li>I was too late—obviously—to get to Kai's appointment but just in time to get him from school. And with plenty of time to drive out to Jules too.</li>
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All of this kindness and serendipity had me feeling downright giddy. Lucky. Happy. The only one who was bummed was Kai. "I wanted to go to the doctor to get shots!" he said, crossing his arms and turning away to process his disappointment. </div>
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"I'm sorry, Kai. Sometimes these things just happen. It's disappointing, I know." </div>
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He turned back to face me. "Mama, can we go to the doctor tomorrow morning?" he asked with a trembling lip. </div>
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"We can try," I said. "Maybe we'll get lucky." </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From a nearby curb, I watched frustrated motorists lined up behind this unoccupied vehicle—mine—that did not turn left, COULD NOT turn left, curse and toss their hands wildly into the air. I tried to wave them past.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I rode in the cab of this truck—and Kai was super jealous. <br>
Dave, the driver, diagnosed the problem as a bad alternator before we even got to the shop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was super glad I switched into these shoes—from 3-inch-high sandals—before I left work.</td></tr>
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-57890163959905040322014-06-26T21:39:00.001-04:002014-06-27T00:17:31.432-04:00Day 16 | 5x5 challenge, modified | Time ran out<b>1 snap:</b><br>
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6:15 pm - When all was sunny.<br>
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<b>1 minute:</b> </div>
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<b>Approximately 9:35 p.m.</b></div>
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I am missing the birthday party of a quartet of amazing women (one, among my closest friends), due to miscommunication. And in the midst of realizing my time to make it is running out, I hear a curious chirping.</div>
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The cats are confused. And then I see: they are chasing a tiny mouse. She runs through Dempsey's legs. He looks at her, bewildered. She runs into my favorite room, still chirping. Now I look at her, bewildered. I come to my senses. I want to save her but I'm pretty sure it's too late. I look for a broom. Can I open the door? She's in the corner by the stairs, near the credenza. Is she underneath? No. The chirping has stopped. Tina runs into the dining room table. I look for the mouse. I meet Tina's eyes. She licks her lips. The mouse is missing. Her time ran out.</div>
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I failed. I feel sick. Sickly sad.</div>
Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-26867509261487332592014-06-24T19:53:00.001-04:002014-06-24T20:13:14.390-04:00Day 15 | 5x5 challenge | Terminal illness (airport - don't worry)5 minutes:<div>Day traveling again, and it's sparked many observations and questions. Too many to note here, on my phone in the United Express terminal at Newark (Delta a LGA, with its free wifi and comfy seating, would accommodate a longer post).</div><div><br></div><div>The area surrounding the BTV airport is lush and green, sparsely populated and beautiful; the area surrounding Newark is not.</div><div><br></div><div>Many, many men wearing crisp business suits and carrying conservative business-y bags wear casual packs on their backs (a la Jansport). Tell me business-men-friends: what's in there? Gym clothes and razors? Toothpaste? How does this work?</div><div><br></div><div>There is a dearth of acceptable eateries in my Newark Airport terminal. But I am hungry and I order a Greek chicken salad. A waiter serves it to me at a table, where the flatware is plastic. He kindly whispers that I might consider ordering my coffee elsewhere. (Later, I hear another waiter nicely telling a couple who's been staring at the menu situation by the hostess station that, if they have time, they can shuttle to another terminal where there's better stuff to eat.) I dig this honesty.</div><div><br></div><div>As I eat my salad, I observe many fellow travelers looking for dinner, hopelessly circling. Those who look most health concerned appear to bypass a proper meal altogether, settling on yogurt. Or fruit. Or coffee and water.</div><div><br></div><div>I get a coffee too—from next door, like the server suggested. It is not good but it is hot and caffeinated. I am happy. And I am grateful for Skinny Pancake's egg and cheese sandwich, served on a house-made English muffin, alongside with a rich French roast—at the Burlington International Airport.</div><div><br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2mERXBnrpY71PhWGtpWrN39-OIMORxmcM6BJz25iRyL8soRhtfXQiREDM-otOR71Fbdd6fY4yFrxJsclH-J4ACPx5cuxKWUH2utnX1dJfwdCooXq7EbvgA5zA4GIbv-FxnN8SenZFGQ/s640/blogger-image-1358261494.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2mERXBnrpY71PhWGtpWrN39-OIMORxmcM6BJz25iRyL8soRhtfXQiREDM-otOR71Fbdd6fY4yFrxJsclH-J4ACPx5cuxKWUH2utnX1dJfwdCooXq7EbvgA5zA4GIbv-FxnN8SenZFGQ/s640/blogger-image-1358261494.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJmoBRvLvf8coJLY-SyKy57X3VDwlH5E33RskF7CFBzsuqetr0lpt-mSAAiUQTl4IlFtSK8rI8E6Oc2Pkwy-o9W7l124-1eZ7KVKFjMFacE9aagqvt6kjOS8Mi0hspLBhnJIJqFYPdgc/s640/blogger-image-1188138038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJmoBRvLvf8coJLY-SyKy57X3VDwlH5E33RskF7CFBzsuqetr0lpt-mSAAiUQTl4IlFtSK8rI8E6Oc2Pkwy-o9W7l124-1eZ7KVKFjMFacE9aagqvt6kjOS8Mi0hspLBhnJIJqFYPdgc/s640/blogger-image-1188138038.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiSCY8fu_7Wne-L3Rjv6RFwRigQApPhYyxwv8gbZ6DhgdYqdbVouDhZA_drzExyYU4ePk4buCotYBz1Si-6hM7iquRndxDQLVVPNatOxlkWjv5C_5TdIh-02pQ-HaDabPv5DHxFWqpTM/s640/blogger-image--1259145054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiSCY8fu_7Wne-L3Rjv6RFwRigQApPhYyxwv8gbZ6DhgdYqdbVouDhZA_drzExyYU4ePk4buCotYBz1Si-6hM7iquRndxDQLVVPNatOxlkWjv5C_5TdIh-02pQ-HaDabPv5DHxFWqpTM/s640/blogger-image--1259145054.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTuAEyMGPf_N8sd4ytvZGZgqlbPFdxo5yrOp1mTJwDYFiI0uI39j2Rpep2NTUIihWsXJfobnYrAcBpFssOw-b3boU4gL4_u8ZQydzoSeL_aSzAPCfcOFZOZJDlvbz1Rbs0RkPwozXVQQ/s640/blogger-image-1214665019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTuAEyMGPf_N8sd4ytvZGZgqlbPFdxo5yrOp1mTJwDYFiI0uI39j2Rpep2NTUIihWsXJfobnYrAcBpFssOw-b3boU4gL4_u8ZQydzoSeL_aSzAPCfcOFZOZJDlvbz1Rbs0RkPwozXVQQ/s640/blogger-image-1214665019.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCf7-flvIr4rOp-kEvoMZdbFNyXZqwbDK09AYFFr07YBiLH3QNoNSqrYV6ckmQGcWH6pMPnk4ZIn8o38jUQRy8mlp0uvVbnhn793hJxau3Ow3bJunMYaNqq6kFxTbs8eOWijD3OV5r1dM/s640/blogger-image-472350739.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCf7-flvIr4rOp-kEvoMZdbFNyXZqwbDK09AYFFr07YBiLH3QNoNSqrYV6ckmQGcWH6pMPnk4ZIn8o38jUQRy8mlp0uvVbnhn793hJxau3Ow3bJunMYaNqq6kFxTbs8eOWijD3OV5r1dM/s640/blogger-image-472350739.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div>5 minute</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div><br></div></div></div>Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-71833123844655078632014-06-23T21:19:00.002-04:002014-06-23T21:40:03.879-04:00Day 14 | 5x5 Challenge | It's a predictable pattern, at least. <div>
<b>5 Minutes </b>(truly, because blogging this should not have even made it to the top of my list tonight):<b> </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I remember my mom telling me once that my Grandma Mary used to have a hamburger roll spread with jam and a cup of her standard coffee—light with cream—after dinner. It was her dessert and a way to unwind. I'm pretty sure she didn't engage in this relaxing ritual when she was a young mom of five kids, also taking care of her ailing parents down the street. It was probably after she retired. In fact, I can't actually even imagine her taking time for her self, as she was <i>always </i>doing stuff for other people. But apparently she did at some point. I thought of her—of this—tonight, out on the deck, sipping my light coffee, feet up while I watched Jules hit baseballs thrown by Jon and Kai find the soccer ball that soon we'd be kicking around as a family (newly discovered World Cup fever). And I just rested there, for a full five minutes.<br />
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I bailed on two of my favorite people tonight—pretty last minute—because I was anxious about preparing for another work trip combined with the fact that Kai-guy never goes to sleep. Oh, sure, he goes through the motions: I read him books, tuck him into bed, scratch his back. He sends me off with a hug and a kiss, to find his "favorite blankie." I bring it up, and he fakes like he's going down. Then it begins: the request to read in our room, or at least his room (he typically sleeps on Julian's top bunk). I set him up with books, ask him to just stay quiet and relax. And he complies—momentarily. Then he's on to rearranging furniture and un-organizing drawers. Sometimes he sings. Sometimes he recites—spoken-word, Beatnik style—song lyrics. "Scooby. Doo-by. Doo. Where. Are. You." Tonight, he unearthed a Batman lanyard and an Akron RubberDucks baseball cap, which he was wearing sideways when I walked in. I placed him back in his bed, turned on the overhead light he'd turned on and flipped on his scrolling-underwater-scape nightlight instead. I walked out of the room and into the one where I am now. Ten minutes.<br />
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<i>"Mom? Mom? I can't find Teddy."</i><br />
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I go into his room to help locate the tiny bear, who once sported a Mets jersey and now sleeps naked. He was missing. He being Kai, not Teddy. (But Teddy was still missing, too, at this point.) The little imp had transported himself to the top bunk in Julian's room again. There he was sitting, surrounded by two bears who were bigger than Teddy, but had his same light brown fur. Still, no relation. Teddy was under his knee.<br />
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<i>"Teddy is under your knee."</i><br />
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<i>"Oh! There he is!"</i><br />
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<i>"I love you. Good night."</i><br />
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<i>"I loooooove you! Good nii-iiiiight!"</i><br />
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Now I am in here. And he is in there. There, where there is rustling. I'm going to pack for tomorrow and he is going to crash—in 45 minutes or so.<br />
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<br />Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-7478496813309955492014-06-22T22:42:00.000-04:002014-06-22T23:06:48.175-04:00I AM interested in sports...culture.<b>5 Minutes:</b><br>
When it comes to breeding sports fans, my parents have a strong batting average: 0.666. It'd be even higher if you got bonus points for creating a kid who ends up majoring in sports management and another who has several close friends on the payroll of a professional baseball team. My siblings are sports fanatics. I, on the other hand, am finding my way to sporting events mostly to be a good mom. So far, both of my kids enjoy playing sports; one REALLY seems into watching, too.<br>
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I don't dislike sports or sporting events, but I'm more interested in the people playing them—and also those watching. This afternoon, here are some of the thoughts that ran through my head as I sat in the stands of Centennial Field watching a game between the Vermont Lake Monsters and the Connecticut Tigers:<br>
<ul>
<li>I wonder if hearing Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets" whenever he walks makes the Bennie guy (Joe Bennie, of the Lake Monsters) hate—or love—his name?</li>
<li>Look at them doing those calisthenics down there—I wonder if the team exercises together all the time. Who leads them through those moves?</li>
<li>That player from Santa Cruz (I forget which team): Growing up, was he all about <a href="http://www.bookshopsantacruz.com/keep-santa-cruz-weird-bumper-sticker">"keeping it weird</a>"?</li>
<li>I wonder if the Lake Monsters have a marketing person who writes bios about all the players' favorite foods and such. </li>
<li>That would be fun. </li>
<li>I think I remember a piece in The New Yorker about the marketing person for the Mets doing this. And people finding that fluffy and strange. Maybe I'm making that up. </li>
<li>Still, that would be a fun job. </li>
<li>I can't believe that Olin has never noticed that I put ketchup—not mustard and relish—on my hotdogs. In the FIFTEEN years we've been together. </li>
<li>Mustard and relish on a dog taste good.</li>
<li>I think I would have made a great mascot. Dancing and acting without having to talk or sing. How awesome would that be?</li>
<li>How often do seagulls often get hit with baseballs? </li>
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This went on and on... Then we came home and watched a bit of the World Cup. My inquiring mind continued:</div>
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<ul>
<li>Why is our goalie dressed like a banana?</li>
<li>Does that yellow mean something?</li>
<li>Why is their goalie wearing green?</li>
<li>I'm confused. </li>
<li>I wonder if that big beard makes our goalie hot. Like warm, not attractive. But he is quite attractive. I wonder what he'd look like without that beard. </li>
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My stream of consciousness represents one who is totally uninformed about soccer. But the comment of one of my kids suggests that we're not doing a great job of informing them about world goings-on (or perhaps they're watching too much Chima). Upon learning that Portugal's goal meant that we had not won, he said, "That's REALLY bad."</div>
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"No, it's OK. It's really disappointing, but that's how these things go," I told him.<br>
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"But wasn't this the war to see if we keep our country?"</div>
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Um... no. But wouldn't that be such a better way? </div>
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<b>5 Snaps: </b><br>
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-13718252397111217122014-06-21T22:26:00.003-04:002014-06-22T11:44:02.495-04:00Day 13 | 5x5 Challenge | Today was long and sweet.<b>5 Minutes:</b><br />
It was the longest day and it feels it, in a really good way. At solstice (which, I learned from the <a href="http://www.almanac.com/content/first-day-summer-summer-solstice">Farmer's Almanac</a>, occurred at 6:51 am) I was running—about one third of the way done. When I got back, the boys were still asleep and Jon was just pouring his first cup of coffee. We actually got to have a conversation—uninterrupted and not about scheduling. No clue what we actually discussed. The boys woke up and ate breakfast. Jon disappeared upstairs to deal with some laundry (go Olin!), and Jules, Kai and I drew pictures and practiced letters, so, so nicely, for what seemed like a long time.<br />
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Then it was summer, full-on. I took the boys to <a href="http://www.lastresortfarm.com/">Last Resort Farm</a> to pick berries. When we got there—after a few wrong turns and a 30-minute drive—it was all picked out. But Eugenie, who runs the farm, pointed us toward the kids' field and offered the boys to pick whatever ripe berries they could find. And so we did: Jules intently seeking the the rare red gems and pressing them into my hand, after he'd bitten them in half, to "taste how sweet"; Kai following behind, with a less-precise, more-dramatic picking style. The place was magical. We watched red-winged black birds zip and dip across the sky in some sort of (mating?) chase. We pointed out how the clouds—the kinds kids draw—hung low just above the tops of the long greenhouses. Then we went into the farm stand and bought two of the few remaining pints of the sweetest, reddest pre-picked berries.<br />
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When we got home, the next-door neighbor—six, like Jules—had set up a stand to sell lemonade and homemade (AMAZING) donuts. Eventually, a gang of neighborhood kids assembled next door, and then in our backyard, playing on swings and creating scenarios that involved armor and swords. THIS is what summer had always been to me. With Ange and Dan, Jeff and Steve, Missy and Gina. We had bike races. We played GI Joe. We held an Olympics. (Hello, 1984.) We choreographed outdoor performances (most memorable: Billy Joel's "The Longest Time"). We stayed out all day until our moms called us in for dinner.<br />
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For dinner, tonight, we packed it all up for the beach. The crowd there was surprisingly sparse—perhaps because it wasn't hot, just warm, and the water was freezing. Its iciness didn't faze Kai a bit, and not really Jules either. But he preferred to stay in the sand, building volcanos and retaining walls for waterways, combing the beach for sea glass. Jules and I hung along the water (bellies full of quinoa salad and cantaloupe), while Jon and Kai went back up for a second course of hot dogs.<br />
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We reconvened for one last hurrah at the playground before getting in the car and driving to Archie's for ice cream. Long. Sweet. Today. Let's keep it coming, summer.<br />
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<br />Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-88810490674575442332014-06-19T21:43:00.002-04:002014-06-19T22:12:22.127-04:00Day 12 | 5x5 Challenge | Go for the run.<b>5 Minutes:</b><br />
I'm using this post as a palate cleanser—as a way to transition from my overall approach to life from "asshole" to "effective." This finite and optional exercise will ease my fingers into typing what I really should be writing—something compulsory and ill-defined. It knew it'd be a challenging day. That's why I took five minutes this morning to walk through the garden, admiring the yellow flowers that have started to appear on the tomato plants, the tell-tale tops of carrots, the neat row of snap peas. To appreciate where sun intersected with shadows, creating sharp angles, to notice how simple was the swing hanging from the tree—something I never pay attention to when a kid is sitting on it.<br />
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I didn't run because I felt like there wasn't time. That might have been a mistake.<br />
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Tonight, I totally snapped. The boys suddenly turned starving when it was time for bed. I was too tired to fight it so I made some toast. I topped it with mashed avocado and sprinkled on the tiniest bit of salt. One kid poured himself a glass of milk and got down to it; the other threw himself to the ground and demanded almond butter. I said no, in a not-so-nice way. He peeled himself from the floor and brought it to the table. While the the boys consumed their snacks—one actively and one still in a pre-contemplative stage—I paged through a proposal. I set a timer for the snack deadline. I watched the clock. I became increasingly anxious. The snacking proceeded at a pace slower than the clock but because the pokey kid had moved into active eating, I allowed it to continue. And became more anxious. Teeth-brushing was agony. I raised my voice. I walked them up the stairs. They whined for 3 chapters. I told them it was too late. We started reading. One kid draped his legs over my entire body. I asked him to stop. The other leaned into occupy the little remaining space of my physical being and bonked my head. Hard. I started crying (frustration, not injury) so did he (pure sadness). It broke my heart. What was I doing?<br />
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Now they are sleeping and I am counting my missteps. These being the only steps I've taken in 6 days. It's been an exercise free-week. I'm drinking black coffee and pounding salted peanuts. I am basically doing the opposite of what's prescribed in the healthy living program I'm about to propose. Noticing the contradiction seems to only fuel its propagation. But these situations go in cycles. I know this. And, now having finished this reconciliatory post, I will move on to getting shit done, to making it happen.<br />
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And, next time, I won't skip the run.<br />
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<b>5 Snaps:</b><br />
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-79335325868866763262014-06-19T00:03:00.001-04:002014-06-19T00:10:51.738-04:00Day 11 | 5x5 Challenge | Day Tripper <b>5 Minutes:</b><br />
I woke up before dawn and struggled with what to wear. Settled on the standard black pants. We were driving–all of us, in a rented mini-van—so I didn't feel quite so rushed. If I was a few minutes late, they'd wait. But I wasn't. I was 20 minutes early and didn't need to deal with security. So I walked around the mostly empty halls noticing, with slight envy, the people who looked packed for vacation. I got myself a Skinny Pancake egg sandwich and a coffee and I parked it on a bench. We drove to Boston, talked shop and not-shop, got carsick looking at screens. We met with one client, and then the next, and I left both meetings head spinning with possibilities. We piled back into the champagne caravan, plus two—they'd flown in from New York and were hitching a ride back. More shop talk, not-shop talk and discussion about whether to dine sitting at a table or in the minivan. What about a state-line liquor-store stop? Negotiation ensued. An agreement was made: liquor store, sit-down dinner. We left one, then the other, enriched. We hit the road for home. Tomorrow will be more typical. I am exhausted—and totally invigorated.<br />
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-81836013176446919782014-06-17T20:04:00.000-04:002014-06-17T20:57:23.834-04:00Day 10 | 5x5 Challenge | The Secret to Super+<b>5 Minutes:</b><br />
I have history of overproducing, making everything more complicated than it could—or should—be. What results are 75-minute recorded interviews with scientists who will contribute a quote or two to a 1,500 word story—and hours wasted transcribing notes that "will come in handy" someday. (Though sometimes they do.) Or a meticulous organized closet shelf in a room that now appears as if a shit-tossing tornado blew through. A brilliant idea so "perfectly" planned it never gets executed. But in the last couple of years—thanks to kids and colleagues—I've learned to see the beauty of a MVP. That is, minimal viable product.<br />
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Peonies are beautiful—but so are wild flowers. Making a new recipe is fun but chopping up whatever veggies came in the CSA share and boiling rice actually gets dinner on the table. It's OK to sneak a pre-packaged snack into a backpack, and special one-on-one time time doesn't <i>have </i>to be spent at the beach. When you do it well—owning whatever "it" is (a quick, pointed call; a simple chicken stir-fry; a one-on-one walk)—Regular truly can be Super +.<br />
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<b>5 Snaps: </b><br />
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-16543888784536436972014-06-16T23:04:00.000-04:002014-06-17T00:15:12.518-04:00Day 9: 5x5 Challenge | Breakout retrospective<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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I'm not sure I'd call myself a creature of habit so much as a slightly over-scheduled parent always seeking efficiency. I do J's pick-ups and Jon does K's because they're on our respective paths. But today the convergence of Julian's first day of camp and K's early school closure left me picking up both boys early—at least by our family's standards. I was excited to have a date with Kai but when I picked him up all he wanted to do was go get his brother. So that's what we did. I convinced him to hold my hand as we walked on the muddy cut-through past run-down buildings and signs with so many instructions—"no dumping," "please don't block the gate." Past purple clovers with bumblebees and rambles of yellow buttercups. I thought of growing up and the old abandoned elementary school whose brick walls I used for bouncing tennis balls. I felt happy. And nostalgic. Kai was just glad to get to see Jules at his climbing camp.</div>
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There were not parking spots in the street, or on the lower levels of the garage, so I drove the whole way up. Why stop at 4 when you can go just a little more and see the entire city? So that's what I did. Peering down at a town that doesn't feel like mine so much anymore, I noticed the jewelry shop where Olin bought the diamond he presented me in Maine and thought all of the time we spent on these city streets together, drinking coffee down the street and tea right next door. I noticed the Flynn Theater sign and remembered my dancing days. I spun East to see the tops of UVM halls, that school half the reason I'd come here in the first place. I thought of long summer days spent in a hot Terrill Hall. I thought of lunches at Mirabelle's with my friend Beth. I thought about how this all seemed like a lifetime ago. </div>
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And then I circled down the echo-y stairwell. The heavy metal door slammed shut with a bang. A sound I associate with this town. To this day. </div>
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<br>Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-91849235298322957102014-06-15T22:35:00.001-04:002014-06-15T23:21:37.062-04:00Day 8 | 5x5 Challenge | Into the Woods<b>5 Minutes:</b><br />
In honor of Father's Day, Jon, Jules, Kai, Demps and I hit the trail. Olin is a hard-core hiker (or was until family compromising cut into his time spent on mountains). Given the opportunity, I'd rather run for exercise and draw or dance or hang or flip around in the yard with the kids, but I try to get into the woods with Jon and the kids much as I can. I've learned I enjoy hiking best when allowed to stop and snap photos of centipedes and spiders, frogs, snakes and little boys pretending to be birds of prey. I guess I like hiking like a kid. Hearing leaves rustle and wondering if it's a bobcat, hopping over rocks in a muddy creek instead of taking the drier high road, looking for interesting plants, trying to spot the birds singing high overhead. But because I'm an adult, I do leave the trail not only in awe of all I've seen but grateful for having gotten out there and really paid attention. Thanks, Olin, for helping me—and our kids—to simply live better.<br />
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<b>5 Snaps: </b><br />
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-27752976367775701722014-06-14T21:57:00.001-04:002014-06-15T07:55:48.528-04:00Day 7 | 5x5 Challenge | Tag-team<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Observation: the 5x5 Creative Challenge isn't the only numerically based, social-sharing centered game in town. There is, of course, <a href="http://100happydays.com/">#100happydays</a>, a initiative in which you're supposed to post a picture (every day for 100) of something that makes you happy. Today, I read about <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/mother-tongue/10879191/Im-sick-of-parents-abusing-100happydays-on-Facebook-to-show-off-perfect-lives.html">#7daysofreality</a>—proposed by British mum blogger (who, as it turns out, happens to be a friend of my friend). I love both concepts. Which perhaps is why my 5x5 post today combines perfect moments, pictured, and REALITY, the kind that bites. Until you write about it and it turns out to be pretty funny. </div>
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<b>5 Minutes Writing:</b><br>
The day began mellow, with both boys obsessively writing in the Star Wars workbooks we bought yesterday at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Flying-Pig-Bookstore/72449474894">The Flying Pig</a>. These things were such a hit that they insisted that we bring them with us (along with a lunchbox full of crayons and markers) to the farmers' market. So we did. They sat and colored, then climbed the big pine, then each selected a treat—a Rookie root beer for Kai; a <a href="http://www.stonyloamfarm.com/">Stony Loam Farm</a> egg sandwich for Jules—so nicely. Treats were consumed. Kai and Jon did somersaults in a semi-private part of the lawn. It was idyllic. It was not typical. So we went to the library. WITH OUR DOG.<br>
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That's when shit got real. And it wasn't the dog. The boys were running and jumping and loudly talking through the aisles; they were in and out of the little outside reading nook. Jon and I were handing them back and forth while the other of us tried to find a book. It all basically could be characterized as a big parenting fail. We left: me, feeling like we're overly permissible parents raising rude young men and lecturing about proper library decorum; Jon, just looking silently agitated. Our next stop: the school playground, to burn off steam, riding bikes.<br>
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Except that no one wanted to ride bikes. They wanted to throw a found softball at each others' heads. I dismissed Jon to go for a run with the dog. And tried to prevent the boys from injuring each other. Which mostly worked. Then Jules found a purple marker and I turned my back. I won't go into the details, as the photos above likely make it quite clear.<br>
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But I will say this: A lot of good came out of that little purple autograph. Jon and I, on a date tonight acknowledged the solid tag-team parenting/partnering that happened around it (I insisted on going home for cleaning supplies to fix the mistake; Jon insisted that he be the one to drive back with the boys so I also could get in a run). And, as a family, we'd reviewed an important life lesson:<br>
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<i>We all do stupid shit and make mistakes. But almost everything is fixable. And, when you're fixing a mistake, it's good to ask for help.</i></blockquote>
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#realhappyNicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-84922658354501203262014-06-14T01:01:00.003-04:002014-06-14T01:03:49.384-04:00Day 6: The 5x5 ChallengeI think I'm posting right now because if I don't I'm going to have to pay at least 4x as much to have dinner with three fabulous fellow 5x5ers as I would if I keep at it through June 30. <a href="http://hilaryhess.com/">Hilary</a>, <a href="http://seecaptureforget.tumblr.com/">Amanda</a>, <a href="http://sidewaysglancer.blogspot.com/?spref=fb">Angela</a> and I agreed that the first person to drop this challenge is treating. <br />
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<b>5 Snaps: </b><br />
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<b>5 Minutes: </b></div>
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It was the last day of kindergarten for Jules—a rainy one. So rainy that the heavy peonies, some now fully bloomed, couldn't hold up their heavy heads and so we cut one to bring inside. So rainy that end-of-school celebrations planned for the beach gave way to an indoor pizza party punctuated with a basement performance of a <i>Frozen</i> medley that melted into a laser-beam-lit rave featuring drums, a tricycle and pole-climbing. It all felt very <a href="http://www.spielpalastcabaret.org/">Spielpalast</a> to me. Beautiful.</div>
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Beautiful because these little players were creating purely out of passion and camaraderie. Their reward was the journey. They'd collaborated and coordinated and choreographed. And then invited us down to watch as sung/drummed/pedaled/climbed their new-1st-grader (and pre-Ker) hearts out. And then waited for the claps and cheers and beams. The affirmations that they'd done good. </div>
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I think a lot about intrinsic and extrinsic motivation—at work and at home. What drives us to actually DO what we want to do and should do for ourselves. Do I run because it makes me feel good, or because my doctor told me to do it? (Feels good.) Do I give 100% to a work project because doing my best makes me feel good—or because I want kudos from my boss? Definitely the former. This struck me when I was finishing my (job) self-appraisal today. Yes, I care about the sort of review I get back. But I care more that I've created, and learned, a ton this year. I feel good about it. And I feel good about feeling good about it. </div>
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So I'll run and I'll work and I'll write not for reward or lack of punishment but because these things make me whole. But if someone wants to reward me for unpacking the dozens of boxes still sitting in the guest room closets from last year's move or for planting the onions that have been hanging out in my kitchen so long they've sprouted antlers, I'll take it. Or leave these tasks for another day. Again. </div>
Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-46389472506324765212014-06-12T23:23:00.001-04:002014-06-13T09:29:33.864-04:00Day 5 of 5x5: Cool connectionsI'm breaking my 5x5 Creative Challenge streak. Sorta.<br />
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<b>Here's 1 snap:</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-N43ryOd3GEv0MPzJZ3P4aM7LkWhBnQDQ6t7BbJUrEbFq2MOyM_uFaunjRhFhtSMFxHPwgsPgkWa2MOYrAjKCms4DqDenYobuMuYbvGmkAwM0dc112CxvvLUY-Ws2PLaUoo3cntSlJs/s640/blogger-image--762467140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-N43ryOd3GEv0MPzJZ3P4aM7LkWhBnQDQ6t7BbJUrEbFq2MOyM_uFaunjRhFhtSMFxHPwgsPgkWa2MOYrAjKCms4DqDenYobuMuYbvGmkAwM0dc112CxvvLUY-Ws2PLaUoo3cntSlJs/s640/blogger-image--762467140.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>And a 1-ish minute writing exercise:</b></div>
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I love interconnectedness. I love that pictured here with this Dirty Mayor cider is another 5x5ing friend and a friend who might 5x5 before the month's end. I love that the might-5x5 friend, a writer, randomly met another writer friend in a Brooklyn hallway years ago and, yesterday, made the connection that I knew her too because I liked a FB picture of her kid hanging with Tony Danza. I dig the awesome synchronicity of the fact that, just two weeks ago, I spoke on the phone with a dear friend of the writer-friend that still lives in Brooklyn—the mom of the "Tony Danza kid"—because she's soon moving to Burlington. From Virginia. And she's a writer too.</div>
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I think I just racked up five intergalactic connections. So I'm gonna count this post as a creative success. Over and out. </div>
Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-11170425886618308282014-06-11T21:34:00.003-04:002014-06-11T21:39:39.673-04:00Day 4: 5x5 Challenge - Expiration dates.Four days in, not posting would make me feel guilty. But time-intensive posting also will induce guilt. So here I post quickly. Meaning finding five snaps—no formatting—and spending five minutes on the EXECUTION of the writing.<br />
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<b>5 Snapshots: </b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1QzdprfmuXV5BNqkIQ6eZVkEiaYU6c-Elvcm4YJRalHN1IP2fJ23cgwAy4j50ReqPS_8dbbmM3lHwYO1JKkA1GusnBWqFs2X3ZOPhdjZVQO0S15rmvNhOkPXdAY2yr-fhLRQCedD7B8/s640/blogger-image--221452129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1QzdprfmuXV5BNqkIQ6eZVkEiaYU6c-Elvcm4YJRalHN1IP2fJ23cgwAy4j50ReqPS_8dbbmM3lHwYO1JKkA1GusnBWqFs2X3ZOPhdjZVQO0S15rmvNhOkPXdAY2yr-fhLRQCedD7B8/s640/blogger-image--221452129.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5DdwGDEjGwgch12E_qzIAkXk7oVJmO1tLMs6fjJ86dcsXIStuOHDSuDfkw4fbgOxnUUraC97yB7HtBpcmyAEuXElY6q8ww4Rbb2Hh-bJ6jtSuvMaqi5dgmPBoFscD5jJQK6rwALIOKk/s640/blogger-image-1715752080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5DdwGDEjGwgch12E_qzIAkXk7oVJmO1tLMs6fjJ86dcsXIStuOHDSuDfkw4fbgOxnUUraC97yB7HtBpcmyAEuXElY6q8ww4Rbb2Hh-bJ6jtSuvMaqi5dgmPBoFscD5jJQK6rwALIOKk/s640/blogger-image-1715752080.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>5 Minutes:</b><br />
It's raining. Truly raining. Not sprinkling (a Western PA term that a friend on Facebook just reminded me is a really weird and gross way of saying light rain showers). I just want to lie and listen to it, maybe read until it's really, really late. But there is lots of laundry to be done. Because no one has any clean socks around here. It's sandals season. But tomorrow's relay day so Jules wants to wear his sneakers. I could dig through baskets for a matching pair—but I've been at that for weeks so it seems time to dive in and attack the problem head-on.<br />
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We keep accumulating stuff. And more stuff. It seems that half of my life now is about managing this stuff—mostly unsuccessfully. I never used to be into flowers. They die. They're here and gone. What's the point? I used to think. Now I know: That's exactly the point. It's obvious when it's time to toss wilting blooms, or rotting broccoli, into a compost pile. There's of none of that purgatory holding-on like I tend to do with clothes that are in 62% flattering and look brand new or 96% flattering and starting to fray—or with mugs that aren't my <i>favorite</i> but they're just a few spots away. You acquire them, you appreciate them, you share their goodness and when they've expired, you're grateful for the sustenance that brought you. But you don't hang on. You move on.<br />
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(PS: The Danmade mug is not in the purgatory pile and never will be. If forced to make a choice, I would donate every other mug I own and drink from this cup every single day. Olin: Don't get any ideas.)<br />
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-2048005441502330542014-06-10T21:40:00.002-04:002014-06-10T22:07:07.044-04:005/5 Creative Challenge: Day 3It's my Day Three of <a href="http://www.christinarosalie.com/the-5-5-creative-challenge/">The 5/5 Creative Challenge</a>. I'm on a streak. (And totally digging new posts by 5x5-ing friends: <a href="http://seecaptureforget.tumblr.com/post/88232771124/5-5-day-3-against-measurement">Amanda</a>... <a href="http://hilaryhess.com/2014/06/55-day-1/">Hilary</a>. Who's next? Angela? Sarah? Another evolved "by 5" from <a href="http://shelburbia.com/15/">Anna</a>? My day today felt fleeting and fast in so many ways.<br>
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<b>5 Minutes:</b></div>
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The hum of the dishwasher is both domestic and calm—a contradiction 'round these parts. Today, I edited a story that suggested a white noise machine in the bedroom for better rest, and also recommended stroking your man's hand or doing an activity he really likes, like watching sports, because it will make him feel good and therefore improve your relationship. I cut that part out. </div>
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Both boys are in a flow. Jules is making a end-of-year card for his bus driver. "What comes after the 's' in vacation?" <i>Uhh....</i></div>
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What does a 16 look like? Kai talks over Jules, who gets frustrated and talks louder. "Mummmyyyy... what's next?" </div>
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"Well, there's actually no S; a T sounds like SH," I tell him, damning the idiosyncratic spellings of the English language when his face starts to crumple. He recovers. Turns out he hadn't even gotten anything down on paper yet. Phew. "So an H comes after the T?" </div>
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"What. Does. A. Six. Teen. Look. Like.??"</div>
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I silently draw the figures of a 1 and a 6 on the sheet in front of Kai. Satisfied, he starts to copy them, neatly but backwards. Lately, though, he's had a burst of interest and skill when it comes to scribing. It's cool. </div>
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I spell out the rest of vacation for Jules, recognizing that a tiny mistake could throw him over the edge. He writes it all down and then proceeds to write, on his own, after "I will miss you on summer vacation," "But I will still see you." I am not so sure about that. But I don't say it. I'm trying to check my tendency of squashing magical thinking. In fact, I'm trying to do more magical thinking myself. </div>
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Tap, tap, tap. It's Kai's pen bouncing impatiently on my shoulder. "Now what, Mama?"</div>
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My head is spinning. It's all so fast. By the time I react, they're on to the next thing. </div>
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-60803103339149744222014-06-09T22:59:00.001-04:002014-06-10T01:21:25.832-04:00Day 2: 5/5 Creative Challenge<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
While there's work-work to be done, I'm sticking with my<a href="http://niccimicco.blogspot.com/2014/06/its-imperfect-participation-55.html"> 5/5 Creative Challenge</a> commitment, with the idea that it's going to get my brain moving in the right direction. Here's today.</div>
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<b>5 Minutes:</b><br>
I drove home with my window down and my radio tuned to the station that plays half good music (stuff that may exist on my own playlists)—and half songs I'd never pay money to hear. As each new car came close, in the opposite direction, its VROOM amplified—then faded as it passed. The onomatopoeia occurred to me—and also how much this sound sounded like the simplified version of it we share with kids. I thought of sheep and how it's true in this case too—sheep sound like humans trying to sound like sheep.<br>
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Little tufts of white cotton-looking things floated in front of the windshield. I remembered 12 years ago when I moved here that June and saw giant clouds of this stuff billowing down Battery Street. It was nothing we had in New York City or Western PA. It was beautiful. And bizarre. I wondered what it did to allergy sufferers.<br>
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I was feeling good, grateful I'd chosen to go to my writing group, despite not having completed the short assignment, even though I felt I had too much else I should do. But I went anyway, knowing that these fun and funny, clever and creative people would help lighten my mood.<br>
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And driving back home to my to-dos, with a few Angela-recommended City Market-scored snacks and some new inspiring <a href="http://shop.scoutshonorco.com/">Scouts Honor Co.</a> designs, it occurred to me: I'm getting better at knowing what I need to keep my soul from slipping into a total slump—and making a break for it.Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-25307561309887661012014-06-08T22:09:00.000-04:002014-06-09T10:51:51.305-04:00It's (not-perfect) participation | 5/5 Challenge: Day 1<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At least 5 days ago, <a href="http://www.christinarosalie.com/the-5-5-creative-challenge/">my friend Christina invited me to participate in the 5/5 Challenge Creative Challenge</a>. The gist of it is this: Each day in June, you snap five photos and you write for 5 minutes. And then you post it all on your blog. Finally, I've gotten my shit together enough to give it a go. It sort of worked, if you count mediocre snaps and an interrupted writing session. But that's my life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>5 Minutes: </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hear them from down the hall, in Julian’s room. K is singing, “and I try… and I try and I try…” J is sighing, exasperated. He’s exhausted. And wants to go to sleep but Kai—who took a monster nap this afternoon—is wired. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to see Mom.”<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now he is here. No, he is there. At the top of the steps, talking down to me—except that I’m in my room. On my bed—which is covered with piles and piles of clothes. Mine. Pulled out of baskets but not yet put into drawers. It’s this dumb thing I do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Mom, i’m not tired.” I know that this is probably true because when I tried to wake him at 4:30 this afternoon—asking him to play soccer, or to draw with me, he said no. He said he needed space. He said that he wanted to keep sleeping there on that couch. And so I let him—because the weekend was long and busy, with T-ball and swimming and birthday partying and grandparents. He’s awake and now I need space. But I tell him to sit here with me and he does, so sweet, so quiet. And he puts his head on my lap. This silence won’t last, I know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That’s a LOT of words.” He’s totally engaged in my typing. And now it’s time to stop. And time to put this dude to bed. Again. Here we go. </span><br />
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-14020843567548851592014-06-03T22:04:00.004-04:002014-06-03T22:26:33.115-04:00This is what pure joy looks like.Everywhere, everyone is tense. Schedules and budgets. Planning and execution. Too much and too little. Communication snafus, snippy exchanges. High stakes, limited resources. At home, at the office, generally around town. I know experience is all about the lens. But it seems everyone's lenses are kind of cloudy right now.<br />
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Nearing the end of the kids' evening routine, 30 minutes later than was ideal, Kai disappeared. Then there was giggling coming from the guest room. I opened the door and there he was jumping up and down, up and down—making swirling 360's, oblivious I'd even entered the room. I started to make him stop, demand that he brush his teeth RIGHT NOW but the look on his face—pure joy—was something I hadn't seen all day. So I just let him keep going. Then I grabbed my phone and snapped this shot (and also more, many more). Then I let my feet slide out from under me and slumped down, next to the bed, watching him. Julian came in and joined me. A few minutes later, we three went to brush teeth and then upstairs read books. Then Julian went to bed. Then Kai ripped one of Julian's Tibetan prayer flags and chaos ensued. Then, Kai was taken to his own room. Then he escaped. Then on and on and on (Two hours later—like RIGHT NOW—Kai is asleep. I think. UPDATE: He's NOT.)<br />
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After all of this, I logged into Facebook to see so, so many photos of rainbows (some double) and groups of <i>adults</i> exuding the same sort of joy that registered on Kai's face earlier. Their joy was more hard-won, I know, but pure and sweet, nonetheless. The Burlington School budget passed! Woo hoo! Phew! Perhaps the tide is turning. Perhaps smiles will spread. <br />
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<br />Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-23479750573736065292014-06-01T22:05:00.001-04:002014-06-01T22:19:50.252-04:00There's a momentum to mastery.He comes in to J's room, from his own, wailing: <i>"I waaaaant a piece of paper. I want to write."</i><br />
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<i>"No. It's bedtime. Either go back to your room, or climb up there. </i>I point to the top bunk.<br />
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<i>"Well Julian has papers."</i><br />
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<i>"He does. But we're reading them. Do you want to listen to Julian read equations?"</i> I choose my words carefully, picking a sarcastic string, for the benefit of Olin, who has come in to retrieve Kai.<br />
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<i>"whhAhhh...." </i>Kai sorts of fake cries. Jon walks out of the room, half smiling. Jules, who is reclining with his head on my sideways knees, turns toward Kai and generously offers: <i>"Do you want to hear math? It's so fun." </i> Julian has been reciting every character of every worksheet he completed in kindergarten this week (and then stapled together into a "book"). He seems to find this book enthralling. Kai, not interested, climbs up to the top bunk. His whining eventually settles into the sound of thumb-sucking.<br />
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<i>"5 + 5 = 10. 10 + 0 = 10."</i><br />
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Seven or eight pages in and Julian is still immersed in this book. I, on the other hand, am immersed in his face—and its sweet, focused expression. It's a mix of curiosity and confidence, pride and passion. It strikes me that if we held all of our conversations face-to-face and truly observed others when they were speaking, we might be that much more empathetic and engaged and interested. I think about how much I distract myself with my phone, text when I should call, call when I should meet. I make a note to remember this.<br />
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Lately, the pace of Julian's mastering new milestones is sort of blowing me away: riding on two wheels; starting to swim underwater; beginning to read; hitting line drives—and not off a tee. Every time, it seems that one day something just starts to click and—BOOM—he's got it.<br />
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Kai too. Until just recently, he had no interest in writing his name. Then, Friday night, he came home from a BBQ with Jon and Jules, obsessed with writing "K's." It was 9:30 pm—but he was insistent and getting him into bed seemed like a losing battle so I just let him go. He did a bunch. And then drew some a's and i's—an a random-yet-artful pattern. He decorated an entire envelope full of "his letters." (The envelope was a card for Maria's baby shower—which made it that much sweeter.) He was so proud.<br />
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I have a theory: Summer is accelerating this milestone crushing: the bike riding, the swimming, the line-driving. Our fair weather is so fleeting here in VT that you have to jam as much stuff as you can into the short season. And then, when you're in the practice of mastering, you just keep moving. You make letters. You calculate equations. You persevere at sounding it out. Yes, I think that must be it. Momentum.<br />
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What do you think?<br />
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<br />Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-33996555419762632312014-05-14T21:14:00.001-04:002014-05-14T21:14:00.640-04:00Even breast pumps bring back good memories.<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I'm in the airport cleaning up my notes from a most amazing work conference. A baby is crying. I glance up to see a shock of dense dark hair. With a barrette. It's a girl - and she's strapped to her Mom's chest in an Ergo, brown, just like mine was. The mom bounces and sways, to quiet the kid. Neither looks particularly upset. I feel a pang. Nostalgia? For traveling with a baby? WTF?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Yesterday, I saw a different young mom setting down a breast pump on a shelf, in a public bathroom, at a hotel hosting a largish conference. "Ah... That brings back such memories for me." Umm... Not great ones... I'm not sure anyone enjoys milking herself in an unsanitary space and making inconvenient arrangements to cart a cooler full of breast milk across state lines. Still, a pang.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtLhRFkx0b2NXsEgqkGbbIokg_Wmbd-TXy6bzXBH12guaf1Z1JnFAcbOW_K2NQgUuMJvFz-sdt45vDTS8G-5XNqt2cgB2IRKl62rzcob6gqfo9RVWwMzEL8OylkpP8OBpVCeCAIKeqVg/s640/blogger-image--423938060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtLhRFkx0b2NXsEgqkGbbIokg_Wmbd-TXy6bzXBH12guaf1Z1JnFAcbOW_K2NQgUuMJvFz-sdt45vDTS8G-5XNqt2cgB2IRKl62rzcob6gqfo9RVWwMzEL8OylkpP8OBpVCeCAIKeqVg/s640/blogger-image--423938060.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">That baby phase is gone, and the toddler one too. Now, the struggles are how to handle reports of tussles on the playground, how to stay present when a little big boy is asserting his independence, how to go with the flow when life feels packed beyond my comfort zone. I can leave for a few days and no one REALLY misses me. I get to sleep all night long. I won't have to race to nurse a hungry baby at the finish line of my 1/2 marathon in two weeks. There's lots more freedom in my life, which I like. And there's still a lot of chaos - more, actually. The "cats" I am hearding now can talk. They have things to say. And they run faster.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And, in 4 years from now, I will look at the mom in the airport with two loud, rowdy little men, running in two directions - perhaps punching or elbowing each other - I will long for these days too. You can quote me on that. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But for now, I'm just gonna try to soak them all in. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-46366856775910047502014-05-10T06:11:00.003-04:002014-05-10T06:41:38.472-04:00I've gotta slow down"Will you wave to me from the window?"<br />
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He grins wide and runs over to wait, pumping his arms like a real little racer, as I turn to walk out. I move through the piazza, past the colorful kid art and padded gym-mat wedges. I cross through the new wooden gate, down the small flight of stairs. I grab the old EatingWell calendars I brought in for art-projects, set down when Kai and I came in because it was heavy, and tell Tracy Christina is expecting them. I hurry out to the van, fumble around in my bag and pull out two checks, one I've been meaning deposit for more than a month. I already feel accomplished, productive.<br />
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For whatever reason, I look up, out the windshield. At the building. The window—which is framing the saddest little face. Kai is sobbing. Somewhere between here and there, I'd totally forgotten about the wave. My heart stops, and then drops into my stomach. I fling open the door and sprint back into the building, up the stairs, through the gate, past the colorful art and padded mats.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A day I didn't forget to wave. </td></tr>
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When he sees me back, he rushes right over and I apologize again and again. He laughs through tears. I tell him that I feel lucky to get a bonus hug from him. He hugs me tightly and shouts, a bonus hug. He's over it. I'm not. I'm so pissed at myself getting so caught up in my to-do that I forgot to say goodbye to my sweet, little expectant boy. That I'm always so in my own head that I overlook the significance of what's going on in my kids'. </div>
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The other night, a friend mentioned that another, mutual friend remarked how Jon always seemed so "tuned in" to our kids. He is—and the comment wasn't meant to imply that I'm not. But it's true: that often, I'm not. I'm no in tune with anything. I'm rushing and running and reacting. And I don't like it.</div>
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Every year on my birthday, I make some resolutions for myself. Every year, in the first week of May, both of my boys have another birthday. I've decide to use this time to create, renew and review my parenting resolutions. The first one is to set aside full chunks of time where I'm <i>fully </i>focused on my kids. No phone, no lunch packing, no check writing, no reading while we sit and watch a show together. I'm 100% certain that I won't be 100% successful but I'm going to try. I'm going to set aside times to get that other shit done, fully focused. </div>
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How do you stay a present parent? </div>
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-6223194470399561172014-05-05T22:16:00.001-04:002014-05-05T23:03:14.344-04:00Six is sweet.<i>"I'll just stick with fruit tonight." </i><br>
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<i>"You don't want any of your birthday cake?"</i><br>
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Granted, the cake was an oddly shaped remnant of a chocolate volcano leftover from yesterday's party, impaled with a blue candle that Jules had just extinguished and a icing smeared "flame" that, in its prime, flared from the top of the volcano.<br>
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<i>"Nah... I ate too many sweets yesterday. It wouldn't be good for my tummy." </i><br>
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And with that, he headed into the other end of the room and started paging through the instructions of his new Hobbit Lego set, the one designed for 9-13-year-olds. Skipping the fruit all together. He zoned into his building, while the rest of us dug into messy, second-day sweets.<br>
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<i>"Do you think he's sick?"</i> I ask Jon. I'm not kidding. Earlier in the evening, when Kai—newly four and newly obstinate—had whined and banged and yelled that HE wanted to help excavate the triceratops from Julian's new dinosaur dig set, Jules invitingly offered, "sure, I think I need some help brushing right here." He'd sounded more like a parent—or a patient preschool teacher—than a big brother. Minutes later, when Kai tossed the tiny Ikea table to the floor, sending the plastic (or clay) ball flying across the room (in a crazy-angry-entitled way that made me think of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120533/fullcredits?ref_=tt_ov_st_sm">Leonardo DiCaprio in Celebrity</a>) Jules calmly looked at me and said, "did you see what he did?"</div>
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<i>I</i> did not remain calm. I raised my voice into an almost-yell and I told Kai... well, I told him that he could not have any cake later. (Which turned out to be a total lie. But this blog post is not about my bad, weak, parenting choices; it's about Jules—and the maturity he's seemed to have developed overnight—so never mind.)</div>
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Fast-forward past the dinosaur-dig-ransack, past dinner and no-cake, past the Lego-making and the showers. Now Jules decides that he would, indeed, like some birthday cake—a bit of chocolate and a bit of vanilla. "Tiny, tiny," he says, like a 40-year-old woman. I serve it up, set it on the table and sit across from him. With my phone. Because I'm going to interview him. On his 6th birthday. Because that's what a whole bunch of posts on Pinterest suggest that a good parent should do. And conducting interviews is something in my wheelhouse, unlike most other things suggested on Pinterest. </div>
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<i>"Can I interview you?"</i></div>
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<i>"No." </i></div>
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<i>"Because it's annoying." </i>And so it begins... But he doesn't actually sound annoyed—just honest, and mostly kind. And so I keep going.</div>
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<i>"What do you want to be when you grow up?"</i></div>
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<i>"A dinosaur digger,"</i> he tells me.</div>
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<i>"A paleontologist?"</i></div>
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<i>"Yes." </i></div>
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<i>"You don't want to be a cake maker?"</i> It's my attempt at a lame joke because I can't think of a next question. And because I'm looking at him eating cake.</div>
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<i>"Mom. That's called a baker." </i></div>
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<i>"Ahh... yes."</i></div>
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<i>"What do you want to be when you grow up, Mom?"</i></div>
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<i>"Um, a mom?"</i></div>
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<i>"No, what do you want to BE?"</i></div>
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I tell him that a mom is most definitely a thing to be, all by itself, but that I guess I could also say a writer. He likes that answer. So then I go on to tell him that this is what writers do—or what some writers, the ones who are also called journalists, do. They interview people. </div>
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<i>"What if you don't want to be interviewed?"</i> he asks.</div>
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<i>"Well you just decline. You say, no thank you."</i></div>
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Julian nods and continues to savor his cake, silently, while watch him—so big and so little and, to me, so beautiful—silently. Olin comes around the corner. "Julian just declined an interview," I tell him. "Oh, I always decline her interviews," Jon tells him, laughing. </div>
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"Well some people find my interviews charming." I say this feigning that I am offended—and am pleased that Jules picks up on this nuance. He knows I'm kidding. As for the charming part, I'm not actually sure this is true. </div>
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<i>"What's 'charming'?"</i></div>
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I love that he asks when he doesn't know the meaning of the word. Every time. </div>
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<i>"It means nice... fun." </i>I'm not actually even sure if this is the most accurate definition. </div>
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<i>"Oh, I think they're fun. But sometimes I just don't feel like talking, Mom."</i></div>
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Well played, Jules. Well played. You're growing into a pretty cool little-big dude, my boy. </div>
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Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-35392251062204852902014-05-01T09:04:00.003-04:002014-05-01T11:14:00.829-04:00May Day brought us a new beginning. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It smelled of worms when I walked outside. At 5:22 am. We'd agree to go, even if it was raining. Which is wasn't and then it was. May 1. May Day. It felt like spring. I started jogging. I met Michelle. It started raining harder. She took off her glasses, shoved them in her pocket. There was talk of half-marathon training, of our boys and our husbands, how lucky we are. There was talk of T-ball and school. There was a bit of strategic planning (we work together). There was puddle-jumping, some of it unsuccessful. There was a family of 5 white-tailed deer so close I wasn't sure they were going to move, until they suddenly started sprinting perpendicular to our path. There was the long gradual hill that I always forget is there, until it is. There was labored breathing and then the sweet relief of the path flattening out again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07LLdvwdMSlJd_BejELsl6iJQMR3bbz3gpPFyaPmdkUYyTqPvhc7yPJXZ8wUdvenVpLEqgBAH1rZtx7On7HaWcQtpJUdvs7rH3El5ePjlOhpp1O9kfoKoltKpHDuDLdarbJqGdXae-64/s640/blogger-image--165979629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07LLdvwdMSlJd_BejELsl6iJQMR3bbz3gpPFyaPmdkUYyTqPvhc7yPJXZ8wUdvenVpLEqgBAH1rZtx7On7HaWcQtpJUdvs7rH3El5ePjlOhpp1O9kfoKoltKpHDuDLdarbJqGdXae-64/s640/blogger-image--165979629.jpg" /></a>Four years ago today, 40 weeks, 1 day pregnant with Kai, the first pangs of labor started. There was the recognition that this was probably "it," given the timing—and the second-guessing that it might not be, because that's how things go. There was rejoicing that I'd made it this far (which started when I hit 36 weeks), there was mild preparation and lots of playing with Jules. When the contractions settled into a predictable pattern, there was the bizarre decision to go to Q-Tees for one last Blizzard-but-not-Blizzard before the baby. There was piling in the car, Maria squeezed between Jules in his car seat and the empty one waiting for Kai. There were more contractions, accompanied by Jack Johnson and Us Weekly. There was a call to the doctor who suggested juice when I said I wasn't sure if they baby was moving. Which wasn't a good idea, given that I was further along than she thought. There was the ride to the hospital. The greeting of the doula. The monitor hook-ups. There were the contractions that got stronger and stronger until—when I determined that natural childbirth was indeed harder than running a marathon, about which I'd been curious (and Jules was delivered by emergency C-section)—I asked for the epidural (no shame!). There was the sweet relief that allowed me to relax and just marvel in the awesomeness of knowing that, within hours, we'd be four. A new beginning. </div>
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<br />Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7009067943429832481.post-57713613047612583872014-04-28T22:20:00.000-04:002014-04-28T23:23:06.817-04:00They can't wait to be bigger... and bigger... and bigger.<i>"Mama!"</i><br>
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Kai yells to me from upstairs, from the top bunk. It's 9:30, long past the time he should have gone to sleep. I rush up, not-so-secretly thrilled that he's summoning <i>me</i>. I've observed that boys in this house—at age three—tend not to prefer me. They want Olin. All the time. The first time around, the rejection was unbearable. Physically painful. But after seeing Jules circle back to me in the last year, I'm handling the Mama-disses better. Taking them (slightly) less personally. Still, when Kai calls for me, there is a joy-surge. No matter the time. Even if it's because he's peed the bed. But that wasn't the case tonight.<br>
<br><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LtSouNtQSXgjeriP9sCQSeGAngaRi8IIXENNn_zVbycIz2f2VpasZE9VvuaNlJ1nTZYmO-TrOI7hwNGS-4NuKEjPBblwTVRILZQumeWqFCOxWtBRFRTZy6Ios0sCFGpfsyi5P4ETA5M/s640/blogger-image-1631926495.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LtSouNtQSXgjeriP9sCQSeGAngaRi8IIXENNn_zVbycIz2f2VpasZE9VvuaNlJ1nTZYmO-TrOI7hwNGS-4NuKEjPBblwTVRILZQumeWqFCOxWtBRFRTZy6Ios0sCFGpfsyi5P4ETA5M/s640/blogger-image-1631926495.jpg"></a></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>Turns out, Kai called me up to tell me that he's going to be four. On his birthday—which is this Friday, May 2. Blows my mind. (Cliche.) I want to freeze time. (Super cliche). In part because when I snuggle in close with him like I did tonight, he wiggles his little chicken-wing shoulders in an exaggerated show of contentment. In part because he tells me—slurring, thanks to the left thumb he sleepily still sucks: "You're the best mamma in the whole, wide world."</span><br>
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But mostly because he says funny shit all the time. Like today in the car when I ask what he wanted for his special birthday dinner and he answered, "Broccoli. And water. And cauliflower." This from the kid who loves dessert. And starchy carbs. And, well, it's true: vegetables and water.<br>
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Or like yesterday, when I returned home from a friend's baby shower, and he greeted me at the door.<br>
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"Mama, you're not wet."<br>
"Huh?"<br>
"What?" </blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"You said you were taking a baby shower."</span></blockquote></blockquote>
OMG. It's the stuff you read on the back pages of parenting magazines—but even funnier, live in the moment.<br>
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Jules, who will be six on Monday, has been cracking my shit up lately too. I'd almost go so far as to call his comebacks witty. (Six-year-old "witty.") And eavesdropping on his conversations with Kai are the BEST. Tonight in the tub:<br>
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"Kai." [<i>He's very bossy. Read all of the punctuation properly to understand his delivery.]</i><br>
"KAI. You can't drink the bath water."<br>
<i>[Kai says nothing.]</i><br>
"KAI. You've been sitting in it. With your butt. [<i>pause</i>] Crack. [<i>pause</i>] That's where poop comes out. [<i>pause</i>] So don't drink that water." </blockquote>
Perhaps I shouldn't admit it in the context of that just-shared convo, but I totally want these days to keep repeating again and again forever and forever (cliche, cliche, cliche). Do all parents approach every birthday with feelings of bittersweet that parallel the kids' party-pinata-and-cake excitement? And do all kids just "want to get bigger and bigger and bigger"—as Kai told me was his wish, as I nostalgically tucked him in tonight?<br>
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I'm gonna guess yes.Nicci Miccohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16316178362521684773noreply@blogger.com2