Exhibits Both Artistic And Scientific

Flynn had her preschool art exhibition this week. These are her submissions, which were culled from a school year's worth of art projects (not an easy feat, I can assure you):

Evan also had his First Grade science fair. The goal of the experiment was to answer a question. Initially, Evan wanted to build a robot from scratch. His dad and I talked him into something a little less time consuming. Evan's question was "Do tall buildings fall faster than shorter ones during and earthquake?" He and Frank made a shake table to simulate an earthquake, which was a big hit. What's not to love about making Lego towers fall?

Both kids were so proud of their work and I'm so incredibly proud of them.

The Day I Stopped Writing

I've written more here in the last 6 months than I've written in the last 6 years.

That wasn't always the case.

I was always known as "the writer" in my family. My mom says that as soon as I could hold a pencil I was always writing. I wrote mainly poetry, a smattering of short stories, and one summer I wrote a play that my friends and I produced during my birthday party. It was no surprise I became an English major in college. Writing research papers, while labor intensive, never really bothered me. The words came easily. I continued to write poetry, finding that medium most fitting to my style. I love the way poets distill language down to its very essence - word choice and placement on the page is premium. A couple of my poems were published, one was used in a play. But I certainly did not think myself a poet by any stretch of the imagination. "The difference between you and Steve [a mutual friend], " a person I used to know said, "is that Steve writes because he wants to. You write because you need to." I did. I did need to write. A pen in my hand put to paper was a natural extension of myself. Lots of ideas would pop into my head or I'd hear a phrase or read something and I needed to get it on paper pronto.

This continued through college and beyond. My first job after school was with a local publishing company. Some of the editors had formed a writing group and I was asked to join. We'd take turns submitting works and spend our Wednesday evenings dissecting the submissions. I learned so much from those people and their writing.

Once I was married and started teaching, the desire to write creatively lessened. I had little time to contemplate and work on poems, plus I just didn't want to.

Then my son was born and life kicked into high gear. Evan was 16 months old when I decided to start journaling - my fingers were getting itchy. One late morning in early May, 2002 I picked up a notebook, settled into the rocker glider and while Evan napped on the floor, I wrote. I don't have that notebook anymore but I recall writing about how much I loved this little sleeping boy curled up on a blanket at my feet, clutching a Batman doll in his pudgy fist.

A week later I stopped writing.

Monday, May 11, the day after Mother's Day, was like any other day until about 4:00 in the afternoon.

Evan and I had been home from running errands for about 15 minutes when Frank came home. He walked in looking upset. He sat down on the couch next to me and didn't say anything. He couldn't talk. Then he said, "Have you heard about Tom and Jane?" I said no, I hadn't heard anything about my dad and his wife. Frank was very quiet and visibly shaken. I was starting to get a little frightened, thinking they were in a car accident or something, then he said, "They're dead."

I immediately went to the phone and called my dad's office number at the university. He'd retired from the small animal vet clinic the previous August after 31 years as a clinician and teacher. He was named a professor emeritus and still had an office in the building. I got his voicemail. I didn't leave a message.

When my mom showed up a couple minutes later, I knew something really bad had happened. I collapsed into her arms and started wailing, "NO!" When Evan started to cry, I realized I had to get it together - I was scaring him.

In a flurry of activity, I called the clinic's front desk and talked to one of the receptionists. She left a message for one of my dad's closest friends to call me back. My mom called the police department in the town where my dad lived. They couldn't give her any information. By this time, my sister, her husband and 8-week-old baby girl and my brother-in-law's parents and their minister were all ensconced in my house.

The phone rang just as one of the local T.V. stations showed footage of a body bag being taken from my dad's house. It was the county coroner calling to confirm what I already knew: that my dad was dead. This very nice, kind man with a horrible job then explained how my dad died.

He was murdered by his wife of 22 years, who then took her own life. He had been asleep - napping on the TV room floor. Jane shot him in the head 4 times, then wrote an 8-page note that was filled with nothing but hate for my dad. With my dad's blood on her feet she walked back to their bedroom and killed herself with a single bullet to the heart. My sister and I will never know what truly drove our step-mother to murder and we'll also never know exactly when they died. Unlike on TV, the coroner couldn't give us an exact time of death, just that they'd died sometime before their bodies were discovered by the dogsitter that Monday morning. Katy and I have pieced some things together and we feel that our dad died that previous Sat. evening.

The last thing I wrote of any length was for the program for my dad's memorial service, held at the Krannert Center. I wrote that we wanted his friends, clients and colleagues to know him as my sister and I knew him - a loving and devoted dad and doting grandpa. And I wrote mainly because I couldn't trust my voice or composure.

After that, the only writing I did was "thank you" notes and an occasional letter to out-of- state family and friends.

Life went on, we moved to a new house, had another baby, went on with our lives. Years passed.

Then a mom at preschool clued me into Mrs. Chicken's blog.

I read.

And read.

And read some more.

Little by little the hard little nugget of grief that had frozen my fingers started to melt and fall away. By last November, I felt, "my fingers are itchy." Mrs. Chicken, if you ever think your writing doesn't make a difference, read this.

So here I am.

Grieving still for my stolen father but able to put pen to paper, fingers to keys and that makes it better.

The Best Thing To Come Out of Norway Since A-Ha

I've been a fan of Sondre Lerche's for a few years now. After I saw this video I promptly ordered the CD Two Way Monologue because I couldn't find it around here and I have yet to be disappointed with any of this young man's songwriting and musicianship. He's just a baby - maybe 25 but, man, is he talented; signed to Virgin/EMI before he was 16.

Hope you become a fan of Sondre Lerche, too. He deserves a bigger following here in the States. His albums can now be found at any of the better record stores in town (hint hint).

Say A Prayer For My Future Son-In-Law Now

I shouldn't have asked Flynn what she wanted to wear to her kindergarten assessment tomorrow. She launched into this amazingly fanciful idea that the perfect outfit to wear would be, "a skirt with a jewels here and here and a shirt with jewels all over." She eventually settled for a flowered skirt and a shirt with a puppy on it. Then she asked, "Mommy? Can I wear one of your necklaces? And some earrings?"

Never mind that her ears aren't pierced and that she doesn't own a jeweled skirt.

I relented on the necklace and we went through my jewelry, the bulk of which is composed of costume pieces (I wear my "good stuff" every day - my engagement and wedding rings and diamond stud earrings that were a Christmas gift from my husband). No, she could not wear the Claddagh ring I bought in Galway, Ireland (my family's ancestral home and where the Claddah ring originated). It is precious to me and, besides, it's too big for her to wear. Maybe someday. Ditto on my class ring and my dad's wedding ring that I wear on a chain.

Flynn chose a rose quartz pendant necklace then said in a somewhat effected voice, "I need to wear diamonds every day. Every. Day."

She wanted to sleep with the necklace under her pillow.

God help the man she marries.

My Favorite Part In The New Iron Man Movie

Last night Frank and I escaped, leaving my blessed mother to care for our angelic children, so we could see the latest super hero flick, Iron Man.

The movie was excellent - funny, in line with the Iron Man comic book origin, great special effects. Robert Downey, Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Terrence Howard and Jeff Daniels are all stellar and well directed by Jon Favreau.

But my favorite part came when Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.'s character) is in his basement lab/garage tooling around with what would become his Iron Man suit. This long lost gem from my adolescence was playing in the background.

"Institutionalized" by punk band Suicidal Tendencies was a song I listened to over and over with my friend Deanna, usually on headphones in the school library during study hall. We loved this band and this song in particular.

The video's not the greatest, but the song's a ton of fun.

Lovable Madness Times Two

I asked my kids, ages 7 and 4 and a half, what it takes to be a good mom to more than one kid.

The oldest answered, "A lot of love and patience."

His younger sister chimed in with, "And gum."

They have a bit more insight into this mommy gig than I thought.

Is it harder, more difficult, to mother more than one child at a time?

Yes, and no.

Yes, you will have to develop more (i.e., new and improved) "Mommy Tricks" for the new addition. You will learn the hard way (at least I did) that each child's energy and personality is different. While you may understand this intellectually and take it to heart, you'll just have to have that hands on experience that only parenting more than one can give. What works for your oldest may not on the next one. Case in point, my first born always needed help calming down. Whenever he worked himself up into a lather, it was impossible for him to come back down without help from me or his dad. What worked for Evan was holding his hands and doing a yoga breathing technique called "bunny breath".

You can imagine my consternation when this little trick failed to calm his sister. If fact, it had the opposite effect: it pissed her off even more. What I had to realize was that she needed time alone to cool off by herself. Now I know just to tell her to "get it together" and she will. The tears dry up, breathing returns to normal, sunny disposition is back, tantrum over.

There will be a period of adjustment. Oh yes. Our first night home with both children was a disaster, then it gradually got better, just as it did when our first was a newborn. Either it got better or we were just beaten down by lack of sleep and trying to keep up with a toddler as well. I tend to be optimistic so I'll say it got better.

But with the gloom (the nit-picky fights, the teasing, etc.) comes the glory. My kids have the ability to cheer one another up in an instant. They developed this system that if one is sad, the other pretends to be the other's favorite animal (a cat, dog, dinosaur, whatever) and lavish the sad child with love and affection. This never fails and they do it instinctively. They protect one another: they've got each other's back, "Flynn don't do that, Mom'll get mad." Sure, they'll rat each other out, that's one of the joys of sibling hood - extortion in the form of love (this is something I experience first-hand with my younger sister, "Don't tell Mom! Here, take this (insert whatever desirable object here)." But their bond is an amazing thing to witness and I give all the credit to them.

Also, make sure to incorporate your older child into the routine of caring for the baby. Give him/her a job to do, like entertaining the baby during diaper changes. And make sure your oldest gets one-on-one time with you. I used to leave Flynn with a sitter and take Evan out for a morning. We'd run errands, go to coffee (he likes a decaf with lots of milk), explore second-hand shops, and end up at Olive Garden for lunch. On the occasional day that he's off school and Flynn's not, we get a smoothie and head for the local nature center for a walk and to sit in the bird room.

So, my advice to soon-to-be-moms of two? I hope you like roller coaster rides, 'cause this one's a doozy (if having one kid's like the Whizzer at Great America [a starter coaster - not terribly thrill-inducing but fun], then the second's like the most terror-inducing coaster you can think of - you'll get puked on and probably puke yourself but it's one helluva adrenaline rush).

And remember to have lots of love, patience and gum (just remember you'll need at least 2 packs, each a different flavor). You'll do just fine. Enjoy the ride.

Uh-Oh

When I picked Evan up from school today he said, "I'm really warm."

He looked it, too, all cherry-cheeked and damp hair. I chalked it up to him wearing a long-sleeved shirt and long pants and running around at "3rd recess" right before school was let out. Then he said, "I'm going to take a nap."

Uh-oh, I thought, something's up because Evan hasn't willingly taken a nap in over 5 years.

My mind immediately went to the trials over at the Chicken house. Please, dear God, let this just be some little 'ole virus and not strep. There are only 20-something more days left in the school year. He cannot get sick.

The thermometer doesn't lie: he has a fever. Low-grade but my boy's body regulates its temp like mine does - our regular body temps are not 98.6, but more like 97-ish, give or take a few tenths of a degree. So 99 degrees is a fever.

I'm going to play it by ear, dose him with Motrin, send him to bed early and see how he feels in the morning.