Sister Summer Lovin'

by Cathy

When my first child was born, I was over! the! moon! that it was a girl. When I got pregnant with my second, I was obsessed with it now also being a girl. So much so, that I scoured Amazon for books on this and found one called, "How to Have a Girl". Yes, not only does such a book exist, but I found it and I bought it...just to make sure the odds were stacked in my favor of having yet another girl.

Why go to such ridiculous lengths, you may ask?

I was a child who grew up with a sister and I wanted nothing more than for me to have children that were sisters. The secrets, the gossip, the clothes/makeup-sharing, the advice, the countless nights awake talking, the tears, the happiness, the vacations, the boys, the experiences, the childhood we both shared and still reminisce about...THIS is what I wanted my kids to experience.

So when my second was also a girl, I was elated! Ecstatic! The happiest mom on earth! NOW they can grow up to experience that closeness. That bond. That...dislike?

I just couldn't get it. My sister and I had four years apart and my girls, five years. That should put us on the same level, right? However, when my young one got old enough to speak, understand and try to "play" with her sister, it was like watching rams butting heads. Add to that, the fact that they couldn't be more different in every possible way - personality, attitude, likes and dislikes - this was not turning out to be the romanticized Disney movie I had envisioned in my hormone-afflicted head. The fights. The frustration. The annoyance. I mused to them aloud almost every day:

"Why can't you guys just get along?!"
"My sister and I never did these things to each other!"
"Just play together NICELY!!"
"You guys are sisters and you will be each others' best friend for life. Don't you get that?!"

These would be followed minutes later by one of them tattling about what the other did. On it went like this to the point where Joe and I pondered if they were ever going to get along and I, sad that they would never allow themselves to experience the closeness that having a sister brings. Until this summer....

Magically, as if a sparkly baton came swooping into our house and bippety-boppety-booped them out of their state of hate, they began getting along.

Seemingly overnight, giggles and laughter replaced screaming and fighting. Music replaced door slamming. They began videotaping themselves on their phones, pods and pads doing silly, fun, sisterly things. They were hanging out more, making duct tape crafts together, watching YouTube and listening to music. They created their own inside jokes. Their own language. Their own humor. And the kicker? My youngest, who has asked me to lay/sit on her bed every. single. night. since she was a toddler, has suddenly stopped asking. Just like that. Now she snuggles with her sister, and stays up late as they giggle and chat the night away, the same way I did with my sister.

Sigh. Finally. Turns out that patience is a virtue that mother nature intended to take its course.

Ari turned seven years old yesterday. As I struggle through the fact that my toddler is now a young lady, I am comforted by what I see blossoming between them. Bella made her a card and put a picture on it from a few years ago. They look close...

...but now, are truly closer.

I step precariously and with much trepidation to the place in my mind where I feel like they have begun this wondrous and fulfilling journey on experiencing all the comfort and happiness that their relationship brings, as I know things won't be perfect. I am not saying that there won't be another fight or argument - there will be many. Now at least they have begun to realize, and will more so as they grow, that there is a special bond that binds them that can never be broken...

Sisterhood

Thank You and Goodbye: A Farewell to my Childhood Home

by Cathy

FOR  RENT

Never did two words affect me as deeply as these did the other day; they were plastered across the living room window of the house on Mozart Street where I spent my childhood. Those same windows where I eagerly awaited the daily return of my father from work and that same living room where I would undoubtedly wait and "surprise" him every evening when he walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see that sign - I merely drove by the building to reminisce, to see how different it felt now that my parents had officially moved out after 36 years. I was not expecting to see that sign.

Like a bullet ricocheting through my insides, those two words left my eyes, processed through to my brain, dropped down to my heart and shot right back up to my eyes in the form of waves of sobs - all within seconds. I wasn't ready for that reaction yet I knew that selling our childhood home would be like grieving the loss of loved one.

As I drove away in a bleary-eyed mess, I remembered how I was seven years-old when we moved in and I thought that beautiful structure was a castle, with its clear, diamond-shaped doorknobs, its stained-glass windows and its regal architecture gracing the facade's roof line. That castle, which  now holds all of my memories, my secrets, my dreams, my past, my life, will now be filled with others' lives, although I don't see how there will be any room left for them.

 It was the place I grew from a child, to a teenager, to a college student, to a married woman. I know too well that spot on the floor in my room where I would spend hours on the phone with boys or girlfriends. Those rounded cement decorations flanking our front door which we used as an intercom when we were playing Charlie's Angels. The front stoop, where we spent countless, carefree summer nights playing, gossiping, hanging out, choreographing dances to Queen and REO Speedwagon for our neighborhood talent show. The garage where we spent wonderfully simple Easters with our grandparents roasting lambs, and where we kept our first dog, Ginger, who ate the bicycle seat of my favorite pink bike. Where I learned how to ride a bike. The family birthday parties in the back yard. The back alley where I first learned how to drive with my dad in our white Plymouth Valiant. The familiar path to Virginia Park, where we walked or rode our bikes with our grandfather. All now distant, yet still vibrant memories.

Just last week, after 36 years of living there, my parents left their brick-and-mortar child behind. They not only sold my childhood home, but in a sense, they sold my childhood - and that of my sister's. That place that was filled with countless memories - sad, funny, memorable, devastating, fun - and every single one of those memories, relevant threads that tightly bind the fabric of our youth and ultimately, who we became as adults. The places we used to hide, the places we used to hide stuff, the doors and door frames we've written on, the places on the walls we made those dents and the stories that went with them, the hidden places in the furnace room and cubbies where we sharpied our names into the walls, the cement patch behind the garage where my grandfather, God rest his soul, carved out his initials.

The move was bittersweet in the sense that my parents had to move due to familial riffs and other extenuating circumstances, which had become more unbearable the past five years. For this reason, it was more of a relief for them to leave. For my sister and I, however, it was heartbreaking. We moved from Mozart Street on good terms, full of nothing but great memories that will always resonate into strings of stories that will forever weave the webs of our lives as we pass these down to our children. That is how we prefer to think of that building - the house that will forever be our home.

Seeing this home with moving boxes filled with our past, is something I never thought I would see.

Even worse, is seeing it completely empty.

But I didn't get to see that due to the timing of the move. My sister, on the other hand, did. I was jealous of her for having that closure, for allowing herself to grieve the loss of our childhood home in a way I didn't. She told me that after she walked through it, she stood in the foyer and said aloud, "Thank you and goodbye. I hope the next people treat you as good as we did."

I felt devastated that I didn't get my turn in saying goodbye and seeing it empty. On the other hand, I don't know if that was necessarily the best thing to do to myself. I am now content with remembering it full of life, memories and our things.

My mother told me if she was able to wrap her arms around the building and hug it tightly, she would. She put as much blood, sweat, tears and TLC into maintaining that building as she did in raising her children. That pride in ownership is what she will miss the most. No matter what the circumstances for leaving that place, the fact remains that these bricks and glass and wood that formed our childhood home will always be a part of who we are.

Just like the soul of a person gives us life, spirit and individuality, I believe the soul of a home are the people that reside within it. We give it life, we give it love, we give it spirit and memories. Whether we remain in that structure's shell or not, our soul will always resonate within it. Our history will remain fused with that brick and mortar of our past.

If home is where the heart is, then my home will always be that two-flat on Mozart Street where I grew up.

Thank you...and goodbye.

The Apple Family (snap! snap!)

by Cathy

We have officially become an iFamily.

This status was acheived recently with my husband's purchase of an iPhone. (Granted, he had an iPad but that doesn't count for the purpose of this post.) He was the last holdout with his puny Android My Touch and its green and grainy camera and its frustratingly slow as molasses browsing capabilities. He didn't even use half the features on it because of that reason and God forbid, didn't even think about downloading an app from its limited app marketplace button thingy.

Therefore, at my persistent urging, since I couldn't bear to hear, "I have GOT to get a new phone!" one more time and every time it shut down on him in the middle of a call or he almost threw it against the wall because he was waiting centuries for it to upload a web address, he finally crossed over into a territory most hospitable and welcoming: Appleville. Like most families, we are now on one tidyly packaged Verizon family plan.

No offense against any other type of phones/phone users; your phones are just as great and heck, maybe even better in some respects. But we really don't care, because we are Apple Fans through and through. We've never owned PCs and the two times we ventured out on a limb and went with Androids, both times were a bust. Case in point, exhibit A, my husband. Exhibit B, my tween, for whom we purchased said phone and in return, got this:
"MooooOOOOM! I can't download anything on this phone! There are no good apps! It takes forever! It's so annoying! I want an iPhone! When can I get my iPhone?!"



For her birthday in April (and for garnering some pretty awesome grades) she got her iPhone. Elation came in the form of tears of joy and a smile no one could wipe from her gorgeous face.

So as the circle of life commands, her iPod, complete with with shattered glass yet still 100% functional and loaded with game apps envied by children of all ages, was bequeathed unto a very satisfied younger sister, who has quickly and thankfully gotten past the novelty of having an iPod. (That makes only one of my kids not hooked up to a device like a life support I.V.) Until...she gets wind of how "cool" it would be to have a cell phone when the time comes for her to have a cell phone. For now, I rejoice.

As for me, I happily was the first to make the jump, the leap from a crappy old flip-phone to my iPhone almost three years ago and I haven't looked back. I am completely, 100%, fully and happily committed to my iPhone and when this one breaks down, I will probably get the newest version of it. We can (and have) spent hours at the Apple store and every time we go, we are amazed at the capability and capacity these devices have, which we aren't taking advantage of for lack of knowledge or the effort required to put forth into find these things out.

I will keep the faith - Jobs or no Jobs. No matter how far the stock falls, no matter how many cleverly humorous television commercials try to trash the "original", I will be here for it. And so, from the looks of it, will my iFamily.

Beggars CAN Be Choosey

by Cathy

Stopped at a stoplight. Walking in and out of stores. Walking down the street. Running down the street. We've all been confronted by peddlers while doing any one of these tasks and then some. Some give what they can, some ignore, some give no mind at all. (Bless my daughters' kind hearts, they want to give money to every person holding a sign at every intersection, and every street corner, every day. In Chicago, that's a lot o' dollars.)

We give what we have, when we can. That's a realistic approach we've exemplified for our girls. They've watched my husband and I hand our leftover food to homeless on the street while coming out of restaurants, buy an extra cheeseburger for the ones loitering around the McDonald's drive-thru and heck, Joe once even reached in and handed a beggar everything he had in his pocket, just because he was feeling good. I think that was about $30. Like I said, we give what we can, when we can.

So it baffled my husband to no end when, the other day, he was scoffed at by a beggar. As usual, minding his own business, stopping in for a coffee at a local shop, he was handed a piece of paper by a man. The paper claimed that he was a deaf mute and could he please help him out with any change he is willing to spare? Joe dug into his pocket, and all he had was .18 cents. He placed the change into the now wide-open palm of the eager man, who sat and stared incredulously as he counted the change. He slowly and deliberately rolled his stare up to meet Joe's eyes and shrugged his shoulders in a "What's this?" kind of way. Joe could not believe what he was encountering.

He turns to the cashier and says, "Can you believe this? I give this guy the change in my pocket and he gives me attitude." The cashier shakes her head.

He turns back to the man, who has now deposited the change into his pocket, and motions for him to give it back. "Give it back," he says, not knowing if he can hear him or not, yet the beggar knew exactly what he had set off. "If you don't want it, give it back. I can use it if you can't."

His eyes shifting everywhere, the beggar now is fumbling around in his pockets, dragging out the process as if to say, "On second thought..."
"Hmpft. Yeah. Forget it," Joe waves his hand at him in dismissal. "Just keep it."

So which saying applies here? You're damned if you do or damned if you don't? or No good deed goes unpunished? Both seem fitting. I'm not saying all peddlers are finicky even though there was a hungry (his sign said so) homeless guy downtown whom I gave my leftover pizza slices to and he paused to curl his upper lip in thoughtful decision. There was that homeless guy who actually returned the diamond engagement ring a woman inadvertently dropped into his cup. All I'm saying is that we do what we can, when we can and when we don't, I will try not to feel as guilty about it.

Moonraker of Chicago

by Cathy

I've mentioned before on this blog about how city living comes with its disadvantages when it comes to sleeping and how we wait all winter to throw our windows open, only to have to shut them lest we turn into zombie insomniacs a la World War Z.

After years of this, however, we start to become immune to some of those noises: lawn mowers, leaf blowers, barking dogs, chatty, early-risin' neighbors, equally early and energetic kids, 20 variations of chirping birds, garbagemen's whoops and hollers, garbage truck's BEEP BEEPing to back up and even the occasional firework (or gunshot). But last night, we encountered a new one.

It was about 11:30 and we had just settled our tired bones into bed when we hear SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE.
Half asleep, I muttered to Joe, "Are you shifting your feet against the covers?"
"No, that's from outside."
"Huh?" I shot up in bed and leaned my ear towards the open window.
SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE.
"What the..."
"It sounds like someone is digging something," offers Joe.
Okay that was comforting. Yet we didn't move either because we were too scared or too tired. A few minutes later we heard it again. Then again. Then....yet, again.
"That's it," said Joe, throwing off the covers. "My curiosity is gonna get the best of me."
He shuffles into the living room, dislodges the balcony door from its rain-soaked door frame and minutes later, lets out a sharp whistle.
Then, silence.
He shuffles back and says, "It's the guy two doors down. He's raking."
"Raking!?! Raking what?"
"I dunno, leaves...." Joe's illogical mumbling trails off towards the kitchen.
"LEAVES? In June?" I got up to see this for myself.

Can't sleep? Try this!!

Sure enough, in the light of the foggy yet brightly-lit full moon, the dude had a rake and was scraping it on whatever he was raking. Grass? Rocks? Gravel? His sidewalk? I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I went back and checked the clock. 11:47pm. Was this guy nuts? Was he Dexter from the hit HBO series?
After some contemplation about calling the police, we just decided to...what else....shut the window in order to get some shut-eye. Sure enough, as what often happens when we shut the windows in the summer to take slumber over noise, I woke up in a pool of sweat a few hours later and re-opened the window. I stopped short to listen for any other sounds. Ahhhhh, sweet silence.

Yet another night of sleep-seeking in the city. I just never thought that midnight raking from an insomniac looney down the street would be added to the list of things to keep us awake. Yet again, this is city living. This is Chicago.

Therein lies the difference

by Patti

My “lady parts” doctor’s office is located in an outdoor mall. That sounds wrong, doesn’t it? It sounds like I’m getting my pap smears done at a kiosk. But no – fortunately for all the shoppers, the office is actually in a building, neatly and discreetly tucked away in the corner of the third floor. But I digress. The cool thing about having an appointment is I get to hit the Starbucks right across the way, or go to TCBY and eat a $9 yogurt, or window shop at Macy’s. Look – when you’ve had a stranger’s hand up your hoo-ha, a little retail therapy is in order, don’t you think? Yes, I think.

The other day, I had a little extra time before a scheduled appointment, and decided to stroll around the breezeways a bit. There was Table de la Sur, with its Martha Stewart-esque kitchen gadgets to make one feel like a complete domestic failure; there was Forever 21, teeming with middle-aged mothers and their gum-smacking, eye-rolling teen-aged daughters, both feeling horrified for entirely separate reasons; there was Vera Bradley, with its North Shore paisley prints splashed on Every! Single! Item! Even! Their! $20! Pens!

I realized the time, and decided to start heading to the kiosk doctor’s office for my appointment. As I walked, I noticed a man walking with his little boy. The boy was around two years old, and he did his best to keep up with this rushed dad.  As the boy hurried to catch up, he started to hobble. And that’s when I realized that the kid’s pants were sliding right off of him. Down over his diapered butt they went until they were circling his ankles and catching his every step. But the little dude muscled up and still tried to keep up. The dad? Totally oblivious. At that very moment, another lady who had been walking near me and I both piped up at the same time, pointing to the boy. “Uh, sir? His pants fell down.”

That’s when the man finally turned around, and when he saw the predicament his poor son was in, he swiftly hitched the pants right back up. “Buddy! You’re supposed to tell me when your pants fall down!”

After the man hurried away with his now clothed son, the other lady and I looked at one another and burst out laughing. We both knew that had the boy been with his mother, her motherly spidey-senses would have sensed the pants’ plan to fall long before they even fell, and the kid would have been spared diaper-flashing the shoppers.

This reminded me of when my friend, mother to three young girls at the time, left for her first vacation ever sans her children and husband. She reported to me that when she got back, her husband lovingly shared with her photos of some of the things he had done with the girls in her absence. My friend nearly fainted when she realized that most of the pictures included an outing to the top of a mountain, where he posed the girls by themselves in front of THE EDGE OF A CLIFF so he could snap a souvenir photo. Later, her older daughter told my friend that “Daddy dressed Rachel in shorts and Rachel couldn’t walk!” When my friend questioned her husband, he had no choice but to admit that he had dressed their youngest daughter for the day in shorts, and noticed throughout the day that she was walking “funny”.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that he realized he had forced both of her legs into ONE opening.  Of course, once the horror of thinking her children could have fallen to their deaths had passed, we both laughed and laughed and laughed, because, really?

Let’s face it: Fathers love their children just as much as mothers do. They love them fiercely, wholly, protectively. They love them to the moon and back and around the world three times. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shove two legs into one pant leg and not notice, or allow a child to streak naked through a mall, or forget to feed them breakfast because what’s wrong with marshmallows? Why? Because they’re not mothers. It’s as simple as that.

Summer Fun(k)

by Patti

When S was little and I had the luxury of being able to stay home with her, I never understood the complaints of those mothers who couldn't wait for school to start so they could get the kids out of the house. While I certainly respected their points of view, for me, there was something about the unscheduled ease of our lives during that time; the ability to come and go, and see and do, and experience and experiment. As cheesy as it sounds, being home with my daughter simply felt like a blessing to me.

As S grew into her elementary school years, I went back to work part-time, and - in the past two years - as she morphed from a still-clinging fourth grader to a, as of today, freshly-out-of-sixth grader, I went back to work full-time. Working full-time is not a new thing for me; I did it all my adult life until I had my kid. But going back to working full-time after your life has been altered by family? It's different. There is a whole new set of feelings that go along with being financially independent and feeling intellectually fulfilled. These days, even though my child is now 12 years old and most certainly does not need to hold my hand or have me pinned to her side every second of every day, I know she still needs me in even more complex ways than ever before. And most of all? I find I still need her.

Yesterday was S's last day as a sixth grader. Last night I asked her what her dreams were for this summer. "Dance, spend time with friends, and go to Jamaica." I can grant two of those wishes. My wish? Spend with her the last summer before she becomes a teenager. Do things with her. Watch her grow. Know her dreams and grant them. Cherish the moments she might still need me.  Alas, I have to work. So, with the exception of some planned vacation days, I will still have to hustle to find those days with her. And because of that, I now find myself selfishly wishing the summer away. After all, how can summer happen for her and not me? How can it not happen for us together?

The truth is? She will be fine. She will dance and spend time with her friends and her dog and have full days with her papi. She will eat ice cream and swim and spend some time with her grandmother, and she will flourish. She might even grow an inch or two. Because here is the other truth: my baby is no longer a baby. And all those summers I did have with her have made her who she is and who we are together, and as much as I might pine for those days, I now live in these days. And these days are wonderful in their own way.

Over and...Done.

by Cathy

Today is the last, official day of school for my kids and I'm freaking out.
I did not expect this. At all.

It blindsided me during the usual morning breakfast rush. We were running late as usual but there was a relaxed feel to the harriedness. Then my youngest, Ari, knowing we were going to be late, asked if I could walk her to her locker after getting the obligatory tardy slip in the main office. (I did this last week, one day with her, but only after she insisted that I do it because as usual, I was in my own crazed bubble, mentally running through lists of where I have to go and what I have to do for the day. But boy, once I did it, I was so glad I did. Small, inside peeks into your child's school day - her stuff, her routine, her interaction with friends and teachers - is something I never get to really see.)

"Mommy, can you walk me to my locker today?"
"Oh, honey, papi will be taking you today."
"Papi," she turned. "Can you walk me to my locker today?"
He looked at me quizzically. "Why? Is it something I need to do?"
"No," I said flatly. "But just take her. It's something you'll remember doing. It's her last day of first grade."

Boom! Something inside my heart exploded. My husband noticed it but kept quiet. He turned to Bella, my now TWELVE-year old.

"Do you want me to walk you to your locker, too?" he offered quietly.
And just as we suspected, she replied, "No, that's okay."
At that moment, we both knowingly felt that pang of harsh reality that one day, we will not get asked to walk our kids to our lockers. Or lay with them at bedtime. Or read them a story. Or hold their hand. Or want to sleep in our bed or crawl in there in the middle of the night. One day, they just stop asking.

I quickly ushered them out the door with a kiss while my husband hurried them into taking an end-of-the-year photo before they drove off. In the still quietness that just minutes ago, was my hurricane of a kitchen, I sat and cried. Where was this coming from? From the quietness of the house that will one day be forever this quiet once they both move on and live their lives? From seeing the remnants of their rushed breakfast still on the table and realizing that for all the bitching I do about getting up early, and packing them lunch and snacks and preparing breakfast that the school year is already over and done?

Last night, as I was laying with Ari in bed (I don't refuse these invitations any more, I cherish them now) I saw she had posted some collages on her wall. Pictures of makeup, fashion, accessories that she put together.
"What are those?" I squinted in the dark.
"Oh, those are my pictures I cut out. I want to be a girl now."
"Noo!" I whispered loudly to her. "You are still little."
"Yeah, but mommy, I want to act like a big girl, but I'll still be little, okay?"
"But you're little, so you should act like a little girl."
"I'll still be little. I'm only six. But I just want to act like a big girl," she said, clutching her pillow and sheepy, clearly comforting my inability to accept this.

 I guess it makes sense that for all the comforting we dish out to our kids during the course of their childhood, it would only be fitting if they do the same for us at some point. I just don't want it to be so soon. I just dont' want it over and done with so fast.

Titles? Ain't nobody got time for that!

by Patti

 As you read this, just know I need my fingers to get used to the idea that they are typing something. Something other than reports and summaries and lists, that is. Plus: I got stripper nails. Typing with stripper nails is a whole new world. There is something frustratingly limiting yet deliciously freeing about stripper nails, and I've come to the conclusion that I have waited far too long in life to experience them. Also: I've been a little busy, you see. Busy with work and  life and appointments that I finally made (stripper nails!) - and kept! Like you haven't, right? So you know what I mean. But you know what? Suddenly, at the moment that I am preparing to catch a flight for a work trip, the mood struck me, and I told myself, SELF! Go with it!

So.

The kid turned 12. Last month I rented a van - a real., 12-passenger kind-of-van - and, after slapping a number of embarrassing signs on it and decking out the interior with streamers and balloons,

I stuffed 10 screaming tweens into it and cranked the tunes all the way to a hotel! With a pool! Near a mall! And those 10 screaming tweens ate pizza, and shopped, and swam, and watched movies, and had pillow fights, and sprayed whipped cream, and stayed up 'til a billion o'clock. But, oh, did they have fun. And I still cannot believe, not without feeling slightly panicky and totally melancholy and fully bewildered that my baby - my baby -  the one that came out of me screaming into the world, hair curly and damp, eyes wild and wide, hands flailing and sure - is now 12. Can I get TMI on you? I pulled her out. I did. I leaned forward with the deepest of gasps and final-est of pushes, and pulled her right out of me and onto me, and she was born. And it was magnificent. And now, 12 years later, I am pulling her out of bed, out of cars, pushing her onto buses, into classes, into life....

You know what else happened? Braces. I mean, of course, right? She's 12 now; braces are pretty much a must. They're not on her teeth just yet; that will happen in two weeks. But she's had all of the pictures done, and suffered through the mold process - which basically entails the stuffing of mushy clay into the mouth and lots and lots of gagging - and she's picked out her colors. Did you know they have colors now? They have colors. In "my day", the only "color" was metal, and there seemed to be a hell of a lot more of it in a pubescent mouth than the braces of today.

S has picked out her colors: Baby blue. Or mint. Or pink. Or neon green. I DON'T KNOW. The picking-out-of-the-colors seems to cause more stress than the actual braces. Two weeks to go, let's pray this awful world problem of what color to pick will be solved in time. God FORBID.

Since the braces are an inevitable part of the junior-high uglies, I made a promise to my child that had her leaping over the moon: I told her she could get contacts. I mean, the kid's glasses are unbearably cute, what with their oversized frames on her undersized face. But let's be honest: Glasses AND braces? So two weeks ago, we headed to the eye doctor for her annual eye exam, where, surprise! She's a year blinder! With new prescription in hand, we determined that S was ready for contacts. Did you know that putting in contacts for the first time is pretty much as easy as shoving a frisbee into a coffee cup? That poor kid spent an HOUR AND ONE HALF trying to get in just the first contact.

But she did not give up! And today, two weeks later, she is a total pro, putting in those contacts at lightning speeds. She still has her hipster glasses, and she still loves them unabashedly, but she now at least has the option to geek it up or geek it down at will. When you're 12 and the world is perceived through the amped-up eyes of pubescent drama, options are crucial.

Guess what? I have lot's more to say. Stay tuned.....

Sisyphus, Meet Wonder Woman

by Cathy

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. 

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.   - Albert Camus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus ended up with some seriously whack punishment from the Gods...

He was to push an absurdly large and heavy boulder up a sloped hill in the underworld (who knew hell had hills?) only to watch the boulder roll back down on its own weight right before it reached the top. His punishment was to do this for eternity; the quintessential example of a senseless, futile job that would never have an end nor a positive outcome. There is nothing more abhorrent than a fruitless labor - one that accomplishes nothing. Or is there?

Some argue that his punishment was anything but futile, but rather there was fulfillment and dare we say, even happiness in it, yet I struggle to see how - until I realized that we are each, in our own way, in our own lives, figuratively doing what Sisyphus was physically condemned to do. We are each pushing that proverbial boulder up that hill, only to have it come back down in a different form, a different challenge, a different problem. Once we think we have overcome one challenge, along rolls another; maybe not immediately as in the case of Sisyphus, but eventually, it does come back down.

I have been feeling that way for the last year, both in large challenges in my life - my parents, my kids, my marriage, my job - as well as the daily grind. As soon as I accomplish one task, 10 more crop up almost simultaneously. I honestly feel like Wonder Woman, flashing those reflective (and may I add, stylish) cuffs that deflect and bounce back anything that comes her way. I only wish it were that easy.

Boom...done! Back at ya! Next!

However, it is imperative that we try to find the truth behind Albert Camus' quote above. That even though what goes up will undoubtedly roll back down, there is a lesson to be learned, an experience that will alter your perspective, deepen your understanding, shape your soul or enrich you, open your eyes or change your mind. It's all there for a reason, whatever those reasons and yet unlearned lessons may be. No matter the outcome, the efforts of taking on these challenges and pushing those boulders uphill, will yield a fulfilled outcome of some kind, perhaps in ways you never imagined.