Colorado: The Country

I love the mountains. Or I should say, I love the idea of the mountains. I love what mountains represent, the triumph of nature over man, the sheer power of the earth itself, the  rock layers and colors proving her ancient being. Inspiring.

So I was really excited to go to Colorado with our girls, who have never seen mountains before, and share in the wonder.

We were not disappointed.

The mountains were ever-present, as a landscape off to our west, no matter where we drove. And then the day after the wedding we drove to Estes Park, and were amazed by the drive itself.

On the drive to Estes Park

How is this now awe-inspiring? Look at how tiny we humans are in comparison. And we think we're in charge. Ha!

We stopped in Estes Park and had lunch. We happened to stop at the ONLY Packer bar this side of the Colorado River.

Are you kidding me?

The best part was that the family in the booth next to us was all wearing Vikings jerseys. I don't think anyone in the place outside of ourselves saw the irony in that.

We then drove further up to Rocky Mountain National Park. Wayne and I are both nervous mountain drivers, as we've experienced in previous travels to Napa Valley and Colorado Springs. We both feel like we're going to fall off the edge of the road and down the side of the mountain. I found myself leaning to the left away from the edge, even though there was no point to that. Later on we encountered more recently repaved roads which had been widened to create a very small shoulder. It's amazing the difference 1.5 feet makes in feeling more secure on the road.

We drove as far as Sprague Lake and walked around the lake, about a 1.5 mile walk, the perfect length for the kids. The sky had become overcast and it started spitting rain a little bit, but we didn't care.

We kept watching the big peaks across the lake from us, observing how they changed as we went along. We discovered that the snow we were seeing on the one large peak was actually Tyndall glacier, and at one of the stops there were photos of the glacier from the 1910s. It was sad to see how small the glacier was today in comparison. (Granted it is summer, but I bet it was the smallest summertime glacier ever.)

Looking at Tyndall Glacier from Sprague Lake. Can you see it?
Look now, it won't last forever, sadly.

Later during our travels, we had an opportunity to go horseback riding in the foothills of the Rockies. I love the way the locals call them "foothills" but we would call them "mountains." Perspective is everything.

"Foothills."

We had made reservations for all 4 of us to go horseback riding for an hour. God bless Marissa, she said she wanted to go, but when she wouldn't get near or pet the horses I could tell that it might not work out. We got her on a horse but 2 minutes later she was crying and asking to get off. Instead of traumatizing our child by making her go, we let her get off and Wayne and Lindsey went out while Marissa and I hung back. Since we had paid for 4 trail rides I was able to arrange to have Lindsey and I go again the next day. So Lindsey -- lucky horse-loving girl that she is -- got to go twice, while both Wayne and I accompanied her once, and Marissa happily got to go shopping with Daddy on the second day of riding.

On the second day when Lindsey and I arrived a ranch hand came up to her, gave her a hug and said, "I recognize this little girl! She's the one with the big smile." She clearly made an impression on her first day by her love of horses.

Our guide, Slim,  was well-suited to the job of trail guide. He was so comfortable with the horses, easy to talk...and hilarious. At one point we came over a ridge and he called back, "Now there are two ways you can go here, the left or the right. I recommend you stay to the right." Once we came over the ridge we could see that the way "left" was actually straight down the ravine while the right was the only way you could go without hurting yourself. What a joker.

Photo by Slim, expert trail guide and bullshitter.

He told a story of coming across and killing a rattlesnake while leading a trail ride, only to have the truth be that he came across a dead rattlesnake in the road. He had Lindsey, the only child in our group, stay right behind him for both of the riding days, and they got along splendidly.

The horses were masterful at picking their way among a more advanced trail than the trail taken the day before (according to Slim). The trails looked no wider than ones humans would walk, yet these large animals took them with finesse. I simply sat back and let the horse pick the way as we descended the mountainside. We came back up through another trail and rose higher than the trail taken by Lindsey the day before (the guide pointed down to the trail they had previously taken).

The sky was immense. An intense blue in every direction, dotted with puffy cotton ball clouds. A realization of being of no consequence to the universe came upon me; our lives are little in the history of the earth. Not to say that what we do doesn't matter, but why not enjoy as much of it as we can?

I asked Slim, "Do you ever get accustomed to how beautiful this country is?" His answer: "Never."

I rode Trail Baron, Lindsey rode Valley Girl.
We had to take a picture with "Slim," whose real name is David. Super nice guy.

On our last day we visited Horsetooth Reservoir just outside of Fort Collins, which nephew Ryan had recommended to us. We didn't get to see as much of it due to Wayne's and my intense anxiety over the steepness of the hills, but we did get to see the "foothills" one more time.

Go if you haven't been. And go again if you have. I know for sure we will be back.

A Colorado Wedding

Just in case you are wondering: This vacation beat Disney. Hands down. So much so that I will need to break this up into multiple posts just to cover it all.

Colorado. Mountains. A wedding. Family. All of it, wonderful.

The purpose of this trip was a family wedding. Wayne's nephew, Ryan, who was an usher in our wedding 18 years ago when he was in grade school, mind you, was getting married in Fort Collins, CO. Would we be there? Absolutely.

We met his soon-to-be-wife for the first time at the rehearsal dinner the night before. She is wonderful and lovely. We met their daughter, Kya, a sweet little nearly 2-year-old who charmed everyone she met. We also met James, the son of niece Rita and husband Jason who live in New Mexico, and he also is nearly 2. All this family spread out over this immense country of ours, we hadn't realized how many years were passing between our gatherings until we saw little ones we had never met before. Family gathered from 13 states for this event, including sister-in-law Laurie from New York City. The times we get together are so rare and we were so happy to be able to visit with everyone.

We picked Laurie up from the airport and went straight to lunch.
This is what you have with lunch when you're on vacation.

And this is what you do after lunch -- re-apply your lip gloss!

The venue for the wedding was breath-taking, every detail thoughtful and meaningful.

The programs doubled as fans, which came in handy in the heat of the setting sun.

The view of the ceremony from our seats.

The ceremony took place under an angled pergola with strings of glass menagerie hanging down. The trees were strung with lights that lit small cocktail tables as evening drew near.

Glass menagerie of the pergola lit by the setting sun.

The reception area, lit by trees strung with lights, beyond the ceremony's seating.

The evening's lighting.

They were so thoughtful to offer pizza for the kids and babysitters to keep them out of trouble. Because seriously, what 6-year-old do you know craves eggplant roulade? Exactly. Except Lindsey is at that "I'm grown up now even though I'm only 10" stage, so she asked to partake in the evening meal with us, while Marissa was happy to gobble down pizza with the younger children and spend the evening running through the gardens, catching toads. 

Marissa shows us one of the 6 toads the kids caught that night.
No worries, we let them all go before they drowned in their cup houses.

Lindsey was polite as could be, sat through all the dinner courses with infinite patience and manners, and was a perfectly behaved little lady. She's growing up before my eyes.

Lindsey was thrilled to find her name on a place card.

The meal was delicious and the festivities after were of legends. Well, that part I'm not quite sure of, but I do know that dancing took place, and that is legendary to us.

Little ones danced.

Big ones danced. (And this is the best photo proof you'll get.)

And family had a wonderful time together.

(From L to R) Rita (Ryan's sister), Jason, Chelsey, Ryan

Proud parents of the groom Mark and Donna, big sister Rita with husband Jason

We spent the next day visiting with family at the hotel, which included the ever-popular pool. Oh yes, the pool, usually the best part of our kids' vacation. 

"What'd you like best about Disney?" 

The pool. 

"What'd you like about Boston?" 

The pool.

Why don't we just save all this money we're spending flying around this country of ours and build a f*cking pool. But this time?

"What'd you like best about Colorado?"

The wedding.

And THEN...the pool.

But this time, the best part about the pool was the time spent with cousins there. That was music to my ears.

Going Meatless

I've jokingly referred to our youngest daughter as a "self-selecting vegetarian." Whenever she's given an option of a meat with vegetables, starches or other foods, she usually eats everything except the meat. My kids have never been hot dog eaters, and Marissa -- for the most part -- doesn't choose meat. Ever.

Lindsey, on the other hand, ate an 8 oz. steak by herself when she was 3 years old. She devoured grilled chicken with gusto and ate spaghetti and meat sauce at least once a week, if not every night if I let her.

I like to say that my kids get a balanced diet between the two of them. Marissa eats all the fruits and vegetables, Lindsey eats all the meat and potatoes.

Lindsey has two friends who are vegetarians; one her entire life, the other more recently because she didn't like the idea of animals being killed so she could eat. Lindsey began getting pickier about the meats she would eat.  And then she had an experience eating at someone else's home where they served fried chicken on the bone, and suddenly that connection between living animals and animals that we eat was made clear.

Suddenly our meat eater did not want to eat animals anymore.

She decided to try to be a vegetarian for a week. So we tried a few plant-based alternatives to get the protein in -- black bean burgers, meatless "chicken" nuggets, and other options.

After a week of testing out a vegetarian diet, she decided she loves it and wants to be a vegetarian for good.

And since our other daughter already is a vegetarian by the choices she makes, that leaves just Wayne and I as the two meat eaters in the house.

I really have no plans to make two meals for dinner every night, one for us and one for our offspring, so we decided that when we're dining at home, we'll be a vegetarian family.

I have a high school friend who never really cared for meat but her parents made her eat it. After all, we grew up in Wisconsin, in the heart of dairy and meat country. What else did you eat if not meat with every meal? The texture made her want to vomit and she had frequent battles over dinner during her childhood. The day she arrived at college she became a vegetarian and never looked back.

Decades later, options for people who have specific diet requirements are readily available, especially in our metropolitan area. Gluten free, dairy free, meat free, just look in the local grocery store (or better yet the local co-op) and there are tons of options. It's a lot easier to be a vegetarian today than it was years ago.

If our kids don't want to eat meat, we'll support it. After all, Americans as a whole eat way too much meat and protein. Did you know that you shouldn't eat a piece of meat larger than your palm at any given meal? Your palm, not your hand. Take a look at your palm and ask yourself how often you are served a piece of meat the size of your hand, or more.

It's been 3 weeks and it's going well so far. We've gotten both Lindsey and Marissa to eat foods they would have never tried before. And Wayne and I are eating healthier than ever.

This doesn't mean we'll be choosing vegetarian when we're not home. Wayne and I are already planning which steakhouse we're going to visit for our next date night.

More Than Daughters

This summer there have been small events happening that strike me as strange, and until recently I couldn't figure out why.

First, I came across the "selfie" that Lindsey took of herself to send to a friend, showing off her new gummy bear earrings.

A friend of mine texted me a photo of Marissa and a friend on an outing together.

I found a note Marissa's friend made for her at their summer program.

Note the proper use of "you're." That's a smart friend!

At first I couldn't figure it out -- why did all these little things make me a little nostalgic, a little proud? Finally, I put it all together.  

I have known for years that they have friends. But these little signs made me realize that to others, they are friends.

I finally realized that my kids might be my daughters to me, little ones I am trying to parent, to be a good example for, to teach responsibility, kindness and all that stuff. 

To others, they will be a character in a story of other kids' lives. The funny one, the serious one, the musical one or the smart one. The "oldest" friend, the best friend.

I wasn't present for any of these interactions. I could not remind my kids of manners, guide them in sharing or behavior that makes a good friend. And yet there they are, signs that they are indeed good friends to others.

They will make memories together on class trips, before- or after-school activities, sports, music, senior skip day (if they still have those), and I will not be there.

They are becoming their own people, people who actually have lives and activities outside of the ones that happen within our family. There is a world out there, and they are playing a part in it.

Based on how they're growing up, I think they're going to be pretty good parts.

Girl Drama

I learned this past weekend at my youngest's birthday party that she has a flair for the dramatic. And I don't mean in a theatrical, musical way, which we always knew about.

I mean in a Mary J. Blige kind of way.

At some point during the party someone was in tears, with the exception of one little girl who absolutely refused to get involved. Good for her!

Don't get me wrong -- my daughter's friends are all wonderful girls and I like all of their parents. We see pretty eye-to-eye when it comes to parenting and understand that our kids are our kids and not us. If you ask Marissa if she had a good time at her party her answer is YES without hesitation. It just seemed like a whole lot of drama to finally figure out how to get along and have fun.

As I wrote earlier, the swing in the backyard was a big hit with all the guests. They would all run out and one would yell, "I'm first on the swing!" followed closely by "I'm second!" "I'm third!" and so on.

Learning how to take turns: Awesome.

Except not awesome when the girl who yelled "I'm third!" gets on the swing second.

Instead of saying "Hey I called second, wait your turn," the girl whose turn it was would burst into tears and curl up in a ball near the house. Some ignored her, others would wander over to ask her what was wrong, to which she would reply, "Nothing."

She wouldn't disclose what was wrong until a sufficient number of guests were coaxing her to tell them, at which point she would bawl even louder as she recounted the wrong. Of course, the girl who knew what was wrong took this opportunity to swing to her heart's desire. By the time everyone figured out what was wrong she was done and got off the swing anyway.

It these had been boys, someone would've been dragged off the swing, a fistfight would've occurred and pretty soon no one would remember the swing existed in the first place. It'd be over in two minutes and they'd all be friends again, off to the next adventure. Instead, the girls spent the evening going from re-assuring one crying girl to another, to finally BEING the crying girl, probably because of all the crying going on.

At one point my daughter was up in her bedroom crying her eyes out; I have no idea why and really didn't have the emotional fortitude to ask why or care about the answer. Drama. All I knew is that she was even more upset because her other friends were still outside playing on the swing and not upstairs in her room with her, being just as miserable as she was.

So it IS true; misery loves company.

None of this was really helped by the fact that I had no structured projects or activities for the party, outside of a candy necklace making project that my mom had given me the day before. I had asked Marissa months ago for help planning her party, what things she and her friends might like to do. I asked weeks ago, then days in advance. The day before. Finally, an hour before the party was supposed to start she starts to tell me what activities she'd like to do. I had no plans to make a last-minute run to Michael's Arts and Crafts then, especially when I still had a cake to pick up. As it was, one of the guests was dropped off an hour early, which ended that helpful planning conversation.

While all this was going on, Lindsey was at a playdate at a friend's house THANK GOD, because she would have had absolutely no tolerance for all the shenanigans. I can only imagine the intensity of the eye-rolling and depth of the sighs we would have heard had she been home to witness this.

I don't really have an answer for how to stop the drama, except to remind my daughter that she is responsible for her own actions and hers only -- she can't make someone else say or do something that she wants them to do. If she just focused on being a good friend to others, then they will be good friends in return.

Any other advice from parents of the dramatic set?

This Is Eight

This is what an 8-year-old looks like.

Adorable puppy dog bouquet from the Floria grandparents.

 This is what an 8-year-old does when she plays with her friends.

Captain(s) Underpants to the rescue!

This is the kind of cake an 8-year-old asks for when she can have any cake in the world. (Well, almost.)

A blue dress, not pink, because I was informed she is NOT a little girl.

We have two girls who remind us frequently what the other one got or didn't get at a certain age. Several months ago Lindsey got mad when she thought that Marissa was having a slumber party for her 7th birthday party. We had to remind her that her little sister was turning 8, the same age Lindsey was when she had her first slumber party. God forbid the little sister should get something before the big sister does...sheesh.

For many of Marissa's friends, this was their first ever sleepover. Some parents were as nervous as the kids at drop-off; would their kid get homesick? Would they be okay sleeping in someone else's house?  We've learned that kids adapt quickly, especially when plied with late-night movies and popcorn.

We had one incident in which one of our guests fell against Marissa's dresser hard enough to create a gash and bleed as head wounds tend to, which is to say profusely. While the bleeding stopped quickly, we still called her mom who came over for a little extra reassurance and TLC. Marissa's friend decided that she felt okay enough to stay, and enjoyed the rest of the evening after icing it and having some Tylenol.

The morning brought a breakfast of frozen waffles (Marissa's choice), bacon, orange juice and/or cereal as desired. 

Lest we forget, this summer birthday was unusually cold. It was only a high of 64 during the day, 54 degrees at night. Guests brought slippers and robes just in case, and ended up using them because there was such a chill in the air. Despite the unseasonably cool temperatures, the swing in the backyard was a huge hit with everyone, who loved being pushed or pushing others around in a big circle.

And...you know you have good friends when they arrive for kid pick-up the next day with two coffees for you and your husband...just because that's how sleepovers tend to go.

As for me, it's hard to grasp how quickly these years are going by. It seems like each milestone Lindsey passes Marissa passes the next day. 

After the guests had gone home, Marissa pulled out the new Barbie dolls she had received and made pretend. She made up conversations, changed their clothes and danced around to music. It was unself-unconscious, sweet and childish. Just a reminder of what it means to be 8.

A New Definition of "Pole Position"

Today I tried a pole dancing class for the first time. I only did it because my friend Jennifer's birthday is today and her idea of a good time was getting her friends together to try something that she's discovered is a great workout and a lot of fun.

OK, I'll give anything a try...once...

I just have to say, it was really, really fun.

One of our party members putting her rock-climbing skills to work on the pole.

At the beginning of the class the instructor -- a beautiful, petite, lythe dark-haired woman in her 20's -- showed us the dance we would be learning. She looked amazing; so graceful. Sensual. Comfortable in her own skin. She did a spin around the pole where she floated above the earth, legs poised in such a way that she looked like she was hardly touching the pole. She showed us the move and had us try it.

She looked like she was floating. We looked like we were on a fireman's pole, spiraling downwards in a deathgrip.

We laughed at ourselves and tried again. We laughed even harder at the second attempt. And by the third, some of us got it. And the rest of us got it on the fourth.

We twisted. Spun. Swiveled. Sweated. Laughed.

We had such a great time.

After the class we celebrated with red velvet cupcakes and wished Jennifer a happy birthday. We took photos after the class in Jennifer's backyard.

Kristin, Rachel, birthday girl Jennifer, me, and Tina (Jennifer's sister)

It was more physically demanding than  it looks. My shoulders hurt, my neck hurts. I don't even want to know what's going to hurt tomorrow morning.

I can now check pole dancing off of my bucket list. Not that it was on in the first place, but now it doesn't have to be. It was so fun I might have to go back and do a couple more classes with Jennifer.

Stormy Weather Makes Good Neighbors

This past weekend the Twin Cities was hit with a severe line of thunderstorms. No tornadoes, thank goodness, but the damage was more widespread and devastating.

Photo Credit: Bryan Piatt    Location: Bryn Mawr neighborhood.

At one point in time over 550,000 homes were without electricity. With an average of 2.52 people per household in this state, that means that more than 1.3 million people were without power for anywhere from several hours to several days.

Photo Credit: @XcelEnergyMN Map of power outages.

Photo Credit: Sharon Stiteler.          Location: 32nd Ave and Aldrich St.

Photo Credit: Paul Schmelzer.         Driver escaped unscathed.

We were fortunate. No trees lost, no power outages. We saw the storm whip up around 8:30 Friday night, went to bed and slept through it.

We awoke the next morning to reported chaos, but not near us. We went about our weekend like normal; it seemed odd and slightly selfish. Yet we were warned to stay away from areas that had been affected, so we did.

Instead, we saw from afar how people came together to clear debris and help each other out.

A local cheesecake business put a call for help out on their Facebook page, which basically said "We've got $8,000 of inventory in our coolers and no power. We need assistance finding temporary homes for these cheesecakes so we can deliver to very important weekend weddings (aren't they all, to each bride and groom?) HELP!" And help arrived. By the end of the comment string her cheesecake was safely stored in industrial coolers across the city, picked up by various parties and safely delivered to their destinations on time and in perfect condition.Three days after the storm, power was finally back on.

A co-worker of mine related the story of walking around Lake Harriet the morning after the storm. They had lost power and wanted to see how the rest of the neighborhood fared. They were on the pedestrian path, stepping over branches and leaves in their way, then thought, "Why are we stepping over these? Whose job is it to clear this stuff?" So as they walked along they began picking up the branches and setting them off to the side. They soon saw other people doing the same thing. By the time crews got to the lake to begin clean up, debris was already in neat little piles alongside the paths so that crews could get straight to work on the larger branches and trees.

Residents became frustrated when neighbors across the street from them had their power restored while theirs was still out. That frustration soon gave way to gratitude when those neighbors with power invited them over for a beer and dinner.

Monday morning's commute was still snarled from many traffic lights being out. Drivers took turns at four-way stops, waving each other on and stopping for every pedestrian.

Minnesota nice was put to the test this past weekend, and proved its muster. I'm proud of our city and its residents.

YOLO: Leading the Way

This photo was taken a month before I began my fitness challenge.

It's hard to believe that I'm coming up on a year since I started my first fitness challenge on July 1, 2012. I am honored and pleased to be featured on my coach's page as a success story, inspiring others to also improve their own fitness.

To read my story -- along with many others who have succeeded at changing their health and lives -- go to her website, YoLo Live Healthy.

Here's the unknown benefit of this change in my life that I did not realize would happen until it did:

Life is easier.

Sure, people say "you have more energy," but you don't realize what that means, personally. For me it means that simple, every day tasks take less effort, less time, and I have more time for the things in life that are important to me, like singing at the top of my lungs in public in order to embarrass my 10-year-old. (It's so much fun, you should try it if you have a 10-year-old. Borrow one if you need to, it's totally worth it.)

It means that when I go grocery shopping, I am not sapped from the hour-plus activity of pushing a cart through crowded aisles, bagging groceries, carrying them up a flight of stairs two bags at a time to my house and putting them all away. It means that when my daughter asks "Mom, will you push me on the swing?" after grocery shopping the answer is YES.

It means that my kids ask to do more things with me now, because the answer is YES more often than it is NO. Yeay family time!

I was driving through the neighborhood a couple of days ago returning from one of my errands, and I saw a mom and her kids walking up the stairs to their house, returning home from whatever activity they had been to, bags in both hands. While the kids were bounding up the stairs (also carrying bags, mind you), the mom was putting her foot on each step like it weighed 50 pounds and was difficult to lift again. I could see the exhaustion in her posture. I imagine that the minute they hit the house she collapsed on the couch to recover from wherever they had been. Maybe they were coming back from running a marathon, but I suspect the activity was something a little less arduous than that. I wanted to pull over, jump out of the car and say, "I can help you with that feeling." Because I know it, it is familiar to me. But it doesn't happen to me anymore.

Be inspired. But don't just read this and say "That's so inspiring." It's only inspiring if you take action, if you become inspiring to others in changing your own life.

Come on. Take the challenge. You'll love it.

You Only Live Once.

When Dramatization Goes Too Far

I've been accused of being a storyteller. I wear that label proudly, thank you.

I like to consider this blog to be my version of storytelling while journaling my children's childhood. Neither of my kids know this site exists;  I suspect that some of my posts will be met with protests from my eldest and most logical of my two children. She would do what many of my friends and family members do when they read my posts, which is correct my facts, informing me that a particular trip I wrote about didn't happen in fall, it was winter, or that I was in 5th grade, not 6th, or what have you.

Others will just laugh at the story and take it for what it was meant to be -- entertaining, but not entirely factual.

That's what I think the best storytellers do -- they build stories around events without boring readers with unnecessary details that would take away from the entertainment. There is a fine line between storytelling and marketing, and in the world of nonprofits, there IS no line between storytelling and marketing. Telling compelling stories is how nonprofits get their audience to feel empathy for their mission and to give.

Recently, I've seen a few examples of storytelling through marketing that have made me raise an eyebrow.

For example, my mom and stepdad have vacationed in a retirement community called The Villages. It is more than just a community, it's a city with its own hospital and zip code. Golf carts are the preferred method of transportation and golf cart traffic jams after town square events are a part of the norm. One of their community centers is filled with black and white old-time photographs of farmers and families, with plaques telling stories about the families who used to live on the land where The Villages is now located. It made my folks feel good, knowing a little bit more about the history of the area before it became developed.

On their second-to-last day of their stay, they picked up a local newspaper that talked about The Villages' plans to expand and the amenities that would be built. One element talked about the planned decor and mentioned that fake families and stories would be created to give the place a history, like had been done the rest of the development.

You mean...you mean that Farmer Johnny, his wife and seven kids didn't really own this land in the 19th century? That warm, fuzzy feeling they had gotten from those stories was gone.

Last week, while munching on a box of fine fast-food cuisine, I began to read the story on the box that the food was in. It's a story about a little boy who used to visit a particular fast food restaurant on a daily basis, and how he became their unofficial mascot. Suddenly he stopped visiting. He finally showed up one day and told the workers that it wasn't as easy for him to get there anymore because someone had stolen his bike. On the other side of the box you read about how all the employees of the restaurant felt so badly that they pooled their money together and bought this little boy a bike, which made the store owner proud. His heart swelled three times its size that day.

The last line is "I just love telling this story." Followed by an asterisk.Which brought me to look for the disclaimer, on the bottom of the box.

The photos are of models, not the actual people in the story. I have no idea if the "dramatization" is a re-writing of an actual story that was related to the marketing staff at headquarters, or if it was generated at a brainstorming session. The fact that I have to question the story at all has my guard up and makes me believe that the story in its entirety was fabricated.

Warm fuzzy feeling? Gone.

Now I'm not accusing either of these companies of doing anything wrong. Neither of them misrepresented their product or services, nor did they have a have a lapse in quality. I give the fast food place kudos for printing an asterisk and a disclaimer, as opposed to The Villages, which allows residents and visitors to think that those stories are true.

I am questioning the storytelling.

If I were a fast food restaurant and was looking for warm, personal stories involving my brand, I would have a contest on my Facebook page eliciting the best story of a visit to a local restaurant from my followers. The stories their own audience members would deliver would probably be better than the one the marketing department created. And guess what: no little asterisk needed. Even better, how about if the asterisk said, "This is a summary of a story told to us by one of our Facebook followers and long-time customers. Like us on Facebook to read the original story and share your own."

I don't know what to tell The Villages except that when the fabrications are discovered by their audience, the emotions they were trying to create with those stories is immediately gone, replaced with a feeling of having been deceived. It's not a good feeling, let me tell you. I wouldn't recommend it.

When consumer trust is hard to earn and corporate missteps are immediately spread wide and far through social media, my advice to companies and nonprofits alike is to be on the up-and-up. Be a storyteller, yes, a fabricator, no.

*I remind readers that posts are a reflection of my personal opinions and do not reflect that of my employer or anyone else for that matter.

A Boy Named Zach

On Monday Zach Sobiech, an 18-year-old boy from Stillwater, passed away after a long battle with osteosarcoma, or cancer of the bone.

Zach was a remarkable teenager who we all got to know through Children's Cancer Research Fund. CCRF had heard about Zach's story and diagnosis of terminal cancer and asked him to be a featured in the KS95 for Kids radiothon this past December. Turns out Zach has a talent for song writing, and he was saying good-bye to his family and friends through song. His song "Clouds" was played on the air as a part of the radiothon.

He signed a contract with BMI. He recorded more songs in a real recording studio with talented aritsts and producers surrounding him. He headlined at a concert at the Varsity Theatre in Minneapolis, with all funds going to the Zach Sobiech Osteosarcoma Fund. Doors opened for him -- quickly, because everyone around him could see that time was running out for Zach.


And finally, the predicted happened. On May 20th, Zach died at home, surrounded by his siblings, parents and long-time girlfriend.

Zach's sister has written since her brother's passing about how his family struggled to find meaning in his death. She finally acquiesced to let God have him, hoping that Zach's passing would have meaning.


Zach's song "Clouds" hit Number 1 on iTunes two days after his death. Each purchase raises money for the Osteosarcoma Fund, which at last count has $250,000 in it, all thanks to Zach. According to one of the researchers at the University of Minnesota, the money raised is enough to begin genetic mapping to determine the root cause of osteosarcoma and find new ways to treat it.

I don't think Zach's sister has to wonder if his passing has meaning. The money he's raised and the research they'll accomplish will have meaning for thousands of cancer patients yet to be diagnosed.

It wasn't until after he had passed that the reality of his situation and its similarity with one of a boy I knew 21 years ago hit me.

Minus the media attention, the signing contract, the rock star status, the hundreds of thousands of dollars in charitible gifts.

I don't mean to take anything away from Zach, but it doesn't seem fair. There are thousands of children across the United States struggling with cancer, and many of them will lose their lives. Only a few get to make a difference the way Zach did.

Two decades later, I wonder who outside of Paul's immediate family and friends remember him, or if his life and death mean anything to anyone other than those he left behind.

And then I remember that he had participated in a clinical trial at the University of Wisconsin. He participated in a new chemotherapy protocol that at the time held promise for his kind of cancer. Unfortunately it was not successful in stopping his cancer, but at least researchers had the data to add to their learnings. I wish I knew what happened to that research, if it eventually resulted in new treatments or was abandoned as unsuccessful.

When the cancer returned after that chemo treatment, the University offered to try a radical new treatment. It had only been done a handful of times before with mixed results. (At least they were honest in their assessment).  It was called a bone marrow transplant. BMT's are done today with great regularlity and success. There are people living today who have had TWO bone marrow transplants and have lived to tell the tale. But when it was offered to Paul, it was in clinical trials and only a couple of people had survived the procedure.

His choices were: 1) undergo a painful and difficult procedure which had a 50% chance of killing him or 2) enjoy life, treasure every second of it knowing it will be over before any of us want it to be.

He chose option number 2. And I'll be honest, I'm glad he did. We had a wonderful summer together in 1992, taking trips to Great America, driving out to the lake and walking out to the lighthouse, going on bike rides through the countryside. He took a vacation to Mexico with his family, the only time he'd been to that country.  I foolishly returned to school in the fall and four weeks later, on September 29th, 1992, Paul died on a hospital bed in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his siblings and parents, but not his girlfriend. I wasn't there, and I regretted that decision to return to school for years.

My memories of him live on in journals, a scrapbook, a box of letters. I think of him at least once a day, usually with a smile and a nod to the stars.

Zach's passing has brought Paul's back to me like it was yesterday. I know the pain of the days to come that face his family, and I wish them peace and healing in the days and years ahead. They will be able to look back on his life and last days with gratitude for those experiences, and I hope they can smile.

It Seems Impossible

It seems impossible that most mornings, we get up, get dressed, hug and kiss our kids and send them off to school in the care of others.

It seems impossible that they come back home safely, every day.

It seems impossible because less than six months ago, a madman killed an entire classroom of kindergartners. Earlier this week students whose parents hugged them and told them "have a good day" were buried under the rubble of their school after a mile-wide tornado swept through their town. And yesterday two 4th graders did not come home from a field trip to hunt for fossils at a local park when a rain-saturated gravel pile they were on collapsed under them, burying them in seconds.

I pray for those families. I pray for the parents who never got to say good-bye. I cannot imagine their pain.

And yet tomorrow, I will send my children off to school, give them hugs and kisses and tell them to "have a good day."

I take comfort in knowing that most days, all the children who go to school arrive safely back home. I need to remind myself that these horrific events are all jumbled on top of each other in my mind because of their proximity in time and the speed at which today's media cover such events, bringing them closer to home than ever. The fact that these things rarely happen is what makes them such grand news stories, so that they seem more common than they truly are.

I have to tell myself that or I would stay at home, curled up in a ball with my children under my arms, never stepping outside, never answering the door, never letting my children grow up and spread their wings, discover their talents.

It seems impossible, but I will do it. I will take that risk, because our kids deserve the opportunity to experience the world, in all its beauty and terribleness.

And I will appreciate every day that I have with them, and make the most of our time together.

A Marathoner's Life

Sometimes I swear it's me who runs the marathons.

From tempo to interval runs, bonking, "junk" miles and negative splits, I'm all into the jargon.

I tell people that Wayne goes out to run a "quick" 7 or 8 miles. Because to him, that's a short run. Never mind the fact that I've never run anything over 4 miles, and that it took me nearly an hour to do. (That's practically walking, in case you were wondering.)

My perspective on running is a bit jaded, especially as a self-described non-runner.

So you probably can't understand why I was looking forward to getting up at 4 a.m. the Saturday before Mother's Day to drive to Brookings, SD, to watch Wayne run his 9th marathon. I have come to love spectating at these events. This one was no different. Actually, it was different, which is what made it all the more fun.

We arrived in Tracy, MN on Friday night and hit the road early the next morning to complete the trip to Brookings. It was 37 degrees out and as a seasoned marathon spectator, I knew to dress for the weather, since I probably wouldn't be hanging out in my car. Lined tights and four layers of shirts and fleeces did the trick. Wayne, on the other hand, donned a sleeveless shirt, arm warmers, and shorts. I got cold just looking at him.

I dropped him off at the start and went to McDonald's for my secret love: Egg McMuffin sandwiches. I haven't had one in years. And because I know my dad's an early bird, I called him and had a nice chat at 6:45 a.m., uninterrupted by kids and household chores. What a treat!

Pretty soon it was time to start spectating, so I grabbed the race map, my GPS and went on my way.

The Brookings marathon only allows 300 people to run the marathon distance, so it's a very small race. There is a half marathon and a 5k distance for a total of 1,000 runners, still small by comparison to others.

The course wound through town, and was well marked by volunteers with flags and orange cones. They didn't have to close any of the roads, so as a spectator it was easy to drive around to see Wayne run. I think I saw him 8 or 9 times along the route. I would park at an intersection, get out and watch him run and cheer him on. Then I would get back in my car, drive north five blocks, park and cheer him on as he ran the next mile. I may have only driven 5 blocks, but the race course had wound around a whole mile through city streets.

Drive park cheer. Drive park cheer. Get cold and go for coffee. Drive park cheer.

It never warmed up the entire race -- 37 degrees for 3+ hours. And because it's the plains the wind never let up, with gusts up to 30 mph. In May. Yeay for a northern climate!

It was so much fun. For me, that is. Wayne said the wind really sucked. Or at least, he used words that sounded like that, he may have said something else.

I could tell when he'd be coming because I would recognize the runners just ahead of him, who I would cheer on as well. But by mile 19 I could tell that the people who used to be ahead of him had faded and he was out in front of the majority.

Doesn't this look exciting?! Yep, it must've been pretty quiet out there for him, running by himself with no music for over 3 hours. Just the way he likes it.

He ended up finishing 12th overall and 2nd in his age group. His particular age group was incredibly fast -- the winner of the marathon was 52 and completed in a time of 2:38. The winner of the age group younger than Wayne's took 1st place for his division with a time a whole 15 minutes slower than Wayne's.

But still, he ran his 2nd fastest marathon in gusty, windy conditions. We celebrated by going out to a local place for a brew and a good meal before driving back to Tracy.

What a fun day. I must be a marathoner's wife since that's my idea of fun.

Mother's Day At That Between Age

For years Mother's Day was about the only mother in the world who mattered to me -- my own. From homemade cards to crazily made breakfasts served in bed at 6 a.m. to my sleepy-headed mom, most of us have that shared experience of celebrating our moms on Mother Day.

Then my folks got divorced and I got a new mom in my life -- my stepmom. Shortly after, I got married and yet another mom entered my life -- my mother-in-law.

And then one year, I was the mom. And because it was my first Mother's Day, I focused less on what Mother's Day meant to my mom, mother-in-law and stepmom, and focused on what it meant to me.

Now after 10 years of parenthood, I've settled in to that in-between mom stage. I toggle between being the recipient of little love notes and childish crafts, to making sure my Mother's Day cards (all of them) are in the mail on time and that phone calls are made, wishing everyone happy days. It's a rather strange place to be. We happened to be at my in-laws over Mother's Day weekend. I made dinner for the group on Saturday night, and my mother-in-law made lunch for the group on Sunday, the day that I felt like I should be lightening her load.

We returned home from our trip and I was awarded with homemade cards and well wishes from my own children. The highlight had to be the Mother's Day tribute questions that Marissa had completed. My favorite answer:

My mom looks prettiest when _________________________ and Marissa had written "ever I look at her."

I also apparently have blue eyes, and the favorite thing that I cook that she likes to eat is brussel sprouts. (Not true for her, but true for me.)

 

I also got a nice note from Lindsey, who said she loves me even when she's mad at me, and she tells me everything...almost.

 

Guess I'll keep them another year, see what they say next Mother's Day.

American Girl birthday

Lindsey's 10th birthday was yesterday. Her slumber party is tonight. Eight 10-year-olds for 18 hours, God help us. I think we're prepared -- at least the wine captain is filled.

Lindsey is having an American Girl doll kind of birthday. Ever since Marissa used her Christmas money to buy herself one in February, it's all Lindsey's talked about. She's a bit late to the American Girl party -- the average age of an American Girl doll buyer is six.

Let me back up a bit, for those who aren't familiar with the phenomenon which is American Girl.

For years I threw away every AG catalog that found its way into our mailbox. The dolls are expensive and the accessories even more insanely priced. I never wanted my girls to get into these, it seemed like such a waste. Finally one day when Lindsey was six or seven, she retrieved the mail and a catalog was in with the offerings. She came in to the house and started looking. And looking. And looking. And finally she brought the catalog over to me and said, "Mom! You wouldn't believe how expensive these dolls are!"

I thought we were safe.

But Marissa has friends who have American Girl dolls, and Marissa really wanted one so she could play with her doll with her friends. An American Girl doll entered our home in February.

There are books and movies about American Girl doll characters, some of which follow the characters through history, others of which are about building character, creating strong, confident selves. I have to admit, I agree with the sentiments.

The "Just Like Me" dolls -- of which there are around 60 varieties and girls can choose dolls that have similar features to themselves -- cost $110. The glasses that Lindsey's doll is wearing were $28. The outfits are $28 to $34. For a doll, mind you, a doll. I don't spend that much on my own kids' clothes, much less a doll's clothes. 

But when you enter the American Girl Doll two-story store at the Mall of America, the experience is magical. The display cases are beautiful, the props displayed in such a way that even adults think they're adorable. There is a beauty salon where you can take your doll to have her hair styled. If your doll's hair is matted and tangled, they'll fix it for you. If you'd like to get your doll's ears pierced, you can do that as well. There is an American Girl cafe where you can eat with your doll, actual food for you and pretend food for your doll. 

The experience is every little girl's dream. Lindsey couldn't wait to go shopping to pick out her doll, who she's named Paris. We agreed that her parents would buy her the doll, and accessories and other things would come out of her birthday money.

In speaking to other parents about Lindsey's excitement about her American Girl doll, some will admit  that their child has two or three American Girl dolls. And I say "admit" because they often will abashedly explain that Grandma had purchased one of them, another one came from an aunt, etc. We all know it's frivolous, expensive, and such an excessive purchase for our girls.

Yet a co-worker of mine reminisces with fondness about her daughter, now age 16, purchasing her first American Girl doll, buying matching outfits, and the joy it brought to her. They cared for the doll so that now that play time is done, the doll is carefully stored away in her original box, ready to hand down to the next generation.

What can I say...it's more than a doll.

Expanding Vocabulary

"Mom, I want to tell you a secret," Marissa whispers to me.

"Okay...." I say questioningly.

"I know the 'd' word and the 's' word," she confides.

"Really," I say. "So what are they?"

"Well," she says looking around, as if she will get in trouble. "The 'd' word is 'damn.' and the 's' word is 'shit.'"

"You're right," I say, "Those are the words. And you know you can't say them to your friends, or teachers, or anybody, right? They are words you can only use when you're an adult in certain company."

She nods emphatically.

"And mom, there's one more, I know the 'c' word, too."

I raise my eyebrow. "And what word is that?"

She leans closer to me and says, "'Crap.'"

I smile. "Yep, you're right. Save that one for when you're older too, okay?"

"Okay."