Save the Animals but Break Children's Hearts? Apparently So.

Marissa visits with a guinea pig at Unleashed.

Back to the reason for Camp Kristi.

For several years, many of Lindsey's friends' parents and I have gotten together to plan our girls' collective summers. It would be easier and cheaper to put them in Minneapolis KIDS for the season. Instead, we chose to organize carpools, change work schedules and do what I've termed the "summer schlep" to create rich and rewarding activities for our four musketeers.

We do this planning in February, as many camps fill up within the first week they become available. We go through numerous websites with some easy and some difficult forms, pay for everything in advance on credit cards and then each week of the summer work out details of carpooling and after-camp drop-offs. This gets coordinated between two girls because Marissa doesn't always want to do the camps Lindsey does, and also has her own friends that she does activities with as well.  Many weeks we are dropping one kid off somewhere and the other somewhere else, then picking them back up at different locations than the places they were dropped off at. It's a lot of details to keep track of; I practically need a minute-by-minute scheduler for the mornings and afternoons. Oy.

Last year Lindsey and friends had participated in a camp hosted by the Animal Humane Society called Unleashed, and Lindsey absolutely loved it. They spent the week learning about different animals and visiting all the pets waiting to be rescued.  She talked about it so much her little sister wanted to take part in it this summer, too. Great. Let's make that week easy and register both of them at the same time, then work out carpools between the families.

This is one of the camps that fills up in a matter of days, so the minute the summer programs were available in February I completed a registration for both of them.  I felt like I was in a race to get concert tickets for a popular artist. Yet another website, another confusing registration form to figure out, and then afterwards, instead of getting an email confirming their registration information, I got an email that said the information was available on the website and gave me the link to log on to retrieve it.

As if a month later I could remember the username and password to one of a multitude of websites that I had filled out. I always said I'd check it later but didn't until the Friday before the camp, at which point I realized I had made a mistake.

In filling out the form, I had registered both Lindsey and Marissa for the camp for 3rd and 4th graders. Lindsey was supposed to be in the camp for 5th and 6th graders along with her friends. I was surprised the form even let me make the mistake. The form asked for the 2014-15 grade for the student, and I had entered "6" for Lindsey. So why would it let me register her for a camp for 3rd and 4th graders? I know that online forms can be programmed to limit selections users can make based on answers to questions, but this form was not built to do that. Even more surprising was that in the six months between when I filled out the form and when the camp was to take place, no one at AHS had caught my mistake either.

"Easily remedied," I thought, "I'll call the camp and let them know my mistake, they should be able to  add her to the roster for the 5th and 6th graders."

Silly me.

I was informed that she would not be able to take part in camp with the 5th and 6th graders, that not only was the camp full (I knew that; a fourth of the campers were Lindsey's friends), but there was a waiting list and this wasn't fair to those who were on the waiting list.

"Yes I understand," I said, "but I'm not asking you to add someone who suddenly decided today she wanted to go to this camp, I have already paid for the camp. I did so six months in advance, as a matter of fact. I am just asking you to put her with the appropriate age group so she can take part in the camp with her friends."

Sorry, I was informed. Not possible. The only way she could take part in the camp was by doing the curriculum with the 3rd and 4th graders. No exceptions. The good news, I was informed, was that she would be doing the camp with her sister.

I was pretty sure Lindsey wouldn't think that was "good news."

Oh and by the way, there are no refunds at this point in time, I was reminded.

Late Friday afternoon when Lindsey got home from the final day of that week's camp experience, I let her know of the error and of our only option, which was to take part in the camp with the 3rd and 4th graders. She resolutely refused to do so and said she wouldn't go to the camp.

At first I told her she didn't have any choice and had to go. I was all of two weeks into a new job and would be driving to Oakdale for training throughout the week. No one would be home and we had nothing else lined up.

After discussing with Wayne and Kristi, they both sided with Lindsey that it was a bit much to ask a middle schooler to take part in the camp with 3rd and 4th graders. They convinced me that the embarrassment factor was quite high, especially when she would be within eyesight of her friends who were in the other camp group.

We decided to take the risk that the camp counselors would be more accommodating and try to send her anyway. I had been talking to someone in the main office, who clearly has to follow the rules. The person I spoke to on the phone didn't state that safety or census requirements would be violated by accommodating this one child, only that it wasn't fair to others on the waiting list. Surely the counselors themselves would be more understanding.

Thankfully Kristi had much of the week off and was going to be dropping the girls off at camp on their first day anyway. If it didn't work out for Lindsey to take part in camp, she and Kristi would make plans for the week.

When Kristi arrived at the camp with the two girls in tow, the counselors had the groups line up by grade; 3rd and 4th graders on the left, 5th and 6th graders on the right. When they saw that Lindsey's name was with the 3rd and 4th graders, they said she would not be able to switch groups. Kristi explained the mistake; they understood the issue as they had been told about the phone call the prior Friday, but there was nothing they could do. Either camp with the 3rd and 4th graders, or don't camp.

"Then she is not taking part in this camp," Kristi said, and they walked away. A fellow parent who was dropping off Lindsey's friends saw them leaving and asked what was going on. He couldn't believe that an 11-year-old was being turned away from camp.

Kristi and Lindsey ended up having a lovely day, and ultimately an amazing week. After the first day of camp I received an email from the camp asking for feedback. They got it and I subsequently got my refund, minus the administrative fee, which is fine; I took up their time and energy to process her registration and deal with my ire. They also received letters from the parents of Lindsey's friends, who expressed their dissatisfaction with the "options" we'd been given, and expressed how not having Lindsey be a part of this camp affected their own children's camp experience.

Lindsey visiting the animals (and her friends) at AHS while picking up Marissa at the end of the day.

Here's my point on this: people make mistakes, and clearly I was at fault for registering for the camp incorrectly. No one caught the mistake for six months, despite my having identified her as a 6th grader on the form. When I realized the mistake myself, there were no creative solutions presented. No solutions at all, actually, considering that the impact of this mistake fell upon an 11-year-old.

I fully support the good work of the Animal Humane Society, but I do not choose to support them through their camp offerings. We will not be signing up for this camp next year.  I urge anyone who does so to make sure you register your kids correctly.

Tell-Tale Tourists

Wisconsin Dells has a population of 2,600 people and its neighboring town, Lake Delton, has a population of 2,900. Which totally explains the dozens of restaurants, water parks, attractions and theaters in these towns.  Actually, families like ours explain all of that -- tourists.

Look out! The Floria-Horsman tourists are in town!

Spending a week at Great Wolf Lodge in Wisconsin Dells is like being transported to another world, one in which money doesn't matter because everything you do you charge to the room. Even buying tickets to other attractions in the area can be done at a discount and charged to your room. Why not do it all, it's all free!! (Ignore that piece of paper under your door on the last morning of your stay, it means nothing.)

Since it was all free, we rode the Ducks, those 7-ton hunks of 70-year-old metal that move from land to water and back again. You may remember them from that beach in France.

Lindsey went zip lining while the less adventurous of us went on a horse-drawn carriage of a canyon. Yes, a canyon, carved by a prehistoric glacial lake smack dab in the middle of Wisconsin.

We explored different restaurants and spent hours in the various pools at the GWL water park, sipping those free margaritas by the outdoor pool while the kids splashed and played in the water.

We posed for a 1930's gangster style photograph and had to keep straight faces through our giggling.

We spent a rainy morning in the arcade, spending that "free" money to buy cheap prizes for entertainment.

We ordered ice cream, muffins and iced coffee on a nearly daily basis from Bear Paws, the cute bakery/coffee shop/ice cream shop in the resort. Why not, it's all free!

Our last evening we went to the Del Bar for dinner, a restaurant that's been run by the same family since 1943.  We were the only ones wearing our typical tourist t-shirts with GWL water park bracelets on our ankles. The hostess took one look at us and said, "Enjoying the Dells?" We were the tell-tale tourists in this place, because everyone else looked like locals.

When we walked in I felt like we had stepped back in time, in a really good way.

The bathroom was vintage, with alternating pink shades of tile on the walls and floor and a lounging area before the swinging doors that led to the toilets and stalls. And while the bathroom was entertaining for the girls, their wine list was extensive and their steaks divine.  That had to be our best meal out of the entire week.

Our best customer service experience was at the arcade at GWL. Lindsey had won a game that dispensed 1,000 tickets. (For context, the previous day her entire evening's activities netted her only 285 tickets.) They put all the ticket points on a card which is then traded in for prizes. She couldn't decide on which prizes to get, so she decided to wait and come back later.

Unfortunately she lost the card in the few hours she had to hold on to it. We tore the room apart, looked up and down the hallways in case she had dropped it, asked various housekeeping and retail staff and eventually declared it lost. We went back to the arcade and explained what had happened. The manager took our word for the number of tickets that were on the card and gave us a new one with exactly that many points on it. What could have been a downer for Lindsey turned out to be a high point.

I keep saying that each vacation we take is the best vacation we've taken. I guess the best vacation we've ever had is always the one we took most recently. Each time, we are making memories we will cherish. I'm pretty sure that's the point.

Don't Scare Me Like That!

Our youngest daughter has a bit of a dramatic flair. She's the one who will tell you her toe was "practically ripped off" on the playground, only to see that the actual injury was just a small scrape. She'll milk any injury for what she can, unless she doesn't know she has it. One time I pointed out a large scrape on the side of her knee and asked, "How'd you do that?" She didn't have any idea it was there. But once she knew, boy oh boy, it was the reason why she couldn't bend down to pick up her clothes off her floor.

When she started complaining of a painful neck a week or more ago, I took her complaining with a grain of salt. A large grain of salt. I expected it to go away, yet after three days she was still complaining about it. She said it hurt to take a full breath, but the pain was in her neck. I couldn't feel anything and massaged it, thinking it was tight muscles. She kept complaining. Her Aunt Kristi listened to her lungs, since she said it hurt to breathe, and she sounded fine.

Finally, one day last week she came up to me with her back to me and asked me to feel her neck. From behind, I could tell that one side of her neck had a hard lump. It almost felt like a bone it was so hard, but I knew it couldn't be. It was located where she had a lymph node on the other side, which is normally soft and rolls around a bit under your fingers. Not this thing -- it was hard and stuck in place.

I know people tell you not to do this, but it's hard not to resist. I can make a personal recommendation on this one: do not Google health symptoms, especially "hard, immovable lymph nodes."  The first page that showed up was the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, followed by the American Cancer Society and then the oncology page for the Mayo Clinic.

I made an appointment for her at her pediatrician's office at 11 a.m. the next morning to have it checked out.

I absolutely expected the doctor to come in, examine her and say, "Oh it's this muscle group, blah blah blah, have her do these stretches and ice it. Here's a sticker."

Instead, he found the spot after much description from Marissa and pointing from me, and got a puzzled look on his face. He asked another pediatrician to come in and assess the spot as well, then the two of them went into the hall to consult.

"Well," he said when he came back, "It could be a muscle group that's spasming, but if that were the case she would be in a lot more pain. We think she needs to see a specialist to get a second opinion, so we'd like her to see an ENT. Today."

We already had a relationship with an ENT due to Marissa's ear tubes and adenoid surgery as a baby; amazingly enough, he had an opening at 2 o'clock.

The ENT also found the spot on her neck and said it was a deeply seated lymph node that was acting up; none of the other lymph nodes were involved, and otherwise she was a very healthy girl; no fever, no night sweats, no loss of appetite. However, the possibilities if it was an indication of a greater illness was too serious not to fully investigate.

He ordered a CT scan, and insisted that we have it done as quickly as possible. When we were first given an appointment time of the following Thursday, he had his nurse call the hospital back and get it moved up to the very next day.

While I appreciate that the physicians wanted to get us an answer as quickly as possible, the fact that they all wanted this thing checked out immediately was disconcerting.

Friday morning was supposed to be the start of our vacation. Wayne was going to be starting his Ragnar 200-mile race Friday morning, while Kristi, the girls and I were going to be driving to Wisconsin to spend the weekend with my parents. Instead, Kristi and I and the girls would be checking Marissa in at the hospital for this procedure, while Wayne debated whether or not he should do the Ragnar race at all. (I insisted that he did it.)

This felt like the start of a journey I did not wish to take.  

The ENT thought Marissa would have to be put under for the CT scan because they would need to put in an IV to inject the contrast dye and he didn't think she'd sit for it. The next morning when we got to Children's Hospital, the nurse there thought that she would be able to do it while just using nitrous oxide, otherwise known as laughing gas. We decided to give that a go.

Marissa got to keep the mask that's in her hand.

Apparently my hair looks like an afro that reaches the ceiling under the effects of laughing gas.  We told silly stories to distract Marissa and she did really well.

We got the results on Tuesday of the following week: normal. She does had one swollen lymph node and the ENT recommended putting her on antibiotics to help her body fight whatever it's fighting, but otherwise she is a perfectly healthy kid.

We were so relieved.  That's a scare that I can do without.  And now, on to vacation at Great Wolf Lodge.

Ah-oooooo!

Camp Kristi

Summers are supposed to be fun. Sleeping in, playing games, biking with friends. At least, that's what it should be to me. My kids have different summers than I had, since they have two working parents. But this means their days are filled with day camps that are a blast, something I never had as a kid.

Except when something happens and your child is turned away from going to a day camp. That's what happened to Lindsey when her registration for "Unleashed" got screwed up. She had been looking forward to this camp hosted by the Animal Humane Society all summer, only to literally be turned away at the door on the first day of camp.

Her Aunt Kristi was supposed to drop her off that same day, only to walk away with Lindsey still by her side. They could have walked away dejectedly, heads held low. But not them.

Instead, they went and had breakfast at Bruegger's. And then they made plans for the rest of the week.

They went to the Big Thrill Factory.

They went horseback riding. They went to the Galaxy Drive-In for lunch and played chess on a huge chess set that made Lindsey feel like Alice in Wonderland.

And of course they had to visit the animals at the Animal Humane Society, which was her favorite part of the camp that she was sad to miss. That way she got to see her friends at the end of their camp day, too.

We came home from work to a tired, sweaty and smiley girl. All thanks to Aunt Kristi, who gave Lindsey one of the best "camp" experiences of her summer.

Thank you, Aunt Kristi!

On Turning 50

To make this clear -- I have not hit 50 yet. But I have friends who have, and they have funny ways of celebrating it.

Our friend Mark had a backyard party to celebrate his 50th. We drank and ate and laughed like teenagers, while our kids ran around spraying each other with the hose and jumping on the trampoline. Some of the moms took a turn on the trampoline as well, showing off with backflips and somersaults. Gymnasts, those two.

Yesterday a group of us celebrated my friend Janey's 50th with a pedal and pub tour of Minneapolis breweries. Our friend Eric (henceforth known as Eric the Bike Man) organized the tour, with his considerable experience of the bike trails of Minneapolis. We met at their home, close to Lake Calhoun, to begin.

This was probably the most fun I've had on a bike. Ever. Rain sprinkled on us a bit on the way between stops, which made it all the more fun.

We biked to Harriet Brewery in the same amount of time it would have taken to drive and park, minus the hassle of driving and parking. It happened to be Food Truck Festival day, so the parking lot was filled with about a dozen food trucks Chicken wings, burritos, fish tacos, cupcakes, smoothies, pick your palate and enjoy.

Then off to Fulton Brewery, a brewery that started in our neighborhood of Fulton and moved its operations to downtown Minneapolis near the Target Field, where the Minnesota Twins play. Another food truck and an amazing patio, with a view of downtown Minneapolis.

We ran into a group of bikers wearing matching jerseys that read "Liver Strong," with graphics of a liver that is actually a beer tap. They had stickers to share with all.

At one point Janey commented to me that she felt so fortunate to have friends who were up for this adventure. As I looked around at the group, I realized that at age 43, I am the youngest. Everyone would be classified as mid-40's to early 50's. Biking for 12 miles at an average speed of 15 mph was no big deal for any of us.

We talked about moving out of our homes and taking over one of the beautiful condo buildings we biked past. When we get old.

By the end of the evening I had determined a philosophy for turning 50:

Turning 50 should feel like being a teenager again. Only with money.

Just good health, good friends and good times.

I'm pretty sure a classmate of mine wrote that in my yearbook back in 1989.

Turning Nine

Birthday celebrations should last for weeks.

Marissa and her friend, Erika, at the American Girl Doll bistro.

Marissa's began the weekend before her birthday, with a small gathering at the American Girl Doll store for a birthday luncheon. Our party was made to feel special, like we were the only people in the place celebrating something as wonderful as a birthday.  Marissa felt like a princess.

She spent a day with me at home six days before her birthday, just Marissa and mom time. We went for a long bike ride with a stop at the Linden Hills library to pick up a book, and a stop at Great Harvest bread for a cinnamon twist.

Marissa can make a trip to Ikea feel special, like walking through a magical universe where everything is fascinating and fun, even though we were really just shopping for a work desk for me. We took the time to stop in many display areas, checking out the kids bedroom sets, the kitchen drawers that close themselves, the pantries that have built-in shelving. They all became fun play areas to her, and we took the time to pretend.

Then, as she's done many other birthdays, she spent time by herself, singing songs, dancing, playing with her dolls and making up stories.  It was so sweet to eavesdrop on.

On her actual birthday we were in Tracy, MN, for her grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary. We drove home that morning and let her open her gifts right away. The unasked for karaoke machine which I thought she might like has been her favorite plaything. The bubble gum machine is already half empty.

We celebrated dinner at her favorite restaurant, Olive Garden, with Aunt Kristi, who gave her a beautiful charm necklace.


When the server said, "Happy birthday" to her, she said "Thank you" with such charm that he had to tell her happy birthday again, just to hear her say "thank you" once more.

She smiled the entire day.

Like previous birthdays, the day was punctuated with exclamations of, "This is the best day ever!"

She is sweet and kind, funny and carefree, she is our 9-year-old Marissa.

Is Society Creating Helicopter Parents?

I found this post in my drafts folder, originally written in the spring of 2012. I don't know why I didn't post it but the topic is still relevant, even though two years have gone by since originally written. So I'm posting it now, complete with pictures from two years ago. Hard to believe that much time has already flown by.

Lindsey working on an art project. By herself.

One morning this past week I went to Lindsey's school to help her get a form from her locker. While walking along the hallway in front of the 3rd grade classrooms I saw other students' research projects that had already been turned in lined up along the windows. (See previous post on my lack of sewing abilities in assisting on this project.) While most projects were dioramas, as Lindsey predicted, a few had chosen the sewing projects.

After looking at the quality of the craftsmanship of the sewing projects, I can guarantee you that there was significant parent involvement in the final products. I thought one of the projects was a store-bought stuffed animal, until I saw the tell-tale seam where the animal had been stuffed and then sewn shut. For real? How does a teacher grade that, it so obviously isn't the child's own work?

Marissa proudly shows off her 1st grade writing project.

This same week, Lindsey's running club, Girls on the Run, has decided that their service project will be to hold a bake sale with proceeds going to the Animal Humane Society. The GOTR coordinator sent an email home to parents, explaining the group's chosen service project and informing us all that the girls would be planning the event after school on Thursday. Instructions would be coming home to the parents on what the girl would be bringing to the bake sale.

Before you could say "peanut butter chocolate chip," emails were flying around from all of the moms volunteering to bring various baked goods, cups, signs or what have you.

The coordinator emailed the group again and kindly but firmly said, "Thanks for all your enthusiasm for this service project. This is a girl-led project. Your child will be telling you what she would like to bring to the bake sale."

In other words, butt out. Such a good reminder.

Yet at the same time, in order to keep parents involved in their children's education, kids are assigned projects that in my opinion are beyond the child's ability to complete on their own. As a parent it becomes difficult to know where to start and stop with helping with the projects.

Lindsey's recent research paper and project had a great guide for parents to help with the writing piece. It reminded parents that the paper was to be the child's own writing, and that the parent's role was only to suggest edits or revisions, not to re-write the paper. There was a list of questions parents could use to help in that process.

This part is confusing to me. How can you make that clearer? You use this word a lot of times. Is there another word you can use that means the same thing? 

Those questions were extremely helpful to make sure I didn't take over writing the paper, yet could provide good feedback. But then the actual project portion of it clearly needed parent involvement to complete.

As a parent I am in disbelief at how quickly my girls are growing. It is easy to keep doing what I've done for them when they were pre-schoolers or toddlers, because I forget that they are now nearly 7 and 9, and can and should do many things for themselves. "Mom, may I have some water?" is now met with, "Sure. You know where the cups are. The faucet still works, right?"

I do not want to be a helicopter parent but I want to be involved in our children's education and lives. I am learning that it is an easy line to cross.

One Week

I've been between jobs for one week now. Only the unemployed and retired know this feeling. There is nothing waiting for me at the office. No one needing an answer...on anything. No projects on my plate. Pure and utter blankness.

My project list at home, on a different note, has been tackled with gusto. I feel great about all the things I've done there, yet still found time to enjoy myself.

I am truly a believer that the universe works in mysterious ways, and that if we are simply patient and quiet, things will work out the way they were meant to, even if that's not how we planned them.

This job change was meant to happen, and this week between was, too.

I spent the first part of the week with my sister, who was also enjoying her final week of unemployment before starting her new job as a nurse at a hospital 2 miles from her house. We went to her apartment and hung pictures. We went for a bike ride/skate and enjoyed lovely afternoons on the patio until Wayne got home from work. We hung pictures at our house and cleaned out our front closet. Being silly sisters, we had fun every step of the way.

Artwork by Marissa (top) and Lindsey (bottom)

Then Kristi started her job and Wayne flew to Denver for a business trip. Marissa asked to stay home with me one day and so I said, "Why not?" She and I went for a bike ride to the local library and bakery. We went shopping for ideas for a home office for me, which was loads of fun for her because we were in the Ikea showroom.  Ideas galore!

Marissa enjoys a cinnimon twist from Great Harvest.

The egg! Meant for pre-schoolers, though.

The next day Lindsey asked to stay home with me and, of course, I said, "Why not?" Her idea of fun, though, was entirely different from Marissa's. She tackled the junk drawer in our kitchen because "it's the first thing on your list and it isn't done yet." While organizing,  she asked if we could organize her clothes in her drawers next, or maybe her closet, which had become the dumping ground for everything that's on her floor whenever I tell her to clean her room. Instead we went grocery shopping which she also loved doing because she loves doing the self-service checkout at Cub Foods, pretending to be a checkout girl.

My organizer. Extra allowance for this girl!

The three of us spend our mornings on the patio, I drinking my coffee and the girls watching their Kindles or playing games.  I don't have to hurry anyone out of the house to be anywhere by any time.

My first day on the job wil be a rude awakening. And yet it won't, because I don't need to drive anywhere for it. It's right here in my house. On a regular basis I do not need to spend 1 1/2 to 2 hours on the road, getting to and from my place of work. It's going to be challenging, for sure. I'm looking forward to having clients again, and to getting to know a whole new team of people.

Today's my last day of non-working status. I'm going to finally get those other items checked off my list: a massage. A skating loop around the trails. A shopping excursion (for me, thank you very much).  Then time to dive in.

Interlude...and A Dream

I don't believe I've ever taken a hiatus from this blog before of this length. It has been nearly 3 months since I last posted. So not typical of me.

So much has happened, I do not know where to begin. So I will begin by saying that it was a needed interlude.

A week after my last post I flew to Indiana and helped my sister Kristi move to Minnesota. Already in the few months she has been here she has become a part of the fabric of our family. She is getting accustomed to the area, the climate, the social and natural offerings and having family close by. Weekly meals at our home are typical. The kids are disappointed when Aunt Kristi *doesn't* come for dinner. We plan outings together, we don't plan outings together but they happen spontaneously anyway. It's been an amazing, wonderful change. As wonderful as it is, it is still change, which can be hard and takes a lot of energy to process.

It is now summer, which means I am waking early in the morning to go skating, instead of staying up late at night to blog. I have committed to appreciating each morning that I do that, and not feeling guilty for the mornings that I intend to, but don't.

Lake Harriet, 6 a.m., June 30, 2014

Even though I haven't written a blog post for quite some time, my phone is still filled with random pictures I take with the beginnings of blog posts in mind. So I still think like a blogger, though I don't write like one.

And then, last night, I had a dream. Sometimes my dreams are just nonsensical, but most of the time they are a reflection of what is going on in my life, so much so that I had to write about it. 

I dreamt that I was driving a car through a construction zone. I was following the car ahead of me as people do in construction zones, keeping a close eye on its bumper as it navigated cones and signs saying to curve this way and that. It drove along a stretch of road that appeared to be an overpass with only a temporary railing of 2x4's nailed up in place along the roadway. The 2x4's had obviously been there for some time and were in some disrepair; they were not going to keep a car on the road if the car ran into them.

We were up in the air now, in an area that was clearly going to be part of some kind of cloverleaf or connection with another highway. Suddenly the car in front of me took an abrupt left, just behind a huge cement pillar, and I couldn't see the turn. I froze. What if it had just driven off the edge and was falling back to earth? What if the signage had told it to turn left but the work wasn't done yet and there was no road? There was no way for me to know if I should follow that car.

I stopped my own car, frozen. Traffic backed up behind me and drivers grew upset. In my dream I was having a full-out panic attack, sobbing and unable to make a move, frozen with fear. Finally someone put their arms around my shoulder and said, "It's okay, just trust. Trust." And suddenly, everything was okay. The honking, the yelling, the noise and the paralyzing fear stopped, and everything was okay.

I never saw a resolution in my dream, but when I awoke I knew that I drove my car around that blind corner, and that everything was fine.

I recently put in my notice at Gillette. I love the people I work with, I have a great passion for what I do and the mission is inspiring and incredible. But signs were telling me that it was time to start considering other opportunities, so I began talking to people in my industry and asking them to keep me in mind. I recently accepted a job on the vendor side of fundraising, working with clients to raise money through telemarketing.

This was left on my desk by a co-worker the day I gave my notice.

It feels like an abrupt left. But I don't think it is.

I think that it will lead me to new skills, new co-workers whom I will enjoy working with as much as I enjoyed my old ones, to learning new things and taking on new challenges. But...it is change. And change is hard and takes a lot of energy. Even the good ones.

So there you have it. The end of the interlude...and a dream.

From Lincoln to Today

Over seven days of our spring break our family drove for 27 hours in the car and covered more than 1,500 miles. There was not a single fight in the backseat, thanks in part to the "Frozen" soundtrack which our girls LOVED to sing along with. At the top of their lungs. So while the peace was held, parental sanity was not.

One of the stops on our whirlwind spring break tour was Springfield, IL. Wayne had been there as a boy on the only vacation his family ever took. The initial reason for the trip was to see family, but while in Springfield they stopped by the Abraham Lincoln home in Springfield. Since we were heading south to Arkansas from Wisconsin and had to swing through Illinois anyway, this seemed like the perfect diversion.

What a diversion it was!

The most photographed angle of Lincoln's home.

His writing desk where he wrote many speeches.

Our first tour was of the Lincoln home. This is the 3,100 sq ft  home Lincoln the lawyer made for his family, an unheard of size for the time period. He worked late into the night as a lawyer and politician in order to give his family all the things he didn't have as a young boy:  An education.Sufficient food and clothing. Opportunity. Ironically, his eldest boy, Robert, was distant from his father, as his memories are of Abe saddling up to serve on the judicial circuit and never being home. By the time Robert's younger brothers came along, Abe's work was in town and he was home most days, so they were closer with their dad.

We then went to the Abraham Lincoln National Museum in downtown Springfield, where we spent the majority of the day. You don't have to love Abe Lincoln or history to find this museum and its presentation moving. Humbling. Respectful. Pick your adverb, it was an incredible and somber experience.

Except for this part. This part wasn't quite so somber.

I learned some things about old Abe that I didn't know.

1. He was not a popular president. As a matter of fact, between the time he was elected president and he took office 12 states had seceded from the union, they were so infuriated with his being elected. (Hmmm....I remember some politicians threatening to secede if they had to buy into this "Obamacare" business...)

Lincoln's physical features made him a favorite of political satirists.

2. Once in office, his detractors were many. He appointed some of his fiercest political foes to his cabinet. While this helped him understand what others' positions were on slavery, it was also fatiguing to constantly defend himself among his closest "advisors." One of his advisors only agreed to join him in his anti-slavery stance because he thought all the blacks would sail back to Africa after being freed, even though most of them were American-born.

This scene is seared in Marissa's head. It was very impactful and emotional.

3. Only one of his four sons lived to adulthood. Guess which one? Yep, Robert, the oldest who did not have a close relationship with his dad. The tragic deaths of the other three sons from what are now preventable disease took an emotional toll on Mary. Robert had her committed to an insane asylum after her third son's death, which occurred two years after Lincoln was killed. She wrote letters of protest which were printed in the Chicago Tribune and other newspapers. The public embarrassment of having "shut away" his mother when the asylum stated she was well enough to leave forced him to petition for her release just months after her commitment. She and he never reconciled.

Scenes of Willie's illness in the White House and Mary's grief at his passing.

 4. The Emancipation Proclamation was a heavily debated and disputed document by both sides. Abolitionists said it hadn't actually "freed" anyone: blacks in the north were already free by previous legislature; states in the south said they did not have to follow the law of a "foreign" country, so it made no actual difference in the lives of slaves. It wasn't until after his death that the importance of the statement of that document was recognized and respected.

Representing the reaction to the Emancipation Proclamation

5. Lincoln was assassinated just months after the end of the Civil War. John Wilkes Booth was fine with blacks not being slaves, but when he heard the idea that they may become landowners -- or even have the right to vote! -- he was pushed to the edge. Even though his signature was on it, Lincoln did not get to see the 13th Amendment which abolishes slavery become law as not all the lawmakers had signed it at the time of his death.

The devil snuck in the back way.

The presidential portraits of Lincoln -- one for each of the four years he was in office -- showed him visibly aging what seems like decades every passing year from the heavy responsibility of war. He felt the weight of hundreds of thousands of deaths on his shoulders. I do not think he slept.

The wax figures, scenes, documents, lighting, and audio effects made history literally come to life. No one got bored. Okay, so Marissa kept trying to push me along to see the next room because it was SO COOL, but she definitely was not bored.

The White House and Civil War displays were dark. Somber. Moving. It seemed odd to go from there to the children's shop where the girls could try on period clothes and make dinner from the log cabin kitchen. That was our final stop of the day, and the following day we stopped at Lincoln's tomb before heading south on our journey.

Statue of young Lincoln on the left, and President Lincoln on the right. The heavy mantle of war is on his shoulders, weighing him down.

Ironically, we happened to arrive on the first day of it being re-opened after a 4-month closure for remodeling. Visitors could walk through the circular hall, admiring statues along the way, and eventually view Lincoln's sarcophagus. His wife and first three sons are buried in the tomb with him. His eldest and longest-living son is buried in Arlington National Cemetery, due to his stature as a politician and ambassador during his own lifetime. Many times friends tried to convince him to run for the presidency but he always turned it down, saying that there was something "fatalistic" about wanting to become president.

Considering the assassination attempts on those who followed his father in that office, there's something to be said for that. And, he had some really big footsteps to follow. I'm sure he knew that no matter how good a president, he would never measure up to his father. I don't believe many today would.

Ice Cave Adventure

This winter has been a doozy. And I can still say "this winter" in late March because it still looks and feels like winter out. Highs of 20 degrees, snow in the forecast, no sign of greenery. The birds have returned, but they seem confused. ("What the hell, where's the grass?!")

The one bonus of all this cold weather is that Lake Superior was 97% frozen for the first time since 2009. This means that all the areas of the lakes that are only accessible by kayak or canoe are now accessible by walking, including the ice caves near the Apostle Islands in Bayfield, WI.

I had to go. This felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, even though I know the lake will freeze over again. There was just something about it that felt like I needed to take this chance.

For me, this was a chance. I have a great fear of walking on ice over a large body of water. The stories my dad told me as a child of people going through the ice on Lake Superior, and the times he was out hunting with our dog and broke through ice on a marsh must've scared me to the depth of my being. I consider being on lake ice a very risky venture, something I usually avoid.

And yet, to see those amazing caves! Even if I drove up there and then chickened out, I had to try.

On one particular Monday I floated my idea by Wayne, and by Friday I had plans solidified. I would drive as far as Duluth and stay at my friend Junal's house, then Saturday she and I and her boyfriend would head out to the ice caves, another hour and a half east of Duluth.

And so I went.

It was breath taking. I am so glad I took this chance and made the impromptu trip.

The weather was perfect -- about 20 degrees (a far cry from the weeks of below zero and single-digit temps we'd been having), not much wind, and mostly blue sky. We drove to the area, found parking and took a shuttle to Meyers Beach National Park. The caves were about 1.5 miles down from where we first got on the lake, and then they stretched along for over a mile. We could explore as much or as little as we wanted.

The ice was so incredibly thick that my fears dissipated. Most of the paths were packed down snow, but near the caves it was bare ice which was quite treacherous. There had been several falls, and later I heard that the weekend before a woman broke a vertebrae after taking a spill on the ice. (Glad I didn't know that before-hand).

The ice took on incredible shapes, from round globules of amber to spikes of stalagtites that looked sharp enough to impale a person. We explored a small crevice, also a challenge for me, since I get anxious in tight spaces. But it got larger once I got through the opening, and the ice formations inside were spell-binding.

From inside the crevice, looking upwards at the opening I'd just squeezed through.

The pictures do not do it justice.

One of the caves during summer.

That same cave the day I visited. 

After we explored for a couple hours, we shuttled back to the car and drove to a small place in Cornucopia, population 500, where we could get a burger and a beer. To our surprise they had black bean burger on the menu for the vegetarian among us, and they had locally made "Sassy Nanny" goat cheese that you could add to any burger. Clearly not your everyday small town fare; I assume they are accustomed to catering to people from all over. The goat cheese was fantastic, so tangy and creamy. Cost all of $.50 to add it to my burger, and they slathered so much on I think they were grateful to have someone order it before it went bad.

A burger, a beer and a warm place to rest with good company. Perfect.

We drove back to Duluth and I took off from there back home. It is amazing what adventures a person can have in just 24 hours.

The following weekend was the last weekend of the season -- they closed the access to caves after that. I learned that even though the ice by the caves is still thick enough, ice elsewhere on the lake has melted significantly. This means that you could be standing on the ice by the caves, have a strong wind come along, and suddenly find yourself 3 feet from shore. Or 10 feet, or in the middle of the lake if you weren't paying attention!

In 2009 the ice caves had a total of 8,400 visitors over the entire winter. The day I was there they had more than 14,000 visitors, and over the course of the entire season they had nearly 100,000 visitors to the caves. They chalked up the interest to the fact that it had been 5 years since a good freeze, and many visitors shared their photos via social media, which prompted others to want to make the trek. The biggest challenge was finding parking, so they worked with the local community to plow fields and other areas to create the shuttle areas. The shuttle drivers were all very nice and talked about what a boon to the local economy the caves were. They did such a great job of accommodating the crowds. I hope to see them again another year.

Blessings from the Universe

This is what our mantel looks like right now. While there are a few Valentine's Day cards up there, it is mostly filled with sympathy cards from family and friends.

The support we've gotten from everyone in our lives has been overwhelming. On the day we put Dax down a group of friends organized our girls' activities for day, so that they would be out of the house and having fun while things were happening at home.

We had the vet come to our home, a luxury I am grateful we were able to pay for.  She was kind, sympathic, patient and wonderful. I am so thankful Dax was able to pass away in his favorite place; in front of a roaring fire, on my lap. What a gift.

A good friend of mine came to be with me when the vet came to our house. Wayne dealt with Dax's passing by going for a long, peaceful run in the hush of new fallen snow. Without my friend being with me, it would have been just the vet and I. I could never have asked her to be there -- she volunteered.

As strange as it seems, a back injury which flared up the day before Dax was put down was a blessing. It gave me an afternoon to myself at home with him, resting on the couch with ice, a laptop, and a snoring dog.

Earlier in the month, I lunched with dear friends of mine. We've known each other for nearly two decades. One friend gave the others a belated Christmas gift of a CD set of "This I Believe," an NPR series of 5-minute essays. Now we don't usually exchange gifts, and I had nothing for my friend, but she had enjoyed this series so much that she wanted to share it.

What a gift that has been! The essays are from famous and not-so-famous Americans, writing from their heart about the beliefs that guide their lives. It's not religious, and some of the essays are downright quirky. Many of them were so appropriate for what our family is feeling at this time.

My favorite essay is the one recorded by Oscar Hammerstein, famed composer of The King and I, The Sound of Music, Oklahoma! and many other classics. His essay is titled "Happy Talk," and my favorite lines are:

Why do I believe I am happy? Death has deprived me of many whom I loved. Dismal failure has followed many of my most earnest efforts. People have disappointed me. I have disappointed them. I have disappointed myself...

..Could I not build up a strong case to prove why I am not happy at all? I could, but it would be a false picture, as false as if I were to describe a tree only as it looks in winter. I would be leaving out a list of people I love, who have not died. I would be leaving out an acknowledgement of the many successes that have sprouted among my many failures. I would be leaving out the blessing of good health, the joy of walking in the sunshine.

Ultimately, that's what it comes down to: what we are humans choose to focus on. And as I've written before, I choose joy.

Since Dax's passing, I know of two people in my life who have lost a parent. Another has put her father into hospice care, and one friend's sister is battling breast cancer...again.

There are other people and places for me to put my energy now, for me to support those friends not in grand heroic gestures but in simple acts of kindness. My turn to return to the universe the blessings it has showered on me.

Saying Good-Bye Takes Time

No one who has ever accepted a pet into their lives would ever say, "It's just a dog." When that dog's existence is interwoven into every aspect of your life, the reminders of that loss are small, but constant.

When that dog's life is woven into the lives of your children, the loss is all the more difficult.

Being there the moment Dax died was not as difficult as watching our children say good-bye to him, one at a time, as they left the house that morning. His absence is felt by them every day, as I feel it.

Lindsey and Dax, September 2007.

Marissa and Dax sleeping together, 2010.

It is difficult to guide your children through the grieving process when you yourself feel the loss. I know that losing a pet is not the same as losing a human, but the grieving process is the same.

The hauntings began minutes after he died. I heard him sigh from in front of the fireplace 20 minutes after the vet had taken his cooling body out of the house. Lindsey saw him sniffing his way into the kitchen a day later. Two days after his death, I awoke to the sound of his toenails clicking on the hardwood floors. Marissa heard him snore. (So appropriate.)

It's been almost a week and the hauntings have nearly stopped.

For the first day, I did not leave the house and I did not see people outside of our immediate family. I could not bear to see people whose lives had not been turned upside down the way ours had.

That first day reminded me of the day I brought Lindsey home from the hospital. I remember sitting on our living room couch, nursing this tiny, little newborn child whom I was somehow responsible for. I saw people walking by our house, shopping bags or coffee cups in their hands, chatting and laughing together. I wanted to shout at them, "Don't you know how life has changed?!" It didn't matter to them, but everything was different to me. When Dax died, the world suddenly had a huge void that only my family fell into.

By the next day, I needed to get out, to leave the sadness and emptiness behind. Our family went to the mall and hung out in one of the sitting areas for hours. We went to a funny movie. For a while, we forgot. It wasn't until we began the drive home that we remembered we were coming home to an empty house.

We have now entered the dreaming stage.

Dreams of Dax in a better place, dreams of him when he was a young dog and could run with wild abandon. The girls have dreamed about him too and tell me their dreams when they awake.

We all went through a period when we did not want to be alone. Wayne left for a business trip just as we were getting back to our routine, so it was just the girls and I at home. We were happy to sleep together in the same bed because we all were afraid to be alone. Dax's spirit and the hauntings were so strong in our house that we were comforted by them, yet afraid to be alone with them. If any of us were alone too long, the grief would overcome us until we were beyond functioning. Both girls had a blanket of Dax's to snuggle. I would breathe deeply of Dax's scent from the blankets while they slept. By the time Wayne returned two days later, that stage had passed and the girls were okay sleeping in their own beds.

Now the milestones.

First, Dax missed his first meal at 5:00 the day he died. Then he missed his breakfast for the first time. Tomorrow marks a week since his passing, then it'll be two weeks, then a month. He'll miss Lindsey's birthday in May, and Marissa's in July (he loved to help unwrap presents, which is why their birthdays are significant). He'll miss his first birthday in August (he would've been 16). Then he'll miss Christmas. And eventually it will be the one-year anniversary of his death, with many milestones in between, and many after.

At the same time, I continue to greet and talk as if Dax is with us. When we leave the house in the morning, I'll say "Bye, Dax, keep the house safe!" When I lock up for the night, turning lights off behind me, I'll call out, "Goodnight Dax, love you, puppers."

I find comfort in calling out to him as if he's still here. I figure if we're going to hear him around the house anyways, we may as well greet him as if he is.

It's getting better. It's getting better faster than I thought it would. Maybe I have a step back I'm going to take in the near future, but for now, it feels okay.

It feels right that we helped him find peace when we did, perhaps that's what is helping me. When I look back and realize that his poor back legs didn't stop shaking and quivering for years until the vet administered the sedative shot to him, I realize how much he had deteriorated and we had simply become accustomed to it.

Through all of this, I have learned that I am stronger than I thought I could be. I never imagined that I would have the strength to be there with Dax in his last moments, yet I was. I never imagined that I would be able to have conversations with my daughters about Dax's life and death, yet I can, through my own tears.

I've learned that their seeing my tears and my own grief helps them understand that they are not alone in theirs. The fact that they saw their father cry about Dax's departure helps them understand that everyone in this family is hurting, but we're in it together, and we'll be okay.

We'll be okay.

I Thought I Saw You

I awoke this morning to the sound of your nails click-click-clicking on the floors. It was around the time you usually wake up, wanting your breakfast.

The first night of your absence Marissa felt my slippered foot under the table and exclaimed, "Oh Dax! You're so warm!" An hour later she asked if it would be okay for you to come downstairs and snuggle while we watched the Olympics. An hour after that, she asked if it was her turn to sleep with you. Each time I didn't have to say anything; she remembered by the look in my eyes that you were gone.

I had to look twice at a patch of sunlight on the floor yesterday, knowing that if you'd been here you would have found it and curled up for a snooze in the warmth.

The image of you lying on a towel carelessly left in the hallway struck me as I climbed the stairs. A patch of sunlight had found the towel and I know you would have been there.

Last night Lindsey thought she saw you coming into the kitchen just as she pulled a pan of brownies out of the oven. It was about the time you would have walked in; having not heard any of the kitchen noises, you usually arrived when the food came out of the oven and you could smell the good smells.

She nearly bent down to greet you, only to realize it was her imagination. She straightened up with disappointment and sadness in her eyes.

I swore I heard you sigh in the middle of the night, your long, contented sigh of a change of position and comfort. Only I know it couldn't have been you.

I expected to see you as I walked down the stairs this morning, and looked expectantly for you in front of the fireplace.

Empty places. Empty moments. Empty hearts.

I know that there are losses greater than ours. I know that there are parents mourning their children, friends mourning friends, husbands mourning wives, children mourning parents. But grief is still grief, and the fact that you were woven into every facet of our lives makes the loss of you palatable every moment of the day. Even when we aren't here, I have to brace myself to coming home to an empty house.

Some day I will hear your sighs in the sound of the wind. I will hear your paws in the crunch of new fallen snow. I will smile when I hear the happy barks of other dogs in the park. By then I will remember you with fondness, and think about how lucky we were to have you in our lives for 15 whole years.

Until then, those sounds are haunting our home and making our hearts ache.

Author's Note: The last time I suffered a loss of significant consequence, I wrote every day in a journal to my loved one for more than a year.  I took comfort in writing to him as if he were still on earth to read the words. More than 20 years later, my writing has moved to the electronic page and I have an audience to read it.

If you think I'm oversharing, that's your opinion. Writing is my therapy and sharing these thoughts helps me through it. By sharing I find others who have suffered a similar loss and relate to me, so I don't feel so alone in this process. 

This may be the last post on this subject, I may curtail my journal-like entries to the drafts folder. Or you may be reading more about this journey. Whichever I do, I thank you for your kindness and understanding.

Last Morning

5:38 a.m. That's when Dax awoke this morning and decided it was breakfast time.

I obliged him immediately, because I know this is his last breakfast. He doesn't know that, so it's just another breakfast to him.

The last 24 hours have been surreal. Last supper. Last time eating popcorn. Last everything. We know, and the girls will hug him with tears in their eyes, but he is oblivious and just wants down to sniff the floor for more popcorn.

The girls planned to sleep together in the same bed with him last night so that it was fair that they both sleep with him the last time. But every time they tried to shut their eyes they got sad about missing that snuggle time with him, so they didn't fall asleep. They eventually ended up in our bed and I in Lindsey's with the dog, who let out stinky toots all night from all the treats he'd been fed that evening.

I have been on this grief journey before. I didn't know when the journey would start, but once it did it was the most difficult time of my life. It seems so strange to pick the day to start that journey to mourn your dog. To make an appointment with someone to end the life of a creature you love so much, and then pay her to do it. Weird.

I know what to expect. The emptiness when you come home at the end of the day. The times you ask, "Where's Dax?" then realize, he's not here and never will be. Re-remembering every morning that you don't have a dog to feed anymore and getting sad about it all over again. Sitting on the couch and wishing you had a warm little body to snuggle next to you. Having a bowl of popcorn and seeing the kernels that accidentally drop to the floor remain uneaten.

Dax is snuggling with me right now, and it seems odd to be sitting here writing this. How do you share last moments with a dog? At this stage in the game he does not want someone to pet or kiss him, he just wants to be next to you, finishing out his night's sleep with contented snores. (Which is what he's doing right now.)

I share my last moments with him by being that warm body that he wants to curl up next to. By writing my thoughts about what an amazing dog he has been for our family, so patient and willing to put up with our girls' shenanigans.

5:50 a.m., February 15, post-breakfast snooze

He always wanted to do exactly what you wanted to do, no matter what it was. If you wanted to go for a walk then he did, too. If you didn't, he wouldn't pester you for one. If you were sick and needed to sleep all day, he was right there beside you, snuggling and snoring the day away, even when he was a young dog, when most young pups wouldn't leave you alone and wanted to play or run if you were home to do so.

He loved chasing bubbles. One of my favorite videos is of him and Lindsey when she was just a baby and we discovered for the first time that he loved to chase bubbles. We would blow the bubbles at Lindsey, and Dax would run up and bite them as quickly as he could before they got to her. He would leap and jump and twirl around to catch as many as possible. Lindsey chortled that baby laugh that is so funny to hear and both Wayne and I were doubled over in laughter, tears squeezing out of our eyes from the sight and sound. We finally had to stop when the bubbles began frothing from the sides of his mouth, his eyes dazed and wild with obsession.

Now, he can't see the bubbles to chase them and couldn't chase them if he saw them. He doesn't "hoover" the floor clean like he used to, because he can't see the bits of food, even though he can smell them.

His medical issues are numerous and challenging, and we are simply putting off the inevitable by making him suffer through the pain of moving his arthritic joints and the embarrassment of not being able to control his bladder. (And he is embarrassed, too, you can tell.)

I will be there with him in his last moments, to provide familiarity and comfort. I have to do this, because I cannot imagine not being there for him in his final moments, when he's always been there for me.

Wish me strength for this afternoon.