Winter Blast from Dogs Past

Today my dear friends in Indianapolis (and various other frozen parts of the Midwest) are suffering through a cold front and a snowstorm while I bask in the brilliant sunlight of Southern California.  I am sipping hot tea, as the temperatures dropped a dramatic 10 degrees overnight and chilled me a bit, but I'm not the least bit unappreciative of the fact that I am in a light cardigan, no heat on in the house, and am considering clipping some flowers from my garden for a late-fall bouquet.  

This appreciation, however, is hard-earned.  Just in case anyone thinks I forgot, I give you a journal entry from February 23, 1994.  As background, the kids and I were living in the Landings near Keystone at the Crossing; I worked at Very Special Arts of Indiana; and the dog in question was Pauly, my English bulldog, who we all loved dearly, but not without pain:

"February 23, 1994 -Well, THIS has been a special day already and it's only 10:30 a.m.!

I woke up on time.  I had a good stretch.  I didn't feel overly tired.  And then? BOOM! My streak of good fortune ended.  I swung out of bed and placed my foot -- no, not on the floor as one would think -- but instead into a huge hill of vomitus material that Pauly had strategically placed as a kind of editorial comment on Purina's particular recipe of dog food.  Pleased as I was with this discovery and having been set into a fabulous mood for the day, I swiftly escorted him to the balcony where I left him with every intention of letting him rot.

After cleaning this mountainous heap (which had an odor second only to that of toxic waste), I got a second rare and wondrous treat of scooping up yet another pile (this time of a substance of which I'm much more familiar) outside on the balcony before the lovely mixture of ice and rain that was steadily falling dissolved it into an as yet undiscovered alternative to the gas chamber.   As I was more than a tad bit annoyed, I vowed to leave Pauly outside until Hell thawed (being that this IS Hell and it's already frozen over), when he expressed a difference of opinion and began a mild, however persistent, barkfest (at 6:30 a.m.).  His receipt into my home, due entirely and exclusively out of respect for my neighbors, was immediately limited to the bathroom where he was sentenced to twenty years hard time with no food or water.

The peace that followed his imprisonment, however, was short lived.  Cheyanne posted bail, as she needed to primp, and he was released on his own recognizance.  Upon serving breakfast (less than 5 minutes later), I noticed the err of my judgement.  Underneath what used to be called my piano, and now is more aptly termed His Toilet, there lay a steaming fresh pile...

My patience tried beyond its limits, Pauly was promptly incarcerated and left, once again, with no provisions.  His objections went unheeded until the necessity to use the room prevailed.  A jail break had obviously been planned and immediately upon the opening of the door, his head, ducked low, plummeted directly into my right ankle as he attempted to plow past me to freedom.  My nimble reflexes alone (albeit the door wedging his head into the frame assisted) saved the escape from coming to fruition, yet not without both harm and foul.  I was bound for desk duty, benched for the season, a 2" purple, black and red bruise my medal of valor.

The pride I delight in dog ownership runs just slightly ahead of the sheer joy I am afforded by the experience of living through yet another Indiana winter.  Trying to salvage some semblance of sanity, I went out after my morning paper envisioning coffee, toast, and the sports page as the perfect cure to my frustrations.  Outside, a fresh blanket of white stuff covered the ground and the sound of ice chipping filled the air.  My neighbors were lined up, hammer and chisels in hand, creating ice scuptures out of what used to be their vehicles.  "So" I think to myself "I've got THAT to look forward to..."

I sent the kids out after the bus alone as I had no desire whatsoever to walk the dog anywhere but straight into the lake with, say, perhaps, 110 pound weights wrapped around each leg, but within 20 minutes they were back.  The bus hadn't come, probably due to the fact that the school system was on a two-hour delay -- a fact of which I had been completely oblivious and neglectful in researching.  I DID observe, however, (solely due to by implacable fashion sense), that the woman I saw - upon my awakening peek at the outside world - who was wearing bright white tennis shoes with a straight-line black skirt and a stadium jacket and standing outside next to her equally bright white Bronco, was now standing against the garage shielding her face with her hands.  At this interim, she'd been out close to 2 hours.  I called to her and asked her if she wanted to come inside, which she did, and I was told that she had locked her keys -- ALL her keys -- inside the Bronco - WHILE it was running - when she had gone out to warm up the truck.  She couldn't get back into her apartment, nor into her vehicle, and had been standing out there waiting for her husband to come home from work.  He worked the night shift, got off at 7:30, it was now 8:30, and she thought he must have stopped off at the store rather than coming straight home.  He had the only other set of keys to the car.

By 9:30, I had to leave.  Hubby still had yet to show, and I felt a little blessed (however selfishly) because my troubles weren't as bad as hers.  By this time, though, the leasing office had opened and she could get the keys to her apartment and at least wait in her own environment for the missing spouse.

A little bright spot proved that I hadn't been entirely abandoned of God's grace, as the kids and I made it safely to school and work respectively without much car trouble or traffic problems.  Yet, I was immediately reminded of His rath as I walked into my office only to be greeted with a "nice of you to make it" by the Board President, John Delaney...

Ah well, such is life."

Hope you enjoyed this little blast from the past!  Stay warm!

Randomness

This is just completely random stuff.  Enjoy:

Dia:  Why I named him Balloony?
Me:  Shrug
Dia:  Because it’s a good name for a balloon.

One of my favorite things right now:  Dia says her imaginary friend’s name is spelled “O-P-P-O.”  Then, when someone says “Oppo?” she says “No, it’s Owo – the “P’s” are silent.”   

I saw a billboard the other day for Crown Royal.  It said “Back with a vengeance.”  I wonder if they thought that one out.  Do they mean the next morning?

Sephora Lash Stretcher is the greatest mascara I have ever tried.  And with a $15 sticker price?  Brilliant!

Ever notice the side conversations we, as moms, have with our kids while we are trying to have phone conversations?  Here’s a few of my favorites:
    “That’s a garlic press, dude.  You don’t put cookies in it.”
    “How did you get chocolate on your foot?”
    "Oh no, sweetie, let go of the kitty ... What? ... No, darling, you can't bite the kitty."

I got a Coke that had been in the fridge for some time and took a sip.  It didn't taste right and so I looked at the bottom of the can.  I told Dia "No wonder this tasted like dirt.  It's expired."  She said "I had dirt that tasted better than that."  I laughed and asked her "Where is that from - a movie?" and she said "No, real life."  I said "Oh, you just made that up?"   She said "No, real life."   (Footnote to this one: I do not believe she's ever eaten dirt in real life.  She was being witty.)

Dia was explaining why she couldn’t fall asleep and said “My eyelashes aren’t weighty enough and when I close my eyes they just fling back open.”

That's it for now.  More later I'm sure!

Prince Charming

Maybe I’m too embedded in fairy tales and Disney Princesses, but sometimes I truly long for my knight in shining armor.  Wistfully, and probably too often to be healthy, I wish for someone to magically find me and for us to fall madly in love.  I’m not talking about physical love so much, but more that elusive connection to someone that might want to walk this life hand-in-hand with me.

But right now there is a ton of problems with that. 

Issue 1:  I gotta' be honest with myself: I might only want new love.  Romantic love doesn’t stay happy for the long haul.  OK, in fairness, I have seen it here and there, or at least I know couples who put up a good public persona, but it’s just never worked for me.  Eventually I always feel like I’m not just compromising things to make it work, I’m compromising ME.   Maybe I'm twelve types of selfish and only viewing this through that filter, but historically it has always felt like I'm the one that has to chop off big parts of who I am to keep "us" happy.
I also hate the taking for granted part.  Like hate, hate, hate it.  Truly despise it.  I saw a little saying once “Take for better or for worse, but never for granted.”  I think I’ll tattoo that on my forehead if I ever get in a serious relationship again.

Issue 2:  I may have stopped believing in love at all.  Or at least in the way I need it.  Specifically:  I may have stopped believing that someone could make my life better than it is now.  Salt on my potato I used to call it.  Perhaps this is a symptom of how great my life is these days and that’s certainly not something to complain about!  I’ve said on more than one occasion that I’m more blessed than a person has a right to be.  So asking for more just seems greedy, doesn’t it?  But that’s where I stand.  I don’t want a man for the sake of having a plus one or whatever.  I want to feel like life is better because he exists in it.  Back to Issue #1, new love certainly feels that way, but over the long haul I have yet to experience that life-is-better feeling persisting for very long (mostly due to Issue #3 below).

Issue 3:  No offense to the sane gentlemen out there, but too often the divorced or never married men my age come with cargo planes worth of untreated baggage.  I once wanted to be a therapist for a living, but I passed on that long ago.  There’s no part of me that wants to be an in-home version of that.  I definitely do not feel like paying for the crap some ex-woman put them through.  Now, before you go hating me, I’m not saying it’s even possible to get to adulthood without more than a carry-on.  I’m simply saying that more people should consult a psychologist at some point in their life.  The process of dealing with your scars is underrated and under-utilized and nowhere near as scary as folks think it will be.  At the very least it gets the baggage into a more portable suitcase.

Issue 4:  It feels like love is for the young.  Are people over 45 ever depicted in ads/videos/movies falling madly in love?  (I can think of, like, 2 movies.)  No sir.  Love is a youth-oriented industry and I feel like I’m way past that expiration date.

Issue 5:  No romantic love will ever compare with the love I have for my kids.  I had Tim way too young and fell way too in love and the only love I’ve felt on par with that since were for my two daughters.  Now I've obviously been in love and intensely at that, but I know that even at love's best it will never be what a mother feels for her children.  At this point in my life if it doesn’t come somewhere near that, how will I find the energy necessary to cultivate a new relationship and the incentive to put the work in to maintain it? 

Issue 6:  This is simply logistics.  Where and how the hell can I even meet someone in my current world? I work mostly from home.  The online dating scene is not an option for me.  I don’t have any extra-curricular activities and I don’t plan on adding them for a while.  This is a problem I’m creating for myself for sure, but I have this beautiful hindsight in knowing just exactly how fast Dia’s childhood is going to fly by.  I don’t really want to miss more of her life than I already am while I’m at work and, besides, all my babysitting budget is used up for the aforementioned job anyway.  So, my Prince Charming will have to fall in love with me at the zoo or the park or the museum, Dia in tow.  What’re the chances?   

BUT… before you go all psychoanalytical on me here, I should assure you that this void I feel generally occurs only after viewing a romantic comedy (which should be banned anyway).  My life is so filled up with love that asking for more is almost ridiculous.  But there are aspects of romantic love that my family and friends cannot fill, so I definitely want to have that love someday. 

Honestly,  I have this feeling that it will happen.  I’ve lived too long and paid attention too much to not know that Divine Timing is much smarter than my timing.  As I’ve just admitted, I don’t really have the logistical ability nor the motivation at this time to jump into a relationship and be a good partner anyway.  Soon enough, though, I will be.  And then?  I’ll have dispelled all these doubts; I’ll believe in love again, and we will live happily ever after.

May you all love and be loved exactly as you need it.  (And I hope you find yourself disagreeing with me on most of my points because that would mean you've already met your Princess or Prince Charming.)
- KEC

Give Ourselves Credit

I watched "Fame" the other day.  Not the old one, the re-make.  It's not a great movie by any stretch of the imagination, but it did start me thinking.

It's not a new topic for me to ponder.  I have always been that kid that wasn't very good at anything, so I sit and watch people that are talented with a kind of melancholy.  How does it come so easily to some people?

I was raised up in a house where everyone else seemed so brilliantly and innately talented and that didn't help my inferiority complex any.  My mother is one of those annoying creatures that's good at just about everything she tries.  She's a fantastic athlete and an amazing artist.  She could create anything out of anything: a piece of wood, or clay, some paints, sand or snow (I need to dig up a photo of her snow elephant).  My father was the more emotional of the pair and you could feel that emotion through him whenever he played the piano.  Further, he had a most extraordinary eye for photography and his singing voice was just perfect really.  Then my brother, while he wasn't athletic or particularly artistic, was the super-student and so obviously gifted in that arena it was humbling even to this kid that coasted through school with near straight-As.  His grades weren't necessarily as good as mine were, but he attended a tough private school to my no-brainer public school and he, to this day, can retain everything he ever learned.  Me?  I got to test day, regurgitated the facts and *bam* it was gone.  To this day I'm like a freakin' goldfish that way.

So, back to the movie.  I was watching these real kids - the actors, I mean - dancing and singing and acting.  They were playing instruments like pros.  Well, I guess because they ARE pros.  And I wondered ... do they know how amazing that is?

When Tim was in high school, he was involved in a robotics program.  At the end of the year, they had a party to celebrate their accomplishments.  I remember so clearly watching these happy, silly kids having a great time just doing their thing and I felt a most strange sense of bittersweet pride.  These young men and women had such talent.  From their own minds and without the use of a recipe or instructions, they created, planned and produced a remote-controlled robot that even shot baskets!  At that moment, celebrating like that, I knew they were pleased with themselves but I couldn't help thinking:  Did they know what amazing talent they had?  

Do YOU know what amazing talent YOU have?  This isn't to bash on myself and certainly isn't meant to elicit compliments, but my life is nothing about being good at anything.  I lead a life of moderation and that certainly includes being moderately talented and only at the things I really work at.  I can run for a long time if my foot will let me, but I run it slowly.  I will never be competitive there.  I can't do yoga worth a 'namaste' but I like the feeling I get when I try.  I can carry a tune and I have no stage fright whatsoever but I'm not good.  I work very, very hard to learn one piece on the piano and even then can't really play it all that well.  Shoot, I even wrote a fairly simple piece of music and I don't believe I've ever even played that flawlessly.

I cook often, but nothing other than maybe my turkey is worth calling in a food critic over.  You'd think I'd get better and better at the things I work at like that, but I just kind of stay at average.   That seems to be my peak.  Even when I was a rebellious teen running around on my bike constantly with kids that were amazing on their bikes, the best I ever got was one day when I decided to ride no-handed on a racing bike across town.  I was pretty stoked that I did it honestly, but I never flew ten feet in the air above a quarter pipe like my peers.

You guys... my friends and I'll bet the few strangers that read this ... probably are thinking "well, I'm not that good at anything either."  Certainly I don't have any movie stars in my rolodex.  The one really famous singer I knew has most unfortunately left this world.  I was once friends with a professional basketball player, but we've lost touch.  So, I suppose, I'm talking to a bunch of amateurs or, at the most, some on-the-poorer-side pros.  But whether you get paid to do it is NOT the sum of your talent. In just my small circle of friends, there is a truly talented actress and tap-dancer; piano players of the concert pianist level; geniuses and great chefs; brilliant writers and fantastic photographers.  I know athletes that never give themselves credit for their feats.  I am thrilled to own several pieces of art from a most unique and accomplished artist and I know closet artists that are as good as any that are selling their works out there.  I know guitar players and drummers, singers and song-writers that never cease to amaze me with their creativity.  I stand in awe of all of you.

Even as I was writing this, I started feeling 'that way' again.  You know the way: the old "why them, not me" thing?  But then I started thinking about some of my friends whose talent can't really be defined in the things I describe above.  When I thought of them specifically, I instantly thought of how they are brilliant business people or comedians, or how they manage to never tire of being there for others, or how they have an innate ability to inspire and hold up and encourage.  These sorts of talents are every bit as unique and admirable as any other, if not more so.  Then I began, slowly ... and truthfuly I'm not quite there yet... but I began to see that maybe I do have a bit of this alternative talent.  I'm really good at reading people.  I'm an excellent mom. I'm an above average listener (when you can get me to shut up).  I'm unusually gifted at stopping and smelling the roses and am intensely appreciative of this life we have.  So, maybe, after all these years of wishing I could sing, or dance, or act, or draw, or play sports ... maybe I can finally give myself credit for the talent I hold.

You should too. Let's give ourselves credit where credit is due and let's give others an opportunity to applause a job well done.

Free to be Me

I think most of us will agree that our teen years are some of the worst years of our lives.  Terrified not to fit in or, worse, to stand out and be ostracized, we learn to conform to the popular standards at a relatively young age.

We just want to be normal, popular people with average lives, right?

But what does that really mean?  According to Webster’s, it means we really want to be people characterized by average intelligence and development, who are generally liked and approved of and to lead lives deficient in quality.

Yup, me too.  Where do I sign up for that?

Now, most folks would probably argue that we don’t really want average lives.  We want amazing lives!  We want all our dreams to come true.  Certainly the path towards that goal involves following someone else’s standards, dressing fashionably and never speaking out for ourselves, right?  I’m pretty sure all the most successful adults conduct themselves in that manner, don’t you think?

No, actually, I don’t think so.  I live in a pretty non-sexy world so I don’t know any socialites and I'll assume they play by those rules.  Yet, I can assure you the people I do know who stand out, such as some self-made mega-millionaires I know (of which I do now know several), did not get there by following a crowd.

So as an alternative to that dull, unintelligent, unimaginative life where, albeit, we might be generally liked but not particularly self-actualized, may I suggest we say:

“I want to be a unique, outstanding person with an extraordinary life.”

Then what we are really saying is "I want to be a person without an equal, marked by eminence and distinction with a life that is exceptional to a very marked extent."

OK, I realize I just talked over the heads of my target audience.  So here, consider this:

The opposite of normal?  Exceptional, extraordinary
The opposite of popular?  Exceptional, extraordinary (yeah, it is)
The opposite of conformity?  Distinctiveness

We are so busy as teenagers trying to find ourselves apart from our parents.  It’s the time in our lives when we are supposedly rebelling.  Indeed, we would rather become ANYone other than our parents, or teachers, or those old people in our lives that try to guide us (which is code word for boss us around).  Think about how lame your parents were/are and the music they listen to (seriously?) and the way they dress (do they even check themselves in the mirror?) and could they just drop us off a block from school so no one has to see their superior lameness??? 

But in all that angst and rejection and superiority, we go right into that school wearing exactly what Emily, the head cheerleader and homecoming queen, wore last week.  (We begged Lame-O Mom for it for days until she conceded.)  We talk like “them,” we watch the same things “they” do; we listen to the same music and “like” it.  We try to become “them.”  Oh yes we do.  I did it.  I didn’t succeed, but I sure as hell tried.  And if we can’t become them, we rebel against them too by …..wait for it….. wait for it….dressing like the ‘out’ crowd that we are now ‘in’ with.  Now we talk like “them,” we watch the same things “they” do; we listen to the same music and “like” it.  We try to become this “them.”

Where’s the rebellion?  OK, and for that matter, what does that even mean?  Going again to Webster’s, “Rebel” is a person that “rises up against authority or another’s control.”  I’m no control freak – by a far measure – but I have to admit that not being under another’s control sounds very appealing.  I like the idea of controlling my own destiny and I like the idea that it will be extraordinary and I’m pretty sure that no one else is going to create that for me.  So call me a middle-aged rebel.

I’m asking teenagers to consider what they are doing and why instead of just doing it.  Take three seconds and write down your biggest dream for your life.  I don’t care if it’s “be a rock star” or “make a million dollars.”  Just write it down.  Then think about it for three more seconds.  What is it going to take to get you there?  I’m gonna’ guess that it’s not Emily the homecoming queen or even her approval.  My advice?  Live your life for you.  Do what makes you feel happiest.  And then be a real friend and encourage the kids around you to do the same – for them.

And I’m asking parents to stop programming their kids.  I know it’s hard, but find out who they are not who you wish they would be.  I know we all want our child to be loved, to be popular, to be successful, and I don’t think it’s malicious at all.  Certainly some parents actually know the code and can pave the way for their children to be the head cheerleader, or the football captain.  And that’s great.  I’m not going to argue that that doesn’t make things go more smoothly for them.  But high school is a blink and they need to be set for the rest of their lives, not lost on a journey that has no destination.  If all they've learned is how to play the game, they may have a life their neighbors admire, but they won't find the joy of scribbling outside the lines.

I don’t know a single adult that doesn’t still, to this day, whether they were uber popular or an outcast, whether they had the greatest parents or the worst… I don’t know one that doesn’t at least every once in a while hurt, that doesn’t feel lonely, that doesn’t pray for someone to just ‘get’ them.  It's why we light up around certain people, isn't it?  It's a precious friend that truly gets us and maybe even concurs on our craziest ideas.  Or not, but just loves us for having them. Around those friends we're free to be our very own "me."

Kids?  Try to believe this old person when she tells you your best move is to find what you love and follow that.  Parents?  Smoothing the way for an interim is nice, but let’s give our kids the support to be their extraordinary, unique and outstanding selves for life.

In Hindsight

My mom hired someone to transfer some home movies from 8mm (or 16mm) to DVD.  She has eight reels dated 1961-1970.  Last night, after tucking Dia into bed, we poured some wine and watched the first set that had been completed: 1961-1966. 

It was surreal in a way.  There was the house in Bethesda, the Sunbeam Alpine brand new, the St. Francis statue, Clementine and Peaches (my brother’s and my dog respectively).  My Dad’s profession as a director did not go unnoticed as I watched bits of the world we once knew unfold so beautifully.  His video often panned out to a flowering tree, a painting on the wall, a lit Christmas tree.  I saw, through adult eyes, that he really was so talented at what he did.

Dad really captured my mom's beauty, and my brother, Bruce?  Well, he was a living doll.  It’s not even fair how adorable he was.  I, on the other hand, was Jabba the Baby.  Holy God I had the fattest face ever.  My mom kept cooing over the video, “There’s my beautiful baby girl” but that was a face only a mother could love.  When I was a jealous sibling growing up I couldn’t help but notice how many more photos of Bruce there were than me.  Now I know why.

But fewer than photos of me were photos of Dad.  He was always behind the camera.  Every once in awhile, he’d set a timer and we’d get one of those family poses, but usually he was gazing down at one of us.  The few precious pictures I had of him were destroyed by an evil past boyfriend, so now I’m down to some of his baby pictures and my Mom and Dad’s wedding album.  (Speaking of.  Can we PLEASE bring back the styles from the early sixties? So amazingly flattering.  Guys?  Wear more suits.  They make you look so dapper.)

So when my dad flashed upon the screen trying to learn to ski, I was actually surprised at my reaction.  I laughed – because he had snow stuck to his bum, and there were the skinny legs I inherited and the Tam O’Shanter that he wore every winter – but I didn’t feel sad.  I expected to feel sad or at least have a “Gasp. Oh my God!” moment, but I didn’t.  I’ll admit this was Dad before I was born for the most part.  Definitely before I could remember.  But given that he never updated his outer wear and the fact that he really never changed that much, he looked like the dad I knew.  Perhaps the next few reels will invoke more of a melancholy reaction from me, but this time it was just joy.

The thing that got me was seeing my Great Aunt Brenda.  There she was, relatively young and just as beautiful as I remembered.  I honestly did quietly gasp “Aunt Brenda!” and my heart just broke.  Oh my God how I miss her.  She was everything this world has ever needed.  She had the soul of an angel and carried herself with perfect class and generosity and love for everyone.  She passed away on New Year’s Eve 1994 and, when my mom called with the news, I was devastated.  “She was so old” my mom said trying to console me.  “But Mom, to me, she was always old” was my reply.  Yet she never seemed ‘old.’

I could write a whole book about her – and perhaps that’s exactly what I should do – but that’s not the point of this post.  Seeing her on the screen, alive, walking hand-in-hand with me, I felt an overwhelming sadness.  I wasn’t a good niece.  Oh, when I was little I was great.  I was a sweet little kid.  But after my dad died I was nothing but a Grade A bitch.  I lied incessantly. I committed crimes. I disobeyed everything and everyone.  I was never sober or straight.

Fortunately, I got married at 19 and pregnant 3 short months later and found something worth sobering up for.  I straightened up that part of my life at least, but I was still an awful human.  I was so absolutely desperate for someone to love me – for everyone to love me for that matter – that I was capable of taking from others, often still lying to do so, to get what felt like love and nurturing to me.

Did I mention Aunt Brenda was generous?

She fell victim to my greed and often bestowed upon me undeserved gifts of money or things that I claimed I desperately needed.  She was wealthy, and I’m quite sure nothing she gave was even slightly unreasonable, but that’s not the point.  The point is I lied to her.  I lied to the best person I have ever known.  And she was so sweet, loving and generous that I never had to.  I could have just said “I’m struggling, my Mom is very appropriately done with me, I’m scared and lonely and I need your help.”  Or I could have just said “I need your help.”  She was that person.  She didn’t need to know why.

What absolutely kills me is that now I am NOTHING like that person she knew.  That aforementioned evil past boyfriend inadvertently taught me a bit about who I really wanted to be or moreover who I didn’t want to be.  With the inspiration from a few incredibly positive friends – some that just touched my life briefly – and the hard fact of facing my imminent death, I was guided toward what was truly important.  My dear children gave me something to aspire to be (who they thought I was) and eventually I became a pretty good Katie.  I’m not done in any way – there are loads still to improve – but how I wish she were here to know me now.   It kills me that she never lived to see me come around.

I did tell her I loved her, but never why.  She was such sheer perfection, she probably didn’t look for me to love her.  For her, it was enough that she loved me.  But I wish, wish, wish I had said why I loved her and how very much I really did – how much I still do.

I thought in watching these forgotten chapters of my life, I’d see the man I lost at 15 and remember my life with him.  Instead, I flashed forward to the woman I am at 46, looked back at the mistakes I made at 23, and saw where it all started at birth.  A lifetime is such a short thing.  Use it wisely.

But Yours is So Beautiful

Dia and I went to a birthday party recently.   It was at a park with which we were very familiar and so Dia took off for the playground equipment immediately upon landing.  I herded her in and guided her toward the host of the party and some children she knew but, while she did participate in the proper social graces, she returned quickly to the jungle gym.

I was feeling sort of concerned that she wasn’t really showing all that much interest in playing with the other girls.  I’ll admit the crew was tight-knit and very much into their own thing, but still.  At one point the other girls asked Dia to come over and play a version of house, but she didn’t think that was much fun and ended up playing in the sand with some of the younger children.

So, as I said, I was feeling concerned and kind of worried that maybe not attending preschool might cause problems for her.  One of the changes I’ve noticed since ‘last time’ I was a parent of young children and ‘this time’ is the opinion that early socialization is crucial.  Mind-boggling crucial.  I have more than one friend that keeps their child in preschool despite feeling the care provided is not in line with how they’d prefer their child be treated.  Still, they feel it’s better to leave them there than have them not get the exposure with and to other children.

Now, Dia has always been kind of different than her peers.  I suppose that we are all very unique if we are allowed to be so and perhaps that’s all that’s really different about her.  I allow it.  And, really, what’s so wrong with being your own person anyway?  Perhaps if more people were allowed to be their true self there wouldn’t be so many problems with teasing, bullying and poor sportsmanship.  But we really aren’t that society, are we?  Dia may indeed find there is a lot wrong with being different.  She may end up an outcast and very lonely.

Or anyway, I was considering that this might happen.  In about an hour I’d thought this all out and had gotten myself completely freaked out about ‘what if’ and ‘maybe’ and then…

There was a little crafts project that everyone participated in.  One of the girls just melted down over something to do with it.  I didn’t know if it was that she didn’t get the color she wanted, or something blew away in the big gusts of wind, or if it didn’t turn out right or what.   Regardless, she could not be consoled.  Her mother did try, but eventually the little girl just went over to a picnic blanket to be alone and cry.  A couple of the other girls were sent over by their mothers, but they lost interest in a few seconds.  Meanwhile Dia and I were looking over our options at the picnic table since her blood sugars were going a little low, and suddenly she just got down and went over to the child.

What I witnessed in that moment was the sweetest, most sincere, most gentle, most nurturing, most empathetic interaction I have ever had the privilege of seeing.  Dia sat gently next to her.  She carefully raised her hand and placed it lightly on her shoulder.  She spoke quietly and sweetly and truly wanted to know what was wrong.  I think she told her, though I couldn’t hear her reply.  Dia stayed with her until she’d calmed down.  And she did calm down due to Dia's kind, sweet words and gentle touch.

I was so moved.

It occurred to me, as I watched her, that anyone witnessing me witnessing that would have seen the face of unadulterated pure love.  Truthfully, I was disappointed that no one did see it.  Not one mom, not one child.  No one was paying any attention to the little girl but Dia and no one was paying any attention to Dia but me.  I suppose it gets to be my special moment, but I really feel that anyone who witnessed it would have been touched in much the way it touched my heart.

To say I’m proud of her would indicate that I had some hand in this and, other than raising her in more love than she knows what to do with, I didn’t do that.  That came from her.  All her.

You know what?  I think she’s gonna’ be OK.

And, by the way, I asked later if the little girl did tell her what was wrong.

“She wanted a yellow one” Dia said.

“What did you say to her that calmed her down like that?” I asked

“I said ‘But yours is SO beautiful.’”

Twitter

One of the side effects of being a single mom of this particular small child is the rare ability to have an uninterrupted conversation. Over the past 4.5 years, I must have started one-thousand stories that never had an end. I’ll start chatting about this or that and, after a number of interruptions, I just lose my way and either the subject gets changed or I forget what I was saying completely. Obviously, nothing all that important is ever being conveyed, but I’ve had so many topics cut short by “Mom? What would my stegosaurus say if he was the Prince of the world?” or something of the sort. Whatever it is, it’s ever so urgent to Dia. Lately I’ve been enduring attempts to stop my chatting with my personal favorite, the one-finger-over-the-mouth-with-the-left-hand/two-fingers-in-the-air-with-the-right-hand gesture lovingly taught to her by a teacher at the Y. I could go my whole life without ever seeing THAT one again….

Now, I know I could discipline or ignore her as many mothers do. I could just keep on chatting or talk over her or demand that she sit and be quiet until I’m done with my story – all things I couldn’t even begin to label as child abuse – but it’s not my style. It’s not that I’m so permissive as it is that I can’t stand noise. I’m pretty sure that there’s a mathematical equation out there that goes something like:
Dia < full attention = vocal objection > Katie’s tolerance.

With Tim and Cheyanne I could place a hand on them, or put my arm around them, and say “just a moment, sweetie, let me finish my story and then we’ll hear what you have to say” and that worked beautifully. But this is Dia. That stuff don’t play. Instead, she persists louder and louder and more and more determined.

My dilemma is twofold:
One – To be effective, I must stifle her every time she speaks when someone else is speaking. Yet she is still at the stage where several times a day she legitimately needs to announce something even if it means interrupting (unfortunately, sometimes that involves my ancient dog pooping in the house…), and because this is Dia, exceptions to the rules mean the rules are pretty much moot. That is how she rolls.
Two – If I keep chatting while she’s yelling, eventually I can’t think any more anyway and have to give her my attention if for no other reason than to get her to hush. This is not as simple as it sounds and therefore ends the conversation I’m trying to have anyway. Also (I fear) that teaches Dia just to yell longer and louder to accomplish her task. You do have to understand that her goal is not necessarily to be heard as much as it is to rule the roost.

OK – you have to understand the mind of a Dia. The other day we went for a walk and she’d kicked her shoes off and then got them back on. She was having trouble walking in them after that.
“Oh” I said “You’ve got them on the wrong feet, sweetheart.”
“Mom” she said “Why are you always telling me what to do?”
OK?

Sewwwwww – anyway – I’ve noticed that I have this tendency to just prattle on every chance I get an unobstructed audience. I feel like an in-person Twitter account. I talk too fast, dominate the conversation and have this tendency to just dump every bit of detail in my life that I can on my poor victim. And, worse, I have stopped listening. Well, I listen just long enough to get a cue for my next launch: “Oh, that reminds me!...”

I’ve become THAT person! You know the one: “Enough about you, let’s talk about me.” Ugh.

For no particular reason, I had a flashback recently to a moment where a great friend of mine said “you are the best listener I have ever known.” I think God might have implanted that sudden memory. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been a chatty Cathy since Day 1. Or anyway since I was 3 years old. Mom reports a time when my dad complained “Isn’t Kate EVER going to learn to talk?” To God’s ears, I suppose, because I really haven’t shut up much since then. Still, I knew how to listen too and I fear I have let that go.

So – dear friends – here is my written oath. I vow to be a better listener. If I really, really need to just spew out stupid stuff – well, perhaps that’s what my blog is for (!) – I’ll try to keep it to a minimum. I’m still going to be the conversation starter 90% of the time, because that’s how I roll, but I vow to let YOU talk and to truly hear you. And I promise to start right now. .... Or, maybe in a year. ....No later than 2012 I promise!
KEC

The Son From America. (a poem)

Oh, to be content!
To have all in the world that you need
and to want for nothing more.

How I envy the simple people
who are only simple to those of us who
are trying desperately to justify
our dissatisfaction with life,
with ourselves.

To those of us to whom a destination,
or a car,
or a house,
once acquired
know that certainly, everything will be
alright then.
But who will be so Disappointed,
No,
Distraught
when we find that with the destination
or the car,
or the house,
now acquired
not only doesn't provide the bliss we were
Hoping,
No,
Praying for,
but leaves us with an undefined
Emptiness.
that we can no more fill than the Grand Canyon.
And, so, spinning into confusion,
we redefine.

Altruism, Charity
Certainly this must be the key.
Give back to the little people, the simple people.
for we know that, certainly, everything will be
alright once we do.
But we are so Distraught,
No,
Devastated
when we find that after the altruism, the charity,
not only don't we find the fulfillment we were Looking,
No,
Searching for,
but we are left with only

Ourselves

Fish are Friends

Dia has decided to become a vegetarian. I think her recent viewings of Finding Nemo, Happy Feet and her realization that turkey-food was once a turkey-bird made significant impressions on her. So she announced to me she no longer wants to eat meat because she doesn't want to hurt animals, much less eat them.

Honestly, this isn't that big of a leap in our household. We aren't all that carnivorous to begin with, though I do like to prepare nice dinners (even if it will just be Dia and me sitting down together) and that occasionally includes chicken, turkey or fish.

I do my grocery shopping after making out menus for the week. I always try to incorporate recipes that include ingredients I already have on hand. It keeps the ol' grocery bill down and also prevents me from tossing food that's gone bad (which always makes me feel guilty). This week one of the menu items was Sesame-Crusted Red Snapper, curry couscous and a spicy vegetable salad. I had just about everything on hand thanks to my garden and my incredible spice cabinet, so it seemed a no-brainer. I just needed the Red Snapper.

I was in no way disrespecting my child's decision. I just knew my mom and I would enjoy a nice fish dinner and, anyway, I often fix Dia different dinner entrees from the rest of the family (we very much like spicy foods) so I really didn't think anything of it.

My judgment there failed me.

It was at the meat counter that Dia launched her protest. I asked the butcher for a fillet of Red Snapper and he was kindly choosing the right size fillet for me. This really didn't take any time at all, but it was time enough for Dia to exit with the cart. "Fish are friends, NOT food!" she yelled, running off with the cart that she is still too short to steer.

I asked her to come on back, honey, this is for Grandma and me, not you... but that didn't sway her. On she went careening directly toward an end kiosk. Thanks to my wicked fast sprinting ability I caught Dia and the cart just in time. It hit, but not hard. Whew.

At this point I was calmly explaining to her that she couldn't run off with the cart and, more importantly, she couldn't run it into people or things. To the untrained ear, I'm sure it sounded like a mild suggestion rather than a determination (you have to really know Dia to get why this is necessary). In response, Dia stamped her foot and said "If you eat fish then I WILL run it into people and I WILL run it into things." An elderly gentleman nearby made a very concerned face and immediately redirected his path to give her a wide berth. If I could have broken character, so to speak, I would have assured him of his safety, but I didn't have that option just then.

I still had my hand on the cart's handle when the sweetheart of a butcher came behind his counter and walked down the aisle to bring me the Red Snapper, now all wrapped up and in a bag and looking very innocuous.

At that point, the moment had passed for Dia and the protest was over. We continued our regular shopping, entering an aisle where we happened upon that elderly gentleman again. He made the same face as before as he exited that aisle prematurely. A few minutes later we were in the soup aisle and here he comes again. We made eye contact just long enough for him to turn tail and almost run away. Honestly, he was never in any danger, but I kind of understand. Shin bruises don't heal for weeks and weeks on me and I'm only 46. He probably just didn't want to take the chance.

Later that evening, as I was fixing dinner and deciding between a couple of vegetarian options Dia said "Mom, I want a burger tonight. I'm just going to be a vegetarian during the daytime."

I guess it's all about moderation.

kec

Walk a Mile

I am blessed with a rather grounded upbringing. My mother, anyway, provided very thoughtful musings that were honestly rather unusual for the time. I suppose it was odd behavior compared to her peers but she not only preached the Golden Rule, she lived by it. I used to say that she was the most non-judgmental person I'd ever met and I used to say that when I was 8 years old. Now, think about most 8 year olds and how much their mother's character gets considered at ALL, much less for an aspect of it as vague as that to stand out... But that is how non-judgmental she was. I never heard her say a negative thing about another human until - honestly - recently and then it was so completely warranted.

One of the bits of advice she shared with me was to try to walk a mile in someone else's moccasins before jumping to conclusions on who they are and what their motivation is. She, being the great heart she was, could do this pretty easily. It was much, much harder for me though I did try. Well, I tried a lot more when I was 8 than I did by the time I was 16 and even less then by the time that I was 25. I think by the time I was 30 I was pretty much on the Supreme Court of judging others. I didn't trouble myself with considering anyone's perspective but my own.

Is it Dr. Phil that says "how's that working out for ya'?" Regardless, it didn't work out for me. Being judgmental allowed me an opportunity to be extra angry, a bit snooty and filled with all sorts of righteous indignation. I suppose, to a certain degree, I meant well. Or maybe I didn't. I think I was just trying to boost my self-esteem a bit by reminding myself of how and why I was better than (fill in the blank).

These days, though, whether it's my little love and her generous spirit or the fact that I'm finally getting wise enough to actually listen to my mom, I do care to try to walk a mile. Or 8. Or 26.2 ... and give people credit for doing the best they can with what they've got right now.

And that, Dr. Phil, IS working out for me. I find relationships that were difficult in the past are getting easier. The other party hasn't changed in any way, but my perspective on them has. Now, I'm less frequently angry and less frequently bound to spout out some opinionated bullpucky. I'm definitely a work in progress where this is concerned, but I am definitely making progress.

Today, I was at a busy intersection with the green light. 50 mile an hour speed limit. Loads of cars. Suddenly, this young man, slight of build with a shaved head and a cell phone to his ear runs full speed across the lanes to my left. I saw the speed with which he just dashed across and, being somewhat of a runner, thought "He's not gonna' stop. He didn't pull up." And sure enough, he just.kept.going. God, or angels, or luck prevented him from getting hit by any of the cars in the three other lanes. I had stopped. God, or angels, or luck prevented me from being hit by the cars behind me.

I could hear the driver of the SUV beside me yelling at him. Expletives blasting, insults flying, horn blaring. I suppose it was deserved. Yet, I just found myself worrying about him and wondering: Was he late for work and had to catch that bus that just rounded the corner? how could any job be worth his life? .... Was someone hurt? And he had to get to them right away? .... What could have panicked him to the point where he would have run straight out in front of all that traffic?

Clearly it's still bothering me, but it's out of concern and curiosity. I drove back past the intersection again just because I was going that way, but I looked for him. Why on earth he would have been there I don't know, yet while looking and thinking how silly I was to look, all at once I realized that just a few short years ago I'd have thought something cynical about the young man. I'd have been angry that he was so irresponsible. I had Dia in the car. What if....? But today, I'm not mad. And honestly? It feels a ton better.

Happiness

Today I asked Dia if she was happy.

"Yes" she said simply.

"Do you have a happy life, love?"

"Yes" she replied with a big grin.

"What makes your life so happy?" I inquired.

She reached up with those still-so-small hands, held my face in them, looked me directly in the eyes and said

"You do."

Gifts

I have been given a gift. Well, honestly, I have been given three individual gifts. They are, in order: My soul's companion, my heart's joy and my mind's challenge. They are, also, respectively my son, my oldest daughter and my wee daughter.

Tim was the most amazing child. He was calm, compassionate at an unusually young age, and so smart it was quite simple to tend to him. He spoke in full sentences at 16 months so we communicated with ease much earlier than what is typical. As he grew, it became increasingly obvious he was an old soul to this earth. He was much less rattled by the issues that unsettle the majority of us, but much more confused by why we humans make life so incredibly difficult when it could be so simple.

In Tim, I found my soulmate. I found someone who thought along the lines I did - not because I nurtured him to do so, but just because he was he. I found comfort in having someone else ponder the things I did in the same manner I did. Yet he was brave enough to speak them aloud. I'd kept it all to myself, much too afraid to appear odd or unpopular in my thinking. Over the years, he has been a quiet presence in easing my soul and soothing my nerves and making me feel not quite so alone.

Complimentary to Tim's calming almost Zen affect, Cheyanne was a bright light from the moment she came flying into this world. Her strength of self was apparent minutes after her birth when she lifted her head and looked around a bit. She amazed me at that moment and has been amazing me since.

She has a way of filling the room with sunshine even when she isn't feeling sunny herself. Heedless of the warnings of classic parenting theories, we became best friends and on my darkest days she is who I call. She has a thousand watt smile and such a joie de vivre it's impossible not to want her around for every moment of celebration. Yet her ability to listen and the wisdom she imparts that is so tremendously beyond her years makes it equally impossible not to rely on her through every moment of strife. She is the keeper of my heart.

Tim and Cheyanne were also model children. They were polite, well-behaved, obedient, easy to take along and not at all demanding. I knew - believe me I knew what I had in them and I was truly convinced I would rest on my laurels the remainder of my days with the two beautiful children I'd had.

But along came Dia.

And, you know, she's everything I worried I'd get if I pushed fate one more time. She's ornery, impatient, short-tempered, demanding and high-strung. She can be anxious and needs a ton of reassurance. She has caused me to rethink just about everything I held as truth where parenting was concerned. I've been "one of those parents" dealing with a tantrum in a department store; I've had the phone hijacked and my time drained. I've been bit, scratched, thrown at and even spit upon and ...

And I wouldn't trade her in for a different kid in a million years. She has a way of being with people - an acceptance so great and encompassing - that SHE has taught ME compassion. She draws people to her. She loves every living thing. She teaches me patience greater than I've ever known, she challenges my thinking with the most logical silliness, she stretches my capacity to think outside the box.

Further, and foremost, and kind of the point of this post, she has brought to me the most amazing human beings I have yet to know in this world. She has made my relationships to old friends, to family and even to my silly pets richer and filled with more understanding. She has introduced me to new friends - whether they be her nannies or through the childbirth class that got her here. These are friends that I would have never met otherwise, and who I couldn't imagine living without now that I do know them.

One such person is my dear friend, Sabra, who I wrote about earlier. If you want proof into the kind of gifts I've been given through my children, visit her blog. You'll see it in my blog roll (or just go to it). I consider witnessing Emma's miracle to be one of the gifts the universe has lovingly bestowed upon me through Dia.

So once more, I go to sleep and lay my head down with a humble and most sincere "Thank you." This is truly a blessed life.

No Pity Parties Here

I haven't written in a long time. I've been uninspired and have almost succumbed to writing some of the negativity I've been feeling lately. I felt discouraged, not only as a writer but as someone trying to brighten this world. And besides, I thought, why go to the trouble of creating a post on a blog no one reads anyway?

Well, today I have a reason.

I was reminded, by a friend who happens to have very advanced MS, of the incredible spirit in a young man named Nick Vujicic. Please take a moment and watch this video and you'll see what I mean:

No Arms, No Legs, No Worries

Or visit his website.

So the next time I'm suffering from one of my favorite pity party-starters (like "why bother" and "nothing matters anyway" or (my favorite) "people aren't very nice, are they?") remind me to take a second and re-listen to Nick's message.

In Michael's Honor

On this anniversary of Michael Jackson's tragic death, I would like to pay respect to his children. I hope that this past year found them still able to have moments of joy, of play, of just being a kid and that somehow they are making it after the loss of such a loving father.

Immediately following his death, there was so much speculation that the three children weren't truly "his." There were rumors swirling about who the parents of these beautiful children really were. There seemed to be no regard that these children were grieving their father, that they were old enough to read, to hear the news, to go on the Internet and view all the vicious accusations. Hopefully they were wise enough to ignore it.

But as all my friends who were lovingly adopted would agree, regardless of anything else, of course, they are Michael's children. The love shared between a parent and child is the only measure of any importance. Indeed, Paris' sweet words at Michael's funeral said everything: "Ever since I was born, Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine."

So my heart goes out to those children who have to go without that rare beast (a good father) and my prayers are with them that they are surrounded by love on par with what they had grown accustomed.

And to any skeptics as to whose genes were involved? The attached photos should diminish any doubts, at least as far as Blanket goes. Somehow I think the world just went about accusing Michael of thousands of things of which he was completely innocent and I'm not entirely sure why. My wish for our world, in honor of Michael Jackson's sweet legacy, is that we, collectively and individually, allow the good and innocent things in this world be just that and maybe even help them better their cause.

Michael's cause was love. Let it be.

One Mother's Love

This is a post from Facebook that I took from my dear friend. Even if you don't know someone who has dealt with the challenges of autism and cannot relate to that, as a mother (or someone who has HAD a mother) you can certainly understand the devotion, pure love, tenacity, faith and never-ending hope that she displays. She is the miracle in this as much as God, as much as her child. She is one of the things that is so very right in this world. Read on:

I am in the midst of a miracle, friends! You are probably aware that my daughter, Emma, has autism. She is nine and has been non-verbal and has had low communication skills since she was 2 1/2. Recently I have been fascinated by Tito and others and reading up and researching a little bit on IPM (Informative Pointing Method) used by Soma (Tito's mom) and which is on the Strange Son website. I have been working on having Emma type "I want candy" when she wants it. It has been pretty hand-over-hand, but the other day I noticed that she was really focusing and leading the way. In IPM, they say to sit on the right hand side of the child and have them use their right hand. You place your hand on theirs for support and pressure when necessary. They can keep their stimm in their left hand. I started asking her questions "Do you want another piece of candy?"
She typed "Yes". Am I imagining this?!

I had not even been sure that she could spell! We were in the zone, so I asked her if I could have a piece and she typed yes again. I asked her whose party we were going to and she typed "Vivis", the name of the little girl who was having her party that afternoon. I then asked her what color her toenails were and she typed "blue".!!!!!!!

We started jumping up and down. I saw the elation in her eyes as well. We were both getting this. We shared in this together.

Since Saturday, I have found out a few things.

Me: What's you favorite color?
Emma: yellow ( I had always thought it was purple, so I asked her twice)

Me: What did you have for lunch today?
Emma: pitza

Me: What kind of pet would you like to have?
Emma: (she had a hard time spelling this so I finished it. Wasn't sure what she was going for and thought she was just touching random letters at first) orangutang

Me: ( About her new pic by Renee) How do you think you look in this picture?
Emma: I think I look pretty (yes, the whole sentence!)

I am beyond amazed!! What else will I learn about her and where will this lead? I have so much hope. It's hit or miss and she needs to be looking and attentive, but WOW!! I have no words for this one, except maybe just PRAISE GOD!!!!

Love, Me

This one is for the ladies, I suppose. Though I cannot say if the gentlemen have the same issue. Perhaps they do, but they have learned to just keep it on the D.L. Regardless, since I've only been a woman in this lifetime, I can only speak with authority from a girl's perspective.

Think about this one for a second:
Do you treat yourself as well as you treat your best friend?
How about as well as you treat your general friends? Acquaintances? Your dog?

Yes?
Truly?

Because I know so many absolutely gorgeous women that have rarely, if ever, seen how beautiful they are. This quest for outer beauty drives so many of us to attempt to achieve an ever-impossible level of perfection, ignoring any inner glow we might cultivate. Too heavy, we diet. Now skinny, we get breast implants. We pluck, dye, microdermabrase, inject, wax, tan, sweat, starve, and generally abuse ourselves without the slightest second thought. Yet we're never content with the results. We always find more flaws.

And here's why I asked the friend question. Could you even remotely fathom telling your friend "Before you had your daughter, you were so much skinnier. You were also younger, prettier, more interesting and your boobs were perky. And while we're at it, is that a pimple on your nose?" I mean, seriously! We would never be as abusive to a friend as we are to ourselves.

Oh, and I am superiorly criminal of this. Or was anyway. Now I see photos from when I was young and think "How could I have even thought those horribly self-destructive insults!" I have vowed that from now on I shall see the outer beauty I still maintain, the inner beauty I continue to gain and to be a good friend to that gal in the mirror.

You should too - because I guarantee you, you ARE beautiful!

KEC

Who can resist happy duck stories?

My friend, Mary Jean, passed me this story. It's had a few variations over time, but as you can see from the Snopes' link, the original story is a true one. Happiness!

Raindrops on Roses

and whiskers on kittens... these are a few of my favorite things:

Before you make any online purchase check out Retail Me Not. This is one of the best and easiest sites I've ever used. I have honestly saved countless dollars using this site. Of course, my savings probably serve as nothing more than a deferral on the interest rate from the credit cards that my purchases ultimately go on... but still. It's very worth the extra few seconds and, though I don't use it, they even have a nifty widget (Firefox extension) that will notify you of the potential savings as you visit your shopping site.

Anytime you are feeling down and need a quick smile, visit 1000 Awesome Things. It is, quite simply, filled with awesomeness even though most of it is pretty ordinary stuff. Awesome!

Another money saver that I love is Goldstar. Their slogan is "go out more." Well for me, it's more like "go out at all." They have half price tickets to all sorts of events and that just makes me really, really happy. They send me a weekly email of events and, through that, I've even discovered a couple of really cool things to do that I didn't even know existed.

Which brings me to the Faery Hunt (photo above). I knew nothing of it until Goldstar offered discounts on the event. I was intrigued and the price was so great (thanks Goldstar!). We went and had just so much fun. If you have wee ones it truly is worth your while. It's just pure innocence and fantasy and we all should have more of that in our life - don't you think?

KEC

Thank you Hasbro

My wee daughter received a Baby Alive for Christmas. A very generous Santa Claus came through as promised and there, on Christmas morning, was the doll she'd coveted for months. It talks, pees AND poos (and that's the really important part here). To my 3 year old? That was the coolest part of it all.

Fast forward to April, just 4 months after Christmas, "Bracelet" is very much loved and nowhere near shoved away in a dark corner. No, this doll is played with just about every day. Yet suddenly, and quite out of the blue, Bracelet lost her appetite and my wee one and her beautiful nanny are dealing with Baby Alive vomit rather than poo. She will no longer swallow her food. Tragedy has fallen.

I pulled out the instruction manual and read what little they provided on 'in case it no longer eats.' I attempted that fix to no avail and then went on Hasbro's site. I found no help there either, so I wrote customer service explaining we'd just purchased the doll at Christmas, had been following all the directions to a tee (the truth) and yet? No eating (and worse, of course, no pooing).

Hasbro wrote back (in and of itself a miracle in this age of poor customer service) and said they no longer made that model nor did they have replacement parts for it. They said they would send us something of equal value instead. I was happily shocked right there, and figured they'd send a lesser model (read: doesn't poo) or a coupon.

Less than a week later FedEx rang the bell and there, on the doorstep, was a brand new Baby Alive. It wasn't the exact same as Bracelet, who is an African-American child, but it was a fully functioning Baby Alive. All is saved in our world.

And Hasbro? They've got a couple of huge fans now.

It's a movie waiting to win an Oscar...

Except it's not. It's real life and, like real life, it's wonderfully joyous and terribly sad, glorious and heart wrenching all at once. And, yes, one could argue that there is an ultimate sadness and terrific (in the literal sense of the word) reality for the family of this young man, but I choose to focus on the generosity of the hearts of the other young men, the faculty and this tremendously tenacious young man:

John Sikorra is living the dream at last

"Now batting, number 15, John Sikorra."

Four years of dreaming into one sentence, uttered over a tiny loudspeaker, above a cramped baseball field, on a busy street where cars rushed past and a moment stood still.

It was a quick breath for the student who announced it, but a lasting prayer for the baseball player who would live it.

On this brilliant Thursday afternoon in West Hills, for the first time this season, senior John Sikorra left the Chaminade High dugout and walked haltingly toward home plate. His father was on his arm. A shining Easton bat and weathered Easton tee were at his side.

Sikorra is blind, but he knew the way. He had spent years dreaming of the way.

The horror of a rare, fatal, neurodegenerative disorder known as Batten disease had taken his sight as a child, and slowly taken many of his cognitive skills since, yet no demon could steal his love of baseball.

Sikorra spent his first three years at Chaminade hoping someone would ask him to join the team. He couldn't swing at a pitched ball, or catch a batted one, but years of listening to Vin Scully and his beloved Dodgers helped him understand the thwack of a bat and the pop of the leather.

He couldn't always communicate, but he could always high-five, and for three years he longed to have someone on the other end of that boyish slap, until last fall he met second-year baseball Coach Frank Mutz at a school retreat.

"I met a kid that loved and lived for baseball," Mutz recalled. "I thought to myself, this is the kind of kid I want on my team."

So Sikorra became an Eagle. He was given a uniform and a locker and joined the team in the dugout for the home games, his father or longtime aide Cody Miller sitting next to him providing play-by-play.

So inspirational was his huge smile, soon he was named captain. So real was his presence, the Eagles won their first 13 games at home when he was there and vaulted to No. 1 in the Southern Section Division 2 rankings.

"He's always smiling -- I mean, always smiling -- and that smile makes us stronger," said senior Ryan Kramer.

How excited was Sikorra? He couldn't really tell his teammates, so he showed them, three times suffering seizures during exciting moments, like when the Eagles scored three runs in the bottom of the seventh and final inning to defeat Corona Centennial.

"There is not supposed to be any connection between excitement and the seizures," said his father, Joe. "But I'm not so sure of that. John really, really loves to be here."

He loves it so much that after one seizure, he took a 45-minute nap on the bullpen mound and returned to the bench to finish the game.

"He never quits, he never stops fighting," said teammate Brando Tessar.

As his functioning has declined, his fight has increased, and his popularity at Chaminade has soared, the blond-haired kid being voted homecoming king and a member of the prom court. In these final days of his organized schooling -- he tells his parents that attending class is becoming too difficult -- there was really only one thing missing.

He was finally part of a team, but he needed a varsity letter to make it real. Yet to earn a varsity letter, he needed to participate in at least one official play.

So for the final regular-season home game against Alemany High, the Mission League championship game, Mutz offered to give up an out so Sikorra could bat.

"He deserved that letter as much anybody," Mutz said. "Giving up that out was the least we could do to get it for him."Those who still believe in the goodness of high school sports can guess what happened next. Randy Thompson, the Alemany coach, refused the offer, saying that if Chaminade gave up an out, his team would also give up an out.

"Some things are bigger than baseball," said Thompson.

Finally, to make it simple, the coaches agreed that Sikorra would simply be the first hitter of the afternoon, batting with Chaminade in the field, then the regular game would begin.

"Now batting, number 15, John Sikorra."

As they approached home plate to a standing ovation, a father whispered to a son.

"Swing away, have fun, do your best," Joe said.

The ball was teed up, Joe stepped away, John stepped in and ... boom.

The kid pounded it, ripped it, hammered it, the solidly hit ball rolling toward third base, and off they ran, father and son, hand in hand, flying around the bases, dancing together from the dugout darkness through the early summer light.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop," Joe repeated.

John didn't. His tongue sticking out of his mouth like Michael Jordan, he crossed home plate amid a tiny stadium overflowing with tears and shouts and love.

Chaminade later lost the actual game, 1-0, but not really.

"Today, both teams won in the game of life," said Lori, John's mother.

Late Thursday night, his fading memory again betraying him, John peppered his mother for a replay.

"How far did I hit it? How far did I run?" he continually asked her, two questions, one answer.

Clear to anyone who witnessed the one career at-bat of the great John Sikorra.

Forever and ever, amen.

bill.plaschke@latimes.com

Top of the day to you!

It seems that we, as Americans... perhaps as humans, are saturated in the bad. Bad news permeates the headlines and drives Internet searches from frantic folks hungry for every last detail. It's all I hear all day. I get interrupted with bad news alerts and natural disaster tragedies and it's all incredibly upsetting. Not to mention that the sheer numbers of all these stories is enough to make me give pause to the Armageddon predictors. So I thought... enough.

Now, I'm sure there are tons of sites and blogs that focus on the good news of the day (and feel free to share them), but because (after all) the world revolves around me, I figured I'll just make one right here. Right now.

Please take no criticism here if you, dear reader, are a bad news junky, I'm doing this for my own benefit honestly. Yet, I do find that I crave to hear the good. I want to hear what good we are doing for each other, what companies and industries are reaching out to honestly help (for no ulterior motive like a tax write-off), what happy events are out there.

My blog name "Faulty Logic ... or not" is thus labeled because I live near a rather significant fault line and while I am sending my deepest respect to its ability to change my life without so much as a how-do-you-do, I am also trying to create a world that might have better things to concentrate on.

(It is also a quiet shout out to my oldest bestie (no I am not calling you old). She will remember.)

KEC