"Mommy! I've Been Dress Cut."

In September, 1967, my sister, Debra, walked through the doors of Riverside Brookfield High School for the first time. Having spent eight years in a Catholic elementary school, which required she wear a scratchy, wool uniform, imagine her excitement about getting to pick out a real outfit for school for the very first time.

Well, that excitement soon turned into humiliation. According to family lore, Debra was “sent home” on her first day of high school for a dress code violation. Her skirt was too short, they said.

For those of you with little fashion history knowledge, and particularly for those who believe the 1960s were all about mini skirts and go-go boots, the mini skirt didn’t come on the scene until 1966. Made popular by British designer, Mary Quant, mini dresses and skirts were set six-to-seven inches above the knee. The style was especially popular among the youth because they not only looked good in mini skirts, but mini skirts also gave them the opportunity to rebel against their parents and established dress codes. By 1967, mini skirts found their way to America and were worn nationwide.

Costume and Fashion: A Concise History (World of Art)

Debra’s skirt was not a mini skirt. To my knowledge it was definitely above her knees and hung mid-thigh. And because our family genes have blessed all my siblings (and me) with long, slender legs, more leg is exposed because there IS more leg! The same skirt may have appeared a lot longer on a girl with a different body type.

Meanwhile, our ultra conservative and fashion-bashful mother thought Debra’s skirt was not only appropriate, but also “very cute.” She couldn’t believe it when the school called and told her she needed to pick up her daughter for a dress code violation. They may as well have called her daughter a “slut” for the imagined implications of this violation.

As if it weren’t stressful enough dealing with the first days of high school—particularly going into the public school system after years of parochial school—Debra had to learn to swallow humiliation and rebuild her self-esteem. Further, each morning she had to take extra care getting dressed for school, for fear of another violation. I’m sure those hours of concern would have been better focused on things like math and English and science—particularly for a young girl who would eventually become a talented physician.

How Far Have We Come?
When I entered the same high school in 1974, I spent the next four years in everything from mini skirts to hot pants to faded and patched Levis. I never once received a dress code violation. Choosing outfits each day enabled me to develop my own sense of style and certainly added an element to my self-confidence.

This is why I am disturbed and, frankly, pissed off that 36 years later, my daughter’s current junior high has exercised Gestapo-style, fashion police tactics in the first weeks of school by routinely “dress-cutting” the kids for what they deem to be “inappropriate” clothing. In only nine days of school, my 13-year-old has been dress cut three times.

Emily Gray Junior High in Tucson, AZ has a relatively simple policy regarding the required length of shorts. When asked, the children must relax their shoulders and let their arms hang straight. If their longest finger reaches below the hem of their shorts, it’s a VIOLATION. They are sent to the office and for the rest of the day are required to wear polyester gym shorts that hang to their knees. (And by the way, late passes are not issued for dress cuts, so in addition, they receive tardy strikes).

This dress code rule may seem simple; however, it does not take into consideration the fact that there is not simply ONE body type. I, for example, applied this rule to myself yesterday while wearing a pair of workout shorts. They measure 14” from waistband to hem and have a standard 4” inseam. They rise 8” above my knee (which in 1966 would have qualified them not only as “mini,” but perhaps even “micro-mini.”) Nevertheless, my bottom is completely and even generously covered. No one—expect maybe a Muslim or a Mennonite—would deem these shorts provocative or inappropriate.

Meanwhile, here’s the kicker: When I relax my shoulders and let my arms hang straight, the hemline meets the middle of my palm. So, in other words, “DRESS CUT, MOMMY!”

I’m told one member of the junior high fashion police sent a girl to the office because she said her “butt cheeks” were hanging out of her shorts. Now if this were the case, arm length or leg length aside, I believe these shorts are indeed inappropriate. But if I deem my daughter’s school attire to be understated, age-appropriate and not in the least bit provocative, I don’t want to hear about another dress cut just because her long arms stretch below the hemline.

These kids have far more important things to learn at school instead of taking constant hits to their self-esteem and self-image. And I think it’s ridiculous and narrow-minded to impose ONE BODY TYPE as appropriate for an entire student body. If I felt it important to dress my child in a standard uniform, I would have sent her to a private or parochial school.

An Awakening Through a Journey into the Afterlife

By Joyce Laabs of The Lakeland Times


Based on a bit of fact and much fiction, Irish Twins by Michele VanOrt Cozzens (McKenna Publishing Group), is the fifth book by the author who, with her husband and two daughters, operate Sandy Point Resort and Disc Golf Ranch in Lac du Flambeau in the summer, while wintering in Tucson, Ariz.

Though titled Irish Twins, it is the story of a family as it is witnessed by the Irish twins' mother, Anne, who was herself an Irish twin.

For those who don't know what Irish twins are, as I didn't, they are two children born in the family within a year.

The novel begins on the day of Anne's death from a stroke while waterskiing on Mitten Lake in northern Michigan at the age of 80.

It is her journey into the afterlife--a place called Ohr--where her own Irish twin, Molly, who met an unexpected death at a young age, greets her and acts as her guide as Anne faces her judgment and witnesses her life and the lives of her surviving husband and five children. However, it is Jenny, her elder Irish twin and Caylie, the younger twin on whom she focuses her attention.

We learn all the family's secrets through Anne's journey.

"It is a lovely story, told only as Cozzens could. I have read all her books and her maturity as a an author is outstanding."

I found the book to be a compelling read. The reader feels as if they have become part of the family, and shares their concerns, decisions, mistakes and triumphs.

It is emotional, and as you review your own life, you find you are able to forgive yourself for the major mistakes and bad decisions (which most of us make).

I like Cozzens' vision of the afterlife before reaching heaven, particularly following your family's fortunes.

We learn the most about the Irish twins. Jenny is happily married, has two children--but is having a problem facing middle age. Caylie has three boys, is divorced, and faces loneliness and despair. Of greatest concern to Anne is that their relationship is falling apart.

When I began reading I thought the book might be depressing. I was wrong. It is a lovely story, told only as Cozzens could. I have read all her books and her maturity as a an author is outstanding.

Irish Twins is a beautiful read and you will like the insights about death. I would certainly recommend it--and not just to the Irish--but to everyone.

I Have a Little God in Me . . .

From the opening chapter of Irish Twins:

I have a little God in me. It’s a power I use to keep watch over my children, who are still on earth. I played many roles during my eighty years of human life, but the one role I couldn’t shake in spite of passing on, was the role of mother to my five children.

We say once we’re mothers we’re always in mother mode—even when our kids are grown and gone and having kids of their own. Now I know it’s true even when we’re dead. And from my vantage point of three hundred and sixty-degree Light, I see all. I see my five children as babies, as adolescents, teens, college students, newlyweds, young adults, and parents.

I didn’t share much about myself with my children when I was still alive, although I gave them everything. I gave them hot breakfasts and bagged lunches. I gave them corn beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes and chicken on the spit. I gave them clean laundry pressed to perfection and thin ankles. I demonstrated what it meant to be a dutiful wife and I taught them faith by example. I gave them all full heads of curly hair, which I inherited from my own mother.

Unfortunately, none of my children knew my mother. She died before they were born.

For everything I gave them, they gave so much more in return. They kept me young. And seeing the world through their eyes gave me the higher education I didn't have as a young woman. I didn’t go to college because during the Great Depression all luxuries came to a grinding halt. Higher education was definitely a luxury—especially for girls. I vowed it wouldn’t be the same for my children.

My children had all the benefits of the baby boom generation, including the finest educations we could afford on my husband’s blue-collar salary. They attended Catholic school. And today, as I watch from my vantage point in a place we don’t call “Heaven,” but rather, “Ohr,” which is Hebrew for the word “light,” I see that only one of my five children still attends church on a regular basis. But she’s no longer a Catholic. Jenny, my fourth child and one of my Irish twins, is an Episcopalian. The rest of them are just busy.

It really doesn’t matter, however. In Ohr, there’s no such thing as organized religion. Here we do not recognize our differences, because we are all alike.

We are all in the image of God.

Please visit my website for more information and early reviews of Irish Twins.

http://www.michelecozzens.com

Generations of Love

A really lovely review of Irish Twins by the incredibly talented author and musician, Robin Meloy Goldsby. How lucky am I to have this amazing woman in my life?

Generations of Love
By Robin Meloy Goldsby, author of Piano Girl and Rhythm

In her newest work, Irish Twins, Michele Cozzens weaves a tapestry of beautiful images with intriguing characters. With lyrical prose and a hefty dose of charm, she tells the unforgettable story of two generations of sisters. The result is enchanting and uplifting—a tonic for the heart.

Jenny and Caylie—one set of Irish twins—and the older generation of sisters, Anne and Molly, learn to love and lean on each other in life, in death, and in that in-between place that all of us wonder about. Cozzens tackles serious themes here, but, as is typical of her writing, she whisks just the right amount of humor into the story. Cozzens's opening scene details the waterskiing accident that causes Anne's death, and the lovely mix of humor and tragedy left me breathless and longing to know more about Anne. Anne, it turns out, has a lot to learn about herself.

I'm a big fan of Cozzens's work. She keeps changing the game, bouncing from memoir—I'm Living Your Dream Life: The Story of a Northwoods Resort Owner—to romance—A Line Between Friends—to stylized comedy—It's Not Your Mother's Bridge Club. With Irish Twins, Cozzens enters new territory, presenting a touching story that includes humor, whimsy, and elements of magical realism.

This is a novel that will stick with you. I don't think I'll ever drink a cup of tea without remembering these four women. Thank you, Ms. Cozzens, for a really great story!

Jessica Gall: Little Big Soul

I'm happy to report there are several new, BEAUTIFUL songs on my iPod from Jessica Gall's new CD, Little Big Soul. There's an overall, jazzy upbeat rhythm to many, a deep, tonal quality to all, and two I simply can't get out of my head!

Without question, my favorite song is track 4: "Beautiful Girls."

"When we were little girls,

Happy and small,

We'd always catch each other,

Long before we'd fall . . ."

This song, for me, brought up images both of my younger sister in a day gone by, and it also made me nostalgic for the very brief period when my own daughters were "little girls." I love everything about this song: the words, the music and especially Jessica's soulful voice.

For the lyricist, Robin Meloy Goldsby, who is also a talented musician and author, "Beautiful Girls" inspired an artistic tribute to her beautiful daughter, Julia. She has given me permission to share it with you here:

My other favorite is the light-hearted "Saturday Night." It's a fun, snappy anthem for working moms designed to help us get through the day, and with a reminder that there's still life ahead . . . on Saturday Night!

Very well done and I highly recommend for your listening pleasure.

New Novel Launching Soon: Irish Twins

It was President's weekend--better known as Rodeo Weekend in Tucson--when my family went on a ski trip and afforded me the uninterrupted time to finish writing my latest novel, Irish Twins. People often ask how long it takes to write a novel, and it's a difficult question to answer.

If I counted all the time spent thinking about these characters in addition to actually writing about them, the answer would be "years." The truth is, I don't know how long it took to turn the tea party in my head into the pages of a book.

But for the sake of answer, let's say it was a two-year process.

Yesterday I received a note from McKenna Publishing Group that another of its books is launching soon, and because of its possibly controversial political subject matter, they're expecting a lot of media attention. The hope is that the rest of the late-summer, early-fall releases will be able to piggyback on the publicity.

I hope so too. Even though I haven't read this book (Liberty Rising) and I suspect it has a strong partisan political flavor, which isn't my cup of tea, I do support the authors of McKenna. Many of us involved with the world of book publishing who've had the good fortune to find someone willing to turn our written words into published products with ISBN numbers and Amazon.com listings, know that writing the stories--no matter how long it takes us--is far easier than selling them.

Meanwhile, I will do my best to go from "writer" to "author" and publicize my new novel Irish Twins: A Story about Life and Death, Sisterhood and Forgiveness. I'll begin here by sharing the cover, sent to me by McKenna Publishing Group's fine graphic designer, Leslie Parker. Stay tuned for the release date and by all means, tell your friends.

Thank you,

Michele

Did You Know There Was a Female Pope?

Pope Joan by Donna Woolfolk Cross

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When a book is recommended to you over and over again, it’s definitely a good idea to take the recommendation. Such was the case with the amazing Pope Joan. It’s been sitting on my nightstand for . . . years! What finally motivated me to pick it up and dive in? Very simply, it was next on my long “to-read” list.

Pope Joan relates the fascinating story of the little known female Pope, who reigned as Pope John VIII in the ninth century between Popes Leo IV and Benedict III. It was sometime around 853. The author calls this period the “darkest of the dark ages,” a time of widespread illiteracy. Record-keeping was not only incomplete, but also, her rise to the papacy was ultimately so scandalous, that the Catholic Church took great strides to expunge any account of her existence.

And her existence continues to be controversial. Some consider it myth or legend . . . but the author makes a strong argument, citing an impressive slate of historical evidence—and especially because she writes such a riveting story of Joan’s life.

Pope Joan is extremely well written. It’s full of history and color. It’s brutal, it’s romantic, it’s shocking, it’s triumphant. How Joan manages to survive each stage of her life—until her ultimate demise—will keep you turning pages.

I give this book my highest recommendation.


View all my reviews >>

Summer Saturday Survival

It’s known as “turnaround day” here at Sandy Point Resort. Cabin renters checkout by nine in the morning, and we have guest-free grounds until 4pm, which is when the new weekly renters show up. It’s the most peaceful AND the most hectic period of the week.

Today’s turnaround went smoothly. We managed to get a jumpstart on two of our cabins, which we cleaned on Friday evening. The guests, who had young children, wanted to get on the road early to beat a forecasted storm, and make it back to their homes with a full weekend ahead of them to return to normalcy on Monday morning. And while we were sad to see them leave, we silently thanked them for giving us a leg up on our turnaround.

We also said goodbye today to two sets of personal houseguests—my nephew (a former whipping boy) and his girlfriend, and our dear, dear friends, The Rumbles. Johnny Rumble, aka John Pecunia, and his beautiful wife, Melissa, come each summer along with their adorable sons, Andrew and Nick. They couldn’t be more courteous, enjoyable guests and are helpful around resort. Johnny is like an ambassador—always getting to know all the guests on property. A noted professional disc golfer, this week he even took time to give lessons to a family from Madison. Imagine their THRILL when he drilled an ACE on hole 22!

This morning Melissa was up before my daughters—the actual cleaning staff—and helped do the heavy cleaning in each of the cabins. Her laugh is infectious and it gave us time to share (in person) stories and concerns that we normally can only relay by email. I forgot I was working because being with her was like working out with a friend.

Meanwhile, Johnny—who never ceased to entertain us by promising (among other things) to dance after dark—installed two ceiling fans and shared his tools with me all morning. Mike has always said Johnny is his hero, but no one is a bigger fan of Juan Carlos than I. Well, perhaps my admiration falls in line some place after Mel‘s and the boys’ (!)

So it was with a heavy heart that we said goodbye and thus began the 365-day countdown until their return to Sandy Point. We do have a few things planned in the near future, including their taking care of Willow’s soccer camp pick-up, Johnny’s return to the Northwoods Open and hopefully a spring trip out to Arizona. Whatever our future holds, we will look forward to it, enjoy it while it happens and feel sad when it comes to an end. All of it will come . . . and go . . . and come . . . and go.

Such is the revolving door that defines summer Saturdays at Sandy Point Resort.

Getting My LOON On

In our eighteen years of owning and operating Sandy Point Resort, this year—2010—has been the most challenging. It started out posing a problem because my daughters and I didn’t get here until the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend. We flew from Tucson to Minneapolis to Rhinelander, and it may as well have been a flight from the earth to the moon because of the polarized climates and lifestyles.

Mike was here waiting for us and Stu, our caretaker, had the grounds in tip-top shape. Together these two capable, hard-working men had already weathered a full house and a full turnover. But I—mama bear—had a hard time adjusting overnight.

I went from being a single parent getting her kids through finals and school-yearend activities—to preparing our beast of a house for all our summer caretakers—to packing for three months—to getting our 50-pound bags to the airport. And then it felt like we were literally dropped from the sky into a completely different world with completely different demands.

My kids ran off in one direction (away from me) and the resort guests then entered the scene and pummeled me with their expected and typical questions and needs.

Meanwhile, we’ve been here for just shy of three weeks and I haven’t seen the sun in nearly two of those weeks. And while I LOVE running in the cooler temps, the humidity has made my lungs heavy and my hair so thick, I can’t get a brush through it.

This is our first week with “regulars” here—the people whom we ALWAYS look forward to having on property. They’re like family. I have workout dates and our girls have make-out dates. Whoops! Scratch that. Make that movie dates in the recreation house.

They’re having fun—as teenagers should—however, this year I have to toil harder to reel them in and make them understand that they also WORK here. And all that spending money that comes their way is NOT an entitlement, but rather, it’s hard earned. (Read: SUMMER JOB).

This mom-n-pop operation finally has the benefit of kids on staff, and yet it also has the taxing job of teaching our kids the meaning of family business and “work ethic.” After eighteen years and just when I thought I had the guests trained, damn it, I have to once again, deal with another stage of parenting children.

I have yet to determine which is my most difficult job.

So, Did You Wipe Your Ass With it Too?

As far as T-P-ing acts go, this one was pretty pathetic. I didn’t even see it when I opened the front door this morning to fetch the Sunday paper. All I had on my mind at that early, pre-latte minute was when I was going to find time today to complete the NY Times crossword puzzle.

I greeted the mama dove, on her nest for the third round, and then opened the courtyard door. No paper. WTF? And then I saw a white mass in the driveway that looked like either a plastic grocery bag or a pile of paper towels. I walked toward it, and reminisced about the last time I approached a perplexing object near that point of our drive only to find my neighbor’s dead dog.

Thank God it wasn’t another murdered-by-coyote canine. It was only a mass of toilet paper clinging to an empty roll. Then I looked around and saw the stuff strewn from the mesquites and wrapped around the century plants and prickly pears.

I hope the pricks who did it got themselves a few thorns and pokes.

Meanwhile, we were only mildly amused. My girls, whom I sure were the targets of this age-old prank, thought it was “stupid.” They immediately sprung into action—without being asked—and cleaned it up before getting ready for church. And I located my Sunday paper at the end of the drive at the gate. Apparently our delivery person found the streamers too forbidding to venture through our circular drive.

Although I admit I took part in too many T-P-ing adventures to count, I’m not sure I get the point anymore. When I was in high school, we had a tradition of midnight toilet paper festivities each homecoming eve before the big game. We targeted the senior football players. I’m pretty sure the boys (and their families) considered it a badge of honor to be targeted.

But now it’s just a random act of juvenile and anonymous vandalism . . . and one more mess to clean up.

Arizona: Please Vote for Education

The state of Arizona has captured the attention of the country due to the passage of SB1070, a new law meant to curb illegal immigration. What the rest of the country may not know--particularly because they've got problems of their own--is public education in the state of Arizona has hit rock bottom.

According to the Arizona Education Association, in 2008 Arizona ranked 49/50 states in the amount spent per student. "Arizona would have to increase per pupil spending by 44 percent (or $2.7 billion) to move to an amount equal to the national average." Depending on where you get your statistics, Arizona ranks 50th or even 51st--below Guam.

Other Statistics

Forty-three percent of the state's total annual budget is allocated toward education. Unfortunately, Arizona is dealing with a budget deficit of $3.5 billion for the 2010-11 fiscal year. Money is being moved around, assets are being sold, rest stops are being closed and terms like "rollover" are being thrown out there as methods to combat this shortfall. And because education has seemingly NEVER been a priority in this state, public schools are currently in crisis.

On the ballot tomorrow is Prop. 100. It proposes a temporary one percent sales tax increase (or one cent on the dollar) for the next three years. If Arizona voters pass this proposition, it will decrease the budget shortfall by $1 billion, and two-thirds of the sales tax revenue is slated to go toward K-12 public education. The remaining one-third will go toward health and human services and public safety.

Last week I stood on a street corner in Tucson along with a group of mothers, teachers and students and carried my sign in support of Prop. 100. Two weeks ago I sent in my early ballot and voted YES.

Districts are doing what they can to cut back where they can, eliminating administrative positions and slashing budgets for sports, arts, and extra-curricular activities. Pre-Prop 100 cuts are already in place. And even if it passes, cuts will still be made. Just to cite one example, in the Tucson Unified School District, all sports must now pay for themselves--including coaching, transportation, uniforms, security, etc.

I have kids in Arizona public schools and I have to do everything I can to help support their educational experience. But I have to wonder, why doesn't everyone else want that for all our children . . . and grandchildren?

Please VOTE YES on PROP. 100. Our kids need your vote.

Irish Twins?

Our doves have done it again. I'm not sure whether or not it was a case of "been-there-done-that" but this time around, the whole process seemed to go a lot faster.

Today we're happy to report, both baby birdies survived. This morning was the first time we caught sight of them while the parent dove kept close watch perched atop our courtyard wall.

Mom and the Masai

The second time I went to Kenya, I had the unforgettable experience of escorting my septuagenarian parents there. The trip was a gift for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, which they celebrated in 1993. Mike and I first accompanied them to Paris and then we all went on a series of safaris in East Africa.

My sister, Gayle, lived just outside of Nairobi at the time and one of the highlights was our excursion into a Masai village that she had arranged. She’d done business there, buying tribal artifacts for the new African exhibit at Brookfield Zoo, her on-again, off-again employer. Gayle’s relationship with the warriors and the women and her ability to speak fluent Swahili (the tribe's second language) enabled us a full-service welcome into the circular village of mud and dung huts behind thorny, protective walls.

As the handsome, tall, red-clad warriors stood guard outside, the women grabbed their babies, lined up and broke into song. Recognizing our mother as the “elder” of our female clan, they pulled her into their line and encouraged her to clap with their rhythm. At one point, she was even handed handed a baby.

The Masai are a tall, semi-nomadic tribe and their signature color is red. The women wear a lot of beaded jewelry around their necks and wrists and in their pierced, elongated ears. Their identities within the tribe are often articulated by their jewelry.

Women do the beadwork and make beads from raw materials such as shells, ivory, bones, twigs and seeds. Of course, glass beads from Europe are now used just as often. I purchased the piece (photo at right) in this village and it’s made from shells, twigs, glass beads and cow or goat hide.

The red, four-strand Dream Life Designs piece, (photo below/left), was inspired by the Masai and my trips to their villages. It consists of bright red Venetian White Heart trade beads, along with copper and a colorful array of 4mm Swarovski crystals.

Venetian White Hearts originated in Venice, Italy during the late 1800s to early 1900s, and were found in Africa. During this period, the Venetians dominated the African trade bead market and produced the majority of the beads sold or traded.

These beads are exceptional in that they’ve lasted over 100 years and have traveled through at least three continents. Venetian trade beads are said to appreciate 10% in value each year.

This necklace, “Masai Maiden” is available for $95, which includes tax and shipping. Visit the Dream Life Designs website today. http://www.sandypointproshop.com. Or, you can call our toll free phone number, 888-588-3233, for more information. Thank you and . . .

Kwaheri!

Broken For You: A Book Review

Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Broken Lives Pieced Back Together

This was a book club selection that received a luke warm review from our group of ten. I, however, was one of the few who truly enjoyed reading Broken For You by Stephanie Kallos.

While many felt elements of the plot were too contrived—and they were—for me it didn’t take away from my enjoyment of the story, and particularly from the entertaining and well-developed characters.

This is a unique story. It made me laugh. It made me cry. It made me angry. Anything that can evoke this much emotion is, to me, WORTH the read.

Broken For You is about Margaret, a woman near the end of her life in Seattle, Washington, who comes to terms with the circumstances that enabled her to inherit a fortune and preside over a precarious collection of artifacts. When she is diagnosed with a brain tumor, she finds a way to solve her personal puzzles and her lifelong dilemma of housing glass/ceramic/porcelain objects that were confiscated from European Jews during the Nazi regime.

The first thing Margaret does is take-in a boarder, a young woman named Wanda. They are both in a sense, “broken,” and together they find a way to resolve their personal issues. Through art and the creation of a surrogate family, they bond and their stories unfold.

That’s just a brief summation . . . but it’s worth reading every page to understand how they get to resolution—the unusual and even aggravating way they do it—and to meet the unique characters that play a role along the way.

Well written, original and I highly recommend.

View all my reviews >>

“Mom! Can I Talk to You for a Minute?”

She sought me out at the end of the soccer game—a first round State Cup duel our girls won 2-1. I knew she was pissed about something—it showed all over her face, particularly during the second half of the game. Did I think she was pissed at me? Well, yes. She’s been pissed at me for about a year. I can’t tell you why other than to relate that she’s a teenager. And what teenage girl isn’t just a little bit pissed off at her mother?

But something else was clearly bothering her and my guess is that it was just a stressful situation. Regardless, she did voice what was bothering her about me:

“Please don’t talk to me from the sidelines,” she said while standing one inch from the sideline chalk. “It doesn’t help. It’s just a distraction.”

“Okay,” I said. “Gotcha.”

My 15-year-old was right. Usually I’m not a sideline screamer. For the most part, I’m either taking photos or saying things like “Ooh! Good pass!” or “Get a goal!” But during this game I did bark once: “Willow! Wake up!” She definitely heard me.

Even though they ultimately won, after the game I didn’t sense a feeling of pride or victory coming from the team—from the parents or the players. The other team had stepped it up a notch and came to play, while our girls played nervously. They were actually a little lucky to have pulled off the win. I think to make it a real victory, however, next week in round two, the girls should remember to bring their positive attitudes to the field . . . and so should the parents. And by parents, I mean me.

I vow to never bark again. Sorry, Willow.

Survivor!

A dove is born!

Yesterday I was in mourning over the loss of one of two dove eggs, which I’d been carefully watching for weeks. Today, however, a baby has emerged. I believed it was hiding under its parent all day yesterday as the sitting bird was propped a bit higher in the nest.

This morning, however, I saw what looked like feathers. And when I called Camille to come have a look, her keen eyes spotted a beak. Then nearly an hour after my little chick started her school day, this little chick emerged.

I don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl, but I’m going to name it “Anna.” Does anyone what to know what I named the other one before my husband disposed of it?

Dove Update

Three weeks ago I wrote about the Doves on our Doorstep, a pair of mourning doves taking turns sitting atop two eggs. They’ve been good, calm neighbors and have appeared oblivious to all our comings and goings. We check on the nest several times a day and have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of their chicks.

This morning, however, when I opened the front door at six a.m. and stepped outside to retrieve the newspaper, instead of simply finding doves on our doorstep, I found death on our doorstep. There at my feet was a fallen egg. The precious white shell was splattered and sitting amid a small puddle of yellow. Partial remains of the unborn baby were clearly evident.

My heart nearly broke.

I can’t say what happened overnight. Had the egg simply fallen from the nest during the mother and father shift change? Had the parent doves deemed the egg unviable and tossed it out? Had there been some kind of scuffle? A predator invasion? Whatever the cause, this is a permanent loss.

I’m not sure what to do with the egg. It was difficult enough photographing it in front of the parent. How would he/she feel or react if I were to scoop it up and dispose of it . . . where? In the trash? Bury it?

I’m not sure what to do. As I mourn the loss of this unborn mourning dove, I'm hoping someone out there has a suggestion.

I Miss My Mother

When my mother died I was lucky to receive a lot of support from those who knew her and those who knew how important this relationship was to me. I’m not saying our mother-daughter bond was anything special or extraordinary. On the contrary, it was quite normal. And my definition of “normal” in this case is that it was the most important relationship in my life. I truly loved her and for all of my life, never doubted that she was my biggest fan.

The condolence cards and calls were all pretty normal, too. But I noticed there was a common thread and consistent message from those who were already living their lives in the motherless-child category.

In addition to writing, “I’m sorry for your loss,” they also wrote: “My mother’s been dead for (5 or 10 or 15 or 20 or . . .) years and I still miss her terribly.”

At the time, this statement expressed and justified the power of the loss. And to learn that for many, it went on for years, allowed me to accept my grief for the big punch-in-the-gut that it was. I knew I wasn’t alone. I knew my pain was understood. But did I truly understand the concept of the pain being as acute years and years later?

No.

Well, I do now. It’s been nearly 11 years that my mother’s been gone. And it turns out, all those condolence statements were absolutely correct.

Since the day she died, I have not stopped missing my mother.

It’s been particularly difficult for me in the past few weeks because of the novel I just finished writing. I wrote a story called “Irish Twins,” and opted to tell it from my dead mother’s perspective.

It was a fictionalized version of her—which allowed me the liberties I needed to take due to what I didn’t know about her life or her thoughts. In my heart, however, I felt as though she were sitting with me as I wrote each word. Sometimes she came to me in my dreams and I believe she guided me through the work. Throughout the process, she continued being my biggest fan.

After two years of work, typing “THE END” on the last page initially gave me a feeling of relief and accomplishment. But now that a few weeks have gone by and my mom is no longer inside my head guiding my words . . . DAMN! It’s like losing her all over again. And my grief is palpable. If you didn’t know me and I told you my mother died, you might think it had happened yesterday.

Motherhood is, by far, the most challenging experience of my life. I’m grateful for my sisters and my friends who are mothers, who listen and offer support and advice. They constantly remind me that I’m not alone.

But what I wouldn’t give to have the ability to actually talk with or share with my own mother all the things I’m going through on this demanding and perplexing path!

My mom wasn’t perfect—who is?—but she was very good. She was good for me. We didn’t fight and I never doubted her love and support. I want so much to be a good mother and I’m giving it my all. I also want to teach my daughters what it means to be a “good” mother by example, and I want them to believe that I am indeed, their biggest fan and NOT their enemy.

Most of all, I want us to appreciate one another RIGHT NOW . . . Now while it’s all happening and not when it’s too late to feel the warmth of an actual hug and kiss.

I found a couple photos of my mom and me and I can’t stop looking at her. There are no words to express how much I miss her. I believe with all my heart that she knows this.

But even that still leaves me with the sense of loss.

Michelaneous

The other day during a casual conversation, a friend admired my ability to multi-task. I’m not sure she used the word “multi-task” but I’m pretty sure it’s what she meant.

I immediately thought of a typical Michele workday, and my head started spinning. Yes, I multi-task. Who doesn’t? But do I do it well? Hmmm.

It may appear that way to the outside world; however, if you were to step into my office and stumble upon the multiple PILES of tasks that await attention, I’m afraid you’d only see a mess.

I have been self-employed since the day I quit my job as a newspaper editor back in 1989. The first task I tackled was to plan my wedding. And because it was my single focus, boy was it a success! After that is when the multi-tasking began.

With a ring on my finger and a smile on my face, I pursued a business in publishing. I offered skills in writing, editing and graphic design, and my husband came up with a clever DBA for my sole-proprietorship: “Michelaneous.”

Since I could successfully accomplish every miscellaneous task involved in getting a publication from start to finish, I thought it was the perfect name. My biggest client was a large newspaper group, and I handled all the special sections—bridal guides, real estate features, sports and fitness, etc. I wrote the copy, designed the layouts and the ads, and sometimes even modeled for the photographers. Eventually they also gave me the job of writing a weekly column, and I tackled everything with joy and ease.

I’m sure this degree of success and ensuing confidence are partially responsible for our next big step in the business world, which was to create the world’s first disc golf resort. We’ve now owned and operated Sandy Point Resort in northern Wisconsin for 18 years.

Being the sole proprietors of this business has me multi-tasking all over the place. One minute I’m the bookkeeper, the next the housekeeper, the next the reservations manager, the next the webmaster, the next the customer service director, and on and on.

Add to the mix my career as an author (four books published and a fifth in the works) and a jewelry designer (Dream Life Designs), some mornings I get and up and don’t know which hat to put on. Usually it’s the one I trip over when I walk into my office.

So, I do indeed wear many hats. And sometimes I feel like I do a good job—usually it’s when I sell a necklace or make a booking—and yesterday I did both. So, if success is measured in income then yesterday I was successful. Most days, however, I feel constantly interrupted and have to make a concerted, taxing effort to focus on just one task at a time.

Oh, and one more thing? I’m a mother. And most people know that this job provides the mother load of multi-tasking opportunities.

What I’m trying to say here is that without question, I am a multi-tasker. I appreciated my friend’s comment because I know she meant to compliment me. And I realize my abilities might look like something to admire; however, what it feels like is a great big, Michelaneous mess.

Up in Arms

I spoke with a former California coworker over the weekend. When I was in my late 20s and she was in her early 30s, we worked together at a trade publication in San Francisco. I was managing editor and she was the director of advertising sales. We were quite a team. We were young, hot, ambitious and successful.

Today I’m in my late 40s and she’s in her early 50s. We talked only briefly about our past and spent most of the lengthy conversation catching up about our current lives—i.e. talking about our kids.

But when we did talk about our past, we couldn’t help but think of our boss. This was a woman who had a profound affect on both of us. And the last time my friend and I spoke, it was when we discovered our former employer had been killed at the age of 60 while touring the country on her bicycle.

We both agreed that while this woman would have preferred to live to a healthy old age; she ultimately would have approved of her obituary. It was because she died while doing something to stay in shape and defy her age. I believe she ran the Boston marathon on the event of her 40th birthday and then the NY marathon when she hit 50.

She hated growing old.

My coworker and I knew this woman at 50. At the time she both loved and hated us. She loved us because we were successful (and she had A LOT of fun with us); and she hated us because we were young, hot and ambitious. I think her first husband left her for a 27-year old hottie—not an unusual story for Marin County marriages in the 1980s—and therefore, she felt resentful toward all ambitious 27 year-olds. I didn’t take it personally until she left town in the middle of a publication redesign and I had to face a tight deadline without her input. When she returned, she accused me of “taking over” and petulantly stomped out of my office.


Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my former employer a lot lately. She was my current age when I worked with her and I remember how often she expounded on what was happening to her body, and how one day it would all happen to me too. It’s not that I didn’t believe her—I did—however, I hated hearing about it in such a resentful tone.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she often said. She complained about not being able to wear sleeveless tops without exposing flabby arms. She complained about not being able to sneeze without having to change her underwear. She complained about not being able to go anywhere without lipstick and she used to love having her photo taken—but no longer did. And whenever she spoke about her neck, I had to leave the room.

I’m turning 50 this year, as are many of my friends, and am definitely feeling the prophetic nature of my former publisher’s predictions. And while I’m tired of working out so hard to stay in shape and genuinely bummed at the condition of my upper arms (how the hell did that happen?), I don’t hold the slightest feelings of jealousy and resentment toward younger women.

I do, however, resent my dead publisher and all the people who’ve often found it necessary to utter the words “just wait . . .”

I’ve heard them all my life:

“You think high school is challenging . . . just wait until you get to college.”

“You think college is expensive . . . just wait until you try to buy a house.”

“You’re think you're busy now . . . just wait until you have kids.”

“You think diapers are bad . . . just wait until they’re teenagers.”

“You don’t like car seats . . . just wait until they’re driving.”

Blah-blah-fricking-blah. My life has been speeding by so quickly that I’ve never had time to “just wait” for anything.

It feels as though it were only yesterday when I was 27 years old. No, I don’t feel 27—nor do I look it. (Hopefully, I don’t act it.) And I know I’m not alone. All my friends are saying the same thing. “How did we get here so quickly?”

Meanwhile, what I’m sitting here contemplating is whether or not any of these ample “just wait” warnings I received have served any real purpose. Have they made me feel any better about my arms or not wanting to look in the mirror? Not really.

I do wonder, however, what I’m going to be hearing from my pals who are on the threshold of 60. Will any of these “just wait” warnings carry with them something POSITIVE in which to look forward?

I certainly hope so. I just can’t wait anymore for things to get easier.