Fifteen years later

Fifteen years ago was a gorgeous fall morning.

I got off the Metra at LaSalle and started my four-block walk to my office building; a Daniel Burnham structure from 1910 that was across the street from the Art Institute. 

I remember a beautiful blue sky as I cut through the plaza at the Dirksen Federal Building. One of those perfect days you get in Chicago before winter freezes the lake and you consider moving away from the frozen hellscape. 

I remember riding the elevator at about 8:10. 

I remember walking into my offices on the 16th floor. 

I remember everyone gathered around Doris's crap black-and-white portable TV that she kept at her cubicle. 

I remember disbelief. 

I remember horror. 

I remember panic as I frantically tried to pin down where our NYC and DC friends and colleagues were. They had no reason to be anywhere near the crash sites, and yet. 

And yet. 

I remember arguing with my spouse on the phone about coming home. I remember saying that if I left the Loop, the people who did this won. That if it were me, I'd bomb the Metra lines, because commuters would be packing the trains to rush home. I remember saying that walking toward the Sears Tower was dumb, and if they were going to bomb the Art Institue, they'd have done it already. 

I remember the surreal phone call from my OB/GYN nurse. She had no idea what was happening in the world. She called to let me know that after years of secondary infertility, my hormones looked good and that this time, finally, we had a chance of a baby that would stick. 

I remember the mental whiplash. 

I remember still looking for friends online. Searching for old sources from my days in Westchester and realizing that one most certainly was at CantorFitz. 

I remember the staff, myself included, tearing the magazine that was to go to press apart and trying to pull a piece together that was appropriate and on point and ready for press while we were all in the most surreal space. 

I remember friends checking in one by one. Some were scarred forever by what they'd seen. 

I remember walking to the station to go home. The silence. 

No planes to Midway or O'Hare overhead. No rush of commuters. 

I remember the conductor telling me I had been smart, because the morning trains out were a zoo. That he, too, wondered if there would be bombs on the tracks. 

I remember driving home and thinking that life has changed forever. That I was bringing a new life into it, and oh, God, had we done the right thing by trying so hard to have another child?

I remember hugging my husband and my daughter. 

I remember the anger. The tears. The worry. 

Fifteen years later, I remember all of it. 

I remember that we are stronger for surviving it. 

I remember that we did do the right thing by bringing a bright, funny child into the world who changes this planet just by being on it. 

I remember those who were lost, especially my source at CantorFitz. He was a funny, witty man who could have become a good politician. We're the lesser for those lost. 

We are the less for our collective bunkering. The bollards that went up around the Dirksen Plaza. The pervasive sense of fear that permeated the air.

Fifteen years ago, life changed.

We can, and should, remember.

We can, and should, grow older and wiser from lessons learned.

We can, and should, push back fear and embrace the beauty of a glorious fall morning. 

I remember. Don't forget. 

Image from www.chicagotraveler.com/sites/default/files/b10-art-institute.jpg

Maria, Maria

Maria from Sesame Street is retiring.

I feel very old.

While we were driving to school yesterday, NPR was interviewing Maria, er, Sonia Manzano, about her autobiography and her retirement.  I was sniffling. My younger two kids were trying to place her.

Sesame Street cast, circa 1970s. Courtesy Wikimedia.

That may sum up Sesame Workshop's problem in a nutshell there. My children watched on-demand; Sesame Street was appointment PBS TV for me.

One thing Manzano said in her interview struck a chord with me.

There was a moment when Stevie Wonder came on to Sesame Street and he did "Very Superstitious." ... The whole studio rocked out and it was great because, white people, black people, young people, old people — everybody was on the same page for that two minutes that he sang and that really stands out. ...

It was a moment of clarity, I think that you know, we started this show, we thought we were going to end racism, we were going to close the education gap. ... We had big dreams! And moments like Stevie being on the show gave us a glimpse of the way things could be.

To the Sesame Workshop crew: Mission Accomplished.

You gave a white girl from rural Missouri who was immersed in German Catholic culture a view into another world. A world with more races and colors and complications than I could imagine. You opened up my mind to more than the ABCs and the power of animation to teach math.

You opened my mind (at age 4) to a world beyond my own. You showed me who else was out there. What potential might exist beyond my rural county. You prepared me for the world that I would inhabit, first in college, then in my years beyond. I was better able to cope with my future surroundings in New York, in Iowa, in Chicago, back in Missouri and in Texas, all because of you.

Job well done.

Knowing when to let go

You know how sometimes you are in a relationship, you are completely committed, yet things aren't quite right, you know you should probably give up and cut the person out of your life, but you've known them forever and you just can't quite sever the relationship, even though you know it will probably be better for all concerned?

That's how our relationship with our son and his school has been since we moved to Texas. 

Note: I am a firm believer in the power of Catholic schools. I am a product of them, and I believe in what they teach and how they teach.  

When we moved here, we did what we always do: Tour the possible schools, buy in the best possible public school district, and enroll our kids in the Catholic school that seems most like family to us, because that place becomes our family. We live so far away from relatives, we need a support system like that to lean on. 

I realized this might not be the best fit for our son years ago, when we advocated advancing him a grade. He was beyond bored in class. That child, if bored, is a troublesome child who will invent ways to keep himself entertained. 

We made our pitch. We brought the gifted and talented program testing that he had gone through in Missouri, the IQ scores, the grade cards from the teachers. 

We were shot down. But the public school wasn't a better option: we did the tour and asked the questions. When GT teachers tell you straight-up that it isn't worth the stress of moving your kid because the program is underfunded and weak, you have to listen to them. 

So, we and he stuck it out. Some years were better than others. 

Middle school hit, and it all went to hell. 

He's a bright, funny kid. I've written before about how he asks questions about Supreme Court cases. He uses big words. He reads big books. He has big thoughts. He's competed in the regional spelling bee. 

He is not really a video game addict or a super-athletic kid. He plays some video games and he plays some sports as an average Joe, but he's no whiz at either.  And therein began the problem. 

Most of the smart, witty, funny kids left after 5th grade. 

Then the differences in families cropped up: We don't allow our kids to have TVs in their rooms. We are strict about electronics and the type of video games we own. You will find no first-person shooter games here. 

The boy isn't even interested. I can't watch CSI or Homicide or SVU or Person of Interest with him around, because that stuff gives him nightmares. I've missed out on entire shows because I didn't want to scare him. 

The other boys picked on him for it. They picked on him because they didn't get his humor (or were too cool to get his humor). They picked on him for being fat. (He's not.) They picked on him for a myraid of reasons. And my son, being my son, held it all inside. 

He just got sadder. And sadder. And sadder. His face showed no emotion at all. He never, ever smiled. 

It finally blew apart last spring, and we filed bullying forms and did all the things you are supposed to do. School ended shortly thereafter, and we figured the summer break would do everyone good. 

Then school started. And we filed bullying reports the first week. Things were done. Parents were called. Detentions handed out. 

It didn't help. He was crying every night about how he had next-to-no friends. He hated school. He didn't want to go. The other boys stopped picking on him. Instead they started flat-out freezing him out and not talking to him. 

You can't make kids be friends. You can, however, affect how they treat each other. Our school did not seem to be doing much to change the culture. 

After three weeks, we had enough. 

A Catholic education isn't really a Catholic education if the kids aren't actually acting like Christians. 

So we made a wrenching decision. We love this school, for the most part. It works for our youngest; she's happy and has a ton of friends. I love most of the teachers there. Heck, I'm friends with more than a few. I am a Girl Scout mom. My spouse coaches CYO teams there. We are invested in this place. And yet . . . 

It's like a bad relationship: You know you need to go, but you can't quite make yourself do it. You keep hoping it will get better, even though all evidence points to the contrary. 

It was beyond difficult to make the decision to pull him out. We found a public charter school nearby that had an opening. After a tour, we asked him what he wanted to do. He wanted to move. It was time to start over somewhere new. 

These teachers and kids are more his type of people. They sort homerooms not by teacher, but by elements from the periodic table. My kid is a Xenon. 

He had his first day today. He seems happier today. He actually smiled. 

The breakup was tough, but we have hopes that letting go was the best thing we could have done. 

I win

I used to be a distance runner.

It was a deal I cut with my parents, actually, that made me a distance runner. I was so very done with piano lessons. I wanted to play jazz, and my fingers couldn't do it. So the bargain was that I could quit piano if I joined a high school sport.

So, it was January. I'm short, which rules out basketball and volleyball anyway. Track it was.

As tiny and thin as I was, they thought I'd make a good sprinter/hurdler.

They learned quickly that I really suck at sports. I became a distance runner. By the end of my junior year in high school, I was a journeyman distance runner. I could make decent time, but I wasn't going to win any races unless the top five runners in my district all caught the flu at the same time.

I quit my senior year because I was tired of sweating and because my coach stupidly put in an ultimatum that I had to choose between speech competition and track. I was good at speech. It was pretty much a no-brainer on my part.

I ran off and on all through college, through the years in New York, and even after child one was born, in a futile attempt to get my tiny body back. I switched to cycling because my knees hurt. Then I was an in-line skater. Then I just stopped exercising altogether after child three was born.

Last year, I was fat (for me). I was tired of things not fitting. Work, while not awful, was stressful. I needed to burn the stress. I needed time for me. Everyone else in my house hates running. Lots of my mommy and college friends on Facebook were running. Heck, I have cousins who run marathons.

So I grabbed a Couch to 5k plan.

That first run, if you can call it that, was humbling. I--who could run 2 miles in just over 13 minutes when I was 17--could not run two blocks without wheezing at 38.

I kept at it. I went even slower than the plan's pace. I didn't want to blow out a knee. I fought injuries, pollen, illness, and a broken toe.

It took me forever to get to a mile. Then two. Then I hit a wall, and trying to run three was torture.

I did a fun 5K obstacle run last December, mostly to see if I could. But my real goal was to run the timed city 5K race my institution holds each year. The entrance fees go to scholarships. People I knew would be seeing me run.

I was terrified I'd embarrass myself.

I was a bundle of nerves that morning. I could barely eat.

At the starting line, I was convinced I had lost my ever-loving mind.

The first mile was tough. The second was better. The third was sadistic: oh, my Alumni friends, backloading all of the hills was an idea straight out of Satan's playbook.

I ran uphill to the finish, pretending that the guy yelling at his girlfriend to finish hard was yelling at me. I rounded the corner and blinked in shock.

If I sprinted, I'd finish under 30 minutes. Ten-minute miles. Holy cr@p.

I sprinted.

29:40. One of the top 10 women in my age group.

So I may not have won the race, but I won. I won my health back. I won my competitive edge back (yes, 20-something girls and 40-something guys, I really was gunning for you in that last mile, picking you off one by one). I won me back.

Get off the couch. Exercise. If I can do it, you can too.

It is fascinating

to watch your child re-read one of your favorite books.

C1 has delved into Farhenheit 451 for pre-AP 10th grade English. She lost my copy (grrr) while on vacation at Camp Grandma -- I know it will turn up, but still -- so I bought her a copy tonight.

She's been completely sucked in by the story.

I love this because

1) This is one of my favorite books. I read it on my own in the summer between 7th and 8th grades.

2) C1 is not a reader. She is not a fan of books like this. So when I do get her to read one, I feel vindicated as a parent. She loved George Orwell's 1984. I felt a victory when she admitted she liked that book. She references Napoleon and Snowball to this day. I have an awesome kid, and because of her C2 wants to read it, but I've told him to wait a bit.

Speaking of C2, he's my reader. He is my Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Harry Potter kid. We have had to hold him back on HP, because C2 has a seriously overactive imagination. He isn't capable of reading past 4. Not yet. I enjoy sleeping at night and SPOILER WARNING . . . . Cedric's dying gives me nightmares to the point that I won't watch the movie. C2 isn't there yet. He'll be up all night if we let him watch it.

C3 is a tougher nut to crack.

Of all our kids, she has taken the longest to learn how to read. She seems to want to deny her smarts, which we have tried to push against, but not to the point that she fights back.

We have, through Mrs. B, her awesome, amazing kindergarten teacher, to read the Bob books. If you have a starting reader who isn't a self-starter, these are AWESOME. She's gained confidence. As she gains confidence, I see her gaining interest in reading. I suspect we'll be trying to hold her back soon. She's not up to Harry Potter, but maybe Ramona and the Little House books.

After all, I have yet to win anyone over on those yet. :-)

I have to admit, though, it is awesome to see the books that you love gain new life through your children. It really is like the Fireman in Farenheit 451: Books live through people. You can burn the pages, but you can't contain the ideas within. Ever.

Marriage and Tori Amos

We've been married 16 years, people.

I know. I know. I don't look old enough to have been married that long. Much less have a kid going on 15.

Note: Kid 3 in photo not the one that is almost 15.

Blame my husband. He's the one who insisted that we get married immediately after we graduated from college in 1995. I wanted to wait. I wanted to take my time planning a wedding. I wanted to live on my own for a little longer.

He won. Only argument he's ever won, if you listen to him.

The thing is, if you look at Hollywood, or television, or most pop references, you think marriage is this totally easy thing. Find soulmate. Marry soulmate. All good, forever and ever Amen.

It is so not that.

Marriage is work. I know, I know. A lot of you know this. It is a trite thing to say. But it is true.

Which brings me to Tori Amos.

We -- contrary to popular opinion -- have actually had rocky moments in the last 16 years. It has not always been easy. I can recall some ugly, ugly moments where things could have gone horribly wrong had we not worked at this whole stuck-together-for-life thing.

Tori Amos's China resonates with me. Listen to the lyrics. Married couple. Walls built up. Living their lives. No talking. No talking with listening to each other, at least.

Listening is hard.

It is also crucial sometimes to make things work. Listen to the wistfulness in this song, and you can hear how very hard it can be to break through the walls that are erected. It doesn't have to be hateful. Day-to-day life, living parallel lives and trying to work, care for the kids, deal with the house, the neighbors, the volunteer crud.

It takes a toll. You build walls without even realizing it. That doesn't even get into the misunderstandings, the differing priorities, in-laws, backgrounds, perceptions, life stuff.

I'm a reporter, but there are times when I have not been a good listener.

Tori's song reminds me of the consequences of not listening. It reminds me of the consequences of letting things build up to the point that you are strangers living in the same house.

Sixteen years. It's been worth every minute, the good, the painful, and the hilarious.

So, this.