Rejecting holiday hubbub: A pep talk

The old song says, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” but the weeks before Thanksgiving and spanning all the way to New Year’s Day can be a difficult obstacle course for many of us.

The local radio stations barely wait 24 hours after Halloween to switch over to holiday music. It may seem incongruous to drive through streets lined with golden maple trees while hearing “Frosty the Snowman” over the speakers, but here we are. As the ghosts and cobwebs are cleared away, the bells and wreaths and candy canes immediately rush onto the scene to cram every crevice with lights, tinsel, and excess.

Permission to cry, permission to feel, permission to rest

Tragedy is the first thing that shows up when I turn on the news, or log in to social media. The cruelty that humans can perpetrate on other humans takes my breath away. In so many ways I want to retreat into the world that I believe existed when I was a young child, where everyone was a friend and anyone would offer help if you needed it.

Besides the spectacle of war, natural disaster, and crime broadcasted on our screens, tragedy has touched my own community, too. A 17-year-old boy’s life was cut short this week, and the high school where my daughter attends has been reeling from this senseless snuffing out of a beautiful life that was just getting started.

Venturing into Vege-sorta-terianism

Last night I tried a new recipe for dinner: Vegan Sloppy Joes.

The “vegan” part of the recipe went straight out the window the moment I decided a trip to the grocery store for vegetable stock was out of the question: the beef stock in my cabinet would have to do.

This is precisely why I’ll never embrace veganism. I’m simply too lazy and don’t have the discipline required.

Traffic jam jammin’

It was a nearly perfect fall morning, the kind with a clear blue sky as sharp as glass. The tips of trees were just starting to be touched by edges of gold and red. My gas tank was full, and I’d thrown my overnight bag into the back seat. I was taking a quick trip up to Wisconsin to visit some relatives who were staying at my parents’ house.

My highly scheduled existence consists of work schedules, school schedules, and deadlines. My grocery lists are categorized into four columns where I systematically tick off each item as it lands in my cart. I write menu plans, fill out calendars, and make to-do lists: Lists of things I want to do. Lists of things I have to do. Lists of things I want other people to do.

Snapshots of the heart last a lifetime

After raising four children, I have certain mental snapshots I keep close to my heart. There was the day when my 5-year-old held my hand to cross the street. He paused to look up at me and said, “Momma, I love you so hard.”

There are those first few seconds when, after glancing over their shoulder, the realization sets in: Dad has let go of the back of the seat and they are, in fact, riding a two-wheeled bike.

Weaving in the Imperfections

I slid a slightly crooked hand-woven bookmark into the envelope before sealing it and mailing it to a friend. I attached a note:

“My newest fascination is hand weaving on a loom. I made this bookmark for you. It’s one of my first, but I’ll send another one after I’ve had more practice. Hopefully you’ll see my progress. Happy Reading!”

Taking a 10-minute mini vacation

Even though my school years are long behind me, I still expect that once the calendar flips to June, summer vacation is supposed to magically appear. Remember those delicious days of summer vacation as a kid? Sprinklers on the lawn? Dreamsicles from the ice cream truck? Long days at the city pool, counting out change at the concession stand to buy nachos and a slurpee while the grownups commandeered the pool during Adult Swim?

A second chance at hello

As much as I’d like you to think that my Gentleman Friend and I have been married blissfully and perfectly happy for the past several decades, I’m going to take a risk and tell you that sometimes, we fight. Our fights aren’t typically the loud, plate-throwing variety. We’ve mastered the art of subtle tiffs, starting out as a tiny slight that grows into a stand-off —— and I am the half of us most guilty of this —— in an all-encompassing silence that can be louder than a freight train.

Uninvited: Man vs. fowl

My husband is in a week-long standoff with a robin who insists on building a nest on the crossbeam of our porch.

We are a bird-friendly family. We don’t put chemicals on our lawn, put out birdseed in the winter, and we are delighted when our bird friends chirp happily from the branches of our crabapple tree out our front window. But even our bird loving has limits.

Somewhere in the ‘In-Between’

I never met a notebook I didn’t like. My bookshelf is crammed with journals with creamy white paper. Some of the books have beautiful covers with vibrant colors; others are simply notebooks, the kind with the spiral binding made of metal wire. On the pages, I scrawl goals, recipes, scraps of ideas that I write down quickly, thinking I’ll come back later and recapture some brilliant idea that I didn’t want to let slip away.

Too difficult to even try: a conspiracy

This week I made spanakopita for the first time. It is a savory spinach pie consisting of spinach, feta cheese, egg, and fresh herbs, surrounded by flaky layers of phyllo dough. I love it.

Given the choice, I will always choose a spanakopita appetizer or entree at a restaurant or party.

Loving in specifics, not platitudes

I may have mentioned before in this column about my love of true-crime shows and podcasts. I enjoy hearing about the evidence, the motives, the sometimes arbitrary clue that will reveal itself by chance, leading to some top-shelf detective work. All of this, plus the final swift arm of justice that comes down on the perpetrator, are all satisfying parts of these shows.

Making do: the food of discovery

Every household probably has a go-to meal they whip up when there’s “no food in the house.” Maybe for you it’s a pb&j. A bowl of cereal can be nice. Some pasta with a little olive oil, garlic, and lemon, perhaps?

Time for a spring fling

Here we are again, on the precipice of a new season, and I open my closet doors each morning and immediately hate all my clothes.

It would be so much easier if I could just decide the night before what I was going to wear the next day, but for some reason, I never get around to it. That means often feeling completely defeated first thing in the morning.

Mornings are for coffee and playing happy music to get revved up for the day ahead. Mornings shouldn’t be about defeat.

Head for the trees when it’s all too much

The immediate neighborhood serves as a satisfactory landscape on weekdays for morning and evening walks with the dog, but on the weekend, the forest calls. As soon as I step onto a curved path winding through the trees, my lungs begin to tingle; I gulp the air laced with the perfume of soil and wood and leaves in various stages of birth, life, and decay. I can’t get enough of it! Even bare branches teem with life.

This is 22

Looking at my son’s face, it is easy for me to see him as he was when he was an infant, with silken hair kissed with just a touch of blonde. Or as a toddler, the way his cheeks would jiggle when he took halting, determined steps across the living room. I was there for all those little moments as he grew up: the birthday parties, the book reports, and the Band-Aids.

But that little toddler with the blonde hair is no longer around. That sweet, bespectacled student leaning over his homework has grown up.

Date night in the glow of the silver screen

It was my favorite kind of date night. My Gentleman Friend asked me if I wanted to go out to see a movie, A Man Called Otto. It was Sunday night, which made going out feel a little rebellious. We were going to squeeze just a little bit more “us time” out of the weekend.

Create a spending obstacle course

There is a story that’s become legend in our family: it’s about the day we took money from our baby’s piggy bank to buy groceries.

We had just moved halfway across the country from Illinois to Colorado. Our first son was just a toddler. I was primarily a stay-at-home mom, doing some freelance work on the side; my husband taught music to middle school kids in a small town situated in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains.