Can Dog Really Be My Co-Pilot?

We've gone round and round about this one, and I am the lynchpin in this decision. To dog or not to dog, that is the question. Everyone in my family wants one. My husband could go either way, but he won't bite unless I give the green light.

That's because he knows exactly who gets responsibility for the little guy or gal in the end. The buck stops with Mom. To continue the terrible puns, allusions, and other plays on words, "Ask not for whom the dog barketh, it barketh for thee" . . . Mother.

On the one hand, a companion might be a good way for all of us to let off steam—to play with someone who accepts you unconditionally, warts and all, and never argues, a pet that you can love and who loves you back. On the other hand, the arguing among the bi-peds might increase when it comes time to decide who gets to walk and scoop after the critter. (Nah, no arguing allowed.).

The real sticking point for the adults in the household, however, is what to do with our furry friend when it comes time to travel from A to Z and points in between. We are accustomed to being able to pack up and go at will without having to consider what to do with an animal in our care. Do we board or make other pet-sitting arrangements, or do we take with? If we take with, do we have all supplies with us for the trip? Do we need to make special arrangements with airlines or on trains? Do we need to search out special hotels that accommodate pets?

So much drama. It's like having a permanent baby in the house. Instead of a diaper bag, however, we get to pack up the pooch purse. It frequently is enough just to have every human at our house responsible for her own belongings, never mind another living being and it's accoutrements. And my husband is incredibly good about planning and logistical management, but this would be one more piece of the moving puzzle to figure into the equation. He could handle it, I know, but . . .

Ahhhh. Still deliberating. I'll let you know when we decide anything. If we decide anything. At the moment, procrastination does seem to have its merits.

Learning What Should Have been Learnt

So we're working on efficiency at my household. I don't think I completely learned how to be efficient in my youth. If I had, I would have "learnt" how, not "learned" how, and I would have spelt the word with one fewer letters the first time instead of explaining that my American English spell-check does not recognize the British English spelling. . . . Anyway . . . where were we?

Oh, yes. Efficiency. You can see my predicament. Many of you share it, don't you? Don't kid yourselves. You're not fooling anyone.

As I said, we are working on the subject at my house. I do a very good job of stopping to talk to my children to make sure they've got a shoulder to cry on, a good talking-to, perhaps a slightly older and wiser perspective on a given topic, or just generally explain something that is vague to them. I also do a good job of spending quality time talking with my husband, sharing news and views, chuckles, and appreciation for the darndest things my children said during the day.

Unfortunately, I'm not the multi-tasker that our dear society claims that all women were born naturally to be. Personally, I think it's bunk. I guess I'm more man-like (and I know quite a few women who are likewise in this regard.) than the "average" woman, because I can really only concentrate on one thing at a time with any hope of getting it done a) at all, and b) with any competence. So much for multi-tasking. I like to tell people that I can't chew and walk gum at the same time.

Hence the need for efficiency training at my house.

No, now that our youngest is an over-the-hill five year-old, it is time to move into a new phase of life for all of us. My husband is a fantastic people manager, and I've enlisted his expertise to help keep me on track and moving in the right direction.

He has offered to take on certain household responsibilities so that I can be relieved of them as I move more toward my "working life". You know, life as someone in addition to being "MOM". I put that in all caps as a tribute to all those moms out there who still have the "just a mom", "SAHM" label applied to them at school functions and those events that used to be called cocktail parties.

SAMH's (Stay-At-Home-Mother, for those who aren't familiar with the acronym) of my acquaintance rarely get the chance to stay at home. Most would love to, but there are so many things to accomplish so that the world doesn't collapse in a heap—Oh, wait, it IS doing that just now, isn't it? Some moms somewhere haven't been doing their jobs properly, methinks. 

As I was saying before I got sidetracked yet again (do you see my dilemma now?) . . . my dear husband has stepped into the breach to offer his skills in managing my shift into more of a non-SAMH career capacity. He negotiated with my post-adolescent daughter a few hours per week for my escape to a local bar (coffee, of course) for the purpose of having some mostly uninterrupted writing time. You're reading the first fruits of that arrangement right now.

So, with the intention of increasing our efficiency, please allow me to welcome you to Kosars, Inc.! Details to follow. Eventually. I hope.

Lyricism and The South

We recently made a trip down south to see my brother-in-law and his family in Florida. The weather was hot and melty. So were the beaches. The waters of the Gulf, however, were perfect. Not too cold, not too hot, at least in the few times I was able to get to the beach.

On the way back, we decided to make a slight detour to visit old St. Augustine on the Atlantic coast, and we were so glad that we did. We took a tour of the Castello di San Marco and were just in time to watch the Cannon Firing Demonstration. We then had lunch at a Mexican restaurant overlooking both the water and the fort. It was a great way to get off of I-95 for a little while on our way to Savannah, Georgia, which was our next stop.

We arrived in Savannah for a two-night stay, checked into our hotel and went downtown to do a bit of the tourist thing. The real touring didn't begin, however, until the next morning. My seventeen-year-old had a tour of the Savannah College of Art & Design (SCAD) planned for the afternoon, so we made sure to get up nice and early to get a few things done beforehand.

The first place a couple of us wanted to go was to the very interesting and, by American standards, ancient cemeteries around Savannah. We made it to two of them, both very interesting in what they revealed about life in the early centuries of life in The South as well as some of the individual characters who played a part in forming its history.

The second we didn't reach until later in the day just before closing time at 5:00 in the afternoon. We only had time to drive through it and see from the inside of the car what mysteries might be revealed in the sometimes plain, sometimes poetic epitaphs on the stones. More than once I wished I had a large sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal so that I could make a rubbing of words that were no longer visible to the naked eye.

I admit to being just a bit disappointed that the now-famous statue of the Bird Girl had been moved to the nearby Telfair Museum of Art where, I imagine, all the mystique has been swept away amidst the rest of the collections the museum holds. (Disclaimer: we didn't actually go to the museum, so I cannot vouch for this assumption at all, and lest I appear to be a troglodyte of the lowest order, I do enjoy museums very much. I simply go by my own experience that objets d'art with a history or backstory seem to lose a smidgeon of their lustre and oomph when placed all alone in a marble edifice behind a velvet cordon and tagged with only their vital statistics. Somehow, though the work itself may be magnificent, the original, and therefore proper, atmosphere is lacking.)

But on with the rest of our day.

After the first cemetary, we visited the Juliet Gordon Lowe birthplace. She was the founder of the Girl Scouts of America, of course, and I, for one, enjoyed the tour of this home. It reminded me of my grandmother's and other relatives' homes from way back when. Hearing stories about other people's lives makes them real, makes them familiar, makes them like family and friends. What a hoot Lowe's mother, Nelly, must have been, sliding down the steep bannisters at the age of 82. We didn't spend a great deal of time in very many gift shops on our travels this time, but we did leave this one with a few keepsakes for the younger girls. My one daughter who is in the Girl Scouts was thrilled to be able to add a patch and a pin to her uniform for this upcoming scouting year.

We were hungry for an early lunch at this point, and my husband had this one covered. We went to the Pirates' House for a southern buffet-style meal. Everything we ate we agreed was delicious, and I kept going back for the vegetables. With our health-conscious diets these days in climes slightly north, we don't get to eat very many vegetables cooked the way we ate them that day. Sigh. It was amusing to interact with the character actors who stroll through the dining rooms, some threatening to abscond with members of the dining party before making them walk the plank. In their defense, they did offer bits of historical facts regarding some of the pirates, so it wasn't complete camp on the set. It was fun.

Next came our tour of the aforementioned SCAD. Delightful. We had a fantastic tour guide for a couple of hours, a junior from Mexico. Though there was one other prospective family on the tour with us, we felt that the tour was basically a private one. As my seventeen-year-old had already toured SCAD with her father earlier in the year at what I can only call the semi-annual, collegiate cattle call, this tour reinforced her desire to apply for admission after her senior year. I could see why. Now we just need to finance it . . . donations gladly and humbly accepted.

To get a feel for the local scene surrounding the college, we hopped over to a local cafe for an afternoon pick-me-up. It was like one giant living room, sofas, armchairs, and coffee tables everywhere, though plenty of drinker-diners were also plugged in and WiFi-ing around the periphery of the large, open room as well.

At this point there was only one place left to see, and you, Dear Reader, have already seen it—the second cemetery—and you've seen almost as much as we did with our ever-so-brief drive-through. So much for Savannah this time around.

Next time I'll have to talk about the rest of The South, or at least those parts of it that can be thought about, observed, experienced, and maybe even purchased around the infamous I-95 corridor.

'Night Ya'll.

Move Over Hollywood, Kate's Here Now.

Sitting in a pink plastic chair at a black MDF table at a writer's group of one . . . namely me . . . so far. I've been meaning to get here for some time. Now that I am here, I feel like an old-timer. In my own life, of course, that's what I am, but I am hoping to find myself in a somewhat larger group before long.

. . . . .

I might as well blog about William & Kate.

Yes, we watched their nuptials on the telly back in April. We even recorded it for family members not yet awake and present at the time, if I'm not mistaken.

There are those who would take a cynical view of the whole affair, I'm sure. I know it, in fact. But I, for one, welcome the relief from Hollywood, which so often seeks to claim the status of grand know-it-all-and-primary-influencer-of-all-that-would-be-popular (I just made that title up—I love putting words together.). The new duchess' style is of a quality not often (not EVER) seen coming from H'wood. Sad, but true.

I look forward to seeing all the Kate knock-offs that are sure to come along over the next few years—a fashion trove longed for by many. Bikinis and college antics aside, Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cambridge displays taste as well as modesty, and let's face it, we have lived without both for a very long time, indeed, in celebrity circuses, er, I mean, circles. Sure, you can have modesty with or without style, and many have come to equate style with a shedding of anything resembling modesty, but why can't we have both style and modesty?

Let's look at this. Gaga, Britney, Beyonce, Rihanna, Flavor-of-the-Week, you name her, she's taking off most of her clothes in a public display of  . . . power? Somehow, I don't think so. That kind of power only lasts as long as she can defy gravity, the sun, the wind, and any other natural force known to mankind.

I find it a very interesting argument to make that women can take it all off in the name of empowerment. I mean if you can now buy carbon credits to offset your own carbon footprint, I wonder what kind of effect women in developed countries walking around barely dressed has on women in developing nations. Does the half-naked woman's ensuing empowerment lift up the women in impoverished and/or war-torn countries? Or does it merely encourage the further oppression, humiliation, and dehumanization of these women that we so frequently read about as we sip our quadruple-shot, foamed milk, stevia-sweetened coffee and tsk tsk a weekend morning away before heading out to the gym?

I mean, really, what kind of turmoil does this kind of fleshly exposure create in other, largely unseen parts of the world for people into whose eyes they will likely never have to look? Hollywood types are fond of a good cause to bolster their ratings. What about the human trafficking of women and children? Do they see any connection at all between what H'wood exports in the name of "art" and "entertainment" and the plight of so many who find themselves living the wrong life, at the wrong time, and in the wrong place? I wonder what these women would have to say to the scantily clad figures prancing around on stage, in front of cameras, gliding across red carpets, and spread across magazine pages. That they feel empowered and emboldened by the stars' various states of undress? Not likely.

No, I cannot emphasize how glad I am that the new royal has such good taste and good sense. Far from being restricted, she appears at ease. Her style commands respect rather than leers. Any message she chooses to put forth in future humanitarian campaigns will not have to compete with an excess of exposed skin and decolletage for her audience's attention. And the more she inspires others to do the same, the more she shares the wealth, the more empowerment there might be to go around. Sit down, Hollywood. It's Kate's turn now.

Out and About

The girls, that is.

My oldest needed to finish up some paperwork at an embassy for her student visa, so she left with my husband and her two next eldest sisters for a day trip to Washington, D.C. this morning. My husband, of course, will end up at his place of work after aforementioned officialdom is satisfied, while the other three will end up who knows where. Sounds a little bit scary, doesn't it?

That's a good thing.

I learned a number of years ago how important it is to let the proverbial apron strings get a smidgeon longer whenever the appropriate opportunity arose. The trick was to listen to my own sense of reason. My visceral reaction is always, "But, wait! She's too young to do (fill in blank here) all by herself!" In reality, most of the time, "she" (whichever one she was) was not truly "all by herself," and if I scratched just a little bit beneath the surface of what I was think-feeling, I could easily identify what I can only say in the broadest terms was my own discomfort at letting go.

I was the one feeling the separation anxiety, the irrational fear, the outsized sense of my own power. I feared that if I let her out of my sight, something terrible would happen. Did I really have the power to stop something terrible from happening, even under the safest of situations by merely willing it to be? Ultimately—and honestly—no. Was there some magical power surrounding me that prevented anyone from getting hurt while in my presence and mine alone? Huh. As if. Had evil and misfortune so thoroughly pervaded the area outside my safe perimeter that the least little toe dipping into that dark unknown would instantaneously be mangled and obliterated beyond the sphere of all that lives? Mmm. Probably not.

In the angel/devil debate going on in the shoulder area of my consciousness, the devil (not mine, thank you very much) always points me in the direction of irrational and unexamined fears. Always. Fortunately for all involved, however, my angel (yes, mine, thank you very much), a much more powerful and inviting influence, always asks me questions designed to flesh out the reality of the situation, especially the ultimate question, "What's the worst case scenario?" Often, even the worst case is not truly all that bad. But even when it is, the next question is, "And what is the likelihood that this worst case scenario will come to pass?" The usual answer generally is, "Not very likely."

The devil in this scene would have me strangle my relationships with my own children and prevent the growth of each child toward mature adulthood, the person she was meant to be. That can't be good.

My angel, on the other hand—sorry, I meant shoulder—would help me to be my own best self. My angel would help me to be a braver, stronger, more courageous person. Even if I were not a Christian, believing in God and his infinite goodness, mercy and wisdom, I would fare better still—as would my children—if I believe that like attracts like, positive thinking leads to positive results. If I think only the worst, then my mind is already halfway there and it can't be long before the results follow.

"As a man thinketh, so is he . . . " Proverbs 23:7

To put it all together, I have had the great blessing of watching my children grow over the years, even as they, in their mortal vulnerability, have helped me to grow as their equally mortal parent and guide. It's been a two-way street. With adequate preparation, watchful prayer, and faith in the good, I have been able to let them go, little steps at a time, and have seen the fruit of this growth in all of us.

Today, my not-yet-ten-year-old is on an adventure with her older sisters. They are riding the metro, walking the city streets, eating, just the three of them, in a diner or burger joint somewhere, and all this in between and in search of a museum, a gallery, an import shop, an ethnic grocery, skyscrapers, or maybe just cloud-viewing in a city park.

Today, they are all growing together, the two eldest taking on the responsibility of guiding the youngest of them, and the youngest stepping up to enjoy the more grown-up activity of being with her sisters, just being out and about.

In the Garden

All righty, then . . .

We've been in the garden many evenings and some weekend days of late, weeding and tilling the soil where we hope soon to see thriving vegetation of the edible and fragrant varieties. After a two-year wait on a list somewhere, we were finally given the green light to choose a plot at our nearest local community garden. We were thrilled, though the weather was so wet for so long that it took us some time to get around to weeding and preparing the soil for planting. We still haven't planted anything, though that should change any day now, and definitely before next week's multi-day rain sets in.

We usually take our nine and five-year-old daughters with us to get them outside in the fresh air, though being true children of the technological age, I must confess, they are often at a loss as to what to do with themselves once they are there. We are attempting to retrain their brains, to have them fall deeply into their own imaginations for entertainment, and it is sometimes rough going.

Living in a townhouse makes it challenging to get the girls outside for free play. There are cars parked in what would otherwise be a front yard, a mere walk-in closet of a backyard, bounded at the back by a six-foot high privacy fence which prevents any truly satisfactory view of the narrow common area between the rows of properties. Throwing the kids outside to play is not such an appealing option. The nine-year-old learned to ride her bicycle on a grassy hill behind the house for lack of a cul-de-sac.

I'm whining, I know. But we may have found a way around that particular challenge. The garden plot.

We've met a few of our gardening neighbors who are very friendly and helpful, and we appear to have chosen a lot that is very near the park concert venue, so that in the summer, on Thursday evenings, we will have backdoor passes to all the shows that happen through. Music, picnic, playing, blankets, gardening—sounds idyllic. I won't take that statement to the bank yet, but I am at least hopeful that our summer will be filled with music, fresh air, imagination, and, if we're lucky and industrious, a bountiful harvest from our garden. Cheers.

Time Passages

"I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say, 'hello,' Goodbye! I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

So lamented the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.

I hear there are ways of slowing down time, but I have yet to find one that I can consistently practice. Some days seem to go by much more quickly than others, and those are the days that seem to be the least productive.

When you're young, and things do manage to get done, it seems there must be some cosmic To-Do list, and Time simply presents itself in a natural unfolding, during which, everything you need to do actually happens. Homework (generally) got done, there was time to relax, time to eat and sleep, time to spend doing nothing at all. But I suppose every child feels that way when the bulk of life's heavy lifting is being handled by their parents, or grandparents, or anyone older than themselves.

At least, that used to be my experience.

I don't really think it's a generational thing. I watch my own children now, and I wonder where that extra bit of childhood time went. They don't seem to have enough time in the day to play and just do nothing. Certainly some of the "nothing time" we used to have is now spent doing "something" on the computer, and the television is always a reliable way to remove quality time from the daily schedule. But even so.

My nine-year-old's typical school day is spent like this:

She wakes up, gets her breakfast, and gets dressed, me cracking the whip while repeatedly pointing to the clock. She catches the bus just before 9:00 in the morning and doesn't begin school until 9:15. She spends her day in whatever way it is judged at the school that she should be spending her day, and she comes back through the front door at 4:15 in the afternoon. If there are after-school activities, we must dash madly back out the door so that we are not made late by traffic, of which there is an overabundance in our area, especially at that time of the day, and then we come home again to have dinner, do homework and get to bed, waking up the next morning to do the same thing over again, five days a week, 180 days a year. I happen to be one of those parents who wish summer could be so much longer.

Is that all there is? We do our best not to schedule activities on the weekend so that we can visit with family and friends, take an impromptu road trip somewhere, or just do nothing except housework, shopping, yardwork, go to church, read the Saturday morning Financial Times, have breakfast, lunch, or dinner out on the deck. And all the while, it feels as if we are just barely squeezing ourselves into a contrived state of relaxation. "Relax, will you!"

I can remember two times in my life when the time seemed to keep a sane pace. One, as mentioned above, is my own childhood—and I should mention here that when I was a child, the Blue Laws were still in effect. No shopping or work were to be done, no business to be transacted, no banks open and no such thing as an ATM, though as I recall grocery and drug stores were still open. While these restrictions may have been religious in origin, I don't think they really hurt the average person who had to live with them.

I, being a child without any real responsibility, found Sundays to be rather tedious and boring because there was "Nothing to do!" Much to my chagrin, I remember being glad when they were done away with and we could go galavanting to our heart's content. Oh, the folly! Just the same as I wish I could conjure all those preschool naps I was expected to take and didn't want to, I likewise wish I could have my Sundays returned to me with no expectation that I would hop to it and do whatever was being requested—even damanded—of me. (I'm about this close to enforcing my own Blue Laws for my family!).

The second time I remember feeling that life had slowed down sufficiently was when I home schooled my older two children, one of whom is now in college, the other of whom is doing online high school. We had just bought a house, my husband lost his job six weeks later, we had a baby six weeks after that, and he spent the next nine months searching for a job. Except, of course, for the minor anxiety that a lack of real income will cause in such circumstances, our time was precious. My husband taught the girls their history and spent more time getting to know the newest member of the family than he otherwise could have. And I was able to get rest and get away from the house more than I otherwise would have been able to.

Even when he finally found a job in another city and we spent a year-and-a-half living mostly apart, the time still felt like my own. It's funny how much of your family's time you can reclaim when you take the structured school regimen out of the picture. People would marvel that we were able to live that way for so long. "How in the world are you home schooling with your husband not even around!" I suspect that not having another adult's schedule and agenda to contend with as well was tremendously helpful during this time, to be honest, but we'll make that our little secret.

It is enough to say that once we sold one house and bought a newer one (this time with no yard) in a densely populated area to once again live together—all of us, as a family—time sped up. My older children went to school for a number of years, which sped things up even more, as they rarely went to the same school. Traffic patterns had to be noted or you could easily spend the bulk of your life in the car. Schedules were compressed, short distances became major undertakings and long journeys. Poly-multi-tasking became the order of the day. And you know, when you try to do too many things at once, you never feel like you complete any of them satisfactorily. If you can complete them at all.

A few things have changed over the past year. One of my children has moved on to college, so there is one less agenda to take into account. One has stopped attending the local public high school in favor of online high school. The other two will be at home with me next year, so we may actually be able to return to some semblance of a dignified family life.

We'll see. We've thrown in a community garden plot, maybe a dog and some fish in the near future, and we still have the requisite music lessons, sports, and other childhood occurrences that will continue to ebb and flow over the next several years. But I am hoping that we can usher in a new age of enlightenment, halcyon days of doing what we were created to and truly long to do, to live.