The Job I’ll Never Quit

The Job I’ll Never Quit

Lately, I catch myself pausing to sneak glimpses of him.

As if maybe I could soak him up enough to make letting go next fall a little easier.

This good-natured, introspective son of mine—sandwiched between his two sisters—turns eighteen at the end of the month.

I can’t get used to how much older he’s starting to look, especially the past few months. His hair has grown out since his senior pictures were taken in the fall. I love how it now wings out a little on the sides when he wears a hat.

I couldn’t be more proud of this guy. He works hard and moves through life with integrity. And like every teenager in this country has been called to do, he has risen to the challenge during these exceedingly weird, uncertain, pandemicky times that will forever mark his final bow to the K-12 years.

I’m so truly excited about the countless and wonderful possibilities ahead for him. But I thought the count-down to his high school graduation would be emotionally easier on me than when I tumbled through it with his older sister two years ago. One would think by round two, I’d be a little more tough-skinned.

Sure, I may have gained some basic footwork and defense. But overall, I feel like a novice in a boxing ring getting jabbed and uppercut by mixed emotions all over again.

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Gliding Back to the Light

Gliding Back to the Light

During my elementary school years, our family lived in a red brick house on a small lake.

As soon as that lake would freeze over, my slew of siblings and I’d bundle up and go shovel away the weighted or fluffy layers of snow to create a large rink. Then we’d skate ’til our fingers and toes went numb!

I particularly loved going out there in the evenings after dinner. With a comforting beauty etched in time, the light of the moon and the stars, along with the glow of living room lamps shining through our big window, guided our path.

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Those Hands, Now Silken Wings

Those Hands, Now Silken Wings

My mom had the silkiest hands.

Throughout my childhood, I remember there always being a short, milky white jar with a pink top and Johnson’s Baby Cream label on the nightstand next to her bed. I suppose that’s the particular lotion she got used to having around after caring for all those cute little baby bottoms of her nine children over the years.

At night, after a hard day’s work, she’d change into a nightgown, climb into bed, and read a chapter or two in a book. Then I imagine that before she turned off the lamp, she reached for the jar and scooped out a nickel-size clump of the thick mixture, massaging it between her palms and knuckles and up to her fingertips, perhaps while reflecting on the day with a smile or deep exhale.

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Little Triumphant Victories

Little Triumphant Victories

Hi. It’s been a while. How have you been?

Me? Oh, I don’t know. It’s kinda hard to say.

As the months have dragged on during this global pandemic with all of our lives flipped upside down in various degrees, my answer to that often generically asked question has felt a bit of reach. It’s as if, at some point, my ability to discern how I’m truly doing in the midst of this surreal reality fled deep into the woods, down a hill, and across a hazy ravine.

And I don’t feel like chasing it.

I don’t feel like writing about it either. Not today anyway.

Today I’d much prefer to write about this season’s fragrances of the earth, colors of scarlet and gold, whispering rustles of leaves, pumpkins growing fat and large, Sweet Tango apples dipped in caramel sauce, crockpots bubbling with hearty homemade stew, and my 9th grader’s virtual back-to-school scavenger hunt!

Let’s start with the virtual back-to-school scavenger hunt. But first I’ll give a quick rundown on what back to school currently looks like in our household.

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Making the Most of Whatever’s Next (But Don’t Mind if I Wallow in a More Carefree Era for a Minute)

Making the Most of Whatever’s Next (But Don’t Mind if I Wallow in a More Carefree Era for a Minute)

I’ve always had a worry-riddled mind. Even so, I typically manage to wake up feeling reasonably ready to make the most of whatever’s next.

But I didn’t wake up feeling ready today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Or any day, it seems, since the insidious, novel coronavirus began hijacking human cells and organs, social interaction, the economy, momentous ceremonies, travel plans, spontaneous outings, and every single aspect of my three teens’ academic and social lives and their certainty for what the near future holds.

Instead of waking up feeling ready to make the most of whatever’s next, I’ve been waking up feeling like my stomach is full of lead.

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A Time for Tilting Toward the Sun

A Time for Tilting Toward the Sun

Well, so, here we are. That time of year when the Sun crosses the celestial equator and those of us in the northern hemisphere begin tilting toward the sun.

Thanks to some super smart, left-brained people, we know the Vernal Equinox will occur this year on March 19. And also thanks to those people, we know this is the earliest occurrence in 124 years.

Typically, in the days and weeks following this official launch into spring, the general population is filled with extra endorphins from the warm sun shining upon our faces. Then we pour out into streets and festivals and restaurants and theatres and campuses smiling, laughing, hugging, kissing, throwing frisbees, and maybe even playing guitar with the thrill of new beginnings in the air.

But we all know nothing is typical right now.

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I Don’t Need a Million Dollars

I Don’t Need a Million Dollars

“It’s 8:15 on a Sunday morning. I’m still in bed feeling groggy. Most days, I’m downstairs at my little wooden desk, drinking coffee, reflecting, writing, grounding myself for the day by 6 a.m. But ever since the craziness of the holidays, my inner clock and energy levels have been a little wacky.

Ding! goes my phone sitting on the nightstand, alerting me of a new text.

Oscar, curled up at my feet licking the bedspread like it’s ham, looks up. His tail is wagging as if he knows the text is from his cuddle buddy—the other human who sometimes sleeps in this bed when not working overnight shifts in the ER. That would be Mike, my husband for nearly a quarter of a century.

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Grateful for the Moon and Other Bright Spots

Grateful for the Moon and Other Bright Spots

Over the years, as a hobby, I’ve worked with a few people to record, transcribe, and shape their life stories into written narratives to pass along to kids and grandkids. And now I’m beginning to do so as another one of my little random freelance gigs.

During these sessions, I ask questions that I hope will trigger rich memories as we move through each phase of life, from childhood to the twilight years.

I’m impressed by how much people remember. The color of a bedspread. A burn on a coffee table. The sound of an old friend’s laugh. A conversation while riding a ski lift.

But what I’m moved by even more is the degree of gratitude that seeps out from some people as they look back on their moments.

Gratitude for family. Gratitude for friends. Gratitude for trials and tribulations. Gratitude for freedom. Gratitude for hotdogs and beans.

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A Midlife Girl and Her Old Music Box

A Midlife Girl and Her Old Music Box

“Everything comes off and the gown opens in the back,” says the spunky LPN named Sheila on her way out the door.

“Got it!” I say.

Alone in the sparse room, silence fills the air. I’m grateful for the gown-wearing instructions. I can never remember the exact protocol, and maybe the rules have changed since my last visit.

I’m ashamed to admit my last physical was three years ago. I have a bad habit of placing my own health and well-being on the back burner, but I’ve pledged to be more proactive going forward.

Looking down at the cold tile floor, I decide that by “everything” Sheila does not mean socks.

I deeply regret my decision to wear black socks that go up to my calf. They made sense this morning with my black jeans. But paired with the light blue robe, I look like I’m on my way to the kitchen for a late-night bologna sandwich.

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Moments of Slight Translucence (Since College Drop-off)

Moments of Slight Translucence (Since College Drop-off)

Heat pours into my face as I open the oven door. With a mitt on my right hand, I reach in and push the tip of a sharp knife halfway into the thickest part of the salmon.

I’m a mediocre cook at best, but I know the center of a perfectly baked salmon should have a look of slight translucence. As though a glimmer of light is trying to shine through it.

“Just a couple more minutes,” I say to myself. I close the oven door, lean against the counter, take a sip of Merlot, glance out the window, and get lost in thoughts.

The Salmon! I turn to open the oven back up, pull the pan out, and plunk it down on the stovetop. Argh. Nothing glimmering about this orange, flaky lump.

I love salmon. But I never seem to get it quite right.

I feel the tears begin to build. Again. I know they’re not really about the salmon, though.

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Holy Laughter

Holy Laughter

There are many life tools I don’t possess. Like the left-brained aptitude to remember the quadratic formula. Or the wrist coordination to throw a dart in a straight line. But what I do have in my belt is a deep appreciation for silly humor and a big laugh.

In other words, it doesn’t take much to send me into a hearty cackle that sounds like a hen after it lays an egg.

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A Million Little Letting Go’s

A Million Little Letting Go’s

It’s a monumental month in my tiny corner of the world. Two reasons. First, I turn a milestone age with a big fat zero in it. I’m entirely grateful but not quite ready to see the full number in print here. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Secondly, this is also the month my first-born crosses the legal threshold into adulthood.

Adulthood.

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False Narratives

False Narratives

When I was in elementary school, my family hosted an exchange student from Japan. Her name was Yoshimi. We were already a family of eleven, so I suppose my parents figured what’s one more?

About a month before her arrival, I saw a scene in some movie while at a friend’s house that slithered into my young, impressionable brain like a snake. It involved a Japanese college girl viciously attacking a Caucasian girl from behind while she was jogging on campus.

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The Calm, Happy Leaf

The Calm, Happy Leaf

“Look at that leaf! It’s the first one to change on our whole street!” my then middle school daughter proclaimed proudly from the passenger seat.

Absorbed in my own thoughts, I pulled up into the driveway and shifted into park. She was stretching her neck to look out the window at the tall ash tree next to our garage.

We grabbed our bags and got out of the car. Then I looked up, too. Sure enough, way at the tippy top, tucked amid a mass of green, was a single scarlet gold leaf fluttering in the gentle Autumn breeze.

Feeling a little run down lately, it felt good to take pause and connect with nature. Glancing upward with the sun and blue sky warming my face, my first thought gazing at the leaf was: It looks so calm and happy.  

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The Heart of a Mom’s Summer Chore Charts

The Heart of a Mom’s Summer Chore Charts

Just now, I returned from floating on a silver raft.

Not far from a quaint wooden dock.

I was stretched out on my stomach in my skirted swimsuit with the side of my face pressed against the hot plastic.

The lake, clean enough to drink, was perfect as glass. I scooped up a few handfuls and watched it drip through my fingertips into widening ripples.

As the waves of a distant boat rocked gently beneath me and lapped against the shore, I dozed in and out of a peaceful bliss . . . alone with the big blue sky and happy birds.

But then the doggone clothes dryer buzzer went off.

Poof! Daydream over.

Sigh. Back to the task at hand—making summer chore charts for my two teens and a tween.

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The Blueprint for Motherhood

The Blueprint for Motherhood

Typically, a blueprint for any design or formation provides clear boundaries, dimensions, and timelines so we know exactly what to do to achieve the desired result.

However, the blueprint for motherhood—the most complex endeavor of any other on earth—does no such thing. It does, though, supply a tsunami of biochemical reactions and key mechanisms that keep us perpetually vigilant and help us discern what’s best.

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Reframing My Perspective

Reframing My Perspective

Those microscopic moments when my mind is suspended in a rare, unworried state are like those bubbles my kids used to blow through wands and chase around in the driveway. Iridescent orbs stretching into the sunshine—glimmering but fleeting.

Such a moment might occur when . . .

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Ice Cream and “I Do”

Ice Cream and “I Do”

I was hired by a local magazine recently to write a feature story about a new documentary called I Do?” and it got me thinking about my own I Do.

After making it through a rough patch in his 29-year marriage to Minnesota news legend Joan Steffend, Director Joe Brandmeier hit the road to talk to other couples about “this crazy concept of marriage.”

One question he explores is When we say “I do” . . .  what exactly do we say “yes” to?

I was pondering pretty much the same thing 22-and-a-half years ago as I pulled up in my red Toyota Tercel to a US postal box, located on a street corner near the tall fancy building I worked in at the time.

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Trying to Make SCENTS of It All

Trying to Make SCENTS of It All

Although our five senses are best when in sync, research shows smell has the leading edge on memory recollection.

For me, born and raised in Minnesota, some of the most powerful triggers are seasonal scents. Fishy lake water. The earthiness of dried leaves and bonfires. Crisp falling snow. Soil after a light rain.

Cedar is another sure trigger. On the rare occasion I get a whiff of it, I’m reminded of a walk-in closet in the basement of my childhood home.

There was a long white string hanging from the ceiling light fixture. When you pulled it, a plethora of boxes, shelves, and racks loaded with all kinds of old relics, including a few of my mom’s old purses, shoes, and dresses sparkled like a treasure trove.

Then there’s bus diesel! A quick pass by those toxic fumes, and I’m all over the map.

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When It Feels Like the Earth Is Falling

When It Feels Like the Earth Is Falling

There’s something about the middle of the night that can really rile up my thoughts.

It’s 3 a.m. My mind is working overtime. I can’t fall back to sleep.

When this happens, I’ll often grab my pillow, then go and sprawl out on the living room couch to see if a new location will help. When that doesn’t work, I come here to my little wooden desk, turn on the white lamp, and write.

Typically, I love this time of year. In a few weeks, I’ll be taking cranberry colored walks and family drives on tree-lined roads. Sampling apples and local honey. Wearing slippers and flannels. Smelling tailgate chili in the crock-pot.

But on this shadowy night, I’m feeling more gravity than release.

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Female Brains and Fireworks

Female Brains and Fireworks

For centuries, scientists have tried to map the female brain. While its exterior shape may be slightly smaller than its male counterpart, its inner circuitry is vast, complex, and spectacular.

It’s also wired for worry.

Take my midlife mom brain for example:

If you don’t know me well, you might think I’m quiet and reserved.

But if someone were to remove the lid to my egghead, with let’s say a can opener, you’d probably have to run for cover from the slew of to-dos, logistics, longings, concerns, and unresolved dilemmas that would surely burst out of my cortex and jello-y wrinkled lobes like a deafening pyrotechnic display.

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The Gift for Flight

The Gift for Flight

I’m so incredibly honored to have a story published on Grown and Flown today, a wonderful and wise resource where parenting never ends.

The title is “The Gift I Need To Give My Children So Their Wings Are Real.” It’s about the grueling endeavor of seeing our kids struggle or turn corners and the shiny parenting nugget I picked up while wondering in a pit of panic recently that is helping me pause before always rushing in.

Here’s a sneak preview:

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Back to Real Life

Back to Real Life

As my husband makes the final turn of our 20-minute drive home from the airport, our car’s headlights cast a sweep of yellow light across the darkened neighborhood. Until at last, the heavens open up, the choirs of angels sing, and our 1980s two-story at the end of the cul-de-sac is illuminated like a gold gilded vessel.

“Ok, everybody grab your stuff!” husband bellows back to Tween, Teen#1, and Teen#2—now tanned, peeling, and smooshed together in the middle row. Sounds of buckles unbuckling, luggage wheels racing on concrete, and siblings chattering about who gets the main bathroom first fill the late night air.

This morning we were 1600 miles away, basking in our last few hours of a week in tropical paradise including a couple of days in Disney’s magical land of make believe. Tonight, we’re back in Minnesota where people build houses on ice and eat tater-tot hot dish on a stick, and suddenly—there’s no place we’d rather be.

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Life is Like a Crate of Oranges

Life is Like a Crate of Oranges

Oranges are rich, succulent, and dripping with nutrients.

They’re also symbolic of the day Great Grandpa Conrad and his Chrysler Coupe crashed into a concrete wall.

According to my mom, Conrad was a tall, quiet man of thin frame and generous spirit who took his kids fishing and complimented his wife on her cooking on a regular basis. His family was his pride and joy. And so was his shiny blue car.

One day, feeling a little restless as a retired railroad agent in need of an adventure, Conrad packed a small suitcase.

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Hello Deer with the Broken Ear

Hello Deer with the Broken Ear

Empty water bottles and overdue library books roll backward, then forward on the floor of the passenger seat as I pull up to my parents’ eclectic, dated abode and shift into park.

After grabbing my stuff from the back seat, I climb out of my SUV that has duct tape holding together the side view mirror. There on the other side of the car, as always, perched next to the big tree that shades their driveway, is the little ceramic deer with an old bandage wrapped around one of its shoddy ears.

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HERE IN THE MIDDLE Is Here!

HERE IN THE MIDDLE Is Here!

To know me, right here and now, is to know I’m smack dab in the middle.

In the middle of my predicted lifespan (according to one of those online longevity calculators).

In the middle of figuring out how to get everybody everywhere and what to make for dinner again and again.

In the middle of rebuilding a career.

And above all, smack dab in the middle of tending to (and treasuring!) two generations at once: my blossoming children in the throes of their adolescent years on one end; my wise, graciously weathered, white-haired parents in the throes of their sunset years on the other. Continue reading

The Force of Goodness

The Force of Goodness

(Posted on Sept. 2016)

(This post was written in 2016, soon after hearing the confession of the man who abducted and killed Jacob Wetterling.)

In the thick of recent summer crazies, while schlepping kids around in my clunky, dilapidated Suburban Chevrolet with no working air-conditioner like a New York City Uber in broiling flannels, I fantasized a rap parody. It featured me busting a move in yoga pants out in the cul-de-sac, buzzed on espresso and cocoa nibs, after the kids left for school.

But, when school did finally start the day after Labor day, I didn’t feel much like busting a move.

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Widening Ripples

Widening Ripples

I have a scar on my left foot. It’s about an inch wide, two inches long, and looks like a fat minnow without fins.

The scar is a rippling reminder of a late summer day, nearly four decades ago, when I asked my big brother to give me a buck on the back of his bike to a friend’s house about a mile down our rural road.

He was happy to taxi me and my long pigtails flying in the wind to the desired destination. Somehow, though, as we were riding along, sun splashing in our faces, my foot got caught in the spokes of the back wheel causing the bike to jolt us off and twist my foot like a pretzel.

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The Story Before the Story

The Story Before the Story

My dad as a young boy would have climbed the tallest mountain for his mother if he could have. But all he had available to him that afternoon while standing outside her hospital room window was a telephone pole.

Since kids weren’t allowed in the Intensive Care Unit, Bobby, as they called him, then 7 or 8, decided to take matters into his own hands to wave hello and goodbye to his mother before the cancer swooped her away.

Dressed in his late 1930s after-school garb, which I picture in my mind to be an old pair of knickers, a t-shirt and knee socks, he climbed the telephone pole located about fifty yards from her hospital room window, no doubt scraping his scrawny ankles on the way up.

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Generations of Mothers

Generations of Mothers

In my maternal great-grandmother Lillian’s dining room, next to the buffet that held her special-occasion silverware, was a lovely little writing desk with a feather quill, according to my mom.

To the right of the desk was a full-length closet door mirror. If you turned to look into the mirror while sitting at the desk, you’d almost think there were more and more rooms tunneling deeper inside it.

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