Adventure Mom

                       Bother to Write I spoke to a university journalism class in the States today. It was a Skype call; a presentation I’d prepared about the importance of good writing skills for a journalism career. For any career. I went through the standard spiel about using active voice, metaphor, being correct, complete, careful and clever. I threw in quotes from some of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott and Bob Dotson (who says success [in the news business] “does not depend on being dealt a good hand. It’s playing a bad hand well, over and over again”). But only towards the end of the talk did I touch on what for me, is the heart of the matter.  Good journalistic writing is about more than not pissing off or confusing your audience; It’s about connecting people to their neighbors and helping them feel more informed. Personal essay (for me, in the guise of this blog) connects me with other fractured hum...

Monster in the Closet/Where the Wild Things Aren’t A monster might emerge from the closet. The monster might eat me. I don’t want the monster to get me. Oh, look, the Australian Women’s Weekly magazine has an article about a TV presenter I don’t know. I’ll read this story so I won’t think about the monster in the closet.  It says here Simon Barnett and his lovely wife have four daughters. They’ve been married twenty years… Is the monster coming? Is the monster going to eat me? AND GNASHED THEIR TERRIBLE TEETH… Simon says (hey, that’s like the children’s game…) there’s no manual for the two most important things you can do in life – get married and have children. Oh, that’s true. He reads books about relationships. Really? A guy does that? I just finished reading the Five Love Languages and thought its ideas were logical and doable. We invest more hours researching houses or cars than we do before supercolliding our life with someone else’s. Or procreating… ...

Free Salmon and Hairy Legs I’m scared to write this blog post. Scared to write about cancer.  Scared I’ll say the wrong thing, say too much, or fail to paint the picture of my week with my sister-in-law, Stephanie. Mostly, our time in Olympia, Washington was ordinary. Feed-the-dog, load-the-dishwasher and cajole- the-nine-year-old-to-bed ordinary. Watch ‘Impractical Jokers’ on TV ordinary (though some of those jokes are seventh-grade genius – salami down the pants, then back to the customer? Ha!) Mostly, our minutes and hours consisted of gloriously ordinary family routines. Diagnosis  Here’s what’s not ordinary: Steph, who just turned 47, was diagnosed in late May with grade IV glioblastoma. Three malignant tumors have infiltrated the right side of her brain, compressing and pushing healthy tissue to the left side of her head. According to Wikipedia, glioblastoma "is the most common and most aggressive malignant primary brain tumor in humans...Median sur...

Just Go July 15, 2013 I’m sitting in the international departures area at the Auckland airport, on my way back to the States. It’s not that I’m homesick –  in fact, I need more time to settle into the new country before returning to the old. But life splats across our windshields in strange, messy ways, leaving trails of moth wings and smudges of mosquito blood on a surface that grows grottier each day. Somehow, through the mess, you see the sign pointing home.   The reason for the return this time is family.  Sean’s sister, Stephanie –a major support for me while Sean was sick – is herself experiencing crisis. In late May, after crushing headaches and an episode where she didn’t recognize her hand as her own, she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Glioblastoma, stage three or four. Her husband, John, set up a Facebook page called Steph’s Army and suggested we google the diagnosis to read the average prognosis. Anything measuring average life expecta...

Teacher Conference Fake it 'Til you Feel it It started with mid-year school reports. One of my children’s Discussion Guides describes ‘a capable and confident class member’ who completes class work with speed, reads and performs math at the top of the national standards graph, whose writing lands squarely in the middle of the gray shaded box. The other report shows a child reading near the bottom of the standards; writing below the standard and performing math well below the national standard. This child, according to the teacher, ‘often needs to be encouraged to contribute.’ If you know anything about my kids, you might think the first report is Fiona’s and the second is Finley’s. Nope.  For the first time, my first-born - my compliant, book-loving daughter, is pegged as struggling student.  Finley, however, is excelling in his Year Three class, although his teacher says he needs to pay closer attention to instructions and listen, instead of figurin...

Direct Pressure for a Wounded Heart It’s June 21 st in New Zealand (the 20 th in the US) -  the shortest day of the year in the Southern Hemisphere. I’m unaware of both facts as I pedal my bike to the Scout hall to meet the Joggers for a run up the Mount.  Antarctic winds gust against me as I plow forward.   I feel deflated. Today, I want my Old Life back. The one with Sean in Spokane. Barring that, the earth can swallow me like a snake devours a mouse – a single jaw snap transforms the mouse from Creature of This World to Thing That Was. Do I really want to be Someone Who Was?   No. I just don’t want to feel like this. Real Life has invaded my island paradise and it hurts like hell. I’m grieving again. Fresh sorrow ruptures the sutures of my wounded heart. The bleeding that had long ago been stanched has resumed – gushing and spurting, making a mess of the life I’ve largely reorganized. I don’t want to feel like this. I recently took a First Aid c...

Miss Nine Runs Barefoot You’re speeding down the grassy corridor before the finish chute. I recognize your long brown hair tied in two ponytails: one on top, to prevent bangs from flopping into your eyes, the other in back to collect the rest of your thick waves. You’re wearing the navy blue Bloomsday t-shirt you earned walking twelve kilometers in Spokane’s race last year. Tiny pink cotton leggings end just before your knobby knees. You are my colt, my rakish nine and-a-half-year-old, steaming to the end of a mile-long race. I snap a picture, capturing the glow of your pink cheeks.   My heart must be beating as quickly as yours, and I’m standing still. “Go Fiona! Good job, Fiona!” I cheer as motherly pride swells in my chest like a one of those Styrofoam creatures that grows in water from thumb-sized to palm-sized. My girl. You emerged as a four-pound twelve-ounce bundle, so tiny we once placed you in an empty box meant for Sean’s size-ten shoes. Today, you’re runni...