My Truant Pen

The busiest time of the year

Autumn is my favorite season. The crispness and crackle in the air makes life feel more vibrant and immediate. I love the start of school and the apples and colors on the trees. Autumn is a time of itchy feet and revealed horizons and sparkling skies.

It is also, without a doubt, my busiest time of year. And I have a hunch that this will only get worse as time goes on. The busy season really starts with my birthday on September 23rd, which almost always coincides with Must Watch Baseball. Then in the first week of October, my eldest has his birthday. I get a week’s reprieve in which to go apple picking and make apple butter before my husband’s natal day arrives, followed a week later by my youngest son’s. And two out of seven years, the child’s birthday does not fall on a weekend. This means that I really have to do things on two days that week, because how lame is it to have your birthday and no cake? Almost as lame as having your birthday party and no cake, that’s how lame. So…. two cakes.

Three days after Mr. Thane’s birthday is Halloween, aka my worst holiday. (I am totally a “Let’s go to a store and buy you a costume” kind of Halloweener.) Of course, if the Sox are in the playoffs, my evening schedule also involves finding ways to sneak in the game because (as Sox fans are so keenly aware this year) we don’t make the playoffs every year. (This year the complicating role of baseball has been played instead by knee surgery and twice-weekly physical therapy.) Less than two weeks after Halloween, I host a Thanksgiving type meal for around 30 people – all sitting down to eat simultaneously.

Immediately after Mocksgiving (or preferably prior), it’s time to start with the Christmas cards. I usually do about 80. I almost always write a personal note. It is meaningful and important to me and takes nearly two months.

Did I mention I have a full time (plus) job, and two small children and a house to keep and (now) cookies to bake for the PTO bake sale at the Halloween xtravaganza that happens a week before Halloween, thereby narrowing my window for successful creation of costumes? Also, are any of you dying to buy raffle tickets to the cash raffle at said Halloween party?

Also, the inexorable exhortations of my soul require autumnal reading of ghost stories and preferably a good spooky game of Cthulu.

So if I’m running around like a one-legged mother of a six year old (HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?!?!) on a hamster wheel until New Year’s…. well, you know why.

Late September baseball

After a year where no one followed the Red Sox because there was no way we were going anywhere after our start, and then after no one paid much attention because we were locked into the playoffs, we finally have some interesting baseball to watch. Tonight’s game determines how much more. It could be the last if the Red Sox lose and the Rays win, we could have one more guaranteed game if the Rays and Red Sox both win (making gaming night a challenge – one of my fellow gamers is also a Sox fan so we might compromise with like a tv on sound off or something), or we might have at least 3 more games in Round 1 of the playoffs. As I sit here, all of these possibilities unfold across baseball diamonds up and down the East Coast with home runs, errors, fantastic double plays, rain delays and all the things that make baseball a sport to love.

About this time every year I feel the impulse to write a thank you note, a love note, to baseball. For a little over half the year, baseball gives me something to look forward to, something to talk about. I listen at 9 pm on my way to go grocery shopping, and catch up on the score at the deli counter where the radio is always on. Joe and Dave keep me company while I pay bills in the attic, and Don and Jerry crack jokes during blowouts. I snuggle my son and explain all the mysterious numbers on the screen, pretending not to notice it’s after his bedtime. Baseball and coffee are two of the small, durable pleasures that weave a colorful thread into the utilitarian cloth of my life.

And yes, I love baseball enough to compare it to coffee. That’s how serious our romance is.

Tonight it will be all over. Or there will be one more do or die game. Or we will advance. This season we will end with a whimper, or a bang, or triumphal victory. Exhausted men will grind through with passion, obligation, ambition and long practice to ignominy or ecstasy.

No one alive knows which. And that, my friends, is why I love this game.

Buying a life

This time of year is one of my favorite’s mail-wise. As a hangover from an era where I was a near-19th-century level letter writer, I love getting the mail. It is exceedingly rare, however, for the mail to now contain a thick letter full of news. It is surpassingly rare for said thick letter to be from a guy I have a crush on. Ah, the tragedy of a happily married 33 year old! But this time of year does bring something to look forward to. The Christmas catalogs have begun arriving.

While wandering in Ashland this summer, feeling all arty and erudite, I pondered the identity on sale there. Ashland is particularly well suited to my desired persona. Many of the boutiques sold the idea of a tea-drinking, poetry-reading, Shakespeare-literate woman of leisure and humor, who possibly also gardens and cooks in her copious spare time. I’m so into that identity. There as stationery for the bit of me that pretends I still write letters. There were whimsical pieces of art for the aspect of me that has a lovely, decorated home that only needs whimsical pieces of art to be complete. There were books I should read and funky vintage clothes and singing oriental water bowls. I was tempted by historically inspired perfumes (appallingly expensive), hand-crafted pottery (succumbed – I really do use pie plates!), small batch teas and celtic-knotwork embossed leather wallets.

That’s probably the lifestyle sales pitch that most appeals to me – and is why I should not go shopping in Ashland often.

These catalogs sell entirely different lifestyles. For example:

Grandin Road: This is the magazine for the McMansion owner with a very large pool who throws away everything they own annually in order to buy whole new ones. The average Grandin Road customer possesses a second house where they store all the decorations and furniture for the holiday not currently in progress. It remains a mystery how Grandin Road customers have enough money for all their decorations, since completely re-doing their decor every two months in their 22 room mansions is time consuming. Whatever time is not spent redecorating is spent: in the pool, at cocktail/dinner parties with 6 childless friends or making exotic mixed drinks.

What I actually bought there: An inflatable bed for the guest room.

LL Bean: The LL Bean catalog is intended for the independently wealthy outdoorsy type who can spend more money on flannel than I spent on my very best interviewing suit. The average LL Bean customer lives on a lake, spends weekends hiking and never, ever wears anything but solids or stripes. LL Bean customers have two children and a dog. Their children never lose their coats or mittens. LL Bean customers may have a job, but it does not involve anything more fancy than business casual.

What I actually bought there: The most expensive shoes I own

Last year I bought black. This year I'm totally getting brown. They never did go on sale.

Oriental Trading Company: Customers at the Oriental see roughly 50 kids a day, and must fend all of them off with presents. At least 50% of those customers run a Vacation Bible School, or are looking for ways to have a Christian Halloween party. The walls of a Oriental Trading customer are completely plastered with bedazzled art projects featuring foam monkeys, they sell glow-in-the-dark paraphernalia under the table during 4th of July celebrations, and their 12 children are dressed entirely in tie-dye and fabric painted t-shirts.

What I actually bought there: Turns out I’m a Sunday School teacher with kids – aka their target demographic

But I was still only crazy enough to do an all church Easter Egg hunt once.

My final analysis of the day is for a lifestyle sale that I absolutely DO NOT WANT. At the hair salon the other day (I KNOW!) I was flipping through one of those style magazines. UGH. None of the clothes looked like they could be washed. None of the people looked happy. Heck most of the models were downright unattractive. I read an article about a woman who was addicted to chemically peeling her face off regularly and was forced (?!?!) to go cold turkey because she’d damaged it so badly. I’ve made progress in the last decade. I dress not badly. I wear jewelry and makeup on a regular basis. Heck, I go to a hair salon instead of cutting my own locks in the kitchen. But pffft. It stops there, man. I want no part of your designed, druggie, unhappy, how-ugly-can-you-get-and-still-be-pretty, high maintenance, high drama lifestyles!

How about you? Which lifestyle sales speak to who you wish you were? Which ones turn you off? Which do you find downright inexplicable?

My mind’s distracted and diffused

It’s a rainy September night. It’s 9:45 and the rest of my family is asleep – my eldest son only beating my husband to bed by scant minutes. It is also my 33rd birthday. My email was crammed to overflowing with birthday wishes today, which warmed my heart with one-line reminders of friendship. My mailbox was empty. Can I admit something to you? For most of my life, my grandmother has faithfully sent me a birthday card on my birthday. Everyone else might forget, or be late. But grandma always remembered. Last year, for the first time ever, I didn’t get a birthday card from her. I was hoping to see the familiar hand an on envelope again this year. But no. I know she loves me. I know she probably even has a birthday card put aside for me (somewhere, where she’s probably forgotten it). But she always remembered. Now I just hope that she doesn’t remember that she’s forgotten!

Ah, fall rain makes me melancholy.

When I envisioned my fortnight or more of surgery recovery, I imagined that this would be my big chance to really make something of this blog. I would write out all those posts lingering in draft with an evocative line or two. I would marshall my pictures, tag them, and record them. I would be witty, engaging, full of pathos and good descriptions. My profound and moving writing would get retweeted, and my readership would finally break a 30 average. Instead, I didn’t feel well, didn’t write much except boring medical updates with, and didn’t even do all that well with Zelda. It can be a dire thing to face our true inner selves and discover that we are not actually an astonishing writer waiting to be discovered. No, we are a mediocre Zelda player trying to figure out how to navigate this level of the dungeon without getting killed.

The rain quickens and slants across the windowpanes. I loved the rare rains when I lived with my grandmother in California. The roof seemed to echo joyfully with each drop that fell on the parched desert.

I have updates on my knee. I went to the orthopedic surgeon on Wednesday. He was very pleased with how the wounds were healing, and how my swelling was (aka nonexistent). That ice pack thingy truly worked wonders. So I am recovering very well from the procedures. However, he sat me down for a long talk. The tear in one of my menisci was very extensive. (I continue to be amazed at how well my poor knee functioned.) He had to remove more than half of it. They do not replace meniscus. What I have remaining is what I have. I am therefore permanently and for the rest of my life forbidden from being a runner. I am very grateful I ran a 5k for the first time last year, because it will also be my last. I was beginning to really enjoy running, and to envision myself as maybe a person who did 5ks or 10ks. I wanted to be one of those people confidently striding across the pavement – mostly because I like being outdoors and I wanted to be fit and healthy. I don’t have a good backup plan. The other things I’ve enjoyed (basketball, raquetball) are also high impact. Swimming is hard logistically. I’m scared of bicycles since my sister’s near-fatal accident.

The Sox and Yankees were rained out today, so this line of clouds must extend all the way down past New York. I like a rain that stays and endures – one that rocks you to sleep and wakens you in the morning.

Today I did physical therapy for the first time. I was quite pleased with the results. Again, no swelling. I walked across the room with hardly any limp, if tentatively, sans crutches. I am supposed to use the crutches for safety, not because I require a prop. The strength tests he gave I did well in. I should recover quickly.

I miss sitting in the quiet of my childhood home, watching the rain fall on ancient hills, softening the stern outlines of the firs. In that moment in my memory, listening to Simon and Garfunkel and seeing past the thin veneer of civilization to the implacable mountains as they must have been through time immemorial, I ached for the impossible loveliness and loneliness of it all with all the romantic passion of a teenage heart.

My morning started my day badly. I was taking Grey to school and we were running late. I am not used to having deadlines for him. At the last moment as he was leaving and gathering his things, I said, “Hurry up!” His shoulders slumped. His face took on an injured cast. He shuffled, forlorn, to the front door of the school – a tiny kindergarten-sized bundle of woe in front of a vast concrete edifice. I was struck with remorse. What I should have said was, “I love you. Have a great day, kiddo.” I carried it with me all day that I had, for 20 seconds of gain, sent my child to school chastised instead of cherished. I went to get him a bit early, since I was working from home. Just him. And I asked him to help me make a birthday cake. He read the ingredient list and got all of them out – distinguishing baking powder from baking soda! He measured, poured, cracked eggs, mixed, and sampled. He wore his robot apron and joked with me in the kitchen. We made a really fantastic chocolate cake together, and ended our day eating the fruits of our labors, blessed by the hymnic “Happy Birthday”.

Of all the great songs Simon and Garfunkel wrote, my very favorite is Kathy’s Song. Back to that living room moment – I had Sound of Silence on LP. You know, “long play”. A record. Vinyl. This was well into the CD age, but on a rainy afternoon, thinking poetic, romantic thoughts, I played it on the record player instead and each word pierced my heart.

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls

And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies

My mind’s distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you’re asleep
And kiss you when you start your day

And a song I was writing is left undone
I don’t know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can’t believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme

And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for grace and you go I.

Good night, all. Tomorrow is a new, fresh and joyful day.

ACL replacement – 5 days in

I really didn’t know what to expect coming out of this surgery. Although I asked the doctor and met people who had it, the responses I got were totally across the board. I heard “You won’t be able to do major athletic activities for 6 months.” “You will be in physical therapy for a year or so.” “The main recovery period for meniscus tears is 3 – 4 weeks. For ACL replacement it is 4 – 6 weeks. You are having both, so plan for more than 4 weeks minimum.” From this, I figured I would be more or less useless for a month, and probably limpy and gimpy for a month or two after. Was that 4 weeks of crutches? 6? I wondered if I would be able to do Mocksgiving ok. I gave up apple picking for the year. I figured the birthdays were going to be a real challenge to me.

And the pain. I heard of people hooked up to automatic-knee-moving-machines. I heard people talk about excruciating burning pain as they went to move their knees – about how they could not even move them without help. I took the pain of my initial injury and multiplied it in my head. I heard about the goooood drugs I would be getting, and the nerve block, and what a bad moment it would be when the nerve block wore off. (For the record, I am unconvinced that the nerve block actually blocked anything.) I was prepared for blinding agony.

I’m five days in and on the couch. But here’s how I’m feeling.

I’m thinking that major surgery is fun enough I should do it annually. I have gotten to play 900% more video games, read more, relax, sleep in, write letters, keep up on teh intarwebs and play fun games with my kids.

The pain? I definitely think the surgery is less painful than the initial injury. This might be because I do have appropriate pain medication (and I am taking it – there is nothing to be gained by not taking my prescriptions). It is also likely less painful because I’m keeping off it and actually resting, which I did NOT do with my injury. But the excruciating burning pain? Nah. The worst is when I wake up in the morning and all my meds have worn off. I feel the incision points. I feel a throbbing ache through my knee. My calf is screaming in dismay at the inactivity, extremely heavy brace etc. But is it the fiery agony of hell? Nah.

The incapacity? I have decided that I was in a best possible scenario for this injury. Consider:
– Due to on and off reinjuries since May, my good knee has bulked up and is used to compensating/standing by itself/doing all the lifting
– Thanks to physical therapy and activity on my part, my “bad” knee is strong. My “baby’s first physical therapy” involves 10 straight leg lifts. I can currently do more than 30 before I get bored and quit. I was doing them before, and they’re not much harder after.
– My “bad knee” is used to not having an ACL. It has compensatory muscles. So the instability of my new ACL is much less of a factor than it would be if I had just busted a working ACL.
– I’ve been practicing a one-leg lifestyle. The crutches are a pain, but I’m really good at doing things with one good and one gimpy leg. See also: since May.

So far, I have excellent flexibility. I’m up to 90 degrees. I have to take off my braces, because they stop my knee from moving before any swelling or tightness stops my knee from moving. I’m almost at where I was before surgery (which is not the same as perfectly good, since I’d reaggravated my knee). I can place my weight on my bad leg (carefully, while holding on to the crutches). It doesn’t hurt the knee to be jarred or bumped in to. When I am up to date on my meds, sitting in my couch with my cold pad I am not experiencing any pain.

So I’m thinking that 4 – 6 weeks of completely wiped-out-ness is unlikely. I’m hoping to have maybe another week of crutches and then start returning to life as normal!

A few notes, in case you come here through googling acl replacement and meniscus tears and wonder what’s ahead:

I have a four-stage dressing system:
1) Bandaids. Three of ’em. Covering three incisions with a total of 6 stitches.
2) ACE bandage. Buy an extra one with velcro before surgery because it will be gross and you will want a new one. Keep this on to prevent chafing and provide compression.
3) My cold pack is fan-freaking-tastic. I would SO recommend this system to anyone who regularly needs to ice an appendage. Here’s their website: http://www.dme-direct.com/deroyal-t600-atc-hot-cold-therapy-system/ . It has a reservoir for ice water and a temperature sensor. It circulates cold water through a thin pad that I wear under my bionic-brace. It is immediate and effective pain relief, as well as reducing swelling.
4) Over all of this (and over my pants) I have a Rom Knee brace. It’s articulated, adjustable and lockable. I keep it unlocked during the day and am supposed to lock it while I sleep. I’m not sure why that is. It’s pretty heavy duty hardware, and I’m finding it a bit annoying. If it is tight enough to not slip while I’m walking, I’m afraid it’s cutting off circulation to my foot. If it’s loose enough to not create welts, then it slips down while I walk. I have to wear it 24/7 and it is the element I’m most looking forward to ditching.
5) Crutches – just normal aluminum affairs. I should have been doing arm strength training in prep. The first few days my arms were as sore as my knee!

Medication:
Ibuprofen – I try to take 800 milligram doses, since I’ve heard that is the minimum dose to actually get an anti-inflammatory effect. This is probably the mainstay and most important pain medication I’m on. I reckon I’ll be on it for quite a while. A rule of thumb is an hour for every 100 mgs… so 800 mgs would be 8 hours, 400 mgs would be four, etc.

Percocet/Vicodin – I started on Percocet and could not tolerate the side effects of throwing up and falling asleep. We turned it in to the police when my husband picked up the Vicodin, which makes me a little light headed but otherwise seems to be having mild side effects.

Aspirin – for anticlotting/anticoagulation. It’s a very slight risk with this procedure, so it’s just sort of added in to the mix.

I took four days off work and will work from home (probably a touch part time) next week. I plan on going back into the office the following week – or about 12 days after the surgery was performed.

Questions, anyone?

Recovering

Surgery day was a blur. I have discovered this week that my reaction to opiates is to go to sleep. And maybe throw up. Surgery day I spent quite a bit of the time asleep, and ate very little.

Yesterday was a more painful day. I was tired of being asleep and not eating, so I opted not to take my big time pain meds. I called the doctor in the morning to get an alternate medication, and leaned on the unflinching rock of Ibuprofin to see me through. I didn’t get the new pain meds until nearly 5, however. Being up on important scientific findings, I supplemented the Ibuprofin with some “Zelda: Twilight Princess” for Wii. The fishing was a royal pain in the hienie and I resorted to a technique I try never to use (aka: asking my husband for help), but eventually I managed to conquer the first level.

My mother in law is here, and full of plans. So far we’ve deconstructed the kitchen table and chairs. For our combined birthday presents, she is paying to have them reupholstered. Also, she is spray painting the metal. This is ideal, since it’s really an awesome table and bench set from the 70s that is perfect for our kitchen, but whose stuffing is emerging. Then this weekend they’re planning on redoing the floor and fixtures in our bathroom – having demolished the floor last trip. I’m glad they’re keeping their plans modest this time.

Pictures from the knee scope - I think these are the meniscus tears

How am I recovering from the ACL reconstruction and meniscus tears? Let’s see. I’m in this astonishing articulated brace, which I have to wear 24/7 for at least another day. Tomorrow I can take the brace and dressing off to bathe. I have to sleep in it, which is a bit of a challenge. The pain fluctuates more than I expected. When properly managed, there is less pain I had with the initial injury. This might be partially because I didn’t have prescription pain medication when I busted it the first time. I have some decent range of motion – better than I was expecting – going from fully extended to maybe 35 degrees. The brace, not the knee, seems to be the limiting factor. I’ve been doing some preliminary PT, and can do leg lifts. I finally figured out how to go up and down my stairs on crutches. Although I can bear weight on the knee without much additional pain, it does not seem stable or reliable, so I have to have crutches for all movement. It turns out that all the techniques I’d been using with my sore knee all summer long are the same ones that I need with my recovering knee.

I have this amazing cold pack system going on. There’s a reservoir of ice water that I connect to two ports on my brace. The ice water is circulated under my metal brace around me knee. A sensor shows when the water has gotten too warm. I swear this is the most effective of the pain mitigations, although it requires me to be pretty stationary. Also, I was unprepared for needing bags and bags of ice, so my caretakers have had to make several runs to the corner store. Finally, I can’t really change the ice pack myself — carrying things is hard on crutches and this is awkward and heavy. So I really do need people around me. And as I can tell by a certain rambliness in even this writing … I’m not 100% sharp.

I’m feeling very lucky in my supportive community. My biggest challenge will be the stir-craziness, I think. I am ok in my limited context with the pain meds and ice packs, but I am probably not up for much adventuring. On the other hand, I’m constitutionally ill-suited to sitting still and not doing much. We’ll see which one of these imperatives has the most energy behind it!

Marvels of modern medicine

There is more to me now than there was this morning. Where I once had a missing ACL and two frayed menisci, I now have an ACL and two shaved down menisci.

I would like to take a moment to talk about the tendon they put in my leg this morning. This tendon was a donated by an organ donor – someone who marked their driver’s license, or talked with their family. I have every hope that the man or woman who is giving me the ability to walk, run, jump and move died at a very old age surrounded peacefully by their family.

When we think of organ donation, we think of the big life saving donations: the heart, lungs, kidney. You might think, “I’m not healthy enough for any of my organs to be of use.” But for other things that make a huge impact on quality of life – knee tendons, corneas etc. – it makes a tremendous difference. I am incredibly grateful for the foresight and generosity of spirit of the donor who has given me a leg to stand on.

That said, let me fascinate you with a discussion of my morning! (Note: if you are faint of stomach regarding medical procedures, please feel free to stop reading now!)

My surgery was originally scheduled for noon. Yesterday, I got a call asking me to come in at 9 instead. On one hand, this was very good news since it’s hard to wait and think with no food, drink or (GASP) coffee! On the other hand, I had to be there two hours early, and Grey cannot be dropped off prior to 8 am. Putting all that together, I drove myself to the hospital.

My procedure was done at the same hospital where my sons were born. I took the same road, just as the sun was rising to burn off the morning mist. It was a lovely day. There was remarkably little waiting around, it seems. I was questioned, prepped, pregnancy-tested (negative!), written on, informed and advised. It seems like a very long time ago. I was wheeled in to do a nerve block before my husband returned. After they had put in my IV and added the block, my husband and my pastor both arrived in the recovery room. We prayed together, joked, talked logistics and waited. It seemed like only a few minutes after that when they kicked the guys out to finalize my preparation for surgery.

One of the last things I remember was telling the nurse how fascinating I found one of the drugs they gave me. I was given a tremendous number of drugs for this procedure. But just before pushing me into the OR they gave me a drug which would allow me to interact and react perfectly normally with them but which would not permit me to remember what happened. Sure enough, that conversation is my last memory. I know that I was awake after that. I assisted and followed instructions. I probably asked questions. I remember none of it.

So Sci-fi!

Anyway, the procedure went well. I came up from anesthesia extremely concerned about whether I had been polite under its influence. That was my first question, not “How did it go” or anything. Apparently I was at least unremarkable under the influence.

I did not have a chance to talk to my surgeon (consciously) after the procedure. He did talk to my husband, though. Although the surgery was a success, not all the news is good news. More of the meniscus was damaged than he had expected, so he had to remove more cartilage than he expected. I have pictures. They look like white stripes. Also, my knee shows some very early signs of arthritis. He said we would discuss this more in my follow up, so I’ll wait to find out what the implications of these two things are. I’m guessing, however, that the Boston Marathon is right out for 2012.

Then I came home! I’ve got some cool gear – for example a neat ice-pack-like device that circulates ice water under my brace. Oh, and an epic brace. But I am already limping around on my crutches, and bearing some weight on my leg.

I’m a little concerned about my big time painkiller. I’m still (I believe) under the effects of the nerve block, so the whole weight of the pain hasn’t hit. However, my reaction to my pain pill is a) throwing up anything that might be in my stomach b) falling dead asleep. While there are ways to mitigate nausea, this is less feeling queasy and more “OMG Bring a bowl NOW!”. This is particularly a problem since the last time I ate anything was last night during the Pat’s game. HUNGRY!

I just did manage to keep something down, but I have a hunch it’s because my last round of vomitus included my pain pill. Not a sustainable model, folks. So I plan on calling tomorrow to see if I can find something less problematic.

Tomorrow I start needing to move and do exercises. I suspect that even that minor effort will wipe me out. But I find hope in that this is, if all goes well, my last knee recovery. I’ve been up and down all summer, but when I make this recovery, I’ll be at the best I can be.

So that’s the news with me. My thanks to everyone who sent prayer and good thoughts, and to all those who decide to share their bodies with others once they are done with them.

First, first, first day of Kindergarten

My firstborn son went to his first day of his first year of school. I have been anticipating this day for, oh, about 6+ years now. There’s trepidation and excitement: will he love school like I did? Have I taught him the right amount of the right things? Did I do everything I was supposed to do in order to do this first handoff? From now on, he will have to choose to do the things he is supposed to do, and I’m just the supporting cast.

The first day of Kindergarten was a big day for me.

SOME parents don't get surly faced kids until Middle School!!!

Not for him. You could almost hear the “yeah yeah” as he happily ran ahead of me to the door. He tried to convince me that I could just drop him off. That I didn’t have to come in. That he was FINE thanks mom! There was, I think, a brief rolling of eyes when I held out my hand. He spotted his teacher and whoosh! He was gone – pausing only to give me a high-five on his way out the door.

The other parents and I looked at each other and shrugged. I guess that was it. My neighbor gave me a hug.

All day I wondered how it was going. Was he having fun? (More fun than I was having, I’d warrant!) Was he starting off on the right foot? Was anyone making fun of him or his lunch or anything?

When I picked him up from afterschool care, I asked how the day had gone. “Awesome!” He filled us in on the details: they play music at lunch, they played a fighting game in computer class, gym was his favorite part (a candy-filled pinata seemed to influence that decision), a kid had bullied him but the situation had been quickly and favorably resolved (I am having particular trouble figuring out what really happened with this one), all his friends had a great day too.

So Kindergarten, one day in, two thumbs up.

Lincoln and Grey lining up to go upstairs

Short but mean: thoughts on the White Mountains

Mt. Chocorua as seen from White Lake State Park (last year!)

I’m a mountain girl. I always have been. For most of my life I’ve lived within 100 miles of the sea. For the last 15 years, I’ve lived within 10 miles. Entire years have been strung together when I haven’t once gone to a beach or gazed over the crashing waves. Back in my dorm room, in college, where other people had pictures of their dogs or their high school friends, my wall was plastered with Mt. Rainier.

Mt. Rainier is 14,411 feet tall. If you ask me what the proper height for a real mountain would be, I’d venture that between 14 and 15 thousand feet is just about right. Anything you can drive to the top of can categorically not be a mountain. This was, at least, my opinion for years. But it has mysteriously come to pass that I am living in New England, and have lo these fifteen years. And while I might make condescending noises about the so called “mountains” that top out at a piffulous five thousand feet (barely a hill!), my sons are New Englanders and my weekends for the forseeable future will be spent in New England.

For three summers, now, we have camped at White Lake State Park, which is a lovely combination of rustic and convenient. We have driven over the Kankamangus on our “Car Walks” in foul and fair weather. And I’ve been lured, I confess, to thinking about hiking those trails branching off appealingly to the sides of the road.

This weekend, a strange collection of events made it possible for my beloved husband and I go camping up there, BY OURSELVES. After the 4th of July trip, replete with great whining, we were wondering whether we actually LIKED camping. (In retrospect, camping is less fun with a massively swollen knee and several torn ligaments – FYI.) The answer by the way is yes – we do like camping!

Yesterday after a leisurely and late morning, we went to the ranger station for the White Mountain National Forest for advice on trails and to buy a parking pass. The advice was greatly needed, since Irene had actually closed the Kankamangus. The ranger pointed us to a moderate 4 – 6 hour hike, which was exactly what we’d asked for.

Little did we know he was a maniac. The route in question was originally intended to summit Mt. Chocorua by way of Champney Falls. It gained roughly 3000 feet over the course of 3 miles. Much of the trail looked like this:

Our heroine, winded, less than half way up.

Other sections of the trail were steep and had bad footing.

Sadly, good sense caused us to turn back .6 of a mile short of the summit of Mt. Chocorua. (There were thundrous looking clouds overhead and I was concerned regarding whether we had enough daylight to safely navigate our way down.) But altogether, it was a splendid hike. I’m delighted to report that my knee, shredded as it is, endured remarkably and gave me hardly any trouble the entire hike. It was a lovely farewell to mobility for me.

Of course, drying my foot in the shower that night (see also: civilized campground) I managed to activate my torn meniscus and I am once again limping and moaning, but that’s not the fault of the Champney Falls trail!

I have backpacked the Wonderland Trail around Mt. Rainier – much of it more than once (and sans ACL, by the way). I have hoisted 40 pound packs over 7000 foot high glacier-ridden saddles between great mountains. I have watched eagles soar beneath my feet and clouds break on the shores of alpine meadows like waves. This trail was as mean as any I have known, and I have known many.

Over time I have come to realize that these tame, worn-down, solid, glacier-riven granite mountains of my adopted home are, perhaps, shorter than their younger Western siblings. You may be able to drive your station wagon to the top of Mt. Washington. Coming down from the Kankamangus, you may have your choice of (bad) burgers and beer to slake your hunger and thirst. But for all that, these are no less mountains. Their trails are no less treacherous and difficult. Indeed, perhaps they are more so. My beloved Cascades flaunt their glory and majesty. The White Mountains are crafty and guilesome in their old age, revealing their splendour more in their rainment than in their bodies. But, grudgingly, I am coming to respect them. Perhaps even to like them.

We’ll see how this goes.

Here are some more pictures of the summer

Irene, good night

The storm has spent its fury up the Eastern seaboard – in no place being quite as severe or catastrophic as the wall to wall coverage suggested. I’m old enough now to be more than glad that is true. Even this diminished storm brought down ancient limbs of stately trees, flooded low lying areas and caused the deaths of more than a dozen people. For those homes, friends and families – Irene will be as huge a storm as could be imagined.

Here, it served mostly to confine us to our home for a weekend. We watched the water lash at the side of the house and the winds whip the trees into dancing contortions. Who knew ancient oaks could bend so? But still, somehow, the dishes are done, the laundry is done, the leftovers are in the ‘fridge and another week awaits.

We gathered with our neighbors – our friends – as the skies cleared and our children spun like overwound tops, whirling like cross dervishes around the center of the house.

Tomorrow it all begins again: the week with its prosaic tasks, meetings and needs. We’ll spend maybe 15 minutes discussing the storm, shaking our heads, all agreeing we were glad it wasn’t so bad. Then we’ll move on to milestones and deliverables, and never look back.

Good night, Irene. Good night, Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.