Winter Wonder

It is no secret that we have all been suffering a bit from "cabin fever", and with temperatures in January and early February averaging 5 degrees, going outdoors became a chore rather than an activity.

At the end of last week we were rewarded with both a rise in temperatures and an accumulation of almost two feet of snow, bringing the family back into its usual harmony. Boys go outside; Mom happy.

Yesterday the family trucked about 7 miles south of our homestead in east Anchorage to an event titled simply "Winter Trails Day". Sponsored by the reliable and community-minded REI store and the Bureau of Land Management, and held at the Campbell Creek Science Center (www.anchorage.ak.blm.gov/ccscentr.html), the event was geared towards getting the whole crew outside for an afternoon. Free ski and snowshoe rental, skijoring demonstrations (dogs pulling people who are on skis), and free kid food. What's not to like about that?

With downy snowflakes falling about our faces, we put everyone on his or her own snowshoes (even Bear has some) and away we went down a short loop trail marked with interesting signs about local animals. Both Bear and Wolf did very well; Wolf leading the way and motivating Bear to keep moving. We saw moose tracks with their round prints and distinctive skid marks from hind feet skimming the snow; snowshoe hare tracks, and even some branches munched on by what we think was a porcupine, although we are not certain, since moose eat bark and branches, too.

We were home by 2:00, put Bear down for a late nap, got Wolf involved in a new book, and spent the rest of the afternoon in front of the wood stove, soaking up an Alaska winter day, and an Alaska Winter Ale. Not too shabby.

Spring Has Sprung, Not

My sister-in-law sent me these bulbs, complete with soil and pot, for Christmas. I had forgotten about them, but lo and behold, I have flowers!

Until I moved to Alaska I had never before appreciated the freshness of green plants, or the sweet smell of a flower in February, when spring fever hits us hard. Tired of snow, cold, and darkness (although that is getting better, rapidly), this is the time of year when Alaskans head for anyplace warm. Anyplace at all.

I love the view from my kitchen window; flower pot on the sill, snow-covered trees out back, my little snowflake lights glimmering around the frame. Winter is many months away, I fear (we had almost 18 inches of snow overnight and this morning, I had to shovel twice), but a little peep of spring is right under my nose.

Supermom Underpants?

Below is an adaptation of my weekly blog entry for Working Mother magazine...

Last week, while I was in the middle of making dinner, perusing my older son's half-done homework, and trying to listen to election returns on NPR, Bear took off his pants. Not a totally unheard of occurrence for this wigglesome three year-old, but this time he did it with such purpose I had to stop and ask him what he was doing.

"I have to put on my Superman underpants," he replied. And why? "So I will be stronger," he said, with a look that told me I should have known the answer.

Oh, if it were only that easy! If the makers of Jockey could produce some magic formula to transform a tired, cranky mommy at around 5 p.m. each day into Supermom. I could skip the evening traffic and fly to Wolf's taekwondo class, dinner would be on time, and the strange keyboard pattern would no longer be on my forehead because I fell asleep on it.

There have been many posts (on momblog) regarding the balance among work, family, and self; that the three-legged stool cannot stand if one leg is absent. How do we do it, then? How do we create the framework that allows us, as working mothers in diverse professions, the same dedication to our families and ourselves as we do to our jobs? I left a pretty nice set up at an Anchorage non-profit a few months ago to stay home with our boys. But something was missing, something as intrinsically important to me as my job of mothering and spouse-ing. The stool seemed to be missing not one leg, but two, and only with the re-emergence of a previously shelved writing career have they come back.

Yes, some days I desperately want those Supermom underpants. A child needs me to help at school two days before a huge deadline. The dog dies, or the car does. There are certainly moments when I wonder if it is all worth it, this running around crazy-like.

Then I take a look at that little stool in the corner of my office with all three legs firmly planted on the ground, and all is right. I wonder if Yukon would think Supermom lingerie is sexy, though?

Does God Care About the Jello Salad?

A pardon to those who have checked in, expecting to see a new post. I profoundly apologize, but I have been busy with God and the Jell-o molded salad.
I belong to a lovely church in Anchorage, 1st Pressed. Great people, many of whom have become lifelong friends, so for those who may be reading, please, no disrespect intended. As Yukon, the children and I become more familiar with church operations and activities, it is natural that we become more involved. One of those opportunities, a book club of sorts, is usually my weekly chance to vent about my husband and children to a group of like-minded women while we peruse a chosen book over the course of the school year.
An advantage to this "circle" (as groups of church women are referred to) is the opportunity to engage in this chatter and book study without our children crawling, whining, and throwing up on us, due to the PW. The PW, a group of women who have been at this church since Mary conceived Jesus, are an entity, a presence, and a force to be reckoned with. They also pay for the childcare. So when the PW asks, we become cheerful servants at such functions as Valentine's Day Salad Extravangaza, or the Springtime Tea and Cake Party. As we did on Saturday.
Supposedly a luncheon to appeal to the "younger women" of the church family, the event was a fairly simple affair. I cooked the hams in the cavernous church oven (every church has one, don't tell me yours doesn't), hiding out in the kitchen under the ruse that I musn't let the glaze burn.
Dessert, rolls, and punch rounded out our contribution, and the PW ladies brought the holy salads.
A salad potluck luncheon is a fascinating display of sociology. You can tell who spent the most prep time, who has done this before, and who stopped by the Fred Meyer on the way. Experienced ladies bring their own serving utensils and wash their dishes before they leave. Seasoned covered-dish participants are savvy to the wisdom of a smallish bowl; that to bring a huge dish is only asking for leftovers, and as everyone knows, an empty bowl is the greatest compliment.
So, we younger ladies ran around in the kitchen, bumping into each other and forgetting where we laid the pot holders and butter pats. I did not hear the speaker, but I understand she was quite good, for a younger woman. I missed the singing of "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" because the ham got cold and I had to stick it back in the oven and the buns were not warming correctly. Then I had to scrape off the glaze after it hardened onto the countertop where I spilled it.
At the end of the day, when we were cleaning up, folding pink tablecloths and putting away sugar bowls, the PW Preceptress came into the kitchen and sought me out. Never a good sign. I figured she was either going to smack me a good one for not showing up in the Fellowship Hall to visit, or she was pleased with the whole affair. Fortunately, the latter. But not so fortunately, she also asked me if I would be the new PW Poobah.
"Understanding what challenges I had in my life right now", and patting me on the shoulder like a teacher to a slow student, she left me with a request to pray about it and think about the "balance" such a position might give to my life.
I wonder if Jesus ever had to worry about someone bringing the wrong molded salad to any of HIS meetings?

Caucus Crazy

It is not often that Alaskans are party to events happening in the rest of the nation. With our time difference (AK time is one hour behind Pacific time, which means a smacking 4-hour difference from the east coast) most notable events and activities are already over and done by the time we hear about it. But not yesterday.
Even Alaska's vote counted at the first presdential primaries of the open season for potential candidates. I even heard CNN talk about us in their play-by-play, up to the millisecond commentary. Granted, it was while muckey-mucks were waiting to talk about some other place, but we'll take it.
Alaskans turned out in droves to both the Democratic caucuses and Republican polls. The boys and I experienced this phenomenon first hand as we tried in vain to get home after taekwondo practice, once we decided to bag the attempt at seeing a caucus in person. This morning in the newspaper (www.adn.com) I discovered why. There were almost 5,000 people making their way across town to our neck of the neighborhood at 5:00pm to try and make it by 5:30. Start time for the caucus was pushed back until 6pm, then 6:30. Finally, organizers just went ahead and crammed the folk in and did their best to make sure no fire marshalls were in attendance.
Democratic party officials said at the last caucus held in Anchorage, only 200 people showed up. Republican officials watched as ballots ran out of circulation, and had to be copied for the hoardes waiting outside in below zero temperatures, waiting to cast their vote.
I think we are in for some serious change.... just think what will happen when Mayor Begich decides to run against Uncle Ted? I'd walk across town to cast that vote.

Roaring Silence

The yellow hair is still on my sweater, the trails are still visible in the backyard, circling the birdfeeder and fencelines. I still by habit step over now-imaginary dog dishes to get into the laundry room, and my hand somehow drifts down to the empty rug beneath my desk. The silence is deafening.
We cannot emphasize enough our gratitude for the outpouring of love and understanding from our family and friends. Emails and phone calls have flooded our home, and allowed Wolf, especially, some much-needed release of emotion with someone other than his parents.
For those who are not acquainted with the allure of the Yellow Dog, she was Wolf's friend during some very turbulent times; a rock of which he could cling when his days were just too full of misunderstandings and misgivings. She never asked a thing of him that he couldn't give, and was always, always there.
Many have suggested that we begin the search for another dog soon. Perhaps, when the hurt (our friend TG called it "visceral" and oh, how right he is) subsides a bit more. When we stop calling out her name as we come in the door in the afternoon, when a "new normal" begins to creep into our daily routine.
When I finally vacuum up the last of the yellow hair and it snows just a little bit.

Come Back Yeller

I am torn between wanting it to snow a foot to mask the paw prints on the deck and wanting the freeze up to continue so that they are there forever....

Pepper. 5/94-2/1/08