tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-830512647208042562024-03-13T13:48:06.861-07:00MIT MommyGeeky engineer, motherhood, things heat up . . .MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.comBlogger209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-24177956658206487302012-09-21T22:10:00.000-07:002012-09-21T22:10:23.657-07:00The Open Road<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J5VRk-iFMKA/UEPX4Hh7oZI/AAAAAAAACYU/2HycmhCWBF0/s1600/IMG_1732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J5VRk-iFMKA/UEPX4Hh7oZI/AAAAAAAACYU/2HycmhCWBF0/s200/IMG_1732.JPG" width="200" /></a>Once upon a bright summer’s day, we dreamed of travels far
away. </div>
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Over plains and mountains and to the shore, we would follow
the open road.</div>
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We thought it tough to keep surviving with so many days of
constant driving, </div>
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Yet found so quickly we were thriving, striving forth
towards Hoover’s abode. </div>
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One short stop, then on to Golden Spike we towed. </div>
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Our first few days upon the road.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34XlSPvmJtY/UEPewx_ZIaI/AAAAAAAACZs/PiKEyNcHCBM/s1600/IMG_0345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34XlSPvmJtY/UEPewx_ZIaI/AAAAAAAACZs/PiKEyNcHCBM/s200/IMG_0345.JPG" width="200" /></a>Through open desert where wind blows, we were surprised by
bright rainbows.</div>
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Across to Lassen Volcanoes our westward travels finally
slowed. </div>
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We hiked to where Bumpass burnt his bone, explored the
nozzle of cinder cone, </div>
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Hiked Lassen to the construction zone – until hiking further
a sign forbode.</div>
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We inhaled deeply and admired where ancient glaciers flowed.</div>
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Stopping to play where it had snowed. </div>
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We sought next the ancient trees, feeling smaller than
unseen giants’ knees,</div>
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Sheltered from the ocean’s breeze, far below the marbled
mirallettes’ abode.</div>
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Suddenly I heard panting, sighing – to climb a tree, Helen
was trying. </div>
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I echoed too a different sighing, sighing proudly at the
courage that she showed. </div>
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She did not make it far up the redwood before she slowed. </div>
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Once again we hit the road.</div>
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From the backseat we heard some raving, something about
Oregon caving. </div>
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‘Twas like a mob of ‘49ers seeking out the mother lode. </div>
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Instead of madness from the driving, they wished to go
deep-earth diving – </div>
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A hike below the trees where once a river flowed. </div>
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No concern about surviving, they entered the darkness – no
one slowed. </div>
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We saw where ancient magma flowed. </div>
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Next we brought a gift to Crater Lake, well, less a give and
more a take,</div>
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When enjoying Garfield Peak a strong wind blowed</div>
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John’s hat – it tossed and tumbled onto a cliff edge too
easily crumbled </div>
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By the footfalls of any man who vainly strode. </div>
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Our sunset hike revealed a perfect moon, perhaps the lake
thought a gift was owed. </div>
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A lost hat lightens the load. </div>
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<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> By morning light we saw Twin Rocks, where the Coughlin brood
naturally flocks,</div>
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To play in sand outside a box, blocks from Grandma’s beach abode.
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At a local joint we broke the fast, enjoyed our coffee to
the last, </div>
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A brief trip into the past, before a fond farewell we bode. </div>
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One last sweet cinnamon memory I sneakily stowed. </div>
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A sticky treat for the long road. </div>
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Up upon the Oregon coast, Lewis and Clark followed their
host. </div>
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At the place it rains the most, they made their wintertime
abode. </div>
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The thirty-two adults and child travel’d West when all was
wild, </div>
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Exploring a continent by where its water flowed.</div>
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Sacagawea helped them break the local code. </div>
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America’s first road.</div>
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We hiked through Olympic trees like towers, wandered through
the alpine flowers,</div>
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And marvel’d at the Pacific’s powers thundering upon the
rocks they will one day erode.</div>
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On Cascade Lake we loved to float, enjoying views from a paddle
boat,</div>
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On Michael’s birthday it is his favorite travel mode. </div>
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To the dock we were later safely towed. </div>
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Better off if we had rowed.
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SHciaVIzJlU/UEPzlrMSrlI/AAAAAAAACc8/neMrxCSJH-U/s1600/IMG_1563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SHciaVIzJlU/UEPzlrMSrlI/AAAAAAAACc8/neMrxCSJH-U/s200/IMG_1563.JPG" width="200" /></a>The ferry took us to Aunt Bern, she joined our hike among
the fern. </div>
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Apparently, it was not our turn to find the lake that fills
once it has snowed. </div>
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We fed the wild mosquitoes but no Pyramid Lake ever showed. </div>
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Next day we climbed Cascade Pass, forty switchbacks go
no-so-fast, </div>
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But the mem’ries will surely last longer than the Umqua a la
mode. </div>
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Back on to the open road.
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We left the Cascades in our wake, gently tapping on the
brake,</div>
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We thought for once some time we’d take and drive with
leisure along the road. </div>
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A Winthrop winery tasted fine, we even bought a case of
wine! </div>
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Took pictures of the purple police Trans Am, deciding it
clearly was not to code. </div>
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We stopped at the Walmart of Smelterville Idaho. </div>
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Boondocking along the road.</div>
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We found our favorite place in Butte, ‘Pork Chop John’s’ of
high repute, </div>
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A double-stacker will leave mute, the most grumbly of
stomachs along the road. </div>
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In Sheridan we anticipated, a cowboy dinner finely plated, </div>
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But instead we waited, and waited, waited for the
no-so-special special that finally showed. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 8pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(But
it gave us plenty of time to use their clean commode). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Even yelp can’t predict every meal along the open road. </div>
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We skipped the a la mode. </div>
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A Wyoming windstorm gave brief delay, but soon we were on
our way, </div>
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The Minuteman Missile Site the goal today, to learn about
the Cold War code. </div>
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Out of a truck a cowboy wave, signaled a situation we could
guess most grave. </div>
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John pulled over and walked behind to inspect our precious
load. </div>
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For a Freightliner we were waiting, waiting to be
towed. </div>
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To cowboys our safety was surely owed.</div>
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We rode in a semi to RV Jacks. Would he laugh the shirt right of our backs? </div>
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We’d find a way to relax, with life’s cow-pie, a side of a
la mode! </div>
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The Alex Johnson’s nicest suite, wine and French cuisine to
eat, </div>
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In the city fountain we our feet, and found that local cone
of a la mode. </div>
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And really didn’t mind that historic hotel commode. </div>
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Surprise detour from the road. </div>
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We went next to that Minuteman, seizing the day, if we can,<br />
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Drove straight through the dry Badlands, that beauty that
wind and water erode. </div>
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Next we saw the Presidents four, enshrined upon Mount
Rushmore, </div>
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In our headlights it appeared – two feet away – a two ton
load! </div>
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Watch out for bison on the road. </div>
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Do you recall RV Jack?
He fixed up Jessie and gave her back.<br />
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The time had come to make our tracks, returning to our
travel mode. </div>
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Jolly Green Giant – a veggie icon, a big cheesebarn cow in
Wisconsin, </div>
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Passed the SPAM Museum (we’ll put it on the bucket list for
trips along this road). </div>
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The last few miles of long driving, I asked my dear if he’s
surviving, </div>
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“Give one last thought, Dear, for our family ode.” </div>
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“Same time next year, let’s hit the road!” </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-8685042855026194582011-11-12T07:20:00.000-08:002011-11-12T08:05:38.697-08:00Lego Scrimmage - Get it?<div><br /><div>The process defies easy explanation.<br /><br /><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qBFv-YqqjZM/Tr6PHz-ggjI/AAAAAAAACRI/PC6bzcBKm44/s1600/lego%2Broom1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674129944907645490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qBFv-YqqjZM/Tr6PHz-ggjI/AAAAAAAACRI/PC6bzcBKm44/s400/lego%2Broom1.jpg" border="0" /></a> Yes, yes, the kids use Legos and robots and computers. The parents pull their hair out wondering how they will ever get it done.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>And then comes scrimmage day, and over 200 people - kids, coaches & mentors - come together to first don their t-shirts, to try out those robots, and give it all a first try.<br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674132565776601634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_VD1dJ3Z314/Tr6RgXeXEiI/AAAAAAAACR4/aor7swMFnXQ/s400/ftcrobot.jpg" border="0" /><br />The managed chaos provides a scene for intense learning. Expect screams. Expect a few tears. And, when the parents are providing the safe environment, but not too much instruction.<br /></div><br /><div>You'll also find kids who say . . .<br /></div><br /><div>"I can do this."<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674133894327150962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6PIRYgp4ZsA/Tr6StstfqXI/AAAAAAAACSE/n5SSH8o_n08/s400/IMG_4316.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><div>"How are we <em>ever</em> going to do this?"<br /><br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674134807118116770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aNb6Jf88fok/Tr6Ti1H0d6I/AAAAAAAACSQ/ay7_nAxW62o/s400/IMG_4352.JPG" border="0" /><br />And, "I think we can help."<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674136109679105778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 314px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rNSfOEZpX7Y/Tr6Uupij1vI/AAAAAAAACSc/MF54SsmP628/s400/helping.jpg" border="0" /><br />Because those are the biggest challenges our kids will face out there. They will need to do it themselves, challenge themselves, and learn to collaborate. They don't learn that stuff from Legos. They learn it from the mentors, parents, and their peers. They learn it from YOU.<br /></div><br /><div>Of course what self-respecting geek doesn't <em>LOVE</em> seeing a robot put a ball in a bucket??<br /><br /></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674138852710569762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B66hcObCaJw/Tr6XOUIOVyI/AAAAAAAACSo/qxxtIdohj7c/s400/throwingball1.jpg" border="0" /><br />Yeah. Really, really cool. No, you've probably seen a ball fall in a bucket before, but you get why it was cool.<br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674139868013185698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 308px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aDcez0RsA2E/Tr6YJabOyqI/AAAAAAAACS0/vVbsJXPwao4/s400/jumpingupclose1.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div></div>They get it too. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Thank you to all of you really cool coaches, parents and mentors out there who just 'get it.' <br /><div></div><br /><div>High 5's to all of you. <br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-45240170797473309052011-10-04T09:11:00.000-07:002011-10-04T09:26:28.310-07:00A Lego Reality<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zmy8Vi9O8kA/Tosxm0KCaCI/AAAAAAAACQ8/VJLToQWjPnk/s1600/lego%2Broom1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659671899626694690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zmy8Vi9O8kA/Tosxm0KCaCI/AAAAAAAACQ8/VJLToQWjPnk/s400/lego%2Broom1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">I have been wandering around blogging in my head again, but have way too many ideas. Sometimes it is best to start with what is most obvious. In this case, it is the robot table in my living room. On my way home from preschool drop-off, one of the parents said that my Lego team email was hilarious. So, here is my reality. This was my note to the parents of my Lego team this week. Hilarious is an overstatement, but probably slightly more entertaining than the Kindergarten newsletter that she had read a few minutes prior.</span></em><br /><br />A little official Lego news attached to the bottom. Homework also on bottom. <br /><br />Thanks for coming tonight! <br /><br />We were bummed that Charlie was sick, but I think we had a very productive meeting. We worked on the robot tonight, and here is what we learned (okay, what I hope they learned!). <br /><br />1. Making the robot do what you want is not as easy as it looks (but they are so smart they will be able to figure it out, if they work hard and THINK and work TOGETHER)<br /><br />2. C = 2 pi R. R is the distance from the center of the left wheel to the center of the right wheel, because the center of the right wheel doesn't move while the left wheel drives around it. <br /><br />3. 1/4 C is how far that left wheel has to go to turn the robot to the right in a 90-degree turn. Get it? <br /><br />4. If one rotation of the motor = 6.75 inches of forward movement, then you have to decide what percentage of that 6.75 inches you want to move the left wheel to make that 1/4 C movement. In this case, 1/4 C was 6.125 inches. The "factor" was written down by the Whitham kids, but was just a little less than 1.0. <br /><br />5. If you do the math, it actually happens in real life too (there were some high-fives and actual excitement about that). This makes my heart sing. <br /><br />6. ISH is not a unit of measure, but it is fun to say. <br /><br />7. It is easy to forget which way you are going if you label your MY BLOCKS things like "opposite" and "unopposite". OOOPS<br /><br />8. The wheel doesn't slip if it starts out by moving slowly and then picks up speed. (They learned that at the Rockwell event, but this was a good application).<br /><br />9. Your coach thinks its really cool that the team spent 2 hours understanding and executing a right turn. She must be nuts! (We will continue to work on gracious professionalism. I know it is hard to contain oneself when calculating circumference and making subroutines, but we need to maintain some sense of order).<br /><br />HOMEWORK:<br /><br />Williams kids were asked to get the right-turn calculations into the notebook. Their dad has all the details and I think it just needs to be recopied. Please help them understand it on a general level. Ask them about it. <br /><br />1. IF you haven't finished the food research, please do so. Basically, the kids need to be able to explain the process from nature to table for their food. It doesn't have to be perfectly correct, but if they are way off base, please help them look stuff up. Encourage them to think of reasons why their food would be interesting for the group. <br /><br />2. If your child IS particularly interested in doing the food they are studying, then encourage them to look up local information. Where would we find more information? Is there someone in the area who would want to know about an innovative solution? <br /><br />3. If your child thinks this is a horrible assignment, then have them think about contamination and talk out possible questions for other people's foods. (In the car on the way to your next activity - if you have to). Ask them to present to YOU their food. (Between bites at dinnertime works for this). PRESENTING is an important skill. It is okay if Johnny doesn't really care about eggs. But, we have to choose something. I also don't want there to be a huge struggle only to discard their particular food. This is an exercise in understanding the process and how to think about it and practice presenting it. NOT about why Maggie's ice cream is better than Andrew's fish. Don't tempt me to make salmon ice cream.<br /><br />Bwa ha ha ha. <br /><br />Thanks again!<br /><br /><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-48352285848777375322011-09-27T07:19:00.001-07:002011-09-27T07:23:57.637-07:00Succeeding to be Successful: Scientifically avoiding a gooey mess<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gSjr_eIw-8k/ToHcBPqh3-I/AAAAAAAACQ0/Vwq5qv07pKs/s1600/success.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657044520896946146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gSjr_eIw-8k/ToHcBPqh3-I/AAAAAAAACQ0/Vwq5qv07pKs/s400/success.jpg" border="0" /></a> Andrew struggled into the minivan in front of his school – a fully loaded backpack, violin in one hand, and a lunch bag of scientific achievement in the other. <br /><br />“I succeeded to be successful,” he said in a confident voice. I could tell he had decided exactly what he would tell me. He couldn’t wait to tell someone. <br /><br />“Really?” I replied. The words were nonchalant when they left my brain, but somewhere along the way a little emotion and leapt onto them. <br /><br />“Yep. BOTH of my eggs survived.”<br /><br />“Wow! Did the parachutes deploy?” <br /><br />“Yep. Well, I had to untangle them for Mr. Edwards, but once I had them set up, they worked great. Even some of the other kids had the SAME ideas as I did, but theirs didn’t work.” <br /><br />“Really? What was the difference?” (I half expected an ‘I-dunno-must-have-been-luck’ response, but it was the right question to ask). <br /><br />“Well, one kid did Jello also, but they put it in a Cool Whip container. It was a Jello Bomb! The thing splattered 20 feet in all directions, I even got Jello on me.” <br /><br />“Oh, wow.” <br /><br />“A couple of kids made parachutes out of grocery bags, but the strings were too short. They didn’t deploy.” <br /><br />“A couple kids just put their eggs in cardboard boxes and stuff. Some of the eggs fell out on the way down. I was so glad I brought my own tape because Mr. Edward’s tape was not good enough for the lids. He just had freezer tape there.” <br /><br />It became vastly clear that most of the eggs found a gooey demise on the pavement below the back of the high school football stands that day. Only a few made it, and Andrew could describe their designs with precision. Then he said something very interesting. <br /><br />“Even some of the kids who get perfects on everything - theirs didn’t make it. Even Joey Chan’s eggs broke. So did Rahul’s.” (Rahul is his ‘best friend’ in school, or so I’ve heard.) <br /><br />He called his dad right away and gave a similar story with great detail. As for me, I was proud of both of them. Andrew’s assignment was to protect an egg from an approximately 40-foot drop of the stadium stands. They could only use one other item in the container besides the egg.<br /><br />On Saturday he started working on it. The truth is that he had wanted to work on it all week, but I wouldn’t let him do it until his other work was done – and it seemed that was about the time we had to go to some other activity.<br /><br />Besides trying to clean-up, prepare for Lego League (which I coach), and figure out a menu for the next week, I really didn’t have it in me to work on a science project. I normally like those kinds of things, and I’m pretty good at NOT doing it for them. But, it takes a lot of energy to NOT do it for them. I was in the mood to just be done with it. <br /><br />“Honey, do you want to take this one?” I pleaded to my husband in the next room. <br /><br />He was more than game, almost surprised that he had the honor to help. I moved out of the way, merely overhearing the progress. <br /><br />My husband walked into the kitchen, asked Andrew to make a list of possible choices of containers and cushioning, and then went back to watching the football game and folding laundry. Later, I heard Andrew defending his choices. <br /><br />“Why would that work? How are you going to do it? What do you need? Can you test it?” <br /><br />I was sent to the store for bubble wrap and Jello. I was asked for some scrap cotton. I heard my husband telling Andrew to go find a picture of a parachute on the internet and think about what is important about it. I watched as a tomato can came flying over the loft balcony with a cotton parachute attached. Again. And then again. <br /><br />It was bedtime on Sunday when the can, parachute attached, was ready to fill with Jello. Can #2 already had the bubble wrap carefully nested and the lid attached with a gorilla tape hinge. I stood in the family room ready for instruction. Andrew had to go to bed. I didn’t think the Jello would protect the egg anyway, so making it didn’t seem like I was helping him much. <br /><br />“So, do I use the regular recipe, or do you want it a Jello wiggler?” I asked with seriousness. <br /><br />“What’s a Jello wiggler?” my dear husband interrupted. <br /><br />I think I said something about viscosity, or maybe I just rolled my eyes to the back of my head. Anyway, Andrew knew exactly what I meant. <br /><br />“Jello wiggler. Any color. Please.” <br /><br />I admit that the survival of both eggs surprised me. He did it himself. Yes, he was required to defend his thesis, but we really didn’t think it would work. We just wanted him to think about it, to make it his own. His final comment to me was really the best. <br /><br />“Mom, I think I spent a lot more time making mine work than the other kids.” <br /><br />He said it with satisfaction. <br /><br />I didn’t need to answer. <br /><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-74408328190381102942011-08-15T18:34:00.000-07:002011-08-15T19:05:20.828-07:00Triple F - Forced Family Fun<div>
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<br /><div align="left"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dKTX2UOdDr8/TknJi3n3M6I/AAAAAAAACPw/lCjXcb80SWs/s1600/triple%2Bf.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641261609142137762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 270px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dKTX2UOdDr8/TknJi3n3M6I/AAAAAAAACPw/lCjXcb80SWs/s400/triple%2Bf.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><em><span style="font-size:85%;">This bumper sticker on the back of an RV put us in hysterics in the front seat of our truck. We had obviously already been on the road too long.
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<br /></span></em>Modern children seem not to realize how little control they actually have in their own worlds. Parents create the illusion. In some cases, the parents honestly give them the power. Having witnessed a few power struggles in my local Walmart, I am guessing parents do give their children too much power, at least now and then.
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<br />Okay, I do it too. Or, at least, I must. My kids occasionally mistake their own voices as being the source for decisions.
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<br />Sitting in an F-150 truck for a couple of thousand miles (5500 miles by the end) brings out these kinds of errors in thinking. I brought a lot of very fun activities for the kids to do with (and with some relief) without me.
<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641262673538876338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LidB7HnuvZI/TknKg0z0g7I/AAAAAAAACP4/gd90d3KCTmA/s400/IMG_1881.JPG" border="0" /> Andrew’s smart mouth quickly won him hundreds of miserable miles.
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<br />It started before we left. I had asked Andrew to do something for me. Honestly, the original assignment may have come from his father. Either way, we asked him to finish it before we left. We told him that if he didn’t finish it, he would have PLENTY of time in the car to put effort into it.
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<br />He didn’t put in much effort before we left.
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<br />Once we departed, the smart mouth began. The hole he dug became deeper and deeper. Fortunately, I had also brought good quality activities for him to do that he didn’t like very much. Parenting can be ugly business.
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<br />We also had fun. Jay made bets with Andrew on how fast he could finish parts of his assignment (not ALL of his miles were miserable - just hundreds of them!). Gladys taught George how to read and write (or so it seemed from the front seat). We ticked off the states and found ALL of the license plates, including the large Canadian provinces. </div>
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<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641262911510917506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2OwqTSaIIvw/TknKurUxsYI/AAAAAAAACQA/NecmLNFaVQk/s400/IMG_1883.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641263133552320642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b5llHsCcOz8/TknK7mfkoII/AAAAAAAACQI/28P-vF_THzg/s400/IMG_1894.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641263331407030722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uqEraZ_1xHA/TknLHHjz6cI/AAAAAAAACQQ/zDW6JcmWfHE/s400/IMG_1895.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641263638265895346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V4Iu1UEINjo/TknLY-sqmbI/AAAAAAAACQY/rb6ZOydZLvo/s400/IMG_1908.JPG" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">This is the "Gateway to the West" on I-80 near Fort Kearney, Nebraska. I missed the Nebraska sign. </span></em>
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<br />Our children travel remarkably well, especially once they realize they have no choice anyway. When traveling across northern Montana (later in the trip), we stopped for lunch around noon. Five hours later, Gladys mentioned that she was getting hungry.
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<br />“We just stopped,” Jay said with disbelief.
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<br />“We’ll find something soon,” I told Gladys, sure my husband was kidding.
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<br />He wasn’t. The kids had been so good and we had been having such a relaxing time enjoying the view and playing games, he seriously thought we had only just stopped.
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<br />Who has that much fun in the car?
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<br />Well after sunset, about 1200 miles into the trip, we found the best accommodations ever invented (in a “my glass is half-full” dollar-for-value kind of way).
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<br /><div align="left">Welcome to the 5-star Cenex Station in Western Nebraska.
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<br />They’ll leave the light on for you.
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-85914070285005677792011-08-14T19:18:00.000-07:002011-08-14T20:14:57.290-07:00Epic Journey 2011
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<br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ivEJP-Y2XFU/TkiC3ooPzhI/AAAAAAAACPM/rgUCXwCby2g/s1600/IMG_1874.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640902425592188434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ivEJP-Y2XFU/TkiC3ooPzhI/AAAAAAAACPM/rgUCXwCby2g/s400/IMG_1874.JPG" border="0" /></a> I like this picture because it is just as blurry as how I remember that first evening. We left around 5pm or so. Was it 5pm? It was raining. It wasn’t just a little, soft rain. It was the kind of rain that soaks you before you get in the car in your own driveway.
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<br />The kids and I were unusually ready for this trip. They have become helpful in a real way. They have always “helped” as little kids like to “help.” That kind of “help” makes mothers lose their mind. They are beginning to actually get the point. I realized this the morning we were leaving.
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<br />“Wear what you want to wear in the car,” I told them in my usual way. Gladys likes to dress appropriately. She asked me what she should wear today. She replied just as matter-of-factly as I spoke.
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<br />“Will I be wearing this <a href="http://mitmommy.blogspot.com//post-create.g?blogID=83051264720804256">for the next two or three days</a>?”
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<br />“Maybe,” I answered back.
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<br />“Okay, Mommy.” </div>
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<br /><div>They remember. They remember different details than we do. Will they remember that for 23 days their parents put away the cell phones? What will they remember?
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-29951442356654141012011-04-08T18:44:00.000-07:002011-04-08T20:35:23.440-07:00The Hit and Run PlaydateGeorge and I were alone this afternoon with no particular plan. "Mom, let's do something FUN!" He looked at me with excited eyes. I paused for a minute, not wanting to commit to anything outrageous. I thought maybe a trip to the library, or perhaps a museum, although I didn't really feel like driving downtown. We haven't taken many field trips this year. "Can I have a playdate!?" I was almost surprised that he knew the word "playdate." Perhaps he had heard the mothers discussing the concept in the halls of the preschool. George doesn't really have playdates. Andrew, when he was in 3's preschool, still belonged to two playgroups and had playdates in between. George plays with his siblings and his siblings friends. Overcome by guilt, I pulled the preschool list and took out my cell phone. "Who would you like to play with, Honey. I'll call their mommy. They might be busy, but we'll try, okay?" "Bobby, Mom, I want to play with Bobby." I called and left a message. "Bobby's not home. Anyone else?" "Aiden, Mom." I called and left another message. "How about Allison?" I asked hopefully, I liked talking to Allison's mom in the hallway. "I don't <em><strong>like</strong></em> girls. Try Tyler's Mom." I called and left another message, and then another. I think I called five mothers in total and left messages with all but one. No luck, but we could go on a field trip. George wanted to go downtown to the 'ball pit' at the Science Center. Fine. We put on shoes and coats and headed out the door. The phone rang. "Oh, Hi, yes, yes, I called just a few minutes ago. No big deal, just wondering if the boys could play together. George has been so excited to play with your son." We talked. She wanted us to come over to her place so she could put her littler one down for a nap. Yes, we could do that. Her little one screamed in the background. It was the normal, tired kind of fussing, but she probably only caught a third of what I actually said. She suggested that I leave George to play, so I could get a few things done. I suggested that it was 'too much,' and I'd like to get to know her, it is really fine. We proceeded politely, with background screaming, until it appeared that it might be helpful if I left George. She could take care of a few things while the boys played and her other one napped - I remember those days. Sometimes two happy toddlers are easier than one bored toddler. Yes, I would leave George, but I decided I wouldn't hurry and leave plenty of time for us moms to chat. These are new preschool friends. I would be overly polite and try hard to remember what it was like when my <em>oldest</em> was four. George and I already had coats on, so I just grabbed the same preschool list with the addresses and proceeded out the door. I had never been to her house. We arrived and were welcomed in. They were finishing lunch, which she hadn't mentioned on the phone. The boys started playing soon enough. We talked for a little while. And then, eventually, we chose a good time for me to return and I left. At home, I ran around like a crazy person. I was on the phone, on my e-mail, and folding laundry all at the same time. One of the other moms called while I was on the phone, but couldn't click over. I'd call her back. I returned to pick up George on time - maybe even early - and the boys had played together wonderfully. The mom was pleased and seemed to have had a relaxing time with her little one, although the nap obviously didn't happen. But, that is how things go sometimes, right? She was super-nice and I left feeling like I wish I hadn't waited until towards the end of the year to get to know her better. I was home in plenty of time for Victoria and Andrew to get off the bus. The afternoon went smoothly. Andrew had a great day at school. He received a good report card. We had cupcakes and talked about school. The kids played their piano lessons. We went to Tae Kwon Do. The rest of the evening would be a huge rush to make it to cub scouts. I had a brief moment to check that message from the other mom. "Hi, this is Caroline. Just calling to check in. I figured you had gotten lost at first, but so strange that you aren't here yet. Um. Just hope everything is okay." Oh, oh, oh, oh DEAR. I called her back. "Hi, Caroline, how are you?" "Fine, everything okay?" "Well, I am a crazy person, but I think this morning I found the most gracious woman in Ohio." <em></em><em></em><em>So, what is the correct protocol when you have invited yourself over to a new friend's house completely unannounced and left your child for a playdate? I mean, this does happen to other people in real life, right, not just on bad sit coms? </em><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-84783164510746486572011-01-14T20:36:00.000-08:002011-01-14T21:04:32.549-08:00The Scariest Thing Ever<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TTEkluAzZZI/AAAAAAAABhk/mZGD3-09tAo/s1600/cancerdrawing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562267245204432274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 303px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TTEkluAzZZI/AAAAAAAABhk/mZGD3-09tAo/s400/cancerdrawing.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Boys take control over the unknown, the frightening, by embodying their foes. By acting out scenes, and experimenting with thier fears, they learn how to conquer them. I read it somewhere, long ago, back when I was overwhelmed with one child.<br /><br />Andrew never did it really. But, I excused so many of my friends' boys for dressing up as Darth Vader. We all read the same article, way back when our first children were small. <br /><br />George is not my first child. So, why am I surprised? Always surprised. When I turn off my light at night, my heart cannot allow them to become one day older. No, not even one day. The next morning I am always suprised. <br /><br />Gladys ran through the kitchen, shrieking in mock fear, with George at her heels. <br /><br />"Gggggrrrrrrr!" <br /><br />"Eeeeeeek!" <br /><br />I laughed. They ran through again, then again. <br /><br />"I'm going to get you! I'm cancer!!" <br /><br />"You can't dooo that," Gladys protested, "Cancer is a disease. You can't <em>SEE</em> it." <br /><br />I looked at them both, then turned away, hoping my feelings didn't escape through my eyes.<br /><br />"What does cancer look like? Hmm. Interesting question . . . " I spoke into the air, in that lame, parental, not-knowing-what-to-say sort of way. He picked the scariest thing. He picked something that frightens adults. <br /><br />George drew a picture. <br /><br />This is cancer.<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-40926328066190931942011-01-05T10:17:00.001-08:002011-01-05T11:07:41.720-08:00Happy New Year!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TSS32OjinlI/AAAAAAAABgU/URp-UcWWH7o/s1600/Happy%2BNew%2BYear.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558769982330019410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TSS32OjinlI/AAAAAAAABgU/URp-UcWWH7o/s400/Happy%2BNew%2BYear.jpg" border="0" /></a> Our family has a tradition, every year, of making new year resolutions. It is not exactly an original idea, but you'll notice that <a href="http://mitmommy.blogspot.com/2010/01/happy-2010.html">our cake </a>is not entirely original either.<br /><br />I believe, when things become unoriginal, they are deemed "traditions." And, therefore, rather than begrudging my lack of creativity, I will also deem this a 'tradition.' I will also add that it makes quick work of all of those leftover candies from that gingerbread house we made before Christmas.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558777255801552562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TSS-dmWSfrI/AAAAAAAABgc/qtiZVpCws2I/s400/IMG_5465.JPG" border="0" /> So, for posterity, I will officially record our resolutions. <p>George - Run around a lot. (Must be working off all that <a href="http://mitmommy.blogspot.com/2010/01/happy-2010.html">cake he ate </a>last year). </p><p>Gladys - Eat lots of good foods and do more artwork. </p><p>Andrew - Have a "car free" day, when we run all our errands on bicycles, and do more artwork. </p><p>That, in itself, gives me plenty to do. I'll be cooking good food, coming up with art projects and riding my bike around town. But, this year I wanted to give myself a really good and concrete goal that my children could celebrate with me. </p><p>I could do a whole lot of different things, most of which would make little sense to my kids. I needed something simple, measurable, good for me, and easy for the kids to see. </p><p>I'm going to grab my feet. </p><p>So, hopefully, in this very spot next year, there will be a picture of me standing on one leg, grabbing my other foot above my head like a Russian ballerina. </p><p>And, if I'm lucky, it won't be followed by a picture of me falling and breaking my hip. </p><p>Happy 2011 ! </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-72713815124794000642010-11-10T20:41:00.000-08:002010-11-29T20:35:49.283-08:00Grandpa Pumpkin<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TPR-uxS1O4I/AAAAAAAABfI/t_khtdR_0NA/s1600/grandpa%2Bpumpkin.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545196383171328898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 285px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TPR-uxS1O4I/AAAAAAAABfI/t_khtdR_0NA/s400/grandpa%2Bpumpkin.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> When Andrew decorates his pumpkin,<br />Sometime in the Fall,<br />I have my own opinions, but don’t say a thing at all.<br /><br />I asked him for his theme –<br />I knew he’d have some scheme –<br />And really, I don’t mind at all<br />Lest he choose something obscene.<br /><br />“I’ve used those foamy stickers,<br />and once I made a clown.<br />But, this year I think I’ll choose instead,<br />To make my pumpkin Grandpa’s head.”<br /><br />This was not what I’d expect,<br />And knew he meant no disrespect.<br />I knew without inquiring<br />This is a child’s mere admiring.<br />And really, I don’t mind at all,<br />Though I think you’ll owe my Dad a call.<br /><br />He started with the eyes – all blue and brown and green.<br />“You know that Grampa’s eyes,” he said, “are the coolest ever seen.”<br />He put in a button nose and a big red, wide smile,<br />The kind that stretches ear to ear - nearly a full mile.<br />If he asked, I would have said, “That smile’s way too tall,”<br />Anyway, he’s just a kid, it won’t be Grandpa’s head at all.<br /><br />So quick and sudden I heard him shout.<br />“The ears must surely stick straight out!”<br />I’ll need some tape and scissors quick,<br />I need to make them really stick.”<br />He was having such a ball.<br />Grandpa wouldn’t mind at all.<br /><br />He left the pumpkin nearly bare,<br />Except a crown of straight black hair.<br />Grandpa’s likeness made with such care,<br />I found it hard to stop my stare.<br />But when Andrew ran off into the hall,<br />What came next, I couldn’t guess at all.<br /><div><div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545195819195306914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TPR-N8UeE6I/AAAAAAAABfA/4lbCwRrVvrU/s400/IMG_5303.JPG" border="0" /></div><div> </div><div><br />“Andrew, where are you? I think its done.<br />Why did you go off in a run?”<br /><br />“Mom, we can’t leave Grandpa just like that!<br />He can borrow my favorite hat.”<br /><br />Its Grandpa for sure – no other guy.<br />But when I look him in the eye.<br />This pumpkin will last, and I know why.<br />I can’t make Dad into pumpkin pie. </div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545195498539246450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TPR97RyG43I/AAAAAAAABe4/M_6U4nxSMfk/s400/hat.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-28521345598357949542010-09-30T10:21:00.000-07:002010-09-30T10:51:39.127-07:00The Engineers and their Red Coats<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TKTODEdUBcI/AAAAAAAABQA/_r4HjpczbEo/s1600/red+coats.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522765595194688962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 306px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TKTODEdUBcI/AAAAAAAABQA/_r4HjpczbEo/s400/red+coats.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>This poem was written on behalf of the Northeast Ohio MIT Club. Since you may not be an MIT alumnus reading this poem, please be aware that "Red Coats" are the folks who have celebrated the 50th anniversary of their graduation from MIT. Of course, MIT degrees are always spoken of by course number, thus the Civil Engineering being "one", and Mech E being "two". </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And, finally, I extend due apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I'm taking it for granted that Paul Revere was a Massachusetts native and wouldn't mind loaning his namesake poem out for the intended purposes. </em><br /><br /><br />Listen my friends and you shall hear,<br />Of the tireless drive of The Engineers.<br />William Barton Rodgers in 1861.<br />Would ne’er believe today what he had begun.<br />An Institute of Technology now 150 years.<br /><br />Industrial revolution to nanotechnology,<br />MIT graduates lead the way.<br />Through challenges of greater complexity,<br />Solutions of simplicity rule the day.<br />We take pride in our casual, confident, grace,<br />And may collaborate with those who dissent –<br />A straight path is rare to that hallowed place,<br />Where open minds create and invent.<br /><br />The numerical language we all understand,<br />Helps us communicate as we spread ‘cross the land.<br />Much like lights in a belfry or a secret shake of the hand.<br />One if a Civil, two if Mech E,<br />And the tireless engineers, relentless will be,<br />Ready to motivate and spread the intent,<br />The mission we’ve carried wherever we went,<br />To help the community – and our kids – to invent,<br />New thinking and learning – ethical fun,<br />The kind you can’t stop, once it’s begun.<br /><br />We thank the ‘Red Coats’, in a poem, if we must,<br />You have all led the way in your sphere.<br />The Club needs your talents, we ask for your trust,<br />As we move forward in our MIT Club year.<br />You have nurtured the Club through decades past,<br />And built a solid foundation designed to last.<br />We must leverage our strengths before the die is cast,<br />Leaving our nation behind the times.<br />We will grow and attract the very best minds.<br /><br />If the “Red Coats are Coming!” you happen to hear,<br />You needn’t shoulder your muskets and stand,<br />Ready to fight and defend once again this beloved American land.<br />Instead slow down, take a moment to pause, lend a careful and listening ear.<br />If we climb our foundation, re-inventing no wheels,<br />And learn to open our minds without fear,<br />Without hesitation, our next generation, on the shoulders of giants will stand.<br /><br />“The Red Coats are Coming!” I laugh with a smile,<br />Knowing together we’ll go that one extra mile.<br />Please stay in touch – that’s what we’re here for,<br />That, and to pursue just one idea more,<br />Because those tireless engineers are not old-fashioned lore.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-5932965758823809912010-08-24T18:03:00.000-07:002010-08-24T18:28:03.246-07:00Spontaneous Tradition<div><div><div><div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRuMrS42cI/AAAAAAAABM0/u34o66xpKb0/s1600/IMG_4093.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509149408240392642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRuMrS42cI/AAAAAAAABM0/u34o66xpKb0/s400/IMG_4093.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>We have this “spontaneous tradition,”<br />(To speak of it smacks of sedition)<br />We take some unplanned day,<br />Throw most rules away,<br />And out comes this year’s rendition.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509150478200476786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRvK9NQFHI/AAAAAAAABNE/So8OvDNqJUE/s400/bikeonbreaker.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><div>The first year we biked 15 miles,<br />That’s one lap around Kelley’s Isle.<br />We were relaxed this time,<br />A mile per granddad’s chime,<br />But we didn’t cut corners on smiles.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509151275230483170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRv5WYA0uI/AAAAAAAABNM/7eV6vT55jf8/s400/boysonrocks.jpg" border="0" /><br />Kids love climbing on those big rocks,<br />Down by those rough hewn old docks,<br />They found a very big snake<br />That wrangled back to the lake.<br />I prefer animals with legs that can walk!<br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509149699410809042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRudn_U0NI/AAAAAAAABM8/Og_b87OJ9ZQ/s400/girlsjumping.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509151834796355906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRwZ666cUI/AAAAAAAABNU/I8ri1E4iK1E/s400/dirtyboy.jpg" border="0" /><br />We stopped by for some great ice cream and –<br />Some time in the surf and the sand.<br />I had better not gloat,<br />But we always make that last boat,<br />Back home to Ohio’s main land. <div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509152257112747570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/THRwygK_LjI/AAAAAAAABNc/FF9V89ZjyaQ/s400/IMG_4172.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div></div></div><br /><p>And, of course, it is a good thing that I didn't have to <strong><em>drive</em></strong> across that water because those three ounces of gasoline would not have been enough to make it. </p><p>Phew. </p><p> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-63746270134188009872010-08-08T20:15:00.001-07:002010-08-08T20:43:38.977-07:00Bouncing Back<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TF9zOa9vxqI/AAAAAAAABMY/JqWUfHuguSs/s1600/bouncing+back1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503243961263703714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 322px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/TF9zOa9vxqI/AAAAAAAABMY/JqWUfHuguSs/s400/bouncing+back1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Gladys had not been feeling too keen,<br />after bouncing on her small trampoline.<br />But now we all give a sigh, she bounces 30 feet high.<br />Just please Lord take care of that spleen.<br /><br />Don't you wish that you knew what you know.<br />Back then - those "short" years ago.<br />Kids don't miss one beat, they jump back on both feet,<br />like watching Larry, Curly, and Moe!<br /><br />I seem to have gotten off track,<br />you'd think <strong><em>I</em></strong> had some stroke or attack.<br />When I can't help but be terse,<br />I find relief in some verse.<br />Perhaps it will help me bounce back.<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-71247885950140407482010-03-24T06:46:00.000-07:002010-03-24T07:22:32.340-07:00Deferred Pain (Now THATS a bellyache)<div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S6oaW3f7JoI/AAAAAAAABLM/kRTR2QwXyNk/s1600/IMG_7392.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452199279042700930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S6oaW3f7JoI/AAAAAAAABLM/kRTR2QwXyNk/s400/IMG_7392.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div>“It only takes a second.”<br /><br />“No home is ever completely safe.”<br /><br />Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. We all worry about it a little, but you can’t hover over your children. And, the truth is, it wouldn’t really matter. Some things are just going to happen anyway.<br /><br />“Mom, I jumped too high on the trampoline and now I have a belly ache.”<br /><br />Gladys came upstairs on Monday morning around 9am. She had been in the basement with a friend.<br /><br />“Okay, Sweetie. You okay now?”<br /><br />“My belly still aches.”<br /><br />“Let’s take a look. Yeah, I see a little reddish mark actually. Did you bump into the bar?”<br /><br />“Yeah. I jumped tooooo high.”<br /><br />“It looks okay, Honey,” I replied, kissing it, “Just lay down for a few minutes if its bothering you.”<br /><br />She went to rest on the couch, and I went to check on the other kids. They were fine. Gladys continued to hang out on the couch. A little while later, she was in the bathroom throwing up.<br /><br />“You okay, Honey? Let me get you some water. You really do have a belly ache, huh?”<br /><br />“Yeah, my belly still hurts a bit.”<br /><br />I called the mom of the other kids. Gladys must have a stomach bug, I thought. We were all sick – even my husband was upstairs in bed. I expected Andrew’s elementary school to call any moment, surely he would be sick as well. We turned on a video and spent the better part of the day on the couch, watching and reading. After noon, Gladys complained of intense pain in her shoulders and neck. I called the Cleveland Clinic, and mentioned the throwing up, the bellyache, and the strange pain in her neck. I may have said that she was on the trampoline earlier, I can’t remember now. Anyway, her belly didn’t hurt so much anymore. She had barely a fever and intense pain in her neck and shoulders. Gladys asked for juice, so I ran to the store (my husband was home) to buy her very favorite.<br /><br />Around 5:30pm, Gladys became very hungry. She wanted the spaghetti and meatballs I had planned. I assumed she was through the worst, considering the good appetite, and began cooking. As the meatballs simmered in the pan, Gladys screamed.<br /><br />She screamed. She thrashed. She gyrated herself off the couch.<br /><br />My husband and I ran to her like the house was on fire. I had scooped her off the floor, but handed her off when he came running into the room. She wanted more ice for her shoulders – RIGHT NOW. I scrambled for ice as I dialed the Cleveland Clinic.<br /><br />“Is that her in the background?”<br /><br />“Yes. She has intense pain in her shoulders and neck. She isn’t a dramatic child. She is clearly in a lot of pain.”<br /><br />“I see. Does she have a fever? Vomiting?”<br /><br />They asked all the questions and I answered them. Gladys had calmed down, but she needed me to carry her to the bathroom. I carried her out to the van and we drove to the ER.<br /><br />I carried her into the hospital, but by the time we were taken to our little room, she seemed cheerful again. We used the restroom, twice. She kept climbing up and down off the bed, investigating all the handles and buttons and St. Patrick’s Day decorations. She enjoyed the Popsicle, Gatorade, and goldfish: no fever, no serious complaints.<br />But, she told them the same story.<br /><br />“I jumped toooo high on my trampoline and got a bellyache.”<br /><br />Her urine had a high sugar count. Her blood showed elevated sugar and high white blood cell count. They couldn’t find anything wrong. Finally, they considered appendicitis. The doctor tapped on her back: nothing. She put her chin to her knees: fine. She raised her legs: no problem. Finally the doctor asked her to get off the bed and jump as high as she could.<br /><br />She claimed it didn’t hurt so badly, but the look on her face won her a CAT scan.<br /><br />By 2am, we were in an ambulance on our way to Metro Health Trauma with a Level 3 ruptured spleen. That is NOT a bellyache. That is internal bleeding. Even the sack around the spleen was broken. She had been bleeding into her abdomen all day. The pain in her neck and shoulders was “deferred pain” caused by her bleeding spleen.<br /><br />Holy Cow.<br /><br />Our entrance into Metro Health reminded me of those scenes on T.V. The doors opened automatically and the well-rehearsed transport team wheeled her swiftly into a very brightly-lit room filled with doctors who sprang into action.<br /><br />They were soooo nice. They knew her story. They asked all the expected questions. They also asked if she had siblings and how she hurt her belly. They answered her questions about the ‘rainbow colored drawers.’ I held her hand, and for the very first time she shed a few quick tears.<br /><br />By 4:30am we were settled into the Pediatric Intensive Care. They monitored everything. They answered my various “and then what would happen” questions that mothers are likely to ask. I fell asleep on the pull-out couch in disbelief.<br /><br />The next few days were all about recovery. You could tell she was in pain, but she didn’t complain much. The nurses told me that the typical spleen ruptures were high school football players, who usually screamed in pain every hour and a half or so. Gladys required medication about every six hours. I was impressed, yes, but tried to convince her to ask for more pain medication. I could tell by her heart rate she could not be comfortable.<br /><br />And, that is exactly how I could tell when she finally turned a corner too. One afternoon, we were both asleep when her heart monitor alarm rang. I assumed she had rolled over onto a cord, as she had before, but when I looked at the monitor I could see her heart rate steadily decreasing. Where it had been in the 130s/140s, I saw it decrease from 90 . . . 89 . . . 88 . . . 87.<br /><br />I sprang off the couch.<br /><br />“Gladys? Gladys, Honey? You okay?” I tried to sound real calm and sweet.<br /><br />She rolled over and looked at me. “Yeah, Mommy.”<br /><br />87 . . . 93 . . .95 . . . 94 . . .94 . . . 94 . . . 94<br /><br />“Okay, Sweetie, get some rest.”<br /><br />Her ‘deferred pain’ had finally subsided.<br /><br />Now the only ‘deferred pain’ is mine – every time I see her jump. </div><div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S6oZ-42XGJI/AAAAAAAABLE/ZzSmV1IM1q4/s1600/helenandmini3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452198867088382098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S6oZ-42XGJI/AAAAAAAABLE/ZzSmV1IM1q4/s400/helenandmini3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em>As for the trampoline, we left it on the curb. No one asked why. </em><br /></div><div><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452205277849878514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S6of0CzAf_I/AAAAAAAABLs/9IIIZNlp5Q0/s400/trampoline.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-55564978998583188532010-02-24T06:59:00.000-08:002010-02-24T07:29:35.563-08:00There once was a girl who got older.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S4VBqrDETBI/AAAAAAAABAU/PCVDIidOjZI/s1600-h/tnl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441827926113012754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S4VBqrDETBI/AAAAAAAABAU/PCVDIidOjZI/s400/tnl.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There once was a girl who got older,<br />(She certainly couldn't get bolder.)<br />You might think all your shine,<br />Fades past twenty-nine,<br />Not true - but you couldn't have told her.<br /><div><br />There once was a girl with a great shoe passion,<br />She says “Goodwill” wouldn’t accept my foot fashion.<br />No, I didn’t invite my sister,<br />But s’pose I would’ve missed her.<br />She fixed that with some party crashin’.<br /><br />“Are we There Yet?” led this conspir’cy,<br />Watch out – she’s clever, gorgeous and (ha!) shifty,<br />I send thanks my dear Friend,<br />We must do this (in Vegas?) again,<br />No rest ‘til we’re flirty and fifty! </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><br /><div>There once was a girl wanting no fuss. </div><div>Traded her red sports car for a nice micro bus.</div><div>But - Oh my! What do ya know - a ! </div><div>She dances fine with a pink feather boa! </div><div>Society will never forgive us.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441826936500590018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 278px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S4VAxEdFFcI/AAAAAAAABAM/D7byhjfezeQ/s400/nadineandgina1.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p><em>Thanks for the boa <a href="http://imnottalkingaboutitimjustsaying.blogspot.com/2010/02/no-help.html">Indy </a>- watch out when you finally turn 40!!!</em></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-89109976181247895862010-02-10T06:33:00.000-08:002010-02-10T07:24:48.184-08:00Mommy has Milestones too - a look back in timeWith my birthday fast approaching, I probably ought to wax poetic. The truth is, it just isn't working. How important is a birthday anyway? Do you remember yours? Let's see . . .<br /><br />For my childhood years, we always had simple at-home parties. My parents would take me out for crab, which was my favorite food. Often, we would lump my brother and my birthday together and go somewhere especially awesome for dinner (like a dinner theatre, for example).<br /><br />At 15 years old, I had a bunch of my girlfriends over for my party. My brother had a few of his friends over too. (Were my parents crazy? He is three years older than I am). Anyway, being the dangerous type of high school freshman girls, we challenged them to Trivial Pursuit. Yeah, the girls won. Girls rule. Boys drool. <br /><br />At 16 years old, I was completely snowed in by myself - parents made it to work, but school was out for the day. My high school BFF (who just sent me a card - smile) arranged for a clown to show up at my door. The clown was wearing a heavy overcoat on top of her costume and the helium baloons drooped down to her waist in the cold air. I spent the day writing a paper for school. (My BFF was the lynchpin for the Entertainment category in Trivial Pursuit, by the way).<br /><br />At 18 years old, I recall standing on the sidewalk in Georgetown (suburb of D.C.) in the snow eating ice cream. Why was <em>that</em> a good idea? <br /><br />At 19 years old, there was a blackout in Cambridge. Some seniors rewired their stereo through the emergency exit and we had cake and the party by flashlight. When the lights remained off, we decided to all go over to Boston together. MIT disappeared as we walked across the Harvard bridge (which was a pretty amazing gift to this not-so-brilliant freshman chickie). <br /><br />At 20 years old, I was in the hospital recovering after having a very prolonged high fever. My hospital roommate had been admitted for depression. My dad and sister showed up, washed me like a car wash and asked one my friends to invite more friends to come to the hospital room. They brought in a cake and take-out Chinese food, and made the room feel as crowded as a Tokyo subway. My depressed roommate had such a good time, she was released the next day having been cured of her sadness. <br /><br />At 21 years old, I was taken "bowling" in Harvard Square. Enough said. <br /><br />At 22 years old, I went out to dinner in Boston and Julia Child sat a few tables away. <br /><br />At 23 years old, I moved to Japan a few days before my birthday with three empty holes in my mouth where my wisdom teeth had been the day before I left the U.S. Undaunted, I walked around my new office asking strangers to go to dinner with my on my birthday. Not surprisingly, I ended up with a very rowdy group of young Australian men who revelled in the strange request - and knew the underbelly of Hiroshima far too well. I must have paid that cab driver who took me home. I probably paid him 10,000 yen, who knows? <br /><br />At 25 years old, Setsumi threw a huge party for me in Hiroshima. She rented out a whole bar, arranged for food, and invited 50+ of the people who in two short years had become family. THAT was a fabulous birthday. <br /><br />At 26 years old, two days before my boyfriend became my fiance, I told him I wanted to go ice skating on my birthday. We went to the ice rink in Hiroshima, where I met a woman from the Hiroshima Collectors ice hockey team who convinced me to join their league. What a blast. <br /><br />At 30 years old, I was interrupted from studing for a finance exam for my MBA to attend a surprise lunch held for me by the wives and girlfriends of my husband's friends. I didn't have much time to make friends those years in Michigan. <br /><br />For most of my thirties, I have made my own cake which my children decorate. I'm guessing that after awhile it will look less like a pile of frosting, M&Ms, and sprinkles and more like a cake. Or, maybe they'll make it like that even when they are in their 20's because they know I can see the love in it. I also made it a point to sneak away with girlfriends after the children were tucked in, and my hubby and I have gone out as well (all fabulous). <br /><br />At 39 years old, my girlfriend gave me <a href="http://mitmommy.blogspot.com/2009/02/my-game-night-birthday-party.html">my birthday party. </a> <br /><br />At 40 years old, well, I'll make the most of this one too. <br /><br />I am told it’s my 40th year,<br />And perhaps there is something to fear,<br />But I haven’t the time,<br />To waste on the sublime,<br />Instead join me for some birthday cheer.<br /><br />For entertainment, I’ll give you this clue,<br />A great band will be playing for you.<br />We’ll dance and we’ll twist,<br />You get the gist,<br />With luck our husbands will join us too.<br /><br />Please leave your gifts at the store,<br />I am too old to accept any more.<br />I drank your bottle of wine<br />When I turned thirty-nine,<br />This time please just walk through the door.<br /><br />This is the big 4 – 0h, <br />You have no choice but to get up and go.<br />Without you, my dear friend,<br />I might not dance to the end,<br />And pretend that it just ain’t so.<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-76215703333110177712010-02-05T07:15:00.000-08:002010-02-05T08:03:24.503-08:00Gladys' 5th Birthday<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w5Pxak4vI/AAAAAAAAA_I/FnbRvFN7TdY/s1600-h/candlesandkewpie1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434781793454973682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w5Pxak4vI/AAAAAAAAA_I/FnbRvFN7TdY/s400/candlesandkewpie1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p><em><span style="font-size:85%;">In this picture, Gladys is hugging a naked Kewpie doll that was given to me by Kawa-san's mother. The pictures of her after she was asked to put down the naked doll and look at the camera didn't capture her raw joy in quite the same way - although, they are much better pictures in the usual sense. </span></em></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span> </p><p>I let Gladys plan her own birthday. She just turned five. It is a very big deal.<br /></p><br /><br />"Do you remember what you told <strong><em>me</em></strong> when I turned five, Mom?" Andrew asked when we talking about it and making paper snowflake decorations - we had weeks of preparation.<br /><br /><br /><br />"No, Andrew, what did I tell you?"<br /><br /><br /><br />"I can't believe you are a whole hand!" I laughed.<br /><br /><br /><br />I do remember telling him that now. And, frankly, I still can't believe it.<br /><br /><br /><br />Gladys wanted a "sledding birthday." I had never heard of anyone doing that before, although I suspect it isn't that terribly original - perhaps just a little old fashioned. She also wanted to play 'pin the carrot nose on the snowman.' She explained that she played a similar game with a jack-o-lantern at Halloween and it was <em>sooo</em> fun.<br /><br /><br /><br />I wish I could take credit for the idea, but I would have never suggested it. The kids, however, loved it. I had trouble bribing them off the hill with hot chocolate. Even Gladys took three or four "last runs."<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w3zoPRLnI/AAAAAAAAA_A/NM-0JX6i5S4/s1600-h/IMG_1350.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434780210443660914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w3zoPRLnI/AAAAAAAAA_A/NM-0JX6i5S4/s400/IMG_1350.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />"After sledding," Gladys explained. "We <strong><em>have</em></strong> to have hot chocolate."<br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>"You mean, hot chocolate with whipped cream, marshmallows and sprinkles?" I offered. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She grinned. Apparently she was pleased that her mother wasn't entirely daft.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w24p1ISpI/AAAAAAAAA-w/Pa3n4MzB-BY/s1600-h/hotchocolate1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434779197258615442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w24p1ISpI/AAAAAAAAA-w/Pa3n4MzB-BY/s400/hotchocolate1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I thought when I took this picture, that George was checking to see how many marshmallows his friend had in her cup. I found out a second later that she was actually spoon feeding him her hot chocolate - in trade for <em>his</em> marshmallows. They both seemed happy with the deal.<br /><br />Gladys also required that the cake have a sledding hill on top of it with kids sledding. At Andrews birthday, he had a camping party and a campsite on his cake, so I am assuming that this is analogous in her mind. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w2jMyXptI/AAAAAAAAA-o/IN2HqWsM9DE/s1600-h/caketop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434778828685158098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w2jMyXptI/AAAAAAAAA-o/IN2HqWsM9DE/s400/caketop.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div>Yes, I hand piped frosting onto squares of Hershey's chocolate and used different colors of pearl dust to make their shiny snowsuits. Their 'boots' are large sprinkle sugar, heads are M&Ms and hats have a sprinkle for a ball on top. The kids each had their own sledder on their piece. It wasn't hard - and I didn't buy anything new, just used what was in my cabinet. </div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434785216849065746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w8XCjVNxI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/uLVORPnEev0/s400/IMG_1315.JPG" border="0" /><br />Of course, I keep an unusually well-stocked cabinet. I never really know for sure what might come out of it. It really depends on the kids. My favorite part of this picture is my MIL sitting calmly at the table amidst my carnival of activity. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434779601281945682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S2w3QK7zEFI/AAAAAAAAA-4/OkLl-PQkUXQ/s400/pushthesled1.jpg" border="0" /> </div><div>Oh, yeah, and the parents had a good time too. (big, cheesy grin)<br /><br />Happy Birthday, Sweet Gladys! </div><div>I hope you are always as fearless and creative as you are at five. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-33160113208815779852010-01-18T21:04:00.000-08:002010-01-18T21:45:31.481-08:00A Day Off of School<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1VGvbTBXzI/AAAAAAAAA8o/RspAjvTHi2M/s1600-h/pastadough.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428322706460335922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1VGvbTBXzI/AAAAAAAAA8o/RspAjvTHi2M/s400/pastadough.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> On Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I thought I would spend a relaxing day with the kids. I always have this idea in my mind that we will play a few games. I might even sit on the couch for a few minutes. Maybe we'll read books.<br /><div></div><br /><div>I have these ideas. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When the kids and I finished breakfast this morning, I gave them a number of options. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Let's finish our volcano!" I declared. "All we really need to do is have it erupt." The truth is that it has been in our basement for a long time, ready to erupt any minute. It took us hours over multiple days to do the paper mache and paint it. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>They shrugged their shoulders. We played with baking soda and vinegar a few weeks ago. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Do you want to play a game? We could play Blokus," I hoped they wouldn't say Monopoly. It takes incredible patience for me to wait for them to calculate their own transactions, and I always lose (yeah, never won Monopoly with the kids, what is up with that?)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Nah." </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I sighed. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"We could make ice cream," I offered. We have a quart of cream that expires next week.<br /><br />"I have a better idea! Let's make spinach tortellini!!" Andrew cheered. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Yaaayy!!" Gladys agreed. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>sigh. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The real insanity about "<a href="http://mitmommy.blogspot.com/2009/04/pasta-for-insane.html">pasta for the insane</a>" is that it never goes away. And, what is worse, it is the only way my children will eat spinach. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It is the old Mom-if-you-let-us-put-flour-on-your-floor-and-play-with-raw-egg-dough-make-you-fold-tortellini-for-an-hour we'll eat spinach!! </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Oh, alright, at least it smells better than Playdough."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>Of course, after making tortellini, we went on to make even more paper snowflakes, play with Playdough, paint with watercolors, work on a book report, and fry chicken. I shouldn't have opened my mouth about the Playdough. What was I thinking? </em></div><div> </div><div><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428313609167169202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1U-d5PT5rI/AAAAAAAAA8g/qSZxjyOwVU4/s400/pasta1.jpg" border="0" /></em></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-42555115780892716092010-01-15T07:01:00.001-08:002010-01-18T20:37:22.612-08:00Awesome Eyeballs<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426983568084613778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 394px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1CEzUGQupI/AAAAAAAAA6w/QD9c0cIhnFA/s400/eyeballs.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><div><div><div>I’m not sure I’m smarter than a second grader.<br /><br />When I visited MIT back in September, I spoke with <a href="http://meche.mit.edu/people/faculty/index.html?id=26">Professor Woodie Flowers </a>after his presentation on <a href="http://www.usfirst.org/roboticsprograms/jfll/default.aspx?id=818">FIRST Robotics & Lego League </a>(Lego League is the ‘little league' for the Robotics challenge). After his very inspiring introduction to the program, I went up to say ‘hello,’ express my general admiration (he is a demi-god of mechanical engineering after all), and ask some questions.<br /><br />In his friendly sort-of-way, he threw down the gauntlet. I had made the mistake of thanking him for something. I should know better. No, he didn’t say ‘you’re welcome.’ He smiled broadly.<br /><br />“You owe me, then. Start a team.”<br /><br />Oops. I should know better.<br /><br />I was thinking about it when I ran into an old friend outside of the 10-250 lecture hall. A short conversation made it clear his kids were only slightly older than mine, and he was starting a Lego League team this year. The third member of our conversation gushed about her experience.<br /><br />“It was so incredible. You’ll never, ever regret it,” she went on emphatically. “My kids love it. I really have no choice now that I’ve started it.”<br /></div><div>Within a week of returning to Ohio, my team was fully registered, Legos were on the way, the calendar established, and my fate was sealed.<br /><br />I didn’t think it would be <strong><em>that</em></strong> inspiring, but it would be fun. I would take it for what it was and see where it went. I was sure she was exaggerating.<br /><br />Except for one thing, I was wrong. It was <strong><em>that</em></strong> inspiring. It was just as awesome as she had described, except the parts that were even better.<br /><br /><strong>The kids were amazing.</strong><br /><br />Oh, yes, they were jumpy and noisy and a little wild on Friday afternoons, but you’ve never seen kids more excited about learning. I was very prepared for the sessions, of course, but I was never prepared for where the kids would take the sessions.<br /><br />Have you ever brainstormed with second graders??<br /><br />I can assure you, I had nothing to do with the name “Awesome Eyeballs.” In fact, if I had taken the time to look, I imagine the mothers were rolling their eyeballs behind the kids. We shrugged our shoulders and all gave three cheers for the “Awesome Eyeballs.”<br /><br /><strong>I also had nothing to do with the subject we studied.<br /></strong><br />The task was to decide on an object and learn about how that object moved from wherever it was made or grown to where the kids were now. I started by drawing a value chain of a pretzel on freezer paper across my dining room wall.<br /><br />Did you know that kids understand value chain analysis? They understood it. They added to it. They thought about it. And, while I was busy scribbling all the kids’ thoughts across my wall, someone ate my pretzel (and the rest giggled uncontrollably).<br /><br />So, we brainstormed ideas for things to analyze. One of the kids suggested electricity, and there was no going back. A mother gave me a look of mild horror. Electricity?? But, it was electricity: too late.<br /><br />And so I spent a little time contemplating how to explain electricity, “electrons in motion” to second graders. They wanted to know all the details so badly. I wasn’t going to get off easily with this crowd.<br /><br />We started from the beginning. I gave them magnets and safety pins to feel how magnets pull on the electrons in metal. We talked about how magnets pull electrons in wires to start them in motion. I made up a game in which the kids were the wire and they passed Duplo block “electrons,” but only one at a time, and the electrons could not pass and had to stop if one stopped and their circuit was broken.<br /><br /><strong>They understood everything immediately.<br /></strong><br />They asked smart questions and made even smarter observations. We easily brainstormed the electron value chain on a new piece of freezer paper, and each child went home to investigate his or her own piece of that chain on the internet.<br /><br />At the next meeting, they each presented their newfound knowledge to the rest of the team. You could tell they were proud. You could tell they understood it. They brought in pictures and hand-written notes. One of the mothers brought in a circuit with a battery and a lightbulb. Another mother confessed to finding electro-magnetism interesting.<br /><br /><strong>Oh, yes, and we used Legos too.</strong><br /></div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426987940192862418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1CIxzeGQNI/AAAAAAAAA64/bg8-6KxznPw/s400/IMG_9538.JPG" border="0" /><br />At one of the early and boisterous sessions, I asked them to build the strongest tower they could out of Legos. Except, of course, they only had ten minutes and they were absolutely not allowed to say a single word or make a noise.<br /><br />For ten beautiful minutes, I heard nothing but the sound of clinking Legos. I’ve never seen second graders so focused and quiet.<br /><br />They used Legos at every session, but towards the end we focused on building our electrical grid – wind mill, substation, high-tension power lines, etc. The creativity was astonishing. They worked in teams of two or three on each piece.<br /><br />As time went on, the parents came up with more and more eyeball themed items. I had always planned on making them t-shirts for the expo, but as time drew near I felt increasingly compelled to make it a truly “awesome” eyeball. They deserved it.<br /><br />They needed a shirt that would match their pride. The logo designed itself. I just happened to be holding the pencil. </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427545988779443810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 324px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1KEUgdLhmI/AAAAAAAAA74/6BnaJEo3hqU/s400/eyeballlogo.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426992591607123970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 369px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1CNAjVrUAI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/h0O-Znr29Xk/s400/eyeballglasses1.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br />The day of the Expo, they all arrived promptly wearing their t-shirts and eyeball glasses. They were prepared to explain their work. They took turns speaking. They answered the judge’s questions and provided additional information. They were truly an awesome team.<br /><br />On the way into the auditorium to receive their trophy, they started high-five-ing the other teams as they passed.<br /><br /><strong>My cheeks turned pink with pride.</strong><br /><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426989852945769890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S1CKhJB7ZaI/AAAAAAAAA7I/3CjWXaNn0mA/s400/IMG_9592.JPG" border="0" /><br />Now I’m one of “them.” I’m committed, and gushing, and the children will require me to coach them again. Two of them even sent me 'thank you' notes, with hand-drawn pictures. I have "no choice." My fate is sealed.<br /><br />All of the sudden, I want to thank Woodie Flowers all over again.<br /><br />Maybe I will. I just don’t learn my lessons as well as those second graders.<br /><div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-44026366436780642882010-01-05T18:47:00.000-08:002010-01-05T19:18:57.798-08:00Japan #2 Almost Famous<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S0P8oEYyZwI/AAAAAAAAA5k/kxcj0bW7IRA/s1600-h/ryowithmom.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423456141586884354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S0P8oEYyZwI/AAAAAAAAA5k/kxcj0bW7IRA/s400/ryowithmom.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />On our way out of security in San Francisco, I paused by the baggage conveyor to zip up my boots. I looked up to see a familiar face. Have you ever seen someone so out of context that you couldn’t discern why his face was familiar? Since we made eye contact, standing face to face across the conveyor belt, I instinctively said ‘hello.’ He returned the greeting and we both moved on. A minute later, I realized that he was the Reverend Jesse Jackson. <br /><br />“Mom, that was Jesse Jackson,” I said a minute later. <br /><br />“What?” she asked.<br /><br />“Never mind. That was Jesse Jackson. I’m sure of it,” I said again. The man next to me agreed. <br /><br />“Oh.” <br /><br />We shrugged our shoulders and sought out breakfast. I had honestly forgotten about it until I wrote this episode. <br /><br />Our first stop in Japan was with Kawa-san and his family. I knew I would be welcome in his home. I have known him for 20 years and remember when his college-aged son was carried on his mother’s back. Kawa-san’s children are as wonderful now as they were the day that I met them. His oldest is a handsome father, with a beautiful wife. His daughter has outgrown cute and has become a lovely and confident young woman. And his youngest son is now a chemistry student and rock star. Okay, a budding “rock star,” but if you knew him, you would know what I mean. <br /><br />I realized I felt at home when I returned to Kawa-san’s home at the end of our trip and went straight to the sink to “freshen up” before giving proper regards. I apologized, of course, but the transgression was taken for what it was. <br /><br />I forgot to be nervous. I was home. <br /><br />On the way out of Kyoto (our first time), Kawa-san’s youngest son was pressed into service. The young man had been convinced to carry our baggage as far as Osaka, at which point he was free to continue to his university in Hyogo prefecture. He is a polite young man and appeared to have no hesitation in fulfilling his duty. Of course, my mother and I suspected that at his age he probably had better things to do. We would arrive at Osaka before noon. <br /><br />My mother is especially clever. <br /><br />On our train ride to Osaka, we spoke English to Ryo-chan. I would have translated if he needed, but he didn’t require my help. I was twenty years old when I met him (he was just a baby) and we were busy convincing him to come to America, because, after all, he was already twenty. My mother asked him some key questions. <br /><br />“Have you ever tried American food? Have you ever had a hamburger?” she asked. <br /><br />“No, no,” he replied, “never tried hamburger.” <br /><br />“You must come to America and try a hamburger,” my mother explained. <br /><br />There was a pause. My mother leaned to me and asked me. <br /><br />“Do you remember when we were in Osaka in 1994? You and your father required that we eat at the Hard Rock Café Osaka. Do you remember that?” <br /><br />“I wouldn’t have remembered if you hadn’t mentioned it.” <br /><br />“Well, I remember it because I came all the way to Japan and there I was with you, who had been living here for six months and your father who had been living in India for over a year and you both wanted a hamburger. I come all the way to Japan and I have to eat a hamburger!” <br /><br />“Sorry,” I replied (and probably rolled my eyes too). <br /><br />“We are taking Ryo-chan to Hard Rock Café. He is a rock star and has never had American food. It is perfect!” my mother exclaimed. <br /><br />We briefly explained the plan to our Japanese friend and he began researching it on his Internet phone. He studied his phone carefully. After awhile, I couldn’t help but ask. <br /><br />“So, do you think we can get there, Ryo-chan?”<br /><br />“Oh, yes, we can get there,” he replied with great certainty. “We can get there. No problem.” <br /><br />“Great. Then you know where it is.” <br /><br />“No, I have no idea.” <br /><br />He didn’t have any idea. He had never heard of it. But, he could tell by the description that it was an American oasis. It would be very cool. He found it. My mother fed him like any mother would feed a starving child. It is the international language of love. She fed him like she knew Kawa-san had taken care of me so many years ago. <br /><br />I think it was after 3:30pm when we finally left lunch. <br /><br />Those are the lunches that count.<br /><br />And, those are the people that count. Of course, we managed to spend several days in Kyoto and never see anything famous. Well, except a budding rock star, and what is better than that? <br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S0P8VeiX5PI/AAAAAAAAA5c/TPqYwMlUsbk/s1600-h/hardrock.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423455822188897522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S0P8VeiX5PI/AAAAAAAAA5c/TPqYwMlUsbk/s400/hardrock.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em>Mom with 'famous rock star' from Rad Bandary. <br /></em><div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-26479282969367780322010-01-02T18:24:00.000-08:002010-01-02T22:07:55.341-08:00Happy 2010 !<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S0AAaRho1AI/AAAAAAAAA2k/utykejX35ls/s1600-h/IMG_1121.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422334402735166466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/S0AAaRho1AI/AAAAAAAAA2k/utykejX35ls/s400/IMG_1121.JPG" border="0" /></a> This is our annual New Years' cake. The children make it on Dec 31st, and then enjoy eating 'year old' cake the next day. We also listen to everyone's New Years' resolutions. <br /><br />Andrew will bike the entire length of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park trail. <br /><br />Gladys will eat foods from all different countries. <br /><br />George will eat cake. <br /><br />I will cheerfully haul three children (many times) to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park trail, make foods from different countries and, of course, eat more cake. (George is such a sweet boy). <br /><br />Yes, I have other resolutions as well. Since my glass seems is neither half full nor half empty, but rather 'overfloweth,' I think I will focus on doing less. <br /><br />In fact, I think I'll start right now. <br /><br />Excuse me as I go giggle myself to sleep.<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-80562707402402771942010-01-01T22:32:00.000-08:002010-01-01T22:55:20.139-08:00MIT Mommy, this is your lifeThis was my life – as it re-appeared in 2009.<br /><br /><strong>I found my best friend from high school.<br /></strong><br />I suppose with Facebook this is not a huge shock to anyone besides me. I found her on Facebook. There she was. I hadn’t really spoken with her since 1993. I feel like we are friends as if the past 17 years were merely a week spent in Florida.<br />Did you ever see that show?? That was 2009 for me. My past came up and grabbed me by the neck.<br /><br />Thankfully, I have had a rather nice life so far. It turned out to be a rather shocking bear hug.<br /><br /><br /><strong>I remembered that feeling of giddy love</strong>.<br /><br />Do you remember that feeling of falling in love? Can you put yourself back there? The truth is that I can’t really shoehorn myself into the jeans I wore then. But, somehow, driving down the same road, and breaking a Ford truck, brought me back. Yes. It was very nice, and now I am back in Ohio reminding myself that the best smoke comes from long-burning coals. (smile)<br /><br /><strong>I said ‘goodbye’ to my host father (and enjoyed the laughter of my host mother) </strong><br /><br /><div><div><strong></div><div><div><div></strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422027586008115762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sz7pXMJh6jI/AAAAAAAAA1U/tl3s213ZBHY/s400/IMG_0314.JPG" border="0" /><br />When I was 17 years old, I spent 12 weeks in Japan with a host family in Kobe. As I explained to my children, I went back in the day when we didn’t have things like email. I spoke to my parents once all summer. We sent letters. Do you remember letters? My host family didn’t speak English particularly. Those were incredible days, and even more rewarding now that I can know my host mother as an adult. Since my host father passed away last September, I could only visit his grave. There is something poetic about pouring water over someone’s grave in a drowning rainstorm.<br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422027971627119938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sz7ptosQ9UI/AAAAAAAAA1c/JoXYM0KuzV8/s400/IMG_0397.JPG" border="0" /><br />It needed to be done and it felt good.<br /><br /><strong>I visited the most beautiful view in the world with my host aunt and uncle.</strong> </div><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422029257626446226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sz7q4faZaZI/AAAAAAAAA1s/7ZJboN8yip0/s400/IMG_0566.JPG" border="0" /><br />Yeah, she was the beautiful one in the pink kimono at my wedding. She is the woman who mentioned to me in my kitchen in Hiroshima that I should stay in Japan to have my children, where it is safe and she could help me. The sea in front of her home bore the first fish that I ever ate raw. I remember playing a counting game with my ‘cousins’ at her home because my Japanese was poor, but at least I could count. That was part of my summer in 1987.<br /><br /><strong>I returned to ‘home base’ in Kyoto.</strong></div><strong><br /><div><br /></div></strong><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422030207596318466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sz7rvyU3TwI/AAAAAAAAA10/Q6Y5rF2Blq4/s400/IMG_0782.JPG" border="0" /><br />When I was in college, I spent a summer in Kyoto. From my small apartment each morning, I would lace on my Nike’s and explore the city. My boss’ family, Kawa-san’s family, became my second host family in Japan. They welcomed me as if I had never left. I strolled in with such comfort I nearly forgot my manners.<br /><br /><strong>I visited my work friends in Hiroshima.</strong> </div><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422030808588407826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sz7sSxMi1BI/AAAAAAAAA18/UTr9mX_yuZk/s400/IMG_0657.JPG" border="0" /><br />I should really say that they visited me. The young woman who picked me up at the ANA Hotel Hiroshima in February 1994 now has a child the same age as Gladys. We have kept in touch a little and she arranged a dinner for me at a restaurant in Hiroshima. I thought that maybe one or two old friends might appear – there were 9 of us. In 1995, the director of our technical center died of cancer. We all remember him well. Everyone in the room had worked with him. Unexpectedly, the son of our former director appeared at the restaurant and joined us.<br /><br /><strong>I rediscovered the world’s biggest smile at the world’s most beautiful shrine.</strong><br /><br />In Hiroshima, I also worked with clients. Two of them (and their families) greeted me like a lost friend. The one family and my husband and I used to go camping together in Japan. We would tent came by the sea and then enjoy the local hot springs and spas. </div><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422031525510604498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sz7s8f8HZtI/AAAAAAAAA2E/GxgNzN8qbGU/s400/IMG_0701.JPG" border="0" /><br />My other client and I worked together for a number of years. I recall one particular trip when he and I traveled back to America together on business in November. Since I did not have family in Michigan as most ex-pats did, we stayed in the same hotel and socialized after work. One evening, he joined me for dinner and complained that his children were nagging him about what he would bring them from America.<br /><br />“Oh, that is easy,” I laughed, “tell them that you are a busy man and you haven’t the time for such things on this trip.”<br /><br />He raised an eyebrow, and then he laughed too. The next morning he greeted me with the news that his children understood that he must work hard to support the family. He hasn’t time for shopping! The next day, we visited Walmart. He and I carted a full artificial Christmas tree and all the trimmings back to Japan, just in time for Christmas. I only wish I could have seen their faces.<br /><br /><strong>I visited my mentor at MIT.<br /></strong><br />I hadn’t been back to MIT in about 10 years or so, but in so many ways it hasn’t changed. After a brief email exchange a few weeks before my trip announcing my intention to stop by, I searched for her office on campus. When I arrived at the top of the stairs, the rooms stood recently abandoned. I found her, finally, and enjoyed a morning of good conversation and introductions to colleagues.<br /><br /><div>That was my life that re-appeard to me in 2009. The very best of that life, I will bring with me into 2010. </div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-7233818003230603952009-12-06T19:22:00.000-08:002009-12-06T19:32:45.800-08:00One Museum. One House of Worship (Japan Day 1)That is what my mother told me. She said it many times.<br /><br />“One museum and one house of worship: that is my limit. After that, the little stone statues become a blur and I can’t remember any of them properly.”<br /><div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412330323916915410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sxx1wPwkgtI/AAAAAAAAAy0/XyciHMpwHuQ/s400/IMG_0234.JPG" border="0" /><br />I really wanted to show her whatever she wanted to see. But, I lived in Japan for many years. I really wanted to see my friends, some of whom are practically family. I have seen the famous places.<br /><br />She would go on.<br /><br />“I want to see what living in Japan is like. I want to visit your friends. I want to walk around regular places. Do you have any idea how many temples I have seen?”<br /><br />My mother has traveled a lot. She likes meeting people. I tried to plan accordingly, but there are a few places I couldn’t help but take her. It wouldn’t be a proper tour without seeing a few famous places, right?<br /><br />My mother only saw the most impressive places in Japan.<br /><br />Our first full day on the ground was in Kyoto, visiting Kawa-san. After a relaxing Japanese-style breakfast and warming our toes by the hot coals under the table, Mrs. Kawa began to excuse herself to walk their dog.<br /><br />“Do you mind if we join you?” I asked.<br /><br />My mother and I had arrived in the dark the night before. She had seen the darkened courtyard of their 18th century home, and the traditional interior (better than any museum, trust me), but the neighborhood had been merely a blur out the car window.<br /><br />The three of us, and the dog, exited the courtyard and began a tour of the rice paddies. (Kawa-san stayed behind). Kawa-san owns three rice paddies. The neighbors (busy with their farming) were pleased to pose for my mother’s pictures. We asked questions and enjoyed the scenery.<br /><br />We then took a walk up the hill to the neighborhood temple. This one didn’t count as a ‘house of worship’, of course, because it was really just a simple walk around the neighborhood. We met the family who took care of the temple, and they offered us a bag of ginko nuts. My mother rearranged their two year old’s toy cars as the rest of us chatted. On our way back, we admired another neighbor’s garden and were rewarded with fresh mikans (tangerines). We also coincidentally ran into the Buddhist monk (father to the two year old) returning to the temple in traditional clothing.<br /><br />We stopped for a picture, of course.<br /><br />So, having been gone for only a short while to walk the dog, we returned to Kawa-san with an arm full of gifts and a camera full of pictures.<br /><br />Kawa-san laughed with joy. He told us that having our picture taken with the monk was highly unusual and certainly would bring us good luck. Armed with fresh gingkos and mikans, it was tough to argue that we were lucky.<br /><br />Our luck had only just begun, because Kawa-san decided that he would show us how to cook them. It is quite exciting to watch gingkos roasting. They pop out of the pan like stone popcorn.<br /><br />We visited a few other local temples that day too. We played tennis by the river. We went out for a fabulous dinner.<br /><br />We ended the day with a Japanese bath, warm toes, and a soft futon.<br /><br />Did we see one museum and one house of worship? </div><br /><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412330788456829106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sxx2LSThELI/AAAAAAAAAy8/p3IC4-WMjQI/s400/IMG_0248.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div>No. We did a lot better than that. </div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412331312957519330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6RVON3z8Da4/Sxx2p0OOdeI/AAAAAAAAAzE/NZWG02W3nQI/s400/IMG_0797.JPG" border="0" /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-30374713111046510972009-11-10T13:45:00.001-08:002009-11-10T14:21:20.733-08:00A tale of two mothers<span style="font-style: italic;">please excuse the typing and editing. this japanese computer is tricky to use. </span><br /><br />Yesterday, my real mother and I wandered the streets of Kobe with my host mother and her best friend, whom i remember well from high school. they are both about 70 years old and are very difficult to chase. Nakafuji:s pedometer reported that we went about 8 miles. That is only one measure. if you were to measure the level of silliness, we would have been off the charts.<br /><br />After breakfast, we went to see a Japanese flower garden. It was lovely and we took lots of pictures. We took pictures of the flowers, each other, and the gardener too. My host mother kept taking pictures of me when I wasnt looking. I told her that she could have a picture of my behind if she wanted it. we were silly. It was fun.<br /><br />After the garden, we enjoyed lunch at kaiten zushi. That is the word for those sushi places that deliver plates on a conveyor belt. This was a special place in as much as my host mother wanted to show us that if you order something special, they will deliver it on a special high speed train track (a second level of conveyors). The food was only okay, but the entertainment was priceless. We were pretty silly. I bought a toy train in the vending machine on our way out.<br /><br />After lunch, we visited a karaoke bar coffee house where my host mother:s friend works. I remember Tanaka san from high school, and of course she remembered me. We traded gifts appropriately, took pictures with people we didn:t know, received gifts from strangers, and I even sang some Elvis. If you have ever heard me sing, you will understand that the patrons were clapping loudly mostly to drown out my voice. When I was finished, I bowed deeply and used a typical Japanese expression which roughly translates to - that must have been very hard work for you, and you must be so very tired. They clapped louder and laughed heartily. We were silly. It was fun. <br /><br />After karaoke, we went to Motomachi for shopping. Motomachi is sort of like NY 5th avenue, except there is a lot more shopping, a lot more restaurants, and a lot more people. After wandering through the maze of covered streets, I suggested that we go to Diamaru. Diamaru department store is sort of like Neiman Marcus. They carry Burberry, but mostly we were enjoying the excessively high end shopping - Hermes, Tiffany and the like. My mother and I fell in love with a purse that did not have a price tag, but was matched with some Japanese traditional shoes which were marked at about $1500. To be fair, I never saw any outfit for more than $7000, but I suppose I stopped looking. I think my Japanese mothers enjoyed it too since they probably don:t bother going in there very often. We were pretty silly in there, but I suppose the shop owners didn:t mind too much. It was fun.<br /><br />After shopping, my Japanese mother decided to take us to the top of a tall building to see Kobe from above at night. Since it had started raining, they decided to keep us under roofs the entire way. That is not an unreasonable goal in Japan, but it is still a little bit tricky. We went on quite the tour. My host mother was very polite as we ran past the security guard at a local company and ran into the building. We moved quickly through various hallways and even through the company cafeteria. We all bowed quickly in everyone:s direction and tried hard to not laugh heartily until we were clear of earshot. It was very rediculous. We had fun. <br /><br />After our office building tour and view of the city, we returned to the house to talk to my host sister via skype. My japanese mother wanted to introduce her grand daughter and give my sister and i time to talk. So, we did. My Japanese mother does this very frequently and showed us how her granddaughter in Australia likes to watch her grandmother in Japan play with a balloon. It was a very serious use of technology. And, it was nice to see my host sister again, even in that way. She explained that we were story book characters to her daughter, so I insisted that she start considering us movie stars. It was silly. We had fun.<br /><br />After skype, we went to dinner at a local place. We took pictures of each other and different combinations of everyone in the restaurant. The food was good and the sake was warm. My mother received oranges from the shopkeeper. It was fun. <br /><br />After dinner, we went to a local karaoke place. After all, we hadn:t sung in at least a few hours. By then I had moved to whiskey and was singing in Japanese. Our proprietors encouraged that heartily and I thus acquiesced to what I told my mother were silly foreigner tricks. But, even so, I did quite well with my oral Japanese character exam and surprised everyone with how much I could read. When asked where I learned Japanese, I explained noisily that I had spent 12 weeks with my host mother and she must be brilliant - much laughter. The proprietor also asked my host mother if it was very difficult for her when I lived in her home not speaking any Japanese and how she managed to feed me American food. My host mother laughed. <br /><br />"Oh, I didn:t do that. Are you kidding? I didn:t even really want to have an exchange student at first. I thought it would be a hassle. But, it wasn:t a problem." <br /><br />"Oh, but I suppose it was probably a problem for her." she finished with a smile.<br /><br />I replied on cue.<br /><br />"Yes, can you imagine how horrible it must have been for me! I had to live with this woman who is always speaking in local dialect and making jokes. I couldn:t understand anything and the food was terribly strange! It was so so horrible. Can you imagine?"<br /><br />"Oh, do you understand our local dialect?" she asked. <br /><br />And, I answered in the only possible way. <br /><br />"No, I don:t understand it at all," spoken with great drama, in perfect local dialect.<br /><br />It was silly. We had fun.<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051264720804256.post-1751466451144019482009-11-05T17:40:00.000-08:002009-11-05T17:48:28.492-08:00My mother calledMy mother called me in the Spring. <br /><br />“So, Honey, what are your plans for this summer?” <br /><br />“Well, Mom, we have a lot of travel planned, but we’d really like to see you. Do you have some time to come up to Cleveland?”<br /><br />“That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” <br /><br />She was vague. My mother is vague occasionally, like anyone, but I wasn’t following her this time. <br /><br />“Will you be at home long enough for us to come down?” I offered. “If we’re around, I could probably come to you.” <br /><br />My parents travel a lot. My dad works out West. My mother works on the East Coast. They travel more than your average grandparents, and are thus rather difficult to visit.<br /><br />“That would be nice. I would like to see the kids, but that isn’t what I had in mind.” <br /><br />“What did you have in mind?” I finally asked. My kids were beginning to get restless, in spite of the fact that I had only been on the phone a few minutes. <br /><br />“I have quite a few frequent flyer miles. You know, your father and I travel quite a bit.” <br /><br />“Yes, I noticed that. What did you have in mind?” I was trying to think ahead. Maybe she would suggest my sister and I meet her in Vegas. That might be fun. Hmm. <br /><br />“I was thinking we might go to Japan.” <br /><br />My reaction was visceral. I started to sweat. <br /><br />“Japan? Really?” <br /><br />“Yes. Well, you haven’t been in quite awhile. I thought it would be fun, but maybe you don’t have time.” <br /><br />“Um, I could probably work that out,” my mind raced, my heart pumped, my body sweated. I started going through the weeks of the summer. They were pretty full. I tried to start switching things around in my head. I started imagining who would watch the kids. What would I do? I couldn’t say ‘no.’ I couldn’t say ‘yes.’ <br /><br />“Maybe in the Fall? Would the Fall work?” my mother asked calmly. <br /><br />She was serious. <br /><br />“Um, the Fall?” Yes. My husband had to take a week off every quarter. I might even be able to do the Fall. “Yeah, the Fall. Are some weeks better than others? I’ll call Jay.” <br /><br />And thus our trip planning began, all those months ago. My head has spun in disbelief ever since. So much has changed since I left in 1999. So many plans must be made before I go. What will we do? What will we bring? Where will we stay? What do you say after all these years?<br /><br />We are on our way. By Saturday night, I will be bowing in salutation to Kawa-san in Kyoto Station. I will tuck myself into a futon under his roof. I will smell the reedy smell of tatami mats and the smoky, salty grease of tako-yaki at the stand near the Station. <br /><br />I remember standing at Hiroshima Station in 1994 on the day I moved to Japan.<br /><br />The smells in the air, the background noise, the high-pitched woman on the train imploring us “wasuremono ga nai you ni go chui kudasai” – “Don’t forget anything.” <br /><br />In 1994, I remembered Japan as it was in 1987 during my exchange student days in high school. I remembered Japan as it was in 1990 during my days as a college student interning at a Japanese company. The emotions returned, as clear as you would expect if you could travel through time. Standing in the Station in 1994, seven years after my high school exchange experience, I felt the emotions of a high school student, thrust into a country without her parents, barely able to introduce herself – excited and anxious and alone and proud. <br /><br />I remembered the book I was reading on the plane in high school. I expected to look down and see my old shoes. <br /><br />And now, in 2009, I remember my going away party in 1999. The most poignant memory of my last days in Japan was that I did not feel like I was going home. <br /><br />I felt like I was leaving home. <br /><br />I grew up in the U.S. I spent my childhood in the U.S. <br /><br />I became an adult in Japan. <br /><br />If you have ever lived in a foreign country, you know that repatriation is far more difficult than orientation. If you have never lived in a foreign country, I’m not sure I could adequately explain it. <br /><br />You can’t go home again. It won’t be the same. I’m not the same. But I can’t wait to get there. <br /><br />Thanks Mom (and Dad)<div class="blogger-post-footer">post feed footer</div>MIT Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08793376511596741906noreply@blogger.com5