Dreams of Olympic Glory

Today starts the beginning of the XXII Winter Olympic Games in Sochi, Russia.  I am a huge fan of the Olympics and especially the Winter Olympics.  This particular Olympics is special to our family because, Elliott, is Russian.  I can't speak for her, but I am excited to experience the Games...Russian style.

Colby and I both have been to Russia, so we aren't surprised by the reports from Russia about the venues being incomplete, unfinished construction sites hiding behind chained linked fences, and visitor's email accounts being hacked.  It is Russia, after all.  What do you expect?

But the political posturing by President Putin, the threats of potential terrorism, and the debate over whether the Russians will be ready before tomorrow night will not dampen my enthusiasm for the next two weeks.  I have figure skating, downhill skiing and curling to watch.  What could be more exciting than that?

In honor of the beginning of the Games, I have dug up a blog post I wrote four years ago during the XXI Winter Olympic Games in Vancouver.  The date, the location, and the ages of my family have changed, but not much else.

So, enjoy!  And...GO TEAM USA!!!!!

As the XXI Winter Olympic Games dominate our television, my family has been spending a lot of time pondering what winter sport we would be capable of participating in.  With my daughters, the options are seemingly endless.  Bunny is five and she really could one day become a winter Olympian, except we live in Kansas where it doesn’t get extremely cold and we don’t get much snow…and the only activity she has ever participated in is ballet.  Olympic prospects don’t look very good for Bunny, but she is only five.

Elle has decided she could be a speed skater, downhill skier, snowboarder and a figure skater.  After all, she’s smokin’ with her rollerblades…so what’s the difference between rollerblading and speed or figure skating?  I had to remind her that she is 11 and that is way over the hill to become a world-class figure or speed skater.  Most of these athletes strapped their first pair of skates or skies on when they were barely out of diapers.  Time is not Elle’s friend if she wants to be an Olympian…I think she will need to find her glory elsewhere.

Then, there is my husband.  Curling is his game.  He is not sure how the game is played and cannot figure out the rules, but he is convinced that he has the physique for the sport.  He also wants to know if they serve beer on the curling floor, because if they served beer while curling, then that really is the sport for him.  Since I spent almost five years of my life living in North Dakota and Minnesota, I am, by default, the expert on curling in our family.  Yes, they drink beer while they play…kind of like bowling.

And then there is my dream of glory.  I have no expectations that at 46 I could ever qualify for a sport, let alone an Olympic sport.  I don’t ski and although I know how to ice skate…barely, I wouldn’t fit in with the figure skating crowd because I still use the wall to stop.  But once upon a time I had dreams of Olympic glory.

It was 1976, the winter Olympics were in Innsbruck, Austria, and Dorothy Hamill was the American golden girl.  She was graceful, did the Hamill Camel and she had THE coolest haircut.  I wanted to be Dorothy Hamill so bad.  I was convinced I could be Dorothy Hamill.  It didn’t matter that there was no snow on the ground; no frozen pond near by and I didn’t know how to skate.  Trivial details.  I had roller skates and a concrete tennis court across the street.  What more did a budding Olympic figure skater need?

Apparently talent.  I had no talent and it took a few nasty falls on the concrete before I figured that out.  When I finally came to my senses, I took off my skates and walked home, hanging up my dream of Olympic glory.

However, on occasion I still have an uncontrollable urge to wear sequins.

The Importance of Date Night

My husband and I have been married for 10 years.  We were older when we met, dated long distance for a while, and I had a 2-½ year old daughter, so romantic nights out with roses, wine, and dancing were few and far between.  After we were married, we immediately started the process of adopting Hunter, so we have never really been a couple that spent a lot of time alone…as a couple.

In the stress of day-to-day living, work, school, raising daughters and surviving their diagnoses of Reactive Attachment Disorder, Colby and I didn’t “date” much.  Giving everything to our family didn’t leave much time for romance and our relationship suffered for it.

A couple of years ago, at the urging of our family therapist, Colby and I started setting aside time for “date night.”  In the beginning, we would check our calendars, make arrangements for a baby-sitter, decide what we wanted to do and make dinner reservations.  In the past, we would pick a fancy restaurant that featured large slabs of beef and 18-year-old Scotch, and preferably one that didn’t have a kid’s menu available. 

The ground rules of our dates were always very simple…no talking about our children.  Our children consumed our lives in every way imaginable, so we deserved a break for few hours from children-focused conversation.  This is much more difficult than it sounds, but it is a little like meditation…when the discussion wanders off to topics of the children…we bring it back to focus on us.

Although we try to “date” at least a couple of times a month, life usually gets in the way and we end up being lucky if we can have a kid-less night off once a month.  Since moving to Texas 2 ½ months ago, we’ve only had two date nights.  The first was a trip to the San Antonio Riverwalk for sushi.  It was a nice date, but like everything else with this move, nothing was familiar and driving the 50 miles into San Antonio seemed really far.

But, our recent move to Texas was about changing our lifestyle, slowing down and living a more simplified life.  We didn’t need to drive an hour for alone time, we didn’t need to spend a ton of money to have fun; all we needed to do was be together.  Whether we ate beef and drank cocktails, went to the movies, or played putt-putt golf, as long as we were together…and not talking about our children…it’s all that mattered.

Which is why last weekend, I found myself sitting on the tailgate of Colby’s truck, parked in the middle of our farm while our cattle grazed nearby, drinking a bottle of wine and watching the sunset.  Texas sunsets are spectacular, by the way…and I found myself enjoying every second of our “date.”  When the last bit of color faded in the west, we drove into Batesville (pop. 1,068) and had dinner.  It wasn’t expensive, nor was it fancy, but we were together.  We did talk about our daughters, but it is hard not to talk about two of the most important people in our lives.  I guess we need to date more and practice not talking about them!

Our next date night?  A night of dancing at the Quihi Gun Club.  I need to unpack my cowboy boots, spend a fun night two-stepping with my husband and practicing not talking about my children.

Homecoming Traditions

The word “Homecoming” always invokes memories of crisp fall days, crystal clear blue skies, golden cornfields, cheerleaders, football jerseys, parades, paper-mache class floats, fire engines, flying candy, screaming children, decorated gymnasiums, school dances, and Homecoming coronations.

That is the Homecoming of my childhood.  I remember getting out of school and standing along the parade route in front of my elementary school, screaming and shouting for the cheerleaders or football players to throw candy my way…wanting so badly to be a cheerleader when I grew up.

In high school, I remember decorating my mom’s little Fiat convertible and riding in the Homecoming parade with my friend, Brenda.  We wore matching maroon and white striped hooded sweaters, sat on the back of the car and waved and threw candy at the crowd.  As a senior, I was a member of Student Council and spent a week decorating the gymnasium with tissue paper.  I never worked on my class float, but I was always proud of the work that went in to it, and every year, I stood with my fellow band members on the football field and twirled my flag with every ounce of school pride I had.

I loved Homecoming, and I still love Homecoming.  It is always a magical time of the year for me.  As an adult, I have often made the long journey back to my hometown to celebrate Homecoming with my friends.  I’ve learned you can be goofier as an adult at these celebrations because you no longer worry about peer pressure and what others think of you.

Now that I am a Texan, and live in the land where high school football and Friday Night Lights is the thing of legends, I was rather disappointed in Homecoming.  As the big day approached, I started quizzing Elliott, who is a freshman this year, what the Homecoming festivities entailed.  Was there a dance?  Is there a parade?  Are there class floats, and candy throwing, and marching bands?

The answer…No…No…No…No…and not really.

Seriously?  No parade?  No dance?  Somehow Friday Night Lights was turning out to be rather, well…boring.

The big thing here that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE gets excited about is the Homecoming mum.  When Elliott first told me about these mums, I thought of big white fluffy mum corsages, tastefully pinned to the shoulders of girls attending a Homecoming dance.  But since there wasn’t a Homecoming dance, what was the point in wearing a flower corsage?

Elliott, through the high school coconut telegraph, couldn’t tell me much more than that they were a BIG deal and she wanted one.  I called my mother because a decade earlier, my parents lived in Allen, TX.  She immediately knew what I was talking about except she said they were these big, ugly, gaudy things that all the girls wore to school.  OK, that didn’t help.  So, I asked my Texas born and raised husband.  He said they were these big, ugly, gaudy things that all the girls wore to school.  No more information than that, except that we needed to get one for Elliott.

Taking away from my conversations that the mums were a big deal and I needed to provide one for my daughter, I decided to go to the source and find out what the big deal was.  I drove to the local flower shop, took a deep fortifying breath, and went inside to inquire about a Homecoming mum.

The owner of The Flower Patch was very nice and when I told her I was new in town, new to Texas, and needed help in understanding the Homecoming mum, she was more than willing to jump in and teach me all the ins and outs of this particular Homecoming tradition.

First of all, the Homecoming mum is not made with a real flower, it is made with an artificial flower so it can be saved and preserved throughout the ages.  And apparently, it’s not just the high school girls that wear the artificial floral concoctions but also little girls as young as kindergarteners participate in the tradition.  There are also headbands and garters to round out these emblems of school pride.

I discovered the mums are less about the flower and more about the ribbons and trinkets that go on the arrangement.  They are not just simple artificial floral corsages, they are these huge monstrosities that require advanced hot glue gun skills and yards of school color inspired ribbon.

And they are not cheap.  One peacock inspired mum with feathers, glitter, and with at least 20 yards of ribbon was $65.  Seriously?  For that kind of money, I could have wielded my own hot glue gun for a fraction of the price…that is if I knew exactly what packing box my glue gun was located in.  And for our first Homecoming in Texas, maybe I should learn the ropes before firing up my own glue gun.

On the advice of the flower shop owner, I brought both Elliott and Hunter in one day after school so they could pick out their own Homecoming mums.  When Elliott wanted to buy the $65 peacock inspired mum, I told her she could buy it herself, otherwise I would pay for a moderately priced arrangement. 

The girls spent a lot of time inspecting each of the dozens of mums that were pre-made and ready for personalized embellishment.  There were racks of mums, racks of ribbons, racks of garters, and boards filled with plastic trinkets, bells and bows. 

As the girls were browsing, I observed another mother picking out a mum for her daughter.  I stood quietly by watching as she discussed ribbon colors with her daughter, what exact trinkets should be added, where she wanted extra bows placed, and the exact angle the cheerleading megaphone should be placed inside the mum.  I am not a big fan of the uber-mother, but watching her lead her daughter around the flower shop with the precision of an army general, I started to realize how BIG an actual deal this tradition really was.  Although I might not understand the tradition, and I might spend great amounts of time mocking it, it is a time honored tradition in this small Texas town and if I wanted my daughters to fit into their new schools and form their own traditions and memories, then I needed to play the game, fork over my credit card, and keep my snide comments to myself.

The girls finally decided on their mums, picked out the appropriate amount of accouterments, then I paid and made arrangements for them to be delivered to the schools on the appropriate day.  To say they were excited would be an understatement.

The Friday of Homecoming dawned bright and clear, with an actual nip in the air, and the girls were so excited to get to school and receive their mums.  Before I could even drop Elliott off at the high school, I could see girls walking across the parking lot with Homecoming mums pinned to their shirts and ribbons floating around their knees and thighs.  Minutes after dropping Elliott off, I received a text from her saying, “OMG!  It’s mumcoming!!!”

Homecoming mums might not be the tradition of my childhood.  I may spend the rest of my life missing crisp fall days, crystal clear blue skies, golden cornfields, cheerleaders, football jerseys, parades, paper-mache class floats, fire engines, flying candy, screaming children, decorated gymnasiums, school dances, and Homecoming coronations, but Homecoming mums are a tradition of my children’s childhood and one I need to embrace rather that mock.

I just hope I can find the packing box that my hot glue gun is located in before Homecoming next year. 

Coyote Ugly

I am a midwestern girl.  I hail from a small town surrounded by miles of farmland, but not too far that you can’t see the next small town five miles up or down the road.  There were no savage animals lurking around except for the guard dogs that resided at every farmhouse, and if the endless cornfields didn’t bring up visions of Children of the Corn, then it was a pretty secure and safe place.

So, when I recently moved to the brush country of south Texas, which you will read about ad nauseum in future posts, I was a bit taken back by the amount of scary wildlife lurking everywhere.  I had been warned about the snake population in the area to the point that I was almost too scared to step off the back porch.  The scorpions and big hairy spiders were also somewhat expected, but weighing at least 150 pounds more, I have overcome my fear and have learned to gain pleasure in smashing them with my shoes.

Coyotes were also nothing new to me.  We had them in Kansas and I could often hear their eerie cries, yips and howls at dusk.  On occasion, they would circle our house either sending the dogs frantic to get outside to chase them, or frantic to get inside to safety.

But after moving to Texas, I didn’t expect the amount of coyotes that use our pastureland as a busy highway system for their comings and goings.

As soon as we moved in and I started hearing their haunting wails, my husband started talking about coyote hunting.  “Darlin’, if we kill a couple of them and hang them on the fence line, the rest of the pack will steer clear of our property.”  This conversation was had on numerous occasions with a few variations, but my non-violence approach to wildlife never allowed me to get my head around the concept of killing these animals…

…Until the coyotes crossed a line.

My morning routine consists of rolling out of bed and letting the dogs outside.  This particular morning was no different except the moment the dogs cleared the back door, I heard the yipping-like bark of a pack of coyotes 50 yards from the house.  It was too late for me get the dogs back in the house because the second the dogs heard the coyotes they were gone.  I did manage to get my 11 month-old Labrador back in the house, so that was one less dog I had to worry about.

I had bigger worries, though.  My husband was out of town so I was going to have to manage this coyote situation by myself.  By myself.

Imagine me…in my pajamas…and oversized green cowboy boots that belong to my daughter.  With bed head, pjs, cowboy boots and a huge, high-powered spot light, I am sure I was quite a sight to see.  A spot light, by the way, that I mocked my husband for buying but was very grateful I had light that could reach the brush line 50 yards from the house.  It was still dark out, although the sky was starting to lighten in the east. 

Over and over I called the dogs names, but I was being ignored.  As my nervousness for their safety intensified, my yelling became louder.  However, the yipping of the coyotes had stopped and the silence was eerie.  The only sound I could hear besides my own voice was the panting of the animals.  Many animals.  In the darkness I could see the reflection of eyes.  Many sets of eyes.

A few times I would see my dogs burst out from the tree line, but closely on their heals were coyotes.  In and out of the brush, one dog would appear only to disappear again.  This went on for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours.  If there had been a way I could have crawled over the wire fence, I would have charged the coyotes to save my dogs.  The logical part of my brain knew this was probably not a good idea, but the emotional part of my brain would have done anything to save my dogs.

After seeing two coyotes with at least another two sets of eyes in hiding, I knew I was outmanned and I had to call in reinforcements.  Running across the yard, for once not worrying about rattlesnakes, I headed for the house to get a gun and my 15 year-old daughter.  I’m not sure what Elliott could have done to help me, but moral support had to count for something.  My husband has an arsenal of guns under our bed, but the only gun I knew had to operate in the house was an old fashioned 6-shooter that was in the hall closet.  Yelling at Elliott to wake up and grabbing the gun from the closet, I headed back out the door.

As I was briefing Elliott on the situation, she called for the dogs one time and up the sidewalk they both ran, all happy, but a bit winded from the experience.  I stood in shock as they both wagged their tails and circled my legs for a scratch.  I was speechless.  I was just screaming at the top of my lungs willing to go into battle with an unknown number of wild animals and here they were…excited, happy, and none the worse for wear.

Although I was relieved my dogs were safe, the adrenaline pumping through my body would take awhile before it dissipated, leaving me to forget the idea of going back to bed.  Rather, I made coffee and sat out on the porch, nursing my sore throat.  Before this incident, I didn’t think I had it in me to pick up a gun and shoot another living being, but now I knew that I could shoot and kill a coyote if it meant the safety of my family.

Since that harrowing day, I have been rattled at the sound of coyotes.  I’ve kept the dogs in the house from sundown to sunup.  They aren’t very happy, but I know they are safe.  My husband will be home this weekend and I know he has rounded up our neighbors to come out in the predawn hours for a coyote hunt.

I’m not really keen on the idea of animals being killed, but if it means that a zone of safety is established around the compound with a sign for the coyotes that says, DO NOT ENTER, then I can get my head around the idea.  And since I need to feel safe in my home even if my husband is gone, maybe I need to learn how to operate at least some of the guns that are kept under my bed.