{Originally published by Keith Knight at K Chronicles}

{Originally Published on BHJ}

I’m in no hurry. You know that guy on the highway? You can’t get into the left lane because it’s a swarm of caffeinated speedsters and you’re trapped behind some fool going 5 under. That’s me. Good morning.

I had a friend. Skip. Every time we parted, without fail, he’d say “Take it slow”.

My path to work winds through a cluster of yawning mountains. Just before the sun rises, the top, just the bare tip, of the jagged horizon’s all lit with the glow of a faint orange hum that aches to be something – looks like the mountains are about to have a big idea, like something’s about to happen. You know what I mean? You know that weird feeling you get when something’s about to go down? Your kid is walking with a glass of juice. A man stares too long at a woman’s purse. You take the first drink. Something’s about to happen.

There’s a subtle negotiation between the black sky of last night and the sleepy orange morning waiting for its time. A deep staggering blue, stumbling, confused. Sometimes it’s blood purple. In some vague space between words, it doesn’t know what it is. But it’s not bothered by this. It’s in no hurry.

I may have missed my calling as a cab driver. Can you imagine? I would look in my rear view, check out my passengers, write little stories about their pasts and futures. That guy. He keeps checking his watch and calling someone who doesn’t answer. I’m taking him to a part of town where only a couple things happen. The crying lady. Going to the airport. And those two, kissing, groping, wearing wedding rings that don’t match. Everyone’s going somewhere. They start out here. I take them there. But me? I spend my days in between. Lingering between what just went down and what’s waiting to happen.

{Originally published on Diet Coke-Fueled Life.}

I was going to write about working and respecting bosses. About how sometimes they make decisions you don’t agree with, but you suck it up and play the game. About how you don’t send nasty emails to someone who’s overseeing a project you’ve been invited to work on, especially when you’re in the wrong, and the project manager is awesome (me).

That lead to the only time I’ve not sucked it up. The time I stopped playing the game and stood up for something.

In July 2002, a co-worker, Ally Zapp, left her job at US SAILING to pursue other opportunities. Two days later, she was murdered. I was the PR person at the time, so I had the horrible job of fielding reporters’ questions while in full-metal shock along with everyone else. Although a national organization with international ties, only a couple dozen people worked in our offices, so we all knew each other well. We all loved Ally; she was so darned nice. One of those people you couldn’t possibly be mad at for anything. One of those people who made a difference. I wished I could be even a tiny bit like her.

Rather than showing our love and support for her and her family on July 18, our organization offered up a platitude along the lines of wishing her family the best in a difficult time. Local media. National media. That was all I was allowed to say. And I kept saying it, apologizing at the same time for not being able to offer more. I was worried about my job.

Finally, an AP reporter I’d already spoken to half a dozen times told me a rumor was circulating around the media outlets that we weren’t saying anything more because she had done something wrong at her position–that’s why she left the job, that’s why our lips were sealed.

I put him on hold. I got up, shut my door, returned to the caller. I told him if I said something on the record, I’d lose my job. As a mom and a wife whose husband rarely worked, losing my job would have meant losing a lot more.

When I knew Ally, I was in a new and already unhappy marriage. I had a handful of good, close friends he bad-mouthed every chance he got, pulling me away from them, and away from my close-knit family. He and my son didn’t get along. On top of that, US SAILING was going through a major upper-echelon overhaul, causing mounds of unhappiness and stress. And my best friend was moving two states away. I was in a bad, bad place all around.

{Originally published on Random Musings From a Pregnant American in London}

I know that in general, drinking alcohol is a “no-no” in pregnancy. It doesn’t take an obstetrician or experienced mama to know that heavy drinking is strongly linked to babies with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders (FASD) or full blown Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. I’d be reckless to put my unborn child at such risk.

Yet here in the UK I have heard and read that light drinking during pregnancy is not clinically proven to precipitate ill effects in babies. The definition of “light drinking” is hazy, but the general understanding is that if you employ common sense and have, say, one drink per week, there is no evidence to show you will be doing your child a disservice. Is there still a slight risk involved? Yes. But there is a risk in doing pretty much everything when you are pregnant: eating a hot dog at a baseball game, stretching before and after exercise, crossing the street on unsteady feet with a big belly….

I thought this seemed like sensible advice, so throughout my first trimester I had a sip or small glass of wine now and again. Particularly before we broke our news, this was an easy way to keep suspicion at bay. It’s not like I’m a heavy drinker, but when girls my age who usually enjoy a glass of wine at the pub after work turn to OJ and start making excuses about being on antibiotics, covers are quickly blown.

When I was recently in NY on vacation I received my own sacred copy of Heidi Murkoff’s What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Whoooeee! Heidi is the goddess of pregnancy advice, and I am finding her book very helpful; however, her commentary on alcohol in pregnancy freaked me out! I can’t remember the advice verbatim, but it was something to the affect of “You should not drink at all during pregnancy. The alcohol in your system will cross the placenta and will have harsher effects on your baby than you – so you may not even feel buzzed, but your baby could be drunk!” Oh, crap.

I thought I’d been so careful. I felt guilty and concerned. Then the fear set in and I started counting up the number of drinks I’d had over the previous weeks and asking my friends and family if they thought baby would be all right. Everyone agreed they thought I was fine. Some commented they’d heard it’s safer to drink lightly after the first trimester, but first trimester was where I was. Ironically, those on both sides of the pond, including Heidi, tell you not to worry about the alcohol you drank before you were pregnant. Well some girls would probably have drunk more without knowing than I did while in the know! But fear wreaks havoc with logic.

{Originally published on Thursday Drive}

I was in the middle of nowhere, but I felt as though I had arrived at someplace important and pivotal. A place that should show on some map of my life with the words Go here.

Heavy and golden, the moonlight sank to earth on a parachute of stars and brought everything around me out of the shadows – the hulking shapes of mountains, open space, a black ribbon of road. Far away, the light of one house.

I stood in the middle of a road in northwestern Montana, shivering with the wind that ran through me like a hundred ghosts. I had stopped to get out, to look. No other car would pass by while I stood there. The night was big. The world was big. How many times had the wind that filled my lungs traveled along the curve of the earth? I breathed in, sure it told me secrets of what my life could be, how big it could be, now that it was all mine again.

Back home in Connecticut, my job waited for me and my husband did not. Our separation was new, no older than a month. With less fuss than it took to plan our wedding, we decided to break apart the marriage, each of us taking uneven halves of the whole, pieces that had never quite fit together and always left a space between two people who tried.

I settled into a new place and then took every vacation day and every bit of cash I could, and I drove – this time, from Connecticut to the western side of Montana, 5000 miles in 12 days. It was the middle of September – now, almost to the date. This time every year, I give myself over to nostalgia for that trip and for the person I was then. Brave. Unafraid to go as far as that, alone, to see something beautiful, to be changed.

And despite the disappointment of a marriage that ended, I still thought I could see ahead and predict the future, or shape it.

The joke was on me, of course. On her, on the person I was that night, eight months before I would learn that I was pregnant with my first child. Whatever I thought was brave or scary before hitched a ride to somewhere far away.

But she learned. You want scary? I told her. Having a baby is scary. Cobbling together a life with another person, with a new life between you, takes guts. Believing that it will all work out? Harder still.

{Originally published on Three by Sea}

This simple little sign hangs inside the armoire in my studio. And by studio, I mean the dining room that I’ve taken over as my studio! That same sentiment is also next to my computer and inside my notebook. I read it somewhere a few months back and it resonated within me. It reminded me that life is what you do, not what you plan. Sitting there pondering, and wondering, and thinking, and surfing the internet, and reading about things you would like to do is not the same as doing them.

Holly at Decor8 wrote a great blog post as part of her Creativity Series about “Analysis Paralysis”, whereby one is so overwhelmed with information that they are unable to make a decision. It seems to be a common affliction among creative types. Holly goes on to give advice for moving from inaction to action. The post is well worth reading. Having gone through this myself, I thought I talk about the things that help keep me from getting side-tracked during my journey of starting a business from home.

{Originally published on SusieJ}

This summer, our hill at the lake will be used in yet another ingenious way: to make ice cream for our root beer floats. I was tempted to buy the traditional ice cream maker, but there are so many choices; I quickly became overwhelmed looking at all the bells and whistles. And besides, I have all that boy power just dying to get put to use. Plus, the process of making ice cream by hand… literally…. in the can… is is a great way to introduce some lessons in science. There is the ice cream in a bag method; my boys would surely break the bag in the mixing process. So, I’ve decided to go with the ice cream in a can method.

1. The first challenge is finding the can. Many recipes suggest using
   a coffee can, but who buys coffee in a can anymore? A better idea is
   to ask for an empty paint can from the paint store. You’ll need two: A
   quart, and a gallon.
2. Ask your kids to tell you the freezing point of water — or teach
   them — 32 degrees F, or 0 Celcius. Then, ask them what happens when we
   put salt on icy sidewalks. Ask them to start thinking about why we need
   salt to make ice cream.
3. In the small, clean can, add one cup of milk or half and half, one cup of sugar, and one teaspoon of vanilla.
4. Optional: add one tablespoon of chocolate syrup — or frozen strawberries.
5. Use a hammer to seal the lid tightly.
6. In the larger can, combine the ice and rock salt. Use a thermometer to record the temperature of the rock and salt mixture.
7. Use hammer again to seal the lid tightly.
8. Take turns rolling the can down the hill, for about five minutes. This will “solidify” the ice cream.
9. Explain what’s happening: the ice melts and combines with the salt.
   This “brine” has a lower freezing point — lower than 32 degrees.
10. After five minutes of rolling, open the large can, and take the
    temperature of the ice. It will be colder than it was the first time.
11. Open the smaller can. The colder brine was able to get the milk
    mixture cold enough to freeze the milk mixture to make it solid, to
    create ice cream.
12. You know you’re going to have to whip up another batch right now; the fun was really rolling the can down the hill.

{Originally posted on The Hip Mom’s Guide.}

When I was a girl, I used to spend a couple of weeks each summer with my grandparents. Most mornings, after making me breakfast, my grandmother sent me outside to play while she began her daily chores. It seemed like she was forever folding laundry and vacuuming her living room floor. There weren’t many other children in the village where she lived, so I spent long hours figuring out how to amuse myself. One of my favorite activities, on a hot summer afternoon, was to gather my books from the library and read in the shade beneath the giant oak tree at the entrance to her neighborhood. I loved to watch the cars go by; I remember wondering who all of those people were and where they were all going. Did they wonder about me, too? Thirty years later those memories are strong: I can still feel the cool grass under my bare little legs and see the sun peeking through the thick leaves above.

By the time my children came along, kids’ summers were filled with camps of every sort. Basketball camp, swim club camp, any-activity-you-can-name camp. What startled me about all of these choices wasn’t really that they existed, but how many children were enrolled in them from the youngest of ages. At first I resisted the peer pressure, partly because in addition to my three-year old, I also had an infant; partly because these camps cost a lot of money; and partly because it just didn’t seem right to book my three-year old son’s summer chock full of organized activities. Didn’t he get enough of that during the pre-school year?

But slowly, and surely, I started down the slippery slope of enrollment. “Oh, what’s one little camp,” I thought. “His friends are all doing it; he’ll love it.” And he did. But one camp turned to two, then two kids turned to three, and before I knew what hit me I found myself living out of a mini-van and shuttling three boys from ocean camp to soccer camp to crime-science investigation camp. A mini-van was most definitely not where I wanted to spend my summer.

And so I decided: our summers will be different. They will be slow. My children will be bored. They will have to learn to play b-o-r-e-d games with one another, even though the youngest can’t add yet and the oldest insists on proper rules. And I will have to practice patience, again and again, while explaining once more why they aren’t enrolled in the Greatest Camps on Earth. But the trade-off is that they get to enjoy summers like I did: figuring out fun for themselves. They get to take long walks in the woods, check out hundreds of books from the library, and gorge themselves on s’mores roasted over the firepit during our summertime outside movie extravaganza.

{Originally Published on Doobleh-Vay}

I dream of riding the Orient Express

for two nights in a row now

I am in a bright cabin with paper and pencils

and very Bohemian in an authentic way

like the way I used to wrap scarves around my head in college

and head out to the bar for a drink

when it was not even chic- just odd

scarves that my Kurdish friend would give me

and how they were so bright turquoise

that I stood out from miles away

like a beacon to other strange girls

blinking and calling out

be the person yr supposed to be

and later you will be fine with it

I am on a journey and at some point in the dream I freeze frame for a second and hit some sort of intense epiphany- only I wake up right as I feel the hairs on my body stand and stir

it was like that yesterday too

{Originally Published on Mommy Melee}

It’s a little after 5:30 and the sun is starting to give everything a rusty, magic glow. Green is greener. Blue is bluer. And half of Riviera Middle School is in ruins.

I knew about it, of course—racing the sun to get the light, to document the destruction before I forget, before it’s gone gone gone. I have my camera in the passenger seat. I pull up against the fence, crack the windows for my sons in the backseat, and step out onto the pavement.

Monsters in the parking lot. Two giant diggers. (The dinosaurs are eating the school, my son whispers.) The sun glints just right, a little flare of personality. A wink. I shiver and start taking pictures.

Gum on the seat, then my jeans, a jacket tied around my waist. Crying on the phone, please come and let me go home, the girls are so mean. I write a report on dachshunds. A boy in gifted class writes a song about the way I pick my nose. I know I’m not the only one who thinks about last year’s rape incident every time I march up the dingy stairwells. I have a boyfriend for three days in the hall. A high school student volunteers with the after school chorus program. Why don’t blondes use vibrators, he asks me. Because they chip their teeth. I don’t get the joke.