Feeling Connected to the Universe: My Circle of Life Day

One of my happiest sensations is feeling attuned to the universe. It can come about from a satisfying encounter with a friend -- a fun coffee break, a quick but mood-elevating accidental meeting on the street, or a long phone conversation during which each party listens and expresses in an equal and caring manner. I often glean this lift after positive exchanges with complete strangers. (It's one of the many reasons why I love traveling.) It could be learning that a Facebook friend whom I have never met ate lunch at the same chain restaurant as me clear on the other side of the country the same day I did. (It's one of the reasons why I love Facebook.) It could be thinking about a person from my past only to have that person contact me that day. Or it could be something very, very small like using an unusual word in conversation before hearing that word that evening in a TV commercial I'd never seen before.


These kinds of connections/coincidences and so, so many more happen to me very frequently. Though I am not attending a church at the present time, I consider myself a spiritual person and always have. I feel God -- someone else might call it Spirit, the Universe, what have you -- guiding, supporting, and protecting me.

Two days ago I experienced a day just bursting with synchronicity. It was my "Circle of Life Day" -- March 25, the day in 1995 my mother passed on and the day in 2006 my son Charlie was born. (Cue the soundtrack to The Lion King, please.) My mother didn't live long enough to meet her grandsons, and they are growing up without knowing their direct blood relatives in the older generation. Yet this is the day that links three generations of my family. This is the day that turned death into life.

For his seventh birthday, I had planned to take Charlie to New York City for the day. Since we live north of Boston, that's no easy task. But Charlie had been given an incredible chance in the Big Apple, and I wanted him to be able to accept it. On a Facebook page I'd joined for the parents of child actors and models in New England, I saw a notice about a casting for the advertising campaigns of two major clothing lines. Bolstered by my characteristic what-the-heck attitude that gets me both opportunities and trouble, I submitted three candid shots of Charlie from my iPhone. Lo and behold, didn't I receive an e-mail telling me to bring him to NYC for a brief photo session!

Let me make this perfectly clear: Charlie has NO modeling experience, NO headshots, NO resume, NO agent, NO NOTHING. Still, based on one photo she saw, a prolific college filmmaker asked him to audition for her latest indie project. Alas, due to the unrelenting series of snowstorms occurring EVERY WEEKEND the second half of this winter, we simply could not manage to get our physical bodies to Rhode Island to meet her. Needless to say, the part was given to another child who lives much closer.

Regarding the New York opportunity, our choices were to come that very day (Sunday) or the next day. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it's pretty tough to pull together a trip to New York on just a couple of hours notice, so I opted for Monday. The weather was supposed to be lousy (a storm coming in, naturally!), and it was a school day. Yet it was also Charlie's birthday. Now I've learned that it's not uncommon for a parent to remove his or her child from school for a special treat the day of the birthday. Personally, I have never done such a thing, but this day looked to be the perfect chance. Seriously, how exciting would it be for a seven year old to take his first trip to the Big Apple on his birthday to try out for the first time with a hot casting director for two major jobs? Pretty darn exciting, that's how!

New York was my mother's city. She (like my father) grew up there, and they came back into the city to give birth to me after moving to the suburbs. My mother absolutely loved the city. She worked at Doubleday Books and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She loved the theater, the symphony, and art, art, art! I can't think about or visit the Big Apple without reminiscing about my mother.

This trip with Charlie would have been right up her alley -- not only because it involved her city but also because it involved modeling. Back in the day, she modeled hats for department stores such as Lord & Taylor and Bergdorf Goodman. She would have been very proud of Charlie for landing the audition.

Any other day pulling off such a feat as getting us down to the Big Apple on such short notice would have been near-miraculous. But on this day plans fell into place like never before. It seemed positively meant to be. First I reserved seats on the Bolt Buses that enabled us to arrive in a timely fashion and leave the audition without rushing. Next up: child care, always the stickiest piece of the puzzle for me. My older son would go to school, of course. But it didn't start early enough, and neither did the before-school program. So I had to find a family to take in Christopher at the crack of dawn. As Charlie and I would not be back for the 6 p.m. pickup from the after-school program, Chris also needed to go to someone's home afterward. And what if we were delayed? He might have to spend the night -- a school night, no less -- at that someone's home.

For mothers with family nearby, a simple phone call can be enough to fix this type of problem. But I don't have and never have had family to assist me with child care. If I was lucky enough to locate help, I expected that it would be split between two families: one each before and after school. Well, you can only imagine my SURPRISE, RELIEF, and JOY to get a YES to ALL OF IT from the very first mother I approached! As she had earlier asked me to accompany her son home from school that day, I had to get right back to her to inform her that would be impossible and actually I was in need of child care. She had just started a new, full-time job so was in some need herself. However, her father lives in the community next door. Plus, she has a husband. Compared to me, she's in much better shape care-wise.

This is really working out! I thought to myself after hearing from her. Truly shocked (but in a good way), I set about getting ready: doing laundry, picking out Charlie's audition clothes and a backup outfit, selecting Christopher's clothes for school the next day and the top and bottom I'd wear into the city, printing up the bus receipts, filling the gas tank, getting cash at the ATM, and packing a duffel bag for the trip.

The next morning I dropped Christopher off at the family's house at 6:41. I was running late from having spent too much time online trying to obtain directions to the Boston bus station's rooftop parking lot. I found the address and glanced over a map showing the congested streets near it, but I couldn't find actual directions to it. I didn't have time to call up Mapquest, yet honestly it didn't even occur to me because it was too early in the morning and my brain wasn't working properly. Indeed, it was disconcerting to think that I would be heading out without a clear idea of how I was going to get us to the parking lot on time! I'd been to it before, mind you. However, that was more than two years ago.

While driving to Boston, my mind ran amuck trying to figure out a Plan B if we missed the bus. I could try to get us seats on another bus, but there were several issues with this option. The buses from the various companies all seem to leave at roughly the same time, so missing one pretty much means missing all (or almost all). If I found a bus scheduled to leave a little later than ours, would it arrive in enough time for us to make the audition's three-and-half-hour window? We had to go way downtown to the tryout. Would any bus meeting our criteria have any available seats? I would have to shell out for two more round-trip tickets. They are not cheap! And the tickets I already had -- costing a total of $102 -- would go to complete waste unless Bolt offers compensation for missing a bus. I didn't know. Another option would be taking a train to the Big Apple, but the same concerns would apply. (The Boston train station happens to be conveniently located adjacent to the bus station.) Or I might have to drive. Argh. That would take just as long, and I would not be able to relax because I would be at the wheel! Where on earth would I park? I'd never in my life brought a vehicle into New York City and for good reason! It is NOT a car-friendly city. I could park at the Darien, Connecticut, train station, I thought. I knew this parking lot well from having grown up in Darien, which is a straight shot into the city. But what I didn't know was the Metro-North train schedule. I recall from years ago there being just one train per hour heading into Manhattan. If we failed to arrive at the right time, the journey could take an extra hour or so, possibly causing us to miss the audition window. What's more, we could very likely hit heavy traffic on our way to Darien. There were plenty of opportunities for that driving through Hartford, New Haven, and Bridgeport on the busy I-95 corridor. Conclusion: being late for our bus would be an utter disaster. I couldn't let that happen.

So I plugged along, talked to the other drivers ("Come on, come on! Are you kidding me? NO, NO, NO!"), and prayed FERVENTLY. ("Please, God, we can't be late. We need to make this bus! We need to make this bus!") At the Sumner Tunnel, I asked the tollbooth lady to tell me the exit "for the bus station and 93 South." I expected her to say "the South Station exit" and give me the number. (I really only wanted to know the number.) But she answered "Government Center." Argh. Not what I wanted to hear because now I was confused! I didn't have time to discuss this any further. Plus, a long line of cars waited behind me. It was rush hour after all. So off I went, taking the Government Center exit as instructed. Immediately, I was confronted with the first of countless detour signs. Great, just what I needed! I had forgotten about them, but now it was all coming back to me. The traffic pattern in this area of Boston was and still is a complete mess. It took all my concentration to follow these blasted signs through the maze leading to 93 South. Somehow I managed it and soon reached the South Street exit. The problem: the bus departure time was fast approaching. It was 8:10 at this point; the bus left at 8:30. I still had to get through traffic and lights then find and park in that rooftop lot whose location was HAZY in my mind. Charlie and I also had to load up on snacks for the four-a-quarter-hour-long trip to New York. This latter task was absolutely crucial because sitting for so long next to Charlie (or any other young child, for that matter) with only one nut bar in my purse would be a nightmare. (Charlie ate a different bar during the drive.)

By the grace of God, I am thrilled to report, I succeeded in covering the remaining half a dozen or so blocks. At one of the last intersections, I was convinced I was supposed to turn left. But there was a no-left-turn sign in front of me and no way to stay straight. The driver behind me obnoxiously honked at my hesitation and slow-to-come decision to turn right and pull over. But I had no choice. There was nowhere else to go! As I sat idling next to the curb, my heart thumped inside my turquoise down jacket and my brain felt like it was going to explode. Seconds away from dropping my face in my hands and bawling, I noticed at the next light a sign way up high pointing the way to "South Station parking."

It was a beacon from God!

I couldn't believe it. I had done it. We weren't on the bus yet, but I had FOUND THE LOT. Next I launched into prayer aimed at finding a SPACE in the lot. One thing at a time, one thing at a time. Done. "Quick, Charlie, to the elevator!" (Lucky for me, my younger son is a seriously fast sprinter. Boy, was I grateful for that on this day!) Honey Dew Donuts. Ten minutes and counting. Two donuts, one bagel, one muffin, and three drinks. Awesome. Running to the bus gate. The other passengers had already boarded. OMG, made it! The bus pulled out of its space. We had literally TWO MINUTES to spare!

Settling into my seat, I couldn't help but marvel at how amazing it was that we were sitting on the bus. Truly, it was one of my closest calls ever for such a costly and exciting or important commitment. I felt led to that rooftop parking lot just as I was about to give up. My correct decisions under extreme pressure to turn right here and left there reminded me of another time in my life when I absolutely made the right split-second call under the gun, quite literally.

I was in Kathmandu, Nepal, in the spring of 1990 when the country was embroiled in a democracy revolution. My traveling partner chose to stay back at our hotel during a day of protests; I willingly hit the streets. By 11 a.m. the throng of demonstrators shouting "WE WANT DEM-O-CRA-CY!" (in English to garner the world's attention) had reached into the thousands and filled the narrow streets. Looking around I grew concerned about how this would end. I remember thinking: People are not going to just go home at the end of the day. Something bad is going to happen. I stepped away from the protest to return to the neighborhood of my hotel. I needed a break and to find some lunch. A couple of hours later, I was ready to return to the streets. Being a former news reporter, I like to be at the center of the action . . . or on the periphery anyway. It wasn't difficult finding the crowd. I just followed the noise. At an intersection with the main road leading to King Birenda's palace, I saw to my left a line of police officers and military wielding guns; to my right, the advancing protesters. They were mostly Nepalese, but scattered foreigners were among them. Joining ranks with the protesters would have come naturally to me since I had marched with them that morning. Instead, I turned left and took my place directly behind the men with the weapons. Soon after the protesters reached the uniformed officers. Small skirmishes broke out, and tear gas was shot into the air. Everyone nearby must have felt the sting enter their throats and nostrils. I certainly did. The demonstrators momentarily backed off but did not give up. They regrouped and continued to push toward the palace gates. Tear gas was shot off two more times before I decided that the situation was getting too hairy for me. I retreated and returned to my hotel. I later learned about the Tiananmen Square-type incident that followed. One hundred or so people, including tourists like myself, were killed in the conflict outside the palace. That afternoon I made two good decisions: to fall back behind the armed men and to leave the area before I got hurt or worse. When telling this story -- and I rarely get the opportunity these days -- I always describe my first decision as completely instinctual. No conscious thought went into making it. I saw the two groups of people then without hesitation walked toward one, stationing myself out of harm's way. To this day, I get the chills when I think about that day. I have a strong sense that I was being guided and shielded by God.

Though the circumstances were infinitely less dire this week, the feeling of being led was no less strong.

Charlie was a champ the entire ride to New York. We talked, looked out the window, and he played Minecraft on my iPad. Once again it was a case of Thank You, Technology! (See blog post by that name, 6/9/12.) I wanted him to rest or fall asleep. But he was too busy constructing a house made of butter in lightning speed, hanging paintings on every square inch of the yellow walls, and blasting them to bits with arrows.

Boys!

The day was wet and cloudy, yet we made it to the city twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule. That enabled us to eat a leisurely lunch and clean up before hailing a taxi downtown. The Freedom Tower at Ground Zero loomed outside our foggy windows as we sped by. We arrived right at the start of the day's audition session. I signed in, and Charlie was immediately photographed "six or seven times," he said. That was it. With time to spare, we walked a couple of blocks to the South Street Seaport. I took some rainy-day snapshots. We wandered through a few shops. And we sipped mango smoothies overlooking the gray East River. Then I realized something was missing. My duffel bag. My panic attack started to return as I racked my brain about where I could have left it. Let me tell you: not much makes me crazier than losing my belongings or my kids' belongings, even if they were just a spare child-size outfit, one raincoat, and lunch leftovers. (See Hunter-Downer Mom, 3/21/12.) Back to the seaport shops we'd just visited. Not there. Back to the audition location. Found it!

No one was being photographed when we walked in, so the impromptu visit gave me a chance to chat with the casting director. He had just been to Boston visiting two modeling agencies, he said. He asked me why Charlie didn't have an agent. He seemed genuinely interested in my son and wanted to know if we would be willing to travel to New York City for jobs. We didn't talk long, but it was a good conversation. I left the building with a spring in my step from the insight I'd gained.

Like the others, this turn of events struck me as serendipitous -- as though Charlie and I were being watched over from Above.

Now I don't harbor ANY expectations that my son will be picked from the thousands of kids being considered for the two advertising campaigns. It bears repeating: unlike most (if not all) of the other child candidates, Charlie has no agent, no headshots, no resume, no experience, no nothing. If, by some quirk of nature, Charlie IS tapped, it would be akin to Lana Turner getting signed by MGM while sipping a drink at a soda fountain.

We still had a little time remaining before boarding the bus but not enough for a museum visit. The weather prevented stopping by a park, and walking just for the fun of it would also be out of the question. So I decided we would just make our way back uptown. We'd have no trouble flagging a taxi outside the photo-shoot location, I'd been told. Of course, we then did have trouble. Leaping over puddles at intersections, Charlie and I hoofed it many blocks before I managed to spot a cab. Back at the bus stop, we once again stocked up on provisions. Then we hung out at Chipotle. Adam Lambert's "If I had You" came over the sound system. I was dumbfounded. Rarely do I hear this rendition anymore because it is a few years old. But when I do, I take note. It is the song I choreographed a dance to for Christopher when he landed his own modeling/acting contract a couple of years ago. (That one turned out to be a scam.)What a coincidence to hear it this day! I thought. I took some last pictures to memorialize our trip before Bolt Bus brought us safely back to Boston, though one hour late due to heavy traffic at rush hour.

During the return journey, I checked in on Christopher. Turns out my older son had been coughing up a storm. If he vomited, he would be sent back to me for the night. Otherwise, he could sleep on a pull-out couch at the home of the family helping me. Bless his soul, he got through the night episode-free.Thank you, Christopher!

I had been very nervous about the weather. I hate to drive in poor conditions, especially on a highway and with another person at the controls. I had chosen seats in the middle of the bus to New York and back. Charlie wanted the open front seat with the clear view of the highway, but I said no. I didn't tell him why. In addition to being concerned about the bus trips, I was slightly on edge about the return drive from the bus station to our home. The weather was supposed to be worse later in the day, and it looked like I might encounter a mixture of rain and snow at a fairly late hour in the dark.

The driving turned out to be a breeze! The roads were dry. The traffic was light. I made record time. Feeling protected again!

I turned on the TV back at home. Nancy Pelosi was on the news celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the Family and Medical Leave Act. The links with my past just kept on coming! In early 1995, I utilized the FMLA to take care of my then-ailing mother. Like the Adam Lambert song, I can't remember when it last crossed my mind.

Still high from the New York experience and profoundly grateful for Charlie's terrific behavior under tough circumstances, the next day I called up the casting director's website. In my haste to plan the trip, I had neglected to check out his work. So I scrolled down the home page filled with male and female high-fashion models posing for GQ, Details, and Interview magazines with cars and bicycles and while arm wrestling or standing in a police lineup. And there, off to the right, in the only photograph featuring children, was Charlie's doppelgänger. I mean DOPPELGANGER. I was flabbergasted! Despite wearing large dark-rimmed glasses (the product he was modeling), he had the same face, same hair, and same smile as my younger son. He even looked the same age. No wonder the casting director liked Charlie!

What a day it had been! What connections! What similarities! What fortuitous events! It was a hard day, a very trying day. But it was MY kind of day because I felt completely in harmony with the universe, God, my mother, and my son.

It was a perfect Circle of Life Day.

"Hello, Beast!"

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that my New Year's resolution this year is to "tame the beast" (see "Taming the Beast," 1/16/13). The beast, of course, being my way-beyond-messy home. Well, like many of you, I suspect, I did not get right on that. Resolutions are resolutions because they haven't been addressed or fully addressed, right? We don't have time to deal with them. We don't want to deal with them. We find it too difficult to deal with them. We have loads of excuses for not dealing with them.

Nevermind. The point is: I only this week -- yes, mid-March! -- got around to beginning the process of tackling the state of my house. I set aside an entire school day, save for the roughly forty minutes it took to obtain a coffee drink from Starbucks (needed caffeine to keep me going!), so I could make some serious inroads. Or that was the plan anyway.


Start Time: 9:10 a.m., Kitchen Table:

The cornerstone of family life, mine had become cluttered with all manner of whatnot. Half-empty juice boxes and bags; a couple of Legos; playing cards; two light bulbs; two bowls of varying amounts of unpopped popcorn kernels; a newspaper; correction tape; several baggies of partially eaten goldfish crackers, tortilla chips, and Ritz crackers; the boys's summer day camp schedules from the past two years; a campground map and clam shack menu from Maine; directions to a state forest in the Berkshires; an appropos Chinese fortune ("Time is wealth."); and Flarp! farting putty. Awesome. After putting away or disposing of all of the above, I discover a small brown spider scurrying across the surface. Eek. The scrubbing down of the blond wood reveals small drops of last year's Easter egg dye in purple, red, and green. I kid you not. Hint: red dye smeared across light-colored furniture gives one serious pause because it too closely resembles BLOOD!

Finish Time: 10:19

Start Time: 10:19, Dishes in Sink

My Kenmore dishwasher detergent compartment won't latch, so I do my dishes the old fashioned way: in the kitchen sink. Far too often the pile spills over onto the counter and then another counter and then the kitchen table (if there's room). Plastic bowls, pots, forks, plates, empty milk and juice containers for recycling, and what have you. Why, you might ask, would I spend valuable time during my big cleanup day on dishes? Dishes need to be done every day. A better use of my time would be, for example, clearing off the dining room table. Well, yes and no. I didn't plan on losing many minutes on them but rather decided to utilize the undertaking as a kind of relaxing transitionary palate-cleansing, like eating sorbet between meals. (Truth be told, I'd much prefer consuming the frozen dessert.)

Stop Time (not finished): 10:35

Start Time: 10:36, Kitchen Chairs

They don't get dumped on half as much as the table, but they can still get mighty grody if not tended to. At least they're mostly out of sight, tucked underneath the sides of the table. I wipe down all four.

Stop Time (not finished): 10:44

As I look over at the digital clock on the oven, I feel a little depressed that I haven't done more. I'm tired and growing sluggish.

Start Break: 10:45

I watch the end of The Today Show and beginning of The View while munching on macadamia nuts and pistachio pieces and drinking water.

Finish Break: 11:15

Start Time: 11:15, Kitchen Chairs

Finish Time: 11:30

The kitchen hasn't been completed by a long shot, but the table and chairs now look lovely. I put a placemat depicting a Chinese painting in the center of the table and an emerald green glass bowl holding paper mache fruit and vegetables on top of it. They don't go together, but who cares?! The table still looks gorgeous. Now I don't want it touched . . . EVER.

Start Time: 11:35 Wingback Chair, Living Room

This piece of furniture is covered in schoolwork and random stuff from (afraid so) last year. More specifically: teacher-reviewed homework, the boys' artwork, and special projects. Color-by-number sheets on rainforest animals, fact pages and maps for a "Where in the World is" section on the seven continents, handwriting practice from kindergarten, a mini autobiography featuring such entries as Christopher's first tooth lost (after being hit in the mouth by a tee ball tossed by yours truly, argh) and first trophy won (for wiffle ball), a gymnastics class evaluation from the Y, opinion pieces on why it's better to be a child than an adult and why Christopher doesn't like school uniforms, and the photographic and written record of Flat Stanley's travels around the globe. There's a signed tee shirt from the bowling alley where Charlie held his belated birthday party last August, texting gloves from my-not-so-mysterious Secret Santa, Christopher's leopard project and his incredible rendition of a lighthouse, a poem about summer ("Summer is not a bummer. . . .", insert smiley face), and a construction paper teddy bear inside a paper bag cave with a cotton (snowy) opening and upside down Do Not Disturb sign.

The waterworks start around noon. Sifting through this precious material might have caused me to tear up anyway, but the tasks of the morning have worn me down and weakened my defenses. Immediately, I recognize these blues as different from my "Tipper Gore Depression" (see "When Things Get Dicey: Part II (Risk-Taking Gone Awry), 2/25/13). This is MY depression caused by feeling overwhemed and unable to keep up or stay on top of everything. In this case, I feel badly that I haven't examined all the beautiful fruits of my boys' labor from their last school year and put it all away or on display by now. I haven't done right by my sons.

How did so much schoolwork from 2011-2012 get tossed on this chair whose chocolate-brown legs I refinished many years ago? Convenience, plain and simple. The chair -- reupholstered in a now-faded cobalt blue fabric featuring a dusty rose and ivory flower pattern -- stands near the door we enter and the area of the floor where school backpacks are left. How does the material accumulate? As soon as we arrive home after school or anywhere else, chaos often ensues. People want snacks. People want to play on my iPhone. People start rough housing with one another. People want things from me NOW. (I can't imagine who these people are!) The demands and ensuing scuffles that invariably erupt deplete me -- I'm fifty-one, don't forget -- to the point at which I become devoid of energy to do anything other than what's absolutely necessary of me for the rest of the day and evening. Time goes by and, before I know it, the clump of papers and mixed-media artwork has grown exponentially. My eyes see the pile, and my mind registers it. The problem: With WAY too much on my plate, I don't know where or how to start. Of course, this mess is as good a place as any, yet it doesn't feel like a high priority to me. My brain is just too distracted and my time too crunched to tackle this particular item on my LOOOONG to-do list.

Start Lunch: 1:20 p.m.

I watch The Chew while downing a turkey sandwich, tortilla chips, and two Oreo cookies (okay, four).

Finish Lunch: 2:00

Start Time: 2:00, Coffee Table

Due to all the papers, books, and other miscellaneous items scattered across its surface, I can't see much of the mottled peach-colored marble slab. It's a shame because I always liked this rectangular table and have kept it since it sat in my childhood living room in Darien, Connecticut, in the early '60s. About six years ago, I had its medium brown wood frame and legs refinished. Now I behold Captain Underpants and The Big, Bad Battle of The Bionic Booger Boy, Where the Wild Things Are, and The Tower Treasure (The Hardy Boys). Two Harry Potter snow globes flank corners. An old framed photo of my boys with Santa faces the wrong direction. And a plastic bag containing last year's Cub Scout badges hangs halfway off the edge. The rest of the junk atop the space includes information from the elementary school Open House last September, a letter from Yakima about my recalled bike rack, prescription instructions for Charlie's eye infection last summer, an A Christmas Carol program and ticket from the North Shore Music Theater's production in (gasp!) 2011, a couple of other playing cards, and Charlie's school picture from kindergarten. (He's now in first grade, duh.)

Handling this stuff (yay, no half-eaten food or insects!) doesn't cause me any more distress. I seem to have brought my emotions in check, and it is now only about wading through the mementos -- putting the books back in the boys' bookshelf in their room and finding a logical home (or the recycling bin) within my home for the remainder. It is going to take MANY sessions like this one to gain control over the "beast." Still, the process has begun. While I am somewhat disappointed I haven't accomplished more, I can say that I am genuinely pleased to have made a dent in the massive cleanup job.

Finish Time: 2:45

The Hard-Won Joys of Downhill Skiing

It's no secret downhill skiing is a laborious endeavor. First, there's the getting to the mountain, often in bad weather or on roads that are less than clear. Next you have to either haul your equipment out of the car (and that's just the beginning) or -- if you don't own skis, boots, and poles -- rent them in the shop at the base of the mountain. (For the uninformed, ski boots are clumsy, heavy, and mighty painful if dropped on bare toes. Ouch!) Some people say "no, thanks" to the sport for these reasons because, let's face it, what's involved in skiing makes it a big pain in the a**.

But there's plenty more. The cost is OUT OF THIS WORLD -- the lift tickets, equipment, lessons, clothes. (Don't lose your goggles! Replacing them will set you back about another $20.) Very few of us are lucky enough to live near Jay Peak, Keystone, or Schweitzer. We must drive quite a ways to get to a decent (or mediocre) ski resort, making the expense of the gas involved another big deterring factor. Accommodations are often required. Do I hear a cash register ringing in the distance? And if you want to go to a really awesome place to ski like the Alps, you'd better be filthy rich because you will also be shelling out for a plane ticket/s. (I'm grateful I had the opportunity to ski in Innsbruck, Austria, when I was in high school because I certainly can't afford to take that trip with my kids today!)

You might be turned off by the discomfort. The bulky clothes, inclement weather, stiff boots. I had to laugh two days ago when watching news coverage of the Boston-area teen, Nicholas Joy, found in great shape following two nights alone and lost after skiing at Maine's Sugarloaf Mountain. Someone, probably the anchor, asked the reporter on the scene if this resourceful youth was limping. "No, that's just the way you walk in ski boots," the reporter replied.

Indeed.

Perhaps you get annoyed by the distances you sometimes need to walk while carrying your equipment to get to where you're going -- your car in a faraway parking lot or the gondola you want to ride. Once in a while you end up a heckuva long way from the base lodge on flat ground, meaning you have to trek across the mountain either because you took the wrong trail to the bottom or you couldn't choose the right one on account of it being too difficult. Getting stuck in this manner used to happen to me CONSTANTLY when I was a child. I then became all hot and sweaty inside my ten layers of clothing from the poling I had to do to propel myself to my destination.

Another variation on making an unfortunate choice while skiing is missing the turn onto the continuation of the easier trail and inadvertently winding up on a double black diamond. As you peer down the vertical super-expert run dotted with intimidating moguls, you need to hurry to the side SO AS NOT TO BE RUN INTO before carefully sidestepping your way uphill -- another exercise in perspiration-making, incidentally -- until you reach the trail junction where you can relax, relatively speaking. If you don't care to risk your neck, the other alternative is taking your boots out of your bindings and walking down the slope. That just feels like a cop out to me, so I never do it. (Maybe that's why I got a contusion to my rotator cuff on "Devil's Fiddle" at Killington twenty-five years ago!)

With so much first-class aggravation going for it, why ski? Better yet, why put yourself through the MAJOR HASSLE of taking your family skiing? Because, simply, skiing is the best sport on the planet!

I crave the cool, invigorating wilderness air against my skin; the breathtaking view from the top; the feel of powder (not too much as I am an East Coast-bred skier) underski; and the thrill of carving turns (or bombing my way) down. I am nothing to look at on the slopes, believe me! I attribute this to not taking enough lessons, preferring instead to ski on my own in whatever haphazard manner does the trick. True, I don't have great style, and I don't wear cute outfits. I dress for warmth. But though I've never officially raced, I am fast. I've noticed this tendency throughout my life while skiing with other people. I beat many of them to the bottom without trying. Yet above all, I love the freedom of being on the mountain concentrating on just one, purely exhilarating activity: making it down in one piece while having a blast before coming to a snow-spraying slamming stop at the end of the chairlift line. "WOW!" I blurt out to no one in particular, unable to contain my joy. Those nearby nod or verbally agree because they know what I'm talking about. They feel the same way I do as we are cut from the same cloth.

When I say "free," I mean that literally, though not in the monetary sense, of course. My mother was very overprotective of me, her only child, as I was growing up. I was sheltered and felt confined . . . BUT NOT WHILE SKIING! My parents -- born and raised New Yorkers -- didn't really ski, but they still took me a few days or less most winters from the time I was about seven on, bless their souls. We lived in Connecticut, so the first "mountain" I tackled was actually a hill, Powder Hill. (The name was changed to the more adventurous-sounding Powder Ridge when I was nine.) My godmother and her family regularly took incredible ski holidays, and we were occasionally invited along. Jackpot! Through them, I got to go to Stowe and Bromley, and one winter I did a weeklong ski camp at Sunapee with the youngest daughter. H and I are the same age, and we ended up going to college together as well. The piece de resistance, however, was a trip I took with her and her mother to Bavaria when I was a teenager. It was H's school trip. My mother went with me, of course. She wouldn't have let me on the plane otherwise. I felt her hawkeyed presence keenly, yet on the breathtaking Austrian slopes I was FREEEEE because she stayed behind in the lodge. In typical fashion, I got myself in over my head: I accidentally skied down the Men's Olympic Grand Slalom course from the recent 1976 Games. LOL. It was one of my best early stories: how I got off the chairlift, skied a short way, stopped, looked back, and beheld a giant white wooden board featuring the unmistakable multi-colored linked rings known the world over! YIKES. Also in typical fashion, I managed to get myself down oh, so very carefully yet still completely unscathed. I remember being completely wiped out afterward . . . but also JAZZED BEYOND BELIEF!

It would be a no-brainer then that I would introduce my children to skiing and, God willing, they would take to it as much as I have. Thus far, the first mission has been accomplished, and I'm getting there with the second. Christopher, age nine, adores the sport. He took four group lessons three years ago at Bradford, the small family mountain closest to our Massachusetts home. It was a good beginning. My third-grade football player is solid on his skis. Since then he has progressed to intermediate slopes at that mountain and King Pine, a bigger one in New Hampshire. He generally skis with me but has gone down alone, meeting me at the chairlift line after I veered off onto an expert run. I wanted to check it out to see if I felt he could handle it. Conclusion: too steep at this time. He took a racing clinic over Christmas break at Bradford that was reduced from three days to one due to lack of snow. He wanted to join the mountain's ski team, but we learned that it filled up some two months earlier.

Charlie, almost seven, is coming along nicely. Starting at a younger age than Christopher, he took the group lessons two winters in a row. He's a strong boy yet is turned off fast if things don't go his way. Slightly icy conditions, a fall (or many falls), snow in the mittens, poor weather. It's understandable. I get it. Skiing's a tough sport, and he's young. During our recent vacation at King Pine, I never once bought him a full-day lift ticket because I knew he would bail in under two hours, probably more like half that time. He likes to ski but isn't ready to commit to a long day of it, especially when he can spend part of that day building all kinds of structures in KP's child-care center.

Despite the extra expense, I don't mind too much dropping him off there because it gives me a chance to ski with Christopher on more challenging terrain. Though not as experienced, he doesn't really slow me down, and that makes me very happy. We both skied a race run a number of times at King Pine, and it was an ABSOLUTE REVELATION for me. I loved it. I couldn't get enough of it. I did it FIVE TIMES IN A ROW then -- like Rand Paul filibustering the Senate -- was unable to hold nature back any longer and took a bathroom break. The interruption caused my time on my sixth run to go up, though only slightly. All of us, even Charlie, were given blue ribbons for participating in the unofficial race. (And, yes, Charlie did try it out.) Mine doesn't represent a true-blue first-place win, but I did clock the second-fastest time of anyone I saw during those six runs. What's more, mountain personnel and a child racer I know said my time was "very good," so I am choosing to believe them. My scrappy style won't allow me to excel in slalom events, but I can skid around a gate on a downhill course like nobody's business!

I hope we can ski a few more times before the season is out then take it up another notch next year. We'll try new mountains. Charlie will log more ski hours, and maybe Chris will join a team. As for me, I'll be jonesing to hit more race runs. Watch out, Lindsey Vonn!

Well, a girl can dream anyway.

When Things Get Dicey: Part II (Risk-Taking Gone Awry)

There is Mother Nature. And there is Mother's Nature. The two are very different. The first can involuntarily impose dicey conditions on oneself and one's family while the second does so with the element of choice, at least partially.

Here's what I'm talking about: Last month I got myself into a potentially dangerous situation -- a fine pickle, really -- when I ran out of gas on the highway. As a full-time single mother, putting myself at risk means also putting my two young sons at risk. I had no excuse for such stupidity, but I will explain.

I take chances. Chances others wouldn't take. Chances others only dream about. Chances such as traveling around Great Britain and Western Europe alone. Upping it to Nepal and Thailand then pushing the envelope further by leading a friend across Asia and the South Pacific. Enrolling in a month-long mountaineering course after having only camped a couple of weekends in my life. And more adventures that include hitchhiking, another international border crossing (yes, "another" is the accurate word here), memoir-writing (very scary, indeed!), and getting caught up in a democracy revolution overseas that turned deadly. Quitting jobs without other ones to go to and starting grad school on the eve of turning forty felt tame to me; choosing to become a 24/7 single mother of two children with no built-in support network did not.

My life today as the latter is a risk, no question about it. On a daily basis, it provides me with plenty of mundane chores and the need to bring home the bacon. It does not offer me, however, the kind of chance-taking I relish. (I should add here that, though I have found myself in plenty of scrapes from these adventures -- of course, it is a numbers game after all -- I have never gotten myself hurt or in any serious trouble from them. As a result, I keep looking for more.)

Don't get me wrong. I did not set out to run out of gas on the highway! Absolutely not. I simply pushed the limit on how far one can drive after the gas light comes on. Previously, I had driven thirty-five or thirty-seven miles after first spotting the tiny bright yellow circle on the dashboard of my Toyota 4Runner. On this particular day, I knew I was up there in the thirties range. I remembered the last two digits of my SUV's mileage count when the light came on, and I was in the process of adding the new miles traveled up to the present mileage count when I made the fateful decision to head towards the highway rather than a gas station in my town. I was late for an appointment. While I believed I couldn't make it all the way there, I felt I could get to the first exit where I knew of a self-serve station nearby. (All the stations in my town are full-serve and, if I can help it, I prefer not to pay the extra charge.)

By the time I'd finished adding in my head, it was too late to make a different decision. I was entering Route 128. My count: forty-five miles. Holy crap! About eight miles more than I'd ever pushed it. Now let's not get ahead of ourself. I'd HEARD (or maybe it was some sort of vague recollection) that a driver has fifty miles to play with. I wasn't sure if this was true, but I would be fine if it was. In any case, I launched into a fervent bout of reciting the Lord's Prayer.

You can never pray too much, especially at a time like this!

Shortly, I passed a highway sign saying the first exit was half a mile away. "Come on, come on, COME ON!" I prodded. The car started to slow down (SHIT!), and I hit the hazard-lights button. Vehicles behind me noticed and pulled into the fast lane (GOOD!). I pulled into the breakdown lane. Like Kramer on that hilarious Seinfeld episode when he takes a dealership car for a test drive until it runs out of gas, I felt a certain exhilaration at the moment my car rolled to a stop. But the feeling was mixed with dread, naturally, because now I'd done it. I'd REALLY done it! I was here . . . on the highway . . . stuck between exits . . . with no transportation . . . and all alone. Kramer was ACCOMPANIED by a dealership employee in their FICTIONAL storyline. That was a TV show; this was my real life.

As the impact of what had just transpired sunk in, my mind began to race in a panic. My first thought was that I did not want to wait in the car for help. I did not care to be trapped inside if the wrong person approached. So I got out and started walking. It was around 9 a.m. and warm enough in January that I did not need my hat and mittens. I left them on the passenger seat. My second thought was that I hoped no one I knew from my very small town saw me because I did not want to be the subject of nasty chatter. ("O.M.G. I just saw SHELBY walking along the highway! I don't know what the hell she was doing, but she is such a WEIRDO!") My third thought was that school pickup was at noon instead of 3 p.m. because it was a half day. This ordeal had better be over in time!

I had only walked maybe thirty feet when a car pulled over in front of me. It was dark red (same color as mine); a Toyota (same make as mine); and a Prius, which told me the owner was environmental (hallelujah!). The driver, whom I shall call N, got out and watched me approach. She was far enough ahead that the distance gave each of us a chance to check the other out. She saw a blond woman with shoulder-length hair in a turquoise down jacket and brown casual pants; I saw an attractive brunette a little younger than myself and about the same height dressed in black from head to toe. N looked cool, not dangerous. We spoke as I got closer, and I made a split-second decision that she was a good person with good intentions. Please, Lord, let me be right! She offered me a ride, and I happily accepted.

Let me stop and say that had the driver been male, I'm not sure what I would have done. Would I have gotten in his car? I don't believe so. Probably, I would have politely declined the ride and kept walking. It was about a quarter-mile to the exit then another one to two miles to a Mobil gas station. I hadn't had time to think through my course of action. Call a friend? Call AAA? All I knew at that point was that I didn't want to stay in the car. I wasn't going to be a sitting duck.

No way, no how.

N was friendly. We immediately clicked and assured one other of our intentions: she wanted to help me, and I needed help. She called her husband on her cell phone to tell him she'd picked up a strange female on her way to work and promised to report back to him in ten minutes. I knew it was her insurance policy in case I turned out to be a nefarious chick masquerading as an innocent-looking suburban damsel in distress. I got it and was fine with it, though I was still too pumped with adrenaline to think of taking out my own coverage on her. N said she stopped because she saw me walking in the breakdown lane (practically hugging the metal guardrail, to be exact) and didn't think it looked right. She works at Harvard doing research in a women's center, so she is arguably more aware than other people of women seeming out of place in certain situations and more concerned than other people when she sees them. While it is always disconcerting to see someone (anyone!) walking alone along the highway, I can imagine that the sight of Darien, Connecticut-bred little ol' me -- you can take the girl out of Darien, but you can't take the Darien out of the girl -- doing so gave her pause. She felt compassion, if some trepidation because she did not know me, and pulled over.

I expressed to her how grateful I was, how I hadn't formulated my plan of action yet, but how I just felt I should start walking. Truthfully, I wouldn't have been at all surprised if I'd ended up hoofing it the entire two-something miles. (It's always useful to be a hiker and to wear comfortable shoes.) Or I might have hitchhiked -- selectively choosing, as I have in the past, whose car I would get into and whose I would not -- once I reached the street where the gas station is located. But I didn't have to further contemplate these alternatives because N had come to my rescue! She was my hero. I instructed her on how to get to the Mobil station I knew from my years taking my sons to a preschool in that neighborhood. I would get (if they loaned me one) or buy (if they did not) a gas can, fill it up, then have her drive me back to my SUV.

Problem solved, easy as pie. Right?

Not so fast. I found a bright orange plastic number in the station's store. The elderly male cashier showed me how to position the spout so I could affix it properly to the can once I got back to the highway. It seemed rather simple. I filled up the can at the pump, paid for the can and gas, and headed back to my vehicle in my savior's Prius. She and I decided it was wise for her to stick around until I got the gas in my 4Runner.

Let me tell you: It's hairy being in the breakdown lane -- inside or outside of a car -- on a major highway! Vehicles whiz past only feet away at fifty-five miles per hour or more. One tiny snafu in the regular flow of speedy traffic, and I (or both of us) become instantaneous roadkill. Nonetheless, I was very grateful for a number of things: the not-too-cold weather (didn't have to deal with THAT annoyance/safety concern), the prominent location of my vehicle on a slight incline following a fairly long straightaway, and the clear visibility of the day.

N parked a couple of car lengths behind my SUV. That gave highway drivers even more reason to see us on the side of the road and keep their distance. (We were very strategic, you see.) I got out of the Prius and attempted to pour the gas from the can into the tank of my Toyota. Now I was standing mere inches from the right lane and less than two feet from passing vehicles! Come on, hurry, hurry! But nothing came out, not even a measly drop. I walked to the back of my vehice to a slightly safer spot and fiddled with the spout. Nothing. Then I retreated to the Prius, and N got out to take a look. She fiddled with the spout. Nothing.

Argh!

We both got back in her car and returned to the gas station. I took the can in and showed it to one of close to a dozen or so construction workers who happened to be there working on a project inside the store. He fiddled with it, took it outside, and tipped it to pour. Nothing. He grabbed another gas can off the shelf, swapped the spout for my spout, and walked outside to try that one. Still nothing.

WTF?

More construction workers got in on the act as well as the manager of the station. Nothing. No one could figure out how to get the darn gas to come out of the spout! It was like the old joke from my childhood: "How many [fill in the blanks] does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" Only this version was, "How many construction workers does it take to screw in a gas-can spout [and get it to work]?" The answer is: It doesn't matter how many you have if the spout/gas can is DEFECTIVE. Yes, that's right. I bought a defective product.

Next up: Plan B.

N had the brilliant idea to pour the gas out of the can through a funnel into the tank. That sounded doable, yet I wasn't sure if we could obtain a funnel small enough to do the trick without spilling gasoline all over the place. I went inside the store and found a stack of paper funnels. They were the flimsiest funnels you ever did see! I could have made them myself. I grabbed a bunch and took them outside. The hole in the bottom of each inverted cone fit nicely in the gas tank opening of her Prius. Great. I wondered, however, about the gas soaking through the thin paper, creating a big mess. For that reason, I felt we should use a thick stack of funnels to contain the gas. N pointed out that the holes in the cones didn't line up properly the thicker the stack became. She held the stack in front of me, and I could see that she was right. She believed only about three funnels would suffice AND would hold back the gas from leaking through the paper if we poured quickly enough. I said okay, so we experimented on her car. We poured in a small amount of gas. Success!

N sure is one smart cookie.

Ready once again, we drove back out to the highway, a small stack of clean funnels in hand. We parked then walked to my SUV. With N holding the funnels steadily in place, I carefully though gingerly poured the gas into the tank. All of it went inside, and not a single drop ended up on either of us or the pavement. We disposed of the empty plastic container and used funnels in a giant black garbage bag I put in the back of my vehicle. N went to her car, and I got in mine. She followed me back to the Mobil station, our third time there. I handed over the garbage bag and got a refund on the bum spout/gas can (they gave me the funnels) then thanked and said goodbye to the wonderful N who has since become a Facebook friend and blog follower. She told me picking me up was the craziest thing she'd ever done. I listened appreciatively but did not respond because, well, um, being picked up by N was not even close to being the craziest thing I'd ever done! After she drove off, I filled up my tank. The whole adventure -- made much longer on account of the poorly made spout/gas can, ahem! -- took one hour and forty-five minutes. I arrived at my appointment very late yet still had plenty of time before school pickup.

Awesome.

I felt both extremely blessed that it had worked out all right and profoundly humbled by the kindness of my rescuer. The situation could have ended very badly, indeed. Instead, I was as lucky as I could have been under the circumstances. Still, I felt quite shook up. I passed the rest of the day in something like a state of shock.

The next morning I woke up teary-eyed. I spent the day in a blubbering funk of the kind only a mother truly knows. I call it my "Tipper Gore Depression." It's a melancholy that strikes a mother after she feels like she has failed to keep her child or children safe. In the former Second Lady's case, I do not know specifically if she felt this way. This is just what I call MY feeling as I imagine what she must have gone through after her son, Al Gore III, was hit by a car as a child. My highway adventure did not involve my children. Yet, indirectly, it did IN A VERY BIG WAY because I am their mother, their sole parent, in fact. I need to keep myself intact, healthy, and out of dangerous situations as my sons rely on me every single day.

It was irresponsible of me to run out of gas, especially on a highway, in this day and age when gas lights warn drivers they are nearing EMPTY. It was foolhardy of me to tempt fate by continuing to drive well past the number of miles I knew was doable. It was a boneheaded move. That's for sure. But I am human, so I make mistakes and take chances at times when I probably shouldn't. Fortunately, my miscalculation didn't end up costing me.

Thank you, Lord! I will try to do better next time.

When Things Get Dicey: Part I (The Wrath of Nemo)

With gargantuan-sized storms in the forecast more and more frequently these days, protecting one's children from harm is taking on a whole new meaning. Last weekend Nemo, the far-reaching blizzard with the same name as a loveable animated clownfish, arrived at this single mother's doorstep with a vengeance.

First came the preparations. The stocking up on food (especially canned goods) and batteries. On Thursday, I combined an appointment "downtown" (a more urban area, relatively speaking) with a visit to Market Basket. Not my MB of choice, though. Let me tell you: The place was PACKED, with not a single shopping cart available. I have never seen so many people in a supermarket in my life! The checkout lines were unreal. Bread lines in the Great Depression came to mind. I felt a sense of panic in the air as people poured in and filled up the aisles in search of provisions. I grabbed one of the few red plastic baskets I could find and dashed about scooping up exactly twelve items so I could go in the express lane. That seemed to be the way to go.

I stopped by again after my appointment. Under normal circumstances, I would have probably had enough time to gather and pay for everything I needed. But in these conditions I was at a loss as to what to do because I had to get back to pick up my boys at school at 3 p.m. So I dashed about collecting another dozen items yet this time found the express line just as long as the other lines. There was no way to bypass the crowd! Meanwhile, I've learned a handy tip at MY MB that I suspect is not well-known. If you load up then have to leave in a hurry -- as is so often the case with parents -- you can ask someone at Customer Service to put your cart or basket in their refrigerated room until you return. The MB I was at that day may also have one of these rooms, but it would have been inconvenient for me to return because I live twentyish minutes away as compared to twelve for my local MB. So I told an employee of my predicament. He courteously took my basket from me, saying he understood and would happily return my selections to the shelves.

I let the boys play after school for a few minutes before we hit the road for my THIRD visit to a grocery store in one day. The boys are rowdy when together, of course, so I avoid taking them shopping when at all possible. Now I had no choice. MB Gloucester was crowded but not excessively so. The lines were long but not excessively so. The customers were focused but not excessively so. I did not feel impending Armageddon as I had in Danvers. We did what we had to do and went home. Among my purchases: two multi-packs of AA batteries to keep our four small handheld flashlights sufficiently powered. (I also have two camping lanterns.) We didn't need water because I still have FIVE unopened gallon containers from the previous giant storm that didn't materialize. And my shovel supply -- three, one for each of us -- was also sufficient. I filled the gas tank of my car on the way home.

The next morning school was canceled, though a single snowflake had not yet fallen from the sky. With talk on the TV news about Nemo reaching fever pitch, I felt somehow unprepared, if you can believe that. So I dragged the boys
out AGAIN -- my fourth visit to a food store in two days -- to pick up orange juice, another gallon container of milk, and canned vegetables. (I hate canned vegetables.) Was I going CRAZY? It hadn't occurred to me that I needed two gallons of milk (actually more because wiry Charlie drinks 2 percent while Chris and I consume fat free) until I saw someone on the news with a ridiculous amount of milk in his cart. Then again it would be awful to run out if we were snowed in for days at a time. I could just hear my sons complaining about no milk for their cereal and, horror of horrors, don't get me started on how cranky I could get if I had to make hot chocolate with water instead of milk!

The storm started later that day. I was on the phone at 11 p.m. when I heard a loud BOOM behind my house. Immediately, my lights went out. Here we go! I thought. My bestie camping lantern was in the next room. I could find it in the dark. I was ready, if a bit nervous what the next few days would bring.

The power was still out come Saturday morning. Christopher, who has been camping with me for years, had the brilliant idea to pack refrigerator items with snow in our cooler. I thanked my pragmatic nine year old and went to work, though in actuality I was not too worried about food spoilage anytime soon since my downstairs was as good as outside cold. (With the radiant heat going kaput this winter, I have fancied myself the hardy caretaker of a quaint, weathered shingle summer home on Nantucket instead of the annoyed, corner-cutting owner of a lemon pre-fab willing to suffer New England in February brought indoors to save a few bucks. True, I can get away with it because the downstairs is my enclave; the boys sleep upstairs.) Almost as soon as I'd finished my cooler masterpiece and posted a photo of it on Facebook, the electricity came back on. Something like two minutes later, it was out again. Two more times during the day transformers blew like not-so-distant gunshots, followed closely behind by power outages. Let's just say: I wasn't holding my breath that I'd be able to use the microwave by dinnertime!

Feelin' like a yo-yo, Nemo!

Meanwhile, the snow was piling up, and the wind was howling. I could open the back door -- a relief, indeed, since I am old enough to remember snowstorms from my Connecticut childhood that rendered our front and back doors blocked and frozen shut. The man who plows our small, private cul-de-sac and its three driveways had already come twice. Ka-Ching! A $60 bill for me thus far. But that didn't mean my driveway was clear. Far from it! The plow driver has to work in fairly tight quarters, which can be a problem with something like two feet of snow on the ground already. I ventured out to have a look. Just as I suspected: a large snowbank behind my car, another on the side of the driveway (and too far into my path for the car to clear when I backed out), and too much snow on the pavement for me to ensure not getting stuck. I went inside and enlisted the boys' help.

We shoveled and shoveled and shoveled. They slid down the side snowbank on a plastic saucer. Charlie, age 6, got too much snow inside his boots and went inside. Christopher and I attempted a snowman in the back yard. We found our building material too light and fluffy for packing, and we sunk too deep to gain proper footing. Before dark, I cross-country skied around the yard and street on skis my parents bought me in 1978, the year of Boston's most infamous snowstorm.

The power had stayed on since mid-afternoon. That was the good news. The bad? The house was becoming increasingly cold. Remember I told you I had no heat downstairs BEFORE the storm? Well, the lower level was now warmer than the upper level. The antiquated thermostat had conked out but had not come back on with the resumption of power. I couldn't check the temperature upstairs. I tried to chalk up my chill to getting cold outside and/or the fact that it's just a cold house, period. Deep down I suspected we'd lost heat, but I was in denial. I didn't want to believe it; I wasn't ready to admit it. The boys were managing well snuggling together under fleece blankets watching movies and playing on Christopher's new iPod. Meantime, I coped by donning a cap and layer after layer of clothing before drinking mug after mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows.

Heading out again to fetch that second gallon of fat-free milk turned out to be a BRILLIANT idea!

Sunday was going to be busy. I had to prepare for my Monday memoir-writing class, and I wanted to get the boys to Bradford Mountain to enjoy the phenomenal new snow on skis. There was no time to be stuck in the house waiting for the heating guy to arrive! In case you're wondering: yes, I have my priorities straight. In a matchup of skiing vs. heat, I choose skiing.

By the time we left for the ski area, I could see my breath inside the house. My pen barely worked, and my handwriting looked like a second grader's. But come hell or high water -- or the Arctic or high snow, as it were -- we would make it to the slopes if it was the last thing we did!

We arrived mid-afternoon and ate lunch. Extremely late arrivals like us can ski for only $15 a person starting at 3 p.m., I learned. (Closing time is 4:30 on Sundays.) Fantastic. I rented Charlie some skis and Christopher a helmet and off we went to the faraway Learning Area. We didn't have enough time to explore more of the mountain. Plus, we needed a meltdown-free experience to make up for Charlie's ill-fated adventure the last time here when he wore his brother's too-long skis on an intermediate run. (My bad.)

Only problem: Charlie could not get INTO his skis! WTF? It reminded me of two years ago when he was just starting out and had trouble holding his foot still and straight long enough to fit the toe of his boot into the top of the binding AND pushing his foot down hard enough to snap the back section of binding around his boot. Yet this issue seemed different. His boot extended too far back across the binding. The mountain was beginning to clear out, but I saw a ski instructor in her ubiquitous red parka close by and called her over. Sure enough, the boot didn't fit the binding, she said. Argh. Charlie had first tried on size 2 boots. The bindings on a pair of skis were adjusted accordingly. In typical fashion, he then changed his mind, deciding the boots were too small. So we exchanged them for size 3s, but the rental staff forgot to refit the bindings.

I hustled back to the rental building with the skis and explained the situation. The bindings were readjusted, and I trudged back across the mountain to where the boys waited for me. About fifteen minutes had been lost all told. It was 3:40 p.m. by the time we took our first ride on the rope tow. Charlie was in a good mood and skied well. Toward the end of our fifty minutes, Christopher asked to go off on his own, which I allowed. The Learning Area is very small, so my nine year old would be skiing literally adjacent to our run. Though he wore dark clothing, he was fairly easy to pick out among the other skiers. At that late hour, there weren't too many anyway.

We went back to the lodge for a snack after the lifts closed. I was happy with our brief visit yet a tad annoyed about the bindings snafu that cost us valuable time. As I returned the equipment, I brought it up with the rental staff. They referred me to the ski area's manager. I found him back at the lodge. He acknowledged his employees' neglect in rechecking the bindings and, to make up for it, handed me a full-day ski pass worth $45! That seemed very fair, so I thanked him.

Bradford Mountain: two thumbs up.

Meanwhile, dreading reentering my igloo (I mean, house), I delayed the inevitable by taking the boys out to dinner. Still, I couldn't procrastinate forever. I had to deal with the very strong possibility I had no heat. I needed to contact my heating oil company and make an appointment for the next morning. However, I was also supposed to teach the next morning. I didn't expect that the community center where my class is held would be closed since it doesn't have to follow public-school closings. But if my town's schools were closed, I'd have a problem because I would have no child care. Though I knew he would not be pleased, it would be okay to take Christopher to class;  it would be another story altogether bringing rambunctious Charlie. I tried that once before in desperation, and it did not go well. (Enough said.) Final answer: Charlie was NOT coming with me.

Good ol' trusty Facebook. I put out a call for a playdate for my younger son. No one responded by bedtime. Waking up the next morning, I decided to postpone class. My students had previously been flexible. I hoped they would be again. Surely, they would understand my predicament. When I checked Facebook again, I found an offer of a playdate. Terrific. But I'd already made my decision.

The overworked heating guy arrived in the late morning and stayed two to three hours. He succeeded in getting the heat circulating upstairs (yes, it had shut down!) and downstairs (first time this winter!), and he replaced the nonfunctional thermostat. I was shocked to see the Aprilaire he installed reading 43 DEGREES! Indeed, we had been living indoors under outdoor February conditions, minus the wind!

Winter camping, anyone?!

The temperature rose gradually throughout the day. After lunch I whisked the boys off first to the library then second to the community center we belong to for some basketball and swimming, as I didn't care to stick around to watch the number increase one degree at a time. That would have been tantamount to watching grass grow. When we returned home at twilight, the thermostat read 56 degrees -- practically Florida weather! -- and not far off my set temp of 62.

The boys had school the following morning, and I could finally relax in a warm (relatively speaking) house with electricity. It had been a stressful four days, though it was punctuated by many joyful periods -- watching and listening to my boys play nicely together both in the house and snow and skiing and eating out with them. Since I had impressed upon them that we were in a tense situation, they did not give me the usual grief of fighting. I had my hands full dealing with the effects of Nemo and needed them to cooperate, and they most assuredly did. For that, I am most grateful.

Coping with an emergency -- even one with the silliest of names -- stretches a single mother but does not defeat her.

Being Enough

Don't we all need a little redemption from time to time?

Beyonce got hers during her electrifying half-time show at the Super Bowl. Many people would say she didn't need any because she had nothing to apologize for at the presidential inauguration. (And she didn't apologize). Others, including myself, felt lip-synching "The Star-Spangled Banner" two weeks ago seemed a tad like a copout and diminished the sanctity of the occasion. (I'm a tough critic. What do you expect from a Virgo?!)

Well, now I say "nevermind." Whichever side of the debate you were on, if you took a side at all, or maybe you just didn't care, it is now pretty much a moot point after Sunday's performance. Beyonce, the pop goddess extraordinaire, is in the clear. Her already-lofty star is rising. Maybe she really did cause that pesky blackout!

Mere mortals such as ourselves don't have to take the heat in such a public way for our real or perceived failings or less effortful and frowned-upon shortcuts. Yet in our own way, far from a grand stage, we feel the need for redemption from our imperfections. We feel not organized enough, not energetic enough, not cool-headed enough, not financially sound enough, and more.

I know I do.

As a full-time single mother, I am "not enough" many things. I am never enough everything or maybe even not enough anything. Raising two young boys alone has been difficult, especially since they are opposites and fight a lot as a result. However, I am very grateful for many things about them -- one of which is their easygoing attitude toward the many ways I can't measure up.

I look around my home and see and feel these ways clear as day. The mess. The unopened mail. The piles of laundry. The dishes in the sink. The broken cabinet door. The peeling ceiling paint from the leak. The chilly air downstairs from the radiant heat inexplicably not working this winter. The jumble of indoor Christmas lights lying on the living room floor. The box of holiday photo cards still nearly half full. The brochures on the kitchen counter from a trip to New Hampshire in the summer of 2010. (Or was it 2009?) The coat rack still in pieces folded up inside its box at least a year after purchase.

I am also reminded of my inadequacies while out and about. The artistic cupcakes and cake pops made by fifth-grade mothers on sale at basketball clinic. (I don't bake such things.) The expensive Tory Burch flats worn at school pickup. (Depending on the season, I'm in either my black Merrell Jungle Mocs that hide the dirt or my ancient Keen Newport H2 sandals.)

I am made aware of my handicaps while trolling Facebook. The furniture pinned on Pinterest. (I am too busy to take on another online time suck.) The games I'm invited to play such as Farmville and apps I'm asked to download including "I want to add your birthday." (Ditto.) The shared recipes I won't be jotting down. (Not much of a cook.)

Neither of my sons, bless their souls, has complained about the state of our home. Believe me, they have every right to! My boys have rarely found fault with my cooking or lack thereof. Again I wouldn't hold it against them if they did. Neither has bemoaned the fact that they don't have a dog or cat, been out of the country, to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studios, to anywhere other than Florida by plane, or regularly attend professional ballgames like several of their classmates.

They would like all of these things, of course. Why wouldn't they?! Yes, the desire has been expressed. Now I have taken them twice to an HP exhibit at Boston's Museum of Science -- we are very big fans of Ron Weasley and crew -- and Christopher has been to one Red Sox game. But the reality is: I cannot accommodate this list due to finances and me being just flat out with enough on my plate.

Enough. There's that word again.

God gave me the right first son. Christopher, age 9, seems to understand my single-mother challenges and cuts me some slack. He doesn't get upset (or too upset) if we or he can't do something fun because of a conflicting responsibility of mine or an unwillingness to get with the program by his brother. He takes the disappointment in stride. I really appreciate that. For my part, I do all I can to oblige his desires, money-, logistics-, and schedule-permitting.

Since Charlie is still six, I can't expect him to be as mature as his brother when he is denied something he wants to do or isn't included in an invitation for Christopher. For example, two weekends in a row Chris was asked over to the home of the same friend, first for a birthday party and second for a group movie night. Charlie, who is very competitive, was upset not to be included. I have explained to my younger son many times that it does no one any good to keep tabs on how many invitations come to him as compared to his brother. Nevertheless, Charlie can't help his driven nature.

In a failing of my own, I work overtime to keep the peace by trying to find him fun plans to compensate. The first night was easy: I took the birthday boy's brother, who happens to be one of Charlie's best friends, bowling with us. The following weekend I sensed my task would be more difficult, and it was. I put out a call on Facebook for suggestions for things Charlie and I could do. When I decided on painting pottery at a nearby clay studio, I put out a second call for companions. That, plus three direct messages to particular friends' mothers, came up empty. Yet my last ditch effort succeeded when I stopped at a buddy's home, and the family invited us in for the evening.

Hurray, problem solved! (Okay, this one problem.)

The boys' fights also bring out my flawed parenting style. Invariably, Charlie creates the problem by attacking Christopher or bugging him in some way/s that is almost always physical. Christopher hates the behavior, calls Charlie a "jerk" and other choice putdowns, and tries his best to fight him off. (That's easier said than done, by the way, as wiry Charlie has taken down the largest FOURTH GRADER in the school. I have this on word from the boy himself. There are other stories I could tell about Charlie's "street cred," as one mother puts it. But I'll save those for a future post.)

With such a toughie in action -- I would put money on Charlie in a heartbeat to win ANY fight among first graders -- my No. 1 goal is to separate my sons so Christopher doesn't get hurt. Did I mention Christopher is among the largest THIRD GRADERS in the school and a member of the second-best football team in the league? YEAH. And as a fifty-one-year-old woman who has had a back injury, I am certainly reluctant to get in the middle of one of these brotherly scuffles. I have peeled Charlie off Christopher countless times, yet the older I get and the taller he gets the less I am willing to do so. In breaking up a fight, I choose instead to do what works: I order Christopher to his room. "I am NOT PUNISHING you," I clarify. "I am SEPARATING you and trying to PROTECT you."

Christopher justifiably protests, saying it's unfair HE has to go to his room. (Their room, actually.) I COMPLETELY agree with him and tell him so later after things have calmed down. Still, the fact remains: Christopher is easier for me to deal with, so I choose to deal with him. Now don't get me wrong. I come down verbally on Charlie. (Part of my not-cool-headed-enough weakness.) But I don't sufficiently punish him because I'm just too tired to be a proper enforcer.

Charlie poses a special challenge for me and, as he turns seven years of age next month, I have yet to crack the code on exactly how to handle him when he decides to go after his brother in an animalistic fashion. I've recently enrolled him in Tae Kwon Do, which he loves and is very good at. No surprise there. I've watched him win a board-breaking kicking contest against everyone in class including older boys. And, on another occasion, he beat the star student in the more advanced class, a third grader who regularly demonstrates moves to the beginners. Charlie is something else, let me tell you. I am convinced of that.

I am well-aware I do not hold him accountable enough when he shows his aggression in an unconstructive manner. I impress upon him that his conduct is unacceptable, hurts his brother, and will not be tolerated. But my explanations seem to still fall on deaf ears from time and time. They simply are not enough.

When our efforts are not enough, we need redemption. We need to say, "I AM enough." And we need to believe it.

Lucky 13?

Since I was born on the thirteenth, I have always considered thirteen my lucky number. It would follow then that 2013 should be my lucky year. Just to make things even clearer to me, the universe has arranged for my birthday this year to fall on a Friday.

"But that's an unlucky day," you claim.

"Oh, phooey!" I reply. "I don't believe in such nonsense."

True, I am not superstitious per se, and I have no solid proof the number thirteen has done anything special for me at all that, say, the number four hasn't. (I choose four because a palm reader once told me four would be an important number in my life. I'm still waiting to find out how.)

"Aha!" you say. "You visit palm readers."

"Only once," I answer. "On a lark."

Nevermind. The point is: I really need a lucky year right about now, and all signs indicate this one could be it. Er, except for the eensy weensy fact that I am already in the hole to the tune of more than $3,000, and January isn't even over yet! (More on that financial sucker punch later.)

Anyway a new year offers the chance for a fresh start, a clean slate, and the hope that one's life will improve in all the various ways that really matter. So I am grabbing onto 2013, particularly the last two digits of the number, and testing my theory about the luckiness of a baker's dozen for me.

If the past is any guide, my results will be mixed. When I turned thirteen on a Friday in 1974, I went on a church-group canoe trip for the day with my mother. As we paddled past a man fishing on the banks of the Housatonic, someone called out to him for the time. A few minutes later, the canoes entered rapids, and our boat capsized. Based on the time given by the man, the incident happened at the exact hour and minute I was born on a Wednesday in 1961. My mother and I were fine, but I lost a sweatshirt. Were we lucky not to have been hurt or worse? Yes. Was I unlucky to lose my warm clothing? Yes.

Verdict: A (river) wash. Score .5 for Lucky 13.

Many years later, in 1996, I threw a Friday the 13th party for my thirty-fifth birthday. I decorated my home with broken mirrors, a ladder, black cat, and other symbols of bad luck. I was trying to thumb my nose at the very unscientific belief that causes office buildings to be labeled as missing thirteenth floors and the Super 8 in Tilton, New Hampshire, to refrain from designating a Room #113. (Thanks, Christopher, for asking me about the latter when we stayed there nearly a month ago.) "Hahaha. You can't get me!" I taunted the God of Superstition. Sure enough, nothing terrible happened at the party.

Verdict: A success. Score 1 for Lucky 13.

My milestone 4-0 fell two days after 9/11. The whole world was in shock. I was heartbroken; likewise, my friends. They forgot about my birthday.

Verdict: Not the time to celebrate anything. Score -1 for Lucky 13.

Three months later, feeling a little gypped, I threw myself a belated party on December 13, my quarter birthday.

Verdict: A success. Score 1 for Lucky 13.

Exactly a month after my first son was born, I started dating a man whose birthday is March 13. Since our birthdays are half a year to the day from one another, I thought we might be a perfect yin/yang match. The relationship lasted three years, yet I wouldn't say it was astrologically destined.

Verdict: Score .75 for Lucky 13.

Last month I almost made a submission to a literary agent on the thirteenth. Actually, the plan had been to send in my Mad Mom memoir material via e-mail the day before, on Lucky 12/12/12. Well, things always take longer than expected, don't they? So December 12th turned into December 13th, yet that was fine with me because thirteen is my lucky number, remember?! I had two propitious days in a row to work with. BUT I hadn't planned on technical difficulties. Actually, if I'd thought about it, I would have recollected that I nearly always have computer problems whenever I am trying to send an all-important e-mail/manuscript submission to a literary agent I want to represent me. Murphy's Law every single time! Sure enough, the glitches carried over to Friday the 14th. So much for my lucky two days! Unfortunately, as we all know, the fourteenth ended up being an absolutely horrible day. After I hit "Send" in the early afternoon -- an invisible formatting kink still frustratingly embedded in the text -- I checked Facebook. Several posts from friends alluded to something tragic that had happened in the morning. Immediately, I called up AOL and was bowled over to learn about the second-deadliest school shooting in United States history: the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, my home state.

Verdict: Score -1 for Lucky 13.

I am trying to maintain high hopes for 2013, but I have gotten off to a mighty rocky start. As the clock struck 12:01 of the new year, I was already $385 in the red for not showing up for a pre-paid New Year's Eve weekend in northern New Hampshire. The issue: dangerous driving conditions due to bad weather. (See "Vacation Box of Chocolates: Franconia Fiasco Edition," 1/6/13.) Since then I have been so bogged down trying to catch up from the holidays that I have not yet been able to launch my appeal seeking a refund. What's more, just yesterday I got slammed with a $2,701.66 bill from the Toyota dealership for work to be done on my eight-year-old 4Runner, including the replacement of a leaking timing-chain cover.

Still, no matter what befalls you, you have to be optimistic in January because the year is just starting. Now is the time to set things on a positive course, even if only as an attitude adjustment.

To that end, I took my sons to Friendly's on the way home from our ill-fated trip to the north country and bought each a Vol-Cone-O. Watching them happily gobble down these unique and gigantic sundaes took me away from the frustration and stress of the weekend and steered me in a much better direction.

Verdict: Thirteen, as in 2013, is still my lucky number.