And now we breathe

A hundred years ago, I was a news reporter covering the cops beat. Sometimes I had to go ask people questions after tragedy had struck, and it was the worst thing ever. More for them, I'm sure, than me.

I think that's when I learned to compartmentalize. I'm pretty sure the mental health professionals would say it's not a good thing to do. But I'm a black belt at it now, and I'm too old to stop putting fears and tears and thoughts of foreboding into their own little closets in my head.

Take the last couple of weeks, for example. Jeff had hurt his knee playing basketball and had finally gone to the doctor. I suspected a muscle or meniscus tear. Something painful but fixable with time and frozen peas. "Baby," he said, calling me after the doctor. "Don't freak out."

So of course I freaked out. Silently, because I was at work. But yeah. The loop was thrown.

"There was a strange shadow on the Xray. It could be nothing. It could be cancer. I'll need an MRI to know for sure."

I'm not exactly sure that's what he said because it all went to Charlie Brown's teacher speak as my mind spun into how Ali would deal with being half-an-orphan, how I'd deal with widowhood and whether he'd be buried in Indiana or Maine.

I mumbled something I hope was comforting as he ended the call saying we'd talk more at home. I shook my head, built a new mental closet with a really big lock and slammed the door.

I dealt with an employee resigning from my already too-small staff. I dealt with last minute details with my upcoming work trip that would end the day the MRI was scheduled. I might have talked to my boss and co-workers. Hell, I might have been interviewed by CNN. Who could say?

I'm not sure how Jeff made it through the next few days. He apparently has a few closets of his own.

Long-story short, the shadow turned out to be a bone spur. Probably has been there since his little bones first formed. That news was clearly delivered and received. Can we all say, "wahoo?"

So anyway, it's Sunday, we're all as healthy as we can be. I've deconstructed my latest mental clost -- no need for that box of worry to take up any more space.

Ali and Dominic are upstairs, waiting for Jeff to get back home with Amanda in tow. I'm downstairs.

I hear the creaking of the floor underneath my husband's heavy tread and his booming voice. He's home. My daughter is squealing as her friends surround her.

My little world is perfect.

Randomness

Ack! Ack! Ack!

Amy Tokash, deep into the night Saturday is waxing poetic about something and digs deep into the jalapeno peanuts I brought home from Scottsdale. Mild taco sauce is a walk on the wild side for Amer. There are brands of ketchup too zippy for her. Remember that scene in Big when Tom Hanks tries caviar and then tries to clean his tongue with a napkin? I thought Amy was going to rip out her tongue. Hilarious.

You Might be a Redneck...
Waiting for Denise McFadden at the Elbow Room, I'm next to a bunch of overweight white guys on their office break. One of them says to his friends: "Yeah, they told me at work I can't bring my gun anymore. But you can betcha I've got it in my car. Heh. Heh. Heh." Dude: this is not Kabul. It's Indianapolis. You work in an office and lunch at the Elbow Room. Idiot.

Creepy or Cool?
Alison went to a birthday party at Xsite laser tag. It's a fun place with a small arcade where you play games, win tickets and redeem them for stuff your mom ordinarily wouldn't want in your house. We are over-run with plastic frogs here at Chez Reed. Anyway, I go to pick her up and she's still trying to use all of her tokens. We're on a schedule so I urge her to finish up.

The kid at the redemption counter must have just gotten high, laid, or was on his last day of work before school kicked in. Ali was coveting a lava lamp labeled 2500 tickets. She had 700+ tickets. He asked what she wanted. She told him, but admitted she didn't have enough tickets. "Heck, you really want that?" "Uh-huh." "OK then." And home she trots with a lava lamp. Best goodie bag ever, though. She's been trying to filch Jeff's lava lamp since he got it.

Sky-High
Last week, we picked Ali up from Camp FlatRock. Among the highlights of the week was climbing this monstrosity. It's 50 feet at the top. I thought Jeff was going to vomit just looking at the thing.


SSSSSSSSS...
Some of you may remember that coming home from Greene County a while ago, we ran over a snake on a two-lane country road. I was a passenger, so my admittedly over-the-top reaction of horror was mostly funny and not a danger to anyone. No one believed me that there are ways those things can get into the vehicle and that running over them doesn't necessarily mean they're flattened. They might be wrapped around the frame, plotting for their invasion. But now, I have proof of the wiliness of the serpent. How these folks kept the vehicle on the road, I don't know. Regardless of the seat I occupied inside this vehicle, there would have been mayhem. Possibly death. Certainly a multiple-care pile-up on the interstate.

Play date excerpts

Jenna:

Ali and Jenna claim they became friends while Amy and I were pregnant with them. We all like that idea, and while the girls attend different schools, we try to get them together as often as we can. No matter how long it's been, every visit is just like coming home. Jenna plays soccer and only recently gave up dance. She's considering Taekwondo now and Ali was happy to give her lessons.

At one point when they were together, I think Jeff had attacked Ali in the hallway. "I'm not that good, but I'm her sidekick," Jenna said, launching herself at Jeff and kicking the heck out of him. It was hysterical.

Later, they were wearing their matching pajamas (Alison's Christmas gift idea) and standing together. I said, "Oh no! How am I going to tell you apart?"

Jenna giggled and lifted up a chunk of Alison's rat's nest of curls. "Her hair!, Miss Cheryl. Just look at her hair!"

I'm kicking myself for not grabbing the camera right then but I didn't. Guess we'll have to get them together again so I can capture another moment. But I love this one from the summertime in 2007...

****

On the way to a play date with Amanda, who was new to school this year, Ali and Dominic were in the back seat sorting through the dozens of Gogos Ali had gotten for Christmas, talking trades and plotting strategies for swaps with other kids at school. While the three kids have become great friends since they met in August, we'd never been to her house.

"Wow! Amanda lives in a mansion," Alison said as we pulled into the drive.

"My Grandpa lives in a mansion," replied Dominic, who had also remarked on the house as we pulled in.

"Really?" Ali asked.

"Don't you remember? The pool?" Dominic prodded.

"Oh yeah," she said. "Mansions rock."

The house is very nice, and the Beaches are very nice people. The kids were off in a flash to explore.

For a time this spring and summer, Jeff was making noises about moving. I'm just too lazy. Our house is perfectly sized for our space needs, and I just have no interest in having to clean another square inch of space, but Ali and I had poked around a little bit at available homes in our area. I also love our area and school. It could be my small town roots, but I like knowing the layout of the grocery stores and the faces of the people who help me at the bank, the post office and the pharmacy.

Anyway, after a few houses, Alison declared that she wouldn't move. Unless it was to a mansion. We checked out a couple "mansions" and while she liked the visit, she's decided that, like me, she's quite happy with her own house.

Her definition of mansion, I think, is based on size and number of floors. You can have a second story and not have a mansion. Also a must: a laundry chute. She rejected a sweet home with amazing landscaping, crazy cool kitchen and an Italian tile roof in a fairly ritzy neighborhood because it had no laundry chute. "It has an upstairs and a basement Mom, but there's no laundry chute. We can't live here," she said on her way out the door.

***

Alison and the Ogdens have been friends for almost as long as she's been friends with Jenna. Ali and Alex and Jenna were in pre-school together. In a legendary argument, Jenna and Alex were arguing over who was Alison's best friend.

"Oh yeah?" Jenna said. "Well I will ALWAYS be her FIRST friend!"

Ali, Hannah and Alex are playing the game of Life downstairs, a continuation of the process that began last night. After snuggling a bit with me, they decided they needed some alone time downstairs.

I went down to bring them breakfast and was informed by Hannah that Alex just lost his job. "And he was a DOCTOR. $100,000 a year. And he LOST his JOB!!!"

"Dude, he's RIGHT HERE!" Alison said, trying to assuage Alex's hurt feelings...

I left them to their gamesmanship and returned to my post from which I'm shamelessly eavesdropping. I'm starting to think that maybe I do need an extra day off after all. They don't really need to go back to school, do they?

Home for the Holidays

Many times in the past few months I've wondered if Alison is channeling Eddie Haskell.

I don't think she's ever seen Leave it to Beaver, but sometimes she's just so stinkin' sweet that I have to question her sincerity. Especially when she's trying to get something already denied her or when she's trying to get out of doing something she's been assigned.

I'm fully aware that I'm the soft touch in the house. I'm OK with it, and despite what the Captain may believe from time to time, I do put the hammer down on her occasionally.

But when she comes home from school with this assignment in her backpack, what's a Mom to do?


WHAT I LIKE MOST ABOUT CHRISTMAS IS: decorating the tree.
(She and I usually do this Thanksgiving weekend with Jeff's Christmas CDs playing in the background. She's set the theme since she could make the decision and reach a branch. For about three years, we had a tree full of her stuffed animals; lately, she's focused on the candy ornaments her Aunt Donna started supplying her with as comfort when her father curtailed her real candy intake.)

ONE WAY MY FAMILY CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS: going to Maine.
(Alison has no intention of ever spending Christmas in Indiana -- it's a holiday exclusive to the State of Maine, and it comes with cookies, nuts & bolts, and quality time with her Reed family.)

THREE IMPORTANT SYMBOLS OF CHRISTMAS ARE: the tree, the cross, and the lights.
(It WAS a Religion assignment -- I'm glad she managed to get at least one religious reference in there...)

THE MOST IMPORTANT THINGS TO ME ABOUT CHRISTMAS: being with my family.
(Eddie Haskell be damned. I think she really means it!)

A reason to believe

Remember when the phrase, "It takes a village" wasn't the punchline in a political joke?

I'm still a believer in the sincerity of both the woman who brought that phrase to the forefront and in the power of the phrase itself.

For all you nonbelievers, take a look at the Arsenal Tech Cheer Team and how Central Indiana is responding to what Coach Dustin Wyman is doing for the kids on that team.

In short, a beautiful young man who's suffering from brain cancer, has taken a group of kids who social experts would describe as "at-risk" due to their economic and geographic circumstances and turned them into champions. Whether they win at the cheerleading championships in Orlando next year is almost irrelevant. These kids have already won.

They've won because:

* They've seen that they each have options beyond their neighborhood
* They know they have to work hard to make those options happen
* They're starting to dream of what can come next.

We've all won because businesses like Angie's List and ESCO, and hundreds of people across the city are pitching in to help Coach Wyman watch over the seeds he's planted.

Of course there are no guarantees for a bumper crop of great new leaders. There never are. But there's a whole lot of hope growing over there on the near-East Side and it's being nurtured by a whole of people from a whole lot of different walks of life.

That, my friends, is a village. And today I'm pretty happy with the village I'm calling home.

Porcupines and other sticky wickets

Alison was pretty upset Thursday when I picked her up from school. Seems one friend had told her that another friend had called Alison a name -- a hyper dork to be exact -- and Alison was some ticked off.

"I'm going to talk to Mrs. Zinkan about this," she said. "(She-who-should-not-be-named)is kind of a teacher's pet and I bet Mrs. Zinkan will be pretty interested in this kind of behavior."

"You think that's the best way to handle it?" I asked. "Tell me more about it."

It turns out said slur could have occurred anytime in the past two years, covering the time Mrs. Zinkan had completed her tour of 2nd grade duty. She's got the class back for their 4th grade year. Alison is sure the slight happened because she can always tell when her informant is lying, "And she's definitely not lying about this."

I suggested that perhaps Mrs. Zinkan didn't need to be called in, given that the slander had happened so long ago. Maybe it would be better to just talke to She-who-should-not-be-named.

"I think I'll have (the informant) with me for backup," Alison strategized.

Good idea. So the confrontation occured Friday. She-who-should-not-be-named denied the whole thing. The informant stood by Ali, figuratively and verbally. Alison had decided not to involve Mrs. Zinkan, though she's certain that she-who-should-not-be-named has flaming pants.

Flash forward to Saturday afternoon. The doorbell rings. Two neighorhood girls are at the door. "We have to talk to Alison," says Maddie from across the street, who tends to visit when she's on her father's weekend. With her is Melanie, from down the street, a full-time neighbor. Both are younger than Alison, and sometimes that matters more than others.

I direct them downstairs where the redhead awaits. I hear a bit of a commotion and go to the top of the stairs. I can hear them but they can't see me.

Turns out, Maddie has informed Melanie that Alison said Melanie cries a lot. They've come to confront her. I gulp. I want to go down there, but seems like the sauce is being served and I want to see how the gander deals with it.

"Well, you said it too, Maddie," I hear Alison say.

"Did not."

"You did, too! I was standing right there!" says Ali, who sighs heavily. "Look. Melanie. I am so sorry. I did say it but I just want you to know I had had a really bad day that day. My friend had been getting in trouble at school and I was trying to help her not get a conduct cut and it was really stressful. And then you two came over and you stubbed your toe or something and you cried. A lot."

"I'm sorry," Alison repeated. "But I was having a bad day that day."

"Did you get a conduct cut?" gasped the formerly injured Melanie. (Each girl attends Catholic school, but different ones. They all must follow the conduct cut discipline plan, though.)

"No, I didn't, but Madison did. She got four that week!" Alison said.

"Wow."

"Yeah. OK. Well, see you later."

"See you."

I scooted out of the way as the two girls came back up. "Bye!" they said. "See you tomorrow!"


Alison popped upstairs a while later. I asked her what that was all about and she related the details blow-by-blow. I told that while I didn't want her to hurt anyone's feelings, I was proud of her for not lying about the statement that started the whole thing.

***

Last night, Jeff was putting Ali to bed and he leaned in to kiss her.

"Da-ad! Kissing you is like kissing a porcupine!" she exclaimed, trying to get away from the whisker burn.


"Oh, sorry, honey. I'll shave these off tomorrow," he said.

"That's OK, Dad. I love porcupines," she said.

Summertime in Maine

If it weren't for winter, I would totally live in Maine. One day I'll get smart or rich enough to summer there. Until then, I'm happy to mooch lodging off my father-in-law and hang with Team Reed Down East.

We sacrificed our annual 4th of July fireworks extravaganza in favor of a visit back home. And it was great.

Even though we were at the beach, Alison continued to frown on boys who went about without shirts on.

"Mom, look at that!" she'd say, shaking her head, disgusted.


Reminded that it was a scorcher, she was not moved. "Put a shirt on," she'd hiss.

We all had a great time, though it was far too short. We did get to see Auntie Jen's engagment ring up close. We're still recovering from the glare -- it's gorgeous.

I'm crazy excited to be a bridesmaid, and Jen and I spent some time poring over bride magazines looking for dresses. She's going to be a beautiful bride and we get to go back to Maine next summer for the wedding! I see summertime in Maine become a tradition for TeamReed Indiana.


Alison is excited about going to Maine regardless of the weather. And while she's happy for Jen because she truly loves her, as well as Peter, her soon-to-be uncle, she doesn't really care about the wedding or the dresses.

She remains more concerned about state of people's undress. She was aghast at the airport when she saw the cover of Rolling Stone.

And the grocery back home today, she turned around the magazines that featured women in teeny bikinis, again shaking her head in disapproval at the display of nearly naked flesh.

Just her little public service, I guess.

Yes, Goddammit I AM happy!

A friend of mine once told me that she has a friend who checks in on the TeamReed blog every now and again when she's feeling down and wants to feel more miserable.

I didn't get it either, at first. It was explained to me somewhere along the lines of everything in the blog indicates that I lead the life of Riley. When this woman wanted to torture herself about the less blissful state of her life, she turned to me.

My first reaction was, "Whatever." And then I got a recent message from an old childhood friend who had apparently been reviewing the posts. She said I either was really happy or I covered up really, really well.

I'm giving both of them the benefit of the doubt that they don't mean to be insulting. (Just watch me grow!) But it does make me want to set a few things straight.

1. Yes, Goddammit, I AM happy. A lot. Almost always. Truly.
2. I'm also sometimes/often annoyed, cranky and ticked off.
3. Yes, Alison IS that damn cute, smart and funny.
4. Except when she's a brat. (OK. she really is rarely a brat, but yeah, sometimes she is.)
5. Now, to rip off Miranda Lambert, here's a little bombshell just for my blog followers: I don't tell you EVERYTHING. Mostly I tell you the good stuff, the highlights; sometimes the low lights, but I try to keep it fun.

So, to sum up: My life is good. I'm glad that it's good. It wasn't always good. If hearing a little bit about the antics on and about Castle Row make you smile once in a while, that's great. If you like to wallow in some twisted way, OK; if that does it for you, I'm here for you either way. Whatever works.

And now, one more fun thing my kid did:

While I was in my Vicodin coma, I wasn't paying attention to every little thing. Alison is not a fan of the bath, but I usually hose her off at least twice a week well and I get parts of her in between.

She confessed the other day that while I was sick, she went more than a week without a bath.

"Oh my gosh, Ali. Didn't you smell bad?" I exclaimed in horror.

"Nope. I sprayed myself with the Febreze so you wouldn't notice," she said, proud as she could be.

Oh, FERC!

"Hey, Mom. I know two really bad words," Alison tells me the other day while we were sitting on the couch in the front room.

"Really?" I say. "What are they?"

"Well the first one is A-S-S, and I know what it means."

"Oh yeah? What does it mean?"

"It means 'mutton head?"

"Huh. Really? What's a mutton head?"

"You know. Someone really dumb."

"OK. That's right. It also means a donkey, you know. Sometimes it's not really a bad word at all," I said.

"Wanna know the other word?"

"Sure."

"Ferk," she said, eyes wide, staring straight at me, gasping just a little at her own bravado to utter such a terrible word.

My first thought was, "How does Alison know about the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, aka the FERC?" (Once a utility nerd, always a utility nerd, and Jeff is still in the biz, you know.)

Then I thought again. "Oh, Fu@K. She doesn't know how to pronounce it!"

"Uh, where did you hear that word, honey?"

"They're both in the dictionary, Mom," she said. "But I don't know what 'ferk' means. What does it mean?"

Now, I have a strict policy of telling Ali the truth when she asks a question. Amy Tokash still hasn't quite forgiven me for telling her and then her telling Jenna how babies really escape the womb.

For about two seconds, I debated telling her the correct pronunciation and the definition of the word I thought she meant. I thought about context and the many different ways that particular word can be used to convey a point.

After a third second, I tried for, "Well that's a really bad word. You don't ever need to use it."

"But what's it mean?" she asked. "I really want to know."

I think I passed out. I don't remember what I told her, but it wasn't the total truth.

Hell, for all I know she was talking about federal energy policy, climate change and the need for safe nuclear power. That's what I'm telling myself anyway....

The iPod Cometh

I wasn't feeling the PhotoShoot yesterday. Just didn't seem like I had enough to really report. But tonight, the inspiration arrived.

It came in a small, re-used cardboard box courtesy of eBay and while you may think Alison was the most overjoyed to see it. (The contents were, afterall, hers) Jeff was even more ecstatic.

Because, you see, the apple didn't fall far from the Reed tree. The box contained Alison's very own iPod. She has, for the past couple of months, been heisting Jeff's iPod so she could listen to "his" music as she fell to sleep. At first, he was thrilled that she loved music just like he does. And then he was over the moon that she prefers rock-and-roll to just about anything else.

Just yesterday, she asked me why I liked country music. "Is it because you grew up in the country?" she asked.

I agreed that maybe, yeah and asked her if she didn't like it even a little. "Well, it's OK, but I like rock and roll better," she said. "And hip-hop."

Uh-huh.

She and Jeff started off slowly with the Beatles and she wore a hold in a CD he made her that was mostly Crazy Frog. Axel-F was her favorite, hands down. But then, she started wanting to listen to it. All the time. First it was the B-52s and Rock Lobster. Then came Vampire Weekend.

But then Jeff shared his iPod and its gazillion tunes. Soon, it was the rare evening when 9 p.m. came and she didn't wheedle his iPod from him. She had him at, "Dad, do you think I could listen to your music?"

Her own iPod came about after much wrangling. It started, I think, when Ali found out that Jenna got an iPod for Christmas. Ali hadn't thought to ask for one -- why should she? She had Jeff's.

But when she thought of having one of her own, she was determined. She proposed the purchase first to me. I sent her to her father. They discussed budget. She has some cash laying around (she likes to have some on hand just in case), and she just sold her Leapster for $50. (She graduated to a DS lite and the Leapster has loads of great fun still in it.)

She was willing to dip into her savings account, but that was a deal breaker -- even for her music starved dad.

Now, Ali and I are not long-term shoppers. We like to get in and get out. But she suffered through going from store to store looking at new iPods and getting prices with only a little frustration. They discussed color choices.

She sat with him as they perused the hundreds of opportunities on eBay.

Music genes notwithstanding, Ali has a lot of her Auntie Jen in her, and when she discovered that she could plunk down $150 or so for a new unit or wait a few days/weeks and spend less than $50, she was in for the delay. She said she didn't care what color she'd get if she could save some money and the unit still worked.

They won their bid last week, I think, but he hasn't mentioned it since. And he's dutifully turned over his iPod to her at bedtime.

But right after dinner tonight, he whips out the box and she has no idea what's in it. She opens it and I swear to all that's holy, she swooned. I could have blown up and flown away through the chimney and neither of them would have noticed.

They've had their heads together ever since. She just now walked in, ear buds firmly in place, huge smile on her face and shared, "I got it to work!!!"

I'm never going to see either one of them again...

Weird Science

We've had quite the chemistry inspired morning. Ali, Alex and Hannah got out the chemistry kit, starting in the basement. I monitored from the kitchen, safely upstairs.

They made some diaper dust and oohed and aahed a while then moved upstairs where they mixed baking soda, vinegar and water. They learned they could suspend a bubble right over their mixture.

"Awesome!"

"So this is how you make a volcano..."

"Cool!"

I'm guessing it lasted no more than 30 minutes. No explosions. No burns. Good thing Jeff didn't find Borax at the store yesterday...

One other Ogden-Reed highlight:

Last night they were pretending Alex was a dog and the girls were taking care of him. At some point along the way, the dog was choking.

"Do the Heimlich manure!"

"The what?"

"The Heimlich manure."

"Oooh. What's that?"

"I don't know but people do it all the time."

"Sounds stinky."

"Yeah."

The puppy, had it lived, would have expired by the time they rejected the cure...

Friends to the end

Amy Tokash (she of the tongue)has a million "mother of the year" stories designed to prove her severe lack of mothering skills. To them all, I offer this as proof that she's a huge liar.

Amy usually shares the weekly PhotoShoot with Jenna and Drew. Jenna's reaction to seeing Ali in her new glasses last week was to exclaim "they're purple!" as if that would be a shock to anyone...(Ali and Jenna have shared a love of the color purple since before they were born, I think.)

When the kids heard Alison's tale of woe about her classmate's initial reaction to her new look, they reacted like little lions protecting their fellow cub. Amer took the opportunity to talk to them about what true friends are and how it's not nice to make fun of people.

Yeah, yeah, yeah: I know it's a life lesson both Amy and I (and most of you) could all spend some time relearning, but in our defense we hardly ever laugh at people so they can hear...

Anyway, Amer used Jenna's experience this summer when a friend poked fun at her and hurt her feelings when she was trying to speak clearly around a retainer-like device. Like Ali, Jenna had been excited to get the device and was thinking it was cool until the little brat laughed at her.

I didn't know about any of this until Thursday night when the mail arrived and in it was a purple envelope addressed to Ali Cat Reed.

"I know who that's from! I wonder what Miss Amy is sending me," said Ali, who has been faithfully wearing her new specs. She's not thrilled about them, but they're becoming as familiar to her as her hair tie.

She opened the envelope and looked up at me, eyes filling with tears."Mo--om!" she wailed. "You showed them my picture."

I sat down with her, pulled her into my lap and opened the card back up."What are you talking about? Honey, I never meant to embarrass you. Let's see what it says."

She started giggling as she finished the first sentence from Jenna. Drew's reference to smacking anyone who makes fun of her "in the kisser" nearly put her on the floor.

Her embarrassment was gone as if it had never been.

Amy said the card came to be when they were all at Target and Drew, God bless him, suggested they buy Ali and card to make her feel better. She'd left the kids alone to write their own messages.

Not bad for a 3rd and 5th grader -- if you don't mind a dash violence with your heapin' helpin of love. I'm from the country: It's a seasoning we'd miss if it were to disappear from the recipe.

I love those kids. And in my book, Amer is definitely at the top of my list of contenders for Mother of the Year.

Does anybody really know what time it is?

Among the many issues I have with my mother is that she made me be in the school band.

I wasn't musically gifted, and the hand-me-down instrument thrust into my unwilling hands was my sister Donna's clarinet. Mom made each of her five daughters play in the band. Diana had the trumpet. Nancy got the trombone. Debbie: the flute. The boys somehow got a pass.

The clarinet's nickname is the licorice stick. I don't like licorice. And my first band instructor hated my older sister, Nancy, who was in high school and tormented him in class and out. I remember him as tall and thin and consistently impatient and cranky. I don't remember his name.

Nancy and a friend really didn't like him. They once tossed trash into his yard in the dead of night. I never knew why. I just remember thinking that he took out his anger for her out on me. It's possible I remember it wrong and that he was a fine instructor who maybe just didn't like ungifted musicians. All I know is I didn't really take to his fundamentals, and never fully embraced the instrument. Which is really funny if you consider some of my other talents.....

Anyway, I could have lived with the clarinet and maybe even advanced in the chair position, but as I aged band grew from a class within the school day to marching band and concerts, which required after hours practice.

That first instructor had been replaced by a team of others; Shakamak just didn't attract long-lasting music teachers. My annoyance with the actual music took a back seat to a new issue: nine times out of 10, my my mother would forget to pick me up from practice. I'd be that kid sprawled along the sidewalk waiting and waiting until finally the last adult standing would take pity on me and ask if I had a ride home.

I always swore that among my parenting missteps, failing to pick Ali up on time would not be among them.

So there I was, toiling like a demon at work today, Day 1 of third grade.

The day had not started well. I had a ton of work to do at the day job, and Alison had first woken at 4:44 a.m. After that, she had a nightmare and I was in her room from about 5 a.m. on. The alarm by my bed was set for 6:30 as usual. I wake past 7 when Jeff comes in to wake us up. He'd turned off the alarm because, well, because he was sleepy. We made it to school in time, but it just wasn't the start I'd planned.

In the midst of work frustration, I was also fretting a bit about being able to leave on time so I wouldn't leave her as the last kid standing at AfterCare. It's open til 6 p.m. but I like to get her by 5:30.

Anyway, it was 1:30 p.m. when my cell phone rang. The display said CKS (Christ the King School) was calling. How odd, I think.

Then I'm informed that there's no AfterCare today. And it was early dismissal. School had ended at 1 p.m. I'm downtown. CKS is not.

As I sped north, passing cars right and left, cursing at slow drivers and fast lights, I had flash backs about those long hours spent outside Shakamak Middle and High Schools. I'd sit there, ticked off and embarrassed, waiting for that dusty Impala to arrive. After what would seem like days, it would swing into the parking lot, full of Avon bags destined for cosmetic-starved housewives in rural Indiana; powered by a surly mother of 7, who may or may not have felt as bad as I did.

It was awful. Probably contributed to my out-of-tune band career. But that which does not kill us makes us stronger, right? Maybe it just makes you bitter. I don't know.

Regardless, I get to CKS, and Ali is waiting on bench inside in the a/c. Miss Becky is smiling at the door, impressed I hope at my arrival time. "Don't worry about it. There's always one. This year it's you!" she said.

If she'd hoped to make me feel better, she failed spectacularly.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," I said, rushing through the door. "I didn't know there wasn't After Care."

Alison put down her Geronimo Stilton book and smiled up at me. "It's fine, Mom. I didn't know either," she said.

She honestly wasn't troubled. And Becky said she'd been a model citizen. It would have been prime time for her to wheedle her way to an ice cream cone or new Pokemon pack, but she didn't even ask. We headed back to work and she was a dream there, too.

At one point I looked over at her quiet little self and said, "Alison, did you know you're my favorite daughter?"

She didn't look up. She just said what she always says when I utter that phrase: "Mom. I'm your only daughter."

I told her of the only other time I'd failed to get to her on time. I was in a meeting with the governor and it had gone long. Ali was maybe 4-months-old, and I was new to Day Care. Someone in the meeting mentioned the time and I yelped. She was just across the street, but the meeting was still going strong. My friend Cindy, the governor's scheduler and AKA Aunt Cindy, offered to get her for me.

Apparently Alison was expecting me and nobody else but me. Cindy told me later that she'd screamed the whole walk back and that she would NEVER pick her up for me again.

A few hours after I told Ali that story, she asked me about it again. "Mommy, did Aunt Cindy really say she'd never pick me up again when I cried so much?"

"Yup," I said.

Crushed, she said, "Not ever?"

I reminded her that it was Aunt Cindy. She had quickly forgiven her, even though she had cried like a little baby.

"But I was a baby!" Alison protested.

"Exactly," I said.

I'm probably never going to make Alison continue on with an extra-curricular activity she doesn't like, and I hope I never screw up about pick-up time again.

While she took her neglect well today, I have to wonder if there's a three strikes rule for parental pick up.

Tales from the back seat

One afternoon last week, when Alison and Alex Ogden piled into the back seat of Karin Ogden's car, they spied a pair of handcuffs.

For a split second, there was dead silence as they both just stared as if they'd discovered a pile of gold coins. Then, they dove at the same time, scrambling for possession.

"I want them!"

"No, I want them!"

"No, I want them!"

Another split second of silence. Then, simultaneously, they said, "Let's hook ourselves together."

Now, I don't know what Mrs. Ogden, who blushes whenever I even hint at an off-color joke, was doing with a pair of handcuffs in her back seat.

Frankly, I'm afraid to ask.

PhotoShoot Addendum

As I was posting the Photoshoot and looking for an old ReedRight document for my new accountant last night, the nearly healthy Jeff Reed was helping Alison with her bath and getting her ready for bed.

It was clear that he'd been missing her a little -- being shunned is no fun even if it does make sense.

And while he may be loud sometimes, he and Alison are as close as father and daughter can be. (If she loved baseball like he loves baseball, I'd just be the maid...)

So I emerge from what used to be my home office and is now mostly a spare room, I see the two of them, snuggled up on the couch watching cartoons. I plop down beside them, worming my way into a corner of the couch.

Jeff looked at me like I'd invaded Normandy.

"Hey! We're snuggling here," he said.

Alison kept her eyes glued to the TV but didn't budge from his side.

"Yeah, so? I'm joining you."

"Uh, you're cuttin' in to my "dad" time, and I haven't had much of that lately," he mumbled.

I smiled, thinking it was sweet and happy that he'd been so attentive to her. But I stayed put. Not that it mattered. Two two 'toon lovers weren't to be separated.

Bedtime rolled around and I got ready to go upstairs. But no! That was apparently "his" time, too.

If I'm lucky, I'll get to fix her breakfast this morning....