WanderingAmylessly 2.0

If I'm counting correctly, this is H's fourth year swimming with the local swim club. I actually never thought he'd stick with it this long. He's improved so much, from those first few months when he flailed around looking more like someone who needed saving than someone who was swimming in races. Just this fall, he was moved up from the novice group to the semi-competitive group. It means swimming 15 minutes longer per practice -- so one hour instead of 45 minutes. But his new group swims twice as many laps as the novice group does per practice. He's also trying to boost his number of practices per week from three to four. And he just moved up to the 11- & 12-year-old group for meets, which means he's just about the slowest of his age group in meet events. It's kicking his butt and his self-confidence. H has never been fast. He has never had a qualifying (Q-) time for state championships. We try to stress to him that he's not, at this age, racin

A week from Monday, I'm going to be older. That's kind of how I look at my birthday these days. It doesn't have the kind of excitement it once did. I remember the days when I couldn't wait to be old enough to go to a rated-R movie by myself, or vote, or drink legally, or be technically old enough to be president of the United States (not that anyone would be much honored by that milestone these days . . . who would want THAT headache). I guess the excitement for middle-aged birthday celebrants goes more like this: Hey, I'm way too old to be drafted! Can't wait to be old enough to get my first colonoscopy! Counting down the days until I can become an AARP member! How much longer until I get the Senior Citizens' Discount at Denny's?! Grand slam gets even grander, it seems. Woohoo, I'm still around for another birthday! I thought I'd look back to the year of my birth and see what today's newsmakers were doing way back when. Time machine set

Tomorrow I will be thinking about an Iowa farm girl who grew up to be a wife, mother, teacher, homemaker, accountant, seamstress, crafter, quilter, supreme cookie-baker, grandmother, magazine article-writer, church organizer . . . I could go on and on. Tomorrow would have been my mother-in-law's 76th birthday. We lost Darlene to brain cancer a little over a year ago. I miss her so very much. I'd love to tell her about my latest knitting project. I wish I could share the funny things her grandson says or tell her how he did at the swim meet or send her a video of him playing viola -- something she never got the chance to see him do. I know my husband misses sharing his latest photo projects with her or talking sports or getting her take on current events. I wonder what she, a longtime suburban St. Louis resident, would have to say about the national spotlight on Ferguson, MO; she probably would have been speculating like everyone else on when the grand jury findings would be

I don't even know where to begin. I was flipping through news sites online this morning and landed on a story that sickens me on so many levels. I bet you're thinking it's the announcement that mass killer and vile monster Charles Manson is going to marry a 26-year-old, glassy-eyed, obviously unbalanced woman who has been visiting him in prison since she moved to California from her parents' home in Illinois at age 19 to be close to him. That, in itself, had me reeling. But what truly left me feeling like I needed a long, disinfecting shower was a sidebar story on ABCNews.com . The headline: "What Charles Manson's Future Mother-in-Law Thinks About Wedding." I stopped wondering what was wrong with this warped girl, born Afton Elaine, but allegedly known to her beloved Charlie as "Star." Instead, I wanted to scream, "America, what the hell is wrong with us?!" This is what "journalism" in our country has devolved into. This

In late spring, I wore a pair of high-heeled shoes. I felt like dressing up for work. I like the way they make me feel youthful and girly. And for someone who squeaks by at 5'4" when I'm standing ramrod straight, the added height with tall shoes is bonus. Right around the same time I wore this fabulous, feminine footwear, something in my back slipped or bulged or inflamed. It didn't matter whether I was walking, lying down, floating in a pool, curled in the fetal position -- my back hurt. Hurt doesn't even begin to describe the pain. And any sense of looking feminine went right out the window; I looked like the Hunchback. I tried chiropractic adjustments and electric stimulation. I iced it. I slathered it with Sportscreme. I broke down and went to an internal med doc who prescribed some lovely narcotics and several sessions with a physical therapist. The pain has waxed and waned, but I haven't been the same since those damn heels. The doctor also sugges

Home Ec teachers everywhere would give me demerits. Martha Stewart would tsk-tsk and look down at me over her reading glasses. I'd get booted right off Cupcake Wars or Pastry Revolt or Bakers' Smackdown or whatever culinary reality show is on these days. Why, you wonder? I don't measure my ingredients over the bowl, avoiding the inevitable lid falling off a jar and pouring the entire jar of spice in the mix. I resist the urge to use butter-flavor Crisco for anything other than greasing a pan now and then. I treat my Kitchen Aid mixer with the great reverence it has earned. The one mistake I make nearly every time I bake is one that shows both my eagerness and my impatience, my zest for kitchen creations and my lean toward laziness. Never fails. I dive into a recipe and get halfway through the mixing and sifting and folding, then come to a screeching, panicking halt. I have started to bake without checking my recipe to make sure I have all the ingredients. Tonigh

It's a strange feeling when your date night includes a trip to the local casino to listen to a band a grown son of your friend plays in. And by strange, I mean "Wow, we're old." Tim and I didn't actually say that. I did exclaim, more than once, "Wow, what a kid. He's just a baby." I'm sure the 20-something drummer with his piercings and his powerful beat and rocking voice would not appreciate me calling him that. I didn't say it to his face when he came out to chat with us between sets. But I reflected on his shy, quiet demeanor, his youthful half-grin, and his shock of reddish curls as he ambled back on stage. And I had to say it again, "What a bey-bey." We had a fun night watching Cody lay the beat for "Cherry Gun," a Minneapolis-based cover band that plays a wide range of rock, country, and pop. As Cody joked about the upcoming set, he acknowledged the eclectic mix, "There'll be 'Save a Horse, Ride a Co

Spontaneous human combustion Alien abductions Nostradamus Poltergeists and other hauntings Bigfoot sightings The legend of Chupacabra Mind-control experiments Jot down this list. You could even add to it, if you'd like, based on whatever popped into your head when you just read it. Tack it to a bulletin board. Sticky-note it to your forehead. Whatever you do, don't lose it. And the next time I mention I'm going to surf Netflix for something to waste a few hours on, grab that list, read it to me, and remind me why I must NEVER, EVER watch any show with any of these as its subject. I keep forgetting. I turn on the Apple TV and get sucked into a vortex of cold case hysteria, of declassified secret files, of conspiracy theories run amok. I'm a reasonably logical, college-educated, former journalist who enjoys a well-spun tale as much as the next gal. I'm not particularly gullible. I like real facts and figures more than fuzzy math and sheer speculation.

The past few months at work have been grueling. Overtime for no extra pay. Unreasonable expectations and workload. I worked a full day on Sunday. So today, when things quieted down for a few hours, I took Henry to a movie. He had the day off for a teacher inservice, and the last thing I wanted to do was let him sit in front of screens all day numbing his mind with YouTube and Minecraft and XBox One video games. So I thought I'd spend $40 on a matinee and concessions, and numb both our minds in front of a giant screen. We went to see "Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day." The story, based on a 1972 award-winning book by Judith Viorst, chronicles a day in the life of 11-year-old Alexander who wished on a birthday candle that everyone else could just -- for once -- experience the rotten day he was having. This tale has promise, you think, right? The possibility for slapstick and silliness and pre-teen mayhem. Hardy-har. Tee-hee. What a way to spend a

My dad served in the U.S. Navy during WWII. When he died last January, he was buried with military honors. At the graveside service, two sailors in dress blue pea coats folded the flag that had draped the casket, and a third played Taps on a horn in the blustery winter wind. One young sailor presented my mother with the tricorner folded flag, kneeling before her and saying, "On behalf of the president of the United States, the U.S Navy, and a grateful nation, we thank Kenny for his service and are sorry for your loss." Then they all stood and saluted, turned on a heel and marched away.  I wish I would have talked to Dad more about his years in the Pacific during the war. He was of the Greatest Generation. And he was a great human being. Whether you lean right or left, whether you're a fighter or a pacifist, I think we can all agree that what these soldiers and sailors sign up for deserves our utmost, humble gratitude.  Anchors Aweigh Stand Navy out to sea

Tonight is one of those nights when it seems every wall has crumbled in on me. Not everyone understands this. Most don't, in fact. I don't know whether it's a moon cycle or a menstrual cycle that has tipped the scales in depression's favor this time around. Maybe it's simply stress, from responsibilities of work and family and life in general. Maybe I could blame the end of daylight saving time, the lack of daylight and the downhill slide from fall to winter. It might be my meds conspiring to work against one another for whatever reason, the chemical cocktail no longer lubricating the right combination of serotonin reuptake mechanisms and neurotransmitters.  If I could pinpoint the exact moment it all went to shit, maybe I could learn the trigger and keep a closer watch next time. Because there is always a next time. And just because life likes to mix things up, there's no use in pinpointing. Next time, there will be a new birthplace for sadness.  Remindi

Eleven years ago tonight, about this time, I woke quickly from a snooze to a strange, constricting pain. I ignored it for a bit, but by midnight, we were on the phone to the hospital, insisting I was in labor. The nice people on the other end of the line to labor and delivery figured we were first-time to-be parents. We had plenty of time, they said. By 2 a.m., we were, bags in hand, speeding away to University Hospital. Our doula didn't even believe us and told us to call her when I was actually in labor. Despite all the doubters, I was, indeed, in labor, about 5 centimeters dilated. When the doula finally showed up, the show was almost over. Tim coached me through the pain and eventually relented when I insisted, boisterously and without any care for the drug-free birth plan I'd drafted, that I NEEDED DRUGS NOW. I barfed (they gloss over that in all the cutesy mommy-planning materials), I got a shot of something that made me relax but wouldn't harm Junior, my water br

My dad was always a worrier. About everything. Did we turn off the coffee pot? Did you unplug the iron? Did we lock the doors? Have you changed your oil? Do your tires have enough air? Did we pay all the bills? What if it snows when we need to travel? What if those sniffles turn into pneumonia? What if someone steals our credit card and ruins our credit and we end up penniless and lose all our worldly belongings?  I could go on for days. Even when Alzheimer's took his memories and aspects of his personality, his worrying tendencies seemed to remain. Put some socks on; you're going to catch a cold. The rest of us in the family have been conditioned to carry on his legacy. I worry and fret more than I should, about many things that are not in my control. The what-ifs and oh-nos float around in my head on a daily, if not hourly, basis. Mom worries too, about things like the dings and scrapes in her Honda Accord and what to serve for Thanksgiving dinner and whether the neighb

Remember that made-for-TV movie from the early '80s that chronicled the aftermath of a full-on nuclear battle between Russia and Lawrence, Kansas? OK, so today isn't as bad as all that, although reading some online coverage of yesterday's Republican smackdown in the midterm elections has that post-apocalyptic feel. Those of us loud and proud liberal, hippie, commie, pro-reproductive rights, LGBT-leaning, marriage-equality supporting, feminist bastards (shout out to antigoneawakens.com for "borrowing" a bit of that language) wept into our Wheaties this morning over the Democratic losses in gubernatorial, congressional, state, and local races across the country. As an Iowan, I now have a new senator -- a pig-castrating, Hobby Lobby-loving, bible-thumping, vitriol-spewing woman named Joni Ernst. I've likened her to Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann, with shorter hair and soon-to-be more power than the other two (who are not currently in office amen, hallelujah