Economies of Scale

I'm told that more is better, that repetition brings familiarity and comfort. At work, this philosophy dictates behavior that used to puzzle, then annoyed, and now appalls and traps me in others' passive aggressive control cycles. Okay, we understand, you only want to travel minimally since you have young children and are covering the majority of the requirements around here. Um, how about a week-long trip every three weeks for five months when others are staying home all summer? That sounds minimal, right? And it'll be more *efficient* that way, what with the way we depend solely on 10% of our department to do 90% of the work. Well, that's work; I should be used to it already. Hypocrisy, exploitation, capitalism, rah rah.*

But it's not just work: in other aspects of life, "doubling up" doesn't seem to work well for me either. In some crazy scheme we dreamed up within hours of reading up on Consumer Reports' latest opinions, we ended up buying TWO brand new cars yesterday with the justification of --wait for it -- SAVING money. Oh, it made perfect sense, and I can still show on paper how it all works out beautifully. Simply trade in an SUV with poor gas mileage for two cheap, compact, high gas mileage vehicles. Plan to sell additional 10-year-old Honda with 150,000 miles for an extra boost on already legitimately small car loans and be proud to pay off said loan or loans early between old car cash and new-found monthly cash resulting from extra miles per gallon on now doubled up efficient cars; save environment, save money, be happy. But the phone call to the insurance company revealed the nasty truths about all these lovely efficiencies: 1.) brand new cars, no matter how inexpensive and unexciting, are damned expensive to insure, 2.) any attempt at fiscal responsibility involving debt movement from high interest credit cards to no or low interest cards results in doubled car insurance rates within a year (consider yourself warned), 3.) door ding claims, initiated by self-centered leaches or not, are just as bad as running a light and slamming into someone else's car, and said door ding claim will be paid for 20 times over, by YOU, while you wail and gnash your teeth over the fact that you didn't screech away from the leaches with your offending door-slinging four-year-old in tow one fateful day last October.

And let's talk about the philosophy of more kids in a room entertaining each other and thus taking pressure and demands off of whatever responsible adult happens to be in charge. There are no efficiencies here, either -- at least not in this barely functional house. John took Bryce's cue today and invited the neighbor kids over to watch Star Wars and spread tiny Legos through the carpet upstairs while he worked to keep his head from exploding while spending untold hours on the phone with various Specialists, Agents, and Representatives discussing the number of different ways we were being royally screwed by no matter which insurance company we may end up begrudgingly choosing (I'm talking to YOU, Geico, O Creator of Nonexistent At Fault Claims and Yet The Cheapest (Relative to Ripoffs) Option). He e-mailed me (since he couldn't call me, as I was in my boss' office being told about the additional responsibilities that had been chosen for me this year, including an extra week-long trip to yet another middle-of-nowhere, vegetarians-not-welcome town) and said the kids all seemed to be getting along until he heard squealing and, while on the phone with one of the Agents or Specialists, walked to the stairs and saw Quinn naked, and the neighbor kid halfway there. Quinn, of course, was sent to his room, and the neighbors went home. I brought it up a few times tonight (after I arrived home two hours late thanks to my own attempt --stupidly begun in my office as opposed to on my cell phone in my car -- to get a straight answer from an insurance company, any insurance company for the LOVE OF GOD), and Quinn wouldn't address it. At bedtime, when no one else was around, I mentioned informatively to Quinn (since I was just positive he only needed a reminder about this very simple thing) that we need to keep our clothes on in public or when friends are over, and he said, "well, they weren't playing with me. They were only playing with Bryce. I was trying to make them laugh." I told him Bryce said they all played together, and he broke into genuine, awful, real tears of remorse and embarrassment and pain, and covered his face with his recently named blanket, Nixie: "They're [sob] LYING. They didn't [sob] play with me. They chased me. And not for [sob] fun. They were TRICKING me. That's why I don't want to be their friends!!!" I barely made it out of his room before I broke down. I don't know what to do for this kid, this hilarious, sensitive, crazy kid with obviously low self esteem at age five. I can't type any more about this. It's too much to think about, too much to handle, with too many implications for me to address without my innards pushing violently outside my skin.

Economies of scale, not so much. Economies of hell, more like.

*Credit to John: Statement made during our conjecture about how the car dealership would screw us (prior to our anticipation of how the insurance companies would screw us).

High Note

"I was focused today," Quinn proudly told me as he walked out of the Tae Kwon Do studio. I was late, as I usually am on the days I attempt to make it to his classes. Bryce's hour-long class was to follow, and so I scooped Quinn's hand into mine and ushered him to the car so we could have some one-on-one time. On the way home he volunteered information about his experience at his school's summer day camp today: "At first I was pouting in a corner when dad dropped me off, saying, 'I don't want to be here' but then I started doing stuff, and then did more stuff, and BAM! it was over, and I was glad I went!"

"Wow, that's the best possible way the day could have gone!" I said, enthusiastically enough to be genuine, but not so enthusiastic that he would react with the embarrassed, self-conscious, teenager-like pouting he wields like a weapon. "I know," he said cheerily, looking out the window from his booster seat, the milestone seat that the kids begged me for while I waited for their small frames to hit 40 pounds for so much longer than they felt was reasonable. I non-chalantly broached the subject of his classmates; the week before, in fact what became the very reason for his pouting in the corner this morning, some of his classmates engaged in playground pettiness and I wanted to address it without upsetting him. "Mason was there, and Olivia was there, and Olivia found an egg with a chick inside, and I painted a shark, and I told Mrs. S that I didn't want to do the math because it would pass all my time, and she said, 'that's for tomorrow' which was really funny!" He didn't mention the playground girls that had knocked over his sand castle the week before, so I could only assume they're not in his class this week.

When we got home I suggested we walk the dog until John got home, and Quinn wanted to ride his bike, the activity that can practically guarantee red-faced grunting and frustration within a maximum of four minutes. I didn't let on that I thought it would be a problem, and he maneuvered it outside and managed to ride several wobbly feet, several wobbly times. It was hot, and we were tired, so we ended on a high note and came inside, where he promptly told Truman to sit, and Truman did. "WOW, Quinn," I said, "you really ARE having a good day!" He was beaming, and therefore happily took a bath and picked out stories, which he read to me, pronouncing Hound "Holgund" and Something "Smurgen" only repeating patiently when when I offered the correct pronunciations, and at the end, saying triumphantly, "Wow, I'm really good at this!" From a kid who has recently told us we don't like him, we like Bryce better, and he's not good at anything, this was a huge relief to hear. I came home intending to spend time with him and carve out a conversation about his recent negative self-sabotaging statements because it's become enough of a concern that I didn't want to ignore it any longer. But look at that, he found his groove, at least for today.

During our walk / attempt at a bike ride, I did actually touch on the subject I'd been thining about, and I told him I loved him because of who HE was, and nobody else was like him. I brought it back up before his bath while he sat next to me as I ate a quick dinner, and he finished my thought for me, saying, "and you also love Bryce for who HE is, and I love YOU for anybody else!" which was his Quinnglish version of "I love you for who YOU are because you're not like anybody else," his mistaken vocabulary summing up one of the very things I do love about that kid -- the way he sees and says the world. He gets it. He's getting it. He's getting math, and reading, and art, and friendship, and life, despite my neverending concerns. In fact, his statements, incorrectly worded or not, so often contain profound layers. I mean, is this not what I'll be saying when I'm 80? "At first I stood in a corner and said, 'I don't want to be here' and then I started doing stuff and BAM! it was over, and I was glad I went."

Look. Someone *invented* him.

Quinn's feisty nature brings him to the brink of trouble more often than I'd like to think about, and he's only five. I realize this spells disaster for me and my preference for not hyperventilating and having nervous breakdowns on a daily basis as he ages. He is such a joker that most times, people think his shenanigans are riotously funny, and I'm left looking like the grouchy, over-tired suburban parent who can't see past her own manicured nails or tomorrow's lunch appointment and will look up in 15 years and realize she missed all sorts of laughs at her brilliant, hilarious son who no longer cares anything for making her laugh. But I do think the kid is funny, and most of the time I'm only NOT laughing because as a parent I know that laughing at certain behaviors is not going to turn out well for either of us. Example: Last week at my mom's, he was snacking on chips and queso and decided, in his spontaneous and unpredictable way, that he needed to eat them outside on the patio between the 30-second water gun fights he and Bryce were having (30 seconds because they went outside, stood directly facing one another and squirted all the contents of their 3-ounce-capacity miniature plastic water pistols onto each other's shirts, then immediately slammed through the door yelling "I NEED A REEEE-FILL!"). I absent-mindedly helped him carry the bowl of chips because I was also carrying on at least two other conversations with the adults present at the time, and I wrongly assumed my duties were fulfilled and came back inside to sit down. A few minutes later, Quinn swung open the back door and, wide-stanced and furious, yelled confidently, "WHAT is the meaning of NO QUESO out here?!" See? Hilarious, and yet not sanctioned by the Parental Laughter Association.

Tae Kwon Do has been a different experience for Quinn. While most of his borderline inappropriate behavior has resulted in laughter (even if hidden, like it is from me) from whatever audience he has -- grocery store shoppers, movie watchers, innocent bystanders -- the Tae Kwon Do instructors are not fond of Quinn's loud jokes during demonstrations, and his cub-like wrestling with his brother when he is supposed to be listening and showing respect. Because of his age, they are patient in their repeated explanations of the rules, but Quinn has no fear. When he is occupied with a task or learning something he is capable of doing, he is the model student. But when left to his own devices while waiting his turn to spar or practice with the instructor, he reverts to his comfort zone, which is a zone filled with floor writhing and unpredictable, loudly stated phrases about bodily functions. After tonight's class, John was ready to Stop The Madness Already and pull him out of the classes while Bryce continues to work towards his next belt. There is some part of me that wants to give in to what feels like peer pressure from the other parents and go along with with this, but a much bigger part of me completely disagrees and thinks we'd be sending the wrong message to him, that he doesn't fit in, is too challenging to teach, that we'll give up on him just when he's ready to be reached, and a whole host of other long-term self-destructive beliefs.

At dinner tonight after the lecture about his unacceptable behavior in class (during which time he tried to justify his behavior by telling me matter-of-factly, "Look. Someone invented me. God. And that's why God controls me!"), I asked him if he wanted his black belt. He said yes, and I asked him why. To be like the instructor, he said, to be able to do the things he does. We talked about what it takes to accomplish that, and then he said, "you KNOW I'm not good at Tae Kwon Do!" This is Quinn's latest attention tactic: self-criticism or victimization. When he's angry, he tells us that nobody in this family likes him. When he's told to take his toys upstairs or get the dirty clothes off of his floor, he says, "I'm just your SLAVE! You're always telling me what to do!" I try to ignore and deflect these comments most of the time, but tonight I said, "you're so great at Tae Kwon Do that you passed onto the next class, and now you have to pay attention when you're in there or else the instructor won't be allowed to give you your next belt." I braced myself for more self pity from him, but he just said, "okay." Later when he was telling John that he wanted to get his black belt, I said, "but what are you going to do so that you get it?" and he said, "focus." "Do you know what focus means?" asked John. "Yes," Quinn said impatiently, "it means to FO-cus on what the instructor does [pronounced 'dues'], that's what!" and he rolled his eyes and turned away, disgusted. It's a good thing he did, because we were silently laughing.

Inevitable: Back to the Pack (of weirdos)

Two years ago, Chaos reigned supreme at our house. Today it's more like mild irritation and a feeling of succumbing to the Inevitable - whether that's the kids' addiction to inappropriate Cartoon Network programming, the personification of their love-hate relationship in the form of what I would call bi-polar play ("now you pretend to hit me" "okay" "OW! WHY did you do that?! MOM!! He hit me for NO reason!"), the feeling that we're always running late, or the fact that everything we own will at some point or another be damaged or broken by our kids. So, not so much chaos as simple and utter surrender to the forces at work. Oh, we tried to fight it off for a long time. Tried so hard, in fact, that we eliminated as many sources of the chaos as we legally could.

As it turns out, surrendering to it has enabled us to let one of those suspected sources right back into the fold: Truman. My mom fostered him for two years and was at her wits' end for the 47th time when I realized that 1.) the kids are two years older, 2.) Chaos no longer rules our house since we've given in to the Inevitable, and 3.) we're fat and need exercise as much as the high maintenance, formerly assumed to be epileptic, and possibly still schizophrenic dog does. Since his return, John and I have walked Truman daily and have slept with Cesar Millan's book on the bedside table, letting its calm, assertive, magical powers seep into the house and form peaceful dream bubbles over Truman's head while he lies perfectly still on the floor until the morning alarm goes off. We can hardly believe that each interaction with him is so quiet and brief: a look or a stance achieves what yelling never did, once his ridiculous energy level has been at least partially drained on a (very) brisk walk through the neighborhood.

The issue at hand now is the kids' desire to have a "normal" dog. Although we've accomplished what we suspected we could with the exercise and focus on calm discipline, Truman doesn't seem to know how to play. Bryce especially has been asking for a dog for over a year, and has been waiting for the chance to take his dog in the back yard and throw a frisbee or ball only to have the dog return it on Bryce's command. Now that I think about it, this is actually the type of interaction Bryce would KILL to have with any living creature. Obey my commands, minions. But despite the cooperation and peace Truman has shown, he apparently isn't the fetch "type," and only watches Bryce with curiosity as he repeats Truman's name, throws various brightly colored and insanely expensive rubber toys frantically about the yard with the most sincerely excited face and voice Truman could ever hope for, if dogs hoped for facial expressions or sincerity.

Tonight during my complaints about the pet toy industry's squeeze on America (why the high prices on doggie toys? WHY?) and Truman's obsession ONLY with rawhide bones, which will lead inevitably to his aggressive protection of said rawhide bones and also possibly digestive problems -- which I can do without from an 80-pound animal that is unable to defecate into a toilet -- John had the ingenious notion to put a rawhide nub left over from Truman's lively chew session last night inside one of the expensive rubber toys. We threw it across the yard and Truman bounded after it, but despite the fact that we know Truman is familiar with the phrase "bring it to me," he stood over it and pawed at it, sniffed at it, rolled it around with a mix of curiosity and frustration, but never picked it up in an effort to officially retrieve it. John and I thought we'd be really smart and "show" him how to fetch, because apparently we think the dog is a moron, but this only resulted in Truman following John back and forth between me and the spot in the yard where the trapped rawhide kept landing. Bryce, who was supposed to be in bed, peeked out the back door and asked what we were doing. "Teaching Truman how to get the ball," we said, like idiots. "Oh," said Bryce, in the overly mixed innocent/confident tone of voice he uses when he thinks we don't realize anything is odd about him being outside his bed, outside the house, an hour after his bedtime: "Can I help?" He joined us, in his underwear (now the pajamas of choice), jumping excitedly and saying, "get it Truman, get it!" while he twirled Noir's tattered, two-and-a-half-foot long tail through the air during the five remaining minutes it took for John and I to realize that if we were having to give the dog treats to chase after the bone he wanted, we were actually to the point where we were looking for Chaos.

We put an end to that RIGHT THEN, people. We are just fine with the Inevitable over here on the Fringe. Apparently the Inevitable now also includes quirky, peacefully stubborn dogs and mildly disappointed underwear-clad kids holding expensively obsolete rubber squeak toys.

Fewer Volcanoes

I've been feeling like I need to explain or summarize everything that has happened over the past year or so. Like most perceived pressure and sense of obligation in my life, this is purely self-inflicted, and it has resulted in a longer absence than I probably intended. After the move to our new house last year, as life and routines changed and unexpected surgeries loomed and unknown levels of strife surfaced, I found myself unable to write. At first this happened consciously, but it gradually became buried under layers of ash and hardened lava from the numerous volcanoes erupting around me until at one point it had been buried so thoroughly that I stared into space and numbly assumed my chance to write and my ability to write had passed me by. I told myself in my coping attempt that I was experiencing everything rather than recording it, that I'd have to be thankful enough for the experience to make up for the desire to re-live it at a later date. Then I'd blink, turn my head, see another volcano blast, and run for cover. I didn't have time or the emotional wherewithal to focus on writing or not writing, and now the months and milestones have passed unrecorded, and that in and of itself will ultimately serve as a kind of anti-record, non-reminder, shadow.

I've accepted this, or I thought I had. But in re-reading posts from the time I was writing and recording these experiences regularly, I've realized that my return to attempting to write hasn't felt smooth or natural. I know part of it is lack of habit and routine, part of it is recovery from a year of physical and emotional exhaustion, and part of it is that -- and this is the most profound realization I've had, as obvious as it should have been -- our life has really, substantially changed since we had experiences like the ones I wrote about two years ago. I look back on some of the posts about the kids and it all comes rushing back to me: the shrieking, the chaos, the high, high blood pressure, the never-ending guilt and frustration. Wow! Either all of it ultimately pushed me over the edge, or it was merely boot camp preparing me for surviving the challenges that were to come. Either way, our days don't much resemble the seventh circle of hell anymore, and I say that with complete love for my children at all ages they've seen, but also with complete seriousness. We were in hell! Don't get me wrong. Bryce is as intense and quirky as ever, and Quinn has continued to learn from the master. Things certainly aren't what I would call "quiet" or "dignified" around here. Although we have finally entered the stage where they are on the same eating and sleeping schedule, can communicate effectively with one another by using the English language, and enjoy each other's company, this also means that they are like a traveling circus, cracking each other up and performing loud, obnoxious tricks everywhere they go. But this is so much better than the torture they were putting us through a few years ago. And I missed writing about that transition! It's happened, it's done, and here we are. Now I've got to move on to discussing Kid Issues exclusively; Toddler Fiasco Stage is over. I have never written exclusively about Kid Issues, and because some Kid Issues bleed strangely into Family Issues and Adult Issues without necessarily clean and stable lines between each, I'm still feeling my way through it.

I've been at the computer for a little over an hour, and in that time Bryce has come into my office to admit that he didn't brush his teeth ("do you think I should?" "I would if I were you," I said, like a true pick-your-battles parent), and to tell me softly for the third time about his cobra/vampire nightmare from two nights ago. Two years ago the interactions would have been entirely different, and would have ended with me writing something about my ongoing parental failures and the inevitable emotional scars I would ultimately leave on my intense kids as a result, which would be completely unfair to them since their intensity had been derived directly from me and my intense genes. Tonight, the interaction is only noteworthy against the backdrop of the distant past, and the absence of record of the more recent past. What is noteworthy today is a completely different set of experiences, and I am working up to recording those.

I'm remarkably -- as hard to believe as this is -- at peace with the missing puzzle pieces of this record. It took the absence of material for me to realize how profoundly things have changed. It turns out my coping mechanism was actually working; I did experience rather than record for a while, and although there are experiences I'll never be able to read about, I live with their outcomes every day while this new existence unfolds and I find that the ashes and black rocks are being layered over too, but this time, for now, not with more lava.

Monday Night Summary

Back to it.
After my week of pretending I live in a house with some other people that look like my family, I made the death march to my car this morning as John waved goodbye and tried to cheer me up with jokes. It didn't work. Despite the ridiculous amount of e-mail in my work inbox and the "there's one in every office" co-worker who never fails to accost me before I've even finished booting up, the nine-hour day felt more like 90 years. I thrived on diet coke and contests with myself over how many e-mails I could respond to before the next one came through. I'm pretty good at that game. Nobody manages an inbox the way I do. Man, now I'm even more depressed.

Something fishy this way comes.
Remember the scary time that Quinn almost drowned during a swimming lesson? That was fun, huh? I haven't enrolled the kids in swimming lessons ever since, which has only served to make me that much more paranoid about them being around water. I know; it's the stupidest vicious cycle ever. The only way I agreed to let them swim in the gorgeous new pool in our neighborhood this summer was for John to get them actual life vests, which he did technically do, even though they're both about two sizes too small, because John still thinks our kids are three (understandable though that may be, given the whining and tantrums that are still heard daily in these parts). Between the too-small vests and the huge, ill-fitting goggles that Bryce insists on wearing to keep water from going up his nose, I know this is hard to believe, but trust me: we're the freaks at the pool. Bryce, the cautious one, decided to shed the inappropriately named life vest, since it was choking the life out of him and all, and since the pool in our neighborhood has a pretty huge shallow end, he has gradually taught himself to swim. It's a thrashy, explosive swim, which is exactly how you could describe everything Bryce does, so really not surprising, and he's quite proud of his accomplishment. I blew it off the first few times I saw it, because I noticed he would take two choppy strokes and then stand up on the pool bottom and breathlessly say, "did you see me swim?!" just when I was getting excited that he might actually be swimming, and I'd sort of nod and smile and clap, all while thinking, "GAH! Keep going, don't stop!" But tonight he was forced to swim a little further to reach the steps he was going for, and I realized the reason he's been stopping to stand up is because he hasn't figured out how to just lift his head to take a breath. He actually makes himself more tired by taking a few good strokes and then standing upright, breathing several times, then starting over. This swimming and breathing method could sum up Bryce's ENTIRE LIFE. I can't actually even believe it.

Goodbye my love.
Quinn has opted to keep the life vest because floating is easier, smoother, and more entertaining than all that difficult kicking and deep breathing. But, the twisted little kid likes to "play lifeguard" with Bryce, which entails a dramatic sputtering, some "help, I'm drowning"s, and a dose of eye rolling that is only morbidly entertaining because he's bobbing around in a life vest. The kid's a psycho. When it was time for us to leave the pool tonight, he floated to the middle and refused to come out while John and I stood there debating how much we really wanted to 1.) leave, 2.) humiliate ourselves by continuing to negotiate with the little terrorist, 3.) drink. "I live in this pool!" he proclaimed giddily. "I'm never coming out!" Float, blob, splurb, smile. We said, "if you can't cooperate when it's time to go, then we won't be able to come back in the evenings." He paused with only slight concern: "Ever?" I jumped on the chance: "That's right, we'll never come back. Now get out." (We thrive on empty threats over here. Don't judge me.) He meandered over and I wrapped him a towel and gave him a nudge towards the gate. "Goodbye my love, pool!" he squealed with delight. I think I'm onto something here with this "water behavior as a metaphor for the kids' lives" thing.

So much for that bright idea.

My new office is furnished and just needs a few remaining touches. I've inhabited its space every day on my pseudo vacation, getting used to its new feel and looking forward to the next time I can be there. Am I there right now? No. No I'm not. The office, as much as I love it and am proud of what I was able to put together on a very small budget and a precious allotment of time, is up a flight of stairs and down a long hallway. Under normal conditions, I would actually prefer this seclusion. But right now, no. No I don't.

One of the developments of the past six months has been our enrolling the kids in Tae Kwon Do classes. Before we moved to the new house just over a year ago, we were members at one of those high tech expensive gyms, and we were all getting regular exercise, a couple of us with psychotic but effective personal trainers. Last year's move, surgeries, work travel, family stress, and financial demands put an end to that, and we canceled our membership and told ourselves we'd use our treadmill, or jog through our neighborhood in the mornings, or stop eating Ben & Jerry's. Ah, sweet fantasies. The kids' Tae Kwon Do studio offers kickboxing classes, and a few months ago I thought it would be a perfectly good way to start a new exercise routine after a year of not doing so much as even thinking about exerting myself beyond raising a glass of wine to my lips, walking to and from my parking lot at work, or having daily nervous breakdowns (those don't burn as many calories as you might expect).

The kickboxing classes were some of the best and most challenging workouts I'd ever had, but they were done barefoot, and there was lots of hopping, and kicking, and kneeling, and then more frenetic hopping. Occasionally during one of the one-foot hopping sessions I would have searing pain in one or both of my feet, and I assumed I landed wrong or I blamed the extra 15 pounds that refuses to disappear because I refuse to do a whole lot about it. Then I took two more work trips, carrying who knows how many pounds of paper and laptop over my shoulder. One day a few weeks ago, walking to my car in a recently purchased suit (in a bigger size than I'd prefer, which is actually why it was recently purchased, if we're being honest here), with my anvil, I mean laptop, hung habitually over my shoulder, the heel of my shoe landed in a hole in the sidewalk and I crashed to a pretty pathetic heap after my shoe flew off in one direction, my laptop in another, and the left knee of my new suit pants ripped. The scabs on my knees have healed, but the top of my left foot has never felt back to normal, and I think between the kickboxing, sporadic workouts, already bad bones, and the crash landing in my suit, I've got some kind of stress fracture.

So now, I'm on the couch in the living room to avoid all the painful walking upstairs to the comfortable, private office I finally have. This seems pretty typical, and yet a little more cruel and taunting than usual, even for life on the Fringe. It's okay, though -- if it wasn't this that banned me from my own space, it was going to be the "165 bad guys" carefully and strategically placed on every flat surface by Bryce and Quinn during the hour they were supposed to be resting the other day. I limped upstairs still in denial about my worsening foot pain, heard peaceful playing and assumed the kids were in one of their rooms next door to my office. In actuality, they had christened my room as their own, which means whether I'm on the couch with my foot up or in my personalized, cozy, upstairs office, I'll be surrounded by plastic toys and the sound of kid mouth explosions.

The wrong cave, indeed.

In the fashion typical of our trip planning capabilities over the past year, we decided at the last minute to spend at least one day during my week off doing something that would allow us to take pictures and have evidence that we didn't stick our kids in front of the TV for 9 days straight while we did laundry and shopped for storage ottomans to fill the space where the desk used to be in the master bedroom. Knowing we would only have time for a day trip, we scoured the state travel magazines until we found a destination that appeared to be the perfect blend of proximity to our city, opportunity for "enrichment," potential for tiring out the tasmanian devil children we'd be bringing along, and low cost. We prepped the kids for at least a good seven minutes before we got on the road: "No getting upset today! No yelling! No whining! No fighting!" Between Bryce's mean streak of late and Quinn's ever-ready arsenal of toddler-like screaming (and by the way, he's FIVE), within 10 minutes of our 2 1/2 hour drive, these ingenious parenting methods once again shockingly proved ineffective, and we pulled the car over on the side of the road and falsely threatened to turn around and go home. Basically it was all downhill from there.

First of all, let me say what a good job our state has done with marketing its state parks. I'm not saying the state parks aren't beautiful, and I'm not saying the state park marketing materials are actually publishing falsehoods, per se, but I AM saying that "family fun adventure" must mean something different to me than it does to whoever is approving said state park marketing materials. We chose a park with a supposed 19th century hideout cave as its main attraction, but as we discovered when we got there, no documentation of any outlaws using said cave actually exists. Huh, no problem - we don't have to mention that to the kids, it's still an amazing rock formation. Since it was a blazing hot July day and we were going to be walking to this cave with two small kids, we chose the "easy" path, supposedly marked with pleasing yellow tree dots. The "hard" trail was red. Let's stay away from red. Red bad. We no like red. John took the lead, and the kids with their boundless damned energy darted around the trail in front of me while I fought off images of their tiny heads bashed on the sharp boulders we all kept tripping over. I only frustrated them and their attempt at glee with my constant reminders to be careful and not die. Bryce, while tripping: "YOU KNOW I'M A GOOD CLIMBER, MOM!" Quinn, red-faced and picking himself up after a fall: "I'M FINE! STOP SAYING ARE YOU OKAY!"

She can't bother both of us at the same time. Let's split up.

Pretty soon in my out of shape flab-covered, osteo-arthritic left knee cracking misery, I started to wonder why this "easy" path was so flipping difficult. At one point we found ourselves up high enough that the kids were walking along edges. Are these god-forsaken cliffs? Where's the damned cave, anyway? Bryce was constantly asking, "Dad, are you sure we're going the right way?" until finally John started saying, "No." because this was his way of verbally admitting we were no longer on the yellow path, or maybe any path at all. I wanted to sink into pits of despair and start screaming for help, but something startled me out of my frustration: a 50-pound black vulture flying from under whatever John was standing on to a tree branch right in front of us. A VULTURE. Um, hi. We're just a couple of fat white people with some tender veal here, and in just a few more minutes on this baking shelf of a cliff, you can help yourself. Can you tell us where the hell the yellow path is, though? Red bad. Vultures bad.

Creepy flying vulture picture taken during the heart attacks of a couple of unnamed adults.

After another 45 minutes, and with several more heart-exploding experiences watching the kids' lives flash before my eyes while they defiantly jumped from one boulder or cliff to the next, we came around a bend in the "path" to catch a glimpse of the entrance, which means we had circled the entire area and never. Found. The cave.

We brought flashlights to use in the cave, but apparently we won't need them for that; what else are they good for? Periscope? No. Microphone? Maybe.

We spent some time letting the kids explore back at the entrance, which was where the majority of the biggest rock formations were, and I would have been satisfied to leave this state park telling myself THAT was the famous cave, and we had simply, STUPIDLY walked all around it for no reason.

See how much fun they're having exploring? We don't need no stinkin' outlaw cave.

But no. John had to go and re-read the state park literature posted next to the parking lot and confirm that we had not only walked all around part of the formation, but ALSO had not found the "famous" (and yet not) outlaw cave. We can't come all this way and not see the cave. But we did see the cave! We apparently stood on TOP of the cave and I was fine with that because we lived through it and didn't get eaten by huge vultures! No, we have to go back. Let's get some water and go back. On our second attempt at the "yellow" path, we ran into some kind of crazy rock climbing enthusiasts who cheerfully greeted us, and when we told them we were looking for the cave entrance, they pointed up the sharpest, steepest incline marked with red everywhere. Red bad. No red. Bad, bad red. We tried to go around and stick to the yellow, the elusive yellow, the cruel joke of a path the yellow dots turned out to be. Soon we were climbing, or should I say, BRYCE was climbing sharp rocks and ignoring our cries to wait for us and let us go ahead of him so as to make sure he would live to see the next second. My head practically exploded a few times and I saw red dots everywhere, now unsure if the dots were truly painted on the trees or just some horrible premonition of doom only I was seeing.

Note red dot. Bad.

Finally admitting we were officially on the red path, John, Bryce, and Quinn scaled - stumbled - spelunked their way up, and then down to the famous cave entrance while I half crawled, half scraped my way behind them. Victory was ours! Despite the poorly marked trails and the vultures and the near death of my small children, here we were at our final destination. Ah, what a lesson for the kids: we had a goal and we met it, we didn't give up, and we conquered the most difficult path of all!


As soon as Quinn had a clear view of it, he screamed, "THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT CAVE!" We tried to convince him, to point out the clever, clever identifying sign painted in yellow of all cursed colors at the top of the entrance, but he was adamant. "THERE WAS NO SIGN IN THE PICTURE! THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT CAVE." I know what he means. In fact, this is basically how I wanted to respond to the entire experience. THIS IS THE WRONG STATE PARK. THERE WERE NO VULTURES OR RED DOTS IN THE PICTURES.

Reclamation

She married into his family assuming all families were like hers, and would welcome any partner their loved one chose for the simple and profound reason that their loved one had chosen anyone at all. She let this assumption take her down paths of greater discomfort and disappointment than she could have imagined possible as she laid down bricks and mortar to mask and protect her real self, the one that was being assimilated into his family's Borg-like reality rather than accepted and welcomed for its own unique other-ness. After the initial discomfort subsided, she began to think she could accept life as an assimilated one, and despite occasional reminder pangs of who she thought she was, who she'd once been, or who she'd assumed she would be, she enjoyed her position of perceived acceptance in his family and ignored the fact that it was conditional, and fatally so to her identity.

She assumed she'd always be willing to go on this way until the birth of her children, when she realized the bricks and mortar masking and protecting her real self would have to be piled around them as well, but how could she mask what even she did not yet know, and why would she want to? The assimilation of these two, the concealment of their unique and profoundly beautiful selves would be more crushing than hers, and in her refusal to seal them into a reality not their own, she knocked a few bricks loose from her own protective guise. His family went about the same calm assimilation process they had faithfully relied on for years, but she wouldn't budge, and she succeeded in protecting the two she refused to brick over.

The family turned their attention to her, not yet frenzied but no longer as calm in their work, still utilizing the same techniques that had brought them this far. But what they found wreaked havoc on their trusty system: the harder they worked, the more bricks she knocked down. With hardened resolve in the knowledge of every implication of what she was doing, she removed the concrete walls and fortress structures around and on top of the self she'd damaged in the process of concealment and attempted protection. Underneath the rubble she found vines and seeds that hadn't been destroyed, and she let those see the light of day even if she couldn't yet eagerly cultivate them, all the while letting her children run wild and free of the Borg as the others, the beautiful and different others. She gained strength as the seeds caught hold and forced life through what was once covered in concrete; in enough time she became aware that not only were the bricks and mortar gone,but a wilderness grew in its place, one abundant with a resolute energy she had almost forgotten. She claimed it, exclaimed it, reclaimed it her own and not theirs, and not to be destroyed, and not to be concealed.

His family, reacting to these system-threatening circumstances, solved their assimilation malfunction problem by proclaiming a collective choice not to assimilate her, in the spirit of, "you can't quit; you're fired," which is the only way the Borg can survive in the wake of one who reclaims what was thought to be theirs, of one who escapes with her self and her family intact.