Behold: The first snow day of the year

Ah, the first snow day of the year. There’s not much that compares to it.

Snowy roads no match for sledding hill.

It starts about 6 p.m. the night before. Someone (usually me) checks www.snowdaycalculator.com. It says it's a 99% chance of a snow day. Someone (again me) announces this loudly while standing in front of the TV. The children who were tired and grumpy are born-again revelers in high fashion fuzzy pj bottoms. I try to hold them off a smidge by warning them that the site has been wrong 99% of the time so far this year.

But let’s face it, we don’t care. A hope starts up deep inside and homework is tossed aside.

I start to meticulously check the Weather Channel app. I wait and wait for it, until yes, an orange exclamation point appears. A rise of excitement rips through me before I even click on it. Four to 6 inches? I try to steel against my hopes, worried about all those who have to drive to work in the morning. But I can’t help myself: I fire up 1989’s National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. We’re staying up late and, mother of all inventions, we’re microwaving popcorn.

It’s a party before the party. Confession time: Moms want snow days as much, if not more, than the children. We fantasize to great lengths: No lunches to pack. No kids to drive anywhere. No basketball practice. No battle of the wills over what pants to wear. No pants to be worn.

11 p.m. – Everyone is in bed far too late.

Midnight, 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. – I check my phone. The orange ! is still on the screen. Trepidation and exhilaration have a social gathering in my chest.

4:30 a.m. – A check of the TCAPS website. Nothing. Check at 4:31, 4:33, 4:35. Give up. Start prepping myself for the Morning from Hell.

6 a.m. – Wake up to the buzz of a text. Aha! The alert from WLDR that school is closed! I rip my phone from the charger and nearly upend the dresser. My heart hammers wildly. Finally, I can sleep.

7 a.m. – Still can’t sleep. I can’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they get their first snow day. Something you can’t earn, can’t make and can’t buy. It’s bestowed upon them from above and placed lovingly across the ticker on the bottom of the TV screen. I turn off the alarm so the kids can sleep in. I wait quietly, proud of my restraint.

7:30 a.m. – A child races into the room. He makes a beeline for my phone. I say nothing. I don’t want to spoil the surprise and I also want to make sure he can read.

7:31 a.m. – There is shouting, dancing and spontaneous brotherly hugging. Finally, I can go to sleep. My work here is done. Just a pesky little deadline for the 48-page January-February issue on my calendar today…

8:30 a.m. – Without being told, the kids find their own mittens, hats and boots, all without flopping down in a pile by the front door and wailing in despair like every other school day morning. Outside reveals the most glorious of conditions: Fluffy white snow outlining the trees to perfection. When the kids leap, they disappear into a cloud of white.

9:30 a.m. – It’s time for the be-all end-all of snow day activities: sledding. While the roads are impassable for school buses, they are nothing for a mother with two waterproof children on her hands and half a tank of gas.

10:00 a.m. – Head for the sledding hill next to the school.  

Noon – The moms at the sledding hill stand around in the sunshine. We marvel over the heat wave – it’s 14 degrees. And we marvel over the road conditions – they’re better than they’ve been in two weeks. There’s no doubt it. It’s the perfect snow day.

Breakfasting on the couch

What is wrong with this picture? For one, it was not allowed in my childhood home while growing up. For another, it’s not allowed in my home now, while my kids are growing up.

Without my permission or even, at any clear point, my submission, the children have started breakfasting on the couch.

They have perfected the pillow table and I’ve invested in Scotchguard. No one could look at my sofa and guess that a thousand bowls of Froot Loops have sailed across its seas.

Here are the finer points to their technique:

Posture: The first step to a successful pillow meal is to slide all the way to the back of the couch, spine straight, pulling the pillow tight to your belly. Remain still at all costs, being sure to resist reaching for the remote to turn off the TV when Mom requests (shrieks) it.

Core: At no point can you breath, flinch, slouch, nor lean to or fro. Strong abs are key to this operation. One cannot and should not attempt this trick with 38-year-old abs.

Hand-eye coordination: Getting spoon to mouth is tricky enough... but to do this hypnotized by a yellow square and meowing snail on TV? Watching them doing it as if blindfolded is heart stopping. Again, this is a young man’s game.

Pillow: Choose firm and full pillows, stout like a plank of wood. Mom’s throw pillows — especially sentimental ones warned never to be touched, let alone eaten on — are ideal.

Attire: Stripping down to your undies is perfect because if there’s spillage, it’s easier to clean. And there will be spillage.

Wipes: Towels or napkins may be a good idea. A dining room table might even be a good idea. But no, only a box of Kleenex will be used. But do not actually touch Kleenex. Instead screech for Mom to come quick! Watch as each time she is shocked to see spillage, and each time she will grab the first thing she can — Kleenex.

Covers: A blanket wrapped from the waist down, without toes showing, is a must. Any spillage beyond the Kleenex can then be soaked up easily. Huge queen-sized comforters, impossible to put in the washer, preferred.

Waitress: Assume the position on the couch and holler for your mother. When she asks what you’d like for cereal, ignore her. Three times. When she puts the bowl of her choice on your lap (God forbid, with a banana on the side), make sure she knows she picked wrong.

Waitress, part 2: When she explodes, dump your cereal in your lap, thereby creating a distraction.

Waitress, part 3: This time, make sure she knows to bring Froot Loops.

Waitress, part 4: Leave at least ten O’s stuck to the side of bowl, which will turn to concrete by the time she remembers to pick up the bowl that evening.

The finale: Never finish the milk in the bottom of the bowl... because what else would there be to spill when it’s time to get up and get moving for school?

T-Day Dinner: If you have sisters, you know.

It’s the time of year when women everywhere will juggle family dinners for maybe two, three or even four different sets of family. Sometimes more.

We have a special kind of curse, where most of the in-laws and out-laws live within a few miles of each other. This means we never, ever have just one Thanksgiving dinner on the fourth Thursday in November. Instead, we get a series of them, one after another, morning, noon and night.

And the one at our family home always goes down like this: Dinner will be scheduled for 6 p.m. At least one of us three sisters will have to cut short another family dinner to make it by 6. This will create tension before the family has even buttered its first bun.

But it will be the best we can do, our own slice of Kalnbach time for the day. Never mind that we will also see each other the week of, during and after. Our mother would never forgive us if we didn’t gather on the holiday.

We will arrive in three stages:

Early: One of us will arrive early at our dad’s, carting a homemade side dish, her famous dessert and two children. This sister will rush around the kitchen, belly full with turkey, helping to prepare another one, wondering where the hell the others are.

On time: At 6 p.m., another sister will arrive. She will feel smug to have such perfect timing. But she will have forgotten to prepare her side dish and will have the ingredients swinging from her arm in a plastic bag from the corner gas station. “I’ll just whip this up,” she’ll say, casually. The early bird will glower at her but say nothing. Instead, they will place bets on when the last sister will show.

Late: Finally, the last sister will arrive 30 minutes late with her side dish half eaten by her in-laws. She will redeem herself by doing the dishes later in the night but, for now, she is the reason her sisters are standing around, mad and waiting, trying to pretend they are hungry and, most importantly, considering the intake of alcohol.

It will take the threesome a full fuzzy navel each to calm down and forget the trespasses committed. Peach schnapps was their mother’s favorite, but the good stuff comes when everyone else leaves the kitchen and it’s just the three of them, alone.

The sisters, 40 or near to it, will be giggling, with their shoulders pressed to each other, heads down, whispering, hoping their father isn’t coming. One of them will burn a pot of beans or drop a bowl of dressing. And they will all look up to see if they are going to be in trouble by an adult.

They will suddenly be in no hurry at all to start the meal. For a few moments they are kids again, laughing. They hate to break the spell that has come over the little kitchen, the kitchen they used to share with their mother. Because when they are together, and in sync, a part of their mother is there again too.

At last, the meal will be served, sometime around 7 p.m., and even then no one will be hungry. Six children’s plates with beans, buns, and turkey will eventually be fed to the dogs. Six children will beg for a bowl of cold cereal when they get home from the party. The next day, life will roar on into its usual busyness.

But the three girls will still remember what those few minutes in the kitchen felt like, together.

This year, we hope you’ll enjoy your own family dinners, agony and all, and take time to treasure the little moments even if your sisters are driving you batty. Happy Holidays!

Not Riding the Iceman: Why taking a break got me going again

 

I didn't ride the Iceman this year. Or last year. In fact, I swore I was retiring from my so-called secret-weapon training. Ask all my friends, I was adamant that I needed to quit racing altogether. I made them promise to not let me do it. It was no fun anymore, it took up all my time, I couldn’t take the anxiety, I hated race-day jitters, I always had a mid-race crisis where I hated my bike and them too.

But standing at the finish line of the Iceman this year, I saw racing with more clarity than I have in the 8 years I've been doing (or dreading) it:

A community. To be a part of it, on the inside, tucked into the sweaty jerseys and helmet head pictures, only comes with riding it. The spouses and friends and sponsors are all essential, but still one step removed from the true experience. There's nothing like feeling the chill settle in after the race and knowing your body is ready to be done, you've pushed it, you've earned a hot shower, a drink, a rest.

This year, I felt the separation, thin, between done and doing. I realized that not doing it one year hadn’t cost me much. But two years off and I was distancing myself from what I was, had become, what felt good and right and hard and worth it.

Can I let that go? I don't think I’m ready to. It's too much of what I loved about my life. It brought me new friends, new challenges, endless miles up damn hills, headaches, bonking and sometimes, always, satisfaction in getting it done. In many ways, biking saved me from grief, from losing my mom and my mind too. It put me on a path to doing better, trying harder. After two years off, I felt the old slip coming, back to bad habits that take me down, not build me up.

Some of my best times include that year when I biked like a madwoman, all the time while the kids were in school, and ran around with mad men, laughing and bitching and moaning and sore and sweaty and... again, satisfied. Of course many things had to take a backseat to that, time was in short supply. I couldn't do it forever and still get other things done, like my writing. But that year was a good one, great friends made and time found, somehow, for the first time since losing my mother, to go out at night with friends and laugh again.

A new perspective. By taking a break from racing, I see that the race is not as big as I’ve made it out to be. The nerves and anxiety are still there, but smaller now, acknowledged but not all-consuming. I've discovered it's ok, it's more than ok, it's good to feel small in a race, to fold into the crowd and ride for yourself. The feeling of finding your pace, of working a hill, shifting tight, pulling away with enough at the top of the hill to get back up to speed, not bonking, bonking and coming back.

It was something to see that sea of bikes at the end of the Iceman. I wished my bike was in there again. Hey, I wanted to say, I'm with these people. I see it bigger now, from above, looking down, that it’s a coming together on the same day for a bunch of people who like these same crazy things. 

So few of them are true racers, but 100% of them love their bikes and their friends they ride with. I don't love a single hill in a single race, but I can say some of the funniest times of my life have been spent, unexpectedly, in the hot, humid, wet cab of a truck with a group of people who just did something as dumb as ride through 3 hours of rain with me. 

Seeing them cross the finish line last Saturday, I wondered, what if I hadn't met these, my new friends? My bike brought me to this place in my life where I would meet them. And without planning to, I'd biked and changed alongside them every mile. All the stories, the victories and losses, not to mention the therapy on the trail.

They are part of my story now, a good part. Maybe other things are coming, too, delivered by my bike. Miles logged in solitude and in companionship. I needed a break, a few years off. But that time gave me the perspective I needed to see what I had, what I loved, what I missed. I know now that there's more to come, maybe even a good race or two.

No Cookie! (Life with a puppy)

This new puppy has been really good for my diet. What's better for changing one's mindset than walking around yelling, "No Cookie!" about two dozen times a day. It's true, I've lost three pounds since bringing this pooch home.

The boys begged for a year. I really had no intention of getting a dog and in fact, had pulled a “Kendall” on Kendall and a “Nelson” on Nelson. I looked right at them, nodded, and didn't hear a word they said. The puppy idea was so far from my mind that it crept up on me from the front.

One minute I was free, leaving the parakeet and a mountain of food in his cage and the cats and a mountain of food in a corner and taking off for entire days, weekends even. The biggest mishap was coming home to find the bird missing a few tail feathers. (His fault, never the cats.) But the floor was clean, there was no wrestling match in a crate and most definitely, no one had napped in the water bowl.

The next minute, I was scooping poop with a toy shovel, could leave the house in no more than 4-hour shifts and doing a lot of yelling. I'm not sure what happened in those 60 seconds. Someone told me that every boy needs a dog. Then I realized they were ages 8 and 10 and, if I wasn't careful, I'd be talked into a dog right about the time they left for college. 

Then a whole bunch of people told me not to do it; it was as bad as a newborn. That's when I knew I had to have one. 

So the hunt began. My husband — the dog person — barely looked at the puppy pictures presented for his approval. He said “no” and turned the TV channel.
I was mystified. He was playing this better than I believed possible. Somehow, the cat person was convincing, nay begging, the dog person to get a dog. The more I said I wanted a dog, the less I actually wanted one. I hate to admit it, but I envied his style.

Under duress, he finally agreed to the one with the green ribbon around her neck. I won the argument I wanted to lose. Cookie came home three weeks later to much fanfare and a new dog bed that has yet to be slept on. 

Her insatiable urge to bite came within the first hour. She bit the boys, she bit the chair, she bit the air, she bit me. We were only off duty when the cats were in the house, the softest, scratchiest thing of all to bite. I soon learned to wear sweatshirts, my hands cupped in the sleeves, sweaty but safe in the depths of those first hot summer days on my new No, Cookie! diet. The boys took the other route and designated one good shirt for her to put holes in if she could catch them. It's taken a toll on us all. It's been two months and my children's hands look like those of a 60-year-old mechanic.

Carrying off shoes came next. Just one of any given pair. Enough to give me hope that we could leave the house on time, enough to fell me on a daily basis. After that, she inventoried the food bowls on offer and decided only cat food would do. Even if her food bowl was full. Especially if the cats were watching. 

Just when I thought we might be in over our heads, the boys started searching for dog tricks on YouTube. The same children who can't take the time to make their beds had that dog doing three tricks that very day. The biggest crowd pleaser is shouting, “Bang!” and watching her roll over, face up, playing dead.

It's a good trick, one we played many years ago with my mom's dog. Cookie looks pretty cute like that, all curled up and helpless-looking. Also, she isn't biting anyone for a moment. In fact, I can reach down and rub her belly and darn if she doesn't have the cutest brown eyes. Let's face it: those boys are good.

Review: The Husband's Secret

The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarty

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Read the hardcover of this book - what a beautiful cover. I was surprised with the depth and intricacy of the plot lines, impressive. I would have liked her to go deeper into the emotional impact of the many characters/twists/turns but by NOT doing so, I was able to read it faster, enjoy the ride of the plot line instead of weighing the consequences too much. Really loved the twists and turns. Loved hearing from all diff. characters throughout the book. Read it! Light enough to move along yet complex enough to satisfy.



View all my reviews

Money Man: How to find inspiration for a race

It’s our health issue and my sister and I both like to work out (bike or hike or run or walk). Nothing too crazy although we sometimes teeter on the brink of obsession — inspired by “incidents” along the way.

Mud, Sweat and Beers 2010, complete with jammies.

Here’s an example:

In our first mountain bike race, Peak2Peak at Crystal Mountain in 2006, we were treated to the unlikely sight of a man in stiff blue jeans. Us, in our $100 spandex shorts and $100 jerseys. Him, in his Levis. Passing us. Easily in the first mile. Up a hill.

But it wasn’t the jeans. It wasn’t the hill he sprinted around us on. It wasn’t the 20-year-old bike his gold-stitched denim pockets sat upon. It was the shocking jangle of chain as he whizzed by. From his wallet. His chain wallet. Sticking out of his back pocket.

This is when an obsession was born and bred on the hard-packed trail of a ski resort. We looked at each other and reached consensus with nary a word: He was going down.

We’re happy to say that there was a resounding comeback in that race. We caught the Money Man and his wallet later. (Six miles later, a sore spot in this story.) But we passed him on the climb out of the valley and never saw him again. And we were smart enough not to look back to see how close he might be.

That led to an obsession to beat all men wearing denim jeans and translated to many more miles on the trails over the next few years. Then came Mud, Sweat and Beers at Mt. Holiday.

But, before race day arrived, as our obsessions are wont to do, we faltered. This biking thing was hard and really, we were in it for the fun. So, when we stumbled on a rack of Disney jammies en route to Brick Wheels for spandex shorts, it created the perfect storm: We decided we’d wear our spandex shorts, but (light bulb!) hide them under matching pajamas.

What would be funnier than two grown women in striped Snoopy pajamas in a mountain bike race?

Everything apparently.

No one, and we mean no one, acknowledged our getups on race day. It was awkward but we marched on, proud to be creative in a world of disc brakes and sponsored jerseys. As we jostled for the front of the back of the pack at the start line, we got a few sidelong looks but still, no laughs.

On the trail, it got worse. We were talking and riding and enjoying ourselves when suddenly, it happened. The unimaginable.

We started passing people. There we were, faster than last year, our training paying off! We were ecstatic (understatement) and put the pedal down!

But there was something in the air with each person we passed. Something not good. Something close to distaste and perhaps, yes, there it was, straight-out disgust. What’s worse than being beat? Being beat by a couple of girls in Peanuts nightwear.

We had, unwittingly, become Money Man.

We passed men and women in $100 spandex and $100 jerseys. We passed them left, right and center and picked our way out of the front of the back of the pack to the back of the front of the pack. We were on top of the world. The Money Man obsession had paid off in spades

In the end, our time was so unimpressive that we couldn’t scare up a look of envy at the finish line. And, granted, it was the last time we rode a race out of “uniform.” But still, it was a memorable race. We were Money Man for a few miles that May and the obsession took hold.

Now we enter races here and there — biking races, 5ks, tris, whatever the passing obsession might be. And, while we never see a podium, it’s still hard not to love the thrill of getting out and trying. Who knows where we might be if not for the jangle of the Money Man?

The Night Hike - The Perfect Scary Summer Party Idea

Welcome to the entrance of The Night Hike.

We had an end-of-school party. We figured a few families would show up, a few drinks would be consumed, the children would scale a tree or two, someone would cry, and a child would need a Band-Aid before it was over. All of these things happened and then some.

Some 35 children showed and all of their parents — 75 people here all told. Our biggest party ever, a point of pride… and a little bit of terror. The kids all brought bikes, the adults all brought booze.

We live on 12 acres in the middle of nowhere. Our driveway is 1/3 of a mile long, which means we have some 1,700 feet of privacy. You feel like you’ve arrived somewhere outside of subdivisions and PTO meetings and have been delivered to a new world filled with possibility. Throw in some rum and it’s a party.

The kids disappeared from the scene the moment they arrived, spreading out over our property like the Lord of the Flies. By 8:30, a cloud of dust hung over the driveway from 70 turning bike wheels so mighty that it looked like the frontier being settled by a bunch of kids in shorts and t-shirts carrying iPods.

The women gathered on the front porch pretending to watch the children. Occasionally we saw a child dart between the trees. “There’s mine!” a mom would call. “Over there, I see another!” we would say, careful to watch them but not attract them.

The men gravitated to the back with the beer cooler. I had spent a good chunk of time at Target buying candleholders and patio lights for the back porch in preparation for this big blowout party, only to see it fall on the blind eyes of men carrying koozies of Bud Light. The women sat on the front deck with no ornamentation and the garden hose wrapped around their feet.

At 9:30, Tim opened Puerto Rican Rum. Tim handed each adult a shot. It took only one person to say yes for the others to fall in line. None, it turned out the next day, realized it was 151 proof at the time.

After 30 minutes of the inner workings of rum and the arrival of nightfall, I announced it was time to have our “night hike” out back in the woods.

What? came the shrieks of disbelief. But those who had been to our parties before quickly assembled. The hike was non-negotiable. Flashlights were discouraged but two were allocated (for the security of the newbies and those under the age of 10).

As tradition dictates, we hike to the backside of our property, as far as possible into the perils of Interlochen, and ask that all flashlights be turned off. And for everyone to stand still. And to be absolutely quiet. Then we stand together in the dark, in silence, in the endless forest, bonded by our solidarity.

Until someone (me) asks, in a quiet, quiet voice,
“Did you hear that?”

Cue the tears. Children scrambled for their mothers and women clung to each other like teenagers. There were lots of screaming, cardiac arrests and “Flashlight” apps opened on smart phones.

This year we had the added bonus of someone firing up an iPhone with the Dogman song. As tradition also dictates, we made the trip back to the house in half the time.

Confession: This is the signature move at all Chapple parties. After being scared to the limit, back at the house, we all bask in the glory of survival. I have found no better bonding experience at a party.

Now you know about this total crowd pleaser. You are welcome to it, but please don't try it on me (I hate being scared).

GTWoman: 10 years & 60 issues in business

19 of the GTKids!

This issue marks the 10th birthday of Grand Traverse Woman Magazine! Our first issue was Aug-Sept 2003. My sister Kerry and I like to look back fondly on that issue as “the era we didn’t know squat.”

We were just getting by back then, trying things and hoping and guessing. (We still do a lot of that, truth be told!) So we stopped this afternoon to take out a copy of our first issue, when we would have been a mere 28 years old. We were horrified by the design and some of the content we’d come up with so long ago. We then paged through a decade of issues and decided we not only got better, we got better fast.

By Issue 2, the fonts were legible and by Issue 4, a few of the women pictured came out looking Caucasian instead of 50 shades of gray. By Issue 5, we’d attracted the attention of women (who weren’t related to us) who would subscribe to GTWoman.

By our second full year in business, (at which point we figured we’d be out of ideas), we seemed to be (shockingly) gaining momentum. Women were reading us, advertisers were calling us, writers were contacting us. Electronically. At this point, Kerry had to admit that email was not a passing fad.

Soon, we could actually answer (most) questions asked about our very own business. We had a media kit and we knew what it was. We were learning to manage a staff of freelancers — pizza being key to this operation.

By that fall, we feared we might actually be in business another year and decided to add women’s events to our line-up.

We still remember saying: “If 30 women come tonight, wouldn’t that be cool?”
We had over 130 women at our first Network Nite. We acted very casual and remembered to hand everyone nametags like it was all part of our plan. But when the last gal left, we flipped: there was high-fiving and squealing and again with the pizza.

Not long after that we decided to buy a few pieces of office attire to get us through the business world. We didn’t think we could wear suits without looking at each other and laughing, but we did manage to wear a skirt and iron a blouse. We even, with some apprehension, took to accessorizing. This business was transforming us!

From there, we realized we’d have to start dyeing our hair; we were aging along with the biz. We started joking about a “Senior Edition” of GTWoman even as we discussed the wonders of 10-minute touch-up.

Then, 10 years had passed. We wouldn’t say it was in the blink of an eye, but we might say it was in the blink of several bad hairdos, a few typos, a thousand pizzas and the dawning of Kerry’s email inbox.

For our cover photo this issue, we gathered the moms who help us make it happen and gathered their kiddos for a photo. (The women decided we didn’t want to have to fix our hair, so we went with a kids-only shot.) What a cool picture to get after many years and many issues together!

Thank you to everyone who has helped us make it 10 years. We hope you’ll join at our Sept. 11 Network Nite when we celebrate this milestone!

A parakeet. Oh yes we did.

About a week ago, we caved. Nelson had been begging for a parakeet for over a year. Then came the fateful night at a new (former) friend’s house when the kids ran off to play.

Nobody move.

It was a new home for them, for all of us. I let my guard down and didn’t ask the right questions. I assumed all was well. The dad was a cop after all. He was the dude I would call if things went wrong.

Turns out in 4 hours, everything changed. When I wasn’t looking, it happened. They had a parakeet. And I never saw it coming.


It was daybreak the next day before Nelson said it was so: “Grace has a bird.” Come Friday, a mere 7 days after that fateful visit, we had Scoops.

Day 1: We reinforce all doors on the cage and I shove the cage once, hard, like a 10-pound cat might upon landing. It stays put. The bird ignores us.

Day 2: The bird climbs on everyone’s finger but mine. The children are in love with this bird. Nelson gets out his raptor glove and gets the bird on his hand. (At last, he is using his eagle stuff!) “Good boy, Chirps!” I say, feeling like the best mom around. Wait, I got his name wrong.

Day 3: I’m working in my home office next door to Scoop’s lair and I hear it for the first time: a chirp! I drop everything and bolt across the house (4 steps).

“Chirps, is that you?”

I am so proud. He says nothing.

Day 4: Time to get the cat thing over with. I can’t stand Scoops cooped up all day with the bedroom door closed except for the times I come running to find him saying nothing. So I open the bedroom door and wait. The cats arrive together.  “Chirps,” I say, “prepare.”

In five minutes, during which the cats purr, rub and paw at the cage, Scoops becomes more animated than I have seen him his whole life here (less than a week). He races across the perch away from the cats. And then back and butts his head against the cage wall where the two cats are biting the thin white bars with caution, in slow motion.

The cats’ whiskers are literally inside the cage. His beak is poking out of the cage trying to touch them. Scoops does the impossible next: He starts chirping! I see it leave his lips. I knew it was him all along. 

Next, he starts flapping his wings. Then back and forth along the perch. I watch in wonder. I’m not sure, but I think he is playing. The cats are in full support of this fun (one-time) game.

Then Scoops starts flying around his cage. Feathers are floating in the air (the tiniest white and green ones you ever saw, I pause a moment to admire). I can’t tell if the game is over or escalating.

“Are you ok, bird?” I holler over the ruckus. The cats are pouring a nice white wine to go with their meal.

The bird flies to the front of his cage and hangs there looking at me. I don’t think this looks fun anymore.

Day 5: Scoops chirps the whole day. I think he is calling for the cats but secretly I hope it’s for me.

I ask Kendall, who has adeptly gotten the bird on his finger since Day 2, to help me bond with this bird. When I put my hand in the cage, he scuttles across his perch. I corner him. “All aboard!”

He sets one spiny foot on my finger and a shiver runs down my spine. I swallow a small yelp. Then, the second talon is on my finger. Victory! We are one! His name is Scoops! I remember now!

Then, he goes bananas and tries to shoot out the cage door that is blocked by my winter-fat arms.

I screech. I drop the cage door and trap him. I run across the room (2 steps) and screech one more time. Kendall talks me down as he puts Scoops on his finger with no effort.

Day 6: Kids, the bird is all yours. I’ll stick with the cats and the white wine.

Delivery man? Hide.

In honor of Mother's Day, we'd like to share one of our favorite traditions with our mom: hiding from the Watkins man.

Every Tuesday, the Watkins man pulled in with his old brown car. And every Tuesday, we had to decide if we would hide.

Mom loved the spices and balms, but we all bristled at the inconvenience of actually placing an order. Don't get us wrong. He was a friendly man but he persisted in long and involved sales visits even if we were standing there in our swimsuits, especially if.

When he pulled in, there was a throwdown over who would answer the door.

When my sister volunteered, she would try to be brisk with him, asking for the standard black pepper in a no-nonsense matter. But he didn’t care, he felt only that she was having a bad day and that, with some work, he could cheer her up.

I tried being extra jolly and ordered a slew of spices from him. But this didn’t send him on his way, as I thought it might, happy to go before I changed my mind. He saw this as only an invite to stay longer and offer preparation advice.

It got worse when our mother set out to “keep it short.” She was part Watkins man herself and the two of them would end up in a long play-by-play of the latest gossip.

So we all took to hiding from him, if, and only if, the pepper shaker was full.

One afternoon, we floated on flimsy air mattresses bought at the Ben Franklin in Interlochen. We were nearly asleep, while mom was doing the unthinkable: using the shallow plastic cupholder. When she wasn’t dumping Diet Coke into the pool, she was reading a book that soaked up and bloated with water.

This is when we heard the rumble of the old beater.

“Oh no, it’s Tuesday!” I said, floating in a perfect moon of sunshine, cutting between the shade trees Dad insisted on planting around the pool. I cried to think of leaving it.

“Let’s get out and hide!” Mom called out. But, with the Diet Coke and the book, she was ensnared.

“We’ll stay put,” I said and lay my head back against the plastic and shut my eyes. I was thin enough (then) and the plastic cheap enough, that I literally floated in the 6 inches of space between the water and the rim of the pool. I was nearly out of sight.

Mom wasn’t so lucky. She instead paddled one-handed to the side of the pool and huddled behind the tree between the house and the pool, clutching the railing with her wet book, her Coke can floating in the middle of the pool. We looked at her over our sunglasses. And the giggles started.

“Shhh! Here he comes!” Mom said. She was, in a real turnabout, mad at us. This only added to the hilarity of the situation.

“HELLO! Ladies?!!” the Watkins man's voice rang out in the garage, a few feet from where we floated, hysterical.

“Hold steady,” Kerry whispered.

But it was not to be. The laughter was too loud and the pressure too much.

We certainly can't remember what we ordered or who did the ordering, but we do remember how much fun those days were. When we were teenagers in the swimming pool, laughing and gossiping with mom and hiding from the Watkins man.

We miss those days. And, as if orchestrated from heaven, the day I wrote this, the Schwan's man came calling. And I was in my workout clothes, on the treadmill and looking, dare I say, nasty.

What should I do? What could I do?

Hide, of course. (Forgive me, Fred.)

As he knocked and waited, I sat huddled in my sweaty clothes and thought fondly of my mother who had taught me best.

Happy Mother's Day to our mom, who taught us when to wait things out and, just as importantly, how to laugh very, very quietly.

Margaritas & Sweatpants

There’s the unknown when you’re invited to a friend's house for the first time. Just come for a strawberry margarita, she says. It's 40 degrees in late April. There’s still snow on the deck. And she is standing in her kitchen making fruity cocktails. 

I’m going and no one can stop me. 

I decide this has the potential for a date night. With a little work, my husband might realize I'm not always in sweatpants with my hair in a ponytail. I can see it already - me and him, him and me (me especially), youthful in the light of our friend's kitchen. 

First I flat iron my hair but see this provides a straight-on view of my roots. So I curl massive pieces of hair around my face. Look over here, far left and far right, people. Leave the gray for everyday life in my own kitchen. Tonight, we are making new friends and liquefying strawberries. 

I pull on my favorite pair of jeans. I pull them off. Check the tag. They are indeed my fat pair and they are indeed longs. But I can see my ankles now, which weren't on display last fall. A little study in the mirror and I see the problem. My backend has grown an inch upward and outward. Never mind, tall boots and a fluffy sweater at the waist and I look fine. ish. 

I go one more and find some crusty mascara to set off my eyes, one of which failed its driving test last year. 

We hit the road. The kids are thrilled. They have detected they are going to be with their mother but she has clearly checked out and will do little more than keep them alive. They will light matches and run with scissors. And she will be flipping her big hair at the far side of the room, winking at them good-naturedly and shooing them along. 

They see from their father's ratty t-shirt that he's still very much on the radar. When they get to the new house they will memorize the floor plan to always be out of his eyesight and earshot.

We arrive at our friend's house. She said 6 p.m. We get there by 5:50. I have never been on time anywhere at any time. I feel anxious. This is all wrong. 

"Drive around the block a few times," I say. "It's rude to show up early, especially for the first time (in my life)."

The kids screech in protest when we pass by the house of freedom.

Finally, it's a decent 6:01 pm and we pull in.

"Hello! Sorry we're late!" I call.

"What. are . you . wearing?" is the reply. I look up to find three couples. All the women in sweatpants and ponytails. In the kitchen light, they look a lot like I did all month.

"You look good," one says to me.

"Too good," says another.

What have I done? I think.

They start elbowing each other. I am not sure what is happening but the gal not in sweatpants is now undergoing a hazing.

"What? Is this date night?" they howl.

"Perhaps," I hedge. My date has already ditched me and is across the room with the guys.

They hand me a cocktail. They admire the curls. They wait.

Finally, I cave.

"Does anyone have a pair of sweats I can borrow?" I ask. "These jeans are about to split."

But they won't comply. They are going to keep me uncomfortably beautiful all night and poke endless fun at me while Tim never looks twice. But it's fine. I was a little in love with these gals before tonight. Now? I'm totally in love.

Spring Break Trip & The Caravan

Spring is not in the air. However, it’s on our minds. It’s almost time for our annual spring break trip to Gulf Shores. For six years we’ve made the trip south with sisters, kids and dad in tow. And the caravan there has taught us a thing or two about business. Three cars all traveling a perfect 72 mph in unison for 1,200 miles? Impossible. Yet it’s the aim every year. Kind of like topping last year’s sales numbers; we hope we can make it around the first bend before the proverbial wheel comes off.

The Boss
Whoever is leading the caravan is in a precarious position. As in business, he/she must foresee all problems and navigate all arguments. The first shake-up comes at noon. What to have for lunch? When? Where? And the dreaded: Stopping Already?

Here, the boss must take in all sides, consider each option, and declare a clear path, all without letting on that the decision was made 50 miles ago.
The trick is to appease all (mostly himself) just enough to keep this train on the tracks.

This is why it’s usually Dad’s job. He’s armed with a Garmin GPS (named “Wilma”) and the four decades of authority necessary to cow his three daughters. He will navigate the Southern states with a steady hand at a speed that produces the best gas mileage. And nary a word shall be said about when or where we have lunch.

The Pink Slip
We make it through Michigan, sometimes as far as Tennessee, before someone snaps. Usually it’s a son-in-law hell-bent on burning an extra tank of gas just to see the ocean and his own free will a few hours sooner. When the ex-pat makes his move, the boss becomes concerned. There is a phone call from one car to the next. Later, a text, a brief inquiry on what mile marker they are at. Finally, a concession. We will see you there. A small ripple goes through the caravan. A wheel has come off. As in business, you’ve gotta let some people go.

The Entrepreneur
This freed family car is now a heady mix of exhilaration and teen-age daring. For the first 100 miles. About then, the guilt sets in. Perhaps it’s time to pull over and meet up for dinner? Get a hotel for the night together?

Texts and calls start. The wayward son-in-law sees that The Corporation is a force to be reckoned with. His small start-up is floundering.

The Arrival
Come Day 2, one way or another everyone in the company arrives in Gulf Shores. There is a small reunion, a scuffle for the best bedroom and a staff meeting... over what’s for dinner. No one wants to cook. Everyone is sick of take out. The boss announces (and is craving) brats and hot dogs on the grill. The crew bonds over a small barely controlled cooking fire. It’s a good team-building exercise to keep the fire alarms from going off. It’s just another day of business.

Here’s to one more year of the caravan and the company...

Kids & iPods - FaceTime, Texting and Other Problems

My boys now have iPods. I held them off as long as I could. Then Grandma and Christmas coincided in a glorious gifting in December and our world was forever changed.

First problem: I had to create a fake identity for each child on each iPod so they could open an iTunes account. There are now two more Chapples born in 1974. Both of my children are about a month older than I am.

Next up, texting. I think this is adorable for the first 24 hours. I save every text. This is going in their baby books! That one too! And this one! OMG, an emoticon, they are brilliant, how did they figure that out! A smiley face! A heart!

Wait. A…smiling turd? I get 56 emoticons in less than a minute. In 56 separate texts. My phone goes crazy.

I am not smiley-facing anymore. I scream at the other room, “QUIT. TEXTING. ME.” (Three screams/SEND.)

Silence. My phone stops vibrating. A long silence.

“You’re mean,” comes the next text.

I switch to video mode. I am in my oldest bathrobe. My hair is half in a ponytail, mostly not. The backwards camera makes one eye look bigger than the other. The yellow of the kitchen is a nice contrast to the storm in my eyes.

I get it on the first take in my calmest voice, I don't want them to ever forget: “I am always mean.”

It's so good it scares me. It’s a masterpiece. SEND.

Ground rules, I need them. I ask (text) my friends. What are their rules? We are all on the edge of iPod puberty. No one knows the rules. We finally find one mother who has experience: No texts after 7:30 at night. No texts in the morning. No texts after school until homework is done. I set up the “Do Not Disturb” settings as she advised. Life is good.

The following day, prior to 7:30 p.m. and post-homework, I’m getting out of the shower. I hear a girl laughing in my house. I think it’s the TV.

“Turn that down!” I bellow (remember, mean).
When they don’t reply, I grab a towel and go on the hunt. “Are you deaf????”

Only to discover that Kendall is on FaceTime with a friend from his class. Forget Big Brother, I am felled by nothing more than the view from a tween girl’s iPod. I dive to the floor.

“Oh my God,” I hiss. “Can she see me?!”

I crawl by my elbows into the bedroom. I am in horrors. I dress, fix my hair like it’s a night on the town and approach my lovely son in my lovely home in a lovely manner.

“Excuse me, darling, could you possibly wrap things up so we may share this homemade meal as a perfect family?”

When he ignores me, I get on the other side of the iPod and start making threats, lots of hand movements, swats, countdowns, bone-breakings, you know the drill. Finally, he relents and hits END. I pounce on the iPod.

“Give me that. Did she hear me? Did she see me? What if her mother saw me? Her father? And this house, our house is a pit!”

He is unconcerned. He is 10; all he knows is that his mother is always mean but that her hair’s looking pretty good for a Wednesday afternoon.

My $1,500 cat

We now have a gold-plated cat.

The 66-cent eagle (give or take $1500).

The problem began when Happy, our 4-year-old kitty, started puking. I didn’t panic. Cat puke and carpet cleaner is standard issue around here. But on Day 4, she didn’t come out to have her morning milk. I knew this to be her first serious symptom. By 10 a.m. she was under an x-ray machine.

“This is the happiest cat ever,” I told the vet. “She never stops purring.”

“Ever,” the vet confirmed, taking her temp.

The x-ray showed some inflammation in her intestines.

“Looks like there could be a blockage,” the vet said. “Could she have eaten something unusual?”

Happy likes to chew — plastic, rubber, foam. I figured there was a Nerf bullet battalion in her stomach.

The first course of action, to the tune of just 20 bucks, was to give her “magic beads” — metal ball bearings in a dissolvable capsule that would travel her digestive system to be revealed by x-ray the next day.

The boys with Happy post-surgery.

All I could think was “50 Shades of Grey.” To which one (male) friend pointed out that my cat was indeed grey.

However, we weren’t home two hours before I watched her puke and roll metal balls across the linoleum floor. Very sci-fi.

But, come morning, one bead had remained in her stomach proving the (financial) worst: There was an obstruction.

“We’ll have to go in,” the vet said grimly.

I’d braced my wallet for this very conversation. OK, I’d told myself: it might be $500, $600 tops. I could do that. It couldn’t possibly be much more. I was confident in my worst-case scenario decision as I carried my sci-fi cat into the office.

Now, though, the vet’s face showed a figure much higher than my initial estimation.

“It’s a lot,” the vet warned. “At least $1,200. Maybe $1,500.”

I had a crisis of character for a split second. Was I the kind of person who could put down her cat? Not a chance. Was I the kind of person who had $1,500 to spare? Not a chance. The room got very small and very hot in a matter of moments.

Happy looked up at me, soft, weak and purring.

“We have to do it,” I said.

I beat a hasty path to the minivan. I climbed in and cried. I wasn’t sure if it was for the cat (who, they’d assured me, would be fine) or the fact that Christmas was just around the corner and the old Christmas Club savings account (and then some) had just set sail.

Four hours later I got the verdict: a hard plastic figurine in her small intestine. A one-inch tall eagle. A 66-cent toy.

(If you read my column, you know that my son Nelson loves his eagles. You might also guess that the eagle worship around this house took a swift and serious hit.)

It was duly noted that the bill came in at $1432.66.

At first thought, there is no way you would guess a cat could eat something so big and unbendy and plastic-y. It seems far more likely that I would have come home to find her tapped-out under the Christmas tree with a true Heimlich rescue at hand.

But no, she had probably spent the better part of a day proving that nothing was off limits. First the corner of my yoga mat, followed by a Nerf bullet and then, the crème de la crème — the tiny yet regal eagle on the narrow shelf in the living room. Getting to it would be half the fun.

“Why?” I cried to anyone who would listen.

“Because it’s a bird,” was the resounding answer, my gold-plated cat purring all the while.

How many Lego pieces can you handle?

The Lego Mania starts something like this: You stumble over a Lego box the size of a small car in your living room two weeks after Christmas.

1,490 pieces of complicated machinery.
Oh, and some Legos.

“Are you ever going to start this?” you screech.

This is your first mistake. Prepare for dinner on your lap because the kit will now be “in progress” on the dining room table for the next week. You will soon see how unappetizing a kit of 1,490 pieces truly is.

You’ll be tempted to get it over all at once, to rip it off like a Band-Aid. Careful now. If you kick-start the Lego project, you become Project Manager. The kids will expect you to lead the initiative on Bags 1, 2 and 3. Keep your distance. Better to threaten to return it than threaten to start it.

One night the wind will change. And the kids will insist they want to do it. All of it. Tonight. At 7pm on a Saturday. A little thrill will roll through you. Let’s blow the doors off, you think. What a cool memory, the night you stayed up until midnight doing that magnificent Christmas Village with three Lego trees, a chandelier and a plastic cat walking the railing of the upstairs bedroom.

You haven’t felt this young in years. You dump the contents on the table because you can’t help yourself. You elbow one child in the face to keep him from opening Bag 2. But they insist. He is looking for the gold: 8 pairs of legs.

By 7:15pm: The figurines are all built. And you’ve got so many damn pieces of plastic on offer that you’ll never notice the one that slid under the fridge until page 46.

The new Lego people are off on a merry adventure with the children. In other parts of the house, in formerly glorious Lego sets brought to life in past Christmases.

“Come help me!” you scream. But you don’t look up. You can’t. You are this close to finding that black piece with a hook, two studs and one hole.

You stay on the worksite alone. You’re ok with this at first. It gives you a little time to get organized, review the booklet, determine your attack. Also, it looks like the first dozen pages you can whip off and save about an hour of agony, if only they’ll stay gone for a few minutes.

You complete the sled, the cart, the outhouse, two wreaths and a lamppost. About the time you attempt the multi-layered roof on the back half of the house, they’ll want in.

“Um, it’s complicated,” you’ll say. “Let me just…”

“It’s mine, Mom!”

Here, they’ll wrench a white slate plastic roof from your hands, one of your finest creations of 2013. For a moment your hands tighten, then you let go.

“Fine,” you say, anyway, your neck is shaped like a 2-stud by 3-stud L-shaped Lego needed for the window overhang.

But you don’t get to the kitchen sink before they need you.

“Mom, help me!”

So it begins. You’ll never finish tonight. But it will be OK. It will be a week’s worth of time with your head bent near theirs. A time for discussing which shade of grey the book actually means. Time for marveling over who expected an 8-year-old to follow this as the 38-year-old is having some trouble. Time for you to convince the kids that an improv chimney with one yellow piece is better than moving the fridge.

In the end, you’ll have a compact 1,490-piece village that they’ll play with for precisely three days before abandoning altogether.

But you’ll have spent a week side-by-side, happy, united with a common goal. At some point, your husband will make you promise never to buy another Lego set again. At another point, you will promise. Later still, you’ll buy another set and do it all over again.