2014: A Year of Surprises

We stopped sending Christmas cards a few years ago. It's not that we don't enjoy receiving them from others, because we do. In fact, we have a nice little Christmas card display thingy that we hang in a prominent place every December. So why did we stop doing them? I'm not sure I have a good answer or excuse, so I won't offer one.

Instead, I offer this "year in review" of sorts. Think of it as our Christmas card in blog form.

------------------------------------------------------

If I had to choose a theme for the Rogers family in 2014, I think it's best described as A Year of Surprises. Some were good -- some not so much -- but in the end, we were constantly on our toes, and found ourselves to be pretty adaptable no matter what life threw at us.

FEBRUARY -- We're Moving (Again)

I suppose it's a good thing we decided to ask.

On a whim in late February, we emailed the property management company for our rental home in Tampa. We wanted to make sure we could re-sign our lease and stay in the home for another year. The family who owned the house was living in South Africa, and as far as we knew (and had been told several times), they wouldn't be returning to the U.S. for at least another year.

Like I said, it's a good thing we asked. 

We received a prompt response that, no, we could not re-sign the lease because the owners would be moving back into the house on July 1.

SURPRISE!

Just 8 months after moving to Tampa, we'd be moving again. Good thing we never got around to unpacking all those boxes.

With Jack headed out of town for three weeks, we had to act quickly. Although finding another rental probably would have made the most sense (we still own our home in Raleigh), I couldn't bear the thought of moving again only to feel "unsettled." So we decided to buy.

Our new home in Tampa

Our real estate agent went into hyperdrive and within 24 hours had lined up six showings in one of our target neighborhoods. The only problem was that, the same day we found out we had to move, I had oral surgery. The surgery in itself was no big deal -- but the reaction I had to the post-op antibiotics? That was ugly.

The accompanying nausea was so bad, in fact, that en route to one of the houses, Jack had to pull over at a busy intersection so I could jump out of the car and puke. Not one of my finer moments.

At each and every house we toured, the story was the same. I would tell our agent and Jack to go ahead of me while I stood in the front yard and threw up.

I just hope none of our new neighbors witnessed it.

MAY -- Two Houses, No Water

For those of you not familiar with Florida's west coast weather, let me acquaint you. The month of May can be hot. May can be sticky. May can be nasty. May in Tampa can remind you of an armpit.

And the weekend we moved into our new house, Tampa was doing its very best imitation of an armpit.

With temperatures and humidity high, so was our stress level. And it didn't help that to save money, we had decided to move everything ourselves -- everything but the very heaviest furniture pieces.

It was slow, arduous work, but we muddled through. By dinner time on the first day of our move weekend, we were making great progress. We stopped to order pizza for dinner, and as I stood in the office and looked out the window adjacent to Jack's desk, I noticed a steady stream of water pouring down the driveway.

Huh.

I raced out to the garage to find the hot water heater spewing water everywhere -- including all over our not-yet-loaded boxes and furniture.

SURPRISE!

Now Jack and I were the ones going into hyperdrive, desperately trying to locate the water shut-off valve. And because it was a rental home and we'd never thought to ask, we had no idea where it was. After 20 minutes or so, we finally found it. But a call to our property manager, and then to their plumber, revealed the earliest the water heater could be replaced was Monday -- if we were lucky.

Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink at our new house.

No big deal, we thought. It's so hot outside we can make do with cold water, we thought. Until we realized that all the faucets in the house were both cold and hot, meaning they didn't work at all.

No water.

Again, no big deal, we thought -- we already closed on our new house. We'll just shower and cook over there. Until we realized the county screwed up and shut off our water instead of transferring it to our account.

So we had two houses but no water. And it was Friday night. There would be no water until Monday.

So how did we get by for the next three days?

Showers at the gym. 

Eating out instead of cooking. 

Dogs drinking Perrier.

Just like we planned it.

JUNE-- Adventures in the Amazon

Although I never finished posting all of my journal entries from our week-long trip to the Peruvian Amazon, it is pretty well documented here on my blog -- both in words and pictures.

Jack with village children in El Chino, Peru

Certainly, the trip to the Amazon was not a surprise -- we booked it the previous October and knew well in advance what we were getting into (sort of).

The SURPRISE! in this case was that we actually went through with it. All four of us.

And we didn't get eaten by a giant anaconda.

Or stung by a bullet ant.

And we not only survived it, but we absolutely loved it.

We joked on the way home from Peru that any family vacation we take in the future will be incredibly boring by comparison -- and it's true.

LJ on the canopy zipline in the Peruvian Amazon jungle.

On how many vacations do you zipline through the a jungle canopy; swim in the Amazon surrounded by pink dolphins; fish for (and then eat) piranha; canoe through nearly impassable river ways surrounded by monkeys, sloths, and tropical birds; and hike through a forest so dense you can't even see the jaguars who are watching you?

A few days ago I asked Julianna to tell me the highlight of her year and she didn't hesitate with her answer.

"Well, duh," she said. "Our trip to Peru."

Duh, indeed.

SEPTEMBER -- The Marriott Miracle

One bonus to living in Tampa is that we have three NFL teams in Florida. That is, of course, if you count our hometown Suckaneers as an actual professional football team. (They are 2-13 as I write this).

As a side note (or rant) ... in the two years we have been Bucs' season-ticket holders, I have seen the team win in our home stadium exactly 1 time. Yes, once. In two years. And that's why we call them the Suckaneers.

Luckily, the not-much-better-than-the-Bucs Jacksonville Jaguars play just 3 hours from where we live. Why is that good? Because they happen to be in the same division as our beloved Indianapolis Colts. And that means, at least once a year, the Colts come to Florida.

LJ at the Colts-Jags game

For the second straight year we bought tickets to the Jags-Colts game. And for the second straight year, we randomly chose a hotel that wasn't too far from the stadium and where we could also use our hotel points and not have to actually pay for the rooms.

When we arrived at the hotel, the place was buzzing. There were lots of people lingering in the lobby. There were temporary black drapes hanging in front of the elevator vestibule. There were security guards sitting near the hallway.

The hotel was so busy, in fact, that we were told there was no way we could get two rooms that connected to each other.

When we pressed for a reason, we were told that the hotel was completely full. There was a wedding happening on site, and there were people in town for the Jags game (like us), and there was also a football team staying at the hotel.

"Which football team," we asked?

"The University of Pennsylvania," the desk clerk said.

I became suspicious. The guys milling around the lobby were way bigger than most college players I knew. And they were certainly a lot bigger than the guys who would play at a Ivy League school like Penn.

These were ginormous, massive human beings. Absolute beasts.

And I was pretty certain that not a single one of them suited up for the mighty Penn Quakers.

Then I noticed a local news guy with a TV camera.

Curious.

Then, some teenage boys asking one of the players to autograph a helmet.

A Colts helmet.

More curious.

Julianna, who was done with all the speculation, decided to take matters into her own hands.

She marched confidently up to one of the players, looked him in the eye, and said, "Excuse me, but do you play for the Indianapolis Colts?"

Julianna and Colts' Head Coach Chuck Pagano

The side of the player's mouth curled into a smirk, and he just nodded his headed up and down slowly.

Julianna stood there, staring at him, mouth agape, and said, "Uh, okay."

SURPRISE!

We had inadvertently chosen the same hotel as the Indianapolis Colts. Who knew they would stay at an unassuming Marriott in an office park just off the highway?

During our brief stay at the hotel, the kids were able to say hello to future Hall of Fame kicker Adam Vinatieri, get a glimpse of Andrew Luck, and even pose for a photo with Head Coach Chuck Pagano.

Oh, and incidentally, the player Julianna questioned in the lobby? That was the starting running back, Trent Richardson.

Best of all, the Colts won big over the Jags, 44-17.

At least a good team plays in Florida once a year.

DECEMBER - Beneath the Surface

In September I had a small spot on my face biopsied. Really, it looked just like a tiny red patch of dry skin on the side of my nose. But the results came back positive for two different types of skin cancer -- basal cell and squamous cell -- and combined they are known as a rare type of cancer called basosquamous.

SURPRISE!

Thanksgiving dinner, pre-surgery

Without going into too much detail, I'll give a quick update of where things stand now. Fortunately, the cancer did not metastasize. And in early December I had two surgeries -- one to remove the cancer, and another to graft skin to fill in the giant hole the cancer left on my face.

The good news is that, although I am probably months away from looking "normal" and going outside without a band-aid over my face, I will be fine.

We've done our best to face this with humor (no pun intended). My Christmas gifts included some fashionable Colts band-aids to cover my wound.

And as LJ so eloquently put it before the surgery, "Mom, this is one time you really DO need a hole in your head."

Touche.

------------------------------------------------------

The events recapped here are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to an eventful year for our family.

There have been plenty of highs, a few lows, and clearly, lots of surprises.

Here's wishing you and your family a wonderful New Year in 2015 -- one filled with love, laughter, and surprises -- but hopefully only the good kind.

Amazon Adventure: Day 2 - Termites, Poison Frogs, and Bats

On the Rio Blanco, en route to Terra Firma 

Today, it gets real.

Today, we're going hiking in the Amazon jungle.

We each are issued a pair of rubber boots so as not to introduce foreign microbes into the jungle with our own shoes. We also are told to wear long pants, long sleeves, bug spray, sunscreen, and hats.

I have a bit of an allergy to mosquitoes, so I'm not taking any chances. By the time I am dressed -- in the 90 degree heat and 95% humidity -- I feel like I am sporting full body armor. And I look ridiculous ... sort of like a cross between Panama Jack and Martha Stewart in her gardening clothes.

We head out in the motor boats for Terra Firma or "dry ground." This elevated area is one of the few places that does not succumb to the rising waters during the Amazon's wet season.

Soon, we veer off of the Tahuayo River and onto Rio Blanco or "White River."

The White River gets its name from the color of the water within its banks. It's really just a muddy, brown color -- nothing close to white. But where the Tahuayo meets Rio Blanco, you can actually see the water change from nearly black to light brown.

It's not that either river is dirty -- far from it -- there is no visible litter in or along the rivers. The dark water colors come from the sediment in the river and the decomposition of the jungle's plants.

After about an hour on Rio Blanco, we unload into a clearing and split into two groups for our jungle hike.

LJ at the foot of the Terra Firma trail

This time our guide is Cesar (pronounced Say-czar). Through his thick Peruvian accent, Cesar tells us he's been a jungle guide for nearly a dozen years.

I calculate that if Cesar's been in the jungle a dozen years and he's still alive and well, then I should feel pretty good about my chances of coming out on the other side.

As long as I don't lose sight of him. 

Also guiding us is Celeste (pronounced Suh-lest-eh). I learn that the word Celeste, in Spanish is a color -- essentially what we would call "sky blue" in English. She's only been on the job about 9 months, and appears to be in her late teens or early 20s.

I try to remember what I was doing when I was 20 years old. I'm pretty sure it involved a fake ID and some poor decisions. But I'm also fairly certain it didn't involve machetes, anacondas, and tarantulas.

*******

The humidity in the jungle is oppressive. The air is so thick it feels like a weight bearing down on my upper body. For a moment I wonder if I can possibly survive hiking like this for three hours.

But as I begin to focus on my surroundings and not just my sweat-soaked clothing, I am enthralled by what I see.

I have been on jungle hikes before -- both in St. Lucia and Belize -- but there really is no comparison.

The richness of biodiversity is evident from the moment we step onto the trail. Cesar points out a variety of native trees, including those used for medicinal purposes like the iodine tree, as well as those used for household purposes like the rubber tree.

WHACK! 

Cesar strikes the trunk of the rubber tree with his machete, and a white, milky-looking sap begins to ooze. Cesar places a bit in my hand, and after rubbing my palms together for just a moment, a rubber band appears where the sap once was.

Next, Cesar stops our group at a huge dirt ball that clings to the trunk of a tree.

WHACK!

Bug spray for the brave, aka termites

Suddenly, hundreds of small, red termites swarm from the mound. Cesar summons Jack to the tree and tells him to place his hands over the termites.

This is definitely one time where I'm happy not to be picked first.

Cesar instructs Jack to smash the termites in his hands to make a paste, and then spread it on his arms and neck.Why? Because termite mush makes an excellent homemade bug repellant.

And we Americans think termites are just wood-eating, house-destroying nuisances.

*******

The elusive poison dart frog

One reason we came to hike at Terra Firma is to find poison dart frogs. They are supposed to be plentiful in this part of the jungle, but this has to be a hundred times worse than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

While brightly-colored (yellow, red, blue, etc.), poison dart frogs are no more than about a 1/2-inch long. So after a lot of searching and even more sweating, I am beginning to feel like this is a hopeless quest.

And then, Colby, one of the boys in our group, spots it.

How, I have no idea. The teeny tiny yellow and black frog was clinging to a tree, camouflaged by leaves. Carefully, Cesar catches the frog by scooping it up with a leaf.

But now, the frog is hopping up Cesar's arm -- and he's NOT in long sleeves. And now it's moved to the nape of Cesar's neck.

And he's cringing.

And you can tell he wants that frog off of his neck -- NOW.

Cesar with the dart frog on his shoulder -- before it lands on his neck

This is because Cesar knows that the poison dart frog -- depending upon the species -- could be carrying a very toxic substance on its back.

One of our group members is able to shoo the frog off of Cesar's neck and back to the jungle floor.

Crisis averted.

Cesar laughs and seems very relieved. He'll live another day -- maybe even see year number 13 as a jungle guide.

I ask Celeste whether she's ever touched a poison dart frog before.

Yes, she tells me. Once she got some of the poison on her hands, and after touching her mouth, could not feel her lips for four agonizingly long hours.

Crisis averted. Truly.

*******

My little super hero braves the "Bat Cave"

Eventually, we approach an enormous, rotting, hollowed-out tree that is sprawled across the jungle floor.

Along with two of the older boys in our group, Julianna -- without hesitation -- crawls inside.

No big deal, right?

Except that this tree is home to a colony of BATS.

Fruit bats, fisher bats, long-nose bats, and even vampire bats. Dozens upon dozens of them hang from the top of the tree's inside.

A closer look at a group of long-nose bats

Despite wading through ankle-deep puddles of bat guano, Julianna emerges no worse for wear.

But I cannot believe what I just saw.

Is this really the same 11-year-old girly girl who's afraid of houseflies?

Amazon Adventure: Day 1 - The Arrival

View of the Amazon River as we land in Iquitos

My high school Spanish is failing me other than simple words like "nombre" and "pais" -- I'm having a very difficult time deciphering the declaration ticket for Peru. Between the four of us - and with a little guesswork - we piece enough together that I feel comfortable that I won't be detained by the Peruvian immigration authorities. At least I think I won't ...

*******

Long, long customs wait

After an hour-long wait at customs in the Iquitos airport (there was just ONE official working and he was painstakingly thorough), we board the bus and head for our boat to the jungle. The bus ride is both fascinating and sobering. Iquitos, which is the fifth largest city in Peru, is not what I expected. 

I expected a more modern city, but instead, the population of 400,000 seems to be very impoverished. Stray dogs roam the street, many citizens wander barefooted, and the majority of the homes look uninhabitable by American standards.

The kids' reaction? SILENCE. Until now, there were lots of questions, excited chatter, and a few complaints in the customs line. 

Now? Nothing.

For Julianna, who is outside the U.S. for the first time, and for LJ, who probably doesn't remember much about his only other trip abroad, I am pretty sure they are in shock. 

Iquitos sure is a hell of a lot different than the "bubble" they've known in North Carolina and Florida.

Julianna says she was expecting a city with skyscrapers. LJ says he thought the city would be in "better shape."

Iquitos homes

That aside, LJ does manage to find silver lining.

"Mom, there is something WAY better here ... the stoplights actually have a countdown so you know when they'll turn green."

Hmmm ... we could be in for a long week.

No doubt this is a kid who loves to know exactly what is coming next. 

But I'm thinking the only thing he may be able to count during this adventure is that there will surely be surprises at every turn.

Iquitos is the largest city in the world with no road access. You can only get there by boat or air.

A Letter to My Son

As part of a family history project for Jack's 7th grade Language Arts class at Academy at the Lakes, parents were asked to write a letter to their child. If you haven't ever done this for your own child, I strongly encourage it. What a wonderful gift for us both.

Jack, I have so many good memories of you that I hardly know where to start. But how about I start with Halloween night -- October 31, 2003?

You were not quite 3 years old but there was no doubt what you were you going to be that night. Your favorite TV show at the time was Bob the Builder, and I can remember watching it with you every afternoon in the den of our home in Greensboro, N.C.

Of course, you chose to dress up as the man himself, Bob the Builder. This was a man who was in charge, knew how to get things done, and was never too busy to lend a hand to friends and strangers alike.

As the theme song says, “Bob the Builder, can we fix it? Bob the Builder, YES WE CAN!”

Donning your blue jumpsuit and yellow hard hat, and with a hammer by your side, you were ready to conquer anything that came your way while trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, Adam’s Farm.

That Halloween, the street of Old Fox Trail filled with children and their parents as they trick-or-treated up and down the road. With you and Julianna being so young, your Ladybug sister sat in a stroller, and you rode in your green and grey Little Tykes Wagon.

What is most memorable about that night for your dad and me was how, at each house we visited, you eagerly jumped out of the wagon, navigated the steps to the front door, and before even asking your neighbors for candy, boldly declared to them, “I am Bob the Builder. I will fix that for you!”

And then you proceeded to hammer their front porch.

Cute story, I know … but why does this particular one stand out for me?

I think it’s because even at the young age of 3, we were beginning to see the type of young man you would become: straight to the point; caring; a “fixer”; and someone who is always was willing to help out a friend or stranger.

Today, I see those same traits in your willingness to help your sister with her math homework; in your genuine love and concern and for all animals and those people closest to you; and in your ability to help me conquer any technological or engineering task.

You’re my go-to guy -- the one who I know can get things done. I can always count on you to “fix it for me.”

Jack, although you are only 13 years old, I have already collected a lifetime of memories: birthdays and holidays; sports games and chess tournaments; talking football on the ride to school; racing at the annual Woolly Worm Festival in the mountains; riding rollercoasters with you until you are satisfied and I am sick … I cherish every moment -- even the ones where I’m nagging you to get out of bed or put away your laundry.

As I used to tell you when you were 3, I love you more than a million hippopotamuses.

And I can’t wait to remember the rest of what’s to come. 

2 States + 650.2 Miles = 1 Common Passion

Exactly one year ago today, my family was wrapping up a whirlwind trip to Disney.

The fam at Disney (2013)

In our four days in Florida we traversed all four Disney parks; braved every coaster worth riding (including Everest three times); took the obligatory photos with us each donning mouse ears; watched a fake Indiana Jones blow up some fake stuff and outrun a fake boulder; rode (and got stuck on) the onetime state-of-the-art monorail; enjoyed over-priced, over-cooked burgers and under-cooked turkey legs; and reveled in the mystical magic of the creepy, squawking birds of the Tiki Room (yep, it's still my favorite attraction after all these years).

It was an exhilarating, exhausting, and sometimes exasperating vacation. But as we left the sunny, 80 degree temperatures of Orlando to return to the dreary, rainy 30-somethings of Raleigh, I turned to Jack and said, "You know, I could really get used to this."

It was a throw-away statement. And I didn't really give it another thought until today.

But today, precisely one year after that family trip to Orlando, I found myself at a Disney resort again -- this time for professional reasons. 

As I was walked to my car after the National Association of Independent Schools (NAIS) Annual Conference, those same, sunny, 80 degree skies greeted me.

And again I thought, "You know, I really have gotten used to this."

Beautiful weather not withstanding, this had a much deeper meaning. 

Since last year's family vacation to Orlando, an unexpected chain of events quickly dominoed into me taking a new job in Tampa -- just a one-hour drive from the Magic Kingdom. And thanks to my supportive husband and children, we all have landed on our feet here in the Sunshine State. 

Except for the Newf -- he's landed flat on the floor. He barely gets UP on his feet here. It's just too damn hot.

Newfs hate Florida

These last couple of days at the NAIS Annual Conference, not unlike our Disney vacation, have been exhilarating and exhausting -- but in a very different way. 

It's given me time to reflect on the last year and on how my career path rapidly wound its way a full 650.2 miles between my home state and my new state. 

I'm still not sure I have all the answers as to why this move made sense. And just like our Disney vacation and the NAIS Conference, this journey has been both exhilarating and exhausting.

But this conference did affirm why I have enjoyed, and continue to love, working in schools.

This conference, much like great schools, pushes you to ask tough questions and examine your own work under a microscope. And I was just one of thousands of people at this conference who were focused solely on making education better for our children, now and in the future.

We hear constantly how our educational system is "broken" and how we're getting passed by other countries in the way we prepare our children for tomorrow's challenges.

2014 NAIS Conference

What was happening at this conference, though, was everything that is right with education. Collaboration, creativity, critical thinking, communication, and most importantly, improvement -- on behalf of all our children.

As with any job -- any career -- some days are better than others. There are ups and downs, frustrations and disappointments. But these days and moments are the exception and not the rule when you work in a place that is filled with people who are passionate for their mission. 

I see the rule each and every day at my job -- in the students my school serves -- and in my own children, LJ and Julianna, who have been blessed to attend two outstanding private independent schools and learn from dozens of passionate, exceptional educators.

No doubt, our schools -- both public and private -- are not perfect. Certainly, we're far from it. But a passion for putting children first?

We could all really get used to this.

I Can Do Anything You Can Do ... Better

We all want to be better parents than our own were. It's human nature that we hone in on the little things our parents "did wrong" ... things that, as parents ourselves, we vow to do differently -- BETTER.

My parents made two enormous, perhaps even unforgivable, mistakes when I was a child:

1) I didn't always have clean socks to wear.
2) I wasn't allowed to eat sugary cereals.

GASP! 

Now, as an adult, I realize how ridiculous it was that these petty things seemed like such injustices years ago.

At the time, of course, it was all about me and what I wasn't getting, not the abundance of everything that I did have.

I am acutely aware of my own shortcomings as a mom -- I yell too much; my eyes roll back into my head when I'm forced to watch the Disney channel; I'd rather chew glass than clean out the guinea pig cage; and I'll buy a new pair of pants before I'll learn how to sew on a button.

And, yes, there also have been plenty of times when LJ and Julianna have frantically searched for a pair of clean, matching socks as we should be leaving for school.

But last week, with Jack out of town and me scrambling to remember which day of the week it was (much less worry about clean socks for the kids), Julianna gave me an early morning wake up call I won't soon forget.

As I was on my way upstairs to finish getting dressed, I heard a cry from LJ, who was downstairs in the kitchen. He had spilled a whole glass of milk on the counter and desperately wanted my help to clean it up.

I muttered something under my breath, and turned toward the stairs so I could go to LJ's rescue.

Julianna, who was right beside me, grabbed my arm and firmly said: "Mom, STOP! He can do this himself. He NEEDS to do this himself."

I was stunned ... mostly because my daughter was absolutely right. 

I smiled and said: "You know what, Julianna, you are 100 percent correct. He can do this himself."

"You see, Mom," she said. "I've learned that sometimes you have to clean up your own messes, both physically and emotionally."

Spoken like a typical 9-year-old.

I yelled down to LJ that he should take care of it, and of course, he did.

As I finished getting ready with my little girl nearby, I said, "Julianna, I hope you know that someday, you are going to be a much better mom than I am."

And I meant it.

Julianna may not care about sugary cereals or clean socks when it comes to her own kids, but it won't matter.

She already knows what I should have been focusing on all along ...

Sometimes refusing to hold your child's hand every step of the way is the very best thing you can do to support them.

When Pigs Fly

Everyone has an Easy-Bake Oven. You know - the brass ring you couldn't quite reach as a child. The one thing you just had to have that you never got. It didn't matter how much you begged and pleaded, bartered or prayed -- it wasn't going to happen.

My parents, nor Santa, nor the Hanukkah Fairy were going to deliver the goods. The Easy-Bake Oven was my "Dream Deferred", my Raisin in the Sun.

Okay, maybe that's overstating it a bit.

But when Julianna approached me about a month ago asking for a pet rabbit, I knew I was in trouble. The Easy-Bake Oven was lingering in my mind.

At the ripe old age of 9, Julianna says her goal is to be an animal researcher, and she believes that having a pet of her own will allow her to study and learn more about the behavior of animals. To make her case, she produced a PowerPoint and presented it with great confidence to me and Jack.

When her rabbit research revealed that bunnies do not make ideal pets for children, she quickly turned her attention to rodents. And she eventually settled on guinea pigs as the pet du jour.

I initially said no. Nada. Not on your life.

And then she cried.

Hard.

Real tears.

And I caved.

It was that damn Easy-Bake Oven. I could practically smell the freshly baked cookies that never had the chance to melt in my mouth.

Oreo and Cinnamon the guinea pigs are now part of the family. No big deal, right? Tiny little creatures that hardly need a thing, I thought.

Until yesterday. Julianna became alarmed when Oreo was struck with a sudden fit of sneezing. As usual, I turned to my trusty friend, Google, for advice on curing the cavies' ailments.

EMERGENCY! PIGS NEAR DEATH! GET THEM TO A VET AT ONCE!

A trip across town to the "Exotic Vet" and $150 later, our pigs are now on antibiotics for upper respiratory infections. Apparently the twice-a-day dose of cherry-flavored Septra is a life-saving measure to ward of pneumonia of the cavia porcellus kind (Pig Latin, for those of you wondering).

As I waited in the vet's office for our furry friends' stool sample results to come back (really), I thought about the Easy-Bake Oven and whether all of this trouble is really worth it just to satisfy the childhood feelings I had clearly  projected onto my sweet daughter.

Of course it is.

The smile on her face as she cuddles those little critters makes it all worth while ... even as I'm shoveling pig poo into the trash can and chopping cucumbers for the sake of snacks.

And if I had to do it all over again, I would.

When pigs fly.

'Tis the Season

A couple of days ago a mysterious letter arrived in the mailbox. I say "mysterious" because I couldn't imagine why I was receiving a type-written, stamped letter from my 8-year-old daughter. And it was addressed to "Mrs. Penny  Rogers". Quite formal ... and rather curious.

I quickly made the connection that her third-grade class was learning to write persuasive letters. Still, I was amused - and mildly disturbed - by the letter's content.

Dear Mom, 

Please, please, please can I have an iTouch. I am almost NINE YEARS OLD! ... It's only fair that you let me have the iTouch. You say yourself that I am very mature!!" I promise I wouldn't let Indy get it ...

Julianna & Indy

With Christmas just around the corner, Julianna wasn't taking any chances. She wanted to cover all the bases and make sure she got her point across to the ultimate gatekeeper of gifts. She knows that going straight to Santa isn't enough ... I've made it pretty clear that I have a direct line to the Big Guy and that ultimately, Mom & Dad make the decisions about what St. Nick delivers under the tree.

Julianna's letter -- which is pictured in its entirety at the bottom of this post -- was creative if not persuasive, and it now hangs on our refrigerator.

It will stay there through the holidays, and maybe even longer.

Her letter hangs there as a reminder. It's a reminder of all the blessings I have in my life. Health, family, home, job, food ... the list goes on and on.

(Notice I did not include the Newf on this list. He still rates as more of a curse than a blessing. Did you know that both Christmas tree ornaments and dreidels make fabulous doggy snacks?)

But I digress ...

The arrival of Julianna's letter particularly struck a chord with me because, earlier in the day, she delivered a holiday gift to her teacher. We attached a note to the gift that said, in the teacher's honor, we had made a donation to the Food Bank of Central and Eastern North Carolina.

These two notes -- Julianna's letter and the holiday gift for her teacher -- were very much at opposite ends of the spectrum.

My daughter, despite her eloquent and flawed argument, does not need much of anything. And she needs that iTouch just about as much as she needs any of the other gifts that Santa will be bringing to her this Christmas ... which is to say, not at all.

But there are little girls her age across our nation, some who also have fabulous curly hair and big blue eyes, who do have real needs this holiday season, and year round.

According to the Food Bank's website, "in central and eastern North Carolina counties alone, more than 500,000 people struggle each day to provide enough food for their families". The small donation I made in honor of my coworkers and my children's teachers will provide 200 meals for those in need. But this is only a fraction of the 1.4 million meals the Food Bank hopes to raise for its Holiday Meals Drive before Dec. 31.

The way I figure it, for the same cost as an Angry Birds download or a few iTunes songs, I can make an impact that will spread beyond the virtual world and into the real one.

Happy Holidays to all of you, and if you can give even a little bit to the Food Bank or your favorite charity, I encourage you to do so.

We have much for which to be thankful, and after all, 'Tis the Season!

Julianna's letter

You Must Be THIS Tall

Life is measured in milestones. First words … beginning steps … birthdays … graduations. And while I certainly use the same technique to measure my own children’s growth and development, I also use a different system. I call it The Tweetsie Method.

As we walked along Main Street during our most recent visit to Tweetsie Railroad, I wondered if my son, LJ, now 10, and my daughter, Julianna, 8, would still find the same magic they had on previous trips.

The kids made a beeline for the Turnpike Cruisers, and LJ confidently marched up to the You Must Be This Tall to drive alone sign. Last year, he came within an inch or two of clearing the mark, and this time it wasn’t even close. He stood proud and beaming as the ride attendant waved him through to his own shiny green car.

I, on the other hand, had a flashback. I saw the 3-year-old toddler who sat wide-eyed as I bumped around the track. I pictured the 5-year-old Kindergartner who gripped my hands in his as I steered the path. And I envisioned the 7-year-old little boy who jerked into the safety wall as he managed the steering wheel and I controlled the pedals.

And then I watched. I marveled as this young man – my son – maneuvered easily around the turnpike, focused intently on the path ahead, never once looking behind.

It wasn’t a first word, a birthday, or a major life event. But to me, this was a milestone. A Tweetsie Milestone.

And there have been many. Staying awake long enough to watch Tweetsie’s Fourth of July fireworks from the car rooftop; moving up from the kiddie rides on Miner’s Mountain to the big kid rides at the Country Fair; LJ and Julianna getting up the nerve to enter the Black Hole at the Ghost Train Halloween Festival; and me getting up the nerve to let them ride the chair lift by themselves for the first time – that was a big one.

I remember visiting Tweetsie when I was a child, and now, it’s become an annual tradition for my own family. The beauty of the park is that, although it remains frozen in time with the steam engine, arcade games, and good old-fashioned Southern hospitality, there’s room for children to grow and discover new adventures each and every visit.

I can only hope LJ and Julianna continue the tradition when they are parents someday. What a Tweetsie Milestone that would be.

Note: I wrote this post specifically -- and happily -- for the Tweetsie Railroad blog.

Independence Day

I didn't hear my phone ring, nor did I hear the buzz of the text message. But when I realized there were two messages from home awaiting me, I knew it couldn't be good news ... and it wasn't.

LJ's consolation prize

Hoppy II, the replacement for LJ's African dwarf frog that died two weeks ago at the paws of Indy, had also, well ... croaked.

The text message also said that LJ wanted to talk to me, so even though it was well past his bedtime, I left my co-workers at the dinner table to call home.

After few words of reassurance and a promise to bring home something special from my business trip, LJ was fine.

Nearly 1,000 miles away from home, and I couldn't be there to hug LJ, wipe his tears, or tell him there would be many more amphibians in his future. It made me feel sad -- even a bit guilty -- that I couldn't be there to console him when he needed me most.

But, there was another twinge ... some other feeling lurking beneath the surface. It sounds callous, I know, but I felt just the slightest pang of happiness. Not that the frog died, of course. But it felt good that I was needed. LJ needed me to call home. He needed to talk to me.

Fast forward a few days and I was in my bathroom at home helping Julianna get ready for the day.

As I started to brush some tangles out of her hair, she immediately grabbed the brush and admonished me.


"No, I don't need any help with that. I am trying to be INDEPENDENT!"

If my coffee hadn't already kicked in that morning, then the tongue-lashing from my 7-year-old little girl did the trick.

There's nothing like a daughter's verbal rebuff to remind you who is really the queen of the castle. And it stung.

Seriously? Independent?

Is this the same girl who insists someone always be upstairs with her because skeletons might jump out of the closet? Is this the same girl who thinks it's impossible to spread the peanut butter on her own crackers? Is this the same girl who sleeps ensconced in a hot pink Snuggie and a pile of stuffed animals?

Yes, this girl is one and the same.

UFC

This girl -- my "baby" -- doesn't need me like she used to ... doesn't want me to do her hair ... calls me "Mom" instead of "Mommy" ... is embarrassed to hold my hand in public ... thinks Barbie dolls are too babyish ... reads the OpEd section in the Wall Street Journal each and every day ... just informed me of her new naval piercing ... and only likes watching television if Ultimate Fighting Championship matches are on.

Okay, so not ALL of those are true.

But even though it hurt for a moment, there was also another twinge ... some other feeling lurking beneath the surface. It was happiness. Or maybe pride. It was hard to quantify but most definitely there.

It was the realization that THIS was the moment that all parents strive for. We want our children to grow up to be well-adjusted, independent and self-sufficient. It starts when we wean them from a bottle to a sippy cup, and it ends when we hand them the keys to their college dorm room and remind them to call home ... every once in a while.

How paradoxical it is - the contrast between LJ and Julianna - the yin and the yang - the dead frog and the hairbrush. As parents, we want our children to take flight ... and yet, we don't want to let go.

I always swore to myself that I wouldn't be one of those ... one of those helicopter parents. The ones who need to be needed so badly that they stand smack dab in the way of their child and his or her independence.

But here I am, hovering perilously on the edge of the helipad ... just waiting to take off ... yearning to swoop in for that phone call, that hug, that need.

I know I'm not alone in this. If I look over my shoulder I'm sure to see a line a mile long of moms and dads who aren't sure which way to go. NEED vs. INDEPENDENCE.

Deciding which path to follow -- and striking the right balance -- is a daunting challenge. And it's one that all parents can empathize with -- no matter how young or old their child.

There's no right or wrong, open or shut, black or white. It's a monumental battle and it's one I may not be truly ready to face.

Now that I really think about it, you better save me a paper bag on that helicopter ... because it's gonna' be a bumpy ride.

The Ultimate Sacrifice

We all have those moments -- and they are few and far between -- that give us pause. That make us really stop and think ... that cause us to re-examine the "bigger picture."

I had one of those moments when I opened the refrigerator this morning.

I was so disgusted by what I saw that I squinted to make sure my vision was okay. Then I closed the refrigerator door and opened it again hoping -- praying -- it was gone. But it was still there.

The "it" that had rocked my world was a big glob of slobbery black dog hair stuck to the egg carton.

That's right ... my "aha" moment was thanks to our 5-month-old Newfoundland puppy, Indy, and his incredible penchant for delivering nasty, paste-like puddles of drool.

Indy arrived home in mid-April to much fanfare and with great big doggy shoes to fill. His predecessor, Viking, was by all accounts the perfect pooch (minus the shedding, barking, and separation anxiety issues). Sadly, Viking and Indy were together only for three weeks before Viking became sick and had to be put to sleep.

We chose to get a Newf, in part, because we knew another Lab could never replace Viking. We also chose a Newf because of the breed's reputation for being wonderful family dogs.

We did our research. Really, we did. We read the books, the blogs, and the bright, flashing neon warning signs. We asked all the right questions and carefully pondered the frightening answers.

We knew we were in for a beast of a dog (150+ pounds), a mountain of shedding, and an unsettling amount of saliva. We did not know, however, that Indy would turn our house and lifestyle upside down in a matter of months.

But this morning, it all came into focus.

Seeing the gooey fur ball stuck to the egg carton was like a slap in the face ... an ice water bath ... a punch in the gut. However you want to phrase it, it was a wake up call.

This dog, for all his sweetness and loyalty, is a vile creature. 

A few days before Indy came home for the first time, I read online that "You can't be a Newf owner and be house proud."

I now know what that means.

When he isn't dragging rocks, bugs, and sticks into the house, he has long strands of drool trailing from his muzzle. We are actually going to have to buy him a bib.

When he isn't shredding our door mats into millions of tiny scraps, he is dropping jet-black tumbleweeds on our beige carpets. I have already bought 2 vacuums since bringing him home.

When he isn't "paw painting" with mud on the glass doors, he is climbing INTO our dishwasher to help with the mess. Clean or dirty dishes, he doesn't discriminate. It's all fair game.

When he isn't eating goose poop, he is tipping his water dish over and then rolling around in the spill. Newfs are water rescue dogs, and I am convinced he thinks there is something to save at the bottom of his bowl.

When he isn't puncturing the leather furniture with his puppy vampire fangs, he is giving off a smell so disgusting that a complete stranger told us, "Your pup needs a bath." I have now purchased a doggy deodorizer, 2 kinds of fragrant puppy shampoo, and some sort of fur wipes that contain awapuhi, whatever that is.

Yes, this is my life. My life with a Newf. And this Newf came exactly as advertised.

But for all his nastiness, I wouldn't change a thing -- not his shedding, not his drooling, and not even his smell (well, okay, maybe his smell).

Despite his flaws and foibles, this big fur ball has made me shrug my shoulders and stop fighting the battle.

Dog fur in my yogurt? No problem. 

Drool stains on my freshly dry cleaned pants? Whatever.

High heel as a chew toy? You got it.

The reality is, none of it matters. All of that is just material. The carpet can be vacuumed. The drool can be wiped away. And the chewing is bound to get better at some point.

We chose Indy for our children.

After Julianna was attacked by a dog last year, it was important to us that she become comfortable around large dogs again.

We also knew that LJ would have a difficult time coping when Viking passed away, and we wanted to help ease that pain.

We wanted to find a breed -- for both of the kids -- that would be a good fit for them. Never mind the Newf's flaws, as glaring as they may be.

It's what I like to call the "ultimate canine sacrifice."

We parents do it all the time.

It's a family vacation to Disney instead of a second honeymoon to Hawaii. It's a sleepless night checking on a feverish child every couple of hours. It's a minivan instead of the much more stylish two-door roadster.

In our case, it's a Newf. A 6-10 year sentence with a 60-lb. bull in dog's clothing who will triple in size by the time he is 2.

But when the fur, the slobber, and the smell start to get to me, I just remind myself of that old adage ...

When life gives you Newf slobber, just make scrambled eggs.

Or something like that.

Man on the Run

Our trip to Grandma's house in Greensboro last weekend ended with a bang. Literally.

As we packed up the car to head home, LJ streaked down the front hallway like a bat out of hell. If it had been the NFL combine, his draft stock would have sky rocketed.

Instead, with the storm door securely closed, LJ's face met the plexiglass with a sound that my husband described as an "explosion."

There was a fair amount of blood after impact, and he had a bruised ego, a headache and a sore nose for a few days. But considering the collision, we were lucky that nothing was broken -- either the door or LJ's nose.

LJ handled the blood, the pain, and the shock of the accident exceptionally well (although he did ask to "wear a mask like Psycho T because I'm a boy on the go"). 

Never one to miss a sunshine moment, Julianna dished up a positive spin on things -- even as we were in the midst of assessing the damage.

"Well, look on the bright side, Jack," she said. "At least you've added some red to your green and white shirt. That's the way to get into the Christmas spirit!"

Surrounded by bloody carnage, and my daughter offers fashion tips.

On the drive home, I glanced back at a resilient LJ, who was fully engrossed in his Nintendo DS while sporting a small piece of tissue stuffed up each nostril. I reflected on the potential catastrophes the kids had averted earlier in the day before LJ clocked in with the thud heard around the Triad.

While at Grandma's, the kids took full advantage of the snow that had fallen a few days before, using a small inner tube to sled down the tiny hills that line the property.

Although we were able to keep an eye on the kids by watching them through the windows, I must have gone outside a dozen times to issue various warnings.

"Not that hill -- it's too steep."


"Watch out for the ditch."


"Don't sled too close to the house."


"Don't push each other -- it makes you go too fast!"

Based on the Department of Homeland Security's Advisory System, my mommy radar was definitely somewhere between yellow and orange on the terror alert chart.

I held my breath with every trip the kids took down the hills, and I sensed catastrophe at every turn.

I was prepared for any number of disasters involving my children and the inner tube -- a hurricane, a landslide, perhaps even a tsunami. But I never sensed what was as plain as the daylight shining through a perfectly clean plexiglass storm door.

No matter you much you hover, nag, and plead, it just goes to show that, for even the most overprotective parent like me, danger lurks around every corner.

Or in this case, at the end of Grandma's hallway.

Who Asked You?

Less than 24 hours after I wrote about the kids still believing in Santa, LJ made me a liar.

On Saturday morning, he came downstairs for breakfast and said: "I'm confused. I went to ask.com and typed in 'Is Santa real?' and I got a bunch of different answers. And one of them said that it's just a character that parents made up to make their kids happy."

Here's the link if you want to see the response he got. (Of interest, note the "related searches" on the right-hand side that say "Is the tooth fairy real?" and "Is the world going to end in 2012?")

The ambiguity of the answers on ask.com only added to LJ's ever-increasing anxiety about whether to believe.

After talking him down from the ledge, I said: "If you think Santa is real, that's all the matters isn't it? Why do you need to know for sure?"

"I just need to know if I SHOULD believe or not," he said.

And he couldn't let it go. The rest of the day he peppered us with questions until we finally caved.

When we told him the truth, a look of relief washed over him -- and his smile was enormous. He seemed genuinely happy that he no longer had to wrestle with the answer to one of life's great mysteries.

Of course, finding out about Santa is like tipping the first domino in a long chain -- LJ then fired away with a litany of other questions:

Easter Bunny? - Of course, that's us too.

Tooth Fairy? - Yep, Mom & Dad. (and sorry about that time I forgot to leave the money)

Elves? Guilty as charged.

Leprechauns? Fake.

Reindeer? Real, but they don't fly.

Man on the moon? - Government hoax.

Elvis? - Still dead.

"But wait," LJ said. "Does that mean YOU are the ones who eat Santa's cookies?"

Suddenly, LJ saw an opportunity. And after swearing up, down, and sideways that he would not tell Julianna or his still-believing friends about Santa, we agreed to let him help us play elf.

At our house, there is no Elf on a Shelf. But there is a rogue band of sneaky little elves that come about once a week during December and leave goodies and make mischief around the house.

Julianna made an intricate little house for the elves complete with table settings, a Christmas tree, and stockings. Unfortunately, the shoe box she used for the elf house was from a pair of shoes I had intended to return to the store.

I can only imagine the look on the cashier's face at Kohl's when I ask for a refund and hand her the unworn shoes nestled inside an elf house.

Last night, LJ got his first chance to be Santa's helper. He had a blast taking tiny bites out of each of the marshmallows Julianna had left inside the elf house for the guests.

This morning, it was heart-warming to see LJ play along as Julianna discovered what the elves had done. It seems like he's taking a lot of pride in playing the role of big brother and he's relishing the chance to contribute to the magic of Christmas. I think, at least in LJ's case, the time was right for him to learn the truth.

And one other good thing has come out of this whole "ask.com" Santa fiasco.

When it comes time to tell LJ where babies come from, I know right where I'm sending him.