The other day, my son asked me if I was a good artist when I was young.

I hesitated, and explained that I was very creative when I was younger, but that trying to copy real life was tricky for me. I told him that I really enjoyed a class in college where we were allowed to explore different ways of interpreting the same object. It wasn't just about making things look "right."

"Well, I'm an excellent artist," my always-confident son responded. He then told me there were several kids in his class that weren't very good.

I sighed, and told him that everyone is an artist in their own way. Maybe those kids had trouble putting what was in their head onto the paper, or maybe they just saw the world differently.

Continue reading "[13] You are Doing it Wrong" »

... with his cowboy uniform.

Six years ago, (so hard to believe it really has been that long) I entered the office of what would soon be our local school. I wanted to register my older son for the first grade and get him on any wait-lists immediately so that he could attend the school closest to our new home. The school secretary told us we had to register through the district, and then bring the paperwork to her.

Just a few days later, I returned with my completed paperwork. There was a different gal behind the counter. She said she was a teacher at the school, but also the daughter of the school secretary. She was just watching the office while her mom ran an errand. She wasn't sure what the next step would be for me, but promised her mom would get back to me. Three years later, that gal became my youngest son's 1st grade teacher.

Thankfully, we were granted admission to our preferred school. (Our next-door neighbor who moved in just a tad after us had to attend a school across town.) We are very, very lucky.

In the last six years, the school secretary has of course been a big part of my boys' lives. From vomiting to forgotten violins, she's been the point person. She's tracked down my son after school to let him know I had a flat tire, and she's comforted him when he's had a bee sting.

This year, she is retiring. She has less than four weeks left of running the school.

--

This week began "Apple Valley Days," a western-era simulation program for third-graders. My son is happy to dress in sharp boots, cowboy hat, plaid shirt, and kerchief. He brings a basket to school instead of a backpack, and plays the part of "George," a 17-year old eldest sibling to six brothers and sisters.

Yesterday at the pool, he stubbed his toe, ripping off a callus. That was bloody. He wanted to wear flip-flops to school, but I told him there was no way the school would allow that. It was against the dress code as being unsafe. I knew he couldn't wear his cowboy boots, either, because they would constrict the toe too much. We settled on his older brother's slip-on shoes. I figured it would give the toe a bit more breathing room than his usual shoes, but still be "appropriate" for school.

Just a couple hours after school began, the phone rang. The school secretary told me my son's toe was very swollen, and might I bring him some open-toed shoes?

I laughed, and told her we had selected his older brother's shoes in an attempt to help the toe, but figured flip-flops would be against the rules.

Her response was: "Well, the toe needs to breathe. So go ahead and bring him flip-flops. As for it being against the rules: What are they going to do?... Fire me?"

Well played. (And... I'm going to miss her!)

Several years ago, I was really into running. I enjoyed the camaraderie of the now-defunct "shredheads" (I still tag my workouts "#shredheads" on Twitter) and enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment I had at the end of my various races for "Project 2010k". That is, until I realized I was still a slow "newbie."

I think it hit me during "The Relay." Yes, it was an amazing experience, one that I'll probably never get again. Yes, it was "empowering" in many ways. Except, it kinda wasn't because I became very self-conscious about my size and lack of speed. Yes, the people were super-encouraging. My teammates were wonderful, even though I was slowing them down. But there were some other racers who were a bit more condescending. And it crushed me.

At nearly every race, some well-meaning person would ask me if it was my first race. Or if I was running for charity. (A concept in itself that is problematic: is the only motivation for running as a "slow person" if you are doing it for charity? I know I don't look like a "real runner" but...) They would tell me to "keep it up!" even though I probably ran more races than many of them that particular year.

After "The Relay" I really felt bad. I didn't like being the slowest or the largest. Even an injured teammate ran faster than me!

A couple weekends ago at Mom 2.0, I had a similar experience. Yes, it was an amazing conference. Yes, I enjoyed thinking about different aspects of my relationship to social media and blogging. Yes, I adored seeing friends I hadn't seen in awhile.

But I felt ugly and unaccomplished.

Continue reading "I'm Going to be Honest" »

I've never been to Norway. But, I love Scandinavian things. Bring on the lefse!

My name means "valley dweller" apparently, although I don't speak Norwegian. I tried to learn around age 12, using some cassette tapes I purchased out of a mail-order catalog, but aside from some simple vocabulary, I don't know much.

(My grandpa had a placard by his front door that read: "You can tell a Norwegian, but you can't tell him much." Heh.)

I suppose I became really interested in my heritage around middle school because of the traditional "trying to find yourself" contemplation that comes with puberty. I wanted to have something "special" about me, something that would make me "cool" like the kids on campus who had people to eat lunch with. The irony, of course, is that most of those kids were totally blonde, Scandinavian-types, so my particular background blend wasn't all that singular.

But, if I could actually speak Norwegian, I figured that would be cool. Too bad I'm not good at picking up languages. (Still, I recently got a Swedish app and am trying to learn a little despite my advanced age.) But I purchased a Norwegian flag keychain and a little flag to put on my desk.

And I bought myself an "Uff Da!" sweatshirt and wore it to school. It wasn't all that fashionable, but I thought it would perhaps be different in a good way. Still, nobody really noticed - which I guess is good, since I could have been teased for not wearing the very specific "uniform" of a blue and white Benetton shirt with pegged pants. On the other hand, lots of people noticed when a seagull shit on my head.

I guess seagull crap is one way to get lighter hair.

I had a dermatology appointment today. I was pretty nervous, because last time I got a mole checked out, I checked out. I was also a bit concerned, because when I received my referral to the department, I was told the consult would be $75 with additional charges for other services. I was already skeptical that a painful cyst would count as "cosmetic" rather than "medical," but surely an abnormal mole was more on the "medical side." RIGHT?

The message to get moles checked out is huge. Skin cancer if caught early can be treated. It is a no-brainer that HMOs would want to stop something before it escalates into something very serious (and potentially very costly.) RIGHT?

Just last week (or was it this week?) was "Melanoma Monday." As summer approaches, there are more and more campaigns reminding us to wear sunscreen and get abnormal moles checked. I have fair skin, so often wear sun-protective clothing. (My favs for "cute" UPF 50+ clothing are Coolibar and Mott 50, and then I have some generic T-s from SPFstore.com. For the boys and for my swimming needs, it is UV Skinz for the win.)

I'm fairly diligent about having abnormal moles checked, although since I'm a heavily-freckled person, I'm not 100% sure that I'm tracking everything well. Although the dermatologists themselves say a "mole check" every 6 months or so is advisable, the waiting list for dermatology at my HMO makes this difficult, and the expectation that preventative care is "cosmetic" and must therefore be billed at a higher rate, is ridiculous.

And so, I check my moles myself, and only speak up when I'm concerned about a particular one. (But what am I missing: on my back, or other place I cannot see?)

Today, I explained that the mole on my elbow bleeds frequently (that's one of those "triggers" I often see published about when a mole might be a concern.)

Continue reading "May is Skin Cancer Awareness Month, except at my HMO" »

Sometimes we aren't prepared for what we really want. Or, it comes out just a bit wrong.

--

Although other parts of my body were "early bloomers," my teeth were not. While my classmates got braces and other cool-looking things, my teeth still weren't ready. (That meant that when I finally did get braces, everyone else had beautiful smiles: orthodontia was no longer "in" since everyone else was done with their treatment.)

Before braces, I went to the orthodontist from time to time so he could instruct which teeth had to be pulled in preparation for the treatment. During one of those visits, I remarked that the skin in front of my two front teeth often got stuck, and would often tear, bleeding.

The orthodontist said he could give me a retainer to block off the gap. OMG THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED! I was so surprised that he'd be happy to give me a retainer before I even had braces that I basically hyperventilated. My mom and the orthodontist took my complete shock (which for me was joy) to mean that I was too scared, and so they'd just hold off. Drat.

--

When my oldest son was a toddler, I worked at a preschool to both earn money and to give my child an opportunity to socialize.

We lived in a rather affluent area, even though we weren't ourselves well off. And so, I felt pressure to "keep up." It was embarrassing to be seen at work, but I tried to pass it off more as a "volunteer" type thing, even though I was hoping to earn enough money to perhaps have a nice handbag so I could "fit in" with my mommy-group friends. (I've since gotten a little better at not being so envious of others' material wealth, but sometimes need a reminder of what really matters.)

One of my coworkers came to work a bit late one day, and explained that someone had rear-ended her vehicle. Her insurance ended up providing her a rather sizable check that easily covered the damage and then some. Her car was fixed well, and she ended up with some nice spending money.

I was a little envious. After all, the accident had been minor enough so that she wasn't injured, and she ended up getting money out of it!

I kinda secretly hoped something like that might happen to me. Of course I didn't want to get hurt, and I certainly wouldn't want to be burglarized or something like that, since the feeling of vulnerability that comes with that sort of thing is too scary. But, a tiny auto accident would be okay, right?

Continue reading "[11] Be Careful What You Wish For" »

I get uncomfortable when I run into people I don't know on my morning walk. Or, sometimes it is an afternoon walk, but I'll still manage, "Good Morning" as brightly as I can muster, before thinking darn it, it is already 2pm; it sure isn't morning. Half of the time I'm silent, hoping that the other person will stay silent, too. Or maybe they will say "Good Morning" in a way that is the "right" amount of friendliness, so I'll feel at ease. You know what I'm talking about.

The "I'm going to look at you but not speak" isn't great, so of course I either avoid eye contact or force the "Good Morning." I take it there are definitely others like me, since a good portion of the time my forced greeting is met with a scowl. I've invaded them, just as I feel as others speak to me. And yet aren't we supposed to appreciate pleasantries?

Fortunately, some people are friendly with a natural air. They aren't annoyed, but are genuinely happy to be greeting someone (or they are excellent actors.) I don't feel so uncomfortable around those types of folks.

But then, there was the guy yesterday who responded to my polite "Good Morning," with "Oh, my do you have a pretty smile," before continuing with several sentences more. I'm sure he meant no harm, but it took me off guard. Less than an hour later, another man tried to converse with me unexpectedly. And nope, I wasn't wearing anything provocative, nor was my make-up or hair particularly flashy.

It is funny - because sometimes I really want to be invisible, and yet other times I get very frustrated for being invisible. Of course, I want any attention to be the right sort of attention, not the type that prompts me to put a name on The Creepy Person List. Thankfully, most of the time, the simple "Good Morning" is over quickly and doesn't have any lasting effects on my day.

When I was ten, I performed with the Oakland Ballet in The Nutcracker. Sure, I had done plenty of dance recitals before, but this opportunity was with a professional company. I was in two of the performances: one before Christmas, one after Christmas. Or, more poignantly for me, one before my grandma died, and one on the day she died.

Last week, I went back to The Paramount for the first time in nearly 30 years. This time, I brought my son with me to hear Notes from the Middle East from the Oakland East Bay Symphony. Before the show, my son remarked at the theater's beauty. I know it has been renovated since I was last there, but aspects of it jogged my memory. My son thought I was joking when I told him I had been on the stage. He was especially surprised when I told him it was for dance.

I didn't remember, but my mom recently mentioned that I made a mistake in the first performance, which meant I wasn't lined up properly at the end of the dance. I corrected the mistake by very obviously dancing across the stage to get in my proper area. My mom said it looked intentional - as if I were "a star." I smile when I think of how my grandma must have gotten a kick out of seeing me, and of course I cry when I think of how that was the last time she saw me perform.

The music my son and I heard last week was so beautiful, and yet the lyrics were so forlorn. Of course that is exactly how I felt being back at The Paramount. It was incredible to be back in that space. So beautiful, and with such amazing memories; but also, such sad ones.

My brother became a daddy this week.

And so we have a new family member with my last name. My niece and I share something more than my kids and I do. That makes me a little happy, and a lot sad.

I decided not to change my name upon getting married for a variety of reasons, but foremost it is because I am Kari Dahlen. That's who I am.

When my kids were born, they got their dad's last name. (For the couple hours after birth, each of my sons was dubbed "Baby Dahlen." I love those little crib cards!) It seemed appropriate given the "traditional" way of doing things, although it hasn't been fun being the odd-gal-out. I've been questioned many times as to my authority since my name doesn't match theirs. I was held up at a pharmacy for a half hour while our insurance checked the various records to make sure I was indeed the mother; never mind that I had given birth to my son in that exact building!

But, despite the hassle of having different last names, changing my name wouldn't feel right to me. There are other ways that we belong to each other, even if name is typically the first indication of relation.

Even so, I'm really happy that there is a new person on this earth with "my" name.

Third grade was quite a trip. I wore a wig for Halloween and people honestly believed it was my own hair. My teacher picked up a child by one arm and one leg and threw him into the hallway. (Imagine what would occur if that happened today!) Our class had a pet chinchilla named Joey. I did a report on flying squirrels, but they turned out not to be as cool as I thought they'd be.

And my best friend told me the killer bees were coming.

Third grade was equal parts silly and serious. We tried to be "mature" one moment, but couldn't contain our giggles the next. We made fake braces out of plastic baggie ties, and used dimes to purchase delicious ice-cream. (Schools don't sell ice-cream any more. Sigh.)

We played "lava" on a playground that is gone, and hid in bushes that are now a gymnasium. But, we read in a library that is still there, and attended class in a still-standing building, too.

My younger son is in the third grade now. Watching his enthusiasm for life reminds me of just how quirky and fun my time as a third-grader was. While I was a little bit worried about the killer bees, the majority of my life was pretty carefree.