Fyeah Friday...

It's the beginning of a three-day weekend. 

On the agenda for this weekend:

1.  Napping.

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2.  My hubby's birthday today. 

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3.  See #1.

4.  Wine-Thirty.

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5.  Refer to the first one on the list.

6.  Football games.  These will be viewed from our trusty couch and included high-caloric dips and snacks, I'm sure.  There will be rooting, yelling, cursing while covering children's ears, stomping of feet, and let's hope lots of jumping up and down whilst high-fiving. 

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7.  Check Numero Uno, por favor.

8.  A gathering of like minded folks on Sunday evening (aka a partay).

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9.  *singsong* Nuuuuuuuuumber One, take a look at it. 

10.  Snuggling of short folks. 

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11.  Knitting.

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12.  Window Shopping.

13.  Dreaming.

14.  Fire in a fire pit.

15.  And naps.

Have a fun & safe Labor Day Weekend, all!

(P.S. All pictures have come from pinterest and properly credited.)
(P.P.S.  Happy Birthday, Hubby of Mine!)
(P.P.S.  Happy Belated Birthday to my fave tennis star, Andy Roddick, and congrats on your pending retirement, buddy.  I've had absolute blast watching you play and have loved being your fan. <3>

Dear Friend....

Firsts - Football....

If you live in Iowa long enough, you'll come to understand that football, whether it be played on Friday nights or Saturday afternoons, is a big stinkin' deal. 

Don't get me wrong, I love football. 

I love sitting huddled up on metal bleachers with a blankie under your hiney and two over your lap while you're yelling with family and friends for the hometown hero.  There is nothing quite like hearing the marching band playing the school song and seeing the cheerleaders decked out in their school finery. 

And then there's college football.

We don't have any professional sports teams in Iowa.  Minor league stuffs but nothing than a state away and it's just not the same thing, ya know?

We take our college football very seriously around here and you'll also come to understand that the further west you go, there are some folks who root for the Iowa State Cyclones.  The closer you travel to Iowa City, you'll see cars, homes, and people decked out in their black and yellow finery declaring their allegiance to the Iowa Hawkeyes.

And our home is no exception.

We're for the Hawks.

Every member of our family has a hoodie or a tee-shirt or jersey that bears the Hawkeyes symbol.

It's also a big stinkin' deal to attend the football games in Iowa City.

If you're a Saturday grocery shopper, you know well enough to avoid the city like the plague during game day.

Anywhere and everywhere around Kinnick Stadium (proudly named after our very own war hero and Heisman trophy winner, Nile Kinnick) is a madhouse.  But, if you're lucky enough to be part of the spectacle that is game day....well, that's a whole different ball of wax, as they say.

A few years ago I was lucky enough to take our son to his very first game at Kinnick Stadium.

 

We had scored some tickets thanks to a very good friend of ours and on a Saturday morning in early Fall of 2008, Arik and I set off early to Iowa City.  I can remember chit-chatting on the way there, a little blurry-eyed yet, but that kid was ten then and could chatter, chatter, chatter when he was excited.  It was still cool to do that then.  Now that he's 14, he plays things a little bit aloof and close to the vest.  We parked with little problem and started our way towards Kinnick.

If any of you follow college football, then you know half of the entertainment is the people and the tailgaiting.  The closer we got to Kinnick, the more people we saw.  Kinnick is pretty impressive, especially if you're a ten year old.

Heck, who am I kidding?  I walk by that stadium every day to work and I still love it.  I run into the football players in the morning, coming back from a.m. practice in their sweat socks, pulled up to their knees, and Adidas flip-flops.  And one day was lucky enough to accidentally bump into our very own Coach Ferentz.  He was a nice guy with a ready smile and a 'Good Morning' to me.

Yeah, yeah, I forgot who I was for a second there.  This is why I should never meet famous people.

Annnnnyway, the closer we got to Kinnick, the bigger the melee'.  There were grills, coolers, awnings, and the scents of good food.  Everywhere you looked it was black and gold.

It's a sight to see.

Arik, bless his heart, kept stopping to look around every now and again and I would have to remind him to press on.  We got in line to get to our seats and arrived early enough to watch the stadium fill up.  Just right before game time, I told him to turn and look around.  His eyes got huge and he just looked back at me.  I'll never forget that look.  The stadium can hold a little over 70,000 people.  I can only imagine how that looks to a kid, but if judging by the look on Arik's face....yeah, it's mindblowing.  

I love that our stadium is deemed one of the 'toughest' to play at in the Big Ten.  I love that our student section is crazy and fun to watch.  I also love that you can't explain the deafening noise when all of those folks are on their feet screaming for our team.  You can't explain, you can only experience.

We were lucky enough to sit in front of some lovely folks who let Arik stand on his seat most of the game as we rarely sat down.  It was the Shonn Greene show that day.  He was a running back for our beloved Hawks who has having an epic 'on' day.  We screamed until we were hoarse.  We stopped to quench our thirsts with five dollar Cokes and high-fived our neighbors - front and behind - several times during the game.  Slowly, every one around us was talking and all came to find that it was Arik's first game.  I think he got high-fived more than anyone - including the team - that day.  There's something magical about sharing a game with a kid.  It reminds us of being a kiddo ourselves and what it feels like, the magic, of watching a game like that for the first time. 

It's something only a child can understand and as much as we'd love to get back that wonder of the game, we get to experience it in bits and pieces through our children's eyes every now and again.  Although, if pressed to comment on his memories, Arik would probably just say:  "It was cool."

And at the end of the day, our team were the victors.

Final score:  38-16.

 We wound our way out of Kinnick and back through a sea of Gold to our vehicle.  Arik's chatter filled the air the whole way home as he relived every one of Shonn's break out runs toward a touchdown and how big the band was and how cool the drum line was and yes, the girls in their cheerleader skirts, but how cool was it to see so many people?  Yeah, I could listen to that kind of excitement all day.

Opening day for the Hawkeyes is this Saturday at Soldier Field in Chicago against Northern Illinois with at 2:30 p.m.  If you get a chance to catch the game, turn it on and help root on our Hawkeyes.  I know our family will have out butts firmly planted in front of our tv and all wearing our black & gold proudly.

It's part of being an Iowan.

It's who we are.

We're the Hawkeyes.  

Teachers....

This time of year always makes me think of the smell of new shoes, collars that are still a little stiff around the neck, and the excitement of sitting next to my best friend (although, to be honest, that particular joy didn't happen very often).

Yup, it's back to school time.

I got to see all of my babies off to school this morning (I'm writing this on Tuesday evening) with not one tear and much excitement.

But it does get me thinking about the people who most inspired me most in the classroom.  I can honestly tell you to this day that I remember each and every one of these people fondly and my experiences with them made me a better person and a better writer.

I met Mrs. Shellady in fourth grade.  Everyone, and I do mean everyone, wanted Mrs. S as their teacher.  She was one of the 'cool' teachers.  We've all had 'em, right?  She was the one.  I can't tell you the day she started reading 'The Great Gilly Hopkins' by Katherine Patterson but I can remember how I felt when she got done reading it.  The story follows Gilly throughout her stay in a foster home and her misadventures with her step-mother and her fellow foster kid, Earnest Teague (I didn't even have to google that.  That kid's name is burnt into my brain.) along with the search for her real birth mother and her mother's eventual rejection.  I remember thinking that this kid had a similar story to mine - which was odd, let's be honest.  But it must have been cool enough for Mrs. S to think it was okay to read to us and it got the NewBerry award if memory serves.  If I'm wrong....well, it won't be the first time.  But, I'd like to think that those books that she read began me on a path with a love for books that has lasted until today.  She also gave me a nurturing environment.  I never felt anything but love from that lady.  Bless you and thank you, Mrs. S. 

Now, onto sixth grade and Mr. G (aka Mr. Gingerich).  Here begins the story of Heather's writing career.  He held an after school writer's workshop and I remember I still have his remarks on one of my stories about a female great dane somewhere tucked into a blue suitcase that still says 'Heather Ulin' on it in masking tape from a summer at Girl Scout Camp.  Either way, we would wile away an hour or so as he read us Ray Bradbury (the man had an absolute love affair with Bradbury) and we'd sketch pictures to go with our stories and write.  I loved every second of it.  And maybe reading Bradbury began that love with words, too.  I loved how the words sounded when he read them, reading these odd passages of words that didn't always make sense, but I loved how they sounded in my little mind.  At the time...it made me feel special in a way that was good and not the way where every one stared a little bit when I said my grandparents adopted me.  This, for a change, was all about me and not about where I came from.  Thanks for that, Mr. G. 

Fast forwarding to seventh, eighth, and ninth grades we arrive at Mr. Tony Hancock.  He, to this day, was probably the biggest influence writing-wise for me.  He pushed me to make more of my words, to expand, to expound, to figure out what those big words meant, and to make things simpler, too.   He was the first to request to send a piece of my work into a conference wide publication meant for kids of our age.  I got my first publication....and then my second.  Again, those bound pages are stuck somewhere in that suitcase.  But, Mr. H, in addition to pushing me as a writer, also gave me my first taste of success.  I'll remember him forever for that.  And Mr. H, wherever you are, thank you so very much.

Lastly, but by no means, leastly, Mr. Frakes.  Holy cow.  Fast forward to senior year and taking one of his classes was something I'd wanted to do my whole high school career and finally, there I was.  I remember working my ass off in his class, reading things I would never read as they didn't run along the lines of VC Andrews or Sweet Valley High (dude, don't judge - I was a kid) or something equally teenagery.  I remember reading through The Charge of the Light Brigade for that class and it giving me literal goosebumps.  Again, here was a teacher showing me things that I would not have actively sought out if left to my own devices.  Ever.  Thanks for that, Mr. Frakes.  

These people, aside from a few authoric (hush, it's a word) influences later on in my life, have left their indelible and loving mark on my heart.  They gave me an outlet when I had a lot going on in my little life, they helped nurture a gift, and they gave power to someone who felt powerless a lot of the time.  Behind my Bic and my wide-ruled notebook, I could change the world.  So, to you, to you blessed teachers, thank you.  I wouldn't be the same without you. 

Preconceived Notions...

Well I just got my ass handed to me. 

I also just sighed deeply.

I was out on my morning jaunt and I spied a woman - a student, I thought - at a distance and couldn't help but notice her sparkly shirt in the distance.

My first thought was 'Sequins?  This early in the week?  Whatevs.'

And then she got up and bumbled her way down the sidewalk. 

Let me add also that this week is the week students have returned to the University of Iowa and while behavior like this during the weekdays is not that common, it is not unheard of to have some nubile young co-ed bopping her drunk ass down the sidewalk at 9:00 a.m. CST. 

Thankfully, I had my sunglasses on as I rolled my eyes.

Do you guys see where this is going?  I sure didn't.

She said something to me and I popped my ear buds out and said 'Pardon, me?'

Then I got a good look at her:  Hazel eyes, salt & pepper elbow length hair, tanned deeply lined face and the flower patterned sequins shining in the morning light. 

"I don't have any toes," she said. 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"People don't always believe me.  They've tried calling the cops on me before."

My heart fell.

"I call 'em fisty one and fisty two," she elaborated on her state of toelessness. 

Way to go, Heather, I thought.  Just way to freaking go.

I believe I told her 'bless your heart' and that I hoped she had a good day. 

Normally, folks, I pride myself on being able to look beyond the surface, the superficial, if you will and look into who the person is.  (It's not always the case, though.  Just ask my best friend.  We both thought we hated each other for years before we befriended one another.)  And today, God or someone reminded me to not lose that particular skill.

I'm normally a people-watcher by nature.  And, as a writer, I'm always creating a story in my head.   Working in a hospital/university campus, you do often wonder why that particular person is there.  Are they there to see their niece or nephew?  Are they there to drop off their father-in-law for an appointment in Ophthalmology?  Or is one of their loved ones here receiving treatment for one type of cancer or another?

It's their story.  Every single one of us is living out our story. 

And while it's not always particular heart warming, inspiring, or even dignified at times, it still is, by God, our tale. 

As I was walking back up the steps to  my office my first thought was of that saying about being kind to people because you have no idea the battle they are fighting. 

Today, I was reminded of that. 

And now I'm sharing it with you. 

A Night Less Ordinary....

There are very few things in the world like a community of women.

And I can honestly say that I don't like all women, but the women I do like, and am fortunate enough to have been befriended by, are pretty amazing.  They're your every day, garden variety women who are muddling through life while life tries to make their existence extraordinary...sometimes kicking and screaming the whole way.  

Either way, I found myself with two of my gal pals last night on our back patio (which sounds way fancier than it is) with a small fire, bottles of wine, and itunes. 

 (labeled Bliss on Instagram....Apropos, no?)

It always always amazes me how women are able to flit from conversation to conversation without missing a beat.  We're able to talk about death and our grocery budget in the span of two minutes.  Or how little Georgie is fighting a cold.  Or how Sue is not studying nearly enough while George Strait or Maroon 5 provides the soundtrack. 

And as the night goes on, sunglasses are tucked up as makeshift headbands, and ball caps are tucked low against foreheads, that's when the real talk begins. 

It's very easy to stare into a fire with the cool night air floating around you on the cusp of Autumn.  It's also easy to listen, to hear, maybe what someone is saying but not saying. 

It also always amazes me how there is always tears.  But, there is laughter and hugs in equal measure.

I love how there are emphatic arms waving about while wine slops out the left side but there is no stopping the story nor the leaning forward laughter that follows.  The talking over each other, the stories from yesterday or ten years ago.  Or how there is a group hug at one point.  How there is texting from family members, pictures to be posted on facebook and/or instagram....

And why is that?

Why do we feel the need to acknowledge that we're doing this?

Because it's a celebration of sorts, I think.

(Even the Sun Sets in Paradise...)


We may not have won this week, but we're here at the end of it, talking to each other, sharing each other's joy and misery, and this too shall be marked down.

On instagram, obviously.

We might not get a chance to do this until next Spring or we might be sitting in those same chairs two weeks from now but the spirit that is underneath our little community of women is always there.

We're here to share your load, to laugh at your stories, to hold your hand, to acknowledge your pain, and to remind each other we're not alone.  

And tomorrow is another day....

(The Aftermath...)

That mom....

I've decided I am never going to be 'that' mom.  I just can't.

I'm never going to be that mom that has it totally together.  I don't or can't even appear to have it all together.  I will let your room end up looking like this until I can't stand it anymore.

(aka last Sunday - Jude's room)

And in a fit of pique (or the fact that the County might've put yellow tape across the doorway condemning your room) I will help you clean it up. 

(Jude's room One hour later - aka The After)

I won't be the greatest decorator in the world.  As a matter of fact, I'll probably forget that I was supposed to sew you curtains for six months and then wait until we've bought a new comforter for your bed and then decide to sew them. 

I'll wait till the last minute to buy your school supplies. 

I will also stay up till midnight the day before your birthday baking treats for you to take to school.  Or buy them somewhere the morning of.

I'm never going to be Betty Crocker or Suzy Homemaker.

If you run out of clean underwear, don't blame me.  I showed you how to use the washer and/or the dryer.

I won't watch that stupid youtube video that you wanna show me.  Seriously, after the 87th time, there's only so many times I can watch a cat and/or dog chasing it's tail or watching grown people light their farts.

But, this I promise, I will do:

1.  If someone breaks your heart, I will try very hard not to want to break their knee caps (but when you aren't looking I will send Jude to find them).

2.  I promise to listen to your dreams, hopes, and wishes without bias or laughter. 

3.  I promise to hold your hand during the scary part of the movie and not tell a soul.

4.  I promise to clean up your scrapes, bumps and bruises with as little pain as I can possibly muster while putting on peroxide and neosporin.

5.  I promise that when you're sick, I will buy the more expensive soup with the actual stars in them. 

6.  I promise to be honest with you and let you know when I'm scared, too. 

7.  I promise to always love you (but to keep it real, there's gonna be times when I may not always like you...and I'll be sure to let you know when those moments are). 

8.  I promise to listen to you when you're frustrated with me and to see if we can come to some sort of logical compromise....after I've sent you to your room and calmed down enough to see straight.

9.  I promise to sing and dance with you and be absolutely silly (which, let's be honest, is the permanent state of Chez Fleming.  We are nothing if not ridic most of the time). 

10.  I promise to embarrass you by kissing your dad and saying I love him.  (and one day when you're married and have kids of your own...you'll see why this is cool)

11.  I promise to yell the loudest at your game/meets/recitals/solo competitions/etc. 

Why?  Because I'm that mom.