Nike-plus Log: 250 Klicks and Still Kickin'

I hadn't connected my Nike-plus to my laptop in a long while, but something compelled me to hook up today. When I did, I was elated to learn that I'd logged 250 kilometers, according to my sensor.

It made me wonder why I didn't start using it sooner.

But first, a little background info is in order. See, my husband, supportive guy that he is, purchased the Nike-plus iPod sensor for me many, many months prior, but he didn't ask me if I wanted it. He just bought it, because another runner had told him was cool, plus it was on sale. Of course, snob that I am, my heart was set on a much more elegant Suunto t3c (about $189.95) or Garmin Forerunner 405 (MRSP $299.99), so when he presented me with his gift, I muttered a half-hearted "Thanks," and tossed it aside.

It sat untouched for months in a Dick's Sporting Goods bag on a shelf in my closet.

Meanwhile, my lust-fest with the Garmin and Suunto continued. The pros at Playmakers — my favorite local sporting-goods store — unequivocally vouched for the items I coveted, and these guys have some serious credibility in my book, for they are uber experienced and committed runners.

"They're also salespeople," my husband reminded me.

"Sure, I know," I countered, "but they've never led me astray."

Then one of them asked, "What do you hope to get out of a watch? Do you need to monitor your heart rate, for example?"

"Not really," I said, almost laughing.

"And are you going to be doing such great distances that you'll need to record, say, 26 one-mile splits or more per day?"

"Not likely," I responded, wishing he'd just get to his point.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'd recommend that you think about what you feel your needs are, because these watches and GPS units are great, but they do represent a fairly steep investment for something you may be able to get more affordably. Essentially, you want to be happy with your final purchase, right?"

So I went home, and started thinking with my brain instead of my heart.

All I really needed was something that would help me keep track of distances that I wasn't able to measure by car, as well as speeds, time splits, and a gob of individual runs. Obviously, my months-long infatuation with the two watches I'd been ogling wasn't serious enough for me to make the purchase myself.

I'll sheepishly admit to a temporary lapse in judgment when I considered adding the watches to my birthday or Mother's Day wish lists, but the very thought of it made me feel opportunistic and greedy. "What's wrong with a Timex?" I could hear my husband grumble. And I'd have been hard-pressed to argue his point. Besides, I didn't want a gift that made me feel like I needed to take a shower every time I wore it, even though that would have been the case either way.

And didn't I already have this Nike thingie sitting around somewhere in my closet?

I rooted around a bit and found it crammed behind an old book in a now-crumpled Dick's Sporting Goods bag. I fished it out of its box and gave it a quick once-over, then chucked it into my purse and headed out to see my old friends at Playmakers.

"These are pretty cool devices," one of them said. "I actually have one at home, and it's pretty amazing (now he tells me). Let me show you how it works!"

He bagged my sensor to my left Brooks shoe, making sure it didn't have a lot of wiggle room, then he suggested that I go out to a high school track, and calibrate my run to a single lap around the inner-most track, which would equate to 400 meters. That was it! Soon after, I was off and running ... and tracking some of the best feedback I could ever want regarding my running performance: distances, calories, time splits, personal records.

The best part is the Nikeplus.com Web site, where all my runs are recorded, including each mile of any given run, and milestones are celebrated. I can compare my runs against that of someone in Turkey, encourage a beginning runner to "just do it" in Japan, ask an elite runner in Australia for tips on working through a slump, trash talk my sister in Denver, Colo. When I achieve a new distance best, Lance Armstrong congratulates me. When I best my previous top speed, Paula Radcliffe tells me she's proud.

Not bad for the $20 my husband invested to snag the sensor on sale ... and the hundreds of dollars I saved!

Song For Jenny

Jenny at Max & Erma's for dinner with the family, Summer 2006. Photo credit: Laurie Robison.


This is my song for my daughter, Jenny, who hasn't spoken to me for a couple of months. We had a blowout after she asked me to bring her to Michigan to have her wisdom teeth pulled. I discovered that she'd been calling her dad and her aunt to complain that I didn't take her in for the surgery, but had my 21-year-old daughter take her instead. I was not approved to take time off then, as it was a last-minute request. In fact, I was registered for a half-marathon in Chicago that weekend, and was granted time off then. I considered changing my plans to accommodate Jenny's surgery, but her surgeon said she'd need me more then than during surgery, if someone else could bring her in. Hännah graciously volunteered.

She told her aunt that I wasn't taking care of her or feeding her, yet, she refused to eat the soup I'd made ("I can't get it in my mouth," she complained after making no attempt to try), and didn't follow her oral surgeon's post-op care instructions (i.e., don't smoke for 72 hours, rest, keep yourself hydrated, eat to speed healing, take the prescribed meds for pain).

Three days after her surgery, when I was finally able to take time off, she decided, despite my strong suggestion against it, to spend the night at her sister's, who would be entertaining a few friends. It was then that I asked if she'd called her dad to meet us halfway for the return trip, which she agreed to do prior to our departure from Pennsylvania. The reminder set her off, and she said, "Why can't you call him if you want him to meet you?"

"Because I'd asked you to," I said angrily. "I don't talk to him anymore than I have to, because we always end up fighting, and I don't have the energy to constantly fight just to fight. And because you promised you would, and because this is what you wanted. Why can't you, just once, do what I ask of you?"

Maybe it wasn't fair that 16 years of pent-up frustrations came to surface during this particular moment — a moment that she'd apparently claimed for her own personal rebellion — but I'd had it: had it with being the one who ensured everyone's health care; with being blamed, ALWAYS, by her and by his side of the family for everything that went wrong in their lives; with being called to rescue her from one crisis or another because life became suddenly intolerable; with having to drive 340 miles to New Castle, Penn., and back again, every single month for 12 years so she could cower behind her father's fiancee and refuse to tell me her social calendar was a little to busy to see her mother just then; I'd just had it with being treated like shit, because it had all become way too easy for her to blurt, "You don't love me!" and get away with it.

So, I gave her an ultimatum: Make the call like she'd promised, or stay here.

Days later, when finally she did call, he said he had to work.

"TAKE ME HOME," she screamed ... at me.

"As soon as he can meet me half way, I will," I said.

I also told her that she could call her dad and her aunt to tattle, but she did not have my permission to disrespect me by saying things about me to others rather than to me. She whispered, "You suck for a mother," and she stormed out of my bedroom. "So, now I suck?" I asked nobody in particular, and she retorted, "You've always sucked!"

Now, I don't understand all the rules of parental love, but I do the best I can, and I do it from my heart. I am not always wrong, and more often than not, I know the choices I've made for my children as a parent are sound. My love for Jenny is unconditional. If that's not good enough, then I don't know what to say, except that I've got nothing else but love for her. I'll meet her halfway, but I'm not a doormat.

This is my song for Jenny. I'm still working on it. And for what it's worth, I do love her ... for forever.


'Song For Jenny'

You make your choices based on what you know
Oh, this is your life, yeah, this is your life
Haven't always been there, but I've loved you all along
And it cuts like a knife; you'd believe all the lies you've been told

I left him
I cannot deny it
Lost it all
Was I such a fool?
Tried to hold on
To the ones that I love
Knowing you would believe in me

I made my own choices based on what I knew
Oh, it was my life, yeah, it was my life
All that I've done, well I've done it for you
Still you despise me, I don't know how to break through

You left me
You cannot deny it
Walked away
Is this what you want?
Try to hold on
To one who loves you
The one who you know always will

One day you'll look back
And consider your choices
But I'll never let go, oh please don't let go
Believe me, I'm waiting for you to come home

I'll be waiting for you to come home.

— Say Hello to Your Mother

From Half to Full?

Nah, I'm not talking about a glass half empty. I'm talking about going from a half to a full marathon. In truth, I'm not even doing a whole lot of talking about it. I'm more just thinking; mulling it over. Because talking about it is almost like committing to it, you know?

When you tell someone, "Hey, I've been thinking about running a marathon," the next thing you know, you're expected to do it, and when you see them again, they'll be like, "How'd you do in that marathon?" And if you didn't actually run 26.2 miles, you'd be like, "Well, I decided I'd only do a half instead."

Only?

Most people won't walk a mile, let alone run one. And I'm not about to start making myself feel inadequate about completing a 13-miler. A half marathon an achievement — a major accomplishment!

OK, so maybe I'm over-thinking this whole half-to-full thing. But, like I said, I am thinking about it.

Next time I see you, I'll let you know how I did.

Running the Dinosaur Dash

Left: Spreading peace before I run the Dinosaur Dash. Below right: Getting ready to pass a couple of senior runners. Bottom left: Hauling ass about 500 meters from the finish line. Photo Credit: Dane Robison.

After last Sunday's 13.1 run, today's 5k Dinosaur Dash, hosted by the Michigan State University Federal Credit Union, was a relaxing and fun, no-pressure run. My regular running partner, Kate Koltvedt, decided against running outdoors for the rest of the year, so I was on my own. That's why I was glad to bump into Bill Thygerson from my husband's office. His regular running partner, Katie Green, also didn't run today, so he suggested we buddy up. Not that Kate and I actually run together (she's a faster runner). Generally, we arrive together, start together, and meet up after the finish.

The Dino Dash marked Bill "The Tiger" Thygerson's seventh 5k and my 12th official run this year. I've still got the Niketown "Run Like a Girl" half marathon on October 19 in Chicago, which will likely be my final race this season.

Overall, it's been an awesome year of running for me. In a few short weeks, I'll be forced to make the switch from the great outdoors to the treadmill, though I'll long for that occasional winter day when the sun shines high and warms up the earth just enough to allow for a few miles of outdoor running.

For now, I'm taking full advantage of these final days of warm weather. I'm looking forward to running under the canopy of trees ablaze with color, catching the all-too-familiar scent of wood burning in a nearby fireplace; seeing my breath hang in the crisp, cool air, hearing the crunch of fallen leaves and twigs underfoot.

Yes, there are still many days of running yet to be had this year. Hope to see you out there on the asphalt.

Did you run the 2008 Dinosaur Dash? Find yourself at TimeFramePhoto.

My First Half Marathon

Left: Hawk Island boardwalk, just before the 9-mile mark. Photo credit: Dane Robison. Below: Finish line.

I did it. I ran the Capital City River Run half marathon this morning and finished it. It took a while — two hours, 18 minutes, and 29 seconds, to be exact — but I finished, and that's what counts. While at the same time exhausting and exhilarating, it was a triumphant moment — a personal victory toward which I'd worked all year. My friend Kate and I committed to running this race in January. I'd wanted to run it last year, but wasn't adequately prepared when race day rolled around. The closest I got to it was watching last year's runners cross the finish line and thinking, "Damn, that could have been me."

"So run it next year," my husband said encouragingly, and I thought, "Yeah, why not?"

But to go into the CCRR as experienced half-marathoners, Kate and I agreed to tackle the MORE race in New York City in April. I was humored by the fact that racers had to be at least 40 years old, or they had to run with a 40-year-old. But in the end, none of it mattered because Kate's mother's best friend turned 60 that day, which was cause for an obligatory celebration on Kate's part, and that put a kibosh on our plan.

Undaunted, I remained committed to my training, demonstrating discipline, stamina, and an uncompromising stick-to-it determination that drove everyone in my household crazy.

"Ready for dinner?" someone would ask. "Nope, I really have to get a run in."

"Wanna see a movie?" another would query. "I'd love to, but I'm due for a long run."

"What do you wanna do this weekend?" came another question. "Run."

You get the point.

I also heard the pride in their voices when they'd tell friends, "She's training for a half marathon," or "She just ran 12 miles today." They'd say it in that feigned, "Oh my God, I know my mom is so weird" tone, but I could tell they were bragging. No, really!

With few exceptions, I ran rain or shine, night and day, and I cut myself absolutely no slack. I'd go out for a pre-run drive to measure distances and plot out routes throughout my neighborhood. When three miles no longer cut it, the world I'd experience on foot grew a little larger. I noticed things for the first time — long forgotten pleasures of the outdoors, like the warmth and sometimes even the brutal heat of the sun; the grace of that one perfect breeze that gave me enough energy to pull off a strong finish; birds flitting about and squabbling in the treetops overhead; my growing familiarity with every part of a particularly challenging hill; the compassion of those with whom I'd shared mile after mile of asphalt, demonstrated everyday by a friendly wave and smile, or by motorists who'd give me a wide berth as they drove by.

It's been a long year, that's for sure, yet I was surprised at how quickly the race came and went. Long, grueling hours in training, thousands of miles under foot, the many pairs of Brooks running shoes I'd replaced — all of it came down to two hours, 18 minutes and 29 seconds. No, nothing earth-shattering or particularly noteworthy, and yet so very special.

Next on my agenda: Niketown's "Run Like a Girl" half marathon in Chicago, Ill., on Sunday, Oct. 19.

Wanna run a half? Check out the Team Playmakers half-marathon training schedule for intermediate runners (http://playmakers.com/teamplaymakers/ — you'll also find training schedules for runners of all levels and for all types of races).

Did you run the 2008 Capital City River Run? Find yourself at TimeFramePhoto.

Get Ready

Photo: After 10 at Lake Lansing. Photo Credit: Dane Robison


So Sunday, September 28, 2008, is my husband's 28th birthday. He'll turn 41. That's tomorrow.

I also run my first-ever half marathon tomorrow morning. I'm running the Capital City River Run in Lansing, Mich., and my husband — even before I decided to run it — volunteered to be the race's official photographer. So he and a small crew of shooters are going out to celebrate his birthday by snapping away at a bunch of half-marathoners. Strange.

But then again, he thinks I'm kind of strange, the way I've been so obsessed with sticking to my training.

"You're a freak," he'd joke when I'd log in my miles or tell him I had a 12-mile run to do.

I'm nervous, I won't lie. I've been thinking about running this baby for two years now. I've been seriously training for it since January. Last week when I ran, I hit the wall. Last week I had a tough time kicking three miles — three! I also started to notice weird pinches here and there. My left ankle has been giving me a lot of trouble today.

Other runners are in the same boat. Hips, ankles, knees — you name it. It's been a long running season, and the body can only take so much. But I've GOT to do this thing. And the Run Like a Girl in October.

My plan: Take it slow and easy, try to keep a steady pace. I'll listen to my body, but I'll also talk to myself.

"You can do it, Lolo. Come on, girl, you can do this."

The fact is, it's not that I think I can. I know I can.

Come Home, Son

Photo: Chris and Sophia share a beach towel, Summer 2008, Grand Haven, Mich.
Photo Credit: Dane Robison.

Chris called me today. He was upset, I could tell. His girlfriend of more than one year had broken up with him, though they remain friends. Distraught and broken-hearted, he said he just didn't know what to do, but he couldn't stay there in Boston anymore.

"I have no friends. I know nobody here," he said, his voice filled with pain and sadness.

Why'd he decide to go to Boston in the first place? He had to see about a girl, he said. He loves her, and he knew he had to go, if for no other reason than that he'd regret it for the rest of his life if he let her go without giving it his all. I couldn't blame him, and no one — no one — could have talked him out of it.

His best friend of 17 years had tried, but Chris wouldn't hear it. In his heart, he knew Stephan meant well. He also knew that his friendship with this childhood friend — the one young man who was perhaps as close to being a brother to him as anyone could possibly be — would survive any perceived lapse in judgment. Chris was ready to give away his heart, and Stephan could see, as clear as day, that Chris's heart was about to be shattered, battered, sliced, diced, skewered, beaten and well ... broken.

"He left?" Estephan asked me the day after Chris boarded the bus to Massachusetts. He couldn't have been surprised. Hurt? Maybe. "What an idiot," he said, almost inaudibly.

Me? I didn't try to talk Chris out of it. Though I knew this relationship didn't stand a chance in hell, I wasn't about to stand in the way of his pursuit of happiness and true love. After all, haven't we all been down that road before, blinded by love and foolishly consumed by the intoxicating power it yielded over us? Hadn't I done the very same thing when I married his father? When his father divorced me? When I married his step-father? Every time I'd ever done anything in the name of love, whether for my children, my family, friends or my husband, hadn't it always subconsciously been based on an unconditional love and unequivocal trust? Hadn't I also, on numerous occasions, been on the reciprocating end of their displays of affection?

I remember when he was 5, Chris was watching the Home Shopping Network really early one morning. I was still in bed, feeling very much under the weather. He crept into my bedroom and sweetly asked me if I had a credit card he could borrow.

"What do you need a credit card for, hon?" I asked. It was still dark as night out.

"It's a surprise," he said. "The TV lady's waiting on the phone for me, Mom. It's a surprise, so I can't tell you."

It was a ring. He wanted to buy me a pink sapphire ring, and his innocent desire to express his love for his mother touched me so much more deeply than any gift he could ever have bought me.

We didn't get that ring; couldn't afford it, but I'll never forget him wanting to. Nor the time he sent me a carefully drawn card about the greatness of acts of God, like a mighty tornado. He compared them all to the greatness of me — his mom.

To have been loved by my son is to be loved with a ferocious and deep passion. But falling in love is dangerous for anyone who'd so freely and willingly give so much of himself. Still, is there any other way to love — really, truly love?

I just hope his pain doesn't bury him.

When his father and I divorced, it hurt him. Badly. He changed. His heart got hard. He hated me. He said he couldn't wait to grow up and move out and be on his own. "You ruined my life," he told me over and over again. "When I move out, I'm going to move so far away, and I'm never coming home again." His anger was rooted in pain. I knew that.

Still, when he decided to move to Boston, I thought, "It's so far away."

Sophia? She's a nice kid. Cute as a button, confident. I liked her a lot. I wanted to like her; to love her. But she's just a kid, 20 years old. I don't mean to make any judgments based of her youth. Love works forever for a lot of young lovers. But something about this relationship reminded me of, well, oil and water.

It's hard to watch any of your kids' hearts get broken, but it's all part of growing up. I know his heart will heal in time, and I hope he'll one day take the chance to fall in love again and again. Somewhere along the way, I also hope he discovers all the things that I already know make him so wonderfully unique and worthy of being loved.

"Come home, son," I wrote to him in response to a message he sent me.

It's bittersweet, I know, but I'm glad he's coming home.

2008 Autumn Classic 8k

Left: Me, approaching the finish line.
Photo Credit: Dane Robison

The 2008 Autumn Classic is an 8-kilometer (4.98-mile) run around and through Lake Lansing in Haslett, Mich. It also happened to be my first-ever 8k race. And while I've previously kicked asphalt over the very same course (though over much greater distances) each race has its own unique personality based, in not-so-equal parts, on fellow racers, event logistics and weather conditions. Oh, and let's not underestimate the power of a good iTunes playlist (purists may disagree with me on this point, but I'm mostly in it for the sheer pleasure of running, and music just happens to enhance my experience).

Finally, post-race refreshments can either make or break an event.
In order to recap this race — for my personal benefit — allow me to rate it on a scale of 1 to 5 hearts — five hearts being excellent (my apologies in advance for going with hearts; I can't figure out how to make stars):

1) Fellow racers: 
By nature, the uber-aggressive and obnoxious runners tend to be out at the front of the herd, and because I pretty much run in slow-mo, no matter which races I sign up for, I am generally always surrounded by mild-mannered, respectful runners and walkers. It's the folks who are much slower moving but don't run on the right-hand side of the road, as well as the stroller-pushing parents who weave in and out of the pack, that I find particularly annoying and dangerous. Most every race has them, and this was no exception. In retrospect, I may have been considered the speedy nuisance as I vividly recall an attempt to dart through a narrow gap between a slow-moving female just ahead of me on my left and two walking Chatty Cathys on my right. "What to do?" I thought as it appeared my only hope of avoiding a collision was to hurdle over them. Then my body impulsively lurched forward, and through that beckoning gap I did swiftly dash — after which, I made sure I issued a breathless (albeit polite), "'Scuse me." And if anyone was none the less offended and so admitted, I was thankfully under headphones listening to some jammin' tunes, and so I missed the bitching-out.


2) Event logistics: 
I was a bit disappointed in that the race wasn't better organized. For example, there was no course map provided prior to or during the race. I knew the perimeter around Lake Lansing is only four miles, so I wasn't sure how the additional point-nine-eighths of a mile would be tacked on. The ambiguity was a little disconcerting, and even once we'd arrived at the race site (and proceeded to drive in slow-moving traffic for quite some time before we were finally able to park), race volunteers had no idea where the start/finish was, the direction racers would initially travel out of the shoot, whether we'd be running on trails, concrete or blacktop, yadda-yadda. We ended up running on all three surfaces, predominantly on blacktop. The registration Web site described the course as flat, scenic and fast, which it was, and I wouldn't mind running it again under less congested conditions. I very much appreciated the single loop around the lake. While it makes coverage of the event a bit tough for photographers (my photographer husband complained about this), double or triple loops around the same landscape — no matter how beautiful — can evoke annoying "Been there, done that" complaints from race participants. Still, it helps to keep all your publics in mind when planning a race, even shutterbugs. A pre-race warm-up would have been a nice little "extra." As it was, I felt rushed due to the long wait to find a parking spot, and another long wait in the potty line. On the course, watering stations were adequately spaced at about every mile and a half or so. An impressively plentiful supply of cheering teenage volunteers guided everyone around the course. Every mile around the almost-five-mile course was accurately marked, coupled with large digital clocks that let racers know how they were performing. Overall, a fairly decent event. A little more planning and communication, however, would likely have resulted in a higher rating.

3) Weather gods: 
Of course, weather cannot fairly reflect the quality of a race. In fact, we runners train in preparation for all types of conditions — inclement or otherwise. In my subjective and biased opinion, the weather was pretty nearly perfect for an 8k. Driving in, it was mildly foggy, even a bit misty. Temperatures maintained at a relatively cool 62 degrees, so organizers drew kudos for issuing long-sleeved T-shirts in participants' race packets. By the time the starting gun sounded, most of the fog had burned off, but the sun remained behind clouds for the duration of the event. Couldn't have asked for better weather, not that mortal men or race organizers had any say in the matter.

4) Post-race refreshments: 
Playmakers did an exceptional job with respect to refreshments. I would know: I gladly "partook" of most of it. I wholeheartedly welcomed the water bottle that was handed to me as I crossed the finish line.
After chugging on that for a bit then, having finished said bottled water to rinse off my well-earned "glow," I made a beeline for some Go-gurt, which I sucked down as if I actually knew what the hell I was doing, and grabbed a banana, too. I ended up giving the banana to my husband, then returned to the food table for an apple (for me) and a cup of hot vege soup (for him). If someone had offered to return to fetch me a Great Harvest bread roll and a cup of apple cider, I wouldn't have declined. Unfortunately, such offer was not extended, and I was too elated by the fact that I'd just finished an 8k race to give it much thought.

5) Final comments
My iTunes playlist: 
Still a work in progress, and I do recognize that my playlist is not within the race organizers' control. I also realize that not everyone will appreciate my playlist selection, but it only has to work for me.

I'm trying to craft one that inspires me to haul ass, but is interspersed with songs that force me to slow down at key points, too, so as to avoid premature burnout or injury. In my continuing quest to update my list to perfection, I'm finding that I am just as excited to hear each carefully selected tune as I am about the thrill of the run itself. I often make mental notes so I can rearrange and change my selections to keep it fresh. Here's a run-down of my current playlist.

"Eye in the Sky" — Alan Parsons Project
"As I Am" — Alicia Keys
"Brick House" — Commodores
"La Tortura" — Shakira and Alejandro Sanz
"Beautiful Liar" — Beyonce and Shakira
"Eyes Like Yours" — Shakira
"Hips Don't Lie" — Shakira
"Get Busy" — Sean Paul
"Wreckless Love" — Alicia Keys
"Shut Up and Drive" — Rihanna
"Temperature" — Sean Paul
"Fighter" — Christina Aguilera
"Are You Gonna Go My Way?" — Lenny Kravitz
"Work It" — Missy Elliott*
"Insane in the Membrane" — Cypress Hill*
"Break It Off" — Rihanna and Sean Paul
"Miss Independent" — Kelly Clarkston
"Dirrty" — Christina Aguilera*
"American Woman" — Lenny Kravitz
"Church" — T-Pain*
"Get Your Freak On" — Missy Elliott*

*Parental advisory warning: Explicit profanity and suggestive lyrics (clearly, I'm going for the beat).

My playlist actually contains enough tunes to get me through a couple of hours of running, in order to accommodate a half marathon, but the list above is what I listened to for today's 8k.

What's on your playlist?

Finally, I was disappointed that my BFF Kate Koltvedt didn't get to join me for this race, but it was great to warm up with an old friend, Stephanie Angel, managing news editor at the Lansing State Journal. I usually enjoy a post-race photo with Kate, but Steph volunteered to stand in.
I look forward to seeing Stephanie next weekend (September 28) at the Capital City River Run half marathon as well.

Plus, Kate promised she'd run it with me, and I'm holding her to it.

Hännah Has Tonsillitis

Photo: It's alive!!! Tonsillitis ala Hännah

My 21-year-old baby girl has tonsils that are so swollen they look like big balls on her throat.

"Tonsillitis," the doctor announced.

Hmm.

It seems to be a recurring condition for her. What's up with that? She never so much as had a sore throat throughout her childhood. Go figure.

Well, I don't really have anything to say about this condition, mostly because I don't know much about it. Dane took a close-up of Hännah's growth after her tonsils swelled.

What do you think?

I Run Like a Girl

Photo: The Nike+ iPod Sports Kit

Nike seems to have taken up a solid corner in the world of runners. Check out the Nike+ iPod Sports Kit — complete with an accelerometer and sensor to help runners track their distance, pace, calories, last workout, best workout — you name it. The sensor communicates with either the Nike+ Sportband or a receiver that is plugged into an iPod nano.

For just under $29 you can purchase one of these bad boys, sync it to either or both www.nikeplus.com or www.runnersplus.com and participate with the whole friggin' world in all sorts of fun running challenges: Who can run the most miles in 30 days? Which 40-year-old chick can run 500 miles first by December 31?

It's really helped me stay focused and motivated to run and prepare for my upcoming half marathons on September 28 (Capital City River Run in Lansing, Mich.) October 19 (Niketown's Run Like a Girl in Chicago, Ill.).

No matter what kind of running you're into, you'll love this little device. Makes "just doing it" a whole lot of fun.

Softball Has Been Very, Very Good To Them

Photo: Kate shows off her guns. Photo credit: Dane Robison.


I watched from the periphery, separated from all the she-jocks by a chain-link fence.

"C'mon, Jenn!" Kate encouraged a teammate.

A woman on the opposing team swings the bat. The ball pops up, and the third baseman — Lauren is her name — shouts, "Mine!" She makes a run for it, but she trips over the base and, just as gravity grounds her, she instinctively tucks her chin and rolls with the fall.

"Did anybody see that?" Lauren asks, embarrassed.

"Everybody saw that!" Kate teases from the outfield. Laughter follows. I want to be part of it all.

Another ball pops up and flies toward center left.

"Got it," Kate says and charges forward. She positions herself just under the ball. It falls into her open mitt, and with perfect timing, Kate sends the ball to second for two outs!

The all-female softball team is sponsored by Buddies Bar & Grill in East Lansing. Although the players' ages range from the mid-20s to early 50s, together they share an incredible camaraderie that transcends the divisiveness that generally marks one generation from another — the reward of years of working together as a team.

Kate comes running in off the field, and stops to give me a hug.

"You made it!" she squeals, delighted.

"Of course," I say, just as delighted.

"See Sheila out there?" she asks, pointing toward an attractive short-haired blond woman who throws like a dude. Impressive.

"She's got a phenomenal arm," I observed.

"She thinks you're hot," Kate grins mischievously.

"Yeah? Well, too bad for her, I'm a took woman," I joke. Kate hyucks it up, then trots off to take her place on deck.

When it's her turn to bat, she saunters up to the plate and eyeballs the lay of the land.

"Hey, batter, batter, swing, batter!" the opposing team heckles, but she's oblivious as she waits for the one ball with her name written all over it. The pitcher doesn't disappoint, and Kate nails it for a triple.

Off the field, she flexes her muscles and sneers, "Hey, check out the gun show!" Raucous, tinny laughter and catcalls erupt from the bench occupied by her teammates.

She giggles, bats her eyelashes and flashes a smile — one that belongs to a winner.

You and your guns ... you go, girl.

To Sachi With Love

Aileen wrote me today to tell me she thinks Sachi is often unhappy. I guess MySpace has a tool that allows its users to express their current mood, and Sachi's is usually unhappy or angry. What should I make of that? Sachi is supposed to be the light of our lives ... she's a happy-go-lucky kid. But she's also sorely out of place in this world. She has so many friends, and everyone seems to adore her, yet she seems so lonely, as if she longs for something more.

I can relate. Before I met Dane, the only friends I knew and trusted were my sisters and brother. And even after we married, I'd longed for the company of my sisters — the honesty, the laughter, the fun. Then I met Kate, and she filled that void for me. And when Kate meets her own true love, I know she'll have less time for me, but that's OK, because I'll be so happy that she'll have finally found what she's been longing for.

I wish I could find a way to encourage Sachi to confide in me. But I'm her disciplinarian. I'm hard on her. I expect a lot of her, even though she's only 11. I understand that she feels misunderstood. But I cut her very little slack. I hope she knows it's because I love her and I want her to make something of herself. And for Sachi, more than anything else, I so want her to be truly happy.

I don't know how to let her know how I feel without making her suspicious and uncomfortable, but I've got to find a way. Because if I can't even tell her that I genuinely love her, how can she even think I'd understand her or be able to give her guidance?

My Sunshine

Chris is coming home this summer. Not to stay, but for the summer. He's bringing his girlfriend, Sophia, with him. I already like her a lot, and I don't really even know her yet. But she makes Chris happy, and they love each other — what's not to like?

I'll be happy to see them both next week. Now if only I can get Jenny to come back.

Run Rabbit, Run

For a good portion of my life, I've been a running fool. But in January, I decided to really get serious. At first, I didn't do a good job of logging all the miles I ran. I figured I'd just get to it whenever I could. Mostly, I kept to between three and six miles.

I'd promised Kate that I'd run the MORE half marathon in NYC on April 6. But then JT, a close family friend, was to celebrate her 60th birthday that day, and she couldn't go. Instead, we were going to do a half in Grand Rapids, but one week prior, neither of us was prepared.

So I decided to get serious. I don't know why I suddenly wanted to run a half marathon, and even to this day, I can't explain it. In fact, I don't even like the idea of it anymore, but a promise is a promise.

So I'm at 10 of 18 weeks of training, and both of us are planning to run 10 of 12 of the Greater Lansing Race Series through Playmakers. I mostly want the free bread card in 2009. Come September, we'll both run the Capital City River Run — our first half marathon.

Last weekend (5-18-08), Kate and I ran the Capitol Bancorp for JA 5k. I finished it with my best time ever: 30 minutes, 19 seconds. I know it's not like I'm Speed Racer or anything. Even my Ma, who's 75, said, "You're so slow!" But Kate bumped into an old friend from the YMCA — Chris.

After the race, he said, "You ran at the perfect pace for me!"

Thanks, Chris. I never thought I'd be another runner's rabbit. Imagine me — a pacesetter!?

Teresa Mastin made Kate promise we'd both run the Chicago Marathon with her next summer. I can't be held accountable for promises someone else made for me, can I?

Tacos, Anyone?

Yesterday I invited Hännah over for homemade tacos.

"Tyler, too?" she asked hopefully, referring to her boyfriend of two years.

For the briefest second, I considered the question. Dane was out of town on business for the night, so Tyler's presence wouldn't present a conflict.

Let me explain.

Not long after they started dating, I'd made clear to them both that I would not allow him in her bedroom nor spend the night. I explained that Hännah's 9-year-old, impressionable sister watched everything she did and — like it or not — Hännah was a role model.

I woke up one morning several weeks later and found him sleeping half-naked in her bed.

"Pack up your shit, and get out!" I told him. Half an hour later, he was still in her room when Dane walked through the hallway.

"Hey, Dumbass," Dane said to Tyler, "Why are you still in my house? Didn't my wife ask you to leave?"

Which, of course, led to some banter between the two. Dumbass asked why they couldn't discuss the situation like two grown men, after all, "She's 19 years old, and that makes her an adult, doesn't it?"

"She's a 19-year-old child," Dane countered, "one who is still dependent on us, and as long as she lives under my roof she will obey our rules — and you? You aren't anything close to the definition of a man."

Let's just say it didn't end well. Coupled with the fact that Hännah mostly shared with us only the bad and idiotic things Tyler'd ever done or said, this new incident was the final straw. Dane felt disrespected in his own home, and hurt by our daughter's betrayal. To this day, he cannot stomach the mere mention of Tyler's name. In fact, when Hännah calls Dane from Tyler's phone, the call shows up on his phone as "Asswipe."

But my daughter's on her own now and, truthfully, her choice in boys and men has never been ours to control. I had always hoped that my own relationship with her step-father — whom she readily admits she loves because he has always treated her like his own daughter — would positively influence her standards. And, having experienced two mothers-in-law from Hell, I only want to support and accept her love interest. Essentially, I've always wanted my children to feel comfortable in our home — with or without their significant others.

So, in response to her request to invite Tyler for dinner, I said, "Sure!"

She can barely contain her glee as she turns to him and says, "My mom wants us to come over for dinner. She's making tacos." And without hesitation, Tyler cheerfully answered, "Yeah, that sounds good!"

I break the news to Dane with a text message. "Better we do it while you're still out of town, eh?" I asked.

He agreed, adding, "I keep forgetting that she's still with that loser. When is she going to grow up and realize she's too good for him?

But it doesn't matter, I tell him. What matters is that my daughter loves Tyler, and as much as she wants our approval, her choice in a companion isn't our decision. All I know is that she still comes home; still wants to come home — and she wants to bring her boyfriend with her. I want that, too.

"But her choice in a boyfriend or future mate can impact the rest of her life," he says. "I know we can't control that. I'm just waiting for her to start making better choices."

He's right, of course. But my kids — not unlike myself at any point throughout my young life — are determined to learn about life the hard way, and sometimes those are the best lessons, because they'll have really lived and given of themselves and had their hearts broken and their lives ruined only to get right back up and fight again and again and again. I also know that Tyler's not such a bad kid, he's just raised differently.

I invite Kate to join us for dinner, too. Between mouthfuls of taco, Kate asks Tyler all the questions her own father had asked her boyfriends over dinner.

"I don't care," she laughed. "I'll ask a bunch of questions till I'm satisfied, OK?" And she did: What do you do for a living? What are you studying in school? How old are you? What are your plans when you're done with college? How long have you two been dating?

We munched, talked, joked and laughed. Soon, Hännah lets her guard down and relaxes. After dinner, Tyler accepts a rare challenge from Sachi for several games of Mario Kart and Kirby. Hännah hangs out with Kate and me for some girl talk. It was nice. By the time they leave, several pleasant hours have passed, Tyler graciously concedes to an elated Sachi, and Hännah gives me a hug and a kiss.

"Thanks, Mom," she says happily. "Yeah, thanks a lot, Laurie," Tyler chirps. "It was really great!"

After they leave, Kate is thoughtful for a moment, then reports with a smile, "They're really cute. And he's not such a bad kid."

She's right, of course.

So, things didn't get off to a good start two years ago, whether it was poor judgment, knee-jerk reactions, embarrassment, over-inflated egos or sheer stupidity — still, at 19 years of age, kids aren't supposed to be smart, are they? I mean, didn't we all display poor judgment and stupidity when we were 19? Hell, some of us still do as adults.

"It would go a long way if he'd just apologize," Dane said in response to my after-dinner report.

Which only goes to show, there's hope for us all.

Moving Out, Moving On

There's been a whole lot of changes in my life since I graduated in December but none so great as the recent move my three oldest children made. That's right — they moved out. And not so much by choice, mind you.

I guess I just got really tired (a gross understatement) of picking up after them and nagging them to get off their asses. I got tired of them being so pathetically apathetic about their life direction, and the way their incessant bickering drained my energy. I got tired of not wanting to go home and dealing with an inevitable conflict between or with them. Day in and day out, two of them did absolutely nothing productive except sleep in till the sun went down, then stay up till the sun came up ... "to look for jobs on the Internet," they'd say, or play video games, watch movies they'd already seen or hang out with friends.

To say that Jennifer actually looked for a job would be a stretch. She never applied for one either. Friends invited her to drop by to fill out an application and they'd guarantee her hire on the spot, but she wouldn't even make the effort to get to a prospective employer's door, let alone submit an application. Several times she asked to "borrow" money so she could buy more minutes for her phone or go to the movies.

"How will you pay me back without a job?" I'd ask.

"I'll do some work for you," she said.

"No thanks," I countered. I wasn't about to become this kid's employer.

After repeatedly coming home to a kitchen piled high with dirty dishes, a garbage can overflowing with trash, empty boxes and containers in my pantry, and a mess in every room, I issued a 30-day notice of eviction.

"Living in my home is no longer an option," I wrote. I expressed my love, disappointment and heartache. They knew better than to challenge me.

That's when Estephan Espinoza — a long-time family friend — made a quick phone call and immediately got Jenny a job waitressing and delivering room service at the local Holiday Inn. She never tried to find a ride to work and back, and she depended primarily on me, Dane, her sister or Estephan for transportation to and from work, despite the fact that her hours often conflicted with everyone else's work schedule. Except for Hännah and Chris, she didn't know anyone with whom she could share an apartment, and Hännah didn't want to live with either of her siblings.

Christopher couldn't quite make up his mind about what to do with his life. He moved to Eaton Rapids to live with that same long-time family friend, Estephan. Stephan got him a job, too, installing doors on Cadillac Escalades. He made sure they were both scheduled to work the same hours so Ciffer (pronounced Kiffer) wouldn't want for a ride. He lasted all of four days before he got canned for incorrectly installing a part on a mirror and failing to include a trim piece on one of his doors — mistakes that cost his employer $8,000 to correct.

"He's a hard worker; we've never seen anyone work so hard. And he's a fast worker, but he made two costly mistakes," they told Stephan.

And I'll be the first to admit that Hännah worked very hard to be the best she could possibly be at her job as a waitress. But instead of maximizing any opportunity to earn a ton of money (and pay off an fairly heavy debt load) by racking up some hours, she seemed content to pick and choose from available work hours or find someone to cover her shift so she could accommodate an increasingly busy social schedule. For the most part, she came and went as she pleased — spending the night at a girlfriends' or her boyfriend's and coming home only to take showers, borrow my toiletries and makeup, eat dinner, do laundry and inflict her hormonal rage upon the rest of us. She made sundry excuses for why she didn't or couldn't quite complete that job application at Dart Container or Delta Dental for a full-time job with benefits and a retirement plan ... and the promise of a future of self-sufficiency.

Theirs is certainly not my life, I know, but their passive attempt at growing up had a significant impact on my quality of life, and they set an unacceptable example for their youngest sibling, Sachi. And being the loving mother that I am, I believed it was my parental obligation and perogative to summarily evict them all. But that's my story, of course. They'd tell you I'm nothing but an uncaring, unfit bitch of a mother — and they're certainly entitled to their opinions. That doesn't change the fact that this is my home or that my husband and I have every right to maintain some control therein.

In fact, since Day 1, I've made the following clear:

Rule No. 1: They would absolutely graduate from high school or they would not reside in my home. Thankfully, they did — but just barely. It took Chris an extra semester and Jennifer an extra trimester to complete their graduation requirements. Hännah was at risk of having to repeat a semester because she decided, out of the blue, not to show up for a final exam. No, it wasn't an oversight or an accident, like forgetting the exam date, time or place, or sleeping through the alarm. She intentionally failed to show up — she decided she just didn't feel like taking the final. Her teacher called and asked me to relay to her the opportunity for a second chance to take the exam. In an unusual moment of genius, Hännah then decided to take her teacher up on that second chance. Each of my children graduated with GPAs under 2.0 ... but we don't talk too much about it.

Rule No. 2: They would need to obey the rules of our home: Everyone was expected to contribute to the smooth operation of the household — which meant washing dishes, keeping tidy rooms, picking up after themselves, helping with indoor and outdoor chores; every child — despite their age — is required to be home by midnight if they were under 18 and 1 a.m. if they were older; there would be no guests allowed in the home when parents were absent; they would repair or replace anything they broke; they would not be allowed to swear in our home or presence; individuals of the opposite sex would not be allowed to spend the night with them; as soon as the law permitted they would either attend school or work full time or a combination of both; they would be required to save money for future needs and expenses and pay $50 a month for room and board; they would set up a payment plan for debts owed their parents for long-distance and cell-phone abuses, damage to our property (doors, walls, appliances) and personal belongings (laptops), personal loans we'd given them, legal expenses for court costs and citations. If any of our rules were followed, it was a rarity, and of the thousands of dollars we were owed, we probably saw a total of $150 over the span of several years.

Rule No. 3: In order to conserve energy they were expected to take showers instead of bathe and wash a full load of laundry instead of a couple of items of clothing at a time.

Other than us parents, no one helped with dishes. No one took out the trash. They all did their own laundry, which was a good thing, but some repeatedly washed one t-shirt; no one got a job before the age of 18. Two summers ago when Dane and I went to Colorado, Hännah had her boyfriend and a bunch of his friends — all stoned and/or drunk — over; Chris and his friends got in a fight with some boys driving by; all three of our vehicles sustained some major damage, but no one knew anything about it. My house stunk of cigarettes, and beer bottles were strewn across the garage. Neighbors called complaining of loud noises and music in the wee hours of the morning. Not one of my children owned up to these allegations. My kids have flat-out lied to my face and turned around and accused me of lying and failing to understand them or be interested in them. I am blamed for every terrible thing that has ever happened to them. I am repeatedly criticized for decisions I make, the way I act, the way I talk, the way I live, where I live, where I work, who my friends are. They tell me I'm unfair for allowing their 11-year-old sister to continue to live at home while I "kick" them out. "Who the hell do you think you are?" they've demanded.

I gave my children options — follow my rules or find somewhere else to live. And after years of abuse, I reached the end of my rope. I've done my best as a mother, and it has never been good enough.

Jenny called her father and told his entire family that I'd kicked them out and refused to discuss it further. She quit her job at the Holiday Inn and moved back to Pennsylvania to live with her Aunt Patty. Based on Aunt Patty's outright refusal to make eye contact with or speak to me, I'll assume that she disapproves. Sure, I'm angry about it; I'm even very hurt by it, but all I can say is, "Whatever."

Ciffer asked me to buy him a one-way ticket back to Boston so he could "see about a girl" he loves. We talked at great length about it, and he seemed pretty serious about wanting to make it work with her and getting a job out East so they can rent an apartment together. Sophia (the girl) said her parents promised to help them out. And she said she really loves him. Though I don't think they stand a chance in hell, I bought him a bus ticket to Detroit International Airport, a plane ticket to Boston, another bus ticket to New York where Sophia is taking classes this semester, a brand-new overcoat, a new pair of jeans, and I gave him $100. He was grateful, called to let me know he'd arrived safely, and will likely call again. I promised I wouldn't say, "I told you so," if things don't work out.

Hännah moved in with Audrey, my friend Connie's daughter. They are splitting rent of $570 on a studio (read: one-room) apartment, sharing groceries (and clothes, apparently), and Audrey is giving Hännah a ride to work whenever possible. Hännah discovered that Audrey is prone to a messy lifestyle, lying, and eating more than her fair share of food (including leftovers Hännah had paid for and hoped to eat for lunch or dinner at a later date), and that certain items of clothing tend to go missing. In addition, Audrey smokes pot pretty regularly — and quit her job at the auto dealership without notice to accept one from a guy who had a crush on her and guaranteed she'd make $6,000 a day, except that she didn't make a penny and now she is unemployed, broke and unable to make rent (so Hännah ended up paying for the whole thing).

I feel badly. Truly I do. Not so much because they're being forced to make some adult decisions and learn about life through the school of hard knocks, but because they still really don't get it. I'm hoping they will — I'm hoping they'll recognize that our home truly was a home — not perfect by any means — but a warm place where people truly cared about them and loved them. I hope they'll grow to understand that I love them, despite the fact that I stopped catering to their every whim, refused to give them money, imposed curfews and rules, made them contribute to the household, asked them to conserve electricity and water, held them accountable, demanded that they be educated, productive and self-sufficient individuals.

I want them to be happy, but not at the expense of everyone else's happiness. The world does not revolve around them, even though my world did. And they have God-given talents that they need to develop and put to good use. I don't care if they never forgive me for forcing these hard changes on them; I don't care if they forever perceive my actions as lacking in love. If they can grow up and overcome the challenges life will surely deal them, if they can find happiness and take care of themselves, I will bear and endure this burden and pain.

OK. So I painted a really ugly picture of my oldest children. The fact is, they are beautiful creatures, inside and out. They have had their share of ups and downs, heart-wrenching pain and sadness. I will always feel terribly guilty about divorcing their father and not being a bigger part of their lives and upbringing. But I did the best I could, and I never gave up, never abandoned them and never put anything or anyone else before them — ever. I won't allow them to blame others for the choices they've made or their self-imposed hardships. I've stood up for them when they were wronged. I will always demand that they learn to positively resolve their differences, to be honest and trusting people, overcome obstacles, stop making lame excuses and never give up on the opportunity to make a positive difference in their lives and the lives of other.

I wanted to write this blog today to get these things off my chest.

Mama's Got a Brand-new Ride

Luxury came with a price tag of exactly $31,431.44, and I bought it — a 2008 Subaru Outback 2.5i Limited.

It replaces my trusty (albeit suddenly accident-prone) and totaled Honda Accord. It's my first-ever brand-spanking-new car, and she's a beauty — understated yet loaded to the hilt with power-adjustable heated driver and passenger seats, Home-Link rear-view mirror, heated side mirrors and windshield wiper de-icer, panoramic moonroof, remote engine start and woodgrain trim. The L.L. Bean package adds the perfect finishing touches with luxurious two-tone leather.

I actually enjoy driving so much more now that I often find myself taking the long way to get to my destination and seeking out new adventures. I don't even mind giving others a lift occasionally, but there are rules.

There will be no eating in it, no feet on the dashboard, seatbacks or doors; no writing mechanisms or beverages; no spewing of saliva or other bodily fluids; no bringing on board any unnecessary items or accessories or leaving behind of same; no leaning on or touching of the vehicle's exterior body and, in an effort to minimize unsightly finger, nose and footprints, there'll be no interior touching of the windows or glass surfaces; no climbing over seats for a better view or position. There's no fighting, arguing or complaining allowed; no messing around with the door locks or windows. Care must be taken by all passengers when exiting the vehicle to ensure that seat belts properly retract in order to avoid their inadvertent slamming by a closing door. There will be absolutely no commandeering of my radio or pre-programmed channels, CD player, satellite or auxiliary device without my express permission. They are, however, freely permitted to adjust the dual-temperature climate control to affect only their region of the interior for personal comfort.

The other night we went to QD for an ice-cream cone. Hännah decided to stay in the car while we ran in to place our order. Minutes later, Sachi announces in a concerned tone that a gaggle of guys just drove up, and one was talking to Hännah through an open window. Peering through the window at the storefront, I didn't recognize the young man, so I walked out to make sure everything was OK. He sees me approaching, smiles very politely and slowly takes two steps in reverse toward his own car. Then he turns quickly, gets in his car and speeds away.

"Who was that?" I asked Hännah as I re-entered the car.

"I don't know," she said. "He got out of his car and just started talking to me. I couldn't hear him, so I rolled down the window. Then he started getting really close to the car, so I told him, 'Let me just warn you right now not to lean on or even touch the car or my Mom will come flying out of that store and get really, really mad at you."

Your mama and her brand-new car appreciate you, Hännah. And you can ride in my Subaru anytime.

Working For a Living

Once again, I'm on a payroll. This time it's for the Michigan State University Alumni Association. I started in late January as Director, Marketing and Membership Services. There's a lot of work to be done — which is a good thing. So far I've mostly immersed myself in market research, trying to identify our challenges as well as viable solutions for growth.

I'm looking forward to good things here at MSUAA. I'll certainly give it my very best shot and keep reaching for that brass ring.

I'm posting one of many professional portraits taken by Photographer Erin Doyle Groom, Instructional Media Center Image and Design Group at Michigan State University, College of Communication Arts & Sciences.

I Do Not Love New York!

Ah, New York. It seems everyone I know is headed there these days — to visit family, have fun on the town with old friends, ring in the new year, celebrate a birthday, or help a boyfriend find an apartment.

But I'm just picking my son up for the holiday break. He — Christopher — is attending Parson's New School of Design where he's studying fashion (and for the record, no, he's not gay).

The last time I was in New York was mid-August, when I dropped him off at school. Hännah kept us company, earning her keep as my navigator — and a damn good one at that.

It was bittersweet, and parting, I would learn, would be so much more difficult than I had expected. He was forlorn, feeling abandoned even before ... well, before I did him leave him there on his own. But we didn't abandon him, because 1) it was his decision to go, and 2) I left him everything he could possibly need: cash, a stocked fridge, kitchen and bathroom, local telephone, a cell phone for long-distance (emergency) calls, bedding and linens ... all of which cost me about $2,500.

"You can see the sun shining when you look up, but the buildings are so tall it never reaches all the way down here," he observed sadly. I, on the other hand, was ooh-ing and ah-ing at all the cool window displays in SoHo. "It's depressing," his soliloquy continued.

"Dude!" I finally said, "You need to lighten up."

We decided to ease him into the city with a hot meal at the Thai restaurant around the corner. Then he went back to his dorm room — located in a high-rise building in the Financial District. Once rested, we purchased a 30-day metro card for him, and rode the subway so he could get familiar with his routes. Only problem was, he was so distracted with worry that he couldn't pay attention to what we were doing, where we were going and how we got there. My heart sunk, knowing it was only a matter of time before he either shook himself out of his fog or became a lost soul, alone in a city inhabited by millions.

Driving into the city earlier that morning, I got a taste of how he must have felt. I lost my way somewhere amid the nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other drivers crossing the Brooklyn Bridge toward the Lincoln Tunnel and into the heart of Hell. That's when it happened — a blip on my life's radar, one that marked a first in my long career as a driver: I rear-ended Condaleeza Rice.

At least she looked like Condi. An elegant and refined African American woman much like the secretary, only more honest looking and plainly attired — and without Condi's signature scowl. She was driving a beige-ish-colored Ford Taurus — that right there should have told me she wasn't the President's right-hand chick. I honestly don't know how it all happened except that I took my eyes off the road for maybe a split second to address a question Chris was asking, and suddenly he was, like, "Oh my God, Mom, look out!"

When I turned to look, I saw as clear as day that even at 35 mph, I was traveling too fast for the traffic, which I realized too late, had stopped.

I slammed my foot on the brake, but the gap between us continued to close. I literally stood on that damn pedal, pulling up on my steering wheel for added leverage. From her rear-view mirror, Condi saw me coming, but she remained cool as a cucumber — ne'er did she even bat an eyelash.

When she emerged from her Taurus, I braced myself for the verbal onslaught she was sure to elicit. I envisioned her slapping my compliant self around in the middle of this Saturday-morning rush-hour fiasco. "You Asians should be banned from driving!" she'd scream. Given the circumstances, she'd get no argument from me.

"I'm terribly sorry," I heard myself profess. She'd just finished inspecting the damage I'd inflicted, which manifested on the left-hand side of her rear bumper as a gaping 5-inch hole. Shards of fiberglass were strewn about the asphalt below.

But what's this? Condi's look-alike was walking toward me ... smiling!?

"Are you OK?" she asked pleasantly.

"This definitely isn't Condaleeza," I thought.

"Don't you worry about this," she said, gesturing toward her bumper. I was totally dumbfounded.

"I just punched a huge 5-inch hole in your bumper!" I whined.

"It's nothing," she said. "Seriously, if you're OK, I'm OK. You just take care of yourself and have a blessed day." She gave my right arm a reassuring pat, and just like that, she turned on her heels, got in her car and ended up escorting my sorry ass all the way to the gates of the Lincoln Tunnel.

There, traffic stood still again, as cars, trucks, SUVs jostled to get through. They blared their horns menacingly at Condi, who merely looked at them in disdain and then calmly turned away. I followed her lead, which was immensely satisfying.

When my turn at the toll gate arrived, I said to the attendant as cheerfully as I could, "This is my first time in the city, and I'm wondering, in order to get to downtown New York, which lane would you recommend I merge into?"

I'm oozing of mid-Western cheer and charm. She stared down at me, but I refused to succumb to her demeanor.

"Keep right," she barked, then waved me through like Darth Vadar. Ever obedient, my car lurched forward into the fray, and the remainder of my visit was relatively uneventful. In fact, I made it out of that city alive, only to get a little lost in New Jersey, then eventually managing to make it all the way back to Michigan without so much as stopping.

That nightmare trip in August served as a reminder to pay closer attention on my next trip to NYC, which, it happened, was Dec. 26, 2008. In fact, with Hännah once again as my co-pilot and the advantage of experience on our side, I was confident that we'd get in and out of New York unscathed.

And I was right. Instead, I got whacked in Newark, New Jersey, trying to make a left off of 21. OK, not whacked in the colloquial sense — but literally, you know: hit, blindsided, broadsided ... whacked!

We were lost, trying to make it back to Market Street where I'd made a wrong turn.

"Make a left the next chance you get," my navigator said.

Up ahead, I spotted Beaver Street — a one-way street to the left. I decide to take it. But as I execute the turn, some knucklehead in a Honda Civic takes me out. Just after the collision, between rain drops and the steam emitting from the hood of his car, the driver looks at me and throws his arms in the air as if to say, "WTF?"

It seemed a very Italian gesture. In Newark, New Jersey, I noted, everyone played a dark role as a goomba. But months earlier New York had taught me to look at such offensive body language with calm serenity, so I turned up my nose and ignored the lad.

Next, he's outside Hännah's window, suddenly concerned and asking if we're OK. His English is a little choppy, and he looks to be a young Middle Eastern-looking Italian. He and Hännah briefly exchange some niceties.

"The police are on the way," interrupts a well-dressed black Italian male. "Are you OK?" he asks.

Within minutes, we hear sirens blaring from all directions. Lights flash red and white.

Four huge trucks block us in, and firefighters in full gear and EMTs — likely all Italian — pour from each engine. One young firefighter bears an axe.

"Is anyone hurt? Is anyone trapped? Does anyone need to go to the hospital?" he asks.

"We're OK," I report. "Both doors on the passenger side are stuck, but we're OK."

"You sure?" He's skeptical.

"Yeah, I'm just a little frazzled," I insist.

The EMT shouts at an approaching engine, "Fall back, everyone's OK here! Just a frazzled lady!"

"Are all these trucks for us?" I ask, astounded.

"Hey! We didn't know what to expect," another firefighter chuckles. "We didn't wanna take no chances, ya know?"

"Gee, they look a little disappointed, don't they?" I say of those who were told to fall back. Probably a slow night at the station.

The EMT directs me out of the flow of traffic and on to Beaver. I exit the Honda, followed by Hännah.

"How'd you know about Beaver Street?" the EMT asks. "Not many people know about Beaver Street."

"I didn't," I said. "We were lost and I needed to make a left to get back to Market. I saw it was a one-way to the left, so I took it. I don't know where that kid came from, but one minute he's nowhere near me, and the next thing I know, my daughter's screaming, 'Mom, mom, mom!' I turn to look, and he's coming straight for me, but he isn't slowing down or stopping."

"Did he do that to the rear bumper, too?" the EMT observes.

"Nah, that happened just last week in Michigan. Some kid rear-ended me."

"That must mean you're a lousy driver, eh?" he roars with laughter.

He asks Hännah who's a better driver, she or I.

"Well, until tonight, I thought she was. Now, I'm not so sure," Hännah smiles.

"So, what was your job while your Ma was driving and getting lost?"

"I was navigating," she giggled.

"And you got yourselves lost? Haven't you ever heard of GPS?"

That's about when the cops arrived.

"Ah, here they are now," jokes the EMT. "They're gonna lock you up!"

I cross the street to take a look at the passenger side of my car. I look from it to Hännah, my little navigator. I walk over to her and give her a big, grateful hug. "If he hit us one second sooner, you may have been hurt pretty badly," I said.

When the cop walks over to us, he asks authoritatively, "Who's the driver?"

"I am," I said.

"She is," the EMT and firefighters pointed.

"That's it?" the cop says, looking at the dent in my rear bumper.

"No, no," the EMT laughs. "It's on the other side. That bumper she got a week ago. Tonight the kid T-boned her." I subconsciously cross my arms across my breast, er, chest. "Nobody did or would be boning me tonight," I thought, a little offended.

The cop peeks around the corner from the back of my Honda, spies the point of impact, and nods in agreement.

"T-boned," he repeats. He asks for my "paperwork," — drivers license, proof of insurance and registration. He asks Hännah for her drivers license. "Stay here, and I'll come back for you in a minute," he orders.

He walks over to the other driver.

"Watch out!" the EMT cautions, pointing to some dog doo-doo on the sidewalk.

"Ehw, thanks," the cop says.

"So, where you guys from?" the EMT asks. "Yeah, Michigan? You dress like you're from Michigan. You look like an Eskimo," he pokes fun at the faux-fur-lined hood of the Eddie Bauer Polar Parka my husband bought me for Christmas in 2006. "C'mon, it's not that cold here," he says.

He asks where Hännah goes to school, why I don't move out to New Jersey for a public relations job, what my husband does.

"Thanks for keeping us company," I tell him.

"What? You think just 'cause you're in New Jersey we don't have no manners?" he says. "We're nice here. Once you get to New York, though, watch out!"

"Yeah, my husband had to come to New Jersey a couple of years ago for work. He said he was so surprised at how everyone sounded like they walked right out of the 'Sopranos' but was so nice and customer-service oriented."

"That's us," he confirmed. Then he puts on a little show for us, acting like, well, a goomba. Too soon, his chief tells him the crew's loading up and heading back to the station.

"What?!" he protests. "We can't leave these poor ladies here in distress, Cap'n," he says.

"These ladies don't look distressed no more," Cap'n replies.

"We're fine, thanks to him," I said.

"See? Get your ass in the truck," Cap'n commands. Everybody laughs, they wish us a happy New Year, and pretty soon it's me, Hännah and the Italian Middle Eastern kid under an awning, trying stay as dry as possible in the drizzle and nervously waiting for the cops to issue a citation.

I say a prayer.

A few minutes later, the cop motions me over. Nobody asks me what happened.

"All right, here's what you need to do," a bald cop says to me. He hands me a blue card with a number to give the insurance company. He returns our paperwork — two drivers licenses, proof of insurance and registration. More importantly, there's no ticket.

I ask for directions to New York City, thank them for being so helpful and wish them a great year.

"What is it with you and New York?" my son asks later.

My response: "If I ever come back again, I'm flying!"