Tales of a Fouth Grade Nothing...

Today was my first day tutoring for the Kirkland Homework Helpers, HH for short. I was first approached about tutoring last spring by friends from church. People who knew my background in education and thought this would be right up my alley. It is. Although, I'm tutoring a fourth grader. I haven't worked with intermediate aged students since college--a little more than 12 years ago. It was never my professed "favorite" age group but tonight was special and fun. What struck me most about my student is how ready, how eager he is to learn. He was ready with his homework, ready to start and knew where to begin. Which was more than I could say for me.

We worked on math and spelling. Ahhh, math. Those of you who know me well, know there is a reason I majored in English. Even fourth grade math is enough to give me goose bumps. Alas, it was money math. Ahhh, yes, this even I can do! I know where the decimals go, ones, tens, hundreds...yup, if it's money, I can play too! Please don't start in on the amortization of anything though. The rest, we'll see how it goes and take it as it comes. Honestly, my math skills are worse than my three year old's spelling skills. They suck. Or, so I think. But sometimes, sometimes I surprise myself.

There are times, when even I understand the math in my life--sometimes. Not very often, I admit but it happens. I wonder, how much of my inabilities stem from my lack of confidence? I have been told since *I* was in the fourth grade, that math is not my subject. My grandfather hired a math tutor for me in the fifth grade. I remained with that tutor for four years--for all the good it did me. I staunchly believe that I would not have graduated from college without the math skills of my husband. Rodney helped me with every Natural World and Quantitative Science and Reasoning class I had to take to graduate. Those were all his skills, not my knowledge. But it was fear holding me back.

My student has a variety of problems in his young life. This was clear from our first introduction. But his eagerness to learn, to come, to have a tutor, were also clear. It is not my job to make sure he gets every math problem right. Lord knows, during the course of this year, there will be problems I cannot help with. My job is to support and build his confidence. To make sure that this young student doesn't sabotage himself before he ever really begins. It is a teacher's job to make sure that he is on track, believes in himself and is given the opportunity to learn. It's going to be a great year!

German Engineering!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5ZwbDj7sQM&feature=player_embedded

Speed Wars

I love to drive fast. Exceptionally fast. Perhaps it is in the German in me but there is nothing I love more than a 6 speed, stick-shift, with wide open road and good pavement beneath me. As a teenager, there was little I liked better than seeing how fast we could get the car going down, "Roller Coaster Road." Could we possibly catch enough air to get all four tires off the ground this time? Let's find out... Duvall Road SE, just beyond Dairy Queen and leading back into Maplewood, used to be a sleepy, sparsely-populated residential street in Renton. It is now, much like every other street in the Highlands, an over-populated, over saturated street full of over priced, under lotted cracker box houses.

I was 15 when I first discovered the thrill of cruising this 25mph street at 60+, riding shot-gun, in Matthew's 1984 Peugeot. Clearly, not the BMW 5-series I covet today but more car than I personally owned in 1994. Riding in that car, at speeds that defied the law, our parents, and all facets of common sense, gave me my first taste of ridiculous freedom. It was undoubtedly a stupid game of chicken. How fast could we go without, A. crashing, or B. getting a ticket? Luckily, we never found out. My love of driving fast was only further fueled by traveling to Germany, repeatedly as a teenager. I have a long standing love affair with the Autobahn, that is, when it is not cluttered in Stau...congestion.

Given all of this, you would likely think I am the last person to bitch about the traffic, specifically the teenage traffic cruising up and down our street in Kirkland. I live approximately equal distance between the high school and Starbucks. A deadly combination. As both a resident and a teacher, I know all too well not to get in the way of a junior in need of a caffeine fix at 7am. I am, however, also 31 years old with two very small children. I would like to think I could stroll to my mailbox with my dog, or children, at one in the afternoon and NOT get hit by a car. Alas, it is that very wish, which seems to be the impossible, no matter where we live.

Our first house, was not really a house at all, rather a condo in a high-rise in the heart of downtown Seattle. At a mere 610 square feet, it served us just fine for the five years we lived there. We did not own a parking space, instead, I did my best to find free parking and fed a lot of quarters to the parking meter gods. I never once, in all five years there, gave two snits of a nanosecond of thought to how fast people flew down Hubbell Place. Not only did it not bother me, I am quite sure I was one of the speeding offenders. Our second home, a 2,200 square foot, five bedroom house was purchased in the spring of 2003. Having looked at houses from Renton to Redmond and all parts in-between on both side of the lake, we settled on this one in the Judkins Park neighborhood of Seattle. 26th and Massachusetts was to be our home for the next five years. It was a brand new house, of the cracker box variety I spoke of before. A coveted corner lot with lots of room to "grow." And grow I did. Three years after moving into that house I was pregnant.

Almost over night I began noticing things that never bothered me before. The traffic on Massachusetts. The mind-numbingly loud trucks that rumbled up and down the street between the I-90 on/off ramp and MLK, with my abode stuck smack in the middle. The semi-trucks were so loud they shook my china and crystal wine glasses with the fierceness of an earthquake--every 3 minutes another one came rolling by. Because Massachusetts was the main through street between I-90, Rainier Ave South and the Central District, it bared far more than its fair share of traffic. None of this was new but hadn't been noticed until the imminent birth of a child. And it was, as my husband feared, even more noticeable after our son was born.

Over night, I not only had this small, wonderful bundle of joy to care for but I was home, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Home to hear what I missed during the working hours of 6:15am, when I previously left, until 4:30pm when I arrived home again. Home to hear and feel the noise rattle my son awake from his naps. Home to see the close calls of other neighbors, who dared to cross that busy street during the day. Home. As my son approached his first birthday, we began looking for a new, quieter place to call home.

This led us to where we are now, in Kirkland. A suburb. My husband came kicking and screaming to the burbs, at my insistence that things, that schools, that people, that TRAFFIC would be better here. Aren't things always greener on the other side? When it became apparent that moving back to our hometown of Renton was not an option for him, we settled on this house, a mere one mile from his office. On what seemed to be a quiet, tree lined street straight out of "Pollyanna." There is a cemetery at the far end of our street, nestled in-between the high school and the Starbucks, and with the quietest neighbors in the world, or not, I was sure this was going to be the perfect place for us.

And it is very, very nice. Except, for the traffic. I better than anyone understand a person's need for speed. What I fail to comprehend, as an adult, is why that need must be exercised by grown people on my residential street? We are a street lined with small children. There are no children over the age of 7. None. Yet, the number of times I have been flipped off, nearly run down or flat out ignored by speeding drives...well let's just say I lost track eons ago. My husband has petitioned the City of Kirkland to conduct, two, yes, count them, TWO traffic calming studies on our street. The end of the first study commenced with white shoulder lines and "25 MPH" being painted on the street. That was it. The second study has produced nothing. Nothing more than the realization by the city that our street is wide and long. Two very poor characteristics for a residential street. Neighbors have suggested asking the Kirkland Police to sit on our street. But this, as a speed trap dodger, I know is only a temporary fix. As soon as the policeman and his radar gun leave, the speeders return.

What I want are speed cameras. I would like to believe that our police have better things to do than wait for someone like me, to speed down the street. I spoke earlier for my love of driving in Germany...I also love their speed cameras. I can see you now, scratching your head, thinking, "she's lost it!" But no, I like them for several reasons. After a while you know they are there. They are a permanent fixture on German roads--especially residential roads. The cameras are no secret. You only need to get caught once to learn not to speed down that street again. They're cheap too. When you compare the cost of a policeman's salary to sit out side my house 24 hours a day, a speed camera pays for itself pretty quickly. And mostly, they work. They work well. Germans who feel they can afford to speed and get caught repeatedly, do so. Ok, no problem. Easy money for the city. Those who can't afford to speed, don't. And therefore make the neighbors happy.

If I could, I would go back to the old neighbors on Roller Coaster Road to apologize. I never gave any thought to how upsetting it must have been to have obnoxious, stupid teenagers speed down their street at all hours of the day and night. Alas, they are gone. Their homes have been demolished in order to make room for new homes. Stop signs have been installed at nearly every intersection on that street. I have heard, though I cannot confirm, that late at night there are kids who blow through those stop signs, looking for the same buzz I caught traveling down that road at 60 MPH. Perhaps, speed cameras on that street could put a stop to it?

Flaming Hypocrite

This blog has been edited. I'm impulsive much of the time. Perhaps if I thought my words through a little more, they would have a stronger and more positive outcome. It's all a learning experience--and I'm at the beginning.

I find myself at an interesting and confusing juncture in life. I grew up poor. At times, my mom didn't have two quarters to rub together, let alone any extra cash. It was my grandparents, particularly, my grandfather, who kept me well supplied with toys, extra-curricular activities, and spending cash as a teenager. Mom moved to Renton when I was seven and in the second grade. We lived in a very modest two-bedroom apartment in the Renton Highlands. My mom remained in that apartment for nearly 18 years. I struggle at times to make sense of the life I am currently living. The sheer luxuries I have now, that I never, ever, had growing up. I pinch myself, asking if I really live in this house? At my age? Is this real?

Renton takes a lot of heat from people who live outside our city limits--especially our schools. It pisses me off to listen to people who have zero connection to my hometown talk down about the schools. Best way to put me on the defensive, start belittling the school districts you're not apart of. My husband and I are proud graduates of Hazen and UW; Rodney works for Google, for crying out loud! BOTH my in-laws work for the Renton School District. My talented and loving mother-in-law has been a Renton teacher for over 30 years. The reason I became a teacher--the teachers I had growing up--all from Renton. I am proud of where we grew up, the tremendously special and successful friends we've made and largely still keep in touch with. Sure, it's not all Polly Anna. I have friends who hated being in Renton. Did poorly in school, blah, blah, blah. But could those bad experiences have happened in a more pretentious district too, say, Mercer Island? I'll get to that later.

I am a hypocrite. I don't live in Renton anymore. I don't get to visit as often as I would like, my mother's not even there any longer. But please, don't kid yourself, it is still very much my, "hometown." I live in Kirkland now. In a house that I would have been afraid to touch anything in as a child. I am living a life foreign to the 15 year old in me. AND, the real catcher, part of the reason we moved to Kirkland...the school district. Sigh. It's true, we moved here for three reasons: it's less than a mile to Rod's office, it's close to my mother and finally, the school district. It's no secrete that the Lake Washington School District is one of the best in the state. And I make no apologies for moving to a district I know has the resources to help produce successful students. BUT, and here's the kicker, I would never knowingly belittle another district for having less. Because as a student, and now as a teacher, I recognize it has so much more to do with a family's involvement, than a district's image. You want your kids to be successful? BE THERE FOR THEM. Period, end of story. Don't blame your lack of involvement, your kid's teachers, your kid's bad attitude...your kid's whatever, on the district. Because kids who are loved and supported at home--regardless of where that home is, will do well anywhere. I learned this lesson the hard way.

Five years into my teaching career and before I had my own children, I left my beloved job at Kentlake High School for a one year leave replacement contract teaching at Mercer Island High School. My initial hope was that it would turn into a longer contract and it shortened my commute time by 50 minutes--one way. Mercer Island. The Golden Rock. A mere miles from where I grew up, I found an unbelievably privileged community. A group of children who had everything at their finger tips. Unfathomable wealth, parental connections, luxury and privilege. I found fun-loving kids, snotty kids, smart kids, dumb kids, special education kids, fucked up on drugs kids. You name it, the Island provided it. But the most memorable thing I found teaching at MIHS, was that parents who played the largest, loudest role in their student's life, had the MOST successful kids. Hmmmm...reminds me a little of my life in good ol' Ren'in.

I credit my mother and grandparents for my successfulness in school and life. They were, no matter how poor, always there for me. My mother kept strict tabs on my life..."Who are you going with? Where are you going? Do I know their parents? Do I have a phone number? How late will you be gone? Where is your report card? Who's driving? How late will you be out? You need to be home by 11:59pm, sharp. No, so and so may not stay past 9pm." The litany of questions this woman asked made me believe that she believed in me and told me I mattered to her. These are the questions and answers that create a strong foundation for successful kids--no matter the district. No matter the money. No matter the prestige. No matter which side of Bellevue you live on. Parents make the difference. And so it will be in the Lake Washington School District, with my two kiddos...in the not so distant future.

Travel

I hate traveling. Travel instills an angst in me like nothing else life has thrown at me, expect maybe childbirth. I internally agonize over what to bring, what not to bring, how to baby wrangle my children for hours on end and then, of course, there is the flight itself. The dread and fear that wraps itself around my gut until the plane lands is paralyzing. And the thought of flying begins to paralyze me days before I'm anywhere near an airport. Flying frightens me enough that I am scared for others when they fly. Terrified something will happen to someone I love or care about on an airplane.

It wasn't always this way. As a child and a teenager, I was fine flying--even liked it. But not now. Not for the last 10+ years. Even the thought of flying haunts me, because inevitably, the thought of flying leads to the thought of falling out of the air in a tin can and crashing and burning a horrid death. Morbid, I know. Highly unlikely, I know. Safer than car travel, which I love, I know. I know the statistics. I am well read and educated on exactly how safe air travel really is. I have two very good friends, who are both air traffic controls at the Frankfurt airport--one of the world's busiest airports. My hometown of Renton, is home to Boeing and it is with the labor and skill of my neighbors that the planes we fly--fly. None of that helps. None of it.

It is, I have decided, a control issue. I am a control freak. I know this. I don't like it but it is the truth. I want to be in control at all times. To know that I *could* do something if I had to at the time when something goes wrong. None of that is possible flying. It is my job to "sit back and relax," as if. As my husband, "rides the wave," of turbulence, I am left gripping my arm rest so tightly, I'm sure it will break under the pressure of my unwavering grip. Left to deal with flight attendants, who all too politely explain, "it's just a pothole in the sky! We'll be out of it in no time." Their chipper shrug does nothing to calm my nerves, rather, it only serves to annoy the hell out of me--but as with everything else in flying, there is not a damn thing I can do about it. Nothing I could say would adequately express my fear of traveling at 35,000 feet above the water.

But if I don't go, I will never experience the richness that is travel. The beauty and variety of otherness that every place but home has to offer. All of my senses recognized this, which is why I go. The lure of otherness that every place has to offer is so far just greater than my irrational fear of flying. But it is always a close call. Always. As I board our flight this morning, I will try to keep the otherness of Hawaii in sight. Aloah!

Cobain

I was a mere 15 when Kurt Cobain died. Arguably younger than most of Nirvana's target audience. His music spoke to me in a way that no other music ever had. Perhaps it was the media, my age, or some strange cosmic conversion of everything at once but it was an awakening. Remove the lyrics. Take away the MTV spotlight, left with just the instrumentals and I remain as moved now as I was then. Kurt's lyrics were so raw and piercing they produced a bite that burned the roof of my soul.

Which is why, when I first heard of the Kurt Cobain exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum, I was giddy to attend. I wanted to see first hand what Kurt's city would produce in his memory. It has been more than 16 years since his death rocked our city--the world. The changes in my life during those 16 years are monumental--too many to even attempt to list. I am now four years older than Kurt was when he died--at a mere 27 years old. I have lived into my thirties--married, two kids, college degrees in hand. But his music lives on as I continue to grow into an old age that Kurt will never see.

What I forgot to consider upon entering the exhibit is where it was being held, THE SEATTLE ART MUSEUM. Art, is by definition, someone else's interpretation of life. This fact eclipsed me upon entering this morning. I had such high expectations for what the museum would display, or rather, what they could display, I allowed my expectations to catapult. What I found was an exhibition of posers stifling Kurt's legacy. The only song left playing over and over again, "Smells Like Teen Spirit", arguably, one of Nirvana's most mainstream over played and mass marketed commercial songs. As I walked through the exhibit I couldn't help but wonder, what would Kurt think of all this?

The mainstays of the exhibit were not artifacts of Kurt's actual life, or even his music, but rather, how other artists interpreted him. How they exploited his life, his music, his fame for their own liking. What I was expecting was a glimpse into his life--not an artist's rendition there of. I left bemused at best, and severely let down by my own, overly ambitious expectations of SAM.

Depression began to set in as I walked toward the last portion of the exhibit--a darkened room with a video of Kurt playing, "Negative Creep". My senses were peaked but alas, left to fall again. In this room, where they could have played a series of Nirvana music videos, a variety of Kurt's music, which could have stood on their own to represent him in death, as he was in life, instead played a looped version of "Negative Creep," over and over and over and over and over again. Perhaps it was the museum's way of insinuating what they really thought of Kurt--a Creep. The music, the man, none of it was displayed in ways that allowed Kurt to speak for himself--to us. It was all about how others viewed him--and I just wasn't interested in an artist's rendition of the Man or his music.

Surviving NYC...from Seattle

So Rod's gone this week. All.week.long. That's hard on a gal with two kids under 3. But I am more than surviving NYC because his parents have been staying with us, helping immensely with both kids. It's been so nice having them here to help out while Rod's away on business.

I've had the opportunity to do a few things on my own and to get to sleep at a normal hour--most nights. So thanks, Grandparents! Thanks for sticking by us, and me, this week. It's nice having you here!

Forgiving the Past

FYI: This is the third blog entry I have written on this topic and the only one I can bring myself to publish. Each has been unique and each a bit more reticent of my feelings, my hatred and hopefully my ability to forgive...

I had a long "chat" yesterday with someone buried deep within my past. It was a cathartic kind of chat that frankly, left me feeling a bit numb afterwards. We have all inevitably hurt people in our lives. Hurt is part of growing and sometimes it is that hurt, which leads us to where we are supposed to be in life. Frequently, when we hurt someone, we know it. The person we hurt tends to tell us what we've done to disappoint them. Not this time. I said nothing for 14+ years.

It feels good to let go. Let go of the anger and the resentment that have been hiding out in my psyche for the last 14 years or so. I found a quote from one of the most moving authors I have ever read, ‎Alan Paton says, "When a deep injury is done us, we never recover until we forgive." This quote resonates within me. Because as I read Paton's quote, I began to think of who Alan Paton was and the events that led him to offer such a profound statement to the world. Alan Paton, for those who don't know, is the author of Cry, the Beloved Country, a wickedly moving tale of apartheid in South Africa. I am quite sure when Paton uttered these words, he was not thinking of the wrongs done to a 17 year old girl. Yet, they still rung true.

My hurt is nothing compared to the collective agony felt by millions of South Africans during the reign of apartheid. It was a cruel and oppressive hatred of mostly Dutch white settlers against native South African blacks. And yet, his quote is rivetingly fitting . It was a familiar oppressive hatred and hurt, which I felt living within my past that led me toward forgiveness. A forgiveness, that will hopefully lead to peace, not forgetfulness. Much like the people of Paton's South Africa, I have no intention of forgetting. To forget only positions one's self to be placed at risk again. Rather, I hope to find an inner peace that 14 years of hatred and resentment merely served to shun.

I have no idea if my act of forgiveness will instigate any change in the person I'm trying to forgive. That is not my problem, nor is it within my control. I want to believe that it will change this person--for the better. It has already changed me. And that, is at the crux of what I can control and what I am most worried about. ME. So, in an effort to incite a change within myself, and to breathe deeply and freely from the grip of resentment and hatred, I forgive you. Thank you for finally apologizing...even 14+ years late.

More on Iced Coffee...yum!

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/07/11/FDGQ1E3P60.DTL

Adventures in Summertime

The last two weeks have been pretty amazing! I've had the opportunity to catch up with several friends and enjoyed a long weekend north of Spokane. Rodney and I took the kids to Loon Lake, to spend the weekend with quite possibly, my oldest friend in the world, Christina "Teenie" Janssen. We've known each other since I was three and she 5. We've had strong opinions about the world and each other, ever since.

Our plan had been a weekend on the lake in the boat. Alas, the thunderstorms that rolled in early Saturday morning had other plans for us. But the boys enjoyed the thunder and lightening that woke the entire neighborhood just before 5am on Saturday. As Teenie, Jim and Rodney scrambled to take the boat out of the water, I enjoyed my morning by finishing breakfast and watching lightening scorch the sky at dawn. We tend not to get very much lightening in Seattle--so even though it ruined our plans for part of the day, it was a treat in a different way. The weekend was filled with old time remembering, good time memory making, shuffled in with a few trips out on the boat, as the weather permitted. Brayden tried very hard to coax Alex into the lake...but didn't have much success. Alex must be Rod's boy, as he is not a fish unto the water like me. Brayden, however, is very much my kind of kid--"Lake? Water? Where!? Let's GOOOO!" Needless-to-say, it was a great weekend.

As we returned home to Kirkland, I had the opportunity to reunite with several friends from high school--both in person and via Facebook. April and Rodney are beginning to plan their 15 year reunion from Hazen High School (gosh we're getting old) it's prompted me to begin digging through old photos and even posting some of them online. We were young, we were beautiful, lots of memories from a lifetime ago. Memories which are stored in boxes we never bother to look in anymore. It's funny how a picture can bring back a 1000 emotions from a time before our lives ever really began. I guess that's what reunions are for--remembering--if only every 5-10 years.

Today was a day of firsts for my kiddos. It was their first trip to Kennydale Beach. A beach I spent quite a bit of time at as a teenager. It was a little bitter-sweet. As I watched the lifeguards from afar, I couldn't help but think of Tracy. Kennydale was Tracy's beach. She guarded there for several summers--even part way through college. I remember hot summer days coming to visit and play--stopping for lunch breaks as we would chit-chat about boys, gossip and plan our summer nights and future lives. It is a special beach. Watching Alexander and Joseph dig in the sand, as the Blue Angels roared by this afternoon, is how I hope to continue remembering Kennydale.

As I posted in an earlier blog, it's been a while since I have really spent anytime in Renton. But as my son, Alex, gets bigger and I begin to think about things to do and places to share with him, many of them are in Renton. Perhaps, it's because I don't have a big enough imagination to think out of my "Renton box". Lord knows, I love living in Kirkland. Or maybe I'm just a mushy geek who is overly in-love with her own history. It was a good history. Either way, I find the older I get, the more I like visiting Renton--at least North Renton. Hehe.

Next week shall prove to be interesting, as Rodney will be out of town the entire week for business. He gets to swelter in the humidity that is NYC in August. I thought for a while about joining him but can't quite get over myself to leave my kiddos alone with grandma and grandpa for five full days. It's just too long and Anna, at least, is still too young. Not to mention, my irrational fear of flying...but that's for another blog. Maybe next year, when she's two. Instead, I'll be home with my in-laws, who have very graciously and lovingly agreed to come and stay with us for the entire week to help out. Grandma and Grandpa both work for the Renton School District and are great about trying to spend as much summer time with the kids as possible.

My in-laws are wonderful at doing the things I don't do well. They play, they pretend, read the same story over and over and over again to Alexander--all of course without any worry of who will do the cooking, the laundry, get the mail, feed Anna, or take out the trash. As I "waste" my day with this blog, I worry that I am not using my time wisely. It's mentally fulfilling but lacks the ability to help me keep my house in order. I guess it's a win some, lose some type of deal.

So that's where I'll close for today. With the knowledge that I've had a great couple of weeks but that there is other work to be done...namely, figuring out what's for dinner tonight. Take out.

Iced Coffee

Every Kaffee Prinzessin needs a little caffeine uptake. Thanks to Julie for this great recipe for Iced Coffee. Yummmmm! I'll be trying it out tonight for tomorrow morning. Oh yeah!

http://smittenkitchen.com/2008/08/cold-brewed-iced-coffee/

Narcissistic--who wants to read this anyways?

I'm pretty sure that by design, blogs are a little narcissistic. I mean, what makes me think anyone is going to want to read what I have to say? I'm nobody special. Didn't become the Harvard Lawyer everyone thought I would be in school. Haven't become the first female president of the United States, as voted by my high school senior class. Didn't formally study abroad the way I was sure I would in college. I don't even have a real job right now. So what, exactly, makes me think that anyone would want to read what I write?

Truth is, I don't know. At 31, I have little to no idea what I want to do when I "grow-up". As a kid, being a "grown-up" meant different things at different stages. Mostly, it meant graduating from high school--which I did with absolutely no problem. And after high school, being a grown-up meant graduating from college. After college, it was when I'm done with my masters degree. And then, all of a sudden, there I was, 22 years old, done with high school, college, my masters, and I even had a job! But was I a "grown-up"? Nope, maybe after I get married. Check. Did that at 25.

For now, being a grown-up seems to have more to do with having kids and the idea that I'll be able to do something worth writing about after they are older. But if I wait for them, I'll have waited over half my life to just get it started. So, here I am. The narcissist in me believes that I have something worth while to share. It also believes that I am not alone in this satisfying, crazy, at times lonely, unpredictable journey. A longtime friend recently encouraged me to keep writing--even though it means putting my thoughts out there--on public display--to be ridiculed, read, loved and hated. Scary thoughts for most people--even me.

Maybe this blog is just the start of what's to be. Of who I'll be. There's still time for me to go to law school--probably isn't going to happen. Time to return to Germany, (next June), where every visit is truly a study abroad. Time even to run for president. Perhaps I'll run for office, just for fun when I turn 35? Would you vote for me? I'm a staunch narcissistic democrat, with rambling thoughts flailing from her fingers to the keyboard in little to no systematic order. And I'm counting on your vote.

Lost at Home

Yesterday, my husband and I took a trip to our hometown to visit his parents and pick up a Craig's List find for our kids. At first, you may read this and think, 'oh how nice, taking a trip home,' but we only live 15 miles from our "home town". Yet, yesterday it became clear to me how far 15 miles really is. We live in Kirkland. We grew up in Renton. These two cities are separated by Bellevue, which is, I admit, no small town. What we found yesterday was a Renton that was only semi-recognizable to us. "Turn right on NE 12th and we'll stop at the 7-11, they'll have a credit union ATM," said my husband. The 7-11 he spoke of, the one that had been on that corner for at least 25+ years, and has been gone now for at least two years, was replaced by a Walgreen's. We knew that but in our absence, that fact had been forgotten.

Upon driving up NE 12th Street we came to the top of the hill to find ourselves lost in an abyss of new homes--so many new homes that we were partially disoriented as to which streets went where. What makes this so startling is that my address growing up was 4455 NE 12th Street! This was my neighborhood and it took me a few seconds to find my bearings. Where the heck was I? Was this really the quiet, quaint little street I grew up around? Walking from McKnight to home. From the Highland's Library to home? From the 7-11 to home? What happened and why are all the new houses so damn UGLY?

And I do mean, UGLY! Huge monstrosities that no more fit the feel of this area than I do anymore. I know, I know, I'm rambling like a 90 year old woman visiting her childhood home. Why are these changes so bothersome to me? And that, is perhaps the true question worth answering. And I think the answer is this...my mother moved from Renton over 5 years ago and with that move, the majority of my reasons for returning moved with her. I have no reason to return to my hometown--at least not this part of it. I grew up in a loathsome apartment that I don't really wish to revisit, as it has deteriorated even further from the time I moved out in the late 1990s. Does that mean I can no longer "go home"? Having a home to return to is an integral piece of one's psyche. Where is my childhood home? The buildings are still there but my mom is not. And that is, I know too well, a blessing. But still, the part of me that longs to return home, can't.

Understand of course, that as I said at the beginning of this post, we were on our way to visit my husband's parents--who do live in Renton. So there are still plenty of reasons to visit. They live however, on the other side of the Highlands community. They live in Maplewood, an area of town that is accessible without ever having to drive NE 12th Street or Sunset Blvd. And that, in short, is how we have been going to their house for the past 5+ years. Taking I-405 South to Coal Creek and following Coal Creek to NE 4th Street and so on. Perhaps what yesterday taught me is to take the scenic route a little more often and to, every once in a while, praise all the blasted traffic that jams up the Coal Creek interchange...as that is what led us down memory lane yesterday. We simply couldn't get over to exit at Coal Creek. That traffic jam led me home--if only to visit the changes.

Why Kaffee Prinzessin

How did I come up with this title and what the heck does it mean? That shouldn't be too hard to figure out if you know me even a little bit. It's German for, "Coffee Princess". The title in English was not available when I began setting up this blog--so I kept the title I wanted and tried it in German. Score! Pays to know a second language.

But why does a former English teacher have the title, "Kaffee Prinzessin?" It's a nickname that was given to me while working at Starbucks. After the birth of my first child, Alexander, I decided to quit teaching for a while and stay at home. By the time Alex was 1, I was ready to get out of the house again for "fun," so I took a job at Sbux. I was a Shift-Supervisor for nearly two years and through the birth of my second child, Anna. Alas, Sbux and I weren't meant to be and I quit this past February. I did, however, take my love of coffee and kept my love of German and have merged them together for the title of this blog.

New at This

As a teenager, I loved to write. I would write long ramblings of everything and nothing in spiral-bound notebooks. Yes, I said spiral-bound notebooks! So for the past few years I've been toying with the idea of setting up a blog. Those beloved notebooks, however, were before computers were in everyone's home, on every desk top, on your phone, Ipod, Ipad, I-whatever. Now let's be clear, I am married to a man who has lived and breathed technology since the day I met him. He was THAT kid in the computer lab who asked, "Do you need help with your computer?" Yes, yes I did need help and I still do! And as a side note, he now works for Google. So it's not like I don't have access to this stuff--but I hate it. Technology does not come as second nature to me. Computers, even back as far as Windows 95, have always been confoundedly confusing to me. Websites are no different and as I begin to set up this blog, I'm finding more of the same.

So bear with me. I'm learning and the curve is a little steeper than one might imagine it should be for a grown woman, who by college had her own computer--finally. I make no promises for this blog. I have, at the moment, no real idea where I'm going with it. For now, it is replacing my high school and college spiral-bound notebooks. Sigh, I guess I'm finally coming up with the times-- 3-5 years late.