Biker Chick

Have you ever been to Disney World? Have you seen the Electrical Lights Parade? We have.

And that parade? Was one of the highlights of Amelia's three-year-old life. She still talks about it nearly six months later. We still watch the YouTube videos and listen to the parade music. We browse our vacation photos and remember all the characters and shapes we saw dressed up in lovely lights.

Imagine her excitement when she saw her very own pink tricycle, all dressed up in "twinkle lights"!

Thanks to Bike Glow, an ingenious new product, we can have our own electrical light parade in our very own neighborhood. But Bike Glow is not just a fun way to make your bike glow. In fact, it is a really smart bicycle safety light!

Bike Glow runs on two AA batteries, and it is pliable enough to attach to any vehicle. It is also completely waterproof. Bike Glow is available in a variety of colors including white (shown in photo above), aqua, pink, blue, and green. We attached it to Amelia's pink tricycle. It has three visibility settings: solid glow, slow blink, and fast blink:



At three years old, my daughter will not be out riding her bike in the dark alone. But if you have older children? Pre-teens? Teens? Bike Glow would be a very comforting addition to their bikes. You will have peace of mind, knowing drivers will be able to see them, even if it is getting dark outside.

I bet they will think it's pretty cool too.

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I received one Bike Glow free of charge for the purpose of this review.
All opinions expressed are solely mine.

If I had $1,000,000

"If I Had $1,000,000" is a song by the Canadian musical group Barenaked Ladies, circa 1992 or so. I was listening to it recently, and a thought crossed my mind:

What if I was given a million dollars - but had to give it all away?

Think about it. How would you spread the wealth? Wouldn't it be fun to give so much away?

If I had a million dollars to spread around, I would...

Hire a private team of specialists to work for, train, and support my sister-in-law in her continued quest for independence as a paraplegic. Since insurance companies are lacking and our government can't stop wasting money, we seem to be on our own. Without a doubt, a chunk of my million would go to creating the best Dream Team money can buy: a top-notch physical therapist, a brilliant nutritionist, and a tough but understanding personal trainer. One year in their hands, and she would be kicking some serious booty. Because she has it in her. She just needs help finding it.

Help fund research efforts at two of the best cancer treatment facilities in the world: St. Jude's for children and MD Anderson. I have to believe that we will find a cure for this hidden monster one day. Every single one of us knows a family, probably several, rocked by the evils of cancer. Enough is enough.

Write a big check to Amelia's preschool. We could not be more pleased with the experience we have had there for the past three years. Amelia is loved, nurtured, and very happy there. As a church school, funding is often tight. I would love to see what they could do with a giant donation.

Share the gift of adventure and travel. For my parents? Perhaps a luxury trip to Germany and Austria. Both sides of my family have genes from this area of the world. My parents do not like to fly, so I would make sure the trip was first class all the way. An airplane isn't so bad from the comforts of your own sleeping cubby in first class. And they deserve it.

Treat my mother-in-law to a total relaxation vacation at an east coast coastal destination. Somewhere like the Cloister on Sea Island. Somewhere peaceful and in surrounded by nature. Somewhere she can be utterly pampered. I think a personal luxury limo ride to the resort would be nice. And a four-day/five-night world class spa package. She can spend her days breathing in the aromatic spa scents while specialized treatments relax her entire body and soul. I will try not to be jealous that I cannot go.

Green space and outdoor play are important elements to a happy childhood. What about sprucing up several inner-city parks? A lot of kids are fighting for their lives in the concrete jungle. A little grass between their toes and a place to be a kid certainly couldn't hurt.

Tell me... how would you share the wealth?

Remorse - and forgiveness?

This week's Red Wrtiting Hood prompt (via the Red Dress Club) asked us to revisit a former post and give it an overhaul:

"Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul. Change the point of view. Write it from a different perspective. Try dialogue. Make it a narrative. Play with tense or organizational structure. You know, kill those babies. Oh, and by the way? Trim it down to 400 words or less."

I revised my first blog fiction piece, titled "Runaway". It's a story of remorse and the hope for forgiveness. The original can be found HERE.

RUNAWAY (take two)

The sun emerges above the horizon; her aching body begins to wake. Her ears heed the cacophony of sounds: humming car engines, squeaking brakes, rubber tires hugging the bridge deck above. A groan from her own lips, as she wills her miserable body to a sitting position. Grimy blankets are tossed aside. She is thankful for the greening of the trees and the hearty sprouts of wild daffodils. Never again will she take for granted the warmth of spring. Struggling to run her fingers through her matted hair, she reflects on the path ahead. How slowly will the hours pass? Will her abused sneakers survive the - hopefully final - journey? Her stomach gurgles… will she get to eat?

Perhaps today will bring the miracle she so desperately needs.

She is taking a risk, bringing only what fits in her battered backpack and leaving the rest. Come tonight, if she is forgiven, she will wash away the evidence of a life gone wrong.

“I hope this nightmare ends today,” she mutters as her feet met the sidewalk for the nineteenth day in a row. She whispers to the sky, “Come on God, give me a break. I screwed up, I get it. I’m clean now. You know how much I need this.”
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The widow wakes, as she has for the past two years, with a heart full of loneliness and a mind full of questions. Where is my daughter? Is she alive? How did it come to this? Her brain understands she is not to blame; she did everything in her power to pull her only child away from the demons of addiction. But with each passing day, guilt prevails over logic.

Determined, she locks away the hurt and pleads for strength. “Please, Lord, help me make it through today. Bless her, wherever she may be.”
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The younger woman walks. Eats a lunch someone else deemed as trash. With each purposeful step, her future nears.
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By the time the sky turns to dusk again, the widow is sunk into her 20-year-old easy chair. Television her only companion.

A noise breaks through the fog of loneliness. The doorbell. Startled, but starving for human interaction, the woman shuffles her slippered feet towards the door.
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Two pairs of weary eyes meet over the threshold. The face outside, a dirt-covered image of remorse. The older woman, at first confused. Then recognition… trembling. She gasps.

“Mom…”, whispers the younger woman. “Mom… I’m home.”

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WW: Future Reality Star

How many years until she can audition for So You Think You Can Dance?

 

I wonder if she knew?

I wonder now if she knew. If, perhaps, my OB-GYN had a suspicion of what was to come.

A week prior to my due date, we began to discuss a day of delivery. I had some complications and rising blood pressure, but nothing too drastic. I probably could have waited for labor to begin naturally. But she insisted on scheduling a date and time.

She insisted that we plan a delivery for April 8th. Not one day past my original due date.

She asked – more than once – if I wanted to opt for a C-section. She had two C-sections herself. She was more than happy to schedule one for me too.

I was one month shy of 30 years old. I had only gained 30 pounds of pregnancy weight. I was decently healthy and not overweight.

This was my first pregnancy. I feared the complications of surgery. I opted for an epidural-supported vaginal delivery.

She asked me a couple days prior. Was I sure I did not want a C-section?

Nope. I was going to do this “right”.

We scheduled the induction process to begin the night before my due date. Nothing happened.

The following morning, we waited. And waited some more. Nothing happened.

By noon, they broke my water. Things began to progress. But the pitocin-powered fast deliveries featured in others’ birth stories? Not at all what happened to me.

Finally, after hours of pushing, after my face & head felt like they were going to explode from stress, after utter exhaustion set in, a nurse midwife asked the big question.

“Did anyone tell you this baby is large?”

Um, what?!?

I still wonder if she knew. Was my kind doctor really just a fan of the C-section delivery? Or did she know my baby girl would be born at 9 pounds and nearly 22 inches long?

I did not want to listen. I wanted to be all-powerful. I feared the thought of surgery.

Maybe next time I should ask more questions. Or listen to her advice.

Lesson learned.

 


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This week's RemembeRED prompt from The Red Dress Club: Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." Word limit: 400 words.

Talk, Talk, and more talk

I was a Communication major in the late 1990s. “Back then”, we concentrated mostly on media history, writing style, and journalism. Little did we know, communication would soon explode into a non-stop free-for-all of information. I wonder what Communication cirriculum looks like today?

When I was a communication major, the Internet was used for occasional research. But Internet speeds were pretty slow and it was difficult to find what you needed online. Google wasn’t incorporated until 1998, and did not gain worldwide popularity for a few more years. I trudged my way to the library and looked in (gasp!) books for information to complete various papers.

During the late 1990s, less than half of all U.S. adults went online. Fast forward 12-13 years, and over 75% of all Americans (age 2+!) are actively online in a given month. Facebook, second only to Google, has a monthly unique audience over 135 million. YouTube has a unique audience over 106 million. Twitter? Also huge, with 23 million visitors per month. People everywhere are sharing information, photos, and videos constantly. It is not uncommon for worldwide news to break on a social media site. I learned of Michael Jackson’s death within minutes, and through Twitter. The tragic Norway mass killings for a few days ago? Also Twitter. Amy Winehouse’s recent death? I first read it on Facebook. Before I even navigate over to a news site to check daily headlines, I am abreast of the latest news and gossip via social media.

I am proud to have a degree in communication. I marvel at how things have changed since I sat in classrooms and listened attentively to professors, or since I did my research at the library. I look forward to learning and immersing myself in new forms of communication as they emerge.

But… when is enough, enough?

I suffer a love/hate relationship with the barrage of information via social media. Part of me wonders if I should walk away to focus more closely on my real, tangible life. Am I wasting my time and feeling added anxiety with the problems of strangers and/or people I have not seen in 20+ years? Would I feel less stressed, less pressed for time if I did not find myself sucked into conversations, photo galleries, and blogs each and every day?

But, would I also feel more alone? Isolated? Lonely? Some of my “virtual” friends are most like me, most understanding of my life dreams and wishes.

Just as I have been learning through parenthood, there is a balance somewhere. Like parenting, it is probably an ever-changing balance. Something that is never set in stone, but flexes and bends with each new day and different situation.

I am on a mission to find out what that means for me.

*What does it mean to you?*

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Data sources: Pew Internet Research and Nielsen Online's June 2011 NetRatings data

Say cheese! (How to survive a photo shoot with a preschooler)

I had a brilliant idea to get my favorite photographer to do some outdoor portraits of the family while visiting my hometown this weekend. I failed to remember the heat wave. I failed to realize the limits of 3-year-old behavior when her entire vacation agenda is PLAY. I failed to humidity-proof my new hairstyle.

Need some tips for managing a preschooler in a humid morning photo shoot? Look no further.

Tip #1: Start out with a couple group shots. Get in the picture together to make the event a little less scary.

Tip #2: Don't be shy behind the camera; pretend to attack the photographer with bear claws. "Cut" the photographer's hair with garden clippers. Jump around behind the photographer and act like a complete fool. Pretty much anything goes. As long as the kid is smiling.

Tip #3: When all else fails, bribe. My child was eating a big bowl of neapolitain ice cream at 10:15 that morning. But it worked. I have a feeling we will end up with some beautiful captive memories.