You Gotta Fight For Your Right (To Four Square)

One afternoon this week, Lucy walked towards me across the lawn at school without smiling. Reaching me, she hugged me tightly without a word. She held on longer than usual and when I pulled back to look at her face, I could see a hint of a tear in her eye. “Bad day?” I asked. She nodded and we walked home in silence.

She wasn’t ready to talk until bedtime, but true to form, when she was ready to talk, she had a lot to say. She regaled me with every excruciating detail of a playground four-square power struggle: “She said I cherry-bombed her, but I didn't, I just went like this, and even the judge said I didn’t cherry-bomb her but she wouldn’t stop fighting about it, and then she got her sister to say I did it, and then she got the Playground Lady and the Playground Lady believed me but she still wouldn't stop fighting…” She paused for a breath and I took that opportunity to ask what I thought to be the most obvious question, “Lucy…did it occur to you at any point that you could stop fighting?” She stared at me incredulously, told me I obviously hadn’t understood the story at all and began telling it again.  From the beginning.

When she was finally done, we brainstormed ideas of how she could handle things differently next time (and by that I mean I suggested several viable, perfectly-reasonable, arguably-brilliant options and she told me repeatedly that I didn’t know what I was talking about.) Until I saw the tiniest hint of an “aha” moment in her eyes when I suggested she consider the other combatant’s motivation. Was her motivation to beat you? To be mean to you? To simply be right? Or was it possible that the other combatant was convinced that Lucy had actually broken the rules. Was it at least conceivable that the other girl believed she was every bit as right as Lucy believed herself to be?

And as quickly as it came, that glimmer of understanding was gone. “But mom! I’m pretty much always right!” Lucy said with a completely straight face. And that’s when I burst out laughing.
Right out loud – I couldn't help it. Again she looked at me incredulously. “What?  I AM!”

“Oh Lucy, honey. I know you think you are, but that couldn't possibly be true. I'm sure your four-square opponent thinks she's right. She might even think she's 'pretty much always right,' just like you do. But no one is always right. It's just not possible that every person who believes she's right actually is right…is it?" (I can't remember my rant verbatim and it's possible I didn't do it justice here. I just know that by the end, I had repeated the word "right" so many times it ceased to sound like a real word to my ear.) When I was done, Lucy sucked in some air, raised her index finger and opened her mouth to speak. But knowing without a doubt she was not opening her mouth to agree with me, I put my hand up and made a quick, sharp closing gesture with it as if I had just slammed shut the mouth of a sock puppet. Having seen that gesture many times before, she exhaled, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Lucy glared at me and I knew she knew I had a point. But it was getting late (and I've learned when not to push it with Lu) so I said, "Let’s think about that tonight and talk some more tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and stormed off to her room in a spectacular huff. But that “aha” moment had been there – I’d seen it, if only for a moment. That glimmer of understanding that maybe, just maybe, there was another way to look at the situation.

Parenting is not a one-way street and I’m convinced I have just as much to learn from my kids as they have to learn from me – if not more. Lucy could certainly teach me a thing or two about strength, resolve and self-confidence.  But maybe she has something to learn from me about humility, compromise, the courageousness of admitting you’re wrong and the restorative power of offering a heart-felt apology.

So many things to learn from each other – here’s a recap from just one Thursday night in October:

·         Cherry-bombs are not allowed in Meridian Park Elementary’s standard rules of four-square

·         What constitutes a cherry-bomb is subjective and therefore open to debate (lots of debate)

·         The Playground Lady is not necessarily the final word in a dispute among third-grade girls (ever tried to get in the last word with a third-grade girl?)

·         Strength, resolve and self-confidence are all very good traits

·         Humility, compromise, admitting you’re wrong and offering an apology when it’s warranted are challenging for even the most enlightened adults, let alone a third-grader

·         Sometimes, when all else fails, you just might have to fight for your right to four square

I can’t want to see what we’ll learn from each other next week.

The Magic Returns

It seems as though the fairies in our garden have been a little short on magic lately. I don’t know why, but they just haven’t been around much. And I know it may seem weird, but I think my own magic tends to go the way of the fairies’. Not much magic from the fairies? Probably not much magic from me either – perhaps evidenced by the time elapsed since I last posted here.

Lucy and Hope left notes in the garden for the fairies some time ago and those notes sat uncollected for quite a while. In fact, they sat there so long I became curious. So I read those wrinkled, smudged, rain-soaked notes. Apparently, the girls wanted to meet the fairies face-to-face. Now everyone knows you can’t actually see a fairy without that fairy losing her magic, but that didn’t stop the girls from asking. It seems they were seeking a little proof of the magic in our garden.

A few days after reading the girls’ notes, I noticed they were gone – taken by the fairies, no doubt, so they could consider the girls’ request. I waited to see what would happen next.

Today was a rare, gloriously-sunny, warm October day and I sent the girls outside to play after they’d finished their homework. Who could have guessed that today would be the day that magic would return to our garden? I’m so glad we didn’t miss it.

Near the front door to the girls’ Fairy Compound, spelled out in Scrabble cubes was this message: “Magic lives inside you too. Look closely.” And on each of the decorative stones that are the Fairy Apartments – just where the girls had left their notes – sat a lovely, little mirror.



Lucy and Hope were thrilled and a lively debate ensued about the meaning of the cryptic message. Lucy was convinced they would see magic if they looked in the mirrors, “I don’t see anything. Wait…right there…I see sparkles!” (Then Hope broke the news that she probably wasn’t seeing magic as much as she was seeing some glitter stuck to her cheek.) After further discussion they arrived at the conclusion that the message meant they should look closely at everything – that there was magic everywhere if you just looked closely enough. (Have I ever mentioned how truly brilliant they are?)

Later, when I shared these events with Troy, he said he couldn’t wait to be a part of our everyday life and share in the magic with the kids. He went on to say that he hoped the magic wouldn’t run out before he gets here.

These kids will stop believing in fairies and elves one day (probably sooner than I’d like), but the magic will most certainly not run out. The magic will exist in a catch no one thought possible on a softball field, in being asked to sit with the cool kids at lunch, in watching E.T. together for the first time and in sharing our favorite books.   The magic will exist in gazing at the stars, swinging so high the chains go slack, daring to dream and having the courage to love with all our hearts. The Heaglers have magic that will never run out – we all do. The magic lives inside us.

So who knows, maybe now that the fairies have returned magic to our garden, I might start to feel a little more magical myself. Just maybe I’ll see the magic in me…if I look closely. (And don't get fooled by an errant piece of glitter stuck to my cheek.)

We Child-Proofed the House, But They Keep Getting In

Tonight Maggie and I stood in the kitchen looking into the dining room at the kids waiting for us to put dinner on the table. “How long do you think we can put this off?” she asked. “Not much longer,” I said, “They’re about to go all rock-band-trashing-a-hotel-room-on-the-road out there.”

When we moved in together, neither of us could have predicted that these kids sitting down for dinner together would be twice as loud a year later. We thought it might get a little louder…50% maybe? But literally twice as loud? That was far too terrible to imagine.

Still stalling, delaying entering into the fray as long as humanly possible, I looked at Maggie and said, “I’m just glad I’m so much smarter than you.” (Anyone who knows us knows that statement is patently false in almost every instance, but for this one, tiny moment in time, it was definitely true.) She raised an eyebrow at me in an unspoken, “How do you figure?” while I casually sipped my wine and said, “I kept my wine glass in here when we were putting the drinks on the table. You have to go out there if you want your beer.” She sighed heavily, dropped her head in defeat and carried some pasta into the dining room. I took another sip of my wine and followed her.

Dinner tonight was the usual bedlam of amusing stories that couldn’t possibly wait another minute to be shared, dilemmas that begged for brainstorming from the group, planning for the week and a grievance or two that needed airing – none of it happening with an economy of words or consistently appropriate “inside voices.” Dinner at the Crandler house is not for sissies.

According to Ben, the Crandlers have lived together in this house exactly one year today (I didn’t verify this fact, but it is Ben we’re talking about, so confirmation is probably not necessary). Living in a house with four kids and two moms most certainly makes for more noise, mess and chaos, but also more support, camaraderie, opportunities and fun. And most importantly, more friendship and love. No matter what the future may hold for the Crandlers, we’re family now. And a house with two moms will always have been the best idea ever.

After dinner, Maggie having cooked, I began to do the dishes as the kids cleared. I sighed heavily, pushed hair out of my face with my forearm, pulled out my very best, I’m-so-terribly-put-upon face and said, “Now y’all get out of here and let me do these dishes. It’s a really big job – might take me a while.” So they left me alone with my thoughts and my dishes, almost managing to look a little sheepish at the thought of all that work ahead of me.

A full year later and they still don’t know I actually like doing the dishes. Nobody tell them, OK?

Why I Walk

This weekend I’ll be participating in Walk Now for Autism Speaks Puget Sound. It’s an event in which the kids and I have participated for years. We started walking for autism even before Ben was aware he had autism. The event is important to us. We raise money, recruit walkers and design truly awesome Team Heagler t-shirts (and sometimes even tie-dye them). And this year, I’ve even been asked to speak at the opening ceremonies. Among others, I will be speaking for three to five minutes on the topic of “Why I Walk.” That seems easy enough, right?

I walk for Ben. Obviously. In my speech I will most certainly say that I walk for Ben. Not because I want to change him, but because I want to affect change for him.

In my speech, I also plan to say that I walk for Lucy. Not only because she’s helpful, compassionate, protective and wise beyond her years, but also because I wish she didn’t have to be.

And finally, I plan to say that I walk for myself in the hopes that I might have the strength to raise awareness, change opinions and advocate for these kids. But not just for me – for all the moms who walked this road before me and all the moms who will walk this road after me.

Three to five minutes – Ben, Lucy, me. That’s all I’ll have time for, but that’s not all there is. I walk for so much more.

I walk for the Crandells, our family of choice. Because they love us for who we are and support us without reservation, hesitation or conditions. They’ve seen it all and like us anyway. They’re my heroes. All three of them.

I walk for Suzanne and Gretchen, the original Boozy Mommies, who have been with me from the beginning, through thick and thin (and god knows how many bottles of wine) and who have always taught their kids that Ben is just Ben…their friend.

I walk for the amazing Miss Melissa, part-time nanny turned Boozy Mommy, who has probably seen me cry more than anyone in this world. Melissa was in my house day in and day out when Ben was a baby and through his diagnosis. We gave her a truly crappy, part-time nanny gig and in return she gave us friendship, compassion and loyalty.

I walk for Troy who has enough love in his heart for all of us.

I walk for The Divine Miss Jane whose baby gift – an amazing, lovingly-compiled CD set – I hold responsible for Ben’s love of music.

I walk for Ben’s friends at school…Mallory who looks out for him, Erika who empathizes with him and Angie who includes him.

I walk for Vicki and Kirk who are never afraid to take Ben on an adventure, even knowing it could go terribly wrong and they might have to turn back at a moment’s notice.

I walk for grandparents who love him unconditionally.

The list goes on and on....I could certainly never recognize everyone (as much as I wish I could). I walk for all of you who laugh with us and cry with us. Who cheer, encourage, support and commiserate with us. Without you, we’d be lost.

Team Heagler ROCKS because of you.

Click here to see my walk-day speech

A Pledge To My Friends

I crack myself up.

Occasionally I play a trick on a friend. A practical joke, a mischievous gag, an amusing hoax. It’s all very innocent, and truly, it happens so infrequently it’s hardly worth mentioning. But there was a harmless incident last weekend where a car-seat heater was turned on full-blast while we drove around on an 85-degree day. And that led to stories of things I've done to my long-suffering roommate, Maggie, in the name of a good laugh - most notably hiding Ben’s scary clown mask in her bed and regaling her with people's less-than-captivating Facebook posts. If you've ever posted about a diaper-change, the terrible heat/rain/cold/wind, your brand-new mop or a sale at JCPenney (and let’s face it, who among us hasn't?), I've probably tortured my roommate with it, setting her up every time with a wide-eyed gasp at my computer screen or a conspiratorial, “Oh my god, you will not believe this…”. Watching her stomp her foot, yell, “Dammit, Lori,” and huff in exasperation never gets old. In fact, I’m laughing just thinking about it.

Years ago I dated a man who was afraid of dolls (let's face it, they can be pretty creepy) and we once spent a night together at a bed and breakfast where the theme of our room was dolls. Seriously. And I didn't even arrange it – I swear! There were dolls everywhere, and old-fashioned sewing machines, and baskets of...wait for it...doll parts. I’m not kidding – I couldn't make this shit up. Who wouldn't sneak a few dismembered doll limbs into the bed when he wasn't looking? You know you would have done it too.

Also, I was once involved in a plot to stuff a friend’s bed full of cotton balls. Of course, she had an aversion to the feel of cotton balls – otherwise it wouldn't be funny, now would it?

And of course there’s the notorious hoax Troy and I pulled on the dear friend who set us up. Being the wonderful friend she is, Kelly was incredibly invested in how our first weekend together was going. So, on our second day together, Troy and I began sending her well-orchestrated, conflicting texts. Mine telling her what an amazing time I was having and how great I thought Troy was. His telling her how awkward things were, how we didn't have much in common and how he wasn't sure he’d make it through the rest of the weekend. Oh yeah – and my personal favorite – how I wasn't as “fit” as he thought I’d be. And while I feel truly remorseful about the anguish we caused our sweet friend that weekend, (we became, um… “distracted,” and failed to text in a timely manner our “gotcha” – a photo of the two of us, happy as could be, canoodling over a glass of wine at dinner) I still giggle just a little when I think about those texts. (Sorry, Kelly! We honestly don't deserve you.)

This weekend, Valerie, my dear friend, houseguest and the victim of the car-seat heater gag, claimed she was sleeping with one eye open after hearing about all my shenanigans. So to put her mind at ease, with Maggie’s help I began making a list of things I definitely would not do to a friend for a laugh. Perhaps not surprisingly, that list turned out to be pretty short, so I incorporated those items into a longer list – a pledge of sorts - a pledge to my friends. Here’s what I have so far.

• I will make you laugh while you shop for jeans or swimsuits no matter how much you hate to shop jeans or swimsuits.
• If you ask for a donut while I'm driving your drunk-ass home at 2:00 am, I will get you a donut. But don't blame me when you wake up wondering why there's a breakfast pastry on your chest.
• I will tell your boyfriend nice things about you. It goes without saying that I won’t sleep with him – this is not an episode of Real Housewives for heaven's sake.
• I will always laugh at your jokes (although occasionally it's because I’m drunk).
• I’ll remind you to wear sunscreen. 
• I‘ll drink with you and tell you when it’s time to stop. Ditto crying.
• I will always offer to kick your ex in the shins, although far too few of you take me up on it.
• I will remind your children that you are their mother, not their servant, that you have (by god) earned their respect and that "please" and "thank you" should not be reserved for occasional use. I will remind them as often as needed.

• I will not let you hug a possibly-crazy, somewhat-leacherous-but-mostly-harmless, drunk old man who never knows when to let go and occasionally licks people's faces. Unless you insist and then I'll stand by with a stun-gun. And a camera.
• I will remind you that you’re amazing, strong, brave, funny, beautiful, capable, desirable, worthy, smart and anything else you need to be reminded of...as often as you forget.
• Mostly I’ll just listen because as simple as that sounds, not enough people actually do it and everyone deserves to be heard.

This is my pledge to you, my friends. It’s a work in progress, not unlike me. I’m sure I’ll think of more promises the minute I post this. And who knows, maybe I’ll even come up with more things I wouldn't do to you for a good laugh.

But I’d definitely check my bed if I were you, just to be on the safe side. Ben’s scary clown mask can be pretty unnerving.

Crazy Bitches, Scary Movies & One Hell of a Party

A couple of months ago I received the following text message from my dear friend, Linda: “Would you be willing to wear nothing but a t-shirt and panties and have a hatchet in your face for the Halloween party? Kostas will be wearing a bandana diaper and an Indian headdress so you wouldn’t be the least-dressed. Let me know.” I read the text, cocked my head to one side, shrugged my shoulders and typed, “I’d be willing to consider that.” In my world, this is a completely normal text exchange to be having on a Tuesday morning in June.

And so it begins - preparations for my friend’s annual Halloween Party Extravaganza. This year the theme is Friday the 13th (the original). It’s our first slasher film and we gave some consideration to each of us dressing in the outfit in which our character died, hence the t-shirt and panties for me (the party-planners typically come as the cast of the film after which the party is themed). But that would also mean my boyfriend – a newcomer to this group – would be wearing only tighty-whities with an arrow stuck through his neck. Don’t get me wrong, Troy is not only a very good sport, but also completely capable of rocking the tighty-whities, but I recognize that’s probably too much to ask (at least this early in the relationship – maybe next year).

I have so many hilarious memories from this party, but one of my favorites is from the year we did Rosemary’s Baby. Linda was Mia Farrow’s character, Rosemary. For the first part of the night she was “pregnant Rosemary” and for the second part, “half-crazed, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-baby Rosemary.” When it was time to make the switch, Linda pulled me aside, leaned in close, held both hands slightly in front of her in a “remain calm” gesture and said furtively, “OK – I’m going upstairs to give birth. Get that devil baby out of the pantry and sneak it into the creepy bassinet.” Then she turned on her heel without waiting for my reply and rushed up the stairs. This exchange took place directly in front of the bar where Sheldon, the bartender who has been working at this party for at least four years, stood shaking his head in disbelief. You’d think by now we could no longer shock him, but at least once a year Sheldon shakes his head and mutters under his breath. I can’t be sure, but I think he might be saying, “Crazy bitches.”

• "You drank all this vodka while you were setting up for the party? (Crazy bitches.)"
• "Lori, stop! You can’t pound that wire into her shoe while her foot is in it!" (Our idea to make the birds “fly” at Traci for her Birds costume.) "(Crazy bitches.)"
• "Yes, I can hide these extra jugs of blood behind the bar in case you need them later. (Crazy bitches.)"
• "You can buy a box of plastic Jesuses on eBay? (Crazy bitches.)"
• "OK, I won’t set up the bar in front of the gateway to hell. (Crazy bitches.)"

I can’t wait to see what will inspire Sheldon’s head-shaking, “crazy bitches” moment this year. Creating an event as elaborate as Linda’s Halloween party requires months of planning, attention to detail, an entire weekend of hard work and a healthy dose of crazy. I love the crazy bitches with whom I work on this party. They are my dearest friends...truly my soul sisters. Halloween party weekend is my favorite weekend of the year because it’s about far more than a scary party. It's about friendships so strong they're imprinted on my heart and love and laughter so powerful I'm renewed and energized for an entire year.  Of course it's also about fun, far too much Tex-Mex, booze & cigarettes and scary movies and all the poor souls killed off in them (this year courtesy of Jason Vorhees, circa 1980’s Friday the 13th). And nothing could be better for my soul.

Last week I received an e-mail from Linda with a picture of a large shipping crate. Her e-mail said, “You know it’s getting to be that time of year when this arrives on your doorstep.” Upon closer examination I realized that printed on the side of the crate was, “Life Size Jason Vorhees.” I have to admit, I teared up a little. I love my crazy bitches.

Pay the Piper (Dammit)

Maggie inadvertently dropped a “damn” into our family dinner conversation recently. This is not unheard of for Maggie or me, so I was a little startled when Hope gasped dramatically and insisted that Maggie pay money into a cuss jar. But as surprising as Hope’s reaction was, even more surprising was the fact that she was operating under the delusion that we had a cuss jar in our house. As if!


In the Crandler house, the occasional “damn” or “hell” from one of the adults is not an uncommon occurrence. All the kids are old enough to understand that sometimes adults use language that is not appropriate for kids to use. The youngest is eight… not three. Chances are pretty good she won’t be scarred by an infrequent “damn,” “hell,” or even the rare, “shit.” It’s not as though we’re dropping the f-bomb on a regular basis.

Maggie turned to Hope and told her that we most certainly did not have a cuss jar in our house, and she would not be paying money into one, tonight or ever. Hope argued and they went back and forth a few times. After a few exchanges, I put my hand on Hope’s arm and when she turned to me I said quietly, “Hope, your mother would never have agreed to a cuss jar. Do you want to know how I know that?”

Hope nodded her head and I paused a moment, not only for effect, but also to marvel that she honestly didn’t seem to know what was coming next.

“Because, honey…your mom is not a dumb-ass.”

Hope’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a tiny “o.” “Lori! Now you owe the cuss jar!”

“Oh honey, no I don’t. I’m not a dumb-ass either.” And then the voice inside my head added, “Plus, a cuss jar is a really fucking bad idea.”

That night when I went to Ben’s room to say goodnight, I glanced at the bumper sticker on his door and giggled.

As much as I hate to admit it, the kid's got a point. (For fuck’s sake.)