Amy Writes

Though my original, circa 1968 kitchen windows have proven to be a major obstacle to any kind of kitchen remodel, I still owe the designer a thank you for giving me such a wonderful distraction. From my sink, I look through counter-to-ceiling picture windows onto my screened porch and then out into my backyard. If the kids aren't playing out there, the birds are - or the wind is blowing or the purple flowery vine is peeking through the hedge or the blue sky is meeting the (mostly) green grass in a perfect contrast, like a child's painting. So, one day this week as my hands were washing dishes, my brain was wandering. I have been musing about friendship lately - often frustrated at how impossible it seems to maintain a meaningful relationship with anyone shoulder-height or above who is not living in my house. With so many of our resources directed toward our kids, it seems that none of us have much left for each other - and so many of us have so many "each others" that

I don't spend a lot of time in other states, but my assumption is that South Florida is kind of an alien place - a place where the rest of the world visits and thinks, "you're kidding, right?" I mean, it's weird to have an entire transaction at a movie theater box office without a single word being exchanged, right? Or to see a unicyclist riding down the sidewalk of a six-lane thoroughfare? Or to see a license plate like this? : Or...this one? Technically, we spotted both of those in CENTRAL Florida, which is a different kind of weird, but I'm willing to bet these were South Floridians visiting Orlando for the weekend. Because of all of the things South Floridians have in abundance, self-importance is at the top of the list. I wasn't able to snap a photo of the tag that inspired this post, so you'll have to take my word for it. It was one of those rare moments where I actually noticed the weirdness and thought, "you're kidding, right?" I

By the grace of God, I don't live with a lot of regrets, but last night I spent about 90 minutes regretting one day of practicality. The story goes like this: I'm kind of a Billy Joel fan. I've written about that before, like here , where I told you why. Or here , where I boldly declared that he would not be getting my money in 2009. But two posts from 2008 are replaying in my head, causing a little heartache this morning. This one was before, still hopeful, and then this one , where I allowed myself to wallow in youtube despair. One of my best friends and I share a common Billy geekdom. We each have our favorite Billy experiences - hers is way cooler than mine - but over the last seven years or so, we have shared a few together. Two years ago, when we heard about The Last Play at Shea, a Billy Joel mega-concert closing down Shea Stadium forever, we conspired for about 24 hours. We entered the game late - the concert was just a few days away - but we weren't daunted.

Thursday mornings bring to light an inner struggle, because I am given three, free, ME hours. It sounds delightful, but it's proving to be almost too much for me to handle. I am torn between productivity and play, between responsibility and self-indulgence. On one hand, it's a perfect opportunity for me to write or create, to practice the piano in peace or to crochet gifts until my fingers bleed. On the other hand, it's a great chance for me to organize shelves and drawers, to clean house without little voices asking why I'm throwing away that broken pencil. I could scrub the shower without having to get out and unbleach myself to serve a sandwich, I could pull weeds in the front yard without having to police bicycle traffic. If I had a third hand, it would present me with options like laying around without having to explain myself. I could put on a favorite movie or turn up the music or read a book. I could get dressed and go shopping - for myself. I could go for a lon

When I talk to other homeschool moms, I hear phrases like "We're learning about Ancient Egypt," or "Susie is studying botany," and I panic. In my mind, there are scores of kids out there ACTUALLY learning real subjects. I begin to assume elaborate projects, dioramas, costumes, microscopes, textbooks, online tests, written reports, oral reports, television interviews about how brilliant homeschool kids are and I think..."well, we read a chapter about Sacagawea today." Then I start obsessively questioning my kids. "Tell me about Sacagawea," I plead. "Who was she helping? Where were they going? What was her baby's name?" Chloe always gets the baby part right. Then I get obnoxious. I become one of those parents. "Tell Nana what you know about Sacagawea," I hear myself say, at the lunch table. "Sacagawea was..." and I nudge. Because I am afraid of what I think is going on in other homeschool families, I pester my

Today, the girls learned about practicing hospitality in a way that we would not have been able to, had we been in school. A few weeks ago, while sailing the high seas with our friends, we met a new friend. There are several things to note about this friendship - beginning with the fact that this was our 4th cruise with this group and we had never connected with any other employee to the point of sharing a phone number. The story goes like this: Matt and I were up kind of early Sunday morning (that is also of note) and, having spent a considerable amount of time in the ship's piano bar, were intrigued by the scheduled "Praise and Worship Music" led by the piano bar entertainer we were enjoying so well. Would it be obvious that he was just someone being paid to provide "Praise and Worship Music" - or was he actually one of us? We made our way to the lounge for the service and were excited immediately to recognize an authenticity and sincerity to his songs and pra