Oedipa's Story

Free kittens.

They were the most magical words I'd seen in the Humboldt Sun since my own byline.

It was 1999, and Sam and I had just moved to Winnemucca, Nevada. My college dreams of a career in journalism had brought us to this dusty mining town, half a continent away from our family and friends. It was lonely. We didn't fit in. We lived in a duplex that ached with disappointment, despite being painted an impossibly cheerful shade of teal.

The ad led us to a trailer park at the edge of town, where a group of children had gathered stray kittens to keep them safe from coyotes and other perils of the desert. You could say that we rescued Oedipa, a frail and tiny Siamese mix with bright blue eyes and white "socks" on her feet. The truth is, we needed her as much as she needed us.

Our sweet little kitten was afraid to walk on linoleum or in the middle of any room, but she felt safe with me and Sam. She cuddled with us, came to trust us, and eventually became comfortable in our home. We named her Oedipa, memories of Thomas Pynchon and our Carleton English Comps still fresh in our minds.

Oedipa filled our home with joy and and humor and sweetness. She slept on our pillows, cuddled on our laps, and chased bits of sunlight around the house. She tried to drink the milk out of my cereal bowls and I used string cheese to teach her patience. We fell in love with her quirks: Her chatty Siamese conversational style, her purrs that could be heard halfway across the room, her pathetic moth hunting abilities.

It was there, beside the sunburned mountains, that our family began to take shape. In that improbable place, we drew the rough sketches of what would someday become the Wiant family, the rudimentary brush strokes of a love that started with us and extended beyond into something altogether new.

We were excited to leave Winnemucca after a year and move to Reno; Oedipa disagreed, meowing the whole way and spending her first weekend at the new apartment in exile under the sofa. It was only a matter of time until she owned the place, and the same was true of the house we bought two years later, the summer we married and officially became a family.

For the next five years, our trio lived in harmony and predictability. Oedipa loved to run up and down the stairs, knead her claws into our legs as we watched TV, and sleep between Sam's feet at night. She'd hide when our friends came over and insist on being involved when I'd crochet. We learned that she had food allergies and tooth decay and an extreme distrust of veterinarians.

The arrival of Evie downgraded Oedipa's standard of living. She never complained about the baby, but she usually kept a respectful distance. Evie was also a little apprehensive.

I used to think that having a baby would be like having a pet but with more diaper changes. Only after I became a mother did I realize how completely different the two are. I'll always feel a little guilty for how Oedipa faded into the background after Evie's arrival. I'd like to think she forgave us, as she spent more days in her solitary pursuits of snoozing in the sunshine, gazing at birds outside the window, and shredding the carpet on the stairs.

In 2009, Sam packed our Winnemucca trailer park kitten into a carrier and drove 2,000 miles with her meowing most of the way. We settled into a new house, then another. Felix arrived on the scene and Oedipa curiously sniffed him before resuming her respectful distance approach. The moment the kids were tucked in, however, she'd be right there and ready to stake out our laps.

Oedipa slowed down and mellowed out as she grew older. We spared her from trips to the vet, her least favorite place, until it was clear that she was ill. Just before Christmas 2011, she was diagnosed with cancer and we knew that our time together was short. We bought her soft food and canned tuna and took heart in her moments of happiness while secretly hoping that she'd go peacefully in her sleep and spare us the last heartwrenching decision we'd have to make as her owners.

She hung on, but with each day it became more apparent that she was suffering. Her beautiful fur was patchy and bald around the scabs on her ear. She could no longer make it to the litter box. The only things she could do were eat, sleep, and cuddle.

This morning, we're taking her to the vet for the last time. The kids said their goodbyes this morning, and Sam and I will hold her and comfort her just as we did 13 years ago when she was a scared little kitten.

Goodbye, Oedipa. We'll always love you.

A letter to Evie (almost) on her 5th birthday

Dear Evie,

Before you were born, I promised us both that I would use my blog to document the precious and fleeting days of your childhood. I'm not a scrapbooker or an artist, but I'm fairly confident in my ability to type words onto a screen - so these sporadic and heartfelt posts are my answer to the lovely baby books and handprint art that your classmates' moms are surely making as we speak.

I blinked, and 5 years passed. Already, I wish that I had written more.

I can still clearly remember that day in 2007, the day that started with Jack in the Box and spilled coffee and ended with champagne and Dairy Queen. I remember just how it felt to be in labor (ow) and just how it felt to hold you for the first time (wow). I remember being surprised at how tiny you were, at your bright red birthmark, and at how difficult it was to call you by your name when you'd been Rasbaby for so many months.

We joked that you were the sort of baby who tricks her parents into having more babies, lulling them into a false sense of security until a more difficult phase (or sibling) shows up. None of this proved true; you were an easy baby, but there was no trickery. From the moment you entered this world, you were agreeable and cheerful, loving and adaptable.

We tested you, again and again. When you were two, we packed you up and moved halfway across the country, away from everything you knew. We settled into our townhouse and put you in a Montessori school you loved, then introduced a baby brother and uprooted you again. Each time, you responded with the same good-natured optimism that you bring to everything.

I can't believe I ever worried about whether you'd enjoy being a big sister. It's the role you were born to play. You are completely enamored of Felix and often tell me that you'd like to live with him forever, bring him to college with you, and so forth. The feeling is mutual; most mornings, the first word he says is "Vevie?" It warms my heart to see the two of you walking hand-in-hand, splashing in the tub together, running back and forth across the living room, or cuddling on the couch watching Backyardigans.

These are busy days, and I often wish I had more time with you. You're at swimming lessons right now, after a 10-hour day at school, but you wouldn't have it any other way. I look for little chances to spend quality time with you - like our four-day spring break next week, and our occasional mommy-daughter dates at Caribou Coffee or the Mall of America.

I know I'm not a perfect mom, but your father and I must be doing something right. I am so proud of you, Evie, for the girl you are and who you're becoming. You're smart, funny, and above all you're kind. You see magic everywhere in the world. You love people you don't even know. The first words you learned to write were: "Evie loves Mom, Dad, and Felix" and almost every day you draw pictures captioned with permutations of these words.

This fall, you'll be starting Chinese immersion kindergarten. It sounds like the perfect place for you, my little girl who's up for anything and curious about everything and ready to fall in love with the whole world. I can't wait to see what adventures lie in store for you, and I'm so grateful that I get to be your mom and share them with you.

Happy belated birthday, sweet baby girl.



Love,Mommy

10 Things I've Learned About Weight Loss

1. I am good at losing weight. I've had at least a dozen successful weight loss efforts in the last 20 years. The trouble is, I am equally successful - perhaps more so - at gaining weight and have done it exactly as many times. At least I'm starting with a solid foundation of knowledge and experience.

2. I thrive on competition and social reinforcement. I like attention. I like it when people notice my weight loss. I still carry the keychain I earned at Weight Watchers for losing 10% of my starting weight. I'll even share my "before" photos on Facebook. Perhaps this is why my weight loss efforts tend to sputter out and lose energy farther down the road. What happens when I reach my goal weight and the fun of losing is gone? This time, I think I'll enter some fitness competitions or maybe even take up a sport.

3. I move in circles, both vicious and virtuous. In the virtuous cycle, I eat healthy and exercise, so I feel great. Because I feel great, I have more energy and enthusiasm for eating healthy and exercising. The vicious cycle is the ugly flip side, and it tends to involve self-loathing and cheesy puffcorn.

4. My body doesn't handle carbs well. This was one of the most painful things I've had to learn. I dream in sugar. I have a relationship to pizza that few people could ever understand. But yet, it is true. I feel better when my body's fueled with protein.

5. My body isn't just that thing that carries my brain around. I've lived much of my life with my attention focused firmly in my head, ignoring the world around me and my physical relationship with it. Growing up, I ignored exercise and sports because I was too interested in books, writing, and other sedentary intellectual pursuits. I'm a nerd, not a jock. When I started reading that one of the best things a person can do for their brain is exercise... well, there goes that excuse.

6. I love having exercised. Whether I want to get off the couch and head to the gym right now is irrelevant. What matters is how I'll feel an hour later, when I'm walking out of the gym. Once I frame it that way, the right course of action is clear.

7. That endorphin rush is real. I don't get it every time I exercise, but there are moments when I'm listening to the perfect song, moving at the perfect speed, and I feel strong, alive, connected with my body, and absolutely elated to be in the moment.

8. Most people don't really care what I'm eating. One of my standby excuses for making unhealthy choices has been peer pressure. "But... We're going out for Italian food! I have to order pasta and wine!" The truth is, nobody really minds if I order a salad, or drink water, or pass on the bread basket.

9. I don't have to change my values to change my body. There's some ugly sentiment toward obese people in this country, a perception that fat people are lazy, ignorant, miserable, or otherwise defective human beings. I know that's not true; I know that a person can be smart, kind, happy, successful, generous, and beautiful while also being overweight. I have been heavy and successful, thin and a train wreck. Weight is just weight. It's value-neutral. I can choose to lose weight without adopting the shallow and judgmental value system that is sometimes the ugly side of thin.

10. It's not about being perfect. It's about knowing what works and what doesn't, doing more of the good stuff than the bad, and getting back up again one more time than I've fallen down.

7 Things My Dad Taught Me

10 years ago this week, my dad, Peter Czernek, lost his life to cancer. He was 59 years old, and I was 23.

The advice that parents dispense to teenagers and young adults often seems like wasted breath. After all, young people already know everything. I certainly did. But somewhere on the way to real adulthood, something happens. We learn to empathize with our parents. We begin to understand their advice, and we wish we had listened. We realize they have been wiser all along than we ever gave them credit for being.

Unfortunately for me, that realization began in the last months of my dad's life, and by the time I realized how smart he had been, he was gone. I can no longer seek his advice on the challenges I'm facing. All I can do is hold on to the lessons I learned from him, while time moves us ever farther apart.

Since I can't just call my dad on the phone, I spend a lot of time replaying conversations and stories in my mind, wrapping old lessons and stories in the new context of my own world.

Here are a few of his lessons that I try to carry with me today:

1. You can change everything about your life. My parents were born in Poland during World War II, and they grew up in a Communist regime where their future prospects were rather bleak. My dad refused to accept his fate, posed as a spy for the Polish government, and fled the country with my somewhat reluctant mother in tow. Whenever I feel paralyzed by inertia, I think of how my dad took that leap of faith, knowing that the stakes were high but the payoff was worth it. Whenever I feel disappointed in myself and hopelessly anchored to my past, I think of the journeys of transformation in my family's history and I remember that anything is possible.

2. Value people more than money. When my dad first started seeing patients in his private practice, he was uncomfortable accepting money from them. My mom tells a story of a man who came to my father's office with serious symptoms; not only did my dad refuse to accept payment, he paid for the man's taxi to the hospital and gave him some extra cash for good measure. My dad's generosity grew as he built relationships with people; he sent money to his family in Poland, helped fellow immigrants get on their feet in America, and even helped one friend pay for a house.

3. Invest in yourself. I didn't understand this one when I was younger. My education and career were of utmost importance to my dad, and I often resented the pressure to achieve and compete. I thought it was about status and materialism. I fought him tooth and nail on his insistence that I get an advanced degree in my early 20s, before I'd even decided on a "grown-up" career. Now I understand that he wanted me to have the same freedom that he had, that if I could comfortably provide for myself and my family, I'd have the ability to pursue #2.

4. Never stop learning. My dad never went far without a book. On summer days, he'd sit on the patio with a medical textbook in one hand, a highlighter in the other, and a leaf on his nose to stave off sunburn. He read for pleasure, but he also read with purpose. He read medical books because he found them fascinating. He read 19th century British novels because he loved the way they used the English language. He read biographies of famous Americans because he wanted to know the history of his adopted homeland. He continued studying my SAT vocabulary flashcards long after I was in college, and if I shared a new word with him, he'd want the whole etymology: Was it a Latin or Greek root? Was it related to similar-sounding words?

5. Find meaning in your work, and bring your whole self to what you do. My dad wasn't just a doctor from 8 to 5, Monday through Friday. His career was as essential part of his very being. I always wanted to be like him, and it was hard to go through my 20s without feeling a calling to a specific career. I've since come to realize that I don't need to be a doctor, or be any single "thing" to follow in his footsteps. By turning my energy toward the practice of employee engagement, unlocking the magic that people feel when their personal goals and professional growth align, I feel like I'm able to continue his legacy and apply it to the corporate setting where I feel most at home.

6. To connect with people, listen to their stories. My dad spent most of his career working at the V.A. Hospital, and many of his patients were World War II veterans. He once told me the secret to his success: He made a point of personally thanking his patients for helping to liberate Europe, and he was never too busy to listen to a war story. Everyone has a story to tell, and being attuned to and interested in those stories can unlock deeper connections to other people and to the world.

7. Make time for travel. In the days before Google Maps and GPS, my dad would spend weeks preparing for our vacations by poring over travel brochures, atlases, and encyclopedias. When we would travel to new places, he would first study a place, its history, geography, and culture. Once there, he would make us listen to local radio stations and eat at restaurants that offered local flavor. I remember a trip through South Dakota, listening to Native American drumming on the radio and eating at a restaurant that served buffalo, worrying that he had pushed my comfort-loving mom to her breaking point. I loved those trips, and I internalized this message: The world is bigger than the tiny piece of it that is familiar to me, and there's much joy to be found in discovering its diversity.

There are many more lessons, and I'm continually trying to apply my memory of his wisdom to my own experiences, asking myself what he might say or do in my situation.

I'll admit, I sometimes feel jealous of people my age and older with two living parents. I sometimes feel it is unfair that I didn't get to share my adulthood with my dad, and he didn't get to meet his grandchildren.

But all in all, my family was incredibly blessed to have the years with him that we did. He gave us all many, many gifts in those years. Some of them, I'm still unwrapping.

Family vacation 2011

We recently returned from our first road trip as a family of four.

Really, it was two trips in one. Part one was a weekend with friends in the Black Hills. 6 families, 24 people, 13 kids aged 4 and under, all in one house. It was happy, beautiful chaos.

We went to Mount Rushmore and the Flintstones village. Mostly, we enjoyed one another's company and let the kids be kids. There were impromptu ballet recitals and games of tag, hide and seek, and hopscotch. There were hours spent drawing with sidewalk chalk, pretending to be horses, and putting rocks into little piles (most popular with the under-2 set).

After this wonderful weekend, we pushed farther west and stopped by a cabin in Montana that has been in Sam's family for several generations. It's on a secluded mountain lake and boasts some truly breathtaking scenery.

Our time at the cabin was peaceful and pleasant, although I was sick and slept through most of it. Thankfully, we were in good company with Sam's parents and sister helping to entertain the kids and wear them out with nature hikes, raspberry picking, and squirt gun battles.

My last visit to the cabin was 5 years ago. Evie was a mere zygote whose existence had been suggested by tarot cards, but not yet confirmed by scientific means. Now, that little hypothetical zygote writes postcards to her friends and owns an iPod. Also, she took the photo just above this paragraph.

The constant surprise of kids growing up comes from the mistaken notion that we are staying the same. It was easy to think, especially when driving through the Dakotas, that I've hardly changed at all. I recognized the roadside animal sculptures, the endless fields of green and gold, and the burning questions that followed me on every childhood road trip: "Does the hotel have a pool? Will it still be open when we arrive? What are my chances of ice cream?" Landmarks and road signs reminded me of forgotten moments with my parents, like our shared disappointment the day we realized Wall Drug's marketing campaign was by far its most interesting attribute.

It's only when I catch a glimpse at my reflection, or someone jolts me out of a daydream with the word "Mommy!" that I realize I'm a 33-year-old mother of two.

This Memory Lane that people speak of, it's not a walking path. It's an interstate. Blink and whole towns will fly past you.

Tomorrow, Sam and I return to work, and the kids return to preschool. I already miss the togetherness and the relaxed pace of our vacation life. A couple of trees on our street have begun to show their fall colors. It's hard to deny a twinge of melancholy.

We put over 2,000 miles on the Prius last week, visited 5 states and demanded a lot of patience from our children. Their good humor and willingness to nap, relax, and be cheerful in the car all but sealed their fates: There will be more of these trips. We will go back to the cabin in Montana. We will meet up with our friends again. We will explore new places and have new adventures.

This is only the beginning.

Super Goonie's Adventures in Chanhassen

This is Super Goonie.

He belongs to a group of my friends who call ourselves The Goonies. We met on the Internet, most of us through a birth board for mothers with due dates in March 2007. Back then, we were a diverse and hormonal group of expectant and new mothers united by our interest in discussing our babies with strangers. Today, we're parents of four-year-olds - and many more children as well.

Our little "Marchies" have grown up together, and one of the traditions we created was Super Goonie. He was born about two years ago, with the idea that he'd travel from one place to another, visiting the kids who lived there, and we'd take photos and blog and share his adventures.

There are some Goonies who might think he has been missing for months - when the truth is, he's just been laying low in Minnesota.

He took a job in banking, which has kept him very busy.

It's not a bad gig. He has a lovely view from his office, and he's bonded well with the other superheroes in the department.

But at the end of the day, he's always ready to go home and be a kid's toy. He commutes home to the suburbs.

He gets lots of love and smiles and squeezes and smooshes.

On weekends, he likes to go shopping.

Here in Minnesota, you can ride a roller coaster inside a mall. Super Goonie isn't much of a thrill seeker, so he is content with a more mellow ride.

At the end of the day, Super Goonie is pretty wiped out and ready to rest.

As much as Super Goonie has enjoyed his life as a Minnesota suburbanite banker, it's time for him to venture forth into the world and new adventures.

Tomorrow morning, he'll be loading up into the car and heading out west. He will meet up with 5 other Goonie families and go home with one of them.

We bid him farewell, adieu, and happy travels.

I could do better.

I haven't blogged much recently. I can blame the demands of working, caring for two kids, trying to get into shape, playing Facebook games, and whatever other endeavors swallow my time and attention - but the truth is, there's something else, too. Ideas pop into my mind, sentences form, and then I second-guess myself. I worry that my words, once typed, won't sound right. I worry that the ideas I found compelling in my mind won't be interesting to anyone else. I worry that someone, perhaps myself, will read my blog and think "Meh, I could do better."

Today, I completed a 5k walk, perhaps the first official, organized athletic event in which I have voluntarily participated since my brief stint as a benchwarmer in a grade school soccer league. I signed up a few weeks ago at Weight Watchers, eagerly taking the packet and week-by-week training guide. I imagined myself following the detailed schedule, marching through my neighborhood with a pedometer and a plan.

My actual training regimen consisted of a few random strolls with the kids, stopping to catalog every flower, worm, and pretty rock along the way. There were a couple of serious walks, but many more nights of "Hey, I have that 5k in __ days and I really should go for a walk to prepare for that. Too bad it's raining/it's dark/I'm tired/Survivor's on."

I briefly considering skipping the whole thing, since I knew I wasn't going to do my best. I finally left it up to the weather, to those cosmic forces whose logic I can't dispute, but who likely have better things to worry about than how I spend my Sunday morning.

Under a clear and cool blue sky, I arrived at the park this morning, pinned a number to my shirt. About 10 minutes before the race started, clouds swept in and it began to rain. First a little drizzle, then more. By the starting signal, it was pouring. It was cold. The more savvy participants pulled out umbrellas and rain ponchos. I figured that the faster I moved, the sooner it would be over, and then I could dry off.

As I walked, I came to understand the purpose of these organized events. I was swept up in the collective enthusiasm of the crowd and the shared and individual pride in our own weight loss and fitness achievements. I saw people much older and much heavier than me walking with confidence and speed. I noticed the signs on shirts: "Zumba granny," "I lost 108 pounds," "Never give up."

Sometime during the second mile, the sun came out. It warmed my face and began to dry out my clothes. I kept pushing myself to walk faster, but this time it was because I felt alive and invigorated.

The phrase that kept bouncing through my head as I walked was: "I can do better." In my internal monologue, I often use that phrase as a put-down to myself. I compare myself to an abstract standard, some impossibly perfect yardstick version of me, and my real accomplishments fall short.

But "I can do better" can be hopeful and affirming. I am growing. I am not done. Today might be my last day on this earth, but it probably isn't. Knowing that I can do better means that whatever I accomplish today doesn't need to be perfect. If it's something, then it's something that I can build on, and that means I am still alive and relevant.

I finished the race in 52 minutes, then spent the rest of the day on a carb-seeking mission. Then I wrote a blog which might not make any sense.

Of course, I can do better. That's not a problem. It's the whole point.