The L-Word

Every parent gets the email, amidst field trip announcements and gentle reminders about snack policies.

Subject: Head lice was reported in your child’s classroom. It’s an ordinary thing, an email you can delete. It’s always someone else’s kid.

Until it isn’t.

Ours arrived on a Thursday. I was at the dinner table, wearing my soft pants that say “I give up” as I sputtered across the finish line toward the weekend. My evening plans were to eat tacos, play Candy Crush, and be in bed by 9.

The girl was scratching her head. The boy was scratching his head. Come to think of it, my head itched, too.

5 minutes later, I was throwing a coat over my pajamas and driving toward the kids’ salon before it closed. I burst through the door like a mad woman, blurting out my confession: "Lice! Help!"

Google Translate and the words in between

While translating my grandparents’ memoirs for The Poland Project, I’ve had a lot of help from Google Translate. I grew up bilingual, but my Polish is rusty and my vocabulary falls painfully short in areas like World War II weaponry and spy tactics.

Google Translate is powerful, but not perfect. Often the translations are too literal, too formal, or not quite right. I’ve spent hours smoothing the translations into English sentences and paragraphs that (I hope) convey the original meaning.

In doing so, I’ve become aware of – and felt indebted to – the people whose fragmented conversations are the building blocks of this database. So I accepted Google’s invitation to improve Translate by adding my own knowledge. I’ve translated or verified more than 1,000 Polish words and phrases into English. 

Here are a few things I've discovered:

The Poland Project

It began with a third grade assignment. Evie needed to interview an older relative for a history report. Three generations sat down at my mom's kitchen table in Fargo. 

“What were your parents like?” Evie asked my mother.

She tugged a thread, gently, and a story tumbled out. The story was new to me and older than all three of us.

I knew that my grandmother Henryka was a teacher and school principal with a stern demeanor but a soft spot for her only granddaughter. 

Headmaster Henryka was as smart as she was tough.

Why I run races (which I have no hope of winning)

"I hope you win!" my daughter said the first time I told her I was running a race. I laughed. 

A more realistic goal is to finish without injury, and to not delay the people picking up the traffic cones. 

I'm slow. I'm overweight. I'm not especially competitive.

So why do I run races?

1. It pushes me.

I sign up for races months ahead of time, because I love the forward momentum of training.

"I'm training for a half marathon" has been my reason to schedule running dates with myself, to pack sneakers on business trips, to veer off my familiar trail, to download new playlists, and to push past my comfort zone. These actions aren't just making me a better runner; they're making me better. 

A letter to Evie on her 9th birthday

Dear Evie,

Nine years. Nearly double-digits. It’s hard to believe that I’m writing to you again already.

Eight was great. You went to your first rock concert, you learned to snowboard, and you tried kayaking. You joined your first basketball team; I think you found your sport. You’ve become a big fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, and you made a board game based on her books for a school project. You love Pokemon, Minecraft, and Phineas & Ferb. Your Harry Potter fandom is unabated, and I’m excited to take you to Universal Studios to buy a wand and taste Butterbeer.

You’re a good kid and a nice sister. Felix joined you at Excelsior Elementary this year as a kindergartener, and you always look out for him. Seeing you walk him to the bus stop, help him with his coat, and race to give him the first hug at the end of the day fills my heart. He thinks the world of you, and it’s easy to see why.

Also, Teddy and Rosie.

That time I went to a Prince concert instead of going to bed like a regular grownup

There were plenty of reasons for a responsible adult like me to skip this concert: It was a weeknight. We have kids. It was the same night as an important work event. I like going to bed at 9 p.m.

Sam and I tend to regret the adventures we don’t take more than the ones we do, and we’ve lived in Chanhassen for 6 years and never seen Prince. We enlisted a neighbor to watch the kids, and we bought tickets for the 11 p.m. show (so I could still attend the work meeting. I am responsible, after all.)

After an hour of waiting on a bus, in which I began to question my ability to stay alert through this endeavor, we were dropped off at Prince's home/studio/concert venue Paisley Park, aka the white buildings with purple lights that I drive past on my way to the gym. We were briefed and re-briefed on the Paisley Park Rules:

1. No cell phone use

Code Red

The first time, it seemed unusual. “Psst… Code Red!” “What?” “Over there!”

As I walked toward the locker room at my gym, I heard whispering from a group of teenage employees who were folding towels. The words “Code Red” sounded serious, but their expressions were decidedly not.

The second time, it seemed personal. “Code Red, locker room.” I looked over my shoulder, and one girl and two boys were huddled, whispering, giggling.

I don’t know if “Code Red” is my nickname (due to hair color, perhaps?) or if it’s their secret phrase for people whose appearance they find amusing, but I walked away convinced that the teens were making fun of me. There’s plenty to make fun of: I’m overweight and awkward, even though I’ve been working out regularly for years. I wear silly, colorful headbands. I do not fear the brutal honesty of leggings.

And yet, those kids cut me down. For a moment, they made me feel like my 14-year-old self who signed up for summer school gym so that I could avoid the judgmental stares of my classmates.