The Spectacle that is the Iowa State Fair

This weekend we took the boys to the Iowa State Fair. Memorialized by Rogers and Hammerstein's 1945 musical "State Fair," it is probably the largest and most well-known in the country. There's something about being so close to such fundamental elements of life, fresh produce, farm animals, wild flowers and indigenous plants, not to mention hand made crafts, that's fulfilling. It's something that I grew up with a unique appreciation for and something that I really want my boys to have fond memories of as they grow older.

Growing up in Des Moines, home of the Iowa State Fair, this spectacle and cultural phenomenon that is uniquely Iowa was an integral part of my childhood. The Iowa State Fair is where I saw my first concert in 7th grade (Tiffany and New Kids on the Block), and where I always avoided the creep show that was the Midway (carnival rides and games). My grandparents worked at the Fair in some capacity for more than 50 years, and my mom tells the same story every year about running around the Fairgrounds in bare feet for the entire two weeks while her parents worked. When my grandparents worked at the Horse Pavilion I was between the ages of 9 and 13. We could get in to any horse show we wanted for free and had I been allowed, I literally would have sat there all day long. I couldn't ever get enough of those beautiful animals prancing, galloping, cantering and gracefully moving around the ring. English saddle was my favorite, with the regally dressed riders bouncing up and down in a predictable rhythm, backs straight and giving the appearance of absolute grace and control.

This year we got to take the boys for a ride on the Giant Slide. The smell of the burlap sack and the exhileration as you fly over the rises in the giant yellow slide were just as vivid as when I was a child.

Of course, no visit to the State Fair would be complete without the annual viewing of the world's largest pig. The massive animals are rarely seen awake, or standing. I'm not quite sure how they get them in and out of their pens. The boys are always apprehensive and rarely enjoy more than a distant peek at the impressive beasts. With the world's largest pig in such close proximity, it's only appropriate to gorge yourself on every fried food under the sun. The joke goes, if it can be fried, you can find it at the fair. We actually found "macaroni and cheese bites" - think balls of macaroni and cheese, breaded then fried. Heaven!

The other joke, is that you can find just about anything served "on a stick." Darling hubby usually indulges in the deep fried Snickers on a stick, but since he's been working out lately, he passed this year. We even saw "beer on a stick" for the first time this year!

Making new traditions and new memories with the boys adds a whole new dimension to the fair now that I'm a mother. This year it was visiting the farm implements displays, especially the John Deere area. They have both developed an incredible fondness for the big green tractors and seeing them in real life was almost more than they could comprehend. Andrew loved the smaller, yard machines, while Thomas found a digger that was just his size.

We always make "spin art" - the boys put drops of paint on a white piece of cardboard, then push a button that spins the piece of cardboard and sends the paint flying towards the edges. The results never disappoint. The boys get their faces painted at the Cultural Building, and play on the wooden train playgrounds.

And new this year, we went to a new building that houses several baby animal displays. Meant as an educational center for different livestock animals and the breeding process, we heard stories of people who actually witnessed live births of cows, pigs and goats. I'm personally not all that disappointed to have missed that, though they had video running over and over on larger than life screens all over the building.

As we walked out of the gate, we all agreed that we'd definitely gotten enough Iowa State Fair to last us until next year!

Home Sweet Home

I'm never more grateful for my husband, children and my beautiful city than when I travel. Being in Chicago the last three days certainly allowed me to revisit that appreciation - and distance truly does make the heart grow fonder.

I stayed at the Club Quarters at 111 Adams St. in downtown Chicago. When I made the reservation via the main reservation phone number (located in New York), they failed to mention that I would be staying at the Adams Street location. Everything on their Web site advertised a Wacker location just off of Michigan Ave. I only found out when I arrived at said Wacker location, that my reservation was, in fact, at the Adams Street location. It was now 10 p.m., my flight had been delayed roughly a half an hour, and I was more than ready to hit the sack. I jumped in a my second cab of the evening, and made my way to the other hotel.

The front desk clerk was on the phone when I arrived, though I only waited a few minutes before she hung up and turned her attention toward me. She checked me in quickly, then handed me my two room keys in a small non-descript manila envelope. She bid me a nice evening and indicated the elevators to my right.

Someone was getting off just as I turned, so I entered the already open elevator. I pressed the button for my floor and nothing happened. I waited several seconds, pressing the button several more times and finally the doors slid shut. Then, nothing. They immediately opened again and I went through the same motions. Again, nothing. The young lady at the front desk literally feet from the open elevator, seemed blissfully unaware of my struggle. I tried several times to catch her eye to no avail. I tried the next elevator, same problem. Finally I stepped off toward the front desk just a few feet away and a man was coming in to the crazy, "fun house" elevator. I told him that it was broken and wasn't responding.

Finally, the incredibly observant front-desk clerk noticed me and said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you that you have to put your room key in the slot before you press the button." At this point, I literally had only an insignificant shred of patience left in my brain so I quickly turned to get back on the elevator. A young woman was also getting on and had heard my conversation with the clerk. She disgustedly stated that they'd done the same thing to her, though she had spent an hour riding the elevator up and down until someone finally clued her in. Guess it could have been worse!

The room was small, and had a damp, sticky feeling to it. Given the thin layer of "travel filth" already covering my body, this was a most unwelcome realization. My eyes were bleary with exhaustion, so I kicked off my flip flops, noticing immediately that the carpet was just as damp and sticky feeling as the air. Too tired to care, I pulled out all of my comforts of home and went to set the bathroom up for the next day. I reached into my cosmetics bag and realized with horror that I'd forgotten to pack my toothbrush. I luckily had my toothpaste and did the best I could with the disgusting Burger King chicken sandwich and Sprite film that coated my entire mouth.

I pulled on my satin jammies, and climbed in to bed with my book. The radio next to the bed had this great feature where you could set it to play ocean sounds, babbling brook sounds (which included frog noises, I immediately eliminated that option) or chimes. I set it to the ocean sounds, set the alarm and settled in for the evening.

I slept surprisingly well, and awoke fairly well-rested. After finally reading the hotel literature, I realized that the AC had been shut off after the last person left (a conservation measure) and would be each day when housekeeping came to tidy the room. Good to know. I quickly turned it back on and immediately felt the cool, dry air permeate the small room. What a difference that made!

I hadn't packed my usual shampoo and conditioner since most hotels have sufficient samples already available. This particular hotel had one bottle of "conditioning shampoo," a bottle of mouthwash and two round bars of "French milled soap." I would have been better off had I been a 65-year-old man. The mouthwash came in handy and definitely did the trick a bit better than my finger had the night before.

Once showered and dressed, I made it to the hotel restaurant with a comfortable amount of time to eat breakfast and check in with the office. I had my colleague send me a document I needed to edit and prepare for email distribution the next day, then enjoyed my Eggs Benedict. After a quick stop at the Starbucks next door, I was in a cab and on my way to my workshop.

There is nothing better than commiserating with other people that work in the same field as you. This workshop was part comedy show, part therapy session and part motivational speech. I came out of the first day with a million great ideas that I am sure will be squelched the minute I present them to my superiors.

My second evening in "the windy city" (which comes from the hot air spewed by the city's early politicians, not the weather as most people think!) included a wonderful, giggly, fold-your-legs-under-you, curl-up-on-the-couch-and-veg-in-front-of-the-TV visit with my college roommate and best friend. I snuggled with her eight-month-old, had a fascinating conversation with her two-year-old about trains, ate left over home made pizza and laughed til my sides hurt. We also made plans for a "girls only" visit to our college Homecoming this year. Par-TAY! Of course, being with her adorable family also made me ache for my guys even more!

Back at my hotel room, I realized the AC didn't do much for the sticky layer of tracked in filth in the carpet, and I collapsed into the bed.

Finally, my last day. I slept in and decided to have breakfast and coffee at the workshop. I would be leaving the workshop and heading straight for the airport so I had to bring every living thing with me in the cab. I scrambled out with my laptop and purse, fearing I was going to be a few minutes late, and with my brain mainly on the hot coffee that waited upstairs. I settled into my seat from the day before, cold cereal, o.j., and hot coffee in hand. I noticed another workshop attendee walk in with her roller bag suitcase and my heart stopped. Cold fear gripped my insides as I realized I'd forgotten to grab my bag from the trunk of the cab.

I made an immediate desperate phone call to the cab company, and was immediately routed to a emotion-less, careless voicemail system where I left a message providing as much detail as I could recall in my current mental state. I quickly began to take a mental inventory of what was actually in my suitcase and tried to reason with myself that it was all replaceable. There truly wasn't anything of value in the bag, other than my favorite pair of flip flops and linen capris. My flat iron and cell phone charger were significant losses, but altogether replaceable. It was time to replace most of my makeup and toiletries, too. Satisfied that I could certainly live without the contents of my suitcase, if it came to that, I relaxed and was able to refocus on the workshop.

I made several more calls to the cab company, realizing each time that I was at the mercy of a complete stranger who was driving my poor bag all over Chicago and may or may not have a conscience. It did console me somewhat that there really was nothing of monetary value and if he did decide to keep it, the joke would be squarely on him!

The closer it got to the time I would have to head to the airport, the more that sickening feeling of personal violation set in. Was the cab driver rifling through my dirty underwear, nearly full box of regular tampons, all of the magazines and background materials I'd brought to work on stuff for work, my makeup and cosmetic bag? Was he pocketing my favorite flip flops for a wife, girlfriend or teenage daughter? I suddenly wanted nothing more than to be home with my family and out of this heartless situation.

On the cab ride to the airport, I asked the driver what their protocol was for returning items left in the cab and I got an immediate, "Oh @#&!." Not comforting. He then proceeded to tell me that if the driver was an honest person, he would return it, but that I shouldn't count on it. He told me a colorful story about a couple that left $300,000 in jewelry in a cab and when the driver returned it, they paid him $50,000. Great.

I walked in to the airport feeling like I'd left my left arm back in that cab in Chicago. Thankfully, the rest of my trip was uneventful. Once home, I got to spend $104 replacing all of my make up, deodorant, make up bag, face cleanser, and toothpaste. Joy.

The good news...any anxiety I had completely melted away when I walked into the boys' room and my three-year-old's face lit up when he saw me, "Mommy!" I got exactly three hugs and four or five kisses. My 4 1/2 year old woke up briefly when he felt me brush his hair off of his forehead and tenderly kiss his cheek. "Mommy!" he said, groggy from being in the early stages of slumber. In seconds, he was quietly snoring once again.

I climbed in to bed with darling hubby and finally felt like I was home.

Birthday Boy

When I visualize the ideal birthday photo, it's this one...the birthday child at the kitchen table, surrounded by family, with maybe a sibling standing close by to help blow out the candles at a moment's notice. The lights are dimmed and all eyes are on the child leaning precariously over their home-baked birthday cake. The child may be the only person in the photo, but you know that the family is looking on from just outside the frame.

Sometimes Mom is represented by an oddly detached torso and arm reaching in to present the cake, aflame, wax dripping onto the butter cream frosting.

When my youngest celebrated his third birthday earlier this month, I was posessed about getting this photo of him. We didn't do a big birthday party this year, and I was feeling a little guilty about that, so this was really my only chance to get him blowing out his candles.

These birthday moments come and go so very quickly. In my opinion, the only way to truly hold on to them is to memorialize them in a photograph. Sure, they stay alive in your memory, but it's never as vivid as the photograph that you can go back and relive time and again.

Just about every child has this kind of memory about their birthday. Even if, like my husband, you didn't have a party with your friends from school every year, you AT LEAST had some kind of celebration with cake or some other sweet treat and your immediate family. Gathering around the one piece of furniture that has the power and the capacity to hold the entire family together at one time is the ultimate symbol of celebrating the place a certain person holds in your family. The family dinner table is something that almost universally represents a family gathered as one unit.

I was fortunate to have grown up with this positive view of the family dinner table. As an adult, I know now that ideal hasn't been every child's reality. As a parent, to respect and take advantage of our ability to gather around our table at least once a day is one of my most closely held intrinsic values.

Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!