Ever since my family learned the field behind us will be developed, our normally quiet hamlet now is filled with noise.

We’re sad. We live in the town, per se, with city sewer and water. We’re on the “grid,” in other words. Our one-third acre abuts houses on either side. We’re friends with people who live not 200 feet across the street from us.

Yet, behind us, for the past 15 years, our view has been a rural playground.

A farmer (we know not who) mostly planted corn there, reaping it when it was as tall as Dwayne Johnson. We’d watch with interest out our living room window as he plowed, my husband absorbed with memories of working on a family farm. Afterwards, in late fall, the farmer used to let his cows graze in the field. Our kids used to love watching them mill about, slowly moving from one end of the meadow to the next. Milkshake, a white bovine my daughter and I named, stood out in a sea of browns and beiges.

My husband regularly looks out the window, shakes his head, and sighs.

Progress in the form of urbanization depresses him. And at times, I share in his lamentations.

But lately I’ve been grateful for the noise.

I started working from home over a decade ago and I’ve become used to the quiet. In addition to my daily tasks I have alone time to write, read, and do projects around the house. Truth be told, I relish the time being absorbed in my own world.

But come evening time and weekends, I’m all about spending time with family and friends. Having plans has always been my motivation to get things done during the day.

Then Covid hit.

And I realized I wasn’t built to be home this much.

I miss running here and there. Stores are open, sure, but bars, restaurants, and theater productions aren’t. More and more of my friends are staying secluded in their homes and have been afraid to venture out. And I, at more times than ever before, have been in a funk.

So this noise, this growth happening right behind our house has been welcome. The bobcats or whatever machinery they’re called (things that dig and move dirt around) are loud and messy and look cumbersome.

There’s action going on out there, I think. Life is moving forward even though I don’t always feel like it is in my own house.

My cleaning chiefly consists of moving things from one part of the house to another.

I’ll bring stuff down to the basement to clean my upstairs and bring shit up from it in order to clean out the downstairs.

Consequently, I forget where I put things and get in trouble with the husband and son for doing so.

My husband and I are headed out for the last night of being “allowed” by our governor to eat out in a restaurant. We’re meeting the only friends who haven’t retreated to their basements. It will be the final time we can joke around with a server, make judgements about others seated around us, and have people not only cook us our food but also wash our dishes.

Another Minnesota lockdown. Another month and a half of being homebound.

I’ll be honest. I don’t like nor agree with this lockdown. I think bars, restaurants, gyms, stores – everything should be open. Let the virus work its way through the population. I know people are dying. I’ve heard the horror stories. But when the virus is 99% recoverable, do we shut down schools, sports, and, well, life? Not in my opinion.

With that said, I do respect the views of others and so I wear a mask when I go out. I don’t get close to people and I wash my hands often.

My feelings about the election “results” has put me in a bad mood these last couple of weeks, I’m not going to lie. And I’m not happy that every Democrat governor, including my own, is forcing small businesses to temporarily close or fold for good.

My family is gregarious. Each of us has our own friends and like to go out. We patronize and rely on local businesses for entertainment and well-being.

Part of me is an introvert, or at least someone who enjoys being alone. I like me. Do I think I would like me if I wasn’t me? Probably. Do I think occasionally I’d be a bitch and get what I deserve? Sure.

But again, I don’t agree with the lockdowns and I’ll continue to stand up for America’s liberties. I’ll continue to support people who protest for business rights and the freedom of people to live our lives. This includes donating to conservative groups and sending emails to my local, state, and federal government officials.

However, as reluctant as I may be, I will also embrace this.

I have to.

I won’t do it for the all the companies who put on the plays, musicals, bars, restaurants, historical society events, museums, concerts, craft fairs, and sporting events that I patronize and miss. I won’t do it for all the holiday events I look forward every year, which includes hosting an annual gift wrapping party, a Christmas decoration/adult beverage party, and two Christmas dinners I attend at the most delightful, cozy, and decorated restaurant you can imagine.

Instead, I’ll do it for me and my family.

I’ll do it because my husband and kids don’t deserve to be brought down by my anxiety, nor do they need to see the depressed look on my face as we once again have to shelter in and stay at home.

I’ve decided I’m going to learn how to play backgammon. I have an old set in my closet from God-knows-who but I’m determined to play an actual game with someone by the end of this madness.

In addition, I’ll watch more documentaries. I’ll complete more puzzles. I’ll stay close to my city and patronize local stores for items with which to decorate my house. I’ll order growlers from my nearby brewery, who not only has amazing beer but the most delicious-looking dreadlocked bartender in all of town.

And if I don’t write, or at least start, the novel I’ve always wanted to, I can never say I didn’t have enough time.

It’s been a blast these past two years being out on the playground with elementary age students. Ever since I took a very part time job (1.5 hours a day) as a recess paraprofessional I’ve been able to observe a ton of kid behavior.

Sure, I have two children of my own. But at ages 21 and 17, I’ve lost touch of what little kids want and need. I don’t know what’s popular in toys or video games. I’ve forgotten that kids cry at seemingly little things, such as if one gets “out” at four square. I spent so much energy working full time and driving my kids to and from sports and activities to fully appreciate how wonderful little people they were. I regret that.

To be sure, our family was and is very close and we enjoy each other’s company (to an extent, I’ll be honest). But this opportunity to really listen to and be able to watch children as a spectator has been cleansing to my soul.

Being a recess para, as it’s turned out, has enabled me to gain access to the mindsets of little ones.

We all don’t get to relive our days as parents. The patience and experience I’ve culled over the years has come in handy in dealing with these youngsters.

After all, who, besides grandparents, get to bestow their experience on young and impressionable minds?

Basically it comes down to teaching kids (or at least trying to) how to keep feelings out of their reactions.

Nothing quite exemplifies this concept as being first in line. Or even budging in line. Manners is of course a wonderful lesson to learn. No one should cut in line. But put it in perspective, I’ve told them. If you’re lining up to go to lunch, I’ve said, everyone is going to the same place, so there’s no need to worry about who is in front. You’ll all get your food, I’ll tell them.

Now, when it comes to standing in line for a ride at a carnival then yes, being first certainly counts. But when we’re all going to the same place, as in for the cafeteria where everyone will be getting the exact same item (which let’s be honest, is a barely warmed up pile of chicken nuggets) then it really dosen’t matter. (Cue in Bill Murray’s character in the classic Meatballs – “It just doesn’t matter!”).

Imagine my pride when, after four months of saying the same thing, I heard little Anthony saying to Mason that being first didn’t matter, as they were all going to the same place.

(Insert heart hands.)

One day I watched kids on the playground argue over a game of four square. This kid was out but others said he was in. During this heated discussion, which involved accusations and finger pointing, I said whoa, don’t take the game so seriously. Once you get out, get out. You’ll be back in the game again in no time. One young gentleman suggested that two out of the three other children in the square should decide if someone is out and let that be the rule.

Brilliant, I said.

Then there’s Depressed Kid (I always have names only I refer to them as). He always looks sad and is the last one in line to go inside. Always. He’s on the fringe of his class, sometimes playing with kids and sometimes playing alone. He gets hurt, whether it’s his feelings or physically.

I watched him throw a Wiffle ball with some boys the other day. I told him he had a good arm asked if he plays baseball. He didn’t answer, but the next time he got the ball he made sure I watch him throw it. I smiled, as it reminded me of when my kids were young and wanted to “show me” their new feat.

We’ve been buddies ever since.

Then you get the criers, the ones to whom something always happens. When a kid comes to me after they get hurt, unless it’s an injury to their head or an obvious broken bone, I have them take a rest on a bench and tell them to let me know if they’re still in pain when I come back to check on them. Nine out of ten times I look over and they’re already back playing with their friends.

Speaking of tears, girls in the lower grades will come crying to me saying another girl said something mean. One little gal broke down the other day when her friend told her she couldn’t go to her house over the weekend because she asked someone else. Other girls had surrounded her and I pulled them all close. 

I encircled five of them; ten watery eyes looking up at me. “You need your girlfriends,” I told them. “We girls need to stick together.”

I’ve found not talking down to kids helps. Sure there’s some ones who never seem to get the basic tenets of life. But overall if you talk to them logically, most seem to relate.

For instance, a first grade girl came up to me once and said a boy said something mean to her. I asked her to walk me over to the culprit and as I was doing so told her that this won’t be the last time a boy says something mean to her.

“If you cried every time a boy said something mean to you, you’d be crying every day,” I said.

I added that there are times when the best way to handle situations such as this is to walk away and not give any kind of reaction.

I’m not a man-hater so on the flip side, I’ve told boys that girls can be mean, as well. One situation involved a boy’s ball that went towards a group of girls. Instead of tossing the ball back to the boy one gal kicked it the opposite way.

“Why’d ya have to do that?” he yelled. I went up to him and said some girls are just not nice. I have a son, so I should know.

The list could go on but each day I’m reminded not only of the fragility of grade schoolers but their strength and resilience. I

I’m just grateful if I get to play a small part in their upbringing.

This election is making me sick – physically. I haven’t been able to eat since Monday and it’s now almost Friday.

When my blood begins to really boil, I have to turn off the news and not look at social media.

That’s when I know I have to practice love.

As my pastor says, Godly love isn’t a feeling. It’s an action.

It’s a response to the commandment to love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind as well as loving your neighbor as yourself.

Too often I get caught up in the belief that if I don’t love someone, or even like them, then they don’t deserve my attention.

Then I’ll remember to pray for an extended family member who I don’t like, or wave to a neighbor who is on my nerves. Or I’ll give my husband a neck rub even when I’m tired. These have all been ways I’ve forced myself to put love into action.

Is it work? Heck yeah.

When I’m truly worried about something, my first response is to become lethargic. I sit and stew, and spend countless, meaningless hours scrolling through my phone.

But today, at my lowest, I compelled myself to wave to a neighbor of mine who constantly gets on my nerves. Later, I got in my car and purchased a sympathy card for a friend who recently lost her mother. I had already responded to her post on FB with my condolences, but thought how a message, written in my handwriting, may bring additional comfort to her.

Later, I texted a friend whose political leanings are vastly different than mine, and to whom I haven’t been in contact with since Tuesday. It seemed as though we had been avoiding each other due to the uncertainty of the election. All I wrote was that I was thinking about her and asked how she was doing.

I felt good and energized that I reached out to people in a positive way instead of moping around my house.

Love, put into action.

My driving habits have evolved over the years. I no longer tailgate and I don’t speed.

But one thing hasn’t changed.

I don’t look at cars next to me.

But when I do, the person is always – and I mean always – touching or picking their nose.

Long ago I stopped looking at traffic driving by. I especially don’t look to my left or right at a stop light. I mean, forget about checking phones – people have time to do a quick pick.

Do I take notice of vehicles around me as a safety precaution? Of course. But the people inside? Rarely.

Friends and neighbors tell me all the time that they see me at a stoplight and wave but I don’t see them.

My husband, on the other hand, is a rubbernecker if there ever was one. He always has to see who the “dumbass” is that committed the heinous act of either going too slow, or cut him off, or has a bumper sticker he doesn’t like.

A guy I used to work with used to look at every car he passed on the way to and from work to see if the driver was cute (girls only). I got a ride home from him once. Never happened again. He wanted me to duck down each time he approached a car.

Every once in a while I forget myself, such as today.

And BAM!

There it is – the finger/hand/nose thing.

I am disgusted yet oddly triumphant, as I don a self-satisfied smug smile on my face, knowing I am once again vindicated in my conviction.

Love: Dreaming about shopping.

Hate: Waking up and not being able to bring back all the stuff I bought.

As my kids get older, I appreciate whatever stage they’re currently in.

Gone are the days of diapers and tantrums (THOUSANDS of diapers; few tantrums), the checking of schoolwork, and taxiing them to their activities and friends’ houses.

I wouldn’t give any of it up, as I’ve learned so much about life through watching my kids grow.

And now that they’re older, I’ve looked forward to lending a friendly ear or advice instead of admonishment.

But every once in a while a situation arises and I realize I still have more work as a parent to do.

Take an evening last week.

Something small escalated into something big and before we knew it my husband and son were going at it. Tried as I did to stay calm, I got sucked into the fray, as well.

Next thing we knew, our son took off, loudly announcing he’d spend the night in his truck.

After cooling off, I texted and told him to come home; that I was sorry for my part of the argument.

His text back was a yeah-ok type of reply.

My blood began to boil again, but instead I paused.

Then a light turned on.

My husband and I have taught our kids to say please and thank you. We’ve taught them to respect teachers, coaches, their grandparents, and wait staff. But some we’ve never really taught them to say I’m sorry or about forgiveness.

I measured my words carefully in my next response. I texted back that I know he’s a great kid but that he needs to learn forgiveness; that forgiveness is a big part of life. I added that I’m human and I know I’m not perfect.

After a few minutes, a reply came. I could tell my words had softened my son.

He agreed that no one was perfect and that he’d be coming home.

I decided not to confront him at the door and rehash the evening’s events. Instead, I stayed in my room and went to sleep.

The text exchange must have sparked something, however, because the last five days have been wonderful.

For instance, the very next day, a snowstorm blew in. I came home from work and found our son, also home from a long day at work, shoveling our driveway – without even being asked!

He protested, but I said I’d help him. Together, we cleared it in no time, never mentioning the previous night’s issue.

Now, to work on our 17-year-old daughter, who desperately needs to grasp the same concept…

It’s 1992. My friend Lisa and I are downtown Minneapolis for a night out. We pull our car into a lot and pay the obligatory $7 fee. It’s winter and we exit the car onto snow-packed asphalt.

Though it’s 10-degrees outside (and that’s on a warm night) we shed our coats, clad in nothing but tight jeans and a little shirt.

With a “Ready – one, two, three!” we jump out of the car and race towards the bar.

There’s a line, however, so we must wait outside.

Teeth chattering and goose bumps on our arms, we stomp our feet back and forth until we are mercifully admitted inside.

For a few drunken hours, life (and the men who inhabit it) is good.

Then comes closing time. We have to venture back outside to an ice-cold vehicle.

When I met my then-boyfriend (now-husband) he would always tell me to dress sensibly, particularly in boots and a hat.

I hadn’t worn boots nor a winter hat since grade school, I told him.

Fast forward a decade or so.

Once our son started playing hockey, my mindset changed.

I started purchasing sweatshirts, gloves, boots (from Sorel, naturally) and a cute team hat.

I mean, I discovered if my head was covered I was infinitely warmer.

Years later I’d end up investing in a pair of lined snow pants.

Where have these clothes been all my life? I thought.

It probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but I’m slightly obsessive compulsive, as now, once there’s even a slight breeze, I put on a hat.

“It’s 60-degrees outside and you’re wearing a hat!” my husband and kids chide me.

And after  I purchased my first Love Your Melon hat, I started to get compliments.

Because hats cover my immense forehead (and the subsequent lines that are on it) I’ve been told I look like I’m 15. (True, the one person who said it was at a bar and also true had imbibed quite a few, but a compliment is a compliment, right?)

This morning, there was a mix of light snow and rain. Everyone on my FB neighborhood groups were up in arms.

Perhaps years ago I would have been one of those people.

But it happens every year. Or at least it has for the past 50 years of my life here in Minnesota. I no longer dread the season. I’m 50 and I get hot. I get cold, also, but I’ve learned it’s easier to put on layers instead of take them off.

I’ve come a long way from wearing my short, tight clothes running to and from my car with no coat on.

Besides, with my body now, wearing more layers isn’t such a bad thing.

Chips. That’s the best part of football.

I love any excuse for a gathering with friends, food being only part of the excitement.

Except football. For me, that’s all there is.

Baseball and hockey – now are two sports I get behind. There’s seriously nothing better than sitting in the bleachers or arena, beer in hand, nachos (with jalapenos, of course) on lap.

I get the appeal of football. The strategy and the testosterone. I get men like to hit and tackle each other. I mean, when I’m supervising grade school-age kids at recess there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t witness boys wrestling with one another. And it’s rarely if ever bullying – boys just have it in them to get into scuffles.

However, I’ve never taken the time, in all my 50 years, to really learn the rules of football. I’ve been to a few professional games (and man were they FUN) and of course attended all of my high school ones – more to watch all the guys on the field (who of course didn’t even know my name). I even learned how to throw a perfect spiral, thanks to my brother who played.

Still, I fully understand the hype.    

Yes, I believe one can appreciate something without completely buying into it.

I mean, I support it infinitely more than that other thing the rest of the world calls football – soccer, is it?

After all, football is American. North American. Specifically, United States of America(n).