Pampers and Paklava

What are the odds?

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Math bookMath has never been my forte. When I was in grade school, I was fair to middling at math. Unfortunately, in tenth grade I suffered through “SMSG geometry” and a teacher—amazingly enough, a woman—who did nothing to inspire or motivate me. So by the time I was a senior in high school, I was doubling up on art classes, enrolled in college-level English and Sociology, but taking remedial math.

In graduate school my statistics skills were abysmal which, as a budding sociologist at a school known for its statistical prowess, did not bode well for my future as an academician. I left the program ABD (all but dissertation). The thought of cranking out all the statistics I’d need to support my thesis, froze me in my tracks.

Ironically, I married a math major. Or maybe not so ironic, since there are many ways Big Papa and I balance each other in our relationship.

It’s funny, this math-phobia of mine, because I am deeply fascinated with “the odds.” “What are the odds?” I frequently question, generally when the odds aren’t in my favor, which has been a greater percentage of the time these past few years. Or so it feels.

Remember: Big Papa and I were the couple who first lost the site where we were supposed to be married. Then we lost the B&B where we were going to spend our wedding night. But the kicker was when we lost our officiate, the person slated to marry us, just three hours before the ceremony.

Then, there’s the spate of “you’ve got to be joking” tales of woe related to our adoption. Two trips to try to register a child, plane flight to parenthood canceled at the last minute and botched paperwork. If I hear: “You’re the first family to…” or “Our form doesn’t cover your unusual circumstances” one more time, I’m contacting the Guinness World Book of Records.

Yet despite the sorry stats that have haunted my life over the past few years, the truth is I can recite an equal number of amazing percentage-defying outcomes too. Like the date Big Papa and I met for the first time: January 9, 2005 or 1-9-0-5. This significant date in our relationship matches our house number—1-9-0-5– the house I drove up to on 1-9-05. What are the odds?

And while we were nearly stood up at the altar by the person who was supposed to marry us, we managed to find an (even better) replacement, via an online Yahoo chat group (all hail ‘IslandMoms’) barely an hour before we said, “I do.” What was the chance of that happening?

There are more stories…

A few days ago, I want to a ‘Mamas with Cameras’ meeting. At the end of the session, when everyone else gathered around to share their best shots of the month, I wandered into the kitchen to chat with the guest speaker and her neighbor, a friend whom she’d brought to the meeting.

“I’m probably the only mom in here without a kid,” I told them. As I recounted the five-cent version of my adoption story, the speaker’s friend turned to me with an understanding smile. It turns out she is also an adoptive mom, with an adoption horror story that rivals my own. She told me how she ending up spending seven months in the country of her son’s birth before being able to bring him home. I felt like I’d found a kindred soul. What were the odds? If I hadn’t gone into the kitchen, we’d never have met. I told her I’d love to chat more, but by the time we left, we hadn’t exchanged any contact information.

The next day I saw an ad for an item I was interested in on ‘MadronaMoms,’ a listserv I receive. I exchanged a few emails with the mom who posted the ad and got her address. Guess who answered the door when I got to her house (a mere mile from my own)? The adoptive mom I’d met just the night before!

Then, there’s the recent celebration of my birthday. For my last two birthdays, Big Papa and I have gone camping at Salt Creek County Park on the Olympic peninsula. Each year, two years in a row, we’ve also stopped into Harbinger Winery for a few bottles of their delicious wine. This year, we were chatting with the gal in the tasting room and asked her about the owner and winemaker, because we’ve never been able to meet her. “Oh, she’s not at the winery today. She’s celebrating her birthday.” She’s never been at the winery when we’ve visited, because she shares the same birthday as me. Go figure.

I guess the moral of this story comes down to what my college professors told me: you can always find statistics to support your thesis, no matter what it is. And maybe there’s some truth to that.

There are days when I feel like I’ve got a target for bad luck plastered on my head, that if I was a betting girl, I’d be heading home empty-handed.  Yet on days when my cup runneth over, I can just as easily “prove” the world is a small, friendly place filled with good karma and it-was-meant-to-be destiny. So after going through a long stint where I’ve felt like the world is set against me, I’ve decided I’d like to start spending a greater percentage of my time looking at life through rose-colored glasses. A world where the odds are squarely in my favor sounds pretty sweet to me.

Statistics can be made to prove anything – even the truth.  ~Author Unknown

Dare to dance the tide

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“Look what I’ve got” said the pint-sized voice, small arm outstretched, humongous mussel in hand. “Wow.” I said enthusiastically. “That’s really something!”

Miles of musselsAnd it was. Iridescent blue and purple reflected the sunlight. Bits of seaweed, probably from the mussel’s last meal hung like a limp green curtain from its shell. This little kid held one impressive mollusk. One of, maybe a few million, that clung to the rocks of Tongue Point like the endless sea of soldiers in Emperor Qin’s Terracotta army. His find was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what lay beneath the surface…and on the surface when the tide was low.

Tongue Point reaches out into the wild waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Salt Creek Recreation Area. It has a stellar reputation for some of the best diving and tide pools the northwest region has to offer. The border between the U.S. and Canada is almost spitting distance, running up the middle of the strait.

Island at Tongue PointBig Papa and I were camping stateside for three days to ring in my 51st year. It was our first camping trip together. With us was our brand spanking-new tent from REI and all the usual camping accoutrement.

For both of us, camping was something we’d each done, but never together and not for a loooong time. My last night spent in a tent was a good six or seven years ago and Big Papa could count back more than two decades. I think each of us had our reasons (excuses?) for not finding a way to do it all these years. Not having someone to share it with played an active role in the putting it off as the years slipped by.

We spent a bunch of time (and a good chunk of cash) getting outfitted and making lists of what we each remembered to be useful. You can’t plan for every contingency and having to “wing it” on occasion is part of the fun anyway. As long as we were safe, dry and fed it seemed like it would be a “successful premier” on the balance.

BloodstarOur first night was a bit uncomfortable (we determined that Thermarest mattresses filled with too much air are like sleeping on a board). The wind howled outside like a train running through an endless tunnel (the next day the camp host appeared at our site to “apologize” for the excessive wind that plagued campsites overlooking the strait). Neither of us managed to get a good night’s sleep. But after a rousing cup of coffee prepared on the camp stove, and a trek to the water’s edge to be greeted by a vast assortment of marine treasures, things began to look up.

Pretty soon we were on a roll, chalking up memorable moments at every turn. We saw ocean critters we’d never seen before: an enormous sea sponge, a giant Pacific Chiton, blood stars galore and starfish of every hue and size. Sea spray thundered and shot above our heads as it danced over rocks at the edge of the shore. We took side trips to the majestic Olympic mountain range at Hurricane Ridge and sat in the sun by the placid turquoise waters of Lake Crescent.

Olympic mountainsBack at our campsite, we devoured fabulous omelets at breakfast and whipped up gourmet s ‘mores (amazingly, a first for Big Papa) for dessert. The usual furry suspects made amusing visitors even with their occasional attempts at stealing our grub. We nestled into our little spot by the sea and found ways to make our temporary tented home cozy and sleep-friendly.

At the end of the trip Big Papa and I agreed we’d done our first camping excursion proud. He aptly said that while it might have been a bit of a stretch for us (this was not a cushy B&B like those in many of our travels), we pulled together as a team and made everything work out swimmingly.

Starfish familiyMore importantly, we had a blast. True, we weren’t testing our metal with a backcountry off-road hike and scramble. In the bell curve of roughing it, this wasn’t too rough. Still, it was a new angle for us. We made a few notes on what to bring next time (liquid soap and quarters for the showers) and what not to do (nix the ice bag in the car if you want dry clothes at your destination). We are already looking forward to our next adventure.

For me the trip was a good reminder of the delight you can experience when you push your limits, even a little bit, when you try something out of the ordinary and when you shake up your usual routine, even if it’s just your vacation routine.

sea sprayOur three days at Salt Creek helped me to feel inspired to seek out more ways to explore the depths and peek inside dark crevices, to turn over rocks in my life and see what may be tucked beneath them. Because I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the magic found in doing so is immeasurable.

Too many times we stand aside and let the waters slip away, till what we put off till tomorrow has now become today. So don’t you sit upon the shoreline and say you’re satisfied. Choose to chance the rapids and dare to dance that tide.

“The River” Garth Brooks