ChambanaMoms.com » Relationships

Mom to Mom: A Holiday Is More Than a Day

From The Editors — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 03:28:15 +0000

By Laura Tippit

I’m days away from Thanksgiving, and I’m knee deep in mild panic. Not just about Thanksgiving and that I’m hosting the dinner, but also about Christmas.

The panic is not about feeding 15 people or buying gifts for seven children. It is about how I am going to coordinate our non-traditional family.

The holidays are hard on everyone, but imagine having to deal with eight different families. Credit: Flickr, abbybatchelder

You see there is my ex-husband and his parents and stepparents, then there is my stepchildren’s mother and their maternal grandmother, plus there is us, which includes both my mother and my spouse’s parents.

Did you count? That is eight families to coordinate. Eight.

It’s difficult enough with trying to juggle around my ex-husband and Jeff’s ex-wife, but her mother insists on having a separate dinner which she lays heavy guilt on the kids to attend. Then throw in my mother’s work schedule and my spouse’s traditional parents, it becomes an impossible feat. Last year I was near tears at the entire fiasco.

Juggling holidays when you are a blended family is a given. Once the ink is dry on the divorce papers, you must come to the acceptance that you will rarely ever have a “traditional” holiday again. Of course, there are the custody papers which draw out which days each parent will have said children on which holiday. Except that the reality is that just because it’s on a piece of paper doesn’t mean that it is that easy to carry out.

For us at least we have grandparent issues. We have five sets of grandparents who are all stuck in their traditions and who all want their grandchildren to be a part of them.

The last two years have been particularly hard since as the kids are older, they are more aware of what event is going on and have the desire to attend them all. This is completely understandable, but also a little crazy. At one point I believe some of the kids ended up eating three Thanksgiving dinners in one day!

What I truly wish for is for the grandparents to set aside their old traditions and embrace new ones. I wish they could put aside the importance of having turkey on Thursday and instead embrace the idea of a stress-free holiday for their grandchildren.

Regardless of what day the calendar tells us Thanksgiving or Christmas is on, in the end, the day doesn’t matter. Being together is what matters. Thanksgiving in our home is whatever day of the week we can get all the kids together during Thanksgiving week, and sometimes Santa comes a few days late at our house because he was extra busy at other houses.

No, we may not have a typical traditional holiday, but we have created our own tradition. I hope our children walk away with lessons of love and togetherness and know the holiday season isn’t just about a day.

Laura Tippit is a mom to three and a stepmother to four children. She lives and is active in the Champaign-Urbana area. You can find her writing at www.laurainmotion.com, where she continues to write about family and stepparenting.

Life With Jack: Joy

From The Editors — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 13:28:29 +0000

By Kara Downs

It’s always been a policy to show a picture of Jack to anyone who hasn’t met him, especially if I’m describing his life so far. As Mike and I say to all of Jack’s new teachers, aids, and therapists: “Jack looks really bad on paper.” Somehow, the sight of him smiling in his baseball uniform takes the sting out of the introduction.

This entry is my way to take the sting out of last week’s post.

Life With Jack would be as sweet anywhere else. Credit: Downs family

Our Jack has had a long journey. Mike and I would have been doomed from the start if not for the people that surround us, surround Jack, with love. When Mike and I falter, when it’s just too much, someone is always there. So many people have helped us raise this miraculous boy, and we have gotten something from each of them.

Even before he was aware, Jack was surrounded by joy. Jack’s first emissaries from the world were the handful of friends and family members who made the trek from far and wide to see him at St. Francis Medical Center in Peoria. Our parents, of course, who shared our grief and worry and let us know that we were not alone. Erin, who was the first to congratulate me on his birth (everyone else, myself included, was scared speechless). She and her parents visited more than once, bringing normalcy to our new reality. Her father was the first to talk me down, assuring me that it was too early to start worrying about a wheelchair-accessible van (considering Jack was only a month old). My sister, who would save Jack’s life just a few days after he came home for the first time. Mike’s aunt, who came with greetings from other family members. Those who couldn’t visit called or wrote often; my friends from Centennial, my grandfather-in-law.

Once we got Jack home (for good!), we found out about something miraculous: early intervention! Four wonderful women visited our home weekly, calming our fears and loving our baby boy. Susan, Ann, Deb, and Angie were Jack’s first teachers, the ones that truly made us see that he had a future. The first time Jack batted at a toy above his head, they celebrated as though he had scored his first Super Bowl touchdown.

In the years since then, we’ve been overwhelmed by the love Jack has received from the community. The businessman from a local mosque who met Mike and Jack at Panera and proceeded to raise enough money to buy Jack a motorized wheelchair. A co-worker of my father’s from years ago that organized a yard sale to help us with expenses. A local motorcycle organization, the Regulators, who chose Jack as the beneficiary of last year’s “Run for a Reason,” who handed us a check that paid for Jack’s wheelchair-accessible van. His teachers, therapists, and aides at CECC and Carrie Busey that have cared for him more than any paycheck tells them to. Every single person who has smiled at Jack without even knowing him, reinforcing that, even though his life is certainly frightening at times, he is loved.

Most everyone has heard the saying, “It takes a village … .” I cannot imagine raising Jack anywhere but here. I cannot imagine Jack being the same child without the support we’ve received from the Champaign-Urbana community. As I type this, listening to Jack squeal with laughter in the other room (Angelina Ballerina is hilarious this week, apparently), I am brought to tears by the love that we’ve been lucky enough to feel because we are lucky enough to have Jack.

Kara Downs is an English teacher at Centennial High School. She lives in Champaign with her husband, Mike, an artist and writer, and her two sons. Jack, was born three months early. His prematurity caused bleeding in his brain, leading to cerebral palsy and hydrocephalus. Jack is a bilateral quadriplegic, unable to sit or stand unassisted. He is also nonverbal. Jack had a twin sister, Bridget, who survived for 18 days. He also has a 3-year-old brother, Charlie.

Life With Jack: Remember, Charlie …

From The Editors — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 03:17:07 +0000

By Kara Downs

Remember, Charlie …

The first time Mike and I used this phrase was when Charlie started eating solid food. Charlie watched as Mike broke off small pieces of bread and dipped them in sauce, placing each piece in Jack’s mouth, carefully positioning the food so Jack wouldn’t choke. Charlie reached over to me with sauce on his finger, trying to feed me. “Remember, Charlie, Jack can’t feed himself, so Daddy has to feed him with his fingers.”

Charlie and Jack enjoy some brother-time. Photo: Kara Downs

We’ve repeated this refrain often since then: when Charlie took Jack’s switch-operated toy (“Remember, Charlie, Jack can’t take YOUR toys”); when I couldn’t take Charlie to the park we drove past (“Remember, Charlie, Jack has to go home to eat in his tummy”); when Jack was sharing his bath (“Remember, Charlie, Jack doesn’t like bubbles and toys in the tub”).

This phrase has gained much more weight as Charlie develops. I’ve realized that the things I say to celebrate Charlie’s achievements seem to highlight Jack’s lack of physical progress. When Charlie recites the ABCs (in his fashion) and I tell him what a smart boy he is. When I was potty training him and used the phrase “big boys go in the potty.” When he turns on the radio and I dance around the living room with him. I find myself immediately adding, “Remember, Charlie, Jack knows his ABCs but can’t say them.” “Remember, Charlie, Jack CAN’T go to the bathroom so he uses a diaper.” “Remember, Charlie, Jack is dancing when he smiles and waves his arms around.”

Frankly, this constant concern about protecting Jack’s self-esteem has worn on me, annoyed Charlie, and gone largely unnoticed by Jack. I realized that, instead of bolstering Jack’s self-image, I was taking away from Charlie’s achievements. At almost seven years, Jack is familiar with other kids passing him by (literally and figuratively). And you know what? So far, he’s cool with that.

Somehow, Mike and I have moved past the stress (and oftentimes sheer terror) of Jack’s early years and found ourselves with a little boy who seems pretty happy with his world. And I realize that I can celebrate Charlie without hurting Jack. Our new refrain? “Remember, Charlie, you are a superstar.” After all, he has a great role model.

Househunting Mom: Missed Connection

From The Editors — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 03:54:21 +0000

By Erin Nieto

OK, yes. I was kinda sorta already stalking this house for a while, with good reason. It had a faded “For Sale by Owner” sign in it’s front yard for what seemed like a long, long time, with just a phone number, no other information at all. I couldn’t find it on any of the online FSBO sites, and I knew nothing about it. But oh, I loved its face. And its location was almost great: State street in Urbana, kinda near friends with kids, parks, Leal School.

One can only imagine the stories found in the mailbox of this Urbana home. Credit: Erin Nieto

And yet, I didn’t want to call the number. I took one look at the one-car detached garage and the aerial view of the small backyard, and I knew it would never fly with the Mr. So I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. But I still liked to drive by it. To feast my eyes on the almost-Moorish look of the entryway. The old solid wood door with the hammered metal strap hinges. The half-moon stone steps. It was easy to get carried away imagining how the house looked inside.

Then one day, it finally showed up on the MLS. With a price, and photos, and square footage numbers. All of those things I had been itching to find out, hoping all along that I wasn’t letting “the one” slip away undetected.

In our price range, check. Enough square footage, check. Partially finished basement, check. Throw in a few neat features of the house, like a study attached to one of the upstairs bedrooms, and I felt like there was a case to be made for getting a showing. It seemed to be empty, I rationalized, we wouldn’t be bothering anybody.

My husband agreed with his usual, “I’ll take a look at anything.” This time with emphasis on the “anything,” meaning, “I know I probably won’t like it, but you seem to be compelled to look at it, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

My husband and I agree on most things housing related; our tastes are very similar, and we really don’t end up in many situations like this. Situations in which I’m interested in a house that he’s not. When this theme does in fact arise, there’s always an older house at the root of it. We often agree on the aesthetics, but when he looks at it in terms of actually living there, all he can see is the plaster walls, the wet basement. Heaven forbid if it has a boiler system. He’s known to see a radiator and run the other way.

With this in mind, we scheduled a showing. What the heck, right?

You can probably imagine how this played out. Upon entry into the house, I was fawning over the beautifully tiled windowsills that matched the tiled fireplace, the wrought iron grills that graced some of the smaller, decorative windows, the arched doorways.

He entered and immediately chuckled, shaking his head.

“No,” he laughed, seeing a radiator.

“No,” upon seeing the basement with low ceilings and oddly new carpet.

“Do you want to look at the outdoor workshop?” I asked, hoping to spark some interest. “The listing says it’s wired for heat and electricity.”

“NO,” he laughed. At least he had a sense of humor about it.

And so we sat, our folly of a house showing complete, chatting in the foyer with our Realtor, Margie Hoss, about other houses. My eyes drifted to a very small door along the baseboard right next to the front door. Not having any idea what it could be, knowing that I never would have noticed it if I weren’t sitting down on the steps in the foyer, I couldn’t resist opening it. An old newspaper and old letters crammed inside, nearly brown with age.

Strange. It was in the wrong place for a mail slot. Looking out the front door, I could see a freestanding mailbox near the front steps anyway.

We stood up to go. As Margie was getting the gorgeous front door locked back up, I saw it on the left side of the door on old cast iron slot: “letters.” It was an obsolete drop-down mail slot. And from its outside slot near the door handle to the little hinged door on the floor, packed with mail that had never been opened in what may have been decades.

“Anything else you’d like see, Erin?” Margie asked, noticing my expression.

Yes! I wanted to say. The pile of all those aging, unopened letters drawing me back in. What if it contained a love letter that was never read? A missed connection? A story which I am meant to discover, and will be the sign that this is supposed to be my house? The narrative building by the second in my mind.

Instead, I looked to my husband for anchor. A man who I love deeply, whose wisdom in housing related matters I trust beyond measure. He was turned around and had already walked all the way to the car, still chuckling. He didn’t catch it at all. And I knew that no matter how intrinsically pleasing I found the house to be, living there from day to day was another matter entirely — a matter that I trusted him completely on.

“No.” I said, finally answering Margie’s question.

Let it be someone else’s story. And I walked away, too.

Erin Nieto has lived in Champaign-Urbana for nearly all of her life, and heads Erin S. Nieto Fine Art Appraisal in addition to being a busy mom of two. More of her essays on motherhood and culture can be found at www.cheapisexpensive.net.

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Househunting Mom: Kindness of Neighbors

From The Editors — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 01:58:21 +0000

By Erin Nieto

When we moved in to our current house 12 summers ago, we had no clue who our neighbors were. And, to be completely honest, we didn’t much care. Part of the draw of moving out to the country was the privacy that it promised, and as long as our neighbors weren’t judgmental bothers, it didn’t matter in the least to us what they were like.

Some say good fences make for good neighbors. Others, like Erin Nieto, believe cookies are a better option. Photo credit: Flickr, gfpeck

Then, the day after we moved in, our new next-door neighbor showed up with a tray of homemade cookies. They were like heaven on a plate, I kid you not. After a little getting-to-know-you small talk, she retreated back to her house and resplendent garden. We were a little intimidated by her garden, actually, because the landscaping that came with our new house consisted of exactly one overgrown evergreen and two overgrown forsythia bushes. We already felt judged. Strike one.

And to go from bad to worse, the whole house renovation that we undertook had Dumpsters parked seemingly endlessly in our driveway, and a toilet on our front porch for at least a season, Ty-Vek wrap as our only siding for about a year, and a tarp over our roof.

And you know what? The neighbors didn’t even blink. Instead, there were more cookies. They came to our cookouts. We became fast friends with their daughter and son-in-law. Their three granddaughters were all born during the time that we have lived here, and they were the first to greet our two sons as soon as they came home from the hospital. Our garden started to become like their garden. Then more so. They planted a beautiful paper bark maple tree at the front of our property to commemorate our wedding.

I can’t imagine, really, what life might be like without our neighbors. We have become so like family. In house hunting, this is one of the biggest unknowable factors, and it is one that we cannot control for. Since we cannot see into the hearts of the folks living next door to these houses that our realtor is showing us, I can only hope that we stumble into such great fortune as we have enjoyed here: neighbors that do not judge us and create such beauty to share with those around them.

Does this exist anywhere else? Please tell me that it does. I’m even willing to make the cookies this time.

Househunting Mom: Missed Connection

Mom to Mom: A Difficult Loss, An Emotional Journey

From The Editors — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 01:58:34 +0000

By Lori Rogers

Editors’ note: Of the 4.4 million pregnancies confirmed each year in the United States, almost 1 million of them end in pregnancy loss. Contributor Lori Rogers has chosen to share a very personal and emotional tale of loss following a miscarriage in the hopes of reaching out to those who might be going through a similar journey. Please be advised that the details of her story may be considered graphic to some readers.

Partners may feel different emotions after the loss of a pregnancy.

Today was a special day for me. It wasn’t a birthday or a wedding. It was a burial of the remains of my unborn child. My Bub. I recently found out that his remains were not buried after my miscarriage and D-and-C. However, because of the hospital’s policy on keeping the tissues removed after a miscarriage for 10 years, they were able to add what was left of him to the burial today.

Because he was one of my children, I felt a need to go to the burial of his remains. However, it felt strange going to a ceremony for someone who passed away almost two years ago.

With the time that has passed, I thought I would be fine. I told my husband not to come. He offered to come with me to support me. But he had grieved the loss of our child two years ago; he had his closure. He believed it was only a body; the person there is no more. However, when I arrived at the sight, I started to cry.

Maybe I’m not supposed to be fine. Even though this child was in my life for such a short time, the loss remains for a lifetime. We planned a life around this baby. We told our oldest about this baby. He named this baby. It was not only a body but a dream of a life not given a chance to live.

So I cried. I cried thinking about that first day in September 2009. I will never forget the moment I saw our Bub was dead. But I also cried for the women who were there, knowing very well their grief was newer than mine. I knew their pain, but I was on the other side of the grief. I wasn’t angry or heartbroken anymore. Now, I just feel sadness from time to time.

I am thankful for the opportunity to say goodbye the way I did. A lot of women out there do not have the kind of closure I had. The baby passes like a regular period, giving no ceremonial resolution to the passing of the child. But this is a baby for the women who lose them.

If you have been given the opportunity to get pregnant, you know what it is like finding out there is a baby growing inside you. You imagine what the child will look like, you shop for maternity clothes, you think of names and what the baby room is going to look like. Sometimes you even imagine years later — high school and college. There is already a lot of energy put into this child even before it born. That is why it is so important to acknowledge that this child was created and was lost.

There are ways for the families can say goodbye. Some communities have organizations that plan memorial services and monthly support groups.

On June 17, Provena Covenant Medical Center in Urbana will be having a memorial service for anyone who has experienced a miscarriage. This event, held from 7 to 9 p.m. in Auditorium B, will be open to the entire community. If you think this may help you find closure, I encourage you to go. It may also allow you to find a person to reach out.

A lot of women suffer silently. You may be surprised how many of your friends, family and
acquaintances have suffered a miscarriage.

Friends and family: Here are some things to consider when talking to people who have miscarried. Since every woman is different, it is only some guidelines.

Don’t assume getting pregnant is easy for everyone.
Don’t ask if the person is pregnant yet or not. I know this seems like a given, but there are plenty of women out there who have experienced that moment.
Allow the person to have space. Maybe seeing pregnant women and babies is not easy for her right now.
Don’t forget that the partner has lost the baby, too. While his/her body is not going through the physical loss, he or she has lost the child as well.
This is a significant loss. Just because it was not a person who had a chance to grow outside of the womb doesn’t make his or her life any less significant.
Understand that if the person is trying to controlling things, it is because of the fact that she has lost control over something important to her.
Allow the person to grieve how they need to. Some women may keep pictures of the baby. Some may have nicknames for him or her. Some may just blurt out the loss at an awkward time. Some may not cry and seem detached. Some may cry a lot.
Dates will be important to her. Women will know the day they lost the baby, the due date, and different milestones.
Hearing comments like, “It’s meant to be,” “It God’s will,” “The baby was genetically flawed,” may not soothe the woman.
If you feel like you don’t know what to say, you can say you are sorry for her loss and you are willing to listen; ask if there is anything she needs from you.
It’s OK if you feel uncomfortable because it is not a comfortable situation. What matters is you care.
Remember that no matter what, you cannot fix it.
Be willing to talk about other things. Hopefully you will be able to read the cues from the woman who is grieving. You will have an idea if she wants to be distracted or talk things out.

Women who have had miscarriages, you are not alone. There are women around you who have gone through the same thing. But we have to reach out to one another. The more we talk about it, the more we can help one another through these times. I am thankful for my friend, Heather, who was there for me after mine. Talking to her, someone who had gone through the loss, made me feel less alone with my pain. She never thought anything I said or did was “crazy,” for lack of a better word, with the way I handled the grief. That is exactly what I needed.

Author Lori Rogers. Photo provided.

Lori Rogers is a stay-at-home mom of two children: Jack, 5 and Eleanor, 1. She has lived in the Champaign-Urbana area since 2001 with her husband, Nick. Prior to staying at home, Lori worked for A Woman’s Fund, which was, at the time, the local domestic violence shelter and rape crisis services.

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31 and Pregnant: Can I Have a Hug? / Don’t Touch Me

Jennifer Wilson — Tue, 17 May 2011 10:57:20 +0000

by Jennifer S. Wilson

I feel really bad for the partners of pregnant women. With 40 weeks of unpredictable crying, whining and otherwise out-of-character behavior, it’s a tough job to have.

Over the past few years, I finally felt like I’d found what even keel looked like for me. Pre-pregnancy I’d like to think I’d become the most mellow version of myself to date. Somehow over these past months though, I’ve regressed into a much uglier version. What spins in my head and comes out of my mouth now can sometimes combine the worst of 1999’s insecurity with 2005’s depression. Add in an extra dose of the neediness I’d long fought to quell and I’m just a party in a purple maternity dress.

Some days I feel like my feet are the last remaining cute part of my body. Have you walked in my shoes?

I really thought I’d be one of those total zen mamas doing prenatal yoga and feeling blissful about my goddess body, cheerfully washing onesies in Dreft and folding them up into little packages of cuteness. I am totally relaxed about the birth itself and generally coping well with the normal worries about my child’s development – but my relationship with myself has hit the skids, leaving me moody and full of the blahs.

What is it about pregnancy that can convince a woman she’s completely inadequate in so many ways? Are we projecting our insecurities about motherhood onto ourselves, as the only mechanism for dealing with all the unknowns to come? Why can’t we stop ourselves from taking it out on our loved ones?

The only things keeping me together are the maturity to recognize and rationalize these behaviors and a husband willing to laugh at me for them. Still, I know it isn’t easy for him. I can say mean things in one breath and in another complain that we don’t spend enough time together. All I can do is apologize for being a moody pregnant woman; but like everything these days, it feels insufficient.

How did you and your partner deal with mood swings during pregnancy?

Jennifer Wilson wants to thank her husband for always giving hugs, even when she is pushing him away. Jennifer writes 31 and Pregnant, a column about navigating first-time pregnancy in Champaign-Urbana.

31 and Pregnant: Stick a Fork in Me

Selective Silence: An Experiment in Connection

From The Editors — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 18:44:09 +0000

By Elaine Shpungin

Every year, during the 4th of July weekend, my hubby and I leave behind the three Cs of our daily existence (Children, Computers, and Calendars) for a two day get-away to celebrate our wedding anniversary.

This year, as an experiment in fun and connection, we decided to leave behind another big C: Conversation (a.k.a. Chatter).

At first glance this might seem odd. After all, here is a chance to finally talk heart to heart, unhurriedly, without frequent interruptions (by you know who) or pressure to “decide what you want already!”

Yet, I had been having the growing suspicion lately that the sheer number of words between us were actually blocking our communication and connection instead of enhancing it.

Then, a few days before our trip, we were sitting together on a park bench in a rare contented silence, watching our daughter splash in a sprinkler. In the space created by our quietness, I became aware of feeling more alive and more peaceful at the same time. I could sense the slightly misty breeze on my arms, hear the squeals of children colliding with icy sprays of water, and feel the resting weight of my husband’s hand on mine.

As though sensing the same thing, my husband sighed languidly and said, “What we need is more touching – and less talking.”

Despite the playfulness in his voice, I sensed the “truth” in what he said.

And so, before we left for our two-day cabin retreat, I brought up the possibility of spending our time together in selective silence.

“Hmmm…” my husband said, sounding skeptical, “how would that work?”

I wasn’t sure but figured it would be fun to find out.

We agreed that we would try communicating non-verbally when something was important enough to be shared (pointing, nudging) and speak out loud only when it was really needed. We also agreed we would keep it within our little unit. That means we would NOT be miming our orders to restaurant waitstaff or trying to charade “broken porch light” to the cabin owner.

The author and her husband spent a day not talking to each other on vacation, but they didn't mime their way through it. Photo by janlewandowski on flickr

So, how was it and would I ever do it again?

We wound up practicing the selective silence for about a day and a night, and to be quite honest, we both found it quite enjoyable.

For me, it definitely contributed to feeling both more serene and more connected.

It was as though my feelings and thoughts were sediment from the bottom of a pond that I kept raking up into a cloudy, swirling mass by speaking them out loud. When I did not voice every thought and feeling that passed across my mind, after a while, the swirling sediment seemed to settle to the bottom, leaving my mind more clear and still.

Suddenly, I could see the exact hazel green of my husband’s eyes, lit up by a stretch of barely moving river bend behind him. I could taste and re-taste the perfect tingling contrast of sweet and tangy in my chilled mixed drink. And I could share how much I enjoyed these things (with a crooked smile or a slurpy “mmmm”) without the interruption of dozens of words passing between us.

After a while, it seemed like everything started to slow down to match the pace of the restful quiet that we were weaving around us. With the added spaciousness of companionable silence, there was more time and room to notice, to note, to notate.

And as my husband had forecasted on the park bench, there was more cause to touch — to nudge him as my gaze followed a flock of birds across a slice of blue sky, to lean on him as we rested in the welcome hum of the air conditioning after a sweaty six-mile hike, or to brush my hand against his as we walked down to the corner (organic) grocery.

I seem to have a memory of us, just this way, as a young couple first falling in love: savoring the quiet between us, enjoying the opportunity to communicate by touch, smile, physical contact. I sense that, over our many years of living and learning together, we have come to over-rely on the power of words to form the bridges of connection between us.

Perhaps selective silence is not for every day. Yet, having discovered it, I want to continue looking for opportunities to practice it again.

Maybe my kids might enjoy an afternoon of less talking and more touching?

Not sure how that would work. But it will be fun to find out…

Elaine Shpungin, Ph.D. is the director of the University of Illinois Psychological Services Center and a student and practitioner of Nonviolent Communication (NVC). She seems to be on a lifelong journey to living more mindfully despite her frequent tendency to mind much about living. You can find more of her writing at: http://laneyletters.blogspot.com

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Fro-tastic Date Night at Cocomero

Laura Weisskopf Bleill — Tue, 25 May 2010 17:30:24 +0000

by Laura Weisskopf Bleill

For many years I was absolutely bereft about the lack of a decent frozen yogurt joint in this town. Sure, we have no lack of frozen treats in Champaign-Urbana. Want some frozen custard? You say Cozy’s, I say Custard Cup. More traditional ice cream? Baskin Robbins has it. Fancy mix-ins are your pleasure? There’s Cold Stone Creamery in Campustown and Marble Slab in Savoy. Want some gelato? It’s been in a lot of places, but now you can find it at Art Mart in Urbana.

Yes, there are a few places that serve frozen yogurt or put it in smoothies, etc. But they aren’t froyo joints. And when the Pinkberry phenomenon exploded on the West Coast several years ago, I hoped the trend might spread this way … and I got my wish in the spring of 2009.

When Cocomero opened right across the street from the Alma Mater statue in Campustown, it took me a little while to get over there. Maybe it was a defense mechanism; I just didn’t want to be disappointed – or even worse, to fall in love only to watch it fail.

Well, fall in love we did. And not just me – independently, my ice cream-loving husband discovered Cocomero and it’s now his cold treat of choice too. I never imagined him to be a Froyo guy, but even after all this time he still can surprise me.

Cocomero really is the perfect dessert location for date night (although it’s a great place to take the kids, too). No matter how much you’ve consumed at dinner, you don’t have to worry that you don’t have any room for dessert — because at Cocomero you choose how much or how little froyo you want. You can also decide to have 16 flavors or have one. The flavors vary from the tart family (I like the original) to more traditional ones (French vanilla) to trends such as red velvet. And toppings too – the toppings bar has an amazing array of sprinkles/candy/cereal (Fruity Pebbles anyone?) or you can go with the healthier route with fruits/nuts.

Personally, I appreciate how Cocomero accommodates so many different dietary restrictions. For me, that means the no-sugar-added flavor (now raspberry; they’ve also had blueberry, which I <3). There is also a lactose-free flavor and some that are fat free.

Cocomero currently charges .47 cents per ounce. That includes yogurt and toppings. I tend to go with less is more, but I’ve seen plenty of people walk out of there with $6-7 creations. So it’s as cheap or as expensive as you make it.

Cocomero makes me happy. It is a feast for the stomach as well as the eyes (I love the chartreuse). But while eating, I prefer to go somewhere else, as the building’s acoustics are not the best for chatting. Now that the temps are up, it is nice to mosey across the street to the stone benches by the Alma Mater.

Cocomero is located at 709 S. Wright Street in Champaign. It is open until midnight on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights; for specific hours, call 328-3888.

What is your favorite date night spot? We want to know!

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Date Night: Not Necessarily Valentine’s Day

Amy L. Hatch — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 18:07:22 +0000

Photo by Wonker, Flickr

By Lisa Bayer

John is not a Pink Floyd fan.

He was a bit incredulous, in fact, when I suggested we check out the laser-light show set to their iconic 1973 album “Dark Side of the Moon” at Parkland College’s William M. Staerkel Planetarium.

I was looking for something different leading up to Valentine’s Day this year. It’s been a rough one so far, with periods of intense family illness and more than the usual stressors at work and home. The idea of sitting in the dark under Staerkel’s enormous aluminum dome, immersed in light and sound, appealed to me.

I entered the lobby first while John parked the car and for a moment thought I’d gone through a time warp into 1983. Young men wearing mostly black lined the walls and benches, intently studying the small gadgets in their hands.

Several browsed a table offering an array of free physics textbooks. I observed one double date. At least one other couple “our age” made eye contact. Solidarity.

We both noticed a young woman who came in limping with aplomb. The heel on one of her fancy leather boots had broken. She was lovely, talking animatedly to her quiet date before the show began.

I beat back a snarky mom thought—“Why would she wear boots like that in snow like this?”—before acknowledging that practicality is often inversely proportional to adventure. I also admitted to coveting her funky boots.

Director Dave Leake provided a brief and funny introduction. He’d created the show with some colleagues in 1991 as a fundraiser for Crisis Nursery and a new scholarship fund for astronomy students. It’s been showing every year since then.

“With 35,000 UI students in town and 10,000 Parkland students, we find they may not come out to see how to find Orion, but they may come out for Floyd,” he said.

Obviously, that hook also works for grown-ups.

The 45-minute show was entertaining and well worth the $5 admission. Some of the images were dated, to be sure; John and I grinned at one another at the sax- and guitar-wielding dollar bills that accompanied “Money.”

The awesome Zeiss star projector synchronized beautifully with the heartbeat, ticking clocks, footsteps, and vocal snippets that famously punctuate the 10 tracks of the album. If you think you don’t know “Dark Side of the Moon, you’re wrong.” You will know almost all of it. It’s that much a part of our audio culture. There’s even a rumor that Pink Floyd will play the Super Bowl halftime show next year.

This classic-rock laser-light show will run every other weekend (Friday and Saturday at 9:30 p.m.) at Staerkel Planetarium from now until May, when it will be retired because it won’t be compatible with the new digital sound system to be installed this summer.

I expect that the folks at Staerkel have learned something from the nearly two decades of success with “Dark Side of the Moon,” so I hope we’ll soon see new shows that focus on new music.

To that end, we tried to think of other bands whose albums might make great light shows on the drive home. I suggested Kate Bush and Smashing Pumpkins. John thought of The Orb’s “Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld.” We shared some fries and a large chocolate shake from Steak ‘n’ Shake and drove through the snow, listening for a stray synthesizer and looking up for those sax-playing dollar bills.

Lisa Bayer (photo provided)

Lisa Bayer is a southern Illinois native who comes to Chambana by way of the (other) Twin Cities. She is the marketing director at the University of Illinois Press. She and her husband, a librarian, have three children and live in the Yankee Ridge neighborhood of Urbana. She can be reached at lisambayer@gmail.com.

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