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Never Say Never – A True Story

January 17, 2011 By LinaNicklin 12 Comments

I consider myself to be a moderately adventurous person. Not too lazy, not too crazy. Bungee jumping? Done it. Cliff diving? Check. There are things, however, I have sworn I will NEVER try. For instance, jumping out of an airplane does not appeal to me. Nor will I ever risk eating that poisonous blowfish sushi from Japan. No way. Other things on my not-to-do list? Intentionally putting my children in harm’s way. It’s an obvious promise, but it is one I broke a few short weeks ago. Never say never, I suppose.

It was a Tuesday, around midday, when I was driving with my almost three year old son. We were coming back from a day of Christmas shopping on Chicago’s festively decorated Mag Mile. Our route to and from the city is far from humdrum. It takes us through two college campus, lakefront parks, beaches, and a wide array of urban and suburban communities. Some safe. Some not-so-safe.

As I pulled up to a stoplight in one of those not-so-safe areas, my eyes were drawn to two young girls standing on the street corner. They were in a panic. Crying, out of breath, and clutching one another. As I tried to make sense of their situation, one of the girls screamed at the top of her lungs and began running down the middle of the cross street. A man in dark jeans, a black leather jacket, and black knit hat was chasing her.

What do I do?

She’s screaming for help.

This young girl is someone’s daughter.

No one is stopping.

The stoplight was still red. Without thinking, I ignored the light, slammed on the gas, and pulled a left turn in front of traffic to follow the girl. She was desperately flagging down cars. Begging for anyone to pull over. I braked right next to her, rolled down the window and yelled, “Get in!” As she turned to look at me, all I could see was a wet, puffy, bloodied face. She ran around the back of the car and climbed in. Unbeknownst to me, the man in dark clothing had caught up with us.

What happened next scared me.

The man reached his hand into my car and grabbed the girl by her hair. He started pulling violently and commanded, “C’mon! Get out!” The girl gave me a scared and desperate look, as though she were ready to give up and go with him. My son had his hands over his ears and appeared petrified with fear.

It was at that moment I had to make a choice – let the girl go and protect our safety? Or, take a risk and get this poor girl as far away from this SOB as I can? I quickly yelled, “Shut the door! Just shut the door!” I stepped on the gas and hoped for the best. As the door slammed shut, pieces of the girl’s hair fell into her lap. She collapsed her head into her knees and sobbed as I drove further and further away from her attacker.

“Thank you… thank you… thank you,” the girl wept. “He was gonna kill me.”

The girl’s name was Noel. She was only 21 years old. As I drove to find the nearest policeman, she told me her story. That was her dominant and possessive husband back there. She had told him she didn’t want to be married anymore. The girl with Noel on the street corner was her best friend. She was with her for support. Noel felt forced into the marriage and wasn’t ready to “grow up so quick”. When she broke the news to her husband, he beat her… badly. Her puffy eyes and bleeding lips were clear evidence of that.

As she wiped her face with a packet of baby wipes from my backpack, I located a police officer near an el train station. Before I could bat an eyelash, three of Chicago’s finest pulled up, got a description of Noel’s husband, and drove off. Noel was instructed to go with the police. As she was leaving the temporary safety of my car, she turned and hugged me. With a quivering voice, she said, “I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if you didn’t stop. Thank you for stopping.” I nearly cried as I heard that last bit… “Thank you for stopping.”

Looking back, was this a stupid move? Yes.

Could that man have had a gun? Yes.

Did I put myself and my child in serious danger? Yes.

Did we get hurt? No. Thank goodness.

I called Noel later that evening (her best friend’s number was still in my phone after I let her borrow it). She was at her apartment with a police escort. Noel was gathering her things and moving out. She sounded relieved, happy… and grateful.

Whenever I feel a little regretful for putting my son in harm’s way that day, I play Noel’s voice over and over like a tape recorder to ease my mind…

“Thank you for stopping.”

Photo by Visionello from flickr.com

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Parenting Tagged With: , ,

One good cup

November 30, 2010 By LinaNicklin 12 Comments

The other day, I found myself downtown Chicago. A few blocks south of the river off Michigan Avenue. My routine doctor’s appointment was scheduled for 10:30am, and my car was parked by 10:00am. Perfect. Time to spare, and only one thing on my mind – coffee.

With a three year old on my hip, I set off down the street. It was a brisk morning, so holding a warm cup of “joe” was highly anticipated. As I scanned for the green and white sign I have come to rely upon, my eye caught a glimpse of a coffee-like contraption hanging in a window. What’s that? Ah, yes! A picture of a French press and, just below it, a cozy patron sipping liquid gold from an over-stuffed chair.

Target acquired and locked.

It wasn’t my usual place, but the cold air and whimpering child in my arms suggested I try the closest alternative. As we entered the shop, the first thing I noticed was the line. Long. Really long. But, according to my previous green and white experiences, long lines often went fast. I slipped in and hoped for the best.

As I looked around, I noticed something… I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I was surrounded by very hip people. People who looked sharp, seemed sharp, and acted cool. Oversized books, drawings, and laptops covered the little tables as people were meeting and working. Hipster #1 moved his front bicycle tire out of the way so Hipster #2 could sit down. Funky girl by the window was busy writing in a journal with her fingerless gloves. There was this cool, older guy in the corner who looked like a handsome professor-type.

Where was I? Never mind. It was my turn to order.

Me: “Hi. Can I please have a venti non-fat vanilla latte?”

Him: “Uh… what’s a venti??”

(Clearly, the part of my brain that orders from the green and white place forgot to turn itself off.)

Me: “Oh, sorry. I mean, a large non-fat vanilla latte.”

Him: “Non-fat?”

Me: “Yes. Non-fat.”

Him: “Uh… we don’t have non-fat milk. Only Vitamin D and 2%.”

(WHAT?! Was this place stuck in the 80’s??)

Me: “Oh. Okay. I guess 2%. And, a kid’s vanilla soy steamer for him.”

Him: “Soy steamer??”

(Here we go again.)

Me: “I mean, a small, warm vanilla soy milk.”

Him (with attitude): “Oh… right.”

A little annoyed, I dove right into the large group of patrons who were waiting for their over-priced coffees to be served. I began regretting not holding out for old faithful – the green and white coffee shop – but, couldn’t shake the feeling that this place was onto something. Like, everyone there was in on some secret. As though they were a part of some strange coffee society.

As I stood there, I tried to blend in as much as possible. Workin’ it in my hippest mommy clothes I only wear to the city. It’s hard to look cool, however, when you’re prying your three year old away from a revolving door. I felt lots of hard stares and rolling eyes as my little man began to get restless. This was not a child-friendly zone.

Five minutes passed… 10 minutes passed… 15 minutes passed…

What was taking so long? In 3 more minutes, I would have officially been late for my appointment and, at that point, any warm, caffeinated beverage would have sufficed.

As I inspected behind the coffee bar, I searched for signs of an espresso machine malfunction or short staff. Instead, I noticed the barista. He wasn’t working three different orders at once. He attended to only one drink at a time. He carefully steamed the milk, poured the shots, and scooped the foam. He seemed so proud of his work when he was through. Each latte that came off the bar was like his own personal work of art.

My order was finally up. With a quick “thank you”, I grabbed the drinks and jetted out the door to my appointment. Not even a sip to check if it was the right one. I figured, I’ve already waited 20 minutes for this latte, what’s a few more?

Once we reached the waiting room of the doctor’s office, I was happy to unload my son and send him off to the coloring table. I put down my bag, removed my coat, and sunk into a chair. As I picked up the warm cup, I smiled at the thought of the recent escapade and murmured, “This better be one damn good cup of coffee…”

It was.

Photo by El Gregein from Flickr

Filed Under: Misc, Uncategorized

Monday night is sandwich night.

November 17, 2010 By LinaNicklin 2 Comments

Perfectly arranged fruit and impeccably stacked vegetables. Whole Foods – the Mecca for all things organic and good for you. There, amongst the bins and boxes of fresh roots and herbs, I find myself yearning for a Diet Coke-free existence. A life of herbal teas, homeopathic remedies, and alternative protein sources. Ah… can you smell it? The air of health and endless dinner possibilities!

I shop there at least twice a week. You see, my husband and three small children all have gluten and dairy intolerances of varying degrees. These allergies are among the most expensive and inconvenient… next to soy and egg (I don’t know how those people do it). It’s hard. Really hard. In fact, at times, it down right sucks. My children are denied pizza and cake at birthday parties. My husband, who travels frequently, is at the mercy of room service and airport cooks who have never even heard of gluten. I pack lunches, frantically sort through Halloween candy, and attempt having my family “fit in” at parties and special events as much as possible.

Home, however, is a safe place. My kitchen is a gluten/dairy-free zone, and I am one bad-ass gluten-free mamma jamma! Enter Whole Foods.

Once I introduced myself to Mecca, I quickly realized these allergies might be the best thing to ever happen to us. Prior to being diagnosed, the kids and I were on a downward spiral of buttered noodles and jelly toast. I believe they call it “the white diet” – rice, pasta, bread, fries, cereal, etc. Filling, yet nutritionally deficient, foods. Something had to change. I knew it and my husband knew it. However, once he was diagnosed, it was as if someone had made the decision for us. It was time to shop elsewhere.

Do you recall the scene from Wizard of Oz when the movie switches from black and white to color? Well, walking into Whole Foods for the first time was kind of like that. It was beautiful. Artistically lit apple displays, every variety of lentil and bean, antibiotic-free meats and poultry, and, most importantly, the promise of children who would gladly eat their organic steamed vegetables and ask for seconds.

When I walked in, my demeanor immediately changed, as though I needed to pay homage to the produce Gods by speaking in a soft voice and walking slowly. It was like church. I was deliberate with my approach. Carefully planning meals in my mind… grilled ginger and gluten-free soy marinated chicken breast, red potatoes with fresh dill, fresh roasted corn and tomato salad, steamed broccoli florets. We were going to be the healthiest family on the planet and this wonderful place was going to help us get there.

Well, did you know certain bakeries have REALLY improved the taste and texture of gluten-free bread? And, the rice pasta ain’t half-bad, either. There’s gluten-free/dairy-free pizza crust, cookies, brownies, cakes, pancake mixes, and incredibly delicious dairy-free ice cream, too.

Yesterday was Monday. My son attends religious education after school on Mondays. We had sandwiches for dinner.

How do you like them organic pink lady apples??

Photo by rkazda taken from www.flickr.com.

Filed Under: Misc, Parenting, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

Space: The final frontier?

November 8, 2010 By LinaNicklin 7 Comments

I remember so much about visiting my grandma and grandpa’s old house. Watching the Austrian cuckoo clock, playing with the Lithuanian dolls they kept in their basement, and laying on the floor gnawing stale candy while listening to The Sound of Music soundtrack crackle and pop on the record player. I especially loved exploring their bedroom.

It was a rich place filled with every treasure a seven year old could ask for.  A closet full of grandpa’s hats and bow ties, a bathroom stocked with potent perfume samples, and a jewelry chest loaded with clip-on earrings and beaded necklaces. I would come out of there looking and smelling like a cheap hooker if left unsupervised for too long. It was paradise. There was just something I never quite understood about that room – something that still haunts my memory to this very day. They kept separate beds. Two perfectly identical twin beds with white tasseled quilts.

Now, even I, at the ripe old age of seven, knew mommies and daddies needed to sleep together in a big bed so they could kiss and snuggle all night long… right? I mean, they were MARRIED! How could they not want to sleep together?? Totally weird and beyond my comprehension at the time but, oh well, at least I still had free reign of their closet. Whatever.

Fast forward 3o years. I am happily married to the love of my life and wondering if good ole gram and gramps were onto something. Heck… scrap the twin bed thing. I might actually shoot for separate rooms!

I love my husband. I REALLY do. I remember the days when we couldn’t possibly sleep any closer. At one point, we shared a twin bed for about 6 months. I thought, “We are SOOO awesome together. I don’t know ANY other couple who could live like this!”

Well, things have changed. Now, when it comes to bedtime, I like it early, I like it quiet, and I like it R O O M Y.

Strike one? Homeboy comes to bed late. Strike two? He has this bedtime ritual of blowing his nose, clearing his throat, and gulping loudly from a water bottle – glug, glug, glug – all at the bedside. Okay. Now I’m awake. Then comes strike three – the clicking of his Blackberry keyboard as he sets his alarm. The icing on the cake is a few deep sighs, some pulling of the sheets, and perhaps an attempt to “snuggle”.

Poor thing. He KNOWS, unless he is getting one of mommy’s “special hugs”, he is fully required to stay on his side of the bed with his hands and feet to himself. Not so much as a cold toe is allowed to linger over to my side of the bed.

He really does take one for the team.

I’m sure many of you are thinking, “What a cold, horrible witch!” Really? Am I? I kiss, console, and hug my three kids all day long – tons of love and affection happening here. It’s just that, if someone decides watching Army of Darkness on cable is more important that coming to bed, then all I ask for is a peaceful night. And, trust me… you ain’t seen“horrible witch” until I’ve come off a bad night’s sleep. I would probably being doing the world, especially my family, complete justice by insisting he or I sleep elsewhere.

However, don’t give up on us yet. This horrible witch still has some fight left in her. Today, I bought myself a pair ear plugs. I’m hoping those, a little red wine, and a downed cable line will do the trick. Wish me luck.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

Ugly: The New Beautiful

October 27, 2010 By LinaNicklin 9 Comments

As I grow older, I am learning to love my laugh lines. They don’t just show my age, they show a life of laughter and happiness. Smiling wide. Besides, attempting to cover them up is a monumental effort that, in the past, has ended in disaster. I would like to believe that you would trust and like me more without all of the make-up on.

There. I said it. Not only am I embracing my wrinkles, but I am admitting my terrible make-up application skills. Feels good.

Something magical happens when we reveal ourselves to people. Disclose some kind of truth about oneself.  And, not the kind of truth where I tell everyone I’m from Chicago when I’m really from Wilmette (a north suburb of Chicago). That’s just whatever. I am talking about the kind of truth that would, otherwise, be  a little embarrassing. Something superficial, yet entertaining. An “ugly” truth, if you will.

Allow me to demonstrate, again:

I have an unruly hair on my chin that, if goes unplucked for too long, could potentially be used as dental floss. One summer, as the sun bleached it out, my monthly pluck fell by the wayside. As the energy of the universe would have it, I ran into an old friend, who could solidly be categorized as a “hottie”, and I was SURE he caught a glimpse of that puppy at least once or twice.

Did you feel it? I am liberated of this information and you are, hopefully, amused. And, it’s okay to laugh. It’s funny because it’s true.

Here’s another:

After giving birth three times, I now pee a little when I sneeze too hard. Imagine the anxiety I feel when allergy season rolls around.

Certainly, I am not proud of this information, but I accept it. Just another sacrifice my body made for popping out 3 babies. I also accept the fact that I don’t know how to do a kegel exercise to save my life (look it up, men).

It turns out we live in a world where having perfect hair, flawless skin, expensive clothes, and a magazine-worthy kitchen is, somehow, important and defining. Our kids all behave, our houses are spotless, we ONLY eat organic, unprocessed foods, and we certainly NEVER burp or pick our noses. Well… we are fooling no one.

Why are we relentlessly trying to convey this perfect facade? The cars we drive or the granite slabs we choose for our countertops should reflect us, not define us.

People are awesome. Our little quirks and imperfections are what help make us awesome. We all have them. They are what make us human. Sharing them opens us up and makes us real and vulnerable… and vulnerable can be beautiful.

Call me a crazy optimist, but I truly feel the world would be a more enjoyable place if we all just shared these little “ugly” truths about ourselves. Ugly… it’s the new beautiful.

(And, yes, you can still be beautiful even if your second toe is significantly longer than your first toe. Not that MINE is, but you know who you are.)

Photo by skene from Flickr

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Motivate Tagged With: , , ,

Kickin’ it old school

October 25, 2010 By LinaNicklin 4 Comments

Recently, my husband and I moved our family from the west suburbs of Chicago to the north suburbs. To be honest, we had no intentions of ever moving from our original location, but we were presented with an opportunity our family could not pass up. It wasn’t a big move – about 40 miles distance between locations – however, the two areas are poles apart.

The west suburb, our originating area, was this sprawling city made up of shiny superstores, strip malls, and large chain restaurants. There were parking spaces as far as the eye could see. Everything was there. Everything was convenient. I could pick up a prescription, the dry cleaning, and a morning coffee all from the comfort of my own car. It was the land of drive-thrus and it was glorious!

The west suburb had big yards, wide streets, and beautifully planned parks, paths, and bridges. Everything was professionally landscaped and manicured. Every blade of grass accounted for. Even a lovely river wound through the charming historic district highlighting ducks, kayakers, and the occasional fisherman. It truly was a suburban paradise.

Now, we live north of Chicago. Although beautiful, it harnesses a different kind of beauty. For one, our new suburb rests on the shores of Lake Michigan, complete with beachfront parks and paths. The houses are large, old, and unique. Old fashioned street lamps and towering oak trees line the 100+ year old narrow, brick-paved streets.

Gorgeous? Yes. Convenient? Not so much.

No superstores here, unless you are willing to make a painstaking drive riddled with stoplights and stop signs. Just the occasional chain grocery store. In fact, most people who live here buy their fish from the fish place, their meat from the meat place, and their bread from the bakery. And, instead of the big, gleaming pharmacy of the western suburbs, we now use the little one tucked next to the coffee shop. It sells greeting cards, gum, and the barest of essentials. The only fast food restaurant is on the first floor of an aged apartment building sans drive-thru. If you need to work out, you walk, run, or bike outside. Backyards are small, garages are detached, and trash cans are kept in the alley out back.

Although it is nothing like our original, parent-friendly paradise, I think I am beginning to like it here. I like that I need to be more mindful when I walk into a store. “Do I have everything I need? This is the only stop I want to make here this week.” I like having a postal worker who takes time to stop and chat, or a check-out lady who remembers the kids’ names. The proud pharmacist, who runs the store with his son, is kind and always happy to greet his customers. Last week, the neighborhood got together and celebrated the long-time crossing guard’s birthday with streamers and a big sign.

It feels slower here. It feels old-fashioned here. I feel there is less here. And, in this age of technological distractions, that’s not such a bad thing. The kids play outside a little later, and the TV stays off a little longer. Dinner? Why not pack a few sandwiches and head for the beach? And, if we ever crave the hustle and bustle of the big city, all we need to do is hop in the car and take a 20 minute drive south.

Our dryer broke this weekend. Normally, I would be cursing the laundry gods and begging them to bring back the convenience of clean, dry clothes in the comfort of my own home…but I’m not. Actually, I’m looking forward to visiting the little laundromat in town, having the kids pump quarters into the machines, and watch the clothes slush around through the window. Maybe buy an orange pop from the vending machine. It’s gonna be great. It’s gonna be old school.

Photo by pykeman taken from Flickr

Filed Under: Misc, Nostalgia, Style Tagged With: , , ,

Straight, Not Narrow: An open letter to gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender youth.

October 11, 2010 By LinaNicklin 12 Comments

I am a white, straight, thirty-something mother of three who lives in the suburbs and drives a crossover. I am the woman who stands next to you in line, and the one who holds open the elevator door. Upon first stereotypical glance, my appearance may suggest that I do not approve of homosexuality. Or, that I would like for you to keep your sexuality all boxed up where I can’t see it, thank you very much. But, look again.

Did you know one of my dearest friends is an openly gay man? Or, that my husband used to work and draw blood at an HIV clinic in the early 90s? Or, that my sister-in-law is happily married to a woman and hopes to, one day, start a family? I may look like someone who doesn’t care about you, but I do. I care about your right to live freely and happily, and the right to feel comfortable in your own skin. I am sad when you don’t feel accepted, and I get angry when you believe harming yourself is the answer.

I am here. Do you see me?

When bullies beat you down with their words, remember my words… I care. When you feel trapped within the confines of your school, know that on the other side of those walls are countless other people like me who are happy to be in the company of people like you. And, we are waiting for you.

It may seem like you will never have control of your surroundings, but you will. In the not-so-distant future, you will be able to choose your college, neighborhood, and workplace. You will make friends who will love you, nurture you, and understand you. You WILL know freedom and acceptance. You WILL know love. It WILL get better.

And, this white, straight, thirty-something mother of three from the suburbs accepts you.

Photo by zing_s taken from Flickr

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