The one thread that stickily weaves my summertime memories of Concord together is ice cream. Neither rain nor shine, dress clothes nor play clothes, morning nor night would prevent our regular stops at favorite ice cream haunts. I became a world- class ice cream connoisseur at a remarkably young age. After exhaustive research and countless ice cream headaches, it was evident the place to go for soft serve was Arnie’s (which was not actually Arnie’s back then, but Dairy Queen). Chocolate and vanilla soft serve twist on a plain cone with chocolate sprinkles (not jimmies, oh definitely not jimmies), please.

Carvel served the most refreshingly divine mint chocolate chip, which had to be placed atop a crisp sugar cone and slathered with rainbow sprinkles (opting for chocolate sprinkles would have overwhelmed the palate). If you were looking for classy, Carvel was it; no lame little shavings of chocolate in their ice cream; rather it was populated with the cutest real mini chips, shaped just like those we would eat by the handful from the yellow bag when making cookies. And no picking glue off your ice cream cone, as Carvel used a simple napkin for hygiene purposes instead of those paper sleeves.

Friendly’s on Main Street was the place for a quick and dirty ice cream fix, and usually our feet ended up sticking to the ground outside the order window after stepping in an ice cream spill. Undeterred, I was always up for a black raspberry on a sugar cone with chocolate sprinkles, which brought out the berry tones of the ice cream while accentuating the deep brown sugar of the cone.

Cursed with ice cream addictive genes that have passed to the next generation, my husband and I are now raising a couple of ice cream fanatics. Nary a sunny summertime day passes without our 2- or 5-year-old making the suggestion to go for ice cream. Friendly’s is a favorite since they can walk (though we have to bring a stroller for the little guy who has not yet mastered simultaneously eating ice cream and walking). The order window is now much spiffier, with nary a Croc having to be peeled off the ground. Ballard’s with its stellar wooden play structures is a special treat enjoyed on the bike ride home from Rollins Park. And we all treasure those summer evenings spent lazing about Bicentennial Square (or as our kids and all of their friends call it, “Turtle Square,” and yes, I am aware it is technically a tortoise), working our way through gargantuan goodness from Granite State Candies (you must try the maple pecan, on a sugar cone, of course).

For our family, ice cream is much more than just milk, cream and sugar. Ice cream is a catalyst for making memories, drawing us out of the house on warm summer nights to engage with fellow Concordians, support local businesses, enjoy the beauty of our city, and slow down just long enough to feel the gratitude resonate. Then the ice cream headache sets in, moment of contemplation abruptly ends, and laughs abound.

Keep the cone side down . . .

The Paperclip Incident – Published in Parenting NH (Dec. 2008)

“Mommy, I ate a paperclip.” The words trembled from the quivering lips of my four year old. I looked up, and tears were splashing down her blotchy red cheeks. Immediately broken from my mini break of ice cream and a women’s mag (while, admittedly, the kids were parked in front of a Wiggles movie), I leapt into action.

Like a reporter on the verge of a huge exposé, I peppered her with questions: “When did this happen? Did you swallow it just now? During the Wiggles?” She replied, “No, it was a really long time ago. Like last year.” This is a child who, despite her firm grasp of months, has not yet connected with the concept of years. As a result, I was a tad skeptical about her timeframe. Racking my brain for events of significance, I inquired if the paperclip incident occurred before or after we moved out for renovations. She replied it was before the move (“when we still had the lead paint”).

Not entirely convinced, I asked for supporting details. She supplied, “I was sitting on the couch when it was over where the big comfy chair is now.” Relieved that she passed the fact check (the couch really was in a different locale prior to our move), I pressed on. “Where did you get the paper clip? Was it a metal one or colored?”

Her response, still teary but minus the sobbing, was that the paperclip came from her pink sparkly princess suitcase, the one upstairs on her desk now. And the paperclip was metal. This last bit of information I found, senselessly, assuring.

Perhaps with all the focus on evil plastics as of late, the thought of just simple metal meandering through my daughter’s GI track was the lesser of two evils. Of course, then I had to call my husband to determine the metallurgy of a standard paperclip (any possibility of lead?).

Upon recounting the incident, I anticipated my husband would reassure me in the lovingly condescending tone he occasionally adopts when I have overreacted and tiptoed toward paranoia. Shockingly, his response was: “That’s not good pal. That’s not good at all.” Now, panic began to set in. Heart racing, face flushing, ears ringing panic.

He wanted to know how she was. Any abdominal pains? Any bleeding? The inquiries shot at me like I was one of his patients in the ambulance. He wanted to establish a timeframe. When I shared that, to the best of my knowledge, it was pre-renovation, he exhaled audibly. With a markedly relaxed tone, he advised that since we were looking at five months ago, the offending paperclip had undoubtedly passed.

I was unconvinced. After all, I was the one sitting with my distraught daughter who, for reasons completely unbeknownst to me, had just recalled the paperclip ingestion incident. I was the one envisioning the damn thing somewhere inside my little girl. I was the one who checked on her every 20 minutes throughout the night. I was the one walking around the house paling at the sight of anything smaller than a toilet paper tube opening. I was the one second guessing myself: weren’t they supposed to be done putting items in their mouth by the age of 4?

I was the one dragging my sorry sleep-deprived self out of bed the next day, while my firstborn leapt to her feet, repositioned the cat, and began performing a dance from the prior night’s Wiggles video, volume full tilt, and all appendages swinging wildly.

My husband breezed through the paperclip incident unscathed, my daughter bounced back effortlessly, and I find myself with a new wrinkle and an irrational fear of office supplies.

There’s nothing quite like summer – Published in NH Mirror (July 2008)New England family, we relish each and every season. Autumn days are ideal for picking apples and ogling foliage, icy winter afternoons are spent on the slopes, and spring is celebrated by throwing off the fleece and strolling downtown. Ah, but there is nothing quite like summer.Mount Washington snow. A few spoonfuls into my dish, the sore muscles garnered from playing sherpa for two children simply melt away.

The surest signs of summer around here are neither the day on the jumbo family calendar nor the outside air temperature. Nope, you know summer has truly arrived when slamming on the station wagon’s brakes results in a rolling cacophony of beach pails, shovels, a good amount of sand, and various lake and ocean detritus. Summer announces its presence with an overflowing inbox of evites to parties celebrating birthdays, beer, messes (yes, we do attend an annual Messy Party – where the kids get ridiculously filthy for a great cause), independence, and fondue.

A hardcore

Much like baseball season, our summer has distinct opening and closing events. Our May season opener is spent, ironically, in the presence of vast quantities of snow at Tuckerman Ravine. When one’s husband is among the ranks of the storied Mount Washington Volunteer Ski Patrol, one’s self and children are mandated to haul their behinds up the mountain to enjoy the annual spaghetti dinner. My personal highlight of the dinner is not the awards or open air al fresco dining. The real reason for my pilgrimage is freshly churned vanilla ice cream made from virgin

Our regular summer season is filled with lots of ice cream, but none that competes with that Mount Washington Vertical Vanilla. In addition to the ice cream, there are countless carefree days surrounded by friends, family, some element of sand and water, copious amounts of food, an open fire, lax bedtimes, and beaucoup gorgeous memories in the making.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, but at least summer lets us down gently. The final game of our summer season is a perpetually sunny gathering at the gorgeously understated and simple lake home of a former airline colleague. A vast expanse of green lawn stretches right down to the petite lakeshore. Children run around like banshees, watermelon juice streaming from their mouths like miniature vampires. Dogs lie in wait, snapping up any BBQ you are silly enough to set down. Grown-ups paddle out to the floating trampoline, where they get silly and embarrass their offspring. Late season blueberries are picked from lakefront bushes while wading in the cool water.

Eventually the sun begins to set, and we clamor aboard the pontoon boat for a leisurely troll around the lake, chatting and watching and soaking it all in. This final game is an inoculation of sorts against the coming months of limited daylight, bitter cold, and prolific mud. We know what lies in wait, but today, right in that moment, it is still summer. And we are loving it.

Two months and $50,000 ago, this scenario repeated itself every few daytime hours: from across the room, our 15-month old is spied making a beeline for the window. I morph into SuperMom, crossing the divide in a single bound, shouting “Nooooo!” Success means the toddler is averted from touching the window. Failure results in yet another trip to the sink to wash hands.

Though it sounds like a good therapy session, or at least parenting class might have been in order, what we actually needed was lead remediation. Thus the fabulous journey of home renovation began.

My husband and I were aware of the lead paint when signing the plethora of paperwork at closing. Nearly without exception, every dwelling in our target zone (walkable to downtown and the park) had lead paint and/or asbestos. Fast forward a few months, and the paint previously in good condition seemed to be chipping if you so much as exhaled forcefully. You can imagine what the combined forces of two active young children reaped. Full disclosure here: we are a household whose playroom features a swing and trapeze bar. The windows were the worst, hence our aversion to letting the children even catch a glimpse of the great outdoors.

When our little guy’s lead level came back too high for comfort, the decision to renovate was made. The logistics, timing, and finances resulting from this decision, however, were oftentimes simultaneously harried, scary, and comical.

Realizing our home would be uninhabitable during renovations, the time had come to locate alternate lodging. My parents generously offered their place, I scanned Craigslist for short-term housing, we toyed with the idea of a hotel; all of these were viable and fairly sensible options. However, refusing to take a predictable path, we opted to purchase and temporarily live in an investment property. Just saying that out loud sounds nuts, as the leap from locating to closing on a duplex took place over the course of the same three weeks in which we were finalizing contractors and packing to move.

We quickly selected a lead remediation company with a terrific reputation. Within a few days, every potentially offending piece of lead-painted house was removed, that is, our entire home was gutted – all windows, along with most of the walls, trim, ceilings, did I mention the kitchen had to be ripped out too?

Putting everything back together, predictably, took a bit longer. Less predictable were the projects and expenses that appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The situation was akin to that whack-a-mole game, but instead of wielding a big rubber hammer, problems were attacked with my screaming checkbook. Mice chewed wires making electrical system unsafe? Take that $6,000!

Finally, all of the moles were whacked, the checkbook put away to cool off, and our family came home. Two months later, all of the headaches, expenses, and inconveniences were worth it. Just ask our now 17-month old, whose face is pressed against the window, marveling at Daddy’s “uck” in the driveway.

By KIM MURDOCH For the Monitor

I am writing to share my opposition to Senate Bill 337. Our family is part of a strong, organized, passionate, and educated group of home-schoolers who oppose this bill as it currently reads.

We have chosen to home-school our children because we believe the educational opportunities we offer are ideal for our families. SB 337 has a real chance of limiting the education of many home-schooled children. We are dedicated to expanding our children’s horizons, not limiting them. By dictating curriculum, reporting, and tracking, SB 337 usurps the parents’ role in home-schooling, and effectively clips the wings of opportunity for countless New Hampshire children.

Our oldest child, age 4, has already traveled extensively across the United States, gaining knowledge in geography, culture, science and art. When Grace identifies a state on the map, she does not see just the pink and orange shapes; rather, she recalls viewing the Grand Canyon, hiking at Arches National Monument, camping in Colorado, visiting the zoo in St. Louis.

Grace’s innate and authentic quest for knowledge has spurred her to learn how to write and begin to read. She creates artwork at mass volume, and skis better than many adults. Grace enjoys a large social network of friends her age, athletes from the Special Olympics team we coach, and lots of trusted, knowledgeable adults of all ages.

I share the personal experiences of our daughter as a “before” picture. She has made enormous academic progress prior to reaching “school age,” and without setting foot in a public or private institution of learning.

Should SB 337 become law, the “after” picture for our daughter will feature fewer opportunities, less travel, and less joy in the thrill of learning. Rather than enjoying authentic and organic learning and exploring the world around her from a place of wonder and excitement, Grace’s education will be limited to the curriculum mandated by SB 337. Instead of venturing out into the world, we will be checking the list to assure our daughter’s learning is forced into the mold created by SB 337.

This legislation threatens to dim the light of wonder and thirst for knowledge in our children. In addition to harming our family, SB 337 also requires approximately $12 million of state funds. This money could be much better spent directed to children in public schools, where budgets are constantly stretched.

As a lifelong resident of the “Live Free or Die” state, it is no surprise I fully expect to have the opportunity to ensure my children receive the best possible education. We are fortunate to be able to seize the opportunity of home-schooling and will lobby tirelessly for the protection of our children and their education.

I ardently hope lawmakers will respect the rights of parents, of children, and of educational possibilities, and vote no on SB 337.

(Kim Murdoch lives in Concord.)