After a month of planning, construction and worry, and with help from a host of volunteers, I successfully hosted a kids Halloween party for the single parent group to which I belong. Our basement, including Robby's room, became a mini haunted house, the upstairs a gathering place in which children ingested sugar in mass quantities and parents turned a temporarily blind eye to it.

When the real lights went down and the black and strobe lights came on, when the characters did their frightful things and the motion-activated floating skull began screeching at each youthful visitor who descended the stairs, the haunted house was a success. A little frightening - but just a little, mind you - even to Robby, who had been through it many times in the light of day. Two children even refused to come down the stairs, and were later only coaxed there when the lights came up -- a sure sign of success!

From the day the sun rose Saturday, I was stressed, moving nonstop, cleaning in preparation for a party - always a questionable activity - baking the brownies that would be rolled into objects one could easily mistake for dog poop, checking lights, putting on my costume and, as pre-party volunteers began flowing into the house, directing, directing, directing.

Every "What needs to be done?" was met with a very specific response. There was no time to waste. We faced a deadline. This is always when I am at my most focused and effective.

"It's going to be fabulous," David, another group member said. "You can relax."

But I couldn't. Matt needed an extension cord. Diana needed wax paper for the caramel apples. Sara needed tape. These were items only a homeowner could find.

So, headless-chicken style, I kept moving.

From the haunted house to the pinata, the party went off without a hitch, and with ample screams both of delight and fear.

After the basement closed for haunting, I stood in the driveway with David and another single dad.

"It was awesome!" David said. "You should be proud. And now you can relax."

"Sort of," I said, "I have a house full of people."

"They're fine," he said.

I knew that what he said was true, but as we spoke, I saw three sucked-dry silver Capri Sun packages littering the lawn. Inside, orange candies once attached to brightly decorated cupcakes dotted the carpet, the kitchen table was smeared with small hand prints, the counter gooey with caramel. Children shrieked and ran inside the house, and I, the mother of one, well-behaved 12-year-old boy, felt overwhelmed by the swell of activity.

He was right. The adults and children were fine, but I was not. Now, I wanted to clean. I wanted my house back. I wanted the month of preparation truly complete.

I felt somehow wicked, ushering the last guest out with such relief.

"Can I help you clean up?" she asked. I could see she felt guilty leaving me what the party's remnants.

"No, thank you. Really I'm just fine," I said, not adding that the best way she could help me was to leave.

I tackled the house and quickly, night time came. For a change, I slept soundly.

After breakfast today, Robby ran, as usual, next door to play.

I sat inside, thinking of all I still needed to do.

There was, for instance, the dog to be walked. I leashed Ally and walked the half block to the park. I looked up at the sky and saw, for the first time, what a truly beautiful Indian summer day it was.

I forced my step to slow, then stop, then lowered myself to the ground. I sat in the grass. And let myself be.

The breeze stirred my hair. The sun warmed my skin. Traffic on nearby Quebec hummed steadily. Occasionally, during those lovely 10 minutes or so, Ally ran to me, her mouth open in what was clearly a laugh, dropping the ball at my feet in a request for a throw. But at 11, and tires easily. Her demands were few; mostly, she lay in the shade, gnawing happily on the tennis ball.

I stared at the grass and noticed a small bee hovering above a patch of it a few feet away from me.

My thoughts meandered.

I relaxed.

I realized, too, how rare a moment it was. How infrequently I allowed myself these moments.

Months ago, I joked with my yoga instructor - then and still now my realtor - that I loved the workout aspect of yoga but hated "the part at the end where you just lay there." I felt it was a waste of time, I said, when I had so many things to do.

He smiled, that semi-amused, patient and somehow simultaneously wise smile that only few people can manage. "Consider," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Just consider for a moment, will you?" He paused. "That you never allow yourself to relax."

I laughed and gave him some lightly flippant response. I could never disrespect Mike, but the idea struck me as silly. Until later, when I thought about it again.

When I have free time, I typically think not about how I can enjoy it, but what I must do. When the newspaper sections pile up, unread, I no longer look forward to reading them as pleasure, but as an obligation. I paid for them. I must read them. E-mails become not a fun way to communicate, but obligations; I cannot neglect my friends by failing to respond in a timely manner. I consciously think about scheduling my social life. I list it among my "goals for the day," a piece of paper I print out and tape on the wall in front of my computer each morning. It is here now as I type: Goals: October 24: Schedule at least one social event this week." When Robby and I watch a movie, I cannot sit still but jump up repeatedly; there's dog hair on the floor after all, I have to get it while I see it; popcorn must be made, drinks poured and while I'm up doing those things, there are a half dozen others I can do, too.

Perhaps it's the fallout of life as a single parent and homeowner. Always something to do and clean, always somewhere to be.

Perhaps it's fear of what I will find if I stop. Maybe I'm running. From loneliness, human-to-human commitment and time.

But I suspect that while some of us are more dubiously practiced at it then others, this is something of which we all are guilty.

We forget to drop our hands, relieve ourselves of what are so often our self-imposed burdens, let the tension melt from our so frequently tired bodies. To just stop. And simply be.

Why Charles Went To West Virginia Seeking Virgins

I do not know if a man named Charles ventured west in search of virgins, although I suppose in the history of time some horny lad named Charles, frustrated by the lack of pure women in his own burg, traveled west in hopes of finding chaste young women.

(And likely was disappointed. Digression. Sorry.)

All I know is that this particular Charles helped my son pass his capitals-and-states test.

Charleston, West Virginia. See?

My son came to me two weeks ago with tears in his eyes. Now, I know I mention his teary eyes quite often here in the land of blog, but that's because the occurrence is so rare. He's a good student who takes it all seriously, sometimes too much so, I think. It was a Sunday and he was taking his second test on the states and their capitals the next day.

"I only know a quarter of them," he told me, just minutes before we left on his return trip to the mountains.

I suggested printing out maps of the United States that showed states but no cities. If you can see it, I said, maybe then you can remember it. Quickly, I found some online and printed out about 10 copies, leaving him plenty for practice. He stuffed them in his homework binder and we loaded up for the ride. I saw by the expression on his face it had done little to soothe him, or bolster his confidence.

I remembered my mom grilling me on the states and capitals. Repetition was key, or at least part of it.

"How about I quiz you on them?" I offered.

He nodded and handed me a sheet on which each state and its capital was printed. I laid it on my right thigh so I could glance down at it while I drove.

"Alaska," I said.

He was silent, then finally sighed and said, "I don't know."

My mind worked. I think I even heard a rusty squeak as the gears began to turn.

"OK, Alaska has like three months of solid sun or something, right? I don't know when they are but let's say, since summer is sunny, that it's June - the month that school gets out and summer begins."

"Juneau," he interrupted me.

"Yes!"

And so we started down the line.

Some were easy. For Arizona, I asked him to think about the phoenix bird in Harry Potter, and the phrase that a phoenix rises from the ashes. Arizona is so hot it creates ashes, and from there, the phoenix comes.

Some were ridiculous.

"When Columbus saw the Indians in the new world, he probably said, 'Oh! Hi! Oh!'," I said, making an expression of surprise.

"God, that is so stupid!" Robby said, laughing.

"It is," I agreed. "But will you remember it?"

He nodded, trying in vain to hold back the laughter.

After each state, I went back to the beginning and quizzed him from Alaska on down. He soon began to roll his eyes with impatience at it, but his answers were rapid fire, without hesitation.

Halfway through, I suggested we stop. "Your head needs a break from this," I said. "Then your dad can take you through the rest."

"No," he said, grinning. "Let's keep going."

To my happy surprise, I realized he was having fun. It wasn't homework. Now, it was a game.

I found myself enjoying the challenge of making them as outrageous and memorable as possible. There was South Dakota. How could he remember Pierre? He didn't know a lick of French, and it related to nothing kidlike.

"Well, South Dakota is one of those big states without a lot of people in it. In fact, it's so big and empty you could pee in the air and no one would notice!"

"Mom! That's sick!" Robby said, grinning ear-to-ear.

"What's the capital of South Dakota?"

He tried unsuccessfully to fight a smile. "Pierre."

By the time we reached his dad - nearly an hour and a half of quizzing later - Robby's confidence had returned. He jumped out of the car and threw his PS2 and homework binder into his dad's truck. I started to step back into my car, but he came rushing back, his smile as wide as his arms, and locked me in a hug.

I kissed his head, and whispered, "Don't tell your dad about West Virginia."

He nodded and grinned conspiratorially.

Three days later, I found a message on my cell phone. "Mom, I got 100 out of 100 on my test! I thought you'd want to know that and ... well, more when I see you."

For reasons far removed from Robby's of just days ago, now it was my turn to get teary eyed.

George has not returned, and I have lost hope. The animal communicator will say my lack of faith is precisely why he has not, and now will not, come home. That because I am no longer urging him to return, he will stay where he is.

This would be funny to me if it were not about George. And of course, she has not yet said this. Most likely, I am anticipating a guilt trip because I already feel guilty.

I suggested to my son we take down the "Lost cat" signs in our neighborhood and he shook his head. When I looked at him, I saw tears in his eyes. So I waited until he returned to his father's, then walked around the neighborhood and tore them from the stop signs and mailbox units to which they'd been secured for nearly three weeks.

We will wait six months, he says, to get a new cat, because "George won't like it if he comes home and finds another cat."

Me, I'm thinking Christmas. I'm thinking a carefully wrapped, breathable container under the tree, packed with a wriggling orange, tiger-striped kitten.

I'm committed to writing more often again here, and about lighter subjects for God's sake! Look for exciting titles, such as Why Charles Went West in Search of Virgins and Me & Carol: My Eternal Brush with Celebrity. You'll understand. Meanwhile, kinda puts ya on the edge of your seat, don't it?

But the hour is late, mostly because I spent the last one searching online for news of Sept. 20, 2007 - the day my friend Lu's daughter was born. I'm going to meet little Autumn tomorrow. I picked up today an adorable Osh Kosh B'Gosh hoodie and pink matching pants. I felt a wave of sorrow while perusing the racks in Osh Kosh B'Gosh, remembering my own days of shopping there for a wee Robby whose long since outgrown snap-crotch overalls and shirts adorned with fuzzy-textured, bright red trucks and spotted giraffes.

Cute as it was, it seemed not quite enough.

So, I Googled and printed news of the day she was born. I tracked down entertainment and environmental news, including a long story on Wal-Mart's efforts to "go green," perfect for this dedicated environmentalist, mountain-dwelling friend of mine. I printed out the Summit Daily News movie listings for Sept. 20 and a copy of an editorial from the same paper.

I am quite proud of myself, and can only imagine that you all are in awe as well, high-fiving me in your minds. (Thank you very much.) My gifts usually lack in creativity. They may be nice, but are not typically very remarkable. I read about this idea in a magazine, which makes me prouder still: Reading about a cool suggestion is one thing, actually remembering to do it quite another.

At any rate, all this research, after well over a year away from daily newspaper life, has quite exhausted me. And tomorrow, I have a baby to hold - another pastime from which I have too long been absent.

George is missing.

It's not uncommon that he is gone one night. But we have passed a second night, and now are on to the third.

My sleep was fitful last night, dreams of lost George intermingled with images of Robby, the two of them lost together.

I turn again and again yesterday and today from the kitchen to the window that overlooks the backyard, expecting to see him there, peering into the window back at me, his little face appearing to light up as it does when he knows I've seen him and am coming to open the door. But he is not there. I see only a scattering of yellowish orange leaves on the green patio. I try not to think about the symbolism of the dead leaves and our missing George, but it is a comparison so obvious as to nearly be comical.

My boss says her daughter knows some people who are animal communicators. "Tell me his name and send me his picture," she advises. "I'll forward it to them and we'll see what they can tell us. Maybe they can see if he's locked in somewhere, or if he's lost. They're pretty good at this, really."

I believe. At this moment, the idea is not the least bit humorous.

"Meanwhile, I want you to picture George and talk to him in your head," she says. "I know this sounds crazy, but animals pick up more than we know, especially cats. Tell him you want him to come home."

I hang up the phone and do as she said. "Come home, George," I think. "We are not a family without you."

How awful it is; I would rather something have happened to my dog than to our cat. I hope that she cannot sense this.

"Where is your brother?" I ask her. "I'm worried about him."

She looks up at me with her solemn eyes and wags her tail tentatively. I stroke her head gently.

A young, sympathetic-appearing woman at the Denver Dumb Friends League leads me through room after room of cats. A long-haired orange tabby looks up and meows at me. Another orange tabby sleeps. I look at him more closely; his nose is pink, without George's black freckles. Besides, George would have stood up at the sound of my voice.

I ask the hardest question last. "Do you have any dead cats?"

"Yes," she says. "But none like him. The best thing for you to do is to call Waste Management."

I nod curtly, as though we are talking business, and feel no shame as my emotions rise to betray me. Red-rimmed eyes can be nothing new to her.

Tomorrow night, I pick Robby up for another weekend here in our home. I will have to tell him, and watch his face twist as his small heart breaks.

Where is our crazy little Georgie-cat? I cling to hope, even as it grows slippery.