an unlikely turn of events

They were not exactly fast friends. Already five when she was first introduced into his home, Max’s first response was barely short of indifference. To him, she was basically another, albeit hairless, lap cat. But then she started moving. And life for poor Max has never been quite the same.

“Relax, Max,” we have gently intoned ever since. But despite the fact cats sleep twenty-two hours out of a day, Max is not exactly a relaxed creature. When our daughter became mobile, it finally sent him over the edge into full-fledged neurosis. A living, breathing, moving stuffed animal is intensely interesting to an eighteen-month old. And our eighteen-month old was already intense to begin with.

So began Max’s love/hate relationship with my daughter. My daughter loved him dearly, he hated her with a terrified passion. The more she tried to win him over, the more skittish and slinky he became. She’d corner him, carry him, croon over him, and he, in turn, would cower and crawl away, crying for help. To his credit, he was incredibly patient—only turning his canines on her once, maybe twice, when she forgot to give heed to the twitching tail and pinned-back ears. But those were important lessons to learn, and I let her learn them on her own.

They lived in this manner of approach-avoidance for a good seven or eight years with very little changing. But then, one fall, his littermate, Ruthie, became ill and died, and life changed dramatically once again.

An affectionate cat to begin with, Max suddenly became downright needy. It wasn’t enough to sit contentedly on your lap. Oh, no. You had to be petting the kitty. And you couldn’t just gently stroke the kitty’s soft, vibrating back. No way. You had to rub the kitty’s nose. Again. And again. And again… And if you didn’t pet the kitty, over and over, the kitty would paw at you and nip at you until you either gave in or banished him permanently from the room. Which, of course, was only possible if you were in a room with a door.

This has been life with Max for the last three years. Scared to death of small hands and feet with big, loud voices yet desperate for the attention of anyone who will give it to him, something had to change. And slowly, without our noticing it, something did.

Sometime within the last year, either the cat changed, or the daughter changed, or both. Whatever the equation, I do not know who this cat is. The-cat-formerly-known-as-Max now allows my daughter to cart him all over creation, without so much as a sigh. He has even been known to follow her—the same cat that scampered away if she got within a ten-foot radius is now following the feet that threatened to trample him. He begged last night, for the second night in a row, to be let into her room to sleep with her. Begged. He sits with her—SITS WITH HER—completely still, for hours on end as she reads, curled up in her lap in a ball. ONLY WITH HER.

How is this possible? How can it be that the child who couldn’t be still enough to lure the cat who couldn’t stand movement is now the one that the cat who won’t lay still for anyone lays quietly upon? Huh??? Who is this child? And who is this cat?

just push her

There are tears coming from behind the cubbies. Earnest, gulping cries rising up over the top, the source unseen by all in the bleachers, but definitely not unheard. A mother makes her way to the edge of the mats, leaning over to assess the situation. She does not appear sympathetic. The cries grow louder, in spite of the flurry of activity going on around them. “Everyone else can do it! Why can’t I?,” the voice questions. “Oh, for crying out loud,” the woman replies, growing visibly agitated.

The child’s teacher confers with them, and talks them both over to the uneven bars located right in front of the bleachers where we are sitting. Her mom badgers her up on to the bar, the child still sobbing, her eyes ever downcast. She flips up onto the bar, her arms tight and her weight perched atop it. She swings her right leg up and threads it through her legs and freezes. Her mom lets out an “Oh jeeze,” throwing up her hands. The girl cries even louder.

The poor girl is afraid. It is evident. She is afraid, from her precarious perch, to tip forward and fall over the edge. “But I’ll be upside down,” she tells the teacher, who has graciously stayed after to help her. Her teacher reassures her. Her mother snorts and continues to badger her. The right leg comes down.

Mom bounces back and forth from the bleachers to the edge of the cubbies to “encourage” her six year old daughter. “I’m going to call your Dad and tell him you’re a quitter and a crybaby,” she yells from the bleachers, exasperated. I am mortified for this child. I am all for overcoming fear. But I am not at all for using shame as the motivator.

Mom begins to threaten. She’s going to call her dad and have him come get her so she can’t go to the sleepover. She’s not going to let her go to the meet tomorrow. She’s going to be grounded. If the child doesn’t do a mill-circle. She is obviously upsetting her daughter. She obviously doesn’t care, and continues nonetheless.

The teacher works with the girl for 30 minutes. The right leg comes up. She leans forward. She freezes. The right leg comes down. The scene is repeated multiple times. Mom is watching. Other kids are watching. At least ten other parents in the bleachers are watching. She is not flipping over the flippin’ bar. “Just push her,” a few of the moms joke. Her mother, however, is serious about it.

I know this child’s fear. I’ve never been perched atop a bar afraid of falling into the unknown, but I’ve stood frozen at the end of a diving board, afraid of being in over my head. I’ve cried the same tears of fear and embarrassment. I’ve had the teacher come along side me and tell me, “It’s okay—I’ll jump with you.” And then I’ve been pushed off the diving board, alone. But here’s the difference—instead of encouraging the hand behind me, my mother was furious. So much so that she demanded a refund and took us to private swim lessons. Would my mother have understood my fear? Probably not. Would she have wanted me to overcome it? Definitely. Would she have pushed me? Absolutely NOT.

They shame and pressure this poor child for an hour in front of God and everyone. “I just want her to get over her fear. I don’t want her to think she can cry and get out of stuff.” She laughs an awkward laugh—at least she has the decency to be self-conscious. Finally an older and wiser teacher takes over, working with the girl in increments. Putting a big foam block up under the bar, she gets the child to fall forward six inches, then finally a foot. But that is as far as she’s taking her tonight. “She is very afraid,” the teacher repeats over and over in her broken English, smiling but firmly shaking her head. The mother is not happy. It is evident she feels the teacher is a poor, gullible softie and has given in to the child’s tears. But the teacher knows what the mother obviously does not.

Fear isn’t overcome by pushing. Fear is overcome by coming along-side. Had my swimming teacher not broken my trust, had my teacher jumped with me as promised, my fear would have shrunken at least a size or two that day. Instead, she added shame and distrust to the mix, and the fear grew uncontrollably. This teacher knows better. It is a shame this mother does not.

I watch them leave, the daughter’s face downcast, but visibly relieved. The mother is finally silent if but for a moment, shaking her head as they put on coats and head out the door. I wonder what this small victory will cost this poor child. What promises will be broken? What privileges will be revoked? And all for what? But even more so, I wonder what this will cost her mother. What trust has been irrevocably lost between them? What impact will her words have on their relationship in both the days and years do come? And in the off chance she might ever be insightful enough to make the connection that her daughter’s teenage disdain for her might actually have just cause, would she, then, consider this night worth it? But, then again, that might be pushing the issue.

falling

“We’re all going to fall in this life,” he intones in his trying-not-to-sound-like-a-Brooklyn accent. “When you fall, fall with awareness and acceptance.” I am standing on one foot, my other foot perched on my inner thigh. My clasped hands stretch up above my head into “tree pose” and I try not to notice my ankle wobbling ever so slightly. I gaze across the living room, my eyes focused on an object across the way, and I stand firm. This time.

I have had my share of falls. Balance is not one of my strong suites, literally or figuratively. I have gracefully entered a pose only to end up galumphed on my fanny with the beautiful, resounding type of thud you only get from hard wood floors. I have landed spread eagle center stage in front of hundreds of people, which, coincidentally, creates this same resonant thud, only louder. I have sopped up ice rinks, wiped up flights of stairs, and taken home large chunks of muddy trail all over my tail end. I have tripped, I have careened. I have wobbled, I have walloped. I have, indeed, fallen in this life.

As for the awareness and acceptance piece, the verdict is still out. I would like to think I am less mortified than I used to be—more able to laugh at myself, less worried about what an idiot I must have looked like. I’ve come to accept that this is just part of who I am—I am the girl who has to hold the railing every time she goes down the steps. The girl who must always look where she is going when she’s walking. Or driving. Or moving at all. The girl who should stick to sledding and never try skiing, since she’s bound to end up on her fanny anyway, so why not start there. So, I guess I could say that the acceptance piece is coming right along.

My daughter got a taste of this lesson—falling with acceptance—over the weekend. It was a hard one to watch. Coming off of her last gymnastics extravaganza, she went into this past weekend’s meet with great expectations. An expert at expectations, both met and unmet, I encouraged her to just do her best and enjoy herself. Nothing like an unmet expectation to spoil a perfectly good evening. Or week. Or life. But I digress.

Warm ups went swimmingly, and I tried once again to be content with sitting in the chairs and not being the coach. So many words of wisdom to impart, if only there were someone there to listen. Would those words have made the difference? Who knows.

They lined up along the floor for their first event, the uneven bars. One of her favorite events, this was usually a high score for her. She should be off to a good start. She told me later that as she watched the other girls go through their routines, she began to get nervous because the judge seemed “really strict.” When her turn finally came, she ponied up to the bar and began to swing. “I told myself I was gonna do my best, Momma. I told myself I was gonna get a 9.” She went at her routine in earnest, and probably a little too fast. She ended up falling out of two important elements, and walked away with a 6.9. She wouldn’t even look at me, or her yellow ribbon.

My heart ached for her—I knew the feeling of coming off a huge success only to have a failure meet you where another happy, shining moment was supposed to be. I also knew how hard it would be to refocus for the remaining three events, if she were to try to redeem the rest of the day. I wanted desperately to talk to her. I had to hope past conversations would resound in her head instead. She moved on to the beam, and managed to pull off a nearly flawless routine. Red ribbon this time—though many parents around us thought her score should have been higher, I was just relieved she had pulled it together. But I still wanted to talk to her.

As luck would have it, this particular meet was held in two separate but connected gymnasiums, which meant a huge shifting of crowds and athletes was necessary half way through the event. I took advantage of this mass exodus to snag her and her ribbons. I looked down at the yellow ribbon, where she had written “I sucked” on the back of it. On the front she had crossed out “Achievement” and had scribbled in the word “Failure.” I gave her a “what is this about” look. “I SUCKED,” she verbalized, burying her head in my chest and receiving my embrace. I pulled back from her and took her face in my hands.

“You’ve got to shake it off, Bub. Everybody falls. You’ve got to shake it off and keep going. Thinking that way isn’t going to help you.”

“But Momma…”

“No buts, Bub. You remember Momma’s yoga video? What does he say about falling? We ALL fall, don’t we? We have to fall with what?”

She looked at me blankly.

“We have to fall with awareness and acceptance. Acceptance. You fell. So what. Shake it off, and go do your best.”

She grinned, slightly embarrassed. “Okay, Momma…” And off she bounced.

Wouldn’t you know, she pulled herself together, and pulled off a 9.1 on floor and a 9.05 on vault. Two blue ribbons. The day had been redeemed.

In the car on the way home, she lamented that she had hoped for four blue ribbons, like the perfectly tall and proportioned Amanda from one of the lower levels had gotten. “Acceptance, Bub. It’s about acceptance. You pulled it together after a rough start and got two of the highest scores of the day—I think that’s pretty huge. Don’t you?”

She wouldn’t answer me, but I didn’t push it. We pulled into the Cracker Barrel parking lot and I simply announced that we are going to celebrate. The night had been a huge success, and we were going to acknowledge it. She ordered the biggest breakfast she could find on the menu, ate it all in one sitting, and together, with smiles and laughter all around, we celebrated falling and getting back up again.

what's in a name?

I first met Much Afraid in my early twenties, introduced by a mutual friend who adored Hind's Feet on High Places and, as usual, determinedly wanted me to share in her delight. The more she persisted, as was her nature, the more I resisted, as was mine. Perhaps it was the dated cover image, perhaps it was just a subconscious attempt to say to her "I am not as like you as you'd like me to be," but, for whatever the reason, I just wasn't interested.

I don't know why I picked up the book years later, nor do I know when. All I know is that the timing was right and the story was even more so. How this author knew me so intimately, I'll never know. But there is was--the inner workings of my heart--played out in allegorical form for all to read. I have never related so strongly to a story before, nor have I since.

Hind's Feet on High Places tells the story of little Much Afraid, a crippled and disfigured young woman who lives in the Valley of Fear with all of her Fearing Family relatives. Much Afraid loves the shepherd who comes and tends his flocks there, and as he befriends her, he begins to tell her of the High Places upon which he roams. She longs to accompany him to these High Places, but is certain her disability will prevent her from ever being able to do so. Finally, however, in a moment of desperation, as her relatives attempt to force her to wed her cousin Craven Fear, she goes away with the Shepherd and accepts his promise that he will make her feet like the feet of the deer.

The story is an allegory of the spiritual journey many of us embark upon when we set off to follow Christ and become, in our feeble and lame attempts, more like him. Her journey could not have possibly been any more relateable to me. Given Sorrow and Suffering as her companions, she heads off on her way, only to discover that the path leads her AWAY from the mountains, not toward them. This is but the first of her detours as she is pursued by her Fearing relatives who are determined to bring her back, lest their darling son Pride be wounded. Deserts, desolate beaches, sheer rock cliffs, and fog-enveloped forests are but some of the things she must endure as she learns Acceptance with Joy and Bearing the Cost. They are lessons hard learned, but unlike me, who would still be standing at the very first crossroads stomping my feet, she does, indeed, learn them.

Much Afraid makes it to the High Places, though the journey is not what she at all expected. But Fear cannot abide with Perfect Love, and so she must be given a new name to mark her tranformation. The Shepherd changes the names of her travel companions into Joy and Peace--the companions she had wished for all along. And upon our little Much Afraid he bestows the title Grace and Glory, and she is so overcome she cannot speak.

For years I prayed that God would transform me from Much Afraid into Grace and Glory. It was the cry of my heart for nearly a decade. And then I got pregnant.

As I began to search for a name for my firstborn, I scoured every name book I could find. Finally, one day, the thought dawned on me that I should look up my own. I flipped through the pages, headed for the L's. There it was: Lorie. I did a double take.

Lorie: Literally Crowned With Laurels; Victorious, Glorious Victory. Hmmm... Very interesting.

I moved on to my middle name, flipping back to the A's. Finding Anne, I gasped.

Anne: Grace.

Grace. Glorious Victory. Grace and Glory. How was this possible? How did my parents, seeking merely to add a unique spelling twist to a popular name of that period, name me EXACTLY what I would pray for later in life? But the story gets even more interesting, thanks to my friend Kim.

Sometime in my early growing up, I decided I did not like the name Lorie. I can't remember why. I just didn't. And so I announced this to my mother, decrying her choice and lamenting Why did you name me that? "That's fine," she responded with an impish grin. "We'll just call you Gertrude instead."

And so she did. Gertie stuck, and was my nickname for nearly twenty years. Fortunately, I have a good sense of humor, and even more fortunately, I actually liked it. To this day, I will still sometimes sign cards to my mother with this moniker, and have even made it a part of my current email address. Which is why Kim knew this additional namesake, and, I'm assuming, why, when reading a recent post in which I lament not being able to live up to my name, she must have looked it up.

It is no secret I have lived much of my life feeling defeated. It is also no secret that I long for this to change. I long to stand, both here and in eternity, with the crown of laurels upon my head and know that I have seen the victory over all that has bound me. Victorious over my fear and anxiety. Victorious over my lifelong fight with depression. Victorious over my struggle with my weight. Victorious over my struggles with food. Victorious over the chronic pain. Victorious over selfishness and pride. Victorious over marital depreciation. Victorious over the voices in my head that tell me I can't, I shouldn't, I won't. But how? How does one who has lived as Much Afraid find this victory? It is amazing to me how my mother has aptly named me not once, but twice.

Gertrude, Kim informs me, means Beloved Warrior.

When I read her comment, I laughed out loud at the God who put my name upon my mother's heart over 38 years ago, knowing I would pray years later for such a name and countenance. And I laughed even louder at the wonder of a God who named me yet again, years later through this same woman, for me to experience, today, in a moment of need, Him pressing yet another reminder of how he sees me onto my war-weary heart.

So you must excuse me, as I must be off to climb a mountian. Renewed in strength, I will take the hands of my companions and trudge forward. After all, the High Places await...

road blocks

Ain't it just the way? You're moving along, minding your own business. Then, you try to make a change. Go a different direction. Get out of a rut. And suddenly life spins out of control. You can't stop it. You grip the wheel tightly. You try to regain your course.

You slam into a curb.

Yep. That's just the way life is.

They don't plow our street. This is the first problem. Snow accumulates. People drive on it. It gets slushy. It makes a mess. It freezes. It becomes ice. It melts. I becomes a slushy mess again. Cars drive through the mess, leaving ruts. It freezes again. The cycle repeats. And repeats again. Then, it doesn't get above freezing. The ruts don't melt. They are smooth, solid ice. And when you try to get out of one to turn to get off the God-forsaken street to go pick up your son from kindergarten, your back end spins out and your front end lurches toward the curb and you end up, at ten miles an hour, nose to nose with a cement barrier.

Life has been a never-ending cycle of slamming into curbs and fire hydrants. Stuff accumulates. Hurts. Frustrations. Vows. They form ruts I bump along in for years. I get tired of the ruts. I try to get out. Do something different. Go a different direction. Take a different street. But something inevitably ends up in my path, denting my inner-bumper and leaving a streak of gray across my psyche.

A layer of salt, perhaps? An ice pick? Or the promise of a weekend thaw? What will it take to clear the way and make traversing the landscape safe again? What will it take for me to get to where I need to go in one piece?

hold nothing back

Write those things I say to you. Write and hold back nothing of all I shall say to you. For I shall speak to you in the darkness and shall make your way a path of light. I will cry to you out of the confusion round about, and you shall hear my voice and shall know that which I do. for my way is hidden from the rebellious, and from the disobedient, and from those who seek to walk in their own wisdom. But look to me, and I will be your beacon in the night, and you will not stumble over the hidden things. You will walk in the way of victory...

From Come Away My Beloved

This passage, as evidenced by the circling and underlining and highlighting and starring that surrounds it, has spoken to me greatly over the past year as I've completely devoured this very intimate devotional. It speaks to me, again, today, as if I've never read it before. As a "seeker of walking in my own wisdom," I long to walk in the way of victory he describes. My name, after all, means victorious. How can one possibly feel at peace in their own skin if they are living contrary to their very definition, imparted to them from before birth?

But so much darkness and confusion can begin to engulf me, obscuring my vision, making it hard to see my way clear through the inner maze of my heart. But he gives me a light in that darkness. He tells me what to do. Write. "Write and hold back nothing of all I shall say to you."

For years I avoided writing again--it felt too vulnerable to even consider the thoughts in my head, much less put them to paper. To do so would mean to feel, and feeling was something I had generally been avoiding. Even as I returned to writing five years ago, I barely dipped my toes in the pool, afraid to dive in--afraid, as always, of the deep water. This was fine when it was just my husband and me--he was content, most of the time, to sit on the edge of the pool by me with an occasional splash thrown in to remind him he was still alive in the water. But not now. Now we have children, and they play right smack dab in the middle of the water, where I cannot reach them from the edge. And they are begging me, as is their father, to come on in, the water's fine.

This is my attempt to get over my fear of the water. My attempt to shatter my fear of the deep. My attempt to reconnect with my heart, and with those who have been affected by having severed that connection years ago. This is my attempt, however imperfect and inconsistent and inane, to "Write those things I say to you," hoping and praying that as I write my way through this darkness, He will be faithful to "make my way a path of light."

building boats

Working on an outline for a workshop I'm giving on Wednesday. Ironically, I'm going to talk to other Moms about how to not worry about their kids. (Stop snickering. No, really. Stop.) Came across this quote I'd underlined a while back...

Parenthood is a never-ending journey down a wide river of worry and love. You get in that boat with your kids and you never get out. They get out--they build their own boats and row into their own destinies--but you stay in the original boat, always their parent, forever caring...
Elizabeth Lesser

I don't like this whole "build their own boat" thing. It seems a cruel joke to me to invest so much of my heart into these people who will leave me and eventually only call once a week, at best. It is more than my heart can bear to think about now. They tell me, however, that the teen years will make that transition easier...

We'll see.

six

My BABY turns six Tuesday. I am not old enough to have a six year old BABY. Thank God he still LOOKS like he's four--I couldn't take it if he grew up any faster!!!

The monkey cake my little monkey asked for...

listening in on my soundtrack

It is very bizarre to me that the music that speaks most to me at this time in my life--the music that stirs my heart and speaks its contents--is written by 20-something young men. How this is possible, I cannot say. All I know is that bands like Switchfoot, Lifehouse, Jason Upton, Daughtry--they resonate in a really meaningful, really freakish way.

I shoveled my driveway on Wednesday to Lifehouse. I could have posted several of the songs as having been relevant, but this one nailed where I am at the moment.

Broken

The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
I am here still waiting, though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
with a heavy heart that's still beating
In the pain is there healing
In your name I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you

The broken locks were a warning you got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead
I still see your reflection inside of my eyes
that are looking for purpose,
they're still looking for life

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart that's still beating
In the pain is there healing
In your name I find healing
So I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you

I'm hanging on another day
just to see what you throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I would be okay

The broken lights on the freeway left me here alone
I may have lost my way now,
haven't forgotten my way home

(chorus)

grumpy mommy

“Are you not feeling well, Momma?” she asks in a tentative voice as we make our way through the six inches of slush into the warm glow of Walgreens. This is code—I recognize it right away. It is her veiled way of asking “Why do you seem so grumpy?” My daughter thinks I’m mad at her. Unfortunately, she has good reason. Despite the happy promise of a snow day, we did not have a good morning together. But it is several hours later, now, and the morning is behind us.

“Actually, I’m not, Bub. My back really hurts from shoveling all afternoon and I want to get home and lay on the heating pad. But I’m not upset, Sweetpea. I’m just in pain.”

“I understand,” she replies in a conspiratorial tone. “My back hurts, too. That was hard work.” I chuckle to myself, remembering her full 30 minutes of shoveling to my three and a half hours. But I smile and say nothing, and we go on our way in search of heat wraps and SAM-e, both for obvious reasons.

I sigh as we get back into the car, and my husband begins doing donuts in the parking lot on our way out. He grins impishly and the kids shriek in the back seat and I, as usual, just sit there. After a morning of whining and complaining over every little thing I’ve asked her to do and an afternoon spent breaking my back (on top of the headache I’ve been nursing since Sunday) out in the cold, I’m not in a very playful mood. And, truth be told, I’m a bit resentful of my husband’s.

Dinner earlier tonight was a replay of a similar and oft-created scene, though this time played on a different stage thanks to the ice-covered circuit blowing up behind our house this afternoon. As we sat in Noodles & Company eating a warm meal and enjoying their heat while waiting for our own to return, I watched my husband banter with our children and struggled, once again, to engage.

I don’t begrudge my husband his playful antics—he comes by them honestly and I’ve been subject to them from day one, over 20 years ago, so any complaints I may try to raise about them are really my own stupid fault for marrying the class clown. No, he is not the issue, though it is true his humor is sometimes, well, how shall I put it? Not humorous.

But he is not the problem—not tonight, not any night. There ought to be laughter at the dinner table, in the living room, in the bathtub, in the Walgreens’ parking lot. The problem is, simply, that I am the only one not laughing.

Most nights, come dinner time, I am a shell of the once-animated and engaged person I used to be. I sit, staring off into space, thinking about what needs done that evening and trying to push through the headache while my husband and my children crack one another up over leftovers. Once in a while I smile wearily—most often I get up to rinse my dishes and retreat to the computer to finish up whatever was undone from the day while they continue giggling and guffawing below me. This is not the person I want to be.

I don’t know how—at any time of day, truth be told—to push past the pain and the pressures and the piles of laundry and simply play with my family. Not in a consistent, meaningful way. Not in the way I desire to. No, I am the “Grumpy Mommy,” and played against my husband’s “Happy, Fun Dad” role, I am doomed to re-create a role I swore I’d never play.

I want recast out of this part. I want to be the joyful one—the one who doesn’t have a constant headache or work to be done on the computer upstairs or pointless arguments to have with children who know better than to argue with me. I want to be the light-hearted one. The funny one. The creative and interesting and dramatic and wild and fun and happy and engaged one. I want to be the one who never gets asked, “Momma, why do you seem so mad?” The one who makes everyone laugh at the dinner table. The one who smiles easily and gives praise readily.

I want to be the one I used to be. The one I know I was meant to be. Made to be. But, unfortunately, more often than not, am afraid to be. I want to be me again. I want to be me…

top ten reasons why i need chocolate chip cookies

1. I just spent thirty minutes reading and talking with my daughter about puberty. I had to say words like "breast buds" and "pubic hair" and keep a straight face.

2. I was going to do yoga tonight. I have a sinus infection instead. Which means I have a headache, as well. I am not down with doing "down dog" with a headache. And no, that is not a double entendre.

3. I didn't work out yesterday, either, because of the same infection/headache. I've gained seven pounds since Thanksgiving, when I took a month off from working out because of my knee.

4. I've gained seven pounds.

5. I've gained seven pounds.

6. I'm still stuck in the imbecilic "eating chocolate chip cookies will make me feel better about gaining seven pounds" frame of mind. And nothing will convince me otherwise. Until, of course, about five minutes after I've eaten the cookies. And then I will be morose. For days. As I sit on the couch...

7. I drove home in the snow. During rush hour. With a couple hundred people who apparently have never seen snow before in their lives despite the fact they LIVE IN THE MIDWEST FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! Say no more.

8. I'm fried. Overwhelmed. Burned out. Kaput. Maxed. At my limit. Over the top. On my last nerve. I want to run away. Far away. For, oh, about a week. Or a year. Or ten. (Cookies would be much less traumatic for my family--can we all agree with my rationalization?)

9. Did I mention I've gained seven pounds?

10. Sometimes, you just NEED chocolate chip cookies. "It's a need, it's a true need, it's a straight-up-undeniable-ain't-no-mistaking-it-for-somethin'-else need..." (Thank you, Charlie Peacock. Of course, he was talking about forgiveness... But let's not quibble.)

I'm off to preheat the oven. See you tomorrow, when I complain that I've gained eight pounds...

opening

And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anais Nin

The day it snowed six inches here, I was preparing to leave the next morning for our trip to Florida. While my son tumbled away at gymnastics, I hit the Kroger across the way to get a few last minute items and a couple of mags for the flight. Knowing money is tight, I really tried to not look around at all--really, I really tried--but on my way out of the book section a title caught my eye and I was curious. The sky blue cover drew me, and the title intrigued me. The lone, little bird on the front looked as if it were about to soar, and my heart recognized that longing. And so I picked up "Broken Open" by Elizabeth Lesser and tossed it in among the protein bars and snack packs.

Not being a member of the Church of Oprah, I was unaware what I was picking up. All I knew was that I was drawn to it. One of those God-moments when the right book appears at the right time and the right words penetrate your heart. This book has had a few of these moments, and just in time.

Life is messy and painful right now. No amount of chocolate chip cookies is going to fix it. I'm trying to take Ms. Lesser's advice and allow myself to be broken open, but it is so contrary to my nature. My nature is to fold my arms up tight, to withdraw, to close off, to push away. As she puts it, "I was like the rosebud, holding myself together, tight and tense, terrified of breaking open." A more apt description of my heart could probably not be written.

"But the time had come... It was time for me to step boldly into the fullness of life, with all of its dangers and all of its promises. Remaining tight in the bud had become a kind of death. The time had come to blossom."

I am tired of "holding myself together, tight and tense..." I don't know what blooming looks like--unfolding petal by petal or perhaps one great burst of color-- but I'm determined, by God's grace, to try and find out. Perhaps I am a bulb, preparing to burst up through the thawing ground come spring. Perhaps I am an Amarylis, meant to bring vibrant color to these winter days. Or perhaps I am a teacup rose, up on someone's window sill, pulled in from the porch as a reminder of summer days and a promise of the warmth to come. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But I'm willing to see what will break open...

an all-around proud momma

Bub had her first "real"meet today--and won the all-around title for her age group and level! Two first places on vault and floor, and a second and third place on beam and bars!

Chalking up for the uneven bars.

Airborn...

I wish Tom had done the one where you can see the muscles in this kid's arms. AMAZING. Really. This kid is freakishly strong...

home freezing home

There are two kinds of travelers. There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he sees with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to. If his peripheral vision gets diminished...his struggle to adjust the country he looks at to the country inside him at least keeps him looking. It sometimes blurs, and sometimes sharpens, his eye.

Adam Gopnik, Paris to the Moon

It will come as no surprise that I am the second traveler. It will likewise come as no surprise that my husband is the first. He is very gracious, however, in allowing me to attempt to match up what I "see" to the vision I have in my head, because he knows that, while I may become a neurotic, melancholy mess in the process, the outcome is usually worth it. Here are a few snapshots of our trip, which included seeing manatees in the wild, two swamp hikes (complete with alligators), three days at the beach (complete with shelling), dinner at The Bubble Room, and an incredibly expensive round of putt-putt. A good time was had by all, and I am only mildly melancholy upon our return, which is a vast improvement upon my norm.

Fort Myers Beach--our first, and best, day at the beach, in my opinion. This was the day I wrote the "sitting" post. It was also, more importantly, the day we had ice cream for dinner.

Standing with her Poppa against the waves of this world... (This is Barefoot Beach, our coolest and choppiest day at the beach.)

We visit Sanibel Island every trip we take to see Aunt Rhoda, and every time we take a pix of the kids on this log. I have a frame at home to put all five in, to mark the passage of time.

This is also at Sanibel, after I returned from one last shell sweep. Notice my children have no clothes on. I had on a sweatshirt. This is further evidence that I am getting OLD.


Now, I am off to bed, where I will crawl atop my heated mattress cover and not move again until morning, having worked 10 hours today and facing 12 hours tomorrow!

today's treasure

Had a good day on Sanibel Island...off to lay on the heating pad! All that bending over made my back hurt!

irony

Because home base is 45 minutes from the beach, we spend a fair amount of our time in Florida in the car. In the past, I have felt this was wasted time, because all we've done is sit and listen to the radio, all zoned out and in our own private worlds. SO, when I found Food For Talk on Amazon this fall, I decided the travel addition would be the perfect thing for our trips to Fort Myers. A box full of fun games and conversation starters to fill our time in the car and keep us engaged with one another. What could be better?

"Santa" brought the cards for Christmas, and we broke them out once we arrived. We've had a blast playing the games and answering the questions, and the first words I hear when we get in the car are, "Momma, can we read another card?" Which is great, right? Right. Unless, of course, one wants to listen to the radio...

Sigh...

first fruits

sitting

The beach chair beacons me to sit, and I heed its call. Bundled against the unseasonably chilly breeze, I turn my chair toward the sun and shift into park for the first time in months. The children dash headlong toward the surf, and for once I feel no guilt for not joining them. It is simply too cold—no further explanation needed, no further questions asked. I pull from my bag a book and my ever-present notepad, and begin to read.

From time to time shadows cross my paper, causing me to glance up to determine their source. I watch as the passersby pass, and the juxtapositions amuse me. Consider the retiree in her black Harley-style “Rock and Roll” t-shirt, tucked in to her brand new unbelted Levi’s which end at sparkling white Keds. Her impeccably teased short, brassy blonde hair nearly glows atop her oversized black, rhinestone-studded sunglasses. Beside her is a tan, balding man without a shirt sporting a large, gold cross around his neck. His stomach protrudes over his shorts and his feet are safely tucked into very manly aquasox.

Next comes a more athletic type. She is outfitted in a running tank and matching shorts, obviously more a function of perfecting her tan than keeping her body temperature regulated. Her highlighted hair looks unnaturally natural, given her age. Her tan face beams as she bounces along to the music playing through her coordinating ear buds, and she marches along in step to the beat. Her partner sports oversized shorts and a likewise oversized belly, tennis shoes with tube socks pulled halfway up to his knees, and a jacket tossed over his shoulder. He decidedly does NOT bounce.

I begin paying more attention to what is going on around me. Seagulls swarm an older couple harassing them over a couple of sandwiches. The couple sits in jeans and sweatshirts with their hoods pulled up, arms tucked in, and sandwiches held tight. Nearby, a trio of college girls assume “the position,” though with more layers than usual. They are one of many groups lined up in rows upon their towels, heads all turned toward the sun. A pasty looking family walks by with young kids in tow, followed by a leathery pair of retirees who look as if they’ve lived their whole life right here on this beach.

The parade continues. People in shorts and t-shirts and tennis shoes, walking for exercise, together or alone. People in jeans and jackets, walking as if to say, “I came here to walk on the beach and I’m going to walk on the beach if it kills me!” People clad only in bathing suits and deep tans, daring their bodies to goosepimple in the light of the sun. People are everywhere— looking up, looking down, looking at other people.

I wonder what I look like to those who happen to look my way. Parked here in my chair with my husband, my white skin glowing in the sun, causing people to cover their eyes against the glare. My knee length shorts and my gray hoodie serve to both hide the body about which I am still self-conscious and keep it warm against the nationwide cold spell that has chilled even the sunny Gulf. My curly hair blows wildly about my face as my eyes, used to the Midwestern mid-winter haze, squint against the sun despite the sunglasses.

The breeze lessens and the sun climbs higher and I pause from my furious reading and writing and people watching to shed a layer. My husband replaces his hand on my knee and we smile at one another, his soft green eyes all crinkly around the edges. How he is beginning to tan already is beyond me—a healthy glow that says “I’ve been to the beach” forming across his face. I decide to pretend not to notice. It is just better that way.

I glance up from time to time at the kids playing along the shore. The cooler temperatures spare us from having to be right on top of them as they play in the water, because it is too cool to even be in the water, and therefore allows me the luxury of indulging without guilt in my second favorite beach pastime—parking my fanny in a chair and reading/writing for hours. Tomorrow will be warmer. Tomorrow there will be long walks with downward glances and the filling of ziplock bags with Sanibel’s treasure. But today, for a long-needed and well-deserved moment, I will simply sit in the sun and do my own happy version of nothing.

For as long as I darn well please.

a little light beach reading

The soul's knock in the night can take many forms. You may experience it as a deep sense of longing. Not the kind of longing that leads to the mall or the refrigerator, but the kind that moves downward, to a soft ache in the heart. It's the kind of longing that leads you to ask, "Is this all there is to my life? Is this what I am supposed to be going, feeling, giving, getting?" This kind of longing can feel threatening. And so you silence its rumblings over and over until it demands to be heard--until it morphs into something else: a crisis or an illness or an addiction or some other Strange Angel.

Broken Open, Elizabeth Lesser

beach haiku

the beach in winter--
white sand, cool breeze, warm sunlight
--beats home any day


surf mixes with sand
giggles ride on waves to shore
carried on the breeze


we are drawn, as if
by the tide, to the place where
the land meets the sea

it's all in the bag

It is said that life imitates art. Or perhaps it is that art imitates life. No matter—I have observed, within the past 24 hours, that packing is what truly imitates life.

To say I am organized is an understatement. To say I am neurotic is only slight hyperbole. Because this is not a strength my husband and I share to any great degree (read: at all), it falls to me to do the vast majority of our packing when we travel. Which is generally fine (except for when it isn’t fine), because I am a very thorough and efficient (though not sparing) packer. Most of the time.

A compulsive list maker, I typically have every detail under control. Passing thoughts of I need to remember to take _____ get written down own sticky notes. Sticky notes multiply like wire hangers, accumulating into lists. I begin weeks before our departure thinking about what we will need, about what we might need, about what we might not need but might want and be disappointed if we don’t take. Every contingency is considered—weather, activity level, color coordination, mood, alignment of the planets—I will be ready. I have a list, and I know how to use it. This typically is a fair representation of what life looks like in my world. Lists, contingencies, a place for everything, everything in its place. And a cute pair of shoes to match.

So let’s start with the shoes, shall we? For this trip, I packed two pair, and wore a third, not counting the aquasocks. Three pair. Isn’t that appalling? Usually I have at LEAST five for a trip to Florida. At LEAST. But you see, after working 32 hours in the past three days (keep in mind I’m “part time”), I couldn’t bring myself, in my one hour window within which I had to pack both myself and my five-year-old, to care about which shoes looked absolutely best with each outfit (because I couldn’t even pull together outfits, but we’ll get to that in a moment.) (And don’t even get me started about my unadorned toenails…)

In the furor of trying to get ready to go on vacation, I somehow never had the time or the energy to plan for our vacation. Sticky notes were amassed, but failed to multiply. Lists were never generated. Outfits were never planned. I found myself on Wednesday, in the middle of a snow storm, grimily tossing whatever shorts I could fasten around my post-Christmas waist into my suitcase, followed by every layering t-shirt I could find and a pair of tennis shoes. I glanced in the mirror on my way back to the closet—I didn’t know the woman reflected back at me.

My son’s suitcase was no better. Three pair of jeans. Check. Three pair of shorts. Check. As many long and short-sleeve shirts of a similar color scheme as I could wad into half the bag. Check. Pajamas. Oh yeah… Toothbrush. Hmmm… Not sure.

And so here I am, in Florida, riffling through my suitcase looking for some relaxation and realizing I’d forgotten to pack it, along with my little bag of patience. Joy was lost a long time ago, but I thought for sure I’d put a little bit of happiness in the bag—perhaps it’s under the pile of relentless, heavy burdens that weighed the suitcase down as I drug it from the house to the car. Fortunately, the toothbrushes we can grab at one of the fifteen WalGreens within a five mile radius. The other items, however, I think are going to be harder to come by. Hopefully, by the end of our time here, I will find them all somewhere in the bottom of the bag—I just hope to find them in time to enjoy them.

i am happiest when...

...curled up on my couch by the fire (or, in our current house, the candles), under a blanket with a good book, a warm cup of tea, and a purring cat.
...snuggling in bed with my kiddos on a cold morning (as long as they both go back to sleep!).
...hiking at a new park.
...looking for shells (like I need MORE shells) on Sanibel. (Like I could stop picking them up if I tried.)
..."on stage" in my living room, singing along to Wicked, or Mamma Mia, or Grease, or whatever is on the stereo.
...singing. Period.
...creating.
...writing.
...exploring a new place with my husband.
...crawling in to my heated bed on a cold evening.
...Christmas music is on every station.
...surrounded by friends and family.
...everything around me is in its place.
...it is 75 degrees and sunny.
...laughing. A good, hearty, tears-in-your-eyes-could-pee-your-pants-or-shoot-milk-out-your-nose kind of laugh.
...playing cards.
...doing something new.
...spending time with the people I love.
...exercising regularly.
...enjoying God's creation.
...taking pictures.
...practicing gratitude.
...eating a really good meal, especially in a really nice atmosphere.
...eating. Period.
...alone.
...not alone.
...taking an afternoon nap.
...sleeping in without guilt.
...the snow day falls on my day off.
...school cancels the night before.
..."counseling" my daughter before bed. ("Am I like one of your clients, Momma? Because you listen to me and help me feel better...")
...singing the same lullaby to my son, again.
...my children are laughing.
...my husband is smiling.
...there is time to decompress.
...allowing myself to be happy...

interesting insight from my favorite parisophile

We surf the waves of capitalism, from crest to trough and back again, but the funny thing is that no matter how often we ride the wave, nobody notices that it's wet. When we are on the crest, we believe that we have climbed a mountain through our own virtuous efforts, and when we are in the trough, we believe that we have fallen into a pit through our own vice.

Adam Gopnik
Paris to the Moon

sad

The door opens with its familiar “click” and I strain my ears to discern whose footfalls proceed out into the hallway. They are the muffled “fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumph” steps of my son’s footie-pajamaed feet crossing the hardwood floor. My internal eyebrow raises, and I turn from my glowing screen to greet him with a questioning gaze.

“Momma?” he begins, rubbing his eyes, his face turned downward. “I can’t sleep. I’m saaaaad.”

I cock my head to one side, knowing full well he’s only been in bed for, oh, about three minutes. And he was as cheery as a bird when I left. This sounds like a stall to me. “Hmmm…Why are you sad, Buddy?”

“I don’t know. I just feel sad.” He is trying his best to look sad. It is not working.

“Okay, Buddy—here’s what I want you to do. Get back in bed, and I want you to think about all the things that make you happy. Playing with Finn, playing with Sam, going to kindergarten…” I’m getting no response. “…playing at COSI, going to fishing camp…” His face finally lights up. “There you go! Hop in bed and I want you to think about fishing camp until you fall asleep, okay?”

He agrees and we exchange our fourth round of good night kisses as he fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumphs back off to bed.

I breathe a small sigh of relief and return to the never-ending tasks at hand. Flying along more quickly than I expected, I eagerly anticipate having a few moments later in the evening to read, or, dare I hope?, to write. I point and click away, and then I hear it.

Click. Fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumph. “Momma?”

I turn to face my son, reminding myself to smile and be patient. Smile and be patient. Smile and be patient. “What’s up, Buddy?”

Sniffle. Sniffle. Turn down cheeks, cue the tears… “I’m still sad, Momma. I tried to think of stuff, but it didn’t work. I’m still really saaaaaaad.” His voice catches. My heart softens. He is sincere.

“Come here, Bud.” I pull him up on my lap. “There’s nothing to be sad about, Buddy. We’ve had a great weekend. I want you to think about everything we did this weekend, and about all the things you want to do in Florida. Got it?”

“Okay, Momma,” he sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve for the umpteenth time. I silently hand him a tissue, and he half-heartedly blows his nose as he fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumphs back to his room. Again.

I get back to work. Again. Time is passing, but writing may not be entirely out of the question. I continue to cruise through my various to-dos and delete each item off my list with glee. Finish item, delete item. Finish item, delete item. Finish item,

Click.

I sigh very not-patiently. He fhwumphs in a third time, and I turn around to find tears. “Momma, could you come open my window-things a little bit?” I question what he wants and why, not fully understanding what’s on his little mind. “I need you to open those things on my windows because I’m still sad (crying begins in earnest) and looking out the window (sob) helps me (sob) not be so sad.” Ah, now I understand. I understand all too well.

I walk my tender little boy back to bed, rubbing his warm, fleecy back. I am remembering my own melancholy five-year-old self, sitting at my own window, watching fireflies or snowflakes, counting semis on the distant turnpike, trying not to feel my own sad. I am remembering my thirty-eight-year-old self not wanting to be up late alone, making my husband fall asleep to the glow of my bedside light while I read or do Sudoku cozied up next to him in bed, still for the very same reasons. Indeed, I understand this sad all too well.

We take care of the blinds, lifting the bottom up high enough to allow him a slice of our street still aglow with Christmas lights. I tuck him in, kissing his curly, golden head, and, almost as an afterthought, do what I should have done in the first place. Kissing my writing time goodbye, I climb up into the top bunk with him, pulling his tiny body into the curve of my own. We pray, and we ask God to come and take away all that sad, and I hold him tight until his breathing becomes heavier and his heart becomes lighter, reminding him, as I so often need reminded, that he is not alone in the big, dark, lonely nighttime world. I leave after five minutes, exchanging kisses for the seventh time, and his door does not open again.

Sometimes, there is no reason to be sad. Sad just is. And whether we’re five or fifty-five, sad should never have to be faced alone. Tonight, my Buddy and I pushed back his sad together, if only for a moment. In an hour or two, I may still have my own to face, but I will not be alone, either.

Together, we will push back the sad. Together.

six words

i came upon a fun little book sometime this summer on the "six-word autobiography," and have been playing with it ever since. you can find more here. here are a few of my attempts:

one new year's resolution after another.

missed the truck. hit the wall.

always one word short of six.

midlife crisis looms around next corner.

the one that didn't get away.

ember smolders but still burns red.

care to give it a try?

a new year tradition

our annual winter hike, this year at clear creek metro park

testing the new binoculars from "Santa"...

a few artsy shots, just for fun

resolute

I'm not one for New Year' s resolutions, given that I don't tend to keep them longer than a week at best. But my writing angst keeps tugging on my sleeve, pleading with that whiny tone to be paid attention to, and so I am resolving, in my own vague and tentative way, to write and post with some sort of weekly regularity. Tonight equals one.

have i mentioned lately how i could eat him up?

the big night

hanging out with good buddies on new years eve

lights at the zoo

...on a record-high day in toledo!

Christmas Eve

After church on The Most Wonderful Night of the Year.

The Tooth Fairy AND Santa, all in one night!

sweet dreams

Sleeping under the Christmas tree on "Christmas Eve Eve..."

c'est fini!!!

Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!

Six months of planning, three months of labor. I have done little else, as you've probably noticed!

I'm going to BED!!!

geeks grown up

My old high school crew out for appetizers before our 20 year reunion this weekend. Among us at the table we have three of the top ten (and five of the top 15), five national honor society members, the valedictorian and salutatorian, three graduation speakers, and a whole host of other accolades. Among my closest buds we have three engineers, a Fullbright Scholar, a professional counselor (that would be ME), a police sargent, and several other highly educated and successful professionals. Not a bad group to be associated with!

The hubby and me, pre-party.

A collage of the highlights of my evening...

The die-hard "Rossfordians" went to Moe's Bar after the reunion. Our crew went to Denny's...

leave it to my kids...

Raking leaves at Grandma and Grandad's this weekend!

a poem by any other name...

I "made" the writer's group write sonnets the other night and talked about how form can unlock creativity, rather than stifle it. Bob would have hated it... oh, that he would have been there!

Here are the two I worked on:

forecasting

Her voice, like sunshine, flits among the clouds--
bright patches in his otherworldly day.
Dark weariness his spirit fully shrouds
until a word of kindness drives away.

For when she shines, she shines with brightness fair,
and all within his world is good and right.
He casts aside the shadows of despair
and basks within her glowing rays of light.

But when her spirit's fire loses flame
and coldness creeps across her face like ice,
he, too, retreats in silent fear and shame,
and anxiously begins to scan the skies.

She does not mean at all to cause him pain,
when, in her own, she sometimes sends the rain.


bon soir

Sandy heads of curls reflect the sunlight,
as golden, glowing halos frame each face.
Playing hard, 'til late into the twilight,
pretending at a frantic, break-neck pace.

Fireflies begin to tease the darkness;
the crickets softly play their lullabye.
Nighttime settles silent on the back fence;
There's nothing harder than to say goodbye.

With cries and tears they protest loud and long,
still clinging to the last remains of day.
But droopy eyes belie their protests strong,
and finally their drowsiness gives way.

As tired and spent they tumble into bed,
a blessing prayed upon each sweaty head.

20 years

Tomorrow night is my 20 year reunion. I never thought I'd be this old. Who knew?

Top left corner is my BFF from HS, Candy. Next to that is me and my director, Mr. Wilcox. The next picture is taken in the middle of the road in Times Square right after the Macy's parade went through, then a carriage ride in Central Park, then me as Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls. Sandy and Bethany and I in art class on Sr. Dress Up Day, then bottom row has my best buds James, Beth, Candy and Lance and I on the Sr. Steps, Candy and I, and Lance and I at Sr. Prom. Those were the days!

Have some stuff to post--hopefully over the weekend, or when I return!

in the beginning...

Another writing prompt that I decided to finish, this one from July’s Writer’s Group. “I am thinking of…”

I am thinking, in my blank-mindedness, of how hard it is to begin. How hard that first idea, those first few steps into the wilderness to forge the trail can be. Which direction? Toward the mountains? The valley? The meadow? Where do I let my feet take me? Where do I let my pen take me?

How something can be so simple yet so complex is beyond me. There are days when words tumble from my pen onto paper so fast my fingers can’t keep up with my brain. Then there are days when I sit down with a pen and seemingly forget how it works. Forget how to put it to paper. Forget how to create. How to begin…

I’m thinking of all the ideas that fill my files at home. Essays, articles, books. All ideas. Like eggs banked for another time, they wait for life to come to them. Some I return to, others continue to wait—reminding me, mocking me, calling me. Ideas that need to be begun…and then begotten.

And so how is it that one begins? How is it that Julie writes daily and I write monthly, at best? Where does the difference lie? Is it a lack of discipline? Of creativity? Of time? Or is it a lack of courage?

Beginning takes courage. Saying, “This is the path I am going to take. It starts here.” Putting pen to paper, letting the words come even then you don’t like the words. Letting the feelings come even when you don’t like the feelings. Letting your pen bring forth life whether you like the life it brings forth or not. This is risk. This is faith. This is writing.

the beat goes on

While I didn't do much posting this summer, I DID manage to do some writing. With the help of a book by Natalie Goldberg titled Old Friend From Far Away, I began doing writing practice a few days a week. I had hoped to post some of them, but never found the time. But now that the kids are back to bed at 8:00 (HALLELUIA!!!), I hope to share a few of them with you. The prompt for this one was "I remember..." I thought it fit well with the back to school theme, so I finished it along that vein...

I remember when I was at the center, not around the circumference. Eyes six inches from my own, searching, seeking, finding. I remember when only I could satisfy, only I could calm, only I could delight. I remember the days when Momma was everything—the mender of boo-boos, the singer of lullabies, the holder of hands, the keeper of secrets, the receiver of kisses. And I remember the fullness of my heart mixed with the sadness of knowing that which every mother knows. This will not last. This will not last. This will not last. With every heartbeat, I’ve tried to remember. Be here. Be here now. This will not last.

Some mothers accept this with ease—the natural rhythms of life flow through their days and they are always in step with its beat. I, on the other hand, seem continually lost in the music, swaying off-tempo, hoping the song won’t come to an end. Long known for overstaying my welcome, I still struggle with letting go and knowing when to make my exit.

My daughter is nine now, and I am moving to the periphery. I try to accept it with a smile, encouraging her independence with no small amount of fear brewing within. But my smile is strained—not the full, teethy grin of happiness but the forced pull of the cheeks upward to reassure her, and everyone else, that I am okay with this.

But I am not.

My son, my baby, is five, and I am no longer the center of his days. I share him with a delightful woman named “Mrs. Smith,” splitting my precious time with him between us. She is wonderful, but I share him, nonetheless. I do not like to share. Just ask my husband. Just ask my children. I try to share, but it is compulsory at best, insincere and begrudging at worst. And it makes me grumpy, to boot. I am not okay with this.

I remember my training. I remember the years of childhood development classes and experience working with children and families. I remember my own struggle toward independence. I know I must let go. I know I must let go well. But knowing and wanting to are two entirely different things, and the second comes much less easily than the first. (And the first doesn’t come easily in the first place.) I remember the advice to put our marriage first, because when the children are gone, we will only have each other. I remember thinking, “Well, DUH. Of course we’ll put our marriage first.” And I remember when I first recognized that my priorities had inadvertently shifted.

My children have become the center of my world, and I am slowly but surely moving out of the center of theirs. I must learn to be okay with this. I must. I will. It just isn’t going to happen tonight. Because tonight, as my children grow up before my eyes, you will find me thumbing through baby books, wondering where the years went, listening to the beat of my mother-heart…

Be here. Be here now. This will not last.

where has the summer gone?

It certainly wasn't spent writing, I can tell you THAT!

where have the last FIVE YEARS gone?!?!

Kindergarten?!?! How is that possible?

Fourth grade. Oy vey...

on vacation

at beach with the fam--

along with the pictures, please

enjoy some haiku!

ode to the beach

blue skies overhead

cool drink at my fingertips

sand between my toes

i think it's really a corola, but the syllable count was all off...

3 generations

in 1 toyota camry

headed 4 the beach

incoming storms (a daily occurance)

costal breezes mix

setting the night sky ablaze

with passionate fury

buddy boy

curled golden halo

framing his cherubic face--

do not be deceived

my growing girl

inwardly turning--

once the vivacious talker

now the calm thinker?

sanibel island

bubbles in the gulf

dinner at the Bubble Room

pink bubble gum sun

halleluia

It's like playing a country song backwards... I get my husband back, I get my life back, I get my time back, I get my nights back...

Congratulations, Babe!

Love you!!!

waterfire