This Blog is Moving

Hello Readers,

This blog is moving! I have gotten much feedback from my readers that they can't leave comments on my blog without first selling their soul to Google. I understand. I've sold my soul lots of times and I usually bitch about it for days--sometimes weeks.
The Google blog showed that I only had 4 followers. While I'm hardly a popular brand (yet), I am read by much more than 4 people and I would really love to track how many people are enjoying the blog. With my new blog location, you still have to whore yourself a little bit but not nearly as much. You can follow my NEW blog using only your email address. You can COMMENT on my blog by creating a simple USER ID. You won't have to complete a profile. SDC was my guinea pig and with minimally invasive pain, he was hooked up to the blog in a couple minutes and commenting like the adorable, sexy guinea pig that he is.
I am going to be moving over the archived blogs from Blogger to the new site and this may take a bit of time. If anyone has a pick up truck or empty boxes, that would help. Going forward, I will be posting exclusively to the new site.
So please add this new link to your favorites, it would do my sold soul good. If you are feeling generous, you could share the new link with your buddies. That would do my brand good.
Thank you so much for reading. Here is your new access. A simple copy/paste in your browser should take you right there:

http://janetessablog.wordpress.com/2013/02/03/ive-moved/

In the Spirit of Writing,
JT

Jacob, You Have 1 New Message

Whatever happened to the lost art of calling someone out on their bullshit? I see more and more people getting away with more and more things they should be ashamed of doing. Cutting in, bumping into, interrupting, complete disregard for Humankind and its personal space. I find myself apologizing when someone else bumps into me. 

We talk around one another. We don't listen to one another. We see through strangers like they aren't even there. And what's worse, we don't care that we don't care. Focused on the micro-screens of our tech-media, noses down, eyes crossed, thumbs at war, we just walk all over each other. Literally.

I just watched a video on Yahoo! of Jacob Rudolph accepting an acting award at his High School. As he stood on the bake-sale funded soapbox to make his acceptance speech, his proud father recorded the moment on his media device. However, the background chatter of the audience was so incessant that I could hardly make out what the young man was saying. The auditorium carried on with its personal conversations as if nothing else was going on. As if something positive and uplifting wasn't unfolding on the stage. As if a life wasn't changing. As if their life wasn't changing.

Had I been the parent in that audience, and my child's moment was going by unnoticed by a cafeteria full of his peers, believe me someone would have heard about it. This father did nothing. The administration did nothing. Everyone, did nothing. No one interrupted Jacob to shutdown the side conversations and call attention to Jacob where it rightfully belonged. The chatter,the laughter, the misguided hoots and hollers carried on.

Jacob Rudolph carried on.

Bravely clutching the podium, what followed was an act of valor so impressive many adults struggle to find this kind of courage. He came out. In his acceptance speech, he was the one looking for acceptance.

Ok. Coming out isn't news. I won't argue with that. But, coming out in an auditorium full of Haters is kind of a big deal. Ah, that got their attention. Kind of.

At the end of the video, Jacob claimed his voice and told the world that he wasn't going to stand for having to suppress that voice anymore. He was going to live loud and proud as he is, as who he is. Take that High School. Jacob gave a humble Nixon-esque wave and stepped back from the podium.

The audience rose to a standing ovation. The same audience who moments ago could care less that one of their peers had been recognized for academic achievement, suddenly really cared that there was a Gay among them. They cared so much that they set down their media devices so they could clap.

If anyone in that room besides his dad noticed that Jacob accepted an award that day, I hope they will find some time to text him and wish him, "Congratulations."

You Have My Full Support. Unless...

     Today I got an email from my son’s fifth grade reading teacher. The subject line was ‘Nonfiction Reading.” Eager to see what was in the queue of my son’s literary future, I opened the email and was shocked by what I read. The teacher, let’s call her Are You Kidding Me? was giving families a friendly head’s up that this coming Monday, the kids will be asked to select a partner-book to use in tandem with books they currently reading in class to supplement some of the broader ideas and subject matter. “Hooray!” I thought. “My tax dollars at work. Carry on, fifth grade Ambassadors of education!”

     As I continued to skim the rest of AYKM’s email, a few unsavory words suddenly jumped off the screen at me:  Racism, WWII, Holocaust to name a few. Below is an excerpt from the actual email:

Many 5th grade students have read or will soon read books like Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry or The Watsons Go to Birmingham. Both of these books have issues regarding racism. So, I collected books that discuss the history of racism, including the KKK. Because the texts are historically accurate and include primary sources, the texts for this topic do contain the "n word". I wanted to make sure that you are aware of this before students select their topic on Monday.

     AYKM is preparing to offer books to the fifth graders covering WWII, The Civil War, and The Holocaust. The kids are to pick which topic they would like to read. Simply look at the cover and decide which horrible, hateful, vile, disgraceful act of violence in our Country’s history you would like to read about. Bonus points for how many times you can spot The ‘N’ Word in your book.

     Are You Kidding Me? 

     Look. I’m all about educating our children about the nation’s history. Even the dark, embarrassing, tragic parts of that history. But, I’m also about not asking 10-year-olds to read about The Holocaust. Let’s get them warmed up to the idea of cleaning their rooms, doing their own laundry or clearing the table before we take them on a literary journey through Auschwitz or introduce them to the KKK.

     Maybe I’m over-reacting. Maybe I’m not. When in doubt, I always ask mom, who is pre-programmed to always take my side.  Is it wrong of me to feel like it’s not AYKM’s job to talk to my kid about The ‘N’ Word? Is it naïve to think that 10-year-olds are too immature to handle that kind of topic right now? God, I’m 37 and I can’t handle it. Of course, I wrote AYKM back and said as much. My mother backed me up (good mommy) and informed me that in Germany, they don’t impart WWII history in the classroom until students are in 10^th grade and 16 years old. Sixteen!

     Below is an excerpt from my response to AYKM:

     I feel a bit unsettled about these book choices for children at such a young age. I have concerns around the level of the children's public awareness and their maturity about the subject matter, and I want to ensure that civil sensitivities are imparted to the kids about this era of our history.

     This is only an excerpt. I am open-minded. I will do my due-dilligence and review the material. I'm not about banning books or information. I want to educate my children and grow their minds as servants to their communities, their planet. I want them to be conscientious, contributing members of society. However,  I’m not oblivious to the fact that our children are growing up in an era that makes me afraid when I drop them off at school. I hug and kiss them at the car door because…what if?  What if I lose them to the gun of some crazed psychopath at their little one-piece school desk? It’s an awful reality. And someday, it will all be written as our awful history.

     So today, I just want my kid to be 10, in sweet, ignorant bliss of the horrors behind us and even ahead of us.  My kid's innocence may be all they have left soon. They have their whole lives to be disappointed in Humankind, so I won't apologize for wanting to preserve a few years of their innocence. Peace. Hope. 

     So, if keeping my kids in a bubble makes me a terrible citizen, person or mother; shoot me.

Calendar Chicken

     Today my writing coach asked the class to write down our quarterly writing goals.

“Goals, Shmoals.” I whined in my head. Isn’t it enough that I just committed to something that looks like a New Year’s resolution? Of course I’m only five days into my resolve to stop swearing and I’ve already cussed heavily twice as many times in as many days. Shove off, I’m trying.

     Intimidated, I stared at the Goal Contract and tried to think about how I wanted to do better. Learn. Create. I quickly overwhelmed myself with lofty, glamorous, unachievable goals sure to jettison me right past the NYT Best Seller’s list and into a wall of certain failure. Isn’t it enough that I get up and dress myself every morning? Isn’t enough that I can make it to this writing class? If I’m forced to manage a goal or be held accountable while in pursuit of some kind of transformation I’m likely to cut-corners somewhere else and show up in this class naked some day IF I come at all.

    Alas, despite being easily intimidated, I’m also ridiculously driven to over-committing myself. What’s one more resolution? So driven, I confidently filled out my Goal Contract. “I commit to writing once a day for thirty minutes. I commit to dedicating time on my calendar to write, just like I plug-in time for the gym.” It’s that important.

Stop swearing and write more. A lot more.

Shit.

     As I drove home from class, I felt the familiar angst of desperate timelessness. “How will I find the time? Between the gym, the kids, schools, meals, the market, the gas, the bank, the incessant driiiiving…!” My lists got longer, my window got smaller. So small, I could barely see a glint of light through it. But, there was light nonetheless.

     Upon arriving home I was instantly sucked up into the vortex of childcare. Guiding my misdirected ex-husband, tripping over the dog while putting laundry in the dryer, greasing an 8x8x2 pan for the cornbread batter I was now preparing to serve with dinner, which also had yet to be made. Simultaneously, I readied one child to leave with said misdirected ex-husband. I think I packed her laundry with one hand and stirred chicken with the other. My calendar lay flaccid on the counter, defenselessly absorbing the splatter of pan fried chicken. I got so angry at my calendar that I tossed it into the growing heap of garbage on my desk, where I have not even sat for three weeks.

     Tears welled up. Is there no end? I wondered. The rest of my family came home. Nope. I set the table.

     Today is an anomaly. The house is oddly quiet and still. No one is tugging on me, hollering at me from upstairs or downstairs, knocking (or not knocking) shouting through the door while I pee. The dog is asleep in his kennel. The calendar has some dried grease stains, but ultimately no worse for wear. Alone with nothing but my thoughts, I can do anything I want for an hour and a half. Clean my desk? Put away the dishes uninterrupted? Get dressed for the gym? Make my bed? WATCH AMISH MAFIA??? And then I remembered: Goals Shmoals and I wrote. 

     Without swearing.

The Stan Space

I've been trying to cry for three days. Emotionally constipated with worry, sleepless nights and far too many to-do’s; my elusive tears have left me gasping for breath, restlessly aching for that leg-up, pacing around in circles looking for more time, understanding and patience. But at last, a phone call to my Gran was the catalyst that launched my resistant tears.

Gran’s 92 year old boyfriend, Stan, passed away this morning. 92! As I reached out across the phone line, Gran reached back with a tired and trembling 88 year old voice, reassuring me that she would be ok.

 With a smile summoned from her Grandmotherly reserves she reminded me that Stan had lived a full and long life. She comforted me when I told her that I felt so sorry for her pain.

 “I don’t know what to say, Gran. I’m so sorry for your heartache.”  It was weak, but honest. 

 “What can I do? I wish I could stay the night with you.” I pleaded from three states away.

“You are so, so dear, you sweet Angel.” Through her stoic, sad face she reassured me until I stopped crying. And I’d never even met dear Stan. Even in the spotlight of her own grief, Gran was lovingly comforting someone else.

 “Who was it that said, ‘Don’t cry because it ended, smile because it happened’?” She asked. I admitted that I had heard it before, but I didn't know who was wise enough to think that was a good idea. I kept crying. Some help I am for the grieving. 

But, despite her bravery, Gran’s sadness soon bullied its way into her optimism.

“It was so sudden,” she said after a long pause. “Monday he drove himself to the hospital. Wednesday I learned he was sick, and Friday…well…” Her voice trailed off just as she started to get into the meat of how she was really feeling.

“I met his daughters for the first time at the hospital. They told me that he had spoken of me and told them he was seeing ‘a younger woman’!” With that, she laughed, but even her laugh dripped with the tears of love lost. 

“I had no idea he had told anyone about me. I certainly didn't see him as an older man. He was the same age your Grampy would be.”

I felt a little embarrassed that we were having a rob-the-cradle conversation about 88 and 92 year olds. But, it seemed to be a pleasing distraction for her, so I silently blushed and wept as she shared some thoughts about love and death.

“You make room in your life for people, in your heart. And when they go, they leave a hole where they were. It feels like I have a Stan shape in my heart. I don’t know what to do with that space now. How do you repair a hole in the middle of your tapestry?”

I've wondered the same things about the holes in my own heart.

I expected she would follow this question with some of her own spiritual advice about how God mends us, stitches our hurt. I expected a comforting verse about death, Heaven, His abiding love. Something. But she didn't cling to any of that. She didn't even reach for it. She simply sat on the line, sadly, with a Stan-shaped hole in her heart. While I couldn't relate to the pain of my lover dying, I could certainly empathize with the pain of wondering, “what now?”

“I don’t know, Gran. Maybe we just meet that space gently and sit quietly in it.” Easier said than done, I have found.

“He had the twinkliest blue eyes! And you should have seen his hair, the most beautiful white hair and beard. He had these fine wrinkles around his eyes, and when he winked at me –oh- I was toast!” I heard the smile in her voice again, and I could sense that she had her hand over her racing heart as she swooned under the memory winking back at her.

“I’m sorry I never got to meet him, he sounds like a special man. I’m so glad that you found each other and had this time together.”

“Me too.”

“You know, he is so lucky that he had you at the end of life. I’m so happy that he had the joy, and the sweetness of your love. Even though it feels like it was short, it was such a strong and comforting end to a long life.” I made myself jealous with that one… I hoped that I would have my love beside me when I am very old and leaving life. Gran has lived long enough to have many places in her heart where love has lived; and gone. Many of those places are soft and still hurting, like the Stan space. Many are old, puttied and scarred but not forgotten. I often wonder if my heart will look like Swiss cheese or a hand-made paper snowflake when I am old, or if it will be stretched to capacity with love given and received. I pray for the latter. I wished I would die old, with love squeezing my hand.

She asked about the kids, and reminded me to savor the noise, and the hard days. She told me about a day she threw herself face down on her bed and sobbed, “I can’t do it anymore!” after her houseful of 4 teenagers had driven her to the edge. I imagined my Gran crying into her pillow, broken down. She talked to me about taking her daughter to the emergency room with cuts and scrapes after a fall. “I felt so afraid, terrified. I felt so guilty, like the worst Mom on Earth.” She reminisced. She sounded like a worried mother. A tired mother. A mother doing the best she knew how to do.

She sounded like me.

As we finished our call, she was laughing and smiling with sincerity. She talked to me like a woman talking to her friend. I recognized the emotion in her voice. I recognized that my Gran is a woman who melts at the wink of a handsome eye, has been fed up with kids and scared in an emergency room. I felt thankful that Stan had happened to my Gran and I recognized that I have felt those same fears, surrender, love. The kind that will leave a hole in the middle of your tapestry.

“I think it was Mark Twain who said it.” She added at last.

And then, I smiled.

Now Landing, Gratitude

I heaved the shopping cart around the market last night for over an hour. By the end of that hour, I gave serious thought to texting my husband and telling him to come help me tow the load to the checkout. I was exhausted. With two cases of water weighing down my painfully full carriage of groceries, I had lost my momentum and was now leaning into the load which was creeping towards checkout at a rate of 1LSPH (Linoleum Square Per Hour).  This is shopping for a family of 6 and 1 dog.  I felt like a Toyota pulling the space shuttle.  

I docked the space shuttle at lane 4. The nice young man bagging my order asked me three times if plastic was ok, and three times I said, “yes.” The nice young man asked me three times if I found everything I was looking for tonight. “Yes,” I replied three times as if my bulging cart wasn’t indication enough that I had found all that I hoped for and more. He continued bagging at a rate of 1BPH (bag per hour) while I multi-tasked between watching the register screen for accurate pricing and intermittently cherry-picking the delicate items being carelessly tossed down the conveyor by my cashier (serving me since 1983). Yes, I’m that lady.  

The nice young man was so far behind on bagging that my items were crunching, crushing and colliding into one another as they backed up into a mountainous, heart-breaking  pile. Finally, the cashier had to stop the belt and help him bag. I helped him bag.  I gave him the requisite stink-eye as I reached into the bottom of the mound for a bag of chips which was now certainly a bag of birdseed.

I resisted a second urge to text my husband. Help me.

When the nice, egg-breaking, chip-crushing, card-smashing  young man didn’t offer to help me out to the car, I tearfully dragged my cart through the black, crushed snow in the dark parking lot.  Bumping, skipping, sinking, and trudging through slush, the cart’s wheels became wedged with chunks of ice and I had to carry the cart on my back the rest of the way to the car. One of the bags broke under the weight of three bottles of sparkling cider and 9 cans of canned chicken.  Chicken bounced off my bumper and plunged with a splash into the melted slush between my freezing feet. Sparkling cider rolled to a stop against the tire of the parked car beside me.

I was instantly relieved the young man hadn’t helped me to the car or I might be shoving his body into my trunk along with 9 cans of dirty, dented chicken. Parked in my garage at home, I teared up at the tasks ahead of unloading and sorting my haul. Luckily, the husband could see it on my face that I had to sacrifice a courtesy clerk just to make it home with my eggs in-tact. He helped me unload and put away my freezer goods in the garage. Never mind that in the house, I had about two weeks of crusty Thanksgiving  left-over’s, uncovered, wilting fruit, and spoiled eggnog to dispose of before any of my new items would fit in the fridge. Every year I excitedly buy eggnog like it’s some kind of interior fridge Christmas décor and every year it sits front and center, untouched on the top shelf.

*toss*

By the end of my herculean grocery effort, I had convinced myself that I probably have some kind of blood disorder which is rendering me this fatigued.  “I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m tired all the time. I can barely lift my arms.” I whined in my head.  I suppose it has nothing to do with hauling the space shuttle around King Soopers for over an hour.

 Alas, I know I don’t have a strength-sucking disorder.  I’m just a busy, tired mommy.  I was tempted to reach for a crushed bag of birdseed chips and collapse on the couch with marathon episodes of Amish Mafia. Instead, I kissed the husband and surrendered to the day’s demands. I crawled into my freshly washed, freshly made, deeply warm and widely comfortable bed.  I was thankful for my bed. I was thankful for the sound of football on TV in the living room below. 

 As I fell asleep safe and sound, I was even thankful for a space shuttle full of groceries for my family.

Women Who (Still) Do Too Much

     It's not usually like this. It's just been a hard week, a lot going on. I've been so busy. The excuses pile up like so much laundry on the floor.
     Before bed last night, I rummaged through an ecclectic assortment of laundry, hair product, a spent coffee cup and an empty Kleenex box on my bathroom counter top to find my toothpaste, which had been squeezed to the end of its useful life because I haven't had time to go to the Market. After I faux-brushed my teeth, I hop-scotched across still more laundry, a phone charger, and ironically, a stack of Market ads from Sunday which now had collected a silt of dust. My eyes were puffy, new wrinkles had etched their way across my face and my thinning hair looked unbearably thinner.For extra self-loathing, I squeezed my fat roll. Ugh. 

      I hopped into bed and knocked over two empty water bottles on the nightstand while frantically looking for my insomnia meds. Unable to identify what pills I had accidentally co-mingled in a nameless pile on the nightstand, I reached for three random pills of various sizes, cut one in half (to reduce the risk of overdose, of course) and hoped sleep would find me. It didn't.
In the morning, I navigated my way backwards through the same impossible gauntlet of my room, all the way  down to my *still* empty toothpaste.

     Eager to escape the melee of my bedroom, I dressed in the same sexy yoga pants, tired and torn t-shirt, and very fashion-forward Powell Middle School hoodie I have been wearing for the last four consecutive days (coincidentally,  the same day I ran out of toothpaste). My husband hasn't complained yet, so I chipped away at something crusty on my pants, tightened my drawstrings and began my day. Even though I left chaos in my wake, I walked into the rest of the house with a sense of satisfaction and peace because I knew everything else in my house was perfect. Sort of.

     The dishes sat sparkling in the enclave of their sanitary dishwasher. The laundry was clean and tightly folded in neat stacks by size, color and alphabetically by brand. (ok, no.) Perfectly arranged, the ornaments on the Christmas tree spun and glittered in the glow of the porch light which was being snuffed out by the rising sun. The tables were clear and clean, the napkins perfectly angled on freshly-pressed linen placemats (again, no).
     The point is, my house is in perfect order. I know where every backpack, pen, movie blanket, remote control are. I can tell you without looking where to find your favorite coffee mug, the book you were reading for homework last night and how many chewy fruit snacks are left in the third drawer of the storage pantry. Everyone is well-provided for, maintained and in good working order. Not a worry, not a care.I take care of the cares.  Every need, every demand, every clean pair of jeans placed neatly at the foot of your crisply made bed.
     My mom used to float a book around my childhood home titled, Women Who Do Too Much and I used to think to myself, "Why would anyone in their right mind do that?" And now I know. I even know why someone wrote a book about it. Because we are women, that's why. Hear us pack lunches, volunteer at school, buy, sell, mop floors, run errands, run to the mailbox, walk the dog (and go to the gym, wrap gifts, write checks, refill toilet paper and wipe out the sink while we're at it).
     As a result of my doing-too-much-edness my bedroom is a disaster. I'm a disaster. I'm a woman who Does Too Much. I'm officially my mother.
*lets head fall back painfully with exaggerated sigh* Well, that's not so bad. At least I recognize that I'm doing too much. The problem is that I recognize it, and then I do more.

     I sat bedside in the pediatricians office this morning while my son had his cast removed. He reclined on the crinkling paper, and moaned that his stomach was hurting. "It started this morning," he said when I asked when he began feeling that way. He should stay home today. I will have to call school, I will have to cancel my class with Deb. I wonder if the Dr will check his stomach if I ask. After all, we are only on the docket for a cast removal not a check-up. They may charge me. How much do I have in the checking? I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten yet, have I? No...
     "The Doctor is running late, he should be here in about 15 minutes. I apologize." Said Nurse Crazy-Scrubs. I closed the door behind her and flipped off the obnoxiously bright florescent lights.
The early morning sun crept in through the blinds, casting an easy, soothing, dark blue glow in the west-facing room.  I put my head on the edge of the foam-filled table and listened to my son breathe. Slowly. Quietly. The generator outside stroked the office walls with a hypnotic vibration. Forgetting about school, my appointment, the office bill, I listened to the quiet. I sat still. I closed my eyes. I checked-in with myself, reminding me that I'm ok and it's ok to just sit still. It's ok. I felt my body melt like hot lead into the plastic chair. I visualized warm, yellow lights swirling through my body, top to bottom.
     I rested. Hard.
     It was the first time in 13 years I was blissfully relieved to be waiting in a doctor's office and I welcomed his tardiness. I wished he would never come. I wished they would forget that we were even in there. Welcoming a few stolen moments of ridiculously precious solitude, I didn't open my eyes until the rushing Doctor flung back the door, stared questionably into the darkness and flipped the lights awake. "Good morning, so sorry to keep you waiting." He smiled, and held out his hand to shake as if he hasn't seen me at least once a quarter for the last thirteen years. By now, I think we should hug. Instead, I shook his hand, took renewed breath, smiled and told him, "It's ok."
   
 

Eat Your Heart Out

With strength that could pull a Monster Truck out of a sand dune, I readied to peel apart the inner pouch of the cereal box. Apparently bound by some futuristic adhesive resistant to my iron grip, I pulled at the fused seams harder. Bearing down, grunting, squatting, I wrestled the bag. I gnawed with my teeth, trying to penetrate the weakest area of the bag that I had only been able to stretch.  

With a final act of Herculean valor, I hoisted my foot up on the counter to brace myself for what was sure to be the greatest feat of any breakfast making mother ever. 

With my elbows pointed to the sky, my knuckles turned white under the stress of the mighty choke-hold I had on the bag.

I roared with determination until a herald of angels erupted into a resounding rendition of Joyful, Joyful! as I finally ripped open the bag. In half.

In an act of celebration (or violence, I’m not sure which) I was sucked into a breakfast matrix and showered by cereal confetti as it was explosively ejected from the box. 

Thousands, millions of store-brand Whole Grain Oats littered my hair, the counter, and overflowed the creases of my bathrobe.  Cereal crunched under my feet as I crossed the room to collect the dustpan and broom.

After cussing out Jesus and mankind, I tried to shake off the hundreds of statically charged O’s clinging to my wool socks. Cereal continued to rain down from the sky for forty days and forty nights.  When the assault finally stopped, I swept the length of my whole arm across the countertop, knocking all the cereal to the floor.  Upon hearing the tick of cereal hitting the floor, the dog dutifully came running to help clean up. Generic Cheerio’s stuck to his wet nose as he sucked up my failure.  I picked wayward O’s from behind the toaster, the dish soap, the potted plant by the window, the couch, the neighbor’s driveway.  After I shooed away all the looters and restored order to the kitchen, I reached for my coffee, which of course had Cheerio’s floating in it.  I felt defeated and weak.

A similar chaotic outburst erupted last Friday in my Writer’s Circle. Instead of a shower of Whole Grain Oats, there was an explosion of the emotional variety as I sat before a panel of my writing peers and ripped my own creative self in half.  Through the journey of writing my book, I feel like I am met around every corner with impossibility. Doubt. Frustration. Procrastination. I launched into a shameless testimony about failing, fear, the haunting of the past. I ruminated at length about how hard it is to keep working on my book. I emoted about how hard it is to face my fears and visit my past.  How hard it is to open up and pour it all out.  I felt defeated and weak.

“Maybe I just need to quit? Maybe this is just too much for me. Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought I was.” I admitted.

 My writing coach’s face turned ghostly white, and I could tell that she was thinking about launching herself through the second story library window.  But she didn’t jump. She and the other writers listened to me quietly until I ran out of pitiful steam.

“I can’t do it.” Just short of unstoppable crying, I summarized my plight with an act of surrender. I wanted to quit.

“No, no, no! You can do this, look how far you’ve come. It’s hard, it is, but you can finish it.” They swept up my exposure like it was a thousand fallen Cheerios; rushing to my aid with support and encouragement so I didn’t have to get out the broom and do it myself.  Days later with a refreshed spirit, I went back to work on the book. It's incredibly hard. That hasn't changed. But, I know that I’m not going to get everything right and sometimes pieces will fall on the floor.  I may spend more time cleaning up than successfully making anything and that doesn't mean I should give up on fighting for what’s inside. It's good for me. It might even be the most important thing I do all day.   

Today, I easily opened a new box of cereal, poured a hearty bowl, and finished the whole thing.

Best Friends Forever! Kind Of.

It's a strange flux I find myself in right now. I can feel the stage being set for some sort of change or shift in the dynamic of my friendships. Reunions, new friendships, friendships headed for time-outs. My kids seem to be in the same state of flux:  battling with greed, jealousy, loneliness, and an over-saturation of texts, tweets and Facetime. To name a few. Who's been added? Friended? Favorited? Liked, winked, LOL'd at? Or worse, Deleted.

 Oh Social Media, what a tangled world-wide-web you weave. 

Two of my favorite friends have moved away in as many months. Life goes on. Marriages, do-overs, jobs. Sometimes to live the dream you gotta chase the dream. I get it. But still. I have a deficit of cool friends anymore, and I can't afford for them to just be moving away; especially at the same time. I find that as I get older, my friendships become more important to me. They mean more, they are deeper. I find that they are moving away from me. 

 "Is there something on your mind you want to talk about?" I asked my son as I tucked his covers snugly around him at bedtime.

 "Yeah..." He closed his eyes softly, and although I'm sure it wasn't meant for me to see, a tiny tear popped out. 

"What's wrong little sweet?"

"Well, me and Will are fighting." A second tear chased the first and I wiped them both away with my thumb and the corner of the sheet. 

"That's sad, what are you fighting about?"

 He emoted at length about the injustice of it all. The unfairness, the disregard, the neglect of common courtesy. 

"It's football, it's playing fair. It's talking to other friends or kids who don't like me, it's being ignored like I'm not even there. It's everything." 

Ah, yes. The everything. 

I coached him with flawless advice about how to approach Will, how to confront him with kindness and an open mind and heart. I advised him on being a good friend, even when its hard and when it hurts. 

"Give Will the opportunity to do better. Talk to him. A good friend will give you a chance to correct and adjust. Let him know what the perception of him is when he cheats. If he responds with poor choices and decisions and isn't a respectable person, we will go from there. Ok?"

He nodded, jostling another tear out of its home. There was no mucous, and the corner of the sheet wasn't too damp so I figured I had done an acceptable job of neutralizing the situation. At least for the next 8 hours of night-night. 

Today I made contact with a friend I've been out of touch with for about twenty years. I hate to admit that I am old enough to have a friend from twenty years ago--but it is what it is.  She sounded the same, but everything has changed. Marriages, divorces, kids, moves. Wins, losses. So much has happened over those twenty years, yet in the span of a 45 minute phone call, it was as if nothing had changed. Time stood still for us. A flood of memories came back to me the rest of the day. Smiles crept across my face, sighs. Giggles. Stories I told my husband about my journey with my friend all ended in, "I guess you had to be there."

 James Taylor said it best when he sang, "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time..." Amen. My friends have moved unrealistic distances away to meet for coffee, Pho, shopping. But I enjoyed the time that our paths crossed and we walked together. My hope is that Will and Jack have one of those magical friendships that can make time stand still. I hope that by November, they won't even remember the fight they had in October.  And when they laugh and tell the stories twenty years later, they will all end with,  "Guess you had to be there."

Mother's Rap

She spread the slats apart and squinted through the narrow opening. The north facing window was hazy, opaque with sun glare, rain spots and cobwebs.
"What are you looking at?" I asked as I forged for last night's leftovers in the fridge. Without breaking her concentration, mom waved behind her, "Hand me the phone. Fast."
I pinned a piece of cold fried chicken between my teeth, tucked a two-liter bottle of Orange Drink under my arm and handed her the cordless phone.
"I can't believe you still have an answering machine. Seriously, mom." Twenty years of dust was caked into the seams of the antiquated electronic. The recorded greeting was at least that old. "Ssh!" Mom urgently blasted me to keep my voice down. I defiantly asked with my 'inside voice', "what are you doing, anyway?"
"I have to call 911."
My cold fried chicken shed some of it's congealed coat and the camouflaged crumbs dropped to the speckled vinyl floor below. I didn't have to look to know that she was still at the window. Watching. Her paranoia didn't impress me anymore.
"Why do you have to call 911?" More crumbs fell out.
"Because! There's some..." She paused to find the most dramatic, least offensive, urgent descriptive she could come up with."...there's gangster raps outside!"
My laughter heaved a bolus of fried chicken into my esophagus, launching me into a fit of gagging and choking. "What the stink is a 'gangster rap?'" Now she had my attention and I looked up. Mom was in the same crouching tiger pose at the window, motionless, spying the 'gangster raps'. She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Thugs, gang kids!" She positioned her thumb on the '9', ready to dial.
I poured flat Orange Drink into a coffee mug. "What are the gangster raps doing?" She stared harder through the tiny opening in the wooden blinds. "They are standing around that car across the street."
 "So, they aren't actually doing anything?" I confirmed her observations but she didn't answer. "Mom. It's not   911 Prevent an Emergency. Put the phone down." She continued her surveillance, waiting for the gangster raps to do something-anything-litigious.
"What's mom looking at?" Lis swiped the last piece of chicken from my paper towel plate. "She's watching some gangster raps, and waiting for the shit to go down." Mom raised her voice above a whisper, "Don't swear in my house!" Lis stood beside her and looked over mom's shoulder into the street. "Oh, I graduated with those guys. One of those kids was in Student Council I think, and that other kid was in my Honors class."
Mom stepped back and put the phone on the counter beside the sink. "I want you girls to clean up all those crumbs you dropped and throw away your trash. I mean it." She was heading upstairs when the phone rang. "Will one of you brats get that?" Mom hollered from the landing where she had resumed her neighborhood watch crusade at the upstairs window.
"Maybe we should keep the line open, mom, just in case? The machine will get it."

Cardioship

Relationships are hard. Romantic relationships, friend and family relationships. Neighbor and work relationships. They all take a toll on the heart.
Relationships can make you feel good about yourself and horrible about yourself. Love, doubt and dislike yourself. Never mind how they can make you feel about the other person in the relationship.
Oy.
Some relationships are worth the never ending investment of mental and emotional sweat. Some are better left severed and walked away from.
But no matter where they end up, all relationships have to go through the heart before they go anywhere else; making the heart a sort of filter, a sciv to let the love through and keep the crap out.
Like any machine, hearts are fallible. They aren't perfect. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes they even break. And that is the part that makes us human.
That is what makes our heads kick in and make up the difference when the heart falls short.
And then it's anybody's game because that's where all the crap goes that the heart once filtered out.
That's when we draw on past experience to help us make choices. Decisions. Mistakes.
That is when we have to count on the other person's heart to do what's right and hope that their heart isn't broken too.

Mutiny on the Body

There are so many things that are much easier said than done. Perhaps the one most difficult for me to do is, "Listen to your body."
Listen. To your body.
Most days, my body whines, cries, nags and even screams at me. And I ignore it like a child having a tantrum in the Market.
Shut up, body. I don't have time for you. Your needs are embarrassing me.

I know you are hungry, you don't have to keep telling me. I know you are tired. I know you want to sit down. But we must. Keep. Going. Things to do, people to see. Problems to solve.

 Worlds to conquer.

  I worked out today. When I came home, I walked the dog a mile and a half in 96 degree heat. I took a shower, and then in a moment of mutiny, my body did something it has never done before: it hit me.
I told my body that after the shower, it was time to vacuum, do the morning dishes. Mop, scrub, fold. Write, drive. Show up. And my body knocked my ass out.
 "I give you everything you ask for. Energy. Strength. We are stopping," my body said. And I listened.
 I laid down in bed, the fan whirring overhead. The room was dark and cool, the music turned up far too loud for a nap. And yet I fell hard, hard asleep.
After thirty minutes, I woke up in a panic, certain I had missed the whole afternoon. What do you know, the day was still there, the sun was still in the sky.  All the chores were still there. All my problems, all my worries, all the demands were still there. Even the World, was still there. Nothing died, nothing came to a screeching halt. Anarchy, apocalypse, famine, locust? Nope.  No one fell apart as a result of me listening to my body.
Not even me.

Blessings on the Greener Side

On a recent Facebook status update, I went on for far too many lines complaining about what a long and tiring day I had ahead of myself. Errands, kids,working out, driving, cooking, cleaning, walking the dog. Home repairs, grocery shopping and of course dinner, homework and the night shift.

I'm busy, we all get it.

These are things I do every day, but on that day it just felt like I was touching everything twice. With every click of my seat belt, every time I touched the gear shift, every time the dog jumped on me, a neighbor knocked, I felt like energy and motivation were being sucked out of me. And then it was time to pick someone up at school or turn over the laundry.

As a Homemaker, I find that I am in motion about 15 hours a day. My SUV is in motion for half of that.

It's exhausting. It's thankless.

My friend made a comment on my status implying that I was bragging about my to-do's, the Daily's that he dreams of in his single life. The hustle, the bustle. The chaos of married life. What I considered a long list of complaints, he considered bragging. The idea gave me pause.

My single friend can work late, go out late, drink, play, party. Have girl friends, have guy friends. Leave messes, leave the seat up, leave town any time. Text in the middle of the night. Come and go. No kids to baby sit, no dog to board. No bottomless baskets of laundry. Money can be spent on anything the single person desires. Not handed out as allowance, tooth fairy funds, daycare, field trips, Easter basket building, Halloween costumes. No school supplies and immunizations. No bombarding for snacks, pencils for homework (which all need sharpening of course). If he doesn't make it to the market for a while, that's ok. No one is going to be malnourished except him. A diet of peanut butter from the jar and an over ripe banana is a perfectly balanced meal in the single person's food pyramid.

It's a textbook case of "The Grass is Greener" theory.

Being married with children is a lot like enduring a difficult workout. It burns, it hurts. Sometimes, you even want to quit. It gets hard to breathe, it's uncomfortable, painful even. It's challenging, exhausting. It feels like it will never end and at times it can be a lonely place when you feel overwhelmed by the burden. But all of this could easily be said for the life of a single person, too.

It's uncomfortable. It's painful.

I've been single. I've been married. They each come with their own rewards and disappointments, like anything in life. It's hard no matter what side of the fence you are on. But it's your pasture and you were put there for a reason. As difficult as it is sometimes to exist there, once and a while it's a good idea to take off your shoes and walk around barefoot to remember how good it feels to be there. To connect with the roots and know you are growing, right where you belong.

I read my Facebook post again. Was I whining or celebrating? Giving up, or taking it all in? Would I trade my day for someone else's shade of green? Would my friend?

It's not easy. It's not like anyone else's.

It's perfect.

Say Again?

I sincerely wish I could learn to shut up.

But, since I have tried without success for years to shut up, I sincerely believe that I should have been wired with a DELETE, BACKSPACE or REWIND key. At the very least, I should wear a roll of duct tape on my wrist so I can intercept my own mouth from spewing whatever the hell it feels like.

In lieu of having actual hardware at my disposal to over ride my impulses, I must learn to accept what God gave me. Or didn't give me, in this case, self control.

I know there is a timeless adage used the world over; which is fitting for my projectile word vomit. It was something about being 'slow to think and slower to act,' or something like that. Think before you open your soup cooler.

In some cases, something might be worth thinking about for a long time before reacting to it. It might behoove someone like myself who is usually quick to act, to sleep on a matter and even think on it overnight. Overnight? Let's not get carried away.

In real life, I would never do that.

Because try as I may to hold back my initial emotions, I can't. I may tell my mouth that we are going to think rationally, reasonably, let cool heads prevail; but my mouth will almost always resist the effort.  It's the same reason I can't play poker or keep a birthday surprise. I just can't keep it in. I'm as transparent as Scotch tape.

It's a flaw that more often than not has gotten me in trouble, caused me a relationship or two, hurt someone's feelings, gotten me written up at work or ejected me from bars. My quick words have disappointed other people, and ruined opportunities. Letting my emotions come out in the form of words before my brain has had a chance to translate has rendered me embarrassed, regretful and vulnerable.

In my defense, I think this is largely because I instinctively trust my instinct. In 37 years, it has never failed me. My gut and I have an understanding, and my first feeling, my first instinct is usually spot on. And herein lies my conundrum...Because my instinct is not everyone else's instinct. Therefore, what I say, and even how I feel is not always right by worldly standards.

Sigh.

I am not always right. It was hard to put a period at the end of that sentence. I am not always right. Period.

So until the world becomes magically in tune with my ever-correct gut, or until I learn to think before I speak, please pass the tape.

Strange Magic

He was the first adult male I had a crush on. The forbidden, unattainable, unrequited love of my life.

Gorgeous. Rustic. If that's possible.

"Welcome to Natural Science, I'm your instructor, Terry Strange."

 I sat on the edge of the first seat in the front row. I batted my eyelashes, which were fixed on Terry Strange. His expensive, saggy jeans, his wire eyeglasses. Scuffed, heavy (but soft-looking) work boots. Terry Strange was a Lumberjack with champagne taste. Just the way I like 'em.

He rattled a list of expectations, rules, and the semester's agenda. He scribbled his office phone number on the board and I copied it into my notebook, covering the tiny hearts I drew all around it.

Sigh...


I noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring, but then I assumed that even if he was married,  a man like Terry Strange wouldn't wear jewelry except for the compass watch he sported on his left wrist.
He held most of our classes outside, and I loved that. When we went outside, Terry wore a felt hat that cast a beautiful shadow on top of his natural 5 o'clock shadow. So mysterious...

He referred to our notebooks as 'field books' and carried his own pocket sized field book tied with a leather string. He wrote in it with a wooden lacquer pen, the kind that twists open.

Oh Terry, you slay me with your avaunt guard  fashion sense.

Terry drove the white school van to the sight of our first field trip, the Nimbus Fish Hatchery.

The place smelled awful.

Fish eggs, fish packed in row after row of shallow tanks, fish food, fish waste, fish babies. Fish compost.

Somehow, Terry Strange made even the Nimbus Fish Hatchery fascinating and I hardly noticed that I had overexerted my gag reflex. I wondered how Terry would be spending the rest of the day after class. Would he go back to school and grade papers? Go out to lunch? Go home and make a hearty sandwich on seeded bread with dijon and pastrami? I bet he lives in a small mining community, in a big house with a dog. A Bloodhound, or a Lab. No, a Retriever for sure. The one that brought back the Pheasant he has hanging over his fireplace, the one he hunted. I bet Terry has brown leather furniture with brass carpenter tacks and whip stitching.

A petite woman was introduced as our tour guide. She was wearing a tan Fish Hatchery uniform and had her long, straight, brown hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail. Pale and bland, her big eyes were the only remarkable feature of her plain appearance.

She knew more about fish than anyone ought to, especially a woman. I noticed that Terry was smiling as he listened intently to the tour guide. The fish smell was again obvious, awful.

I tuned out the tour guide and the smell of fish and instead hummed our song, Strange Magic in my head.

"I'm 18, I can date anyone I want. I could drop out of Terry's class so he wouldn't have to worry about anyone chastising our love."
I love it when a plan comes together...I looked at Terry, who was standing at the back of our group. His hands were plunged deep into the front pockets of his fleece vest.

The tour ended and Terry instructed the class to return to the van. Everyone went except me. I lagged behind to see if I could finagle some one-on-one time with Terry. Maybe I had a question about the gestation period of Rainbow Trout eggs? Maybe I had a question about the spawning period of Grunion?

Minnows leaped about in my stomach with anticipation until I saw them. 


Terry was hugging the tour guide in front of the Evolution of Fish poster. She rubbed his arm while he talked with his hands, pointed at his compass watch.

They kissed goodbye and as he walked towards the van they agreed, "See you at home."

Making a Scene

I'm writing my Memoir.
Ugh.
It's awful. That is, it's awful to write. It's awful to remember. It's awful to Memoir.
For a long time, I didn't think I should write it. I didn't think I had a story to tell. And, if I did have a story, it is surely a horror story, and, who cares. Everybody has a rough life. Right?
Surely, no one can take away anything from my story, it won't teach anyone anything. It wont evoke feelings, or entice anyone to read it. Who cares, I'm nobody.
I'm nobody, with nothing to say. Nothing extraordinary I have overcome. I'm not a hero. I didn't turn any tragedies into anything amazing. I just came out of it, quietly with no fanfare.

But, as I began to share parts of my story with 'normal' people on the 'outside', once I traveled beyond the comfort zone of commiserating with my brother and sister; I learned that people were actually intrigued by my story.
They wanted to know more.
They wanted to know how I turned out so nicely, in spite of all that trauma.


So, my story began to morph from a tragic reality into a story. I've hired a coach to guide me through the logistics of compiling my story. She is there to help me put it all together; build it. Make sense of it all.
Oh, if anyone could just make sense of it all.
I have pages of material. Pages of things that really happened. I didn't have to create them, I didn't dream them or fictionalize them. This week I sent about forty pages to my coach. I waited anxiously for her feedback, her direction. I waited for her to make sense of it all.

While I plugged away at still more pages, I was overcome with a flood of emotion. I suppose that's going to happen when you dig through the emotional shards of your past. Sooner or later, it will start to sting. Again.
I called my mom.
I don't know why.
I didn't want to upset her. I didn't want to tell her where I had just gone, in my head. I didn't want to tell her what I had just written. She doesn't need to know. She already knows. But, I needed her voice. Thirty years later, I needed her.

"What are you doing today?" she asked.
"I'm just writing. That's all I have on my agenda today. Just writing. And I worked out at the Studio-but now, I'm writing."
I thought I might tell her that the writing is hard for me at times. Sometimes, it breaks my heart to look back at what I just wrote, and not choke down tears. Not have a panic attack. I think she already knew that. She knows that I'm scared when I write these things...

We talked about my sister, my brother and  my kids. We talked about the wildfires, marriage.
 How fitting.
The next day, my coach sent back the responses to my documents. Forty pages of my darkest secrets and most nagging insecurities and fears, critiqued in the margin by a stranger.
"Wow! Very powerful scene." "This is horrible, I am really getting a sense of the narrator's conflict and struggle." "I'm overcome, you have done a great job bringing me in to the narrator's place, I can feel and hear everything, this is great work."

This is a powerful scene. This is great work. This is horrible. I can feel everything...

A powerful scene? I think that's all wonderful feedback. Great critique.
But, there was some shock to seeing someone critique, "My God..." about my story. In a way that expressed; 'I can't believe it. I want to look away. How could anyone go through this?' And it's about my real life.

And then it occurred to me. It is real. It was real. To me. It happened, in my real life. I didn't make this, this isn't work that I creatively fabricated to make an impression, or to move someone to unimaginable emotion. This happened. All I have done by writing it down, is simply document what happened.
Is there talent in that? Is there anything commendable in that? Is documenting the worst things that ever happened to you, praise worthy or vulnerable to a good critique? Is it possible to have a 'voice' about something that once took your voice away?

Seems odd.

Maybe all this emotion is part of the growing pains of writing a memoir about tragedy. About abuse. About growing.

Maybe this is all part of the next scene.

Stage Left

I know a real neat guy. And when I say neat, I mean ripped.

The man on the right is a model, muscle man, Master Personal Trainer, and pretty much any other amazing thing you can think of to say about an Adonis. I mean, Dude rocks it. No matter what 'it' is. The best part is, he isn't even an asshole. He's actually a really nice, friendly, cool guy.

 Not that he hasn't heard the accolades a million times (today), he is very humble about his amazing physique and amazingness. He is a real person, with real feelings and a real life. He works hard every day, all the time; inspiring others and doing good things that both show, and don't show.

Because he is that amazing.

Ripped. Humble. Real. Amazing.

He posted on his Facebook the familiar adage, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?"
Hmph. Easy for Adonis to say. I mean, look at those...everything. I seeeriously doubt he has ever fallen to the temptation of laying on the couch and waking up to dry mouth from all the pistachios or Cool Ranch Doritos he ate while watching 48 Hours Hard Evidence . He epitomizes motivation. He sweats commitment and hard work. The man wakes up and makes a Dedication Smoothie.

I scoffed. I wondered. If I could not fail? What would I do?
And then, I got distracted by something shiny. You read that right, I  failed at thinking about not failing.

But, the question lingered in the back of my mind like those mismatched socks on the couch. I asked myself what is stopping me from doing anything I even remotely think I could do, really? I learned, it isn't my fear of failure that holds me back from achieving. I totally believe that I could do anything I wanted to do. But, I am a farmer of excuses. Planting laziness, harvesting reasons why I "can't" achieve something.

Let's assume that I would like to be a body builder.  How come I'm not trying to be a body builder if that is something I want to do? And, by the way, I'm pretty sure that I could be a body builder for like, a few days.
 But, eventually, that would get hard and I would have to go back to watching Toddlers and Tiara's and Sister Wives. Let's not forget Dance Moms. Oh, and of course 16 and Pregnant. Booyah. That's some messed up shit. But, I digress.

Besides the fact that on the inside, I'm a body builder, on the outside, I lack three things that hold me back: Muscles, motivation and discipline. Money for training, tanning, teeth whitening, hair lightening and a shiny bathing suit and high heels to wear in competitions might help, too.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring to you my resounding excuses. And that's all they are. Excuses. If I wanted the money, I could raise the money. I'm sure Complete Nutrition is dying to sponsor a 37 year old mother of 4 in an amateur body building contest.

The truth is, all of my excuses could easily be called something else: Controllables. My excuses have not been put on me, outside of my control. I choose them. I pick them up, and carry them all day long.  My excuses aren't disabilities, handicaps or accidents. They are not things that 'happened' to me. My excuses are what I go to instead of working hard for the things that truly matter. Because working hard is hard. I'm living like I "can't", but the reality is I "don't".

 I'm able bodied. I'm a whole person living a half life. My excuses only empower me to never achieve. Ewe.

The epiphanies could go on and on, but I have exceeded my quota of realizing wisdom for one day. It really comes down to choices. Choosing to go after it, or not. It comes down to choosing inspiration. Motivation. Discipline. Some folks choose those things and blow them out of the water, like my dear friend on the right. His results are commendable, admirable. Inspirational.

Amazing.

Then there are people who have every reason, legit reasons, understandable reasons, to say that they 'can't'. Yet, they choose to live a whole life despite the adversity life has given them. Those people become Special Olympic Champion Power Lifters. Their choices power their 300 lb squats, 245 lb bench, 315 lb dead lifts.

Inspiration reveals itself in different ways. And I promise you, it isn't in the Season Finale of Sister Wives or at the bottom of a bag of pistachios. Sometimes inspiration takes the shape of Adonis. Sometimes, inspiration strikes a proud pose next to Adonis.

 And that's the kind of inspiration that has the power to change "What would I do..." into "What if I Did?"

A Willing Prisoner

"I'm ready for breakfast!" My son's order for waffles, sausage and mini-pancakes is barked at me before I even get a proper greeting.

"How about, good morning mom? Hi mom? You must have slept so well, you look radiant?"

He rolls his ten year old eyes in unison with a 'whatever' sigh.

"And, I don't like that V8 juice, I'd rather have orange juice."
I let that one go, too, because he just looks so damn cute in his striped pajamas and bedhead.

"Will you please get the syrup out of the pantry?" The martyr side of me kicks instinctively into high gear, with hopes that he will be moved to help, simply because I am just shy of squeezing fresh orange juice for him. I hear him open the pantry with loud body language.

"Oh my gosh! You said you were going to buy the good syrup! Why did you buy the store kind, again!"

And that was it. The catapult that launched my son on an unforgettable guilt trip with yours truly. And I assure you, no one can lay a good guilt trip like Mom.

I didn't even try to stop myself from using the usual cliche's. I even harped on those poor children in China who never had-and probably never will- have syrup. Oh, you are so lucky, you don't even know how lucky you are. When I was your age..." I went on and on stopped before I got to my 'barefoot walks to school in the snow, uphill!' But I did not leave out the fact that I am not his servant.
I inserted a few, "I don't even know why I try", "I work so hard", and even the classic, "Everything I do is for you." And, all I ask in return is for you to dip your perfect pancakes in 1/4 cup of store brand, sugar free, dollar-ninety-nine syrup.

I'm such a bad mom, I don't know how you even find the will to wake up every day.

Oh, that was good. I think I really got through to him with that 'perfect pancake' bit.

I hovered over my son at the table while he ate. I carried on with a tragic monologue that would have made Shakespeare proud. My son tuned me out, and, truth be told, by the time he was done gagging on generic syrup, I had tired of my own voice too.

He was excused, and ordered to his room to get dressed. I steadied myself for some 'but it's Saturday!' push-back, but it never came. Tail between his legs, he went to his room and came back dressed. That 'perfect pancake' thing was more effective than I thought.

I patted myself on the back with dishpan hands.

While I might be trapped by my instinct and legal obligation to feed my son, I am free to feed him store brand syrup and remind him to like it.

Fire and Rain

I took my kids camping.

Alone.

That means, I had to do all the camp-y things by myself. Sans Husband.
I don't know why, but as soon as I know that I will have to do anything like that by myself, I go into some kind of paralytic-amnesia. Suddenly, I don't feel competent to do the same things I have watched a man do for twenty years. Which is ridiculous, because when a man is performing camping tasks, I almost always watch on with the sense that I could do whatever he is doing easier, faster, and a lot less expensively. In high heels. While breast feeding. Blind.

Yet, when I set out to go camping with my two kids, suddenly, I doubted my capability to make fire. To set up camp. To change batteries in the lantern, or set up the grill.  "What if the car breaks down? What if I get a flat tire? What if I hit a deer? What if there's bad guys?"

Eek.

Like any good mom (or woman) I quietly harbored my doubt and replaced it pseudo-confidently with phrases like, "I got this!"

Even though I was driving a new vehicle up the mountain, I still had internal diagnostic monologue. "What's that smell? Is it the car ahead of me or are my brakes on fire? Do you hear that?"  Every once and a while I made a mental note of the odometer reading when passing landmarks so I could tell a dispatcher EXACTLY where I was. Should the need arise. I had nervous poop cramps for like two hours on that drive wondering if we would make it without me having to whore myself for a tow.

We arrived at camp with all our tires and brakes in tact. It started to rain.

No problem, because remember, I got this.

It started to thunder. Lightening. Hail. Locusts. Famine. I unloaded the car, fed the kids, and headed to the pit to try and start the fire I had promised.

Using my body as a human wind shield, I hovered over the damp fire pit.  I stacked wood, lit paper and built tiny pyramids of kindling. I huffed, fanned, poked and prayed prayed for my fire to start. "Please God, thank you for sparing me hitting any deer on the drive up, but I really, really need a fire now." I spent two full lighters with my efforts.

White smoke billowed in my face with no sign of flames. I could hear a puddle boiling and sizzling under my pyramid. I was fighting back doubt and tears. I was wet. Cold. Dizzy from smoke inhalation, I was ready to quit. As I hovered over the pit, my back aching and my knees screaming...a tiny burn crept up the side of the twisted paper and caught fire.


Fire.

The kids watched on, jumping up and down in their hoodies, their wet marshmallows poised and ready to roast. "Yes! Mom! You did it!"

I stood in the rain and savored my first fire as it spat and coughed like a baby being born. As the fire took its first breaths and burned brightly into existence, I realized that I am a Mommy. I can make you warm, feed you and take you camping.
 I've got this.

The Man Umbrella

“It’s a head or something!”


My 8 year old daughter coiled back, drawing her fists up under her chin while assuming a flamingo-like pose on one toe. I looked through the window at the puppy and tried to spy from a safe distance what he was chewing on. I assured myself that it was a rotten apple, fallen from the tree. 


 This is probably the only time in my life I wished for a rotten apple. Please, please, please be a rotten apple…


But, there was firmness in his bite that told me I was dead wrong. 


Closer inspection revealed it was a bird head the dog was eating. 

 “Get it!” she screamed at me. 

Um? No? Disgusting?



The puppy spat the head out at my feet to show me how pretty it was. I stared at the decapitated, walnut-sized noggin of the tiny bird, its feathers licked into a comb-over and its eyeballs eerily missing. 

As a mom, there are a lot of really disgusting things I have subjected my gag reflex to. But  Bird Flu, Malaria, Rabies, worms, Black Death would be the end-all-be-all of gross-me-out. 
 I draw the line at prying a bird head out of my puppy’s mouth as long as there is a brave husband within screaming range to do it for me. 


 I don’t consider myself a Feminist, but, there are certain tasks that I believe are covered under the Man Umbrella. 


Car repairs, fixing big, broken things like garage doors and appliances and anything dead definitely reside in Husband territory. However, in an effort to promote equality, I am happy to pull my weight by addressing items that are more motherly (and menial) in nature.  Scraping dried up toothpaste off the bathroom sink comes to mind.


 Marriage is a give and take. Except for when it’s Honey-do.


If my car breaks down, it’s just understood that the Husband will make a few phone calls, take my car to a Far Away Land where mystical people will do magical things to it (for free) and bring it back in perfect working order. The car goes away broken, it comes back, fixed.  This is a way he can take care of me without taking away my freedom or independence.


 My husband has saved me from lots of disgusting horrors in our time together. With shreds of toilet paper stuck to his calves, jeans rolled up to his knees, he bailed raw sewage out of the basement when the sewer main erupted. I think that if your potential mate is willing to wade through crap to help you, it’s a good sign that they are in it come hell or high sewer water. If he or she is going to comfort you when you puke, rescue you when your car breaks down and do the things that you just don’t have the wherewithal to do for yourself, you can feel confident that you have probably found your soul mate.


The realities of being in a married relationship sometimes reveal themselves in atrocious ways. Maybe it’s a sewer main erupting in your house. Maybe it’s dealing with a dead animal in the back yard. Real life happens in real life. Whatever the crisis may look like after marriage, I firmly believe that as a fair warning, wedding vows should come with an addendum to clarify what you are really signing up for when you promise, “I Do.”
Wedding promises should include a clause, “…will you stay faithful even though your mate has vomit in her hair and her makeup is smeared in streaks down her face? Furthermore, will you flush the toilet, carry her to bed and bring her a pan –your favorite pan- to throw up in again while she cries like a baby in bed? In front of God and these witnesses, do you promise to love her, even when she is seemingly possessed by Menstruation and has a migraine?” 


When getting married, no one ever stops to think about who will be called upon the day the family puppy is caught nibbling on an avian cranium.
Life, marriage, parenting; it’s all about finding the balance and being patient when everything teeters on the fulcrum. 


 Some days you’re the puppy, some day’s you’re the bird.


My husband willingly assumed the role of “Decapitation Extraction Technician”. He asked for a bag, which I fearlessly handed over. Expressionless, and without complaining about the grim task at hand, My Hero disposed of the head. After a while, it occurred to me that where there is a head, somewhere else is the body. I resigned to cross that carcass when I come to it.


For now, I simply paused with gratitude for having a life that is real, and a husband that won’t take flight when the going gets tough. Would I take this day and all the rest, to have and to hold from this day forward?
I do.