Where

Where are my words? They are there, and there are millions of them. But just now they don't seem to be helping as they have in the past. They can't make JBL trust me, they can't make J and K live their lives without the eggshell-walking stress of my presence, and they can't take me to a place where anxiety doesn't exist. Not just now.

This feeling is pain and powerlessness. I look up and realize I am back in the place where all I want to do is sleep. I'll try breathing exercises again today. And meditating. Is it strange that I immediately follow that thought with, "after I start the movie for J, and get a bit more work done. Oh, and I need to decide what my workout for the day will be..." I have the ability to at least try something. Obviously going going going hasn't helped before, so I have to try...

I take it back. This writing has helped today.

3 days

I watched an episode of Bones while on the treadmill yesterday. It was about the main character - a forensic pathologist - mistakenly thinking herself identical to a murder victim. Thinking she was the murder victim. It started out with a few parallels - jewelry, occupation, personality traits. Next thing you know, Dr. Brennan thinks she is having a conversation with a dead surgeon while listening to recordings of her dictated case files. She basically went crazy. But I digress.

Part of the story line touched me profoundly. Yeah, I said profoundly, in reference to a common TV crime drama with mediocre actors. What struck me was that the murder victim behaved in illogical and erratic ways because of her core, regardless of the potential afforded her by intelligence. The hand she was dealt was this: she had a controlling personality which made it difficult to handle the death she had to deal with on a regular basis. She chose logic initially as a coping mechanism. At first, logic allowed her to frame the tragedies that occurred on her watch such that she could face them and keep functioning. At first.

When logic failed her, she chose to detach from life. No worry, no stress, no guilt. Just go through the day doing what you are supposed to do, and don't perceive any of the repercussions of problems that crop up regardless of the force of your will.

The trouble is, when you're detached you don't feel anything, and you start to miss little things like joy. And worse, you really can't stop feeling the acute pain within occurrences you can't control. So maybe you start testing the boundaries of existence. Maybe what looks like - and sometimes feels like - a death wish is actually mixed with a very real search for redemption.

The murder victim, as it turns out, was only an accident victim. And instead of Temperance feeling a kinship with her, it was me mistaking her face for my own. Of course I felt shame at the realization that no occupation surrounded by death could be blamed for my detachment. Perhaps nothing can excuse the coldness I employ. I know I have had pain in my past, and maybe it is not of a level that would drive a normal person to irrational and unhealthy behavior. But I can only play the hand I am dealt. And yesterday I felt that I didn't have to worry so much. I felt - just a little - that maybe I am rational after all. That I am understandable, and not hopeless.

The feeling didn't last (oh no it didn't). But it existed, and I will chew on it as long as I can. I was handed a box that was jewel-covered and lit from within. Real redemption. Real forgiveness. Real acceptance. If there is a chance that I can find it, I will keep going. Longer than it takes the brain to adapt to seeing upside-down. Longer than the voice can whisper, 'You don't deserve to be here.'

Getting there

Can you feel the light getting dimmer? Even with all these days of leaden gray skies with patches of blue along the horizon and the air full of snow flurries, you can tell. The year is slipping by. It's almost done. Thank God.

What it's like to be me

I should be working, and it should be easy given that the standing mixer is kneading my bread for me. And especially since the halogen lights under our cabinets will warm the resting dough for me after the kneading is complete. (Especially after JBL and I pay someone to mow the lawn for us [which they just did today in this the FOURTH WEEK IN NOVEMBER - why is my grass still growing?!], and after I just offered to pay someone to clean my windows for me, which I have never done and am feeling guilty about. Next thing you know I'll be paying someone to clean my house. NEVER.) But I can't concentrate.

The mixer is kneading so violently that it is slowly moving across the counter towards the edge - slightly forward, with a slightly counter-clockwise spin. I don't think it will actually fall off the edge because it is turning more than moving forward. It's got about 2 inches and 15 degrees before I turn it off for the dough's first rise anyway, and at that point it will still be a few centimeters shy of the precipice. Even with this knowledge, the grinding sound of the motor, combined with the slap of the dough as it hits the side of the bowl, combined with the thump-shuffle sound of the mixer moving incrementally under its own volition is drawing my eye. The mixer, my mother's, is easily 25 years old. Like all appliances of its vintage, it weighs about a thousand pounds and is 80's off-white, but it gets the job done.

I glance at my documents on my laptop then quickly gauge the mixer's progress. Like staring straight at the rode while JBL is behind the wheel, my attention seems to ensure progress continues (safely). Meanwhile I am actually accomplishing nothing. So what do I do?

I decide to write about it.

Veterans Day

I've wanted K to watch Band of Brothers with me for a long time, but I knew it hasn't been appropriate until now. She is just about 13, and can understand. She can take it in as more than entertainment. The world is becoming 3-D to her now. Technicolor.

There are so many things I think about telling K. About our world, and rhetoric and bias and violence. But I want her to just experience some things. This much-lauded mini series is so well done, especially viewed with the interviews from the actual soldiers of E-company, that it offers context and complexity and hope and devastation without much additional commentary required from me.

But still there are so many things to say. As with all my 'teaching moments', I don't want K to write me off as a right-wing nut job. As with all my thoughts on current events and civics and politics, I want her to see there are separate philosophies based on well-thought-out arguments. But there is also, sometimes, right and wrong.

I watch reruns of Band of Brothers and think, 'Tell K war is TERRIBLE. There is nothing glamorous or exciting about this. Yes, it is like watching a car accident - compelling. But look beyond that. Look at the sheer horror.' Everything wrong with our nature allows this to happen again and again.

Some men were violent for the thrill of it. Some snapped and did horrific things because they could no longer help themselves. Some women gave themselves away in the name of safety. And some people looked away from the deaths of innocents in hopes that their lives could go on unaffected, without shame. This is what happens in war. But it also happens every day.

The most patriotic man I ever knew, my father, was in World War II, in the Pacific. I know very little about what he did there because he just didn't talk about it. In a way, he couldn't talk about it. How could he put into words all he saw? I interviewed him for a college project, and he talked openly about most of his life, but his words describing his time overseas were stilted. His eyes were distant. When he talked about throwing his duffel bag overboard on the ship ride home, I could see his open wound scabbing over. And I could see his soul forever damaged.

Yes, war is terrible, K, but look at it. It is as complex as all of humanity. It is hard and technicolor, and sometimes it is necessary. There are no easy answers, no matter what rhetoric is served up daily from all sides of the fence.

But one thing is easy. What of the people who fight without being asked, who sacrifice when they could be sitting at a laptop ruminating about human nature, who put themselves in harms way day after day, year after year, because they feel it is simply the right thing to do? Well, it is okay to be proud of them. The are brave and honorable and worthy of our utmost gratitude. Some are soldiers and some are veterans, and today - Veteran's Day - it is simply right to honor them.

soon

Seems like I've been missing for awhile. It's not that I have nothing to say, however - just the opposite. Trying to get a handle on things, and it has been going pretty well overall. My heart is hurting right now though. I hope to write more soon.

Meaningless questions

I saw the moon out today. Midday. Big and fat though waning, close to the horizon. It was so pale I was sure I was the only one who noticed it. Everyone else, surely, thought it was a distant and small cloud. Did the moon care that I saw it?

Today

I am that woman. I am the woman you saw today on the side of the road. Or maybe I was crossing the overpass as you drove under it. I am the one who glanced over her shoulder as she crossed to the other side, avoiding the blind turn.

I am the woman with the pony tail that slapped the back of her neck. The one with the white hat, bill pulled low over her eyes. I am the woman with the foolishly-donned windbreaker, tied now around her waist. It was flapping and snapping above the Nikes kicking behind me as you passed by.

I am the woman you saw gritting her teeth, trying to maintain her pace up the hills that you crested. And I was the one taking in big gulps of cool fall air coming back down. I am the woman you veered unconsciously toward as you watched me run, then straightened away from as you realized your drift. (You always do that.)

I am the woman with the calm, determined and content look on her face running past you as you drive along on the road. And it doesn't matter if you haven't run in three years, or if you logged a run this morning. I am the woman you saw who made you think, "Man, I wish I was running."

Funny quote from the weekend

J and I head to the ladies' room at a local cantina. Now keep in mind she has been taking Spanish in first grade, so she feels she has some expertise in the area of things Latin. Just inside the bathroom she stops.

"Phew, it even smells like Mexico in here!"

Updated: Another funny. J takes piano lessons from a very proper and unsmiling neighbor named Mrs. Parks. We were discussing the lessons over dinner one night, and J piped up, "I wonder if any of her friends call her 'Amusement'?" JBL and I looked at each other for an instant before we got it, and promptly laughed out loud. J probably didn't understand the irony, just the play on words. But it was still remarkably funny...

Fleeting

We are in the midst of perfect fall weather - not surprisingly - it is the middle of October after all. For yesterday's run, I headed down the street into a neighbor's wooded driveway (thus delaying the slog up Heart Attack Hill, leading out to the rest of the neighborhood), and was surprised at how much the leaves had changed. From our house perched atop a smaller hill, my view still affords me lots of chlorophyll, but in the woods I was surrounded by golds and oranges as the afternoon sun streamed through the canopy of branches. Stunning.

This morning I am hunkered in the dark kitchen with rain pounding on the windows. The heavy boughs of the trees beyond the deck hang listless and sodden. Yesterday's jewel tones look drab in front of the steel-gray sky. The passing train down the valley had sounded jovial, convivial in the bright summer mornings, but today is lonesome and wistful. This, however, is a good feeling, surrounded by autumn. Inside the quiet house, surrounded by the spicy smell of pumpkin bread baking in the nearby oven, I am warm and content. I know this season, like spring, is about fleeting moments such as this. Next month at this time the leaves will have fallen from the trees and the air will be much colder. The memory of yesterday's run through the warm breeze of mid-fall will be distant.

Fading memories of dark autumn mornings not so long ago call to me now. I can feel distinctly the soft wool of the family room rug under me, and the cool wood of our coffee table supporting my back as I watch J in her snap-up footie pajamas. Her hair is still fuzzy and limited on the crown of her head. She is busy, opening the table's many drawers to discover the tiny stuffed animals I have hidden there. She is putting them in her mouth. She is smiling at me with her dark sparkling eyes and testing out her consonant sounds. Now she is in her exer-saucer, working all the springy and spinning parts. I sing to her. I play the little tunes that come out of the safari truck attached at the top. Her face lights up as her favorite song comes around again - for the 5th time.

Though I am anxious and somehow still adjusting after 8 months to being a stay-at-home mom, I am filled with the distinct thrill of love as I pick J up, ready to carry her to her high chair for the next meal. The terry cloth covering her body is warm over her solid little frame. There aren't words to describe the feel of her soft, fuzzy head against my cheek. She is babbling as her chubby fist clutches at my sleeve.

I blink, and it is 6 years later. She gives me a hug absentmindedly in the morning before getting on a bus that takes her away for almost 10 hours before returning in the late afternoon. So as I work and cook and clean and run, I wait for her. And today I watch the rain and know all this will change, too.

Buying time

Yesterday was the first of what will surely be many classmate birthday parties for J this school year. It was a sweet event hosted by a down-to-earth family for one of my favorite girls from J's kindergarten class. Even still, I tried not to be intimidated when JBL and I arrived at the end of the party.

The birthday girl's home, in a coveted area of Baltimore County, has been newly renovated. Its warm and inviting interior is tastefully decorated with a mix of modern and traditional furniture, finishes and accessories. Both daughters' rooms are thoughtfully designed and are whimsical without being cloying or gaudy. The party, after including a bead activity, and a station where the guests were pampered with manicures and pedicures, involved tea and cupcakes on beautiful serving pieces surrounded by fresh flowers and lush table linens. In addition to the usual goody bag, each attendee received a smaller cupcake to take home, stored in a pretty little box tied with a ribbon.

Need I remind myself that last year J's party included family only? Or that our recent cookout for her friends' families made me coil tensely with worry over my (then) mismatched kitchen and dilapidated basement? Surely J will begin to wonder about the differences between what she has, and what her peers have. How will that make her feel? My worries are more like twinges of concern, but surely she will feel the differences with more weight.

But on the ride home, J simply hummed happily in the back seat as she rummaged through her goody bag, and occasionally exclaimed with delight over a sticker or ribboned trinket. When I remarked that her friend's bedroom was pretty, J replied that she preferred the room of her friend's sister. No further remarks were made.

This morning she piped up over breakfast, "You know what I want for my birthday?" I steeled myself for the answer - would it be a spa party like Elle's? Would it be a redecorated bedroom? "What?" I asked. "You know," she quipped with a sparkle in her eye.

And the tight band around my heart loosened as I realized I did in fact know. "Spaghetti with Mom-Mom's meat sauce?"

"Yes!" she declared happily, rubbing her hands together in anticipation of the very common meal awaiting her more than 3 months from now. And I wonder why I ever worry. I am so goddamn lucky...

Another string of random

Still have the PI. I realized this morning that the steroid foam I've been using has expired, thus has been ineffectual. Maybe the expectation that I should be recovering, only to find that the rash is actually spreading, has lead to my emotional roller coaster. A tragedy? Hardly. But still, it's like this annoying little brother poking a wet finger in your ear. 24 HOURS A DAY FOR DAYS AND DAYS. At first you're irritated, then you explode with anger, then you admit defeat dejectedly, then you rock in the corner and suck your thumb.

But enough about you.

The birds are going crazy outside this morning. Crows, cardinals, robins, chickadees, bluebirds. Why are bluebirds portrayed in children's movies as beautiful songbirds? They sing what amounts to a garbled throat-clearing of notes. But they are beautiful, so they have that going for them. Lately, though, when I see them tussling on the deck railings or sitting stoicly on branches I get singing this, which is somewhat infuriating. Besides the fact that the song is actually about light, I just can't make it stop going over and over in mind. (I do love the line where he sings, 'Even though I respect that a lot, I'd be fired if that were my job...' That sentiment just seems...familiar to me.)

It's going to be warm today - in the low-80's - and I'm conflicted. I've accepted the idea of fall like an impending death, so to have a reprieve that harkens back to summer and relaxing days surrounded by color and song and life, well it's almost jarring. I'll suffer through though, and gladly. J and I will walk to her piano lesson again, after spending last week in the car in rainy, 50-something degree weather. Dinner will be enjoyed al fresco. And even with an early sunset, we'll go to bed with open windows.

In the meantime I will chew happily through another day of work and running. Random life is good sometimes.

The itch

Today I am feeling scattered. Ever have one of those days? I can hardly sit still, am picking at my skin and hair, but can't concentrate on anything. Maybe it is because I have been fairly focused with work over the last week or so, and need a mental break. Or maybe it's because I have yet another rollicking case of poison ivy.

Unlike previous PI battles, JBL is in this one with me. He actually has a small patch, and he has never reacted to it before. He is surprised to find it so itchy (VINDICATION! ahem, well, actually, he's never accused me of exaggerating the itch level...but at least now he can say he understands).

This afternoon, before he left for a meeting, he applied yet another layer of anti-histamine goo to his wrist. We lamented that PI cannot be eradicated by simply breaking open the blisters and slapping some alcohol on them. I'd put up with that pain right now. I counted. Fifteen patches of blisters, mainly on my forearms. I'm on day 3, which means I have at least one more day of severe itching...and I think that's what gets me. The DAYS AND DAYS of it all.

I should wrap this up neatly with some analogy about parenting and phases, and philosophies about life in general, but I'm just too fidgety now. And I need to get back to work.

More letting go

It's 3a.m. and I wake abruptly for no apparent reason. I have a cold, and realize I have been sleeping on my back with my mouth open for some time. My tongue is shriveled and dry, and the roof of my mouth is coated in....I don't know what. Ick. I swallow uncomfortably and take a sip of water from the cup at my bedside.

As I lay down again,I immediately think of him, and of swabbing his mouth out. Why so morbid? Perhaps it was the hour. No telling, really. In any event, I could see the swab - a marble-sized synthetic sponge on the end of a short metal stick, kind of like those wire things used to dunk hard-boiled eggs in dye at Easter. The sponge is pink like Pepto-Bismol, or like cotton candy.

I picture dunking the little sponge in a cup of ice water, and then running it over his cracked, open lips. Another dunk, and I administer a little bit of water to his dry tongue. His breathing is loud but not yet labored. His eyes are open just a crack.

"You can talk to him. Tell him it's OK. He can hear you," encourages the hospice nurse. Oh Dad, I sigh silently, I hope to God you can't hear me. I hope you're not aware of any of this. Tears sting my eyes, and I grudgingly croon to him. After I finish with the water, I look more closely at him, making sure he isn't in need of more morphine (that will come soon). His skin, thin and tight across his cheek bones, still has some color to it. His barrel chest rises and falls evenly.

But I check his feet. The infection has been in him for a couple days. "Feel the bottom of his feet once in a while," they told me. Apparently, when the body begins losing its battle, it willingly sacrifices the extremities to keep the main organs and brain oxygenated. His feet will be the first parts to go cold.

For this moment they are still hot, and I am both thankful and disappointed. It is all so unfair.

Back in bed, last night, my cold makes my own body hot and clammy from head to toe. It takes a long time before I can let him go, and return to sleep.

Letting go

Today and tomorrow. That's it. That's all that's left of summer. The panicky feeling I get come August has given way to a sad resignation. But still...

The air is so warm. The trees are so green. The sky is so, so blue. The bees and other bugs are going wild in these waning days. As I type, I am observing a mad pack of stinkbugs that has somehow infiltrated one of the screens in my kitchen. (Luckily - for me - the window is closed. For them, eh, not so much.) They have spent the last few hours crawling briskly up and down the screen, or left and right. They have such purpose, even as they collide with each other and tumble down into the window sill. I can only imagine their desperation. "We only have a couple days left, and it's supposed to get into the 40's tonight, guys! Hurry up!" "Yeah, but where are we going?" "I don't know!"

But the soft, drowsy air counters their urgency. The wind chime still clangs in soothing tones as it swings above the vegetable garden. The garden still bursts with produce in the bright sunlight. I stare with tired eyes at the latest batch of tomatoes on my counter. JBL insists the roasted tomato sauce I've been producing by the gallon is the only one worth repeating, but really? Do we need still more batches in the freezer? There are no fewer than 7 containers down there already. Well, at least I have an excuse for more grilled pizza this week...

The breeze gently pushes at the umbrella on the deck. It lifts the grand boughs of the poplars, oaks and sassafras at the bottom of the hill. Wait - what's that? Yellow leaves on the poplars, mixed in with the green. Look away! I want this glorious, lush, warm September to last for months. The breeze calls me out to play. But the cawing of crows and relentless screeching of crickets tells me that summer is done. Soon I will revel in the cooking of pumpkins and apples, the decorating of home for the new season, the first cozy fire in the fireplace.

For now, though, I will gaze longingly at summer departing. It is always painful to let it go.

Simple

J took an empty oatmeal canister, covered it with paper, decorated it, and declared it her Compliment Can.

"Your what?"

"My Compliment Can. Every time I get a compliment, I'll put a cork* in it. When I have 10 corks, I'll make you a drawing surprise!"

My. Well....that's....inventive? Manipulative? Cute? It took about 2 hours to get her 10 corks, and I was careful to note when the compliments came naturally. And that was just about every time. I was gratified to realize I do tend to lavish her with honest compliments ("You did a good job putting the cards away. Great listening!"), and thought their might be hope for me as a mom after all. Don't get me wrong - I'm aware no awards are coming my way, but at least there's some positive in there to offset my snapiness.

I'm kidding of course - it's not about me. Truly, it was wonderful to see her preen under our attention. And it's always wonderful to inspire an authentic J work-of-art. The whole thing created a happy, loving mood to the day. Simple moments of pleasure thanks to the heart and soul of a 6 year-old.

*You can only imagine all the corks we have laying around with our wine habit.

Glimpses

In my dream, I first hear her on the phone. Or maybe it is from a distance. We had been talking about nothing, then she says, "Well it looks like today is the day. That day every year when I realize it's time to quit."

Immediately my mind sharpens and I realize she's been smoking again. Part of my mind taps on my shoulder and whispers (so I guess she's still alive here?). I shrug it off for the moment, focusing instead on the topic at hand. I don't feel the usual panic, but do register a dull feeling of dismay. Doesn't she realize about the oxygen? Doesn't she know she's going to die, probably with emphysema? But I encourage her.

"It's a good time to stop," I say with a careful voice. Her emotions were always like a great flock of blackbirds. The wrong tone could send them bursting out of the trees, off into the air with no one really leading their undulating, swooping swarm until inexplicably they would land again. Maybe along a wire.

"But we still have to go through...." here's where the dream gets fuzzy. I know she referred to him - something he hadn't done yet. Maybe it was a medical procedure. Maybe it was his death. Tap tap tap (he's still alive then, too?). I flash to an image of him propped up in a hospital bed. But is he really there? Yes, he's unconscious and very pale. The room is bright white and cold.

But I am so tired.

Suddenly we are talking in person. She is bustling around the room, getting ready. No tubes leading to the oxygen machine, I note. Not yet. I am in K's bed, but it's really J's room. Of course it is. And I am so sleepy, but don't want her to know. I want her to know I am also listening, paying attention. She tells me she has to go as I finally let me eyes close. Maybe she won't mind after all. I feel my body heavy in the bed, my bent knees slowly lowering to the side as I slip deeper. And as I go, I feel her approach me. I feel her hand on my heart, warm and steady, saying goodbye. She leaves just as I let sleep carry me away.

Welcome back

So, about my last post. I'm still a jerk, but I've spent the last 72 hours moving forward, working on my approach with my tired and grumpy daughter (girlfriend's having a time getting into the first grade groove, it seems). It's exhausted me, much to JBL's chagrin, but he continues to be a saint, as well as a great husband and dad. Hopefully J has benefited, but only time will tell. My struggle continues.

One of the ways I deal with my personal brand of crazy, as I have written many times before, is by running. Whether I am trying to crack the nut of my insecurities, or trying to take the edge off so I am less likely to lash out at those closest to me, running has been a saving grace off and on since I was 18. Unfortunately, I have struggled for the last six months or so to find the usual joy in it. I came in from a long run at the end of March and exclaimed to JBL that my 10-milers were no longer a Big Deal, and that I was considering making five miles my short run for the week. Then BAM! I got the stomach flu, was mentally derailed, and it's been all uphill from there. A place I used to go for happiness and relief in my mind was no longer...well... happy. I dreaded most runs, and was desperately glad when they were over. It sucked.

I may not be out of the woods (and I will never admit out loud if and when I am), but today was GREAT. How can one argue with 65 degrees and perfectly sunny and dry? I picked a challenging 10+ mile route in my local area, and steeped myself in my surroundings as I set off.

I love noting the crazy mix of homes I see on a run. There are 1940's farm houses - some abandoned and decomposing near the road just beyond their rusty iron gates. There are cold war-era brick ranchers, hunkered down with nondescript window coverings and bare-essential landscaping. There are laughable mac-mansions trying in vain to make new money look old, and there are many, many nearly invisible split levels nestled between farmlands and groves of trees.

As I round out mile 5, I am surprised that I still feel like my legs are on auto-pilot...that they are chewing up the road as I float through the sunlight.

It is almost fall, as the weather will attest, and the foliage around me looks nearly spent. Even in the bright, scrubbed-clean air of the morning, I locate few flowers. Black-eyed susans and hydrangeas cough out their last blooms. Roadside cornflowers have lavender blooms as vibrant as Easter, but their stems are withered and brown - sacrificing everything for one last round of sex. Only the crepe myrtles still boast summer color confidently, but everywhere else I note hints of gold and red. Acorns litter the shadows at the edge of the asphalt. Of course I think of J when I see them. She loves a good acorn hunt.

As I reach mile 9, I am the one now nearly spent. I go to that place deep inside where I find much-needed reserves. Push forward from the hips. Pump my arms on the hills. Slow the breathing to match the turn-overs of my feet. I force myself to look again at my surroundings rather than note with dismay the continued incline before me. As I make the last turn onto my street I feel my skin caked with salt and recognize that my legs are slowing down even with all the tricks my mind has served up. Luckily it's all downhill.

I spot J arranging chairs for an unknown activity in the mouth of the garage. I focus intently on the pink of her jacket, not letting myself stop as I wish so desperately to do. She turns at the sound of my clopping Bowerman Series Nikes and waves merrily. I am home. I am happy. And I look forward to doing it again next week. Thank you God....

I hate me - and no, I'm not kidding

My friend Sarah doesn't believe in blogs. She says people aren't honest in their writing. They don't share their whole selves, but rather a sugar-coated version. I think in a lot of cases this is true, and I don't care for that sort of writing either. But then again, I've always been attracted to dark and troubled people.

I don't want to fall into that category, myself, and for the most part I think I have been honest. I have the luxury of full disclosure mainly because I can count on one hand the number of people who read these words, and that's on a good day. But I also over-share because, well, I do that in my regular life too. I have boundary issues. But don't all bloggers?

Anyway, I have to share what an abysmal mother I am. J and I missed the bus this morning. She tried to cheer me up when I grumbled about it, and I bit her head off. The more she tried to smooth things over, the more I insisted that the situation was a complete and utter disaster. Those were my exact words. I also told her it was completely her fault. You read that right.

Can you believe I am such an asshole? I can't. I say these things because I get upset and I want people to know I am upset and I want them to be upset along with me. But she's 6.

Of course I apologized. I hugged her and told her I loved her and that our lateness was not that big of a deal, and it was my fault too. But just like other times, I know she'll carry my tirade in her heart forever and I can never take it back. And like other times, I don't waste time berating myself (for long) afterward, but pick at the memory of the eruption to find how to keep it from happening again. These fits of temper come out of nowhere, seemingly. At 40, I still need to find tools to diffuse them before I let that feeling of justification rule my decisions. If I can't do that for J, who the hell can I do it for? God, I hate this...

Dreams of Vacation

Before it gets too far away, I want to write about my impressions of the Outer Banks this year. Sure, I have been there many times before. But every visit brings a new appreciation of Place.

Like home, there are bike paths and neighborhoods to run through. However, streets and trails are bordered by sand mixed in with the crab grass. Like home, I hear the call of cat birds and blue jays as I run. But here, a quick glance at the sky will often be met with the flapping and swooping of pelicans and osprey.











Like home, houses are accented by roses, marigolds, vinca. But here, planting beds are also populated with variations of cactus and palms. Knobby pines and rosemary bushes grow wild on the roadside. Grasses sway elegantly on the dunes.

Nothing at home, however, compares to the colors and emotions of the ocean. The water was so warm and so clear this year. Each day as I watched, I was greeted with a marvelous variety of jewel tones. In the frothing surf near the shore, sparkling turquoise. Depending on the day and sunlight, cresting waves shone in tones of emerald, sapphire, jade, tourmaline, and peridot.













On calm days, tiny waves broke infrequently, allowing the transparent surf to reflect the sky. I saw clearly the sand and pebbles beneath, the color of brown sugar, on closer inspection. On rougher days, sprays shot skyward, bright white, like regularly timed cheers.













The sound - whether a lulling dull roar, or smashing relentless pounding, filled me with happiness.

I could spend an eternity taking in the colors, sounds and smell of these barrier islands. I could contentedly explore the bright middles and subtle corners of every season here. I could revel in the wildness that seems perennially ready to reclaim the land around the homes we have rented. I would be satisfied to just to be....here.

Lazy tinsel*

Last night at this time, I was standing on a deserted beach, letting the waves wash over my feet and watching the moonlight on the water. I had just returned from a perfect evening at a posh restaurant (my favorite kind), with JBL and my in-laws. I had stopped outside quickly to retrieve something (a pair of flip flops?), but felt the call of the ocean. This was our last night on holiday, after all. I suspected I might not experience it again so intimately, and didn't want to squander such a special opportunity.

My girls were nestled peacefully - the little one asleep in the top bunk in her otherwise empty room, the big one watching a movie in bed in her own room - after a day of swimming in both the ocean and our house's pool. The adults were chatting contentedly over a nightcap, so there was no reason to hurry back inside. I was certain I would not even be missed. As I stepped onto the cool sand, gratitude at my good fortune washed over me as it had so frequently during this, our big summer vacation. The night was warm with a cool breeze to keep the humid air moving. The sand was at first powdery, then more thickly textured, like miniature pebbles, as I neared the water.

I tamped down an unbidden thought - it would be so easy to walk into the water and disappear. To just be gone. But no. This night was for celebrating. For embracing all the happiness that Life was heaping upon me. I stepped up to the ocean's edge and let the water comfort me, almost bath-like in its warmth. I thought of how absolutely perfect it was, as it had been for the previous day or so: calm and clear almost like the Caribbean. I gazed northward at the old munitions station, and then south toward Kitty Hawk. I watched the moon dance on the waves that moved subtly-though-relentlessly onto the beach. I heaved a heavy sigh of contentment.

The only thing missing was JBL. I imagined him joining me and simply holding my hand. I knew he would drink in the stars and the roar of the ocean as I did. I knew he would feel the night was special, almost holding its breath for me - for us. Fall and winter would come, our lives would move forward. But this moment was real and big, and quiet and soft. After a week of smiles and great food and sunshine, what more could we ever ask for?

I sighed again, and after soaking in the night for another few moments, began the inelegant trudge up the sand, back to the glowing lights behind the windows of our rented beach home. As I neared the steps that would lead to the wooden walkway across the dunes, over the pool, and back to the house, I glanced up. There was JBL, walking towards the steps. "Hey," he called softly, "what're you doing?" I smiled sheepishly in the dark, at once embarrassed that I had been gone so long without explanation, and delighted that he had sought me out.

"I was feeling the ocean. It's still so warm!"

I took his hand and lead him back to the water's edge. We held each other softly, just as I had imagined, and I felt safe and whole in his arms. We marveled at the magic of the time by the sea. We spoke of our appreciation for the day and evening just past. We breathed in each other, and the night.

If I hold anything dear in this life, it is time like this with JBL. He will always know what makes me sparkle and shine, even if he struggles to understand what tears at me. He will always seek out both just to be with me, and for that I am more than fortunate. And I will always seek out what it is that makes him tick, too, but just because I want to experience his flame for as long as I can. God knows it's easy on a starlit night by the sea... thank you God.

*This is a reference to the book I am currently enjoying, Black Swan Green, by David Mitchell.

Glad and sorry

Here is J today at the Barnes and Noble. Yeah, she's the one looking on awkwardly as her peers drool over the latest stars and icons of pop culture. J doesn't know who most of these people are, and has never seen these types of magazines. I don't know if I should feel proud of myself, or sad for her.

The softest blanket

I went to a dinner party at my in-laws' last night. I didn't really think about the evening in advance because, A) I had just finished an incredibly stressful week, which I dealt with by cleaning the house like mad all day yesterday, and B) it's always a good time at my in-laws'. What is there to think about?

But I do sometimes find it challenging to be around people all evening. I know that's weird. Sometimes the weight of Doing the Right Daughter-in-Law Thing can make my nerves feel jangled (chatting while dinner is being prepped, making sure the granddaughter gives the appropriate affection to the grandparents and uses good manners, making a toast at dinner, offering to do the dishes).

I can also become worn-out making conversation, even with old friends. The guests were actually friends of JBL's, which is not unusual considering he and his dad have worked together for years. I have known them all as long as I have known JBL. They are practically family. And still....am I asking the right questions? Am I putting my foot in my mouth? Am I talking about myself too much?

Then of course there is the actual parenting thing. Make sure J gets enough attention in the pool, considering her pride over the recent acquisition of swimming skills. Help her into pajamas when she's done swimming. Find her a TV show to watch while her dinner is cooking. Sit with her in the kitchen while she eats (everyone else is down on the patio). Send her out to visit one last time while I make her dessert. Explain to her over and over why she can't stay up later and sit with us while we eat.

Terrible? Hell no - I am aware the evening is brimming with good fortune. Yet...

By the time dinner was over and I had asked JBL 16 times to turn the music down (the patio with its outdoor speakers sits directly below J's bedroom at the in-laws'), I became frustrated. We had chosen to bring J so we didn't have to worry about leaving at a particular time for the babysitter, and so she could visit with her grandparents. However the combination of managing her along with my normal neuroses wore me out.

But then JBL started passing around the iPhone, allowing all the guests to play their favorite songs on the Squeezebox. We heard Paul Westerberg, the Holy Modal Rounders (don't ask), and the Afghan Whigs. Chuqd and I discussed the devil-like qualities of Greg Dulli. The recent loss of Neil Young's steel-guitar player Ben Keith was considered solemnly. Everyone laughed at the concept of doing a jig. Dessert of plum cobbler was served a la mode, and some Guilded The Lily by sipping on Grand Marnier as well. The pool lights shimmered, as did the citronella candles. I tipped my head back to look at the sky through the small opening between the house and surrounding tulip poplars, and saw the most bright and long-lasting shooting star I have ever seen. Suddenly my heart felt full, and I smiled. It felt like God lifted the film of sadness that tends to cover me, just for a time, and I could see how wonderful everything really is. Life.

As we drove home, I drifted in and out of sleep, clutching JBL's hand. And as I woke this morning, I kept the feeling of clarity and simple happiness wrapped around me like the softest blanket, and I hope to rub it against my cheek all day.

Butterfly season

The past few weeks have seen untold numbers of butterflies in our local environ. Butterflies clinging precariously to garden phlox and lavender blossoms. Butterflies swooping down the hillside and up into the trees. Butterflies beating against the garage window from the inside, though the gaping, open garage door lies mere inches from their backs.

Why was something created with such beauty? For one, their enchanting markings can offer protection from predators. But those wings. They are so lovely and fragile. They allow the insects to be ensnared by cobwebs around my house. To tear them - an easy feat - is to spell guaranteed demise for their owner.

On a recent trip to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, J and I visited the butterfly exhibit. We listened patiently to instructions before entering - do not touch the butterflies, and if they land on you, let one of the museum staff remove them for you. Before we exited, we were encouraged to gently check our persons to ensure we were leaving without hangers-on, for surely they would perish outside the protection of the exhibit.

Butterflies, to me, are delicate tragedies waiting to happen.

When I was young, my mother told me that her sister had a special affinity for these graceful creatures. This seemed appropriate, for my aunt was at once ephemeral and lovely herself. After enduring the violent and sad childhood she shared with my mother, she struggled with alcoholism before succumbing to a strange early-onset permutation of Alzheimer's.

My memories of her, though, are still vivid. Everyone adored her and the happy aura that seemed to surround her. I can clearly picture the home movies of my mother and aunt swinging my brother - still in a swim diaper - up and over wavelets coming ashore at Ocean City. I can remember being K's age, watching with fascination the way my aunt would apply her lip gloss. She was the one who introduced the concept of the back-rub-train to our home: we'd all sit in a row on the living room floor, one behind the other, each giving the person in front of them a back rub. After a time, the person at the front of the line would switch to the back so everyone got a turn getting a massage for 'free'. Laughter, of course, surrounded her. I can recall her scent to this day.

When I look up and see the imprecise movements of a beautiful butterfly against a blue summer sky, I think of my aunt. Is she here with me? What does her heaven look like? I try not to think about my last visit with her, alone when I was 17, when I could clearly recognize her dementia symptoms. I try not to think about how by 19 I was begging my mother to let me attend her funeral (none of us were allowed to go). I think instead about something that would have made her smile. Yes, I think about the party.

When I was four, my aunt turned 40. My mother and father planned a big party for her, in part to celebrate (my mother always made a big deal of birthdays), and in part to poke fun at the ripe old age. We made posters to line my aunt's route to our house - posters that read, 'Oh no!' and 'How Old is Dee?' My father made an enormous 40 out of 1 x 2's, lined it with Christmas lights, and stood it in the front yard. When my aunt arrived on that lush August afternoon, she howled with laughter and hugged us all effusively. She was vivacious and beautiful, and not at all delicate. Isn't this how all butterflies should be remembered?

Word play

J has been chewing on words lately, what with the usual 6-year-old development of both reading, and the ability to spell based on knowledge of phonics. Yes, yes, we get all the crazy spellings in her love notes and play announcements. You can always tell the words she didn't ask for help with. "Bast friends forever!" or "Daddy, it's good youer home!"

There has been a convergence between this consideration of words, and her new-found humor. Have you seen this book? Or how about this one? Homophones as word play makes her laugh OUT LOUD. Who knew? And here I thought she only laughed at people falling down stairs.

Yesterday while we were out riding around, she tried to ping us with her own brand of word play. "Daddy, today is SUN-DAY (snickering because she knew it was really Saturday - she'd confuse the old man yet!). Get it? SUN. DAY. Because it's sunny? GET IT?" Her delight knew no bounds, even as JBL assured her he did in fact get it.

She went on to try permutations of Saturday, and other common words. But when she settled on 'see the waffle waffle' it was my turn to laugh out loud. "Wait, what? What does that kind of waffle mean?" On explaining it to her, we all shared a laugh.

So maybe this is Family Fun only a parent could appreciate, but with her word play, J made my day...

UPDATED: More funny stuff - laying in bed, doing prayers-and-songs last night, J interrupts me to point out her unicorn puppet. It's draped over the side of a box she has made into a car. The puppet's opening (along with a tail and one back foot) are facing us. J exclaims, "Momma! Look at Unicorn's hole! It's a hole that, strangely, it doesn't bleed from!" I swear, I can't make this stuff up.

Reality, head-on

We are driving home from a long day of swimming - first was J's swim lesson at the neighbor's pool, then a play date with my nieces at their pool in Mays Chapel. JBL is taking K back to her mom's, while I am shepherding J home as quickly as possible. It is already well past her bedtime.

J, however, is still coming down from her big day, and is chatting up a storm as per usual. I acknowledge her observations while flipping through radio stations and changing lanes on the beltway. Her tone suddenly changes and my ears perk up. I listen more closely, dropping my half-hearted 'Mm-hmms' to focus intently on her direction.

"I still have so many questions. I am waiting to see if you're getting tired of answering them." She has said this numerous times of late - she knows I take her barrage of questions as a sign of intelligence, and she brings them to my attention with a sense of pride. Sometimes, though, she becomes uneasy. Because...questions? Sometimes they bring answers you don't want to hear.

Last weekend we were driving home from another play date, and J asked, "Why do dogs have to die?" My stomach clenches even as I type that. Of course, as with previous discussions about death, I wanted to get the answer just right, but this time her tone told me she was Getting It. I took my usual all-truth approach, and tried for a light tone. All things die, but all living things create new living things, so the cycle continues forever. Even non-living things 'live' in cycles, like stars. She kept questioning, and I kept answering, and the whole thing devolved until she sobbed, "I don't want to die! I want to stay 6 forever!" I wanted to talk about heaven, but I just couldn't. She didn't want theories - she wanted certainties that she could sink her teeth into, and my glossing over how our bodies break down was no longer cutting it. She is not 3 anymore.

So as she hesitates on this evening's ride home, I brace myself. She wants to know if she will still be alive when our Sun dies. I am immediately taken back to a similar question I posed to my father (but I was in 3rd grade before the idea occurred to me), and I recall the feeling of fear and panic at his answer. No, you will be long-dead, he told me matter-of-factly. We all will. But that's OK - it will be hundreds of billions of years from now. My dad, the scientist.

I again answer her gently and simply. And again she is brought to tears. Why can't I just lie? Why can't I conjecture that there will be a way for us to live forever, perhaps to be discovered in her lifetime? It feels wrong, that's why. And why does the Santa Claus/Easter Bunny thing feel right? I wish I knew, dammit. I wish I knew. The only comfort I can offer is an assurance that that she will live a llllooooonnng time (something a voice inside me says may not be true), and I distract her with the fact that she has family members who have lived well into their 90's.

The rest of the ride goes smoothly as sleepiness begins tugging at her. The sunset facing us as we head west on 70 is spectacular, full of pinks and oranges and bright blues. We talk about God and natural beauty. She asks about chasing the sunset, and the speed we'd need to catch it. We stop in the grocery to use the ATM, and she is shocked that it is open after dark. She has never seen the lights inside the store shine so bright in her tired eyes, and she is confounded that there are customers and workers awake and functioning at this late hour.

Back in the car, we are headed north to our neighborhood. The sky is a deep indigo, and the trees to my left are black against the faded sunset. To my right, a fat, full moon slowly rises above the horizon. It glows a dull orange, but is an enigmatic celebrity. J's mouth is agape.

"WOW, MOMMY! LOOK AT THE MOON! I see the face!" She peppers me with another slew of questions about the moon and distance and gravity. She is still sleepy, but cannot contain herself. Her wonder at absolutely everything pours out of her like rays of sunshine. And I am again relaxed as she consumes reality head-on.

Rut

Have you ever gotten in a mode where you ignore little tasks and chores? I have gone through waves of time when I let papers stack up next to my computer (medical claims to be filed, creditor statements as reminders to move to online billing, etc.), when I walk past all the little dry cleaning tabs my husband has ripped off his dress shirts and thrown on the closet floor, and when I let the clean clothes sit unfolded in the laundry room for days. The thought of processing any of these things seems overwhelming, and I get tired just looking at them.

Over the past few days I have tried to pull myself up out of one of these ruts, and I have to say it has been a challenge. Just bend over and pick up that piece of paper! (I yell at myself). Start now and the clothes will be folded and put away by 11 (I encourage myself). Just effing write the check already! (I chide myself, then soften). You'll feel so much better when it's done.

Unfortunately I am still missing that burst of energy that can accompany the tackling of these tasks. It used to be mind over matter, but I just can't dredge it up this time. It's during ruts like this when I recognize the use for 'life coaches'....

Slowly Moving On

It is evening, and JBL are sitting quietly outside after putting J to bed. There is still a hint of light in the Western sky. The moon, however, is very bright and tinged with the peach tone of sunset. And I think of time passing.

We have gone from a time of cool evenings filled with silent lightning bugs festooning the woods at the bottom of our hill to a time of thick warm evenings filled with the uproarious chatter of crickets, along with silent darting, swooping bats. We have gone from the time when everything in the house was new to a time when appliances are being replaced and perennials are being relocated around the property.

We have gone from a time when JBL worked frantically from home at a technology company that sucked the life out of him (oh, wait, which one was that?) to a time where he has a challenging position in a just-the-right-size firm, working with a great friend. We have gone from a time when I questioned my choice in becoming a stay-at-home-mom to a time when I am pleased with the path that lead me to my life of work and love.

We have gone from a time where the toddler version of J rolled naked in the grass after dinner, begging to stay up later, to a time where she practices lacrosse with her dad til sunset, begging to stay up later. We have gone from a time when K was a playful 5-year-old to a time when she is almost a young woman - as tall as I am, mature and wonderful as a companion.

I look up into the almost-night sky and see the moon has cooled to white, and has been joined by the first star (a planet, really) as the sun's light completely disappears. Change is slow, subtle. I drink it in while remembering all the pleasure of the day just past...

Appreciation

So I just finished a big project that has sucked the life out of my summer lo these past 5 weeks. Why? Not because I've been working furiously from dawn til dusk, but because I agreed to take on something which involved a Learning Curve (read: I didn't know what I was doing). Mix that in with trying to be a mom to girls home for the summer, along with other normal work obligations, and you have sheer hell. I got stuck about 2.5 weeks ago on something (inner versus outer joins, if you must know) and had to grovel to my husband who had warned me about such things when I agreed to take on the project.

After realizing I was stuck, I lived with the pressure of getting past the issue while trekking to museums in D.C. and celebrating holidays with family and...well...doing laundry. Let me tell you - worrying about a problem and resolving it are two different issues, but rest assured they are both stressful. I sent bright and cheery status emails to my client, who could not have been more patient or kind, while weeping quietly over my Access for Dummies book late into the evenings with half an eye on Criminal Minds. Meanwhile JBL avoided getting sucked into the project a la the proverbial plague. There were times when I subtly began conversations with niceties only to ask a vague question about permissions and user accounts, and he simply up and walked away from me.

Finally after living with me miserable for days on end he relented, and in about 30 minutes of skimming the reference book and reviewing my handiwork, resolved my issue and set me loose to wrap things up. After a busy weekend, I spent yesterday morning finishing up what security I could impose on the database, and documenting the process for using it. Suddenly I was at the client's presenting, and then *poof* I was done. They were happy, and asked for some reports.

Thus last night I had the most relaxing evening in what seemed like forever. Nothing looming like a dark cloud, no Big Black Box out there waiting for me. I will not take the rest of the summer for granted!

Making memories

Yesterday was the 4th of July, and along with the rest of America, we spent the day making memories.

The girls were restless as JBL and I did our chore-type activities in the morning. How much longer? What time will we go? Finally we set off en masse around 3pm for The Grandparents' (I had been worried for a bit that we'd have to take two cars, as JBL had threatened to work most of the day - luckily he blew off some tasks for the occasion) .

JBL's dad and stepmom's house is the de facto destination for many holidays, partly because my mother-in-law loves traditions and formal celebrations, and partly because they have a POOL. We'd had a brief respite last week from the heat, but it came back strong yesterday, with temperatures in the mid-90s. Thus a pool, along with a convivial meal, was just the ticket.

We spent the afternoon and evening enjoying our favorite activities. J: swimming, singing, playing, eating; K: napping, listening to her music on her iTouch, being quiet; JBL and I: lounging, chatting, partaking in festive adult beverages.

There was also the usual compendium of 4th-of-July treats: sparklers, cold fresh watermelon, A Capital Fourth on TV. But I was focused on the sparklers. J had never really experienced them before, and I wanted to see her expression holding onto...well...fire. I have such vivid memories of steamy evenings in July, running barefoot across my parents' soft grass with the gathering dusk and lightning bugs, clutching a crackling sparkler in my fist. I can remember distinctly the smell, the feel of the occasional spark kissing my wrist. There was magic in the light, the fire that I could make dance. I wanted J to experience all of this.

And so I encouraged her - at first trepidatious, then thrilled - to run through the grass with her sparkler. I had to stop myself, because creating an exact replica of my memory was not as interesting as experiencing it in the present with her. J's big brown eyes stared intently as she stood, and at first she merely watched the progress of the fire moving downwards on its metal stick. Then slowly she waved it around as she had seen her friends do at a recent cookout, and with her gaze, followed its path against a backdrop of lush green trees and deepening blue sky. Her face was still and contemplative. I drank her in, wondering what was going through her ever-active mind.



















I glanced around the back yard then. K had chosen to experiment, lighting one sparkler off another, watching the speed at which they burned against each other. She alternately monitored J's progress, dolling out new mini-torches as needed, and studied her own with solemn, scientific curiosity.



















The rest of the adults stood still, gazing at the kids and their sparklers, their faces masked with a mixture of delight and a knowing pleasure. The girls, after all, are sparklers unto themselves. Everything they do we have done and experienced ourselves, but to see them live it, well...you know. Can words really capture the love we feel when we watch our children? The empathy, the anticipation of inevitable pain and joy. It all rushes over us, and we can't look away. Like staring into a fireplace, all crackling and warm. Like holding onto tiny fireworks even as the sparks kiss our wrists.

The evening proceeded in a blur of grilled chicken, more swimming, citronella candles and music almost drowned-out by tree frogs. As we drove home through the night, I listened to the quiet in the car as I held JBL's hand. I tried to catch a glimpse of late fireworks on the horizon in the direction of the city. I saw only one flowering explosion, silent and distant. I fervently hoped that the clicking of K's texts behind me included happy stories of the day's events. I imagined J dreaming in her carseat of cool swimming pools, green grass and fire under her own control.

I've said it before...

...and I'll say it again. The step-parenting thing is a real challenge.

W.O.W. - 6/25/10

My mother used to say 'knowledge is power' - especially when I was complaining about school work. I later heard the phrase altered to 'knowledge is potential', where the power is available and lurking in the wings, and I like that better.

I believe it means that nothing in life is handed to you simply because you show up, for example, at school and get some decent grades. And by extrapolation you find it's what you choose to do with your potential that counts. Given that I was brought up in a libertarian household, this point strikes an important chord with me.

I hope the girls can understand this fact of life, and not have its implications weigh on them in a negative way. I don't mean that it's a negative thing if you don't turn out (or elect to be) a Type A person who rises to stardom in the field of your choice, (God knows I haven't). Rather, it means that you have the ability to create whatever power you want to have. Gather knowledge, and you have the potential to do anything, at your own discretion. You are in complete control, and at the mercy of no one.

Obviously the flip side is that you're not entitled to anything just by existing, but with limitless power at your beck and call, who cares? The world is your oyster, now LEARN and devour it!

Learning retrospect in advance

I took the girls out for breakfast this morning, thinking it would be a fun change to our routine. We'd go to Dunkin' Donuts! They could order whatever they wanted! They'd have orange juice (which we were out of at home)!

Our sojourn started off less, well, positively than I'd hoped. J was a tired mess after a bad sleep, and K began to wilt as she waited for me to get us all out of the door. No, J, you can't bring Bunny. Pick someone else. Come downstairs now. Ok FINE, how about bring no one! We're waiting for you! Ultimately, I had to carry her downstairs, and she muffled a whine into my neck with each step.

On hearing that J would order a donut, K asked if she could have ice cream (since the shop is also a Baskin Robbins). Uh, hmm. I don't know - can't you just get your favorite muffin and save ice cream for tonight? How have I turned a trip to Dunkin' Donuts into a disappointment? We haven't even all been awake for 30 minutes.

JBL is moving around us through the kitchen. Did I remember the girls' vitamins? No, I'll put them in a sandwich bag now. At the mention of her calcium supplements, K's quiet displeasure fills the room, and J begins to poke fun at her. Wait, what? Yes, I made a full pot of coffee, and no I am not having any. But I'm going to a shop where they sell coffee! ALLRIGHT, I'll take a cup to go.

Finally in the car, we begin the eight minute drive down the road to our destination. We are stopped, however, for an additional 5 as we wait our turn to pass some road work. It is already hot - 84 and barely 8 o'clock. The air conditioning ruffles my hair as I contemplate the hazy atmosphere on the horizon. Here is the view eastward as we sit:
At last, we pull in to the parking lot. J has regained her composure and is chatting incessantly, and K has gone completely silent as she listens to music on her iTouch. I gather them both into the doughnut shop, and try to distract them from the long line at the counter. I am nervous, as I always am, that K is more unhappy than just tired. J is whimpering, "It's too early!' and is lifting her arms up for me to hold her. I encourage them to pick out orange juice for us all. K loves juice! J loves to help! But K tells me she doesn't want juice this morning, and J can't reach the juice - it's in the top shelf of the chill case. I could use a break here.

Ah, our turn! I order quickly and shuttle the girls to a table while I wait for my bagel/egg sandwich to be prepared. I wait for a moment more at the counter, then run back to the table to see that J can open her juice, and to encourage both to start eating without me. I am greeted by K, wearing a look of disdain and boredom combined, asking, 'Can I, like, get a napkin to eat this on or something?' And I burst out laughing.

'You are a complete stereotype, and I love you!' I shake my head and turn to get some napkins as she replies, 'What?' When I look back at her I see she is shocked and a bit hurt by my outburst. In the past she may have laughed with me - we used to make fun of teenagers together. That time is long-gone, I now see.

The morning got better from there, but it encapsulates my fairly constant struggle to smooth over the rough edges, both of the fragile-yet-ebullient 6-year-old and the fragile and somewhat sullen 12-year-old. Both are open to me, but both can snap at a moment's notice. This summer will teach me a good deal, I am certain, hopefully including new level of patience. Now if I could just look at situations in retrospect before they actually happen...

West Wind

J and I will finish Mary Poppins tonight. We're both feeling a little sad about it.

Sweet and dreamy

J has always been known to say exactly what is on her mind. She is rarely quiet and is never subtle. Mostly, her musings are logical and thorough observations of the world around her. Like most kids her age, she is always chewing mentally on something, but I tend to think she's even more intense than some. We have had numerous people comment upon witnessing J's thought-verbalizations, "She doesn't miss much, does she?" No indeed.

I like to think this need to analyze, categorize and organize comes from my side of the family ('Dad, can you see her? Isn't she something?'), but am fully aware that scientific propensities exist on JBL's side as well. Compared to K's deep intelligence that is tempered with an equally deep empathy, J tends to be dominated by calculated reason. Occasionally, however, she will show flares of sappy emotion that surprise me.

When she has nothing else to do, J likes to attack a piece of blank paper with a barrage of crayons, producing a wide array of creatures and scenes, but often her art evolves into love notes. I will receive an ode or two. JBL will get letters stapled closed, placed on the counter where he leaves his keys and wallet on returning home from work (along with a staple-remover so he can easily open his note). But most often K is the object of J's affections. Each day of this year's summer vacation has seen at least one work of art containing K's name in bold, bright colors, or in a collage of materials glued together across multiple pages. Thanks to the aforementioned empathy, K very kindly exclaims, "Wow, that's amazing!" or "I love that!" with every presentation. Walls and bulletin boards around the house are densely populated with K's name.

Sometimes, however, J's devotion is expressed in other ways. This morning, she came downstairs and began busily working and humming at her desk while I fixed her breakfast. Suddenly she burst out, "Mommy! I caught two of those fuhzel things that float in the air!"

"Really? Did you make a wish?"

"Yep. I made TWO wishes. And I want to tell you what they are!"

I paused and turned, giving her the rapt attention she was angling for. "So, what were they?"

"Well," she clapped her hands together, "first, I wished that Kate could be with us EV-ER-Y DAY. And the other one was," she took a deep breath and clasped the back of her chair, "I want a unicorn!" The force of her emotion, the dream of something as magical and perfect as a beautiful creature who lives only in our imaginations, along with something as magical and perfect as the constant presence of her big sister, was almost more than I could handle.

"Wow!" With eyes stinging, I smothered a grin and went back to my yogurt and strawberry preparations. Isn't she something?

The other side

I know I've been writing more sporadically of late, but it's not because I have less to say. I have simply had less time, especially now that school is out for the summer. Thoughts I've been chewing on:

- How the Earth so teems with life
- Compare and contrast: a good person recovering from a bad past, a bad person recovering from a mediocre past
- What it feels like to receive a compliment that you know is true
- Why summertime weather makes me exclaim, "You've got to be effing kidding me!"
- Grappling with losing momentum with recent running goals
- Telling myself stories

Hopefully I will force some structure on my days, rather than letting them run amok as they have for the past 2 weeks, and thus have more time for writing. And hopefully I'll get this Access database built without too much pain as I trip up the learning curve. See you on the other side...

Sign of the times

(Me, throwing a freezer zip-top bag into the microwave.) "Hmm. I wonder if I can microwave the shrimp in this bag?"

"Mommy, just go to Google and type, 'Can you microwave a plastic zip bag?'."

Good idea.

Missing what's important

It is a late-spring morning, and I am scrambling. I woke up remembering all the things I forgot to do yesterday afternoon before a neighbor's party - cancel a doctor's appointment for Monday, move the date of a wine shipment for a friend, water everything outside.

"You kind of checked out yesterday, didn't you?" remarks JBL. I reply feebly that my interval run messed me up, and I hope that is true. The perennial specter of The Alzheimer's weighs on me. However, I do think yesterday's schedule-less nature did funk with my usual ability to keep things straight in my mind. At least I got my intervals in.

So since there is nothing to be done with a closed doctor's office and a wine merchant on the Left Coast at this early hour, I hurry outside with my watering can. I barely register that it is already warm enough for me to be comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt, and it is pleasantly humid. Squeak-squeak-squeak says the spigot as I turn on the water, with the hose face-down in the green can. I cast a critical eye over the nearby bed, looking for new weeds to be plucked. Squeak-squeak-squeak, I turn off the water as I hear the can overflowing.

I am accompanied by the clapping of my flip-flops down the hill and around to the back yard. First the hibiscus is dowsed, then the newly-liberated houseplants. I stop to pull a few weeds from between the pavers and glare at the numerous ant holes across my spacious patio. My mind briefly flickers an image of JBL and J up in the kitchen eating bagels with cream cheese, and talking in quiet tones so as not to disturb a still-sleeping K.

Under the deck and out into the vegetable garden, I give a thorough drink to the tomatoes and basil, the peppers and rosemary, the lettuces and peas. With a heavy sigh, I set the can down and harvest the bursting pea pods that have ripened overnight, my mind skittering across the concern of my doctor's appointment. How can I possibly reach them to cancel now? The appointment is for 9:10 Monday, so by the time they get the message he will already be en route to the office. They'll probably charge me anyway. And he'll want to know why I am canceling. I don't want to have that conversation. And I have no idea what to do with all these peas.

I stand and walk up to the east side of the house, now cradling several pints of peas in the front of my shirt, and set the watering can down. I climb around a happy Japanese holly and a prickly barberry to find the hidden strawberry plants. Still holding my shirtfront as a makeshift basket, I swish my hands across the tops of the strawberry leaves in search of ready-red berries. The first one I see has a recent gash in its side thanks to a hungry slug, and I am irritated. "Figures," I think to myself, noting the berry's otherwise perfect color and size. It sits adjacent to a pile of coffee grounds I had sprinkled to avoid just such a fate (based on the recommendation of a talented gardener friend). A soft voice in my head reminds me that I have harvested significantly more berries so far this year than last thanks to this trick, and for that I should be grateful. I turn away.

As I stand bent-over near the wall to the morning room, brushing at the leaves, I catch many glimpses of red - little bits of perfection growing silently where I planted them. In spite of me. And as I pick them, I am subtly chastened for missing the perfection around me every moment of every day.

I stand and climb out from behind the shrubs with a fresh pint of strawberries on top of my peas. I pick up the watering can and climb the deck stairs to find the annuals, and finish what I started...

Touch

I want to make something today.

I want to feel the sun on my neck and back as I push wheelbarrows full of mulch around the yard. I want to feel soil slip through my fingers. I want to swish water in buckets and feel it dribble down my leg as I pour and walk. I want to wipe sweat off my brow.

I want to carry cushions and arrange furniture. I want to clutch at fruits and vegetables. I want to rub marinades into meats. I want to knead dough and slice things.

I want to light candles and direct symphonies with a remote. I want to hold J and wash her little body and smooth lotion onto her skin. (Do you know what her cheeks feel like in your palms?)

And I will do all these things. Maybe tomorrow I will remember how to draw and paint.

W.O.W. - 5/31/10

Today is Memorial Day, and I should write something about the veterans in our family. Of course there's Grandy - JBL's grandfather - who flew P-31s and was shot down over occupied France. Then there was my own father, who was a mechanic who worked on B-29s in southeast Asia. He used to cry whenever he watched Memphis Belle, which was often.

Today is also the fourth day of a heavy cold, which is unusual both in its severity and duration. (Boy, does that sound stupid following the mention of my heros' brave history.) I could write about the possible reasons for my queer malady, of which there are many. I could also write that I haven't run for 3 days, mostly because of The Cold, and how the break is affecting me emotionally. Hint: it's not a good feeling.

What I will write, however, is about something that popped into my head just now as J was reading to me. (A benefit of losing your voice - it's a good excuse to make the 6-year-old do some independent reading.) I was so proud of J as she plowed through one of our favorite books - a mutual love-fest of a tome called I Love You. The range of emotions I felt made my internal cynic throw red flags galore, and I paused.

This post is addition to my Words of Wisdom list. It's a bit wordy, so pull up a proverbial chair.

You will be taught that certain emotions are bad. You will be taught that, as a parent, you should not want your child to be advanced. You should just love them for who they are at every developmental level. If you feel your child is advanced, and that thought gives you a secret thrill, this feeling of superiority-by-proxy implies you are trying to deal with some inadequacies within yourself, which is an unhealthy way to feel.

You will be taught that any prejudicial feelings you have are wrong. If you pass someone on the street and immediately assume you know something about them based on their skin color, clothes, age, or body shape (and usually the thoughts you have will be negative), you are a bad person.

You will be taught that it is wrong to try to Keep Up with the Joneses. That little pang you will feel in your twenties when your friend buys a BMW and you still have the hand-me-down 15 year-old car? Wretched. That anxiety that fills you when your other friend gets the window office and you're stuck in a cubicle? Deplorable. The dismay you feel when you can only afford a week at the beach (splitting the cost with your in-laws) while your kid's friends take trips to Europe, after skiing out west over Spring Break, fitting it all in around a month-long summer camp in Maine? In the immortal words of Gomer Pyle: "For shame, for shame, for shame!"

But I am here to tell you that you will have all these feelings. The trick of being an adult is what to do with them. I say understand there are valid and good reasons to have ambition, pride and prejudice. If the feelings are only serving some negativity - eating away at your insides, or making you feel separate from/beneath others, stop and examine your thoughts a bit. Chances are they can be turned into a way to change your own perceptions, or to set goals for yourself that are reasonable. The answers are usually right there, within you.

Likewise, always check yourself if you feel a spike of righteous indignation. The answers are usually somewhere out in the middle, somewhere gray. (Usually.) Gray can be good. You're rarely 100% right and you're rarely 100% wrong. Think it out. Be mindful. Understand why you think what you do. Know as much as you can, but don't be too hard on yourself when you don't know.

Ok, that was a lot of words, and possibly very little wisdom. And I certainly fall prey to these very natural tendencies to be negative, both where myself and others are concerned. But I want the girls to know you don't have to stop there, and you don't need someone else to tell you how to think and feel. The wise answers are often more simple, though much harder to reach than you might think.

Back in the big yellow chair with J in my lap, I let my pride wash over me. I am excited that she is confident and capable with her reading skills. And if she ever reads this list, these words of wisdom, I hope she realizes there's no shame necessary in my pride or hers.

Borrowing lyrics

This is the first day of my life
I swear I was born right in the doorway
I went out in the rain suddenly everything changed
They're spreading blankets on the beach

Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
Now I don’t know where I am
I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I want to go.

Remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning?
And I thought it was strange
You said everything changed
You felt as if you just woke up.
And you said, 'This is the first day of my life.
Glad I didn't die before I met you.
And now I don't care
I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy.'

I'm glad I didn't die, too.

Forging ahead

I think saving magazines after I've read them, including dog-eared cooking magazines, has been overly optimistic.

I'm having one of those days where even walking across the kitchen seems like too much effort. I need a goal.

I think I'll go clean something.

W.O.W. and other lists

So I was thinking lately that there are a handful of 'Words of Wisdom'-type things I'd like to pass along to the girls. Nothing big, really, considering I'm mostly an idiot. But I wanted to jot them down from time-to-time. Here are my first thoughts:

1. Always shake out your gardening gloves and clogs, in case spiders have crawled in.
2. As great as it is to make food from scratch, there is no point in trying to replicate box brownies or canned pumpkin.
3. In the kitchen, as in life, you have to clean up one mess before you can start making another.

That's all I have for now.

Oh, but I have a new entry for my uninspiring church signs: "God doesn't have a plan *B*!" (Why the asterisks?) I am really not sure what that is supposed to mean. Am I supposed to be worried about that? Does it imply that I, too, should never have a plan 'B'? Should I get everything right the first time? Any way you slice it, this sign does not make me want to walk through those church doors.

Checklist - status

Peppers, tomatoes, basil are in. First peas and strawberries hit the counter yesterday. Now, just need to get those vinca in, and disperse the rest of that damn mulch. Phew!

I have time to plant the annuals this afternoon, but I will run now, and see if there's time afterward. Hopefully my system will let me do 6....

(So 'afterwards' is not a word? Wow, I learn something new every day. I guess I am a white middle-aged Republican rube after all.)

Updated: My system let me do 6 and then some. A speedy run like that makes all those sucky times worth it!

Not guilty

I'm giving myself one more hour to write today. It's really feeling good.

Awkward to say the least

Well, the weekend was great - totally relaxing from the start, even though J was more rattled by my departure than I thought she would be. I'll keep the memories of my overnight away in my back pocket to poke me out of my hermit habits from time to time.

Anyway.

A couple months ago, the father of one of the boys at our bus stop - a junior at J's school - approached me as I was getting back into my car. We shared some small talk as I stood, waving to J in the departing bus, holding onto my open driver's-side door. (I thought it was odd that this dad had gotten out of his car to talk to me since he normally speeds off to work as soon as his son's second foot hits the pavement.) Oh, we'd talked before. His wife is a runner like me. He went to college where JBL got his master's degree. I'd even taken his son home one day when both parents had late meetings.

But I knew something was up that morning. Suddenly, the man blurted out, "I am not a molester or anything. I just wanted you to know why I always smile at your daughter."

Now, I don't know about how you would have felt, but my reaction to that statement was a mixture of doubt in his veracity and abject fear. Adrenaline flooded my system, and everything about the moment crystallized. The dark pink of the cord holding the corporate badge around his neck became garish. I could see each individual salt-and-pepper hair of his goatee. The winter air around us smelled overwhelming. But I kept my congenial smile as he continued.

Apparently his younger sister passed away when he was 7 and she was 3. Though J is charming enough to warrant glowing smiles from any random passer-by, she especially affected this man because she reminded him of the sister he lost so long ago. As if that abrupt admission weren't awkward enough, he just kept talking - describing how he didn't want to make me uncomfortable by saying 'hi!' to her every morning, and wondering if his friendliness seemed too much.

I fumbled over myself to reassure him that his greetings were consistent with how other people approach J (she is a cute little kindergartener in a plaid uniform with a backpack as big as she is - who wouldn't smile at that?). But, really, I just wanted him to stop talking so I could get in my car and drive away quickly. And never see him again.

Eventually I was able to break away and return home. I told JBL, and mentioned it later to some friends. Everyone was shocked at the man's candor. It would be easy enough to write him off as a loon, and yet... I struggle daily with determining how I feel about him.

I mean, who would admit to being a pedophile? But then again, how sad that this man lost his sister and longs for a relationship he'll never have. And maybe he's just an awkward person. Maybe he just doesn't know how to connect with other people, or has a touch of Asperger's syndrome. I for one have no room looking disdainfully at people who say the 'wrong' thing, or won't stop talking once they've made their audience uncomfortable. The chronicles of my social ineptitudes could fill the Library of Congress.

But still. Am I going to ever let him bring J home from the bus stop (not that he's offered)? No way in hell. And how do I approach him every single day at the bus stop? So far I have subtly ignored him (so stated because I ignore everyone - I'm the mom who stays in the car rather than chatting with travel coffee mug in hand), but will smile and chat when spoken to. It's just...well... so awkward.

Oddities

Struggling a little today - anxiety is sitting heavy about my weekend away. Yes I did just type that. I am going for a hiking and spa overnight with a few friends, and though I know I will have fun, I am uneasy. It's great being me.

I have to shake off the worries:
- K will be happy to have a weekend here without me around
- J will feel miss me (a little - time with JBL and K will blot me from her mind, for sure)
- General uneasiness being away from JBL - don't ask, I don't really understand it either
- General need to be close to home/secure my hermit-like tendencies

The weekend will be good and healthy and I will have fun. I'm just glad I can write this stuff here, hopefully helping to shelve my oddities.

It's official

Every one of J's classmates has now had/invited us to a birthday party. Ok, I may be missing one kid... two, tops. The parties have varied from simple to elaborate, but none have just been a craft at home followed by cake, which is the extent of effort and expense I could manage if I had thrown such a party.

You see, J did not have a birthday party including her classmates. I honestly thought, back in September, that this type of thing was anomalous. I mean, who can really afford gifts from themselves, along with 'jump zone' party with pizza, cake, and a goodie bag for 18 kids plus parents? How is a parent going to top a party with ice skating lessons for all attendees, or a magician who puts on an hour show and also makes balloon animals, for their 5-year-old? (By the time they're 10, what...are they going to rent out the Maryland Zoo?!) Surely it would only be a handful of invites for the year. Or not, as the case may be.

God bless J - it hasn't occurred to her that she is the only one who has not had such a party. The age of kindergarten has its advantages, after all. But what happens next year, or the year after that? I have often written about my concern (ok, fear) of keeping up with the other more affluent families at this school, along with my need to support certain values for J. As with her foray into lacrosse, I just didn't think the birthday thing would come to bear so soon.

I have to keep my eye on the end game, while making J feel included, socially accepted, and...well...not abnormal. Hmph. My stomach hurts.

Haven't we all

I absolutely love some of the books J and I read at bedtime. Junie B. Jones? *shudder* Princess stories? No way in hell. Mary Poppins, the original version? Now you're talking. From Chapter 6 - Bad Tuesday:

'"Shall I let out the water?" he enquired in the rudest voice he had. There was no reply. "Pooh! I don't care!" said Michael, and the hot heavy weight that was within him swelled and grew larger. "I don't care!"'

(we all know that hot heavy weight, don't we?)

'[And Michael] was a little astonished at himself.... But he was not astonished for long, for he began to wonder what he could do next.... he ran away with Miss Lark's angry, outraged voice screaming in his ears, and his body almost bursting with the exciting weight of that heavy thing inside him.... And all that time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.'

You just don't get that kind of real, true emotion in today's sugar-coated stories - not that I have found anyway. Best of all, J seems to love it as much as I do...

On passion and fruit

My mother was a larger-than-life person. She dominated every room she was in - either by her conversation, or simply with the sheer force of her emotions. My brother inherited her mayor-like qualities. My daughter carries on her ceaseless chatter.

She was a passionate woman. She laughed loudly. She loved deeply. She took things personally. She would say things like, "I forgive, but I never forget," or, "Never stop dating your spouse - it is so important." She would give the world's longest lectures when my brother and I would bicker a little too much. I can remember her saying, "Life is a two-way street," but I have no idea why. She was so intense when she said it, however, we would just nod knowingly. We just wanted her to finish so we could get out of her storm.

When I was very young, she loved to throw parties, as I am certain I have written before. Music would fill the house while we prepped and cleaned. Mom would give me hosting advice that I would not be able to use for twenty years, such as, "When your guests arrive, you fix them their first drink, showing them where the bar is. Then they can make their own drinks after that." She always made a point to finish getting ready well in advance of the appointed hour so she could relax and get ready to smile for her friends. She would lay on the floor in the living room, listening to the Hollies or Credence Clearwater Revival, singing to herself.

Then my brother and I would be ushered upstairs with snacks and soda - a party of our own. We were discouraged from coming downstairs, even if we were fighting. I would sometimes sneak down anyway, undaunted by the scene greeting me at the bottom of the stairs. I would weave through the crowded living room, dark except for candles and firelight, to find my father sitting in the corner (he might have been chatting with someone, but he was so introverted...he didn't really enjoy the jocularity). The smell of liquor hung in the air along with cigarette smoke. Above it all, I can still clearly smell my dad's whiskey sour and my mother's perfume.

I would yell over the music into Dad's ear a description of some minor transgression of my brother's. With a hug and his assurances that CB would be disciplined in the morning, I would return upstairs to watch the rest of Sonny and Cher, satisfied. As I passed the coffee table, pushed off next to the sofa to make room for dancing, I would see the usual assortment of hors d'hoevres - a port wine cheese ball covered with nuts, a crudite platter, bread sticks, shrimp dip.

For smaller dinner parties, Mom would rearrange the furniture so the coffee table was directly in front of the fireplace, surrounded by pillows for sitting. The '70s-yellow fondue pot would sit in the center, surrounded by meat, vegetables and bread cubes. After dinner, there would come dessert, of course, and one of my mother's favorite desserts was brandied fruit (to be served with champagne). I get a headache just writing that. This time of night is when my brother and I would hear the most uproarious conversations, the loudest laughter.

I love to remember this aspect of my mother's complex personality. She was so confident in a crowd, so happy to shower guests with what she felt was the best of everything. I guess I inherited these traits from her.

As I was leafing through a new cookbook this morning, looking for inspiration for my own Mother's Day meal, I was greeted by a recipe for brandied fruit. And I smiled. If I can picture my mom in heaven, she is that 30-something version of herself - the woman who regularly went to 'exercise class', the one who had just the right jewelry for every event, the one who showed me how to spray perfume on my pulse points as I watched her get ready for her party. The excitement radiated from her as she set her bottle of Chanel 22 down and rubbed her wrists together. "Your husband will love the way this smells when he kisses you," she would say with sparkling eyes and a conspiratorial smile.

I love you Mom. I hope you're having a party tonight, that Daddy is helping you get ready, and that all the guests will be as happy as they were in your home 30 years ago. Happy Mother's Day.