Realization

"Mommy, when are they going to call us up?"

"What?"

"The band! When will they call the little kids up?"

J is barefoot on the basement floor. Her socks are balled up between the cushions of the leather couch in the corner, now occupied by a 40-something couple. The naked black lights have replaced the incandescent bulbs normally scattered over the ceiling of the 1500 square-foot unfinished area. Some of the card tables set out for dinner have been folded up and put away to make room for additional chairs and a dance floor. Christmas lights are strung around the ceiling where the band is playing, behind a row of microphones. Extra guitars are lying in wait against the wall, and against the drum set. A projector sends alternating psychedelic images against a wall as the strains of Iko Iko float through the room.

I stand behind her so she won't feel self-conscious if she wants to dance. Other children are pouring into the room from locations in and around the house. The dozens of adults milling about smile and let them through as they spin and swing blankets and stuffed animals around them. It is J's first house party with a band, and she has assumed that the kids will be called forth for an activity, as with all other parties she has ever attended. She has no context. I shake my head and smile.

Just a few hours before, I'd met Kevin. At that point J was in the moon bounce, and Kevin and his 11 year-old stood outside it with me, chatting. Eventually Sarah could resist no longer, and tumbled into the moon bounce with the smaller children. Kevin and I chatted on.

He has four kids, and Sarah is his youngest. She is a direct (and unusually tall) girl with earrings and a first attempt at makeup. Blue eye shadow. Her hair is cropped short, even in length all over her head, as though it had been shaved some time ago. None of the kids in the moon bounce comment on the anomalous style. She lunges over to the net facing us from time to time to connect with her dad. "I see you!" she grins. "I see you!" he laughs back.

Kevin lives - as many northern Virginians do - a substantial distance from his work, and laments the lost hours he has spent commuting on top of long work days. "Not anymore," he says, "I've cut way back." I nodded appreciatively, volunteering how happy I am to work from home most of the time. We discuss being 'done' with early childhood years. I complain un-seriously about K's teenage tendencies. We compare and contrast home schooling, public schools and private. We bond over other shared experiences, and I am surprisingly comfortable considering he is practically a stranger. I divulge insecurities and challenges surrounding my job as a stepmother. His voice is gentle and his eyes are kind, encouraging me. A smile barely leaves his face as we speak.

He even half-smiles as he lets on about Emily. His now-13 year-old was 11 when she was diagnosed with brain cancer.

Brain cancer.

The phrase punches me in the stomach. How could I have set aspects of my circumstances out for pity or appreciation when this man experienced such a thing with one of his children? My face crumples into concern as I listen to the story of months spent at Kennedy Krieger. Of relief now that the cancer has been conquered for the time being. He expresses through his easy demeanor that the hard emotions have been processed, and he is grateful that he and his family have come out on The Other Side. Blithely he changes the subject just as the party's hostess grabs me to make introductions to other friends. I wave to Kevin as I walk away.

A short time later Kevin and his wife pass. "I'd introduce you," he says with a conspiratorial smile, "but she'll talk your ear off, and we have to get going for Sarah's sleepover party!" Kevin's wife is talking to someone else as he disappears into the house one last time. I note that she has the same short-cropped haircut as her youngest, and is wearing a hoodie with cargo capris and Berkenstocks. A circular dragon tattoo adorns the outside of her right ankle. I shrug as the whole look assimilates in my mind. Then I turn to see Kevin coming down the deck steps with Emily.

She is frail and still nearly bald, and immediately it occurs to me that her sister and mother shaved their heads to match hers. My heart constricts as I absorb her effort to get down to the walkway, even as her dad gently guides her shoulders from behind. They approach me, along with Jon who is now at my side. I hope that my face registers the same normal, congenial smile as his.

"This is Emily," Kevin says. I quickly take in her earrings - studs like her sister's - and green eye shadow. I glance over her stylish skinny jeans and Converse Chuck Taylors. Uneasy with the yawning silence, I do what I always do. I talk to fill the void.

"Bon Jovi!" I remark, indicating her concert shirt.

"Not only did we see Bon Jovi," pipes up Kevin, "he actually signed her shirt!" He pauses to let us express the appropriate approval and appreciation. "Emily has actually been to lots of concerts. It's sort of her thing." For her part, Emily continued to look down and into the distance, holding her head still with an obvious effort.

All smiles now, I did what I always do with kids. I asked about something I hoped would make her happy.

"What's been your favorite concert so far?"

"Well," she replied slowly with a voice like that of the elderly Katherine Hepburn, "I wouuuuuullllld havvvvvvvvvve to sssssaaaaaayyy (long pause) alllllllllllll of themmmmmmm." She lifted her eyes almost to meet mine and let them drop again. Jon and I made murmurings of approvals, letting our smiles drift over her and up to Kevin. His look was almost apologetic, but strong. He then began walking Emily slowly down the long gravel driveway. His wife broke off her conversation to gather up Sarah and follow her husband down to the car. As they walked away, I noted a scar snaking up the back of Emily's head, from her nape to almost level with the top of her ears, and thicker than my thumb.

And I shook my head, realizing I have no context. I have experienced loss, and I have struggled to be a better person for both my girls. But I have no way to understand the depth of strength required to love a child through and after dealing with such trauma. Every day for the rest of their lives, Emily's cancer will be there like another person in the room, and will have to be dealt with whether or not it ever re-inhabits her body. Sometimes it may fade enough to be ignored, and clearly the family has done everything in their power to minimize its importance. But it will always be there.

Back in the basement, I watch J dance with her peers happily in front of the band (even without being called up). Occasionally she stops to catch my eye, making sure I am watching, that I haven't left. I soak in her healthy, shining joy. And I pray.

Lessons learned, the professional version

Boy, when I think about my plans to be done this government agency contract in February, I laugh and laugh. As of now, the first week of May, they have just told me they are pulling the plug, and I am not within sight of the finish line. I'm more like at mile 11 of this half-marathon, and the finish shoot is way over the hill behind a bunch of buildings (plus, those idiots on the sidelines screaming, "Keep going! You're almost done!" are liars of the highest order... but I digress).

It should be noted that only during the month of April did I begin to exceed the estimated number of hours expended on the analysis. That just tells you how much less I have worked on this than I planned. That said, I should have done a better job separating the forest from the trees.

I think mainly what I have learned is that I am not terribly good at just plowing ahead without planning, and really, no good consultant should be able to work that way. So it's no surprise.

I sincerely hope I can continue to work on on (smaller, finite) analysis projects because they stretch my brain in ways that make me happy. I have to say anonymously though that this particular agency has by far the most toxic, negative atmosphere of any organization I have ever worked with (8+). I will not miss that.

Anyway, I have '10 hours' to spend, though I will likely double that and eat the overage, to get my document to some presentable state. In all likelihood I will have to be done by next week at this time.

I wonder what it will feel like to not be frantic every morning when I wake up...