PWE

It's Time

2012-02-09T12:46:00.001-08:00

We are going to tell the girls (separately) this weekend that Uncle Chris and Aunt Lisa are getting a divorce. God, this sucks.

Technicolor

2012-02-01T07:03:00.000-08:00

When Chris waxes poetic about Philadelphia, I cringe and roll my eyes and laugh (fondly). And I remember.

I remember how I felt when JBL and I first got together - like that night I walked into his apartment to find him playing the guitar in his boxers with candles lit all around, waiting for me. The afternoons we would sit and look out over the lawn into the trees, listening to music and sipping cocktails. The inner calm. This experience of being with him was more than realizing the miracle of finding the Big Love, but also as being apart from the pain in the rest of my life. It was an escape.

This was the time when the shit was really starting to hit the fan with my dad, and as much as I compartmentalized the trauma so I could continue to function day-to-day, I still needed a break. I needed a buffer from the constant onslaught of my mother's demons, and space to safely fall apart with despair. But mostly my time in that apartment, and then eventually in his townhouse, was a chance for me to feel like my true self for the first time in my life. My love for JBL was a fantastical finding that also filled me with the technicolor joy of being at home in my own skin. And I recall that feeling as being tied to the places he inhabited.

There was a mysterious pull to the paved paths around Tamar Drive. And later, I communed regularly with the wooded running trails in Clary's Forest. The may apples poking up in early spring on the forest floor, the vines that hung from the trees, the small lake over the hill. As I returned to the house and walked up the front steps, I would gaze for long minutes at the patch of dirt in front of the basement window, smelling its minerals warmed by the sun. I would think about planting daffodils.

And I know when Chris speaks of cobblestone streets and great local speakeasies with a sparkling effervescence, I know he is feeling all these same things. Putting aside my discomfort, I am warmed by the thought that he is feeling the weight of 'supposed to be' lifting from his strong shoulders, and that he is feeling joy for being who he is right now.

Impending

2012-01-20T20:29:00.001-08:00

I used to be afraid of the dark. I insisted that the light in the bathroom at the end of the hall be left on all night, and I kept my door wide open. Did nightlights exist in 1976? I don't know, but I wish I'd had one to further protect myself from the unknown creatures that waited for me until everyone else slept. My brother, whose room was immediately adjacent to the bathroom, had no such demons, and was compelled to keep his door closed to block the bright light that would have otherwise shone directly onto his pillow, keeping him awake like a Guantanamo prisoner.

Meanwhile, my fear kept me awake for weeks at a time. I would walk down the hallway that seemed so long, down to the cheerily lit bathroom. Even now I can feel the soft flannel of my long nightgown brushing my ankles as I walked, exhausted but with a tingling inability to sleep.I would touch the cold white tile around the sink and stare out the black window facing the back yard of our wooded lot. I would turn and walk back down the long hallway to my room.

Entering was easy - the smell comforting, the light from the hallway illuminating familiar objects. I would crawl under the covers of my twin bed against the far wall, under the window. And I would stare back out at the doorway. From this vantage, everything in the room was dark and malevolent compared to the safely lit carpet lining the hall. Stuffed animals or discarded clothes took on dangerous shapes, and the air about me swirled with the potential for harm. I felt the weight of the air right above my face as though there was a hand ready to touch me, to rip my covers off without warning, at any moment. My heart would pound in the otherwise silent house, and a light sweat would break out on the skin of my body from head to toe. I would contemplate throwing back the sheets to step out into the safe light of the hall once again for what seemed like hours. The fear of something coming at me as soon as I closed my eyes was so strong that I often resorted to covering my head until I nearly suffocated.

But nothing, NOTHING was as frightening as the dark that hovered in the space above the stairs leading down to the living room below me. During that childhood time, my mother had a painting along the wall that lead downstairs, a painting of trees backlit by a fiery orange dusk sky. I would stare at the dark branches and at times they seemed to move. At times the orange and yellow would undulate under my unwavering gaze (heart pounding). And the dark from the unlit living room, in the quiet house where everyone slept soundly save me, seemed to move and undulate as well. Was it creeping up the stairs?

I would rise once again and move silently down the hall, but rather than enter the garish, formerly calming brashness of the bathroom, I would turn at the top of the stairs and look down. My left hand holding the knob of the banister would be clammy, and the spit on my tongue would take on a vinegar quality. The steps descended to a landing whose white carpet was barely gray in the dim light. I knew the living room just to the left of the landing was pitch black. Would something pop out of that blackness and rush up the stairs to pounce on me? Would a breath of angry whisper meet my ears if I listened hard enough? Oh, and how I listened.

This pattern of waiting and watching, testing and wondering, went on night after night. I never told my mother about it, though I wanted to. I remember opening my parents' bedroom door from time to time - very slowly. I walked up to my father's side of the bed (closest to the door), and listened to his deep rumbling breaths. The smell of sleep hung heavy around them both. I would creep back out and silently close the door without disturbing them.

Finally, one night I found myself, beyond exhausted, sitting at the top of the stairs with my chin resting in my palms, elbows on my knees, staring unblinkingly into the darkness at the landing. It was as though as long as I looked with my eyes wide open, nothing could get to me. Feeling desperate, I resolved to give myself up to the spirits that haunted me in the dark. I stood and grasped the handrail that ran along the wall with my right hand, and slowly descended.

When I reached the landing, I turned to the left and stared into the dark living room. It wasn't as black as I had imagined it would be, but it still filled me with terror. My hands were now icy and my breath came in gasps. I took in the shapes of the sofa and chairs and coffee table. But the most foreboding specter was the utterly black fireplace set atop the brick hearth. It seemed to be the core of the room, and I could almost hear breathing from within it.

I don't know what made me act then, but I took the two steps down into the living room, turned my back to the fireplace, and lay - stomach-down - on the steps with my head on the landing. I thought to myself, "Just come and get me. Get it over with, because I just can't take it anymore." I shut my eyes tightly and thought of what might come up, to strike. I even imagined I felt knives or claws tearing at my back, but the more I focused and held my breath in anticipation, the more those imaginings dissipated.

Gradually, all I was left with was utter silence and calm. I began to notice the wooly feel of the carpet under my chin, and how my arms - scrunched up with balled fists under my chest - we're beginning to fall asleep. I pushed myself to standing and took a deep breath. Without looking back, I walked up the steps, down the long hallway, and into my room. I crawled under the covers and promptly fell asleep. That may not have been the end of my fears, but something fundamental eased within me that night.

I know a couple of little girls who will have fear delivered to them unexpectedly tomorrow, and I wish I could help them skip to the end of the story and see there's nothing really to fear. I want them to magically pass over the pain and land at the place where they realize the people who love them are nearby, and the demons of devastation can't get past the bond of love that surrounds them - though it may appear their parents are asleep and unaware. I wish I could do all this, but I can't.

Don't say it out loud

2011-12-15T12:39:00.000-08:00

I still work from home, part-time, so why am I so exhausted? Yes, it's the holiday season. Yes, I have kids. But I have 1.5 - my daughter, and my step-daughter, the latter of the two only here half-time. It's not like have 19 Kids and Counting. And I have a husband who often works from home, and is therefore around to help with This and That.

And yet, at the end of the day, I 'flop' on the sofa and watch TV and think, "Thank GOD that's over. Soon I'll be sleeping, but only after I lounge here and see if these idiots pick house #3." I feel like I made it through something, but.... Why will tomorrow be any different? And what really did I get through, except being alive?

KP posted on Facebook a cocktail conversation question - if you could take a pill that would allow you to live forever, would you? Some answered, 'If it was a gelcap,' or 'If I could keep my 29-year-old body.' I replied something goofy, like, 'Are you crazy? Who wants to be here the day the sun explodes? Not this gal.'

When we went out to dinner, I asked her what her answer would be, and she replied, 'No WAY. Death is the point. You only get one shot and you have to be able to say you either did something with your time or you didn't.' Good point. I just can't imagine being here forever, but didn't elaborate. She didn't ask.

I look forward to sleeping.

An unenviable place

2011-11-08T10:53:00.000-08:00

There are numerous rites of passage in life. When I was younger, I thought such rites were limited to the very small, but first steps and first words leap with lightening speed across time to the first lost tooth and first 2-wheel bike, and then even more dramatically to events like your first kiss and first car. The universe of common experiences is vast.

As my college career waned, I realized there were other milestones my peers were beginning to experience. Landing the first grown-up job. Getting one's own place. Having enough money to invest, or maybe go on vacation. But none were so inspiring and influential among the fairer sex than that of getting engaged. Now, as an awkward and introverted teenager, I had struggled to keep up with social norms. While some girls had new cars waiting for them on their 16th birthdays, I waited tables at Friendly's till I could scrape together enough money to buy my own car - a 1981 Toyota Celica. (My treat to myself: a wood bead seat-cover.) And while other girls had boyfriends throughout high school and college, my one high-school crush went nowhere, and my first boyfriend in college was a creep who alienated me from my family and pushed me around.

Once I left my polyester waitress uniform behind, I took up retail sales as I looked for my future direction (changing my major 4 times in under-grad). I sold bridal gowns. The girls who came in the store - from the overweight and pimple-covered to the pregnant and tattooed to the sorority sparklers - all seemed Together. Confident and Complete. Oh how I envied their places in life. After all, who else gets engaged but women who have a defined sense of style, know who they are enough to be loved by someone else, and have enough intelligence to take care of themselves?

No one was more surprised than me to find myself among their ranks a few years later, engaged to a very nice man who would have been happy to take care of me for the rest of my life. The trouble was, I realized you can get engaged without being confident or self-sufficient, and through a further series of missteps, I found myself at yet another milestone, and waaaaaay earlier than any of my so-called peers. At 26, I was divorced.

As I spent the rest of my twenties as something of a sad celebrity, my dating exploits gossiped about 'round many a corporate water cooler, I watched colleagues and friends move on to other happy places. While I went back for my graduate degree and found a one-bedroom apartment so I could finally be alone, the Married Ones were moving into great starter homes and getting pregnant. When I could finally afford my own townhouse, the Career Ones were finding their mates and buying big houses to match their big salaries. And when I realized I had finally found the Big Love with (appropriately for me) tragically poor timing, Those With Small Families were up-sizing their homes. At that point, my life became so rocky I mentally checked out of the Keeping Up game.

Fast-forward ten years, and I am now in an unusual place. While I think (hope, pray) that JBL and I have come safely through the worst part of our journey together, I am witnessing the fallout of unhappy marriages all around. I've seen the gamut, and it is far from pretty: the ones without kids who chose an open marriage to keep their Couple Identity, the ones who are Staying Together For The Kids, the ones who Muscled Through to find peace after years of struggling while managing the mental health of their children, and those who Just Snapped. Each road taken has fundamentally changed all parties involved, and some are slowly killing the so-called survivors.

That last group is the most shocking because, in my world anyway, the ones who snapped are Those People you never thought would do such a thing. Queue the trite cliches: They seemed so happy. How could she walk away from her children? I never thought he'd do that to her. One of these Snappers is someone very, very close to me, and I've gotta tell you, it's taking a lot to quiet the cliches playing through my own mind and support this person. Me, of all people.

So here I am, vindicated. I've now been told, "I don't know how you did it," and, "that took a lot of strength." It does feel somewhat better to know I'm not the only one and to be able to say I understand when someone needs to hear it most, but I wish it didn't happen so damned often. And to so many wonderful people. Is it the right decision sometimes? Absolutely. But. Divorce is a tragedy like death, causing a hush to fall over the room, and making strong couples to look at each other and wonder. Watching people I love reach this place? It's not where I ever wanted to be.

Things Posed

2011-10-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

On the run today, I noticed that the leaves are just at the point of turning. It seemed odd that the day should be so warm when the leaden sky hung over trees beginning to slowly exhale their chlorophyll. The air should have had a hint of crisp to it. But I'll never complain about warm temperatures, even on an otherwise stereo-typically perfect October day.

I ran past a very orange ball sitting against a curb, nestled among newly fallen leaves under a maple tree. Looking at it, I suddenly remembered that there was a time during my childhood when I longed to be an inanimate object. I thought there would be nothing more perfect than to be a picture hanging on my own wall. I could watch the breeze push at my curtains all day when the real me should have been at school. I could watch the sunlight slowly move across the floor and feel the room change and warm throughout the day. I could see the dust collect on my turntable in the nook, and on the pink cushion in my hanging wicker chair over by the closet. The calm and peace of being perfectly still, absorbing stillness around me is a compelling prospect. And today, something made me want to be that silent, unmoving orange ball. Yes, that would be perfect.

Up on the road, I passed an abandoned gate flanked by crumbling stone columns, beyond which lay a small open area filled with overgrown stumps, dead trees and weeds. The dead trees were populated with at least a dozen turkey vultures, hunched with heads hanging low, contemplative. I can't even make that up. The scene was of things posed with a Halloween feel.

I pushed on, neither inanimate or posed, and but still wishing for stillness.

Emotion

2011-10-06T07:06:00.000-07:00

I have wanted to write so much. There is so much to say. I only have time for one thing at the moment: I shared this last night with J, as an example of how music can evoke emotions, and I think she got it. And I was happy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYCmUSDnxb4

(I have no time, but if I did, I'd figure out how to imbed this video. Maybe I'll come back to it.)

A Journey of a Thousand Miles

2011-08-16T04:45:00.001-07:00

The running feels so easy, even on the hills, I am delighted to the point of ambitious optimism. I will do this every day, I predict (without pressure). The neighbors will see me and wave and smile. They will know me.

The mixture of emotions threatens to drown me, swirling, stinging. As I head down into the first valley where the stream is, I welcome the green cool, the humid gathering. The memories of J on her bike here just last month cause my heart to constrict. It's OK, though, right? As soon as the house is gutted and the rebuilding starts, we can bring her here with her bike all the time. It may be cold by then, but I want her to think of this as her neighborhood. I don't want her to get attached to the townhouse circle, packed with possible playmates though-it-may-be. To have her miss another house a year from now will be too much for me, for all of us.

Leaving behind the bramble and ferns, I crest the second hill on the loop and take in the smell of pines. I scoot under their shade and enjoy the crunch of dead needles under my slapping shoes. I gaze up the next hill, looking for the familiar giant poplars on my left. I memorize their gray trunks, wanting the feeling of belonging to greet me. I think of the discomfort of mosquitos, the disquiet of a house dreamed up by a couple who exploded their lives apart, and I pray I can find home in the remains of a tragedy - a tragedy on the end of which God stuck an exclamation point by introducing a lightening strike to a gas line with a pinhole leak.

I look up into the trees that hug the houses along the road. Gypsy moths have set up their tents in boughs that now droop heavily overhead. Their population is sparse compared to the parasitic bag worms I used to see in Woodbine, the interlopers who killed their hosts, and ruined their homes by living there. While I note that, in contrast, the gypsy moths simply mar the lush landscape, and only for a time, I refuse the impulse to dismiss them as unseemly. After all, who am I to disdain a creature who can only survive by opportunistic means?

I turn down 'my' lane. I stop at the turnaround point, bending to pull up delicate weeds protruding from among the wet mulch and shards of glass. The generator prods me to check on the fish pond before I turn and resume my run back....home.

Realization

2011-05-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-05-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

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...

Irritating Things

2011-04-19T09:25:00.001-07:00

Today I am irritated. I woke up exhausted, and struggled through the morning before succumbing to a power nap of insufficient duration. I think the smell of fabric softener kept me awake last night.

You see, since our house has sold, things have been breaking. First it was the hot water heater (confusingly named, as a friend pointed out, as hot water should not need to be heated). Then it was our RO system. There are probably several other things that went awry, but the most notable was the dryer. So what? Hang the clothes out on a clothes line, like they did in days of old. No big deal. But clothes that haven't been through the dryer with its accompanying dryer sheets are not soft and fluffy. No. They are coarse and crinkly.

But I, being a woman of vast and varied experiences, recalled my mother using liquid fabric softener, so requested that JBL procure some at the Ace where he also picked up the clothes line and pins. Following the directions on the Downy bottle, I put half of a cap-full in the washer's dispenser. The first time. This load smelled vaguely of fabric softener. For the second load, I was feeling emboldened and followed the instructions more closely, 'topping off' the softener in the dispenser with water. I basically took the softener cap and ran it under the water filling the basin and dumped it into the dispenser. This rinsing-out effect of the cap somehow quadrupled the amount of softener, or somehow magically enhanced the strength of its perfumes. The shirt I slept in (and am still wearing, because that's how I roll on days when I work from home) smells so powerfully of softener that I want to pass out. I want to, but I can't because the scent is so strong. See my conundrum?

At least the shirt is incredibly soft.

(And don't get me started about the crackers I ate for lunch - from a box that apparently was dropped several times - that broke into crumby shards every time I tried to schmear them with peanut butter. Or the fact that I have this for an earworm today.)

What I didn't miss

2011-04-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

What I didn't miss by running outside today:

PERFECT SPRINGTIME

Last week in D.C. they celebrated the cherry blossoms, but it was still fairly cold and gray just a few towns north, up here. Today we caught up. Pear and cherry trees were in full bloom. I could barely comprehend the color of the spring grass on the fields around me, electrified by the sunlight. The air was balmy with the slightest of breezes. On the roadside there were bright yellow forsythia and unintended patches of grape hyacinth. Small white butterflies meandered with great intent but without great efficiency toward some goal just over the hill.

At the bottom of the road lay, of course, a river, and it moved thick and slow in the afternoon sunshine, its banks strained though happily containing the bounty after the recent rains. In fact everything around me appeared grateful.

A HILL TO QUELL THE INNER CRITIC

Though my overall pace was less than impressive, my run downhill on Gillis Road truly felt like flying. The return trip was more challenging, to be sure, but gave me time to appreciate the quiet and placid day. Above my heavy breathing I observed a Canadian goose staring motionless at a small pond bordered by cattails - still brown from the winter - but with reed shoots fresh and green enough to - maybe - protect a small nest of hatchlings.

On the south side of the hill there was a large swath of tall pines, under which grew the first of the may apples, unfurling their leaves like little beach umbrellas. Closer to the stream were the beginnings of tiger lily leaves, bright and hopeful.

As the minutes dragged on and my legs began to burn with my lungs, I observed the cornfield on the north side of the road. Its trimmed dead stalks from last year were softened by the grass and weeds filling in the lanes between the rows. What just a week or two ago appeared like a graveyard of sorts now looked like a renewal, or a burst of something about to happen. I pictured pulling on those stalks to get me to the top of the hill.

A REMINDER OF THE SOCIO-ECONOMIC CONDITION OF MY ZIP CODE

As I neared the crest of Gillis, I heard a chain saw making short work of trees felled by recent storms. Its smoky, oily scent carried me quickly back to my childhood, and I could see my dad, sweaty and dirty in his t-shirt and shorts, cutting through large chunks of poplar, queuing them up for chopping on their inevitable journey to becoming firewood.

Further on I noticed a teenager pushing a lawnmower for perhaps the first time this year. He was fish-belly white and shirtless, and his capri-length baggy denim shorts covered the front of his privates (though precariously low) while allowing his entire ass to be exposed. Lucky for his boxers. But the effort to keep his pants from falling off entirely made his gate bow-legged and awkward. In front of his trailer, his progress was slow.

Closer to 94, I noticed a young woman emptying out a storage shed behind a squat and square cement house. Next to a mangled bike of unknown vintage, in place long enough to have grass growing tangled through its bent spokes, she set a poorly framed airbrushed rendition of a lion's head, tinged lavender. An older woman (her mother?) sat bra-less inside her red car, door open so her feet could rest on the ground. They spoke in animated tones.

GIFTS UNCLASSIFIED

As I approached my neighborhood, the sun's angle became low enough that its rays illuminated long spider webs, recently laid then liberated from the grass and floating like baby's hair in the afternoon air.

All the houses in my development sat prim and clean, nestled in their freshly-mowed lawns and landscapes trimmed with willows and knockout roses. Their cookie-cutter visages seemed excited for the weather like three-year-olds at a princess birthday party. They welcomed me.

Days like today make me want to name crayons and hug strangers and kiss the sun. Runs like today make me deliriously happy and thankful for my strong legs and lungs and heart. What a treat that I didn't miss any of it by taking myself for granted. Amen.

Losing it

2011-03-09T12:13:00.001-08:00

Ah, yes. Real focus happened (so far) today, and I feel great. Now if only I had the whole day to start again so I could work on my *other* job before I start my mom gig. And exercise. Wait a minute, now I'm starting to feel overwhelmed again. AGH! AGH! AGGGHHH! (picture me running away, waving my arms)

Early Spring

2011-02-27T15:10:00.000-08:00

I figured it all out on the run today. Bear with me while I babble crazy stuff.

Don't be confused about God and winter and destruction. God isn't about keeping you from being hurt, or giving you what you want, or punishing people for doing the wrong things. Easter may still be about eliminating the fear of death. But God is certainly about volcanoes and floods and forest fires. Lightening strikes and dying stars. What happens after these tragedies? Everything.

Everything keeps happening and moving and growing. Plants push up through ashes. Beautiful canyons are carved out where millenia before there were great oceans. New planets form out of the combined molecules that comprise metals and dust kicked off by the spent star that used to be the center of a solar system. Those molecules that were once simple hydrogen.

There's no remorse for the loss of what came before - only the continual opportunity for new somethings to exist. God is about endless second chances.

On the 27th of February, 2011, I noticed my tulips are coming up. I noticed lettuce - not known for being self-sowing - bursting to life in my garden. And again I am surprised by spring. Hopefully I earned it this year.

I am a sap for my girl

2011-02-27T07:29:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was your surprise party, and it was perfect. It was perfect because I felt like I was giving you exactly what would make you happy - truly. Friends. Delight. Ice cream in the middle of the day. Freedom to celebrate Messy and Silly and Pretend. You were the pretty and popular one at the dance, and all the boys wanted to be on your card. Ok, so there were no boys, but that's not the point.

The point is that I love you with such a force that it is humbling. When I am with you I have no other desire than to surround you and absorb you and make the world exist for you, and if I were to never think of myself again it would be too soon. What parent doesn't feel this way?

But no one has a Juliet like I do. No one knows your soft cheeks, your humming, your frenetic productivity, your sunny-side-up-since-you-were-trying-to-be-born nature. How could anyone else understand the pleasure in carrying your weight up the steps at bed time, or the feel of your little hands around my neck? Surely no other parent becomes drunk like I do when you wrap yourself around me and sway and chant, 'My momma is so wonnnnnnnderful...'

It's you that is wonderful in every way. Full of wonder, brimming over with sparkling joy and wonder, rolling around every waking minute of every day in wonder. And your birthday party yesterday was a tribute to you - to give back a little of that wonder that you serve to me on a silver platter every second of your life just by existing. I love you.

Spiraling

2011-02-24T06:27:00.000-08:00

I am clamping down and working today, but find the anxiety brewing to the point of being distracting. I realize that the pattern of my thinking is contributing to the level of stress I am feeling right now, and I see the spiraling Dr. Hopkins identified for me last year.

There are so many things I can't control right now, but maybe I can wrestle this one to the floor. To myself: step back when you notice you're thinking the same thought multiple times. Picture that one thought in your mind as separate from you. Is it something that can be addressed? If so, do immediately what is needed to alleviate the worry inherent in the thought. Otherwise, picture the thought moving past you. Let it go.

Example thought: My scalp is itching very distinctly again. I wonder if the lice are back.

What can be done?

A) Ask JBL to check my scalp (not really possible)

B) Do yet another Rid treatment (this will be my 5th in as many weeks)

C) Wait and see

Make a decision: Though my Rid treatment last week made the itching stop for several days entirely, now that it's back the itching may imply some nits have hatched. Then again, it could just be dry scalp. I will wait one more day before assessing if another treatment is warranted. Done. Move on.

This seems like a silly exercise, but I find that when I have too many worrying thoughts swirling in my brain, I break down functionally. Nothing overly dramatic happens. No hospital visits are required. I simply stop doing things I need to do, beginning slowly with tasks like laundry, and building up to work and family-related requirements. After a while I return to normal, but not until I have (usually) reached some painful point of depression. I cannot afford this cycle of behavior at this point. Maybe by writing this all down, I can keep the cycle from beginning today. It's all one day at a time, after all.

Leather

2011-02-23T05:03:00.000-08:00

Look at me writing! Ok, this *technically* is not my work writing assignment, but think of it like a warm-up jog before a half-marathon. And besides, I decided I can't actually start work until after the conference call because I need to hit the grocery for both of this week's parties. Yeah. Anyway.

I just wanted to note before I forget - and I already told JBL about it this weekend, but we both forget things all the time - that J calls all fabric and material 'leather'. I don't know how this started, and at 7 she certainly has the vocabulary and mental acumen to determine to appropriate word in context, but...it's just so cute I can't correct her.

(In the bathroom at a local bistro, drying her hands with very soft, thick paper towels...) "Mommy, isn't this leather so soft? It must be very expensive!"

True, honey. Very true.

Block

2011-02-22T13:34:00.000-08:00

I have the attention span of a gnat today. I know what the problem is - I am my own road block. I have amassed 55 files filled with untold amounts of information for my analysis project. Other than confirming some details with my client, I am ready to begin writing my final document.

And yet, as much as I love writing, I find it to be incredibly painful. Always have. As I mentioned to K the other day - this exact situation - where I have a brain-full of stuff that needs to be manipulated, organized and formatted into a communication of information for the benefit of others - is the most difficult thing I do. (Well almost - losing daily in a battle of wills to a 7 year old can be tougher, but I manage.)

It's a shame it's what people pay me to do. I'm sure it's not obvious given my blatherings here, but some folks think I'm actually good at analytical writing, and are willing to fund my retirement account in order to be on the receiving end of it. They are expecting some good, concise information about their current organizational state any day now, and it will likely take me the rest of February and all of March to deliver. It would probably be a good idea for me to get started.

But then I remember I want to post this on Twitter for a bunch of people who could care less about me:

Then I see some offending dirt that needs to be vacuumed up. I grab the Dyson, spending another 15 minutes looking for stray stinkbugs. Then I check Facebook because someone commented on my post regarding comfort foods. And THEN I return to my document, containing still only one sad introductory paragraph. I review a supporting document to get my direction and momentum going, then JBL comes in to ask a question about something not related to work.

Next thing I know, it's 4:45 - time to sign off for the day. Tomorrow morning, however, I will return. I have until 11am (conference call) to get some words on paper. And I will tell myself what I told K last week as she struggled with a school writing assignment: the hardest part is getting started. Just get started, and it will all flow out onto the page.

Here's hoping....

Passing

2011-02-18T18:21:00.000-08:00

JBL's grandfather is dying. There's not much more I can say than that. Well, maybe I can say a bit more.

Grandy was a playmate for Jon, spending hours creating memories to last a lifetime. Then he was a father when Jon's parents couldn't do their job, taking care of Jon for months at a time. He was a self-made man who inspired Jon to try his best as an adult. He taught his great-granddaughter to play checkers. He made sure he had toys for both girls every time we visited. He talked gardening with me, and asked about my family, listening intently as I shared stories of my own life and childhood.

Grandy is - was - a good man. Humble. Big-hearted. Watching him die, just as I watched both my parents go, is terrible. Mouth gaping wide, shriveled body twitching in a hospice bed. It's all so harsh, not something you can soften in any way.

Grandy, I bid you peace tonight. Go to Mary Evelyn. She's waiting for you. My dad will be delighted to meet you. And once you're there, you can be with us any time you want. We'll think of you with love and joy in our hearts. Thank you for everything.

Tazmanian Devil

2011-02-04T04:48:00.000-08:00

If I could draw a picture of JBL leaving for work in the morning, well. It would not just be one picture. It would be a stack of pictures that you flip through to mimic a movie. In each picture he would be a grinding, swirling ball of frustration, kicking off stars and dirt as he first flies down the stairs, then stomps into the kitchen to put his shoes on, storms down to his basement office for God-knows-what, thundering back - finally - through the kitchen (cussing all the while) to collect his things.

Near the end, a picture will show him standing abruptly still as he realizes he cannot leave the house without that one critical, last-minute item. The cloud of dust around him settles briefly as his eyes - still wild - scan the room desperately. Is he searching for me? Heck no. He needs that one last gulp of water (because the water bottle waiting in his car just isn't the same). Flip-flip-flip the motion begins again and he fairly lunges across the room, cursing the gods because that cup is further away than it has any right to be, swigs down an enormous mouthful of water with a huge groan and sigh, and turns to leave.

The door to the garage is yanked open and wavy lines would indicate the blast of cold air rolling into the kitchen, muting his depressed farewell that usually goes something like, "I have no idea when I'll be home," or "I'll call you but I can't tell you when that will be..." The last pictures will show the closed door having just slammed behind him, clouds puffing out from the corners, followed by a faded depiction of the quiet left behind.

Home

2011-01-26T10:28:00.000-08:00

I don't believe in fate or the concept of destiny. I don't believe in paranormal activity. I can't wrap my mind around life after death or the idea of Heaven. Yet I can say with heart-felt honesty and conviction that I am SUPPOSED to be with JBL. It is an absolute like F=MA. I also admit that I have visited a medium and may - just a tiny bit - believe what he said about my dad. I am a dichotomy. I don't know who the hell I am. But I know some things are true at a level that is deeper than bone-deep. My certainty goes down deeper than my molecules. My certainty is at the sub-quark level, where there is more light than mass.

Things happen to me that are....what, serendipitous? Let me give some examples. Is it any surprise that my grandfather was there to give me money for the down-payment on my first house? Or that a friend-of-a-friend offered me a part-time, work-from-home job almost the instant J was ready for preschool? Good timing is all, you might say. But wait. Is it odd that JBL and I had the fight that permanently redefined our relationship in an establishment called the Crossroads Pub? Or that, when I was truly beginning to question my sanity, J brought home a stuffed animal wood thrush (complete with an accurate song that plays when you squeeze it)? Or that at the end of 2009 JBL fractured a rib that caused him intense pain in the region of his heart for months? Ok so that last one did not happen to me, but go with me on this.

It is no shock that last winter included a case of the shingles, back-to-back blizzards and a visit from the stomach flu fairy. Then things stabilized. Over the summer I had more work than I could handle (read: $$$) and possibly the most relaxing family vacation I have ever experienced. Then, based on practicality rather than knee-jerk emotion, JBL and I decided we would sell Sleepy Hollow. Everything about the decision felt good and right, perhaps because it coincided with the consideration of a house that was new (and pretty and filled with things we can't afford - a house that ultimately fell out of the running...but anyway).

I know we are going to move. In more ways than one, we have to move. I am looking forward to all the opportunity will afford us. Yet, I am painfully aware of what we will lose. As I struggle to reassure myself about the decision, I begin to see heavy-handed hints all around. What does home mean, really? The concept of place has always held a great deal of weight for me. So am I surprised to stumble upon this passage in my bedtime book Cutting for Stone? No. "...that loamy soil that nurtured Matron's roses was in my flesh. I said Ethyo-pya like a native.... The Entoto Mountains disappearing in darkness framed my horizon; if I left, those mountains would sink back to the ground, descend into nothingness; the mountains needed me to gaze at their tree-filled slopes, just as I needed them to be certain I was alive.... Light and dark. The General and the Emperor. Good and evil. All possibilities resided within me, and they required me to be here. If I left, what would be left of me?"

My answer to that question came quickly. I find peace and connection with place in many areas - take the Outer Banks for instance. It is easy to love a beach town in summer, but what makes it feel like home is also the easy rhythmic quality of our days regardless of the house we rent. JBL and I move around each other the same way in any kitchen, and enjoy wine together under the stars from any deck. Music is always with us, and the girls sleep peacefully as long as we are all together. Should I be taken aback, then, to come upon BHJ's recent post (dedicated to his mom), reflecting in part on this topic? Not at all. As usual, his words resonate intensely for me. He writes, "Imagine being home - how being home is an abundance of answers to questions you can't remember." Yes.

Home for us here is undoubtedly tied to the row of trees at the bottom of our hill, all of the little things we've put into this house to make it uniquely ours, and the love of our friends Sarah, Thor, and their kids. But I picture us in a home, any home, and the walls and land around can fall away like theater props. I may feel like this grass and this street is home to me now. But what is true and right, something I know deep deep in my soul, is that home will be wherever these three other people are. JBL, J and K are my answers and my place, and are more of a safe haven than any structure or location could ever be. Amen.

Updated 4/14/2011 - And it should be no surprise to anyone that the house we found to move into is 2004 Diane Lane. J's birth year and my mother's name. And it has beech trees in the front yard.

Things that are true (today)

2011-01-16T08:01:00.000-08:00

1. Last summer I did a project in MS Access and I hated it. Even after reading 'Access for Dummies' I still couldn't figure out problems I encountered, and finally had to BEG my husband to help. It made me cry. And now the client has come back and asked for enhancements to the database and reports. I want to say, 'No,' but I can't. And it makes me want to cry again.

2. J has something she calls The Process Dance. It's more like a cheer, really, but she does it with panache. She hops, feet apart, arms pointing in opposite directions, and chants, 'Process! Process! Proooocessss!!' And I love her for it. If you knew me, you'd understand.

3. We are preparing to put our house on the market, and I am all conflicted about it. We want to live closer to a town where many of our friends and some of our family live. We want the girls to have a shorter bus ride to school. We want things in our house that would be ridiculous to change here (like have a different kind of hardwood throughout the main floor, or have a different structural configuration for our master bathroom). We can afford a little more now, and the change in lifestyle without so many hours on the road would be huge.... But (and there's always a but), I am feeling pangs of love for my current house lately, and it gives me pause. I can remind myself that we are happy wherever we are because we're all together. I can remind myself that I can plant new roses and new peonies and a new pink dogwood. I can assure myself that we can drive back out here to play with our favorite neighbors any time. That doesn't make it easy though. I really wish I could fast-forward time, and that's not a good thing.

All in all, life is good right now, so I should just shut the frack up.

Snow down

2011-01-12T10:56:00.001-08:00

It is a snow day - our first of the year. J has been up since her normal weekend time, which I can only assume is 7-ish since I slept until almost 8 (we assumed schools would be closed, and J now goes right to the basement to play with the Wii rather than waking us up, God bless her).

After an enormous cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, she rushed out to play with the neighbors in the snow. She has been playing ever since. Though she has been busy, the simplicity of her day reminds me of the beauty of childhood.

Think about the book The Snowy Day, where Peter has an adventure comprised of making tracks in the snow, climbing a small hill, and knowing that he is too young to have a snowball fight with the bigger kids. He returns home to a hot bath and a period of contemplation about his day. It's enough to put him right to sleep, presumably after a nice dinner. This single-strand pace of Peter's story relaxes me.

I see the same in J's own adventure. She takes the time to compare and contrast a dry marshmallow to one moistened by hot chocolate. She slides down our back hill, first on a sled and then just on her knees. She watches the boys and their frenetic activities as the wind swirls sparkling snow around her, kissing her cheeks pink. She and her friend B come inside for lunch, and discuss chicken nuggets and the unique properties of ketchup and honey. After one more round of Mario Kart, it's back out into the snow to experiment with the wagon.

The bracing cold will make the warmth of her bed tonight even more delicious than usual, as will the memories of a fantastic free-play day, far away from the usual tight schedule of school. I can imagine now the peace on her sleeping face when I kiss her goodnight, the slow deep breathing, the silent room warmed by the space heater.

This snow day reminds me to appreciate the intensity with which children experience their world, and how they do so one step at a time. It is yet another gift parenthood provides free of charge.

A new day

2011-01-11T10:54:00.000-08:00

I want to express that I am feeling better, but I am afraid to. Do I dare say I have perspective and feel like I can control the ebb and flow? No, that's not exactly right.

What I can say is that I am in an ebb period right now, and that means more energy, more motivation, and a little bit of hope. It means I can more than just remember that the therapist recommended mindfulness therapy, I can employ some of the techniques and find success. I can preempt the spiral of negative thoughts that lead me to near-implosion, at least for now.

I can't, however, say I will never feel that crushing, debilitating feeling again, and that scares me. But I won't be daunted. I will take this day and its gifts - my desire to run, my pleasure at working at home with my husband downstairs in his office, my interest in making dinner and planning the logistical efforts needed to put our house on the market. Each of these things would have been overwhelming to me just two weeks ago. The feeling, this moment, is now light and clear.

For now I am grateful and cognizant. I wait for snow and think about lighting a fire in the fireplace when I finish my long run and my work day. And I am happy.

Fear

2011-01-04T13:16:00.001-08:00

"I never feel like smiling!" she wailed, "I just wish I could smile!"

I knew she was exhausted. Lack of schedule, lots of holiday late-nights. It was all crashing down on her.

But still, what a thing to say. I imagined time flashing forward. She is 30 and weeping. She can't find a smile or an honest laugh. She is filled with self-doubt and a nagging negative voice that follows her every move. What does it even feel like to laugh anymore? All too familiar. Maybe it is simply a tired six-year-old talking. And then.

Atypical. The doctor's confident reassurances faded into the distance as the word settled in. Yes, it's OK, we got it all. But what if I hadn't found it? What if I miss the next one? I flash forward and she's not even there. My God...

Where

2010-12-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-13T17:02:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-07T13:19:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-22T10:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-11T17:32:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-05T10:33:00.001-07:00

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

2010-10-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-20T18:49:00.001-07:00

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

2010-10-17T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-14T05:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-11T06:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-11T05:35:00.001-07:00

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

2010-10-07T11:21:00.001-07:00

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

2010-09-21T08:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-12T15:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-08T07:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-05T10:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-03T05:30:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-27T05:29:00.000-07:00

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*

2010-08-22T19:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-10T16:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-03T06:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-01T06:01:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-24T06:53:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-20T11:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-12T16:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-05T06:57:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-06-30T18:22:00.000-07:00

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

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

2010-06-25T04:51:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-24T12:24:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-23T15:29:00.001-07:00

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

Sweet and dreamy

2010-06-21T07:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-14T19:23:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

(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

2010-06-05T06:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-03T05:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-31T09:16:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-25T05:24:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T09:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-22T11:32:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

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

Awkward to say the least

2010-05-18T04:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-14T05:50:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-09T16:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Holding on

2010-05-06T06:59:00.000-07:00

At 6, she still wants me in the bathroom with her.

At 6, she still wants me to hold her for just a minute before I go downstairs to make breakfast.

At 6, she will still take an invisible 'love' from me to put in her pocket for safekeeping til she gets to school.

At 6, she will still let me hug her before scampering onto the bus.

At 6, she is still delighted by everything new thing she learns.

At 6, she still thinks it's funny to burp at the dinner table.

At 6, she still wants me to dry her off (and snuggle in the process) after her shower.

At 6, she still wiggles and fidgets uncontrollably at bedtime.

At 6, she still asks for one more giant hug before I turn out the light.

Thank you God for 6.

Such is life

2010-05-04T07:09:00.000-07:00

My vegetable garden has evolved slowly over the past 5 years or so. When I first started, I only grew peas and herbs - the former because J and JBL love peas, and the latter because we use herbs in cooking frequently and hate paying through the nose for them at the grocery.

From there, I gradually added plants until last year, when I had a decent-sized plot (6' x 10') that included peas, parsley, basil, rosemary, jalapenos, cherry tomatoes, plum tomatoes, string beans, carrots, cantaloupe, and watermelon.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what I am doing, so my success rate is mixed at best. The cherry tomatoes took over their space and that of the beans. This was providential - as it turned out, I was the only one who wanted to eat the beans anyway. Based on 3 full rows (planted a second time when there was little action after 4 weeks) I received exactly 4 anemic carrots. The peppers and basil floundered in the shade of both tomato plants. The melons went wild - I ended up wrapping them around the perimeter several times - but didn't actually produce ripened fruit til September. I spent my days shaking my head in consternation while either watering or weeding.

The only plus (well, besides watching the whole process, which was cool), was that I found JBL and K actually enjoy home-grown cantaloupe after actively dissing store-bought melons for years.

This year I am taking a pared-down approach. No melons. Only plum tomatoes, and only 2 plants at that. Ok, maybe 3. Lettuce in place of beans and carrots. Same herbs and peppers. That's it.

So far, the cool weather veggies are all that I have planted. The peas are going gangbusters, as always. I could write a whole post on the various trellising systems I have employed, but it would bore us both to tears. Let me just say I have found success this year with rabbit fencing, and will use it also for the tomatoes in place of those ridiculously ineffective wire cones.

The lettuce, on the other hand, has been fickle. I have now planted two full rows twice and have only a handful of plants to show for it. Oh, they're vigorous little things, but what about the others? It is beyond frustrating to have no idea when my efforts in the garden will come to...ahem...fruition.

Easy enough, you may say. You plant seeds, and amend the soil where needed. You water when it doesn't rain enough. Sometimes the seeds grow and sometimes they don't. But you don't understand. What does that do to you? I for one am more than troubled when I plant something and I just...fail. Without adequate reason. But such is life, my mother used to say. Such is life.

So out I will go this week, finally buying shrubs for the west side of the house (hello Steeds Holly and Silver King Euonymus!), and perhaps purchasing annuals for my front-porch containers. I will think and plan and hope and plant. In the garden, at least, I am not paralyzed by fear of failure...

Capsule

2010-04-29T06:41:00.000-07:00

Over the last few weeks, I 'd been channeling (or being channeled by) Pete Yorn - specifically his songs from Musicforthemorningafter. I just loved that album. Why were they spinning around my mind in an endless loop? Was there a meaning? Was Pete trying to tell me something? Anyway, on Tuesday, he was inexplicably supplanted by the Counting Crows when I heard this at T.J. Maxx. Remember that video? Back when MTV actually played music, I recall seeing it frequently.

If I had to pick a character in the video that I feel akin to, it would be the guy in the desert. I totally understand the sense of waiting, the need to stay busy with meaningless things, the loneliness. But I was also struck by Adam Duritz.

Watching him, I feel like I am looking back in time. There is Adam. Still there. I remember all his mannerisms, his silly dreads, his '90s black boots. Wasn't he dating Courtney Cox then? I know here's here now, even after all he's been through, but watching that video (like all old tapes and photographs) engenders in me the idea that a version of a person can be caught forever in a previous place. Adam is still standing on those railroad tracks on that day. Somewhere back then a woman is still schlepping a suitcase around Los Angeles.

And where am I? I am still driving my white Chevy Cavalier downtown, and around Cockeysville. I am still invisible inside a corporate cubicle. I am still wishing I were a grown-up, though I was in my mid-twenties. And I still connect with the girl on the car in the parking lot. I look back over my shoulder and see the dresses I used to wear and feel the summer heat in my apartment.

When JBL and I took J by 17J recently to show her Mommy's old place, I knew the creak of the door opening, and the musty smell of the hallway, even though we didn't go in. I knew the thud-thud-thud my feet would make walking up the carpeted steps, and I knew the semi-gloss of the brown door to the third floor apartment (on the left) - noticeably thick since it had been painted so many times since the '70s when Lakeside Living was built. I wouldn't knock even if I could have because I would want to open the door and see my pine table and giant old stereo, my TV and gauzy curtains, my shower curtain covered in roses and cherry rice-carved post bed. I am still in there - how could I possibly knock from the outside?

She said, "Shh...I know. It's only in my head." But where are you?

Touching base

2010-04-28T17:56:00.000-07:00

"If you could thank God for one thing for today, what would it be?"

"Hmm."

"Peppermint Patties?"

"Mmm, but..."

"What else?"

"That my Momma loves me SO much!" (she says, snuggling into me)

Amen.

(*)

2010-04-22T17:15:00.001-07:00

Lowest point ever two nights ago, and last night wasn't much better. I can breathe tonight. I feel good. Looking at some star fire lilies that are lighting up the room with their scent and beauty. They just 'are'.

Peace, however short-lived, is a miraculous thing.

In absentia

2010-04-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

J has a knack for calling things like she sees them, and she seems to feel like she (and everyone else) should be entirely truthful and accurate at all times. There was a time not long ago when she was in a fibbing phase, so this penchant towards truthfulness was welcome at first.

Let me clarify: her truthfulness and joy in accuracy is always welcome, but....

Have you ever thought one word and said another? This happens to me all the time, so last week was nothing new. On weeknights there is not enough time for play-filled baths, so we force J to take showers, having done so since the beginning of the school year. Last Tuesday: "J, it's time to hop in* the bath."

"Momma, don't you mean shower?"

"Yes," (grumble, grumble), "of course I meant shower."

Or how about, "Honey, it's time to put your crayons away."

"Mommy, they're MARKERS." Well, sorry.

Her eye for detail is a bit more selective. Ask her to clean up the basement, and she'll consider herself done with precisely two-thirds of her toys put away, and will be genuinely befuddled when you point out forgotten items. Her facial expression implies said items appeared out of nowhere

However, when JBL left the bottle of handsoap destined for the basement bathroom upstairs for several hours, J felt the need to point it out every time she laid eyes on it. "Daddy still hasn't taken the soap downstairs?!"

It's this kind of critical comment that makes her seem like an old mother-in-law to me. Or my own mother. You will frequently hear her pipe up from the back seat, "Daddy, you're driving too fast!" And don't even get me started on her opinion of my hair. Too late - here I go...

She doesn't like the way I look when I wear my hair up, which I do roughly 80% of the time (what can I say? I exercise, I garden, I have to clean, and a big mop of hair in my face is irritating and hot [not in a good way, either]), and will take any opportunity to remind me. The first time she told me her opinion, I laughed it off. How cute! A 4-year-old critiquing me!

"Mommy, I don't like it when your hair is up in a pony tail. I don't like the way you look."

Heh-heh, yeah. Subsequent comments began to get under my skin. Finally, I calmly sat her down and explained that I am aware of her feelings, but that continued reminders are impolite at best and hurtful at worst. Consider your opinion duly noted, I said, and let this be the last we speak of this.

Did the topic end there? Come now. Don't be foolish. J simply substituted passive and none-too-subtle tactics that only a woman could employ. She began the heavy compliment of the behavior she preferred to see. Every time I come downstairs after preparing for a Date Night or a business meeting, I get to hear it. "Mommy, you look so pretty! And your HAIR! I just love it DOWN!"

Sometimes she'll talk about me in the third person, as she did last night while snuggling on my lap after dinner. I'd just taken out the clip which had been holding my hair up while I slaved over a hot stove. Read that while imagining me with the back of my hand against my forehead, my face pitifully woeful. J grabbed handfuls of my locks while murmuring wistfully, "Mommy looks sooooo pretty with her hair down..." You can tell she just can't help herself, and yet... I wanted to scream. Or at least roll my eyes and storm out of the room in a huff.

Her comments garner the same reaction in me as when I was a teenager and would come downstairs in the morning to be met with my mother's pursed-lipped comments ("You're not going to wear that belt with those pants, are you?"). Or like when I was a young adult and would come home for a visit to hear, "You've plucked your eyebrows too much! You should let them grow in a little more. Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

OK, I'm exaggerating, but J's comments do make me cringe a little. Isn't it funny that over your whole life you just want to feel safe and accepted by those closest to you, no questions asked? I guess there's a lesson for me in this - after all, I spend my time with J peppering her with advice, suggestions, and direction on everything from table manners to how to properly wash her hair.

Ok, Mom, I hear you....

*To 'hop' in or on something is something my dad used to say. It's a funny phrase to use, but it sounded to me then as now as being less demanding and more suggestive when I am trying to get the girls to do things around the house. See, I do try to be nice sometimes.

The season

2010-04-19T05:28:00.001-07:00

Spring, you are my favorite. Mornings that begin at 38 degrees, afternoons that top out at 65. Lush, lush green everywhere you look. Every day is better than the last, what with growing amounts of sunlight and explosions of flowers, overflowing their planting beds. The air is thick with pollen and promise.

Spring, you could be described as a temptress. The instant J finishes breakfast she begs to go outside to be enveloped by you, to commune with you. 'Can I go without shoes, Momma?' she begs. There are few things more appealing to her than your soft grasses and warm pavement underfoot.

Even my favorite childrens' books tout your charms:

"Spring Spring Spring!" sang the robin. It was Spring. The leaves burst out. The flowers burst out. And robins burst out of their eggs. It was Spring.

Jemima Puddle-duck* became quite desperate. She determined to make a nest right away from the farm. She set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart-road that leads over the hill. She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.
-------
And I am tempted by your charms as well. The season has already found me practicing yoga on the patio, weeding feverishly between the stones of our walk, and planting peas and lettuces. I dream of new perennials to be acquired, and meals to be enjoyed al fresco. I schlep houseplants out during the day and back in at night so they, too, can get some fresh air. Your days offer none of the sinking feeling of fall, when the bright sunshine and blue skies are a precursor to weeks of unrelenting cold and colorless landscapes.

I am aware that I opine frequently about this season, but isn't my affection warranted?

*On an unrelated note, I adore the language in Beatrix Potter stories (though it is depressing how it highlights that we have dumbed-down our current childrens' books to an abysmal extent). Where else will you read the word 'perambulator'? Where else do your kids hear of one character describing another as being 'superfluous'? And ah, the subtleties: 'Jemima Puddle-duck was a simpleton: not even the mention of sage and onions made her suspicious.' LOVE it.

If wishes were horses

2010-04-15T04:46:00.000-07:00

I stood outside the car this morning watching J and K get on the bus and settle into their seats. As I raised my arm to wave (noting J was already searching out the window for the final salutation before school, while K - not a morning person - was digging intently through her backpack to fish out her mp3 player and earbuds), it occurred to me that both girls sit in the exact same seats every day. They are the first stop, so except for the seats claimed by the boys who get on at the same time, they have their pick of any spot. A sea of dark green pleather awaits them, and they unquestioningly seek out the places they chose on the first day of school more than 7 months ago.

I was reminded of a remark made by my favorite Economics professor from undergrad. She noted on the first day of class, "Pay attention to the desk you chose. You will sit in that same exact chair every day for the rest of the semester." It was kind of a smart-ass, smug thing to say now that I think about it. But it was also a segue into the topic of human behavior as it relates to predictability and macro-economics. That's all economics is, after all - psychology and statistics. Anyway. The teacher was telling us about unconscious assumptions, and she was right. That desk I chose was 'mine' as far as I was concerned. I would have been shocked had someone else elected to sit there in any subsequent class.

What are the assumptions you make?

J and I drove through fog yesterday morning en route to the bus, and before I launched into an esoteric and overly-detailed discussion of temperatures, humidity and evaporation, I quipped, "We can't even see up the hill! We have to just assume the rest of the road is there like it usually is!" J immediately responded with enthusiasm and without a lick of fear, "Yeah! It might have fallen away in the night!" I could tell by her tone that this sort of abstract thinking makes her brain feel good. Oh, the possibilities! And yet, we both assumed the road was in its normal, rightful place.

We assume the seasons will change as they always have, that we know our spouses like we know ourselves, and that our home is a safe place. And I have always assumed that about 4 people read this blog - and probably not all of the posts at that - and that they are people I know. I am aware there are people who dig through trash to find social security numbers in order to pilfer money by stealing an 'identity', and I have mulled over the idea that there are child abductors and molesters who prowl neighborhoods in search of unsuspecting victims. I have even searched the web to determine if there are convicted sex offenders in my local area. There are.

But it never occurred to me that someone might find my blog, look at pictures of the girls, somehow find my whole name by piecing together clues on my location, hack my Facebook account and stalk my family. Thank God that hasn't happened as of yet (not that I know of, actually), but JBL brought the prospect to my attention recently. He has been doing work in the land of Cybersecurity and has heard first-hand accounts of such activities from FBI agents. Such victimizing is incredibly easy to do for the criminally motivated, they say.

So now what? I have removed last names and images from most other sites I frequent. I have removed all links to this blog. JBL says I should remove all old posts, especially ones that contain photos. This all makes my stomach hurt. Through the internet, I have found a very small but important community of friends that make me feel connected, and the idea that anyone I befriend might read my words and like them has brought me happiness. No longer.

I wish it wasn't such a sad, sad world out there. But, as the old nursery rhyme goes, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. My assumptions have been common and childlike, and I need to change them. Heaven help me.

Pause

2010-04-10T18:58:00.000-07:00

Feeling a little anxious now. I think it's okay, but I don't like feeling that I don't know where the edge is. Just telling myself this will pass. It always does.

Life in the night sky

2010-04-06T17:33:00.000-07:00

What is that effect where you can see a dim cluster of stars more clearly when you aren't looking directly at them? JBL and I were sitting on the deck on an unusually warm spring evening, and while spying the constellation Orion, I noted just such a group of stars. They were barely visible until I looked away. Why is that?
----
Last week I had the misfortune of sitting in an Enterprise storefront. Mike, the 'sales manager' helping me, kept a bright expression on his face as we ran through the mind-numbing process of renting a Hyundai Accent. "Will your insurance company be covering this, or someone else's...?" Uh, that would be mine. My garage door, which crushed my SUV's open back hatch as I backed into it, does not have insurance after all. My face was pinched in a grimace, but Mike's? Nope, his smile never wavered.

As he typed away, I noticed he didn't have a wrinkle on his face. No laugh lines. No frown lines. His forehead, under a shock of non-thinning hair, was perfectly smooth. And he was completely unaware. I glanced around the dingy office, noting the stains on the carpet, the desks with scrapes and gouges in their veneered surfaces, and a cheerful poster exclaiming that Enterprise is a proud sponsor of the Professional Bull Riders Association of America.

I wondered if Mike had that same feeling I did when I was 23 - that I wished I could skip all the experience-getting part of being a young adult. You can't really consider yourself an independent grown-up until you have some work and life experience under your belt, and after having slogged through school it occurs to you that you haven't even come close to paying your dues. Reality can be quite disappointing.

So you work thankless jobs for a pittance and hope the promise of advancement and benefits will come to fruition, eventually allowing you to cover rent without roommates, or even to save a little in case your beat-up Toyota Corolla breaks down in the next year. Of course, the budget for beer must be maintained.

Poor Mike.
----
You go through life and become surprised at how you get from point A to point B. At least I am surprised. But then again, most of my waking hours have seemed a blur to me, with a few notable exceptions. Wasn't it just last week that my brother was assuring me I'd be able to afford my first mortgage, with a monthly payment almost twice what I'd been paying in rent? Wasn't it yesterday that I told my boss I was pregnant, and wasn't sure whether I would come back to work after maternity leave (though in my heart I was fairly sure that I would not)? How can it be time to put away the Easter decorations when I feel like last summer wasn't really that long ago?

When I look closely at my life, I see household chores and work and childcare logistics. I see bills and plans for the future and a social calendar that is agreeably bustling and full. I see menu ideas and birthday ideas and running goals. I experience days when I am joy-filled and energy-filled and hopeful. I experience days of crushing sadness and vortexes of negative thoughts when all I want to do is sleep.

But when I look away from my life I realize that I am forty. I see that I have taken deliberate steps in my career and school choices so that I could live a life of challenge and independence. I note that I have let passion guide me and have had the incredible fortune of finding my true soul mate. I can almost forgive myself for my internal struggles, but no amount of focus - indirect or otherwise - can quite get me there.

When I look away I am nervous about the fact that half my life is gone (if I am lucky). When I look away I see that although I have attained all the experiences that make me a bona-fide grown-up (hello layoffs and divorce and home ownership and parenthood!), it's still amazing to me that can get through a day without killing my houseplants. And even though my therapist doesn't believe me, I know I am not alone in feeling this way.

So I will go back to looking straight at my life and living it, but still feeling like I can't quite absorb it for what it is. As long as it continues to involve mysteries and stars and passion, well, I think I'll be able to hang with it just a while longer.

Updated: 4/15 - today is making me feel like I might not make it. Hope I can hold on.

Try this

2010-04-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

Push fear and self-doubt aside. Now. I'm not saying you have to do anything afterwards - you can just sit there and see what it feels like. Pretty good, in a scary 'am-I-doing-this-right' kind of way, isn't it?

Don't stop

2010-04-03T17:55:00.000-07:00

What a week. I got the stomach flu then gave it to J. I was convinced I could complete a crazy running challenge, then had my plans derailed (see above). We all welcomed back unseasonably amazing spring weather. I was an operations manager, I was a mom, I was a lover. And I was hardly down at all (well, other than when I thought I was going to die with The Sick). Best of all, I realized the season has permanently changed. JBL and I had a great conversation. Winter is over, starling.

It is the season of renewal, the season of promise, the season of endless opportunity. It feels like I have broken through a wall, and though I am afraid, I am going to keep pushing forward. It used to be that 'don't stop' meant I didn't have to face the demons. Endless distractions, endless buffers from reality. Don't talk while Mommy is working on this last email. I can't play now because I have to finish my project plan. I can't talk now, I am too tired from my day. Again.

Now 'don't stop' means that I will continue with actions and feelings and thoughts that deliver me from my past, from my shortcomings, and my fears. I will continue moving toward who I can be rather than hiding from (and hating) who I thought I was. I will continue being open and intuitive, rather than reactive. I will continue feeling, even when it is uncomfortable.

But I will stop some things - stop the buzzing, endless mental scrambling. Stop the platitudes and lies.

Running has always helped, but briefly, as I have written in the past. But now the rest of my life can - truly - mirror the effort and joy and flight of the long run. I have wanted it before, but now it is within my grasp. Freedom and happiness are up ahead, at the top of that hill, and if I focus on something at the top everything else (pain, doubt) will fall away. On the run, it may be a tree or a house or street sign. Here, it is an easy smile on my stepdaughter's face, vulnerability and trust in my husband's eyes, relaxed joy in my daughter's spirit.

When I get to the top, I will meet them there, but for now I hear them cheering me on. They see me coming just as when I rounded the final turn before so many finish lines in the past - trail races, city races, the running leg of last year's triathlon. They have always been there like an endless opportunity, like spring, but I never allowed myself to hear them until now. They are yelling, 'DON'T STOP!'. Focus...here I come...

A break in the action

2010-03-31T06:39:00.001-07:00

J has started a lacrosse clinic at school. I know - isn't that ridiculous? A kindergarten lacrosse clinic (to be fair, pre-first and first graders are involved too). Can't you just picture tiny girls with lacrosse sticks as big as they are running around a field, falling down and whacking each other in the head?

I always thought I would wait to put J in any kind of sport because I felt that parents who put their kids on teams before, say, second grade were pushy and overly ambitious. They are the kinds of parents who use flashcards for reading and math on their toddlers, and want their children to grow up bilingual. Don't they know all that time spent cheering on their 6-year-old from the sideline could be spent sitting in front of the TV, eating Cheetos, and yelling, "Hey! Don't set your hair on fire! Come pour Mommy a glass of wine!"?

As much as I work with J outside of school, I just never saw myself as that pushy parent. And yet... When J started at this school, I knew there would be some pressure to keep up with the Jonses, and I was not far off the mark. I just didn't realize I'd cave so easily.

"Your daughter isn't signing up for the clinic?"

"Well, I'm not sure yet. She just seems so young..."

"That's true, but what if she wants to start lacrosse in second grade, and all the other kids have been doing it for years? She might feel behind."

Knife, insert into heart. Next thing I know, we are at some chi-chi specialty store purchasing hundreds of dollars of equipment for a child who may or may not ever play this sport again. Sticks (one for J, and one for K in case she wants to help J practice), cleats, goggles, mouth guards, socks, shorts, etc. Spending money has never been comfortable for me, but JBL was there to smooth things over, even suggesting I should get myself a new pair of running shoes while we were there. K was encouraging and supportive. "I can't wait to watch you play!" What would I do without these people?

At the first practice, I noted J was one of a handful of kids who didn't have a special carrying case for her stick. I thought to myself how silly that was - a case! - but at the same time struggled with a pang of concern. NO, dammit, it is OK for her to not have every last thing everyone else does. It's not like a new car for your teenager, but it all starts somewhere, doesn't it??

Mentally calmed, I strolled over to another mom watching the girls getting oriented with their new sticks. I looked at her daughter and was struck by something - a change from the beginning of the year.

"Wow," I noted, "Riya is so tall!"

The mom nodded, smiling. And all at once I realized how much time has passed. Last year, I was beside myself with worry about how J would handle kindergarten. But she has done beautifully, and has blossomed in ways I never thought possible. What a milestone!

That thought brought to mind how much J has accomplished between 5 and 6. She now rides a bike without training wheels. She takes showers. She lost her first tooth, had her first bout of the stomach flu, and questioned the existence of Santa Claus. She totally understands strategy in card games, and is thrilled with puns. She has come a long way with swimming, reading and math, and has begun to demonstrate some real artistic ability. Long-gone first days of preschool, riding a two-wheeler, pull-ups, needing help getting dressed or brushing teeth. Barely a distant memory are first teeth, first steps, first words. Amazing. Now what?

Far ahead I see the rest of elementary school, with science projects, field trips and plays. Possibly there is a first crush. Hopefully there are new interests not yet thought of, and good kids that stay friends and look out for each other along the way. It can be hard with girls, I know.

Beyond that is almost impossible to imagine. J as big as K? Past the point of silliness and wiggles at bedtime? Past Nick Jr. and Winnie the Pooh? Beyond the time when there is nothing better than running in the grass with no shoes on? Past the time where even she finds it delightful to rub her plump little belly?

All these changes will come in the blink of an eye, but for now we have a break in the action. It's a delightful place in time.

J Funnies - March 2010

2010-03-29T10:34:00.000-07:00

"Mom, at school they have the BEST hamburgers."

"Really?"

"Yep. You know why they call them just 'burgers'?"

"Why is that?"

"Because they don't have any cheese on them."

"Hmm. Makes sense. What makes them so good?"

"Ketchup! And the meat."

Ah.

Change in the weather

2010-03-25T16:49:00.000-07:00

A cold front is coming through. After putting J to bed, I step outside to catch the last of the unseasonably mild air.

The rolling hill behind the house is no longer vivid green. It is muted and sleepy. The twilight sky is steel-gray. The wind is roaring in from the West, pushing insistently through the trees. The branches are bare and black in the fading light, like nerve endings reaching up to the clouds. The wind chimes clang restlessly. The last of the evening robins laugh nervously. Within each break between the gusts I hear the peepers down in the stream calling out to no one in particular. Their jocularity is drowned out by the next thrust of heavy breeze.

Maybe it's because I know this is Spring the changing weather doesn't fill me with dread. I smile and breathe deeply the gathering night.

Clang, clang, clang.

Ostensibly - wine notes 3/24/10

2010-03-24T18:39:00.000-07:00

JBL loves wine, as I have mentioned in the past, and I am an obscenely lucky beneficiary of his Habit. It all started with a stint in St. Louis and a phenomenal restaurant in their version of Little Italy, but I will let him tell you about that some other time.

JBL's life ambitions have taken him, among other places, on the roller coaster highs and lows of the tech business. During these times we squandered many a fantastic vintage, over pizza for instance, for the simple reason that we could. Also because we had the world at our feet. And we had the rest of our lives ahead of us.

But then there were the not-so-good times (hello, 1999). We sacrificed many things, but wine was never on the list. These were times when JBL perfected the purchase of the Case of Wines Under $10. One shining star of this more frugal time is the Montes Malbec. This Chilean take on a Bordeaux varietal is intense and plummy and spicy and wonderful. See how technical I can be? I am aware that I do winespeak a disservice, but I know a flexible player when I taste one.

So the Malbec. We enjoyed a bottle over the past two evenings with two verrry different meals, and enjoyed it immeasurably with both. First up, an Asian tour de force, a black cod dish with two sauces. The flavors exploded off the plate and brought out the wine's ability to match spice, and to counter heat. Amazing. We literally took a sip after a bite of fish, and looked at each other with a 'wow' look.

But tonight the leftover paired equally well with a pizza that I have been craving for weeks. Margherita. Perhaps it was the stint of unseasonably warm weather we've enjoyed of late. Maybe it was a desire for something light and, well, un-meat-related. Whatever the cause, I have been fantasizing about this dish, and after J went to bed tonight we quenched my thirst. Last summer we tried various permutations, and I finally hit it out of the park with this latest recipe. And the Malbec? It stepped back and offered restrained fruity notes in support of the more subtle flavors, acting more like a soft Chianti than a powerhouse super-Tuscan.

So go buy the Montes. You will not be disappointed. And if you want the margherita recipe, here it is:

Pizza Dough (sorry if I posted this already - this is a Giada De Laurentiis recipe)
3/4 C warm water (105-115 degrees F)
1 envelope active dry yeast
2+ C AP flour
1 tsp sugar
3/4 tsp salt (I use fine sea salt)
3 TBSP olive oil

Warm the water in the microwave (I run mine on high for 30 seconds to get to the required temperature), and whisk in the yeast. Let stand for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, lightly oil a large bowl. In a food processor, pulse 2 C flour, sugar and salt to combine. After the yeast slurry has bloomed, add it and the 3 TBSP olive oil to the flour mixture, and process til a sticky dough forms. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently til dough is smooth, adding flour by tablespoonfuls if too sticky, about 1 minute. Transfer dough to prepared bowl, turning to coat with oil. Cover with plastic wrap and store in a warm, draft-free area to rise til doubled in size, about an hour. Preheat oven to 500 degrees F.

Line two baking sheets with parchment paper, and prep the pizza topping:

2-ish vine-ripened tomatoes, coarsely chopped
1 12 oz. package of fresh mozzarella, cut into 1 inch chunks - you won't use it all
Handful of fresh basil, roughly torn
1 medium lemon (you'll also need a zester or the fine side of a box grater)
Olive oil
Fine sea salt

After the dough has risen, punch it down and divide in half*. Flour a work surface and roll out the first dough half into a rectangle roughly the size of the baking sheet, transfer it to the parchment. Top the pizza sparsely first with the cheese (little chunks about 2 inches apart), then fill in first with chopped tomato and then basil. Drizzle with oil, sprinkle with salt and zest about a third of the lemon peel lightly over the pie. You will think, how will this cover the dough? But it will. Trust me.

Put the pizza on the verrrry bottom rack of the oven, and begin rolling out and topping the second pie. After about 15 minutes, your first margherita pizza will be crunchy and perfect! Put the second one in while you eat the first (great for a first course while entertaining - we save the second pizza for leftovers).

*I have used this same dough recipe to make the usual Don Pepino and Kraft shredded Italian cheeses for the girls. The high oven temp cooks the cheese long before the crust gets, well, crusty and crisp, but the girls don't seem to mind. For this type of pizza, I might recommend a lower temp (450) to give the dough a time to crisp up.

This is spring...

2010-03-24T09:38:00.000-07:00

...in our neck of the woods.

Tween

2010-03-23T06:44:00.000-07:00

There is a tween in my life.

She is 12, but her body shape could put her at 14. She can be quiet without being sullen. The thought of getting her monthly friend makes her visibly uncomfortable, but she has begun regularly using the razor I stored under her sink. She is still several inches shorter than me, but can wear my shoes. I do not have small feet. She would kill me if she read that.

She loves watching Johnny Quest with her dad before bed, but has seen every episode ever produced of American Idol and Survivor. She can still play up a storm in the basement, her games replete with roles and props and southern accents. Yet she is now found more often in her room watching a downloaded show on her laptop, texting at the same time. With the door closed. Her iTouch holds as many songs as it does games. Last week she finally removed all the stuffed animals from her room to make room for more adult decorations.

She can eat an enormous bowl of ice cream with sprinkles, cherries and cookies on top, but orders caesar salad and ice water at restaurants. Her dreams at night involve shopping with her friends at Target and Old Navy, but she has yet to dream of driving there herself. Well, that's not exactly true. She has practiced driving in our neighborhood with JBL. But car insurance is nothing more than a source of funny commercials on TV.

She wears all manner of earrings, but was horrified by the Avril Lavigne-inspired makeup her cousin sported during her last visit. She has read the Twilight series twice, and thinks one of the vampires (not the main guy, but the other guy) is cute. Yet none of the boys at school remotely interest her. At least not that I know of.

She'll attempt to clean the mud off her own shoes - first by dragging the hose through a bed of irises onto the patio, then upon finding the outside water turned off, she will finish the job in the bathroom recently cleaned for guests. When asked about the wisdom of leaving mud and grass in the sink, her reply was, "Well.....?" (read in and innocent, confused tone).

When I run into her at school and she is with her friends, she won't look at me in the eyes. I'm almost certain she is hoping I won't hug her before we part. When we are home, she still hugs me before going to bed. I realize more and more that when I talk with her I have no idea what she is thinking.

I know this tween time is a gift - a period for me to get used to K becoming an adult. In addition to teaching her about the Rolling Stones, James Brown and Frank Sinatra, I need to listen to her music. As I encourage her to watch the science channel, I should read the chick lit books she is into.

This time, I know, is my last chance to reach out and really build a bridge of a relationship with her. Now that I have promised to stop treating her like a stepdaughter, I try to really look at her. She is a child who is almost a teenager. She wants my respect and unconditional love. She needs down time and healthy food and independence. She wants a good role model and someone who will give her space to blossom. And she doesn't really need much at all.

So I will try to keep seeing her, to not embarrass her, to gain perspective on the teen she has almost become, to protect the child she still is. I will love her. She is the key to the door that locked in all my junk for decades, and I am so thankful to let it all go. Thank you God for K.

The internet and stuffed animals

2010-03-22T14:17:00.000-07:00

J is playing with her stuffed animal collie dog, Licks. JBL is working in his office nearby.

J: "Licks is getting onto the computer. He's going to 'Bone.com'."

JBL: "He might be surprised."

He might indeed.

A father's introduction to joy

2010-03-15T15:01:00.001-07:00

Running is one of my great passions, but isn't something I have done consistently. Certainly running is associated with the better parts of my life. I have run when discovering and rediscovering myself. And I have run in the most beautiful places in the world: Paris, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, Holland, Bermuda, San Fransisco, Tuscany and other places I can't even remember.

But the majority of my runs - like most everyone - have been based around areas where I have lived, and the vast majority of the time I run alone. My earliest memories of running, however, involved my dad. I can't say how old I was, but I do remember a few things vividly.

My father had an amazing long stride - at 6'2'', it seemed like he could glide down the road with hardly any exertion. I can picture his muscular legs, pale and freckled like mine but much longer and leaner.

Sometimes we would take the meandering fire trails that emptied out onto Morgan Mill Road across from the cornfields. Other times we would follow the roads all the way down to the reservoir. Coming back up was always tough, but my father never made me feel guilty for needing to walk. "You're doing great!" he would say with a grin and a big thumbs-up.

During these breaks we would explore small streams that ran along the roadside, finding tadpoles and turtles, and making dams. This extra exploration time is what I kept in my heart, rather than how guilty I may have felt about making him stop during the run, or how sore I was the next day.

And I remember he never pressured me to run - he just asked. I felt so proud to join him, and to share in something that obviously brought him joy. I had always felt comfortable in his presence anyway. He was quiet and introverted, like me, and felt happiest outside.

In middle school, my running tapered off due to lack of interest. I was becoming the socially-awkward and generally sub-happy teenager I would act as until college. Once at UMBC, I found running again, and not coincidentally, pieces of a happier self.

I couldn't run with my father at this point since knee problems had him turn to trail biking. I didn't miss our time alone together terribly - I was enjoying the introspective time running afforded me. I would occasionally bike with him, so it wasn't as though we were never together. Besides, I thought we had all the time in the world.

When I got married for the first time and moved to the city, my running again became inconsistent. When I got divorced just three years later, it would have been great to get out there with Dad, to blow off some steam and to once again be safely quiet. Unfortunately, in that short time, Alzheimer's had claimed him and had nearly eliminated his workouts.

After his death in 2000, I stopped running entirely for a time. It wasn't that without him I was uninspired. I exercised in other ways, but for some reason I felt I needed a running break. It wasn't until J was born that I rediscovered the feeling of joy putting one foot in front of the other. I joined a running group, and began racing again.

I didn't think then of how it had all begun, though I did wish my father could join us as I pushed J's stroller through trails and parks. As I identified birdsong or types of trees for her, I was vaguely aware that I was parroting information my dad had shared with me in similar circumstances.

When I completed my first half-marathon, after my mother's death in 2007, I pictured my parents near the finish line, set apart from the cheering masses. They were holding hands quietly, smiling at me for encouragement. That image pushed me to a strong finish even as it made me weep with longing and sadness.

It wasn't until I recently came upon a blogger who is also a serious distance runner that I thought again about my running memories with Dad. The blogger remarked that his daughter - six years old like J - asked to run with him last week, and he was thrilled at her interest. I wish I could tell him not to worry that he tried too hard with his son. And he shouldn't worry whether or not his daughter will find her own interest in running. He should feel at least a modicum of peace knowing that the shared experience of such a physical activity, at times both grueling and joyous, can truly be the gift of a lifetime. He has given his kids an entree into an active lifestyle, a way to help them cope with distress, a means of learning about nature and the depths of their own character.

Most importantly, the positive feelings a child has when sharing time with his or her father are priceless building blocks for a strong sense of self. And those common memories? His daughter will likely carry them in her heart, like a soft and sweet summer morning, her whole life.

Post-run

2010-03-14T12:56:00.001-07:00

Good day to be a robin. Bad day to be a worm.

Running in the cool rain is just about as good as running gets, at least for me. It makes me feel like I could go forever. The fact that today really feels like spring is simply icing on the cake.

Without my iPod, I was able to let my senses take in everything around me. The rolling hills have taken on a distinct green hue, and I could hear spring 'peepers' calling from the culverts near the roadside. Some of the cornfields resembled rice paddies after yesterday's torrential rains, and along their borders I was cheered to see the first vestiges of day lilies and tulips, spring onions and dandelions. Black birds cheered me on with their distinctive crackle-squeak. The smell of the earth waking up flooded me with joy and gratitude.

I am aware that there are many weeks to go before the leaves will appear on the trees, and it's likely that we'll have another snow before all is said and done, but today - running outside - was a gift. Happy, happy, happy.

A waterfall of thoughts

2010-03-13T05:29:00.001-08:00

The driving rain and gusty wind will keep me off the road today, and I know that is lame, and I am trying to be OK with it. Secretly I just wanted to do weights anyway.

I am better at taking puzzles apart than putting them back together. Or at seeing what the picture actually is once the puzzle is complete. The pieces by themselves make perfect sense to me, and are beautiful. But I am aware there is a challenge I forgo, and a reward I never deserve.

I continue to feel like I am swept along in a current of time, carried by the actions of others, and only subtly steered by my own. Conversely, I worry that I have clamped down my life, with every minute controlled and molded to my exact comfort. This comfort is limiting and disappointing and not at all ambitious.

One of my greatest fears is that I am utterly unremarkable. Sometimes I see a magic me in other peoples' eyes, and feel that mirage is created by what I can offer - humor, therapy, love. Logic and words have been my only saving grace, but they have not been enough to save me. Not yet, anyway.

These words, for now, are holding me still as I watch the sheets of rain pass by my window. I will let them go and see what happens today. One more sip of tepid coffee, a nibble of a powdered sugar doughnut, and then I'll step back in the river. See you downstream.

Status

2010-03-12T05:00:00.001-08:00

Feeling anxious and a little edgy this morning. My normal inclination would be to look forward to my run, and to get busy. God knows I have a lot to do today.

I could address some of my angst head-on, but like Thursday night margaritas, I don't think that will be a good idea today. So I am left with calm observation and breathing. Not a bad option, but still unnatural for me (see my profile description). Once JBL goes to work, I'll try some real zazen practice. Here goes nothing...

Updated: Literally, nothing. I fell back on my old wicked ways - cleaned the SHIT out of my house all day, then ran, then lost myself in family time. But in the end I was found.

Big J, little J

2010-03-09T05:49:00.000-08:00

I wish I had a picture of J to place here - a picture of her as she walked away from me this morning. As she headed toward the bus I could see her pride of independence vibrating in every fiber of her little being. I say 'little', but that's not entirely accurate any longer.

Her pride stems from the accomplishment of making me give her my last hug of the morning as she gets out of the car. You know, as opposed to after I have walked her down the hill and across the street, right before letting her climb the stairs onto the bus. How embarrassing! It has taken her until the week before St. Patty's Day to practically mold me into one of those mothers who wave distantly without getting out of the car. Maybe her goal of world domination by summer vacation can be reached after all. Don't let the bunny fool you.

But this is the girl who sings along with me at bedtime, substituting her pet name for me (Moomer [don't ask why - I have no idea]) for all the words of all our songs. And every time I empty her daily folder, piles of little drawings dedicated to me fall out. There I am in a polka-dotted dress holding a cup of coffee. (Strangely, there is also a duck at my side.) There is a heart-shaped scrap of paper that says, "I [heart] Mom". There is an elaborate card with drawings of rainbows, suns, and the ubiquitous peace symbol, and it reads, "To Mommy, Love Juliet."

Her handwriting, however, is no longer shaky. It is practiced and confident. She tells me stories of events at school with adult insights.

"Kalani was being fussy about me sitting next to her, and wouldn't stop talking about it. I got very mad, because I tried to make her stop but she wouldn't listen. But then, Laney - being the nice girl that she is - said, 'Let's change the subject.' And Kalani and I were happy after that!" (Read that with lots of hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. No, I have no idea where she gets it.)

She uses phrases like, "By the way," in context and with the right intonation, but will follow it up with, "By the way, I like saying 'by the way'!" And then will fall over laughing.

She still needs me at her side before approaching a group of friends, feeling insecure that she won't be welcomed. Once welcomed, though, she wants nothing to do with me. I can't smile or wave or even wiggle my eyebrows in her general direction. The nerve.

She brushes her own teeth morning and night, and takes showers instead of baths, but still wants me to put her lavender lotion on.

Yes, this is all spot-on developmentally, and I am sorry to be such a sentimental sap, but holy schnockers. I mean, no one told me that the everyday smiles and looks and songs would crawl into my heart and hug it in much the same ways as the monumental milestones of parenthood. No one warned me that a sparkly-eyed little girl would bring me to my knees with happiness even as she walks away from me. I really could not have prepared myself anyway. These are the kinds of surprises I can live with...

Right now

2010-03-08T11:07:00.000-08:00

Right this second someone is giving birth. Someone just lost their first tooth. Right now someone realized their role as parent has changed. And someone realized they need to change the way they parent.

Right now someone is riding a bike without training wheels and falling. Right now someone is refusing to get on a bike because they are afraid of failing.

Right now someone is falling in love for the first time. Right now someone is realizing their lover is about to die. And right now someone's lover has hit them for the first time.

Right now someone is consciously choosing to ignore their messy kitchen. Right now someone is planning to work late because they feel like they have to. Again.

Just now someone realized their face is covered with subtle but deepening wrinkles. Someone just found out they have cancer. Someone just became afraid of flying, and driving at night.

So you say life is not about what happens every second, it's about what you do with what happens. Don't you hate cliches? I hate them too, and pat answers. What do I do with it all?