church on the radio.

every sunday at 11 am i listen to church on the radio. it's broadcast from a chapel at boston university on the banks of the charles.

i am not a religious person. not by nature and not in practice. but i have spirituality and beliefs that run deep and get deeper as i get older.

i love church on the radio.

and when people find out that i listen to church on the radio or that i love the virgin mary or that i regularly pray, sometimes to god, they give me the same look they give me when i try to convince them that i am not a vegetarian and that i am not a 'hugger.'

it is simply not fashionable among some segments of the population to believe in god. or his son. and, some people simply don't believe. and that's just fine with me. always.

but. i do. i also believe in gaia and witches and fairies and the absolute divinity of a much needed cheeseburger and the salvation that comes with a well timed dirty martini. three olives, please. and if you think i'm being cheeky adding in the last two you don't know me very well.

i believe in so many things, my spirituality is shaped by so much it's impossible to pinpoint any one influence. and yet it's funny how there are those who zero in on my 'god thing' as it has been called.

and i fully understand people who don't believe as i do, that there is a god. god. or any god. though the way i see it is that beyond the god we all know from experience or popular culture is that there are many. gods. and they aren't all male. and they aren't all gods. thank god. really.

the thing about belief and spirituality separate from religion is you get to choose. and no one gets to tell you what you choose to believe is wrong. NO ONE.

believing in the ability of something/one to call upon, in the existence of transcendence in its many forms, in the divine here on earth, is crucial for those of us who are mere silly mortals. and the beauty of the world and our individual relationships to it is that there is so.much.there.

and yet even in my belief of god there are also those who discount it as blasphemous. not real. because i don't believe in the way they believe. which is the most ridiculous notion. NO ONE gets to tell me what i believe is wrong.

there are a million ways to kneel and kiss the ground. whether you are on your knees or are arms open to the sun or flipping on the radio. painting a picture or creating a meal or nursing a baby. spirituality and belief take so many forms it's impossible for me to even fathom judging another for how they find theirs.

the other night i was in an angst that can only come from it being the day AFTER the day you turn 40 and the fact that a parent is dying and your children are growing older and the world is such a mess how do any of us even get out of the bed in the morning. so, i went on to you tube. and i listened to all the songs i loved from when i was young. a time when all practical experience to the contrary my faith in the world should not have been as strong as it was. and i basked in the reality that it just is. that life has its own rhythms and mine was to just go with it.

music was my prayer to find the handhold. to keep me steady. to hold me. to ground me.

and who is to judge whether that is 'just as good' as kneeling or confession or knowing the bible or you don't know or praying to a 'real' god. NO ONE.

i have these two friends. and both of these friends have a child(ren) who require more of their parenting skills than other children do. more of their 24/7 parenting hands on than other children do. all of it. all of them. all of their presence in nearly every single waking moment. all of their patience, their expansion, their faith. they are pushed daily, sometimes hourly i'd imagine, to find the balance. lather, rinse, repeat.

and both of these women have THE most incredible smiles i have ever seen on anyone in real life. the kind that not only meet their eyes but they bore into your soul and they settle there. and they burst open. and you smile, too. it's amazing, really.

being in their presence brings me a peace and a measure of comfort, a reminder that life is and ours is to just go with it. like they have to. like they do. and they do and they are smiling. to have faith that life is not what we have been given, but what we choose to make it. no matter what. and they show that to me with their actions and with their smiles. it is divine. it is peering into to the light.

and who is to judge whether that is 'just as good' as kneeling or confession or knowing the bible or you don't know or praying to a 'real' god. NO ONE.

lately the world seems to be so incredibly tragic and sad. it threatens my sensitivity on the regular. there isn't a day that i don't consider giving up the paper and scrolling past the news on the internet. but i don't. won't. considering is as far as i get. because burying my head won't make it go away.

it's then i am reminded of a quote by abraham lincoln "I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom, and that of all about me, seemed insufficient for the day."

and that's when i remember that i am not alone. not alone in my overwhelming grief and incomprehension. that my belief and spirituality give me somewhere to go and lay it all down.

and i think that's quite amazing. really. i think being able to lift my head or get on my knees or sit in front of the buddha in the back yard under the big pine tree or talk to my friend who has been dead for too many years or turn on the radio or you tube or re-read siddhartha or the dharma bums or create a meal that takes hours and is wolfed down in 7 minutes or do yoga or get wildly drunk or watch pretty in pink for the millionth time and to lay it all down is such a gift i cannot imagine not having that.

today i am sick. my throat is sore. i need soup. i need a shower. i need to clean my house. i want someone to hold me and i want to be left fully alone. my father is dying and has just been put on a constant and double dosed morphine drip. they said it could be hours. days. maybe a week. two weeks. more? one cannot know with these things. it's in another's hands now. he's 3200 miles away. i need to brush my teeth. i'm afraid of the new bathing suit in the box on my desk. i'm afraid. i'm at peace. i'm hurting. my sisters are in pain. my family.

i have been on my knees and lifted my arms and i have taken the deep breaths and i have said, are you there? because pretty soon my heart is going to break. and i just need you to hold me in the light while that happens. so that i can be okay. eventually.

i've called on who i need and now i'm listening to stevie nicks. one more tool in my spiritual arsenal. breathing easier.

and i tell you what, if i didn't have that, all of it, i cannot imagine how this would and is all going to play out.

hold on to what you believe in and don't let anyone fuck with that. NO ONE gets to tell you what you believe is wrong. hold on to it because at some point, if it hasn't already, it will be your greatest gift right when you need it the most.

be blessed, x.

it was enough.

good lord are you sick of me yet? when does another's grief become just too too much, right? remember when i used write about boybarian hijinks and accidentally wearing a maternity dress? the time i tried to buy 'long and lean' jeans at the gap? super good times.

not today. today i woke up with swollen eyes and a broken heart. after falling asleep in a puddle of tears.

i think the worst part of someone being sick and in the process of dying is that it's such a...process. there are so many layers. and you have to navigate each one. have to. if you don't you'll just have to go back.

and when i woke up this morning i saw what i had written in the night:

'for my father,

It was enough.'

and i cried again.

because it's true.

because i wouldn't change a thing.

because i am certain this broken heart is complete underneath.

it was enough.

x.

leaving. jet planes. and all that.

so i left again yesterday. i say again because every day i left my father for the evening it felt like leaving for a lifetime. because i was trying not to count down the days until i left for good, but i did it anyway. counted the days. and left. it seems like all i'm doing is leaving lately. this time, for good. is it? god. i hope not. but i can't think of it any other way.

i miss my father. i miss seattle. i can't not think of it as my home. i lived there longer than anywhere. and with no actual hometown left seattle became it. plus, and oh yeah, that's where my family is. and when your family is getting smaller it feels so far away to be so far away. it hurts like hell.

but i had to leave. and so i did. and because even in grief i can't go anywhere without tripping the wire that signals 'things are about to get weird' i set off security at the airport. they scanned my stuff and something was suspicious. so they put me in the slow cooker x-ray thingamajig. and that's when it got good.

'ma'am can you step over here.'

so i step to the side and a very beautiful woman in a very official uniform is talking into her shoulder radio (to the person who is looking at my x-ray somewhere else) and then informed me

'there were some areas of suspicions on your person. the uh, chest and upper inner thigh region to be exact.'

and the WTF bubble pops up above my head. so basically she's telling me my girlie parts are suspicious and tripped off some alarm. nice. not to reference pornos twice in one week of blogging lest i gain some kind of reputation, but really? i call 'em like i see 'em. and this is a seriously good set up.

'i suspect it's the bling on your shirt-'

okay. i have to stop the story and interject here. to clarify, i did not have 'bling' on my shirt. i do not own anything with 'bling' on it. BUT i did happen to be wearing this t-shirt i picked up on a whim to go with a skirt i refuse to wear because i can't find the right sandals. and this shirt happens to have a few sparkly seed beads at the v neck part. i'm not saying it's the most fashionable shirt, but it's cute and happens to have a FEW sparkly beads. which are NOT bling.

i'm not sure yet how my crotch tripped the alarm. but we're getting to that.

'i suspect it's the bling on your shirt. still, i need to wand you and then pat you down. where the bling is. in the area of your cleavage.'

and of course i want to make a joke. like 'well you're not my type but it's been a long time since i've seen my husband and you know what grief can do to a girl and i do like a drink first but what the hell carpe diem right?'

but of course i don't. because those fuckers on 9/11 made sure the airport can't be funny anymore. even though it's just good material going to waste most of the time. such.a.bummer.

so she gets down to business then she asks me to empty my left pocket because that's where it was suspicious on the screen.

so i pull out a wad of tissue and wouldn't you know it, FIVE lucky pennies. the ones i found on the floor of my father's room. i carried them with me once we took him into the hospital.

'lucky pennies.'

'those should have been put in the bins, ma'am. how deep does your pocket go?'

'i guess it's pretty deep.'

'well, it must have shifted toward the middle of your body. i will still have to pat down your inner upper thigh. please spread your legs and hold out your arms.'

so i do this and i can only wonder if life is really this amusing for others or if it's just me. my pocket full of lucky pennies shifted toward my girlie parts and now i'm being treated like a criminal. oh, and this is not a private exchange. i'm right there where everyone is bustling about to get shoes on and laptops back into cases and i'm just in their way.

'okay. you're good.'

and i want to say, well now how do YOU know? you only got to first base. but instead i say thank you and have and nice day and go to get my stuff.

and once i'm on my way in the airport this thing happens that's been happening since i was first in seattle. i keep seeing my father. not my father, of course, but i keep seeing men who 'could' be my father. you know, if he were well. if life had been different. if his life had taken a different turn. healthy, robust, on his way somewhere. for business or pleasure or life different from the one he has now. if he was really the travel writer he tells the nurses he is. if he had married the girl from high school he's loved since he first saw her. if he wasn't dying. if if if.

the lack of dignity in air travel depresses me. i fall promptly asleep when the plane takes off. and when i wake i trip the weird wire again. the 10 year old boy next to me is getting the news from his mother next to him that when he's 18 he will inherit one hundred thousand dollars. she's on her third bloody mary (and has to be told the bar is now closed) and seems irritated at telling him. she says she and his father wanted them to change it to 21 or 25. and that it's his to do what he wants when he's 18 but that she's his mother and he should do what she thinks is best. save it for a master's degree, or a doctorate. to put down on a nice house.

and the cynical bitchy part of me is like way to go lady. he's 10. go ahead, put this on him now. set his path.

but she's just being a mom. she wants for him all the good things. and if this means one narrow path that she decides is 'all the good things' then so be it. she's parenting the best way she knows how.

and i think about my father. and how he never encouraged me to go to college or to get my homework done or to 'pad' my high school resume with activities that 'look good.' i'm sure we never even discussed my high school resume. or why i missed 60 days of school a year to stay home and watch love boat re-runs. or why i failed nearly every math class i took. why they still moved me up, to the next grade. never once did he ask me what i wanted to be when i grew up or encouraged me to go for it.

now, this does not mean he didn't love me. or didn't parent me. like the drunk mother beside me he just did the best he could. and giving me wings was probably out of his grasp when all he was doing was just trying to hang on.

i think about this and i wonder at what i could have done had the woman beside me been my parent. did i miss out on anything? did i want to be a doctor or a lawyer? did i want my master's degree? in what? i am a nearly 40 year old stay at home mother of two with a half finished college education and i look like shit on paper. what did i miss?

and i realize i didn't miss a damn thing. that by my father not giving me wings i found my own. and i did what i found i wanted to do. i delivered babies on the border and got married and got divorced and had babies of my own and got married and everything i did i did because i wanted to.

well shit. not everything. who 'wants' to get divorced? and who wants the broken hearts and dreams that come with living a life, that come with not yet learning how NOT to be an asshole? but you get the picture. so for lack of a better word, 'want.' i did what i wanted to do because i wanted to do it. not because someone else wanted me to do it.

and while my resume would suggest otherwise, i am happy and accomplished. my heart and my life are full to bursting.

and i will tell you what, don't we all want that for our children? for them to follow their hearts and do what makes them happy? i'm not saying my father didn't have dreams for me, i'm just saying that the dreams i had for myself were able to fill the space left by his inability to do what the woman beside me is doing for her son.

and that is parenting the best way you know how. even if the kid has to pick up the slack. even then.

and just like that i become the weepy creepy woman on the plane. and i don't want to scare the boy next to me so i cry quietly. i wish i were home. and in awhile i am. well, in awhile i am in boston. 'home' for now. and i am happy to see my own boys and the husband. but i want to scoop them up and drag them home. not to poet's corner, our new home. but our 'home' home. back home. seattle. to be with my father. until it's not possible anymore. to be with our family. to build the fence around our hearts you can only build with family and friends and familiarity. i want to go home.

and i think to myself, girl, you better hold on. you are days away from being 40 and you knew life would be different, but you weren't prepared for this. this is the kinda thing that makes someone think whiskey in their morning coffee is a good idea. or 'i KNOW! let's have a BABY!' shit like that. this is gonna hurt like hell. so hold on and try to avoid the rabbit holes that seem to be popping up on the regular.

lather rinse repeat.

x.

pennies.

in the week before i flew to seattle to see my dad i found a lucky penny nearly every single day. not every day, but in a week i collected 5. parking lots, sidewalks, the gutter. i picked them up and made a singular wish. the same one i always make on dandelions and shooting stars and rocks tossed into the sea. of course lately that wish has a bit of a flourish at the end.

when i got to seattle and would bring coffee and meds down to my father in the morning (while he was still at my sister's house) i kid you not somewhere in the two rooms he was in i would find a penny. just there. on the ground. every.single.time.

i am thinking about the pennies as i rub my father's back in the VA. he's in his favorite position, a kind of doubled over yoga pose. he has a theory about this position. i know this because he lectured to me for nearly 20 minutes this morning on his theory.

and i didn't mind, i just listened. happy that he can do this again, have theories and give lectures as his pain has finally somewhat been managed, he is somewhat comfortable, he has color, he has humor. my father is my father again, and i just bask in it moment by moment.

he has lost so much weight that it doesn't take much movement to cover his back. up and back, a scratch here and there. but he is still strong, i feel that. and whether that's strength of muscle or spirit it's hard to say. and really doesn't matter.

he looks good now. the big windows with the million dollar view don't hurt. but it's mostly the fact that by dosing him up with a metric assload of morphine and adding in cocktails of various other white pills he is able to relax a bit. to get some sleep. he reported that he even dreamed the night before. eating still isn't high on the activity list, but he does what he can. and you take what you can get.

my father looks like a man one might find sitting cross legged at the edge of the ganges. holding court. dispensing wisdom and experience to all who ask and all who don't. doctors, nurses, techs, social workers, the former historian and now custodian who comes to sweep the floor. my father looks like the guru he has become. the guru of the VA. he looks like gary snyder.

'dad, you look like gary snyder.'

'oh? well. i'll take that as a compliment.'

'you should.'

i am rubbing his back and thinking about how odd it is that we are so present and relaxed. my father and i. how our journey has been rocky at best at times, and yet was also marked by the sheer wonder and beauty that is the parent child relationship. and it's not lost on me that for the first time in my life i am physically stronger than my father. that even in my curvy softness i could take him. and somewhere deep and ancient and inside the eight year old silly mortal is shouting YES! and throwing a fist up in the air.

but none of that really matters. at all. not now. as it turns out, the balance of a life is just that...a balance. that in the end, any one period of time doesn't take precedence over another. the mistrusts and missteps are just that and no more. the cataloging is done.

i understand also that what this is, me in this hospital rubbing my father's back , that what this is is me being given a gift. that this is grace here on earth. and just like those pennies i am so very lucky. to have made the journey and been able to rest at the end of it with my father.

my wise friend ingrid always likes to say 'only love prevails.' i understand that in a way i only theoretically did before. i understand that in a way that cannot be explained or ignored. i understand. and as i rub my father's back i close my eyes and lift my face upwards in thanksgiving.

we are, all of us, martyrs and saints, devils and angels, we are good and bad, and sometimes we are definitely ugly. there are moments as divine as can be, and low moments that level and break us. rendering us knee bound and groveling. we are pain and heartbreak and love and light. and all of this is so and necessary, because in the end there is a balance. no tally, no score. just balance. in the end it all makes sense. it really really does.

i don't know much about heaven. so i don't know if those pennies were from heaven as they like to say. i do know that they are a tangible sign of what is always around us. the abundance and the good. the richness of life. we just have to be willing to do a little bending to grab it.

x.

monday.

yesterday morning i had to tell my father it wasn't working here at home (my sister's house). that he would be better managed pain wise and comfort wise back in the hospital. i didn't have to say it, but we both know that meant he'd be going in and not coming back out.

this couldn't have come as too much of a surprise, but you know it was. he didn't wake up knowing this was it. i feel bad. but this is for the best.

he asked to nap and wake him at 1pm. he bathed and shaved. he dressed carefully in his good pants and nice sweater. his scarf. inexplicably, he's taken to wearing a black stetson.

we get to the VA and go through a maze until we find the right spot to talk to his oncologist. and it becomes apparent how fucked up the VA is when my sister receives a call while we are in the waiting room, five minutes early for the appointment:

'this is the VA calling, is your father aware he has an appointment today?'

'yes. we're here now. in the waiting room.'

they come out and call him. apparently for the first time in FOREVER they are ahead of schedule and he's already late for an appointment he's early for.

we go back to a windowless room. the by the book doctor comes in and asks him questions. my father answers them all wrong.

no he is not eating 3 meals a day. try 3 bites. he answers the pain question right but downplays it. he is not as strong as he tries to appear. oh my god we talked about this! he knew what was up before we came! i know why he's doing this. because he can't really remember and because he doesn't want to stay. this is the cancer version of cock blocking.

my sister starts to look worried. he needs to stay. this is better for him. she can't do this anymore. she's been working so hard caring for him. it's getting too hard to care for him in the way he needs.

dr. c comes in. dr. c is straight out of a 70s cigarette ad. or a porno. i don't like dr. c. he is brusque and has zero bedside manner. i decide it's definitely a porno. he'd never make it in the cigarette ad.

he tells my father what we all know, that he's not well enough to withstand even a bit of chemo. but that if he puts on weight and blah blah blah he might be able to.

by now my sister is getting that panicked look on her face. and i am not sure what to do. i told my father what was decided and he's trying to block it. my sister is talking but not saying what she wants to because this is so so hard. and how do you say i can't do this anymore to your father? i don't have a relationship with these doctors. and i am leaving in two days. i am practically an interloper here.

dr. c asks him all the questions dr. by the book asked him. he answers them all wrong. but dr. c, bless his fucking heart, he looks out of the corner of his eye at me. and i shake my head no at all the questions my father is answering in the positive. my father is confused, yes. but i know he's answering the questions that way to get out of staying. he needs to stay.

and then my sister asks dr. c. if all we are doing is waiting for him to get better for chemo or worse in general. we all know it but don't say it that my father is not going to get better for chemo. we choose our words carefully. my father is dying and confused, but he's not an idiot. he is the writer with the million dollar vocabulary. this is delicate territory.

dr. c mentions hospice and that 'we' can wait to see if he gets better for chemo, and STILL use them. he can wrangle it. this means hospice at my sister's house. my sister is crestfallen. i see her face. she cannot do this. i look at my father. i see his face. better yet, i know his heart. he can't do this. doesn't want to.

something has to be done. something has to give.

so. i choose. in front of the doctors. in front of my father. i choose. and i choose my sister. just like i've always done. just like i always will.

'my father can no longer be at my sister's house.'

and it sets the ball rolling. dr. c says he'll fix it and admit my father today. dr. by the book is not pleased. hospitals are not for this kinda of thing, he says. not for the dying with no acute symptoms. as if death isn't an acute symptom. but i hear what he's saying. and he's right. but this is one of those cases. this is one of those times. dr. c clearly wants dr. by the book to shut up. moreover, he's the boss so dr. by the book is now just annoying him.

dr. c tells dr. by the book they are taking the 'conversation' outside.

the doctors start to argue in the hall. you can hear dr. by the book pleading his case for the integrity of what a hospital 'should' be used for. dr. c says 'didn't you hear her? she can't do this anymore. we have to take him. that's our job.'

i like dr. c now. go dr. c. go VA. my father served this country and he needs it to give back right now.

my father won't look at either of us.

i feel like the world's biggest asshole.

because i said the words out loud. i know deep down my father knows this is best. but on the surface, i am an asshole and now my father is here. and not leaving.

later we are taking my father up to where he had stayed before.

we walk in and it's like going somewhere with lady gaga. they call out his name. 'you're back!' they cry. everyone on the floor coming over to see him, to say hello, to touch him.

one comely nurse is asking him if he's been working on the poem he started when he was last here, 'i will now that i'm back because you're the inspiration' he tells her. one guy in scrubs is grabbing his hand and clapping him on his back, 'how are you doin' man? good to see you.' another nurse comes in to say she wants to tell him about her camping trip.

apparently, my father has not lost an ounce of his charm.

even with the big welcome and a large room with i kid you not probably the best view in seattle, this is very difficult at best. the food is slow to arrive because it arrives only at a designated time. the pain meds even slower. the doctor is young and annoying. it's loud in the hallway. and of course i wonder how we thought this was best. it is. it is. but when you're dealing with dying there comes a point when everything is second guessed. especially if you're the one doing the guessing.

we wait to see that the food is edible (always a gamble at the VA) and that he gets his pain meds. then we leave.

and i realize i can't go home in two days. not yet. there's been a change of plans. i realize i can't go home and i miss my kids and the husband so much it hurts. my father can't go home either. ever again. i wonder what he misses.

i cry on the way home. i cry in target. and then i drink too much wine and stay up too late and when that no longer works i cry myself to sleep.

and in the morning, i write. just like my dad.

x.

hallelujah.

my father is a writer. as a kid, i would wake to the sound of a typewriter nearly every morning of my life. later, it was the sight of the ever present notebook in hand. he was always writing. working on something.

as it turns out, sometimes writers are not so good at recognizing or validating fellow writers. even if one of those fellow writers happens to be their own daughter.

this morning my father turned to me and said

'they say you're a pretty good writer. so it's gonna be up to you now, kid.'

and right then i thought about leonard cohen. you know, about the cracks. and the light. i thought about perfect offerings. and how it really is never too late. for anything. especially the good stuff.

i thought about grace and expansion and how sometimes the truly great things come when you least expect them. mostly when you least expect them. but that you always should. expect them. because they're always there. somewhere. i thought about a million things. and then i said

'well. i'll do my best.'

then i let out the breath i had no idea i had been holding for all these years. maybe even for 39 years and 11 months.

x.

since you didn't ask; day I part I

when you're in the air looking down everything is the same.

and so it goes with knowledge and reality. knowing is one thing, experiencing is quite another. it's so easy to know. it's the hands on that fucks with the balance and offers the front row glimpse into the full silly mortal.

i think about this as the plane is making its final descent. i look down and see the city and area i once loved so deeply. a city i was a newlywed in, a newly adult in, divorced in, became a mother in, almost died in, found a life in, married and built a family and a life in a house only to have it taken away in. and now, a city that will represent, in time shorter than i'd like, my greatest broken heart.

as we touch down i wish more than anything that my kids were here. to feel the duke's quiet go with it resolve, to see wingman's fully open face at the sadness and wonder and excitement of it all. to feel the husband's confident and knowing hand in mine.

i am keeping open to everything. to finding the grace, to embracing what needs it...to...being. my sister has been doing the heavy lifting and i am the ham handed interloper in my own extended life at this point. but i am open to it. all of it. or i will be, as soon as i can get a little sleep.

in the meantime, on the plane, i am touching down and landing. and with every fiber of my being i want to be anywhere but here. i want to shout, turn me around! there's been a mistake! i want to wake as if from one of my very real dreams. i want to be in a world where the first time i see my father in nearly five years that it is also not the last.

i wish on the stars i can't see and i call to anyone who will listen, in the tiniest 'i am in a public space' whisper, anywhere but here. right now. anywhere.

and even as i say it i know i have the luxury to do so. that all evidence to the contrary, i am so very lucky. to be here. to be. here.

x.

onions.

i am thinking of my father as i chop the onions for dinner. my father taught me to chop an onion. actually, that's not true. he told me chopped onions went into the spaghetti sauce he taught me to make. that and garlic. then the tomatoes, then the spices. meat if you were using it came before the tomato sauce, after the onions. but he never taught me to chop an onion. i watched him chop the onion and make the sauce and the next night i had a knife in my hand and was making dinner.

i learned to properly chop an onion later. when i was an adult. with a child of my own.

i think about this as i throw the onion into the pot and it begins to sizzle.

my father has pancreatic cancer. of all the cancers to get, this isn't one of the 'good' ones. in fact, it just may be the very worst.

somehow this makes me decide that while making dal for dinner i need to make a double batch. as if i'm not 3200 miles away. as if i am going to be feeding more family than just the family here at the little yellow house.

and so far i've remembered i'm doubling the recipe and have enough oil for the amount of onion. isn't it funny how we learn things. remember learning them. i mean i didn't learn to chop an onion from my father, martha stewart actually taught me. but my father was the first to hand me the onion. and then the knife. maybe when we compare and contrast childhood and adulthood and what we remember and what we forget, maybe it's just the world 'properly' we get the most hung up on. maybe it's a simple as that. maybe.

there's a point in the hot oil in which raw onion goes from ingredient to divine. it happens so suddenly it's like a surprise each time i cook. oh. oooohhhhh. and then you add the garlic.

as i wait for the confirmation from the doctor for what i already know i measure out the curry, the garam masala, the cayenne. the voice in my head telling me to listen for the phone, to measure out double the spices, to just keep cooking even as the tears fall. you still have to feed the kids, your voice says. you still have to feed you. keep cooking.

my father and i were estranged for many years. we only just picked our way over that rocky outcropping last summer. and then i had to leave. and move to the ends of the earth. and then he got sick. and now i'm making dinner. and wondering for the millionth time why i had to move so far away. wondering why that doesn't look like enough liquid in the pot. and then i remember, double the recipe. double the water.

the phone rings. it's not the doctor i expect to call. it's another doctor from the 'team.' and i am stirring in the rest of the water as she is confirming what we all knew. i hear words like 'chemo' and 'pallative' and 'hospice' and 'months.' like the spices i have in my arsenal for cooking these are the spices doctors use. have to use.

she is now expressing her sympathies. and it's only then that i realize that all along i've felt like this has been a conversation. that we were equals. trading questions and information. until now. this moment when she's saying she's sorry. because now i know this is not true. we are not equals. because suddenly she's become the responsible adult in the white lab coat and i am an 8 year old kid.

and i'm turning down the pot which has come to a boil. it needs to simmer. and i wonder why i don't just turn off the flame and put it at the back of the stove. at this moment, just take a minute away from pot watching. i know why. it's at a crucial stage. this pot on the stove. and i will regret ruining it by turning away from it.

and it's for the same reasons i can do yoga while the cats chase their toys at my feet and meditate while mario kart music comes tinkling in from somewhere in this little house.

and talk about my father's diagnosis and final time here on earth and make dinner and remember to double the recipe. because no matter what i have to keep going. i still have to feed my kids. my family. i still have to feed me. no matter what you have to eat, right? and if i keep cooking i can keep going. if i've learned anything in the last year of loss that is lasting longer than i thought it ever would it's to just keep going.

we end the call with the knowledge that i will fly there next week and it will be a pleasure to meet her and all the things you say to someone on the phone who has just delivered the worst kind of news and you don't know her and she doesn't know you. and this phone call is just one part of her job that day. and this phone call is your whole life.

and even though you *knew,* having it confirmed is such a surprise. oh. oooohhhhh. just like the onions.

later when the dal is done i set it aside to drive. picking up the husband from work, delivering on a promise to the boybarians (who don't know what i know) of a special drink for the hot day. and on the way reggae comes on the radio.

i think about my father who hates reggae with a passion. even though he's an old hippie. god he could go off forever on his disdain of reggae. it used to make me laugh. i start to cry. and then i stop. because the people out here drive like assholes and tears would be an unwise idea. just because i'm a grieving daughter i can't forget i am a responsible mother. and just like that i feel the beginnings of the pull that starts to happen to people my age. women's magazines write articles about people like me. my god. i've become a statistic. i start to tear up again.

the husband suggests i don't need to finish dinner. it's too much. let him rescue me. let's get something out he says. and i realize i need to finish it. i need to eat food made with love. and maybe a few tears. i need to be comforted and nourished. more than i need a break. more than i need something quick and convenient. more than i can explain.

and when i talk to my father later we agree that there aren't words to fill the space or to capture what we are feeling. and that there don't need to be. and the thing that gets me while i wait for it to sink further in and while i wait for it to get worse the thing that really really gets to me is that he's hungry. but he can't eat. certainly not the food at the VA. which is just as bad as we can all imagine. but even the things he thinks sound good he knows he wouldn't be able to stomach more than a few bites.

what is hitting me the most is that i can't cook for my father. i am simply too far away. even if he can't eat it it doesn't matter. the irony is incredible.

then he asks me what i made for dinner. and i understand and he understands this is not a normal topic of conversation for us, but we understand why. so i tell him indian food. he asks me to describe it. so i do. and i tell him the dal would be good for him and that the pickle i made would probably be way too spicy. he says he would have given it a try.

and then he tells me about some cuban pulled pork he had a few weeks ago. before this. before we knew. when he still had an appetite. he thinks he would like that right now. he mentions it would be wasteful as he couldn't eat more than a bite. and there's no storage for food in his shared room at the VA.

i say it sounds like it would be worth it, though. and the 'though' floats on the air like a net. capturing all the emotion and all the space we agreed had no words.

x.

why i quit googling eye creams and started searching for thigh high boots.

i'm going to be 40. soon.

and while this doesn't particularly fill me with dread or excitement, it's a fact. even so, the idea of turning 40 does give a gal pause, you know, just because. it could be that all my life growing up i saw those black 'over the hill' balloons with the number 40 on them, or the buttons that said 'i'd rather be pregnant than 40,' you know...shit like that.

oh, and the other day on the phone a friend said, 'wait. YOU'RE going to be 40?' 'um, dude. you're older than me.' 'i know, but YOU being 40 is just weird.'

but now that i'm actually going to BE 40 much sooner than later it's really becoming not a thing at all. (especially since inside i still feel 17.) and especially since i'm on a certain social networking site and keep seeing friends turn 40. and, judging from the photos and status updates no one's combusted yet, either from age or birthday induced alcohol consumption. so i'm guessing it's going to be a-okay. (note to self; LOTS of water. start now.)

BUT

there was a bit of time not too long ago i was googling eye creams. it's all fun and games until you start to google the eye creams. it's like an admission of...something. like you've grabbed the baton in front of a screaming crowd. you're in this and there's no going back. like sex. or drinking. because you're gonna stop once you do it once or twice? i don't think so.

and i don't know what triggered it, i think just the birthday coming up. the *idea* of 40 more than the reality. and so here i was googling these eye creams and really getting into it. and freaking out over which one was *actually* the best. i think i freaked out less choosing a name for wingman than i did trying to decide on which eye creams might make the top 5. (and i called that kid 'agamemnon' for THREE DAYS before we decided on his name.)

and then remembering all the articles i've ever read that said wiping cheap imported lard or somesuch on your face did the same amount of good as a 100 dollar eye cream (i may be paraphrasing here).

and then wracking my brain trying to remember the last place i saw lard for sale. on sale, of course.

and as i sat there i started to actually feel older than even my birth certificate says i am slated to be. because when you're on the eye cream sites there's LOTS of ways to navigate over to other stuff. all of them saying it's NEVER too late to start. or START NOW before it's TOO LATE. fine lines! wrinkles! and not just on your face! i tell you, trolling anti-aging sites is not for the weak.

so i got all worried. then i got all pissed. there i was, googling something i don't really need because i thought it *must be time.* so what if i started the eye creams before my 40th birthday? what would that accomplish? i mean i don't really even *have* an issue with my eyes. i actually think they look pretty good. i just figured eye cream can't hurt. right?

and if i start with the eye cream do i have to start with the other stuff? start dying my hair? i mean the slippery slope is paved with all kinds of good intentions. and apparently, retinol. but it's still a slope. and slippery. and where does it end? because i'm just not into the maintenance. but moreover i just don't see the connection between this stuff and beauty. real beauty.

(insert How do any of us make it out alive? here)

besides, if it's like rod stewart says then the morning sun is just gonna show my age anyway. you think maggie may wasn't using eye cream? with a college aged boyfriend? ha!

so i thought about what *i* think beauty is. real beauty. not for everyone else (because to each their own), or for the magazines, or the advertisers, but for me. and all i could come up with is that i feel the most beautiful when i'm happy. like really happy. like hanging out and shooting the shit and laughing with friends. and really i just couldn't for the life of me equate the eventual suppression of laugh lines around my eyes with happiness. and by default, beauty.

so i thought about my 40th birthday. and i thought about what would make me really happy.

and that's when i clicked out of the eye cream sites and started looking for (and found) 4 1/2 inch heeled black thigh high boots. to wear on or around my birthday. there is a word for boots like this. and it's completely inappropriate. so i will employ the ladylike personality that knocks about my person waiting for occasions such as this and not mention it here. but these are happy making boots. and they are awesome.

"Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy."

guillaume apollinaire must have been talking about these boots when he said that.

there's really not much more to say than that. life has a funny way of marching on. and whether you're slathering on cheap imported lard or actual eye creams or wearing 4 1/2 inch heeled black thigh high boots there's all kinds of ways to keep in step.

you just have to find your happy. to define your own beauty.

and it's NEVER too late to start that.

x.

lilacs.

the husband and i like to joke that the reason we bought (what is now formerly) our 100 year old falling down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was for the lilacs. the beautiful beautiful lilacs.

but really, it's true.

okay, not really.

but sort of really.

god they were gorgeous. dark ones and light ones and even white ones. you could smell them on the breeze. big bunches of purple and green in blue glass jars scattered about the house. some for your friends, the rest for you. and, lilacs in blue glass jars scattered about the house also meant that windows and doors could be left open for the day and that winter was through. finally.

yesterday while walking wingman to his baseball game we traveled through the most charming town i may ever live in under the bluest of skies. the sun was shining, wingman was skipping ahead, and i was marveling at how very lucky i was to be enjoying this moment. (and yes, it was just as quaint as it sounds)

then i walked by someone's yard and there it was. the flowers yet to bloom, the leaves full and lush and that distinctive green, unmistakable. someone's lucky little stand of lilacs. and *immediately* i began walking as fast as i could and didn't even try to stop the tears. something took me fully over and i couldn't get away fast enough. i couldn't stop crying. it was truly instantaneous.

i was, in that moment, just about as heartbroken and angry as i have been about this whole lost house lost coast thing. it was amazing, really. how quickly it took root and spread. and stalking down the charming main street of the charming town with a charming and humming wingman skipping ahead i was thinking dark thoughts about stupid people and their dumb ass lilacs and felt very very selfishly ungrateful and covetous and sad.

i was grief stricken and enraged and wanted to scream and to howl and shout out how unfair this whole thing has been. poor me in all its pulled apart at the seams gory glory.

but of course, as many of us know, there never really is the right time or place to stop and howl. and if i did, well then i'd surely make the town blog. which is a distinction i strive NOT to accomplish every single day that i'm here.

so. instead i slowed my step, took some deep breaths, and dried my tears in time to catch up with wingman who had run ahead to the ball field. i smiled instead of cried, i did not howl, and i made the best of the afternoon. because that's just what you do when you aren't a one woman wolf pack.

(wingman's team won, by the way. 17-1.)

and when i went to bed last night i forgot to remember all that's best to remember before you close your eyes for the day. and i began to tally up the loss. what has been taken and what this has cost. from me. to me. to be here. in this house. in this new life. and i felt very beaten by the world and wondered if we would ever recover from this materially. forgetting that it isn't about things and money. forgetting that i've landed so charmingly. forgetting that this process of digging out of the rubble takes time. forgetting to be grateful.

and when i woke up this morning and went drowsily about my routine i still had that tightened fist of 'not enough' sitting on my heart.

and then the following very amazing thing happened. and if i could make this up i would and make a lot of money as a very clever writer. but i didn't. and thus remain 'homemaker' on all important documents.

i was sitting at my computer and in a moment of pause i looked up and out the window to my right and holy shit and honest to god there was there IS a lilac bush growing in the back yard against the side fence!

i have been in this house for close to 6 months now. i have been sitting at this computer every day in that time. and since the snow finally for good stopped and the sun came out in the last month or so i have gone outside every single day in that time.

and i never ever saw the lilac.

i raced outside and it was just there. and then ANOTHER ONE down the fence on the other side of the big flowering yellowy bush that i don't know the name of. another lilac. just. there. purple spears turned toward the sun and soaring atop the distinctive green leaves. and ready to burst into bloom at any moment. how did i not see these???

now. i concede that it's likely true that they didn't just 'appear.' that they've been there and somehow i didn't...notice them until now. i understand enough about the world of the humans to know that this is the explanation that will make we silly mortals accept the appearance of the lilacs.

but even so, does that make it any less of a miraculous event?

no. it does not.

BECAUSE I HAVE LILACS!

why we even waste our time creating our own pits of despair is beyond me. why we give into the dark when there is so much light i fail to understand. because the world is SUCH a miraculous place! the miracle is that every single day we wake up we are given the opportunity to view the world anew. to start again. an opportunity for something TOTALLY amazing to happen. and this means that the tightly closed fists and dark thoughts and deepest despairs and the bad days and weeks and years of our past do not have to dictate our future. that every day ends and every day begins. and in that we are given, each and every one of us, one more chance.

one day i shall learn this without having to keep learning this. but wait? what will i write about then? a conundrum to be sure. in the meantime...

LILACS!

and it doesn't matter if it's the work of the mysterious and divine or if i just still have a LOT of work to do towards acceptance and grief or if i just really REALLY need to start wearing my glasses more.

because the fact of the matter is that the lilacs were there. i just needed to notice them. and, i did. and THAT'S where the divine exists.

and i still have lilacs. isn't that something?

x.

what the parenting books don't tell you.

the parenting books never have the chapter titled;

Some Days Parenting Sucks and On Those Days You Will Feel Like a Fucking Hack. HA!

but here's the deleted chapter. i will try and be brief.

some days parenting SUCKS.

the end.


yeah. okay.

some days it is quite possibly the job with the absolute least amount of visible tangible return and absolutely not one.single.minute of satisfaction. i've seen polls wherein parenting is listed BELOW housecleaning or somesuch honest and needed but not terribly fun endeavor. that's because even if it's the grossest toilet on earth it will come clean. or close to it. and your effort, for even just a few seconds before the adrenaline recedes and the gag reflex really kicks in, it will all be worth it.

some days there are lots and lots tears spilled behind the bathroom door because you are tired of hearing yourself say the same.thing.again. and again. and when you aren't heard, even if the person is TEN or FOURTEEN it still gets really personal after a time. it's hard not to be heard. because this is your *job.* and wow. what a choice. oh, and my god my voice is shrill.

(and if you are a stay at home mother...double wow. these will be the days that you will REALLY reconsider your career choice. duuuuuude. the lack of a pay check should have been your first clue...)

some days it's hard to remember to be kind. to take the deep breath. to count to fucking ten. FUCK YOU TEN WHAT HAVE YOU EVER DONE FOR ME! WHY ARE YOU SO *IT* FOR NUMBERS? HUH? HUH?* you forget to moderate your voice. to remember that this isn't all about YOU *not* being listened to, but rather it's about pulling these kids up and through this life. and some days, that is neither easy or fun. hell, some days it doesn't even hit gross dirty toilet cleaning level.

some days you are certain that you are not cut out for this. at all. that you are most certainly raising children who won't be able to make it on their own. and thus will be susceptible to the whacknoodles of this world. you know, women with father issues or cult leaders or telemarketers. OH MY GOD or the birthers. worse yet, that they will end up living in your basement. for the rest of your life. and still draw an allowance.

today i had that kind of day. and after the tears and the less than book worthy behavior, after the full on silly mortal mama-ness i looked around and i repeated the words of a dear dear friend's father...'this is bad management.'

because it doesn't matter how bad the day or how fast and often those wheels have spun. or how the sound of your voice is making you crack. or wish you had some. ultimately it's up to the parent to right the ship and get things back on track. and to not fall into doing crack.

that's why kids are kids and parents are adults. the theory being that by the time one becomes a parent they know how to take the deep breath and the higher road. and has learned that the world is larger than the personal. and that some days just suck, but the job still needs to get done. and, ultimately that the kid *gets* to be age appropriate, but the parent (who is the adult) *has* to be age appropriate.

i guess the thing to remember is that the sun always rises. tomorrow is another day. one more chance to start again.

(oh. and wine. wine helps. the parenting books NEVER say that.)

in the meantime, deep breaths and deeper hugs can stopgap the rest of it. because when that some day turns into the evening it's time to let it go. to throw your hands up and throw your arms around your kid and surrender for the time being.

and don't forget to get some arms thrown around you, too. really. take care of you AND your kids. applying the oxygen mask first and all that.

because the evening and bedtime is always your free pass. your out. your tap on the shoulder in the ring. it's a natural transition to softening. to let the shoulders down a notch. and the voice, too.

this is a hard job. a hard job one is so very lucky to have. that i am lucky to have. i am so grateful for my children. but just because one is lucky enough to have and raise children, in whatever circumstance that is procured, arranged or executed, and experience the divine here on earth doesn't mean there aren't those days that make you want run screaming from the room into the street and overwhelmingly demonstrate and define what to 'rent one's garments' really means.

in conclusion;

sillymortalmama said there'd be days like this. so go easy on yourself. go easier on your kids. and don't forget that tomorrow always comes.

(wine helps)

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

when the duke was almost 4 his very cool preschool in southern california did their annual assessment of all the children. this particular assessment had nothing to do with 'academics,' how much or well they were learning, but more with assessing their abilities. establishing a baseline for further notes on progress or regress.

see this preschool was unique in that was ALSO for differently-abled children. children with mental or physical or emotional limitations or issues. every class was a mix of all different kinds of kids. everything was integrated. if you could even call it that because it was just the norm. there was never a deal made about it. it was really a great experience.

and for the yearly assessment they observed all children. regardless of ability.

so. when the duke was 3 going on 4 and wingman was 2 months and 2 days old i received the written assessment for the duke from the specialist they brought in. honestly, i never remember receiving it let alone reading it. i was recovering from another hard pregnancy and another hard birth and was still adjusting to life with a preschooler AND a newborn.

i found the report the other day. i noted the date. i read it. honestly, it's like they were talking about a whole different child than the duke. and i cannot imagine what i would have felt had i actually read it at the time.

"...lacks the shoulder/elbow/wrist joint strength to increase stability for coloring. This suggests low muscle tone in the upper extremities."

"All of his interactions with others are rough and quick. He objects to holding his dad's hand or to hugs. This suggests he does not like any form of touching. Be sure to encourage touching, firm and quick, with verbalization."

"Does not use own legs to turn self on merry go round. Waits for someone to turn it."

"Tends to move in fast spurts of energy. His graded motor output may be difficult. A brushing therapy program may help."

the report suggested that future IEPs for school would be necessary. (individualized education plan for children with learning or other disabilities so that they may get the best possible opportunities and resources to meet their particular needs.)

may i say the the duke was a very energetic boy who loved to run and play and jump and climb and hug and hold hands. he was rambunctious at times. he was 3.

he colored well and was already writing his name and knew his alphabet and could count to a gazillion. okay, i don't know how high he could count but that's the point. he could count. he was 3. it didn't matter how high.

and who turns their own self on the merry go round? just because you don't doesn't mean you can't. and who doesn't want someone else to do it?

then attached was a referral to a specialist at a local hospital for further evaluation.

all this from one visit one morning with a stranger.

so.

and here's the thing.

i totally appreciate early intervention. while i don't have a child of my own with different abilities or special needs or an IEP i know MORE than my fair share of parents and kids who deal with one or both or all of these and MORE on a daily basis. i am compassionate and i am educated and i am aware.

and i know there are a lot of parents who have fought for a long time to have their children observed and properly diagnosed by the 'right' people. who wait forever to get an IEP and then have to on the regular fight the red tape and bureaucracy and administration and ignorance to keep their kids resources intact.

people who NEED resources for their children.

but what if i had read that report when they sent it to me? when i was still cracked out on my pregnancy and birth and newborn? when resistance was low and i just two weeks prior made the decision, out loud and with conviction, that i was now turning my sights on being a mama solely. and that i would no longer pursue my career. thus leaving me ripe for finding a 'mission.' or a 'purpose' beyond wiping bottoms and trying to figure out how to put together the figure 8 wooden train track 'exactly' like on the box and sourcing individually wrapped cheese sticks for the best price.

because that report was heavily suggesting something that never came to pass. that report didn't nail the duke. not even close. not at 3 almost 4. and not for now.

and maybe i would have just known that and maybe i would have not. and been alarmed. and taken the action they were suggesting.

i wonder.

i wonder what road i would have gone down. i wonder if things would be different for the duke. for me. for our family.

i don't know where i'm going with this other than to say, it happens. sometimes it happens that kids get observed and referred and labeled and put on a track. a track in this case that was and should have just been called '3 almost 4 year old energetic taurus boy' and let it commence as such. but is called and viewed as something very different.

i really do wonder if i dodged a bullet for the duke by sheer lack of awareness, lack of sleep, lack of two minutes when my breasts weren't leaking and my body wasn't trying to knit itself back together and there wasn't a bottom to wipe.

wouldn't that be something?

the other day after i read the report this song came on the radio. i looked in the back seat and saw my two boys sitting there. each staring out their own window lost in thought somewhere else. and i thought about the time and the climb it has been to just reach this point. how every moment seems so big. even the moments you miss. and how it just keeps going. this parenting thing. running up that hill. making deals with god. wondering.

it is that spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

so the duke has scoliosis. and there's a very real possibility he will end up in a back brace. we go on monday to the orthopedic specialist.

now his posture has been slouchy for some time, but i thought it was just him being slouchy. but he's been going through a huge growth spurt and the slouch morphed. actually, as it turns out, his rib cage is twisted.

we've been waiting for the appointment for a month. and right after we made it i had a chat with the duke about 'embracing' (all pun intended) whatever the diagnoses was. that whatever it is just diving right in and totally accepting it will help him heal all that much faster. that there are all kinds of people with all kinds of issues and problems and illnesses and disabilities. that no one is perfect, the trick is to accept yours, try to heal it if you can, and move forward.

he agreed that that sounded like a good approach because although he wouldn't be thrilled about a brace (other option is it isn't that bad and he can do physical therapy) he would want to do what he could to help himself get over it more quickly.

that was a few weeks ago. as the appointment approaches he is a bit more apprehensive. (and let's face it, i am too. more than i thought i would be, actually.) so last night he said

'i think it would suck to end up in a brace.'

'yeah. i know. but remember, just 'embrace' it right?'

to my delight he chuckled.

'yeah, i mean there's nothing i can do about it. i might as well just be positive. even though i really don't want to start high school in a back brace.'

'who would? but we'll just take what comes. and just keep talking about it if you need to.'

"wait. mama, don't i have an eye exam and a dentist appointment coming up too?'

'yeah.'

'and everyone in our family wears glasses and the old dentist already said i needed braces?'

'yeah.'

a slight look of something indistinguishable and unpleasant came over his face.

'oh my god! so...there's a chance i could start high school in a back brace AND glasses AND braces?'

i opened my mouth and nothing came out. i closed my mouth.

we just looked at each other.

this moment was one of those john hughes movie moments. 'teen discovers true horror. is not amused.'

and then...he just burst out laughing.

jesuschristo.

whew.

and then i started laughing. and then the husband came in and asked us what was so funny.

'papa, i could be starting high school with a back brace AND glasses AND braces!'

and then we all laughed because what else do you do? other than thank god that the boy can rise up laughing. other than not burst into tears right then and there because you love your son so much and are so proud of him. other than wait until bed when everyone else is asleep to cry just a little because you wish his rib cage wasn't twisted.

when the duke of fun was less of an infant and more of a baby he would NOT go to sleep for anything. we finally settled on a routine of one of us walking around and around and around the living room while bouncing him up and down (he HAD to be bounced) and listening to one particular song by the verve over and over and over for an hour and a half every.single.night until he finally passed out.

he weighed 10 1/2 pounds at birth. this was about 6 months in. this was not an easy task. and i would get really tired. and sweaty. but i would walk and bounce and listen to the song. because this is what worked even if i didn't like it. knowing that this phase would end, hoping it was sooner than later. walk and bounce and listen. lather rinse repeat.

that's what i feel like right now. like i'm walking and bouncing and listening. because what i told him is true, lots of people have lots of things wrong with them. worse things. ours in life is to just accept and move forward. but i will tell you what, and i've said this before about other things and i'm saying it now about this thing...i can do that, accept it. walk bounce listen. but i still don't like it. it still doesn't mean i don't feel like there's something i wish i could do to make it different. and maybe i'm making WAY more of this than is necessary (what else is new). but since i don't know what it looks like yet, right now i'm just a mama waiting to exhale.

it is in this spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. a bitter sweet symphony, this life. indeed.

i'll keep you posted.

x.

i give you these boundaries so that you don't do everything at once.

"Brain scans revealed that the front of the frontal lobe—responsible for impulses and decision-making—was among the very last parts of the brain to mature, which researchers say could explain a lot of irritability and recklessness among teens." Rob Quinn at newser dot com

i've thought a lot about the duke being a teenager. having been a teenager i know what can go on. and what often does. and while i was pretty much a good kid and made it out fairly unscathed i'm certain i wouldn't want my own son to engage in some of the behaviors i did. okay, a lot of them.

BUT this is not something i can fully control. nor do i think i want to. because the duke has to have his own adolescence. period. oh and just because i believe that doesn't mean i have to like it. because i don't. but i didn't raise him all those years the way i did to lose faith in either us now. faith that i can loosen the ties and not yank too hard, or at all if necessary, faith that he'll hold on as tightly or as loosely as he needs to.

so i sat him down and i said 'look. there is a time and place for everything. and while a lot of things look tempting and you can't see a problem with at least trying it, remember to hear my voice in your head. remember to hear me telling you that you can't un-do un-see un-experience a thing. and if you do some things too early, when you are unprepared emotionally or physically, it shapes your view of the world. it shapes you. not to mention dragging danger and illegality into some of it.

the problem here is that as a teenager the processing and decision making part of your brain is not growing along with the rest of you. that means you may not be equipped to properly assess certain situations and their level of risk. because impulse kicks in. that's why there are parents in the world. and that's why you need to listen to me and trust what i am saying. look at the boundaries i give you as an opportunity to learn as you grow, and ease into adult behaviors. try not to see them as roadblocks to fun. plus, if you do everything at once, where's the fun in that? seriously, life is pretty amazing. you don't need to it all right.now. and, it's better if you don't.'

then we talked a bit more about the frontal lobe. and why it makes teenagers behave like toddlers. because you can teach toddlers all kinds of things to be aware of/avoid like hot, ouch, pinch, etc. just like with teens, sex, drugs, risky behaviors, etc. you can teach them about these things but if the frontal lobe isn't supporting proper reasoning skills then it's in one ear and out the other. and impulse kicks in and that's that.

'it's like if you were a toddler and i taught you that the stove meant *hot* but you saw a bright shiny apple sitting on it.'

'there might be times i would only see the apple. not the stove.'

'exactly.'

but just because you're up against flawed biology it doesn't mean you don't teach them. or talk to them about it. you do. early and often. he needs to know the stove is there. especially when he can't see it.

i stressed, again, that THIS is why he needs to hear my voice. yes, he will learn as he goes, and yes i want to hold space for that. but that he needs to let me parent, too.

i also stressed that i get that many decisions teenagers make are age appropriate, but that that doesn't mean they are *okay.* that it's about safety. and developing personal responsibility. and yes, restraint. not my favorite concept, but it's important. plus, and this is a big plus, we have addiction and mental illness in the family. so that's another layer that makes addressing the concept of safety and personal responsibility and restraint EVEN THOUGH YOU WANT THE APPLE a doubly good thing.

so far the duke is a young teen. he's well socialized (i cannot STAND that word but it's one the masses get) but being homeschooled he certainly hasn't been exposed to large groups of hormones and attitude all wrapped up in bravado and ego and shyness and self consciousness and peer pressure all moving in the same direction all at once.

but he is going to high school next year. and his world is going to drastically change. and THAT'S when it's all going to kick in. there will be context to what i'm telling him. and it will be interesting to see what happens.

i'd be lying if i said i was 100% ready. but i'm a mama, i wasn't ready for any of it to change and it always did anyway. and i changed with it. and here we are at the precipice once again.

at least, thus far, the edge is pretty amusing.

'no offense to anyone in this car (his family) but i'm really looking forward to spending my days away from you at high school next year.'

and the other day i chided the duke for not remembering to put the milk away. again. because this is an issue with him and this time the milk went bad.

'sorry, mama. i think it's that pesky frontal lobe at work.'

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

so i was coming back from taking the husband to work and the song on the stereo changed. and a song came on that *instantly* transported me to another time and another place. a girl i used to be.

and just like that i was in el paso, texas. sun baked and dusty, looking right at the mountain that burst into green after it rained. and just like i was in all the towns that i've ever lived in that were so different than the one i'm in now. with the other people i've ever loved who were different than the one i love now. how i've lived a million lives and now i'm living this one. how amazing that is. really.

because when you are in those towns and with those loves you think that's your life. things find their balance, or don't, but they continue on and you go with it. never thinking it would be different than it is right now. that this moment is so defining how could another moment even come close. never imagining how drastically any life can change. and given time and distance, it usually does.

and how here i am at 39 living a very different life than i did at 18 or 24 or even 6 months ago. and i'm here. i made it. and in made it i mean i just lived my life. and...here i am. still standing still breathing and laughing and loving and living my life.

and i swear to you at that stoplight right then in this quickly becoming less alien never imagined i'd ever be here place i looked up and there were billowy and beautiful white clouds drifting across the bluest sky i've seen in so long. and right then the sun burst from the clouds and illuminated it all. everything. and it was like the hand of god or the whisper of the tao or the sturdy knowledge of buddha or the work of fairies or angels or gaia or whatever your spirit or faith or gut tells you to call it because there's a word in every language...right then i was touched by that thing. and right then i got *it.*

this morning i completely understood that my whole life's purpose is to live. that this thing i've been searching for that i know is out there and have come close to finding, that it's just to live the life i have been given. that's it. *it.* to be who i am and that THAT is the thing. that my big calling is to just fucking do it. to be this girl at this moment. to make the life i've been given or made or plunked into or chosen or haven't to make it MINE. to adapt to change to charge forth or hold back, just make it mine. and that is *it.*

it sounds simple but i will tell you what, it's not. because it means a shift in perception. to open the door to the possibility that every single thing i've ever done, the good the bad the ugly the boring the stupid and the on my knees heartbreaking is absolutely the thing that i should have done. that it is absolutely is all about me just being me. the rest is transitory and relative. i can gain and i can lose but i still have to be me. that there isn't some magic bullet of success or progress that i just haven't tapped into yet. my life, right now, is success. and not success 'enough.' just success. all those moments. strung together and pulling me along.

and what's interesting is i think i knew this in some capacity. i've seen glimmers of it. but to fully 100% *know* that i've been doing exactly as i should have been all along is pretty fucking sweet. it's enchanting and delightful and bubbly. and that's the only way i can describe *it.* so thank you hand of god or whisper of the tao or buddha or fairies or angels or gaia or whatever your spirit or faith or gut tells you to call it because there's a word in every language (i even have my own)...you can reach out and touch me any time you like.

and that's the beauty of music. you can be living your life that eventually balances, or doesn't, but does just becomes the life you feel like you always lived, and then a song comes on and reminds you that it's a series of moments. this moment just being one of them. strung together to make a life. and the song pulls at one part. and it buckles and puckers a bit, and then just like the bluest sky after a whole winter buried in snow you are transported. and reminded.

so it is in this spirit that i bring you this installment of your moment(s) of zen. likely it's not the song to transport you, but i'm guessing after you listen to it you can find the one that does.

so the song ended. the light changed. and then i drove like an asshole all the way home. because if i'm going to live the life i've been given and make it mine and adapt and shift well...that's just how they do it here.

x.

train.

we took the train into the city yesterday.

when we boarded a man and his toddler son in a stroller boarded also and sat across from us. the father unstrapped the boy and settled him next to the window. the boy was excited about the train. looking around and every few minutes asking 'train?' to which his father would reply, 'yeah, we're on the train.'

the boy was wearing thomas the tank engine rubber boots and jeans and a blue zip up fleece. he had the round wide eyed face of a toddler enjoying a very special treat. he looked out the window. he looked at me and i smiled at him. he became shy and burrowed into his father's shoulder. he could have been either one of my boys at any point in their toddler lives. i started to tear up.

i wanted to lean across the aisle and tell the father to enjoy this. right here. this trip. this day. this year. don't take it for granted and wish for another stage, an easier one with no diapers and full vocabulary. day by day train ride by train ride enjoy this. because this goes so fast you don't even know.

but i didn't. i sat with my swelling eyes missing my own toddler boys. having an indulgent melancholy free fall on the green line. a mama with no more little ones wondering how the time went so fast. why didn't i keep better track.

right then i turned and caught wingman's face as he stared out the window. big open smile, wide eyes, captivated fully and 100% by a simple train ride into the city. no longer a toddler, but still every bit my little boy.

and just like that, i was saved.

x.

olives.

while it pains me a little to admit this, everything is still packed. well, not everything. but most things. i could say it's because i don't have enough wall space for my furniture that houses said packed items, but that's only one excuse. i still have all that furniture in the basement ready to be used to house all the things i need but haven't unpacked.

it could be said that if i haven't unpacked it i probably don't need it. i mean, we are going on three months and nobody's suffered because i don't have my extensive collection of sugar and creamer sets unpacked.

except for me, of course.

but see, the thing is my stuff isn't just stuff. it is to some people, but not to me. because i use my stuff. if i didn't use it it WOULD be just stuff. but i use it. and i miss it. and i like all of my things around me. i like seeing my six different sets of beer glasses/mugs. which seems like an excessive amount to some, but when you've had beer out of the proper glass it's like heaven. and thus, they become a terribly useful necessity. i like knowing that when people come over my people coming over plates are where i can find them.

i like knowing where my tablecloths are. where are my tablecloths? or my serving platters and serving dishes my square plates with the big huge blue flowers on them? i cannot even begin to imagine where my blue glass sorbet dishes are. or the dish i like to serve olives in.

for everyday this is not a big deal. but when i have people over it sucks. i feel like i'm entertaining in a college studio kitchen.

(we could add in the psychological angle and talk about how i longed for these kinds of things as a little girl and after suffering so much loss last year that i am even more attached to my stuff than ever. which is only kinda true because i've let go of a lot and even just the other day one of my grandmother's awesome bowls broke and i just hucked it in the trash and didn't get all crazy over it as i once might have. i mean that's progress people. i'm STILL verklempt over a certain PERFECT rectangular serving platter that broke years ago and i've never met its equal. but, i digress. and we don't need to get into all that. moreover, who would want to?)

but the thing is most people don't care. they don't. they are happy to just hang out and eat. they don't care if the olives are in my special olive dish or not. most people would eat the olives from the jar. most people don't care that much about olives.

but i do.

and people say oh don't go through the trouble. oh sit down and visit. (i do eventually sit down and visit and i don't get up again. just so you know) oh let me help. they use one plate for everything when i've set out two. oh i don't need another glass for this wine. but that glass had merlot? and now this is shiraz? let me get you another glass.

most people come and they say you work so hard i don't need another glass let me help you.

but i WANT to work this hard i WANT you to have another glass i WANT you to sit and relax.

LET ME LOVE YOU.

this is how i love. i love by creating food and making sure you have everything you need. i love by chilling the beer mugs before you come and making sure if we're having stella artois you get the fucking stella artois glass. i don't want you to have to keep asking for the salt and pepper at thanksgiving so i put individual salt and pepper shakers at various stations on the table. i WANT to do this. i LOVE to cook and to have people to cook for. i don't even care if you're vegan! or you have food allergies! i will do it!

i want you to come to my house and feel taken care of. content. this is not a sickness. this is not perfection i seek at the expense of everything else. this is just how i roll.

am i the world's best cook and entertainer? no. i am not. i am just me and i'm hoping you like what i make and i am glad when you do.

do i get stressed and overwhelmed in the process? yes. sometimes i do. but that's just part of the process when you are creating on a deadline. this does not mean i am a crazy neurotic who takes on too much crazy person. okay, i am all those things BUT not about this. this is me loving you by making sure you have a separate fork for dessert.

BUT

that being said

THIS

is my confession.

the dinner i ruined two weeks ago? with guests coming over? i ruined it because i was so obsessed by the fact that i didn't have my people coming over plates or my cutest tablecloth handy and could only find THREE champagne glasses in which to serve sparkling shiraz to FOUR. my dining room isn't put together and my kitchen isn't awesome yet. this house needed more TLC when we moved in than i gave it. the cabinets need repainting and the hardware needs replacing. and if i haven't unpacked all my clothes yet i sure as hell am not tackling the kitchen cabinets.

so. because i was being vain i ruined 3 dishes and barked at the boybarians and got all sweaty and ended up serving take out pizza to my guests.

did they care?

not a bit. they had the best time and are the kind of people who wouldn't care. they found my confession amusing and she even told me about a dinner she ruined consisting of a corn chowder that was delicious but ended up looking like vomit and biscuits that were hard as rocks. did she order pizza? nope. she served the 'ruined' dinner. and it became a story for her arsenal.

i AM proud of myself that i threw in the towel when i knew my goose was cooked (no pun intended and no i wasn't making goose) and stopped barking and sweating and running around trying to recreate an entire meal and called in for pizza backup.

(all that being said i am very much in the I DON'T CARE camp when i dine at other people's houses. you can feed me on a paper plate next to the draftiest window in the house with the stickiest mouthiest kid you've got on my right and your creepy relative across from me and i *literally* would not care. i am just so happy to be eating someone else's food in their space. true story.)

so. what is the lesson here? the lesson here is i need to unpack my stuff. because it's becoming a 'thing.' stuff is only stuff if you don't *use* it. the longer i don't unpack and use my stuff the more it becomes useless stuff.

you could also say the lesson here is that moving sucks and it's really hard for a long time. that every time i confront those boxes i miss my house and my family and my coast. those boxes make me sad and they make me cry. so i turn away and turn off the light and go where there are no boxes.

and the lesson here is that even though setting a table and cooking a meal is the way i love i could re-examine a few bits of my process. i literally need to not sweat the small stuff.

i have to remember that it's all about the olives.

and most people just don't care that much about how olives are served. it's okay that i do (i really really do) but it's not worth ordering pizza over.

x.

wherein i become a mommy blogger for a day. you have been warned.

it is a commonly known fact among parents that when you have a baby you know a growth spurt is coming when they start to nurse (or bottle feed) a BUNCH. and when they are toddlers there is the uptick in snacking and a few well placed tantrums in a row to let you know. as tweens there are the growing pains, and as teens they just appear at the breakfast table one day in comically too short pajama bottoms that you could have sworn fit the day before.

but there is a time in there when it's less easy to tell. the growth spurts in the 8 to 10 years old set seem to be more subtle. a more gradual process that's not so easy to detect. even as it is happening right before your very eyes. at least in my house.

when the duke was that age the only way i knew he had a growth spurt is i had to go and purchase new clothes. wow, he's really growing i'd think. but wingman wears mainly his brother's hand me downs, so i don't have that consistently to go on. fortunately, wingman has a 'tell' when he's about to sprout up. and it's not a subtle one.

the last time was about 9 months ago. i went into the back room and he had the box of old thomas the tank engine videos out. he ended up watching them all and kept watching on and off for the next week. then he got out his wooden train set that hadn't seen the light of day in about a million years. he made tracks and took those apart and made more for the next week or so. then, he was done. the videos were stuffed back into the closet, the train set went back to where it had been unearthed from. two weeks after that we were buying new pants.

he hangs on for the move forward by going back.

and it isn't just the nostalgia of and sudden interest in old toys and favorite videos that signals a growth spurt in wingman. cut to last week. it was just the two of us at target. we were tooling around and i had to be in the office supply section. you can go look at the toys if you want i told him. no, that's fine. i'll just hang out here with you. which i thought was weird, that he wasn't interested in the toys.

so we're done with office supplies and headed towards cleaning supplies. and there on the end cap was a valentine's display of housewares. and he saw something and went right to it and had to have it. oh, mama can i have this! it's only 1.99! that? you really want that? yes! it's awesome! um, sure. okay. and it was this;
















yes, a plastic bowl with a smiling bear and hearts.

now, you wouldn't think it to look at him because he's 'all boy' and snark, but wingman has always gravitated to things like this. well not hearts, which he says he cannot stand (all photographic evidence to the contrary), but just smiley things. things that are soft and happy. since he was a baby until now. things like that bowl make him happy. they also give him security.

for instance, last summer he went to YMCA camp for the first time. for a week. he had been waiting forEVER to be old enough to go. he was packed up and on the bus and off he went. i cried. and then i figured it would be like the duke, he'd jump right into camp and be sad it was time to come home.

turns out, i found out MUCH later, he was horribly homesick the WHOLE time. he said he had fun, enjoyed it a lot, but the homesickness never went away. and the very first chance he got he went to the camp store and spent all of his money on two stuffed animals and slept with them both every night. he told me he still felt homesick, but that the stuffed animals made him feel much better. they've joined pooh bear on the bed and he sleeps with them still.

and yes, they are smiley and sweet and soft and they comforted him when he needed it. and while i am sad to think of him missing home so much, i am proud of his ability to tend to his emotional needs.

so cut to the bowl with the bear and the hearts. he knew immediately he had to have it. and, i did too. (thank god. i wish every aspect of parenting came so easily.) he eats out of it every night. and he will continue to do so until one day i'll notice when he's setting the table that he doesn't set it at his place. instead there will be just a regular white plate like the rest of us. shortly after that we'll be buying new pants.

and the bowl will go in the cabinet. and i'll see it occasionally when he digs it out, or when my goddessdaughter or youngest niece come to visit. eventually, i won't see it anymore.

the thing about growth spurts in children is that we tend to think of them as purely physical. but there's a whole emotional component and when you're little it seems to hard to put a finger on. you know you feel...something. but what is it? it's hard to describe, because you feel it but you also "feel" it.

babies nurse more for the nourishment to sustain the growth spurt and as they do they stay close to their mamas longer than usual, holding on and keeping safe until it passes.

being a toddler is just one HUGE growth spurt. and they tantrum because they have little to no ability to adequately verbalize their feelings. god what an intensity to grow so much so fast. can you imagine? and not just feelings of i'm mad i'm sad i'm hungry i don't like those socks. more the WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH ME feeling that is surging through their tiny bodies, and not just physically. sure they snack for nourishment, but the tantrums are the hold-me-closer-even-as-i-scream-because-trust-me-i-need-to-scream nourishment for their exploding souls.

tweens need empathy and understanding for their growing pains just as they do for their rapidly growing inner emotional lives, too. teens need new clothes to cover their person and they also need the same assurance that you've got their back for the rest of it. 'it' being a very big deal even if they can't quite explain it fully. it's easy to notice too small pajama pants and fix that. but it's just a symbol of a larger expansion going on inside. one that doesn't need 'fixing,' just noticing. and understanding.

note to self; keep that last paragraph handy for a not so distant future reminder.

for now, wingman has his bowl. and for how long i don't know. and as much as i like to see him grow and mature, i kinda hope he eats out of it for a little longer than i know he will. because i miss my little kids. and i think i always will.

x.

i messed up.

so.

i bitched about someone in an e-mail i sent to the husband. only i sent it to the person. i bitched about. instead.

and you always hear about these things and you hope it never happens to you and it feels just as you would imagine something like that would feel. and yes. there was the OMG maybe i can get it back!!! hopeless totally sinking moment.

with shaking hands and a pit in my stomach i quickly sent a sorry. i explained what caused the bitch. why i was upset. it's been an upsetting day. i should have just said no. this has been a problem before. this is my issue. this is not your issue. i apologize for dragging you in. i understand if it's just too much and you want to terminate the agreement. (this was a professional acquaintance) please let me know.

she didn't let me know. not yet.

shit.

just because you mess up and feel like a colossal ass doesn't mean you don't have to feed your kids. chopping the cucumbers and the tomatoes washing the lettuce. vegetables are easy. slice slice neat rows of four. turn and chop chop chop. they get shoved to the side in a tidy little pile. i set the table with a fresh tablecloth. i sat down. i ate with my kids.

and the thing wasn't that it was bitchy *about* her. just the situation. but it could very definitely be interpreted as directly hurtful. it was not an e-mail any of us would care to receive.

moreover, it revealed my inner ass. it shed light on my absolute ability to appear passive aggressive. to BE passive aggressive. my 'say one thing with a smile and feel quite another with a bitch' side. sure, it was supposed to be private. a vent from a wife to a husband at the end of a long day. i'm entitled. but it revealed to someone else what i cannot stand about myself. it revealed my inner silly mortal. i felt ashamed. and embarrassed.

i am a good person. but i felt like a bad person.

i messed up.

she didn't let me know. still.

i went upstairs and brushed my teeth. a shower. a shower might be a good thing. i never shower at night. but it was if cleaning my teeth and my person could clean my conscience. see. i'm clean. good people are clean. i AM a good person. as if the minty flowery foamy steamy would really wipe the slate.

the thing is, when you hurt someone's feelings it feels worse than when you get your feelings hurt. at least when my feelings get hurt i get a dose of righteous indignation. the free pass to cry. the opportunity to rise above it. to forgive and feel better. even as we are hurting, these are soothing balms. when i hurt someone's feelings i just feel like shit. and there's nothing i can do about it. except keep breathing, know that we all slip up, and hope for the best. and feel like shit.

i wanted to cry. but i didn't. because i was way too anxious. and because i didn't think it would be fair.

i messed up.

she didn't let me know. still.

i set up the coffee for the morning and made the husband's lunch for the next day. the salad arranged so nicely in the container. the dressing separate and nestled in so it was presentable and convenient. the leftover homemade pizza fanned out in the next container. containers stacked neatly. good people do nice things for others. see! i AM a nice person. look at the care i am taking with someone else's lunch. look at me be a good person.

i wonder if she who does not know me well knows that i am a good person. not the sum of my bitchy parts. i wonder as i wait for her to let me know.

here i am on the couch. doing flashcards with wingman. i cannot stand doing flashcards. but here i am doing them. with encouragement. and a smile. good people do things they don't want to do to help others. with a smile. yeah. and that's what got me into this mess. this is not lost on me. but mothering is different. yeah. at least that's what i tell myself as i ignore the blurred lines in my life.

i see wingman through the evening and get him into bed. i am a good mother. good mothers are good people. see me being a good person. see.

i messed up.

and then i opened my e-mail. she let me know. she was more than gracious. i was gracious back. with humility. and appreciation. and after all that, that was that. she is a nice person.

so. we go from here.

yeah. and did i still go overboard and agree to a bit too much (though not as much as before?) yep. i absolutely did. but, this was a good huge humbling step. and i am still learning. and truth be told i created a HUGE situation over what, in the end, amounted to changing two hours. two freakin' hours. even though i felt justified and she didn't listen to my needs as closely as i would have liked, i didn't take a step back i just jammed forward. i should take more time to take that step more often. and i am too accommodating, it's true. BUT i am also a person who does like to help others. and in the end i agreed to a bit and she conceded a bit and it will work for both of us. maybe not perfectly for either, but...

there is a balance. and i will find it. it will likely take me the rest of my life. but, isn't that why we're here? to keep trying until we get it? hoping we'll get it.

so. i'm an ass. i mess up. and i can hurt people's feelings. and sometimes i do.

my advice to my kids in this situation is exactly what i did. own up, be honest, apologize. hope for the graciousness of others. learn from it. move on.

and, as an addendum, absolutely check the name in the TO: box on your e-mail before you hit send.

because lessons can be learned and we can move forward but that does not mean the silly mortal won't rise again. because it always does.

x.