Peeling Carrots

"It just feels less special without Jimmy in this world, doesn't it?"  I ask my husband while peeling carrots and after two mixed drinks.

"Yes.  Yes it does," he admits in a lower register than usual.

I don't care if I make it awkward.  Jimmy's name is as common around my household as it ever was.  I bring him up from time to time and so far the only downside is having Abby ask me if I'm crying because of "Uncle Jimmy" every time I blow my nose.  Sometimes, Honey, it really is just a sneeze.

For the most part, I carry no weight of sadness on my shoulders.  I no longer live through that day of hearing about him being gone over and over again like a loop of a YouTube video.  I am able to function as a mom, wife, daughter, and friend.  But other times, when I'm doing dishes or peeling carrots with my grandmother's vegetable peeler, I go there.  And it's not always a bad thing.

When a favorite person of yours is no longer here to look forward to seeing, hugging, clinking glasses with, Instant Messaging, or just setting your eyes on, the world is on a forever tilt.  The day you learn you can't be with him anymore is the day minutes shift and smush down onto a record that has a finite number of lines on the vinyl.  And that feels right.  Your mortality is in visual and that's alright too.  It doesn't feel like a thing that is to be feared or guarded against but more like a fine tuning of your time left.

Yes, I wish I made it to his apartment for that drink we talked of having.  No, I don't regret doubling back for that awkward conversation and even more awkward hug I gave in his driveway one summer day when his thoughts were elsewhere and his spirit was low.  Yes, I want to climb through the clouds to hear him tell me if any of this dying business hurt and was he scared when he knew nobody was coming for him.  Yes, my God yes, do I wish I could've been there for him like he has always been there for me.  There would've been nothing to stop me from getting to him in time. Not. One. Damn. Thing.  But that wasn't negotiable, nor is it worth any time spent in regret.

But, holy sh*t do the days show their palor and the conversations I have with others mark his absence like they should.  I don't try as hard to make an impression because the one I wanted to impress is gone.  Maybe there is freedom there.   For some time later.

My world -this world- is missing someone so, so special and that's hard to get used to.  It will always feel off, I think, and maybe that's just how it's going to be.
**********************************************************************

Our last Instant Message Conversation:

Jimmy:  Hello my favorite niece. Just wanted to say thank you for your kind happy Father's Day greeting. I had a great day. Hope to see you soon and as a reminder, we both have a birthday coming up soon. Yours is joyfully anticipated, mine is being met with all the eagerness of attending a Dahmer family reunion.

Jimmy:  Are you smiling? Hope so. Could not love you any more. oooxoxoxox Uncle Jimmy

February 10, 2013 5:05 pm

Erin:  p'ville just sold again a few months ago. it was the highest sale in our neighborhood overall, awesome! i'm now "following" it on this site so i can find out when it goes on the market again. leave it to me to follow a house on the interwebs. maybe it has a twitter account? it totally should xoxo love you, uncle jimmy! xoxoxox

February 11, 2013 4:41 am

Jimmy:  Awww....So exciting. We'll get that house back, yet! My biggest regret was letting it go.

Erin:  No regrets, you had to. Boomps was still "in it" and holy moly as much as we love him, a ghost him would just be too much. We will ke track of it and maybe stak it until it's ready for us again. xoxo

*keep * stalk My editor is still asleep.

September 14, 2013 3:04 pm

Erin:  Dear Jimmy, I miss you so much I can't stand it.

A Letter to Myself

Do you want to run?  Let's hold hands and run with coyotes.

Do you want to sing?  Sing until light lifts from your skin like an easy sunrise.

Do you want to sit quietly and watch?  Then grab your blankets, watch those tiny lizards in the grass, and narrate their funny, busy pace to find each other.

Do you want to walk among the ones just like you?  Then go.  Go to where you feel them, hear them, see them.  But don't walk.  Run.  They might be leaving soon because it's getting hot and one of them forgot sunscreen.  Run toward the ones just like you because that's a start.

Then turn the other way and bump into all the rest.  Be uncomfortable and green.  Nobody cares if you're not where you think you should be.  We all have a parallel me - the one we planned on and the one who says "that's horsesh*t" to her children.   Push yourself to stand there - all there - every stretch of your 5 foot 6 inches without hunching like a scared kangaroo.  Honor your expression as much as theirs for both are valid.  This place won't last forever.  Three years has already turned into one down, two more to go.  There is rich, exciting fabric to weave yourself into where some won't notice and others won't forget.

Go and be here while you still can.

Because you still most certainly can.

Feverish Time

Abby's fever is hovering between 101.7 and 103.5.  I've already texted a trusted mom friend asking which number do we hit before DEFCON ice cube bath.  We agreed 104 is the number.  104.5 is grabbing car keys and screaming directives to the dog sitter.

My Ninjas (in-laws) are here visiting and I have no idea how to keep an arsenal of preschool germs from entering their immune system.  I'm protecting mine well with gin from a second Tom Collins.

There's a fan Andy brought in to our room (sickbay) that is both keeping Abby cool and me hard of hearing. This white noise brings me back to teenage years.  My brother, Eric, sleeping in 'til noon after a late night at the restaurant.  It was never less than 64 degrees near his bed so I'd curl up on the futon, snuggling close the afghan with diamond holes in it.  Sometimes I'd get in a whole episode of Saved By the Bell before he ever stirred.  Then his feet would wiggle Hello.

Sadie's on high alert with Abby's fever.  She stays close by which is typical when things go awry in our house.  As if her presence alone will bring strength to some invisible structure only she sees adding up.  She's right.  Love molecules do accrue when she's near.

She's a walking shield of healing.

Lately, I've wanted to sit with time instead of curse its passing.  There's no sure-fire way but stillness comes close to damming the steady flow of minutes.


Abby's calling for me, calling for "Mama" and when I'm with her she thanks me so profusely it's bordering on hallucinations.  "You're the best, Mama.  Please no more wet cloths on my shoulders, it's so, so hot.  Thank you for taking good care of me, Mama.  Will it hurt when all these colors break?  What did you say, Mama?"

Nothing, Baby.  Close your eyes and try to sleep.  The fever calms when you are resting.  

Growth Spurt

As usual, it is a race against the clock to get myself out the door for Abby's preschool end-of-year program.  While Andy waits in the car for his snippy wife, I am locking doors, grabbing lip balm, and circling back for sunglasses.  I head for the tissues just in case.  Too little, too late.  Ready tears push down my face and the only thing Andy is waiting on now is for me to pull my sh*t together.  

Wasn't I just holding Abby's little hand as she jumped into puddles at Grayson's preschool?  I was.  I can see her little impish grin.  She was wearing her tiny brown sandals that squeaked.  Didn't I just have to figure out how to get green paint out of her bellybutton or decipher her cries when Grayson wasn't around to read her mind?  Weren't we just hugging our friends and families goodbye in driveways of Virginia?  

Time flies isn't really accurate.  It's more like Time crawls, stalls, then lunges forward in one pitiful pile of tears at 8:45 one sunny Monday morning.  

"Mommy, are you OK?" asks a worried graduating preschooler. 

"Yes, Baby.  I think it's allergies, all this pollen."

"I think I have pollen, too, Mommy."  Oh my dear hearted sympathy-crying baby girl.  You're my last shot at getting this right or wrong or just getting it at all.  After you, I stroll into a new plateau of scary unknowns and itchy years of aching for these days.  I don't want to ache for them and had convinced myself I would most certainly not but the twinge is already here - a pang of please come back and let me rock you to sleep, sweetheart.  The new life won't be awful, I know I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth, but it's going to be different and right now, I just want it to all be the same.  Why can't we ever rest in sameness?

The tissue-searching meltdown helped me get through Abby's program without one gulp of tears.  She sang out proudly in tight jeggings and a rainbow zebra-striped tank top.  She stood out and stole the show for me among her peers of summery dresses and neatly parted hairdos.  My girl isn't like the others and my heart can hardly hold itself still when I watch her beautiful difference up there - signing with those little hands for all she's worth:  "Yes, Jesus Loves Me." If pride feels like a panic attack then I was as proud as I've ever been.  Vertigo threatened to take me down but I talked myself into a standing ovation instead. 

Ah, Feelers and all their inconvenient Feelings.   

I'm sure my real breakdown won't happen until the fall.  The summertime still affords me many crazed and frustrated hours of aimless hours to fill.  I cannot wait.  It will be one of our last summers where they'll call me Mommy, where we'll have adventures in our backyard, or they'll be ok with not hanging out with their friends all day long.  It'll be one of our last summers that this familiar trio will be connected at the hip for weeks on end.  It will be sweaty but it will be cozy and good.

Soon after, I'll have to plunk them both down on the school bus and be useless to anyone for 8 hours a day. Is this the quiet I've been pining for when it's 4pm and I can no longer read a recipe to its completion in the din of living?  Is this the sense of being benched and no long integral in the upcoming years?  Am I bummed to retire my role as the nucleus of all of their sweet needy little molecules?   Yes.  Yes.  And so much yes.  

And the breach in my system is taking me by such surprise I can hardly think past it.  

Oh sentimental me, didn't I know this is the whole point?  It's not making snowflakes out of coffee filters and stacking Max & Ruby Save The Day back onto their bookshelves.  It's not Tic Tac Toe on napkins in restaurants, building fairy houses out of cardboard tubes, or catching frogs in their good school shoes. 

Didn't I know the better job I do, the less they will need me standing next to them for help?  

Yes.  I knew all of that.  But somehow I thought I'd have more time. 

The rub is that we always think we'll have more time.  

How I Met My Mother

There comes a day when we rip off the band-aid and see our mom as a person separate from her role as our mom.  If we're lucky, and I was, we get some of that while growing up.  And then again after having our own children.  And then last week over FaceTime.  

Seeing her this way is like meeting a stranger at a party, listening to her catch up with old friends, and watching as she orders a drink you've never heard of.  She's fascinating, engaging, and very, very funny.

Here are some of the many ways I got to meet my mother.

• Mom as Surgical Assistant - When my brother was 16 he got into a bad car accident.   The ER where the ambulance took him had only a skeleton crew that night.  After a three-hour wait, Mom went back to the room, let the doctors know she was an oral surgery assistant so she could see her son.  Mom left me in the waiting room with clear instructions to wait for her and not go back there.  Being a dutiful voyeur, I snuck back to find a familiar face scrubbed in.  In a matter of seconds, she had two patients as my head became swimmy and I passed out right into a garbage can.    

• Mom as Ginger Rogers - Sometime in the early 90s my mom decided to take ballroom dancing. She couldn't talk her then boyfriend into taking the lessons, too so she just went by herself.  I remember waving to her from the driveway as she drove off with a nervous smile.  Even without a recital, we could tell lessons were going well from the flowers showing up at our door.  Dancing dude was smitten with Mom and tried very hard to win her affections away from the boyfriend.  Mom stood firm, however, and she (with those elegant long legs) bowed out of dancing lessons gracefully in the end.  

• Mom as Animal Rescuer - One time in the 80s while I was roller skating to Debbie Gibson in our basement, Mom was grinding up dried dog food for two orphaned baby birds she found near our house.  Without Google, Mom figured out how to nurture these bald and blind critters to health and a wealth of feathers.  I'd find her feeding them with a tiny eyedropper, teaching them how to grub for worms, and bathe in the dust.  Mom was very thorough.  To our surprise, those baby birds took off in flight when it was time to let them go.  Eric and I didn't have the heart to tell her they never left our backyard trees.  Their great-great-great grandbirdies are probably still populating those trees to this day - oddly intransient birds who hop only from limb to limb of the same tree.

• Mom as Collector - When my mom crushes on something, she falls hard.  Then she wants all of them.  In the world.  Through ebay.  Somehow she started on those glass jars that store brandy.  What are they called, decanters?  She owns maybe 15 of them (thrift finds, I'm guessing) and doesn't even drink liquor, bless her heart.  And please don't ask me how many Vera Bradley purses she might have tucked safely in their dust bags.  She only has two arms and one daughter but that doesn't stop her from bargain shopping for another one to send to me in case I need to wear it with something ecru.  

• Mom as Mrs. Somerhalder.  My mom thinks Ian Somerhalder is her boyfriend.  She adored the man well before I knew him as an animal activist.  She watched him as the vampire bad boy in Vampire Diaries because my mom loves all that creepy stuff.  Before that I couldn't call her between 9pm and midnight lest I interrupt her Ghost Hunter marathons.  Let's just say she asked for an electromagnetic field detector for Christmas one year.  And still uses it.    

(Ian is far left for those of you who aren't into vampires.)

• Mom as Facebook Dropout - My dear mother does not get Facebook.  She has an account, occasionally uses it properly, then one day calls me in a panic because Ian Somerholder just left her a picture of himself on her wall.  Oh Mom.  That's your newsfeed.  I got the same picture of Ian. He's just using you to get to me, Dear. 

My mom does have a point, y'all.

• Mom as Aesthetician - Without fail I spend more time watching my mom pat down her neck or push toward her temples than actually engaging in conversation over FaceTime. Mom, you look great.  Listen, I want to talk to you about our summer vacation.  Dear God, do I really look like this?  Why can you only see the inverted skin on this thing?  Does my skin look all inverted to you on that end?  Mom.  Seriously, I don't even know what that means.  You look beautiful as always, I really like your hair.  Oh thank you, my hair is about the only thing behaving today...Oh Honey, have you gotten your brows done recently, your eyes look so open!  Oh good.  A two-way mirror.

• Mom as Diane Keaton - A little over a year ago, a friend of mine told me my mom reminded her of Diane Keaton.  Perfect, I told her.  I canNOT wait for her to hear this.  She's going to love that.  Come with me so you can see her reaction, will you?  Hey Mom, guess what?  What.  You know who Jen thinks you look like?  Kate Winslet.  No.  Um, no.  Diane KEATON.  Ah, yes, I can see that.  

• Mom Unplugged- I can't remember the first time I saw my mom play the guitar but I can tell you it never gets old.  When I was little, I'd beg her to sing Roger Whittaker's Whiskey in the Jar and Peter, Paul & Mary's Puff the Magic Dragon just so I could hear her voice rise and fall and watch her fingers reach and press strings I still barely understand. 

• Mom as Lent Observer - This year my mom gave up meat for lent.  She's lost about 12 pounds from her already svelte frame and thus, has been barely able to peel herself off the couch to play with her boxer puppy.  Other than that, she says she feels great - ?!?- and that she doubts she'll ever go back to a carnivorous lifestyle...until our last FaceTime session when I caught her gnawing on a hunk of Filipino beefsteak that had been marinading in soy and something else yummy overnight.  Thank goodness.  I think maybe we'll ease her into a vegan world one week at a time.

• Mom as YouTube Aficionado - Most recently I mentioned to my mom I've been trying to build more muscle.  She no sooner heard me say that when I received a few emails in my inbox from her that led me to a YouTuber named Leslie who has excellent workouts for busy moms.  I mean, excellent workouts that make you grunt and want to stop at 5 instead of 15.  A few videos and one yoga ball later, I've shaved off one inch from the hipular region and can feel ab muscles underneath the layers of loving kindness womb cushion still remaining.  Thanks to my mom (and Leslie), I am feeling better about my ability to get back to me.  Me as The Old Me.  Me as Her Daughter. Me as Stranger Ordering Mysterious Drink. 

Cheers to all the mamas out there whether you mother children, fur babies, feathered babies, yourself, or your friends.  May we all get to see the real sides of one another shine through more often than our Hallmark versions.  It would be such a shame to cover up the good stuff. 

Recentering

Such a simple joy, lasting only minutes before she's tearing off her swimsuit to wrestle dry clothes over a dripping little frame.  Because suddenly, so very urgently, she has to paint a dress made of toilet paper, for Elsa.

She's off designing, taping, painting - fiercely devoted to her own made-up task.  I can barely keep up. Physically, I am standing all day like her beacon of light, listing in the water when she needs to see there's still someone taking care of her.  

I'm here.  Watching constantly, loving on often, reassuring frequently, and worrying way too damn much. This is my worry face.  Dear Sparrow has it down: 

Cute on her, not so much on a nearly 40-year-old woman with crow's feet.

All the worry, I know it's bad.  I can feel its gnarly cells leaching into my body, stealing off with my proper liver functions and Buddha-like peace.  

Good news is I've identified the problem.  Bad news is I'm stuck in a rut and not sure how to get out.  Yoga my way toward the light?  Vacation away the stress?  Interview toward a different goal altogether? 

Chocolate.  I just wish chocolate was the answer.  

I'm trying to take a page from my son's way of doing things.  At school and on the field, he is hyper-determined and freight-train driven to the point of distraction.  We have to remind him it's about teamwork and S+ are not so bad.  But he completely turns it off when he leaves the field.  Somehow he can let it go when there is no field.

I need to get the hell off my field, guys.  

Don't worry.  This isn't code for an abysmal dark hole I'm digging myself out of.  It's just an annoying little bad habit rut I want to mash down with my fists.  Wanted to share in case you've been there, too.  I'll figure something out.  Right now, I get the feeling I'm supposed to work it off (physically - run, workout, increase muscle) and intellectually work it through (get myself re-certified?  pursue another field entirely?  Dance naked to the Beastie Boys?)  

The balance between worry and peace will always rock back and forth, never resting center for long.  My goal is to strike that balance of me vs. them vs. us enough of the time that it doesn't feel like work to smile.

Because look how beautiful that must feel.

Sanctuary

If Andrea from About 100% asked me to hike part of the Appalachian Trail, I'd price hiking boots.  If she suddenly showed up at my house in a rental, a feathered boa, and a flimsy reason why, I'd drive us both to Vegas.  Actually, I would probably head to Nashville and tell her I'm horrible with directions. Since she has recently asked me to take part in a blog tour about our writing process, I'm all in.

What's a blog tour?  Not sure exactly.  But I do know what a writing process is because I spent 9,4245139587103758 hours in writing classes while lamenting about what I wanted to do with my life.  That's like eating twenty stuffed olives while rooting through the fridge for what you might like for a snack.  One Psychology then Journalism then Philosophy then Veterinary Medicine then Gerontology major later and I'm standing with weepy eyes before a Career Counselor the last semester of my senior year.  All the while, eating stuffed olives.

So, here's a failed psychologist/journalist/philosopher/veterinary student's take on writing.

1) What am I working on?

Foremost, a writing schedule. There are stories my kids ask me to tell them all the time ("Please, the one about Uncle Eric and you chasing him with your hairbrush!  The one about your dog getting stuck in the sewer at Thanksgiving!) that I want to compile in one spot for them.  I'm holding my feet to the fire until I finish that in the fall.  Another writing project I'm working on is sorting through all my old poetry from the 90s and seeing what can be shaped into what two decades later.  What's most interesting about those old writings isn't my sappy perspective or nostalgic heart. Tiger stripes, those are.  What's most interesting are the doodles.  There is something so therapeutic about those sketches.  Like silent flares and tiny explosions of encouragement from the sidelines.  Keep going, they say.  We're here to help, they promise.  Whose days couldn't use more suns bursting through the lines or curling gardens of teardrops in their margins?

2) How does my writing differ from others in its genre?
I might be one of the few who writes a blog but doesn't consider herself a blogger.  Through the years, I've learned that bloggers network, comment on each other's work regularly, and attend functions with other bloggers to grow and develop.  I tried for a while and spent most of that time hiding in a deli with a spoon in my mouth.  For that reason, my writing differs because I'm comfortable with or without an audience.  My audience here is an intimate group of intelligent friends (some I've never met) who come here to visit, nothing more.  They're not looking for advice or guidance.  They're not here for a revolution.  Neither am I.  Any time someone leaves a comment or sends an email, it's like we ran into a cafe from out of the rain, sharing an umbrella.  Unexpected fun.  A welcome surprise.

While I do appreciate readers, I write for myself as a rule.  For a later time when I can pore over the details of this busy life as a mom who knew she was missing the point sometimes.  For a later time when I want to remember who my children were before pessimism and teenage swag.  For a later time when I might not remember things so clearly and it begins to bother me.  When you write for yourself, realism and romance are your sanctuary while details and specifics become your stained glass.

3) Why do I write what I do?
Oops.  Got ahead of myself and already answered this question in number 2.  I do make a concentrated effort not to confuse my stories with anyone else's.  When starting this blog, I vowed not to write about anyone else's experience but mine- thus the name, One-Sided Momma.  It's becoming a fine line for my kids as they get older.  My comfort level with sharing them has changed since starting this blog.  I'm going with this recent evolution and feel happy to embark on a new path.  Fewer mommy stories and more about a lady trying to live her own personal truths - personal, professional, and sometimes spiritual.  Of course, this will necessitate a new blog name soon, I think.  Any suggestions?  

4) How does my writing process work?
Man, this question makes me feel like I forgot to study.  My writing process doesn't exist.  Or maybe it does but it's in my head.  Typically, a post is written in my head while I shower, mow the lawn, untangle my dogs on a walk, marry socks, or drive home in a quiet minivan.  Then, if there aren't any other pressing priorities, I jump on my husband's computer, twist my legs into an anxious uni-limb and type frantically until I feel an exhale coming on.  Every period is an exhale.  Every comma is an invitation for me to rewrite the sentence. I'm a huge comma splicing maniac.  Always trying to better the structure but forever leaning on old bad habits.

One thing my favorite English prof taught me was to learn all the rules first, follow them well for a very long time, then dance.  I probably dance too much.

Thank you for the visit.  It's always a pleasure sharing an umbrella with you.

Impossible Era of Lonely

At the end of the day, I am shocked that my husband does not come bounding through the door with an ample bouquet of rescue dogs, a masseuse, and two personalized picture albums from Shutterfly.  Absolutely stunned.  I survived the bedlam of filling hours with life-altering decisions, mind-numbing responsibility, chronic worry, and brushing Sadie's teeth.  Are my battle scars not visible? Why dost thou not weepest at the sight of me!?

Nary a shoulder rub, witty repartee, or mere mention of scalding Epsom bath?  Hell hath no fury like an exhausted mother.

But no.  My tired knight returns to sort through mail, clean up the already cleaned-up counters, and ask what we're "doing" for dinner.

{Usually I'm trying to cook is what we're doing.  I'm attempting to combine ingredients everyone hates to make a meal nobody will eat.  That's what we're "doing" for dinner.}

And there again, I stand alone, with mine own self importance.

It's just that we do deserve that royal treatment.  Really we do.  Where you do your working is irrelevant.  An office, fields of clover, cloffice, gym, shady parking lot, Panera Bread table, we ALL deserve red carpets and sacred goddess names.  Demi-Luna's already taken.

We mother (and/or father) from sunup to sundown.  We wife (and/or husband) when we remember to shave our knee caps (and/or brush our teeth. Boys.  Seriously, just brush your damn teeth, that's all it takes).  We friend all afternoon through FB likes and choppy texts.  And not for one stretch of 32 consecutive minutes do we ever stop catering, nursing, administering, peacemaking, vet teching, volunteering, mind-reading, over-analyzing, bargain shopping, food prepping, dish scrubbing, laundry piling, and self-burying.

Oh yes, we die every day so that others can live.  No, I don't consider that hyperbole because that is exactly what we do and I have frown lines, gray hair, and big words I can't remember how to spell or say anymore to prove it.

We sacrifice our once youthful bodies, once agile mind, and any hope of pretty fingernails for our families and we have not one tricep muscle as reward.  There are no meetings with upper management to discuss a pay increase.  No free croissants in the break room.  Maybe a slurp of someone's leftover OJ if you're a saver.

The problem with expecting praise, purple hearts, and acknowledgement (in that order) is that what we do is typical.  We are not doing anything legions of other people haven't done for eons before us.  Nobody is a Three Star General Parenting or Dr. Decision Maker, M.D.  We are all the norm.

Regular people sometimes choose to parent.  Moms often opt to mother.  Dads do execute fathering.  Again, nothing to write home about because it's all been done before.

But I've noticed something.  In reading blog "confessionals," talking to my mom friends, observing status updates on social networks I've noticed a disheartening trend:  Parents are beyond tired.  They're sad  They're lonely.  They're clinically depressed.  They're on medication.  They're begging for help without asking for it.

This is not a good epidemic to sweep over our great nation.  It's a very scary one.

You see, no matter who you are or where you are, children always have you starting your life over from scratch with nothing but a box of broken crayons and some chapstick.  It's an impossible feat with an everyday title.

And every single one of us tell ourselves it's entirely possible to do alone.  To do with a full time job.  To do with a part time job.  To do while maintaining a hobby.  To do while the spouse is deployed or just gone for other reasons.  To do without any family close by.  The truth is that it's not possible.  Oh, you can get away with this way of living for a while.  But let me be the first to piss off the Type As (myself included) and declare that yes, at some point, someone's gonna give.  And it's not gonna be the two-year-year-old.

I don't know how we got here.  How Americans arrived at the notion that Having it All means Doing it Alone and Never Sitting Down but we're here.  And it's not working out so well for the either parent.

But we are trying.  We are also surfacing and quietly admitting we need help.  We are cleansing, vitamin ODing, CrossFitting our asses off to get by.  But I see the trend so clearly in all we write, say, or purposely leave out.  We are ashamed that we cannot keep up with all of status quo.   We hide that we'd rather sleep all day than volunteer at our 1st graders Mardi Gras parade. We can't even think about Girls Night Out because there is a tub of brownies in the fridge calling our name.  It's no wonder divorce rates are up for families of young children.  You can forget about Date Night.  Or even snuggling on the couch.  Exhaustion makes for very bad foreplay.

Parents are beyond tired.  We are expecting the impossible of ourselves.  Every day.

Not sure how this ever became a way of life.  Are we are the first generation to really expect have it all and have it away from our family's support network?  If there was ever a system to fail, it was believing only two people can do the work of five:   one person go to work for 10-12 hours a day to make a life, then one more other person to do the rest.

And yet, most of us never realize we have a choice at all.

Parenting this way isn't always awful.  En mass, we seem to strap on our capes and get things done.  But it does take creativity and daily humbling of oneself to ask for help.  That's a toughie.  Why would we ask a stranger for help with our own family needs?  Because we no longer have our own family as an option, that's why.

So, am I wrong to expect flowers at the end of every work day?  Insane maybe but not wrong.  We are all worthy of that effusive greeting and teenage embrace.  We all deserve it.

Even the husband bounding through the door without masseuse or that precious geriatric greyhound I want to hold tight. Because, whether I can see them through his uniform or not, he has battle scars too.  Just as many as I do.

And if there's nobody walking through the door at night for you after the sun falls and your baby awakens?  Your scars run deeper than mine and your soul is so very weary.  Please, pick up the phone and ask for help.  Your friend won't turn you away.

Sometimes we have to build our village one phone call at a time.

A Chorus for Him - My Messy Beautiful

"Do you hear that, Hon?" I can tell it's a question my 90 year old grandfather does not really want to ask.  

"What is it?  What am I listening for?"  I answer him, worried but selling curiosity.

"Tell me what you hear."  He isn't giving me any hints.

So we stand in the hallway of his room, tilting our heads like cockapoos and bending our ears toward the walls.  I hear nothing.

"Is it your radio?"  When he isn't enjoying his beloved silence, my grandfather listens to his radio with an earpiece so he can sleep at night.  Or maybe instead of sleeping at night.  Rush Limbaugh and G. Gordon Liddy are some of his favorites.  I try not to hold that against him.  At a very young age, I know I'll have to wait to move out before getting anything pierced, tattooed, or dyed purple.

"Not my radio, I turned off all electronics."

"Birds chirping outside?  Maybe squirrels on our roof?"

"No, no.  It's something else,"  he says, discouraged.   His misty blue eyes narrow at me, he is worried too.

We go on and on like this until my dear grandmother comes in to his room to ask him to leave me alone.  She is always peacekeeping and alleviating hurt.  She feels the tone of my voice without hearing any of our words and she asks him to leave me alone so I am not a part of this sadness.  A part of his dying.

But I won't have it any other way.  I won't leave him.

I was very young when my grandparents took my little family in years ago. They never gave us a time limit or a date when we needed to be out.  They accepted all of us:  our laundry, our dog hair, our cat hair, and a volcanic upheaval to their typical orderly way of life.  It had been years since their immaculate home saw a diaper or a crumb.  He was a retired Brigadier General in the Army and she was his classy and hardworking officer's wife.  There wasn't even dust on the floorboards.

Oh, but how quickly we changed all that!  After years of having us live with them, they endured not only cities of crumbs but also:  busted garage windows, rundown mailboxes, teenage meltdowns, astronomical grocery bills, stray animals, ER visits, flooded basements (from washing machine overuse, no doubt), chauffeuring duties to school/work/orthodontist/school dances, and more stress and worry than two people over 68 should ever have to bear.

 

So when my grandfather, whose legs had already begun to swell, asks me to listen to the sound he is hearing, I listen hard.  I want to hear it, too.

"What do you think it is?"  I can hear nothing but my grandmother humming.

"Well, it sounds like..." He really doesn't want to say, "like...a chorus?  Far away."

"You mean a symphony?" I try to negotiate syntax knowing he listens to classical music from time to time but never choral.  

"No.  It's definitely singing.  Many people singing.  A chorus.  And I think it's just for me."

It's happening.  We don't have more time.  All these years of together, how do I say it all?  How do I tell him all my heart has to say?

My grandfather had a spiritual upbringing in his youth but had been a pretty devout atheist much of his later life.  When asked about his stance on God he would tell me by trade, he is foremost a scientist (doctor), and therefore his beliefs are based on proof.  As a smitten granddaughter, I followed suit with a more agnostic tone.  For me (and I suspect for him, too, all along) I reserved the right to change my mind if ever I felt I should.

"It's getting louder, Baby.  You still can't hear it?"

"No, I really wish I could, but I can't."  He knows what I mean.  For the first time, I can see there are tears in his eyes too.  I push mine away.  I want him to know I am strong enough to stay with him.

"Are you afraid?"  I ask, shooting straight from the hip like always.

He looks down at a body that is failing him.  "A little."

With that, I hold his hand and stop hiding my tears.

"I'm so sorry I can't go with you,"  I erupt like a ridiculous lovesick girlfriend leaving her boyfriend for an out-of-state university.

"Wow," he is distracted,  "it's almost annoying it's so loud now,"  and we both laugh.

"Do you think...' I start,  "do you think those are...angels singing?"

All my life he is the logical, practical, authoritative, and respected figure of our household.  Nobody wants to disappoint him and everyone wants to make him proud.  I am not so sure my last ditch effort to throw in heaven-speak is going to be met with anything but disdain from the man who needs proof before all.

"Well, hell," he says looking up at me with that Jimmy Stewart grin.  "I don't see why not.  Nothing else makes sense.  It's like nothing I've ever heard, Honey.  I cannot believe this is all for me.  But WOW is it beautiful..."

I close my eyes and hold his hand.  We have nothing more to discuss.


*********

My grandfather did not live many more hours after hearing "the chorus."  We did, against his will and in a panic, call the ambulance to have him hospitalized, hopeful that maybe medicine would let him stay with us longer. It bought us one more day and night.  He passed with his family by his side.  Ever since that afternoon described above, I have no trouble believing in what I cannot prove.  I have no doubt the chorus he was hearing really were angels coming for him.  Just for him.  I was there and I couldn't hear them.  Only he could.  And apparently they were annoyingly loud.  

 http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior. 

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

(If you've never been introduced to Momastery, please click the link above to see what all the fuss is about.  Glennon is the bomb diggity of compassionate souls doing good for others wherever she can.  It's exhausting.  She's exhausted.  Imagine never being able to turn off your ache to make the world better.  I have it too but am able to turn mine on and off between noon and 10pm.  Go see Momastery, it's like nothing else you've ever experienced.  Heaven on earth for people like me.  And maybe you, too?)

Bringing Him Forward

I had it made as a kid.   Our house was overflowing with the kind of energy that sustains greenhouses and colonies of happy puppies.  It was a sitcom of ages.  Three generations living under one roof.  All parenting done by the person standing in the kitchen at the time;  whomever was closest to the fridge.  Every one of us was at some point the mom.  We each found Tylenol for the other at 2am and a cold washcloth from the same white-chipped metal doors.  All six of us were eventually the dad.  Broken curfews were met with locked doors and bolted windows.  Plenty of us were the children.  It's a pretty sh*tty night of sleep in the back of a Chevrolet.

We had the slow and wise patriarch - grandfather as he checked that windows, doors, and hormonal teenage grandchildren were locked in for the night.

We had the bountiful love of our matriarch - grandmother whose food preparations, constant laundering, and perpetual light singing was the soundtrack of all those good years.

We had a witty and beautiful maiden (my mom) sleeping downstairs by 7pm because she was up with the mosquitos for work in the city.

We had sheer strength and sweet impulsivity of my uncle Jimmy who walked out of his bedroom room playing air guitar with no less than three cats perched on his shoulders.

We had boyish dirt bikes, Samantha Fox posters, and the wafting of Drakkar Noir as my brother flew out the door to meet up with his girlfriend.

We had it all.

The days became months became years and as time so often does, our courses trickled away from home.  Even still, we returned (to live, to visit, to listen to Cat Stevens on the record player) all the time and surged on as pulsing arteries from the same beating heart.

You can't forget a past like that.  You don't want to.

My grandparents have been gone for twelve years yet I still measure out water and oil with my grandmother's Fire-King measuring cup.  So I can hear her singing.   Nobody has been allowed to tune their piano because I haven't wanted it opened up just yet.  Preserving my sacred..

A few Guideposts and an old leather coaster sit atop my grandfather's circular gold-in-lay table from his time serving in India.  Whittled from an artist's hand and crafted so well it has withstood seven of my own military moves.

All these things are just things but I won't leave them yet.  I will bring them all forward with me for as long as I can.   Roots grow stronger as they spread.

Today is the year anniversary of Jimmy's death.  Those words together still look preposterous.  As if anything could ever make him gone.  Not a chance in this imprinted heart of mine.  I will bring him forward with me, in the way I skip dinner, open doors for children, sing when people are crying, and work on behalf of those who need someone.  Nothing will ever change that.  Not even death.

Swimsuit Solace

It's time to discuss something I've been avoiding like the dentist.  Swimsuit weather.  While most of the US is still under winter weather advisories, the freaking pool is open here in Louisiana.  To curb your jealousy, I need you to know there are snakes swishing their serpentine bodies through my backyard.  I can't see them but my dogs and I know they're there.  Trade off for not having to shovel snow or bang my head against the pantry for the gazillionth school closing.  

So yes, swimsuit weather is upon us.  

I take issue with the whole idea we need to reveal our pasty underly areas after a toasty and well fed winter. Who's idea was this?  

"You know what?  I haven't seen your hip flesh yet, neighbor.  Let's sidle up to each other in a lounge chair and feign natural conversation in our waterproof underwear.  Don't worry, I can barely make out your areolas. 

Or...

"I'm SO tired of holding in my stomach all day.  It is high time I let that puppy flop over an unforgiving elastic waistband with a crowd of my most active peers. Can't wait!"

Seriously.  Why do we insist on maintaining this antiquated tradition of showing off our vulnerables by way of cups that never fully cup and bottoms that have most likely become see-through upon exiting the stairwell. I'm just asking you all to avert your eyes while I scamper toward my towel, please.  

My daughter cannot wait to go to the pool.  She loves it.  She has no worries about her body staying in place because she's five.  It's totally cute when her bum cheek slides out.  It is a reason to move out of state when mine does that.  Again, I beg of you to save your retinas.  

So I went to Kmart yesterday to peruse today's trending fashion in swimwear.  You will not be disappointed that I spent no less than $60.00 to come home and look like a 1984 gymnast who really let herself go.  The navy blue with pink piping skort didn't even try to cover my ample badonk.  It held high above my waist like an innertube that was going to save my butt's life.   Great, more tire looking things around my middle.  That should distract from all the middle-aged "swelling" happening in my bosom.  I have no idea where these things came from or how I can rid myself of them.  Jumping jacks are not even funny, you guys.

At the bus stop, my beautiful friend - with the body of an 18 year old track star, mind you - let me in on her little secret.  "Swimsuit?  Girl, why you gonna wear a swimsuit?"  

I had no viable response.  

"Naw, see...you just put on some swim trunks with a cute tank top and BOOM."

Swim trunks.  Cute tank top without sewn in mammary cups.  Boom.  Her words hung over me with halos.  

Nothing public happens above thighs anymore.  

It's bad enough people have to see those wrinkly knees.  

Why didn't I think of that?  I'm almost 40 and still body hating come every spring because I don't have hard parts to show off to every other hot body at the pool?  Wasteful.  Useless.  Unhealthy and most of all unnecessary.  

My friend is right.  Ain't nobody got time for swim undies.  I'm going to march my strong, able, and voluptuous self right on up to Customer Service and return the Mary Lou inspired garments pronto.

Then I'm going to shop for a kickass pair of board shorts/swim tank combo so that I can feel like myself:  happy, healthy, and comfortable in my own skin. 

*This post is in no way to body shame those sexy girlfriends who can rock a bikini, tankini, or suit of other kinis.  You go with your hardworking self.  I just want to give myself  permission to deviate from the typical fare becausewhat's going on underneath isn't primed or anyone else's business.

Stirred

All those classroom years
spent holding in
straightening out
working toward
a life I never
believed in.

Every day,
a new cage
to claw up,
bear down,
escape from
with my shaking
and bloody hands.

Little me knew better
patting at mud pies
between steady palms,
feeding all the places
set for dinner.

So many places set for dinner.

I thought it was about being the best of all
Now I see it's about loosening the reins of perfection.

A man I loved once
called me his Nightingale -
and it has stirred in me for years.

Where there is art,
share it
Where there is music
play it
Where there is love
spend it
with no regard to what else you should be doing.


Because that might turn out to be where your story begins.

Forward March

There is contented snoring all around me.  My dogs have been lulled to sleep after a trot around the neighborhood and a quick meetup with a puppy.  Sadie never appreciates youth.  She doesn't relate to their doppy paws or their inability to recognize her as high priestess.  Sparrow whinnies like a small pony, overwhelmed by air, forward motion, and mailboxes.  Their lazy inhales make me feel like a good mom.

A basket of folded laundry waits for me to stop avoiding it.  It will have to learn to snore, too.

Blinds opened for sun on my shoulder, I can see four ducks trail up behind one another to carry on their mysterious geometry while they paddle the pond.  Line, turn, line, turn, line.  Suddenly, they sidle up the bank, following their fearless leader.  He has decided where they will go for lunch.

Abby's happy morning voice is still in my head from preschool dropoff.  Arriving to carline on time, she had a few minutes to unbuckle and play.  She used that time to slowly place one pink and one purple plastic connecting stars on my face to see what I'd look like in star-shaped glasses.  She watches me all the time, I can feel her eyes taking me in and putting me down somewhere for later.  I will always disappoint her.  This is one of those things moms must learn along the way.

Her innocence stares back at me in pictures now.  I imagine her older, her vibrancy taken down a notch, quieted for her peers so she won't stand out.  I miss her impossible shine already.  There is nobody who exists more than my girl.  She is all in.

My boy is soft and cuddly when his father's not home.  There is a gender distinction that never was before in Virginia.  There, Mom and Dad were his parents.  Here, Mom is soft, silly, and safe.  Dad is fun, fast, and revered.  Another thing a mom must learn along the way.  A boy loves his mother.  A boy wants to be his father.

My role is changing here and it makes me want to carve my name in all the trees.

Abby notices her brother doesn't want to play Leap Frog Hide & Seek anymore.  She wants me to hide his Kindle on the weekends.

When Abby and I drove across a long bridge recently, she told me she can feel the earth spinning and see it moving on the rippling water.  She asked me how to slow it down.

Such girls we are.  Both of us trying like hell to achieve stillness...sameness... for just a little while.

Loner Intermission

It's been awfully quiet on this blog for a good reason.  We've had a really nice flow of family visits for two months with about a three day layover for me to bust out my Cleaning Freak Flag again.

I usually spend medium to large chunks of my day alone, reflecting, and, keeping a steady log of my thoughts on this wee bloggity.  The past two months, however, have been quite the opposite.  I've spent time in conversation, planning ahead, and keeping a steady log of things I forgot to do yesterday.

The last few weeks, I've come to understand how being a loner is a crutch for me.  I rely heavily on those solo times to sort through thoughts and file away important things alphabetically.  Being around people often is out of my comfort zone and leaves me feeling disorganized and forgetful.  Not sure why my brain doesn't allow categorizing itself when another person's in the room but it doesn't.  It has serious modesty issues.  It often wears baggy shirts and knows how to remove its bra through a sleeve.

While I miss the ability to collate my thoughts, the missing is overrun by feeling honored my family (First Andy's parents, his sister, now my little brother and his girlfriend) choose to spend their only vacation time here with us in Louisiana.  None of them loves to fly yet they buy airline tickets and hold their breath during takeoff. All of them have very important things going on back home.  Each of them asks what they can do to help out while they are here.  If I respond, "Nothing," they find something anyway and do it better than me. Them there are awesome housemates.

On his second night here, my sweet brother burned off every calorie in his 6 4" lanky frame playing soccer with Grayson in the back yard.  Much like Grayson, my brother is quiet so they commune through play and smiling a lot.  And when I catch him whispering sweet to skittish Sparrow in the hallway, of course my sister heart thumps an extra thump.  This little boy who I remember chasing up a slide and around tree stumps is making adult plans to visit me, 18 years his senior.  

And wait till you see my brother's girlfriend.  She is an absolute living doll, too.  Last night, I found her in our kitchen with her auburn curls piled high, springing themselves from ponytail-holder confinement.  She was stirring brownie dough while swaying softly to something acoustic on her Pandora.  If my brother doesn't propose, I'm going to ask Andy if we can adopt her.  She is art in tiny bare feet.

So while I've not had my crutch to reflect, sort, and make sense of my own brain in the last few weeks, it's pushing me to grow outward instead of inward where it's safe, warm, and filled with chai tea lattes.

Through these visits, I've known familiar warmth, surprising beauty, and love in real time with worthwhile distractions keeping me from myself.

I hardly miss me at all.

Sunny Skies with a Few Rainshowers Possible

There's this friend I have back home..  She's my people.  We'll call her Vee. 

Vee's different from most women I know.  She says the F word.  So do I.  From the moment I met her, she seemed safe.  Like it was a waste of her time to know if my kids ate kale or wonder why I had on the same ratty cargo pants whenever we'd see each other. She asked questions about my life before kids like she knew that was the secret to owning my heart.  It is.  You can always tell if someone values their time with you if they ask you questions that show your guts when you answer.  

Vee's kind but not pushover schmaltzy.  She's crazy smart but not a bit precocious about it.  Vee's eyes tighten when she listens.  She's safe for me because I tend to over think a conversation before it even begins. Vee never lets me end a sentence in "but whatever," because she can tell whatever is important enough to solve.

I miss Vee.  It was a mean trick to play on a vagabond sap to rip me away from her accepting air a few short months after being surrounded by it.  We had so much more wine to go.  

But Vee doesn't wallow.  She is a strong working mom who has crafted a creatively-driven life for herself that I admire and aspire for myself.  Vee knows I'm sad to be new again but she urges me to fly.  She allows me tears to grieve but texts me pep talks on Fat Tuesday and names of venues I am not to miss if I care anything about my musical soul.  I do.  She figured as much.

Women are tricky.  I don't readily find many safe to walk next to, drink with, or borrow their dresses.  Bonding doesn't come around a lot because I'm a strange energy field repelling and attracting simultaneously.  Please do come in.  I'll be leaving soon.

The funny thing is Vee and I don't even know each other's middle name.  We are just as much strangers as we are sisterfriends.  Maybe that's the only way this thing works.  Give it your all but take an umbrella.

I miss Vee's air and the way I felt beautiful in it.

I'm so ugly all over again but I'm hoping it won't last long.

 

Remember Me

There are napkins, tattered pieces of white paper, and a few Post-Its all over this house with conversations scribbled on them so I don't forget. So I don't forget the sweetness with which the words were spoken or mispronounced. So I don't forget the untouchable flat pan humor my husband gives like no other.  So I can remember the goods, man.  It occurred to me this morning I could put them here.  Hope you enjoy, too.

Time off
Grayson (at bedtime curling):  Mommy?  Do you get any days off of work when you're a big person?
Me:  Yes.  When you're big like Daddy you will have earned lots of days off.  Like three weeks!
Grayson:  No.  I mean something else.  Like, do you get to take off for a birthday party if you're a register person?
Me:  You mean for the entire day or leave early?
Grayson:  I mean the entire day for my kid's birthday.
Me:  Yes, you will, Baby.  And he will be a very lucky kid to have a daddy like you.


Funny Bones
Abby:  Mommy?  It's so funny that your legs are always cold and mine are always hot.  And my arms are always hot and yours are always cold.  We have VERY different sensitive humors.

Do it Again
Grayson:  Do you think we get to be born again after we die?
Me:  I don't know what happens.  It would be pretty cool if we did get to do it over again though, wouldn't it?
Grayson:  Yeah. *thoughtful pause*  We're gonna have to be sad to leave Virginia again.  We're gonna have to move into a big empty house again.  I'm gonna get a Kindle...I can't wait for that part.

It's Greek to Him
Me:  I'm sorry I've been a little PMSy all week.
Andy:  It's ok.  I know why.
Me:  Yeah.  Sucks that now it hits two weeks early.
Andy:  I have another week of this!?
Me:  *cold, dead, silent stare*
Andy:  Want some olives?

Just Alike but Not Exactly
Grayson:  Mom?  Daddy says I'm more like your side.
Me:  My side?
Grayson:  Yeah.  Tall and our feet are the same.
Me:  Well, we are tall on my side.
Grayson:  Yeah, like Uncle Matt!
Me:  Yes, and Uncle Eric!  But not Uncle Jimmy.  He was a tall personality in a short body.
Grayson:  But he loved sports and I love sports!
Me:  Yes.  My side does love some sports.
Grayson:  And I am quiet and slow.  You and me, we're quiet and slower than Abby and Daddy.
Me:  We are, aren't we?  We are quiet, slow, but very steady.
Grayson:  Well, I am steady.  You yell sometimes.

Bunk Beds:
Abby:  Mommy!  When we visit Nammy and Pop, can I sleep on the TOP bunk this time?
Me:  Yes,  you can.  Wait.  Nammy and Pop don't have bunk beds.  That was the vacation house.
Abby:  What.
Me:  The bunk beds are in  the vacation house in New York, Honey.
Abby:  OhmyGod.  Nammy and Pop didn't even tell us they moved!!