Wake Up

Wake Up.

That's what my brother writes in his journal every night, before he goes to sleep.  He summarizes his day in an 1 inch by 1 inch square, highlighting in pen what stands out the most.  An artist of paraphrasing over a miniature scale of time.

"I forgot to wish Paulo a Happy Birthday," he tells me over the phone recently.

"How did you know it was his birthday?  Facebook?"

"My calendar.  I saw it on my calendar from last year."  Ah, what a treasure trove of important events my brother has created for himself, all the recipients of his birthday wishes, and beyond.

"It's been twelve years since you adopted Sadie."  I know, she's almost 13.
"You moved to Pennsylvania nine years ago yesterday."  Nine?  Why does it feel like twenty?
"We visited Dad in Texas in 2001."  Holy sh*t, your calendars go way back, man.

I think about what it means to my brother to write those words in the "tomorrow" box every night.

Wake Up.

Yes, yes, we do wake up.  Every morning.  To this new place again.  When we are lucky.

Lately, I feel so lucky to wake up and find my children small.  Oh good, you're still little as though the heavy hours of my soupy sleep has aged them exponentially.  My dreams are fierce, twisted, barrier crossers and I'm too tired to be in them anymore by morning.

Daylight is fanning through lazy blinds, iCarly is on low volume in the living room, and the coffee pot is hissing from the kitchen.  All this familiar glints beautifully through a bothersome world beneath.  My dreams have no power over me here.  Thickness fades while blinking and oxygen feel like rebirth.

"Goodbye, Daddy, I love you," whisper-shouts my son as Andy gathers his backpack, a piece of half toasted raisin bread most likely in his teeth.

"I love you, too."

I am so grateful to wake up.  To wake up here in a real world filled with delicious sounds of small children, busy husband, happy dogs, and one very naughty kitten.  It is a world filled with daylight and decaf, T-shirts and dishwashers, fundraisers and overcooked chicken, kisses and fights.

It's the world I love to live.  To devour by the hour, staving off the night.

I'm so lucky to wake up.

Anna's Rare Bird

Typically, I never would've left a comment.  There were already hundreds.  Anna had so much love pouring in on her blog already after the accident.  What difference could one more "I'm so, so sorry" possibly make?

A world of difference, actually.

To me, to their family, to the wall of grief threatening to swallow them whole.

When a twelve-year old boy is swept away in a neighborhood creek, never to return home again, all bets are off.  Everything is wrong.  The world is no longer playing by the rules.

Adding my voice to the many hearts opened and hurting that day led me to care and awkwardly pray for a family I've never met, for a boy I couldn't fathom was gone, to a God I wasn't sure was listening.

The Donaldsons haven't left my heart since.  They haven't left the heart of millions.  I believe our voices mattered to a family needing to see miracles.  To feel unearthly love.  To know compassion on a larger scale than they have ever known before.

And we need them in return.

After Anna's book, Rare Bird, comes out that circle of hearts will widen and more people will be forever moved by their story and their boy named Jack.  More people will learn how to bring comfort when the worst thing imaginable happens to a family.  More people will understand how to keep waking up when the act of living does not feel like an option.  More people will have hope.

Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love 

By Anna Whiston-Donaldson

Anna's grief unfolds real time in Rare Bird, just as it does on her blog.  Her shock is delicately transparent as she tries to process the incredible trauma it is to lose a child.  Anna does not hide how she and her family suffer, fight, and struggle to be the cohesive unit they just were.  She allows us to see how every little detail of her life, even the privacy of her own driveway, is brutally unrecognizable.  There is no point in pretending.  Anna doesn't need dramatic words to help us understand her pain.  She simply describes her days, layer by layer, while we walk with her and force ourselves to breathe.

I rest a bible underneath my copy of Rare Bird while I read.  As if doing so will negate the outcome, somehow bring Jack back to her.  It's an unread powder blue-of-the-softest-leather-bible I bought at a thrift store.  I know Anna would give that purchase a thumb's up and coupling it with the story of a mother's greatest pain seems right to me.  It is my crutch when I want to deny the details of that terrifying afternoon.  Anna's words gently lead up to that indescribable moment when she feels in her soul that "...Jack is gone forever." A moment that riddles your arms with goosebumps that flush through to your toes.  Anna's honest disclosure is both horrifying and divine all wrapped in one. That glimmer of knowing without understanding how you know.

One of the first impossibles.

Anna goes on to reveal many more inexplicable moments.  Signs of Jack where there should only be trees.  An unexpected visitor who brings her peace when she only knows anguish.  Premonitions that would typically be cast aside as coincidence.  A deep connection that escapes reason yet somehow brings comfort.  Despite crippling heartache and constant longing for Jack, there is a connection.
 

 

Things that should be impossible but are not.  Because once you get to know Jack, you understand his life verse in new and fascinating ways. "Nothing is Impossible with God" is more than a collection of prophetic words.  It's a glimpse into a vast inter-connected place with the kind of beauty you only get from a boy with such soulful eyes.

You will fall in love with the entire family.  Anna has such gift with words that allowing you in to her world feels like a visit over tea.  Add to that her refreshing funny bone and you just want to ask The Donaldsons to wait up for you for their next camping trip.  They are each unforgettable.

But it is Anna's daughter, Margaret, who shines like a comet for me in this book.  She is a witty, real life broken-hearted warrior who inadvertently inspires her parents to keep going.  As you would imagine, Margaret tends to her own overwhelming loss in private ways, right for a 10 year old girl.  Her natural charm springs off the page, intimating at the humor she shares with her brother, the one that forever glues four people together, not three.

Living without Jack is not something Anna, Tim, Margaret, or anyone who loves him ever planned on having to do.  Nobody ever dreamed it would be a reality.  But now, after reading Rare Bird, I can see it is a daily reality they each must make on many different levels.  A choice that will never feel easy or right.

But one that is somehow, beyond all understanding, beginning to feel possible.

Shrinking the Moat

When first receiving the text to join them for breakfast, my mind reeled with excuses:  I have this cough.  It's the kids' first full week of school.  I ate crawfish last night and now my pants don't fit.  But instead I wrote back:  Ok, I'm in.

The Military Spouse Group meets often for various things throughout the year.  Sometimes socials, sometimes exercise, sometimes to unwind through designing wreaths and swapping numbers of babysitters who hang up wet towels.

Throughout the years, I've joined in.  I've clinked glasses, read Book Club books, and traded stories of endless nights as new mothers while our husbands worked their way up the ranks at new duty stations.  For the most part, it was always a good time.

But lately, I've not felt like joining in.  I've (rudely) ignored invitations.  I've hit the "maybe" button just to declare it a firm "no" the day of.  I've driven to the function, joined in for an hour and made haste to leave less than an hour later.

Why?

I think because I've made assumptions.  The wives here are so put together.  One is a ballerina.  Literally, she is a walking, talking, pixie-haired precious ballerina.  Another takes pictures of babies that make you beg your ovaries for one more try.  A few others have started their own businesses and are committed to their heart's work.  The last one has a gorgeous British accent and rocks Athleta outfits like she has forgotten she's wearing clothes.  I can never forget I'm wearing clothes.  Mine are forever tugging, pulling, scooching, getting pinched somewhere too rude to re-situate in public.  I remain, at all times, acutely aware of an underarm that's showing through a bell sleeve, or of a clasp driving a new bellybutton somewhere deep into my hip.

I assumed all these women weren't like me.

Yes, those are dog pajamas.  I need an intervention.

So I said No way more than Yes.  I reveled in No.  Bragged to my non-military-spouse friends about the freedom of my No.  Danced around my kitchen while those Together Girls had gatherings because No was so much more risque than Yes.

Then, the boomerang returned.  The distance I created to empower myself with non-comparisons turned into a moat of disassociation.   An island of women who move every two to four years, miss their family, and bleed Tricare were within reach and I pushed myself away because I didn't think I had my sh*t together.  A large well of fellow moms deciding to pause their career clock, like me, and balance their family on the small of their back were nearby and here I've been, walking away from them with an empty bucket.

So dumb.

This morning that changed.  Forcing myself into clothes that would gripe and fuss, I went to meet a large group of very intimidating  easy going women.

And when I got there, the moat shrunk.  Our differences became laughable while our similarities beamed.

One spouse just moved here.  She has three young kids, is a stay-at-home parent and is also a registered nurse. She told us a story about how she found out a bully was stealing her kindergartner's lunch midway through his first year of school.  My mama blood ran hot just like hers as she retold the story.  She dealt with the situation like a champ and we all applauded her instinct to investigate.

One mama mentioned her recent abstinence of social media and right away I went in for the gold.  "Are you happier?"  She lifted her gaze to mine and breathed a very full, "Yesss, so much happier"  Hmmm, I might have to try this, New Happy Mom Lady.

I met a rescue freak mama just like me.  Yes, her biceps and svelte yoga frame daunted me at first but before long we were chatting about her elderly beagle and the most efficient way to make food for a dog in kidney failure.  She adds baked salmon.

At the end of the table was another wife, cradling her week old baby in a front carrier. Next to her sat her own mother who told stories of living with her daughter in tiny living quarters overseas while the husband was deployed.

My friend, the one who texted me last night, gave us all hope that teenagers do come back after the painful "I Hate You" years.  Hers even lets her snuggle.  At sixteen.

When it was time to go, I checked the time.  Four hours had passed although it felt like one.

And I barely noticed that new bellybutton two inches away from my hip.

Prayerful

I'm not sure when it started but we now have a nightly tradition.  At bedtime, after I peck their foreheads and mush their cheeks for another kiss, they ask the same question:

Grayson:  Mom, will you pray with me?
Abby:  Mommy, will you PRAY, not P-L-A-Y with me?  There was some confusion one night with Abby's request, leading to my delivery of a dissertation on effects of sleep deprivation.  She is seeing to it that never happens again.

For Grayson, now 7, we fold our own hands neatly, close our eyes, and chat with God silently for a few minutes.  Our main focus here is to ask God to fill our minds with specific lovely things while we dream.  But there's a catch.  He insists we pray for each other and not ourselves.  I find this fascinating.  Either my boy doesn't trust me to cover myself in the right words or he has certain requests he's sure I'll omit.

Abby's another story.  She likes her prayers out loud, up close, and centered around her only.  Our prayer is conjoined, outspoken, and sparkly.  Just like our relationship.

Dear God, thank you for these blessings we recognize and fail to recognize daily.  Please allow Abby to dream of rainbows, fairy wings, cotton candy, Pandora kitty, kissing Sparrow and NOT ______________.  There is always a fill-in-the-blank word she chooses with fervor like NOT SHARKS or NOT WOLVES or NOT GREEN BEANS.  My favorite is "NOT SECRETS because I cannot keep a secret."

The other night I was in a hurry and ready to collapse into a pile of laundry I'd held at bay all day long. Grayson sensed my rejection but held fast to our ritual just the same.  My prayer for him was officious, abrupt, and over well before his prayer for me.  This gave me a few seconds to watch his small face emote all the requests being made on my behalf.

A slightly raised eyebrow.
A tiny frown lasting milliseconds.
Eyes squeezed together and pensive.
And finally, peace.

"What was that all about?"  I had to ask.
"You'll see,"  he responded, tickled with himself.

That night I had a visit from Jimmy in my dreams.  It wasn't anything spiritual, heavenly, or even magical.  It was a favorite uncle hanging with his niece, talking over mundane things like wallpaper.  His voice was pure Jimmy- rich, mellow, and normal.

It was an answered prayer from a little boy who has every reason to be tickled with himself.

Pandora's Box

It seems our world has been enlightened.

We have a new family member that I haven't formally introduced yet.  Her name is Pandora and this is her story:

On Father's Day, I am doing what all derelict wives are doing - coming home from Wal-Mart with last minute Father's Day gifts.  Reveling in my hour long child-free shopping trip, I decide to take the interstate home for a moment with the open road.

It takes nearly five whole minutes of driving down the wrong direction on the interstate for me to realize I am, as usual, headed west when I need to go east. The nearest turn around spot takes me to a busy parkway, where everyone is speeding up to merge instead of slowing down.

Oh man, is that a half-smushed bird in the road?   I swerve hard to the right so as not to add insult to obvious and miserable injury.

My God.  It's a KITTEN!    And the kitten isn't dead at all, she is dragging her lifeless legs toward the median like the tiniest warrior I've ever seen.  Mouth wide open in a battle-cry, she is heaving her good legs - one front and one hind- to propel herself away from zooming cars and toward the safety of tall grass and swarms of ants.

You can do this, you can do this, you can do this!  My van and I are parked with hazard lights on before I rationalize how stupid it is to try to chase a traumatized creature on the median of a busy road.

(No cars taken in this pic as it was taken days later, but it was insane on Father's Day)

You're gonna be ok, You're gonna be ok, You're gonna be ok.  I gallop from shoulder to median eyeing dry grass for any movement.

With nothing but my thrapping heart and jingling car keys, I stand without a towel, extra shirt, or even large cup, in which to put her...if I find her at all.

A few feet in the opposite direction of where I think the kitten is hiding, I see a flattened piece of cardboard.  My head on a swivel, I grab the cardboard piece and galumph through the grass with bumblebees like a dizzy antelope.  (Oh no, I'm sure that's not scary at all to a wee kitten running for her life.)

You can do this, you can do this.

 If I'm able to get to her, I'm now positive she'll shoot toward the street again to get away from the crazy panting monster leering at her spouting Tony Robbins inspirations.

There you are, you dear little thing.  

I lay one hand on her speckled gray coat and use the other to put the hunk of cardboard on the curb that she is hugging so she can't dive toward traffic.

We stay like that for many minutes.  She lets me pet her until finally her open mouth lets out a silent cry that guts me from the inside out.  We are not having a picnic, this girl is in trouble.  She is in serious pain and I need to get her out of here now.

You can do this.  We can do this.  This is happening.

I quickly lift her scruff and she doesn't even flinch.  Holding her a few inches off the ground gives me no comfort as to well-being.  Her limbs just hang this way and that.  Some look broken, some look to have simply given up.

I scoot the cardboard piece under her before realizing it's actually a dilapidated box.  Not much of one anymore as I re-assemble its ripped up sides but enough to act as her safe house for a while.

She lets me slide her right in.  Her terrified golden eyes are the last thing I see before clutching that box in my arms like it is a bomb ready to explode.

Well, shit.  I can't just stick you in the carseat, can I?    

If you've ever try to extract a petrified cat from your vehicle, you'll know this only ends in cat urine all over your upholstery and slices down your arm that may or may not need stitches.

(Yep, she's in there.) 

I have no choice but to trust she's too tired to fight.  I put her in Abby's carseat, tell her she's going to be ok now, and drive like hell to the nearest open animal hospital.  

Then, somehow text my husband.

Hi Honey.  Pls don't be mad but I found kitten in road and now at vet.  Will text soon.  Happy Father's Day.

Within a few minutes, he writes back, "Do what you gotta do," and I fall in love with him again.  You see, Andy hates cats.  He doesn't hate anything but he hates cats.  He has allowed many dogs in our home throughout the years but has never bent one millimeter with his rule of no cats, ever.

So I sit in the waiting room - half adrenalized and half wondering what will happen to our bank account when the doctor comes in.

Two hours later, Doc tells me the kitten looks bad but is stable.  Do I want to continue with feline leukemia test?  Yes, I do.  What''s going on with her?  Kitty has sustained a lot of injuries and a possible head trauma as one pupil is blown.  Kitty's x-rays show no broken bones but she does have legs that have serious ligament injuries, front much worse than hind.  It will be more than likely she'll need her leg removed before long.  She will need observation overnight.  Do I need a coffee?  No, just a job please.  We are hiring.  I'll take an application.  Thank you.  No, thank you.  Have you named her yet?  I haven't even seen her yet, really.  What does she look like?  She's gorgeous.  And tiny, only 2 lbs.  Would you like me to bring her out.  Yes, let me put on some lipgloss.  





Well Hello you little warrior princess.

I name her Pandora because she is stunning, strong, and let me put her in the saddest little box I've ever seen.  I name her Pandora because it's a name I love and I'm pretty sure I already love her, too.  Warrior kittens don't come across my path everyday.  When they do, I illegally park my minivan to help them get to safety.  Forever.  I'd be crazy not to.

******************************

An update on Pandora or Pandy Paws as we call her:

She has come along beautifully!  She has gained weight and is now over three pounds.  Pandy Paws no longer has worms, fleas, or any disease at all.  She still cannot feel or technically use her front right paw but has been using the rest of her legs quite well.  I cannot see any defects in any of her other legs.  Our regular vet assessed her recently and discovered there is a teeny-weeny bit of feeling returning to her injured paw so we will give her much more time and kitty PT to see if she can keep it.  We are so hopeful.   And our vet says there isn't any sign whatsoever or head trauma so another win!

Pandy Paws hasn't officially been integrated in with the dogs yet.  Sadie scares her which is hysterical because Sadie is more afraid of cats than anything else in the world.  Sparrow has whined, pined, and cried for Pandy ever since she sniffed her here.  We hope this is maternal (Sparrow had a litter of pups before we adopted her.) and not carniverous.  Needless to say, introductions are going well but very, very slowly.

The kids' summer has been filled with kitty snuggling, kitty feeding, kitty play-scratches, and kitty bedtime stories.

Life with a kitten is a very good life, indeed. 

This is 40

As evidenced by my sentimentality over preschool graduation, I am a poor transitioner.  Hell, I've been misty over my friend's kids graduating things this week on FB.  Rachel, your daugther is so beautiful and tall!  Chris, your son's teacher looked so proud.  It's totally ok to cry, Brandi but know there's so much more cool stuff coming.  And so on.  I like things to stay the same.  Or at least where I can find them.

This is making my upcoming birthday a little bit of an Everest.  I'm turning 40.  As in I had to click the clicker thing on the elliptical machine *five times up* to get to my current age.  I know I'm still technically 39 but I'm trying out 40.  It's weird.  Uncomfortable.  Too big.  Airy even.  Like I'm standing at the bottom of The Grand Canyon blindfolded trying to find my way up and out.  It's scary down here all by myself.

But aha!  I take off my blindfold and see that I"m not alone at all.  There are some crazy cool cats down here with me.  The 40+ crowd has me intrigued and lately I've been paying more attention to the good that can come from it than the bad.

The Good in 40

1. You value kindness over tenacity.  While determination is still a good thing, by the time you hit 40 you see none of the success means a thing without heart.  Where this is heart and success?  There is always a domino effect.  Good way leads on to good way.  The results magnify beautifully for generations to come. 
2. You cut to the chase.  Small talk is nonexistent.  Once you've established you like someone, they pretty much know at what age you lost your virginity after your third conversation.  (Not telling but I'm locking up my daughter until she's 24.)
3. Skirts and drippy silver earrings are fancy.  Nobody expects you to wear anything clingy or even somewhat revealing.  Not even your significant other.  Doesn't mean you can't rock some cleavage every now and then but long maxi skirts aren't just for fortune-tellers anymore. 
4.  You see the light.  You might not always behave like you see the light but you have it locked in your scope most of the time.  That yellow Gatorade your 5yo just spilled all over the garage?  It's juice on concrete.  Grab the hose, no bigs.  Those new half moon eye-wrinkles you see in the mirror now when you smile?  They make you look like your father, it's all good.  
5. You prioritize joy.  Snapping pictures makes you happy?  You strap that Nikon on your shoulder like you're Jane Goodall collecting data from the forest.  Writing fills you up?  You sit your butt down every chance you get to tap out your thoughts and watch them show you how you feel.  There might not be more than today to experience joy.  At 40, you get how important this is.
6. You push away fear.  By now I've come to understand that worry is a beast but fear is a bully.  Once you've established a working relationship with fear, you're fluid.  If you shut down and let it overpower you, you're letting fear have its way with you.  And its way is usually keeping you from new experiences.  When we first moved here, I was really afraid of driving across the 30-some mile causeway bridge.  I white knuckled it the first time, noticed pelicans the second time, and played "I Spy" with my kids by the third.  There are fun things across that bridge - uptown, downtown, excellent music, delicious food... I'm not about to let fear keep me from the original Cafe du Monde.   
7. You never go a day without feeding your soul.  Chocolate and snuggling dogs is mine.  What's yours?
8. You have the kind of confidence you dreamed of in high school.  I call myself an introvert.  That's only a half-truth.  The other half is that I'm also an extrovert.  I don't let that one out so much because everyone needs a secret up their sleeve when there's an awkward pause in conversation.  Being 40 is like one tall gin & tonic.  I have lost my inhibitions.  While I'm not swinging from chandeliers and spilling red wine down your blouse, I'm also not shrinking into a corner wishing I had the audacity to speak.  40's gift to you is audacity.  And it's so much fun.
9. You adore your friends.  I have about five text windows going all day long from friends scattered about the country.  Learning where they're running, driving, going out for Date Night, or cooking for dinner brings me inner peace and sisterly calm.  My friends keep me grounded and allow me to be my cursory, ballsy, irreverent, sappy self.  
10. You do your thing without apologies:
    
    
    
11. You need your family.  It's been over a year since I've seen my mom, dad, and brothers.  I feel them missing.  I'm beginning to fade away a little without them.  I get to see them this summer, however, so will hopefully spend time slowing down the clock a little while that's happening.  
12. You know when you've said enough.

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.