Sunset Ponies

We've all been under the weather here lately.  Andy's the only one who has, as of yet, gotten away without hide nor hair of the yuck.

Abby's on antibiotics.  Grayson's eardrum is throbbing more this week than his forehead (win?).  I'm licking the leftover pink medicine inside Abby's plastic measuring cup like a raccoon in the night. 

To brighten our spirits, last night we drove to a place where bridge meets water meets sunset.  I had my Nikon and was ready to take back my life when all of a sudden, Abby's need to pee far surpassed all human understanding.  The Port-a-Potty was an insult to her moon pie because it "does not even flush."  Grayson was holding steady for his flustered parents but losing patience with his Housewife from OC little sister.  Andy was keeping both children at bay for me until the wild child ponies broke through the wooden slats in the barn and ran toward their mama horse balancing herself and that devilish busted camera. 

In the six minutes before, I teetered my camera on a dock post, felt the lake breeze toss my hair and took some pictures like the old days.  The old days of 2011 and 2012 before sand or hormones or irrational stay-at-home resentment broke the damn thing.  Now, all pictures are accompanied with a little ghost:  this small green orb in each of them.  If not the creepy afterlife glow than there is a rogue prism of light or two.  Fascinating display of good vs. evil going on inside my shutter and apertures. 

Only, I just wanted to take a few pictures of a sunset on the water with a bridge and maybe a freaking osprey.  It was too much to ask.  I had no business asking.  Moms don't ask.  They give.  And then they get floaty irksome haunted orbs in their jpgs.

Here are the results.  Enjoy the Ghost of Christmas Past.  And rainbow bits say Haay.

Hope your Back to School is going better than ours. 

See?  So. Irritating. 

Well, this one's not so bad...

But this?  Ugh.  I'm over you picture poltergeist.  Over. You.

 

Ooh, almost didn't see you there, Rainbow Bright.

Not there.

There.  WTF?!

Good...

Evil!  This one just kills me.  Put your finger over Elvis there and that is a pretty killer shot.  Grrr....

Oh Look?  It's the Land of the Lost with two suns!

One normal golden sun and another pain in the arse speck of distracting lime-green sun.

Ok, Rainbow Pants?  You don't have to go home but you can't stay here.

Screw you sun, I'm going to take pictures of other things - without light refraction.  Hmph.

Fine...one more little peek, I can't resist.

Maybe if I hide behind this here metal door.

Oh yes!  No green goblins!  No focus either, damn.

How long have we been here?

Oh, Hiiii.

Oh dear, goodbye.

Later sunshine...

Sorry, not sure what's with me and rusty metal lately. 

But doesn't this cloud look like George Washington's face with a gray streak through his nose?  Just me?

I'm not an island lover but this turquoise business is one convincing argument.

As are you little seashells, as are you.

(I forgot to tell you, this man in the blue shirt caught a gator.  On accident.  Threw the gator back after he ripped up his net and got rammy about things on land.  Gentleman threw him on a concrete pole and kicked him back into the drink.  Yes, that is when all four of us took 390246702948 steps backward from the water and into a pile of red ants.  Such northern blood we have.)

Southern Pole:

Urban Northern Pole:

My Wild Ponies

Lovelorn

You wake up and you're tired.  I know.  Me too.  There are only two minutes I covet in this world with all my heart.  The two minutes right before falling asleep because I know I have the e-n-t-I-r-e night to be asleep.  Then I wake up and I'm just not ready to do all the day things again because I can't let go of all the night things and the laying there not cleaning, cooking, walking, standing, folding, nurturing, cussing, and let's not forget someone has to tackle dressing my daughter. It feels gluttonous to lay in bed doing nothing and having more fun in my dreams than a person should talk about but still, I'm not ready to get up.

So yes, I get it.  I'm tired during the day too.

But there's an awesome way through it that I think might be a secret.

We can fall in love every day.  Sounds impossible or too exhausting but believe me, it works.  And it's so much damn fun.

Falling in love is risky.  It's dangerous, innocent, inspiring, delicious.

Falling in love is not easy but it's worth it, every single time.  Even the time when that super hot college freshman saved a seat in Bio Chem for you decided not to love you back.  It was worth it to catch a whiff of his Marlboro soaked T-shirt and rusty scruffy beard. When you are awed by the things of your day, your hours are that much juicier.

Your breakfast.  That avocado.  Look at it like it's the last vegetable (fruit?) you'll ever see on earth.  Cut it in half to find that magical wooden orb that looks like it could dangle from your neck on a beaded necklace if you weren't so worried people would gawk.  I've thought about it too.  Sometimes I stare at the center and think, You are more than a pit little avocado ball.  You are a mystery of the universe that I would accessorize if I only knew how the hell to drill a hole through you.

Fall in love with yourself.  See your hands as they put the dishes away, arrange items in a lunchbox, rake through your graying hair.  Your hands haven't let you down in all these years.  They've worked, toiled, cheered, celebrated, and comforted more than your children.  More than yourself.  Ask your friends.  They love your hands.  Those aren't wrinkles you see around your knuckles.  They are impressions and constellations of what's happened to you throughout a lifetime.  You may have forgotten that time you dragged a nest of baby birds out from the bushes (one made it and flew away) but they remember every branch.  

Fall in love with your soft belly.  It's not hard and ripped and ready for Jello shots.  It is soft, supple, likeable, and real.  Children rest their head on it and feel happy just because it's there.  Husbands don't want to change it and friends love you more because theirs looks the same.  We are humans who make humans and sometimes there are reminders of your impossible climb.  Don't hate on the reminders, fall in love with their effort and strength.

Fall in love with the impatient lady at the bus stop who refuses to make eye contact.  Her stomach hurts because she's waiting for an important phone call from the hospital.  She only gets one mom.

Fall in love with someone you miss and cannot see.  Take out his picture, let yourself take in the color of his eyes even though yours are welling over and spilling out onto your naked knees.  Let yourself love him even though you can't hear him calling your name.  Even though you've done really well not thinking of him for a few minutes.  Fall in love with him again because I can't think of a better way to remember, in 3D remember, the smell of his hugs.  Loving him again is an honor.

These minutes collect whether we're ready or not.

Why not feel dizzy in love through most of them?

Hourglass

It is a gift to start life backwards.

Growing up in my grandparents' home gave me a perspective not many kids my age get to have:  finite time.  From a very early age, I understood people did not keep indefinitely.  The facts were dictated before me in my grandfather's shaking hands as he dialed Sears' service department on our rotary phone.  In me grew a divine melancholy when I'd watch my grandmother's tiny frame curve as she used both hands to slowly bring a gallon of milk down to the counter.  There was no forever in the black and white pictures of people they stopped to touch with one finger, in the hallway, early in the morning when the house was just beginning to smell like coffee.

I'd listen for the clink tink tink of saucers and the clearing of my grandfather's throat before he started his morning soliloquy to his wife.

"{eh-eh-eh-hem} You know I was thinking we should probably replant those tulips from the backyard to the side yard next to the freesia so they'll get full sun..."  My grandmother would "Mmm-hmm" and "Ohhh, I see" in the right places while tearing small pieces of Kraft cheese into the dog's dish.  Her morning rituals started with others and her day followed suit.  She spent a lifetime caring for everyone and everything around her with the kind of magnetic love that drew wild deer to her back porch and stray kids to her kitchen.  Humming her Fred Astaire songs the whole time.  Old Blue Eyes made weak in the knees.

If I didn't have to get up to shower, I'd stay in my bed and record this soundtrack like my life depended on it.  I knew one day too soon all of this would be gone and I'd desperately need it to be real again.  So I listened with the intensity of passing an exam.  My ears became open tunnels, filtering and memorizing specks of their voices and the rhythm they made together;  every word blazing its own path inside my memory.  I took in smells the same way:  Folger's brewing, toast browning, sweet wet grass trailing through an opened screen door, new sticky asphalt of our driveway.  I stayed perfectly still like this for probably hours.  Storing it all up for later.




"Mommy, put your hair down,"  my kids ask me every morning as they reach for my black hair clip.

"Just a minute, babies, let me get my coffee first," as my sleepy hands grope the counter for one more filter.

They plop their wiry bodies full of hunger and happiness onto our bar stools.  "What's for breakfast?  Can you make it not Paleo, please?"

I go about my business quickly but not before seeing them.  They're watching me as I deftly pour a carton of milk with one hand and close the refrigerator with my opposite ankle.  Their faces radiate all the warmth they've held onto overnight.  In their eyes there is expectation, hope, and a twinge of entitlement.  I stage their little dinosaur cups and clank around the silverware drawer with my free hand, searching for a pink fork for her and a green one for him.

My kids don't know the hourglass like I did.

And for that, a big piece of me rejoices.

My Something

Me:  Sorry I was so out of it tonight, Bud. 

Grayson:  You mean because you were all pink-face, Mommy?  You still are pink-face, what's wrong with you Mommy?

Me:  It's the usual, Honey.  You know...

Grayson:  I already know (He admits as he brings my face close to his on his pillow, pushes his velvety little hands through my hair, and finishes off the sentiment with love pats.)  Uncle Jimmy, right? 

Me:  Bingo.

Grayson:  Ok, Mommy.  But you forgot something.

Me:  I forget a lot of somethings.

Grayson:  There are two Uncle Jimmys. 

Me:  There are?  Well then where in Simon Says is the second one hiding?  In the closet?  (Grayson told me a while back he thinks Jimmy is hiding in a closet somewhere.  Abby added that yes he is hiding in there with Tillie.)

Grayson:  No, the second one is not in the closet.  He's right here in open air.  You are tucking him into bed right now.  It's me.  I am your second Uncle Jimmy.

Me:  Oh, Baby.  If anyone could be, it would be you.

3:47pm

Home from morning
filled with new friends
a water slide
homemade smoothies
the color of malted honey. 

Nobody wants for anything because there is this humming of my children.

And for a while I glide
into a slippery sleep
where legs feel weightless
while gods blow on ankles with hints
of where we're going next.

I am not the leader here -

Off we go toward stars of blues
that dot the highest trees
promising
to taste like minted lime
if only I would try.
And oh, this view
of zebra feathers stealing time
between a lightly purpled maze
of Queen Anne's lace,
it's just so pretty here.

 

My hair is long in wispy trails like an anime named Hannah.
This isn't me but I don't care because
someone else
plays with this hair
and oh God please let me stay for dinner.

 

I know we've got more worlds to see
To be, to try hard not to need

But then,

"Mommy, can I watch my show?"
"Mommy, is it time to go?"
"And what about this salamander?"

I skid and bump toward tacks and spines
feathers gone now, only rinds
and just in time
A dimpled sky goes dancing.
Cinnamon trees bend their knees
While sticky frogs whiten up their green
in ponds of pillows overflowing.

I can't stay long, I tell him how
I want I feel I cry I bow
but now my feet are that of clay,
it's time
to be the leader.

How Not to Mend a Broken Heart

We were so sheltered in Virginia. 

I thought we were worldly.  Urban.  Right from the street, son.  But now that we're in Louisiana country, down where the "water don't move," I have changed my tune. 

First major difference is how kids physically run back and forth between homes to play here.  What?  People still do that in this day and age?  News to me.  In Virginia, we have play dates where parents almost always attend.  Some of us hover or at least spy-plane during the entire play date to make sure our kids are not making murals from Sharpies all over their walls.  Moms drink booze chat, discuss perimenopause, and occasionally referee an argument to save any child's feelings from getting smashed into pulpy remains. 

I see youuu.

Here in the south?  So very different. These little buggars are largely on their own.  Kids play, moms need not always apply.  No mama girlfriend in tow with a bag of Veggie sticks in one hand and a bottle of Bailey's in the other.  No in-home cookie decorating to keep all age groups united.  No being a 39 year old preschooler along with the 5-year-olds so everyone plays fairly.

It's like going back in time.  Kids are allowed to be kids again, not inmates being policed and monitored by parents who worry for their children's safety.  Kids here are watched from behind closed windows as they scuttle across the street, then outside then inside, then mudroom, sunroom, driveway, back yard, front yard then back inside with their motherless snail rot shoes still on.

"Miss Lady, do you have any snacks," the new group of bellies ask me. 

"Umm...  Yes.  I mean...have you eaten lunch yet?  Are you allergic to peanuts?  What is your name again?  Do you like cucumbers?"

You guys, it's an entire new thing of beauty here.  Pretty much 1984 without shoulder pads and Speak & Spells.

"Grayson, please let me know when you leave the house, and make sure you walk your sister across the street she doesn't look she trips every time thank you!"  Our door closes, the kids shuttle each other across the street and I look sideways for another child to help but none are singing my name whilst on the john or inside a cupboard.  Ahh, such new found freedom in this retro lifestyle.

Until. 

Until the fight.  My boy and his new friend get into a tiff.  Not a fist fight but enough where I feel the need to halt my joyous cleaning frenzy to mediate.  I, however, make a very poor social worker and New Friend still leaves in a huff even after an apology from my own boy who stands at my left confused that "I'm sorry" does not work.

"Oh Bud, give him some time.  He might come back."

But New Friend never does come back.

Later that night, Grayson tries again but is denied.  He comes to me with chin quivers and tears pushing at his pupils.  "He's not home.  He went to his best friend's house to play with him instead of me."

Oof.  Zing.  Yeah, that one does hurt a bit, Little Man.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask praying he will rather play Lego Batman.  But he does want to talk about it so I pull out my best Maya Angelou and let him know that new friendships are fragile,  take time to grow into something more reliable and firm, and that no caged bird sings or some shit like that.

He lets me squeeze his little bony shoulders to my soft ones and brings his eyes to meet mine.

"Do you think he'll want to play with me ever again?"

Of course I want to say YES!  Every fiber of me wants to reassure him that this too shall pass and everything will be sunflower and coconuts once again but something stops me.  This time I resist the urge to explain away human suffering.  I refuse to give him any more empty promises.  Instead, I hold his face and let him know that I have no idea how things will turn out.

And man alive is it hard to watch my boy and those hurting eyes that, up until that point, believed I always had the power to fix any of his broken things. 

But this time?  I don't feel mending his broken heart is sound parenting.  That practice is getting much too risky now that he's getting older.  He must learn to navigate these sticky social spider webs himself.  And how can he practice that if I keep hovering/spy-planning/mediating the way I've always been?

Grayson and New Friend have not seen each other since the tiff but Grayson seems eager to try again.  His tenacity is admirable but scary.  Personally, I would not try again, after the second rejection. 

Luckily for him, he is not me.  Sadly for me, I must remember that I am not him.  And his heart?  It's his to run inside, then outside then inside, then mudroom, sunroom, driveway, back yard, front yard then back inside with his motherless snail rot shoes still on.

And my heart is to wave to him from behind those closed windows.

Studio

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Before we move to Louisiana, my friend (who lived in LA for years when she was younger), squeezes my shoulder, lets me cry on hers, then snaps me out of it. "You're going to -bleeping- love it there.  You know that, right?"

She is right. I -bleeping- love it here.

Just yesterday the kids and I drive off to visit a funky little nearby town to see some folk art. Folk art, in my opinion, is an understatement.  This museum is a collection of brilliant minds and darkest hours smashed together with patience, nostalgia, and loads of patina.  It takes my kids and I a solid hour to get through the gift shop alone, things are that mesmerizing. Not everyday do you find bacon lip balm, hand-painted wooden spinning tops, and customized black and white prints for sale inside the same four walls. 

The man behind the register welcomes our tribe, then ducks his head low to continue typing on his keyboard. 

He must be a writer.

When I check in with him to see if we should be moving along, only the very tops of his salt and pepper curls are visible.  Those friendly tufts let us know we can putter around as long as we like.  They have all day just like us.

A few more minutes of lingering, then we decide to pay admission and graduate toward the museum.

What we see is unconventional, bizarre and delicious.  Broken plate pieces beautifully alternate with old house keys to line a monster truck tire.  The tire holds in a snapping turtle who pierces the surface of her algae water long enough to let us know she is there.  "Look Mom, it's a snapper, isn't it?!  Isn't it a snapper, Mom!?"  Abby and Grayson climb the wooden fence to prop their bodies high.  Our turtle friend pushes her clawed feet out of the water to make it worth their climb.

When we can tear ourselves from finding her eyes (they are unexpectedly quite close to her nose), we walk through the next archway.  Each building has single rows of colorful tribal spots, polka-dotting their way up the trim of the doorway and back down in lieu of a welcome mat. 

Doors seem redundant here.

The next building we enter pays homage to the great soul artists and jazz musicians of New Orleans.  Rusty saxophones, a lone accordion on its side, and glassed-in miniature exhibits of the city's night life give Abby the heeby-jeebies; a black magic feel.  She wants "up" as she trembles and asks to see more. 

Grayson is touching everything in sight.  There are push buttons, on the outside of each exhibit, that make one thing come to life in every tiny world.  Sometimes a spot-light for a jazz singer, sometimes a little boy jumping on the bed in a swanky hotel.  One button Grayson pushes starts an empty swing to sway back and forth and for a few seconds, we all hold our breath. 

The next room has old pinball machines, video games, and other games of yore the kids cluck around with for less time than I thought they would.  Before long, I find them both staring silently at yet another alligator gar skeleton.

"Is it real, Mommy?"

"I'm not sure if any of this is real, Grayson," I admit.  It seems to all of us, more like a dream.  A cool-funky-retro-world kind of dream.

The end of our tour is my favorite.  My black magic.  The man behind the register allows us into another building lined with the inside lids of paint cans;  frozen in time with their bleached out drips of salmon, orchid, and celery green.  Right away I can see it's his studio.  He explains this is where he writes music, records musicians, and works at building his museum exhibits with wire and small working puppets someone donates from a defunct playhouse.

The three of us step in to a familiar sight:  rugs stretching across uneven floors, lamps leaning against each other, and an old battered up piano standing its ground right there in the middle.  Somewhere must be an old Billie Holiday mic stand.  I can't see it but I know it's there.

I love this room.  This room still hums warm with creativity, ideas and hopes colliding, hard work - the sweaty kind where you lose track of time and drink Sprites to keep your eyes from closing before the light must come back in through the door you wish was not there. 

As the kind register man sits with black-rimmed glasses half-buried under his thick friendly locks, my jaw moves but the words don't come out.  So much living yet to do. 

The kids stay near the door, spinning their free wooden tops where the light comes in.  They don't mind the door. 

We chat a bit more about musicians, pop shields, artists, parenting and I know it's time to go.  

Even though from here?  I'm nowhere near ready to leave.

Mrs. Ferguson

"The guy cutting my hair thought I was 27 today," my husband says batting his soft brown eyes at me.  Lucky bastard. 

Truth is my husband really doesn't look near 40.  He has excellent genes.  His wife, however, can no longer pull off twenty-something ever again.  If the crows feet or creased forehead don't give me away, my birthin' hips sure do.  They look like they're still on the clock.  They're not.  It was an early retirement years ago.  Those heffers just stick around like a pesky boyfriend, begging for naps and Pizza/Movie Night.

I think being a full time parent for the past 7 years to my full time children has aged me faster than it has my husband.  Not to say his full time job hasn't taken a physical toll on him either.  I'm sure it has.  It's just that his is hidden underneath the hotness.  You see, being a Marine, he still works out (as part of his daily job, mind you) as much as he ever did.  Which makes it challenging to see the aging process on the outside, is all I'm saying.  Dude can still bench press a refrigerator multiple times, is all I'm saying.  Husband still turns heads of All the Girls in the Yard in swim trunks, is what I'm trying to get across here. 

The other day I jogged across a cache of teenage boys.  Some on skateboards, some shooting hoops with sweaty foreheads.  "Dude.  Is she hot?" One of the boys muttered as I slogged past.  I glanced backward to catch whatever little vixen there was who was about to pass me. 

Only nobody was there.

Shit.  They were talking about me.  So I did what any reasonable almost 40 something woman would do in my position.  I lifted my chin, hummed Immaculate Mary to myself loudly so I wouldn't hear their ever-honest teenager response and sprinted away.  Whew, close one.  Humiliation thwarted.   

Two nights later, I almost opted to run a different route to avoid the boy band.  Terrified my non-hotness would be confirmed by these kids, I wanted to remain a blurry mystery runner girl.  Not an exhausted burnt-out cougarless mommy.  Soon it began to rain.  Sheets and sheets of hard drops drilled down from the sky so I went for it.  Nobody would be out in this crazy storm.  No chance I'd be caught by any onlookers.  It was glorious.  Liberating!  Ridiculously stupid when I realized I had no place to hide my cell phone.

Trying, in vain, to roll the darn thing up my shirt sleeve like a pack of Slims, my slog morphed into a defeated shuffle in the downpour.  Seconds later, I heard a padding on the pavement behind me.  There, at my right shoulder, stood a teenage boy holding out a small beige and black towel.  The same boy who was part of the club I had been trying to avoid.

"Do you need a towel, Miss?" He asked like a concerned student, unaware we were now both sopping wet rats.

"Yes, actually...thank you...my phone needs a towel!  I will bring it back on..."

"Don't worry, we have a million more in the garage, you can keep it," he shouted as he backed into his driveway smiling like a Boy Scout.

And so went any hopes JT and his fellas would never see me up close.  One of them was able to confirm and report back to the others that "Nahh, she looks like old Mrs. Ferguson who teaches World History." 

Oddly enough,  I'm nothing but relieved.  And concerned this young man might now have a cold from standing in the rain.

Rainbow

"Can you tell us another one, Mommy?"

"Ok, but this is the last one..."

I choose my very first memory.  I am walking down a sidewalk, making letters of the splits in the hot concrete.  Every other square brings a surprise dried-up curl that was once an earthworm.  I can smell lawns being mowed.  Something is glistening near the grass.  A gold rock, a gray rock, and one in between.  Making a cradle for them inside my shirt, I get these finds home to pour over.  Seeing how highly they are revered, Mom brings over a small white jewelry box with protective stuffing inside.  With curator's hands, I nestle my treasures in that box, close the lid, and open it every few minutes to stare.

"I bet they are beautiful," Abby whispers.

"Rocks." Grayson's eyebrows are low and flat.  "Um.  Can you tell us the one when Uncle Eric almost killed you because you forgot to change his turtle cage and the turtle ate all the fish?  You know, the one where Boompa was like, "There's been a masssaaaccccrrrreeee!"

"Was one of the rocks sparkly, Mommy?" Abby isn't ready to move on.  Her eyes are looking past mine and she's smiling for the first time today.


"Yes, as I recall.  And even a little bit gold." 

"You mean, rainbow?  Was it sparkly and rainbow?"

Even though my girl defies parental wishes in thirty minute increments, uses only her most operatic bellows 98% of the time, and charges through the house like a tiny pirate, at this second I see her through the eyes of an admirer, not only a responsible mom.  I recognize a fellow artist.  The way her mind sees without trying.  The way her heart accepts without questioning.  The way her imagination adds color automatically inspires me to remember.  Something in me stirs after a long hibernation...

"Yes, Honey.  Now that you mention it.  One was definitely rainbow."

 

 

 

New Girl

I owe my children a huge apology.

For years I've asked them to, "Go play with Caleb," or "Share your umbrella with Kylie," when Caleb and Kylie were children we had just met at their new school or playground. 

"No."  They'd balk, "Pick me up." They'd request.  And my mama heart would go out to the rejected Kylie, not my own confused child who thought I'd hit my head and forgotten we did not actually know these people.

Now I am the one who needs to make new friends.  And it's really hard. 

"Mama, just go talk to her," my four year old purrs.  "Her phone is just like yours.  Purple!"  For a minute I consider this sound advice and almost make the attempt.

"Hmm." I balk.  "Need me to pick you up?" I request but Abby stands her ground. 

"MA-ma, just go," she tries again with a practiced amount of stern.

"I'm thirsty, let's get a drink."  Before she revisits her sweet pep-talk, we are dopping toward the water fountain like two puppies. 

Now I see how ridiculous we parents are for forcing friendships, even through the guise of being helpful. 

We're not really being helpful.  We're being worried.  Worried our kids won't have a buddy.  A network.  Someone with whom to text, "WTF, no more edamame chips left at TJs," when they're thirty.

When what we should do is stand back and let the kids find each other.  Even if it's not the friend we thought they'd pick for themselves.  Even at two years old, kids know who they like.

Sometimes I think we'd have more success at asking our children to throw a ball in a crowd and see who pops out.  "Play with zee first one zat moves, dahhlink.  Zat vill be a goot friend for you."

Or maybe we should get our children to stand next to every kid in the playground and see what happens.  Don't talk.  Don't fake smile.  Just stand there and vibe it out. Vibe out the whole merry-go-round if you need to, brother, one of those sniffly buggars will resonate.

How about asking them where they live.  How long they've been living in that house.  No, that's weird.  And most likely illegal. 

I know.  Take a lap around one, smile awkwardly without looking directly into their face, and hope they think you're really nice, have excellent taste in Gogurts, and want to check out your Princess tea party situation.  Yes.  That should have them lining up to book play dates by the dozens.

Whichever way you slice it, putting yourself out there to make a new friend is tough.  It feels unnatural.  Utterly uncomfortable.  Exasperatingly uncool.

There's a really nice mom in the neighborhood who stopped to return a piece of our mail that had accidentally landed in her mailbox. I was mowing my yard, looking a little something like this:

Sweaty with layer of sheen, tomato pink about the face, and in my best tie-dye. 

Yet there we were, two moms chit chatting in my driveway like it wasn't raining salty water from my nose. 

This mom is lovely.  I don't know what she thinks of me but she invited us to a play date the next day so my guess is she's ok with effusive smiling and pink and black workout tanks showing through. 

The truth is truth whether you're four or thirty-nine, you can't force friendships.  They simply sprout up from your grassy weed riddled yard when the time is right.

Running

When one of your main people dies, you wake up each day a little more disconnected.

Part of you isn't here anymore.

Then you go running, tip your chin to the puffy clouds above and fall into a giddy default daydream about seeing him over Christmas or Oh! maybe Thanksgiving? 

And you wake up, already awake, to wonder at yourself for not knowing for a few seconds.  When you always know.  You never stop knowing.  Every minute of your day is spent paler, further away, hungry for something it wants but can never have again:  the way it was when things were perfect.

Jimmy is my giddy.  My look forward to.  My can't wait to see him.  He is our Trump card for the holidays or birthday parties.  If you have Jimmy then everyone will come because they want to see him, not eat your dinosaur birthday cake.  Jimmy is the reason I ever wrote to get things out of my head.  To show him that yes, I get it, words fit together when nothing else does and now I can't stop either.

I can't stop missing him.  And like my mom says, we won't.  Our main person is gone.  And also like she says so innocent and precious-like, "I like missing him.  It feels like he's close." 

I've taken up running again.  Not for fun, I hate running.  I want to miss him purely and uninterrupted for 30 whole minutes.  24 whole minutes with a six minute cool-down if I'm being honest.

During the run, I watch my legs - strong and pounding like hell on a road I barely know or give a sh*t about yet.  Making peace with new surroundings seems apropos with making peace with this new life. 

Except I'm not making peace. 

I'm making motion.  A slow plodding jackass crawl through this steamy air so I can miss him and pretend his legs are mine, strong and pounding like hell on a road he barely knows or gives a sh*t about.  Motion feels right.  Slow motion feels annoying but it's all I've got.  The Tortoise Girl.

Jimmy was a runner through and through - fast, strong, often.  He wouldn't stop for anything.  Not even a broken heart. 

Through some of this new disconnect, there is a tug I feel toward the sky - like an ongoing conversation.  The message sometimes lost but this vast landscape shows patience with me, with my tendency for looking down.  It waits with decent clues for when I'm exhaling in twos and forgetting everything.

The human in me wants to process, shelve and categorize but thankfully I'm enough gypsy to know that's just science. 

The sky tugs at me like a child does to the hem of her mother's shirt.

Like my own, it's determined to get my attention;  it will not be ignored.

I'm running.  I'm listening.

I hear you, Jimmy.

Mardi Girl

"Mardi Girl, Mardi Girl, you don't even know what Mardi Girl is," Grayson sings to his sister who is busy searching for a Dora backpack.

"Uh huh, I do too," returns Abby.

"Then what is it," challenges her brother.

"Penis."  Abby decides.

"No.  You're wrong.  It's famous.  It lasts a whole WEEK and I get off from school and you might not."

"It's penis," Abby explains.

"No.  It's not.  It's a pa-RADE and it goes all week AND kids can go but you might not."

Abby, my Mardi Girl, your brother is right.  You are staying at home on house arrest with Mommy during Mardi Gras. 

Until you're thirty.

New Land

We have landed in the new place.

Sweaty, bedraggled, and slightly crazed, we arrived over a week ago to set up camp inside the echoes of this new house.

The kids went nuts. (Hold your ears if you click link.) 

They have calmed down a bit since then but only because they are both sick.  We all came down with the yuck, except Andy.  Hmm, he was driving in a separate car.  Alone, with music and NPR and beef jerkey.  Smart man. 

My dear brother, Donnie helped us with the worst part of the move.  He was driving the moving van that wouldn't go above 43 mph up a hill.  And we took the scenic route through Virginia.  The Blue Ridge Mountain route with nothing but hills.  Donnie was speaking in tongues and practically chewing his e-cigarette by the time we stopped for gas.  I would not have blamed him if he ducked out the Sunoco window, hailed a cab back to NYC, and gave us the finger in the back seat for the next hundred miles.  But he stayed the course. And I adore him for that.  For many other things too but that is icing on an already divine chocolate brownie-cookie-dough cake.

I was driving the minivan so rightfully got the kids, the dogs, and everything that wouldn't fit in two moving trucks.  Before you feel sorry for me I have to confess, it really was not bad.  I had company to keep me awake, dog saliva to keep me watered, and the option to learn every lyric to Rio by Rihanna.  It could and should have been so much worse.  They have all earned the moniker:  Road Warrior.  Especially Sadie who shrugged her shoulders in Virginia and didn't wake up until Tennessee.

So, we are here at the end of one road and the beginning of another and I don't really know what to tell you guys about first.  There is just so much to say.  I've written and rewritten this post several times, posted then uposted, ruminated and mindfully deleted and still cannot come up with anything close to how I feel about all of this.

Leaving was harder than I knew it would be and all of us were sad as hell to leave.  Even Donnie.  He gets very attached.

I could go on and on about all the sad and how I couldn't belieeeee-eeee-eeeve I had to leave my mom, my brother, his family, Mary, her kids, after Jimmy blew this taco stand.  Then, leaving Mr. Jack, his Eddie-Lou, Mr. Ives, Jenna Jam, my JCC lovelies, Trader Joe's, sweet Sara, our cozy routine, our entire way of life.

But you know what?  Somehow we lived through all the leaving miles and I refuse to breathe in the sad that does not belong in this new place.  Wallowing will happen later, for sure, when I can't find a friend to stomp puddles with me but for now, for now... 

...it's really beautiful here.  There are critters as far as the eye can see in our front yard and our back yard. The kids grab their fishing poles while still in their pjs and walk down the driveway to fish for sunnies.  Frogs race the tadpoles in our stream.  This house has very tall ceilings.  There is pretty white bark flaking off of two trees near our sunroom.  Something clicks and barks right outside our door causing Sparrow to froth at the mouth and Sadie to perk her ears up like a purebred lab.  Our neighborhood looks like every scene in The Prince of Tides.  Somehow I scored a gorgeous lantern for a housewarming gift.  Small friendly lizards come to visit us every morning while we have a sit and a listen.  My children have room to wander in this house and talk to themselves for a change.  The dogs think we parked on the sun and lost the keys.  The kids might think that too.  I love FaceTime with my mom.  My husband and I feel like newlyweds in this strange land with only each other to lean on. There is a CVS and a TCBY within a mile of our house.  You should see my closet.

We have landed in the new place and so far, it's an adventure.

Connected

This Sunday, I had a refreshing conversation with a really cool lady. We don't know each other whatsoever but we connected right away. Isn't it funny how you can knock yourself over with trying to make some friendships gel while others just spark to life over watermelon slices and a paper plate?

This one sparked to life.

She used words like faith, open, mystic, love and immediately I knew she probably kissed her dog on its face too. We won't see each other again, but that's the point. Connection doesn't necessitate longevity.

This really cool lady and I decided that life strings some of us, as people, to each other at just the right time even if the moment feels all wrong.

Case in point: When I first arrived here in Virginia, I was slow to meet other moms. My neighborhood is filled with them only they are at work during the day while I am at home with kids and fourteen hours to fill before bedtime. Zoom ahead a year and I find myself at a playdate with three new-to-me preschool moms. One of which was very outgoing. She was the ringleader, the spokesperson, the one I shied away from.  Andy had just left for a year long deployment, I was reserving energy, and needed quiet companionship.  Gregarious felt wrong for me.

Zoom ahead three years and this mom is now one of the four soul sisters I rely on here. We have spent so much time together that she can tell if something's wrong by how I exit my car. I can hear her thoughts when her mouth isn't talking much. We connected when I least really wanted to. And now, the path of our lives is forever intertwined through coffee, blue frosting, Marshall's, burlap burn where the sun don't shine (tube slides), play date wine, and so much more.

Some friendships are connected for life. Others are brief conduits on our way to someone else. Others still smolder in preparation for a future that will unfold in its own due time.

If I've learned anything from being me the last four years, I've learned to appreciate the system as it happens naturally. Not to force the ones that make you feel uneasy. Not to worry over or mourn friendships that may not have an organic foundation anyway. 

You can always tell when it does have promise. She'll use words like mystic, faith, open, love, or your version of meaningful. 

Sometimes the best connections happen when we least expect or even want them to.  Personally, I think it's because we're not the ones in charge of the system.

leaving

boxes stacked, leaning in, waiting
for me to believe in them
and trust they are not here to take away
but to give back
our home to us
on new ground,
hot
soft
green and ripe with choices,
explorations,
discoveries,
bugs,
sweat,
new love,
primal aches for comfort
far away
from here

no longer next door
an hour down the street
Vienna
JCC

our backyard with the bald spot on the lawn that isn't

ours anymore
And Jesus God please someone look after Mr. Jack and his wife. 

soon, we will unpack there
to find our home again,
hoping you really can
take it with you
while at the same time knowing
[with hearts sewn, twined, cross-stitched, frayed, stretching]
we are
leaving a lifetime behind.