Only Love Today: Release Day!

“Sometimes your children just need you to listen, validate, support and to just be yourself around them. Simply be the kid in them, the kid you so dearly love.”

Last month, we had a string of grey, misty, sunless days.

Then on Friday, the clouds broke.

I had been sitting in my kitchen when I felt the sun warm my back and went to open the front door and looked up to see a clear blue sky. I stood and took in the view. It was much more than a break in the weather, the sun that day served as a reminder that under the cloud-filled skies, the sun was still there.

I had forgotten that the last ten days. Just like on the days that seem filled with failures, my failures, the sunshine of all the good that is in me is still there. I need to remember that I can draw it out and that it's never too late to reset the day no matter the start.

I do this a lot, slide back, inch out a little, then slide back again. Doing the work on my own with my short memory made it even shorter because of negative self talk, is truthfully lost on too many days.

Today I celebrate and am grateful for the release of "Only Love Today: Reminders to Breathe More, Stress Less, and Choose Love," by Rachel Macy Stafford, the bestselling author of "Hands Free Mama" and "Hands Free Life." 

I met Rachel years ago and I have turned to her many times in my personal life because she helps me remember that all of us are better than the criticism we too frequently heap on our own broken backs.

We are good, even when impatient, we are loving, even when frustrated, we seek to do better, even when we fall short.

We can be both at the same time and remembering that is what will save us from giving up hope on what we want for our families, ourselves, our lives.

If you go to Target today (go ahead, you can find a reason) you will see Rachel featured on Target's big screen today. Today is the release day of her work of heart, "Only Love Today."

Pick up a copy and see for yourself why I am writing about her book today. On the simplest level, I believe in her words because we all know that our days are anything but smooth sailing. We need a friend who is always there, we needs words of truth and encouragement and sometimes we need them quick and fast, and pretty much every 24 hrs.

I want the best for my children, in their happiness and in their discovery of who they are, but I don't want to lose my mind over it. I want my family to have happy memories from their life with me, but I don't want to forget myself in the process.

“Only Love Today” can be a go-to inspiration, so keep it close by, in your bag, your purse, your night stand, your glove compartment, your coffee table, like I do. Keep it close to help you when have that feeling of being alone without anyone understanding or appreciating the work you do to find a center in your home.

If a quiet gentle reminder to live undistracted, heart led, is what you seek, pick up "Only Love Today." If you want to learn how to take an ordinary moment, and breathing magic into it with intent, you'll find it in "Only Love Today."

Only Love Today -----  is clarity when you're conflicted.

Only Love Today ----  is unity when you're divided.

Only Love Today ----- is faith when you're uncertain.

 

Only Love Today ---- is a reset button directing you back to what matters most.

 

Thank you, Rachel, for "Only Love Today." We can do what we hope, when we have friends to walk with us along the way.

 

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On This Day

More than two decades ago, I was unaware that the man I had been dating for nine months was going to be the man I would marry.

We hadn't yet spoken of marriage, which suited us both fine. It did me, anyway. He had made no promises nor given any hints regarding a possible future together, so I couldn't claim to be misled or disappointed.

He was content with dating, as was I. He was an affable enough fellow that I continued to see him. He was employed, respected the practice of personal hygiene, and had no addictions. Given all that, continued dating with no end in sight would fit into my schedule.

It was my birthday and he had called to ask me out to dinner. At the time, he was traveling internationally, and our times, when together, were spent doing nice things at nice places with nice food.

I knew he would have a special dinner planned since he was home for just a few days. I was anticipating romance, attention, and perhaps a gift from abroad. He was coming to pick me up at 6:30 p.m. As I waited for him, I thought of how I was ready to sit, talk, be wined and dined, celebrated and toasted to.

He arrives, 6:50 p.m., and his face has a look of grief and concern, as if he's lost something. He is also unusually quiet. I ask if everything is all right, he answers yes, that it is, but nothing more. He is twenty minutes late, which is not like the punctual man he has been for over a year. But I don't want to start the night off on the wrong foot, so I say nothing. But, things feel odd and tense and he doesn't smile to see me. We go in his car, and I promise to not bring up being late unless it happens a second time. If there is a second time.

While he is driving, he looks straight ahead and makes no mention of his trip to Germany, though he was gone for ten days. I attempt conversation, but I feel as if I'm in the car with a coyote; all I hear is "yup. yup. yup." to any question I ask.

Well, perhaps he has jet lag, I think to myself. We drive along, but I don't know about this night, which is starting to feel like a duty he's fulfilling since it's my birthday. I'm hungry, I have to go to work the next day, and I've got a new dress that I've bought for tonight on. But he doesn't notice that red is my color, nor how the gold button earrings play up my dark hair. I decide I will enjoy this meal, be just as affable back, and celebrate being with someone on my birthday.

We arrive at the restaurant, he parks, and then asks me to wait--sitting in the car. He always hops over to my side of the car and opens the door. Now I know, this is the farewell wrong place, wrong time speech we're leading up to.

I oblige, count to sixty seconds, then step out of the car. I see him in the vestibule of the restaurant, fingers jostling in his front pockets and well, you don't want to know what this looks like to me.

He then steps toward me and I see him, with his lips pressed tight. He walks as stiff as a robot, and together with the furrowed brow leftover from when he first picked me up, I can't read a thing about him. Is it agitation? Is it avoidance? I let him catch up to me and we walk alongside. I slide my arm into his, and he jumps twenty feet in the air.

I withdraw and drop his arm like an electric wire. I take a deep breath. I do not want to bicker in a parking lot on my birthday with a new dress and a growling stomach. I can make it through this dinner, I'll order something light, like whitefish since anything else will sink like a rock. We enter the restaurant, and the hostess seems to know him. She places her mouth inches from his ear and I imagine her whispering, "Tonight. Dump her. Got it?"

His tone back to her is a nodding rushed yes. They are in deep communion. He turns to me and asks me AGAIN to wait a bit, this time in the front hallway. He and the hostess whisper back and forth again and we're shown to a table. He keeps his hand in his pocket, I attempt to reach for the one he has resting on the table, and he pulls back as if I've extended a lobster claw.

Without warning, he stands from his chair and says he needs to check something in the car. I have now entered "whatever" land. I can no longer enjoy my meal, and think, OK. nice guy and all, but I just can't see what is going on between us... I know I should try and read between the lines but there's a lot of lines to read here.

A few minutes pass and he returns, his hand still in the front pocket. We eat a silent dinner. I say it's time for me to get home early, I have to be at work at 7:30, and I saintly offer him an excuse of how he must have jet lag.

He looks at me, his eyes wide with shock. I think, This can't be good. I can't believe he is HAVING A GOOD TIME??? You're kidding, right? This is SOOOOOO not a good sign. All I can see is red flags. Red flags all over the place.

He tells me he wants to take a drive to the lakefront. I agree, thinking maybe we'll talk and he can come clean about the hostess taking my place. And it's the least I can do, because I already know this is the last time for me too.

We drive there, and I see a white horse and carriage waiting. I am jealous of the couple that will be celebrating their love to the romantic clip clop of horse's hooves, because I know it won't be us. Then, turning his body in an awkward broken movement, he takes my hand and walks toward the carriage. His other hand won't leave the front pants pocket. Now I'm the one with the furrowed brow, but mine is out of confusion. We climb into the white cab, I move to sit closer to him. I make the mistake of having hope and I reach for the dang hand in his pocket. But he's not having any of it and digs it back in deeper.

In one last moment of dreaming out loud, I convince myself his madness is jet lag or traveler's fever. I make up that last one because, how can I explain all that is going on like a poorly written screenplay. No continuity of thought! I want to shout.

But if he was protective of the hidden hand before, he's grown thrice that level now. I mentally steel myself for the coming weekend of me and two quarts of Ben & Jerry's Death by Chocolate. It's not like I haven't had practice with those kinds of weekends before. I know I'll be sad, but as always, like a phoenix I will rise.

We're sitting in a beautiful red velvet interior of a fairy tale carriage, and I can't immerse myself in any of it because he continues with his pocket patting fetish. I am ready to jump out of the horse cab by now, but it's moving too fast. It's also getting cold outside, dark... and I've got new black T-straps that match this new red dress. And so I sit.

I will finish this night, and I will cherish this buggy ride. I close my eyes, and I relish the sound of the horse's hooves on the quiet street.

And this is where it gets strange.

There is a five star hotel up ahead and the driver is pulling the horse to enter the circle drive. My date jerks his hand out of his pocket, I check it to see if he's been hiding a bandaged injury all night but instead of gauze and stay clips I see a small, white box.

My date's face is set like stone, locked and looking straight ahead with a determination for what, I don't know. He licks his lips and I wonder why he feels he needs to give me a goodbye present as he leaves me for the hostess. I take the little white box he offers and snap it open it to see what I'm Sorry jewelry looks like. But there is no consolation gift inside.

In the darkness of the cab, with the streetlight hitting it just right from behind, there is a miniature firework of sparkles sitting inside black velvet. A breathtaking diamond solitaire shoots light from the middle of a gold band. It is an engagement ring, where a pair of modestly priced gold earrings should be.

My mouth crowns open as everything begins to make sense. I begin to laugh, then cry, then I apologize for the way I was never going to see him again but he asks me to wait. I say, "pocket petting, scared, worried." I think of all the perverted pocket padding this poor man did to ensure the ring hadn't fallen out, all the up and down and walking ahead so he could check to be sure the ring was still in the pocket. The poor sweet man.

The rest of the evening splits into a surreal memory. I remember staring at the ring in the moonlight (really ... it was a full moonlit night) and being so very surprised. I marvel at the planning he did from abroad and the secrecy of the night and the chance that he took. We had never discussed marriage, I could have said no.

Later that night, as I finally held his long sought after hand, I asked him to tell me the reason he had decided to propose in that way, with me not suspecting a thing. He answered, "If you knew it was coming, where's the romance in that? I wanted you to remember, always, whether you said yes or no, I wanted you to be remember."

Which I do, in more than just receiving the ring, but in him, and who he was, and how he made this plan of marriage more than a proposal, but a gesture of showing what I meant to him.

And his reason is why the picture above exists, that shows me as a Mrs., when just hours earlier that birthday evening, I thought that he would be returning me home, vowing to stay a Ms.

*I post this annually. Because it's good to remember, and reflect. Happy birthday marriage day proposal to me.

 

* * *

Ira Glass is Always There

I made fried cauliflower and potatoes for dinner. In one pan, because it was for only one person in the house.

My youngest son and my husband were away at a soccer tournament and my two oldest ones, as of five days ago, now go to college together. (dropping off the second child is no easier than dropping off the first. if anything, you feel it more because you now know the ache of their absence. my hope is that in their lonely times -- not saying they're going to have them, but if they do  -- that they remember how I hung on their necks when we said goodbye)

From a household of five two years ago, to one person here, the one typing this.

I ate angel food cake for breakfast and for lunch I scrambled eggs with cheese and cream in the same pan I ate out of.

I lived by myself once, for five years. That time then never felt like this day today.

Because I didn't know. I do now, but I didn't know then what it feels like to have people you've had in your life since the first seconds they were born, living somewhere else.

I look in the mirror and wonder if I would have recognized myself in this reflection 30 years ago.

I've had twenty years of weekends with three boys, but this weekend, I'm taking myself for two walks a day, and catching up on my Ira Glass. Faithful Ira Glass.

If you see me later at the store cradling a family size box of Lucky Charms, assume that all is well, and it's just me missing the days of when 64 oz. of cereal lasted two days.

I miss the full house, but it's not all broken cracking heart pieces.

I miss my children, but space has cleared up to catch up on Ira, because room has been made from not having to clean my children's bathrooms anymore.

 

* * *

Pictured, #NotPictured

Linking up with Ann Imig of the world-famous blog, Ann's Rants, for a satisfying old school blog hop.

 

Pictured #NotPictured: where we share the stories behind the photos we post. Play along and link to Ann's blog for a chance to be true-life and share what sometimes can feel pretty isolating: like we're the only ones with moments that leave us wanting to stand in front of our homes and scream because we can't take one more minute. So go ahead and scream, but follow up with your perfection posted on Instagram, Facebook and twitter. 

 

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Pictured:

 

Hitting a farmers market on a welcome spring morning after months of winter. Sunday morning pose in front of the state capital while visiting our first son in college.

 

#NotPictured:

 

His words behind a gritted smile, "Can we just do this so I can get back home and take a nap."

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Pictured:

 

Father walking alongside his oldest son on a nature path while mom snaps a photo from behind, capturing the moment between generations.

 

#NotPictured:

 

Two alpha males GPS-wrestling on the quickest way to finish walking the trail for the best shortcut back to the apartment. 

 ---

 

 

Pictured:

 

Two parents, two children.

 

#NotPictured:

 

Third child born to mother. The one who clearly declined being included in this celebratory college admission photo, even while being the reason for the photo of rejoicing. 

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Pictured:

 

Mother grinning madly at her chance to pose with UW Madison Marching Band.

 

#NotPictured:

 

Family that has disappeared into the crowd due to crushing weight of embarrassment at mother's glee to pose with member of UW Madison Marching Band.

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 Pictured:

 

Everybody smile! Happy high school graduation day, child!

 

#NotPictured:

 

Mother and father with mouths wide just an hour and a half before, both talking loudly though the teen would call it yelling and he would be accurate, about the best way to handle the teen realizing he forgot to ask off of work for his graduation day. "But I can't miss work!" "You're gonna miss work." "But I can't find anyone in one hour!" "This is your graduation. That is a part time job. Get on that phone and find someone to work for you!" (Thanks for working for us, Pat!)

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Link up with Ann's Rants and give us your Pictured, #NotPictured beauty !

 

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Call on That Love

This isn't the post I had scheduled for today when I filled out my blogging calendar. But two weeks ago, I didn't expect to attend a funeral for an 18-year-old-child.

The most important thing I can share with you today, is this:

I just returned home from a funeral service for a child who passed away Saturday night. He graduated with my son from high school less than two weeks ago. The details of his passing aren't mine to share, but the reason for this post is the service that was held for him.

It truly was that: a service. The church was filled, upper and lower levels, for a bright and always smiling child. He was a gorgeous child, and had his mother's blue eyes and his father's easy laugh.

 I need to share the beautiful words spoken tonight by the priest, because I know, there is someone who one day may need to hear them:

"Never doubt your worth. The thoughts that tell you that you don't matter aren't true. Call someone, reach out to someone, when the darkness becomes too much, when the burden becomes too heavy to carry alone, when what you hear yourself saying becomes dangerous, reach out. No one is alone. The thoughts tell us we are, but they're wrong. Because there isn't a person who is here tonight who would not jump at the chance to help who we've lost. Feel the love in this room for him right now, that love isn't just here overnight, suddenly because of his passing. This love for him was always here. It's always been here. That love is here for us too. Believe in that love. Call on that love."
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Rest in peace, sweet child. We love you so.

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Like Nothing Else

If it weren't for his orange cleats forcing my eyes to a single point, I wouldn't be able to process the emotions that flood over me at seeing my son.

In this moment, he is in his world. And it's like nothing else - no one can know the words he is saying to himself, the commands, the encouragement, the hope and belief, and the need to burst through.

I would give anything to be beside him here, asking, "What do you need to do now? How do you know what it is? Is it instinct, understanding? What does it feel like to be you?"

The curls of his brown hair, so much lighter than mine, his forehead, square like my father's, the smooth darkness of his brows against his thick lashes, I see his cheeks - the way they broaden below his eyes and the lines I know so well. His face is one I could draw without ever seeing another picture of him again. I see it now as I type this, along with what you can't see here -  the flicker of gold in his hazel eyes.

I look at him in motion and my heart aches with gratitude, it's too much to hold. There isn't enough room for it and it catches in my throat.

I have been staring at this photo for much of the morning, and every time I look at it I want to laugh out loud from the beauty. I want to hold it up with my arms open wide and show it to the sky.

In my life, I have faced loss that has gutted me - my mother, my father, my nephew, my abuela, my friend in college.

But having this here, this photo of a moment so full of the energy of life that you feel the rush of the spring chill against your own skin, makes this picture that much more valuable.

It is here where life is lived, when we feel possibility, a chance at the unpredictable. It is a reminder of what we live for: to embrace and thrill into the discovery of who we are.

* * * 

Past, Present, Future: What It Feels like to Look at Your Children

I can flatter myself by saying these children are beautifully mine. But to be honest, they are their own. They always have been. In the beginning of their lives, I may have been the one caring for them and keeping them alive - each of them born four weeks early - but my work was joyful commitment, it's what what we do as humans: care for those who are unable to do so themselves.

There was a season in my life when the three you see here couldn't put their flip-flops on the right foot without me there to set the shoes in front of them. I remember those days because I would stare at my children then, memorizing their snug shoulders, the small impossible hands, their features so exact and precise it was more than my eyes could take in.

The first time I saw my children, in the seconds when their lives began, the only word I could think as the nurses handed them to me was beautiful beautiful beautiful. Their faces were so heartbreakingly exquisite that even if I had 20 college degrees, I still couldn't design something as extraordinary.

They're older now. My children have grown. When I look at this picture taken a month ago, I discover things about them in the same way when the nurses presented them to me. Their faces seize my heart.

My eyes search, top to bottom, forehead to chin, across the cheeks, back up to their own eyes. My mind calls forth the only words I've ever been able to think as I look at my children:

Beautiful beautiful beautiful.

* * *

 

Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day - A Blog Hope

You all know who does the best blog hops - it's Nancy Davis Kho. This time, she's gathered some of my favorite writers for a blog hop(e) as we weigh the hearty issue of Valentine's Day. There's beauty in the depth of love we feel with heartbreak, and when there's company along the way, there's our hope. When you toss in bloggers with tender hearts, you can hum along in hope. Here's what Valentine's Day means to us in the language of the heart, song. And a hot beat always helps.

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I'm going to tell you something truthful here, holidays always make me blue. I can't give you an exact reason for it, but I can give the source for my downcast eyes and slumped over shoulders: it's all the ads out there telling me what love means. And if someone doesn't do this for me, then is it real love. Is it?

I think it's time, and this blog hop was the last push I've needed, to claim the holidays in my own way. And I'm starting with Valentine's Day. I'm not going to let my brain along with my beautiful heart get sucked into thinking that love means someone buys you things and love can't start until you look perfect in a wrap around sizzling red dress from Vera Wang.

Valentine's Day can begin with me here in these red flannel pajamas with a bag of mini marshmallows in my lap. Who knew! I can be in charge of my own Valentine's Day!

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The only way to kick this off is with Mick Hucknall of Simply Red. Though coming up with this playlist had hundreds of song titles exploding in my head, there was none like this one. Ahhh. Made me remember the lyrics that rented out my heart like they were meant to live there. Simply Red, simply heart-clenching, "Holding Back the Years"

Cause nothing here has grown

I've wasted all my tears
Wasted all those years
And nothing had the chance to be good
Nothing ever could yeah

I'll keep holding on

I'll keep holding on
I'll keep holding on
I'll keep holding on

HOLD ON, Alexandra!

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You know where I should have gone, all those wasted years filled with wasted tears? I should have gotten myself to church on time. Because my boyfriend David Bowie was there. Just waiting. Even when you don't want to go out, you can always make it to church on time. "Modern Love"

We're gonna make it to the church on time

We're gonna make it to the church on time
I'm gonna get my soul in line
I'm gonna make it to the church on time
.

No one can get your soul in line, like David Bowie. And no one ever will again. So, please excuse me while I go have my 37th cry over this man being gone.
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Another life-love lesson? How about if we make it about them, not us. How about if it's us offering our love instead of waiting for someone to come and love on us. Do it. Drop off a box of chocolates in someone's mailbox, send a card to a friend recently divorced, make a call and take a single out for heart-shaped pizza. They'll appreciate you thinking of them and you'll remind yourself how lucky you are to have them in your life. For this reason, Cheap Trick's "The Flame" will always sear my heart. Be the one who is there to keep their flame going:

Wherever you go, I'll be with you

Whatever you want, I'll give it to you
Whenever you need someone
To lay your heart and head upon
Remember, after the fire, after all the rain
I will be the flame
I will be the flame

I don't care what the theme of a blog hop is, I will always find a way to work in The Flame.

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When I was in high school, my heart was smashed into a thousand pieces. Partly because I have a heart of glass, and other-partly because nothing hurts like a first broken heart. You don't get used to the pain of your heart being made into a puzzle, but it doesn't clap the air out of your lungs the way it does when you've barely walked the planet two decades. When I did meet a new friend in college who would have liked to be a more special type of friend, it was this song that ran through my veins. I wanted this new guy close by, I wanted to see if we could try – but these tears, dear baby jesus, these tears  from the dude before him. Also, Rod Stewart will always understand, "The First Cut is the Deepest"

I still want you by my side

Just to help me dry the tears that I've cried
But I'm sure gonna give you a try
If you wanna try to love again
Try,

Baby, I'll try to love again, but I know

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Since I'm sure I haven't cheered you up enough yet for Valentine's Day, why don't I escort you into your own weekend of love with the soundtrack to my pillow soaking: Nazareth. Oooooooh, Nazareth. "Love Hurts" kept me company many many one more time many a Valentine's Day. I was positive it was written for me and it logged in a count that numbered at least 100 tear hours. You know what would have been salve to my marred scarred 20-something-year-old heart? Placing it on this barely-shirted chest:
 

Love hurts. Love scars. Love wounds and marks.
Any heart not tough or strong enough (I like to sing it “Ennnny”)
To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain (at this point, I clutch my chest with a open hand)
Love is like a cloud, it holds a lot of rain (now I look up at the sky, asking, why, why!)
Love hurts,
Ooo-oo love hurts

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I told you above this was going to be a truthful post. So it wouldn't be fair to paint myself as an angel of love. When I was in college, and went on to a new boyfriend while still dating another, I never felt worse about what I did, than when Michael sent me a mixtape with this gem on it.
Queen's "Sail Away, Sweet Sister"

I KNOW.

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What a joyful, hot and sexy playlist, right? Well, I am slowly learning what I wish I would have known decades ago: love is you.

Happy Valentine's Day to all of you lovelies!

For some more music fun and company as we contemplate Valentine's Day, hop/hope on over and check out the magic with these true-hearted souls. They won't disappoint you:

Midlife Mixtape

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Laurie White

Smacksy

Mrs. TDJ

 

* * *

And Then They Go and Grow Up On You

We know, we know - you told us.

Our kids would grow up before we knew it. But the problem is, we can't hear you. Not over the wailing, whining, up in the middle of the night screaming for us on top of days with mind-numbing fighting over sippy cups filled with the wrong colored juice.

But our kids do grow up, don't they. And all of your warnings about it won't help us ever believe you.

I'm proud to be up on Scary Mommy today with my take on the well-meaning advice, "Enjoy them while you can."

* * *

The Things That Take Time

This Sunday was beautiful, sunlight was finally coming in through the house windows and there was a moment early this morning when all that was missing as I made breakfast was a bluebird chirping on my shoulder. Hearth and home, plenty to eat, we had it all. With a day that promised long-awaited rest, I pierced it with a sharp needle of haggard and nagging words, "No cinnamon rolls until all the laundry is put away!"

Even before the last s in the word rolls left my lips, I knew it was the dart that would pop the happy balloon of the moment. Why, Alexandra, why? Really? Threats with food? Why was it much too often this desperate take it all away from them cry to action? Do you know of no other way?

In those seconds of gut punching clarity I knew I had to find a kinder, smarter way to ask for what I needed from everyone in this home. Discipline methods that begin with "Here's what you're going to lose if you don't xxx!" are guaranteed heart breakers. My kids love fresh, warm cinnamon rolls, they mean Sunday mornings and introduce a day when we can forget about the work that Monday will bring. As for my threats and promises later that day of a future that does not include screen time, they feel just as half-assed and knee-jerk as the no cinnamon rolls promise.

If I needed any confirmation on how B.S. my discipline methods with my family had become, it was made sickeningly clear when mid-morning I put my hand up to apologize for my wackadackle ways and in unison I heard the kids side-mouth to one another, "Her hand's up, she is so mad, let's get the laundry done."

Right then, I felt it. The spikes that dug, the weight of the metal, the crown that I had woven for myself of raging power-mad Queen.

All or nothing, now or never, do it do do it. What happened to my deep-breaths-and-count-to-three mantra of patience? When did I lose it? Was it with the third child? Was it with the added hours of work and less hours of fun? Maybe it was the financial strain as children grow up, the pressures of trying to keep up with the people in my life, the need to include time to care for our body as we grow older. Yes to all of that and still, those are excuses.

As their parent, I do have the control to influence the energy and spirit in this house. And I am responsible for the tone that I set when I'm short and abrupt. The deep sighs of exasperation when someone speaks, not allowing my children the respect to finish their sentence, dismissing what they have to say because they're kids -- all of that, it's got to stop.

Children need us, and they need us without ever knowing they do. Parents are a significant influence in the temperament of the home, and that is the part that we forget. When we sell our roles short, and lose the awareness of the impact of our presence, we convince ourselves that we are a p.s. to their lives. We matter, and when we live together, we need to help each other.   

We err, we fall short. I did it today. But I have the chance to start again. And when I screw up tomorrow, I can keep trying something different.

I will never be perfect, and don't strive for that. But I can adjust my heart to become the kind of parent who weaves a crown from their heart. A ring made of tender resilient stems that weathers days that at times threaten to unravel but holds together plaited with gentle words of patience, hope, and determination to bloom in beauty for my children.

 

* * *  

New Year's Eve Baby

19 years ago, I was eating surf and turf.

From a plastic cafeteria tray. It was the hospital's sweet way of reminding me, "Hey, you're here. Kinda sore from just having that baby, but maybe a little filet mignon will perk you up?"

You were born on New Year's Eve, and while your dad high-fived the Doctor for delivering a tax deduction just under the wire, I was too busy trying to figure out how I had managed to deliver an 8 pound 10 oz. baby.

Wow.

Today is your birthday, my son. Happy birthday. I know that no matter how many times I say it, it won't be possible for you to know how magical and wonderful you are.

I have stories, stories that I could tell forever, about how much I love you.

Happy birthday, my friend, my smart kid, my talented artist, my walking buddy, my kind and even-tempered child.

I know it's no use telling you how much I'll miss you when you leave this September for Madison, but I can't help it.

I will miss you.
I love you.
I am so excited for you.

Do all parents feel they just didn't get enough time? I'm betting they do. If you notice me more misty-eyed than I usually am on this day, it's because I'm thinking how it's your last birthday at home. So, don't mind me. Much.

I wish you a happy birthday today, my beautiful son! As you open your cards and gifts, know that we chose them with love for you. You mean the world to me, your dad, and your brothers, Xavier.

xo

* * *

I Wish You the Magic of Memories

It was raining hard that day. We had kept our fingers crossed for snow so that the kids could have a white Christmas, but had 46 degrees instead. We had been waiting for my husband to come back home, bringing my mother with him. It was Christmas Eve, and now she was here, dressed in emerald green satin for the day. We were ready, the kids working hard to be patient, but the gifts under the tree had been staring at them the entire day and they were this close to losing their minds with wait.

My mother came to find me in the kitchen and asked me in Spanish, so the kids wouldn't understand, "Did you get it? Did you find what they all wanted?"

"I did, mama. And it's all wrapped under the tree."

"Oh! Please tell me how much to give you, and let them have it last!"

"I will. We can talk about the money later, Ok, mama?"

I knew my children would be in my life forever, and I had that same amount of time to spoil them on my own. For my mother, my children were her second chance for the parenting she had dreamed of. She had been a young widow of 39 years old, left with six children, the youngest two months old. Working one full time job along with two part time jobs was her only way to feed us and keep us in a warm home.

There was no time with us, my mother had no giving us of everything we wanted, not even a small amount of it. We were fortunate enough to have what we needed, but for the extras - like time alone with her, her presence at school events, the one gift that you wanted, those weren't part of our lives. What my husband and I had decided to give my mother in the last decade of her life, was to allow her forever with our children, whatever amount of time that worked out to be,  to be one of giving them the gifts they had been pining for.

That Christmas Eve night, in the moments of ripping open the paper when at last the gifts from Nona came out, it was as glorious as a mass at midnight. It was impossible for me or her, to make through without blinking away tears. It's us, my mother and I, who see the life we had before them, the one with them, the one they'll one day have without us. The scenes flash through from our hearts to our minds and we smile with tears brimming.

Auggie had been asking for a castle that had been heavily advertised during his favorite shows. It was a hefty weight of one, one that came with all the essentials for a kingdom, a dragon who had red flashing eyes, moat doors that creaked outward and down, and knights that surrounded the turrets. Trumpets sounded when the king landed on the castle's front. When I pulled out the box with the castle from under the tree, and called out, "To Auggie from Nona," he ran to get it and dragged it over to my mother's lap. I watched them together take to the red and green holly paper. As soon as there was a peek at what was inside he went harder at the unwrapping, "It's the castle! Nona, you got me the castle!"

I heard my mother's voice waver over the tearing of the paper, "It's so beautiful! You like it, m'ijo? Is it the one you wanted?" She called over to me in Spanish, "Did it cost, daughter?"

Our eyes met over Auggie's head. My mother tried to speak, but her pressed lips wouldn't open. I rushed over to her and held her. She cried softly into my shoulder, "Gracias, hija, gracias."

"It's Ok, mama, we love you." I didn't want her to worry about the cost of anything on that night.

Auggie is 13 now, and the castle is still in my basement. I can't part with it, not in a rummage sale, not as a donation to another child. It is filled with what we had that night. The memory of my mother, with my son, and how it was just them together in that moment.

That Christmas was the last one in that house. Our offer on a larger home had been accepted and we would be leaving our first home, the only one our children had known. My mother looked around at the end of the night and said, "I don't think you can find a warmer house than this one."

I knew she meant the magic of the moments there.

This is my wish for you this season. Moments that one day will warm you with memory.

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Thank you for reading my words, thank you for your encouragement with my work. Thank you for your time and love for me and my presence in your life.

You are all part of the magic that I feel when I reflect on my life.

Happy Christmas to you, my friends, and hopes of magic in this season and in the year to come.

***

Wedding Vows From the 21-Year Other Side

We're just regular people. We sleep less than we should, we get on the treadmill when our waistbands start giving us dyspepsia, and we like our Orville Redenbacher.

Two run of the mill souls married 21 years with three children and a 27-year mortgage stretched out before us.

For our anniversary, my husband bought me a compression sleeve for my right knee so that I would have a matching set.

I bought him a warehouse box of sweet-n-salty microwave popcorn singles.

But our commitment to each other runs deeper than those thoughtful gifts. Deep enough that we were moved to re-write our original wedding vows. As I held the pen from the hearing aid evaluation center and with a suspenseful American Pickers marathon playing before us, we put our updated promises to paper:

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I, Mark, take you, Alexandra, as you are. Make-up-less, and in pajamas until noon. I love you for who you are and not for how good you looked on the first day I met you in that navy blue dress with white piping and matching stockings, high heels for that monochromatic look, I mean, geez, who can remember, right? I love you.

I, Alexandra, take you, Mark, loving who you are now, cereal and soup slurper that that means, even if I have that disorder that was on Huffington Post about people who go crazy from hearing people eat and I for sure have that. I still take you.

I, take you, Alexandra, and who you are yet to become. I promise to listen to you and look up from the iPad when you talk. I promise to support you and mourn your losses when McSweeney's rejects you once again, as if the piece were my own. I will love you and have faith in your writing, because you are a very funny woman.

I, Alexandra, love your love for me, Mark. I vow to encourage you, trust you, and respect you, especially on the days where you do things that make no sense to me. I have never rolled my eyes at you and never will. I vow to work on the sighs.

I, Mark, promise you this: to respect our differences, and to try hard to remember how very different your Colombian life is. (It's so different, honey) I also promise to get the garage remote fixed for you for Christmas. And to drive at night with your encroaching night blindness.

I promise you, Mark, to be there every single time when you come to after your colonoscopies. And to let you have the downstairs bathroom to yourself the night before for your cleansing prep.

I promise you, Alexandra, to not give in to any laugh when we drive home from your cataract eye check and you're wearing your glaucoma glasses.

I promise you Mark to attempt an interest in aquaponics. I promise you, Mark to fairly divide the visit to the basement when I hear a strange noise.

 

I, Mark,  promise to investigate any noises you hear that you are positive are an animal in the house (It's never an animal)

 

Together, we vow to keep each other informed of any change in moles or bowel movements.

These things we promise, for better or for worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer.

For as long as we both shall live.

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We are simple. Two people married 21 years ago, whose eyes twinkled bright at the "for better" part that day at the altar, because "for better" is standing right in front of you. But grow humbled every season to the words we didn't catch the first time around. 

The unexpected clarity that comes with the “or for worse...” part.
------------------------

In The Quiet

If I would have run downstairs and gone to ask her, would she have been able to tell me?

Would there have been an answer to what would she change, if she could? From my son's bedroom window upstairs, I could see my neighbor sitting in her yard. She had her back to me and could never know that I watched her in the August sun, an ivory blanket across her lap.

I wished I could read her mind. I would not physically intrude and break the peace she was part of that day while she sat, her birdfeeders she was so careful to always have filled, surrounding her.

The sky was a bright, clear blue that morning and I saw her look up to the trees. She was so close to me that I could see the light fringe of her soft brown hair being lifted up by a breeze. We think our mornings are all the same, but I could feel the difference in this one. It was another morning for me, the hours flying by inside with me busy with the routine of a home with three children, but outside in her yard, time seemed to have stopped.

My neighbor would be moving soon. Before meeting her, there was no one I had the easy relationship of running back and forth between houses. She initiated an easy love, beginning with a tray of pizzelles she brought to my door. I sent her platter back to her, this time filling the blue ribbon-edged plate with chocolate cake. A few days later, her daughter was back to our door with extra strawberries left from a trip to a farmer's market.

This is how we did it, sharing from the ordinary days in our lives with what we had plenty of. Some nights I would send the blue platter over filled with the chicken and rice I had made for dinner, other times the platter would come our way with a serving she had set aside for me of the hash brown casserole her family liked so much.

In the two summers that I knew her, the blue platter passed between us more than fifty times. I had stopped thinking about how lonely I was and instead of how lucky I was. Lunch had became a surprise knock on my back patio door with an invitation to share half her sandwich and a small soup. She told me knowing me helped her keep her figure trim. While I enjoyed someone preparing food for me for a change, I could keep an eye on my children while they played in the yard.

I remember thinking that this sharing of food and the ordinariness of our days was what I felt missing from my life.

She was a good neighbor. The kind that made a row of houses feel like a neighborhood. The thing about falling for someone's charm is that you don't imagine a day you'll be without it. Neighbors always stay, don't they? At least until they move away.

Earlier that month, she had been told she had melanoma. She told me she wanted to be close to her family before she started treatment. There were a few things she wanted to stay behind and do herself before she left for another state, but she wanted her girls to move on ahead and make friends before starting school. Today, her house was boxed and packed. Her 9 and 11-year-old daughters gone, her husband already working at his new job. That Friday, he was coming back for her and the movers would do their work over the weekend.

I watched her as my fingers gripped the ledge of the window, pushing it down closed back to where it had been. My throat tight with holding back from impulsively calling out her name, the words thank you, I love you, flying out of my mouth like a child who sees his mother after being away. But we had already said our goodbyes earlier in the week, formally giving our hugs.

This morning, with my heart pulling me to her, I stayed back. I wanted her, my eyes stinging with tears from it, but not more than the cost of robbing her of a single sacred moment of being exactly where she wanted to be -- home.

 

* * *

 

My neighbor passed away two years ago on December 8. She was ill from August until December, and I have yet to meet a kinder, more loving person in this neighborhood. On her way out of our city that week, she dropped off her blue platter with pizzelles again. I knew that this time the plate would remain with me, and I wouldn't get the chance to return it filled with something from my home to hers.

Rest and peace to you, my dear friend. I miss you.

21 Things Kids Worry about on the First Day of School

 

 

If a new kid comes in and your friends like them more.

If somebody new is better than you in your special talent and they take your place.

If the new teachers are grumpy.

If your new teacher is strict.

If your new teacher is serious.

If you don't get in a class with your friends.

If you get homework right away the first day.

If the subjects will be too hard.

If your friends are totally going to act different than they were last year.

If your friends changed too much.

If your friend doesn't come back to the same school.

If on the first day you get in trouble for something you didn't do because your teacher doesn't know you.

If the seating arrangements are totally bananas bonkers dumb and I won't like where my desk is.

If you feel too old to hang out on the playground with the little kids.

If you have to play football at recess because everyone else is and so you have to.

If your clothes will be cool.

That my haircut will look too short.

That it will be too hard to sit all day.

That I will be embarrassed if our classroom will look childish to the upper school kids.

That there'll be a mean kid.

That I won't get my secret hope that a new super cool kid will come to our school and we'll be friends.

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 *With thanks to the ever amazing eternally brilliant Erma Bombeck for her poem, *"Nothing to Worry About"

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Things That Make Me Happy

A post inspired by my long-time friend, Jennie, of A Lady in France. Be sure to pay her blog a visit, her writing is always beautiful. 

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This T shirt

 

 

This kid

 

 

This kid

 

 

This kid

 

All these kids!

 

Finding surprise pictures

 

Duh.

 

 

Of course.

 

 

Just to be sure.

 

 

Farmers' markets. Especially ones that sell coffee.

 

 

Caught in the act of pissed offness (probably because we were late in getting coffee)

 

 

Afternoon movies with my kids

 

 

Not having to wear 50 Shades of Fleece because summer is here and I'm pretending 2014 will be the last time we'll have winter in Wisconsin.

 

 

Naps. (dreaming about how we will never have winter again)

 

 

I will never cease to be amazed at what a difference it makes to clean your glasses. Gets me every single time. 

 

 

This dress and how something initially disappointing can surprise you and morph into something joyous like this Luxurious Lady Dress! by Made in China internet purchase that has given me and friends hours of laughter in a twisted but safe way.

 

Now, I would love to know, what makes you happy?

 

* * *

 

Keep Talking

In the week that my mother passed away, my inbox was flooded with emails of support and friendship. My community texted me, some even called, to tell me they were there for me and that I could count on them for anything I needed. It meant more than I can say to feel the support of people around me who stood by me, even if they had no experience with the pain of my loss.

After that initial week, an occasional question would flit in, asking how I was doing, maybe, but for the most part, life went on for everyone else, as it always does.

And I understand it. We all like easy, status quo, we like to return to things where we left them before we had to look up from our own lives for a moment.

It feels like that time now again, about Charleston.

 

The first time reaction posts of the horror of Charleston have slowed to an ebb. We're now celebrating Marriage Equality in America, which is rightly so a mind-blowing historical and just event. But today is the start of a new week, and we return back to the lives we have.

It's human nature to tire of work. Emotional work feels equal in effort to physical. Writing about Charleston is an emotional landmine—as anything that is about race. Tempers flare, friendships are lost, and the confrontational nature of opposing sides makes some of us feel like running to our homes and locking the doors behind us.

But we can't let the talk of race die down because the impact of racism in America continues. Even if in your heart, you tire of explaining to people—sometimes even in your family—the dialogue needs to remain. Racism hurts us all, every one of every color. How many times in the past have we pretended with other things in our lives, that something isn't there? It doesn't work. Problems don't disappear.

We all need to keep talking about race, and not leave the work from here on out now to people of color. Whistling about how we don't see color, and we're not the ones with the problem, or how we're not racist and have taught our children to not see color, does not make racism in America fall away. It is there. To see it, read the news on any single day. It's not enough to write our one golden post or deliver our one in-person request to not engage in hateful bigoted dialogue. Without a doubt, anyone being vocal is appreciated, you could even say it's our duty. But we can't dust off our hands now with “my work is done here.”

We need to keep on writing and speaking on the injustice and existence of racism in America. Especially when others have stopped. The hostility from some we know may continue, and we will probably be told by others that we don't see the whole picture—That's when our words take on even more importance.

America has finally started talking about race. Voices dying down can bring that same death to this topic.

 

You can keep the talk of racism in America alive, but your voice has to be the breath within it.

Please keep talking:

Series of Nighttime Fires Bring Arson to Six Black Churches

 

* * *

Sometimes The Way We Have Always Done It, Doesn't Work

When I think of how different I am from how I used to think 10 years ago, 20, I can't believe I am the same person.

I am, but I have changed. There are things I no longer fear, and things I have grown confident in. What has led me to pursue the hope of growing into a better person and fingers crossed, one that helps make our world better even for one person, is to consider that my thinking needs to change.

This week, I read articles that left me in a private moment of stillness. The writing in them the kind that calls on us to be open, not reactionary, and to examine what it is we harbor. Even if we buck against it.

I am hoping that you read at least one of them. And then to reflect honestly about the words here, we can't always be right and we can't always keep thinking the way we've always been thinking.

It's time to see the world as it is for others.

Thank you.

From Alternet . Taking Responsibility for Racism and Why People Freak Out When They're Called Out About Race

From Huffington Post . Why It's Hard To Talk About Racism

 * * *

The Art of Being Human

Last Tuesday, I sat at a funeral for one of my friends from college.

It was as heartbreaking as it sounds.

 

Back in college, we were a group of eight. My friend was not on the outskirts of this group, but at the core. Even within our own small circle we knew then what a gift of friendship we had in him. You would have liked him instantly, because he made you feel liked first. Laughter was easy for him, appreciation of a witty remark was a joy to him, and you were his friend from the first time he shook your hand. 

 

We had seen each other steadily through our four years in college since we shared the same network of friends. I worked at the campus bar along with his classmate, and we crossed into each other's lives again when coincidentally I was roommates with his college girlfriend. After graduation we fell out of touch, but in a moment of serendipity eight years ago, I saw him once more.

 

It was toward the end of the school year, I was outside of the school's main entrance waiting for my children at pick up time, and I saw his six foot frame from around the corner. I opened my mouth when I recognized him. He looked the same. I rushed over, and from ten feet away, I heard his laugh. We had crossed paths once more. I told him I was there for my children, he said he was there for his daughter and our eyes danced back and forth as we asked about the people we had known decades ago. Our voices were filled with the familiar rise and fall of two people who share countless memories. I wondered if Crazy Becky was still crazy, and asked if William had married his girlfriend of ten years. We leaned in and said, "Remember that trip we made to the horse track? When we actually won on wild bets?!" Stories flew between us, of too many trips to Madison in too small of a car. Since then, we saw each other almost daily for the next eight years.

 

When he fell ill late last year, I was able to hear how he was doing through school. Not wanting to intrude on this private time with his family, I asked about him through acquaintances. When I received the startling email this weekend that he had passed away on Sunday, tears caught in my throat. The weight of loss sat in my chest like a brick. I thought of his wife, his daughter, and the good person we no longer had on this earth.

 

He was one of the good guys.

 

All of this was so hard to grasp at Tuesday's funeral.  I sat among his friends and family, and I know that not a one of us could understand how we came to be here, for this - for him today. I wanted to sing along to the hymns his family had chosen for him, but the ache in my throat stopped me.

 

The weather on Tuesday was befitting him. Unseasonably bright blue skies and temperatures warm enough to need no jacket. In front of the church sat his car, the one we had taken to Madison. As the numbers of us stood outside waiting to enter church, our lines spilled out of the church, down the length of the block, then carried into the parking lot across the street.

 

Every person who came, standing under a glorious blue sky, was here because of him. 

 

He touched so many lives. We all were here, hoping to take what we had in our hearts for him and share with his wife and daughter -- somehow wishing our love for him would hold them up that day.  Around us, you heard the same words murmured, "He was one of the kindest people you'd ever meet."

 

When you think of someone and feel deeply grateful to have known them -- that is a person who excelled in the art of being human. And that was my friend.

 

His greatest gift was never holding back emotion -- when he felt a good, hard laugh coming on, he let it go. When he saw you, he hugged you with both arms, lifting you off the ground. The first thing he would say to someone when he was them, was their name. That was all, but in those syllables, you heard Hello, How are you, and louder than anything, I'm happy to see you. 

  

The only way you could walk away after seeing him, was with a smile and a warm heart.

 

We will miss you, my dear friend. The sky now shines brighter with you there among its stars.

 

“Sometimes people are beautiful.

 Not in looks.

Not in what they say.

Just in what they are.”

~Markus Zusak, I Am the Messenger

 

I wish you peace, light, and love, my friend. I wish you our hearts full of love to accompany you on your journey to your new home now. May the memory of seeing all of us who came to say goodbye to you comfort your wife and child. May they remember our eyes as we spoke to them about you, may they carry our stories of how you excelled so on this Earth. May they never forget how not even a church was big enough to hold the number of people who came to tell you, Thank you, I am so glad I knew you.  

 

* * *