Snippets

I just received a sleepy, long hug from my nephew. He found me at my computer (shocking) and slipped his sleepy, pajama-clad body into my arms. "Aunt D?", he asked through his still bed-heavy voice, "I'm firsty. May I please have some water? With ice?" He could've asked for anything and at that moment, steeped in perfection, I would've gotten it. Anything.

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We woke to a splendid, crisp, cool morning. I readied myself to get bagels (REAL bagels) and traded my PJ bottoms for shorts. Hubby said he would come, too. With just a wallet and sunglasses, we left solo (kids safely home with our dear company). We hopped into our open-top 1976 Land Cruiser. Oh the morning that greeted us--just. so. beautiful. Wind took charge of my crazy bed-head hair. Joan Jett (and I) belted I Love Rock 'n Roll. My love sat next to me. We didn't talk. The truck hummed its rustic, loud purr. As we drove, the palpable promise of a holiday weekend stretched and embraced the town.

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Last night, we lived on the deck. After the kiddos were snuggled in bed while visions of fireworks danced in their heads, the adults converged. Only two candles illuminated our late-night, adult conversations. That flicker, that dance, that simultaneously innocent and seductive lure of the flame highlighted our tapestry of words. Some of the threads that still weave in my mind:

"My mother went to Julliard...."

"Have you heard Pearl Jam's Just Breathe?" (I hadn't, and laptops were produced and it was played and now I will download to my iPod and play it often.)

"Always remember that you were loved."

"Mom, remember when we were in Vegas...."

"You made me part of your tribe."

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And now, I hear: the clicking of my keyboard, another nephew "Da da da da-ing" himself to sleep, threads of new conversations drifting in and out of my consciousness, a morning movie, discussion of the days plans.

A swell in my lungs, riding the crest of the splendor that sits in each of these nows.

Happy Birthday, America

I'm enjoying the company of dear, dear friends so I'm posting one of my old favorites from last summer. Happy Fourth of July!

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Hubby, the kids and I are vacationing at my in-laws lake house. We're here with my mother- and father-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their three children. We've entered summer nirvana--pure summer bliss. On the Fourth, we journeyed on the boat to the most spectacular fireworks display I've ever seen.

Through the heavy summer twilight, the kids traipsed onto the dock and climbed into still-wet life jackets. We all piled into Poppy's boat. The clouds and the rain, which had hovered for the last 48 hours, parted. A hot pink and royal blue sunset emerged. Captain Poppy allowed each of the grandkids a turn at the helm as we traveled through the night, scouting the most perfect firework-watching perch.

We found our spot and anchored the boat. Waves kindly lapped the sides. The fireworks began, exploding overhead in a spectacular national birthday celebration. A perfectly orchestrated show ensued, brilliant reds, vibrant blues and gorgeous golds. After Abby patriotically whooped it up with her cousins in the bow of the boat, she sought me out and climbed into my lap. We had a primo spot which allowed us to practically recline into the night. She rested her freshly bathed head next to mine. Her body still. At times we discussed our favorite fireworks but mostly we lay hypnotized by the display and the rhythmic dance of the boat. To date, it is one of my favorite moments with my daughter.

The show ended. Abby left my arms and reolocated to Hubby's lap, drifting to sleep with his strong arms wrapped around her. Henry took advantage of the vacancy at my lap and dove into my arms. He curled up and promptly slept. As we navigated the nautical traffic back to the lake house, I was once again lulled by the scent of a sweet child's head and the heavy weight of a small, solid body. I whispered my love to Abby and Henry in their dreams. The lake whispered, too, and wished everyone a good night's slumber.

Good night, Abby. Good night, Henry.

Good night, lake.

Good night, America.

Searching for Grace

Sometimes, the words don't come. Sometimes, they seem too heavy to write or speak. They ruminate and congest. They parade and stomp, elephant-like in my mind. Like lead ingots. So heavy. But then, I realize those unspoken words weigh much more than those that are set free.

So the words finally came. They stumbled out awkwardly, falling sporadically. Despite their rough-edged rigidness, I welcomed them during their sporadic, capricious arrival.

The last weeks, I've been low. Yelling at my children. Not enjoying, but enduring. Tense, terse and rigid. The whining, the sass, the crying, the constant needs, the kids fighting--all pummeling through me and throwing me over a jagged, steep cliff. Every minute of every moment filled with demands and unease, camouflaging any remaining simple joys. I precariously balanced there, my needs teetering with those of my children. I felt as if I successfully failed all, my only resounding certainty was my uncertainty.

One rough morning this week, Abby screamed in Henry's face. Appalled by her behavior, I screamed in her face (under the guise of showing her how not to treat her brother, fooling no one.) She (understandably) broke down and bawled. I resisted comforting her because I self-righteously and resolutely sat in my anger: "She should know better than to yell at her brother like that."

Then, my tears began their cathartic descent, achingly releasing the bottled weeks of angst. Yes, my children's recent behavior was maddening. BUT that did not give me permission to relinquish my usual deep-breathing, patient ways. Abby yelling at her brother in disgust? Well, not surprisingly, my sweet daughter mimicked me, yelling at her brother as I, lately, have yelled at yer. I never used to yell before. Now I'm yelling frequently. Daily. Hourly. And just seven hours into summer break, I already ached for fall and school.

My life consists of a continual series of seismic waves, up, down, falling, climbing. Sometimes the falls loom steeply. My recent residence in the dredges of the bottom curve leave me traversing between anger and frustration. And, despite my awareness of the necessity of the lows, I've been so mean to myself. Judging. Frustrated. My true thoughts ricocheting against my shoulds, a battle of wills ensuing. The gnawing, unfair supposition that I should be feeling something other than what I did wasted me. I hated that I allowed my children to annoy me. Harshly judging my reality and emotions, I left little room for the essence of my feelings to take hold and lead to a brighter spot. I wished that I could extend myself the same kindness, compassion and patience I freely and easily dole out to the others I love in my life.

And now, with tears streaming as I remember that morning and the malaise of the last several weeks, I grasp tightly to the power of the low, promising a forthcoming brightness. My shoulds and agonies parted and the words flowed, comforting like a linguistic salve. With a renewed peacefulness in my soul, compassion, joy and understanding returned for my children. And, gratefully, and maybe most importantly, they returned for me, too.

Frickin' Awesome Dad

My husband, the father of my children, rocks. I could write page after page about him and his fabulous attributes; he would love this and, when he reads this post, will wonder why on earth I didn't indulge all those words. Alas, dear hubby, I'm going to keep it short and sweet.

Top Ten (o.k, Eleven) Reasons Why Hubby is a Frickin' Awesome Dad:

11. When he gets home from work, he runs in the door to greet his kids.

10. At bedtime, he plays classical music to calm everyone down (and created a Pandora channel dedicated to bedtime chill tunes).

9. He resonates calm when his children's mother is a raving, exhausted, spent, out-of-patience bitch (not that she's like that a lot, but if she happens to be like that...ahem).

8. He likes going to the grocery store with his kids.

7. He accepts constructive input on his parenting skills (WOW--I try to emulate him. Truly I do.)

6. He possesses magic, mystical powers and can take both Abby and Henry from tantrum to belly laugh in roughly one minute and 39 seconds.

5. Sometimes, when hubby's been out of town for a long stretch, he gets home late at night. He goes straight to the kids' bedrooms to say hi. Often, I won't be able to find him. After searching, I find him asleep in one of their beds. Cutest. Damn. Thing. Ever.

4. He makes pancakes each and every Saturday morning.

3. When Abby was a newborn, I mowed the grass while hubby was at work. When he learned that I'd done this, he was MAD. I, of course, was then MAD (and a wee bit confused) that he wasn't appreciative--I mean hell--I'd mowed the lawn in hot, gross August wearing Abby in a Bjorn. Then he exploded, "What if you'd slipped? What if...Ugh. I'm sick. I can't even...." And that is why hubby's anger eclipsed any form of gratitude: the thought of something happening to his baby girl undid him. It was the first (of many) times I saw his mother-bear side and I melted into his fierce love for his baby girl.

2. Abby and Henry know that their Dad is a real, fallible person, who makes mistakes yet lives with the integrity to own his blunders and say "I'm sorry" (not that this happens a lot, of course, but when it happens to happen, ahem, he's sets a stellar example for those little people).

1. His children know what it is to be deeply loved by their father.

I am humbled and honored to love this man, who emulates strength, compassion, tenderness, grace and humility. Happy Father's Day to my hubby, who brings laughter, hope and light into all of our lives.

Parallels

As the school year wraps, I'm keenly aware of the merging presence of both the end and the beginning. The end of the school year and the beginning of the summer, mingling in the same space.

Yesterday, I walked the halls of Abby's elementary school.

What is it about the palpable, tangible energy during those last school days? The students and teachers all wear a mix of exhaustion and anticipatory joy on their faces. As my feet moved me down the hall, I recalled organizing all the shiny, crisp school supplies into Abby's backpack for the first day of school. Now, I peeked into classrooms and saw children haphazardly shoving old, worn folders, well-loved crayons and papers into their packs.

I inhaled the school unique essence of school: tempera paint, paper reams, glue and sweaty gym shoes. The scent of freshly-cut grass wafted in through the open windows. Blank hall walls, which just last week proudly displayed students' work, now looked so stark, punctuated with the occasional ripped corner of some well-thought-out project, pierced with one stalwart thumbtack. The floors of the hallway? The scuffed, well-traveled halls seemed torn. I could almost hear them saying, "I thought they'd never leave," while heaving a sigh of relief and trying to commit the footsteps and hum to memory. As if they could sense the impending, inevitable solemn quiet and darkened days. And were already yearning for the freshness of fall. I know how they feel.

Where do endings end and beginnings really begin? They mesh and parallel each other. I suspect the edges are always gray, frayed and ambiguous. Like those hallowed halls, like those worn school supplies. Like me. Yearning for quiet, embracing the noise and simultaneously craving both summer and fall.

Winner of Cocotay Necklace!

Congratulations to Courtney Lumbley, the winner of the Cocotay Survivorship Necklace.

(Courtney--just shoot me an email, within 48 hours, to musingsdemommy@gmail.com with your address and I'll mail you your beautiful new bauble.)

Thanks to everyone for entering and helping spread the word about Cocotay!

Mundane Divinities

Ever since my foggy Friday, I've been watching. Suddenly, I see so many lovely tidbits floating through my days. Their steadfast presence, maintaining their presence through my fog, even permeating my fogginess with their serendipitous bright truths.

Last week, the kids and I drove to Dunkin' Donuts. On the way, we sat in traffic. (Amazingly, I'd left enough time to allow for traffic.) As we sat, I looked out the window. A woman and an elementary school girl stood in their driveway. I guessed they were waiting for the school bus. They stood, silently, side by side. Contentment seemed to swallow them. The girl looked up at the woman, probably her grandmother. They smiled, and the grandmother nestled the girl into the cozy part of her body. The emulated peace. They inadvertently sent some to me.

Last Tuesday, I planted flowers. I reached into the damp dirt and furrowed spots for my vincas and potato vines. My finger nails caked with dirt. Joyful flowers nodding on my front porch. I unwittingly and literally grounded myself in the ground.

This morning, on the way to school, I saw another grandparent with her grandson. He was probably two. They stood, across from the school, like statues. Still. Waiting. Watching. I guessed that they were watching for school buses. Regardless, they stood. The grandmother didn't rush, hen peck or direct her grandson. She let him be. I felt as if that sage grandmother held some arcane bit of knowledge and just by observing them, she unknowingly unwrapped a bit of the secret for me.

Last night, while cocooned in tousled cotton duvets, a cacophony of damp drops serenaded us during our slumber. Quiet. Methodical. Natural rain. Wrapping the moment in its own heady, poignant paper. Defining a beginning, on the inevitable heels of a a day's end.

The divine, nestled right here, betwixt the traffic, the school bustle and a night's sleep.

Fog.

Some days, for no seeming reason at all, it feels like I'm walking through a very foggy space. The fog is composed of valiant anxiety and palpitating angst. Tears threaten. But I don't know why. Just. Don't. Know. Uncertainty, tinged with desperation, also mingles in that fog. I can't see it, but I feel it. Heavy. Damp. Slightly dark. I can't see much. But my feelings heighten...when that fog descends, I simmer in doubt and unease.

I wonder, on days like these, like today, if this is a new iteration of my depression. Because I've lived with this for so long, I've gotten really smart and aware about the symptoms and how I need to live to achieve balance. But is my depression like a super-resistant bacterial strain that keeps morphing to ensure its existence?

This time, this foggy, damp time, occurs simultaneously with a glorious, geranium-filled June day. Huh. I just don't get it. No. Answers. So, I will trudge through the fog and know that it has a purpose. But I will grab a flashlight. A light to illuminate the necessity of this time, which will parlay into the next. The next more seasoned, more enlightened time.

Cocotay Necklace Giveaway

This winter, I had the pleasure of meeting a fabulous jewelry designer, Coco Blaisdell and I got my hands on her fabulous Cocotay jewelry. She's a true entrepreneur and I love, adore, (did I mention love) supporting women who create beauty and listen to their hearts. Cocotay offers different lines and many incorporate vintage pieces--like old chandelier--which is cool AND green. (And if that weren't enough, Cocotay is everywhere... Sarah Jessica Parker is wearing Cocotay in Sex and the City 2!! Martina McBride wore Cocotay to the VH1 Divas! Both Joy Behar and Elizabeth Hasselbeck have worn Cocotay on The View.)

(Please excuse the quality of the photos below. I just fired my lighting crew, my makeup artist and photographer, so *sigh* I took all these photos on my own.)

This is my first Cocotay necklace...

I wear it all the time. I have so many necklaces but this one keeps getting repeat wears.

And I just got a pair of Cocotay earrings...

love them.

And now, I get to share her one of her fabulous baubles with one of you! One MusingsdeMommy reader will win a Cocotay Survivorship Necklace.

(In collaboration with the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center, Cocotay developed the necklace to lovingly honor all those touched by cancer. As much as 50% of the proceeds go directly to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. Read more at Coctay.com)

If you're ever in Manhattan, go to Bergdorf Goodman, 5th floor, to see, caress, try and buy her fabulous line. Or, visit Cocotay (www.cocotay.com).

So...how do you enter? (Each valid comment you leave below equals one entry in the giveaway.)

1. Tell me, what piece of jewelry do you put on that makes you feel confident, happy, beautiful? (One entry, leave a comment with your answer.)

2. Become a Facebook fan of Cocotay. (One entry, leave a comment telling me you did.)
3. Do you like what you read here? Does it resonate with you? Please invite your friends to come and read, too. (One Entry, leave a comment telling me you did.)

4. Long shot: Have a valid editorial "in" at Real Simple or O, The Oprah Magazine? Introduce me, copy me on the email (musingsdemommy@gmail.com) and if a dialogue begins, you'll get 25 entries. Seriously.

Giveaway Rules:
Open to US & Canadian Residents only. Entries accepted between June 3 and midnight (Eastern) June 14, 2010. I'll pick the winner via random.org and announce it here. Then, oh lucky winner, you just email me within 48 hours and I'll send you your fabulous new Cocotay bauble. (Make your subject line: Cocotay Necklace Winner, please.) If I don't hear from you in 48 hours, I'll pick a new lucky winner. (Oh, and I wasn't paid to do this giveaway, but Coco did give me my very own Survivorship Necklace. She's good that way.)

Good luck!

Pig Tails and Ankle Bones

This morning, I put Abby's hair into pig tails. I parted her hair, wetted her hair, sprayed detangler on her hair and after 2 1/2 minutes of coaxing and pulling, got one tail done. As I prepped the hair on the second half of her head, my memory tugged at me...this seems familiar. I moved on to the next mass of blond curls. When I finished, I stared at her.

Mouth open, jaw slack. Staring. Not at Abby, but at myself. In 1978.

Those pig tails, that part, the curls. She looked JUST LIKE ME. I stared at her hair and saw my own, from a faded Kodak memory (complete with rounded corners and on the back, my mother's neat handwriting marking the date).

Old photos and memories time traveling and converging as I prepare the kids for school. Usually a rote (and rushed, chaotic and slightly tense part of the morning) and there I was, swirling in an unexpected eddy of all tenses, past, present and future.

I snapped back and the frantic morning shuffle continued. When I looked down to grab a back pack, my memory stopped me again. Stared again. This time, at my ankle. There, just above my ankle bone, sat an odd, round dry patch of skin. I recognize this dark round oddity because I stared at the same one on my mom's ankle when I was....

wearing thick, blond, curly pig tails. Circa 1978.

I'll bet Abby doesn't yet know that she comes from a long line of lovely women who walked before her with odd, dry skin patches above their ankles. May she wear her genetic badge proudly. And hopefully, when she first sees hers, maybe when she's readying my grandchildren for school some distant day in the future, she'll smile. And remember.

ps--Luckily for Abby, she wears her paternal grandmother's genetic badges, too. She'll need to send many thank you notes to her Mimi, espousing thanks for the elegant, thin ankles which came from Mimi's gene pool. THEN she can send me a quick note of thanks for the odd dry skin patch. (You're welcome, sweet kid. You're welcome.)

Touchstone

I'm so humbled and honored to be the ThetaMom Community Featured Blogger today! (I've always wished, hoped, SO wanted to be the Featured Blogger and today I get my chance!) So hello to my fellow Theta Mom Community bloggers....I'm so glad you're here. I look forward to new connections and conversations. And to my returning readers, if you haven't checked out Heather's ThetaMom Community, you should. Right now.

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I've written about it here. And here. And here. Apparently, I write about it a lot. Those of you who read frequently might even be getting a tad bit tired of it. But...

I keep coming back to it. Now. Being here. I, like Dani Shapiro, ache to be "held in the infinite arms of the present".

This moment. Living in the body of this space...and not yesterday's space, or tomorrow's or even the last minute's. I'm tripping and stumbling through my nascent, but ardent, attempts to live presently. The questions dance: How do I plan for the future while basing myself in the now? If I'm still angry about something from yesterday, how do I reconcile the power of my emotions (which serve a powerful purpose) with the call of the present? Am living in the past as I carry yesterday's anger with me, or is the anger guiding me through the topography of my psyche, unveiling twisty, hidden routes which crave exploration?

More questions than answers. But I reach, slip and humbly keep returning to my touchstone of Now.

Happy Birthday to Me

38 Years. Some birthdays seem to carry more weight than others. For me, it's not always the milestones that give me the greatest pause. It's usually some odd, unexpected age when I become retrospective and sentimental.

Today, I reflect on 38 phenomenal years. Some things I know, without a doubt:

Homemade chocolate butter cream frosting acts as a salve to my soul, and the cake merely acts as the vehicle to get the frosting into my mouth, to my anticipatory taste buds. Oh. Man. Is. It. GOOOOOOOD.

Now that I'm a mother, I know that certain things are decidedly genetic. Like hating to be wet when you're supposed to be dry (Henry got this from me). Or furrowing your brow when you're thinking about something, no matter how trivial. (Abby furrowed her brow at me the day she was born--and when she is 38, she, too, will have Grand Canyon crevices in her forehead as evidence of this lovely genetic trait.)

I don't know what will happen tomorrow. Or in the next minute. I openly embrace how little I know about things. Gone are the days of my 20s when my bravado and I knew sooooo much. This gracious non-understanding allows me to explore the intricacies, the conundrums, the small things--by asking and learning from the everyday sages who surround me.

Each day imparts gifts; oddly, awkwardly wrapped little nuggets of truth, sometimes disguised as shitty days, weeks or months. Sometimes, the significance of the gift unravels slowly....like molasses from a jar.

Sometimes, I'm a real bitch.

I am fiercely grateful for the constants in my life: wind, trees, air and the ground, meeting my feet with each stride. Love and joy from unexpected pockets, friends and kindred spirits.

I am painfully afraid of loss. I am still terrified of losing someone I love...the fragility of the human condition pummels me. (And, while reading Dani Shapiro's phenomenal Devotion, I realize I want to go deep on this topic...)

Nondescript divinities truly knock the air out of my lungs. The moments where time sits heavily in my hand, when I'm kissing the top of my son's head, or when my daughter inquisitively looks at me through long lashes, with furrowed brow, sparkling eyes dancing on a sea of delicate freckles.

I hit the jackpot when I met my Hubby. And he hit the jackpot when he met me.

I love wearing things that remind me of people--a grandmother's necklace, a dear friend's bracelet, hubby's fleece. These things steep me in flooded memories.

I always have a choice.

And today, I chose to celebrate all of it--ALL 38 years of it.

Talisman

One recent May day, the jet streams brought tumultuous winds with their ancient rhythmic dance. Invisible. Powerful. Significant. Woeful. Wind. Its wild call spoke to me. What was I supposed to hear? Something...meaningful. The gusts were so forceful. I stopped.

Paused.

The omnipotent wind understood that I need a push. Swoooooosh. Coursing, pulsing, pushing me...

but where?

Where should I ride these winds, so boisterous and bold? Was I supposed to know? Where are they hinting, suggesting? Why, on this day, did they push so vehemently?

The congruence of the west winds, pulsing and calling my follies out to play. As if ordained and scripted solely for me. Forcing my latent dreams up, up and out...until they floated in the stratosphere with the colliding jet streams.

My lungs filled.

My heart thumped.

My soul lifted.

My dreams soared.

My brain questioned.

Brilliant pure white clouds illuminated by the sunlight, piercing the space between me and the royal blue open.

Open, it seemed, to anything I dared throw at it...able to absorb all. Challenging me, daring me, encouraging me, pleading with me...

Trust.

Dream.
Be.
Calm.

Coursing. The wind blew so hard that as I inhaled it, I imagined bringing in air that had just left Minnesota. The gale-force wind pushed through my yard and sliced into me, lifting me. Blowing my norms and sensibilities into submission; allowing alliances with novelties, which, on second examination, were actually old, familiar thoughts, stretching after years of dormancy.

Powerful.

Then I pulled back, awash in myopic shame, guiltily wondering how I could be so audacious as to believe this wind, and its unbridled energy, visited just for me. But the wind just pushed more.

A cloud sprinted. The wind shook the sky's colors into an explosion of every possible, perfect blue. The wind staked claim to the sky's effervescent splendor.

All day, pounding. All day, wondering. And finally knowing: I could finally interpret its wild call: "Be here, Denise. Soak in this exact moment. Right now." A physical, tangible talisman of right now.

"My default answer to everything is no. As soon as I hear the inflection of inquiry, the word no forms in my mind, sometimes accompanied by a reason, often not. Can I open the mail? No. Can I wear your necklace? No. When is dinner? No. What you probably wouldn't believe is how much I wanted to say yes." -Kelly Corrigan, LIFT

My days are filled with my children's questions and my answers. I field many, many, many inquires every hour:

"Can Buzz Lightyear fly?"

"Can I fly?"
"What's for dinner?"
"Can we have a sleep over?"
"Will you buy me high heeled shoes?"
"Can we have dessert?"
"Will you push me?"
"Can we have a snack?"
"Will you give me a manicure? With little flowers on each nail like the babysitter does?"
"Will you come now?"

Before kids, I fancied myself a patient, positive person. After nearly seven years at this parenting gig, I realize that I am not the patient, positive person I previously thought. (Granted, before I delivered my children into this world, I hadn't experienced the tyrannical nature of children's constant, continual spray of questions, firing like rounds from a machine gun. (A little too harsh, perhaps? Sorry...'twas a long, questioning morning at the MusingsdeMommy home.)

After a question is sent my way, my tongue perches at the roof of my mouth, readying to produce the "N" sound, preparing to say NOOOOOO. And to try to hide my penchant for No-saying, I've devised ways to say No without actually saying No.

"Let me think about it."
"I'll see how the evening goes."
"If you eat healthfully..."
"You guys go out first and I'll meet you there."
"I'll be right there..."

No.

It's so heavy, brooding and dark. Necessary, at times, but not at ALL times. Yes, on the other hand, reverberates; so lively, powerful and affirming. Punctuated with possibilities, ruminating with promises.

When I started reflecting on this, my stomach sank in misery. Why am I so quick to jump to No? What am I, on a subconscious current, teaching my children about life? Are their questions truly that outlandish? My children actually lob their questions and then I hear them quietly pleading, with me, the winds and the universe, "please say yes please say yes oh please say yes". Am I that transparent?

Yes.

Today, I'm putting my negative responses on notice. I'm bringing back Yes. In an effort to be more adaptable and accommodating, positive and affirming...to both my children and myself, I'm replacing my old, tired, reflexive No and finding simple, inspired reasons to embrace Yes.

Yes, you can.
Yes, we can.

Yes, I will.

Lust

A craving. A guttural need to satisfy. A flutter...of anticipation. A deep inhalation.

Heart beat quickens and pulse complies.

So close. So close. So cloooooooooooose.

I'm almost there.

I reach into the dark, hidden corner of the kitchen cupboard. Stealthy, I find the bag. I tear off the wrapper. Hello small, dark and handsome. How YOU doin'? I place the dark chocolate on my tongue. Oh it's so good. I close my eyes and savor but then devour. I silently give thanks that my world is one that includes large doses of dark chocolate.

I'm. Submerged. In. Chocolate. Ecstasy.

(Part of Momalom's FiveforTen. Today's topic is LUST...Blush. Sigh.)

Like the Corners of My Mind

November 2002.
Driving home.
Song playing:

Two days, past 18
He was waiting for the bus in his army greens
Sat down in a booth, cafe there,
gave his order to a girl with a bow in her hair.
He's a little shy so she gives him a smile
And he said would you mind sittin' down for awhile
And talking to me
I'm feeling a little low.
She said I'm off in an hour and I know where we can go.

[Note: I am crying.]

So they went down and
They sat on the pier he said
I bet you got a boyfriend but I don't care
I got no one to send a letter to.
Would you mind if I sent one back here to you?

[Note: tears and snot steadily falling down my face and soaking my blouse.]

I cried, never gonna hold the hand of another guy
Too young, for him they told her, waitin' for the love of a traveling soldier
Our love will never end
Waitin' for the solider to come back again
Never more to be alone
When the letter said, the soldier's coming home.

So the letters came from an Army camp
In California then Vietnam
They told her of his heart, might be love
And all of the things he was so scared of.
He said when it gets kinda rough over here
I think of that day sittin' down by the pier
And I close my eyes and see your pretty smile
Don't worry but I won't be able to write for awhile...

One Friday night at the football game
The Lord's Prayer said and the anthem sang
A man said Folks won't you bow your heads
For a list of local Vietnam dead.

[Note: Body shaking sobs have taken over my body.]

Crying all alone, under the stands
Was a piccolo player from the marching band
And one name read but nobody really cared.
But a pretty little girl with a bow in her hair.

[Note: I can barely see the road now for my heaving sorrow.]

The Dixie Chick's poignant, haunting tale of a young Vietnam solider willed its way into my psyche. It accompanied my sobs. I cried because of the inequity of death, I cried for the traveling soldier's mother and the grief that surely encompassed her heart. I cried for all mothers who'd ever experienced the death of a child.

Then, a random thought throttled through my disdain:

That morning, at work, I drank V8. I walked to refrigerator stocked with every imaginable drink and I chose to slam a V8. Twice.

I hate V8.

So, I'm sobbing listening to the Dixie Chick's Travelin' Soldier and drinking multiple V8's with vigor. Hormones snapped from gloom to joy.

I called Hubby.

Before he could eek out a Hello, I blurted, "I might be pregnant!"

Pause.

"Really?!?!?!", he said.

"YES! I'm drinking V8 and sobbing!!!" (Because he's a smart man, Hubby took my assessment at face value and did not question my logic.)

Detour: Stopped at the store for pregnancy tests. I felt so proud buying them, so aligned with the universe. I didn't realize I had dark black mascara tracks lining my face from my moments-earlier bawling session.

Home: I ran to the bathroom with the crinkly plastic sack (with nary a hello to Hubby). I took the test. (Aside: it'd really be nice if this test could be taken differently...really, wouldn't it be nice to NOT have to pee on a stick and watch the urine-soaked stick and hang out in the bathroom right before you find out you're going to be a mother?).

I wrapped everything up and sat on the toilet lid. The stick sat between my feet. I stared at it.

At the destiny-defining, urine-soaked stick.

I desperately coaxed air into my shallow lungs.

Then: TWO LINES.

Sweet! The results.
Shit! I have no idea what two lines mean. I study the instructions again and learn that

Two lines = PREGNANT.

"George!!!" I screamed.

"WHAT???" he peeled in, thinking I'd fallen and cracked open my head.

"I'm pregnant."

May 2010.
Driving home.
Song playing:

Dixie Chicks Travelin' Soldier.

Detour: November evening, 2002. I travel right back to that night and remember my fierce certainty that I was going to be a mother and that, at that very moment, a microscopic life formed inside me. That life became Abby, my willful, beautiful, intelligent, passionate daughter. The music tied together past, present and a hopeful future. Notes, someone's thoughts, passions and words, and my misty, water-colored memories, all encapsulated in a song.

(This is my Memory post, part of Momalom's great FiveforTen write-a-thon. Click here or the button on the side bar to learn more.)

Yin, Yang & Other Necessities

Happiness. Glee. Gosh, I could drone on for hours about the thousands of simple joys in my life that truly make me giddy. Narrowing down to one, consistent thought proved challenging for me.

But, I did it.

But, before I go there, I must go here.

I believe, that in order to appreciate the full beauty of the oak tree, I must experience its dichotomies and sweeping opposites. In winter, the brazen, dark, hard edges of its leafless branches, boldly reach to the charcoal-infused sky. In late spring, its leaf-laden branches create poetic stanzas with their natural rustling and shaking. Yin and Yang.

I believe the same principal applies to happiness. Sadness, the polar opposite, provides a launch pad from which to experience joy. Boy Howdy do I have a launch pad.

Depression descended into my life years ago. Looking back, my struggle probably started in my late teens. Those first years of flailing, crushing sadness walloped me. I didn't know what was wrong or how to make it stop. I cried. I believe anxiety replaced the blood that was supposed to course through my body. Depression ate away at me, replacing vigor and strength with fragility and a belief that I was not worthy. I devastated so easily; the doubt and dark sadness became pinnacle to many episodes of my life. Self confidence? NONE. And the people in my life? Well, many had no idea. I was a master of disguise, secretly battling the demons. Thankfully, I realized my problem and sought help. Thankfully, good therapists and wonderful antidepressants exist in this world.

It is through THAT experience which I experience joy. And of the myriad of events, people and natural beauties that bring me pure, explicit happiness, perhaps one of my paramount happy-makers is the northern beaches of Lake Michigan.

Soulful, raw, beautiful and epic in its ability to calm me, charge my battery, make me happy and whole, even when I'm empty. A constant companion through my years, always holding onto happiness, especially when I could not. Even in the deepest despondence of depression, like a true friend, Lake Michigan soothed. And smiled. Or threw a crashing temper tantrum on my behalf. Simultaneously mimicking my internal struggle and showing me it was ok. And then I'd smile.

I vividly remember one particular August visit. My dear, dear friend and I went for a weekend. Upon arrival, I dashed from the car and ran to the lake. "Hello, Lake! How are you?" I screamed to the vibrant blues, turquoises tipped with white. "Have you missed me?!?!?!?"

I'm sure I saw her nod in reply.

And then I wrote this:

That day was chilly, even by Up North standards. Gray clouds and 66 degrees. The children still swam, their heads bobbing in the turbulent waves. Swimming on a cold summer day is a hardy, essential, Yankee right-of-passage (one in which I proudly partook repeatedly). The scene, ensconced in my memories, is so familiar: white sand, an occasional sea gull, bent dune grass and the geographical slant of the dry land slowly converting to water. Broken pieces of children's laughter bouncing to shore over the waves. Flags taught, saluting the wind. People in the distance, through the grasses, headed into homes. Natural, native, primitive. I was full. And happy.

Then, I walked back to our bed and breakfast. Moments later, I sat on the cozy front porch, removed from the raw song of Lake Michigan. Cars, stores, shops, voices all creating a sweet, syncopated commotion. Just one half mile from the tranquil, natural cocoon of the beach. A jarring juxtaposition of sounds. Not unlike most of life, very unique things occurring simultaneously, in stride and right next door.

Those unique dichotomies exist within me, always. Happy precedes sad and sad precedes happy. Both necessary pieces coexisting to create the full, raw, weighted, joyful picture. Yin and Yang.

Momalom's FiveforTen Part 2: Happiness. (To find out more about this great movement, go here.)

Doing It Anyway

I just discovered a new site yesterday, Momalom. They're hosting this great movement, Five for Ten Again. You write a post on the topic they serve up. Participation, for me, was a must. And, thanks to their inspiration, I give you my thoughts on the first topic, Courage.

A new school, anonymous faces, gripped hands holding wildly, deriving strength from one known, staunch journeyman.

A racist comment lobbed. A contrary, heavy stare returned, words spoken to challenge and usurp the ignorant thought. The bigot walks, questioning the interaction...no longer accepting their narrow view as THE truth.

An oh-so-sweet-and-red, quivering lip boldly walking into preschool, alone, despite the gorge of tears threatening their descent.

An unleashed dream, finally spoken to the universe.

Openly listening to an opinion that is the polar opposite of yours.

Sending my children into the world, each day, and hoping that our time together continues, yet not knowing ...

Speaking the truth. Word following word, each small piece building on the next. Telling the rank, puss-filled, painful truth.

Love. Diving into this divine, treacherous territory, not knowing how the story ends.

Mea Culpa. Admitting fault, assuming responsibility. "I'm sorry" is courageous, each and every time.

So big. Courage arrives in bold swaths of action. It also resides in the small bits. Looming chances. Microscopic opportunities lauding, requiring vast depths of courage. Days, seemingly rote, suddenly turn and necessitate a quick pull from the courage reserves. And when pulled upon, the unwitting owner can inwardly beam at their untapped power and stamina.

Firm. Shaky. Resolute. Brilliant. Fear. Persevering. Doing it anyway. Small and big. Verve, residing in hearts, rising and creating forward momentum. Courageous.

My Mom

Strong.
Unstoppable.
Unwavering.
Fallible.
There.
Powerful.
Daunting.
Sacrificing. (But not in a martyrish way, in a "I-just-can't-imagine-doing-it-any-other-way" way.)
Smart.
Willing.
Open-minded.
Unbiased. (Unless it's about her children...then all unbiased bets are off.)
Accomplished.
Loving.
Supportive.
Proud.
Reserved.
Resplendent.
Passionate.
Born to be a mother.

Thank you, Mom. I love you.

Home Sweet Home

I've moved -- a lot. In my 37 years, I've lived in 15 cities in 10 states. Most of the moves took place when I was a student l or when I held an office job--this provided me (for better or, sometimes, worse) a natural networking and friend-making resource. My last two moves, however, occurred when I did not have a classroom or an office as a social outlet--all I had was me and my sparkling, clever charm.

Making Friends.
Our first summer in Arkansas, I used the pool (and the women there) as a breeding ground for new friendships. It'd go a little something like this: after the 15 minute migration from car to pool (toting one child, corralling another, schlepping towels and a gagillion water toys), I'd find a chair (not to put me in but to put stuff on, sigh) and slather all three of us from scalp-to-toe with sunscreen. We'd finally enter the shallow end. I'd look around, surveying the pool goers to find someone with whom I could drum up a conversation.

"Oh", I'd think to myself, "she looks nice...I'll ask how old her kids are." That was one of my favorite opening lines. A cute bathing suit also served as a great conversation starter. If things went well, we'd chat and I'd feel so happy that I connected with a potential friend. Near the end of our chat, I'd begin to wonder if I should ask for her number. Then, I'd suck up my courage and ask. If we did exchange numbers, I'd wonder. Did she give me her number because she felt sorry for me (because I was new to town, clearly with no friends)? Or did she see past my desperation and peer through the SPF 50 and Jackie-O sunglasses to see a potential soul-mate?

Would she call? Did she think I was funny? Would she call? Did she like talking to me? Would we be friends????

(Wait a second. This reminds me of something. Hmmmm....Oh Yeah. My twenties. And Dating. Ugh. Geesh.)

After my chlorinated pool friend-finding missions, Hubby would ask how our day went. If I'd met a potential new pal, I'd excitedly recount our interaction. I'll tell him about something interesting she said, how well the kids played (however briefly), and then about something ridiculously funny I'd said. And I'd wrap with, "I hope she calls...."

Fortunately, she usually did.

It takes time to get to know a person and their various shades and levels; idiosyncrasies and a true understanding unveil slowly, over the course of years. Grasping a lay of the land, learning whom I adore, who can put up with my quirks, who I can trust, who will be the start-with-a-playdate-and-segue-into-a-dinner-date friend...well, it all takes time.

And all that time, and dating strategies, invested over 10 states and 15 cities? So worth my effort. Sure, sometimes I wish for the implicit comfort of the daily, yearly, decade-long familiarity of one town and generations of friends. But instead, I get to celebrate the many dear friends, laughs, cries, joyful memories and tearful goodbyes that punctuate my nomad journey. Moving shaped and informed me. I feel like I'm a unique amalgamation of every region I've lived and each friendship I've experienced. Even my accent reflects a special blend of south, north, mid-west and even a bit of east coast. (Interestingly, my northern friends think I sound southern...and my southern pals think I honk like a Yankee.)

Home?
Hanging certain pieces of art (whether they be watercolors by Abby or some fantabulous Spanish street artist, discovered outside of Madrid's Museo del Prado) denote home. Home is, of course, my house. The physical structure is important to me. But as I mature, and move from city to city, home has become much more. I find home in various faces, cities and restaurants. In a familiar-sounding swoosh of wind through leafy boughs. Sometimes home is still in my mother's arms, head on her shoulder, gratefully allowing all my angst, worry or celebration to spill out of my pores into hers. Sometimes I find home in my husband's thoughtful, analytical response to one of my pressing, emotional probes. At times, home is crisp, bleach-scented sheets and the luminous glow of my bedside lamp. Others, I'm most at home with the heavy weight of one of children spooned into my lap. My friends, their stories and energy, make each stop on my homeward destination true and full. My home transcends four walls. I am so grateful that home follows, and dwells, wherever I am.