Keeping the Peace

Some items travel with us through time. We keep these items that link us to past iterations of ourselves, of special times in our lives and as tokens that bind us to the people that moved through our space and left imprints that whisper of past times and places. We cherish these items, these totems, and in doing so imbue them with a supernatural that call to us on many levels. Each item has its own spirit, formed from the life events they traveled with us.

These items are lovingly tucked away in jewelry boxes, bottom drawers or closets. Seen fleetingly as we dig through these places for other every day things that we need and use with thoughtless connection. We smile on these totems as we see them, sometimes touching them with gentle finger strokes, as memories flit through our mind on butterfly wings or fell us with the hammer of grief and loss. 

My memory boxes and closets harbour many such totems.  The ring my father received as a baby. My mother's wedding ring. The matchsticks that my husband used to spell out "I Love You" on my front porch when we were dating. Locks of hair from my children's first hair cuts. A blanket my grandmother crocheted and many of my grandfather's and father's woodworking tools. A decanter set from my grandparent's bar. A pair of favorite sweats from my high school days. An odd assortment of Christmas ornaments from every vacation my family has taken. I collect totems, the physical manifestations of memory and times captured. These are my links. 

Some totems are often meant to be passed on to the next generation. Stories shared of their beginnings and what they represent. The passing of a totem bond can be as easy as the giving of a hug and some items have only one connection, the sentimentality a one way bond. 

In previous times, in different cultures, the passing of an important totem would have been a grand ceremony for a family or a tribe. In others it's as simple and as meaningful as opening a closet door and taking a jacket off a coat hanger.

Last night I was rooting through the coat closet for a jacket to wear on a walk with the dogs. My fingers brushed over a black denim jacket tucked far back in the closet. I smiled as I recalled buying it at a flea market that no longer exists, the many hikes I took wearing it, and what it meant to the teenage me wearing it most days. I took it off the hanger, touching the metal buttons with gentle fingers, feeling the worn softness of the denim, fixing the collar. And then I turned it around. There it was. The artwork of a friend, a design he made for me and painted on my jacket. We're still friends, not nearly as close as when this jacket received it's markings, because life choices took us in different directions, but friends none the less. This jacket, those memories, link us. 

But as I held that jacket, standing in the hallway, smiling as the memories danced in my mind's eye like fireflies on a summer night, I also knew the time was right. 

I called for my daughter, this wonderful girl who listens to the Beatles, wants to save the planet and recently called herself a modern day flower child. 

When she came to see what I wanted, I showed her the front of this plain black Lee denim jacket, circa 1983, and asked if she wanted it. She looked at it, frowned a bit. I could see she was unimpressed and about to politely decline my offer so I wordlessly turned it around. She gasped and rushed over to touch it, laughing and asking where I got it. I shared the back story as stroked the paint, looked over the denim and straightened the collar.

She put that jacket on and all those wonderful memories of mine wrapped around my daughter and became hers to build upon. 

Totem passed. 

With Love.
  

filling the void

My bloggy brain seems to be on hiatus. It didn't leave a note as to when it's expected to return from its sojourn, which I find somewhat discourteous actually.

I think it stayed here:

Wouldn't you, given the choice?

The trip with my daughter was most excellent. An experience that brought us closer together and created simple fun loving memories that will always be just ours. A road trip and vacation with your kid, one on one, is something I highly recommend.

And I think that is what I'm struggling to convey in writing. That depth of emotional connection, the simple joy of spending time with my daughter, just us, singing, laughing, talking and sharing pieces of each other, away from everything and everyone we know. Putting those feelings and thoughts into words seems beyond my abilitites.

While I want to share all the laughter and joy in my heart from this trip with her, I also want to keep them close, hold fast to those memories and cherish them for what they gave me, and I hope, gave her as well.

time well wasted

The past couple of weekends I've stolen time for myself. Time I don't normally carve from the endless cycle of running and doing that constantly demands attention. It's just how it is, kids need to be here or there, dishes need doing, laundry needs washing, house needs cleaning. The next minute I look up from the task in front of me and suddenly it's closing in on the next day and another round of schedule humping.

With the arrival of slightly warmer weather last weekend, I gathered the dog and a daypack and headed off to explore an area of my town that I knew about but have never bothered to visit in the almost eighteen years of living within a ten minute drive.

A forestry resource center, with trails, trees and quiet. I used to spend many many hours exploring up in the South Mountain and Watchung reservations in good weather, and bad, because the woods have always been a place that offers me solitude, peace, and the openess to think, or not, should that be the inclination of the moment. But over time, despite having several acceptable parks close at hand, I stopped finding the time for leisurely walks in the woods unless it was on vacation.

I missed it.

Somehow I had forgotten how much my time in the woods nurtured my spirit until I was deep into my walk, sipping some water, the dog at my side and felt myself breathe, just breathe, and absorb the silence of a pine forest trail. It was wonderful.

                             

So I went back Sunday, and my daughter went with me. And the dog, of course, because she has some bizarre radar that zeroes in on a person who might even be thinking of going for a walk and leaving the house for such a venture without the canine companion is just not tolerable to her mind.

This weekend the weather was even more gentle so I headed back to explore further and found hints of spring in wild rhododendren shoots pushing through the fallen leaves.

In tender leaf buds on swaying branches.

And in the murmuring of the river, flush from the recent rains.

A nice long stroll in the woods reminds me to breathe, to take the time to notice the details in the world around me. During these walks, where pine needles carpet the path, I can put aside the day to day frets and focus on bigger things.

Like which path will lead me to the next discovery.
              

          

the frustration game

As parents we’re pretty vigilant that our kids do their homework, give more than their best to their school work, keep their grades up and reach for more than just getting by.

We’re probably more attentive to our son’s educational career than our daughters right now for many reasons, all of which are wrapped up tight with the dyslexia bow tie.

Ace is a smart kid with above average intelligence yet his test grades give the impression that he doesn’t study, that he doesn’t put in any effort and that he doesn’t care.

This is a frustrating issue for him. When he sees test after test come back with less than stellar grades, he gets annoyed and frustrated that no matter how hard he studies, how many times he stays after school for extra help, he’ll never achieve the grades that seem to come so easy to his sister. This frustration then dampens his enthusiasm for school and the class, or classes, he struggles with the most.

What’s frustrating for us, as parents, is seeing this in our son, despite knowing what he can accomplish and searching for ways to help him over look test scores and focus on putting in effort, giving that extra above your best. Not to mention the constant pitched battle of getting an active teenage boy to spend more hours studying, despite the success he has had in other classes after extra study time.

We have high expectations of our kids when it comes to school. We expect them to put in more than the average effort and time, demand that their homework be done before entertainment and that if grades fall extra –curricular activities such as sports, video game time and friend time, will be limited. It’s what parents should be doing. Isn’t this part of the job description?

The frustrating reality is that in high school, test grades do matter, especially when it comes to getting into college.

As Ace got headed into freshman year, we pushed him harder to overcome some of his biggest challenges. As a kid with Dyslexia, literacy has always been the hardest subject; all the reading, summarizing, writing and analysis is a daunting prospect. Over the teacher’s objections and the administrations hesitancy, Ace took an Honors English class as a high school freshman. The teacher was informed of Ace’s Dyslexia and, after voicing her concerns about him being placed in her class, agreed to see how he progressed. To help him with the reading assignments, we made sure he had the Audiobook version of all his books as well, so he could listen to the cadence of the book, reinforce the rhythm of the language and further absorb the content of the book, all of which can be very difficult for him when he reads. He spent time after school with the teacher, he wrote and rewrote and rewrote essays before the final version made it to the teacher. He didn’t do all that well on his tests, but at the end of the class he got a B and the teacher’s opinion had done a complete reversal. She complimented him on his work ethic, on how involved he was in class, she told him, and us, that she wished she could have given him more one on one time because he was clearly a good student and wanted to learn. All of this positive reinforcement, recognition of the effort and what he learned in that class uplifted him. He read more after being in that class, dove into new books, and felt that he could master his dyslexia. This was a huge success for him.

He had the same experience in an Honors History class his first semester as a sophomore. The teacher worked with him, understood some of the struggles Ace encountered and made sure to give him the opportunities he needed to succeed, but didn’t go out of his way to make it easy for Ace. The expectations were the same, read the material, do the homework, participate in class. There were no allowances made, just an understanding of the issues and the offer of time and assistance when needed. Ace did well in the class, he learned the material, he liked and trusted the teacher, but again his test scores weren’t great. He would come home with a C on a test, pissed off because he’d spent hours studying his history book, reviewing his class notes (not without considerable nagging from us that he study more because hey, Teenage Boy here who wants to eat and be out with his friends.) but he sees these grades as failures of effort. We try to remind him that these are far from failures. If a kid with an auditory processing disorder and dyslexia can get B’s in an honors class, well, I’d say he’s doing more than okay. He’s having trouble acknowledging that fact.

We try to reinforce the positive, to keep his eye on the successes, to remember that the classes he’s taking are harder, demand more of his him and effort. Not an easy thing to get from him because he’s an active kid who would rather be out playing baseball or playing Xbox.

And then there was Honors Geometry this semester.

Once again, the teacher was clear that she didn’t think Ace’s grades were strong enough to be in her class. As Ace began the semester, he immediately struggled. The material was hard and new, the class moved fast and there was little time to absorb unfamiliar material. Ace was frustrated and began to pull back on his efforts to work more. He didn’t want to stay after with the teacher, was quietly resistant to getting extra help and was clearly unhappy. The teacher suggested to him that he transfer out of Honors Geometry.

This path of frustration, of low homework grades continued and then he did poorly on another test. This time the teacher wrote on his test that maybe he should transfer out of Honors Geometry.

He was angry, sad and hurt. He asked if we would transfer him out so he didn’t fail this class.

Sometimes it’s better to step back and reevaluate. That very day he was transferred to another Geometry class.

There was fault on both sides, a circular failing that went round and round for a few weeks.

The teacher didn’t want Ace in her class and Ace knew that. When he didn’t do well, the teacher wouldn’t help him beyond the basics. When further help was not forthcoming and grades dipped, Ace didn’t dig in and put more effort into succeeding, he pulled back and took the “why bother” approach. The teacher viewed this as another reason he did not belong in her class.

Maybe, if the teacher had given him a little support, more help and been open, Ace might have responded and put more effort into the material, because when he wants to learn something, nothing stops him.

This was a missed opportunity for both teacher and student. Who knows, maybe if they had given each other more of a chance, they would have found the key to the problem, but instead, they both gave up.

I’m a little disappointed in my son, and told him the reasons why I feel that way, but having seen him succeed in similar situations, I know what he is capable of, and frankly this will be a blip on the trajectory of the person he’s becoming.


I’m more disappointed in the teacher, because it’s her job to lift up students like my son, to nurture the curious minds that might struggle, but instead she chose to push him out and focus on the students that she felt deserved her attention.

I sometimes wonder if we’re pushing too hard, urging him to reach for more with Honors classes. Maybe we should just let him take the standard grade appropriate classes and get good solid grades. But, as I even think that, I know as he gets older, goes to college and enters the workforce, he’s going to need to work just a little harder, put in a little more effort, in areas of life that his dyslexia impacts. Isn’t teaching him now that the extra effort is worth the reward preparing him for that life? Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do? Wouldn’t it be failing my son if I let him coast and expect that he’ll just get by?

Marital Bliss

We’re going to a wedding this Sunday for our best friend Craig and his lovely bride-to-be Lisa.

Sometimes the piece that is meant to fit in the puzzle of a life takes some time to find. And that is exactly how it played out for Craig & Lisa.

I met Craig in a bookstore back in 1992. I had just become an assistant manager, transferred to a new store, and there was this big tall guy in glasses, a maroon sweater vest and tie, shelving books. He belonged in a bookstore. Within a few hours it was as we’d been friends for life. We chatted about everything, from his obsession with Star Trek to my obsession with The Grateful Dead. We spent many hours happily stereotyping the customers, agonizing over the crappy books that were selling like mad, specifically the top of the list that Christmas, Madonna’s SEX, and seeing who could outsell each other. We grumbled together about annoying customers and poked not-quite-gentle fun, behind closed doors, at our district manager.

Craig became a brother of my heart, an uncle to my kids and remains to this day one of the nicest men I know, outside of my husband. He really needs to let up on that shit because nice does not always finish first. I keep telling him that he needs to find the nasty streak of his and let it fly. Problem is I’m not sure he has a nasty streak. I do know he has a sarcastic one though.
I introduced him to my soon-to-be husband and he introduced us to his soon-to-be wife. We got together a bunch as couples, ate too much food, drank too much wine and enjoyed a load of laughs and fun. We argue about politics, religion and movies. And my guy and I worried some about the path he was treading with the woman who just didn't seem to care as much about him as he did here.

Thankfully, just days before the final words would have ben spoken, and it was a close call, he freed himself from the devil spawn he was engaged to and escaped to live another day. it aws one of the most heart wrenching things he had ever done.

Craig? Is one of those gentle, loving, kind men that wants to share his life with one woman, the right woman, and build a life together upon a foundation of love, laughter and friendship. The devil spawn he was engaged to when we met wanted to dictate his life and have their relationship completely under her own evil dominion. A late escape is better than none but this break up came at great expense to his heart and confidence and it took a long time to recover.

He dipped his toe in the dating pool some, got a few healthy nibbles and a few nutters, as one is wont to encounter in the big world of dating, and after shaking loose one particular nutter, he began wondering if he was destined to remain single. The romantic in me kept telling him no way, that wouldn’t happen, because if people like Sarah Palin can find a soul mate, than clearly there is hope for the good hearted in the world to find theirs. He just had to wait and believe.

He dipped his toe back into the dating pool, with a little trepidation through one of the online match up streams, and taking a chance went out on a date with a woman named Lisa. They hit it off, dated some more, got to know each other and then moved in together.

After realizing the living together gig wasn’t so bad because Hey! someone else to help clean the toilet and do the dishes, he bought a pretty sparkly ring and she said yes.

These two were meant for each other. All the stuff that came before was nothing more than shaking the dust off the treasure buried underneath and getting it ready to shine. She makes him smile, obviously loves him and wants what’s best for him and them. He reciprocates wholeheartedly. They accept each other, acknowledge the flaws and refuse to let their difference hinder the growth of love and trust they nurture. They laugh together, with and at each other, and find pleasure in each other’s company. They like each other.

They are building their life, this life, together with laughter, love and excitement. It’s lovely to bear witness to such happiness.

So on Sunday, I’ll sit back and watch as my brother pledges himself to this woman, before their families and friends, committing to one another publicly and legally. Where it truly counts, deep in the heart and soul, they've already taken themselves in love and faith. This is just a formality, the public declaration of their love for each other for all the world to see.

They complete each other. It’s heartwarming to see that sometimes nice finishes exactly where it’s meant to be. It also goes to show you can find anything online. Including love.

signed, with love

So, post 401. Two and half years, 400 brain dumps later and I'm still here. Not a bad showing, all things considered. I used up post 400 for a political rant because it was sitting in my craw leaving a miserable after taste. Now that it’s out there, my breath is all minty fresh! Now if only I could do something about the gas...

I attend a lot of meetings for the School Board that often don’t end until well after my kids are tucked up in bed and visiting dreamland. Just this week our monthly meeting went from 5:30 until almost 11:00. Now that it’s budget prep time, there are more meetings added to the schedule to huddle with the community budget committee, the department committees to review budget detail and then general committee meetings to keep on top of topics. And then there is the standard monthly meeting. There is a considerable investment of time that takes me away from my family. I knew this going in and accept it without bitching.

My daughter has taken to asking the same question every morning before school – Mom, do you have any meetings tonight? If the answer is no, I get a great big smile in return. If the answer is yes, the questions continue – what time will I be home? Is it going to be a long meeting? Will I be home for dinner?

Usually, given that evenings schedule, I can give her an idea of whether I’ll be late or not.

Without fail if I get home after she’s in bed, there’s a note waiting for me right inside the front door, where I can’t miss seeing it.

Written in my daughter’s loose penmanship and often decorated with doodles that span cartoon dogs, peace signs, hearts, flowers and happy faces, these notes travel along the same lines, but each one warms my heart and makes me smile. And reminds me that I should thank the universe that my almost teenage daughter actually likes to spend time with me and does not yet consider me an embarrassment of epic proportions.

“HI MOM!

I Love You! How was your day? I missed you!

I hope you had a good meeting. I don't know if I told you but I was picked Student of the Month!

If you get home after I’m asleep, please please please come in and give me a hug and kiss. You can wake me up if you want, but you have to come in and kiss me good night.

Have a great night,

Signed, with love,

Your favorite little girl in the whole world,
Giggles”

Because I want her to know these notes always make me smile and add to the comfort of coming home, I make sure she knows that not only did I see her note (because she will ask)but that I did indeed go in to kiss and hug her. I’ll tell her how I found her all tucked up under the covers, whether the dog was taking up most of the bed and if she was drooling on her pillow.

It really is the little things that mean the most sometimes.

blooms of christmas

This right here is your standard issue Christmas Cactus, a plant I knew very little about until I looked it up, and now I know just enough about it that it’s best served staying exactly where it is, which is in the main hallway of my In-Law’s house, being properly tended by my Mother-in-Law, who manages to keep houseplants alive. A feat that seems beyond my scope, except for two variegated pathos plants my husband and I received as cuttings from the one my Godmother Marie had that was easily fifteen years old when she lopped some pieces off and handed them to me the day we moved out of her house and into our own. I pull that thing back from the brink of death several times a year and am ever so thankful its strength to survive outweighs my neglectful ministrations.

This one Christmas Cactus makes me smile every time there's a new flower bud visible. Which is also why I leave it in the care of my mother-in-law as I really don’t want to be the cause of its demise.

This plant was my mom’s. She received a cutting of it from my sister and nurtured it for several years. When my parents moved into a smaller apartment she decided not to take her plants due to space constraints and left them outside their old house for the trash men to pick them up.

About two weeks after my parents were fully moved into their new place I had to go by the old one to make certain it was all cleared out and closed up tight. When I walked through the empty house and out the back door there were all her plants, withered and wilted in big colorful pots on elegant metal stands baking under the summer sun. They looked so pathetic, so wretchedly sad and lonely that I just couldn’t leave them there. Sighing, I stuffed them into the back of my car and drove away, wondering if I was just prolonging the inevitable.

On a stroke of pure genius, I brought them to my In-Law’s house because they have this great sunroom with windows on all sides and I figured the plants had a better chance at survival under my Mother-in-law’s nurturing than with me.

She cut back and repotted a few of the plants more egregiously damaged after their stint outside in the harsh summer heat and propped up the Christmas Cactus hoping it would survive the rest of the week, as it looked like it was a goner, all shriveled and browned and losing stems.

The other plants lived and thrived and grew. The Christmas Cactus managed to limp along, recovering slowly and produced a couple of sickly looking flowers that fall but didn’t bloom in full.

That January my mother became very ill after back surgery and remained hospitalized for six months before succumbing to a septic infection from MRSA. Within two months of her death my father was diagnosed with aggressive cancer and fought for two and a half years before the cancer took its toll. He died during the month of December after missing his wife every day of his struggle.

During this time, the Christmas Cactus held on but didn’t show a single flower bud, not once.

Several days after my father passed away, buds began to appear on every end leaf and by Christmas this plant was in full bloom with vibrant plump fuscia colored flowers weighing the stems down to spill over the sides.

My mother-in-law was incredulous at the sudden change in its appearance. As we sat down that Christmas Eve, sadness and grief weighing my heart down, she pointed out the mass of glossy pink flowers and shining green leaves that seemed to glow from the Christmas tree lights.

“You see that?” she asked me, as I tried to smile at the festivities around me “those flowers were waiting for your parents to be together again and you should look at that and know in your heart that your Mom and Dad are with each other and happy again, just like they always wanted to be. That plant hasn’t bloomed since your Mom died and your Dad so sad without her. Look at how full and beautiful those flowers are and know that they are smiling together and love you.”

This cactus has bloomed every season since, sometimes more than twice a year, heavy with flowers. And every time I see this plant I think about what my mother-in-law said and smile, because in my heart, where it counts, I know she’s right.

the art of ecstasy

Do you have a favorite image? One that takes you out of yourself and pulls you in at the same time? One that always, always, stirs something inside you?

This is mine.

   Ecstasy by Maxfield Parrish, 1929

There’s a cheap calendar print of it over my desk and the image graces the cover of a journal I have propped on a shelf next to my bed so I see it at night before bed and in the morning after I open my eyes. After the glasses get shoved on my face of course, because there is no vision without the specs.

There are other images that pull me in, move me somewhat - photos, paintings, statues and the like. But this one? This one always makes me feel better, always.

I feel her, you see, up there on those rocks. Wind blowing through her hair, billowing her dress around her. That caress of wind and sun on her skin. It is liberating, that cleanse of air, the warmth of sunshine. I can feel it. The stretch of bone and sinew as arms reach up and over, reveling in the freedom and power of myself while standing alone in the breeze.

I’ve stood up on a mountain top, perched upon an outcropping of rocks as they jut away and left me standing on the precipice of air and stone with a vista of water and green below. And have felt the cares and worries and everyday fears slip away as easily as a cloud slides by the sun. Because that is beauty and perfect and wonder.

Whenever I’m having a crappy moment at work, feeling stressed or just wallowing in my head, I look up and there she is. Calling to me, telling me to breathe in the air, absorb the warmth and remember who I am. To remember how it feels to be perched on the top of the world with clouds and sky and finding my peace.

There are moments when I’m grooving on a project, when I’m writing or am just happy, I look up and there she is, celebrating with me in the ecstasy of that moment, reveling in the emotions as they surge through me and I can be, for a few moments, standing on those rocks, letting the sun and air soak that wonder into my body as the world sees what I feel inside.

When I need to think, to clear my head, to daydream, I look there, and see her standing, offering her dreams to the sky. I see those vibrant ethereal colors, the puffy clouds of dreams, the whisper of winds and the sense of security that everything, ANYTHING, is possible if you believe in it enough.

If Maxfield Parrish were alive and well, I’d slap one big juicy kiss on his face for painting this.

That is the power of art. No matter the medium, the artist, the style. Something for everyone, always. Go find yours.

Photo courtesy of Maxfield Parrish and the interwebs.

the bruises from casual cruelty

I don’t even know that I want to write about this, not really. I don’t want to give it more weight than it deserves but it keeps cropping up in little ways, in little conversations, in little actions and in big thoughts apparently.

One evening about two weeks ago Giggles was not her usual exuberant self and was a little more in need of reassurance in that every where I turned in the evening, there she was. When I sat down she was almost burrowing in to my side. When we ate dinner, she pulled up close and was subdued. When we sat down for some TV time, she draped herself over me and snuggled in. None of these actions are so out of the ordinary, but there was intensity to it that gave me pause. I asked her if she was okay and she said fine. Giggles has her own time table on when she wants to talk about what. I’ve found the best approach is to ask the question once, let her know the door is open and wait for her to stroll through it. As usual, it didn’t take that long because my girl typically wants to talk about the mind stew she has simmering.

She had retreated to her room for a time but soon came to whisper in my ear that she wanted to talk with me. She led the way to my bedroom because it’s either her bed or mine that we lounge on to discuss what she’s been mulling throughout the day. The comfort of the bed seems to help ease the conversation and if she’s in need of a little physical comfort while chatting, she just cuddles in close. We’ve had some great conversations this way.

It seems there was an incident in one of her classes, as she walked by a small group of boys, one of them turned to her and told her to go away and that no one liked her, while they all laughed together at her expense. This pronouncement, and exhibit of boy rottenness, bothered her. Can’t say I blame her, the little cretins. Typical middle school boy nonsense I thought once the automatic Mom reaction of Who Dares Hurt Mah Babeh! had settled down. My girl, she’s also a bit of the Drama Queen, so after filtering through the indignation explanation, the real core issues surfaced - she was hurt and mad and confused. She was also having difficulty putting it all into perspective. She doesn't really interact with these boys and doesn't know why they said what they did. She's 12 1/2. Is there any perspective to have at that age? It's been so long I forget.

I asked her if she liked any of the boys and she made that eewww-Cooties! face that girls are so good at and emphatically said no. I asked her if she was friends with any of the boys and she said no. I asked her if she cared about the opinions these boys had on other things and she said no. And then I asked her if her answer to all of those questions was no, than it shouldn’t matter what they thought because those boys held no importance in her life.

She told me that she didn’t care what they said; she just didn’t understand why they had to be so mean.

Somehow I doubt the full truth of first part but I could swallow the consternation over casual cruelty. This isn’t bullying at its extreme, which is a big topic in schools right now, but it definitely falls into a category of meanness that casually plays out within the hallways of every school, every day, under all radar, despite the constant attempts to remind kids to treat others they way they wish to be treated. It’s a reminder that doesn’t seem to make a dent in the way kids act toward one another.

At an age when kids are trying to define themselves, this casual cruelty is rampant and often escalates to full scale bullying depending on the kids involved and the particular elements that set them apart. Differences, those that are cultural, religious, sexual and/or as simplistic as what part of town one resides, can be a catalyst that spurs meanness and bullying. None of these differences should give kids, let alone adults, the right to abuse another, especially given our wide open global awareness. It seems the larger the window on the world, the smaller the tolerance for difference and that just makes my heart hurt.

An independent spirit. That’s my daughter and that’s her difference. Her social milieu is outside the “popular” groups. She chooses her own dress style, she speaks her mind and doesn’t shy away from letting loose a ferocious belch when so inclined and has a general disdain for the herd-like mentality displayed by a majority of her classmates. These tendencies mark her as “different” in the eyes of the tweenage middle schoolers who are all about the comfort of conformity. And the reality is that those that walk along the fringes of different require a thicker skin as they navigate the school hallways. Because when a kid chooses not to conform, the difference takes others out of their comfort zone and they don’t know what to do with it, so they attack it.

We spoke about confidently handling this type of encounter. For me, confronting the boys, right then and there, if it happened again, would be the best way to handle it. By doing so, other kids would realize that she won’t stand back and let anyone push at her. I suggested that if they said it again, calmly looking back at them and retorting along the lines of, “that’s okay, I don’t like you either” would show they couldn’t intimidate her and maybe embarrass the boys a little, getting back some of what they gave. Also suggested was telling them that their pitiful attempt at getting her attention was a waste of time, but she didn’t seem to keen on that idea. We debated the merits of using “Really? That’s the best you can come up with? Try a little harder next time” as a response if the boys decided to be jerks again. She seemed to like that one. She was not as enthused as I was to the idea of asking, loudly, in front of the rest of the class, so everyone would hear her dis the pimply little morons, “if they really thought their opinion meant anything to her?” She was concerned the teacher would overhear and then she’d get in trouble. She hates getting in trouble with the teachers. Depends on the kind of trouble, I say.

By trying to minimize the import of the words spoken, I was trying to show her that by dismissing them she would not give these boys and their hurtful words power over her. I want her to look them in the eye and let them know that no matter what they say, their words are meaningless. But we all know better. Words hurt. No matter how self-confident kids want to feel at this age, they are really only learning who they are and being told you are not liked cuts little wounds in the heart and undermines that growing self-confidence in a thousand different ways. Will Giggles be scarred by this forever? No. Doesn't mean it won't leave some bruises on her psyche for a short time though.

Once she had spilled it all out and talked around all sides of it, she seemed settled and resigned to the fact that there will be instances like this again. She mentioned it again last night, told me she had relayed the story to a friend who casually shrugged it off with a “So?” and that boggled her mind. Why I’m not sure, but she was affronted that her friend wasn’t as outraged at their behavior as she had been, or maybe that her friend didn't show the level of solidarity that she was expecting. Drama Queen, my girl. The fact that she brought it up to her friend days later, and then again to me, made me realize that it still bugs her, that casual cruelty from others.

How to explain to a 12 year old the all too regular penchant to deliberately hurt another exhibited by people every day? I can’t because I really don’t get it myself. I try using the usual explanations– people are mean to others because they have low self-esteem, kids are often cruel because it makes them look tougher to their friends and they need that acceptance even if it means being a rotten shit, kids who are often uncertain of who they are choose to belittle those that are more self-aware as a defense. But who really knows? These kids could be subjected to that casual cruelty from their parents and accept as the norm and dish it out. Will we ever really know? We discussed each of these and she gets it, she really does because she is smart, and self-confident and unique.

But that uniqueness also leaves her vulnerable in the heart and head. All I can do is remind her of the beauty of who she is, inside and out, and that the unimportant words of a rotten 7th grader cannot diminish the power of who she is at the core. And that unique spirit will triumph in the end.

she says

She was homesick, she said. I miss my bed and my dog and hugging you and Dad before going to sleep, she told me as I dropped her off at her grandparent’s house.

She and her brother were staying there while we pulled down sheet rock and got rid of 60+ year old insulation. We didn’t want them exposed to that stuff and the possible lead paint from the original walls. Her grandparents live in the same town, their house is as much hers as her own, yet she wants, craves, that comfort of the familiar.

She’s my baby girl, just turned 12, sweet and innocent. Growing up, but still my little girl inside.

Mom, she whispers close to my ear, can I talk to you? She eyes her brother and father from across the room.

I know that look, the sidelong glance at the men of the house. This is to be a female discussion. Private.

Sure, I say, and we head off to sit on the deck, hand in hand.

You know, she begins, long skinny legs kicking back and forth as she sits across from me, tendrils of long blond hair glowing in the sun, next year I have to change for gym. You have to in 7th grade.

Her gray-green eyes have that look in them, the one that says this is not something she’s looking forward to but is curious about.

Yep, I say, I know. We’ll get you a set of gym clothes and a gym bag.

Cool, she says. Her lips purse and her eyes track a bird as it zips over to peck at the feeder. Do I have to get naked in front of everyone? You know that kind of thing makes me nervous.

My girl is an expert at verbalizing her inner turmoil, she knows how she feels inside and wants to explore it.

No, you keep your underwear on, unless you want to take a shower, I say. Then, well, I don’t think you want to wear wet panties the rest of the day.

She giggles and nods, taking that in. Her legs kick some more.

I’m not looking forward to changing for gym, she says. Why do they make us do that?

I really don’t know, I say. (Because I don’t.) I guess it’s because the activities require more effort, kids your age sweat more and this way your clothes won’t get ruined from the sports and body sweat. Teenagers can smell bad. (really, I don’t know the answer to this question, so logically, this is the best I can come up with)

I’ll need new deodorant, she says.

You got it, I say. You can pick out the scent. And the clothes.

Do I have to take gym? She asks. I mean I like gym, but I really don’t want to change my clothes in front of everybody. It’s kind’ve icky.

Oh, pumpkin, I think to myself. I get it, I really do.

Girls are cruel and middle school locker rooms are surely the devil’s own playground. If I could spare you this step I would but somehow I think you’ll be better for it. That’s not saying much as I had successfully avoided mine with a physical excuse from gym from grade 6 through high school. No such luck for my baby girl.

You know, I say, your friends will be there and it will get easier. You just have to worry about yourself, no one else. Have you spoken with your girls about it?

She nods. Lizzy isn’t looking forward to it either, she says.

I bet, I respond. But just think, you guys can talk about it before hand and figure out the best way to handle it. And once the first few days go by, it’ll be just what you do.

Do you think I can, here she pauses, hesitates, her eyes looking up at me and then down again, an odd anticipation in her gaze, you know, shave my legs this summer? The hair on them is longer now and it doesn’t stay flat anymore.

My heart stutters. I know this kind of thing is coming, she’s 12, yet so far her puberty development hasn't come into play that much yet, other than that whip sharp brain and mouth. I look at those gangly legs, the legs that have gotten longer the past month or so and seem to travel all the way to her armpits.

She’s right I see. Those legs are covered in wispy blond hairs, hairs barely visible they are so pale. But they are long now.

I sigh, quietly, so she doesn’t see how this stage, this step, takes her one step away from being that homesick baby girl and turns her into my young lady. It sends a sweet ache, a melancholic arrow through my heart. These moments, these little steps to womanhood, they're coming and I can't do anything to stop this sweet little girl from growing up. I don't want to, not really, because I can't wait to see the woman she'll become, but oh, it's an ache, a loving one, in my heart, as she begins to fly away, just like the birds we like to watch together in the back yard.

You betcha, I say, smiling at her, seeing her smile in return. How about we try that thing that rubs the hair off? You know the one you said you saw on TV the other day?

She perks up, all hesitancy leaving her face, the anticipation of leg hair removal pushing away the awkwardness of middle school locker rooms.

an afternoon in the forest

The morning sky was brilliant; white cotton candy clouds floated gently across the blue on teasing breezes. Crisp autumn air kissed her cheeks as she meandered on the path, the sun and trees casting shadows to play along the brown earth as their feet tangled with bright fallen leaves as branches swayed high above.

Music from the gurgling river and chirping birds filled her ears and eased her mind. The sounds of nature flitted from the the forest as she carefully searched the tangled roots and rocks that bordered the edges of the river as it lapped at the earth. The young girl walked along with her, at times just ahead, exploring the way, performing her own search for the spot, at times right next to her, holding her hand in solidarity. The man at her side walked silently with her, keeping pace, his eyes on her and the girl.

The spot she was looking for had to be just so, the right combination of earth and water. She knew, in her mind’s eye, what she wanted to find. It had to be here. This was the place that called to her, that seemed to reach out and caress her cheek.

“Here” the forest whispered to her. “What you seek shall be found within.”

She had known the minute they had driven along the road and passed the sign, catching the wooden bridge that crossed the expanse of river from the corner of her eye. She had urged the man to find the nearest spot to turn around in so they could park and begin this leg of the journey. This place knew what she needed and was offering it to her. The young girl also seemed to know. She whispered her appreciation for the beauty of the forest as they walked over the wooden bridge into the shelter of the trees.

Her backpack bumped against her spine with each step she took, reminding her of their purpose here, the task that brought her and her family to these woods, and once again the soothing comfort of the swaying trees and forest sounds reached out to enfold her, to offer her solace. She gratefully let herself be lulled by the rich scents of the earth and water while continuing to seek out her place. The sight of the young girl darting amid the trees caused her to smile and ease the ache inside her heart.

There, she thought, as her eyes took in the small serene cove and how the river curved into it, the branches of two trees intermingled over the water, sunlight dancing through the turning leaves. River rocks gleamed from under the surface of the water as it brushed into the cove and then danced out again. Roots from the old trees thrust out of the ground, smoothed from years of river gliding over them, water grasses waving gently from the rhythm of wind and water.

The young girl had also known, calling out as she reached the spot just before they caught up with her. The man’s hand, which had been holding hers, gave a gently squeeze, comfort and warmth in the strength of his hands.

Nodding her approval, she said “Here” as the forest seemed to still around her, the silence reverent, accepting.

She pulled the backpack from her shoulders, easing the weight down to rest against one of the trees. She breathed deep, and eased herself down and back against another tree. The water itself seemed to still, moving slowly yet maintaining a mirror surface that reflectioned the clouds floating over head. It was beautiful here, she thought. And she understood the why this place had called to her, this river, these woods. The man explored the area, keeping a watch on the young girl as she laughed and scampered around the trees and boulders gracing the area. His deep voice rumbled over the air, words indistinct, as he followed. A few minutes to think, to play, to ponder, before the task was done.

From the backpack she pulled out the linen bags. They were heavy, with physical and emotional weight. As she untied the cords holding them closed, tears swam in her eyes, blurring her view. Her chest tightened with the effort to hold them back.

The man and young girl returned, the young girl reaching for one of the bags to finish untying the cord that held it closed.

Together the two opened the bags and crouched down close to the river’s edge, gently letting flow the contents into the water at their feet. The swirl of color as the ashes merged together was beautiful, a cloud formation underwater, echoing the forms from the sky reflected on the surface. The eddy of the water mixed and mingled the ashes, forming them into a whole. As the river gently tugged along the edges of the cloud, tendrils swept away, pulling toward the center and beyond, an inexorable tide.

The woman stood, tears streaking her face, the young girl leaning against her side, the man standing at the other, hand on her shoulder, watching, with awe, the beauty of nature’s reclamation of her parents.

guess who forgot what day it is?

Today is our 17th anniversary.

We still happily hold hands in the supermarket and while watching movies and we snuggle on the sofa. Our kids often walk into the kitchen to see us kissing and turn away disgusted by their parents inability to keep their hands off each other’s asses. What can I say, SuperHubby has a SuperFINE ass!

I’d pick him out of the lineup of guys to marry if I had the chance to do it again. And I thank the gods that I don’t. Because well, then, I’d have to wade through all the morons I dated, again, just to get to the one I was meant to find all along.

It helps that fate plunked him squarely in my kitchen so I couldn’t help but find him. Because otherwise I might have made the wrong choice and then the entire universe would have imploded. And we can’t have that now, can we?

I so totally don’t deserve him and the fates only know how he doesn’t just sigh and roll his eyes at me most of the time, oh wait, he does do that, but really this morning is a perfect example of what he deals with regularly and why being married to me takes some serious patience and tolerance.

SuperHubby is out the door at the unholy hour of 3:30 am while I snore and drool on the pillow until closer to 6:30, unless the dog whines and sticks her tongue in my face so she can go out and turn my lawn browner than it already is, so we don't get the chance to get in each others way while waiting for the caffeine to kick in. Which might explain why we still hold hands in the supermarket.

I trundled out the door this morning, barely awake and answered SuperHubby’s call while on the way to work. I mumbled something about hoping his day is great, asked how he was feeling and told him I loved him as the wind blew through the window, causing static on the phone and then hung up to finish drinking my tea. While I was walking to my office, I noticed I had a text from my guy, and when I opened it, this is what I saw:

Happy Anniversary! Morning! I Love You!

Stopping in the middle of the damn building, I hung my head and smacked myself in the forehead, literally. DUH! I HAD FORGOTTEN to wish him a Happy Anniversary when we spoke that morning. Because I had forgotten for a few hours That it was our anniversary. AGAIN. I am such a tool.

I immediately called him and told him how much I loved him and that I was sorry, that I had only forgotten that morning, because Hey! several blog posts show that I didn’t forget entirely, just lost track of the day for a little while.

All this being said, I married the best guy, the guy with the gruff exterior and mushy heart, which makes me pretty damn lucky, the guy that remembers and celebrates the day we officially got engaged, the guy that is an exceptional father, the one guy that tolerates and even appreciates (I hope) my weird aberrations and totally gets me and mostly doesn’t mind that I painted our bedroom the color of papaya’s and used too much joint compound.

Happy Anniversary to that guy, MY Guy, I love you.

cardinal's kiss

Warning: Sappy sentimentalism ahead. Proceed at your own risk


There are moments you glimpse, just barely, that impress upon your day, your thoughts, but when you try to verbalize them, the impact is hard to describe.

Getting ready for the day ahead, my mind ticking off little tasks as I contemplated my crazy schedule for the next few days, I saw the swoop of red pass the kitchen window. Seeing the cardinals pecking around the feeder in the morning always brightens my mood, they are so cheery; the bright splash of red and vibrant song just makes me smile. Looking up and out, I saw the female cardinal land on the feeder and the male dance around the base.

Giggles was right next to me, she enjoys seeing the birds too, so I told her the Cardinal’s had arrived and she hopped up on a chair to glance out the window.

Right at that exact moment, the male cardinal flew up from the ground, hovered near the female, who reached out from the feeder and the two cardinals kissed. I swear that’s exactly what it looked like. Her head turned and stretched, his wings fluttering to bring him closer, and their little beaks clicked together, then he settled back to the ground and she turned back to nab more seed.

Giggles and I oohed and aahed and there was silly morning laughter about the Kissing Cardinals.

That moment, seeing those two birds do whatever that was, sharing it with my daughter, witnessing the simple beauty right outside my window, eased all thoughts of schedule stress and just made me so blissfully happy that I’ve been riding that wave since it happened yesterday morning.

Such a simple moment in time, one that probably happens throughout the day, in that same spot, but when viewed, resonates deeply.

That scene has embedded itself in my head, a private picture I can pull out with a wispy thought, to remind me of what is real and true and most important - the simple act of living and loving.


I hope everyone gets a day that begins with a cardinal's kiss.

For the Man

It’s my husband’s birthday today.

Happy Birthday, Honey! *waving at monitor in case he’s reading this*

We met 20 years ago this October and I can’t imagine my life, my world, without him. Life is that much better with him walking next to me.

My guy is really hard to get a gift for, truly. He’s like the bargain sleuth and if he wants something, he manages to find it at absurdly low prices online and then buys it. Which is a huge pain in the ass on gift giving occasions, because the selection of things he has wants is really small and when I do buy him something, the conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: Happy *insert holiday*! Here’s your present.

Him: Thanks. You paid too much for this, didn’t you?

Me: *snarl*

Him: Seriously, how much did you pay for this? I bet we can find it online for half.

Me: *snarl* Buy your own gifts.

This year, I wrote him a poem and taped it to the refrigerator. Oh Yes. Yes I did.

In my defense, he leaves for work at 4:00 am. It’s a little too early in the morning to get up and wish him birthday salutations as he starts his day.

And well, his other present didn’t get shipped out in time to arrive for the big day. Which sucks hugely and is completely my fault as I waited until the very last minute to order it. Even though I've been thinking about it for months. I have to get credit for the planning, even though I fell a little short in the execution, yes?


Now I feel guilty for not having his present available to give him on his actual birthday. Because I am lame.


It is the thought that counts, right?

He’s in a tough spot. His mother’s birthday is on the 7th and Mother’s day usually falls the day before, the day of, or the day after his birthday. He’s kind’ve sandwiched by the wife/mother marketing deluge and expectations.

He’s also a big boy who can buy himself what he likes and enjoys but I like to get him something special, something he really wants that he wouldn’t get himself. Isn’t that a wifely privilege?

Anyway, despite the delayed present giving, I hope his day is happy and he remembers that there is love abundant that he can call upon just by reaching for my hand. I know that’s my gift from his birth day.

a mother's day letter to my mother, long overdue

Dear Mom,

It’s Mother’s Day today. Six years ago today I held your hand and urged you to keep looking at me as you suffered a septic shock seizure. It was this day six years ago when you were transferred to the hospice unit, not expected to survive the next 12 hours. We sat beside you, talked to you, painted your toenails blistering red and held your hand for almost two weeks before you finally let go of us.

In truth, the you who raised me had gone months before, lost to a devastating infection that put you into a coma for several days, and when you came out of that, your mind had retreated to a place and time that only you inhabited. Some days you knew who I was but mostly you thought I was your mother, or your cousin or a friend, or a stranger who was lost. Every so often you thought I was twelve again but those moments were fleeting, and provided humor through the grief. There were many days you stared at the corners of your hospital room, whispering to ghosts and shadows that inhabited your memories, unable to acknowledge the people seated beside you. To this day I don’t know which was worse, the desperate stare we exchanged during that seizure, my hand gripping yours as I urged you to keep looking at me, or the months of days spent by your side wondering, wondering if you were ever coming home again.

There are so many things I would say to you today, if I could sit beside you, with a cup of tea on the back patio, as we used to do on lazy Sunday visits. It’s taken a long time to know what form those words would take, the tones that would inflect them, the volume at which they would be delivered.

Even as I washed your face and sat holding your hand, month after month in different hospital rooms, I was angry, deeply angry at you. Angry at you for undergoing a surgery that I knew deep in my heart was a bad decision, had implored you not to have, knowing with a gut level certainty you would never accept, that this surgery was wrong. Sometimes in the dark of night, as I rested fitfully in uncomfortable hospital chairs, the click and hum of an IV machine as our soundtrack, I wondered if your decision was another bid for attention, because all of your children had implored you to wait, to reconsider. In those dark and bleak hours, with only the sound of your breathing and the equipment that sustained you, there were times I resented the positions we were in, because I felt you had made this situation through your stubbornness, your need for something that never seemed to fill you, no matter how we all tried. Sometimes I still believe that, but the anger is gone, because you were who you were and certain truths are what they are, unchangeable by even the passage of time.

As those days and months of hospitals and nursing homes and near death instances passed, my anger with you, with nurses, with doctors, with life, coalesced into a seething core that left me feeling hard and cold and spurning the love I had for you, my mother. Since your passing, I have used that anger to justify my feelings of relief that you were not here to witness Dad’s cancer and death, as the emotional burden you would have been through that might have been more than I could handle. My relief that you were not here during Joey’s cancer struggle as your past behavior would have scraped at Donna and perhaps made the suffering worse. That you were no longer here to manipulate my feelings and infuse guilt for not calling you every day, for spending time with my In-Law’s, for not going on vacation with you and Dad; all of these feelings I had and struggled with the reality of them, the guilt of them, the shame of them. Your needs were hard to manage, your drama and hypochondria a drain on those that loved you. I let all that seething anger gulp down past resentments, minor irritations and frustrations until that engorged gooey black ball lodged itself deep in my conscience. It was easier to wrap these feelings in anger, directed at you, my dead mother, than truly feel the grief and loss and utter devastation those 6 months you were dying left within the landscape of my heart and soul.

Perhaps that anger fueled me and helped me to survive what came next, and the gods alone know that what came next almost broke me into little irretrievable pieces, but perhaps that indomitable core that kept you breathing and alive two weeks after those seizures is inside me as well, for the pieces have forged themselves into a new pattern, leaving me a different person, a stronger person.

They say that time heals all wounds and cliché’s are cliché’s for a reason, I suppose, but wounds of the heart take longer as they cut deeper and are connected to soul and sinew.

There were so many other things after you died that left little time, or energy, to examine that anger, those feelings of guilt and regret, and the occasional peek at the surface just showed the same swirling emotions, acknowledgement of them became the norm, they became familiar and closer examination became something to avoid. Those feelings of anger became my memories of you and while none of them were wrong, they were not, are not, the whole of you, or of us, and yet I let them superimpose over the unbroken pieces of us.

A few weeks ago I was going through my closet and found a box tucked up on the top shelf; a box I don’t recall placing there or what it contained. I took it down, put it aside for a while and finished my task. When I finally opened it, there you were, in a length of lavender fleece, a package of satin edging, and a spool of purple thread. You bought these to make a new blankie for Giggles because her favorite blankie was falling apart along the sides and you couldn’t mend it any longer. You never got the chance to make it. I put that box back on the shelf, could not bring myself to get rid of it, fully aware that I will never make that blanket. You know I won’t, because I never got into sewing like you did, but those pieces represent a you that I have shut aside far too long.

You would do these things, these wonderful things for your grandchildren, because you loved them, and wanted to make them happy and by making them happy, they would express their love for you, which you needed to see, to have validated regularly, to remind you that you were loved. Being raised by a woman who exhibited, time and again, a lack of love for others left you insecure and a seeker of love. We all seek that same reassurance that our love is recognized, valued and reciprocated, but sometimes the degree of which you needed that validation bordered on desperate, with a need that left me feeling insufficient. I tried, most times, to remember what I knew of your past, to remind myself that there are scars from past neglect, past emotional abuse, that never healed within you and I gave you love, time and attention, as if, some days our roles were reversed. Managing that emotional burden as a teenager was not an easy road, but you taught me, through your damaged heart, to be patient with other’s emotions, to try and be gentle with feelings and words, to accept that there are pieces of people I cannot change, nor fight against, nor heal with love alone. But when the time came and I needed to lean upon these things I learned from you, with you, I was unable to call upon those truths. How many ways I questioned my failure here, my inability to be patient, and understanding and accepting of you, when I needed to be.

Our relationship was not perfect, nothing ever is, but we are Mother & Daughter, we have loved shared, we have memories, good and bad, that keep us bound, and we have love. Always love, with humor, with tears, with heart, we have love. It is a complicated love, for we are complicated people, but death and time cannot break through the tethers of that bond.

It has taken me some time to remember, fully, that love, the pureness of those pockets of childlike innocence that lived inside you. Your silliness, your delight in feeding people, the way your tongue would poke out of the corner of your mouth when you were deeply involved in some sewing project. Most importantly, I deliberately let myself forget how much you needed love.

I let myself tuck away the pleasure you took in the simple gift of flowers from my garden, how walking around the block with the kids made you glow with pride when your neighbors complimented you on your lovely grandchildren. I put away the memories of our house constantly filled with my teenage friends, your enthusiasm in feeding them, in accepting a rag tag group of geeky teens blasting music from my room well into the evening. I remember an endless tolerance for a young child’s fascination with paint by number kits in the kitchen on rainy days, your obvious reluctance to having mice as pets in the house, but helping to set up the cage in the living room anyway as I cooed over small white rodents. I forgot that you showed me marriage takes work and 52 years of partnership was not without its ups and downs.

When my daughter awoke from a nightmare and cuddled up next to me as I rubbed her back soothingly, I recall the nights I crawled into bed next to you, scared awake by dreams, and how with every circle of your hand you settled me back into love and security.

I slipped an old CD into my stereo the other day and as Eddie Arnold crooned “Make the World Go Away”, I could see you, standing at the kitchen counter, concocting some new recipe, swaying back and forth as you sang along, off key as usual, but completely unabashedly singing out loud in your own karaoke world.

As I imagine the tattoo I am too much of a wuss to actually get, I remember the giddy excitement you had when you came back from Bermuda with your first tattoo. You were 70. You got another one a year later.

These are healing memories and they are washing away the oily stain of anger and loss. The tide of images refreshes my sense of you, of us, and what we meant to one another, without the haze I let fog the lens for far too long. I'm not proud that it took this long to let the bad feelings go, I'm not even completely sure I know why their hooks dug so deep, or maybe I do and let those reasons anchor the mad, the hurt. The reasons are irrelevant now, I suppose, the past is the past and hanging onto it doesn't change it, but it can prevent the present and the future from becoming something better, something more uplifting. So now I will embrace the memories of the mother that laughed, teased my friends, listened to my wildest dreams and rubbed my back when nightmares haunted my sleep. She's the mother that helps me be a better mom to my daughter.

Deep inside of me, there is a young girl, missing her mother, accepting her overwhelming loss. She is standing taller now and when she looks in the mirror, your eyes look back at her.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I Love You.

12

Giggles is twelve today. 12. Yeah, I don’t know how that happened either.

Seems like just yesterday I was making a late dinner and realized I hadn’t felt her move in my enormous belly for most of the day. I attributed that to doing several things that were on the “Not for Pregnant Women to do” list that my husband had taped to the refrigerator. Things like painting the bedroom and moving furniture around.

I WAS NESTING, people. Cut me some slack.

When I mentioned the baby not moving part to SuperHubby about 8:30 that night, he immediately made me sit my ass down and then he called the OB. Who told us to come to the hospital NOW.

So we drove the hour to the hospital. I still had five weeks to go before the due date; I had just gone on maternity leave that week. Plenty of time.

Except not.

When we finally got there they immediately strapped a bunch of wires and tubes on, around and in my body. Nothing like a baby not moving to get the hospital staff zipping around. Not something I recommend however.

Having had a pregnancy go very very awry just over a year prior to this, I was in major denial. Just false labor, nope not due yet, all is good, this is a waste of time, they’ll be kicking us out of here in no time.

Except they didn’t.

Turns out her heartbeat was waaay low and erratic and there was almost no amniotic fluid, which was an oddity all its own as my water hadn’t broken, and as far I could tell there was no leaking, and believe me had there been leaking, I would have noticed that. When a woman is pregnant, one notices any type of fluid leaking from the lady parts. I still don’t know where all that amniotic fluid went. When Ace was born, it splashed all over my OB’s very expensive loafers. His fault he didn’t cover his shoes, not mine.

Baby in distress is how they phrased it. “In Distress” is not a phrase a pregnant woman wants to hear. EVER.

Four hours later her heart rate continued to drop, right along with my blood pressure, and it was decided that it was time to induce labor.

Four sweaty hours later this tiny squalling bundle of baby girl was set in my arms and my heart was hers forever.

I had held myself emotionally back from this pregnancy, not completely, because that feeling, those movements inside, how does one completely separate one’s self from the wonder of that incredible amazing being becoming, but there were pieces of my heart I had put aside, behind an impenetrable wall, so it would not be at risk should this child be lost to us as well. With one breath, those boundaries were blown to bits and she owned me. In the best sense possible.

She is a miracle, this girl.

She is strong, independent and beautiful, inside and out.

She is stubborn, loving, warm and fierce.

She is silly, pensive, brilliant and modest.

She shines from the inside, spilling light and magic where ever she treads.

And attitude.

As a toddler, she hit the terrible two’s when she was 18 months old and it lasted until she was almost four. At times I thought she was my very own demon spawn when she fussily cried for hours and nothing would soothe her. She changed my definition of patience and made me better, stronger.

There were months on end we did not take her out to any public establishment as she would throw a hissy fit and yell and scream. Over anything and everything. There was no rhyme or reason to what would light her fuse. Through the force of her personality, she taught me to be more uinderstanding.

On her 2nd birthday we held a large outdoor party. When everyone starting singing Happy Birthday to her, her little hands clenched, her face turned red and she screamed “NO SINGING!!” time and time again as everyone gaped at this tiny fierce person demanded to be heard. And obeyed. When we laughed, she glared at the lot of us and stalked away from her presents and cake. Plotting our imminent demise, I was certain.

She remains just as fierce, and she has a better, not firm, handle on her temper at this age, most of the time, and she really saves the worst of it for her brother.

When she has something on her mind, she mulls it over until she has it all lined out in her head and proceeds to tells us exactly what she thinks. In detail. With emphasis.

She loves to cuddle on the couch, watch movies and bounce on the trampoline on warm sunny days. She picks flowers and puts them around the house. She carries good luck charms in her purse, little presents that have special meaning just to her, so they are close at hand. She doesn’t always want people to know that she does this.

For years she was Barbie and Princess obsessed and I thought we would be buried under the mountain of pink.

And then one day, she was done. No more pink, no more Barbie, no more Princesses. I almost wept from the joy.

These days it’s Converse All-Star high tops in bright green or purple with fluorescent yellow laces. She chooses her own fashion styles and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about those styles. Which she will tell me when I tentatively question the plaid and stripe combinations. Her recent prize fashion statement is the glittery red “There’s No Place Like Home” Converse sneakers.

She prefers to sculpt with clay than draw, but her creativity knows no boundaries and she explores that creativity with passion. She spends hours crafting giant Pop-Up cards for her friend’s birthdays because she loves to make people smile.

Her humor is distinct and quirky. She loves America’s Funniest Home Videos and will watch the Pink Panther movies over and over again. She thinks Carol Burnett is a comedy genius; her words not mine.

She dislikes her picture being taken, so she turns her back if she catches me trying to catch her.

The role model she’s chosen these days is Fiona from Burn Notice, which scares me some as that character likes to shoot people and blow things up.

Sometimes in the evenings, when all has settled down, she’ll snuggle close, tell me of her day, her thoughts, the things that made laugh, irritations and how she managed them and as she talks, gray eyes introspective, I see this young woman, her image merged with this little girl and it staggers me, my heart trembles from the love I have for her, and I hug her close. Her arms grab hold and I know this gift of her, her love and warmth, is one of the most precious things I have ever received.

My wish is that she forever retain her independent spirit and unique view of her world. Watching this girl grow from child to young woman is beautiful to behold.

It is my miracle to be her mother.