Wish List

So we survived another Christmas and are facing, once again, the end of one year and the beginning of another. Getting in the spirit, I started to write a wish list for 2016. It involved more races, advancement at work, saving more money and some pretty lofty travel and writing goals- all things I sincerely wish to accomplish in the coming year. They are similar to things I wished for 2015. And 2014. And so on. I think most of them are achievable, at least to some degree, in the near future. And it all fits comfortably into what I expect of myself and want out of life.

Then I deleted the list.

Here's the problem:

In writing down that list of goals, I looked back at the last year. It was a mixed one - good and bad. All told, though, there was far more in the good column - at the forefront of which is the daily miracle of those gorgeous, brilliant children of mine.

Have you seen them?? (PAUSE FOR PROUD MOMMA MOMENT!)

So life, as it does, took some wild swings in both directions but has settled neatly and pretty solidly on the good side. And I feel pretty confident that there are so many more good things to come, in whatever shape or form that may be- how could they not, when I am surrounded by so many loving people, such wonderful children and so many incredible opportunities?! But to sit here, look at everything that has happened this year, and plan to outdo it next year seems ungrateful, or at the very least, dismissive of how much good that's happened.

If there is one thing I wish very strongly to teach my kids, it's to be appreciative of what they have. But let's face it, kids in general tend to take for granted what is given to them, so it's an ongoing life lesson that we continue to work on. But I began to wonder if this list of goals was the equivalent of the same thing for me. That's not to say I won't try to do those things I love and want to do (write, race, grow, learn, etc), but I would like, for the time being, to sit back and thank every lucky star in the sky that I have what I have- whether it's been earned or given to me- instead of focusing on the "what else" or the "what next."


So, let me just say, in the light of one year coming to an end and another one about to begin.....Oh my goodness, look at everything and everyone I am so blessed to have. I AM SO DAMN LUCKY. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! 

Happy New Year

Top ten things I'm thankful for this year

10. The very thoughtful and caring school nurse who calls me every time my five-year-old's lunch mysteriously "disappears" before lunchtime (ie. he ate it on the bus on the way to school).

9. The great love that my children have for books, like their nerdy mother before them, even if it means calling their name a dozen times before they are able to tear their eyes away from whatever they are reading.

8. For the crazy, hilariously inspiring friends I've found this year.

7. For being able to convince my body that 13.1 miles is not only not an insane, unreachable distance to run- it's completely achievable, and makes me feel like I can do anything.

6. For really good running shoes and post-run brunch celebrations. And finish lines.

5. For the fact that no matter how tall my babies get, they can still fold themselves up small enough to fit completely on my lap when they or I need it.

4. For the way their hair smells when they are snuggled up.

3. For this amazing job that has, in the past year alone, taken me to Illinois, Texas, Pennsylvania, Florida, California and Tennessee.

2. For Starbucks soy lattes with cinnamon because, well, duh.

1. The sheer dumb, crazy, incredible, unbelievable good luck to have found the perfect man (at Starbucks, no less) and to have somehow managed to pull my silly, dorky self together long enough to make him fall in love with me. For that, I will always be eternally, unendingly and humbly thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving

Margaret Atwood and The Lake

Tomorrow I am checking an item off the bucket list. I will be hearing one of my idols, the magnificent Margaret Atwood, speak at the Boston Book Festival. Cue the Christmas-morning level excitement. There are not enough exclamation points in the world, so I will forgo them and attempt to maintain that grown up level of calmness I try to imagine I possess. (Until tomorrow. Screw it then. I will be fan girling HARD!).

One of the most inspirational things that has ever happened to me was the unique experience of having Ms. Atwood read a story of mine that her own work (the mind-blowing poem This is a Photograph of Me) inspired. She wrote me a supremely kind and generous email (Read it!) in response that has inspired me in so many countless ways ever since. That story, which was originally published in Sou'wester magazine in 2012, is below!

The Lake

Part 1

 The photograph was taken the day after I drowned.  I’m not sure who took it, but I saw it in the newspaper the next day when I was trying to find my mother, to tell her what happened.    She was at the police station explaining what she knew for the ninth or tenth time, to the ninth or tenth officer she had met.  “I didn’t see her go outside,” my mother said, not looking up from the linoleum tiled floor of the station.  “I was cooking dinner and didn’t hear the back door.  She always likes to be outside.”  Her eyes were red but momentarily dry. 

 The newspaper was lying on the desk of the officer she was speaking with.  By that time my body had been found, deep in the lake, by the divers trained specially to find dead people.  When the photograph was taken, though, I was still in the lake, in the center of the picture, somewhere under the surface.  It is difficult to say where precisely, but I was there and soon I would be found. 

 The picture in the paper is very poor quality.  It is a bit smeared around the edges and has that grainy look of all newspaper pictures.  On the right hand side you can see our small frame house on a gently rising slope.  The left hand corner is blurred by part of a tree branch the photographer probably should have avoided.  And then, there is me.  It is almost as if you could see me if you just looked long enough. 

 I loved that lake.  Ever since I can remember, I loved it.  The summer I was four my dad taught me to swim in it for real, and I dove again and again under the water until my skin wrinkled and my lips turned blue with the cold.  He showed me how to hold my breath and sink my body down deep into the center.  I remember looking up to the shimmering surface above my head, feeling completely cut off from everything that was happening above.  The winter I turned six I taught myself to ice skate, around and around the lake until I could hardly stand up from exhaustion.  I caught tadpoles with my mother’s spaghetti strainer and brought them inside for her to see.  I made boats out of anything I could find that would float, and sank many things that wouldn’t. 

 I was out there every day the rain didn’t keep me inside, but even that didn’t always stop me.  The glassiness of the water fascinated me.  I knew it hid all of the things that were happening underneath the surface.  My dad had told me that there was an old tractor at the bottom, way out in the middle, though he wasn’t sure how it got there and I could never figure out how he knew.  Dad loved the lake too.  When he was around, he was hardly ever in the house.  Whether swimming in it, walking around it, or staring at it with sleepy eyes in the evening, Dad and the lake were, and now always would be, one whole complete thought to me.

Part 2

 Anthony Swift sat down on the edge of the sofa, and slowly eased his body back against the sagging cushions.  He lifted his hands to his head, using them to push his too-long hair back out of eyes.  His fingers still felt waterlogged from the three and a half hours he had spent in that wretched lake.  A chill clung to him, despite the clammy heat of the South Carolina summer.  His small apartment lacked not only air conditioning, but even so much as a ceiling fan to stir up the heavy air.  Yet Anthony was cold inside.  At 32, and after eight years as a Dive Rescue Specialist, he had built up a resistance to the emotional aspect of his job.  He had seen plenty of dead bodies.  He had also saved dozens of drowning people as well, but that seemed hard to remember at the moment.

 Anthony was not terribly sad about the dead girl in particular.  He felt bad for her parents, and sorry she was dead.  Of course he was always sorry about the ones that turned out to be recovery missions rather than rescue ones.  At the end of the day though, he did his job and went home, always with the feeling that the job was not completely done and never would be as long as there was someone else to save or find.  But this time was different.  This time he had not held his own feelings in check.  He was ashamed to admit it; that he hadn’t been executing his job to the high level he expected of himself, that his focus had been off, that his mind had been looking for something other than the girl. 

 It was a normal call for a diver.  Suspected drowning, search and recover, ten year old female, way outside of town.  He and the rest of the crew, boat in tow, headed out as always.  The water was colder than he expected.  With all his gear in place and a last nod at the other crewmembers on board, Anthony dove beneath the surface.  Many hours and several breaks later the rest of the team was ready to give up.  The lake was small but terribly deep.  Some of the police officers who had joined the fray on the shore started talking about draining some of the lake to get to the bottom easier.  While Anthony knew that was an option, he hated it.  It meant a lot of wait time followed by, more often than not, a disappointing result. 

 Not wanting to take that route, Anthony went down again, despite his already long dive time.  He headed straight for the middle and down.  The water was murky and swimming with stirred up debris from all of the previous activity.  The sunlight was thin but enough came filtering down through the water to allow him to see well enough, with a little help from his flashlight.  Anthony focused all of his energy on his task, wanting so badly to find the girl.  Failure in this case not only meant disappointment and a lot of wasted time, but it would probably mean a return trip at some point; the height of frustration.

 Pushing forward, Anthony thought he saw something ahead of him.  It was a slight variance in color and shape that usually meant something was in the water.  Squinting through his mask Anthony focused on the spot where he thought the movement had been.  He slowly moved in that direction.  Another shimmer of movement off to the left made him turn quickly, but he saw nothing there.  He briefly considered the possibility that he had been down too long, or perhaps his breath tank was malfunctioning, depriving his brain of oxygen.  Anthony readjusted his mouthpiece and looked all around him, searching in growing desperation for the girl.

 It was then through the dim water he saw a figure.  It was clear to him that it was a human form.  Only a shadow at first, it started to take a clearer shape as Anthony swam towards it.  It was the girl.  Anthony realized he hadn’t even bothered to remember the name one of the officers had told him before they launched the boat.  He blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of the slight guilt he felt.  The girl’s back was towards him.  Her long hair streamed upwards in the tiny underwater current making her look as though she was hanging upside down.  As Anthony reached her, he held back for just a second, not yet wanting to touch her bluish dead skin.  Finally, with a gently push Anthony turned the girl towards him, bracing himself for the first glimpse of her face.  Her eyes were open, mouth gaped in an O, tiny air bubbles clinging to her skin.  Face to face they floated.  Anthony’s heart stopped.  His sister’s face looked back at him.

Part 3

  Celia Raines never felt as though she had been a good mother.  Since her daughter was a baby, she realized it was far easier to give in to her wishes than attempt to control her.  Whether it was cookies, bedtime stories, or another swim, Celia allowed her daughter whatever she wanted, just to avoid the argument.  Celia knew she was her father’s child.  They were both free-willed, adventurous and unendingly stubborn.  He made no attempt to curb her wild behavior, encouraging her to occupy herself outdoors as much as possible, climbing trees, picking flowers and of course playing by the lake.  When they pulled her dead body out of it, that day in June, he wasn’t even there to see it.  Celia wondered, at that moment, if she would even be considered a mother any more at all, good or bad.

 To see your own child dead is an experience in recalculation.  A parent must immediately re-plan the rest of their lives minus baseball games, ballet classes, sticky fingers, new school clothes, marshmallow cereals, lunch boxes, homework, first dates, prom dresses, driving lessons, college applications, weddings, grandchildren, and every other plan or detail a mother foresees in the life of their child.  To Celia it was the shock of trying to re-frame her life as a childless woman that made her nearly fall to the ground.  The officers had tried to make her stay in the house, but she couldn’t imagine everyone else knowing before her if her daughter, or anything else, had been found, so she stayed on the bank and waited. 

 When the diver finally surfaced after another endless dive, a ripple went through the growing crowd of people surrounding the small lake.  Celia knew what that must mean.  The boat eventually pulled up to the muddy bank and she pushed away the plying hands of the men trying to keep her back.  She splashed through the shallow water to get to the boat’s ladder and climb aboard.  She could see the outline of her daughter’s small form under the horrible plastic tarp they had covered her with.  It seemed wrong to her, as though they were planning on throwing the girl away.  It made Celia angry; unnecessarily angry and she stepped up to the girl as the dive team started to climb out.  One man, still in dive gear, dripping with lake water, knelt by the body.  Celia said her daughter’s name out loud, as though needing to hear it even if there was no denying the girl was dead.  The diver looked up at her, meeting her eyes.  Celia saw in his face a look of terror and misery that nearly stopped her heart in her chest.

 The man pulled the tarp from the girl, revealing her pale face and tangled hair.  He lifted her from the wet floor of the boat and carried her over to her mother.  Celia reached out and touched her daughter’s cheek, feeling the stiff coldness of her skin.  With a nod to the diver, she watched as he laid her on the stretcher they had brought on board and with extreme gentleness brushed back a few strands of hair clinging to the girl’s forehead.  Celia considered staying on the boat forever in her wet sneakers.  It seemed far more sensible than dealing with the circus of events she knew would follow.  She didn’t want to be that woman; the one she had seen so often on the news after a teenager’s car crash, a lost battle with cancer, or any other child’s death.  That woman was inconsolable, overcome with grief, unable to stand unsupported, miserable in a black coat and dress.  She knew, however, that she would be that woman.  She already was, she just wasn’t dressed for it yet.

 Part 4

  Anthony knew it wasn’t Carrie.  Of course he knew.  Carrie had been younger, smaller.  Dark-haired where this girl had been blond.  But down at the bottom of that damn lake, with the green sunlight filtering down and the brown muck swirling around, it might as well have been her.  If he was being honest he might have admitted that he had been searching for her all along.  Every time he strapped on his mask and sank down into the quiet press of the water, he was looking. 

 He pushed up off the couch, suddenly feeling suffocated by the mushy cushions, and walked to the front window.  The sun was almost down and stained the sky orange and red over the tops of the apartment buildings across the street.  Not so much as a whisper of wind blew.  Anthony imagined if it did, it might just blow away some of the discomfort he felt all over his mind, his body and his memory.  Despite a long shower he still felt as though the weedy smell of lake emanated from his skin.  He sighed.  Walking to the kitchen, he yanked open a drawer, cursing himself as he did.  He tried not to look at her picture, tried not to think about that day, but in truth he relived it every time he dived.

 It was a picture of them together.  He and Carrie laughing at something silly she had said.  It was taken some time just before that last Christmas, the year she had turned five.  He was eight years older and a good foot and a half taller.  Their age difference was enough that he was never bothered by her, never tried to be rid of her, never felt the resentment older siblings often feel about the baby of the family.  Carrie was fine by him and he was a proud brother.  She had a little bobbed haircut that framed her still-round face.  In the picture she wore all white.  That’s how he remembered her.

 Anthony gripped the edge of the kitchen counter as waves of pain rolled over him.  Eventually he gave in, laying his forehead down on his arms and letting those memories, the ones he hated, treasured, hid from, wash in and take over.  He could feel the hot sand of the beach, the sticky scent of sunscreen on his skinny body, the pounding of the surf all around.  His mother was there, dozing off on a towel while the sun baked her skin brown.  Carrie played by the water and he kept one eye on her all the time, knowing his mom wasn’t watching.  He was making some serious work of digging in the sand when a biplane flew low overhead.  He craned his neck and tried to read the words spelled out on the fluttering banner the plane pulled behind it.  Greenwood Auto Sales- Drive Right In!  He knew paunchy Mr. Greenwood from church and wondered if he was flying the plane himself.  He was kind of big to wedge himself in that little plane, Anthony thought.  It must feel so freeing to fly.

 He turned back towards the water but she was already gone; her small body in the wet red bathing suit nowhere to be seen near the glittering edge of the ocean where she had been playing.  The next few minutes are unclear in Anthony’s mind.  He remembered the rush of the salt water around him, flooding his mouth, filling his ears, as he dove again and again under the surface to try and find her.  But no, she was never found; body unrecoverable.  Sister dead.  Carrie gone.  And Anthony had been diving, under the water, again, again, again, ever since, trying to find her.

Part 5

  Celia knew everyone blamed her, and that was fine.  She blamed herself.  She also blamed John, for encouraging tomboy behavior in his little girl, for teaching her to love the lake, for not being there.  He had been gone three weeks this time when the drowning happened.  Either on a binge somewhere or holed up in some disgusting hotel room with whatever piece of trash he managed to pick up on his way out of town.  Marriage to John had not been the life raft she imagined.  Instead, she had to learn how to keep herself afloat and not be dragged under by his mistakes.  He loved his daughter, though, undeniably, but never really understood the weight of consistent parenting.  He taught her how to have fun and please herself instead of teaching her how to exist as a good human being in the world, not that Celia did much better. And now his little girl was dead and he didn’t even know. 

 She looked at the picture in the newspaper.  She had wanted to keep it for some reason, even though it was only a photograph of the lake, and it had been sitting on the kitchen table now for three days.  She had survived the funeral as best as possible.  Survival is a funny word, she thought.  I’ve survived, but to what end?  John must have seen the news coverage on the drowning by now, and still, he hadn’t come home.  For a wildly vivid moment, she imagined him gone forever.  Then she could go, she thought.  Then she could leave this place.  Begin somewhere else. A totally different person, single, unbound.  Leave this tiny house, the rotting woods, the stinking lake, John’s dirty boots, the memories of motherhood, the crushing smoldering disappointment that pervaded every moment of her life, a life half-lived, all of it.  She sat back in the kitchen chair.  Where would she go? 

Celia looked out the window, feeling accused, disowned, alone.  The lake looked back like one giant, invading eye.  She closed her eyes to block it out but it was still there.  She felt the cold clench of the water.  She felt the pull down into the deep unknown darkness where her daughter had gone.  She felt smothered, threatened- a feeling Celia was more than used to.  She stood, exactly still in that moment, her mind calm, her ears straining to hear it call her so that she could go. 

 Part 6

  I sat by the edge of the water, my shorts slowly growing wet from the damp dirt but I didn’t care.  It was sixteen days after my tenth birthday and I was sure I was on the edge of adulthood.  It was a hot day and the water looked cool but I wasn’t allowed to go in without my mother or father there.  I knew it was almost dinner time and Mom wouldn’t want to hang around for me to swim right now.  She would be in the kitchen, humming to herself while she cooked but would stop if I walked in, like there was something the music made her think of that she didn’t want me to know about.  She probably thought I was in my room.  I had climbed out of my window to come down here like I did sometimes when I didn’t want her to know where I was going.

 I watched an ant crawl up my arm.  I imagined his little feet slipping in the sweat that gathered at my bend elbows, but he moved on just fine.  The weight of my hair pressed against my back and I longed for the cold water of the lake to surround me.  I wanted to slip into it and disappear.  I thought about the tractor.  I pictured it rusty, dark, covered with weeds and sunken leaves.  I wondered if I could dive deep enough to touch it.  Without knowing how, or stopping to think about the consequences, I was suddenly under the water.  I was pulled down, deep into the middle.  I dove, the water crushing me from above, the sweat washed from my skin, my hair streaming behind me, and I knew there was something there I was supposed to find.  My lungs had just begun to protest, telling me to head for the surface.  I started to turn back up when I saw him. Dad.  Dead.  I opened my mouth to scream, and everything went a watery black.

Take it Down the Field

8 AM on a Saturday morning and suddenly, after 7 years of trying to do this parenting thing right, I have become the thing that everyone jokes about. I am still, and always hope to be, without a minivan. However, I am now a soccer mom.

At 5 and 7, the skill level of these kids is beginner at best, with a few phenoms who can actually move the ball down the field. Each kid did their version of great- Roman with a lot of jumping and giggling and silliness, Evelyn with a competitive, determined butt-kicking adrenaline high that lasted long after the game had ended.

Here is Roman in his prize moment. His first game, his first time on a soccer field and the ball comes generally in his direction. And what does my boy do? He happily runs away....

So if you have ever read this silly blog of mine before, you know I like to look at the things that happen in my life and try and put them on a larger scale and extract the life lesson. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. So here we go on some more or less successful (you be the judge) soccer metaphors for life.


Sometimes everything clicks and in the moment you see the goal before you make it, sense the movement of everyone around you and choose all the right decisions to make the perfect shot. You are brave and strong and smart. You believe in the rightness of your skills, in the confidence of your stride. The pieces all come together, your skill is obvious and on point. You are recognized for your amazingness and you show what you are made of. Simply, you win.

Sometimes life sets you up for a beautiful corner kick - the ball placed directly in front of you, no barriers, no obstacles- and somehow you blow it. You don't connect. You don't find the open man. For some reason you can't make your body move the way you know it can. You tried- you went for it and didn't hold back. But somehow it didn't work. And you look back at that moment and replay it over and over, knowing you had the chance to do better and didn't.

Sometimes you make the assist. Sometimes you are there for someone when they need you and you help them make their big play. You back them up, block their opponents, stop the defense that would have broken them down, and be exactly what they need. You know in your heart that you were the shoulder they leaned on in that time. It's their glory and seeing them find that happiness is more than enough to fill your own heart.

Sometimes the ball is passed to you and you panic and run away. Despite it being the moment you were waiting for, the opportunity to succeed or make a difference or do the right thing, you don't. You freeze. You choose the wrong thing.  The weight of the moment is too intense, the pressure too great. You let fear or insecurity or indecision guide you when you should have remembered everything you had been taught and the whole wide world sees you fail.

And then there is that moment in soccer when the ball comes square at your face. If you have soccer in your blood, you do that crazy thing where you head the ball and look all talented and sporty and everyone wants you on their team. If not, you can either sidestep- avoid the thing that everyone is after, or put up your hands and grab hold of something you aren't supposed to touch. You let your instinct take over and suddenly you have, in your possession, something that belongs somewhere else. And you pay the penalty, feel the pain of the loss, even if you didn't mean to do it, even if you are sorry, even if you realize your mistake and wish to take it back, even if you didn't mean to hurt your team, even if you were just hoping to stop the ball long enough to put it gently on the ground and kick it back into the game.

Sometimes you even get taken out of the game for not doing well and have to miss out on playing a game you love. And you have to sit on the sideline and feel the crushing disappointment of being left out. Then, at the very least, you have time to reflect on what you did wrong (or if you are me, you beat yourself up and wonder at your own weakness) and hope that the coach believes in you enough to know that you aren't a complete loss.

My baby girl lost her first game on Saturday and took it hard, with tears and anger and pouting. I sat her down and told her a hard truth. "You might not win any games, kiddo. What matters is how hard you try and if you learn from it." This didn't necessarily land well with an emotional 7-going-on-17 year old. But it's true. Sometimes you lose, hard. Sometimes you don't ever get to win. But if you practice, if you learn from your mistakes- if you let those mistakes be a part of what makes you better, instead of what brings you down- if you try harder and do better and try to make up for what you did wrong, then you will be living the life you choose to live. And that's what counts.

Publication

Not that I think that anyone I know is shelling out big money for poetry magazines these days....but I was published in the Poetry Quarterly issue back in March that is available for sale (under my old name). You can find it here.

And in case you just want to read the poem for free, I posted it here!

There's a Baby on the Bus

The universe made a huge mistake yesterday and a school bus in my town drove away with a baby on board- no parent with him, no one to watch over, no one to make sure he was safe and happy, no one to take care that he wasn't scared or picked on or lost, and not a soul there who knew by heart his fears, his favorite things or the way he needs to be soothed when he cries. His mother wasn't with him to help him and hold him tightly to make sure nothing dangerous touched him. He had to navigate a new place on his own. Find his way. But no one noticed how huge this mistake was- no one yelled "Stop! He's just a baby! He can't do this on his own!" except his mother's poor heart as the bus carried him farther away.

Six long and grueling hours later that same unfeeling bus carried the baby back, unharmed, unafraid and having done exactly what he was supposed to do. That baby smiled at his mother and threw himself happily into her arms, joyful at his successful independence, gleefully exclaiming about his new friends, wonder-filled classroom and the unequivocal bliss of exploring a new playground. His eyes shone, his small body hopped and bounced around, unable to contain the excitement of his adventure, not knowing for even the smallest moment that his mother felt a piece of her heart break at the same moment that it glowed warm with a deep and life sustaining pride. He slid his sticky hand into hers, not seeing her conflict, not understanding how, while his world had suddenly burst open with possibilities, hers felt slightly colder and more threatening. But his mother squeezed his little fingers, remembering when they could barely curl around her thumb and she leaned down to touch his baby face- that isn't a baby face at all any more- and told him "I knew you could do it, baby."

That's A Lot of Cake

According to the unquestionable word of the Internet, there are approximately 2.5 million weddings that occur in the U.S. every year. (That's a lot of cake!) I love to imagine 2.5 million moments in the past year where someone looked at another person and thought "This is it! This is what I have been waiting for. Aren't I so damn lucky?" It's inspiring.

I was lucky enough this past weekend to attend the wedding of my beautiful cousin and her new husband. In the woods of New Hampshire, overlooking a lake, with their family and friends gathered around, this couple agreed to love each other forever. It was a simple wedding, beautifully done and I can safely say that I have never seen a bride look happier to commit her life to someone.

Being around that much happiness is a true blessing and I feel lucky to have been able to be there. Not only did I get to celebrate with them, but I also got to spend the day with family, many of who I rarely get to see. Five out of the six grown cousins were in the same place for the first time in awhile (and we very sadly missed the sixth who was unable to come, but was very much there in spirit). The fun part about being around people you have grown up with is the fact that you have known them through all of their awkward phases and questionable fashion choices, have been witness to all of their life milestones and share parts of your history with them that no one else will ever truly understand. Let the immaturity and silliness ensue.

The other great part about weddings is the inevitable reflection on your own life. I think ahead to when my babies get married (instant tears). Think back to the weddings of friends and other family members. Wonder who will be next and how that will go. And of course reflect on my own wedding. I am in the sometimes awkward, mostly regretful pool of divorcees who have lived through the whole wedding experience only to end up unmarried at some point down the road. So there are a few different roads to take here. Some people believe you should avoid the subject as a whole- never mention it, pretend it didn't happen, don't reference it in either a positive or negative way, and otherwise stay mum when the topic of weddings comes up. While this is certainly tempting in a lot of ways (who wants to relive something that subsequently went wrong?) but very false in a whole lot of other ways.

At this past weekend's wedding there was, what I considered to be, a great practice- a display of family wedding photos going back several generations. (Yay for seeing your beautiful mom in an awesome 70's bridesmaid dress!). I had been asked beforehand whether including my own wedding picture in the bunch was ok with me. So this happened:

It may have been my imagination but I think I got a few sideways looks when people saw it there. But to be honest, it didn't bother me. That time in my life happened. It was real and honest at the time and cannot be erased. I remember that moment very clearly, and what sticks with me is not the ceremony or the ridiculous in-law drama or the fact that it rained. But that my family stood around me and wished only good things for me on that day, as I know they have done every day of my life, even if from afar.

The thing about divorce is that it can make people disqualify you as a judge of good marriages. I wonder if people look at me, look at my choices in life, and think that I have failed, question my judgement, wonder at my strength. I have many days where I think that about myself. I stood up in front of everyone I knew and made a commitment that I later had to reevaluate and eventually walk away from. There is a large part of me that hates that that is how my life went. But the larger (more experienced, older and wiser) part of me knows that they were all necessary steps to end up at this place and time. And I am hugely better for it. My hard times are certainly relatively easy compared to many others but they have challenged me along the way and I accept them as my path in life.

So this weekend, surrounded by family- by a beaming couple just starting their married life together, by those who count their love in decades, those who have proven that the hard work that is necessary in marriage pays dividends, and those who have found strength in their own, more challenging paths- I feel a confidence that many divorced people lack and it makes me unafraid to say something big: I still believe in marriage. I believe in love. I believe that divorce has not made me a bad judge of those things, but a better one. (Less likely to repeat your own mistakes, right?) And I believe that it is never too late to find the one who makes you want to stand up in front of everyone you know and think "This is it! This is what I have been waiting for. Aren't I so damn lucky?"


Sending Allison and Steven the very best wishes for a long and happy life together!

Return To My Roots

After far too long, I am returning to my roots and resuming my maiden name...meaning it was time to update the blog URL. Please visit me here: http://jessicasusanwrites.blogspot.com/

Shameless Mommy Bragging

If you know Evelyn, you know her hair. Long dark and wavy- the kind of hair that people dream of.

 And in a brilliant moment of generosity, my baby girl decided to donate it. So we did the research and picked Pantene's Beautiful Lengths- a program that makes and donates wigs to women with cancer. We made an appointment at the salon and had only brief moments of anxiety before the big day....

I was worried about the moment she saw her new look- so very different from the one she has always known. Everyone always tells her how beautiful her hair is...compliments her...tells her how jealous they are. And suddenly it was gone. And her face was priceless...

She told me that she felt so wonderful being able to share her hair with someone who was sick. I'm so so proud of my baby. She is every kind of beautiful. 

Half Way

In 5th grade gym class we had to complete a mile run as part of a fitness test. To say the 5th grade me was not a runner just barely touches on reality. Let's just say I never led the pack. Team sports didn't work out well for me (hello, two years of middle school basketball without a single win!). There is a long standing joke in my family about a certain cartoon character I resemble when I run (I am not pure elegance, to say the least). And I remember a family outing with my dad's company once where someone joked that I better get good grades since I surely wasn't going to college on a volleyball scholarship. It was ok. I liked books better than sports anyway.

Needless to say, when I started to run 6 years ago in a desperate attempt to lose the last few pounds of baby weight, my expectations were monumentally low. Since then running has gone up and down for me- interrupted by another pregnancy, caring for 2 small children, a variety of crazy work schedules, etc. When I discovered how much I loved racing a few years ago, it really came as a total shock. But I went with it and I ran quite a few. Between a new job and buying a house, last year I only ran in 2 races- my farthest and my fastest. But only those two and that was a big disappointment to me. Turns out I have a slight competitive side....

So this year I decided that I would do more. I signed up for a 10 mile race, knowing it would be a big stretch for me since my longest race yet to date had been a 10K. I trained for miles on the treadmill through the worst winter in history and finally got out for a few long runs outside after some of the snow melted. When that race was cancelled at the last minute, I was beyond disappointed and in a moment of misdirected frustration signed up for a half marathon. Silly me.

So I trained harder. Had to figure out how to fuel for runs that topped two hours. Ran into some sneaker trouble and shin splints and had to shell out an INSANE amount of money for better shoes that I struggled to adjust to. And worked on my running playlist like a piece of art.

Cut to a few weeks later and I'm standing at the starting line about to run 13.1. There are 700 people around me and, as usual, I'm pretty convinced that I am going to fail miserably. (Didn't help that I had driven the course the day before and it included hills in the last few miles so steep that a sane person would never voluntarily choose to walk up, never mind run).

So I ran. The first four miles felt amazing. The next six felt...ok. The last 3 were physically the hardest thing I have ever done (and I'm even going to throw child birth in that category!) and I knew in those miles that I would never voluntarily run again. The final .1 mile felt like the longest distance I have ever gone.

And suddenly, it was over. I had done it. A bucket list item. HUGE check mark. Now, my time was not the most impressive. I certainly wouldn't brag about it. But it's mine and I'll certainly take it. I didn't lead the pack (as my daughter asked) but after I had rested, drank a bottle of water, texted everyone that I was done and walked around a bit, people were still just crossing the finish line, running their own races and collecting their own victories.

And even better, they were handing out brownies at the finish line. Total win.


So this medal right here....

Is for 5th grade me who barely finished that mile...

...for postpartum me who decided to run a bit on a walk that day....

...for that guy at the company outing who laughed...

...for the me at the starting line who didn't believe...

...for my kiddos who always cheer me on even if they can't be there...

and for the me right now....who is thinking of signing up for another one. :)

Mom-Job

The primary job description for a parent is helping your children to become the best people they can be. Educate them, feed them well, teach them manners and respect, let them get enough exercise, enough rest, inspire them, praise them and, naturally, correct their mistakes. You take pride when they reach milestones. Applaud when they walk, potty train, go to school, learn to read. I was ecstatic when I didn't have to buy any more diapers, tote around strollers, wake in the night for feedings, or schedule our lives around nap times. Seeing my kids make friends and achieve new goals at school is thrilling for me.  I watch in awe as my daughter churns through chapter books so quickly that we need to make constant trips to the library for more. They shoot up like weeds, outgrow their clothes in a matter of weeks and constantly constantly need new shoes. They use words like inappropriate, actually, and supposedly, as easily as they used to say mama and cup. And even better, they use them correctly! This is not to say that having older kids doesn't come with new challenges; mainly their attempts at manipulation, the drama queen moments and the sassy back-talk. It's like fighting a battle with an enemy that constantly and slyly acquires new weapons. You keep fighting but can't help but stop and admire their adaptability and resourcefulness. All told, though, having kids who have graduated out of toddler-dom is surprisingly nice.

Yet. A woman walks by at the grocery store with a gorgeously rounded belly and wonderfully comfortable elastic-waist maternity pants (remember the glory?!) and something in my heart hurts for a moment. I try to think of all the sleepless nights she has coming, all of the aches and pains, the desire to just have an inch of space or a moment of time to herself, and all of those damn dirty diapers. And yet, that fleeting hurt darts by for just a second. But then I can turn to my six year old and have a shockingly adult conversation that makes me smile and shine with pride. And remember that mine will go to bed and stay there all glorious night long.

So I have put the question of having more children to rest. I love working. I love sleeping. I love the adult part of my life and the maturity of my two growing kids. But that part of me that remembers fondly the baby years stops before I correct those last few words that my kids mispronounce, even though I know it's my mom-job to fix them. I stop myself because I know they will self-correct soon enough. So if my four year old insists that it's a piddy bank, and not a piggy bank, I'm ok with that. If my daughter says rusually instead of usually, I let it slide. And when they both cheer after school on Friday because it's the weekand, I cheer with them and let that small piece of their babyhood linger on.