Yes and No to Us

15 years brings an incredible amount of choice. 

So many moments to say yes to the hard, gritty good stuff...and no, to that which is not meant for us.

Here's to the myriad of yes's and no's that we've attested to in our union.

Yes, to commitment--to the continued decision to do all of the things--and I do mean all of the things. 

Ballet, Taekwondo, Piano, Football, Speech, Scouts, STAC competitions, Narnia projects, summer camps, First Holy Communion, Small Faith Confirmation group, art supplies, sewing materials, Magic the Gathering tournaments, homework, play practices, recitals, pick ups, drop offs...

Yes to dishes and laundry and endless trips to Costco.  Yes to "she seems sad, what do you think?," and "Why is he being an asshole?," and "I can't get her to talk to me."

Yes to "you should start your own business...I know you're afraid...do it anyway.  I'll be here, no matter what."

Yes to, "I think she just threw up, and your mom called, and I need to stay late at work, and what the fuck am I going to make for dinner?, and I'm so, so, so tired."

Yes to, "Oh my God, he got a scholarship...she's reading Harry Potter books...and her art work is amazing."

Yes to, "I'm sorry," not because it's required, but because we can't bare the first sip of coffee until we've owned our part.

Yes to prayer and uncertainty and relentless hope for the future. 

Yes to "I believe in you," and "trust me," and "help, I can't do this by myself."

***

No to excuses and "we've got tomorrow," especially after Nathan died.

No to comparison and the remote possibility that the grass is greener on the other side.  We've met them, and the Jones's just aren't as fun as we are.

No to disrespect, meanness, jealousy, and petty comments that serve no one.

No to "I'm putting in more than you," because at the end of the day, we're both all in.

No to screaming louder or keeping score.

No to being the preferred the parent.  We know that you are.

No to making a bigger deal out of it than it deserves.

No to giving any energy to the things and people who take us away from what matters most--our faith and our family.

***

Fifteen years equals 15 million moments of picking us again and again--knowing that this--all of this--is imperfect, strained, a work in progress--a beautiful, messy, hodge podge of a life that we get to call ours...all because we said yes in a little church and no to giving up...and amen to the promise of something better because we are together.

Happy Anniversary, my love...

Ode to Sam on Your 14th Birthday

February 8, 2019


My Dearest Sam,

Happy 14th Birthday!

When I look back, I can hardly believe where the time has gone.

I used to live by your nap schedule and count down the hours until I'd make macaroni and cheese and read your favorite dinosaur books.  We'd alternate between story time at the library, trucks at the park, goggles and noodles at the pool, sharks at the zoo, and dress-up at the children's museum.  In between calling you "Bug-A-Boo," "Peanut Butter and Jelly," "Samuel (saam-well)" and "Love Bug," I used to spend hours doing puzzles, reading books, orchestrating dance parties, mixing colors for finger paint sessions, and building Lego creations.

Then, you got bigger and wanted to read Harry Potter stories on your own, and spend more time hanging with your friends and your cousins.  But, we still found lots of ways to have adventures together.

We traveled on airplanes and visited cool cities, family and friends.  We rode bikes together.  You cheered me on at races.  And let me embarrass you in a Turkey costume at school, and honor you by reading at your First Holy Communion.

Bit by bit, you started to grow and grow and grow...

And one day, you had braces...and started going camping with the Boy Scouts and to Kitaki with your friends.

And pretty soon...you got a phone, and Friday night plans, and lawns you mowed on the weekends, group text messages and an upcoming 8th grade trip to Washington, D.C.

We celebrated our last Mother and Son Bowling Night at Saint Margaret Mary...and I cried when you weren't looking.

I love you so much that I think my heart might burst.  You are the brightest, kindest, funniest, most interesting person on the planet.  Your ability to judge character while at the same time choosing not to be judgemental is such a rare gift.  Between getting up at 5:50am for Advanced Math to competing on a Quiz Bowl team, playing the piano, working toward your Eagle Scout, being the school play's stage manager, and working up your new piece for the Speech team, I stand in awe.  You're the real deal in such a compassionate package.

So, as you embark upon the end of middle school, and look toward high school...hear me well...it is not your brains or your brawn that will be the greatest measure of your strength...it will be your ability to get back up again and again when life brings you to your knees.  It will also be your choice to bring others up with you, when you (or they) have fallen.  It will be your grit.  Your determination.  Your faith in something greater than the present circumstance.

And when you are tired and unsure, I will be there to remind you of who you are.  I will encourage you to stand back up again, and to keep fighting the good fight.

There is so much goodness in this world.  And the world is waiting for you to bring your you-ness to it.  If there is anything I've learned, it doesn't pay to try to be someone you're not.  It's a big fat waste of time.  Sink deeply into the person that you're growing into.  Embrace Sam Gering.  He's such a cool cat--don't just take it from me--I have it on good faith that loads of others think similarly.  Know thyself and trust that you (all of you) is enough to manifest the dreams you have inside your heart.

Your dad, sisters, and I think you are incredible, and that you harbor the power to be all that you yearn to be.

Cling to that, and know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are deeply loved.  If I told you daily, it wouldn't be enough.

Ode to you on your 14th birthday, my son.  I love you to the moon and back.

Mama

Ode to Claire on Your 8th Birthday

My Dearest Claire,

OH MY GOODNESS...today you are EIGHT!

It happened, just like that.

You are a big second grader who knows exactly who she is and what she wants in the world.

Extraordinary, really...when I think about it, I stand in amazement at everything that you teach me about how to live a full life.

First up, this year, you said, "Hell to the no's on ballet."  You've taken lessons since you were 3-years old, and watched your older sister dance for hours week after week.  Classically trained, pursuing the desire to be on pointe, you deemed that slice of the world, not your cup of tea.

Instead, you decided to trade your slippers for sparring gloves.  You're a fighter.  A full-fledged orange belt variety and three times a week, you Braveheart "KEE-YAH" the shit out of the other students who find themselves in the ring.

Next up, you love beyond measure the gift of reading.  Something clicked and now, your nose is always in a book.  Your current faves are anything Captain Underpants, Harry Potter, Amelia Bedelia, Land of Stories, Elephant and Piggie, and of course, the stand by Dr. Seusses.  It's been a magical ride to be a witness on your reading journey.  You love acting out the characters and snuggling together during the telling of the tales.

This year found you playing more piano than I could have imagined.  You've been devoted to practicing, and the only thing that keeps you from the ivories is the inherited guitar that had you playing "Happy Birthday" at the SMM talent show.  A perfectly pitched, beautiful voice, you love to sing and dance more than anyone else in our abode.

While Joy should have been your middle name, I often find that Feist and Sass are a bit more appropriate.  You are hard...I mean really freaking hard.  Stubborn, short, a tendency toward blurting out how your brother or sister are assholes while questioning nearly everything I tell you to do....you are a fierce ass force to be reckoned with.  And I struggle, I yell more than I should.  I use the famous "Because I told you so," more than I would like, and many times, I slink away in exasperation.

But you know what, I don't worry about you...not one bit.  You can hold your own.  You are brilliant, capable, confident, strong (I've watched you do many more push-ups in a sitting than I could) and you have an unwavering faith in God's love for you.  The other night while praying the rosary, you said, "Thank you God for life and death and all the days in between.  Thank you for the trees and the hedgehogs and Sam and Kate and for my friends, even the mean ones.  Thank you for loving me no matter what.  And for giving us a warm house.  I love you."

My blue-eyed, blonde-haired, firecracker of a girl, we love you too.  And as you grow, which we know is inevitable, channel your fierce spirit, your insane creativity, and extraordinary gift for decision making and use it for good.  Take the unconditional love you have in your heart and give it to others.  Let them know that they are loved too.

In your upcoming year, may you be showered with more joy than you can imagine--for you have given us more than we could have.

I love you to the moon and back,

Mama

88 Years

At the beginning of the week, I attended a funeral for my step-mother's sister.

At the time of her death, she was 88-years old, and had five children, 11 grandchildren, 19 great-grandchildren...and had been married to her husband for 60 years.

I listened to the pastor recount memory after memory of reading to her grandchildren, making homemade ice cream for the Fourth of July, logging in over 9,000 volunteer hours at a local hospital, serving as the confidant and non-judgemental keeper of everyone's secrets, hand cracking walnuts to give in small mason jars over the holidays and always having hand wrapped goodies for kids in her family and those who happened to stop by.  She had an extraordinarily full, rich, lived in 88-years of life.

I didn't have much time following the service as I drove to to give a presentation.  But sitting in traffic, it hit me that at the age of 43, I am nearly half-way to where she so graciously journeyed.  Who knows how long that I will live or be married or how large my little family will grow to be...but along the way, I wondered what she was thinking.

Is it possible to savor it when you're in the thick of it?

Can you only fully appreciate it in the reflection?

Can you not know the beauty when you're entrenched in the details?

Or does the small stuff not add up to the big stuff, but rather, just count by itself the most?

My son, Sam (13) is getting taller and more independent by the minute.  And this year, will see him graduating from eighth grade and heading to high school.  What does that even mean, and why is it happening? 

Yesterday, a boy called on the phone for Kate (11), and she graciously accepted a play date of Legos and Hogwarts dialogue, all the while, being thrilled that her Kool-Aid died hair would look cool for the excursion.  What the what?

And Claire (7) reminded me that this is her year for full-on Tae Kwon Do and First Holy Communion.  And, yes, in that order.  Sweet Mary Mother of God.

They really do just grow.  And, I guess, so do we.  And then, we die.  All of us.

And no one knows when your day is.  And no one knows how many years you get. 

But man, sitting in her funeral, I thought, "I want that."  I want Paris and Tuscany and penning a novel, too.  But really, when it's all said and done, I want that.  A room filled with babies and couples laughing and reminiscing about all of the ways that she was the glue that held their family together.  And when you think about it, that's not hard.  It's just intentional.  It's a choice to choose to be available over and over and over again for the people you love.

And she got to do it for 88 years.  Christmas cards, homemade fudge, salsa, football games, informal and formal gatherings.  She was present, until the end.

Such a powerful lesson for me to know that it can hurt to see them growing, with the inevitable leaving on the horizon...but if you know them, really take the time to invest in them, they'll always come back to share their stories and eat your fudge (or maybe in my abode, drink my coffee).

Here's to 88 years of real living...

I Go Before You

When I look back,

I think I ran my brains out...or maybe, my heart.

I'm not sure, but for almost six years, I got up at 4:30 in the morning, and ran and ran.  I curated play lists, scouted routes--independent of anything except my kicks and ear buds, I ran through neighborhoods, parks, races, and I was happy...really happy.

Until one day, I wasn't. 

I couldn't get myself up and out...not even with really witty Instagram motivational quotations.  Instead of feeling free, I felt angry about leaving the house when it was dark.  It probably doesn't help that simultaneously, I started teaching graduate classes, cultivating my private mediation practice, and working at my kiddos' school.  Maybe, I was burned out.

And then, for some reason a few months ago, friends started asking me to run races, and instead of looking at my squishy mid section and flabby legs and politely declining, I said yes.  And now, I have four races on the books. 

In preparation for a summer race, I've been trying to run five miles every day--which is going to be the death of me.  On one walk to the park, my 11-year old daughter Kate said, "sometime, can I run with you?"  To which, I instantly responded, "absolutely!" It's kind of like the coveted talk where I dream that she asks to drink coffee or wine or write poetry with me....all of which have yet to happen.

Staring at a big hill she said, "can we practice now?  I mean, like on this, and be done at the top?"  I gulped, "sure."  Half way up, she backed off, and huffing and puffing,  I said, "do you wanna stop?"  "Naw, keep going," she screamed.

And so, I did, slow and steady up the incline.

When I got to the top, I cheered for her as she ran/walked the remainder.  I told her that she was strong and brave and that if she could do this hill, she could do anything.  Hills are hard, but rewarding.

To which she retorted, "I knew I could, because you did first."  I got big tears in my eyes. 

The following morning on a solo run, I hit a hill.  Ill prepared without water and salty sweat streaming into my eyes, I thought of Kate.  I pretended that she was behind me watching what I did, noticing how hard I wanted it.  And I promised myself that I would go before her.  I would do it, so that she would know that she could too.

There are countless shitty components of motherhood.  Discipline, back talk, hormones, incessant whining, homework, sibling fighting, entitled shenanigans, bitchy attitudes...but in the midst, you realize that someone very, very important is watching.  And that ultimately, your actions speak infinitely louder than the gibberish coming out of your mouth. 

In that moment, for a brief second, it becomes incredibly clear, that you have the opportunity to influence another more than anyone else in the world.  And you get to choose whether you'll go first and make positive change, or whether you'll squander the privilege. 

I've made my share of mistakes, but in that moment, I climbed the hill...and so did she.  And someday, she'll go before someone else, and hopefully, she'll climb, even if it's hard...I guess, especially if it's hard.

Here's to climbing...gradually, intentionally knowing the importance of going before another.

Ode to Kate on Your 11th Birthday

My Dearest Kate,

Today, you are eleven.

And I am elated, sad, joy-filled, nostalgic, hopeful...and well, in awe.

I see so much within you, and quite frankly, the majesticness of it brings me to tears.  You are extraordinary. 

I've never met anyone who lives and breathes for making things.  Paint to canvas, fabric to the sewing machine, hot glue to yarn, milk/egg cartons, La Croix cans, glitter, charcoal, brushes, clay, oil pastels...you are constantly creating new and inventive pieces. 

Your latest passion is to create realistic dolls and costumes.  You fashion their hair out of yarn, paint and harden their eyes in the oven, sew their costumes, and make their shoes.  This is one of my favorites...your miniature Kate doll.

When you're not painting, you're dancing or playing the piano.  In another year, you'll be primed to be on Pointe slippers in the ballet studio and taking lyrical classes.  Constantly humming a song and writing notes/words to your own pieces, you are not afraid to let your voice speak, and your body move in the world.

Just this past month, you decided that it was time to start traveling, and so with the help of your grandma, you got on a plane and spent 8 days away from home in Reno, Nevada with daddy's family.  We missed you so much, but loved that you were loving every moment of baking, crafting, and making memories.  On the last day, when asked if you were home sick, you said, "Next summer, I want to stay for a month."

Still a voracious reader, we talk about painting in Paris or baking in Tuscany or writing in Maine.  And when your little sister talks about getting married and having six babies, you say, "I don't know.  I've got a lot I want to do before I think about that."

Like dying your hair or riding millions of miles on your new bike (gears make things easier, right?) and starting your own business.

I'm not going to lie to you, Cat-uh-lone-ay, it's a bittersweet thing being your mama.  You really are the best.  You're kind and compassionate and thoughtful and wicked brilliant and beautiful and sweet and feisty and beloved...and man, I just want you to want me to braid your hair and drink chocolate milk forever. 

But, I know, that's not what you're supposed to do.  

You're supposed to meet a million amazing people, explore a thousand adventures and try on lots of different experiences.  You'll rise and you'll fall and you'll figure out who you are and what makes your heart sing.  But along the way, know that I'm here...noticing you, cheering you on, hoping beyond hope that all your dreams come true.  And when they don't, and you have to recreate your dreams, I'll remind you of the inventor you've always been, the singer who never loses the joy in her heart, and the girl who loved the other side of the country so much that she wasn't afraid to stay for a month.  And even though I'll cry when you go, I'll always hold dear the amazing, extraordinary, inspiring person you are.

I love you to the moon and back....the Happiest of 11th Birthdays,

Mama

Ode to 43

Today, I turn 43.

I remember when we moved into our house, I heard that the sellers were in their 40's and I thought, "God, that's old.  I can't even imagine who I'll be in my 40's."

Now, with the benefit of a few decades of hard knocks, I feel like I'm just getting started.

And to that end, I'm learning to:

Make peace with the risings and the fallings.  

It never fails that when I'm on the mountain top--a string of good parenting days, meaningful time with friends and family, a welcome change in weather, forward movement in my mediation practice, an engaged class of students--the other shoe drops--my kid tells me (not verbatim, but I get the drift) that I suck, I get insanely overwhelmed by my work load, someone gets sick, a financial set back occurs, bad news arrives-- uncertainty kicks in, and I find myself remembering that this is what it means to be human.  There is no such thing as living infinitely in a place of joy or pain.  It's an extraordinary mixture of both, that is largely unpredictable and many times unexplainable.

Never underestimate the power of the hustle.

I used to think that giving up my career made me a fool.  How would I ever dive back into my field?  What would the loss of a double income mean for our family?  What was the point in amassing all of that education?  A decade later, after spending all of my 30's at home, and now teaching at a university and being back at the mediation table, I can wholeheartedly say that the best people I know are the scrappy ones.  They don't measure their worth in one long continuous line.  They take chances.  They trust their gut.  They believe in their value and they morph and shape their skill sets to prioritize the people and experiences that matter most.  They're the most interesting story tellers and the truest companions.  And for my own experience, I have to say that they bring a level of empathy, adaptability and resiliency to the table that is second to none.

Relish the paradox of living.

There was a time when I believed that having the answers defined a good life.  Now, I know differently.  Living in the uncertainty of the questions, with a willingness to course correct when your heart and intuition tell you otherwise is what it means to be present.  Non-judgemental, operating out of a space of love, not fear means that faith and trust are guiding, not a false sense of control.  Trusting that it's okay not to know...and that someday, this time of wonderment, fork in the road, will pass and eventually, you'll understand why you are, where you are, is the only way to do this life thing.

Gratitude makes life purposeful.

I used to stress over ensuring that I mailed a thank-you card within a proper window of time when someone had given a gift or done something kind.  Three kids later, I know that what matters isn't overt gestures...it's the little things...sending a text when someone comes to mind, telling them that you're thinking about the upcoming thing and that you're rooting for them and that you love them.  It's noticing the unbelievable abundance of blessings that show up in buds on the trees now that it's spring time, a really strong cup of coffee before the house wakes up, the fact that your legs take you places and somehow, your heart decided to beat for you all night long while you were sleeping and that God gave you another shot at today.  Saying thank you, nearly every moment, keeps you appreciating the bounty that surrounds you.

Comparison steals joy.

I've always yearned to be someone else.  When I was younger, it was the girls who were cheerleaders or the ones who were Merit scholars.  In my twenties, it was the girls who were married.  In my thirties, it was the ones who bounced back to their pre-baby weight and lived on certain tree-lined streets and vacationed at all the right places.  Now, in my forties, I'm too tired for that.  I have a really good life.  People who love me that I get to love back.  A body that moves.  A brain that thinks interesting stuff and friends who I can lean on and laugh with.  On most days, that's enough.  On the days when I look in the mirror and see extra jiggle, I have to remind myself that it's okay and this is the price of admission to the beauty of mid-life.

Change is the only constant.

God do I hate the devil I don't know.  If it were up to me, we'd main line coffee all day, only stopping to eat sushi, drink stout, read the NY Times, listen to podcasts while we did yoga and solved the problems of the world.  I get very antsy when it comes to doing new things...but the truth is, the birthplace of creativity, hope, opportunity and true engagement happen in the spaces where we are vulnerable, with hands outstretched saying, "I don't know, but I'm willing to try." 

So, as I approach this new space...this 43rd year...I say...

Ode to 

laughter and pain

hope and despair

worry and belief

adventure and momentum.

Ode to me

and the bounty of  life,

and the change that will bring me to forks in the road.

May I rise to meet them, even in the falling.

May I live in the present, without the guarantees,

embracing the dichotomies and uncertainty.

And may I know, deep within that being me,

the real me

the 43 me

is  enough.