trembling ovaries

Eighteen.

2012-02-10T12:05:00.000-08:00

I can hear birds chirping out front and I can see bits of green and tiny flower buds on trees. Spring (you can call February "Spring" in California) is a time to feel fresh and aware and open to growth.

A time to be kind to struggling new flowers who are just learning what it means to find their place in the sun, so they can grow strong and steady and ready to stand up to the rains that eventually - inevitably - come upon them.

And if those flowers are our children, and we know that the storms will eventually come to rain down on them, much like they rained down on us as we grew up, then shouldn't we try to keep them in the sun as much as possible right now?

Nine is having a tough go. She's trying to navigate school, which has gotten much harder this year. She's trying to understand that as the school work gets harder, she needs to work harder. Success in school has come easily to date, so when it doesn't, it creates a valley of uncertainty and scaling the mountains to get back up to the top seems impossible. She needs to absorb my words when I tell her that things get harder for everyone. That as she grows, so will the challenges she faces. It doesn't mean she can't overcome them, it just means that she's going to have to dig deep for what she needs to help her do it. All the equipment is in there, she's just got to be able to find it.

God willing, finding that will be easier than finding her shoes when Seven and I are standing by the front door, toes tapping, keys jingling nervously because we're seconds away from being late to school (again).

Apart from school, which is partly cloudy this Spring, she's navigating the whipping social winds of third grade. I know from experience that girls can be mean. I'm pretty sure all of us girls know from experience that girls can be mean, otherwise Tina Fey wouldn't have written a movie called "Mean Girls" and it wouldn't have been as successful as it was, or as funny. It's easy now to laugh about it, but I remember my best friend suddenly and without warning, decidedly unfriending me in Junior High. I was DEVASTATED. Not to mention confused and embarrassed and racking my little hormonal brain trying to figure out what on earth I'd done to deserve it. Of course, I'd done nothing. It was her, not me. Even if I had seen it coming, I couldn't stop it any more than you can stop the rain from getting you wet when you try to run for cover in a barn with no roof.

I'm afraid this unfriending, uncomfortable, unwelcome storm is coming earlier now. The words that are said are cruel. The looks that these little girls give feel like a hailstorm, biting and sharp. I've seen it happen and I've heard the stories. I've also seen Nine's big brown eyes, with her long lashes that look like mink, well up with tears as she shares with me the fact that this is yet one more thing she can't understand.

We teach in our house that you look into someone's heart to find their beauty. That beautiful people have a happy heart and that heart can beat within bodies of all sizes, shapes and colors. When they are kind to one another or to friends, I say to them "I see such a beautiful, happy heart in what you just did.".

So it's tough to fathom mean, especially when it comes out of a seemingly clear, blue sky. We try to explain that people who act mean are unhappy, and that the nasty things they say have less to do with the person they say them to, and more to do with themselves and their own sadness. And when someone lashes out for no reason, the best thing to do is to remember first that it's not about you. The next best thing to do is to realize that whatever they are saying or doing is coming from a dark heart. Mean people aren't mean to you because you're doing it wrong, they're mean because they hurt. Maybe someone is mean to them. Maybe they watch Mom and Dad be mean to each other. I don't think an unhappy heart is necessarily born, I think it's learned through painful process. And that pain has to come out somehow.

Sometimes it comes out on a sweet, naive, unsuspecting third grader in the form of a turquoise post-it note with "I hate you" written on it. Sometimes the note says "You're stupid". Sometimes it's a sideways glance and a comment under the breath meant to intimidate. (And it does.)

I wonder if unleashing that storm feels good to a kid who is full of thunder and lightening. I wonder if it helps it move through them so they can find some sunshine too, or if it's just how they are and will be, with gray clouds in their eyes and hate in their mouths. Maybe instead of holding hands with their girlfriends, and feeling the shared joy of innocence, they will grip and twist and pull to ensure that someone else feels just as bad as they do.

My task as I see it is to teach a combination of compassion and confidence, because I can't (unfortunately) put my kids in a safety bubble for the next 80 years. It's okay to feel bad because of a mean girl, and it's okay to feel bad for a mean girl. But it's not okay to let the grip of one bring you to your knees. Hopefully Nine (and Seven) will grow so strong in the sunshine of our love that they will never be broken by wind or rain or hateful post-its from silly, sad girls. Hopefully they will grow so strong that their appreciation for self and others will protect them from what's to come, and what's already happened.

Hopefully they will learn that they can also give sunshine to help someone else's seed of happiness grow, and they can do this without becoming cold themselves. I myself am learning how and when to let go just enough. It's scary for all of us and one more reason why my middle name is Worry. But I am grateful to be on this tireless journey of teaching and loving and protecting. Sometimes it makes me want to curl up around the puppy and sleep for hours. Other times I want to - work with me here - just stuff the kids back up into my womb and fight their fights for them again.

Instead, I will keep pointing out pretty clouds and beautiful hearts and reasons to laugh, and hope that this fortifies them enough to weather any storm.

I may also steal all the post-its from the classroom, but you didn't hear it from me.

Seventeen.

2012-02-03T18:49:00.000-08:00

It's been longer than five minutes and my husband is still in town.

Granted, he leaves again Sunday, maybe Monday, but for the moment he is here, so he's finally cleared some mind space, and read the whole blog. His comments about it crystallized the differences between men and women. He liked it and was very complimentary. He even said he laughed out loud at one part, although he couldn't recall what it was. He said, You know, it was something about the four of us doing something. I was all, Super specific, thanks.

But he said something else that I thought was so interesting. And by "interesting" I mean I shared it with Chicago right away to get her perspective, because she's the kind of best friend where if something happens in my life or hers, it didn't really happen until we can share it with each other. So I wrote to her and she emailed back and instantly made me feel uncrazy, as she tends to do.

So, he said, I don't know, it just sort of seems like you're sad. And I was like, Sad? I'm not sad. Well, sometimes I'm sad, but I'm not writing because I'm sad. He said that he's just not the type of person to throw his life out there for people to read or see. You know, he's a man. I explained to my sweet, unassuming, confused man that this is what women do. We feel something, and then we feel around to see if anyone else feels it too, and then when we discover they do indeed feel it too, we all feel better.

It's a lot of feelings for a man to wrap his man-brain around, I get it. But I've been thinking about what he said ever since, because I like to dwell.

What I've come up with is that women are just different from men. We love the feeling of feeling connected. Even as little girls we joyfully hold hands, and to catch a glimpse of little girls holding hands is to catch that sweet, innocent, burgeoning female connection in its infancy. Eventually, we hold the (clammy) hands of our first boyfriends, and our next. It makes us feel giddy and breathless. We hold the hands of our husbands or partners. It makes us feel adult and exclusive and publicly devoted. We hold the hands of our children. It makes us (and them) feel guided and safe and in control. We hold the hands of our parents when we are all adults. It makes us feel thankful and full of remembrance and less out of control.

Women need to hold hands with others, even if it's virtually. For me, reaching out and connecting helps keep the Good Ship Amy balanced as it creaks and sways and navigates through life.

Men like to stand solitary on the bow, feet spread, hands on their own hips, steady as they go. I think it makes them feel stronger to manage the course alone.

But women's hands are never just on our own hips (without grocery bags and infants and backpacks, I mean), and we learn early that steering alone doesn't make you stronger or braver or more capable. It just makes you alone. Women's hands are forever wringing, washing, carrying, clasping, patting, soothing, making, cradling. Our hands are exhausted. We feel less tired when we feel warmth. Solidarity. Support. We need to feel another woman saying, I've walked in your shoes, and my callouses are right where yours are - do you feel them? You aren't alone, I am with you - do you hear me? I will stand by you and walk with you and listen to you and feel for you. I will squeeze your hand to remind you that I am cradling your heart while you cradle that baby through another sleepless night. I will brush the hair off of your pretty forehead as you cry out of sheer exhaustion or frustration or anger or heartbreak.

Or, I will read your musings and I will write you back and tell you that your journey is my journey. And that your kids sound like they act like my kids. And that your life seems wonderful and crazy and you're a lunatic (but I say that with love) and you made me laugh today and also? We. Are. One.

Women love that shit. Men, not so much. And that's okay. Because I can feel something, and throw it out there thinking, Man, am I the only one who feels like this? And someone writes back and says, Me too. And then I know it's not just me, because I have proof. Someone else said it out loud too, and that means it's not just in my head. See? Uncrazy.

But that's only part of why I'm writing. One side of it is that it gets all these ramblings out of my head. The other side is the side that connects me to you. So I will use the hands that I use to hold my babies, to make dinner, to love my husband and to care for the house-eating puppy, to do this too. To write away. And as I clickety-click it all out there, I will feel your hands holding mine. Just holding and squeezing and outhaling through it all, every time.

Sad? No. Exactly the opposite, actually.

:)))

Sixteen.

2012-01-31T12:01:00.000-08:00

"Mama, what do you want me to be when I grow up?"

"Happy. I want you to be happy, baby."

That response just flies out of my mouth whenever Nine and Seven ask me that question. I know they are probably asking me for some sort of career guidance, but honestly, I don't care what they do or where they go with it. I just want them to be happy. And safe. And strong. And smart. And clever and soulful and fair and healthy and respectful of themselves (and others) and brave and loving. So I guess it's not just happy I want them to be, but that's at the top of the list.

Which is why I wonder if I am living by example. Do I bring them enough joy every day? Do I show them how to live life with glee in their hearts? Not sure. What I am pretty sure of is that me doing the dishes and hollering at them to HURRY HURRY HURRY UP AND IF I HAVE TO SAY IT AGAIN I'M GOING TO PASS OUT doesn't inspire great joy, nor does it make me seem particularly happy.

I am happy though, and I do respect this life as my only one, and I do know that every day - be it good or total crap - is a gift and that it's far superior to the alternative. But when we aren't necessarily living the dream as we'd imagined it, how do we teach happy? Is it by our living a happy life in whatever form that life has shaped itself into? How possible is that on a daily basis? I try to slap a smile on my face whenever I can, but maybe that's not enough. Maybe I need to be my own student of happy, so that I can lead by glowing example. Is my stress level weighing them down too, just because they are near me? Do I need to do a better job of hiding it all, or of actually not letting it affect my own happy? Yes, probably on both fronts.

Note to self: Exude great joy at laundry and dinner and repeating myself 100 times a day to no desired result. It's still better than the alternative. What if I didn't have those little pumpkins to holler at? What if my life was quiet and clean and devoid of dog hair and backtalk? Would joy seep from my pores then, or would I want what I didn't have?

The trick is that the things that do bring us joy aren't always what fills our day. My girls love cookies and movies and play dates, but their daily allowance of fun is doled out in tiny portions, given to them in between big, time-consuming things like vegetables and homework and please finish up in the shower because you've been in there so long that I'm dehydrated just thinking about the water that's being wasted. And my joy comes from relaxing with family and music and catching up with friends and writing and taking class and laughing with my husband. But those seem to be the little glittery dust particles that float in and out of the spotlight that's focused squarely on the hours spent driving and planning and cooking and cleaning and saying no and teaching lessons and making lists of things to do and then doing those things and repeating and repeating and repeating myself.

But I look forward to those shiny bits. Remember I said once that Thursday is my favorite day of the week and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because both of those things hold promise of what's to come? I can get through all the muck of the day because I love anticipating the special moments that I know are just a phone call or a tickle or a laugh away. Just knowing that joy is going to be found can bring the happy around. Just knowing is the silver lining in each day.

Granted, when Nine and Seven are bickering, and then one of them starts repeating "NO! NO!! NO!!!" louder and louder to the puppy as he innocently forages in their room for shoes and pencils and socks (i.e. his happy), and the shower is running (see aforementioned cause of drought), and the oven starts beeping because I'm burning the roasted brussels sprouts, and then my husband's phone rings, interrupting our 30 second chance to catch up on the last three days...well, sometimes it's hard to find that silver lining. But I know it's there. I should tap into that content feeling. The peace of knowing joy is around the corner, even when the corner is blocks away and in order to get there I've got to walk barefoot, uphill, in the snow.

Some people don't have happy waiting for them. I do. And my girls do. They have happy woven into every day of their lives and waiting around the corner. And they need to have happy waking them up each morning, and happy taking them to school and happy helping with homework and happy loving them to sleep at night so they realize that even though life is crazy and Mama is crazy and the puppy is crazy, we can all still be happy.

Hence, I've decided to be outwardly happy. As much as I can. I'm going to joke instead of yell. I'm going to smile instead of frown. I'm going to say "I love you" when Nine says "no" to me for the umpteenth time, and when Seven whines at me about homework/chores/dinner/bedtime/brushing teeth, I will hug her.

Time for Mama to walk the walk and talk the talk. Time to give happy and grow happy and teach them how to find their own happy, in - and sometimes in spite of - their lives. Maybe it's as simple as acting like the dog (apart from the innate desire to eat poop). He seems to find great joy in very simple things every day.

So I will be more like the puppy, except laughter will be my stolen slipper. Because "when I grow up" is happening right now, every day, all around us. I can't slow it down, but I can infuse it with as much joy as possible. And hopefully one day, when growing up turns to all grown up, they can look back with eyes that sparkle with happy memories, and joy that lights up their hearts. Which will set my own heart afire.

Outhale.

Fifteen.

2012-01-25T09:21:00.000-08:00

My brother (let's call him "B") and I were born nineteen months apart. I'm May, he's October. He was born at 12:53am, I at 12:53pm. Our older sister had brown hair and brown eyes. Our older brother has blonde hair and blue eyes. But B and I, we both have brown hair and green eyes. Hazel, most of the time, really, just like our Dad.

When B and I were little, my Mom said people asked her a lot if we were twins. We weren't, of course, but she said we did have our own language. Some sort of toddler banter that clearly meant something to us, because we babbled with great purpose and enthusiasm.

We grew up tight, as some siblings do. And by "tight" I mean he used to tease me until I screamed, then I'd get in trouble for getting our Mom all bunched up and he'd laugh until he peed. Or he would sit on me, pin my arms down, and tickle me until I wished I could either pass out or shout "Wonder Twin Powers - ACTIVATE! Shape of...ICE! Form of...FIRE!", in which case my superpowers would kick in, making him freeze and then burn into nothingness, and then I could never be tickled again and I would get my own room. I remember Batman spray soap in the tub and waking each other up on Christmas morning, and I remember kneeling in front of the couch with him as he taught me how to read. I remember us streaking through the living room while my parents tried to watch the news, and I remember him hitting his knee and falling down, which of course made me laugh until I peed, because I laugh when people fall and get hurt. (Stop it. You do too, and if you don't, well then, there's one thing we don't have in common. Because I think that shit is laugh out loud funny, every time.)

B and I came up through the same elementary school, middle school and high school. We went through times where he secretly dated my friends, then not-so-secretly told his friends never, ever to date me. We went to the same college, though we didn't overlap much during those years, but by then it didn't matter. I knew him better than anyone and I loved him absolutely.

We lived several years like that, not connected at the hip, rather at the soul. We still spoke that language our Mom talked about. Sometimes one look told a whole joke. We were on each other's team, unconditionally and without a doubt. I stood in his wedding; he stood in mine. He gave his only daughter my middle name, and he gave his middle name to his only son. Watching the two of them was like watching ourselves as kids.

And then more time passed. Hearts were broken. Happy fantasy twisted and morphed into harsh reality. Life changed. Sad things that happen to lots of people happened to him too. But rather than recover from those things, he let rage and defeat in, and he let them win.

He is not the boy I grew up with, or the man I watched that boy grow into. He is changed. I spent a lot of time and energy trying to pull him back, make him laugh, remind him of who he still is, and who still loves him, and what life has to offer in the short time we get to enjoy it.

And then, 267 days ago, I stopped trying. I remember it because it was the day before my birthday. Five days before the anniversary of our sister's death. Six days before Mother's Day. An emotionally charged week at best. I stopped trying, because in his last communication with me, his words scratched at my surface until I was raw, and hurt, and mad as hell. I can't seem to heal. Still, when I close my hazel eyes, I see his. And I still feel I know him. It's a bad connection now, with damaged wires, but if I'm really quiet I can still hear his voice.

I can't decide if that makes it better or worse. I can't decide if I'm delusional or if I really do still know him underneath it all. I can't figure out how to let go, or if I should.

What I do know is that I feel like I've now lost not one, but two siblings. And I am filled with double the regret, double the heartbreak, double the void. Every time I think about how I feel, I consider how my parents feel. Then I think about how all three of us feel like we gave everything we are and everything we have to someone who set it all on fire and threw it back in our faces with a great big fuck you to top it off.

Maybe if I were a guy, I would just go over to his house, knock on the door, and sock him in his eye. But I'm not. I'm a girl, a woman, a little sister. The ovaries tremble with this one and it makes things complicated for me. It's harder to move on because I've already had to say goodbye once before and everything in me says to fight harder for this one.

Huh.

I can't seem to find the ribbon I need to tie this one up with a pretty bow. And I hope reading this isn't like trying to work a jigsaw puzzle in the dark for you. I realize there are a lot of missing pieces and shapes that only I know how to fit together. I'm sure I'll touch on the subject of B again down the road, but for now, I guess I'll say the silver lining on this one is still buried under a hula hoop and a half-eaten volleyball in the backyard.

Maybe when Spring comes around things will look brighter. Maybe I'll forget about time lost. And maybe, just maybe, I will get the chance to forgive words spoken from a broken heart and start speaking that long lost language again instead. It could happen, right? Spring is totally a time of renewal, plus all those April showers are sure to wash the debris in the yard away and let the silver lining shine through.

It's a new year after all. And 267 days is a long time, but I'm a patient girl. Speaking of girls...what did Nine say again? My 2012 mantra? Maybe if I write it, it will start to feel true.

I have hope! I believe!

Fourteen.

2012-01-20T17:45:00.000-08:00

Yes, I was on the phone for close to two hours with AT&T today, and yes, I got disconnected before getting my issue resolved.

Yes, I got so frustrated this morning while trying to explain division to Nine that I slammed the dishwasher on my finger, and yes, I got a blood blister.

Yes, it's raining, and the husband is working late so I will miss some of my evening plans, and yes, the dog has tracked mud into every corner of the house (the parts he hasn't eaten yet, that is).

But.

Today, after 51 days away, my Mom went home. Tonight, she will have dinner with my Dad, and afterwards they will doze on the couch while they "watch" TV. Eventually, Dad will mosey into the kitchen to tidy up, and eventually, Mom will wander into their room, where her side of the bed has been turned down and waiting.

And tomorrow morning, after 51 nights apart, they will wake up side by side, and continue their 51st year of marriage under the same roof, starting with a cup of coffee. Together again.

As I type this, ironically, the song that just shuffled itself on is "Marry Me". The good men of Train said it best, and it fits this moment, just like it fit last year as we played this exact song in celebration of their fifty years of marriage.

Forever could never be long enough for me to feel like I've had long enough with you. Together could never be close enough for me to feel like I am close enough to you.

Welcome home, Mom.

Outhale.

Thirteen.

2012-01-18T23:21:00.000-08:00

Is talent a gift or a curse? And is it still a gift if you're the only one who knows you have it? I think talent is only a curse if you don't see it as a gift. Use it or lose it. One chance at life. And all that.

I think about this a bit. Being from Los Angeles, I was frequently surrounded by a lot of people who felt like knowing someone made you someone. But really, I'm of the mindset that knowing someone just makes you someone who knows someone. And you can tell yourself that because you once had a martini two feet away from a household name that you're all up in that bitch, but really, if you talk about it and have to name drop, you're still just a crusty barnacle.

Now certainly, there are a lot of gifted people in L.A., but what makes someone "someone"? Every famous person you know is only famous because other people in powerful positions shouted "This person has a gift!" from the studio rooftops. That's what being "discovered" means, right? Carrie Underwood would still be milking cows in Oklahoma if Simon Cowell had never said on TV that she was going to be somebody. And Simon Cowell would probably be living the life of Hugh Grant's character in Notting Hill (minus the getting married to Julia Roberts part) if he hadn't been discovered, and so on, and so on, and so on.

There are, of course, gifted people everywhere who aren't making $10 million every three months. You just don't see their airbrushed faces on the sides of a bus, or along the walls at the train station, or on the movie screens. So my question is this: Are they any less gifted because their adoring audience is smaller? Would Brad Pitt still be all sexy smoke if he was running the best drama program his local high school had ever seen? (Maybe that's not the best example. Because obviously, yes. He can sex it up no matter where he is. But you know what I mean.)

Do gifts need louder applause and more visibility to be bigger? Do higher ticket sales make Adele a better singer? I think she's going to rock the house whether she's at Staples Center or in the shower. But what if nobody believed in her? Would she still have the voice of Ella Fitzgerald + a Brit angel? She would.

So is it our gifts that lift us up, or are the people who appreciate the gifts doing the heavy lifting? Is talent a gift only if lots and lots of people say it is? I think some of us can identify our gifts, and some of us need someone else to identify them for us. That's one thing. As parents, it's up to us to help our kids see themselves and to believe in their strengths. But whether we are singing at a church in town or on the world's biggest stage, I guess what's important is that we feel buoyed by our gift and that we share it.

I'm no Simon Cowell, but here are some recent examples of extraordinary shared gifts I'd like to shout from a rooftop blog:

A friend who always says to me when I beg her for a favor and then thank her profusely for saying yes, "I'm just happy you asked me.".

A handful of friends who generously donate their time and tireless energy to teach my daughter and the rest of the Brownie troop she is a part of how to be kind, respectful, open-minded young people. They do this by patiently holding a mirror up to each of these girls - in the form of lessons and discussions and outings and crafts - and then standing steady until they watch each one recognize the unique gift they see in their own reflection.

The skinny friend who not only told me how much weight she's gained in the last year, but who then lifted her shirt to show me.

The physical therapists, nurses and doctors who have worked to put my Mom back together again, and who have managed, day by day, and week by week, to give back to us a woman who is somehow stronger now than she was before she landed in their care. Not to mention the friends who have kept my folks company and their refrigerator full over the past several weeks.

Some friends who read my blog entry about a very dry Monday night indeed, who then responded with offers to bring vino, pronto. And the one friend who wrote a note, tied it to a pretty bag holding a bottle of wine, and drove it over today to leave it on the front step. My porch has never looked better.

The glimpses of kindness I've seen in my daughters towards each other, towards me, and towards others.

The friends and family - old and new, near and far - who have taken time out of their days and nights to email/text/comment on this little blog. The writing feels good to me but the connections it's made to a bunch of pretty wonderful people is the real gift to me.

So thank you. Looks like the only curse I have to worry about is the one that comes each month and then leaves my bathroom looking like a crime scene. And stop with the Oh. My. God. You knew I'd go there, it was only a matter of time.

Stay tuned. :)

Interlude.

2012-01-16T19:56:00.000-08:00

Things That Make You Go Hmm.

1. Why don't the good people at Miss America surrender the fantasy and slap an elastic strap on that crown already? Bobby pins are to USA crowns as the first two little pig's houses were to the big bad wolf. No chance. Miss Outgoing could just snap that strap right under the toned, tanned chin of Miss Incoming and that pretty lady can strut her stuff and avoid looking like Dirty Drunk Prom Queen with her running mascara and her precarious tiara. Other suggestions: Make it curved so it sits on her head like a fancy banana? Hot glue it to her extensions? Staple gun? I'm just saying, there's gotta be a better way.

2. Why is it that once a month, when I get The Curse, I also break out like a teenager (and start to eat like one)? Doritos and leftover pizza, anyone? Isn't that a triple whammy? How come each time we're reminded we can give the gift of life, we aren't also given a luminous complexion and a calm, flat tummy? Instead, I look and feel like I've been eating burritos three times a day and not washing my face. WTF, uterus?

3. Is it just me, or do you need to beg your kids to get out of bed on a school day, and then on Saturday and Sunday, when all you want is for them to sleep until 9:30, they're up at 6:15 staring at cartoons? (If your kids have ever slept past 9:00am keep it to yourself. Next you'll launch into how they "slept through the night" at three months, and then we won't be friends anymore, so just shh.)

4. Is it unusual that sometimes, even after a great day, come 6:30pm, I'm wondering if I can figure out how to switch all the clocks forward two hours, so I can put the girls to bed now instead of later and enjoy a quiet, clean house before I pass out?

5. Is it wrong to tell the kids that you know it's already past bedtime, but you need to pile into the car right quick and run up to the Kwik Mart for butter (or some other pantry essential), when what's really happening is you've realized you've got no wine and you reeeally want some? It is? I think sometimes "wrong" is just another way of saying "well played". Because running out of wine is unacceptable, she types wistfully, from her wineless couch in her wineless house, on what has turned out to be a very dry Monday indeed.

Twelve.

2012-01-15T17:20:00.000-08:00

I'm not a doctor and I don't spend the graveyard shift saving lives. My kids don't have the flu (although by writing that, you know I'm jinxed), and my puppy has issues, but not explosive ones that require me to clean the floors more often than most. And yet, yesterday morning I still felt a little put out by the situation I found myself in.

The husband has been traveling. A LOT. And I'm used to it because it's his industry and we've been together for a hundred years, so I get it. When he's gone, life falls to me. A lot of things get easier when he's out of town. There is less laundry, less food to cook, less parental banter (read: bickering) about the kids and the puppy. But overall, it's more work for me. So in addition to my day job and my teaching on the side, it's up to me to make a meal plan, get groceries, keep track of the hot lunch/play date/Brownies/snack/birthday parties/child care/field trip and class party organization/laundry/sign ups for ballet and piano/et-freaking-cetera.

Who am I kidding? The man does a mean load of laundry (folding not included), and he's way better than I am on the grill, but the rest of the above ends up on my plate whether he's home or away. But sometimes, after all the solo multitasking, mama needs a break. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy he's home again, and in our bed, and there for us all, but I still want a little reprieve.

So the other morning I thought, let's go crazy. I'm going to take a class and then have coffee with a dear friend. Nuts, right? Living life right on the edge. I made it to class and afterwards could almost taste the coffee, when I received a text message asking me to "just come home". Wha?? Come home?

No. I don't want to come home. What I want to do is spend an hour or so jumping off the high dive with a friend into a vat of coffee, and swimming around with all the good stuff that she shares about her life. I don't want to come home and talk about 1) why the puppy is acting weird and 2) why the kids are acting weird and 3) why his job is weird enough that he has to start answering text messages at 6:00am on a Saturday and 4) why I'm acting like a salty, complaining, weird cherry on top. I already have those answers: 1) He barfed a SOCK on Friday night, 2) They are hormonal, bored, and enjoy torturing us, 3) Football people aren't like regular people, and 4) BECAUSE I DIDN'T GET TO GO HAVE COFFEE WITH MY FRIEND.

Seriously, right?

Alas.

I broke the plans to get caffeinated with my gracious pal, and came home. And man, was I salty.

Because in my mind, I'm thinking, I have been doing it all, alone, for days on end. And the load, she isn't light. We've got things to handle on a daily basis. Kids and parents and that sock-eating puppy and all the rest. When he comes home, I want to throw him the keys, run fast in the other direction, and be gone for at least a couple of hours. I don't even care what I'm running towards. I'll drive back and forth on the freeway, as long as I can get a chai latte on my way and listen to the music of my choice. And by "my choice" I mean almost anything except for the Bieber Christmas CD or sports talk radio.

In the husband's mind, I venture to guess, all he wants to do is reconnect and talk about what is too much to text about when he's on the road, and co-parent for the short time he's here before he has to leave us again.

See? Now I feel like a huge bitch. And I don't even like that word when it's aimed at me unless I'm on the dance floor with friends, in which case we're all up IN that bitch.

You may be asking, what's my point. I actually have no idea, I'm just blogging it off my chest. Again, I never promised this would be fascinating.

All I'm saying is that today, when I went to the grocery store, I picked up a chai latte on the way, and when I had to make three stops instead of one, I was almost giddy. I was alone, finally, and just in time because he leaves town again tomorrow. So I just sipped my tea and I spoke to nobody except the checkout people. And yes, I made eye contact and offered a smile. Why wouldn't I? I was happy as a farm-raised clam.

I didn't rush home, either. Nope. I took my sweet time up in that bitch.

Eleven.

2012-01-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

Revelation. Today it became clear why when people run towards roller coasters, I run towards the snack stand. Okay, I walk to the snack stand, but I do it with a great deal of purpose. You understand the reference, and if you don't, read "Five".

This morning I came across what I thought was a giant dog hair dust bunny, only to realize it was DOLL hair, not DOG hair, specifically the hair of a very expensive American girl doll. I can't blame the puppy. I'm sure that dolls provide sheer chewing ecstasy, and it's not like he levitated to the top of the closet. He found the dolls on the floor. I spend my days and nights repeating myself to Seven and Nine, i.e. "Put your dolls away so the puppy doesn't eat them.". So much so and to such little desired result, that I'm no longer convinced I have a voice that humans can actually hear. Maybe I have a higher pitch than I think, and only dogs can hear me. Not my dog, of course, but other ones. Perhaps I speak muskrat, and if so, I can't blame the kids or the dog because apparently, only Captain and Tennille* can hear me.

Back to the subject at hand. When I want a thrill, I want what I don't already get in my daily life. At this point, nearly every day is filled with little highs and lows. Happy, relaxed moments (Hi puppy...), nice (brief) moments of peace (...aren't you sweet...wait a minute...), and the inevitable, gut-sinking drop (...is that a $100, half-bald doll on the dog bed next to a school library book with a freshly devoured back cover?!?).

When I want respite, I don't think, Hey, let's go have groundhog day, but let's do it strapped to a metal, topless car with a bunch of screaming strangers who smell like funnel cake. No, this girl wants complete silence, in a room that smells of cucumber water, with soft music playing while a trained therapist pretends not to be able to see my body, while simultaneously making it feel like butter.

Then I want a warm bath, a cold Chard, and more silence. Trifecta.

Each morning, I wake up happy (and by "happy", I mean wishing for four more hours of sleep). I remind myself "I am alive. I have a precious human life.". Not to mention a 100+ pound canine life, who needs to go outside and say good morning to the morning, if you know what I mean. So, I get up, and I gleefully wake the precious children from their restful sleep. See me strapped in, click, click, clicking up the coaster, birds chirping, all giddy anticipation?

And then there I am, in a breathless pause at the top - or in my kitchen, as it were - smelling the coffee in the French press, quietly checking email on my phone, and telling myself the girls are getting dressed for school. What they're really doing is wearing their pajamas and watching a video on their iPod over and over again, but I pretend my instructions are being followed.

After a pause...here we GO. I hear screaming from the other room because someone said something to someone else, who then said something back and now it's a full-blown little girl hissy fit, complete with one kid crying and the other one screeching like a howler monkey. The puppy is eating the house, his appetizer of choice today being the moulding around the window. And suddenly, viciously, I'm ripped from my Paris dream (the French press might be as close as I get so just let me have this one) to focus once again on the empty, cracked pots on the back patio, the spider in the corner of the bathroom, the dog digging a hole in the backyard (seriously, who said getting a puppy was a good idea?), and so on.

It's all whizzing past me as I stomp into the bedroom, hair flying, arms flailing, to tell the kids to QUIET DOWN AND WHILE I'M IN HERE LET ME JUST SAY ONCE AGAIN THAT DIRTY CLOTHES GO IN THE HAMPER, NOT ON THE FLOOR, and then I stomp outside to try and explain to the dog in great detail that the lawn is not for digging and American girl dolls are not for eating, and neither, for that matter, is poop. By the time I slow down and grind to a halt, my coffee is cold and the clock tells me we're late for school. Again.

So you can keep your Boomerang and Corkscrew, your Dragon Wagon and Colossus. I've got equal thrills and spills right here: doll hair, howler monkeys, and the shards of wood under the window where the sill used to be.

I want to roll in hot to a spa retreat, but for now I'll take the 30 seconds I get each morning in my Parisian cafe, where they serve a great cup of coffee and a killer funnel cake. (Dog hair is on the house.)

*Young 'uns. Google. You'll see.

Ten.

2012-01-08T20:49:00.000-08:00

What is the restless feeling I have lately? It isn't that I want to be somewhere or someone else, but more that something is missing. And then to compound the confusion, a feeling that I shouldn't be feeling this way. I know I don't get enough of the people and things in my life that I love, but it shouldn't make my temper quite as short as it seems to be. Patience used to be my thing (that, and eating really slowly), but it's more of a visitor than a virtue these days. As far as eating goes, what I still lack in speed, I make up for lately in frequency.

Why am I motivated enough to create pretty little vignettes around the house, but not especially moved to do the big stuff, like put the Christmas decorations in their bins so we can open the door to the extra bedroom and actually enter the room? I have these cookbooks that I love reading, and yet, I never seem to have the mind space (life space?) to actually cook from them. I know so many women do so much more with less, and yet, here it is. As I type, I think, really? This is what you're "restless" about? Poor you, can't motivate to clean all of your holiday decorations out of your extra bedroom? Asshole.

Sigh.

I wonder if something soothing to drink might help. To that end, do I want to make a chai tea or pour a ~~double~~ triple Chardonnay (or a Pinot, or a Zin...really, those who know me know that the answer to "Red or white?" with me is nearly always "Yes, please.").

I'm not a complete train wreck on a daily basis. I do glimpse the peaceful me sometimes, like when a favorite song comes on, one that moves me to breathe into the music lyrically, as music so often used to do to me when I spent my days and nights choreographing. (Did someone say dance party? What?? I said patience used to be my thing, not focus.)

But then there's that restless feeling again, driving me to extremes, which for me these days means I either go on a cleaning frenzy (take THAT, Christmas decor, and guilt regarding the aforementioned), or I climb into bed and hope to find a chick flick circa 1997 on TBS, and then another, and maybe another, until suddenly it's 2:30am and OH MY GOD, is it too late to order hot lunch for tomorrow because there's no way I'll get up in time to pack lunches now.

Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to keep my eye on the horizon and enjoy the sunset or the sunrise or the clouds...really anything...because when I look down, I get the impression that my life raft is somewhat held together with duct tape and super glue. I have to keep my chin up, otherwise, the downward glance can begin the downward spiral that can eventually capsize the Good Ship Amy.

I hesitate to throw this out there, but here it is. I don't think it's material things (or lack thereof) causing that restless feeling, but I do struggle with the inherent ugly American in me, that girl who occasionally wants more. More stuff, better stuff, different, pretty stuff with big price tags and big wow factors. You know, like a shiny new life raft with espresso-stained oars and a matching yacht, complete with a new family wardrobe, college tuition funds, and bi-yearly vacations abroad. Also, I'd like to meet Ina Garten and Adele because I get the sneaking suspicion they would both want to be my bestie.

Ick, right? I know. It feels dirty coming out of my fingertips. I have stuff aplenty. I write this knowing full well that kids across the world (heck, kids across town) have no food, let alone new Fall boots. Hello, hypocritical feelings...you're rather prickly, aren't you?

Before you close the window in which you read this, having cleverly decided I'm either crazy, or that this blog has taken an unfortunate turn and isn't worth reading anymore, be honest with yourself. Have these things never crossed your mind? Or maybe your list of "Pretty Things I Want" is all check, check, chiggity-checked off, but you still feel restless and neither chai nor Chardonnay is the remedy. We all have to put one foot in front of the other, and true, some of us follow the yellow brick road, and others of us stumble our way down a dirt path, but as long as we just buck up and keep moving, we'll get there. There hopefully being the place where we can put our collective feet up and wish for nothing more for ourselves than another day, and then another, and another, with the sun rising and setting smack dab right where we are.

And really, where I am is right where I choose to be. I do have everything (and everyone) I need, and most of what I want. And I wouldn't trade what I've got for what I don't. Except for the chai I'm drinking now...I would trade that in for a Chardonnay in the blink of an eye. See? There it is again. Restless. Selfish maybe, but restless.

In any case, tonight I think I will leave the extra bedroom in it's unattractive post-holiday state, and leave the laundry to languish (aka wrinkle) in the dryer. I'm going to take my warm chai, and put myself in my warm bed, with my big, warm puppy, turn on the TV, and watch with my chin up, grateful that I'm smack dab in the middle of this moment, this place, this life.

You?

Nine.

2012-01-05T17:31:00.000-08:00

Prologue: Going forward, at least until they have birthdays, our youngest daughter is going to be referred to here as "Seven" and our oldest one will be "Nine". You with me?

The other night, I was tucking Nine in after Seven had fallen asleep (they share a room by choice, if you can believe that). Nine told me that a couple nights ago, she had a hard time falling asleep, so Seven, in her very serious seven-ness, climbed out of bed clutching her lovey, and sat on the edge of her sister's bed.

She put her free hand on her sister's back and started rubbing gently. As she did this, she quietly said, "Inhale. Outhale.". After a few zen-like repetitions, Nine started giggling, which usually infuriates Seven, but she just kept going.

Inhale. Outhale.

On a seemingly unrelated note, although I was born and raised in Los Angeles, I'm not a huge fan of going in the ocean. Here's the thing. Look around where you sit right now. Consider that everything you see - buildings, cars, doors - exists in the ocean, except bigger and with eyes and teeth. Probably some pokey things. And potentially several sticky arms. It's just not for me.

In conversation though, the deep end is where the good stuff is. It's all fine to sit and talk politely about your new, custom-designed white leather ottoman, but not for 30 minutes. I'd rather dive into your family, or what you love to cook and feed people, or why your kid's report card was scary instead of frame-ready. You don't have to completely lay it out on the line, but let's at least try to connect. I don't have time to pretend to be interested in something shiny on the surface for a long time. I want to gaze at that for a few moments, appreciate it, and then take a deep breath and dive under again.

Now in life, it's the really heavy things that live at the bottom, because heavy things generally sink. Mentally, several times a day, I inhale, hold my breath, and dive down to contemplate all my heavy things. I check in, I look around, I take note. But I don't have a scuba suit or enough oxygen (or time in my day) to stay down for long, so I rise to the surface, put a smile on, and outhale. Up there are a bunch of other things that are gleaming in the sun. And by "gleaming", I mean mocking me. Like the overdue and begged-for playdate that needs to be scheduled, the dishes that have to be put away, and holy Lord are we seriously out of dog food again? Which leads to what time is it, when does the vet close, can I make it there in time and get dinner on the table before bedtime (Answer: No.), etc.

Then a phone call or email comes in, or a thought crosses over the task at hand like a cloud covering the sun, and it's inhale, dive, and tend to the octopus that is my family, or the beautiful coral that are my friends, the ones I can only glimpse occasionally because they are rooted where they live too, and like I said, I can only dive down occasionally. I stay as long as I can, then it's up and away again.

I realize in this deep sea scenario, that I could be rising and falling among some much bigger waves and tides, and I'm not. My ocean could be littered with scary medical terminology and empty rafts, but it isn't.

I look around, and whether I'm squinting in the glare (creating more wrinkles, obviously), or struggling between my time in the deep sea and my internal need to be above water, I'm grateful. My rafts have my people in them and my coral may be far away, but it's mine, and I get to hug my girls before they go to bed tonight, tucked in right next to one another.

And after they fall asleep, I will sit with them and quietly time my breath with theirs.

Inhale. Outhale. Inhale. Outhale.

Peace.

Eight.

2012-01-03T16:05:00.000-08:00

When I lived in Green Bay, Wisconsin, I learned a thing or two.

I learned that when people stare at you, it's not usually in an effort to assess what you drive/who you know/what you do for a living, as can so often be the case in my (original) hometown of Los Angeles. They stare in the hopes they will eventually make eye contact so they can say hello. I was genuinely shocked when I finally decided to meet someone's gaze, only to find that the answer to my silent nagging question ("What are you staring at?!") was a friendly greeting. Ever since that day, I've tried to slow down and consciously let that simple joy pay itself forward.

Moral: humanity can show it's kind face at the Piggly Wiggly. Who knew?

I also learned that a clear, sunny day can go hand-in-hand with a -20° temperature. So when you go to a Packer game in December, you bring the Sunday paper to place under your feet. That way, the icy blast lurking in the foundation at Lambeau Field doesn't come right up from the concrete through your boots, warmers, and snow socks into your unsuspecting feet.

We left Green Bay after three years, and since then, I've come to realize that whether you live on frozen ground or with your head in the clouds, it's the foundation we stand on that determines how we feel, what we see, who we are. Certain experiences we have can imitate that icy Wisconsin winter and chill us to the bone, others can warm our souls through and through. But every brick we add helps to build our own unique architecture.

My best friend (who going forward, I think I will refer to as "Chicago", because continuing to describe her as "the one who's kids think I'm a voice in the phone" is just depressing) told me years ago, that each experience we have - good or otherwise - adds up to who we are, and who we are is perfect and beautiful. (Obviously I'm never letting her break up with me, she's my touchstone. Another blog entirely, but it will come.)

When I carry on that midwestern lesson, and make eye contact with strangers, it occurs to me that they are standing on their foundation too, and that it's condition affects their perspective. If it's unstable, or incomplete, or if someone or something has come along and blown it to bits, they're probably trying so hard to just stand steady that they can't see their way to putting one step in front of the other. Even when it's rock solid sometimes it doesn't occur to us to offer a stranger a smile.

As I start the first layer of my daughters' foundation, I hope I'm creating a space where they can always find a good sense of balance, of humor, of perspective. That they are steady enough to be compassionate when people come at them with a dark heart, and then wise enough to walk away intact.

I may be all stressed and verklempt, and I cry at commercials, and I usually forget to give everyone a napkin at dinner. But I stand on the solid ground of two parents who love me (and each other), a devoted husband, and healthy kids. Every time I wonder if I can handle any more of the crazy that surrounds me beyond that, I hear about a friend who isn't quite so lucky as me.

Moral #2: The crazy can always get more crazy, and instead of wondering what I can handle, I should spend my time wondering why I'm so blessed.

So I slow down again, make eye contact, and offer a friendly hello. That simple gesture just might give someone some solid ground to stand on, even if just for a moment.

And if "Chicago" is right, each moment counts, so get to grinning.

Seven.

2011-12-29T20:15:00.000-08:00

Prologue: Mrs. C leaned over to me at the movies this afternoon (What? It's vacation and we saw a PG movie. With our kids.) and called it. She said "Seven is on it's way after this one, isn't it.".

Apparently so.

What do Matt Damon, red kites, and the Easter Bunny have in common? They all made me cry today, for different reasons.

I already admitted that I cry whenever I see someone else cry, whether they are faking it or not, and in the movie we saw today, Matt Damon did. So I did.

The red kites were symbolic of someone he'd loved and lost, which made me think of crying, which then made me cry again.

And the Easter Bunny, well, I'm not going to spoil the movie for you the way Matt spoiled the April fantasy for my kids (I nearly wept at the thought that the jig is up). I'll just say that at bedtime tonight, when the room is quiet and the candy-coated, egg-shaped wheels start turning in their little heads, I'm going to have some explaining to do. And by explaining, I mean lying. It's fine, I've lied to them at least once a day over the last month about the big guy in the red suit, his wife, and their tiny employees, who laugh and sing as they make gifts for little children all over the world. Just adding to the charade at this point.

To personalize: What do cold spaghetti, cooked carrots, and getting my ears pierced have in common? They all make me cry, depending on the day. (Disclaimer: I am opening a distinctly complicated can of worms here. You should know I'm only letting one or two worms out, yet reading it might still feel like trying to eat mochi with mittens on. My apologies.)

I don't remember as much about my sister as my oldest brother might, because I am 12 years younger, and by the time I was five and making the memories I can recall today, she was already practically an adult. I remember her in frames. I can picture her eating cold spaghetti out of the refrigerator in the home we were raised in. I remember her making me cooked carrots mashed up with tons of butter and salt so I would eat my veggies with dinner. And when I was eight years old, she looked at me and said "Want to go to the mall and get your ears pierced?". My answer was yes, and we did just that, even though we both knew if our mother had been there her answer would have been a resounding NO.

I have other snapshots of her in my head, as well as a few short movies. Some of them happy, some not so much.

I also have her daughter. Her stunning, compassionate, free spirit of a daughter. She is so different from my sister and yet, so much like her in look and feel that it literally takes my breath away when I see her. Sometimes I feel transported to another place. A place that makes me ache for more and less at the same time.

But I'm starting to think that when my sister went, she left us with the best part of her. My niece is my sister's silver lining, a heavenly glimpse of all that could have been, given to us to keep, and wrapped up in a new, healthy, blue-eyed bow.

And today in the darkness of the theatre, watching the scene where the red kites fly against the blue sky, I thought of my sister. I'm pretty sure she was instrumental in perpetuating the Easter Bunny myth for me, along with my parents. And I definitely remember her explaining to me the merits of covering a tuna noodle casserole with potato chips.

It may not be the most glamorous keepsake from our time together, but it's what I've got. And it goes great with cooked carrots, cold spaghetti, and new earrings, so I'll take it.

Six.

2011-12-28T17:01:00.000-08:00

I ate at a restaurant called Cafe Gratitude a few weeks ago. As I walked out, I saw a painting above a doorway that read: "Abundance can be had simply by consciously receiving what has already been given.".

If that's true, I've consciously received so much food and alcoholic beverage over the last several weeks that I am now experiencing a personal, physical abundance. Most evident in the southern regions of my body, but really, my whole self is like gravy, thickening up nicely with just a few lumps.

I sit on the couch and things come to mind as follows: Stuffed sausage. A puffer fish. The Michelin Man.

And yet, rather than start an internal cleanse today, I cleaned the house. Gone are the dry, prickly fire hazards that once were fragrant boughs of pine on the mantel. Off with the stale gingerbread abodes covered in frosting and every kind of candy ever made. Goodbye dog hair dust bunnies (until the puppy comes back in from the yard), and so long bits of tape, donut and bread crumb.

As I sit at a now more-clean-than-sticky kitchen table, I realize it's probably time for some sort of mental cleanse as well. Sometimes I feel like there is so much information in my head that if I use a Q-tip in the right way, I could dislodge some of it and let it tumble right out of my ear. Let's be serious, most of it is useless, and what I do need, often buries itself under Journey or Adam Ant* lyrics.

So in order for me to get to the important things, like remembering to find a new babysitter next month (i.e., in three days or so), or getting a new calendar and writing everyone's birthdays and anniversaries on it before July hits, it's time to purge some gunk.

Now, if you are reading this with pencil in hand, waiting for my pearls of wisdom on how to organize and prioritize your brain and all the information in it, go ahead and break the lead. If I had those pearls, I wouldn't have started this cathartic blog. I'd be too busy digitizing my mental files and writing thank you notes to friends who haven't even bought the gifts they are going to give me in 2012.

If any of you dear readers have a brain more filo faxed than mine, please stop hoarding your mad skills and start sharing your special tricks with me and my good friends, Carbohydrate and Sugar.

*To the younger readers who have no idea who or what Adam Ant is, A) you're cute as a button, and B) this is precisely what Google is for. Look it up. I'll share something you won't find on Google - a visual of me in junior high, throwing my AAA bra at Mr. Ant while he performed valiantly for us at Magic Mountain. It hit him on his left shoulder. Yes, I was that girl. Also, yes, I can remember this, but the passcode to my iPhone eludes me.

Five.

2011-12-22T16:44:00.000-08:00

Show of hands: who likes roller coasters? And who volunteers to stand in line for churros when everyone runs towards the Death Drop?

Now, I love anticipation. It's why Thursday is my favorite day of the week and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. They are the kick off to more good stuff to come (like the weekend and the holiday season). It's also why I love pregnancy, but that's another blog entry (or two) entirely.

I'm the one in line for churros. I don't mind the coaster's click, click, click as the car slowly chugs it's way to the peak of the hill, nor do I mind the hesitation at the top where the view is just lovely. It's the inevitable drop that comes afterwards that takes my breath away. And not in a smiley, exhilarating way. More in a I-can't-exhale-by-screaming-or-bear-down-anymore-without-either-A) passing-out-or-B) giving-birth-to-my-own-stomach way.

Something else that makes me feel like I'm ripping in half lately? The internal, inherent pull from daughter to mother and from mother to daughters. I know my Mom needs me. And because she needs me, but would never say she needs me, I need to be with her, even if it's just to hold her hand while she sleeps. At the same time, she isn't down the road, she's in another state (mental, physical, and in this scenario, geographical). And who is in my state, in my city, in my house? My daughters. Who need their mother perhaps more than mine needs me.

And I need to be with them, because even as their childhood angst makes my head spin, just the sight of them makes my heart beat stronger. That same heart has strings that are half held by my girl's hands and half flailing across state lines to my Mom's bedside. They are tied in knots at both ends that I can't - nor would I want to - undo. And yet, because of that, I myself am coming undone.

This is a tricky scenario that calls for some meditation, some relaxation, and quite a bit of Chardonnay.

A churro wouldn't hurt either.

Four.

2011-12-19T18:54:00.000-08:00

A dear friend asked me recently how I find time to blog at all, let alone at Christmastime. I put it to her like this: It helps relieve some pressure. Pretend my head is a giant, overblown balloon that's about to pop. Then picture me pulling at my neck a bit. That screaming sound you hear as the air squeals out is my blog.

And here it is.

Confession: my kids make me cry.

Sometimes it's when they are awake and exhibiting behavior I not only don't understand, but can't control. Sometimes it's when they are asleep, and I sneak in quietly to put my nose next to their sweet little mouths to inhale as they breathe out. (Yes, the same mouths they were sassing me with just hours before. Being a mom is reeeally complicated.)

And sometimes, they make me cry when they're saying sweet things to each other and don't know I'm listening. This is when their true selves emerge, unencumbered by all the mother/daughter emotion that tends to seep into their tone of voice when they talk to me lately.

Some of you know a brief version of the story I'm about to tell already, but I never said this blog was going to be original or amazing, so pretend you're in college and just skim the rest.

The other night, the girls were tumbling out of the car and happily talking to each other when I overheard my oldest daughter, the one who is lately exasperated/annoyed/short-tempered/emotional with me say, "I have hope! I believe!". I don't even know what they were talking about, but her words were wings that attached themselves to my heart and flew up to heaven and back.

I've smiled every time I've thought of it ever since, and at the urging of my best friend (the one who lives so far away that her kids think that "Auntie Amy" is a sound that comes out of the phone), I've decided to take this phrase on as my mantra for 2012.

I'm not making a resolution to lose weight, or exercise more, or go to church, or stop gossiping. All great ideas that will likely flit and float in and out of my life next year, but "I have hope! I believe!" will be the constant.

That and dirty laundry.

Three.

2011-12-17T22:29:00.000-08:00

Dr. Seuss has it down.

I watched The Grinch tonight (not the vintage version, the new one with Jim Carrey and a frenetic Molly Shannon), and I realized the idea of "keeping up with the Joneses" is a universal theme. Poor Mrs. Lou Who lived next door to a fabulous (lonely, secretly-in-love-with-the-Grinch) woman who had a shiny machine that shot out Christmas lights onto her home in perfect order. In an effort to keep up, Mrs. Lou Who tried to string up everything from chandeliers to stolen street lights on her roof.

I'm always in admiration of my friends' beautiful homes. The perfectly chosen furniture, color schemes, choices of art, scent of candles, lack of dog hair on everything...you get the picture. There's nothing out of place, not a backpack or stray shoe in sight, and everything in their world seems just right. Sometimes I end up going back home to our little 1930s cottage thinking, huh. Yep, there's the friendship bracelet maker with the Diary of a Wimpy Kid book balanced on it, which lies under the unpainted wooden wreath, next to the frosted gingerbread house, close to the heating vent, which valiantly tries to push warm air out, only to be trumped by the cold air sneaking in due to the lack of sealant on the doors and windows.

Granted, if I had friends coming over, that whole pile (save for the gingerbread house, because how charming is that this time of year?!) would be shoved into whichever closet would hold it behind a closed door. And those friends might leave my house thinking, man, that girl has it all. Clean house, nice kids, beautiful husband.

So I get that sometimes it's about what we put out there. Sometimes our story is frumptastic because that's all we can muster, and sometimes, to quote another Dr. Seuss movie, it's a perfectly painted picture: "In my world, everyone's a pony and they all eat rainbows and poop butterflies!" (Horton Hears A Who - seriously, one of the funniest scenes ever.)

But other times, comparisons can be restorative. Not as a matter of jockeying for position, more a matter of jonesing for some kind of peace and perspective.

Yesterday, I visited a nursing home in my town. From the moment I walked in - from a side door, where nobody questioned who I was or what I was doing there - I felt sad. (Disclaimer: I cry over movies, babies, old people, commercials, and almost anytime I see someone else crying, whether they're faking it or not.) The bedrooms were small, and shared, and the common room was packed with the sweet old folks who lived there. Not in a festive, comfortable way, more in the realm of, here, let me move this sleeping fellow in his chair over so the ornery lady who doesn't understand what's happening can scoot by with her walker.

All at once yesterday, in that nursing home, I felt thankful for my parent's situation. Until then, I hated the idea of my Mom rehabbing her hip in a nursing home, with my Dad alone at home. Now, I'm so much more grateful for the quality of care she is receiving, and the fact that they both have friends who visit to keep them company and bring them what they might need. I am happy she has her own room, with a big window, and kind staff to help her do the things she isn't able to do by herself right now. It's hard for me to see her relinquish her pride and privacy. It's difficult to swallow the fact that she and my Dad will eat Christmas dinner there, and then have to tuck into bed separately.

For most people, including my folks, it's the small rituals we rely on that fill our days and nights with normalcy. In the case of my parents, it's the coffee tin they've had since I was a kid that my Dad pulls out every night so he can set the coffee maker to brew automatically before they wake. The little water dish he puts out on my Mom's bedside table, so their cat can hydrate at will (I'm not saying she isn't spoiled...and I realize this may be an admission of how spoiled I myself was as a kid). The fact that I saw when I visited them last week that my Dad - even though my Mom isn't staying at home - habitually made their bed with my Mom's side turned down, the way he does when she's home, so it's easier for her to climb in for a nap or a good night's sleep.

You may guess where I'm going with this. Yes, yesterday I saw another silver lining. It made my eyes water then, and now. And it made me realize that nobody eats rainbows or poops butterflies. Everyone has a junk drawer that gift cards and screwdrivers and brownie vest patches get lost in. And we all know that as bad as we think we have it, on some level, it's okay for now.

Seven days until Christmas. Not a lick of shopping done on my end.

You're welcome. :)

Two.

2011-12-15T15:42:00.000-08:00

Today I was talking with a friend - and before you imagine us sitting near a fire in a tidy home with a ~~hot tea~~ Chardonnay in hand and awesome leather boots on our pedicured feet, take note that I was on the street, getting tangled up and manhandled by the 95-pound puppy when said friend happened to drive by.

My delayed point is that we were chatting about how busy our week seemed to be and I said, with full conviction, "I mean, it's already WEDNESDAY!". She gave me a blank look with a half smile and said, uh, it's Thursday. I looked down for several seconds as if the real answer to why I'm crazy was written on the side of her car.

This happens to me a lot. Not just the day of the week thing, but other things too. I consistently feel like I'm on a raft, swirling around inside my own head, with all my jobs and tasks and things I'm forgetting to do rushing at me trying to capsize my day.

Even when I try to compartmentalize things, which I'm pretty good at, the compartments tend to open up and spill over and everything slips into each other's way.

For example, I have a day job, and I work from home a lot. But I'm still a Mom, with a husband who travels so much in the month of December that I pretend he's not coming home even when he's supposed to. Which means that when I get home from dropping the girls at school, I have a puppy who wants to play (read: eat poop outside, and don't act shocked, I've probably heard your kids talk in my back seat about how your dog does it too). Laundry that isn't going to wash itself. Errands to run. Dear friends I'd love to catch up with. Breakfast dishes to do, lunch to consider and a dinner plan to make.

So as the minutes turn into hours, I try to slip other things into quiet work moments. Take a break in the action to check personal email, or look up that recipe I was meaning to try. Text a friend or my husband. Add to my "to-do" list. Some people might call this multi-tasking, and on some level I agree. But when it happens more often than it should, you end up being the equivalent of a quarter of the way through 7 books at once, and mixing all the characters and story lines up.

I'm working from home today, in full view of The Jesus House. This is a little barn with a loft that my parents used to pull out every Christmas for my brother and I to ~~fight over~~ play with. Granted, in my childhood home, Christmas=gifts and Easter=chocolate, so The Jesus House was a treasure, but we didn't fully understand the meaning behind it. Now my daughters love to play with it too. In fact, a couple of years ago, as they set it up, I learned that Ariel, The Little Mermaid, was present at the birth of Christ. I told you they are smarter than I am.

Moving on.

Each character was always wrapped in tissue and my brother and I would take turns choosing; whichever ones we got, we got to set up. We tried to feel around for the baby, or his bed, because it was cooler to set up baby Jesus than it was yet another sheep. And we always tried to get "Gloria" - the angel holding the banner that says "Gloria" on it, who hangs on the tiny nail at the roof's peak. What? It says her name RIGHT THERE.

My second delayed point is this: look at sweet Mary. If any of us find stress in our day, let's ponder hers for a minute. The woman gave birth in someone else's barn, after walking around for hours on end begging for help. I called for the epidural guy for a while from the comfort of a clean hospital bed and thought I had it rough until he showed up and turned dark into light.

Back to Mary. There she kneels, by the baby's little bed of hay, hands gracefully crossed at her chest, head tilted to the side, peace written across her face. I'm pretty sure she had more to deal with back then than I do today, and yet, I can't remember what day of the week it actually is.

I don't know the trick you use to keep it together, even when it's all obviously slipping through your fingers. The best I can do some days is stop. Take a deep breath. And while I feel the rise and fall of my ribcage, and my shoulders releasing my ears and settling down my back again where they belong, I remember that this breath is a gift. And my chaos is a gift, as is this day, and these thoughts, and my able body, and the friends I don't have time to talk to, and the husband who is gone, and the daughters who fight with me every morning about the same things.

And there it is. A tiny sliver of silver lining. I told you it was in there. And it was hiding under an Ugg boot. Not anymore, however, because the puppy has now eaten it in it's entirety.

It's going to be a great night.

One.

2011-12-14T12:19:00.000-08:00

It's taken me until now to reconcile what "trembling ovaries" means to me, because it started as one thing but has evolved into something else.

Let me try to explain.

I am the daughter of a mother who two Thursdays ago, turned around too quickly and ended up falling down in the kitchen and fracturing her hip.

I am the daughter of a father who has loved his wife for 51 years and counting, through very thick and some thin, and who is the best man I have ever known, hands down.

I am the mother of two daughters who at age seven and nine are already smarter than I am in lots of ways, and who already go through social and academic situations that I don't have any idea how to handle properly.

I am the sister of three siblings - one is in my life, one is estranged, one has passed away.

I am the wife of a man, and the fabric of our relationship continues to weave itself together to the point that I can't see which is my thread and which is his anymore.

I am a woman, who used to be a girl, who loved to dance and laugh and listen to music and draw and sleep.

See all that love you just read about? And stress? You know there are some good stories lurking there, if you read between the lines. Don't worry, I'll get there.

My point is, that THIS is what causes my ovaries to tremble now. My middle name is Worry. I am a scatterbrain. What do I get fritzed about first? My Mom's health? My Dad's strain? My kids? Their bodies, minds, health, happiness, future, safety, Christmas gift list? My own body? My husband's? The puppy? My best friend, who lives so far away that her kids don't know me because I can't bring them after school treats and read them stories (or ignore them while I drink Chardonnay)? Do we have gas in the car? Money in the account? Water in the Christmas tree stand?

My point is that as a woman, everything causes my stomach to flip. And when it rains, it pours, so when five things are jiggling the egg baskets, a sixth inevitably adds itself to the list.

It's all good. I know there's a silver lining, although sometimes it seems buried under a lot of mud and dog poop and torn Ugg boots. In the meantime, it sure does give me a lot of material for a blog.

If you've got ovaries, or know someone who does, perhaps you'll come back and read again. Feel free to comment too, as we go. Hopefully, the more I lay it out there, the less I'll have to panic about hot lunch and hot flashes and hot ladies flirting with my gorgeous man.

Have a nice day. :)