The scoop. (Not for the faint of heart.)

Here's the scoop.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner. I for one don't want everyone to think I'm sitting in a dark room a la Glenn Close, flicking the light off and on, because that's only me part of the time. In general, like I said, I'm rolling along, checking the boxes.

So today I thought I'd share this box with you:

The puppy, in case you've not met him, is 160 pounds of happy. He's on a diet because even for a Bernese Mountain Dog, one-sixty is pushing some sort of limit. Plus, we are in Los Angeles, so you know, image is everything to him, and once he heard about the Beyonce and Jay-Z cleanse, he was like, Sign me up. We support his need to express himself and also I don't want anyone in my life to lose their ability to breathe when he gallops up to them and arranges himself on their lap.

Yep, he's one gigantic hunk of hairy love. A bull in a china shop with a big heart, droopy jowls, and huge paws.

And you know what they say about guys with big feet.

That's right.

Big feet, gigantic...poop. 

(Oh yes, I'm going there.)

I kid you not, on today's walk when he, uh...expressed himself, I heard a THUNK on the trail. Every single one is a double-bagger for me. I need space between me and the poop, or at least two layers of plastic. One just won't do. It takes some serious skill and speed to harvest this crop. I can only hold my breath for so long. Sometimes I need to use two hands. (That's four bags, for those of you who have lost count.) 

Anyway, today after I knotted up the bags, I hung the package from the handy poop bag hook on the dispenser, which is attached to the leash. As we finished our stroll, the tethered bags hit my leg a couple times and I'm pretty sure I have a lavender-and-poop-scented charley horse.

Granted, wrangling his poop tends to be a lot less tricky than the up-the-back situation that infants manage to spring on us. CONFESSION: I threw the poop-up-the-back onesies away along with the diaper. I know children are precious but I didn't want that preciousness in my washing machine.

In summary, poop.

You're welcome.

Head in the clouds.

"For a second I was almost jealous of the clouds. Why was he looking to them for an escape when I was right here beside him?" ~ Kamila Shamsie, Kartography

My mom loved clouds. Whenever I look at the sky, I think of her, whether there are tons of clouds, or just one, or none at all. She was always taking pictures of clouds wherever she went. Usually at sunset, frequently with palm trees in the foreground, almost always with a pink blur in one of the corners - her finger.

Yesterday I was on a plane for the first time since losing her. I was in a window seat, which is rare, but fitting, because as I looked out the window while we soared into the sky, through one layer and then the next of cloud after cloud, I suddenly thought, "I wonder if this is how she felt when she left?"

Until then, I'd been mostly terrified every time I thought of that moment when she finally let go. I always think how scary it must feel to exhale for the last time and silently slip away, knowing what you're leaving behind. Knowing what you'll never see or feel or touch again. And not knowing where you'll go.

But then the thought creeps in that maybe at that last minute, that last breath, somehow you do know exactly where you're going, and it's amazing, and that's what helps you release your grip on this world, and turn toward whatever awaits you in the next.

So when I looked out the window and saw all white, and realized I was completely within a cloud, I wondered about her. I wondered if at her last moment she inhaled deeply and smiled and said "Finally!", outstretching her arms, tipping her head back, and letting go as her spirit found it's buoyancy again and she soared, leaving behind the frustration and the pain and the cage that her body had become.

A friend of mine sent me a card and inside she put a poem. It describes the departing soul as a ship with beautiful white sails, gliding towards the horizon. And as she sails, everyone who watches her slip further and further away says quietly, "There she goes." And those beyond the horizon wait expectantly, and when they see her coming over to their side, they cry out in jubilation, "Here she comes!"

I keep that card with me in my purse, and I read it from time to time. I'm comforted by the reminder that she is not alone. It helps me step outside of my pain and realize that in order for her pain to end, she had to go towards the horizon, towards the unknown. And that the second she let go of this world, as I crumbled, she became whole. She took hold of my sister's hand for the first time in eleven years. The joy she must have felt to be reunited with her first girl lifts my broken heart up, and while it doesn't heal it, it gives me a soft place to land when I stumble and fall.

When I returned from my quick trip, Nine, Eleven, and the traveling husband all welcomed me with bright faces and open arms. I breathed them in and looked up at the sky knowing that as my Mom has become the clouds, I have become her. I want her with me like my girls want me with them. And while I can't have what I want, I can give them what they need, and I know that my Mom is watching, smiling, finally, from a place of peace.

We are both home now.

We are both home.

Lost and found.

It’s been almost exactly one year since I last wrote here. And in that year, my life has changed a whole lot. Some for the good and some for the not-so-good. I’ve learned some very hard lessons during the last year, a couple of which I could have happily done without.

I decided not to write anymore. And then, months later, I decided I needed to write, but could no longer find my voice.

Over time, the fog has begun to clear, and I think I am starting to hear my voice again, so I’ll begin here.

It will be my group therapy, except that I’m not paying for it, it’s by no means private, and I can’t see anyone else sitting in the circle with me, nodding their heads as I tell my side of the story.

But I know you’re there. I can feel you. Okay, I can’t feel you, but the site tracks visitors, so I’m pretty sure you’re out there somewhere.

Here’s some of what I’ve lost, and what I’ve found, over the last 365 days:

I found that moving your family to Southern California during a 7-week bout of walking pneumonia is hard work.
 

I found that kids are as resilient as people tell you they are, but that doesn’t make starting over at a new school easy. It’s like putting a puzzle together in the dark, every day, for months on end. Every so often there’s a bright spot, but it’s more like being at the eye doctor than it is dancing under a disco ball.

I lost my Mom. It is the very reason the axis my world spins on has tilted forevermore, and why possibly my voice has changed like a warbley teenager’s. Everything has just gone deep. Many a post will come on and around this very sad subject.

I lost myself on the way to losing my Mom. I knew I was getting lost, I could feel that I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t recognize myself, and I wasn’t genuinely connecting with some very important people in my life. I was there but I was not present. But I couldn’t stop it from happening and I couldn’t find my way back until Chicago gently helped me see that not only was I losing my Mom, and not only was I losing my way, but that those very important people around me were losing too. They too were losing my Mom and they were losing me. They were losing times two. And that realization is what helped me fight my way back home.

I found out how liberating it feels to cut ties with someone who has proven herself unworthy of holding the other end of my heartstrings.

I found that I could save a young life with my bare hands.

I lost a few pounds. Just kidding. I gained a few. More than a few. I blame the comfort foods and the sadness. It’s hard to burn carbs when you have to remind yourself to breathe.

I found that friends who love you and know your heart instinctively do the right thing when they hear/feel/see it breaking. The right thing looks like texts, emails, calls and cards. It looks like your favorite flowers showing up unexpectedly. It looks like local friends who innately know that I will say no to lunch and a visit, so they don’t ask if it’s okay, they just show up with chopped salads and gentle smiles. And it turns out the right thing looks like a hand-written letter and a pair of leopard print wedge heels. Who knew?

I found that in a sincere (if highly misguided) effort to Be Super Mom While Sitting At The Bedside Of My Own Dying Mother, ordering one hundred poinsettia stamps does not in fact ensure the mailing of Christmas cards. Secondarily, I found that sticking said poinsettia stamps on bills in February is sort of depressing.

I found that the puppy still wants a walk even when it’s the last thing I want to do, and that taking him is good for us both because it forces me to inhale and outhale at a time when holding my breath and clenching my jaw seem to be more the norm.

I found that Nine and Eleven are hungry, and have homework, and want to laugh with me, and that the traveling husband needs me in more ways than one, and that cooking, helping, giggling and connecting are all better than worrying and crying and staring off into the distance.

It’s not a short list, and it’s not a complete list, but there it is. It’s a start. A step forward, which for me at this point is a pretty big deal.

I’ll be back, as there is a lot more to write. After all, it’s not every day that free therapy lands in your lap. And when you’ve spent the better part of a year getting lost and you realize you’re finally somewhat found again, you should probably take advantage of any therapy you can get.

I think I can feel you nodding your collective head.

See you soon.

xo

Forty

I was in bed last night thinking about this post, and I was going to get up and type it all out, but I couldn't because horizontal is the new black, and if you know me, you know I'm all about the fashion.

So I'll try to recall all my thoughts now that I'm awake and caffeinated.

My Mom has been weighing heavily on my mind, because as we all know, I'm a worrier.

Oh! And I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, because the other day Eight told me she's "just worried about stuff". I was all, what are you worried about, whether you'll like hot lunch, or if you'll find a way to avoid an emotional meltdown so your electronics won't be taken away? But either way, I don't begrudge her the worry. It may be small to me, but she's small too, so whatever it is must feel big to her. Like mine does to me.

And speaking of big, Ten asked me the other day "Mom, how come Moms like you all have such big butts?".

Let's pause for a moment so you can read that aloud and consider your own, personal feelings, should your firstborn utter those words to you one day. Yeah. Ready to move on? Okay.

On the one hand, it's nice that I'm not alone in my big buttness. On the other hand, too bad for you Moms Like Me out there.

Which takes me back to my Mom. (See? This is how my thoughts are when I'm falling asleep. They sort of roll around my mind like tumbleweed, bumping into other tumbleweed and getting stuck together.)

I've written before about her health issues. She's fragile. The lady has had some shit go down, let me tell you. Back surgery. Neck surgery. Blood clot in the lung. Heart attack. Another back surgery. May have been a hip surgery in there. She's been overmedicated in recovery. She's contracted MRSA. She's been in an induced coma so she could ride out some horrific pneumonia that was discovered late. And she has neuropathy, which basically means you're in pain all the time. Did I mention the breast cancer? Really, that's just like half of it. I can't remember the rest because babies. Also, if you'll remember, I worry just a touch, so there may be some blacking out of details happening.

Suffice it to say nothing is simple anymore. She'll go in for a hangnail and end up spending three weeks fighting an intestinal infection that I can't pronounce. Shit. Going. Down. Chicago tells me that my Mom is like a cat with nine lives, which is really how it feels. We figure she's only on life six or seven now, so we'll get a few more close calls out of her. Exciting.

The latest thrill is that her blood pressure has been unstableable. Is that a word? I'm no writer, but I think it should be a word. It's fun to say and makes me feel better about the fact that she goes from high blood pressure to low blood pressure several times a day. Because right now, it's about ME feeling better, obviously.

(What will make HER feel better about the fact that I'm blogging publicly about her personal health issues? I don't know. But the chocolate-covered macadamia nuts I brought back from Hawaii for her will be a great start.)

Back to that blood pressure. We need that to stabilize. Turns out it's not the medication or the dosage, it's a festive little blockage in the left side of her heart. Similar to the adorable blockage she had on the right side nine or so years ago. So she's going in for a "procedure", which in our family, given her history, could mean anything. (See note above about the hangnail leading to the indecipherable infection.)

So, I'm going to Vegas. I really wanted to leave on Sunday, so I could spend some time with the folks before she goes in for her infection-inducing procedure Monday morning, but you guessed it! The traveling husband doesn't get back into town until late Sunday night. So sweet boy that he is, booked me on a 6:00am flight, which drops me into Sin City about midway through her angio-whatever she's getting done. I'll grab some good, strong coffee for me and my beloved Dad, and head straight to the hospital, where I will charm the socks off the nice nurses and threaten the rude ones with their jobs.

(I got that fierce bitch gene from my Mom and I have absolutely no problem using it to her benefit. Don't mess with my people, people. I will cut you. Not really, unless my tongue is a knife and you're an asshole.)

And all this week, I keep thinking (and praying) about my Mom. I have a slideshow running through my head of pictures of her with my Dad, and with us kids. And I'm knocking on wood and crossing my fingers, and reminding myself that I'll see her in a few days because she is more than a slideshow. But in a moment of weakness, I reminded the traveling husband that if I lose her, it's not going to be pretty over here, because this baby girl will fold up and close shop for a while. Can't even write about it now without getting choked up.

She is the one I fought to separate from when I was a teenager, and the one I began to cling to again when I became a mother myself. She is the Mom who put on her son's baseball uniform for parent game day at Little League, and the Mom who put in hours at the snack shack. She is the face in the audience right next to my Dad at every dance performance I had over the course of 20 years or so. She loves doing laundry. She can type faster than anyone I know and always told me if she could type my costumes, I'd be the best dressed dancer around. She cooks with exactly three spices: salt, pepper, garlic. She loves lemon - from lemon cake to lemon kitchen soap. She has always told us kids that she loves us more than life itself, but Dad comes first with her (and she means it...and he deserves it). She loves owls and penguins and cats. She throws her head back when she laughs, and her crinkly eyes get even more crinkly when she cries. She's had one of the toughest upbringings of anyone I've known, yet she's somehow ended up with one of the softest hearts. On vacation she used to wear a muu-muu and a flower behind one ear with her hair pulled up and twisted into a bun, and I would do the same, so I would look just like her because she was so pretty. I have her freckles (the bitch gene wasn't all I got) and her love of family and her nose and her ears and I know I have a part of her heart and she has mine. She. My Mom. It's not just that I love her though. I need her. She's who I call to break news to, knowing she will always be the audience that gives me exactly the response I need and want to hear. She sides with me when I'm hurt, and then rebounds back to happy when I do. And more than she is to me, she is to my Dad. They are one, essentially. (If a Jewish secretary from the Bronx can be a Presbyterian engineer from Indiana, that is.)

The point is, Mom, if you're reading this, let's make Monday an easy day, shall we? Be strong, be focused, and be well. I mean, I will kick ass if I need to, but I don't want to have to kick YOUR ass. So get in, get 'er done, and get out. Then we can go home, and feed the cat, and do puzzles, and take naps in between watching bad TV. Deal?

I love you so much, Mom. And I'll be there soon as a personal reminder of all the good things you have to live for. I will kiss your pretty, freckled face and hand you chocolate-covered macadamia nuts when the nurse turns the other way.

I might even let Dad have one. But his life is sweet enough, because he has you.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Thirty-nine

This morning, I hustled into Starbucks to get a gigantic cuppa joe and a little nosh. Today I chose the low-fat berry cake. Because when you're lucky enough to go on an almost-all expenses paid Hawaii trip because your husband's client was selected to play in the Pro Bowl, you know full well you should be doing everything you can to drop 25 pounds in 7 days. Because you have January Body, which means most of your outer self looks like raw pizza dough. However, aside from maybe losing a limb, that 25 pound goal isn't going to be met, especially if you have that cake, which is what I was thinking about when I looked up to see a little girl and her Mama in line a couple people ahead of me.

I see these two every time I go to this store, so I assume they are there every single morning. The other day she was in full cowgirl attire, complete with red boots. Today she opted for a red silk two-piece China girl pantsuit, but wisely kept the red cowgirl boots in rotation. She already knows red is her color. Which means she obviously has a better fashion sense than I, because I am wearing yoga pants. To work. And I don't work in a yoga studio. I attribute the yoga pants to the aforementioned overage in pounds, and I attribute her stylish attire to her being British and worldly, with her chocolate milk and her little scones.

In any case, I was checking my email on my phone, and glancing up to see if it was my turn or if I should move up because I know how people hate it when you steal hours (come on) away from their life when you don't take that half step forward as soon as you can. I saw her Mama encouraging her to do something, but I didn't know what it was. The two women in line ahead of me seemed to know both the Mama and the little girl, so I thought maybe she was helping her shy little one be brave and talk to her friends.

Instead, the red boots walked over to me, and handed me a small envelope with a $5 gift card inside of it. I smiled and said, "Thank you sweet girl...but are you sure..." thinking maybe she thought I was someone else, but not wanting to embarrass her for giving me - a perfect stranger - one of the little cards she was carefully holding. That's when the woman in front of me in line said "You have to turn it over and read it.", so I did.

Here's what I saw:

And of course, that's when I teared up and had to choke back a sob, because I cry at commercials when people I've never met are emotional. So imagine how I felt with little brown eyes and little red boots standing right there in front of me?! Oy.

I then watched as she handed two more cards to the people who walked into line behind me, and learned that she'd also handed cards to the two women in front of me. They weren't already friends of the Mama and the red boots, but they were certainly endeared to her as I was after them. Turns out the Mama had a birthday recently and she gathered up her kids and said, I don't need any gifts this year. Instead, let's do 39 nice things for other people...what can you think of? So the little dove who sits at Starbucks each morning before she takes her boots to preschool said, let's buy coffee for people at the coffee shop. Her son said how about we drop off food at the local animal shelter. Another child of hers said let's give the postman something special. 

Small acts. From the Mama on down. Thoughtful and from the heart. Very random. Uncalled for and unexpected even. So, so, SO genuinely heartwarming. And ovary trembling. I mean Jesus, the sight of that little one had my eggs popping all over the place.

And because they asked nothing more from me than to pass it along, I shall.

So.

I will forgive my former employer for lying to me, and intentionally hurting people I love for personal gain.

I will walk the 125-pound puppy today and patiently let him sniff all the mojo he wants.

I will surprise Eight by getting her posterboard before I pick her up from school and encourage the excitement she feels for her Black History Month project on Mae Jemison, the first African-American woman to go to space.

I will play tetherball with Ten instead of saying no when she asks me (even though she beats me every time).

I will let people cut me off on the freeway. I will give the traveling husband a foot massage without begging asking for one in return. I will remind a heartbroken friend that she is strong enough to do hard things, while acknowledging she is at her weakest.

I will be kind to myself. And remember that inside this dough-boy body beats a good heart, and a clear conscience and a strong, loving soul from which friends and family and children can launch themselves into their day, knowing they will always find a safe place to come back to in me.

Think of how $5 could change your day. Imagine those brown eyes were looking up at you from those red boots this morning and how you would feel, then find a way to pass that feeling along. 

We are all soul-boosters and peace-lovers and happy-finders, we just forget sometimes. We are cherished and necessary and powerful. I challenge you (all six of you who read this blog) to take a big, deep breath today, stand strong and tall, and go love somebody up in your own way.

Peace and coffee and cowgirl boots, people. Pass it along.

Thirty-eight

It's been too long since I've written, and now that I sit down to do it, I find myself walking a very shaky line. On the one side is a lot of doubt. On the other side is I'm not sure what.

What to say? What to do? What matters now?

I don't know one soul personally in the whole state of Connecticut, let alone in Newtown, and yet, I feel like someone I love has died. I find myself heartbroken and shaking my head (and simultaneously thanking my lucky stars) every time I hold Eight and Ten - which I've done A LOT lately. Every time I walk by their bedroom, or see the handmade artwork on the wall in the kitchen that says "Sisterz 4 Ever!", or find a little shoe in the hallway. I breathe them in at night and realize that if I couldn't do that anymore, I wouldn't be able to breathe in at all, ever.

It's too huge, too terrifying, to lose a child to unexpected violence. To lose a child at all. My Mom did it when her baby was 45. My Aunt did it when her baby was 19. And all the moms and dads and families in Newtown who have been forever changed by this, experienced their loss when their babies were 6 or 7.

Every time I see the children's faces or hear their names, my mind races instantly to all the dashed hopes and dreams. I try to stay away from how those classrooms must have looked afterwards, and think backwards instead. I think of how those parents thought of baby names during the pregnancy, and gave the one they felt was perfect to that new little life. The name that was called down the hallway countless times already. The name that would never need to be called again to hurry to soccer, or to come finish breakfast, or to see the fireworks on the Fourth of July. The tiny socks that have been put on perfect feet. All the blankets that have been tucked in to ensure a cozy night of sleep. The soft pajamas that were just changed out of a couple hours before. The small hands that have been held, the cheeks that have been kissed, the hair brushed, the tears dried. And I cry again for those parents who have an empty space in their lives and homes now, if not in their hearts.

So on that dark side, I see loss, devastation, and all that matters having been shattered. I myself have been doubled over, but how do you get back up when you've been slammed to the floor? What does this blog matter? Who cares what I, or anyone else writes? What does it matter if there's food in the house, or a dog who still wants his walk, or a job to do, when the most important job of all has been ripped away from so many? How do you stand, when your world has been so violently tipped over that nothing is where or how it should be? And never will be again. Because there is a new normal now for them. The house is upside down and everything has fallen out of the closets and shelves, and there is a wicked mess to try to find the energy to clean up. And things won't fit where they used to, and I don't imagine much will feel or look right anymore. And all the artwork from preschool, and all the hand-me-downs saved, and all the holiday gifts wrapped especially for them are strewn about the hallways of the house and the mind and where does any of it belong now?

But. That's in Newtown. And I have to find what's on the other side of that shaky line I walk here in California.

I know that - and I thank God that - as much as I feel for these families, that isn't my life. That didn't happen to me or my babies. And it's a lot easier for me to place meaning onto the mundane as it ever will be again for the families who are affected. So off I go to the store, or to walk the dog, or to water the Christmas tree.

And hopefully children in my area will benefit from the sadness I do feel, because it is pushing me to drop more goodies in the Toys for Tots bin at our own elementary school. It's driving me to adopt a family for Christmas at church and stuff stockings for charity. Because if I am lucky enough to care for and love my own children for another day, another year, my whole lifetime (God willing), then I want to share that love and luck with someone else's child. A child who is alive and who deserves to thrive and rejoice this time of year and all year round.

And so, in the name of Allison, Ana, Avielle, Benjamin, Caroline, Catherine, Charlotte, Chase, Daniel, Dylan, Emilie, Grace, Jack, James, Jesse, Jessica, Josephine, Madeline, Noah, and Olivia, I will. I will love my kids, and smile at the kids around me, and pray for all those sent to heaven too soon. I will pray too, for more peace on earth, and I will hope for healing and I will protect the innocence of children, because it's gone too quickly.

It's going to be a lot of love given and a lot of prayers sent up, and those in heaven will rejoice, and those on earth will heal.

Maybe if I say it and write it and breathe in (and outhale) a lot it will be true.

Right?

I hope. God how I hope.

I think I just found what's on the other side of that shaky line. It's hope. I'm going to try to focus on that and keep my balance at the same time. 

Here's to a holiday season filled with love and a new year filled with, you guessed it, hope.

xo

Thirty-seven

You guys, I'm dizzy.

I feel like so much around me is just spinning so quickly. And I'm drawn to all of it, because it's all stuff I care about, so I spend my days like a kitten trying to keep her eye on that red light laser pointer. Heart pounding, blinking and staring, shifting focus frenetically from one moving target to another, panic rising and falling. Granted, like a cat, I don't like change that much. It's just not my thing. And there are a lot of things around me that have been the same for a good few years that are now changing. So I'm way off-kilter. And some of the change is kind of scandalous, and I'm a smut-lover, so I can't keep myself from asking, hearing, talking, thinking about it. What will happen next? You think so?? But what if x happens before y? Then what? OMG really?? Is that your phone? Who is it?? And then it's like pins and needles waiting for the next update, the next email, the next hot text to buzz in.

But now the pins and needles have me all pricked up and exhausted. It's hard to hear about freaky things happening to people you care about, and even harder to endure the freaky things yourself, right? Sometimes you end up talking everyone off the ledge, only to turn around and realize your own toes are right up on the edge. So you spend a few moments getting centered, finding balance, and carefully backing away, closer to safety.

I think usually good comes from bad. I believe most things happen for a reason, even if the reason doesn't make itself known for years (or ever). Some things never make much sense and bad things happen to good people, which blows the theory out of the water sometimes. But the karma train always pulls into the station. It's late sometimes, but it's forever on track.

So I wasn't writing, because I needed to take a step back and sit. Sit and wait for the karma train to pull into its stations. Because I feel like not only are things spinning around me - amazing work situations getting twisted, trusted "friends" telling boldfaces lies over the course of a year, other friends being secretly manipulated by business partners, and yet other friends getting fucked by their life partners (and not in the really delicious, horizontal way)...but the whole world is spinning so fast even that superstorms and snowstorms and rainstorms are slamming into the country. Even when I try to escape into a couple blogs I like to read, I'm hit by the spin - they are both now writing about their own crumbling marriages. One of them is doing amazing things for other people, but when you click on her link to see if maybe you want to help, you read horrible stories about all these people in desperate need which creates yet another spin of worry and guilt and fret. It's nuts, I tell you.

But if I turn away from it for just a while, it gives my eyes time to refocus on what's not spinning. And once I hone in on what's steady, I can once again breathe deep and create a thankful space. I can be grateful for what I keep around me. I can simplify without apology. I can listen to music (Bieber, anyone? Keep reading...). Drink tea. Watch leaves fall. Smile even when I don't feel like it, because it feels better afterwards. Linger in the hugs offered up by the smallest members of my family. Relish the bigness and hairy-ness of the puppy who doesn't realize that 120-pound dogs don't belong on my trachea. And yes, relax long enough to indulge in that delicious, horizontal activity with the gorgeous, traveling husband (if either of us can stay awake after our heads hit the pillows). 

Why do we as women internalize so much? Why do our heartstrings tie themselves to everyone we love? Why can't we ever just detach and say, Wow that sucks...good luck with that, and then go back to flipping channels? God, Chicago and I have been dwelling on every minute detail of each other's lives for years now. It's what makes life feel real. If we haven't shared it with each other, it hasn't happened yet.

Maybe life is just like the ocean...except I like life and the ocean scares the bejesus out of me. Wait, life scares my bejesus too. Okay, so life=ocean. Some stuff is so gorgeous and mind blowing, and then there are the sticky monsters the size of your local mall. Also prickly stuff, and poison, and invisible things that you have no idea are upon you until you get zapped, and things (people?) that look pretty but are really, really deadly. By nature they are. They grow beautiful to draw you in and just when you get close enough to really enjoy it, BOOM. Poison prickles all over you. Or, lies and deception. Whichever.

I've been through enough over the last month or so to rethink a whole lot of things. Decisions, relationships, commitments. And I've decided I'm backing away from the deadly, pretty things and backing into the comforts of home. I'm baking pumpkin bread and lighting candles. I'm ordering peppermint mochas in a holiday cup. I'm calling my mom just because hearing her voice makes me feel loved from the bottom of my heart. I'm writing. And I'm going to listen to Justin Bieber. You should too. Here's why:

1. He is adorable. At his concert, I saw full-grown girls, young women really, sobbing hysterically because during the meet and greet, he called them "Love". (Now, Eight and Ten - holy shit you guys, Nine turned Ten last month - are just a couple years and a few hormones shy of the crying over boys phase, so they were bewildered. Justin called Eight "Lil Cutie" and I had to remind her to do a fist bump because it's Justin Freaking Bieber and a once in a lifetime opportunity for the love of Christ. He called Ten "Sugar", I think, but I was so dizzy from life and everything spinning around me and the crying women that I was still thinking in my head "Did he just go in for a hug from me and I shook his hand? Why did I shake his hand? Why not hug it out? He called me "Darlin"; he probably misses his mom and wanted a hug. Maybe because he could be my son and it just felt wrong?". And then the photo op was done (after he called the husband "Big Dog") and we were off to eat chicken tenders and fries, and buy commemorative t-shirts, and watch more girls cry until the show started.)

2. He has good opening acts. Carly Rae Jepsen is cute as a button. And so is Cody Simpson. In case you haven't heard of him, he's an Aussie surfer dude who will now be an Aussie super star, thanks to the Biebs.

3. His concert was totally age-appropriate. His back up dancers didn't look like strippers; they looked like high school dance team members. They wore cute outfits and weren't trying to seduce anyone, they were all about the good energy and the music. Mother-approved. (Jesus, now I feel like I'm wearing mom jeans. I swear I'm not.)

4. Justin wears genie pants. Okay they aren't officially, but his pants have a super long crotch, which he grabs at a lot (which enhances the older girls' sobbing hysteria, no doubt), and I kept thinking maybe he should just get some skinny jeans with some stretch so he doesn't have to do that awkward side leap up the step on the stage. But, a stylist, I'm not. And clearly, he's not an unpopular guy, so, go ahead and rock the custom genie pants, JB.

5. He's different in person than on stage. Now, that could have been the reefer talking (I'm not saying he was high. Perhaps he was just saving his energy and wearing a musky, earthy cologne.), but he was super mellow and cool when we met him, as evidenced by his raised eyebrows, tall cap and sunglasses in our photo. He was also crazy skinny. He looked a lot like Claymation. Then on stage he was all energy and smiles and charm and soul and voice. And I saw a recent picture of him from the Victoria's Secret runway show (seriously, this kid is living a dream) and he had biceps, which from what I saw, had to have been photoshopped in. He seemed more like Gumby to me than he did a macho man, but what do I know.

So today, don't feel bad if closing your eyes against the spin of your world feels good. Don't apologize if listening to Justin (or Keith or Pink or Kelly or Anya) cools your jets today. Get and give hugs, have some tea with your pumpkin bread and breathe deep as you can, because life is good and you're okay and right now, so am I. :)

Peace.

Thirty-six

I was at Starbucks the other day, and I hate to go off on a tangent already, especially since you've obviously been waiting a month for a new post from me, but listen. If you're an indie coffee house person, don't judge me. I don't discriminate against any place that will give me my morning caffeine fix. But the last time I went to the indie coffee shop in my town, I sat at a table near another table where a man sat and very methodically took African carved statue after African carved statue out of a plastic shopping bag (I know, I can't believe Crazy wasn't carting his treasures around town in a reusable bag either...the nerve), placing them carefully on the table, then rearranging them slowly, thoughtfully, again and again, until they were in just the right position to watch him sip his coffee. I texted a photo of him (What? I was super 007 about capturing the moment.) to the traveling husband and his response was "You need to get out of there.".

So.

I was at Starbucks the other day, and as I waited for my cup, I took stock of the situation. You know, I was people-watching. I looked at the girl in front of me in line and as I pondered her toes, which were visible to me because she had flip flops on, I thought, WTF lady? Your toes are in bad shape. I don't want to see this pre-coffee. Get a pedicure, or do like I do, which is go with a closed toe shoe. 

And that got me thinking about my toes, which are in fact, not as pedicured as they probably should be, and yet how many times have I thrown on my flips and rushed out of the house to run around town and do whatever it is I have to do? And how many other people have looked down at my toes and thought, Jesus lady, cover those dry little sausages up? I caught a glimpse of my own toes in a mirror in the shoe section of a store I was in recently and I gave my own self the same scolding. 

Which then got me thinking, how am I seen? What do people think of me when they look at me, my kids, my car, my clothes? How am I perceived by what I put out there every day? Are strangers and friends alike thinking, Not that outfit again? Or, Seriously, would some time with the flat iron kill her? Or, Does she honestly think that long sweater hides the circumference of that ass? Or worse, Does she really think that her smile hides the fact that she's a scribbly ball of stress?

I can't tell you how many days I've wrangled my curly hair back into a messy bun - I don't even have to think about it anymore, I just do it. And I sort of tell myself it looks stylish, like one of those pretty, it-looks-half-thought-about-but-it's-very-intentional messy buns you see on Pinterest or on the red carpet. But really, I fear it just makes me look as harried as I feel. Don't get me wrong, if I left my curly hair down for all to see, I would either look like Tim Lincecum or Charlize Theron's character in Monster, but with brown hair. So I don't have much of a choice at this time.

And speaking of colors of hair, Lord have mercy but the husband plucked FOUR gray hairs out of my head the other day. We both nearly shed a tear. I've avoided the gray up until now and been quite happy about it. So now I'm an OLD and quite possibly heavier version of Charlize Theron's character in Monster? Fabulous.

Back to the subject at hand. It feels like life zips by so fast. I can't believe it's already almost October and I barely got to savor September. Not one apple cider has been had yet. Nary a pumpkin bought. I need some cinnamon spice candles, pronto. I wake up each day, and am aware instantly of my brain being so full of what's on tap for that day, or whether the tap water is safe to drink from the old pipes in this old, old house, or who is tapping their toes, tap, tap, TAP, waiting for me to take them to school, or fill his bowl with fresh water, or fold the laundry so he can go on his next business trip, that I spend my days in a fog, just roaming from one calendar reminder to the next.

It barely occurs to me that while I feel the way I always have, I'm not 23 anymore. Not even close. And that I should probably take care with what I put out into the visual universe every day, apart from the mandatory, which is making sure the last thing my kids see before they scamper off to class is a smile on their mama's face. I admire those put together ladies who are in their smart skinny jeans, with their stylish flats, darling handbags, and perfectly draped sweaters over fitted tanks (all perched on a fit body, accessorized with glittering diamond rings and shiny hair). I don't quite remember the last time I cleaned my wedding rings, or looked at my hair and thought, perfect, just like silk.

I do, however, draw the line at flip flops in the office. I could be freshly pedicured and I would still close the toes up for work. I recently worked with a ridiculous woman who spent her day raving about how fabulous she is, and she did this while wearing flip flops, which fully exposed her hammer toes. Her feet are JACKED and she's kind of an asshole and while I might not be on the glam edge of the spectrum, I don't want to be on the she-shouldn't-wear-flip-flops-in-public side either.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope I put good - if not always stylish - juju out into the universe. I hope I'm seen for who I am and what I stand for, and not as a story that begins with what I've thrown on my body that day. I hope I'm respected as a strong woman who's body has borne two healthy girls, rather than one who should drop two healthy sizes.

I'm far from an insecure middle school girl and I realize I can't control what people think when they see me. I'm healthy and strong and loved and important. And because I do have control over my Lincecum hairdo, I think I'm going to be a little less absentminded when it comes to what I throw out into the universe every day, because hammer toes can hijack anyone's good time.

You'll still see my hair pulled back, and my girls will still see a smile before the bell rings, because that's how I do, but the next time you go to the indie coffee shop, look for a girl who opted for lip gloss over Chapstick and give her some mad props.

PS: As I was proofreading this post, Nine ran over to me grinning and handed me a note. Know what it said? "Mommy, you're as lovely as a heart.". Maybe she was inspired by the fact that I'm not wearing flip flops, or maybe she's seen me in these tights so many times, she thinks it's my Mom uniform and the familiarity feels good to her. Either way, suddenly the day is filled with very good juju. Outhale.