Unicornism

When did unicorns become a thing? Was it right around the time that kids starting saying everything was awkward? Perhaps it was brought on by Charlie going viral. Maybe it was encouraged along by double rainbow guy.

Either way, it’s cool to like unicorns now in a weird, hipster-I’m-original-if-you-like-it-too kind of way.

But, just so you know, I liked unicorns first. When it wasn’t mainstream or ironic.

Seriously, you can totally ask my mom.

It’s  1989. I am 10. I am in full unicorn collecting heaven. I receive unicorn collateral for every holiday, birthday and vacation. My yellow walled room is filled with snow globes and stuffed animals. Books and music.

All unicorn.

All the time.

My favorite unicorn paraphernalia is an anthology of stories with vivid pictures. In one, a princess is sitting on a mossy forest floor with her arms around the neck of the sleeping animal.

That picture would take my 10 year old breath away. I wanted to be her so badly. I would close my eyes and pretend as hard as I could that I was the princess. That I was the one in the forest. That I was the one in the fantasy.

When my parents would take my brother and me on trips to Acadia or Franconia Notch, I would hike through the birch woods and look for hoof prints.

Evidence of existence.

One Halloween, my mother upcycled an old white Izod shirt in an effort to create the perfect unicorn costume. She had me wear a white sweatshirt underneath. She trimmed the collar and sleeves with fur. She glued a Styrofoam cone (twirled in gold glitter) to the top of the hood. She stitched on pink felt ears. She threw that sucker on me and-presto-I was in magic happy land.

I was a unicorn.

I remember when I realized that they weren’t real. I was incredibly sad. I felt juvenile and overly naïve. I couldn’t stand that I had allowed myself-that others had allowed me-to believe in something impossible for so long. Where was the justice? How was that fair?

The shimmering mirage disappeared and unveiled a reality that felt harsh and cold. I didn’t look for the creature in the forest or in dappled sunlight. I didn’t sit on the wall to wall green rug in my room and dream of possibility. I put my books away and stashed my snowglobes.

I grew up.

And yet. And yet.

We are all still looking for the unicorn. It just symbolizes something else, doesn’t it? It comes in many forms of perfectionism and idealism and achieving of the impossible.

It is as simple as cooking and serving a beautiful meal to children who are rested and relaxed enough to partake in conversation at the dinner table. It is as simple as comparing oneself to others who we feel have somehow managed to attain a reality that is beyond our grasp.

What I am going to deem Unicornism, is nourished in overly perfect social media posts. It is cultivated at craft fairs. In songs. In movies. At get-togethers and community gatherings. It thrives in an environment of false perception.

Unicornism is the wish and the hope and the gut clutching desire to throw the golden noose around the neck of a dream that has to be there. It has to be there.

Put away your snow globes people. You don’t need a golden noose. You don’t need a fabled anthology.

You need simply to step out of the forest and into the sunlight and open your eyes. There might be a creature out there somewhere galloping, just as there might be a Loch ness swimming lazily in Scotland. But those fictions don’t matter.

What matters is the belief that whatever you want to achieve or accomplish is achievable or accomplishable. It’s not always pretty. But it’s real. And it’s honest.

I trust that.

Out there are people who see the belief and trust inside you and nourish it. That allow you to nourish it. There are people who love you without your unicorn. It’s a group effort of acceptance.

Suddenly, the lines blur and it becomes clear. The clouds part; you watch the idea of the unicorn gallop away into the forest in a trail of glitter and spectrum, and you feel happy.

Adara

In 17 days my Grandmother will be 97.

I chose my daughter’s Hebrew name in honor of my grandmother.

Zoe is Miriam Adara.

Miriam, the sister of Moses and a poet, is my Grandmother’s Hebrew name. Zoe’s second Hebrew name, Adara, means fire. I chose this intentionally. My daughter is fire; she personifies this image. I love her for it. Adore her for her hypnotizing personality. Her soft sharpness.

I adore even more the fact that she is blessed with my Grandmother’s name.

Because my grandmother is strong.

She is full of life.

Grandma came over and spent some time on the porch with me today. She sat in my white rocking chair looking at the front yard. Her cane was at her side; her wheelchair tucked unassumingly into a corner. She can still walk, but slowly, so the wheelchair helps when we need to give her a little speed. She wore a red sweater and blue boot cut jeans. Soft black slip on shoes. Her hair is white white white and short. She has carefully applied her makeup. Her huge blue eyes gaze into mine.

Sometimes I think I feel your grandfather with me, she says.

She tells me that she likes to think that his spirit is watching over her. She swears that she feels him with her. I ask her if she believes in the afterlife. She tells me that she isn’t sure. She can’t prove anything and is skeptical and, yet, she feels him.

She tells me that their hearts are connected.

She begins recounting memories of their life together: In your grandfather’s eyes, she says, I could do no wrong.

I laugh and ask her what she thinks about that sentiment.

She pauses and says to me: Doing no wrong is impossible. But for him, in me, it was possible.

She pauses for a while and enjoys the warm wind and talks to me about my wind chime. She is frustrated that it doesn’t make noise. I explain to her that I bought it while on vacation because Zachary liked it. I agree with her, it doesn’t do very well at its job; it rarely makes noise. It was relatively inexpensive though, and Zach liked the color and the way it felt in his hands. I ring it sometimes just to hear its sound. But, other than that, it serves as a memory of time spent.

We sit in the quiet. I step inside to grab an apple and a notebook to record her thoughts.

I tell her a story about Zoe’s tenacity around the topic of bath time. She grins and assures me I am in for it when Zoe is a teenager. I tell her that I know. Zoe is going to be a challenge of challenges.

Grandma wishes out loud that she could be there to see it.

I propose a promise. I request that if, after she’s gone, she finds there is a way to send me a message or a feeling, to please do so. That I would like to feel her with me. She agrees.

Again, for minutes, we sit together in the warm air. We look at the changing leaves. She asks about my lawn.

She says she’d like me to send my grandfather an email. I agree that I will, in the form of this blog, and ask what she would like me to say.

She dictates:

Dear Joe,

We are waiting for you. We want you to see our little girl.

Our Zachy. He’s so big now, Joe.

I think you would enjoy Zoe. She’s spicy like her mommy…

Grandma trails off and looks at me. She tells me that she reads my blog every day. I am surprised. I had not known this. She explains that when there is not a new one, she feels disappointed. I promise her I will write. I explain that I had been writing in other ways over the past few weeks.

She touches her green emerald ring.

Her hands are knotty and smooth.

Her nails are clean.

She complains of the failing batteries in her hearing aids.

She tells me that she needs a new bra because her breasts have fallen down.

She tells me I am beautiful.

I ask if she has eaten.

If she’d like a glass of water or some cheese.

She is not hungry and happy just to pass the time with me.

I’m happy to pass the time with her because I don’t know how much time there is left to pass.

In a week, in my front yard, I will host a wedding. Grandma will be there. She will watch my children dance.

I will watch her watch them and take note of the strength of her spirit. I will memorize the feeling so that I can look for it again in the future when Zoe stamps her foot and disregards some trivial request I make.

I will memorize Grandma’s love for me and hold carefully its weight.

I will listen for the silences.

In them, are the answers.

Gravity

My college girlfriends are super heroes.

Top tier women. Type A personalities. Alpha level brain power.

If, however, you were to examine us as a group, I think our best achievement is not an academic degree.

As a group, our most enviable quality is our ability to hone in on when anything may be wrong with any one of us.

And, no matter what or where, whatever is needed, is given (even if the person who needs the attention aren’t themselves aware that they need it). They have a sixth sense, my girlfriends, to know what needs to be said and what doesn’t.

They save the speeches and pile on the love.

Of those of us that live in the area and have children (there are a few of us who live further away and one or two who don’t have kids and, consequently, get to do things like have hangovers and glass coffee tables) there are over 20 kids under the age of 6.

15 of those 20 children and their parents (including the super hero mommies) invaded my home a short while ago. They came piling in with too much food and pumpkin beer and toddlers with runny noses. They brought laughter and tricycles and noise. The men set up a folding table in the driveway. Chips were served out of bags. Chili was eaten out of red Solo cups.

There wasn’t a Pinterest creation in sight. 

My girls clustered into the kitchen, grabbed a drink and the laughter began.

The day quickly took shape as my home turned, for just a few hours, into a little village. Kids didn’t belong to anyone, really. They just ran around and whoever was nearby would pick up a binky or tie a shoe or buckle a bike helmet.

Zachary, the oldest by 2 years, lured the little ones with Oreo cookies. They followed him like puppies. Zoe walked around screaming for “orange pickles!!” (Fritos cheesy Poofs) and Arrow graciously accepted the children’s attempts to ride him like a horse.

Dinner was served as it was ready and sweatshirts were handed out as needed. As the skies got dark, the group piled inside. We turned on The Game. The kids took out every toy. There was a massive pajama changing party.

A few weeks ago, while out to dinner with a smaller conglomeration of the ladies and their husbands, we had a frank (wine-fueled) discussion about gravity.

Why is it that our children are perfectly capable of holding a cup when they are inside of the house but, when they are buckled into their seats in the car they suddenly lose the ability to grasp anything with any efficiency whatsoever?

We get into the car armed with sippy cups and snacks in baggies because, even though we just fed them 7 minutes ago, they will be starving as soon as we pull out of the driveway.

We dislocate our arms and hand them their snacks and drinks while keeping both eyes on the road. We use one arm to adjust the volume on the radio and, if we had an in-car blender and spiced rum, could mix up a mean mixed drink.

No sooner do we return our hands to ten and two than do we hear the screams:

Mommy! I dropped my water.

My Milk….my Necklace…my lovey!

Get them! Mom!

We wonder why these same children who are so freakishly strong when trying to resist being put into their pajamas are physically incapable of holding on to their stuff once we enter a vehicle. It’s a mystery.

Meanwhile, back in the car:

A babydoll has been dropped and found its way under the seat to the only spot we can’t reach.

A long forgotten cup has opened up and water (or old milk) is spilling all over the crackers the children dropped three days ago.

The car rug looks like the floor of our favorite College bar after the lights switch on at two in the morning; There’s stuff there no one ever wants to touch.

Anyway, the kids are pissed.

At themselves?

No way.

They are red-faced-sweaty-crazy-llama-mad at gravity.

They don’t know that they are mad at a scientific force, but I assure you this is what is happening.

My children fight with gravity when building forts* in the living room.

*In my house I tell the kids to build a fort only when I have exhausted all other options.

 My children call fort construction: making a sleep over.

I call it: making mommy want to take a plane to the Caribbean.

In movies and commercials, happy children build gauzy forts while warm rain streams down the window. They are smiling in matching PJ’s. The mother brings granola cookies. The children eat them while reading age appropriate books.

In my house, the happiness ends as soon as the materials are gathered. Then, it becomes my job to build Walt Disney World out of a stained duvet cover, an old dog bed and a potholder.

Sometimes I try using binder clips. Kitchen chairs. Couch cushions.

Every time the kids whine: It’s not tall enough. Dark enough. Light enough.

It doesn’t smell like fruit roll ups and lawn chalk.  

Then, one of them gets the idea that the blanket needs to hang suspended from the ceiling. Seriously. Just hang there.

I explain every time why that isn’t possible and, every time, they lose their minds with frustration.

Zoe gets mad at gravity when she is standing still (seriously, as in not moving) in her princess dress and, out of nowhere, falls down.

Zachary goes nutso when he can’t build a tower of legos (horizontally) from his bed to the dresser.

During the get together at my home, one of the children got a lesson in gravity as he drove his ride on tractor full force over a cliff and into a stream.

The parents were watching, of course, but gravity was keeping us in our chairs holding onto our drinks. We laughed as a few of us ran to rescue the little trooper.

We watched the kids run around and scream.

We smiled at each other.

My college girlfriends are super heroes.

Golden

I’ve got this little trick I do when I am writing and I get stumped.

When the words fail me and my thoughts get fractured:

I take a walk.

I force myself to drop everything and move away from the journal.

The computer.

The post-it note.

I force myself to push down the panic rising in my chest stemming from the fear that I won’t find the answer or the way. I reason that if I can step away for a moment and allow my head the time that it needs to process, that the answer will swim towards the surface of my mind to where I can grasp it in my fingers.

Something tangible.

Something workable.

Something with a sheen and a body and a weight.

I head out the door and start down the driveway and think. I give my mind permission to wander and, generally, eventually, the answer presents itself to me.

It is Sunday night. It is 8:30 and very dark. The kids are in bed.

I call the dog and, together, he and I walk to the end of the driveway and back.

To the end of the driveway and back.

To the end of the driveway and back.

I listen to the jingle of his tags and the clip of his nails on the asphalt.

I flip through the mail that hadn’t been taken from the box yesterday.

The dog and I do the driveway walk about five times until I can think again.

The solution reveals itself to me and I become desperate to get a pen back in my hand. I am driven to get the keyboard back beneath my fingertips.

I run upstairs and allow the answer to flow out and out and out.

To clarify. To gel. To emerge.

Then, once it’s there, I can sit back and re-read and analyze and edit and correct. Finally, there it is before me: the message I have been searching for.

Once it’s down on paper it serves as a map to the next piece.

A road to the next road.

An intersection.

A white arrow on black pavement pointing me the way.

Today I read a Huffington Post piece centered around the concept of The Pollen Path.

The Pollen Path refers to a Navajo myth describing the journey to the source of life and the center of existence. The life-seeker and journey-taker know when they are on the correct road because everything around them is covered in a fine gold powder.

In her blog, Jessica Fox describes the search for her own Pollen Path. She relates living a seemingly perfect life and then, seemingly overnight, discarding it for what she knows in her heart to be right.

Don’t worry, I am not packing up my children and moving to live on an ice flow in Antarctica. I am, however, completely taken in by the concept of tuning into the world and yourself in an effort to understand where your heart should be.

I can understand this image.

I can see the light and the joy in it.

I can tilt my head up and see the sun filtering dustily through the trees.

I have to take some time because the concept of the pollen path is tremendous. It overwhelms me because I have to discard the desire to buy into the possibility that once you are on the path it is easy. In fact, I think that is not the case at all.

No path is easy.

Even one that you want to take.

To walk a Pollen Path you need to move slowly.

You may mis-step.

You may need to stop and have a peanut butter sandwich.

Some trail mix.

A sip or two of water.

I have to reason that the path itself may really be a series of stones and to get to each stone you need to take tiny jumps.

Little leaps.

An oxymoronic series of faith flips.

But what of those of us that are too overwhelmed to walk forward? I think the answer for those of us is inward. It is in our guts and in our hearts.

It is easy to walk when you know the way. Yet, there is still relief when you arrive at your destination and see a checkered flag.

What is difficult is walking down a path that you had thought was the Pollen Path but was instead mislabeled.

What then?

How do you look backwards at all that you have built-a job maybe, a career perhaps- and turn in the other direction?

I think the answer there is in reassessing the direction from where you have come. You have to bundle up those things and take them with you. Because no experience or love or job or commitment is without merit.

There are lessons there.

Things to tuck away in your backpack as you push forward towards the way that you know is right.

And no one can tell you your way because they are busy finding theirs.

In her blog, Ms. Fox talks about the importance of following ones instincts and if the instincts “lead us to a cubicle in Manhattan one day and a sub-arctic book shop in Scotland the next, then so be it. The pollen path is a path, after all”.

If you are lucky, you have the space to look around and see that there are others with you on your journey. They can’t tell you where to go or what is right-you have to decide that for yourself. But, they can walk next to you on a path that may be similar to yours.

It’s not always simple.

It’s not always easy.

Take comfort in my secret: Just take a walk and keep your eyes and heart open.

I promise you will get where you allow yourself to go.

First

Zachary tucks his small hand in mine as we walk towards his elementary school for orientation. He stands with his back against me; waits patiently in the alcove with dozens of other incoming first graders and their nervous parents. He allows me to encircle his shoulders with my arms. He plays with the thin jade bracelet on my left wrist. He lays the back of his dark head on my chest.

He is quiet; he chews on the neck of the soft gray t-shirt he is wearing.

His exuberance and curiosity resurface as we explore his colorful classroom. He exclaims and smiles when he discovers old favorite books in the class library. He hugs his teacher. Tests his chair.

The following morning, I beat my alarm by at least 20 minutes. In just over 2 hours Zachary is to board the bus for first grade for the first time.

I wash my face and brush my teeth.

I shrug on a dress and sweep my hair back into a ponytail.

I walk downstairs to the silent kitchen and pour a mug of coffee. I turn on some quiet piano solos and make Zachary’s lunch. I pack items I know he enjoys. I focus on things that will fill him up, but that he can eat quickly and while distracted. Pretzels. Hummus. Cheese. Soft Bread. A ripe peach.

I hear his bare feet on the hardwoods at twenty past six. I scoop him up (he lets me) and we snuggle on the couch. He holds Puppy 1 (his favorite worn stuffed animal) and I reach under his pajama shirt and tickle his back. I can smell his morning breath. I talk to him a bit as he wakes.

I share with him a secret that I happen to know: teachers get nervous, too.

I turn my head away and push down powerful tears and emotions. I find my steadiest voice and assure him that he will be in his special room in my heart’s heart all day. That if he feels unsure, he can turn thoughts to me and know, with unwavering confidence, that I am standing tall and holding him close.

He asks if I have butterflies in my stomach.

I tell him I do.

He tells me he does, too.

I purposely end our time a few moments after that; set my sights on bucking him up and getting him ready. I send him upstairs to pee and brush teeth and get dressed. I toast him a waffle. Cut it into three strips. Give him permission to zone on the couch as he eats.

He is bouncing and smiling and ready by 7:30 (his bus comes at 7:58). I suggest a photo shoot in the front hallway. He complies. Zoe, and her prize winning bed-head, joins us. We walk out the front door. My boy, wearing a backpack twice the width of his little back, sprints ahead of me down the front path. We start towards the end of the driveway.

The sun is out. I step off of the porch and see three hot air balloons flying overhead. I point them out to everyone. The children excitedly reach their hands to try and catch them (a tradition of ours).

By the time we reach the end of the driveway, Zachary’s friend is walking towards the bus stop as well. Zachary has not a sliver of nervousness.

His feet dance in navy crocs.

His knees twist and shake in crooked circles.

He is movement and joy and life.

We wait.

Then, it comes. In slow motion. The image I have seen in my head since I realized my boy would one day grow up: The yellow school bus turns onto the street.

It is the sound of children.

It is the rumble of motor.

It is a moving container of most precious cargo.

The bus rounds the corner. Slows. Stops.

Zachary and his friend walk up the stairs with not a moment’s hesitation. I quickly introduce myself to the bus driver. I tell her to take good care of my son. To be safe.

She smiles.

Tells me it will get easier.

I wave to Zachary as the bus drives away.

And.

Like that.

He is no longer a baby.

He is no longer under my watch. I am no longer holding him safely in my gaze.

He is responsible for learning. For self advocacy. For making friends and fighting battles.

Finding a seat.

Finding a friend.

Finding his way.

I cry, of course.

I walk towards the house.

I look up at the sky and send a powerful thought his way.

I know he feels my love.

Later that afternoon when the bus returns and the doors open, Zachary leaps down the stairs and deftly avoids my arms. He tells me: grown ups don’t need hugs!  

Zach has come back a bit more self assured.

I sling his backpack over my shoulder and follow his little frame down the driveway.

I smile.

It is a day of firsts.

Faith

When I was pregnant with Zoe, I had to explain conception to Zach. He was 3.

Zachary is intelligent. More than that though, he is fiercely curious about how things work and will push forward with questions until he understands the concept.

Not only was he speaking in full paragraphs at age 3, he was also forming highly complex thoughts and concerns. I would frequently remind myself of his age.

The inquisition came one morning in the car. I was about 8 months along. He was snacking on goldfish and a sippy cup of milk when he asked how the baby was going to come out of my body.

I stalled.

Stammered.

I realized that what was keeping me from answering was my concern he would be frightened for my well-being coupled with a fear of choosing the right words.

I decided it was best to simply tell the truth.

I told him.

I watched his shocked reaction in the rearview mirror.

For a few minutes he sat, silently reflecting, in his car seat.

Then, he hit me with the follow-up question (those are always the tough ones):

Ok mommy, if the baby comes out of your vagina, how does it get in there?

Oh man.

He wasn’t willing to let it go and I wasn’t willing to lie.

So, I told him.

I gave a bare bones explanation of man and woman and marriage. Leveraged the schema he already had of planting seeds and expanded on it. Used words like “egg” and “fertilizer” and “growth”.

He seemed satisfied.

A little embarrassed.

I felt good about my explanation.

At that point in time, I thought I had answered the hardest question he would ever ask of me. When I am dealing with explaining something difficult to my children, I think I will never be faced with breaking down anything more challenging.

Now, I know better.

Zachary has been educated on the concept of G-d. He attends synagogue. Knows that G-d is omnipotent and everywhere at the same time. Understands G-d as an all-knowing. Accepts that he can not see G-d, but knows He exists.  Like my love for him, Zachary knows that G-d demonstrates himself in ways that make the intangible, tangible.

The other day, during a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Zach “threw” G-d.

I was shocked.

Occasionally, he will “throw” dynamite or a volcano, but never G-d.

I asked him why he had made his choice.

Because, he answered, nothing can beat Him.

Zachary is a science-head. He understands polarity and evaporation. He gets that there are things that exist in our physical world that are too small to see with our eyes.

Atoms.

Cells.

Viruses.

Molecules.

He loves the evolutionary chart and was hard pressed to leave the fossil room at The Museum of Natural History.

Today, again in the car, Zachary hit me with another crusher. He asked me who the first humans were and how they came to be.

I told him that I would enlighten him when we got home. I then spent the remainder of the drive trying to figure out how to explain to a 6 year old the juxtaposition of faith and reality.

I struggled with when to reference the first chapters of Genesis. Which of the two creation narratives to explain. Wrestled with if I should yet communicate the concept of Original Sin (even though it is a belief not shared in Judaism).

How could I clarify the theory of man and woman being created by G-d, in G-d’s image, and in the same breath illustrate the facts of evolution?

I decided that the best thing to do was to describe it all. I watered down the concept of sin in an effort to make it more palatable to a 6 year old; used phrases like “making choices that weren’t so great”. I peppered that explanation with the caveat that we are just human.

I took him through the whole story with my own theory beating steady as an undercurrent.

Before I launched into my lesson, I reasoned with myself: my son wants faith in G-d but also needs a firm understanding of how things work.

When I consider faith, I think also of confidence.

Of complete trust in something.

Someone.

Merging the concepts of faith and reality is a challenge.

Reality is the state of things as they actually exist-rather than how they might be perceived. This reality gives a quality of substance.

I think belief, faith, is a sky-dive jump with an invisible rip cord.

It is the steeled knowledge that you will be caught before you hit the ground.

The best thing to do, then, is acknowledge what you know in your heart to be reality before you leap into the sky with a faithfully packed parachute.

These are the concepts of enormity that clamor in my brain as I explain the origin of man to my son.

Sure, I could have used a carefully illustrated children’s book about the original love story as a learning tool. I could have handed over a well-preserved fossil, revisited the evolutionary chart, and called it a day.

But then, I return to the marriage of reality and belief and know that I want to teach my son that it’s not always easy to understand.

Living an honest life requires thought and difficult explanations.

I hope Zachary will remember that.

Crazy Town

You guys. Seriously. I’ve got a problem over here.

My children are certifiable.

Nutso.

Crazy like a moose running down a highway the wrong way wearing rain-boots and a diaper.

Zoe is The Gremlin. A gremlin with a cute face and huge hair. With a voice that sounds like an old woman who has taken one too many shots of Jack while smoking a pack of Reds. And sucked a helium balloon. Upside down. While eating cookies. Naked.

Zach is The Director. He sits in the corner in a motorized chair made of legos, dirt and hummus. He barks orders while thumbing through the latest issue of Scientific American and skimming the article on electronic conductivity. He holds a megaphone and a moral compass. Periodically he twitches. Shrieks. Twiddles his thumbs. Studies The Gremlin. Sneaks her treats under the table.

There is no gradual wake up period in this house. The Gremlin and The Director go from asleep to “where the hell is my waffle” in under 3 seconds. By the time I get to the evening I am ready to commit myself.

Today, the following exchanges with The Gremlin and The Director took place between 6:17 and 6:41 PM.

No words have been changed.

Punctuation is ignored because Gremlins and Directors think punctuation is stupid.

“Actually, mommy, this pop is not my favorite color… Twinkle twinkle little star, how I know my ABC’s... In the rainbow in the skyyyyy….”

The Gremlin stubs her toe while uttering the above stream of consciousness and heading towards the staircase. She collapses. Screams. Stands. Looks up at me.

“Mommy, I see a little bone sticking out of my leg. Can you get me a sip of wat…”

She smacks her lips. Goes catatonic; comes to a moment later.

“Butt-pop! I be glad to go night night. Can you read me a stor…”

She removes her pants and underwear.

“You can’t get me. Na na na Mickey Mouse”

She sprints up the stairs.

Meanwhile, The Director is downstairs with a tin can telephone made of old yogurt drink containers and hemp rope. He calls me.

“Mom. MOM. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommy. MOOOOOM. Mom.”

I don’t answer because I am upstairs wrestling with The Gremlin. Trying to get her to stop dancing. Trying to get her to keep her hands out of my shirt. The Director bangs on the door of The Gremlin’s room.

“MOM! I have been calling YOU. I need you to talk to me on my yogurt phone. I have a very important phone call I need to make to put my Death-Star on Ebay. I need something with a motor. I need to take a bath. Mom, if I take a bath can I bring my green boat in the bath? And my scuba mask. Where is my snorkel? But don’t put bubbles in my water this time. MOM! I am talking to you. Can you help me right now?”

I tell The Director to chill out and wait a minute. He retreats. I have time to take half of a half of a breath. My hair has frizzed out to the size of a small planet. He is back. This time wearing a hat and dragging a red wagon in which he has placed a popped balloon.

“MOM! This balloon clearly is not full. I will bring it to Home Depot and glue it together with Gorilla Glue. Mom. Mom. Can we go to Home Depot right now?”

I tell him no. Not at this exact moment. He sulks off. Clearly, there is no worse mother than me. I hear him chase the cat. He returns with her in his arms. He has ditched the wagon and is holding both the cat and a half of a banana.

“Mom. Mommy. Mom? Something is wrong with Cleo. She smells like a Bologna sandwich.”

This is the point in the evening where I flirt precariously with losing the ability to function. I have fantasies of quiet white rooms and soft beds and soothing music.

Fine.

Whatever.

I have fantasies of shots of Tequila. If I shoot Gran Patron, I won’t know if I’m in a soft bed or curled up with cheerios stuck to my knees and an old piñata as a pillow.

It won’t matter though.

They will find me.

They always do.

My children are crazy.

40

Dedication:

This is my 40^th blog.

My 120^th page.

This piece will take my online writing to over 31,000 words.

My first entry, Pantene Pro-Me, is about my oldest child (then 3 years old) and the struggle I had with putting him to bed.

This conflict with my son turned into an epiphany of self.

A revelation.

Zachary was my initial drive towards writing. When, at bedtime, he wrapped himself around me to breathe in my hair--his body entwined in mine—he ignited an ongoing and personal quest towards emotional slow down.

I write this 40^th blog in honor of my current 3 year old and her bedtime ritual.

I write in honor of my children.

I write in celebration of the gifts they have given me.

Zoe doesn’t walk. She bounces.

Zoe doesn’t dance. She gets down.

Zoe sees no reason to talk if she can yell.

No reason to hug if she can squeeze.

No reason to hum if she can sing.

Zoe does everything 100%.

She’s my all-the-way girl.

It strikes me as odd, then, that her bedtime is so calm. Don’t get me wrong, because she is my second child, I appreciate any bit of ease I am awarded. But her willingness to go to bed doesn’t jive with her fireball of a personality.

It starts with a bath.

She is naked before we get to the stairs. She’d be naked all the time if I allowed it. And if we are home, generally, I do.

I walk up the stairs behind her chubby white tush and threaten to eat her.

She screams.

She laughs.

I pounce.

I carry her wiggling body into the bathroom. As I run the water, she helps herself onto the toilet to pee. Every night it’s the same decibel heavy exclamation, “Mommy! I peeing!”

“That’s fabulous Zoe,” I say.

She squiggles off of the toilet and into the warm water.

She demands more bubbles.

More toys.

More bath crayons.

A bouncy ball.

A cookie!

I would never give her a cookie in the bath. That would defeat the purpose.

Ok. Maybe I gave her a cookie once.

She plays for a while and then I wash her hair with sweet smelling strawberry shampoo. She tilts her head back into my hands and closes her eyes. I pour warm water. She smiles a coy smile.

“All done?” she asks.

I wipe her face and help her into her butterfly towel.

“Flap my wings!” she insists.

I scoop her into a basket carry and flop her legs up-and-down-up-and-down in the mirror.

I place her on the floor of the bathroom; dry her off. She discards the towel and runs into my bedroom. She selects a toy from the basket I keep (just for her) next to my dresser. I attempt to calm her curls with spray conditioner. She sits naked and sings. I dry her hair.

I powder her. I lotion her face.

I help her into her pajamas.

My Zoe stands before me. Clean and beaming. I can not help but kiss her. She presses her nose against mine and utters my current favorite phrase, “Actually, mommy, my face is on your face.”

She kisses me back.

We head into her bedroom and she climbs into her bed.

I choose a book and join her under the covers.

Sometimes we read Goodnight Moon. Sometimes it’s Llama Llama.

When the book is finished, I smack the top of her head with it.

I do this every night.

She loves it.

As I return the selection to her bookshelf, Zoe snuggles down under her covers.

She tells me to “Sing over da’ rainbow and scratch my back.”

I lean down very close and tickle her back. Place my face against her warm cheek. Sing the song into her ear.

When I finish, she asks for a drink of water.

I supply it.

She asks to give me a kiss and a hug.

Every night.

Every. Night.

As I give her her bedtime hug she rubs my back. She takes her tiny dimpled hand and runs it back and forth between my shoulder blades. She does this in such a way that I feel I am being comforted by someone 20 times her age. She is deliberate. She is caring. She is conscious.

As I stand up, I kiss her tiny little lips.

“Good night mommy,” she says “you go to sleep now, too?”

I assure her that, yes, soon I will.

I close her door.

I do not know how long this will last. I do not know if it will stay easy and blissful.

I do, however, know this: I appreciate it every time it happens.

I appreciate her smell.

I appreciate her size.

I appreciate her curls and her skin and her laughter.

Zachary taught me to slow down and take stock.

Zoe taught me that if I tolerate the noise, eventually I will find the quiet.

Happy anniversary.

Thank you for coming along for the journey.

I hope you will join me as I continue to write.

New Beginning

Sunrise over the ocean.

Golden light by the lake.

In a pinch, my steaming driveway after a recent rain.

There is something about being by the water that speaks to my heart.

I walk along the Vineyard shore searching for the tiny bubbles Quahogs send up to breathe. I plunge my hand into the sand to see if I can beat their descent. Sometimes I capture one to plunk in an old orange bucket. Sometimes I hold a handful of nothing.

It all works just fine for me.

I like to dive into the ocean and close my eyes and listen to the plink-plonk of shells rubbing against one another. I like to squinch my toes in the cold mud of a lake. To comb my fingers through the grass that blows in the current from the dark of the watery floor.

The journey to anywhere by the water takes me to my calm place, too.

Bright blue barn doors

Organized rows of wildflowers

A funnel of white seagulls

Tiny pop-able blueberries

Sudsy broken-down wash-N-go

Quilt stand

Old green hulled boat

Sweet corn

The warm breeze on my bare arm out the window.

I work hard to bring myself to the water. I choose to live in locations as close to it as I can possibly afford. I routinely load my children into the car for drives to the sand; even if we just spend an hour or two.

It’s medicinal to me.

Oxygen.

Breath.

Recently I got away for the weekend with my college girlfriends. A few of us were missing due to understandable life-conflicts. Having a baby. Landing a new job.

Most of us were there though. We carpooled. We told stories of boyfriends and girl-fights. We arrived first thing in the morning, laughing already. We gave thanks to our hostess for being so welcoming with her home on the Cape; her hospitality gave all of us the opportunity to revel in the company of one another.

I notice that as we have grown we’ve become more accepting of circumstance and idiosyncrasy. There are no evaluations. No stress.

Instead, there are overflowing cups of champagne and orange juice.

Coolers full of sandwiches and fresh fruit.

Beach chairs.

Bathroom breaks.

Laughter so hard my stomach cramps.

For 24 hours we reminisce.

We talk about decisions we made that we never would have made again.

We laugh at how glad we are to have made bad choices. To have taken risks that we pray our own daughters won’t. (That we secretly hope they will.)

We review stumble home evenings from bars.

Old boyfriends.

Current husbands.

Children.

Anxiety.

We tell jokes and eat too much. We pile into one car to drive to town. We strap our smallest friend into a baby seat and load a few of us into the rear of an SUV.

For 24 hours we slough off reality and bask in the ocean. The sand. The comfort of girlfriends.

I pause as I write to give thanks for friends who love one another.

The water is an old friend to me as well.

I accept its gifts every time I visit.

There is the old green sign I found during one beach walk that now hangs above a special door in my home; a door to an area that I rarely share.

It reads: There is a sense of forever in the sound of the sea.

It is the sound of foreverness that comforts me.

The hush and forth of the waves that will never stop; their drum beat lend perspective to my petty problems.

There is the barky piece of tree my brother used as a flag on top of a fort he built for my son one afternoon in New Castle. My brother inscribed a black Z in a choppy circle in the center of the souvenir. When Zoe was born, Zachary added a smaller silver circle with a baby z inside. I keep the memory on a faded wooden stool in my dining room.

There are shells and old coins in a pile on my dresser.

There are rocks from particularly important trips; smooth and white or striped or claw shaped.

I write the name of the beach and the date of the visit on the rock in thin, neat permanent marker. Two of the most important stones sit in an old silver candle holder on my night table.

When I hear the water, it is more than a feeling of friendship.

It is love and permanence and dependability.

Beach hair

Dances in the wind

Salt-lick ocean skin

Sensibility and chipped paint

Sparklers in the hands of laughing children

A mish-mosh of weathered perfection.

Naked

I write at my little desk in the attic. Amongst a mess of papers in the home-office. Sprawled in a white peeling Adirondack chair on the farmer’s porch.

Occasionally, when I need background noise to quiet my mind, I write at a restaurant bar. I’m almost always approached by strangers when I write in public places. There is a curiosity or wonder about what I’m journaling and recording.

Sometimes these interruptions are annoying. Other times they lead to wonderful conversations and opportunities to learn.

I’m about a quarter of the way into four books; I read them concurrently. Some as reference tools, a few others as self-help techniques. In Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones she imparts the advice: Trust in love and it will take you where you want to go.

Maybe, in exploring what it is you love to do it’s more along the lines of: Trust in yourself and you will get there.

I watch my daughter as she prances around the kitchen in her blue underwear. She’s round and tan and smooth. Her three year old pot belly juts over her legs. She’s got a criss-cross of tan lines on her shoulder blades. A scraped knee. Bug bites. A tangled nest of black curls bouncing across her forehead.

She sways and sings and dances.

Often, she will choose not to wear underwear as she boogies. She’s naked and free-spirited.

As we age, a stigma is attached to the naked body. There is a vulnerability to it. A shame, even.

In writing, we allow ourselves to get naked. But still, like showing your body for the first time, there is a fear of judgment. And yet to be a truly great writer, you need to overcome fear of what someone will think of your thoughts in the same way that, to be secure with your physicality, you need to abandon the fear of being evaluated on your flaws.

If, as I write or process, I stumble upon something flawed, raw or frightening, I embrace it.

There’s great value in chasing what it is about you that frightens you most. It’s a hub of buzzing vibrating energy.

And when you figure it out?

Take pleasure in the cool waters of calm that follow.

Recently, I sat down with a friend in the publishing business. He had just finished writing a book. I asked him how he went about setting a center to his creation.

He advised me to focus on the skeleton and later fill in the flesh.

Those words wrap around my head like a toy train on a restaurant wall: Write the skeleton. Fill the flesh.

Another friend sat down with me to discuss my need, my ache, to make writing my craft.

He smacked me with the explanation that it already is. Told me to slow down and look both ways. To take time and breathe.

Write the skeleton; fill the flesh. Take time; take breath.

When I write, one of my biggest goals is to take in the sentiment that what I produce is not all going to be good. Singers warm their voices. Runners stretch their legs. A writer limbers the mind with writing exercise.

I don’t always want to practice. I don’t always want to run. But, I force myself to. And sometimes the practice is difficult. The words don’t come smoothly. I run my hand across the page and write whatever comes to mind. I force my sneakers to push the ground even if I don’t much feel like doing it.

In the repetition and the practice though, comes a sweet sizzle.

A plume of smoke that starts small and curls upward.

A signal.

An idea in a breath.

The crackle of a first thought.

In repetition there is freedom because the stake is not just on one time. I am not lacing up my shoes to run the fastest 5K. I am not sitting at my notebook to write the next great poem.

But then, the road disappears.

The paper falls away.

And there is just me:

Open.

Truthful.

Breathing.

The energy captures me and my hand starts flying across the page. I don’t think about  handwriting, punctuation or spelling errors. I’ll get to those later, in the editing phase. My mind blanks and I am taken over. I just let the thoughts come out.

The etymology of the word inspiration is: “the immediate influence of G-d.”

From Old French the history is: “Inhaling; breathing in”.

The ability to breathe in and write down the moment pulls a honking old transfer switch attached directly to a rainbow.

Bam!

The world is in color.

Embrace it.

Heartwoven

One day at lunch, about 4 years ago, I am sitting with a friend.

He and I are laughing and discussing our lives. He is telling me about his family and his girlfriend. He is explaining to me how and why he became an English teacher. He is sharing his favorite books.

I am completely ensconced in balancing the teaching of five classes and caring for a two year old. If the topic doesn’t center around poop, milk consumption, or height/weight percentile, I don’t feel qualified to partake. I am overwhelmed with running a house and running a classroom. I have no room in my brain for contemplation of politics, philosophy or comedy.

And then he asks me: “What are your dreams?”

I answer him half-jokingly: “8 hours of sleep. In a row. By myself. In a bed. On a tropical island.”

He stares at me and responds, slowly: “No, like, really. What do you strive for? What are your goals? What are your dreams? “

I can’t believe he is serious. Has he seen me? I’m haggard. I take a look at his face. See him waiting patiently for my answer.

I think.

I realize that I have no idea.

And I start to cry.

I explain to him that I haven’t given a thought to my dreams for as long as I can remember. He responds with a gentle explanation of motivation and sense of self.

His words resonate. Deeply. He tells me that I am funny and that I need to laugh. He invites me to audition for his Improv group. He hands me a chance.

He offers a gift.

I take it.

Weeks later, I attend the audition. I am accepted. Suddenly, I have comedy and friendship and Portsmouth and Sunday afternoon rehearsals. I have Strawberry Banke and Tuesday evening performances. I feel there is some light and balance again.

7 years prior to that lunchtime revelation, I am living in an apartment in Brookline with my best friend. We are both working. I commute to Boston daily. We come home and order chinese food. We go out and drink too much and dance too hard. We watch Friends. Sex and The City.

I am dating the man who is to become my husband. I am spending less and less time at home. More and more time at his apartment across town.

One evening, when I call my girlfriend to tell her not to expect me, I sense hurt in her voice. We have a candid conversation about being alone. She explains to me what it means to be a good friend. She shares knowledge with me that her mother shared with her about the importance of girlfriends.

At the time I feel guilty. I try to comprehend

Now, 12 years later, I understand. Our friendship is something we have cultivated. I can drop right into her arms. I have held her in mine. We have walked each other through incredibly difficult paths and confided our deepest fears.

She takes my hand and looks in my eyes and sees me. She speaks truth to me.

And, in return, I see her.

I offer her truth when she needs it.

Laughter when it’s right.

Just a few days ago, I am meeting one of my oldest friends for coffee. We have plans to network and catch up. Instead, after trading stories of our children, he mentions some observations he has. He speaks candidly. I am able to listen.

He offers advice.

I am able to hear.

Now, on a warm summer night, I calmly sit next to an open window and contemplate relationship. I think about the different roles we play in the lives of others. I consider why those we love are sent our way.

I think that the individuals who are meant to play critical roles in our lives do not arrive in error. I am positive there is a fate to it.   

My lunch-buddy asked a question of dreams and educated me about honoring self.

My roommate walked me through the topic of loneliness and showed me how to be a best friend.

My coffee-partner made an observation and opened my mind to patience.

My friendships have taught me about gifts of words and trust; those relationships have demonstrated the importance of giving those words to one in whom you can bestow that trust.

I have been helped to understand that the greatest reward is in the act of giving a gift without the expectation of anything in return.

It’s up to us to accept it.