The Wink

Gone Musin'

2010-03-26T14:05:00.000-07:00

It took quite some time, but it finally happened.

Tumble Dry and The Wink have become one and they live happily over at The Wink.

If you have me in a reader or if you often pop over here, I do hope you'll point yourself my way. I love having you along for the ride, sharing your stories and insights.

You are truly extraordinary.

Chasing Perfection

2009-12-09T18:50:00.001-08:00

Come find me here!

It's for keeps :)

++++++++++++++++

The radio was playing a song from I knew from home, a download of Sean's that the girls had taken to.

I found God on the corner of First and Amistad.

Don't worry, this isn't a post about religion, you won't find those here. This is about tapping into the childhood belief in perfection. This singer's voice is as close to it for me as it gets. I think it comes from the presence of it in the earliest months with two babies. Holding them in my arms and dancing, his voice wrapping us in a place that nothing existed but petal-soft skin, tickling tendrils and a sense of having accomplished the impossible. Rapture.

Driving down the road with that voice filling the car and my babies elsewhere, I found myself holding my breath wishing for perfection. I tried to will away the mistress countdown all too present in the news, I tried to make the ripples of another work day bleeding into family time fade away, I imagined no lines on my face, a morning of waking up and looking better than the day before, of not faltering.

I wasn't listening to the lyrics, just letting the texture of the singing take me back to summer days with nothing on my mind but the next feeding, no dashed hopes, no demands for more than I felt I had to give. A stop sign broke my reverie and I wondered if it has been me demanding more, judging my todays as less than my yesterdays for something that has nothing to do with daughters, or if it is my daughters surging forward in an inevitable gallop to autonomy. Does this really happen now?

How cruel for the demands of work and the tolls of time to play out at their most potent yet at just the moment when I wish I could feel vibrant and present. Sean calls to me, part dutiful seduction to keep me from the demons lapping at my feet, part habit of best friend and partner wanting more. It is a blessing and a curse as I feel one more conflict.

And yet, as I write, I feel the ripples of today— a morning snowman romp, gingerbread cookie decorating, kissing in the kitchen, family dinner. A cuddle with my sweet Briar, as unable to fall asleep as I am, stroking my face and me hers, and then walking her to listen to Sean and the boys play. Laughing as Ave pounded a glass of milk and Sean tousled her hair calling her, my little Amanda Magee." Nursing Fin in the sandbox as more snow fell.

I realize that I live life unedited, each moment aware of choppiness and grit, but just hours later, the reel running in my memory is the perfection I've chased. No more running for this day, tomorrow may bring another pursuit , but tonight I'll wrap myself in the perfection I've found.

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Waffling Part 2

2009-11-27T12:37:00.000-08:00

When last I wrote: I also peed. A little, tiny bit, but still. Pee. So I kept running, until...

And so as I rounded the corner and began running in earnest, I realized just how raspy my throat was and a sense of panic almost set in as I wondered how long until I go water. I faltered, my steps slowed and I lunge walked, not wanting to stop, but also not wanting to push too hard too soon.

I lifted my head and saw a car and immediately thought: Water! But it was even better:

Sean and the girls were camped out with water and hugs. I ran to them, grabbed water and knelt down to hug each of them. Fin didn't want me to go on, or if I was going to, she wanted to come. Other runners giggled and called out hello as I ushered her back to the van, blew kisses and kept running.

Not sure if Ave was crossing her fingers hoping I'd make it or what.

My gait was longer and my chest was lighter as I ran, the girls' calls of "Go mama," and "Run, win the race" shepherded me on and I kept a respectable pace as I forged through the next mile and a half of curves and high-traffic roads (read: Lot's of people watching us run from their cars, porches and gas pumps.)

Sean had hooked me up with his iPhone and some magic Nike product or another which was letting me know my pace and how far I'd gone. Simple math kept me knowing how far I had to go, which was nice. The spread was pretty even with the head of the pack keeping consistent with their insane 6 minute-mileness and those making up the caboose doing about a 14 minute mile. I kept myself right in the middle and honestly, just tried not to vomit or have pee run visibly down my leg.

At one point at about mile 5 I said to Tara, "So, I think I can officially say that I have peed," to which she replied very unimpressed, "It isn't a good race unless you pee." It was at that precise moment when I knew that I loved her.

The iPhone stopped tracking me 41 minutes into the run, which meant that for 18 minutes I was on my own, off the grid so to speak. It was agony. Lesson: use the conveniences and luxury technology affords you, you still sweat, but you don't fear.

We ran through a mile and a half of neighborhood, I remember thinking how odd it must be to be going about your day and seeing this motley group of running nuts zip their way through. As the checkpoints with cheerful teenagers calling out "Good job" grew closer together I knew I was nearly done. I started running faster and I smiled. I had started the race torn between thinking I could and knowing I couldn't.

The front of the school was packed with people. I dug my feet in more with each step as early-finishers cheered me on. The final stretch was a curved driveway right in front and as I kicked to the finish I thought of nothing but doing.

Completing a 10 k race.
Making it up that f*cking hill.
Being brave even though I was scared.
My girls watching me do it.

Sean met me at the end and smiled as FInley leapt into my arms. I held her tight as the big girls danced around me singing, "You won, you won the race!" My legs could barely hold me, my arms were weak, my pants were wet and I couldn't remember ever having felt so exquisitely happy.

I began to cry. He had said, "I want you to have that too," and I did. It was bliss.

Go do something for you.
I want you to have that too.
Come back and tell me about it, I know you can do it.

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Waffling Part 1

2009-11-22T15:54:00.000-08:00

This is the first in a 2 part series of Saturday, the day I ran my first 10K.

We were gathered in our kitchen quickly sharing a bite before heading to Saratoga for Open Mic Night at Caffe Lena. "Wanna do a 10 K with me this Saturday?" my friend asked me out of the blue Thursday night. I experienced a robust internal sputter, followed by the familiar burn of insecurity washing over my face as the sides of my mouth twitched and I said, "Sure!" I felt anything but.

Let's be clear about something, some months ago I agreed to do the2010 Danskin Triathalon when Millie asked. I did not, however, begin training. There was kindergarten to start, preschool, dueling schedules and one car. And it was finally hot. Ugh.

I thought that I would get to the gym, but that didn't happen until last week. I just kept going about life the way that I do— choosing to walk rather than ride, skip rather than step, run rather than walk and most of the time doing it with at least one daughter in my arms. As Tara's question hung in the air all I could think was, "You have to start somewhere." And then I was overcome with yearning to have something, to have a thing that I did, a talent beyond parenting or fixing unexpected crises with glue sticks, saved ribbon and MacGyver-like confidence.

"Tell me more," I said as I leaned forward. She told me that it was a 5 or 10k in Hudson Falls to benefit Operation Santa. Soon after the conversation turned to other things and before I knew it the night was over. Tara and I had not confirmed anything and I wasn't sure whether I should do it and, if I did, would it be the 5 or the 10.

Sean responded first with incredulity and next with annoying supportiveness. I was ready to take the out, but he kept saying that I should do it, that the confidence boost would be amazing for me. "I loved getting to sing, to face down the trepidation and do it. I want you to have that too." Trust me when I say did everything from claiming it would interfere with naptime to saying I didn't want to. It was decided.

Saturday morning I got to the registration table and was overwhelmed by the nicheness of it— a charity run, the entrants were all bannered with tee shirts of past races, endorsements from area running clubs or with the bright colored uniforms of high school cross country teams. I felt old, out of place and as if I was going to make an ass out of myself. Looking at the entry form I took a deep breath and made a momentous check next to the number ten.

"Did you get a course map?" Sean asked me. "A what?" I stammered, "I. Um, no. I, shit. This was a waste. I can't do this." He looked at me and I swear he took a breath for me, pale blue eyes facing mine, the picture of calm. "I'll go in and get one," I said. Everything changed in that moment.

We got the map and proceeded to drive the route. The hills were huge, the wide expanses of farmland seemed at once impossibly long and surmountable. When we got back to the start I got out to stretch and Sean took the girls to a playground. I fretted about this thing and that, comparing myself to the other runners there, but after Tara gave me a squeeze I shrugged my shoulders and thought, "What the hell? I'm here."

The start of the run was insane, 120 or so people in the 10k and another 220+ for the 5k all crammed together on a two lane road. We ran together for about a block and a half, I just channeled the Lion King and tried to get as far ahead and to the side of the pack as possible to avoid death. Before I knew it I was on a sweetly curving road that led into what can only be described as inaugural 10K torture. It was steep, long and wide open so that walking didn't seem an option without the sensation of total defeat. I ran, step after step, breath after breath. I crested the hill and realized that the land I thought was flat, was in fact not. I climbed some more and then turned the corner literally and defiantly to strike out onto the first flat stretch.

I also peed. A little, tiny bit, but still. Pee. So I kept running, until...

For Anissa

2009-11-17T19:33:00.001-08:00

This post is cross-posted from Aiming Low as extraordinary traffic slows that site.

Hope for Anissa

Tue, Nov 17, 2009News

As you may have heard, Anissa, our beloved friend and leader here at Aiming Low, suffered a stroke on Tuesday afternoon. She is in the hospital right now, in the ICU.

More than anything, Anissa needs your prayers and positive thoughts but to the many people in the Atlanta area who have offered help to the Mayhew family, we have set up a form for you to fill out so we can have everyone’s contact info in one place (please be assured your information will be kept private).

Things that would be helpful right now are gift cards to restaurants and gift cards to the movies or to Blockbuster (to help keep the kids’ occupied) and gas/hotel gift cards for her extended family. We will be setting up a PO Box on Wednesday and posting the address here along with any updates. Please don’t send anything to the hospital or the Mayhew home. If you have questions, please email helpforanissa@gmail.com

We ask that you please respect the Mayhew family’s privacy by NOT calling the hospital and we thank you all SO MUCH for your outpouring of love and support for Anissa and her family.
With thanks and love,

The Aiming Low Team

Praying for you, babe!

.

Fitness without sweat

2009-11-17T09:02:00.001-08:00

We rejoined the YMCA over the weekend. I can honestly say right now that as I type this I am moaning. Oh, the nuanced pain of unused muscles. I am discovering expanses of self that hurt as never before, the cruelest part being the surprise as a movement draws a new ache. It's good, just makes everything from lifting my coffee mug to scaling the stairs a spectacle of "oohs" and jerks that make the girls throw back their heads with amused delight.

I'm not bent on writing about working out though, it's something else. It is using another set of muscles that has helped me rediscover the kind of high I get from overcoming the "I don't want to work out malaise" and actually making it to the gym, track or whatever and loving it. I visited my dusty, old pal Bloglines and pointed myself in some neglected, but beloved sites.

I popped over to the sites of old friends, collaborators, inspirations, models and amazing women. I read entry after entry, followed the trails of commenters to sites of people I have admired from afar and to others I hadn't known. Then I found my way to sites I should have been keeping on my radar.

It took time and had been something I'd been avoiding. The pressure to achieve traffic numbers, make comments, establish ties— it all became too much and something for which I was not feeling driven. Silly me, I'd forgotten how a 15 degree shift in perspective could make me pee my pants laughing, or that the musicality of another voice could bring me to tears and remind me of my blessings. I'd lost sight of the idea of belonging, forget "community" and other buzz words insinuating something more than place. Whether you are going about your day or turning the pages of a story, it comes down to how you feel.

My mom used to say, "It isn't that I don't like so and so, it's that I love seeing how this other person makes you light up." Have we all gotten so tied up in the numbers and rewards that we've forgotten the treasure of hearing a good yarn? Of nodding along as someone gives voice to something you've thought, but been afraid or unable to articulate?

I got my head out of my own way, and traveled to places that lifted my spirits, ignited my imagination and made me feel as if, "My god, I need to get back to living." When reading and commenting mimic life, when they are done in moderation, or according to appetite rather than dictate, they invigorate. So, go take a dip. Leave a comment, find inspiration, you'll be surprised how good it feels.

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Mad About My Man

2009-11-15T09:46:00.000-08:00

I have been know to wax euphoric about being a mom. I've written reams on breastfeeding, the mom/dad equation, and milestones. I've shared what little wisdom I've gleaned from the journey of 2 to 5. I've achieved neither fame nor money for what I've done, but man, I've loved it. The friendships, the memories captured in adjectives and thoughts. It has felt like full-bodied preservation of my life so far, until the other night.

Sean has been getting together with two of his childhood friends. They sing, and as they do I writhe with self-loathing for not having that skill and butterflies for the hotness that is my husband singing crazy-sexy songs. Seriously, weak-in-the-knees, ready-to-release-cat-calls kinds of excitement. For my husband. Three kids, ten years, a business and a 100+ year old house and I have third-beer, second date giggles and rushes of longing.

That's nowhere in my archives. I have the odd post on love and fun, but as the crow feet spread ever wider and the tautness of my skin loses the fight, I am not giving the moments when we pulls me to him and kisses my neck and says, "You're more gorgeous than you were that first summer. My dream girl, Amanda."

That needs to be here, damnit. Which leads me to the other night, after weeks, months actually, of rehearsing they were heading out for an open mic night. I had known it was coming and was so deliciously familiar with the set list that I could mouth the words as they each sang their part, right down to when they'd shake the shakers and tap the tambourine. A series of calamities had occurred with our family and night-time sitter that made my going impossible. It hadn't seemed lie a big deal until they were getting ready to leave.

I was crestfallen. We had always found a way to balance parenting and partnering. We'd shoehorned date nights in and blurred post-dinner play and bedtime into prime time alone time and had been satisfied. I felt tremors of something that rocked me, an emotion I'd either suppressed or only just tasted for the first time: No. I want this. I want to do this for me with him.

It was embarrassing to feel a desire to shirk my duties, to quickly find someone to take the girls, but the truth was, I wanted to be with Sean. I wanted, if only for those 60 minutes, to go and be his girl. After the shame of that emotion slipped out the door with the guys, I rolled it around. So I wanted to be with my husband, the father of my girls.

Is that so bad? Is there some awful lesson in the girls seeing that I have a passion outside of my love for them? That beyond the breastfeeding and block-building, I have a side of me that smells like perfume and leather? That after getting married and having babies there are still nights that bring the sexy click of heels on hardwoods and the whiff of fallen leaves and aftershave as mom and dad head out and a babysitter bakes cookies and reads stories?

I think my desire to leave a legacy for the girls faltered in its focus, they need this side of mom and dad. The kissing and the laughter, the leaving and returning, to truly show them how beautiful their life and their family really was. The next time he plays, I'll be there. And I'll send texts to the girls and snap shots for the blog. And after, as they sleep upstairs, I'll dance with him in the kitchen before we tiptoe up to kiss them goodnight.

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Just beyond

2009-11-11T12:53:00.001-08:00

Just beyond this photo waves a flag— on sunny days and in the darkest hours of the night, it is there.

Outside the border of every photo.
Along the edges of every memory.
A key I neither fought nor asked for is there for me to use.

I play with my kids, tuck myself into bed cuddled into the arms of my husband.

Today I am acutely aware of how much others have sacrificed so that I can have this life of mine.

I will remember. I will be grateful. I will give thanks. Today and beyond.

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Shuffles Evermore

2009-11-05T18:38:00.000-08:00

She is all blessing, all the more so for how often I forget and remember anew.
Wrinkles over a nose that carries me back, reflections of ages I remember. Echoes of me, but better.
Her eyes defy description, wide and luminous one moment, sly and bottomless the next.
Her mouth a riddle, little dimples on either side and lips that purse and pucker, grin and scowl.
The sounds of her voice cast a robust shadow from throaty to thunderous and the feel of her skin on mine sends whispers to core. Whether nursing or scrapping, her touch resurrects the oneness of pregnancy, toes fluttering to hands over my belly, new beginnings and love-at-first-sight.

I don't know if this is the gift of being the last one, or if it is her. My Finley.

Tonight I sat on the floor after changing her diaper, her sisters were scampering about as Fin walked slowly toward the hall. Her pjs, a striped footy number that Briar picked out, was a little big, the legs bunching at her ankles and the sleeves hanging a bit too far. Her steps were a shuffles, little butt waggling, to keep up or push forward, it was hard to tell. Her pig tails were crooked, curls flipping this way and that. I watched her little hands stretch wide as she considered her next step.

This will be over so fast. No more footed pjs, no more pig tails or diapers. The certainty of it pulled at me and then she shuffled a step. And then another, and another. Still once again, I watched her, then she turned and smiled at me. She held my gaze for quite some time and then nodded.

Those shuffles, little outstretched fingers and crooked ringlets slipped inside, carrying the creak of a floorboard and shine of the hallway light. They're with me. Evermore.

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So proud of you, baby

2009-10-29T18:17:00.001-07:00

Have you ever watched your child and very nearly exploded with the force of your pride? Weeks pass when that's an hourly thing, other times it catches me off guard and I reel from the potency of it. I can honestly say it's one of the sweetest gifts I have found as a parent. Watching— no ownership, no jealousy, just an all-consuming need to multiply the celebration, to unfurl each ribbon of triumph and alert every tower, ensuring that sirens and applause enough attend the momentous event.

Have you ever watched someone else's child do something that deserves a cheer? Scaling a ladder or scrawling a name in dirt with a gnarly branch? I try not to judge, try not to compensate, but every once in a while I falter. I overstep or assume a role that is not mine. I wonder sometimes if I'd be grateful if someone did that for me, but a part of me knows that in every facet of gratitude there would be equal parts resentment. I don't want you celebrating my child in my stead because it means I have failed. I want you celebrating with me.

What about when there isn't one? A missing parent that you think should be seeing this? Busting with the wonder of it all?

His hands were moving, strong fingers and solid palms, keeping rhythm with the music. One hand using a shaker, the other a tambourine. I watched as his head moved along to the melody, eyes focused and mouth set in a line of concentration with bits of enjoyment lapping at the edges. I thought, "Did he know he'd do this? Did he know behind the scrapping and the chirping he had this?"

I lost myself in the concentration on his face and the delight in his eyes. My chest threatened to burst as I remembered the shapes of fingers, the tiny infant digits, the plump toddler fingers, and the budding big girl hands clasping pencils. Every iteration as piercing as the last, the babies I knew growing evermore distant and yet never really leaving.

He's far from a baby, his accomplishments soar far beyond this playing of songs with friends, and yet as I watch him, knowing him*, I am overcome with thinking that this should be seen. Celebrated. His dad is gone, but his entitlement to celebration is no less. This man, the boy still inside, he deserves to send fissures through the heart of a grown man, to steal breath with the man he has become.

I ache for what isn't being seen and feel privileged for being here to feel that sensation of awe. He is not my son and his dad is not a man I can bring to the room, but as sure as I am proud of my girls, I am proud of him and confident in what his dad would think.

Not a roar, a plea. Go watch yours, inhale them, celebrate them, cherish them. It isn't guaranteed, but it's damn sure a blessing. Don't miss it.

Live it.

*I hope you'll forgive me for writing this.

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Like Riding a Bike

2009-10-26T17:09:00.000-07:00

Autumn seems to spark a sense of hope for me (when I am not fretting over a sluggish real estate market, shattering cosmetics, dull skin, sore feet and sparsely decorated bank accounts.) I love the way the leave and wood fire smoke smell like new clothes from the Bon Marche in Eugene, Oregon circa 1983 and how the swirling leaves and gust of wind remind me of wind sprints and crunches at dusk. I am reminded of the way tomorrow is just around the corner, tempting me with all the things that might happen.

I am finding this all multiplied now as I spend my mornings with the girls peeking through windows and exclaiming, "Frost!" Me, not them. I am excited to share these things with them, reveal the magic. They reciprocate by breathlessly calling to me to point out a bird, a leaf, a stick, the sky. We spin and collapse, hug and hide. The natural wonder peppered with new things that make me gasp.

"Did you see? Did you see that mom? It's 'mom'. Ya just go two m's with an 'o' in the middle. And then with 'dad' it's d's with an 'a', which is an 'o' with a tail."

One baby can write and another can ride, the last is aiming to do both, and then some.

They are pure magic. Sleeping and awake. I'm trying to sleep better, dream better even, so that when I am awake and with them, I really am with them.

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Not Quite Numb

2009-10-23T19:08:00.000-07:00

This has been without question one of the most exhausting and challenging weeks I can remember. I find myself stuck in a place of forced silence. Things at work are intense and all-consuming, but not of a nature that we can share. Some of the experiences with kindergarten and pre-school are things that I can't describe for the preservation of the girls' privacy or my own inclusion in day-to-day things. This is to say that boy, oh boy do I have opinions and stories, but I am in the unoriginal position of needing to zip it, because it all touches so many more people now.

It is as if the lines of my life have slowly, unbeknownst to me, shifted so close as to become inextricably linked to one another making compartmentalization impossible. There is less me and much more of everyone else, perhaps it's an overdue realization that while I am my own protagonist, it's only in my mind that I play that role. I am treading along the shores of judger, villainess and detached narrator.

I miss writing, longing for the connection, either in reading my own words days or weeks after I've written them and going back to a moment in time or the friends I've made. I've been having every bit as many magical moments with the girls, more even, yet I sit frozen instead of fingers racing across the keys.

Lovely. This is not meant to be a dark post, because I think if anything, you know I am not dark. Lately as my awareness of the egos and sensitivities of others has grown, my own worries of looking the fool have fallen completely to the wayside. I took Fin and Ave with me to pick Briar up from school the other day. We were early (this would mean so much more if I explained the harrowing experience of being late (#abjectfailureasamom). The girls got understandably antsy and I eventually gave into their please to get out of the wagon.

Ave struck immediately for the dirt, knees akimbo and the tiniest bit of toddle crack peeking out of her jeans. Fin tried to follow suit, but on her way to a squat, she felt too much like dancing. She began to do what looked like a stab at doing the twist while trying to jump with cement blocks on her feet. She looked at me with such pride and delight, her dancing eyes tittered, "You catching this, mama? You see what I am doing? It's like dancing or jumping, mm-hmm." Ave shook her head and looked up from under her impossibly thick bangs and began to chuckle.

Fin was looking at me expectantly and I didn't disappoint. I swung my arms in front of me and then back, she watched, mystified as I did it again. I looked to Avery and back to Fin, both were transfixed as I swung my arms once more and then leapt into the air. Their eyes popped and I just kept going. I am fairly sure I looked like an over-caffeinated and uncoordinated orangutang. I remember finishing my impromptu performance and thinking, "I used to blog about this sort of thing."

I actually thought about how I'd describe the way the mulch in Finley's hair made me realize how much red she has in her hair, or how the way she held the sticks to scratch aside the soil, her fingers looked like a baby's. Ave's skin was something too, so creamy and clear, the lines of her jaw equal parts baby and little girl. And there was more, as I watched Briar run to her sisters, such delight at the perceived fanfare of a pick-up entourage.

But I didn't write.

Until now.

So, while I have felt a bit numb, I'm not quite.

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Malleability of perspective

2009-10-15T08:02:00.000-07:00

All I can say is, thank goodness I don't have an immobile perspective. I mean on some things I do, but I am learning to be looser with other things.

I think it may have to do with being able to endure that moment when you feel as if you might explode— from anger, from fear, from anticipation or just not knowing— when you can get to the other side you are almost always rewarded. You taste something new, dodge hate or be relieved of a weight you've carried.

Family. It isn't easy, steeped in regret, dashed hoped, exorbitant expectations and it-is-what-it-is-ness. It is also what I feel like I always turn to, it s the place I turn inside when I am at a loss, or when I need the comfort of immutability. As permanent as the sun rising each day. I am in a profound place of grace as I have moved past the moment I thought was impossible, and am open and present. Loved and loving.

I've not been writing as much lately as the push and pull of life, advancing Adirondack winter and the unavoidable bugs of back-to school rock our house. My last few posts have been wistful. I think when you find yourself between so many beginnings and endings, it's kind of natural to get caught up in fearing or bracing for more.

I got an email that said: "Try not to ache so much about the past; your memories of them are always tempered by the moment of your recollection, so sometimes they’re bitter sweet and other times they’re just sweet."

It gave me pause and after that it gave me license to just revel. I think I might have rocked a little far to the side of intellectualizing, and so now I find myself scooping up bits of birch bark to examine with Ave, roaring at Fin completely out of the blue to make her eyes bug out of her face as she reacts and then dissolves into hysterics. Briar and I galloped to school. Silly, unscripted and delicious.

It is what it is, and it's pretty damn spectacular.

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Tweetle Dee

2009-10-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

Do you have a Twitter account? If you do, leave the name in the comments here and I'll follow you :) If you don't, this may not make sense. Last night Sean surprised me with tickets to Sugarland. It surpassed my wildest dreams and I have the gushing, over-the-top tweets to prove it. I wanted to write about the experience, but these entries are exactly what my Grandma Joy used to tell me to do with a journal, "Just write even a few words, just to let you back into each memory." These do just that.

Heading to the Sugarland concert tonight. Keith Urban follows, but all I need is that first act. No offense to Keith.
4:30 PM Oct 7th from TweetDeck

On our way to Sugarland...
6:40 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

@theheatherb where does one go for a quick something before a show @ the Times Union Center?
6:48 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Holy crap I am old and small town. The bar across from TU Center is sending me back. Decades. #onway2myfirstconcertinyears
7:08 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Protocol would appear to be scowl and sneer, not swallow nervously and grin.
7:09 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Sugarland just came on stage, not ashamed to admit I am crying I am so excited.
7:35 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Yup, still crying and grinning. Getting exactly what you want is literally awesome.
7:43 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

They say this town...two thousand miles and one left turn. #happyasapiginshit
7:46 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Baby pictures of the entire band and crew running behind Love your baby girl. #myundoing
7:48 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Watching having revelations of self-acceptance and seizing now. Epiphany via concerts and date nights. Please let me remember.
7:55 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

So seriously, feeling like so many unfulfilled wishes are coming true. In silent, weepy wonder. Have you ever felt that?
8:02 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

"For the mommies and the daddies" she said.
8:11 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

What I'd give...to hold on to this feeling. Subtract worry, add revelation and unapologetic pleasure. Living, really.
8:14 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

"That's a f*cking guitar solo," said Sean - for those of you fatigued by my gushing.
8:16 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Hands together for the crew! Hell yeah from this techy! Go @capitolbuzz
8:17 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Me: I want to try surfing. (After Jennifer Nettles surfing montage) Sean: Let's get the hang of skiing of first. #nowacceptingcoastalgifts
8:20 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

She is singing Holiday! Whee high school meets mom-of-3 meets holy shit it's getting hot in here. Bwaahahaha
8:25 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Awesome Albany montage at Sugarland's close.
8:37 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

Here comes Keith Urban!!
8:38 PM Oct 7th from TwitterBerry

After last night I'm excited for this weekend's Johnny Cash Tribute. Troy Record wrote this http://bit.ly/32ISLN DM me for discount!
about 12 hours ago from TweetDeck

The last tweet is different, a morning after invitation in the spirit of carrying on the incredible feeling. Go do something for yourself, if you are around here, try the Cash concert (use code: TWITTER for 2 for 1 tickets), but if you aren't, just go and find something.

Times are tight, but it's worth finding the exhilaration of delight again. For you.

.

Welcome Encumbrance

2009-09-29T05:19:00.000-07:00

I had planned to write last night. Sean was going to rehears with friends, the girls were bathed and asleep earlier than usual and I had no pressing work things to handle. I pounced on the couch and smiled as flutters of excitement erupted. My fingers twitched and I felt a huge weight lift as I let go of the guilt of not chronicling or pausing in these last weeks.

I cruised Twitter and then Facebook before opening up my blog. I heard mewing upstairs, but imagined it was standard issue tossing and turning. Wrong. Before long the whimpers became full blown screams and sobbing. I set the computer aside and flew up the stairs.

Briar lat crumpled in a ball at the very end of her bead, her face was ashen and her eyes were clenched shut.

"Briar, Briar honey, shh, mama's here. What is it?" I cooed as I rocked her in my arms. Her cries would not stop, and in fact as her little shoulders trembled in my arms, her crying just grew stronger. I kissed her brow and blew in her face, "Honey, it's mama, shhh. Honey, shhhh, what's the matter? What was your dream?" I murmured as I carried her out of the room.

A full five minutes passed before she would open her eyes. She kept searching my face and clenching her eyes shut. I wanted to tell her I was ok, imagining that she had picked up on my recent preoccupation with dying. I wanted to reassure her, in this moment when I had the power, that I was ok, no dead.

"A ghost," she said. I looked at her and knew she was fibbing, offering up what little she could and the ensuing silence her plea that I ask no more, just rock her. And so I did. After reading a few pages from a book to shoo away lingering fears, I wrapped her in my arms. She kept one hand on my face and the other beneath me, as if the weight of my body protected her.

She trembled and sighed, tossing an turning, all the while keeping her hands and yes on me until she finally gave in to sleep. My laptop lay forgotten on the couch, my earlier excitement replaced by need. Hers to be comforted, but mine, perhaps stronger still, to be able to give her as much as she gives me.

I didn't write, but I did live inside that moment, which, in the end, is what it's really all about, right?

.

Is it just me?

2009-09-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

Our house is on the market.
I am growing my hair out.
Briar has started kindergarten.
Avery is in pre-school.
Fin keeps flirting with weaning.
I am at home part time and at work part time.

It feels a bit like I am chasing my own tail, with each day bleeding into the next. Lunches to make, clothes to fold and put away, projects to finish, promises to keep. I am never done. I keep trying to determine if it is just the inevitable fatigue and subsequent acceptance that it can't all get done, everyone can't be made happy, or if it is something else.

Am I missing something? Pursuing the wrong thing? Fighting the wrong battles? Or, am I simply slipping into a chapter of my life where I am more aware of death than birth, more drawn to arriving than pursuing?

I rapture in the girls and long to do the same with Sean. We are never not working, parenting, cleaning or chasing a deadline.

Does it slow down? Can we slow down? I mean, if we do slow down, will our lives follow suit, or will we just fail?

I sputter and start, vowing to view things from this perspective or that, but the truth is, I yearn for winter. I want the dark shadows of snow and shorter days to give me the license to pause. I want to stir soup and match socks, tuck little girls into downy blankets and cuddle in for the night with Sean.

Melancholy laps at my feet when I get this way, knowing that I am wishing away today for the perceived promise or relief of tomorrow. I don't want to miss anything, don't want to rush through a phase, but lately it feels as if something doesn't give I am surely going to stumble.

Am I alone?

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So that you know

2009-09-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I wrote about my emotions regarding Briar starting school and today, though no less intense, I am writing about someone else's. I don't presume to know how Briar feels as I write about our lives, though sometimes I imagine I might. I hope that one day she and her sisters will look back on this space and be grateful for the things that have been recorded, if only in some instances to shed light on why we are the way that we are.

Today I knew how her dad was feeling—

Briar was indisputably radiant.

And ready.

And her dad was more in love with her than ever before.

You have been taking our breath away since the day you were born.

.

Crickets, Woodpeckers and Bunk Beds

2009-08-26T03:29:00.000-07:00

Sean had set his iphone up as an alarm clock for me, but when I heard the soft rolling of digital bells as day broke I was confused. I waited a moment before stirring, the sounds of crickets through the window punctuated by the rat-tat-tat siren of a woodpecker. Finley was to the right of me, nursing with one hand woven through her tousled hair and the other on my neck, Briar was behind me, curled in a ball parallel to the foot of the bed with her legs touching mine. Sean was gone.

This musical sleeping station thing happens around here, with one parent being traded for a child and another child being added to the mix. After flanking Fin with pillows and covering Briar's bare shoulders, I slipped out of bed and I tiptoed down the hallway to find Sean. The guest room bed was empty, as I passed our room I smiled at Briar and Finley's forms, so tiny and yet, together they seemed so big, so undeniably significant, less babies than people.

I saw him tucked awkwardly, but soundly, in the bottom bunk of the girls' room. The intensity of yesterday still clinging to me, I drank in the sight of him, hands resting on either side of his pillow, elbows poking out, Briar's pink fleece covering him and proclaiming him a father-of-all-girls even while he sleeps. Ave was overhead, a dark tangle of curls and plump lips were all I could see until she turned, then her face flashed at me and she gave a kind of contented sigh as she buried it once again.

There is potent healing in the embrace of a sleeping family, in knowing that the primal hum is running beneath the beating of your own heart, sustaining it when you are weak. Yesterday and so many days before had been spent figuratively huddled in a corner with my arms wrapped around myself.
____________________

I was weak and so very scared. Today I am healthy and filled with gratitude. Thanks be to crickets and daybreak, to family and to friends.

.

Bells On

2009-08-25T07:19:00.001-07:00

So, the day is finally here. My colonoscopy is at 1.
____________

Ave's take: Wear a seatbelt, bear down and pretend it's a motorcycle.

I am trying to quell the expectation that the doc is going to pat me on the hip post-probe and say, "Well, as I thought, it was an (insert harmless affliction)."

Sean and I will gleefully hand the cashier a $75 copay and head out for a brilliant, if kinda crampy, sunny Tuesday.

I am preparing for him to say, "Well, as I thought, it was fairly harmless, but we did take a few samples and will have them checked. Should know more in 7-10 business days."

We'll still pay and hold hands, it will still be sunny, I'll still be crampy, but, you know, I want to know.

Sigh.

Funny how I feel like the child today.

______________

Here's what I have been using again and again to make my snorts and chortles chase the worries. Give it a whirl.

.

Blocked

2009-08-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

It's not that this is not a magical time, because it is. We are sitting at the eve of a new era; Briar starts kindergarten in less than a month, some 8 blocks away Avery starts preschool and Fin gets a crack at being the only kid. This is the last summer of babies and yet I am without words.

I look at my laptop with an aching, I am desperate to write something down, to mark this time. I come up empty every time, either too nervous to open the dashboard on blogger or too keenly aware that the words I would write would be forced, fake, unworthy.

This is my space to remember and with very few exceptions I have kept it a place that is without artifice or the slightest sliver of something that might make me question it years from now. I think I know what's wrong and I've gone round and round with whether or not to try and push through it.

Too many of you (thank you to each and everyone of you) have written to prod me—

"You ok?"

"Should I be worried?"

"Thinking about you and hoping you are ok."

It's something we do, this checking in on people who've become a part of our routine, whether they know it or not. Look at me, so clearly stalling, even during a post intended to lay it all out there.

I am bleeding. I have been bleeding since just before BlogHer. The bleeding at BlogHer was significant and startling and occurred during my first trip away from my daughters and Sean, whilst sharing a room with two wonderful women I'd never met before.

I've had 3 babies in five years, I have been nursing without pause since September of 2004, I am under incredible stress and I err on the side of anxious. All of these things add up to, "Hmm, have you considered this might be hemorrhoids?"

And I have. And I promise there is nothing that I would like more than to report that I freaked the hell out over some hemorrhoids. Truly.

The thing is, this is a magical time and I have these three beautiful daughters and a husband I adore. I can't help but wonder if I have too much, if this happiness and my health to date has exceeded the good I was supposed to get.

The doctor talked about the things it could be and very candidly put out there that Cancer was a possibility. He later said everything really points to something else, but we can't know yet.

And so I sit, fretting and worrying, willing and bargaining. I imagine new wives and stepmoms, milestones missed and promises not kept. I doubt everything I have done to now, my convictions about organics, my theories on physical activity and fresh air. I want to be calm and have a wait-and-see attitude, but I fear that if I don't prepare I am being irresponsible.

Honestly, I think a part of me thinks that if I share with you how Finley has started catching my eye, cocking her head and saying, "Hai wuh-yuve shoo," and how it literally makes my knees buckle, that that will be it. That time will freeze and the knowing and chronicling of my life with three girls will stall at the first I love you's of my last baby.

I am absolutely terrified and up until now I thought I shouldn't say that, but there it is.

I am bleeding and we don't know why. Tuesday I have a colonoscopy. I am hoping with everything that I have that I'll be back here making you pee with the tales of my handsome doc and the fiberoptic scope he used to establish that the 25+ pounds of little girl goodness I've pushed out of me gave me more than a lifetime of loving.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know, so maybe I could find my way to writing again.

.

Freezing the Frames

2009-08-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

Lately it's felt a bit as if I am suspended in some sort of alternate reality wherein I am unable to get anywhere. I cannot seem to gain purchase at work or at home, at play or asleep. Or just being.

I am fretting over what will inevitably (please, please) be some little thing or another rather than the dark foreboding thing my mind makes it. My worry is quiet and under the surface, but coincides perfectly with an abiding obsession for Briar and Avery with death.

"Mama, please you promise you won't go to heaven?"

I tried for a while to dance around it and make like I'd never go to heaven, but then I worried about jinxes and let downs.

"Honey, it's going to be a long, long time before I got to heaven. You'll be a mama and maybe even a grandma before I go."

This worked for a while and then it became, "Mama, I am going to miss you so much when you are in heaven."

I am at my wit's end with lobbing light-hearted answers all the while wondering if I am indeed in a perilous place, due to hear some awful diagnosis, in which case oughtn't I be saying something sage and enduring for the time when I am in fact gone.

"Mama, I said I'll miss you when you're in heaven," lower lip out, petulant and feigning sadness. I think the concept is too much for them to grasp and they only ever really flirt with the idea before it's chased away.

"Girls, I am making every decision I can to be as healthy as I can, for as long as I can. I don't want you to worry about heaven, just remember that no matter where I am I love you more than anything and I miss you."

They smile and ask for snacks and books, puzzles and drinks. I let myself dally in these moments, fetching a cup and singing or goofing at FIn in her highchair, constructing a Diego puzzle and watching their fingers as they test each piece. My peace as I let everything slip away is infectious.

The girls climb over me, faces burrowing in my neck, hands upon my back and sides. We wrap our legs around each other, giggle and spin until it is hard to tell where one ends and another begins. I feel them, eager as I am, to hold these moments, to freeze the emotion and keep the next thing away.

I wish it weren't fear that allowed me to hold on like this, and instead it was simply a defiance, a healthy attitude that boasts, "It's mine for the taking and I'll take it, thank you very much."

And so, much like the roar I charged my friend with, I am now throwing out this other challenge:

Take it. Take the time to yourself, the time with your kids, the $45 mascara, whatever it is, go and claim it.
Not doing so doesn't make you noble, it just makes you empty.

Excuse me, while I go cuddle with the father of my three magnificent sleeping girls.

.

Living in Sugar Land

2009-08-10T13:46:00.000-07:00

Sean and I sat up watching a 2 year old Sugarland concert on Palladia the other night. At first I just smiled, loving the delicious oblivion of cuddling and softly singing along as the girls slept. I'm not sure when the shift happened, but I felt the tug, that unmistakable tightening in your chest and jaw as the tears begin their march from inside to out.

There was no hiding, no turning back. I allowed the tears to come in waves as I watched the lead singer, luminous and irresistible in her exhilaration. I found myself wondering her age, imagining her provenance—
middle child?
small southern town?
parents still married?

It was silly, but as she sang the anthem of little girls emerging from babies to successes I wanted to know her story, the story of her parents. I think it was in that musing that the biggest hit, the mack truck that crumpled me, came- it was in seeing more of my daughters in her than myself.

++++

I remember Alanis blaring from my apartment as Christina showed up with Zima and chips. I remember Ani DiFranco melodically leading us in a chorus of "Fuck you and your untouchable face." Faces of boys, the laughter of girls, the marrow of my unbridled, unworried days. I wept as I thought of the living ahead of each girl. I wondered which girl would date the player, which girl would fall for the badder-than-bad-boy (or girl, makes no never mind), which girl would sit wishing.

I mark time in songs and milestones, but the purest living, the most potent time travel is in going back to moments with our girls. If they're like me, the songs Sean and I play will remind them of their childhood and, one day, some gorgeous woman will be working the stage, maybe slinking maybe stomping, but whatever she's doing will be for them. To them. Their songs, their time.

There is not a part of me that wouldn't give everything I have to ensure that they make it from baby girl to whatever they want.

.

The smell of then

2009-08-06T07:37:00.000-07:00

When my grandfather died, I found that I could visit him by peeking my face into the antique cabinet that holds his books. I'd take the delicate handle between my fingers and slip my face between the rough edges of the door. The smell of old paper, gnarly leather and grandpa. I could hear the rustle that used to travel to my room as he read the morning's paper, or the way his whisker whooshed against my face as I pecked him on the cheek. Even as he reached the end, those whiskers and that smell stayed.

I find the same poignancy of time with my face buried in a towel. Sometimes I can go back, my hair behind me long and sun bleached as it was at 16. I can hear the splashes from the pool and the sound of the sliding glass door on its old track. The scent of freshly laundered towels is no sweeter to me than that of a damp cast off that has equal parts must and terry to its smell.

The taste of wet towel takes me to first baths and clenching the towel in my mouth to have every finger and bit of arm free to protect my baby. Camping. Wading pool. Pre-date showers and post-event face washing. Hampers full of towels waiting to be washed or folded make me smile. An easy task of stuffing or folding and a promise of a fresh start ahead.

Last night, unprompted by play or sunscreen I offered Briar a bath without sisters. She looked confused and then delighted. We ran it high and thick with bubbles. She stretched her body as far as it would go and then turned around to do it again the other way. She chirped and flipped and generally delighted in the newness of being the only one again. By the time Finley toddled up the stairs she was ready for the company, Ave soon followed suit. I smiled and giggled as I toweled away bubbles and splashes.

Later as they emerged I felt a lump as I watched, despite a full stack at their disposal, as they shared one towel. It was huge on Fin, reminding me how small she still is, it trailed behind Ave as she carried it more as prop than tool, and then my Briar. She stood, all angles and rosiness, peeking from the duck themed towel. Her hair draped over her shoulder and in one eye as she shucked the towel and ran for her room.

I looked at the towel hungrily, steeped as it was in the this night of firsts and lasts. The water and suds will rinse away, but this night, this now and soon-to-be-then, will stay.

.

26+10

2009-07-31T08:06:00.000-07:00

This isn't one of those, "I'll always be 29 posts."

Really.

I am 36 today and I love it. The title is a reference to a night 10 years ago, wherein I made a complete ass out of myself in front of several dear friends and my future husband who at the time was just a guy I thought was trying to get in my pants and then dump me. (I had le grand chip on my shoulder.)

Anyway, I had decided back when ZZ Top She's Got Legs was the newest song on the radio that I would grow up, get married, have three sons, kick the husband to the curb and get a job that let me wear stilettos and jeans to work. That night 10 years ago I wept as if my world was ending.

"I didn't do it."

"Do what?" they asked me with tender concern.

"Any of it!" I wailed.

"Of what?" they murmured as they encircled me.

"Kids. Husband."

They were incredulous. I had a great job, a hot and doting guy and a world of possibility ahead of me.

I cried and sniffled (it was actually the big, ugly kind of crying...snorfling?)

I had expected 3 boys.

I had planned on divorce.

I had no idea what I needed. Here's to unanswered prayers and happily ever afters. Thanks for sharing in mine.

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Cents of Peace

2009-07-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

Life is a blur of scampering out the door before open houses and squeezing in swing time and walks before bedtime and baths. My days in Chicago are already a distant memory of hot mid-day walks and twinkly nights upon the fringe of the merrymaking. I had one moment, during a walk with Leslie, that I stole for home.

We were in Millennium Park and she exclaimed, "Oooh, I'm putting my feet in the water!" And before I knew it she was squatting down and yanking off her shoes. I sighed, it seemed like so much work to take my tennis shoes off in the heat and then put them back on, socks sure to be damp with sweat. She let out a sigh like a dog curling up by a fire and I caved.

The water was incredible and the stones along the trough were cool and slick. I wiggled my toes and felt myself relax, my hands behind me and the sun shining upon my face. I looked at Leslie and saw a similar peace. We sat in a contemplative silence as people on either side of us began to follow suit.

Glimmers of sunlight reflecting off coins in the water caught my eye. I thought of the girls and Sean, of pennies tossed in Placid and Burlington. I felt silly and hopeful. I reached my hand in my pocket and slid a shiny dime between my fingers. I peeked at Leslie from the corner of my eye and as she leaned in looking at her own toes I dropped the dime silently into the water.

Unspoken wishes and s dreams of reaching an as yet invisible finish line.

As I remember the soft, soft splash, I feel a quiet hope.