Of Buckets Lists and Details

My friend Cheryl began adding to her Bucket List this week and wondered what others had added to theirs. I told her in my very worst snot-nosed-brat voice that I don't have a Bucket List and don't plan to have a Bucket List. I simply must do a better job of keeping my mouth shut. Or at least moderating my tone.

I don't want to start a Bucket List for a few reasons. The first being, I'm not a huge fan of thinking about my mortality. Not that I think I'll live forever in this body on earth. Thank God that's not the case. It's just too sentimental for this mama's heart. So there's that.

While I do like the idea of planning adventures to do before we die, I get lost in the grandiose and forget to focus on the smallest details. And that's really the main reason why I don't have a compilation of hopes and aspirations. I've been to England, France, Italy and Switzerland. I've visited the islands of the Caribbean. I have ziplined, parasailed, water skied, tubed and jetskied.I've had babies at home and in the hospital. I have driven crazy long distances. I have laughed and cried and have done once-in-a-lifetime. And they were all fantastic.

When I dream of taking my husband to Japan for a month so he can enjoy first hand what he finds endlessly intersting, I forget to look at him and love him right now. When I wonder what it would be like to take my daughters away for significant birthdays, the years have mentally passed and I overlook the joy in their play and thoughts today. When I imagine my son graduating high school, the last child to fly the coop, I forget that my home will be empty of all their beautiful faces.

Sure, I want to travel and play and try and do more with my family. Yes, I want to learn to paint and how to edit photos. I'd love to be able to take my mom to Venice and go fly fishing with my dad. But what I really want is to love them all right now, in the miniscule details of everyday life, amidst the clutter of homework and dishes and parties and practices.

My bucket list is, instead of being large and wild, a hope to shine a microscope of attention of each of the important people in my life. Right now. Today.

Whooo Are You?

My daughter B turned 11 this month. She is an amazing kid (aren't they all?); she is confident and funny and shy and serious. She likes to read but then again, she doesn't. She loves to play soccer but she gives me fits when it's time for practice. She's tall and strong and her heart is as big as the sky; it breaks over injustice and small differences. She's a lover and a giver. Unless we're talking siblings.

She received a gift card to spend at a department store. Unlike her mother, this child loves to shop. She still loves to play dress up, and she thinks it's even more fun when you get to bring those things home and wear them around and then leave them on the floor of her room, but whatever. The day we went to use her gift card, she was abuzz. The excitement of spending money on whatever she wanted was just too much to bear.

We wandered the aisles, her siblings and me making suggestions, offering opinions. She told us to buzz off. We did. She made her selections and tried them on. We left with a bagful of new garments, a mother approving of her choices, a child thrilled with new goodies.

She waited a week for an opportunity to wear her new garments: a brown and olive print skirt with a wide brown belt, a brown embellished tee with a square neck and a soft white cardigan. Oh, and bronze sandals from the women's department. Girl's feet are bigger than mine. Yesterday she put on her clothes for church and we oohed and aahhed about how pretty and grown up she looked. Her face grew dark and she followed me into the bathroom while I finished my own morning toilette. You know, hair, makeup, shoes...

"Mama." She said. She looked sad in her pretty spring clothes. "Do you think I still look like myself?"

Of course she looked like herself. "What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid," she told me, after hemming and hawing, "that putting these different kinds of clothes on will change me."

Her question, of course, spoke to me, her mother, on so many levels: the child beginning to wrestle with identity, groups and styles, plus the insecurity that comes with it; the growing young person balanced between kid and woman, unsure how to walk this balance beam. Her question digs to a deeper level about who we are and how we present our selves to the world.

Are we the clothes we wear? Are we our glasses or the music we listen to or the car we drive? Is it true that "the clothes make the man?"

Many of these things do send off certain vibes: hipster, fashionista, athlete, academic. But these are just the first glimpse others get of us, and sometimes our clothes just mean: I'm working out or I'm going out or I'm staying in. And we can alter our attitudes, I think, a bit by how we choose to dress. When I dress in sweats and a tee, I'm a bit lazier. When I put on shoes and an actual outfit, I'm ready to work.

But the ME putting on those clothes has not changed. I am the same person, despite not having showered yet today.

My daughter hit on something big and I know we'll be talking about it for some time. How do we reveal ourselves as complex creatures under the limits of a superficial world? By superficial I mean that we all make snap judgements largely predicated on how something or someone appears. So, who are you? Just a pile of cotton and wool or a crazy mixed up salad bowl of traits and characteristics? How do you shine through?

Is Virtual Community Still Community?

I'm going with, "Yes." Yes it is.

In Tulsa, we're on our fourth in a row snow day. More of the dreaded-by-moms, hoped-for-by-children white stuff is flying through the air as I type. I'm kind of enjoying the snow days with the kids because they are so relaxed and chill. I'm also resisting the urge to curl up in a corner and weep silently for the lost time of the work week and what little shred of sanity I thought I had left.

But it has given me some time to catch up on my favorite blogs. January and February seem to hit us hard, and that truth has never been more real than this year. As I click through links posted by different and amazing, clever and thoughtful, lovely and illuminating bloggers, I'm seeing a trend. That trend makes me sad but also hopeful.

I seem to keep reading posts about depression in its various ugly forms; what it feels like, what to do about it, how to talk about it, feel about it. Of course it's troubling that so many of my online friends grapple with the pain of the dark beast. What I like about these posts, though, is that these people are talking about it. They are telling their stories about it. They are kicking back at the many-headed monster through words and the sensitive touch of virtual community.

When I talk about my "twitter friends" I get a few different responses, but the most common is a sort of understated eye roll. And I get that. I know it seems empty and virtual and what possible good can that be?

Well, I'll tell you: it's community. And it is real and organic. I'm sure that's not what everyone finds there, and it sure doesn't apply to every single person whose updates I read. But, the sense of caring and compassion I've found online is as real and true as what I experience in so-called "real life."

Keep talking, people. About the mess of life, the pain of loss, depression, divorce and infidelity. Keep talking because when you tell your story, it gives others courage to share theirs. And when they do that, trust forms and healing begins.

Okay, enough of the love-in. Back to my black and gold updates. Have a great weekend.

There is No Jen in "Steelers." Or is there...?

My love for the black and gold has been well documented. And lest you think this black and gold of which I speak is the "little black dress" and gold earrings, you'd be wise to shift your gaze to that photo up there. Yeah, that one. The one of the Terrible Towel, marked with evidence of the Steelers' victories in an unprecedented 6, count em, SIX Super Bowls.

Yes. My ardor for the Steelers does not wane. And you most likely know this already. I can't help it. I love me some Steelers.

Last night, when the Steelers reached the Super Bowl for the eighth time by soundly defeating Rex Ryan and his wily, too-little-too late Jets, the texts and voice mails poured in to my very busy phone. You guys know me so well, and I know I'm not obnoxious about it. At. All.

"Congrats!" "Well done." "That was a close one!" "See you in Dallas!" "We're going to the Super Bowl!!!!!!"

This is what I refer to as the "royal we" of sport, wherein one's entire fan base takes credit for all a teams' successes and rues all of their shortcomings. When we say "We're going to the Super Bowl," we mean it. Our passion has carried our team to the crest of perfection and we ride the wave of their muscle-bound glory.

When someone says, "Congrats," that my team has advanced, and lived to play another game, another rival vanquished, I smile and say, "Thanks," because it is through my efforts that my team has a stout defense and scrambling giant of a QB.

"See you in Dallas!" They crow. "Heck to the yeah!" I cry back. Now, I'm not really, physically going to Dallas, but MY team is. And vicariously I am. And I will make my virtual presence known. You will hear the cheer in my tweets and status updates. You hopefully will not have to experience my anguish.

It's funny how invested we get in mere sport. I get loud, chatty and a bundle of nerves. I pace and hold my Terrible Towel over my eyes on 3rd and long or, worse on 4th and 1 when we choose to go for it. My husband sits quietly remote from the crowd. He doesn't talk. He barely eats. He is a stoic stone of passivity. Occasionally, though, he will mutter and grumble like the old man in the corner. "We need to tackle," he'll say. Or, "Why are we passing. We need to force the run." As if he's right there, on the sidelines, with some kind of authority to make these adjustments.

I know nay-sayers exist. There are those in the crowd who disdain the use of the sporting royal we, rightly claiming it simply isn't so. WE are not on the team. OUR cheering makes little to no impact on the game, especially those of us watching at home. We do not need to run the ball because WE do not get to touch the ball.

Sure sure. That's TECHNICALLY true. But isn't community and team spirit the point of teams? Aren't they groups of players and spectators for a reason? Sports wouldn't exist today if not for the fan dumping his cold hard cash nto the system.
Without her passion to show up early and stay there late if that's what her team needs. If no crowd arrives, there's not much of a point, is there? They play for us and we cheer for them.

So yes, thank you for the many congrats. I'm excited we made it and I'll see you all in Dallas. Look for me. I'll be the nervous nelly pacing with a yellow towel on her head.

OMG! Are You Your Mother?

Someone handed me a picture of myself. Well, of me standing with one of my delightful offspring. Are you like me? When someone shows you photos, does your laser-gaze hone in on your 2D simulacrum with excruciating perception? "Oh!" You groan. "My eyes are all wonky. And has my nose always been that crooked? What in the world am I looking at? What am I eating?"

(There exists, in my family, a modern day Ansel Adams whose life work seems to be capturing his family eating on film for posterity. If one were to find his cache of photos in 100 years, it will seem to that anthropologist that we are always eating. And...maybe we are....Anyway...)

Someone gave me a picture. And I honed in on that film version of myself. I did not, for once, gasp in horror about my weight or my weird nose. No. This time, I gasped because staring at that camera was not me but...my mother!

Can you hear the Hitchcockian scream emanating from the earth? That's me, recognizing, not for the first time, that I am, slowly and surely, becoming my mother. Hands on hips, feet splayed, eyebrows cocked in coming disapproval or something.

I'm fairly sure every woman has this moment of maternal cloning horror. All the things that drove us crazy about our mothers have somehow seeped into our DNA, turning us from the hip, intellectual young women we once were (because we were, okay?) into the woman who nagged us to clean our rooms, who pondered our outfit choices with, um, let's call it diplomacy, who reprimanded, scolded and chided.

But.

There's always a but.

That's not all my mother was, and I'd make a bet that yours wasn't either. Sure, we had our moments, when my teen self, rife with hormones and the glittering brilliance of youth and she, the wise and thoughtful woman, argued about curfew and boys and phone calls. But, my mom also was my biggest fan. She still is. My mom told me I could do anything I wanted. She said to try everything I get a chance to do. She let me stumble and she let me fall. Hard. She also picked me up and dusted me off. She put the armor of security on my shoulders and locked it tight. My mom has a knack for saying what I need to hear, not just what I want to hear. And? She was right about almost everything. There are days when I hate that still, but mostly it makes me laugh.

When a word my mother used to say slips out of mouth, when I find myself in a familiar posture or using a certain idiom, I no longer grimace. I give thanks.

What kind of life did you have with your mom? Do you rue the days you know you are turning into her or do you welcome them because she was more kick-ass than your teen self realized?

Ode to Late Summer

Walked down to the dock through a gauntlet of spider webs. After the kids stop running the path between water and house, when the sun blinks closed the day, and the motors stop their incessant churning — then the spiders get to work.

A duck breaks my still reverie, calling to his mate. I pause from the delicate, frustrating task of removing fine silver homes from my shirt.

From where I sit I can see across one tiny portion of the great expanse of Grand Lake. Two peninsulas frame our inlet and, rather symmetrically, one egret sits on each, facing each other. One I can see in perfect silhouette, he's in the shade of the rising sun. The other, his white feathered body catches the full glinty glory of the sunrise. I wonder if they are siblings—the Mary and Martha of the avian world. Two disparate souls connected by a body. Or is that carrying things too far?

The one in shadow appears to be lengthening; maybe he's aware of my gaze.

Fish flip up, breaking the surface, taunting the anglers who've jut left the inlet in disappointment. This always make me giggle, if if I'm in on the joke.

It's always quiet at Grand on Sunday mornings, but this morning there seems to be a late summer melancholy kicking about. The promise of summer boat rides, the plans with friends, the ease of days spent in swimsuits, eating the fat, juicy fruit of summer - it's all gone. It happened, for sure. And it was good. So good.

Now homework awaits our return home. Piles of paper demand attention. Kids have needs in so many different areas I feel I can't summon enough of the right responses at the right times to meet all their inner unspoken but totally obvious needs.

Push it back. Scrape off the worry like so many webs clinging to me. I'm here. I'm at the lake. I'm on the dock. Alone. I can breathe, and sit, and think. This is where I can see these children, my children, for who they really are. When they don't know I'm studying them as they play.

I woke with a pall of melancholy myself. So strong I felt I could have burst into tears. I still have a sense of the ending. That's inevitable, normal even. Walking a line between pleasant memories and the bitterness of walking away from them.

And there's today. All of it. I see a spiderweb I managed not to destroy. A giant fish jumps next to me, reminding me to smile. My daughter's feet slap on the wood of the dock, then she settles into the hammock, quiet for a short time. I'm alone. I'm not alone.

Just Take a Bath

I drove home from soccer practice last night listening to the shrieks and cries and horrid moans of an unhappy little boy. Yes, my sweet precious angel hollered the whole way home (a thankfully short commute) because I decided he would bathe instead of shower.

While not normally cause for such alarm, precious angel was tired. And hungry. And hot. And doggone it that boy wanted a shower. In my best stern mommy voice I also asked him to bring in his shoes from the car. The horror. Waterworks all up in here.

One daughter covered her ears. One daughter made funny faces hoping to cheer him up. Both actions caused equal and utterly opposite reactions in their brother. That's the trouble with physics.

We made it home with him wailing to his heart's content. I stopped trying to reason with him when his words became unintelligible. The line between reason and hysteria had been crossed miles ago. Finally home, the girls scattered, probably thankful they could escape to the relative quiet of their rooms and their homework. He went to his room, covered himself with blankets and continued that post-cry whimpering, short-breathing things kids do when they know they're not going to get their way, not fully committed to trying anymore but still kind of aggravated. In lighter moments, it's kind of funny.

I started a bath, thinking of my mother. I dropped in gobs and gobs of bubble bath, another unusual event at our house. We're usually cycling through too many bodies to luxuriate in bubbles of aromatic ambiance. My mother's prescription for everything when we were growing up was a bath. I'd say, "I have a headache." She'd say, "Take a bath." My sister would be stressed over tests: "Take a bath." Even our brother was advised to take a bath when under duress or illness.

My son had the same reaction we did. Dude was pissed. Our mother's one-stop, cure-all works-every-time solution seemed to mock our displeasure. "Just take a bath," we teased her, had become her code for: "Tell someone who gives a crap." She wasn't really belittling our emotions, reducing our stress to a simple action, confining our unhappiness to the bathroom (Freud would for sure have something to say about that.)

In our angst, we overlooked her genuine care. We wanted her to wallow in our drama. We wanted her to stomp her feet with us. We wanted tears, balled fists, reaction. Anything that indicated she was on our side.

The way she did that, though, was to offer a quiet space where no body could pour salt in our emotional gashes. Where we could be alone to sift out the thoughts, shake loose the dross and soak away the metaphoric and physical dirt. She's a smart one, my mom.

I plopped the sobbing boy in the tub, tears streaking down his dirty soccer field face. I wish I could say instantly his troubles were over. No. It wasn't as fast as that. But, he did sit for a while. Then he began to play with his action heroes. He finally tried the new shampoo I'd bought for him. In the end, he climbed out of the tub quieter, calmer, happier, and ready for bed.

Sometimes, I want to throw the same kind of fit my son did. I want to shout and scream and tell people they're all stupid. Of course, as an adult, that's just not done. However, the prescription remains the same at our house. Just take a bath.

Put the Play Dough Down

It rained on my run this morning which made my normally full hands slippery. I had the dog leash in one hand and my phone and ipod in the other. Normally I clip my ipod to my shorts but not today. Today, because SOMEONE had left my ipod in SOMEONE'S car, I had to use SOMEONE else's ipod which doesn't clip to anything Before you give me a thousand different ways I could have solved this problem, of the holding of gear, know that it's a story for another day, personal preference being what it is and all that.

The point is, my hands were full and slippery. Every few paces, I'd notice my hands were clutching the life out of my technology. It reminded me of something a very wise and gentle friend told me this summer. (Not my husband). He told me that I need to let go of the idea that I'm in control.

If you know me, you know I hate when people (my husband) tell me to "relax." My instant and strong reaction is rather the opposite of relaxation. My hackles raise up like a thousand little poisonous snakes ready to strike. I guess that makes me the middle(ish) aged version of a rebellious teenager. I'll relax when I'm darn good and ready to relax, thankyouverymuch. I like control. I enjoy control. When I know what to expect and who's going to be where and exactly when, I feel calm and reasonable. I feel, well, I feel in control.

Trouble is, life is uncontainable. It is largely ungovernable, especially by one as meek and lowly as I. When my friend told me I needed to let go, he was asking me to rethink how I viewed the world, asking me to see that my constant control-seeking kept me from relishing the peace of letting go.

So I'm running along this morning, cursing the dog as usual, and I get this image in my head: a brand new lump of play-dough, right out of the jar. It's all smooth and clean. It smells like salt and kindergarten. But, you notice...see, right there? There's a spot on the top that isn't quite blended in with the rest; it's sort of clumpy. So you reach out to smooth it, and in so doing, you make an impression with your thumb. Now you have to fix that, but you'll have to pick it up to do so, and before you know it, the cylindrical goodness that dumped out of the little tub is now a blob. With fingerprints on it. And some of it is on the floor and the table and under your fingernails. So you roll it up into an inexact spherical representation and put it down. Moments later, you're back to smoothing the edges, ready to get out the compass so you can verify it's symmetry.

That's how I approach life. And that's how approached the first week of school. I worry about my kids. What that tells you is that I'm a good mom. I worry and I pack lunches. Right there's your evidence. So, my eldest gets most of my social anxiety, because she prefers her own company, and her three best friends have all moved away. First week of school, I didn't care about classes, or homework or teachers. I wanted to know who was talking to her, to whom she was talking. Were there new kids who seemed nice? I made myself a tiny, annoying fly of repetition. She tolerated my anxiety. For a while.

Finally, kiddo told me to step off. "Mom. It's fine. I'm happy. Please stop bugging me about it." I knew it was coming. The increase in visible and verbal eye rolling? Off the charts.

But there's that lump of play-dough. I want to grab it and shape it and coax it and make it perfect. Or close. Or closer. And I'm running along, and I realize my shoulders have hunched a bit higher, my hands strangling the ipod. I hear my gentle friend's voice. "Let go."

I suspect this will be a lifelong journey of small steps. I hope the steps get farther and farther apart before I need reminding. I'm thankful for people who tell me the truth and help me to uncover it on my own. I suspect that image will stick in my head and help me to remember there is only One in control. And I'm not it.

Honeymoon Wonderland

Our first "home," (using the term in its loosest possible way) was an old, delapidated, nearly discarded double wide on a hill in the glory of the Ozarks. And it was beautiful.

We married on a Saturday, the mister graduated college on Sunday, we left for our honeymoon on Monday. A week in a tropical paradise, and then the move: the smallest Uhaul laden with our decorator style; we called it "early college." We drove from Pittsburgh to Tulsa, stopping on the way at a lavishly maintained Knight's Inn (yes), blinded by the purple wall paper and carpeting.

We stored our worldly possessions into a corner of my newly minted in-laws' garage and drove to Branson to work for the summer at a camp in the mountains. We were married staff, so we proudly assumed the entitlement of "married staff housing." This is a huge step up from regular staff housing, in that we had windows AND air conditioning. Living the dream.

I cop to a certain amount of "gross out" when I rested my gaze upon the brown and white, off kilter little gem that was to be our home for three months. The gag reflex promptly gave way to the beautiful haze that is newly married life. I had gifts to be thankful for, and pictures to sort. I had a new home in Tulsa to find. I had my life partner, the apple of my eye with me. And we were blessed.

And then it rained. Oh, how it can rain in those mountains. Turns out, the windows acted more like large, transparent colanders. We used our brand new towels to staunch the flow pouring into our cozy little love nest.

Then there was the matter of living quarters. The double wide belonged to resident staff who were at another camp for the summer. All of their worldly possessions occupied every bedroom. We had access to the living room/kitchen/dining room. And the bathroom. We stored our clothes in the kitchen cabinets. We kept coffee in the space where the dishwasher was to go. Socks went in the top drawers. Shorts and tees in the upper cabinets.

When I think about it now, 15 years later, I have to laugh. We laughed then, too, but for different reasons. We were young. We were happy. We were on an adventure, just beginning our journey together. I laugh now because that was simply crazy. We loved every minute of it. But, man, what a summer.

I took that photo up there in the fall when our home needed some ghastly repairs. This reminds me that along with our changing lives, we have changing perspectives, changing needs, changing attitudes. Sometimes we get to live like wild bohemians, in the eye of chaos. And sometimes we get to move out of that and live in peace.

Tweenage Word Police

image via yourdictionary.com

One of the problems stemming from my stern grammatical upbringing is friendly chats are rendered neigh impossible. My parents both spoke, and speak, with a precision and depth few can match. They choose their words carefully and for maximum effect. Mom and Dad could rip steel to shreds with their words or plant flowers of prose.

As a family, we were, and are, vigilant about grammatical and pronunciation mistakes. We pounce on every misspoken word, every improperly used pronoun. No one is immune. Nothing passes our ears. We hear every little thing. And we will correct you. Yes. We will mock you unceasingly. It gives us great pleasure. In fact, many of our mistakes have entered the family lexicon; newcomers to our little grammar party may indeed not understand a word we say.

This admittedly annoying familial habit has made its way into my own family, our children being proud, card-carrying members of the word police. If you think your kids aren't listening to you, try making a mistake in speaking. I personally guarantee you will be corrected. By them. In an unfriendly tone. Children correcting their parents makes for uncomfortable family dinners.

I confess to the deadly sin of pride about my childrens' vocabulary. Except. For the past year, we've had a recurring language debate with our eldest, who can, in fact, word us under the table. (She once told me she would explain something to me using small words. She's 12).When we ask her to do something, or to NOT do something, or have a conversation and want some signal from our angsty tween, we expect, and rightly so, some kind of acknowledgment. We get this, "Okay." Or "Okay!" Or "OKAY." Parents, I know you hear the difference.

When one is used to precise language, "okay," as a reply means very little. Does she mean she understands, or that she's walking away, or that she hates our parental guts? IDK. (She is constantly surprised that I am hip to text lingo.) So then we say, "No. It's not okay." To which she replies, "You know what I mean." And then we say, "No. We don't know what you mean." Then she rolls her eyes and stalks, storms or saunters away and we throw up our flummoxed hands with heavy sighs.

We find ourselves walking this line like drunken sailors; as parents we are unsure of ourselves with this nearly teen-aged girl, but we know her and love her and want the best for her. As a nearly teen-aged girl, I'm sure she's feeling many things of which she is not sure. She is aware at least of her verbal double standard that allows her the luxury of correcting mistakes but not being called on her own.

We wonder how much do we push back, how much slack do we let out, how long do we let the eye rolling make our skin itch? We wonder if she can smell our fear: our fear of her growing up and walking her path and becoming who more of who she is every day. It's not an unreasonable fear, tempered as it is with confidence in her ability to make good choices, good friends, and certainly good sentences.

What does "okay" mean? No idea.

Regrets and Reconciliation

Once upon a time, I had two friends. Well, once upon a time, I had more than two friends, still do, in fact, have slightly more than 2 friends, but that's neither here nor there, as this little story concerns just these two aforementioned friends I had, once upon a time, and my grandmother, which is weird, considering the three have never met.

So I had these two friends. And they were funny and silly and I enjoyed their company. And they were my friends. And then we had a very dramatic, sad, ugly falling out.

I'll spare you the drama of our sad and ugly falling out. Suffice it to say, as is usually the case in these matters, all three of us can hoist some of the blame onto our humanly puny shoulders, burdened as we are already with pride, anger and selfishness.

In thinking about my role in this little tragedy, the Greek chorus in my head reminds me of a recent revelation, a reconciliation of sorts with my paternal grandmother, who has been dead for over a decade. Crazy Greek chorus, just like them to bring up some long ago turmoil, buried securely in my mind, to teach me a lesson.

Of Grandmas and Grace

Grandma and I had a monumental tiff during her later years. The kind that overshadowed family holidays and jubilant occasions, like my wedding. That lady was a spitfire on her best days. She was a mountain-mover, a hell-raiser, and woe be to thee if you raised her ire.

We had a minor miscommunication that grew and festered. I can blame my dad for this, because he invited Grandma to something I did not want her to attend. When she called for details, instead of being gracious and insisting she come, I blurted out that she was, in reality, not invited. I know. I'm embarrassed. This classy move led to the Thanksgiving Tumult of 1991. Neighbors still talk about it.

For the rest of her life, we were at odds, which pains me to this day. Tradition says that this is where I remind readers to cherish their loved ones, to seize every opportunity to express their devotion. Not gonna happen.

Here is where I tell you that if I'm at all like my hell-raising granny, I share her sense of justice, her stubborn pride, and her ability to hold a grudge like a precious gem.

Freedom through Tea Sets?

Standing at the tiny stainless sink at the decrepit family cottage, my mother and I shared the job of washing and drying the dishes. Offhand, she tossed out a bomb that shifted my perspective of my grandmother, veritably shattering the angry image and reminding me of her gentle thoughtfulness. My mother said that Grandma had packed a box with an antique tea service. She labeled the box: FOR JEN AND ABBY. Abby, my daughter, was 18 months old when my grandmother died. Moreover, my grandmother was suffering at the hands of a cruel enemy, Alzheimer's, that stole much of who she was and confused her memories.

I stood at that sink totally bewildered. My grandmother remembered my daughter? She cared enough about me—or her descendants—to leave a special gift just for us. In her darkness, in her deterioration, she remembered me with love.

What's with the Greek Tragedy, Again?

So, back to my fractured friendship. A solid decade after her death, my cranky, unforgiving, hardened grandmother, my kind, giving, talented grandmother taught me a lesson in humility, grace and forgiveness.

Platitudes don't work for me, they're too easy. But. If I don't look at this situation in a spirit of growth, I will continue to cherish regret, fatigue and bitterness. Maybe life's not too short for regrets. Maybe in the poor choices we make, in our betrayals, our deceptions and our minor infractions, there is a future wrapped up just for us, specially marked and ready to be opened. Maybe a future of redemption and reconciliation comes with regret as its cost.

For reconciliation, I can handle a little regret.

Anticipation and Melancholy

See that? Right there? Those are two of my favorite people relaxing in one of my most favorite places in the whole wide world. My family has owned this little slice of happy for 110 years. Yes, one hundred ten years. It may not be easy on the eyes, but I assure you, it's easy on the spirit.

Living 1000 miles away from this little beauty we call "the cottage," definitely puts a limit on how often we get there. Once a year to be exact. Being there means shutting down literally and figuratively. No TV, no internet, spotty cell service. Until a few years ago, there was no shower and no phone. The lack of current technology means a turning to others, creating a space where conversations ebb and flow with the shadows cast by the sun on the ferns. It means using your head to make sure there's enough water to do dishes and get the kids' grimy feet clean. It means not dumping food in the sink because there's no disposal. It means a calmer life, for a few days. Rising with the birds and sun, resting our heads in the heat of the afternoon, hitting the hay with the moon.

We all, my siblings and I, try yearly to make the trek to the cottage for the fourth of July, it being our mother's birthday. Knowing I get to see my brother and sister and all of our nieces and nephews fills me with tangible anticipation. In my mind, I play out our visit, the arrivals, the stories, the swimming, the food. I'm like a kid on Christmas Eve, completely wound up waiting for the presents to arrive. When everyone has finally assembled, it is largely as I had envisioned. We laugh, and cook, swim and canoe, drink cold beer, sit on the porch, tell stories, remember, catch up, look ahead. This trip is one big gift just for me to savor my family.

And then it's over, just as Christmas Eve passes to Christmas Day which passes to the ho hum day after Christmas of bloat of indulgence and crankiness from all that togetherness. I found myself in that doldrum yesterday as we drove out of the gravel drive, casting one last furtive glance at Sugar Lake, the place that defines my past as much as the house where I grew up. Leaving it, leaving the family, brought my anticipation to a screeching halt and left a gaping hole of sad.

I know I'll be back. I know I'll see my family again. There is something reassuring about having something to look forward to. It makes the minutiae seem to click by faster, to make it more meaningful or worthwhile. And there is also something about a return to "real" life that resonates, too. I wouldn't want to stay with my siblings at the cottage forever. Going home, my home, with my children, and our daily responsibilities, creates the possibility of something new to anticipate. What I'm trying to say is that we need the flow of time; we need to look forward, and we need to grasp our present with joy and purpose.

But, I still miss my brother, my sister and my nieces and nephews. Can't wait til next year.

How to Road Trip without Losing Your (Entire) Mind

Every year my family of five drives the 1000 odd miles from our door in Oklahoma to my parents' door in Pennsylvania. Because Pennsylvania is my hometown, this trip feels like one big treat planned just for me. Of course, it also has to do with reuniting grandparents and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, old friends, old places. But of course we all see the world through our own filters. I'm sure my kids think it's a big ole party for them and their cousins. My mom loves having all her babies around her. My dad likes seeing us use the family cottage. Everyone has their own reason to look forward to the trip.

And every year, on the drive, we experience the same emotional arc or cycle. It starts with eager anticipation and ends, well, it ends with a tired but happy family.

On day one of our trip this year, the first kid awoke at 5:45: ready to go. Everyone scrambled about, grabbing last minute items, talking about what they were looking forward to doing. We piled in, smiles on our faces, pictures taken, legs rested.

Two hours in, the electronics lost power, the boredom kicked in, the munchies arrived. (Roadtrip snacks are huge deal; I hide them as long as possible, not wanting tip my hand before necessary.) For the rest of the day, we rode out the moods. From excitement to boredom, to cranky, to tired, to chatty, to silent, to boredom, to cranky to tired to chatty to silent. We contended with the "arewethereyets." We played silly games. We looked quietly out the window, watching for the farthest away license plates. We are not above bribery. We are not above a few words hastily spoken. The closer we got to our destination the farther away it seemed and the more restless everyone grew.

We stopped half-way to visit a dear friend of mine. Reuniting with friends, stretching our legs in a wide open back yard, enjoying an adult beverage and adult conversation renewed us all. The kids caught fireflies and made new friends. The parents sat and talked. And talked. And talked.

Waking to gourmet breakfast made by our foodie friends was a treat like no other. It was hard to tear myself away from the luxury of being served breakfast, but PA will not wait. We loaded up the car and headed East, young man. And the cycle began. The second day the kids were much more mellow. They spent a lot of the time quietly gazing out the window. I kept looking back, concerned; my kids are not the quiet types. We still played some games. Everyone still had their choice of playlist. Snacks were replenished. But there was a resignation. The forward looking we had awoken with the day before succumbed to the miles of green, changing hilly to flat to hilly to mountainous. It all flowed under us as we took each mile.

Again, the closer we got the more restless we became. I prayed that no one would need a potty stop once we crossed the PA border. That's just the kind of thing that takes whatever wind you've got going right out of your sails. We pulled into Mom's and Dad's drive, happy, spent, and with a quiet anticipation. What had started as giddy physical excitment has transformed into a rested, inherent peace. Knowing we have ten days to soak up this beautiful place, these gorgeous friends, we are happy to have arrived.

Striking a Blow to Depression

Recently I discovered what other people were born knowing. The joy of waking, of getting out of bed, of laughing, or being together, of speaking without fear or anxiety. Of deciding firmly and strongly and not looking back.

Two months ago, I wandered into my doctor’s office. I knew I was hurting. I’d been hurting for some time. I’ve been treated for depression on and off for most of my life. I’m okay with that. I accept that taking pills is part of my reality. This is fine with me. I realize that if I were diabetic or had heart disease I would take the same steps.

So, I walk into my doctor’s office and I want to try something new. I have my little speech prepared. I’m ready, because I don’t want to cry. I simply want to ask for what I need and get the hell out of there.

He asks me a simple question. It’s always the simple questions that unravel us. “How’re you doing?” But he doesn’t just ask. He’s not just making conversation. He looks at my face, into my eyes. He knows why I’m there and he waits patiently for an answer. He watches my face contort as I try to control the coming tears. I am powerless. I begin to weep, unabashedly, uncontrollably.

“I feel like crap.” I confess. He listens. He nods. I pour it out. All the symptoms, all the hurt, all the torment. And in the confession comes a release. There is constantly a tight, grey fist curled around my heart, at the very center of my person. I can feel it squeezing me, bruising me, crushing the good to a pulp. What’s left is fear and anger and insecurity. It oozes out between the stone fingers and pours into my life, into the lives of the people I love.

But in the confession, I conquer just a little bit of that fist. I shove back against the constant arm wrestling happening inside me. I tell that fist I don’t want to live like this. Without sleep. Without joy. Without love. There has to be another way.

My doctor is amazing. He spent an hour with me that day. We talked through the many answers, including ones that are not strictly medical, but spiritual, physical and relational. Those are the ones I control. The chemical stuff? Yeah, I got nothing on that.

So he prescribes a new medicine. I’m skeptical but relieved. At least I’m doing something. Moving. Trying. Talking.

Two weeks go by. I start waking at 5 or 6 am. Not tired. Not anxious. Not worried about jobs or kids or the organization of the day, or whether the spoons are put away in the right places. I wake up feeling rested. I think, “Okay. That’s...weird.”

Then, I start wanting to run. WANTING to run. Again weird. And the more I want to run, the more I run, and the more I run the better I feel. And the better I feel the more I want to be with my kids and talk to them and hear them and love them and be their mom. And the more I respond to them the more they respond to me. This is quite lovely.

Other delights happen, too. I asked my husband, “Is this how you feel all the time?” I’m shocked. Amazed. Humbled, thankful and overjoyed. I have never, in my life, felt as good as I feel now.

I keep trying to put my finger on it. I feel like if I can’t explain it it will change, or worse, stop. Or if I don’t put words to it those closest to me don’t know exactly how much better I feel. And I want them to know. I want them see who I am. That tight fist clamping my chest was actually just one part of the crushing pain I lived with. A hard shell surrounded me, feeding me lies about my worth, coaxing insecurity and embarrassment into my heart, like a plume of foul fragrance. Leading me to think I had to fit into a certain ideal in order to be of value. That shell got shot to pieces. I feel, if not invincible, then definitely like I could kick some ass.

I’m not saying I’m cured or healed or perfect. I’m saying there are always options and choices and another avenue to try. I’m saying if you’re hurting tell someone, tell me, tell your mom, tell anyone. That dark grasp can crumble.

Sisters

My sister and I shared a room most of our teen years. We had a Cold War kind of relationship. Each day we danced through a series of minor concessions and major conflicts, poorly hiding them under a seemingly placid surface of standoff. Our mutually agreed upon peace went unspoken; for myriad reasons, it was essential we endure our hellish prison of room-sharing to keep our parents happy. We erected quite literally a wall in the center of our room by placing our dressers back to back, clearly demarcating HERS and MINE. Even the one closet was separated permanently; those foolish enough to try to alter this arrangement did so at their own risk. This was serious.

I was reminded of one of our most memorable arguments today. In our early teens, I used a yellow highlighter to stain the perfectly white teeth of Tom Selleck in all his Magnum P.I. glory. I hit her where it hurt, right in her favorite poster. She walked into the room as I walked out, a smug, self-righteous smile flickering on my young face. I was a few steps down the hall before I heard the gasping and stammering.

Retaliation was in order. Moments later, our room took on an eerie silence, her mental wheels locked in overdrive searching for the perfect revenge. She found it. She emptied the entire contents of my beautiful bottle of Bonne Belle perfume onto my bed, soaking the quilt, sheet and mattress. Now I liked the smell of that pink liquid when it was dabbed on my wrists. In full potency that stuff could down an elephant.

Happily the Cold War is over for my sister and me. Somewhere along my freshman year of college the thaw began and now we talk nearly every day. She's one of my best friends. I am thankful for our tenuous beginnings and our fierce love.

To the point: my daughters' own little mini Cold War reminded me of that today. We decided to take an after dinner boat ride. Elder brings two towels, both for herself. Younger decides she wants a towel as soon as we leave the dock. Elder doesn't want to share because if she wanted one she should have thought to bring one. Younger makes frustrated noises. This mildly annoying bickering goes on until it's about to come to blows. We stop the boat, separated the perpetrators, talk to each one; if you are a parent, you know the drill.

Eventually the two reunite in the bow of the boat, each one sprawled on one of the two towels. Their heads bowed close to each other, they laugh and sing and tease and tell jokes. I can see their faces in profile as their words tumble over each others. I shake my head and wonder why we couldn't have skipped that little drama. But I also smile.

I have hope for my girls that they will enjoy what I share with my own sister. Not because it's a given, because it so isn't. I have this hope because they have fierce love, fierce hearts and fierce thoughts. I know they'll fight again, probably before I finish writing this. And I know it will be loud and hard and it will hurt to grow up.

I also know that they are secure, strong and content with who they are as people, these two oil and vinegar girls. For now I will happily take the short clips of beautiful peace and wait in hope to see how they grow together and apart over the next years.

Like Attracts Like

This year for Memorial Day we told our daughters, ages 12 and 10, they could each invite a friend to come with us to the lake. I admit, I may have had an ulterior motive besides just being the coolest mom ever; I knew they'd bicker less if they were preoccupied with their own selection of people to hang with. Which meant the odds of me being able to read, alone and quietly, on a sun-drenched deck on the shore of a glorious lake, would increase.

This is to be encouraged.

Today we took four giggly girls and the 6-year-old brother on the lake for some boating and tubing. The perfect plan: the boy doesn't really like to tube and the girls each prefer to tube a different way. As each set of girls boarded the tube and held on, I was struck by the types of friends my kids make. They have chosen well and wisely and in sync with who they are, inwardly, on their deepest levels.

The eldest is a talker and thinker. When not tubing, she peered through binoculars identifying birds and explaining to anyone in earshot what they were, what they eat, why they live in Oklahoma. She says things like, "That would be preferable," when asked if she wants to go slower. When we tell her we can go faster she says, "Be that as it may..." the ellipses meaning, "Don't you dare." Her friend's preferred method of tubing aligned directly with hers. They wanted moderate speed, few bumps and really just a pleasant ride. Kind of like two 12-year-old Miss Daisies.

Younger daughter is a straight up thrill seeker. Girl loves to run, jump and play. There is little intellectualizing about her life. She just loves to be. She is almost always happy, she gathers friends like fallen leaves. Her heart is open and alert to everyone. And the friend she brought with her? Same. They giggle and tease, they kick the soccer ball, and they can't go fast enough or high enough on the tube. They wanted to hit the biggest waves, hurl around the most severe corners, jump and flip and finally to fly off into the water.

What parent doesn't love to watch her kids enjoy life? Sometimes, I think that when we get to the lake, leaving "real life" behind, we see a distillation of our kids. I caught a tiny glimpse of this today as they navigated their way through the waves. I am thankful for their differences, for their emotional capacity to befriend and to love, and the vigor of their lives.

The Most Fun Project

I am not a sentimental person.

But.

When my husband graduated High School, long before I knew him, he was given a quilt. His friend's mom made it for him to thank him for something particularly kind he had done for her son. She wrote a sweet note on the back. He carried that blanket to school, to summer jobs, and into our married life. Twenty years later, we still have that quilt; it's kind of a family favorite. The fabric is worn, parts of the edges frayed in spots. And yet, it's something every one of us loves.

So when my friend asked me for creative ways to memorialize her graduating son's theatrical achievements, it was short jump to memory quilt.

Pictures were scanned, paged were printed and handed over to me. I used the school's colors to trim the squares. In the center, I embroidered his name, his graduating class and his years in Repertory Theater. His acting chops are such that he's been active on stage for all four years of High School and was this year awarded Mr. Theater. Which I think is kinda cool. His friends can sign the blank space around his name.

When I delivered them yesterday (we made two, one for a friend), smiles all around. Like I said, I'm not particularly sentimental but I enjoyed putting this piece together. I thought of how proud my friends are of their son. I thought of his hard work and his passionate pursuit of something he loves. And I thought of his bright future, continuing that pursuit.

Too Busy for Guilt

Soccer practice. It's one of my favorite times. I love watching the girls run and play and have fun and learn and compete. I love seeing the community they build through a shared love for sport. I love the talk time with the other mommies. Always gives me something to think about.

This week a wiry thread of something ugly ran through every conversation. One mom was headed to a Girl's Night Out and needed someone to give her daughter a ride home. She took her time leaving; "guilt," she said.

Another mom had a coupon for a major discount at her favorite store. She wanted to run over and gift herself something. She weighed the pros and cons and worked out her justification for the purchase, wondering if she would hide it from her husband.

I myself didn't want to leave until my husband showed up. I was the drop off driver, he was the pick up driver. I knew he was on the way, I knew practice lasted another hour, I knew he knew. Still, I resisted leaving, worried, feeling guilty that I wasn't standing there, watching her warm-up, shoot, run, drill.

But the word "guilt" spoken by both of these moms resonated through my head, bouncing around like an uninvited guest overstaying its welcome in my head. I walked away confident my daughter would indeed have a ride home, that my husband would show up. Guilt had no place in this situation.

Sure. There are times when a healthy dose of real, true conviction prompts one to confess, or apologize, or change. But this? This was just silly mom insecurity. And I'm too busy for that.

"Oh, yes!"

As the good doctor would say himself, "Ohhhh, yes!" Here it is in all its time traveling goodness. My daughter's finished Dr. Who T.A.R.D.I.S. bag perfect for overnights with the girls or cruising the Caribe with her fam.

I used heavy cotton webbing for the straps instead of jute webbing which I'm using on the next two, 'cause that stuff is a bear to stitch.

Also, I curse that blasted bias strap. When will I get good at that technique? Practice, practice.

She loves it. Now I just need to ship her off somewhere so she can try it out. Considering a K9 or Dalek covered toiletry bag for inside.

You like?

T.A.R.D.I.S. Time Travel Bag

Trust me; this all ties together.

Our family is big into Dr. Who right now. I mean really big into the show and all its miscellany.

Our family is also planning a giant ball of fun cruise in the summer with the grandparents.

Our kids all need new travel gear.

I stumbled upon this amazing travel duffel pattern on etsy and decided each kid could choose their own fabric to design their very own duffel for our trip.

I took the eldest to the fabric shop first, knowing she would have the toughest time choosing. She has interests in so many areas and her decision making skills verge on crazy making. I knew she would need lots of time. Turns out her favorite fabric existed only in her head.

Being the rockin' mama that I am, we struck upon a plan to make the fabric of her dreams and the T.A.R.D.I.S. bag was born.

Above see the fabric in its infancy. Tomorrow see the finished bag in all it's glory.

A word about the pattern. It is one of my all time favorites. Cherie writes amazingly well thought out instructions. The bag could be completed by a new sewer with a little help. Pockets, handles and opportunities to customize make this a new go-to pattern for me. Check her out on etsy. She's got some great ideas.