Auld Lang Syne...

Albert Einstein once wrote...

Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people.

Today, for me, is all about reflection. What have I accomplished? Where am I going? Most importantly...what kind of person have I been? Have I given more than I've taken? Have I lived purposefully?

And I think I have. Believe me, I've had plenty of years where the column of negativity was overflowing. Years where I took and never returned. Years where I ignored who my parents hoped I would become. Years where I was weak.

I am no longer weak. This year I loved and lived well. It wasn't a year of life changes, there were no marriages, divorces, births or deaths. It was a year of strenghthening the status quo. And I've never been happier to just "be". My children are healthy and happy...my parents are thriving...my siblings are funny as ever...my career is fulfilling, finally....and I am in love...still.

What could there be to complain about? I'm sure there is plenty, but this year I grew past conjuring negativity. Moments I failed...but I tried. Leave it to someone else...I don't have to carry it in me. I took one final lap around the neighborhood this morning and made sure to smile at everyone I passed. Some returned the gesture, but most lowered their gazes and hurried on. My first reaction was...how hard is it to sincerely smile?...which was then replaced by something far more revolutionary...they just aren't there yet, so I'll wait...and keep smiling.

My wish for you all this New Year is to keep smiling and use your clean slate to benefit others. As 2010 expires this evening I will be thinking of you...hoping you are occupying your happiest place in the comfort of loved ones. If not, get busy...make the most of your talents and time. Give love and take it wisely...the only one that can change the tide is...you...

Happy New Year to you and yours...to me and mine...to ours....

6...

The birth of a child is one of those turning points in life, where, after it happens, you can barely remember who you were before.

What did I do with my time? Sleep? Read? Dream about you?

On a warm, blue-skied April day, my little Pink began her journey. I sat, bewildered and ecstatic on the bathroom floor, clutching the little stick that had just reimaged my life. My singular existence was now two and my hands fluttered in hesitation above where her heart was just beginning to beat. I didn't know her or even that "her" was the correct label, but I "knew" her. She was already part of me.

For the next nine months I enclosed myself in a bubble wrap existence and...waited. Most of the time I was terrified. Every ache and pain sent terror coursing through my heart. Every hair on my head stood at attention, waiting for my body to fail me. I have never been that strong...how can I do this? There was no choice, my ever-growing body took the lead and I spent countless hours inspecting my newfound curves. Always sporting a rather tomboyish figure, I had developed the chest of a porn star and was loving every notch on the bra that had to be let out.

Before long, my moon of a midsection eclipsed my scandalous ta-tas and the sexy glow was replaced by a penguin's waddle. My rear-end was a sight to behold and, once, after catching a glimpse in some unfortunate lighting, I was reduced to tears trying to find myself somewhere in all that extra body. Where are you Girl? I promise to never have sex again if you come back.

Our house was a mess of blankets and onesies and pumps and pillows and whatthehellisadiapergenie?! And wherethehellismybellybutton?! I was huge. I hurt. I could barely walk and my head looked as pregnant as my belly...and I was a week late....over Christmas. And then...a slice of pain rocketed across my abdomen and I new she was on her way.

For the next eighteen hours I paced and breathed and screamed and swore. It was all ice chips and epidural and dialation and pretty much what you see in the movies, where the husband is green and the mother of the new mother is screaming...SHE NEEDS MORE PAIN MEDS NOW! And then...my little lady...in true Pink fashion decided to put the brakes on her impending delivery. I am convinced she was applying lipstick and doing a few squats in preparation for her grand entrance. The rest is a blur of not enough time...gotta get her out...sign this paper....don't worry....don't worry...

And I was given...the scar that changed my life. And also...the title I treasure most...Mom.

Her eyes were saucers. Looking at me. She knew me too and I was gone. Gone for good. While I was gazing at her, that old Girl slipped out the side door into the wintry night. And in her place she left...this new girl. This mom and this Pink. And she let me...watch my soul stand outside my body.

Today Pink is six and someday, when she reads this she will know how very much I love her and how...once...we were one Girl.

Tangled...

...in crisp, white hotel linens, I shrug and yawn away the remnants of last night's wine. In the millisecond it takes to gather my bearings...there is his hand, pushing away the tangled mess of hair from my eyes and pulling me closer. There you are Boy...

Here we are...memories of the night resurface and I press my face into his back, breathing him in...arms and legs migrating to familiar places, nearly impossible to tell where he ends and I begin. The city lies at the foot of our king-sized bed...snow-capped bridges and water for days. We pull up the covers and relive the night...


My Christmas gift to Boy this year was a night on the town. And I didn't want it to be just any night, but a memorable one. One, where years later you are still saying...now that was a good night. He deserves it. His generosity continues to humble me and I just wanted to say...thank you...I am truly the luckiest. So...

...the bellhop swung open the door, revealing a view that knocked the breath from my chest. Two walls of windows, chilled from the swirl of winter...and the city beyond. A marvel. We pressed our noses to the glass, briefly obscuring the view of the ballpark with our breath...wiping it clean to reveal barges and boats and ambulances blaring. Knees on the ledge...can you get higher? What do you see?! Like kids on Christmas morning, we jumped on the bed and chuckled at the people scampering about in the freezing cold. We poured the first glass of wine and toasted to us. I love you. Yep. Pretty much forever. We chatted and snacked and rested and looked at each other...and then back to the windows again.  What a view. We might have kissed a few hundred times.

At some point we tugged on jeans and pushed feet into boots. Sprayed perfume and brushed hair. Who has the car keys and room keys and how do I look? Gorgeous. Look at you. Take my hand...HURRY UP!...the wine-tasting is upon us...

...behind a non-descript city door lay a small local winery, offering cheap tastings and free stories. An eclectic mix of Pittsburghers mingle amongst the wine wares...an oenophile's dream. The warehouse-type atmosphere is chilly, yet surprisingly comforting. Boy and I taste and talk...cheeks growing rosier by the glass. Laughs get louder and longer as we huddle closer, inspecting the odd knick-knacks on the shelves. We are social, but not overly so. This night is just for us. The final tasting reminds us of our dinner reservations and we hustle into coats and out into the frigid night air...

...and into the warmth of the last leg of the night. It's all fireplaces and fur coats. Low, close conversations and lights so dim that you have to hold the menu a heartbeat away from your face. The wine has taken hold and we're all smiles, grinning wide for our waiter who is also a sommelier. He tells us he is wearing his daughter's headband to hold back his long locks, and we can't help but concentrate on the teeth that aren't quite where God intended. So weird. But so good at the same time. We fill our bellies with scallops and shrimp and tuna and wine...wine...wine...until we fall apart in one glorious peanut butter fudge finale. Smacking our lips and licking our fingers, we laugh like idiots...especially when the bill arrives. Who cares...I pretty much love you forever...

Hustling into coats one last time we head back...to frost those windowpanes one last time...and wake...tangled...in each other. 

An Interview with Pink....

The other night, at the dinner table, Pink asked me...Is your blood in my blood Mommy?

And so began a question and answer session that blew my mind. Her self-awareness had finally taken root and she wanted to know...

When was the first moment you knew you loved me?
What are we when we die?
What is ashes? Is it like sand?
Where was I before I was with you?
Do you love me more than Tink?
How did you hold me when I came out? Did I scream? Laugh? Cry?

And the best of all...

Do you know how to do the robot?

It was a moment in time when I realized that this life is not about me. It's about her. Them. I am a vessel. A means through which wisdom and grace is relayed. She was listening. Waiting. Wondering. Mommy tell me. And so we talked, for hours. And I answered every question from the perspective of who I hope she'll become. Thoughtful. Reflective. Better than me. That is my job. To instill thought and delay pessimism. Every single second of every day we are bombarded with cynicism. The have-nots and want-mores and I'm better than yous. And so we talked.

And then, this rainy Sunday morning, I asked her some questions. Pink wants to know everything I have in my thirty-four year old arsenal. So what's in yours baby? You are now nearly six. How do you see it? Tell me. I'm listening.

What does it mean to be in love?
To love that other person as much as you love your mom.

What does it feel like to fall in love?
It's definitely like kissing and hugging...ALL AT THE SAME TIME!

What is it like to be a sister?
It's like you are so lucky that God took your best friend and put them in your house.

How much love is there for a Mommy and Daddy?
It's more than a box. Pretty much like it could fill your whole closet. But not the downstairs closet, that one's too small.

What is the best thing about a Daddy?
He actually loves you so much that he sort of likes reading to you EVERY night.

What happens when you die?
You get so tired of living that you let go. Then you sleep and dream about all the cool things you did.

What's the hardest thing about being a Mommy?
Keeping the babies quiet.

What scares you the most?
I've never seen them, but definitely coyotes. And alligators.

I think the kid's gonna be alright...

Sunday Morning...

...said I'm gonna love you forever, forever and ever amen...as long as old men sit and talk about the weather, as long as old women sit and talk about old men...

The twang of Randy Travis's voice square-danced itself up the stairs to light on my teenage ears, rousing me from sleep. Senses awakened by breakfast, sizzling and dancing in the pan. It was Sunday. The kind of morning that eased its way into every warm place. Blew its breath on a whisper and raised the hair on your neck. Made you pull  the covers to your nose and see the world, ever so slightly, from beneath the down of the comforter. I would wait for...

My mother's laughter to eventually beat the music to the punch and I would drape my gangly body over the side of the bed. Slipping on my glasses, the world became clearer and Sunday's kitchen was my destination. My parents were a mess of flannel robes and bedhead. Country radio blared. Sunday funnies littered the floor. My father, seeing me, would put his arms out and we would dance. Martina McBride, George Strait, Alan Jackson. All of our favorites showed up this morning. I was too cool for this treacly show, but, no one else was here to see, so...just this once. One more time. I would dance and be...gloriously uncool.

I loved Sunday. Still do. On the rare occasion that I rise before Pink and Tink, I drag my own bleary-eyed bedraggled bedhead from the security of bed and head to the kitchen. Country radio on and butter sizzling. Crack the eggs and sing, waiting for my own little ladies to join me. Today it's Lady Antebellum....Hello world, how ya been....good to see you my old friend. Sometimes I feel...cold as steel...broken like I'm never gonna heal.

Tiny giggles pierce through my Sugarland sonata and I know it's time. Making their way down the stairs, Pink and Tink are all nightgowns and smiles. We sit on the kitchen floor, each taking a turn in my lap for a few morning kisses and how ya doins and did you sleep wells... I inspect them closely. Was nighttime kind? Are they still my babies? They are. Brought back to me on Sunday.

Pink puts her face close to mine and sings...Lover, lover, lover...you don't treat me no good no more...

And we laugh out loud...gloriously uncool...

The Parachute...

There are very few moments of pure bliss as we age. Bliss is the stuff of children. Pure, unadulterated exhilaration and excitement for life. As parents...caregivers...teachers....we try to protect and preserve the bliss within our children.

Smiles and giggles not laced with worry and regret. Nighttime slumber thick with the dalliances of sugar plum fairies instead of to-do lists a mile long.  We see our children for what they really are and hope the rest of the world does as well. Gorgeous, soft creatures. Cheeks deep and welcoming to our never-ending kisses. We examine their little bodies in rapt wonder. Lithe and lanky, pudgy and short. Eyelashes running wild from the blue beneath. Tiny hands that reach around our waists for comfort. Bursts of breath that remind us of that first one time and again. Never doubting that they are created just as was intended. They observe their reflections and see nothing but beauty. They would never think to do anything else, but live. Happily.


At their gymnastics class last week, the instructors pulled out the parachute. Remember it? The kids scream with excitement. It is pure bliss in rainbow stripes. They tug and pull at this nylon dream, raising it high above their heads. On the teacher's signal, they pull it down around their tiny bodies and sit on the inside, shutting out the world. I can hear their laughter as it pierces through the shield...the instructor pulls it away and they are all static cling and smiles. Running back to us...teeth visible from ear to ear. Bliss.

At this holiday time, I encourage each and everyone of us to find our parachute. What is that one thing that truly turns up the corner of your mouth? That one thing that makes you say...It doesn't get much better than this. That makes you feel like a kid again.  And then let yourself enjoy it. Wrap it around you and squeal in delight...over and over.

For Rent...

There was a moment last week, when I questioned my mortality. It was an abnormal reading of a normal test that ultimately turned out to be...nothing.

But for a few days...I thought...what if?

And then I thought...this body isn't even mine. It's been loaned to me in good faith by something bigger than I could ever fathom. Something bigger than I've ever had the faith to believe.

I am a renter. Of this life and this body. And I thought...

What will be seen when all the chips are cashed in? All the lights turned low and the orchestra is swelling in one final, glorious encore. When I turn this body back in...completely changed from the moment it was given to me. What will it look like? Some answers I have and some will come with time...as life takes its toll on this ramshackle rental. Held together with grit and glue. Too much chardonnay and not enough sleep.

Maybe I'll get a chance to stand outside of myself and look at "her".  Who was she?

And she'll laugh...at that ridiculous tattoo. She was 18 when she imprinted her body with rebellion. Over time the colors faded and the image stretched and pulled with the life of someone else. Two "someone elses". Two...who...want an explanation for that ridiculous tattoo.

And her fingers will trace, lovingly, that scar. Deep and crooked. Two lives wrenched free from the grip of her...and sewn back hastily. It is a battle wound. She wears it like a badge of honor. Because it is.

And that other scar...above her lip. From the day she dove headfirst into her parent's dresser and truly felt the safety of her mother's arms. Boys would point out that scar for years and she would always be reminded of...her mother.

And those legs...worn smooth from those girls ever growing bodies.
And those lips...kissed by true love.

And that life...rented...but owned...
...and loved...

Girl Everlasting...

In school, I am reading Tuck Everlasting with my students. It's a tale of a family who happens upon a spring that bestows upon them eternal life. They keep the secret for eighty-seven years until a young girl, Winnie, discovers them and learns of their immortality. The father, Angus Tuck, tries to impress upon Winnie that eternal life is not all it's cracked up to be...If I knowed how to climb back on the wheel, I'd do it in a minute. You can't have living without dying, so you can't call it living, what we got. We just are, we just be, like rocks beside the road. 

I don't think any of us out there hope to just "be". To just take up space until our space is filled by another. But so many of us do, don't we?

We wait...
...for the work week to be over
...to make more money
...for the storm to pass
...for the cold to break
...for heartbreak to heal
...for the child to sleep
...for her to love you
...to see if he'll leave
...for the perfect moment to take that leap

But what if we've already done it? What if we've already been and lived and seen and done? What if we let go of the waiting and acknowledged the living?

And I don't consider my life to be of any great importance or interest but I've...

....kicked my legs high while the band marched on
...moved my tassel, twice,  and started a new adventure
...fallen in heart-stopping, bone-crushing love....quite a few times
...felt the sun on my face from distant countries
...opened the box and pulled out the ring
...shopped for a wedding dress with my mother
...seen two pink lines
...watched my body swell with life...twice
...fallen in heart-stopping, bone-crushing love...with a child
....broken bread with friends and family who know my real story
...let down my guard
...built up walls
...gave up and gave in
...admitted I couldn't do it all
...found him
...accepted and acknowledged
...loved

Don't waste your time waiting for what is to come....it is already here.

Pause My Life...

There's never enough time is there?

Time for smelling the roses and whatnot. So, I've started thinking, lately, how I'd like to pause those sweeter moments in life and really dissect them. Observe them with a magnifying glass and leave my mark upon them. Let the recipient know that I, was in fact, here. I saw it all and savored it well.


My girls are growing like weeds before my eyes. I was holding hands with Pink the other day and noticed that she is no longer a baby. She is a little lady, standing tall, talking about life with me in terms I can understand. If I could have paused her then...right there...I would have. And I would have looked at her hands, how they fit tenderly in mine. I would have bent down and memorized every freckle left over from a summer truly enjoyed. I would have memorized her voice, just as it is now. Tiny and unfettered, yet showing signs of the girl she is to become. She is so beautiful.

And I would pause my little Tink as she excitedly recounted her day at school as the Big Bad Wolf. Pause. Right there. Blond hair wild and voice, high and mighty, like a sprite. I would breathe in her light, the brightness that begins at her toes and escapes from her blue eyes, like nighttime escaping the sunrise. She is so full of life.

And I would pause my Boy. My love for him has exploded over the last year. Sometimes I feel my heart can barely contain it. Pause. Right there in Mexico. I would pause him and really feel his hands on mine. His eyes dancing with laughter. I would feel the weight of him and memorize the lines on his face. He is such a gift.

And then I would hit play and watch their lives unfold before me and intertwine with mine. Thankful.

Sweet Summertime...

After a much needed respite from the daily grind, the blog has returned!

How do I appropriately sum up all that this summer was to me? The time I had with Pink and Tink? The time with Boy?

Poetry perhaps...

I pulled back the covers from your sleepy eyes and laid my eyes on a tangled mess of blonde delight...
Mommy is home for the summer...
gloriously drowning in...nap time...pool time...library time...
slathering sunscreen...
donning bikinis...
eating mass quantities of Cheez-its...
reading books...your tiny bodies still fitting in the crook of my arm....thankfully...
Hannah Montana...
Scooby-Doo...
EZ bake oven...
locusts and crickets and summer growing warmer in front of us...
slides and big girl swings...
Lady Antebellum and Tim McGraw...
Coppertoned bums...
Pink! You learned to swim!
Tink! Remember how we marveled at the moon...in the daytime?
Daddy picked you up for Myrtle Beach and Mommy....

got a hot pink mani-pedi...
Mexico looms...
there you are Boy...
side by side in row 19...
the east coast dissolves behind us...
the bellhop opens 534...
paradise revealed...
romance and room service...
pina coladas and pool bar Juan...
Cleveland Tommy...
my legs artfully wrapped around your waist...
floating in silence...
effortless certainty that you are the love of my life...
dinner and dancing and drinks and gut busting laughter...
Secrets Idol...
freckles...
oceans away from the rest of the world...
Riviera Maya

New Beginnings...

Today marks the end of my tenth year in the classroom.

A decade.

On the front bulletin board there are class pictures from the last ten years. A chronicle of the aging process in plain view for all to see. In two of the photographs I am pregnant with my daughters. In one, my long red hair reaches far below the eye of the camera. In one I have my father's last name and in nine I have his. Crows feet increase. Weight is gained and lost. In all there are nearly thirty students surrounding me. The oldest are now twenty-two.

There is one box left beside my desk, filled with odds and ends. Summertime looms and I can feel this incredibly satisfying sense of closure to this particular school year. A decade I have taught. That's something. But more than that, it's what I see in the distance that excites and energizes me.

I daresay I've grown up. Not in the "I'll never laugh like a kid again kind of way", but in the "I'm in charge of my of life kind of way."

Being a mom and watching my daughters grow...
Being a girlfriend and building a life with Boy...
Being a daughter and understanding what that means from a mother's point of view...
Being a teacher and seeing the kids for what they are going to be, not necessarily what they are right now...

So many things to look forward to...

Momentarily I will turn the lights out on the last ten years of my life, and use the light within me as the next decade's guide...

As the Year...

draws to a close, I find myself with less time to write and tons of ideas rolling through my brain. I will get up an official post this weekend, but thought you might find this nugget of humor from Tink amusing.

As  I sat down to dry and dress Tink after last night's bath, I let out an exhausted sigh to which she replied:

What's wrong Momma? 
 My legs are sore, that's all
Sometimes my giney gets sore (this is code for vagina)
Literally laughing out loud, I ask why it gets sore.
Well, you don't know cuz you don't have a giney Mommy. 

Ahhh...How could I possibly understand then given that I am a glorified Barbie doll?

Good lord I love that child.

Cole...

It is about this time of year that I forget why I became a teacher. The rowdy pre-pubescent children that invade my classroom daily, make me pine for my own little ladies.  Why do I choose to spend time with twenty-eight smelly twelve year olds when my two lovely preschoolers keep asking why Mommy has to go to work.

I work because, well, I have to. That's a given. But I teach because I think I'm good at it...or I used to be at least. The last decade has hardened my view of education. It is so grievously flawed. It's impossible to realize unless you actually practice the profession. Parents wave excitedly as they send their children off to AWARD WINNING BLUE RIBBON SCHOOLS!!!  Not realizing, however, that winning those awards is akin to securing the presidential nomination. It takes a lot of money and politicking and not nearly enough of the character and integrity it should. Wealthy schools win the awards. My school district just secured the title of NATIONAL SCHOOL DISTRICT OF CHARACTER! This is the same school, where just weeks ago, sixth grade students stood around and took pictures with their phones of an overweight fourth grade girl who had fallen between the seats of the bus. The pictures were sent to nearly every member of the student body in minutes. The punishment. Detention for a few. The reward? Toting the title of a nationally recognized school of character.

There are plenty of moments though that remind me of how important it is that I keep trying. Trying to reach the kids and help them to positively impact the lives of others.

A few years ago I had a young boy named Cole. Cole came into sixth grade a tiny pipsqueak of a thing. He had lost his mother to cancer the summer before and his best friend Nathan also suffered from the same disease. Needless to say, Cole was fragile and his father impressed upon me time and again that he needed a loving female figure in his life.

The first essay he wrote for me was about his mother, how her passing had crushed him. He envied everyone's familial situations. And who could blame him for that? Cole would cry at the drop of the hat and I was certain he would not make it through the year. How could I possibly help him? I would sit in my car and cry; college did not prepare you for these kinds of situations.  So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I talked to him. About anything and everything. I would sit on the floor next to his desk, while the other students were working, and we would just talk. At first he didn't say much, but as the year progressed he opened up more and more. Our daily chat sessions turned into debates and wagers, mostly centered around football.  

Cole and I made bets for every Steeler game, the loser having to bring in lunch for the victor. We exchanged turkey sandwiches time and again while Monday morning quarterbacking about our black and gold.When the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl that year, I called him at home and we hooted and  hollered over the phone. He was forever jumping up and down in front of me, begging me to assess his work or "look at this picture I drew!"  Occasionally he would confide in me; worries and whatnot. But mostly he smiled and we enjoyed each other's company for the duration of sixth grade. The bell rang on the final day and I didn't see him for four years, until last week.

The high school choir came to sing songs about character and there was Cole, grown into a man, belting out tunes in the front row. I could scarcely believe how tall he was, and watched in admiration from the back row of the auditorium. When the final note had been sung, he leapt from the stage and ran towards me, picking me up like a sack of potatoes. Without a care in the world he buried his face in my neck, swung me around and said "I've waited so long to see you."

He was doing so well. Singing in the choir, fronting his own band and sheepishly admitting that he did indeed have a girlfriend. I put my hands on his face, like mother's do, and told him how grown up he was, how proud I was of him. He gave me one last squeeze and promised, as he ran back to the stage, to visit soon. As I walked back to homeroom with my rowdy class of tweens, they all wanted to know who he was. Why was he hugging me? Was he a student of mine?

Very simply, he is why I love what I do.

Breakable...

Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?

Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts

So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess,

And to stop the muscle that makes us confess

They met in law school and, to follow the age old cliche', it was love at first sight. I vividly remember viewing their relationship as if through a frosted windowpane, eager to join them inside by the fire. They had a love that was timeless; one that many envied. Including myself. After a while they started to almost resemble one another and their first names became one in conversation. AmyandAllan.

And we are so fragile,

And our cracking bones make noise,

And we are just,

Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

He had crooked glasses and, upon drinking too much rum, attached his Ipod to his shorts and scrubbed the house into limp submission. Rage Against the Machine was his poison. We giggled and pointed. It didn't fit his look. He was a bookish nerd with a death metal soul. He smoked; cigarette dangling from his fingers. He walked with a deliberate shuffle. Eager to get on with life.

And you fasten my seat belt because it is the law

In your two ton death trap I finally saw

A piece of love in your face that bathed me in regret

Then you drove me to places I'll never forget

They married in November of 2001 on a day that denied the coming of winter. The sun shone and the air was warm against our strapless shoulders. We danced and drank and they looked at each other and no one else. They were the essence of love. On a vacation with us a few years later they created life. The scandal. Were they just in the next room?

And we are so fragile,
And our cracking bones make noise,

And we are just,

Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys

And then fate, deciding he was needed for other endeavors, took him. In a blinding flash of light she was now solo. The essence of love snuffed out. If we try hard enough can we still remember the timbre of his voice? If you stare long enough at a picture, can you travel there? If life takes your love, does it still exist somewhere?

It does. It will. We will all make sure of that.

To Allan Wertz

September 8, 2009

Husband

Father

Friend

Healing Winter's Wounds....

Head in hands, I sank to the steps and let the first tears finally fall. Another year was too long to wait...

****************************************************************************

My family's annual trip to Deep Creek is one we anxiously look forward to for months. This year, after being given a one two punch from Old Man Winter, the trip was not just a treat, but a necessity. We all were itching to reconnect, laugh, drink and shed our weary winter coats at last. For me it was so much more. Nearly three full days with my babies and my Boy...a rare gift.

Sitting in the passenger seat, the sun warming my face, I felt uniquely blessed.  The three people I cherish more than anything in the world were sharing the same space and I felt waves of nostalgia consume me. It had been more than two years since I was part of a "nuclear" family and for a few days I was going to revel in it. It wasn't just Girl, it was us. And so we drove and chatted and yelled at the little ladies not to put their feet on the seat. And, for a moment, we were one.

*******************************************************************************

We arrived first, anxiously awaiting my mother's arrival. The entrance of Mum would signal the start of the festivities. And lunchmeat. Mum always gets there first, raids the local grocery store and stocks up on enough lunchmeat to feed hungry children in Siberia. She also has an uncanny ability to buy exactly what is needed in the exact right amount. She rolled into the cabin armed with fifteen pounds of ham, toothpaste, coffee creamer and frisbees as big as the sun. Good lord did we have fun with those damn frisbees.

As the day progressed the rest of the clan slowly trickled in. Shortly before sunset all had arrived, claiming rooms and cracking beers. As the sun began to set, we all gathered outside to warm our faces in the waning light and breathe in the lake air. Music drifted along the breeze, kids were chased, hugs and high fives became more prevalent as the drinks flowed. And the time together started to heal what the winter had wounded.

The rest of the weekend was more of the same, too much to write here. We watched Papa dive into the hot tub, now conspicuously filled with bubbles and knocked each other over when the winning goal drifted across the red line. The Pens were headed to the next round. The girlfriends and I caught up while deveining shrimp, grilling one another on love and life. The wine on the windowsill threatened to spill as Pink and Tink rumbled by on their bikes. We cooked a gluttonous feast for the crew and I felt, in that moment, that I was whole again. What the last two years had taken from me had finally been returned in this brightly lit room full of food and laughter. Family and understanding. I looked at my mother and saw all that she and Papa had created.  All of these people, with all of their gifts and faults, all in one room. I was humbled by the enormity of it.

And Boy, fitting in like a glove. Shriveled from too much time in the hot tub, stomach sore from laughter. I never wanted to leave.

But leave we must and we did, parting with a last look at the lake and sending a silent wish to whomever would listen that the next year keep us all safe and in enough love that we meet back here again. Again, to let our hair down at the end of a long winter's nap.

Thanks Mum...

365...

Do you remember...

The night we met...sharing wine and tapas...
Butterflies invaded my body.
On some level I knew you...
All night I tried to decode this feeling...
I was home...
It was you...
It has always been you...
Your hand in my hand....
Your breath on my lips....
I recognized them from some other life...
You weren't new to me...
We were rekindling a love extinguished...
Not the love of my life, but the love in my life...
Home.

Happy first anniversary Boy...

I love you...

Checks and Balances...

"What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?" - George Eliot

At an interminable Inservice meeting today, we were discussing our Emotional Account Balances. The bank accounts of the heart, if you will. Our relationships, whether they be good or bad, make deposits and withdrawals upon our lives.  The goal, of course, is to stay in the black.  If too many relationships leave us wading in the red, we run the risk of becoming emotionally bankrupt.

The teacher running the show was encouraging us to think of a prominent relationship in our lives and create a list of withdrawals and deposits, hopefully realizing the the deposit list is much higher. Of course, my mind and heart go immediately to Boy. We are nearing the first anniversary of our first date and I am immensely proud of that for many reasons, not the least of which is that I have never had a relationship so full of deposits. His generosity is so humbling that I feel almost embarrassed at times. In one year's time he has completely changed the way I view love.

I had a brief moment of insecurity recently and questioned Boy about his feelings for me, to which he replied, "If I didn't want to be here Girl, I wouldn't." And he's right. Boy doesn't pull any punches and he doesn't buy into emotional girly games. His actions have proven time and again what a loyal and honest person he is.

The other night we had tickets to see David Gray. I bought them for Boy, delighted that I was finally able to give something back to him. A mere pittance, considering all he's done for me, but he was so excited. So it was quite apropos that I got the stomach flu the day of the concert. Being as stubborn as ever, I was determined to go.  Boy saw the agony I was in as we drove to the show and made the executive decision that we weren't going, no ifs ands or buts about it. Instead of enjoying a grown up night out on the town, I ended up on the couch in my sweatpants and manrobe, while Boy watched Alvin and the Chipmunks with Pink and Tink. He put jammies on the girls, brushed their teeth and snuggled up with Pink as the Chipettes rocked out to the Single Ladies. I may have been physically spent, but my emotional bank account was completely full.

Ten years ago today, I got engaged. I was emotionally bankrupt, but the huge rock on my finger was proof that I was getting all I had ever wanted. Too bad I never actually asked myself what it was that I needed instead. Fast forward a decade and I could care less about jewelry and presents, or the next big thing. Right now I have all I ever really needed. I owe so much of that to Boy. So...thank you Boy for too many things to name. But, mostly, for depositing so much of your love into my account. I am eternally grateful.

Asides...

I am working on a scathing post about public education, but until then, to tide over my valued readers...I present you with Asides.  Random stuff I think about that makes Boy ask..."Where do you come up with this crap?!"

• If I was ever on death row, God forbid, I already know exactly what I'd choose for my last meal. It would have to be the turkey and mashed potato dinner that they serve for school lunches. I crave it. I would ask the warden to fill up a child's swimming pool of the stuff and I would sit in it while I waited to meet my maker. 
• As much as I would like bigger boobs, I could never get a boob job. I'd be so stressed about people staring at my chest that I'd be forced to wear turtleneck sweaters in the summer. I'd never get a nose job either. With my luck I'd end up looking like Michael Jackson and be forced to do the moonwalk at parties. 
• I only eat Doritos with the cheesiest side down so that hits my tongue first. Go ahead, watch me eat them. I inspect each and every one. 
• I wonder if those penguins that live in the Arctic and have to survive debilitating snowstorms while sitting on their young, get pissed at kangaroos who hop around in the sun all the time and have a built-in pouch for their kid.
• Who the hell is Justin Bieber and why is he the opening "act" for the new We are the World recording? 
• Tink is always stressed about undies being "stuck in her bum". I worry that she will never learn to wear a thong and have inappropriate underwear lines.
• I don't know what it is, but when my students are really rowdy at school I play A Fine Frenzy's "The Minnow and the Trout" and they immediately calm down. It's like a lullaby. Even my tough boys sing like girls until it's over. 
• I think about so much random stuff that I worry that my brain wasn't wired properly. Oh well, I'm good entertainment at parties usually. 

The End! 

Life and Tampax....

At a recent In-Service meeting, we were encouraged to write down our life's "mission statement".  They gave us two full pages in which to construct this mantra by which to live your life.  My esteemed colleagues were making fun of me, because I already have one and it doesn't require two pages, but one simple line.

To be happy, but not at the expense of others. 

How, you might ask, did I construct such gloriously written words?

Very simply, I thought about it.  And thought about it. And so on....

I am sure, if you are are reading this, you have gathered enough personal information about me to know that I do a lot of thinking about a lot of frivolous stuff.  I am overly emotional, moderately egotistical and search for the meaning of life, often, in Tampax commercials. 

I like to live my life like a dramatic movie montage. One where the boy and girl run through the rain holding hands while the orchestra swells to a dramatic climax. One where the mother dries her daughter's tears after an incredibly trying day at school and says the most perfect words at the most perfect time.  Usually, my life turns out like a comedic horror flick, with two naked anklebiters running around the house waving my tampons like swords.

But I digress...back to my mission statement.  I have one, because I had lost way of my life and wanted to be able to tell Pink and Tink how to appropriately run theirs. To tell them that life isn't a dramatic montage where the boy gets the girl, and even if he does, she usually has her period and he doesn't get her anyway. 

My main goal for Pink and Tink is for them to happy.  Right? Isn't that what we all want for our children? But not the kind of happy where they've been overgifted into it, or overpraised or overcompensated for their parents' shortcomings.  And not a happiness that comes from watching others fail at something we so desperately want to win.  Not "reality t.v." happiness.  But, happiness that didn't come at the expense of others.  Happiness that is generated from within and can only benefit those without. 

How am I going to accomplish this? I have no idea. Not a clue.

But, I will start by encouraging them to sing loudly and often, with their eyes closed and arms flung wide open if that's what makes them happy. I will encourage them to run, even if it's like a girl, and feel the crazy wind messing up their perfect hairdos. I will encourage them to love even if it's not returned and to give kindness, even if it is absent from those around them.  I will encourage them to laugh when life is funny and even when it's not...as long as they are laughing "with" and not "at".

And to use my tampons as swords as long as it means they've got an imagination to live in.

It Takes a Village...

For whatever reason, I have been struggling recently with the idea of my girls having to grow up between two houses. I don't know why it's been hitting me so hard as of late, considering that this scenario is over two years old.

Maybe it's regret or feelings I never dealt with initially.  Maybe because my life has calmed down considerably and I have more time to think about things when Pink and Tink are gone. When they aren't with me, especially at night, the silence in the house is deafening.  At times, I feel like it's crushing me and is so loud I can barely sleep.  I find myself waking at night to check on them and can scarcely breathe upon realizing that they're not nestled in bed. They are supposed to be sound asleep, every night, in the room down the hall.  And they're not. And I made that decision for them.  That realization is hard to swallow. 

So, I've been wondering recently...What is it that kids truly need to feel safe and secure? To grow up happy and moderately sane? To know that, whatever the family situation, it is the best they could hope for.

The only answers I could arrive at are time and love. Not rocket science you'll agree, but there are plenty of families who fail to provide even the simplest of solutions to many of life's ills. Time and love.  If my kids have an abundance of anything at all, it is these two things.

We had Tink's third birthday party recently and I realized, on that afternoon, that my daughters are more blessed than most. Not only did they have their parents present, but their stepmother, stepsister, Nana and their very favorite Boy as well.  There was so much love and time being devoted to these children, it could nearly be classified as overindulgent. I had to laugh at one point as we passed around the children like ragdolls and they never missed a beat. Boy was holding Tink, I was holding their stepsister's hand and Pink's dramatic tears were being dried by her father. Later, we all had dinner together and shared a few drinks. It may not be "traditional", but it is good and it is stable and there is more love being given to those girls than Cupid doles out on Valentine's Day.

So...I am making a conscious decision to let go of the guilt. To let go of the regret. My daughter's blessed smiles are evidence enough of the time and love they've been given since we welcomed them into the world. I am making a conscious decision to revel in the fact that they are actually pretty lucky. Our decision to separate the households, simply allowed more love to fill the silence. 

Cut the Wheel!

Every time I try to do something normal, it turns out completely bizarre.  And all the while it's happening I'm writing the next blog post in my head. This past weekend was a mix of bizarre reality and fantasyhead blog posts.

 I decided to buy my first car.  Oh I've purchased vehicles before, but only used ones or married ones or ones my dad gave me after he drove them for ten years first. The ghetto ride I was cruising around in had finally reached its embarrassment limit when the side mirror broke, swinging wildly with every turn. I enlisted Boy to help me research cars, because I needed a second opinion and because he's somewhat of a badass who doesn't take shit from strangers. Every girl needs a good badass in their back pocket for emergencies.  Boy had even coached me on how to behave in front of the salespeople.

"Now Girl, don't squeal and jump around at the first car they show you." "Be aloof, be tough."

Damn. All I have in my girl arsenal is squealing and jumping.

So, off we go to North Hills Toyota and are fortunate to be paired up with salesman Jay; a man who looked like he was no stranger to fifths of whiskey and Marlboro Reds. Life had clearly not been kind to this man, and this day was not about to make it any better.

We engaged in your typical car buying banter and I tried desperately to remain uninterested and aloof, while in fantasyhead I was screaming....I LOVE CARS! ALL OF THEM! I WILL BUY THE FIRST ONE YOU SHOW ME! In a true testament to my inner strength, aloof girl kept her trap shut and  grudgingly decided to test drive a Rav 4, explaining to salesman Jay that 4 wheel drive is of the utmost importance considering this past February kicked us in the proverbial balls.

Off we go. Just me and the open road. Well, McKnight road with Boy in the backseat and salesman Jay leading the charge. It is here that the day took an unexpected turn.  A turn right into the snowy tundra of the North Hills. Jay, in an effort to showcase the Rav 4's incredible snow handling skills, instructs me to drive up a snow covered hillside in the middle of nowhere. I, of course, being as trusting as Snow White, bite the apple and gun it up the slope.  Boy, levelheaded as ever, expresses his disdain from the backseat. "I don't think this is a good idea Girl."

"Fear not Boy!, Jay said it was good in the snow!"  Pedal to the medal baby and my little Rav 4 storms up the hill, wedging itself deep into the powder.  This is a tire-spinning, you ain't getting out without a plow kinda wedge. The next few hours were full of hand-shoveling, engine revving hysteria, as Jay, on the verge of a heart attack, was convinced that all we had to do was "cut the wheel and gun it!"

Enter one dealership snow plow and the afternoon goes from comical to surreal.  The snow plow, bald tires and all, also wedges itself deep into the snow. At this point, the remainder of the afternoon kind of goes like this:

Whaddya mean you didn't bring shovels?!
Jay sweats.
Boy swears.
According to Jay, snow plow driver is "gay", which is why they're also stuck. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
Girl writes out last will and testament in back seat.
Cut the wheel!
Gun it!
Bumper, once attached, now unattached.
Jay reminds us, once again, that if snow plow driver weren't stupid and gay we'd be out of here hours ago. 
This would be so much more fun with booze.

At some point we did extract ourselves from the snowy hell and , believe it or not, I bought the damn thing. Not the one we dismantled in the wilderness, but my first brand new car that is "good in the snow" with the bumper securely in place.


As for Jay, I'm sure he drowned his sorrows that night in bad karaoke and a gallon of Jack. Boy and I chose Mexican food and box o wine to calm our nerves. Snow plow guy? Poor thing is still gay. Oh well, we all have our cross to bear.

We'll Dance....

marriage- an intimate or close union...

Being married seems like such a forgotten dream at times. I can scarcely recognize that young girl, more preoccupied with the music that would be played than the words being exchanged.  The ring, the celebrations, the shopping and spending, the anticipation.  The stress. The weather. The ancient church with no air conditioning. The ill-fitting dress and gobs of makeup. Toasts and speeches. Tears.

I married a good man, someone who, on paper, was perfect.  I kept my eyes closed to the signs that this union was neither intimate nor close. Friends would gush about their husbands to be, the conversations, the trips together, the chemistry between the sheets.  I would blush. Our life wasn't like that, but I was planning a wedding and a wedding I would have.  I should have been planning a marriage.

And you are warned of this by many.  Pay attention to your vows.  I don't remember mine, they were a means to an end. Say them. Kiss. Dance all night.

I, in no way, mean to disparage my former husband or what we had.  He is still a good friend and our marriage produced two daughters who break and fill our hearts in every way possible. We just didn't fill each other's hearts. And so they broke. And I didn't regret it. And that's how I knew.

I met Boy and I finally understood what everyone else was gushing about.  We talk for hours and throw our heads back in laughter time and again.  And...oh the chemistry.  And the friendship. Our time together is never wasted.  Regardless of the activity, our relationship is stronger at the outset.

Last weekend we made lasagna. We. Us. Wine and lasagna and laughter.  We are a team and I love my teammate. Our union is intimate and close. It is more a marriage than the one I had.

We already field the question...will you marry him? Will you marry her? Yes. No. Who knows? Absolutely. Never. Someday.

If we do, the only thing that will matter are the words exchanged. And then we'll dance.
If we don't...we'll still dance.

Self Esteem 101

I was reading an article recently about appropriate ages at which to talk to your kids about sex.  The article was riddled with parental angst regarding technique and timing for discussing the birds and the bees, without scarring your children for life.

I say do what my parents did. They never needed to have the talk with me, because they ensured that I was the walking "anti-sex." This was an incredibly effective tactic and they achieved this great level of success by giving me regular home perms, outfitting me with glasses Elvis Costello would be proud of and laying down railroad tracks in my mouth...twice.  Couple that with a criminal lack of breasts and a big nose and you've got a chastity recipe that few could beat.  In fact, this is the perfect breeding ground for the "life of the party" to emerge.  Hell, I wasn't going to get laid, but I sure could land a knock knock joke with perfect comedic timing.

My inner Kathy Griffin emerged on a particularly traumatizing day in middle school when swimming was part of physical education classes.  It wasn't the breaststroke that did the damage that afternoon, but the breast parade in which we all had to strip down in our naked middle school glory, and shower in front of our classmates and teacher.  Where the hell was Dr. Phil in 1988? He would have a had a field day with this abomination.  Of course, by 8th grade, most of my girlfriends had been paid a summertime visit by the boob fairy. They were eager to shove those puppies into a one piece Speedo and dive into the deep end.  I, on the other hand, still closely resembled a pre-pubescent boy.  My slim, flat figure was better fitted for sledding than swimming. I took it upon myself to make the most of this therapy-inducing striptease and streak through the locker room, naked as a jaybird, boldly displaying my lack of assets.  Mom would have been proud for sure. The anti-sex tactic had backfired and I was now the naked comedian.  

Fast forward twenty years and I still employ a wicked sense of humor to compensate for perceived flaws. Even though I eventually got rid of the perm and exchanged the glasses for contacts, the beauty queen thing never did quite kick in.  It's not that I think I'm bad looking, but I'm a dork at heart. Despite my mother's best efforts, I never really learned to dress myself and when Boy's not around I sport a hideous manrobe and glasses. I would totally rock a headgear if they weren't so 1985.

You can imagine how exhausting dating was.  The grooming alone nearly killed me. Maybelline can bite me. Crest Whitestrips too while we're at it.  And you know what? It doesn't matter  how old you are, or how far you've come since the days of a good training bra.  Just when you think you've completely shed your middle school self a good friend comes along to reassure you that..."Girl, you have no tits to speak of, but your ass is killer!"

That's why I have Dr. Phil on speed dial.

The Legacy we Leave...

Heaven
 
All our lives we're told that this is the place to which we should aspire. Live a good life and you are guaranteed a spot.  A place where we are ageless and all the shackles of the earthly world are left behind.  Excellent. We'll finally find out who really killed J.F.K and if, in fact, Elvis is dead. 

I recently asked Pink her definition of Heaven to which she responded, It is a big cloud in the sky with a house on it, just like Mommy's. Papa and Nemo live there. So does Uncle, Grandpa, Mitzi and Tocchet. In her short five years on this earth, these are the people and animals she's lost. One fish, two crotchety cats, a dear family friend, a great grandfather and, most recently, her beloved Papa Mike.  She's been struggling with this lately in her own five year old way, trying to balance what her father and I have told her with the reality. It's an awesome place, but you don't get to come back.  How bittersweet is that? Not just for a preschooler, but for all of us.  


As a parent I know that this is the time, not to scare her into fearing death, but to focus more on the legacy left behind.  This is the time for her father and I to help her begin to shape her own legacy. To help her answer the question, "What will people say about you when you're gone?"  


Her Papa was a great man in every sense.  Devoted to his family, friends and God.  He loved one woman for over thirty-five years and, with her, raised three strong men.  He built a community law practice from the ground up and his clients were friends first and foremost. And he loved Pink and Tink with a lion's heart. And they loved him like children love...all the way to the core, no questions asked.  Every time Tink smiles her sweet gap-toothed grin, I see him. Every time Pink buries her face in my neck and squeezes, I can feel him.  They don't know it yet, but they are his legacy. And what an amazing one to leave behind.  


So what will be said about you? Or any of us? If we live our days cognizant of this, we will be better and do better for others.  If we are lucky enough, our legacy will resemble Papa Mike's. 

The Luckiest

I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here...

Ben Folds is a mad scientist on the piano. His hands rise and fall at such a frenzied pace that they appear independent of the rest of his body.  His appearance is that of a school boy, Coke bottle glasses and Chuck Taylor's deny the lyrical genius streaming from his lips.  I am rapt, struggling to not bound from my seat and storm the stage. Attempting, and failing, to bite back the lyrics threatening to escape my body.  Thoroughly consumed and entertained by a musical experience that I would later deem..."the best of my life."  

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

Boy is there beside me and my best friends are somewhere in the bustling crowd and I know that we are all on a musical high right now.  It is a good night.  One where the smiles and laughter are as genuine as a child's and you desperately hope no one mentions the time, for the night is timeless.  Tomorrow is tomorrow, but tonight is well deserved and much appreciated. 

 What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?

At dinner we share wine and lamb ravioli, we laugh at the waiter's mustache and bicker over what celebrity he resembles most. We're quiet, at times, lost in our own thoughts and then, catching each other's eyes, we laugh and resume conversation. We are the kind of friends who truly know what the other is made of. We all sit at this table carrying enough baggage to fill a freight train. Allowing each other, for a moment, to put it down and breathe.  

And in a white sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

After the show we huddle in a dark corner of a local watering hole and the best friend and I share a few secrets, like middle school girls in the back of the bus.  We look at Boy, face illuminated by the candlelight, and I tell her, as if she doesn't know, how much I love him.  "I know", she says. "We all do."  Even at the tender age of thirty-three I need my best friend to confirm what I already know to be true.  She and I have weathered some storms and will go to our graves with the stories and experiences we've shared.  It is a good night. 

 

I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you

Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away

I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest 

 

Good friends and good love is not easily found and kept these days. Just when you've found the right tune, the right note, you find that a key is missing from your piano. The song remains unfinished. My friends have often finished the song for me and for that I do feel I am the luckiest.

Naked Snow Day...

Pardon my French, but, UP YOURS OLD MAN WINTER!

Saturday, starry eyed and wrapped around my man, a little winter hibernation was just what the doctor ordered. Fast forward one week and you find Girl, bedraggled and nearly hallucinating. Enclosed for the last six days within the four walls of my ever-shrinking house, my only entertainment that of the preschool variety.  Surrounded by blocks and Barbies and two naked children who demanded continuous episodes of Loony Toons, I wondered what horrible act I had committed against the heavens to deserve such a fate.

Pink and Tink had morphed into a two-headed wrecking ball, sans clothing of course.  My children repel clothing, their tiny bodies simply cannot handle being confined or constricted by undies and the like.  They streak around the house like little nude lightning bolts, begging me to assess how fine their bums are.

"Look at my bum Mommy!" 

"Yes girls, very nice." 

Rinse and repeat.

And it isn't just bums that have caught their interest as of late, any body part, especially one belonging to me, is fair game for questions and subsequent judgment. I try to change/shower/go to the bathroom in private, but their naked radar is so fine tuned, that as soon as any article of clothing is removed from my body they come running. The conversation usually goes as follows:

(giggles and snickers)

Them: "Is that your bum?"

Me:  "Yes."

Them: "It's big!"

Me: (sighing) "Thank You."

Them: "Are those your boobies?" 

Me: "Yes."

Them: "They're funny looking!"

Me: (sighing with eyes closed) "Awesome girls, thank you."

Them: "Why do you look so weird Mommy?!"

At this point I usually want to scream: "Because being pregnant with both of you has rendered my body unrecognizable! Your big heads and endless chattering has destroyed my mind and body for all eternity!!!"

Instead I respond: "Because that's the way God made me." 

Damn snow days. 

My Puzzle Piece...

"You are impossible not to touch." 

Boy says this to me as we're lying in bed Saturday morning, the Blizzard of 2010 confining us to this spot. I am grateful for it in a way, a reprieve from life and responsibility, if only for a moment. My head is nestled snugly against his neck and I understand what he means.  Our connection is electric; has been since day one.  It's more than just the intense attraction of a fledgling relationship, it's a magnetic force pulling us back to each other time and again.  Our hands, eyes, lips, forever gravitating towards each other. It's nearly impossible to explain and every known cliche' comes to mind when trying to properly describe my affection for this man.  I don't even know if the words exist, but what I do know is that, from the moment we met, I finally felt like I could rest.

I met Boy in April of 2009 and my  year prior to our first encounter was wild, wonderful, exhausting and intensely heartbreaking. I had met him at the end of my proverbial dating rope. I had tried on nearly every version of every kind of man, only to find that each one just didn't fit quite right.  It was disheartening and completely exhausting.  Every free night was date night and I was becoming an expert in my field.  I knew the right questions to ask...the ones that elicited laughter and thoughtful responses.  I batted my eyelashes, flashed my pearly whites and tilted my head ever-so-coyly to the right.  I had mastered the art of conversation and kissing, all of which were met with rave reviews.  I dated the too-young-for me guy, the bad boy, the geek, the Hungarian, and all the rest in between who just missed the cut. I had become a cliche'.

And then there he was.  Unexpectedly wonderful. The last puzzle piece snapped into place and I could finally see the whole picture of my life.  There he was. I sat across from him at dinner that first night and knew, on some level, that the time had come to put my former life to rest.  And rest I did. For what seemed like weeks I slept and slowly disentangled myself from the men that had carried me to this point. Some easier to say farewell to than others, but if I was to prove that I had changed, then all of it had to go.  All of the old insecurities and failures in love. I packed them away in my U-Haul of memory, shut the door and waved as it drove out of sight.  

"You are impossible not to touch." 

It's true.  He is.  He fits me, thrills me, protects me, talks to me, loves me and I can feel it deep within my bones. The ache of true love coursing through me. 

Years ago he was married and she left him.  The kind of leaving that you can't take back.  The kind of leaving that changes you inexplicably. Sometimes I hate her, because, in another life, she hurt this man I love so deeply.  It is absurd, our paths will never cross.  But I think about her and, mostly, I feel sorry that she missed out on him.  Sometimes I'm grateful to her, for putting him on the path that lead to me. In a weird way we are connected, for she gave me the last piece in my puzzle.

A Letter to My Girls...

Dearest Pink and Tink,

Do you know how very much I love you?

More than waffles and Wiggles, Barbies and Princesses.

More than Hide n Seek and dancing to the Single Ladies.

More than Friday night movies and singing songs from Rent.

More than Nana's house and Papa's lap.

As much as your beautiful blue eyes and sweet morning kisses.

As much as holding hands and snuggling under covers.

As much as sharing dreams and fears.

Do you know that...

I stand in the kitchen and watch you dance.

I come into your rooms at night to kiss you one last time....more than once.

The sound of your laughter is food for my soul.

I love you is not nearly enough...

I am so very happy to be your Mommy.

We're not in Kansas anymore Toto...

Sitting around the lunch table at school, I have oft been amused by the more seasoned teachers accounts of embarrassment at the hands of their small children. I have laughed heartily at my own mother's grocery story woes in which I, Girl, doe-eyed and innocent....asked the older woman in line behind us if she was a witch. These were tales of those who could not control their children, those who hadn't read every parenting book from cover to cover, those who had not Googled every situation and scenario an anklebiter could throw at you.

Fast forward to present day and you find Girl at a local grocery store after a long day of molding the minds of America. After securing Pink in the store's capable childcare center, Tink and I shoot off to get the five things on the list and get the heck outta Dodge. Here we are, mother and child, a Rockwellian scene...sharing a few laughs and a few stolen kisses. Life is good; I have mastered this mothering thing and am at the peak of my career. People stop and stare in awe at such a fine example of parenting expertise.

Enter one" little person" in a large green sweater. Tink catches his eye and locks him into a death stare. Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I know Tink has no verbal filter yet and, unlike her sister, never fails to say what she's thinking.

"Momma! Momma!", she says, pointing wildly at this little man.

Knowing we are headed for disaster I do the only thing I can think of...push the cart as fast as I can away from him. With blonde hair flying, Tink and I take refuge in the deli and I breathe a sigh of relief that he is out of earshot. I take my number and am waiting my turn when he rounds the corner. Tink's head whips around and it's a Deli Faceoff.

With a thick Italian accent, our little friend orders a pound of prosciutto and Tink can take no more.

Standing in the cart now, both arms waving she yells, "Momma wook at dat wittle gween guy! Wook at dat wittle guy!"

Never in her life has she seen such a sight, and she stands in that cart waving and blowing kisses like she is sitting atop a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

The man, clearly used to this behavior, gives her a wink and walks away while I start spouting off about all of us being created in God's image. Tink, not buying into my religious crap, waves at him one more time exuberantly.

I can hear a sigh from the crowd now as I enter the hallowed halls of "parenting shame", where my mother and colleagues are there to greet me with open arms.

Next stop: Wine and Spirits. This kind of day is why the Box O' Wine was invented. Thank you Jesus!

Cast...In Order of Appearance

Every good movie has well-developed main characters and an excellent supporting cast. My life is no exception....

The supporting characters in my life are:

Pinkalicious- My five year old daughter who is desperately unhappy unless covered head to toe in pink frothiness. She is the epitome of a girly-girl and sports a tiara as a reminder to the rest of us that she is indeed, a princess. Pink often fakes her own death for attention and was fairly devastated when her younger sister was born. Did I fail to mention that she is the love of my life?

Tinkerbell- She is the three year old currently running my life. A blonde-headed sprite of a thing, Tink will kick you in the shins and steal your lunch money just as quickly as she will profess her undying love for humanity. Tink couldn't give two hoots about rules or regulations...she eats, sleeps and wrecks the joint with wild abandon. My life is better because of her.

Boy- This is the guy I was waiting for. 7 years my senior, he is blue and white collar mixed to perfection. He tells it to you straight and is loyal to a fault. Our first date was of the wine-guzzling clothes-shredding variety and I knew that I had met my match. Boy takes care of his body, his family and the girls and myself religiously. His wild past will provide endless opportunities for entertaining the blogosphere.

And then there's me...Girl...

In love with 2 little ladies and 1 fine Boy. Never in a bazillion years imagined myself a divorced, single mother. The last two years have taken me on a wild ride of emotions, in and out of love...struggling to find my place in the world as well as leave a positive footprint on it. I finally feel, for the first time in 33 years that i am right where I was meant to be.

MommyTeacherGirlfriendBlogger...At Last!

So, I finally felt it time to give this blogging thing a fair crack. There are a multitude of reasons for this which I've so neatly detailed below:

• I need therapy and, aside from baring my soul to one stranger, baring it to many is the next best thing.
• I am a single mom of 2 awesome little ladies (and by "awesome" I mean "crazy")
• My boyfriend is smokin' hot with a wild history...I am desperately trying to get him to allow me to write his life story.
  
• Being a sixth grade teacher I have seen and smelled things that mere mortals can only imagine. The flaws in public education are mind boggling.
  

But mostly I find myself commenting aloud numerous times a day..."My life is nuts." Maybe a little more nuts than the average human being, maybe not, but certainly relatable to those who wonder often, "How the hell did I end up here?"

Here I am...hold on...