To Keep it Real...For Myself

The Ring

2011-05-21T09:05:00.004-04:00

I hung up the phone and let out a sigh from somewhere deep in my soul, resting my head in my hands. It was positively exhausting to talk to my sister. Having to talk to her on the phone about our daily lives in suburbia, to be polite to her as we discussed our kids' birthday parties and the state of her minivan was actually repulsive to me. I didn't want to know what her son Tommy's latest accomplishment had been, and I cringed at the thought of her running her errands.

I hated imagining her sitting there, a reflection of myself, talking on the phone to her sister.

But why? Hadn't we shared the same upbringing? Hadn't we supported each other through broken teenaged hearts, lost favorite jeans, and our father's occasional temper tantrums? Why did I find her so unbearable now, when we were living 400 miles apart with children of our own? I sat at the kitchen counter and pondered it yet again. Was I really such a bitch?

The ring of the phone startled me out of my loop. She must have forgotten to tell me something. I picked it up as if I were having to do someone a great favor. "What'd you forget?" I asked with that twinge of annoyance I'd grown to hate in my own voice. Why couldn't I just be nice? Would it kill me to be welcoming? Forgiving?

"I'm sorry...what?" The voice on the other end of the line was not my sister's. It was an older woman's voice, slightly gravelly, yet kind.

"Oh. Sorry. I thought you were...uh...Who is this?" I said, my face flushing a bit.

"You don't know?" she asked. If you can hear a smile, I did.

I pressed the phone a little tighter against my ear.

"Oh...," I stalled. "Oh, hey there...How's it going?" I was trying to sound vaguely enthusiastic. Though the voice was very familiar to me, I couldn't place it. I had the same sensation I have when a word I'm searching for is right there on the tip of my tongue. I can see its color and hear it whispering clues, but I can't find the actual word. This voice was like a mother's touch - so much a part of my fabric - but I couldn't place it and my instincts wouldn't let me admit to not knowing from whom it was coming. My guard was up from the conversation with my sister, so I was even more conscientious than usual about trying to seem in control. Aware.

The voice continued.

"So, Susie, I was watching you at Stop and Shop the other day, checking out the meats, and I just thought I'd tell you that when you're buying steak, it's perfectly fine...better even...to buy it right ON the 'best by' date. Beef just gets more flavorful with age." She paused for a second. "So, I'm calling to tell you that you really could have gone ahead and bought that steak you were looking at. If you had seasoned it and broiled it, it would have been delicious."

I had begun walking over to the pantry as the voice on the line started talking. Now I stopped in my tracks. Listening. Searching. Trying to place it. This voice. Whose was it?

I was still. Dead quiet. The line crackled the tiniest bit, and I was grateful for that bit of noise. It broke the silence.

"I...I'm sorry. I thought this was someone else. Who is this?"

I noted how it was actually hard to admit that I didn't know something, even something so small. Was it because I was worried about the person on the other end's feelings, or was I somehow allergic to seeming oblivious? Immediately, I found myself annoyed. People should really identify themselves when they call, I thought. This person was amused by my ignorance, and I felt a surge of anger about that. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. The itch of sweat.

"Hello?" I prompted.

There was a long pause.

Suddenly, a flash in my head previewd the next few seconds for me. Somehow - and I'll never quite understand this phenomenon - somehow I knew what was coming, and I braced myself.

"It's Carol," she said. "I couldn't stay away forever. I wasn't through with you, and I know you have some things to..." She stopped, and so did my heart.

I sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor. My beloved mother-in-law.

"You're dead," I said.

"I have more to teach you," she replied.

The tears were stinging my eyes. I focused on the dog bowl right next to me, reached for it with my trembling hand. My throat was so tight, I couldn't have spoken even if I'd had something to say. A squeak left my mouth as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

"You still need me," she was saying sweetly, "to help you navigate the world and...and my son and...I just couldn't stay away."

Carol had died suddenly seven long years ago, and not a day had gone by when I hadn't ached for her. She was right - there was so much more I needed from her. I missed her so deeply, so fully, that I often wondered if she had taken some of me with her when she had gone.

"I've been watching you, trying to help you," she continued with the voice I loved so, "but you're impossibly difficult to teach. Do you know that?" She let out the tiniest laugh. "I've decided I need to be more direct with you, so I'm calling you up."

I wanted to hug her. Smell her. The voice wasn't enough. I wanted to bend over the garden with her again, learning about all of the flowers. I wanted to take another quilting lesson from her, see her strong weathered hands work the fabric. I wanted to sit at her kitchen couter and watch her whip up a batch of brownies from scratch and have her teach me the difference between liquid and solid measurements. I wanted to watch her eyes sparkle in laughter.

The voice was hers, and I was weeping on the floor, mute.

My Carol.

And then I did something I'll never ever forgive myself for. Never.

I hung up the phone and cried by myself on the kitchen floor.

Ripples

2011-02-12T17:41:00.004-05:00

Antique windows create that warpy-wavy view when you try to look through them sideways. If you approach the window head on, like you mean it, the things on the other side of the glass - the outside or the inside depending on your perspective- are clean and straight and just as they should be. The same is true with lots of things. You have to look at them with intention, like you really want to see through them. Or else they'll get all shifty on you and make you see things like fairies and bends and arches that aren't really there at all. It's like trying to see through the lake water down to the bottom where you dropped your ring; you can see the glimmer down there somewhere, but reach down to grab it and it dances away. If you're not directly in front of things, a frown can all of the sudden look like a smile, two fingers can seem like three, or disarray can appear peaceful. So you need to always take into account your angle on things. Water, antique glass, lots of things can have that effect.

Shooting Stars

2010-05-05T20:23:00.005-04:00

I have a very vivid memory of laying next to the lake with you at night, hearing the small waves - really nothing more than ripples - lap just beyond our bare toes. We were whispering secrets to each other and counting shooting stars. We were exploring the wondrous souls of each other. I think at the time, I believed we were, on the one hand, causing the stars to fly across the sky, and, on the other hand, somehow being chosen to witness them. I felt we were powerful enough to move the stars, and entirely special enough to be seeing them in all their glory. There was magic within and around us.

The dew saturated our shirts, and I shivered from the brisk night air. We held hands. The counting and the searching and the waiting was like an addiction. I just wanted to stay for one more shooting star. That one, the next one, the one I had yet to see, would carry all my wishes across the night sky and land them in my lap. Of this I felt sure. Optimism? Superstition? Naivete?

That was a long long time ago, and now I sleep in the same bed with you every night. Though every once in a while (like, say, this afternoon) I feel that the magic that was so alive burned up in its flight to Earth, most days I feel certain that my wishes were truly granted. Because here we are together still.

Roots

2010-03-17T10:58:00.006-04:00

The roots of the old maple in front of her happy yellow house rise right up from the ground and expose themselves. They render the sidewalk more dangerous than the street, causing great waves of cement to go spilling every which way. They bubble up from beneath the surface, claiming their space despite all efforts to conceal them.

Sometimes she'd stare at those roots from inside her home and curse them. "That sidewalk would be so pleasant if you weren't so damn stubborn," she'd think. "I could teach William to ride his bike." She'd imagine them slipping noiselessly back into the Earth, each crack sealing itself perfectly with the retreat. She'd think how nice and right it would be if only the tree were showing, and not those mounds of disturbed ground huddled at the base like anacondas. She hated the roots.

The tree rises up in great glory. It brings brilliant hues from emerald to crimson, it offers a hint of privacy from the curious passers by, and it offers the children shade for their lemonade stands. But the notion that roots are meant to be forever hidden below the surface is proven preposterous by that tree.

Eyes

2010-01-02T18:16:00.006-05:00

When she was a little girl, trying to go to sleep in the log cabin became nothing short of torture. Her bedroom was cozy enough, with the Hansel and Gretel lamp by her bed, the ruffled curtains. She had a cup of water placed with care on her nightside table. She'd been tucked in sweetly by her parents, kissed lovingly on the top of the head. They whispered, "Pleasant dreams, honey..."

But as soon as she was alone in her room, the eyes in the wood began to watch her. Each log had several pairs of unfriendly, judging eyes looking right into her soul. They emerged from the knots in the pine. She'd slam her eyes shut and refuse to give them anything to see, anything to mock. But then, as if to prove her powerless, they'd crawl back in, this time in red from behind her tighly closed eyelids.

The eyes. They'd float as if on an ocean wave into her own mind's eye, and watch her. They were in the stars, under the blankets. They were in every passing car, imbedded in every tree branch, and they peered out from tiny babies. They saw her very soul, and she couldn't escape them.

Later, in her teens, she'd learn too late that the neighborhood boys had been peeking through the gap between her pink pull-down shade and her windowsill while she got ready for bed. She felt shame at the thought of them huddled outside in the darkening evening, eyes carefully watching her sing at her naked reflection in the full length mirror on her closet door. She'd been rehearsing for the moment when her fame might come to fruition, and she'd thought she was all alone with her big dreams. The eyes had come back for her though, only this time they had mouths and fist pumps and story-telling and laughing whole selves attached to them. They weren't just eyes in the knots in the pine this time.

Now as an adult, she sees eyes all around her, and she's begun to wonder at the possibility of all alone.

Why Wait?

2009-11-07T08:04:00.004-05:00

The crunchy golden maple leaves are thigh deep in my back yard. I like them best when they're on the ground, really, because you still get the acute, high-frequency colors of fall that they offer when they're on the trees, but you get to add the crisp sound and the wake-me-up smell when they're on the ground. They're the same color as my dogs, which makes for good entertainment, as well as a leg up for those guys when they want to stay outside because I can't find them and drag them inside. They lay in the leaves and hide from mama like a fully camouflaged sniper in the jungle.

This morning I stood on the deck, wrapped in fleece, waiting for my dogs to surrender their game. It was early still, golden, quiet, so I knew there'd be a giveaway rustle soon. A stray puff of breath rising like a geyser. A wag. I stood watching my own breath all foggy in the morning air and waited for them to come out come out wherever you are. Fall all around, I bathed in it for a bit. Up the maple tree in the back yard - the one that holds the tire swing - I saw it shimmering.

The last leaf on the tree.

Golden red, it was the one who won (or did he lose?) the contest of tenacity. He's holding fast. Afraid? Not wanting to give up what he knows?

For the love of god...go with your friends and family!

I remember how long I stood on the high dive at camp, knees rattling, knowing I had to jump to pass the life guarding test, but terrified into a kind of paralysis. Is that what's going on for you, leaf? Because if it is, I can tell you that the landing was downright exhilarating. To say nothing of the pride I felt for conquering my fears. Go ahead, dude...jump!

All alone makes me sad, even in the world of leaves. It's time to go, honey. Your friends are there to cushion your fall and throw you a party. Let go and join 'em.

Shadow of a Thought

2009-07-07T12:19:00.013-04:00

They were sitting quietly on their Montana porch in the blue space between evening and night watching the moon rise orange over the mountains. There was a gentle breeze, and there were full bellies, tanned skin, humidity-curled locks, and nothing but time. The crickets and frogs were serenading them in a pulsing chorus. The pine logs that made up the cabin behind them smelled damp and sweet and familiar like a mother. The girl, a ten-year-old just home from a month at summer camp, hugged her knees to her chest and took it in. They weren't really talking, just watching and listening side by side.

This was a father daughter moment that he knew enough to try to preserve, so he took out one of his Aladdin lamps and lit it with a match from the pocket of his Levi's. It cast a glow not all that dissimilar from that of the stars, and she wondered at the symmetry of it all: earth and sky. She felt the faint heat of the flame on her right cheek and saw her shadow to her left. In that moment she noted that within a shadow no imperfections like wrinkles or shifty eyes or guilt could be found. It was just the outline of a life, but the form of it nonetheless. Shadows held people's goodness.

After replacing the glass chimney of the lamp with his dirt stained hands, he turned the little knob on the brass part to roll the wick up further, causing the flame to go high into the flute, up towards the sky. She watched the flame dance blue and yellow against the glass, begging to be set free. It strengthened the shadows and lent them the crispness of mid-day shadows in the desert. Looking at her shadow in the nighttime, sitting on that porch made her feel strong and self-assured.

As the flame continued to dance against its containment walls, she began to wonder how the delicate glass, the womb of the lantern, could possibly sustain such an assaulting heat. She stared at the shimmering vessel and imagined with all her might the glass shattering, spidering, crinkling from the bottom up like a waterfall turned upside down. She imagined the glass snapping into billions of pieces, pictured it with all her might, in fact saw it clear as day in her mind's eye.

And then, before their eyes, in the blue space between evening and night, the reflective glass chimney of the lantern shattered with a violent explosion. The sound wasn't loud really, but it chilled her nonetheless. Shards of glass spewed onto the table before them. His immediate fatherly instinct was to shield her eyes before even his own, though it would have been impossible to be quick enough to offer any protection had the glass wanted to reach them.

Of course she hadn't needed to see it again anyway. Had she wished it into being?

A few of the tiny shards had passed through the flame on their way out of captivity, travelling like shooting stars, and were now glowing embers on the porch floor.

Questions

2009-07-02T10:31:00.000-04:00

Will: Mom, what did the vet actually do with Hobbes's balls when he cut them off? Cuz, I think throwing someone's balls away, like in the garbage can or a dumpster or something, is kinda' mean.

Chloe, age 8, upon learning how babies are made: Okay. So, they do that in the bathroom, right?

5th grade student (girl) after watching puberty movie: Am I seriously going to have to have hair in my armpits?

Another 5th grade girl: Wait. You put that tampon thing IN there?

Chloe, age 4, upon seeing a picture of an iron: What's that? A funny phone or something?

Will, last week, before going to his first day of DAYcamp: Mom, I know what you got Chloe last year when she was at sleepaway camp, but what will you put in my care package? And when will I get it?

Me, to person staring at me from within mirrors: Who in the hell are YOU? And where did you put me?

Peter: Michael Jackson's still dead. Why do they need to keep reporting it?

Sun: Massachusetts? Nope. Never heard of it.

Dear Mr. Auctioneer

2009-06-20T23:07:00.005-04:00

Dear Mr. Auctioneer,

Here's the thing: I'm going to need my large sum of money back please.

You see I was all swept up in the moment of the evening and I'd had several glasses of that white wine they were serving by the bucketful. I was wearing my favorite summer dress, strappy sandals and a spritz of my best perfume. The babysitter and the kids were cozy at home watching a movie. There under that tent of yours, the breeze was coming off the ocean, there was shrimp on toothpicks being passed around, and my husband was like a movie star in his tie and sear sucker jacket and gorgeous proud smile. We saw friends old and new, we drank lots of wine, and it became crystallized in that moment that summer is here and I don't have to work for a loooong time.

Also, truth be told, I liked the feel of the paddle with my number on it going up in the air when you were saying, "Do I hear blahblah?" with that baritone auctioneer voice of yours. The ocean wind was blowing my hair just a bit, and I thought I looked pretty good with that wine in my system and that paddle in my hand. It felt sort of powerful and strong and decisive when I was waving that paddle with the number 242 on it. I'm not too proud to admit that I loved it, sir. And at that moment, I loved you and your command of the situation too.

And when you looked through that sea of anticipatory people, right at me, and said to everyone under that fancy tent that the item was "SOLD! to number 242, the lady's bid!" I almost crapped my pants.

Sir, it was the wine and the illusion of power doing the bidding that night. So, if you please? Could I have my large sum of money back? We all make mistakes, right?

I know, I know. The money goes to Hospice. It will help families in their time of need. There you go again with the hypnotic way of yours and that singsong blahblah voice you have. Stop it, please. I'm not drunk anymore, and I don't feel even moderately sexy without my number 242 paddle in my hands so you can save your sweet-talking for someone vulnerable and needy. I'm past that now.

I will gladly accept cash, check or credit card refund because I'm flexible like that.

Thank you so much for your understanding.

Yours in learning and growth,

-Susie (#242)

Pouring Out

2009-06-20T22:12:00.003-04:00

When we poured her ashes into the sea, we mixed them with her oldest son's.
The waves brought them both closer to us before they pulled them away
Like a child's dreams of fame.
The two boxes of ashes were different one from the other.
She was browner but smoother
He was gray, chunkier, less uniform.
The lighthouse stood over them as they mixed with eternity
But it took a whole lot longer for them to leave shore than it seemed like it should have.
The waves churned them
But they stayed put
Gray brown in the blue ocean.
We watched and waited for a signal that we'd achieved closure
The boat in the distance had a symbolic name that I thought must be god trying to tell us something
But now I can't remember the name of the boat, so either I'm not listening or he needs to speak in plainer terms with me
But the wake helped to bring them out further, mix and agitate, dilute them, and for that we were grateful.
There were birds all around:
Gulls and sparrow like things swooping down
Into them.
Eventually we left them there in the ocean
Together without us
Blue, brown and gray

Get Your Stuff

2009-06-18T09:48:00.004-04:00

Yesterday we found the real, honestagod light of the late morning sun streaming through the windows in our kitchen. We saw it and we felt it. It made the dust sparkle and float like fairy dust and it had the same magical effect on us. The breeze from the ocean brought tales of a lowering tide. I brought my coffee onto the deck and sat down in one of the two Adirondack chairs, face tipped toward the sun. I thanked the heavens for making me a teacher in the summertime. What are the odds of that? Split second decision to call to the kids to get your stuff cause we're going to the beach. The sea glass isn't gonna wait around forever, I told them.

But it did wait for us, even those precious pieces of blue that we love so very much, and so did the hermit crabs and the beige baseball cap that floated in from the harbor. All those treasures greeted us at our favorite beach in town. It's the small beach where we said goodbye to our beloved Moanie, mixing our own saltwater with hers. It's the beach where we take a picture every year on the same rock so we are forced to acknowledge our kids' breakneck speed of growth. It's that beach where I can always breathe and time stands still except for the setting sun that takes me by surprise every time. It's the beach that creates tide pools just right for kids with buckets and shoes or no shoes. We make our crabby day cares and our drip castles, we crawl up on the high rocks to be the lookout pirate, we bury our feet in the sand and eat our peanut butter and jellies. We wave to the familiar people of this town who are passing by, and we drink in the joys of summer in this place.

It's summer. We live at the edge of land, just near our favorite place on earth. What do you suppose the odds of that are?

Buh Bye: Baseballs and Kitchen Guy

2009-06-16T20:06:00.003-04:00

I've decided that my ability to blog is directly related to David Otiz's ability to crush the ball. For all you non Boston types, David Oriz is Big Papi. You know. On the Red Sox. He was crushing it and then he. Just. Stopped. But he just hit another homer. So I'm blogging.

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

We're planning to gut and remodel our kitchen this summer. We refinanced the house to free up some cash, and we're in the process of interviewing contractors. We're looking for someone honest and fair, someone with experience, someone who likes dogs and doesn't mind feeding them and letting them out and embracing the stray dog hairs that end up in his mouth (it's freaking everywhere in this house). He should be good with the big picture as well as the details. He should be able to pick out all the stuff for us, faucets and paint colors and all, so that we have to do pretty much nothing but enjoy the finished product. We'd like someone who can see as clearly as we can that our kids are lovely and gifted and sweet and charming. This someone should have done a minimum of 45 kitchens in the past year or two, economic downturn aside, and should most certainly be dedicated to timeliness, cleanliness, thriftiness, artiness, and funk. This person should also probably look hot in his tool belt (that part is really my idea, not Peter's so much) and he should be extremely articulate. He should hire subs who are just like him, too. And they should all listen to cool music while they work. But we'd like it if they were only here for a week or two (tops!) so as not to overstay their welcome in our house.

The first guy we interviewed was decent (he had the "hot" thing down pretty well) but he seemed to think we were a little demanding or something. I could feel it in his vibe. I think he may have rolled his eyes just the littlest bit too, and I really feel like that's no way at ALL to try to impress your future employer. I mean, hello? We have cash in our hands, buddy! From the refinance! But...yeah. That guy thought maybe we hadn't done enough leg work or something. So we said thanks but no thanks to that guy. Buh Bye, hottie.

Shitty First Draft of Garbage

2009-06-15T16:21:00.006-04:00

Anne LaMott wrote in her infinitely wise and profound book Bird By Bird, that writers should write shitty first drafts. They should lay down all of their pent up anxiety about writing, throw caution to the wind, and just write. Shitty, boring, whiny, self-indulgent stuff that even the writer herself wouldn't want to read. She believes that's the only way to begin. Anne LaMott is one of those writers who makes me wince in her pain, blush at her embarrassment, cry out in her panic, and also grieve my own shortcomings amongst her sheer brilliance in writing. So, I guess if she says to write a shitty first draft and not to sweat it anymore - to just START already - then I should do it. I should face the screen with an open heart and get to work.

Henriette Anne Klauser postures in her book Writing On Both Sides of the Brain, that in order to avoid writing paralysis, we need to completely separate the process of writing from the process of editing. The two sides' goals oppose each other, she says. One side, the editor, strives for succinct perfection and poetic cadence and the other side (the writer) is just desperately trying to get stuff out without being judged. So she says to separate the two completely. First write garbage. Then, invite your editor side to come in for a peek, but remind her to please be kind in her analysis and corrections of the draft. Henriette says the editor will respond with a polite and dignified, completely non-judgemental editing of the writing because she has been purposefully invited into the scene. Editor side will apparently be Martha Fucking Stewart.

But here's the kicker with Anne and Henriette: they say no one's going to read that first draft anyway, so what the hell's the big fuss.

Enter blogging.

You read my garbage! My shitty first drafts! Anne and Henriette told me the key is not to worry about the reader, but I do. I do!

I know you're out there reading (all three of you) and I can't quite get past it into free writing territory. You've never said a nasty thing to me, you're actually a bundle of kindness and empathy, really, but I have this nagging fear that I'll bore the living hell out of you. I want to take good care of you, reader, and when I start feeling like I can't do that just right, then I just QUIT.

Which is what happened. I got all bogged down. Paralyzed. For like a month. Or was it even more?

But I'm trying to get over that. Right now I'm trying hard to follow Anne and Henriette's words of wisdom.

Because I like to write for writing's sake as well as for your sake.

Writing is cool in a wacky fun fucked up sort of way, and I actually really dig it. And I love to read the stuff that's imperfect in its funny or sad or confused or tormented way, so why should my stuff be any different, really? I like to write.

Even if you don't like it, I guess.

But I still hope you do.

So here it is. I give you my shitty first draft and my garbage.
Come on in. Nice to see you!

Do you all get this way too?

On Closing Doors

2009-05-17T07:40:00.018-04:00

When I was probably five, we were at a fancy restaurant in the springtime with my family and my aunt's family. It was lunchtime, and I was wearing a sundress with little yellow flowers and my mary janes that made me feel like Dorothy. The dining room was a sun-filled room with a patterned carpet that was perfect for skipping and jumping games. The waitstaff shuffled about, refilling water glasses and surveying the scene with bored expressions.

My aunt was my dad's crazy, only sister. This is how I remember her: poofy dyed blond hair, bright pink lipstick, foul mouth, chain smoking, pill-popping, cut-to-the-chase speak, truly exotic and magnetic, "you should play Yahtzee for real cash even if you're just a kid", "get that little shit" (referring to her youngest son who used to run away from her routinely), big husky laugh, finger right in your face to make a point, "speak up I can't hear you", "we're playing golf all day Tuesday so you'll have to entertain yourselves while you're here visiting", bets with her secret bookie, "it fell off the truck - don't ask questions", two martinis at noon, many more to follow, sitting at the kitchen table talking to Maddie the live-in maid, every TV in the house on at all times, petting her crazier-than-she boxer named Gus who sat on the couch with her and drank water from a glass, needlepoint talented and frankly obsessed, fearful with a great big mask of LOUD, crazy. That's who she was. She was my lunatic Aunt Gail.

She birthed my only three cousins,and here we were at a fancy restaurant at some country club in Connecticut. The grown-ups told all of us kids we could go run around for a bit, and as we left the big round table with all the silverware without being reminded to push in our chairs or be quiet, we realized the volume was being turned up at the table and things between my dad and my aunt were getting hairy. We played some made up game on that way cool carpet for a bit before one of us noticed that Dad and Gail were standing up now, hands flailing about as though they were being swarmed with mosquitoes.

Lunch ended abruptly - in fact before it was eaten - and we drove to her house, but only to get our stuff. Then we drove home. All the way home in silence, still in my flowered sundress and my mary janes in the way back of the Buick. And we were done with crazy Aunt Gail and her calm, smooth and quiet husband Uncle Ronnie and my three cousins. Done.

Ten years later dad bit the bullet and called her. They reconciled, but there was a whole ocean under that bridge.

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

Last summer at a house on a lake in Upstate New York, we, the next generation of door closers, had finished our dinner on the deck and we were gathered around the outdoor fireplace drinking beer or red wine, depending on our preference, shooting the bull with my husband's sister and her family. They aren't crazy in the same way as aunt Gail, but they require chaos - real, on-the-edge chaos - the way some people need coffee to start their day. Life is a slog for them without their daily dose of mayhem. There were a couple of other grown-up cousins in the mix that night, and there were six water-logged and sun kissed children inside the rental house playing flashlight games and watching a movie, wrapped in their sleeping bags. Cousin time.

In an instant, my husband and his dramatic sister were at it. She was standing and animated, arms flailing - the return of those goddamn mosquitoes. With the fire casting its eerie light on us, the volume turned up and the tables had turned. Was it really about the lost art of letter-writing they were fighting about? Certainly not, but there was no time to scratch off the veneer and see what lay underneath. The door had slammed. We were packing. We'd sleep off the beverages and leave first thing in the morning.

"Get in the car, kids. We're leaving earlier than we thought."

For dad on Mother's Day

2009-05-09T19:51:00.010-04:00

Mom and dad are reversed for me.

My mom is steady. She's consistently aloof, dispassionate, extraordinarily practical and just like a stereotypically detached father. She does all the bills. She uses duct tape on things like kitchen cabinets and shower walls. She re-uses Bounce dryer sheets, and is addicted to computer solitaire. I don't think she ever called me when I was in college.

My dad is passionate, emotional, conflicted, engaging and connected. He's kind of a big hairy unpredictable female, but he hates to shop and he won't ask for directions when he gets lost, which is all the time.

My dad is a giver, too. A fantastic giver. Each October of my college years, he'd call me up to tell me my package was on its way, and I'd know that he'd been gathering.

I can still remember opening my little college mailbox and seeing the padded envelope with my dad's familiar chickenscratch ballpoint pen handwriting on it. I'd free it from the walls of Box 766, clutch it under my arm and head to the library to find a spot by myself. Between the stacks, I'd tear it open and release the contents: a flattened, foggy ziplock bag packed with his love for me and my love for nature and seasons and home and him. I'd do as he said, and stick my nose right in there.

He'd been out to the woods behind our house and collected a handful of the most brilliantly hued maple leaves from the forest floor to send to me. Usually he'd throw in some pine cones, acorns, ferns, speckled birch bark, and even a mushroom or two. Often, a confused spider would emerge from the still damp pile of autumn splendor.

"Open the bag, put your nose in, and take a big long breath in. Since you can't be here to experience it in person, I'm sending you Vermont fall."

I'd be instantly transported to home and to a younger, less confusing state of being. The leaves smelled of my tree swing, rock walls, woolybear caterpillars and dew. I could hear the trees creaking in the wind behind my house. I could see the charcoal grey sky. I was suddenly there, picking apples from the low arching tree in the meadow.

And he did that for me every year until we moved back to New England three years ago.

My dad was adopted as an infant, and then re-orphaned at 23. He is imperfect, without a doubt. His temper flairs used to leave me trembling under my covers when I was young. He has a hard time sharing his stuff. He can be an unbearable snob. His father, a narcissistic public figure, dropped dead of a heart attack in their front lawn when my dad was twelve. His mom was an overwhelmed, somewhat weak figure who hired people to do most everything.

When my sister was born, she was the very first blood relative my dad had ever seen, and he wept.

All those times he packaged up fall for me, he was loving me imperfectly, in a dew-covered and fungus-riddled way, but also openly. Like a mother.

Are you SERIOUS?

2009-04-19T09:57:00.009-04:00

Name: Abbott

Number of times he's pooped in the house: 3

Number of times he's pooped outside: 0
Number of times he's peed in the house: 5
Number of times he's peed in the house somewhere OTHER than the oriental rugs: 0
Number of times he's thrown up in the house: 1

Number of kisses he's given and received: 1,000,000,000,000

BON JOUR, ABBOTT! (Apparently he's French. We know this because he French kisses us all day and night.)

Name: Hobbes

In Need of: Anti-depressants. He's all WTF?? Who brought the new guy? GET HIM AWAY FROM MY TOYS!!!

There's a New Guy in Town

2009-04-18T08:44:00.011-04:00

I like this guy. I like him a lot. And I have a sneaking suspicion he might be a hottie, too.

Long Odds, Short Stories

Take a moment and have yourself a looksee.

Also. I think there might be another new guy in this home of mine soon. A charmer for sure. But he's going to be fluffy and have four legs and a waggy type of tail. Maybe today even!

Cuz, you know...I'm not doing much (mothering, teaching, coaching aside...) and I have all kinds of down time, and my oriental rugs mean nothing to me. I feel that quiet is overrated (as are poop-free floors and hair-free anythings, including FOOD) so I thought I'd mix things up a bit with a brand new eight-week-old golden retriever puppy. To go with the full grown golden retriever dog I already have.

I'll take your top dog names in the comment section if you please...

Lord help me.

Paint Stains

2009-04-15T19:55:00.005-04:00

She barged in to my classroom three minutes before the kids were allowed to enter. "It's not okay with me that the art teacher allows the kids to paint without a smock. She came home with paint splattered all over her brand new shirt. It was Brand New!" She'd looked me straight in the eyes and raised her voice at me. She had some pent up venom about the paint and the dollars and the message and I don't know what all else. I guess it was probably about respect.

I looked up and to the right, breathing in a good slow breath through my nose. I took a brief moment to gather my thoughts or my wits or locate my cool or put on my filter or whatever I needed to do to remain professional. I exhaled and met my student's mother's eyes with my own, equally determined eyes. Her hands were on her hips, and her sunglasses were perched on the top of her head causing some stray hairs to stand up straight like hackles on a dog about to freak out. She had a stance like a dog, too: proud, aggressive and territorial. I let my arms fall to my sides.

I told her I'd ask the art teacher about it. I assured her that I understood it can be frustrating to lay out a bunch of money for something only to have it tainted. I reiterated my earlier suggestion that she send her twin daughters to school in clothes she didn't value quite so dearly. I explained that most often, a messy kid is in fact a sign of time well spent. I counseled her calmly to refrain from sharing her angst about mess with her daughters, as they were well within the norm for fourth grade stainage, paint-wise or otherwise.

She relaxed her stance ever so slightly, and her hand went instinctively to her hair as she said again how disappointed she had been in the school for allowing this to happen. "It just makes me feel run over,"she whined. Behind her, I could hear my class making their way down the hall to the room. I glanced above my trespasser's head at the wall clock : 7:59. No time to even read the sub's notes from the past four days.

I had just returned from Florida, where my husband's brother had been murdered. He'd been shot point blank in the face by his neighbor and left to die on a front porch. It was messy. He was forty and he had two kids. The whole thing had left a stain that made me feel run over. And I was just disappointed in the world and I couldn't believe the government down there would let people buy guns so easily, and shoot them too.

We had arranged for a beautiful service in a gigantic gazebo by the ocean where we could cry about our loss and more importantly his children's losses. We could look at the horizon and curse the injustice of it. We had been reflecting on issues - enormous issues of faith and respect and order and chaos and life and death- for those days in Florida. I was back in the classroom now though, and she was pissed about the paint.

True story.

Post Script

2009-04-03T20:50:00.003-04:00

The Old Man has lost his joix de vivre. It's a familiar sad tale that accompanies the retirement of passionate people who touched lives.

"Volunteer," people suggest. But he doesn't feel much like volunteering because it takes too much courage to sign up for the damn stuff. He won't know what to expect or where to go and godforbid someone should need him and he let them down. So no. No volunteering. He'll just read there in his comfortable chair because it has actually taken the form of his body. Yes. The chair accepts him and the novel washes over him like a warm bath. It takes his hand and transports him for a time.

But the novel has the nerve to end.

He studies his cuticles. Ponders plucking out the hairs on his knuckles. Remembers that those are the hairs that used to get singed off when he built campfires in his youth.

Tea. He'll make some tea. Where is that damn teapot? Rusted out on the bottom. He'll need to use the microwave. Three minutes to boil the water, right? He removes his glasses so he can see the timer. He walks to the window to watch the bird feeder and wait.

The blue jays bully all the small songbirds. When they aren't chasing them down, they're warning them with their beady blue jay eyes, silently saying I'll come for you if you take a chance. Just try me.

The man feels the injustice of this feathered microcosm deeply, so he taps hard on the glass, hoping to show them who's really boss around here.

But the birds have the nerve to fly away.

Long Exhale

2009-04-02T20:09:00.004-04:00

I smelled the Earth today.

I saw the robins out my classroom window, too. They were all work no play, marching like an army across the field. The worms didn't have a prayer.

While I was coaching lacrosse, I got muddy and I felt the wind and my fingers got a little numb from the cold, but I didn't wear gloves. When I looked northwest I held my hand like a salute to shade my eyes from the sun.

The shadows of the trees were long on my way home, but my headlights were off. My son went to baseball practice at 6:00 pm with a belly full of chili. He tracked cleat-shaped pieces of Earth in to the kitchen when he came home, and I resisted the urge to pick them up and feel them and smell it and rejoice in them.

It's spring. My uninvited visitor has left me for another poor soul.

The More You Say Goodbye I say Hello.

2009-03-29T20:32:00.003-04:00

It's back to work tomorrow. Our two weeks of vacation come to a close when the alarm wakes us at 5:40 tomorrow morning. Goodbye sleeping in. Goodbye Jamaican tan skin and No Problem, Mon attitude. Goodbye mid-day Trivial Persuit games. Goodbye Twilight series. I'll miss you, Edward Cullen. Goodbye obsessive searching for a puppy. Goodbye calm, flexible, relaxed mom who laughs more than she grumbles. Goodbye.

Hello 37 biographies that need to be graded. Hello dear, enthusiastic 5th graders who want to share all of their adventures. Hello Three Cups of Tea - Young Reader's Edition. Hello electric pencil sharpener interrupting me - how I've missed you! Hello new job addition as a lacrosse coach after school every day. Hello making lunches at 6:00 am. Hello parents who need help understanding that their child's behavior, while markedly different from that of a 9 or 10 year old, is really normal for an 11 year old. Hello fellow teachers, most of whom I respect and love, some of whom should have retired long ago. Hello too much coffee and not enough water. Hello.

Would I trade it? Probably not, but I sure do love my time away. When things are finite they are crystalized and oh so sweet.

She Said / She Said

2009-03-26T18:01:00.012-04:00

We were in Jamaica for seven heavenly nights last week. We were so happy. We were doing a good job breathing. And sleeping. And laughing from our bellies.

On our way back to the airport in Montego Bay, I found myself engaging in a heated debate with Myself. It went something like this:

Self One: What the hell are you talking about? Of course you can't just STAY in Jamaica forever. You have things to take care of!

Self Two: I think I'm going to make a break for it. I could wait tables at the resort. Work the front desk. I don't need anything I've got back home. Home is BORING. There's more to life, and I think it's right here at Beaches Negril. The family could visit me from time to time. I think I'm going to do it. (Gets up to ask driver to pull over)

Self One: (Tackling Self One and throwing her back in her seat) You wouldn't last five minutes on this island by yourself. Sit down and stop being ridiculous.

Self Two: Is that a DARE? Cuz I'm pretty competitive you know. And I'm fairly sure you're underestimating me. Say the word if it's a dare, you coward! (mutters) You were always terrified of anything exciting.

Self One: Did you just call me a COWARD, you reckless commitment phobic dreamer? Come back to Earth, honey! We have bills to pay, children to raise, commitments to honor. It's just like you to be so selfish.

Self Two: And it's just like you to be so disgustingly PREDICTABLE! I'd rather put salt in my eyeballs than hang out and talk to boring old you! Watch and weep, sister. I'm going in! (To bus driver) Excuse me...sir? Would you mind...

Self One: (still to driver) ...explaining to me what that building is used for? Molasses refinery? Ah ha! Very interesting. Thank you, sir.

Self Two: I'll get you for that. You just wait.

And so on. Self One won, obviously, but Self Two is not a gracious loser, so I do believe there's more to come from her.

Meanwhile, back in my real life, the crocuses are up. They are doing their part to try to restore my love for this town which lies so very far north of the equator.

Tick. Tock.

2009-03-09T19:25:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow, the fifth grade is walking the plank. Sink or swim, babies. Ready or not, here it comes. It's knocking on your door. It's time to get the facts. Girls in here with the lovely nurse and me, boys over there with the science teacher and Mr. M. That's right, sugars - we're watching it. Eyes open or eyes shut, it'll be playing for you on a big ol' screen. It's the...wait for it...yup....you guessed it...the PUBERTY MOVIE!!

shriek.

giggle.

squeal.

peeking through open fingers placed dramatically over eyes.

listening intently.

what the?!?!?

imagining opposite sex in the other room learning all THIS STUFF about what is going on with this body of mine. NO! They can't know this about me!!!

glance at friends. Resume cool composure. Make the decision.

No thanks. I'm going to have to pass on all this. I'm not really interested in having it happen to me. Nah. I'll just stay put, kay? Yeah, um...no thanks.

That's just weird anyway.

Wanna Get Away?

2009-02-18T19:31:00.007-05:00

I had a funny memory I want to write down before it ends up in the overly crowded land of lost memories.

It was summer. Will had just turned two that March. We were living in stifling, suffocatingly hot Baltimore, where a pool is a lifeline in the summer. We opted for survival and joined a swanky pool club where happy children abounded, where rafts, slides, snack bars and happy moms and dads were aplenty. Life was good at the pool club. Really really goood.

We had gone to Target to buy ourselves one of those little blow up contraptions that we could put Will inside to keep him afloat - we called it his boat. When he saw us blowing it up, he clapped his hands and squeeled in delight. To watch us blowing up his own personal raft was better than anything this kid had ever seen in his short life. He was amazed at how it grew from a flat pancake into a big puffy boat for him to sit in. "My boat blows up! It's a blow-up boat!" he shrieked over and over again. The growth! The language! He even loved the alliteration of it all.

Will and I were holding hands walking by the side of the pool to get a drink at the snack bar when a woman passed us going the other direction. She was carrying a couple of cheeseburgers, some french fries and an extra large soda. She had a nice big fuchsia painted smile, her nails were gleaming red, a Bal'more updoo of a hairstyle sat atop her head like a crown, quite a bit of sweat dripped down her enormous cleavage, and a large skirty-type bright blue bathing suit was trying its hardest to do its job of covering her various parts. She had ...how to say it...let herself go a bit, and was easily pushing 350. Big girl with an especially impressive backside. Huge.

She zeroed in on Will, waddling right up to him with unrelenting focus. "Oh, isn't he cute? And how old are you, little guy?" She couldn't have been any sweeter, really. She bent right down to Will and smiled at him, balancing her mid morning snack in her hands.

Will looked at his wet toes and squeezed my hand a bit harder. "He can be a little shy," I lied. "Will, say hello to the nice lady please. Tell her how old you are."

He looked her straight in the mascara laden eyes and said in his biggest boy voice, without the slightest lack of clarity...

"You have a blow-up bottom!"

Wanna get away?

I'm On To You

2009-02-15T21:29:00.009-05:00

Yeah...YOU.
Revlon, Clairol, Cover Girl: you're ALL guilty of it. I've busted up your plan, so you might as well just come clean now so we don't need to bother with any big court case. I'm feisty like that. All I need from you is an admission of guilt, you smarmy bastards.

It's so OBVIOUS what you're doing! Duh. How'd you think you could get away with these shenanigans, anyway? What'd you take me for?!?

Let's start with the cover-up meant to hide the under eye bags, shall we? Sure you make it LOOK like it will match my skin tone and everything, but it so clearly turns to ash grey when applied. I mean, HELLO? Why else would I have bags big enough for a week of laundry under my eyes even AFTER applying your product? Yeah, you, Mr. Executive. I'm on to your plan to make me keep buying more and more cover up. I actually thought it was black mascara under my eyes, but then I realized it was PERMANENT!

And, yeah...that makeup remover that cost a week of groceries? It won't even remove the dark grey stain your company PAINTED on there! I scrub and scrub and still it's there. What'd you do, mix black sharpie in with your makeup? A less determined soul might have actually believed it was her own AGING causing these ugly under eye bags. But not me - I know it's your evil ways making me look this haggered and...old.

And yes, I'm going to insist that we talk about the hair color too. You can run, honey, but there's no hiding from the likes of ME. You put that beautiful blond bimbo with the winning smile on the cover of the box just to taunt me, don't you? Well, willing to stop at nothing, I INSPECTED that product of yours. I practically SAW the grey-growing seeds you put in there. They obviously grow grey hairs at an alarming rate. The ones that flock to the temple area of my scalp, but are spreading across the back.

What? You can't possibly think I'm stupid enough to believe these grey hairs are the product of my LIFESTYLE or something? That's right. You're soooo busted.

Now in case you thought your face firming cream / wrinkle reducer was safe from scrutiny, think again. I'm OUTING you, suckah. That stuff grows wrinkles faster than a bag of fertilizer grows grass. Sure I may have bought more and more of it over the years in an attempt to slow the resemblance of my face to an unironed ashen colored pillowcase, but now I realize that you are actually CAUSING this! Let me ask you: just how can you sleep at night?

Push-up bras? Slimfast? I recommend you start packing your bags, cause you're next on my list. You guys are on THIN ICE.

The Visitor

2009-02-15T17:46:00.007-05:00

Somehow, I was alone in the old creaky house. There was a fire in the fireplace and I was curled up on the couch with my laptop. I was just knocking on blogland's door to ask for a playdate when I heard a harsh three knocks at my own door. The dog snapped to attention and went psychotic, howling and snarling and scratching at the door with his teeth barred. He knew something I didn't.

As I roused myself from my warm nest and started padding my way toward the entryway, a shiver made its way up my spine. I shushed the dog harshly and flipped on the porch light. I could feel the cold February air making its way through the gap between door and frame before I even turned the handle. The wind was whipping out there, desperate for the warmth of people's homes.

The dog had changed his tune to a low growl, straight from his soul. He was staring at the door making a sound his ancestors of thousands of years ago had taught him.

"Hush up," I hissed at him. "That's just rude."

I opened the door a crack and the wind found its destination. The light was playing tricks on my eyes though, since I had been looking at the fire and my computer screen, and I couldn't see anybody standing on the stoop. It was 6:30, so it was fully dark. I shook my head a bit and gave a strong blink to try and see clearly.

No one. Empty stoop. The dog quieted down a bit, but he began wildly sniffing the air inside the house.

I opened the door all the way - man was it freezing out there - and leaned out. Wind had apparently told all his friends there was a party at my house, and the whole crew was coming in now, looking for a place to sit down, asking what I had to drink.

"Hello? Helloooo?" Emptiness.

It dawned on me right then that it was too late. I had let him in with the wind. I hadn't seen the signs. He was here and I had let him in. Damn it. It was done. How stupid can I be?

I closed the door with big, but futile hopes that he had not liked what he'd seen and had let himself out. How naive I'd been. I hate that about myself. Yup. Definitely him.

The chill in my house was one of many signs that he was an uninvited guest, making himself comfortable. He'd sit down next to me shortly, and he won't leave until spring. He's an intruder who likes to find me during February and settle right in. Cozy up with me. He'll follow me around telling me all the things he doesn't like about me.

In the past, I've practically offered him coffee and chocolate. Not this time, guy. Keep it short.

Chimney Sweep

2009-02-09T18:57:00.005-05:00

Someone left the damn flu open again, and all the heat is flying right up the chimney and out into the open air. This heat doesn't just accidentally stumble on the opening in the hearth either; it is actually sucked out with a great invisible force like a riptide. The heat goes up and out until it mingles with the frigid winter air making hardly a ripple before it disperses. It's gone.

I think the flu handle is broken or something because I can't close it. I can't keep the ideas in. I can't even find the ideas because they're flying out the open flu at warp speed, and they're dissembling as they go. Just as I think I catch sight of one sparkling like a dew drop, full of promise, floating in the air, off it flies leaving only the wispiest hint of itself in its wake. It was only the ghost of an idea.

Every once in a while, I'll grab one of the bastards on its way by me and I'll squeeze my hand tightly so I don't lose it. I'll try to calm it down so it doesn't make a mad fleeing dash, and then when I'm as sure as I can be that it's going to cooperate, I breathe in a calming breath, exhale, and then start begging. Yes, before I open my fingers to see what I've got, I do some pleading. I explain to my prisoner (whatever it may be) that I'm not as mad as I sound. I don't hate you for being illusive, I just find it frustrating. I need you, I say. You're there and I know it, you're keeping me warm in your way, but I can't focus until I've crystallized you and let you go myself. You can't just fly away before I let you, you see. All I want to do is keep you so I can write you down. When ideas like you get away, I tell my fist, it's just ... unsettling. So stay with me, idea, and I'll write you down and then set you free. Please.

I arch my thumb, just barely, so I can peek into the dark space in my hand. This could be a good one. My pointer finger follows suit, slowly. Am I trembling? Is this idea that powerful?

I relax the rest of my hand. Please don't fly toward the flu, I whisper.

Dust.

If I had it at all, it's gone now.

25 Things

2009-02-06T21:12:00.002-05:00

1. I have a terrible sense of direction. Really twisted. I once got on the highway in Burlington, VT to go to Marblehead, MA. I went north. Why does that sign say "Bienvenue a Canada"?

2. As a result of #1, I get a little worried in big box stores like IKEA. I have no idea how to get out of those places.

3. There is a piece of me that likes danger. I used to hang out on the railroad tressle and wait for the train to pass.

4. I love to write. I have a blog that makes me happy.

5. Music has great power over me. It actually takes me places.

6. I'm a little weird about wild animals. I feel extraordinarilly lucky - chosen even?- when I catch a glimse of a moose or a coyote.

7. For all the things I doubt in myself, surviving without everyday comforts is not one of them.

8. Apparently, it's a little difficult for me to divulge 25 random things about me. It feels a little indulgent to me right now. Actually. I recommend that you go do something else with your time.

9. I never ever worked hard in school - not one little bit - until I got to graduate school.

10. When Chloe was born, I felt as though I had known her my whole life. I'd just been waiting for her to show up.

11. When Will was born, I knew immediately that he was exactly what we all needed. He completed our family with great presence.

12. Peter is the perfect fit for me. Absolutely perfect. He makes me madder than hell sometimes, and even then I know we're the perfect fit.

13. As a unit, we have done a lot of searching for Home. For now, we are there. And it's really really good for the soul.

14. I love to play the guitar and sing, but I approach it the way I approach lots of things in my life - todo o nada.

15. I feel a sense of dread almost every time the phone rings. I'd really like for this to pass.

16. Over the past couple of years, I've grown to love the pre-dawn hours. I take the dog for walks and luxuriate in the quiet.

17. Is that grass over there really greener? Cause I'm pretty certain it looks like it is from where I'm standing.

18. My kids never saw an iron until they were at least 5 years old. "Is that a funny telephone, Mommy?"

19. I will die a blonde, dammit.

20. I like 5th graders a lot. I like reading and writing a lot. I teach reading and writing to fifth graders. I like my job a lot.

21. The sound of the electric pencil sharpener is the sound I will hear if I happen to end up in hell.

22. Sometimes when I'm gardening I get so lost in my thoughts, I actually drool.

23. I want to write a book. Even if it's just for me.

24. The shear luck of ending up with the family I've got can drop me to the floor. It's astounding to me.

25. I'd rather have sea glass than jewels.

Ten Year Old to Mom

2009-01-28T14:31:00.004-05:00

Build me a fire, please
I'm cold
And it's cold
Sit wirh me and warm our souls please
So we won't be so cold.

I'm worried and confused and I don't understand
Anything but back then
I'm changing and it's all happening
Back it up for me please
Or at least tell me it's alright
I won't believe you this time, but keep saying it anyway.

It's not easy and I like easy
Can you just make it easy again please?
I'm asking the fire to please make it easy please again
It can't hurt to ask when it's hard.

When I'm a mom I'll like my cute little baby more than my Me
I know I will mom
And now I'm that Me
And I'm worried and scared and I want to go back
Tell me. Did you?

Were you scared?
Tell me.
Was it hard and was it frightening?
Were you scared and did it hurt?
You couldn't control it and I can't control this
This growing up is hard and not easy.

Sit with me mom.
I'm scared.

Post Script

2009-01-28T14:12:00.005-05:00

The Old Man has lost his joix de vivre. It's a familiar sad tale that accompanies the retirement of passionate people who touched lives.

"Volunteer," people suggest. But he doesn't feel much like volunteering because it takes too much courage to sign up for the damn stuff. He won't know what to expect or where to go and godforbid someone should need him and he let them down. So no. No volunteering. He'll just read there in his comfortable chair because it has actually taken the form of his body. Yes. The chair accepts him and the novel washes over him like a warm bath. It takes his hand and transports him for a time.

But the novel had the nerve to end.

He studies his cuticles. Ponders plucking out the hairs on his knuckles. Remembers that those are the hairs that used to get singed off when he built campfires in his youth.

Tea. He'll make some tea. Where is that damn teapot? Rusted out on the bottom. He'll need to use the microwave. Three minutes to boil the water, right? He removes his glasses so he can see the timer. He walks to the window to watch the birdfeeder and wait.

The bluejays bully all the small songbirds. When they aren't chasing them down, they're warning them with their beady bluejay eyes, silently saying I'll come for you if you take a chance. Just try me. And this makes our hero mad, so he taps hard on the glass, hoping to show them who's really boss around here.

But the birds had the nerve to fly away.

Homes

2009-01-11T20:31:00.014-05:00

It was the summer of our marriage, and we were living in my parents' barn. Although the horses were long gone, we weren't sleeping in the stalls. They were filled with tractors, old wood stoves, furniture for "some day" and an old race car. We entered the barn through that squeaky old rolling door, but then we hooked an immediate right. There is a tiny apartment up the old rickety stairs next to the hay loft that we called home. I don't recall Peter actually carrying me over the threshold of that place, but it was our first digs as married folks. It had an orange carpet, lots of flies, a kitchenette, a bathroom with a camp shower and a loud water pump that went three times every time someone flushed. This mishmash of a place also had our marriage bed.

My dad was ambivalent about the fact that we were residing in what had always been his Man Turf. He couldn't really forfeit control of his pad, because it had always served as HIS escape. On the other hand, he loved that we were close by, and he loved that he could help us start out. He would make the walk down to the barn at all hours and just "pop in" to say hello or to ask if we'd like him to help us out with anything. At least twice, I had to dive in front of the door wrapped in a sheet (no locks in the barn of course) while Peter zipped up his pants.
"Nope. We're good. Thanks, Dad. We'll let you know if we need anything."

We were in graduate school. We had a golden retriever puppy. We baked chicken in the tiny oven. We went for runs and we swam in the river. We studied some, and we formulated our philosophies about education. We had big dreams in that tiny, crowded space.

When the snow flew that fall, we moved into Burlington. We rented half of a duplex on the main street leading in to the downtown area. There were three (three!) bedrooms in that place, a kitchen, a living room and a bathroom. The pump was quiet. We bought a computer. We grew tomatoes in huge planters on the front porch. We went to the local bars, played pool and rode in shopping carts on the way home. We found teaching gigs, and put our philosophies into play. We had passion to burn at work and at play. We had to swear to each other that we would never play the pouring-ice-cold-water-on-each-unsuspecting-other-in-the-shower game, because it was completely out of hand. We could hardly sleep at night for the planning and the paranoia. Taping the sprayer nozzle on the kitchen sink to the "on" position was still fair territory though.

Next stop: suburbia. We rented a whole house 8 miles north of the city. It was a collage of a house, made from old barn materials, salvaged lumber, Uncle Fred's this and someone's grandma's old that. It matched our passion with its character. One night we found a cat prowling around in our basement. The down side of this place was that the owners, older hippies who had just a bit of extra sadness, kept all of their discarded junk stored here and there in that house. Their stuff somehow oozed their grief, and I never could quite shake that.

A year or two later, we actually scraped together the funds to put a deposit down on our very own house. It had orange counter tops, hollow doors, a sandbox, and an incredible flower garden I loved. You had to drive very, very slowly as you approached it, as tricycles and red wagons in that neighborhood outnumbered cars. This place wrote the book on cul-de-sac living. I have a lifelong friend from that neighborhood. We brought our beautiful newborn Chloe home to this, our little grey home, ten years and a lifetime ago today.

Whispers of greener grass haunted us there. They would wake us up at night, daring us to venture. We took our baby and our dog and our medium sized U-Haul to Baltimore. We had wanted to challenge our liberal ideals, wanted just a little less predictability, perhaps some more culture. We openly scoffed at those who warned us to be careful what you wish for. In that big, somewhat southern city, we became real teachers. We were robbed. We made more true friends. We brought home our beautiful newborn William to that brick cape we called home. We had four (four!) bedrooms in that home, but sweet Will had to sleep downstairs because there were two up and two down. I wanted him closer. We planted our own flower garden, and tended it too. We buried three family members when we lived there. And our dog. We learned to be careful what you wish for, but also to pursue it anyway. But we needed to come home because we weren't home at that home we lived in for six years in Baltimore.

And now we are home. It's a big happy home not far from a moody ocean. There are five (five!) bedrooms in this home, the floors haven't been sanded since they were laid down in 1927, and the mouldings are spectacular. When we were cleaning out the basement of this happy home we had just bought, we found their teenage boys' porn and a pinch pipe stuffed into an old crawlspace. We have a new golden retriever now, and he loves this home too. We hung a tire swing on the oak tree in the back yard. The mantelpiece is a bit crooked, the kitchen tiles are horrendous, and the old steam heaters need to be repainted, but we have time to fix all this. We've got all kinds of time in this home. Recently, we redid our bathroom, and where the tiles had fallen out and couldn't be replaced, we carefully added our timeless seaglass. All four of us, plus the dog, sleep on the second story. We are a stone's throw from friends we've known our whole lives. My parents are close, but not THAT close. We're home now. Now we're home.

An Introduction

2009-01-02T09:42:00.020-05:00

We were on a honeymoon of sorts in Jamaica. It had taken us five years of marriage to scrape together the required cash, so "honeymoon" is a liberal term for it, but we were having the time of our lives. We played on the beach, sipped endless tropical drinks through straws, swam in the pool, played tennis, met some friends, and laughed. This is a very relaxed me on that heavenly trip.

A few weeks after we arrived back in the the still deeply frozen tundra called Vermont (our then home), I felt like I might die. Of nausea. I felt like I was trapped inside a milk carton that had been left in that Jamaica sun for quite some time. Peutrid. I started to barf, and..wait...what the???

Peter was vaccuuming when I told him I was pregnant. He looked at me, blinked twice *blink.blink* and kept vaccuuming. He crossed the floor with slightly more intensity and very straight rows. He frowned and squinted at the rug: no crumb was going to escape HIS hoover!

A few minutes later, carpets cleaned and dust settled, he found his wits and sat down next to me on the front step to help me find mine. Together, we rallied for this new adventure.

Enter Chloe, the beautiful wise baby who would take on the job of raising her parents with endless grace and courage. When she was born she looked at us, blinked twice *blink.blink* and started nursing.

I've said it before, but it's worth repeating: this child was born worldly and knowing. She had compassionate down before I did.

She feels things deeply and delights in all things new. She's a flower child living her life in the twenty-first century. She's "home" when she's ouside talking to the animals, admiring the moon and stars, or riding the waves.

Chloe is a writer and an artist. She finds endless joy in creating. And imagining. She's always wondering.

She has a great sense of humor, too. BOO!

Chloe's going to be ten in a few days. She must be exhausted from all the teaching she has to do for us every single day, but we'd like to think she's proud of her efforts. Molding your average people into parents is a tough, tough job.

Of course she's had a little help for the past six and a half years, but nonetheless, she's done a bang-up job. I'm very proud to know her.

Breathe In...Hold...Breathe Out

2008-12-31T09:38:00.006-05:00

Dear Self,

Alright. Let's just regroup here, commit some things to writing, and most importantly of all, try to (brace yourself, Self) LEARN from our experiences with our family of origin. We'd really like to avoid repeat performances and subsequent feelings of being all knotted up inside, having less than pleasant thoughts about the people who we grew up with, so if we could FOCUS a bit and work toward GROWTH, that would be super.

First, let's review how we'll react when our sister asks everyone if they want to go bowling, gets impatient when it takes a few minutes to decide, and then, once we agree to go, announces that she can't go after all because she took TWO of her anti-depressant pills instead of the prescribed ONE, and she needs to sleep off her little overdose. Perhaps the not-so-subtle eye roll in her direction isn't actually helping to solve the problem. Next time, just as a thought, perhaps we could ask her if she has any EXTRA pills she could throw our way, because lord knows we're gonna need something to get us through this family gathering.

Second. Self, this is an important one. Let's try NOT to engage in a full fledged debate with our mother and sister about ethics and pride when they start talking about how to get all you can from the Olive Garden Restaurant by just eating the free bottomless salad that comes with the meal all night, and then having them wrap up your entree for tomorrow night's dinner at home. Because engaging in that type of discussion with them is obviously futile, Self. We've learned that now, remember?

Third. When we pay for a family trip to the New England Aquarium, which we know is about equivalent to a mortgage payment on the house, let's not be surprised when the rest of the family lasts not one moment more than fifteen minutes inside, before they start getting hungry and bitchy. Let's not even OFFER them the snacks we thought to pack before we left the house, because we will now know for certain that their need to leave the Aquarium is really their need to flee something within themselves. Okay, Self? Let's just know this and adjust our expectations.

Regarding the CURRENT family, Self, the ones we actually CHOSE or molded into people we like and respect, let's be extra kind to them as they try to navigate the muddy (in fact sewage-y) waters of our family of origin. Let's do all we can to avoid barking at them when they are really the treasures of our life. They are the lifeboats, Self, so let's just sail away on them (say, to Jamaica in March!) and take comfort in their beautiful souls.

Hold on there, Self. Not so fast! There's this issue of our mother and how she pretends that everything is just MAHRvelous with our sister and her daily two hour naps. The mother who laughed when her own first-born daughter spat in a frustrated moment that she was PLAGUED by impatient fathers, referring to her own husband and her own father (husband of that mother of ours). That father of ours looked on to that scene with those two women with a breaking heart. Can we really try to learn from this, please, and not go in with a naive optimism that is actually a demon in disguise? Because when that demon takes her mask off, she's evil. Repeat after me, Self: "Mom can't bear to see her first-born's faults. It reflects too closely on herself." Now say it again, louder. Excellent. We did it!

Now, the next assignment is tricky, so don't expect to get it all done at once. Throughout the new year, we need to reflect carefully on what our relationship with our family of origin should really be. Should we hang out with people who make us feel rotten on the inside? What's it really for? What are the pros and cons of changing or even severing the relationship? Ask bloggy friends for advice (this part you can do ASAP).

Happy New Year, Self. May this be a year of growth and, pleaseohplease, peace.

Love,

Self

p.s. Happy New Year to my bloggy friends too! May you also find true peace wherever you look. I'm really glad to have found you! Now start advising me - STAT!

Large Rocks in the River

2008-12-27T17:50:00.012-05:00

There is a beautiful river I know in Vermont. Its origin is somewhere on a frozen mountaintop, or perhaps in the space between that summit and the clouds that grace it. From wherever it begins, it meanders its way down the earth with a majestic demeanor. All along its banks, the trees and the animals bow down to it, paying tribute to its wonder. In places, it is as wide as the nearby meadows, while in others it is little more than a stream. If you catch it after a violent spring storm, you'd best keep a safe distance, for it has been known to take prey from time to time. It is playful in the fall, furiously determined in the spring, ominous in the winter, and selfless in the summer. Ever onward it rolls.

Most of the rocks in this river's timeless path are worn smooth and round. They groan only a bit when bare feet shift them. They are under water all the time, serving as the track.

The rocks I'm interested in though, are the larger ones, not quite boulders, that spend most of their time at least partly above the water line parting the rush. These pillars, interruptions in the flow of the river, must be firmly planted to withstand the constant coaxing of the water, and they are sun bleached on top. The trees along the banks cast their shadows on them. Due to their vantage point, these large rocks in the river can silently watch it all, but they never quite join in. They are like old men sitting peacefully on the park bench feeding the birds. Watching, remembering, noting from a close yet separate distance.

The river accepts that even she, in all her majesty, hasn't the might to force these rocks to follow her, so she parts momentarily, flexes, and continues her journey just south of her obstacle.

I don't know why these rocks were calling me to think about them and to write about them, but they were. Rocks in a river. What does that even mean?

Safe Secrets

2008-12-21T12:00:00.005-05:00

It's vacation! Blissful, glorious, sweet-loving, aboutfuckingtime VACATION. I have two weeks with my family now. Sugar cookies and snow forts await! Hallelujah and Amen. It's vacation.

Being a fifth grade teacher is a rewarding, challenging, funny, quirky, and never boring gig for me. Generally, I love what I do because each day brings me rewards I could never dream of. You see, the people I share my space with are some of the most earnest on the planet. They've been ON the planet for a mere ten or eleven years, which sometimes leaves them slightly awkward, but always earnest.

My charges really do want to do the right thing, they are endlessly curious about the world, they are fascinated by the intricacies of relationships, power, poetry, prime numbers and their changing bodies. They ask beautiful questions. They desperately want to succeed, both for themselves and for the acceptance of those around them.

Fifth graders sometimes smell like hell and they are CONSTANTLY falling out of their chairs. They pretty much refuse to raise their hands before they speak, or wash them before they eat. They couldn't walk in a line if their lives depended on it. To a fifth grader, THIS IS TALKING QUIETLY!!!!! and the idea of waiting for the teacher to stop teaching before you sharpen a pencil is completely preposterous. They rarely throw anything away (even their dirty tissues), yet they'll claim that they accidentally threw away last night's homework. A fifth grader can weep for a week because of a dying hamster. They play with dolls and Facebook, experiment with Scrabble and spin the bottle. They are trying to not be too afraid to stay at home alone, and they are thrilled when they lose a tooth because the toothfairy might come for a visit. Fifth graders are starting to notice pimples, training bras, skills and popularity in each other. My fifth graders actually fight with each other over the opportunity to help me when I ask for it.

My students and I have an understanding. It is an unspoken, sacred agreement between parties: I won't blow their cover if they won't blow mine.

I know that they are scared, sometimes lonely and insecure. I know how desperately they want to grow up gracefully. I know how terrified they are of being embarrassed, how tenuously they stand in their in-betweenness. I will guard their secret with my life. In return, they pretend I'm hip (I need this just as desperately). They laugh at my jokes and feign interest when I teach them what a preposition is. They know mine is a sometimes grueling and thankless job (entertaining them), but they hang on like champions. Somehow, I think they may know that I share their human condition; I am just as desperate to feel important. Useful. Our relationship is symbiotic, like the clown fish and the poisonous coral.

I am grateful to these kiddos ~ and I am so very proud to know them. They have great courage, and it shows every day as they take risks and try to grow up just a little bit more.

But, I am really REALLY glad to be away from them for a couple of weeks, too. I'm luxuriating in my sweet-smelling, quiet, pencil sharpener-free home with my own quirky little ones. Hallelujah and Amen. It's vacation.

Dear Santa,

2008-12-12T21:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa,

Alright. You seem like a reasonable guy and all, so I'm gonna' give it to you straight. No beating around the bush. I'd like a new set of boobs please.

Now, please don't get me wrong, Santa. I'm a pretty grateful girl. I like to think that I can be satisfied with the little that I have. It's just that this set...well, this set I've got is just a little too little. Honestly, Santa. I've had this pair since I was in sixth grade. And they really haven't changed one little (even tiny) bit.

Here's the thing. My tatas have served me well. Albeit very small, they probably helped me to land my hottie husband in some way. I happen to know he's kind of a boob guy, and I ended up with him, so at least they didn't send him running in the other direction.

Also, my "girls" fed two babies for a YEAR a piece! That's pretty amazing stuff right there. They worked as barmaids for some pretty greedy customers. I'm sure you can concur that that is no easy job! I was hopeful that I would be able to enjoy the benefits of finally having respectably sized boobs, if even for a short time while nursing.

The thing is, Santa Claus (and I really hope you're not faint of heart in any way. I have to assume you've heard this type of thing before, what with being able to peek into people's bedrooms and stuff...)both of those babies preferred one boob over the other (what IS it with the left one, children?) and things got all out of whack around those parts. For those years of nursing, I was walking around with a D on one side and a smallish B on the other. It was a little awkward, as I'm sure you can imagine. And more than a little bit disappointing.

And then, post-barmaid gig, those now mean-spirited titties seemed to get even smaller than they were when they were pre-working girls, which I have to admit, is pretty close to concave. This has been a bit of a disappointment as well, if you must know.

Santa, I'm going to give it to you straight. I'm going to be forty next year, and I really haven't asked for much my whole life. (Don't go checking that claim please. Just believe me and move on. No one likes a skeptic.) I'd like a nice pair of evenly rounded out C cups please that I can display proudly. A touch of cleavage would be super, but I promise not to overexpose it at inappropriate times. Clearly, no one likes a bragger either. I've heard rumors, and I'm just putting this out there: if there is such a thing as the titty fairy, and you know her, could you please send her my way?

Oh. Just to clear up any confusion: I simply can't stand the idea of surgery, so please don't go suggesting that. That will NEVER fly. Also, I've tried wonderbras, waterbras, pushup bras, and flat out foam falsies. Clearly, I'd like to be all done with these as well. I'm asking point blank to wake up on a glorious Christmas morn with a brand new RACK.

Thank you, Santa. You're a real doll.

Hugs, kisses, and a little *flash* for good measure,

Susie

Just Like the Ones I Used to Know

2008-12-08T19:53:00.000-05:00

I don't know. I'm just ambivalent about the whole thing.

I haul the stuff out of the musty storage area in the basement and pry open the familiar storage cartons. The biggest one, packed with the most cherished decorations and stockings, was Peter's old black summer camp trunk. When its brass colored hinges click open, I immediately smell Christmases past: cloves from some preschool ornament, artificial pine scented candles, dusty tissue paper that cradles each treasure.

The kids oooh and ahhh over each one. Unwrapping the ornaments, waking them from their year-long slumber, is as ritualistic and anticipatory as Christmas morning itself. My beautiful babies are all smiles and wonder. "Remember this one? Where did it come from, Mommy?" For some reason, I always pretend to have to think about it for a while. I rub my hands over it as if I need to feel it in order to help me remember. "This one was from Moanie. She gave it to you when you were just two." But I hadn't really needed to hesitate. The truth is that I'm like a savant with the ornaments: I know immediately and exactly where each one came from. And many of them make me nostalgic at best, deeply deeply sad at worst. I can't help it.

I have a very hard time living in the present when it comes to Christmas. I begin each year with the naivete of a child, but then I open the boxes of lights and bells and dishtowels decorated with wreaths and snowmen. I unwrap nutcrackers and snow globes and jingle bells and what feels like hundreds of Santas. I hear the music of my childhood and I begin to smell and taste the essence of yesteryear. Uninvited, the past rises out of those boxes and assaults me. It actually mocks me as I try to stay in Today. "Those years are gone," I remind myself. "Look at the children. Stay Now."

I'm gone.

I'm a child in our family's log cabin in Vermont, sitting by the too leggy pine tree we cut down in our woods. The colored lights reflect in the candlelight and the streams of tinsel. There is music, and the snowflakes flying outside are absolutely enormous. The deer head mounted above the staircase has a single shiny red Christmas ball hanging from its antlers. There's a fire in the fireplace and my dad is making popcorn the old fashioned way.

I reach for another ornament.

Then I'm in our first house as a married woman. We had our own tree with a few choice ornaments. It wasn't complicated. There was anticipation and delightful simplicity.

I unwrap a clear glass pinecone.

Without warning, I'm in Baltimore. It's Christmas Eve and the EMT's have knocked over our tree in their clumsy efforts to revive her. I'm on the staircase watching my beloved mother-in-law turn blue for lack of oxygen. She's still seizing. One of the men puts his boot on the doll bed that Moanie, now intubated, had carefully laid out so that it would be the first thing to be discovered in the morning. I'm scanning the area, looking for something to vomit into. My husband is holding her hand, rubbing her hair, telling her to please, just try to breathe. Several hours later, my sister, having made the trip from Virginia, is rotating shifts between watching my daughter sleep and straightening up the mess in the living room. There's urine on the floor of the guest room. There are shattered ornaments strewn about. Distress has spilled all over the house. My sweet sister is cleaning while I'm retrieving my husband from the hospital.

I want to stay Now, but these ornaments take me from place to place with breathtaking speed and force. Maybe resisting the travels makes them want me even more, but I can't surrender. I don't want to go back, even to the happiest of times. I just want to be Now.

It's a Love/Hate World

2008-12-04T09:37:00.000-05:00

Things I Hate:

*The sound of an electric pencil sharpener when I'm trying to teach a class.
*Guilt.
*Burned-out teachers who won't retire.
*Yelling at my own kids, or the feeling that they'll only truly listen when I do.
*When people slow to a near stop before they take a right turn.
*My students' misplaced apostrophes.
*Innefficiently run faculty meetings when I know the dog hasn't peed in nearly ten hours.
*When I thought I had set the coffee maker for 5:15, but I actually hadn't, so I have to wait ten minutes after waking up before I can have my first sip of joe.
*My deeply seeded, irrational reaction to some issues surrounding food.
*Guilt.
*Having secrets. Therefore I don't.
*Parents of my students who don't have jobs outside of the home, and who insist on hovering around the classroom and my email inbox as though it were a full-time, paying gig.
*The polar opposite of the above. Hello...your kid is hungry by 8:30 because you didn't make him any breakfast. Also...you might want to ask him every once in a while if he has any homework. Just a thought.
*This recession. It scares the living hell out of me.
*The smelly and greasy old man Depression who lurks in my house, lonely, waiting to attach himself to me because I'm sometimes overly accomodating to him. I don't yell at him to get the fuck out of my house the way I should. I hate that motherfucker.

Things I Love:

*When my kids burrow in to me, wrap their arms around me and squeeze.
*One-on-one time with either one of my kids. I don't care what we're doing. I love to be alone with just one of them.
*A fire in the fireplace, hot chocolate, and a book.
*This heavenly town.
*Catching a glimpse of a wild animal in the woods. If I can spot a moose, I'm golden for weeks.
*An earnest student asking a question.
*The greeting my dog gives me when I come home.
*Singing. Loudly. Preferably in to a microphone.
*A great pair of jeans. And by great I mean flattering, stylish AND comfortable.
*Tall skinny cinnamon dolce latte. Mmmmmmmm...
*A well-constructed essay. By me or by a student.
*Spilling the beans on myself.
*Going to bed knowing I've done the best I can do. This is a rare gem.
*My daughter's deep, and very old soul.
*My son's curious, and very new soul.
*Comments and commenting.

How about you?

Foxfire and Fireflies

2008-12-01T22:20:00.001-05:00

When I was seven, my dad told me to whistle on my way in to the barn so I wouldn't startle our mare, Foxfire. Without exception, I should always announce my arrival with a whistle. I looked up at my dad after he gave me this instruction, took a deep breath and explained that I was really sorry but without my two front teeth, I was really having a hard time getting any sound to come out, so he sighed and agreed to let me sing my way in to the barn.

"However you do it, just make sure you give them plenty of warning, because Foxfire's liable to rear right up and hurt herself if you scare her by just appearing out of the blue," my dad warned me.

Foxfire was my dad's very favorite horse, and she was also a neurotic disaster of a mess who was sadly in need of some therapy for her frazzled nerves. I only forgot to announce my arrival once. That huge thoroughbred horse was on her hind hooves so fast, front hooves frantically waving in the air, teeth gnashing, tail flailing. When she was on all fours again, she began furiously whinnying and kicking her stall doors with abandon. I watched in horror and all I could think to do was hit the dirt. It was a terrifying sight. I never wanted to see it again.

So began the habit. Entering the barn had a whole ritual for me. A routine. I'd start singing "When the Saints Go Marching In" a full fifty yards before I rounded the corner onto the concrete slab of the barn floor. I'd clap my hands for good measure. My leather riding boots stamped to the beat, and I added a funky little dance, twirling and waving my arms. As I made my way past the large rock on the side of the meadow, my volume would increase. The show would come to a rising finale just as I came face to face with our three horses, their ears perked in keen interest. They were such a non-judgemental crew, really. The carrots and apples and sugar cubes I usually had stuffed in my pockets probably didn't hurt either.

Despite Foxfire's neuroses and my father's somewhat unhealthy attachment to her, the horses and our barn were a safe hide-out for me. I loved brushing them, braiding their tails, singing to them, riding bareback down the dirt road our barn was on, and pulling them in to my imagination. I loved the smell of the grain I fed them at dinnertime. I loved putting my cheek on the very softest velvet of their noses and feeling their breath. I even loved mucking out their stalls and reintroducing them to a nice clean straw-filled home. I'd pretend they were grateful.

I liked hauling in the hose that was coiled just outside the sliding door to top off their water buckets. I'd tell them stories and more stories. I'd spend time rearranging the horseshoes that were hanging on the stall door so they were perfectly face up for good luck.

There were four overhead lights in our barn, and each one was the home to a family of barn swallows. Their messy, plaster-like nests were precariously placed atop each metal light bulb cage. I loved watching the birds fly in and out of the barn looking for food for their babies. I was awed by how much work it was for the mother birds to raise their young. I looked forward to the babies' first flights just as much as I did my own achievements. I imagined the horses and the barn swallows talking to each other when there were no people around.

For a few nights each summer, the meadow would come alive with fireflies. I used to love to walk down to the barn on those nights and sit quietly with the horses, watching the glow of life outside. The peepers and the breath of the horses were the only sounds, but there was magic flying all around. When the last of the natural light had truly faded, the fireflies would disappear, and night would take hold. I'd test my courage by walking all the way back to the house without a flashlight.

The next morning, I'd announce my arrival all over again.

Dear Peter,

2008-11-22T16:37:00.000-05:00

Dear Peter,

I was sixteen. Sixteen.

I saw you and immediately identified my challenge because you were so damn hot. I knew right away I'd have to be smooth and I'd have to work quickly if I wanted to land this prize. This was not going to be easy.

Looking around the circle of camp counselors with whom I would be sharing my summer, I assessed my competition. After all, here we were at staff week, the campers would arrive in a few short days, and time was a wastin'. Unfortunately, I could tell that there were several girls sitting on the pine floor of Main Lodge with us who shared my summer dream. Their combination hairflip/giggles were such a giveaway. I was going to have to take this job of snagging you very seriously.

I studied the 40 other girls in the room. We had all come to camp for the benefits of the great outdoors, friendships, swimming, leadership opportunities and personal growth for sure, but we also had our secrets. We knew we wanted to experience some big firsts this summer, and we'd really like it if it could be with ummm...let's see...YOU. Smokin' hot YOU.

I went in early and I went in strong. I never looked back. I was smitten beyond my wildest sixteen year old dreams. You had unbelievable shoulders. Your abs? Holy abs. Your hands were worn and strong from the manly work you had been doing with hammers and axes and ropes and things I knew nothing of. At night you smelled faintly of Irish Spring and Chaps. You had a carefree laugh that made me melt. You talked about the fact that you were going to college in the fall. You were completely irresistible to me. I was putty.

We sealed the deal that summer. I literally tackled my dreams.

We kissed to Eric Clapton, Elvis Costello, Stevie Nicks, Elton John and UB40. We laid on our backs next to the lake listening to the bullfrogs, telling stories and counting shooting stars. We built and stared in to fires and more fires. We drove to Vermont so that you could buy beer legally. We went for walks and played the alphabet memory game: "Apples, bananas, catnip dishtowel..." That summer you let me give you what would end up being the first of hundreds of haircuts. I could imagine playing with you forever more.

Who could ever have guessed that all of the reasons that I fell for you that summer at camp would end up catapulting us in to a marriage based on things deeper than deep? How can it be that we and the fates have taken care of us so well? At the beginning, I saw you as the hottie you were, but I couldn't have known that you would be the only living person who can snap me out of a funk or reconnect me when I slip away. I knew your shoulders, hands and abs were strong, but I had no idea they had nothing on the strength of your character. I knew you played with hammers and axes that summer, but I never could have imagined that you could replace the facia and soffets on our home.

When we were counting shooting stars, I couldn't have known that you would teach me endless things about faith not in god but in the strength of human beings. I could never have known that at sixteen.

We've now welcomed and embraced two astoundingly beautiful children, and we've mourned the loss of two parents and a brother together. That summer we built fires while we built a foundation for something both strong and somehow magical. How could we have known?

To be sure, I'm still putty.

Love, Susie

Stepping Outside

2008-11-18T19:31:00.000-05:00

There's a thing about teaching in the town where you live that is somewhat quaint, almost timeless, and also kind of charming. My husband is an administrator in the same school where I teach, and both of our kids go there too. Every morning at 7:25 the four of us grab our backpacks and our lunchbags and hop in the car together. We drive the three quarters of a mile to school while our daughter brushes her hair, our son buttons his shirt and asks why there has to be a dresscode anyway, and Peter and I iron out the plans for the afternoon and evening. That's quaint.

Except when it's not.

Our town has about 20,000 people in it. Our school is the only private school around. It's a small school, where everyone knows everyone's everything. That makes it ultra quaint, except of course if you want to be a little bit anonymous or a little bit brave or a little bit aloof or a little bit anything different from what you were yesterday.

Let's say, for example that you wanted to be in a musical that the excellent local theatre company was putting on. That might break the mold of the usual fifth grade teacher in the quaint little very expensive private school. That would be a little bit weird and could very easily rock the proverbial boats of the quaint people who are part of that exceptionally sweet and adorable little elite school.

Especially if one of the scenes in the play, which for argument's sake we'll call "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat," required you to wear a very little extra tiny, and just a little bit slutty costume, and rub yourself all over a male actor. That might be a whole lot for the quaint folks of said school to swallow. And then you'd have to make a decision.

You'd probably start out by trying to fit into both worlds very safely. You might be up there on stage trying on the one hand to do your thang, all the while trying to send the message to the audience (who isn't even there yet because it's still rehearsal) that they,as quaint people, have no need to worry, because you're not really LIKING what you're doing. "You see," you'd be saying with your eyes and your body, "I'm only doing this because I absolutely have to. If it were up to me, I'd be being teacherly in the classroom with your adorable children. I'm very matronly,quite predictable, and really rather boring like you'd expect, so don't you worry your pretty little selves."

And then, what might happen, is your director might call you out in front of the whole cast during your dress rehearsal. He might say something like, "YOU DON'T LOOK SEXY AT ALL! IT LOOKS TO ME LIKE SEXY IS NOT ANYWHERE IN YOU! ARE YOU GONNA WORK WITH ME OR NOT!?!!"

And then you might be crushed in your heart because being all quaint has cost you so dearly. You'd then need to ask yourself a very important, somewhat timeless, ultimately UNquaint question: How much is your independence worth?

You'd have to make that decision.

And then maybe you'd decide to hell with any judgers who are quaint. Maybe you'd be willing to admit to 5,000 people who each payed $20.00 per ticket that you're actually not all that fucking quaint. You might even decide to let down your guard and play the damn part, in all its slutty glory, and see what happens.

And maybe if you were brave enough and also kind of lucky, you would return to your quaint elite little school, and you'd realize that most of the people got what you were trying to do, and inside they knew that everyone should be brave once in a while. But if you were really paying attention, you might even realize a lesson that's truly precious, like a star lingering at dawn: you don't give a shit if they get it or not.

Crowded

2008-11-13T20:57:00.000-05:00

Who lives in me? How many of me are there in there? Honest to god, I have no idea.

I thought that once the real me emerged, or I forced her out of hiding, I'd breathe a sigh of relief and know for certain that my search was over. "Alas, I've been found," I'd sigh. Here I am. I'd carry on as Me.

I used to love to reinvent myself. I would show up at camp and declare myself "Sue" as opposed to the Susie everyone remembered from last summer. I would become a gymnast. A singer. A jockey. A jokester. A writer. Each day a new me. My identities changed with the wind.

But this game was more than just child's play. More.

I was looking, searching for the real one. The essence of the me I needed to rely on. I was playacting, fooling even the me's that were judging. "Look at her! The new one. She's such an intellectual!" I had everyone fooled. All of me.

I became the wife to an astounding man. I'm getting closer. My children were born and their pure beauty and courage and trust and wisdom dropped me to the floor. I was stricken by my love. I was a mother. I was found. I believed it was my essence being unveiled. Was this my core, finally exposed to those of me who needed to identify it?

Yes and no. There are more layers. More me's. I can't find the real one though. The One. They keep switching places right when I think I've got them pegged. There's a cloaked magician with dirty fingernails and wrinkly hands playing the shell game with all of the me's. I suppose I am the magician, the baffled audience and I'm under each shell.

I have a crowded soul. Let's all just try to get along.

Too Tight, Out-of-Date Bravery

2008-10-17T19:54:00.000-04:00

I wanted to find and shake out the bravery I used to wear like a favorite pair of jeans. I remember it being perfectly worn in, with a few strategically placed patches on the knees. It was comfortable, stylish, and it made me feel ultra cool. I found it, my bravery, accepted the fact that it smelled like the antique cedar chest from whence it came, put it on, and...oh shit.

It doesn't fit. The cut is all wrong for today! No one wears this kind of thing anymore! The stitching is so clearly from the eighties, and the price tag is still on the damn thing. It says $19.99, which is the cost of bravery that was sold in 1992 - the year I graduated from college! Every single person is going to know that this is yesterday's bravery. I may as well be wearing moon boots.

Sigh. Tremble. Maybe if I do some funky stretches and suck it in here and never let them see this part that I can't quite get to snap? I'll wear an extra long sweater to try to cover up what I can. I'll spray a little something on it to mask the odor. I won't get eye contact. I'll...Fergodsake...Justfuckingdoit.

I went to the audition. I got in.

I'm in a musical. The seats go for twenty bucks a pop. There are eight big performances. We've been sinking our souls into it for a month and a half. It opens on November first. I'm scared.

On the way to the first rehearsal, I burned through the extra layer of deodorant I had put on prophylactically. I was a nervous wreck. When I arrived and met the other cast members, I was pathological about my self-defeating humor, lest anyone should think I felt I deserved to be there.

Slowly, I began to get more comfortable with the rehearsals. I laughed with the other cast members. I could see their human sides. I did my best each night, all the while trying to allow myself a little bit of leeway. "Is that a supportive whisper I'm hearing in my brain? Coming from myself? Who the hell is that?"

I did what I do and scared that nice voice away. I ran it the hell out of there, and now I'm scared again. I'm scared. I don't want to do it. I hate bravery and the way it's deceiving me. It's so obvious it doesn't even fit. And it fucking stinks like mothballs too.

Canada Geese

2008-10-12T09:04:00.000-04:00

Fall, here in the best coastal town, is magical. The trees are ablaze in colors that scream of endings and beginnings in one breath. The sky is a backdrop of bluerthanblue. The smell of woodsmoke lingers. The crunching of the leaves that have fallen add a musical descant to everyday chores. Inside is cozy and warm and outside is brisk and enlivening. Yet fall here in New England is ambiguous.

As I sit on my back deck drinking a cup of coffee and welcoming the day, I hear the trademark sound of autumn: a flock of geese flying overhead. They are headed south like they should - this time of year is the unmistakable foreword to months of bitter cold. The geese are in their telltale V formation, the hull of a ship. The leader is shielding the wind for each bird who follows. The wake of the ship is their lingering song.

They fly by with keen collaboration. They slice through the sky with determined precision. They are in this together. I begin to dust off a fact I must have learned in gradeschool. Yes. Geese mate for life.

I am transported by these birds, not to a place, but to a time between times.
Fall is neither here nor there, just like the geese on their journey.

Fall is a season decidedly between seasons. It is that moment on the merry-go-round when the child loses sight of her waving parents and begins to panic. Things are going by in a blurr and the cigarette smoking bearded man with all the tattoos isn't paying attention to her. He won't stop the ride because he doesn't notice her silently pleading with him. She sheds some silent tears. That moment is fall.

Of course she finally spots them. Her parents had been fumbling through their bag looking for the camera. They wanted to stop time. To remember her just as she was. She breathes a sigh of relief. Fall slips into winter.

The geese are gone, leaving behind the truth that time spins on. The merry-go-round will seat a brand new rider filled with anticipation.

Ship on Wheels

2008-10-03T17:14:00.000-04:00

Each May of my childhood with the grade school workbooks almost all the way filled in, the shoes purchased the previous fall unbearably snug, the evenings lingering with a bit of extra sunlight, and the school year drawing to a close, my mom would unearth the suitcases from the attic and lay them in an open line against her bedroom wall. All four hard suitcases lay waiting to be filled like baby birds in a nest. They smelled of mothballs and anticipation.

Our home changed its tenor in late May as we began the preparations for our 2,000 mile drive to our summer house in Vermont. We would spend every moment of summer vacation up there, so the process of packing was complicated. My mother became distracted by the task, thinking always ahead, as opposed to being present. We gave her leeway during these days leading up to our departure, forgave her for shunning today in the name of tomorrow, because we knew she was the only one who could get the job done. For the last week of every school year, those suitcases were her babies, her lists were her friends, and she was married to her agenda.

Finally, the day would come, and she'd load up our Buick station wagon with every single item we might possibly want for the summer. The mail was set to be forwarded, the extra keys were delivered to the neighbors, the curtains were drawn, and the doors locked. Most of the luggage went in the bulky black roof rack on top of the car. My sister and I each had a place carved out for us in the back seat, our black lab Fafnir got much of the wayback, the cat's litter box fit snugly between my mom's feet on the passenger side. We had food, books, and some simple non-noisy toys to serve as entertainment. The clothes for the five day drive were in smaller bags in the way back with the dog. My dad was always at the helm of our travelling ship on wheels.

We hoped to travel approximately 400 - 500 miles per day, but we had to balance our need to make progress with the rather fragile, often deteriorating chemistry between us. By the time we hit the 200 mile mark, we were knocking on the door of hating each other.

It was quiet. My dad chose silence over the crackling of the radio when we were in between stations. As a result, I remember hearing every sniffle, sigh, fart, nonspeak and stomach gurgle as if it were being broadcast through a microphone. It was a maddening, heavy loudquiet that I hated. I remember looking at the families in the cars we passed, imagining the converstaions they were having, the laughter they were sharing, or the music they were allowed to sing along to.

"Stop kicking the back of my seat," my dad would spit.

Suddenly, our fat orange cat would begin her journey from her post on my headrest to her litterbox on the floor of the front. Through the drone of the wheels on pavement, you could hear her scratching the dusty pebbles, digging the perfect hole, and finally peeing. She'd cover her evidence with more digging and scratching, but not before the odor hit us with a jolt.

I spent much of the time on the road staring out the window willing the next mile marker to hurry up and come. Or staring at the clock begging it to speed up. I'd be silently pleading with my family for some noise. Some music. Something.

When we stopped for the night, we would open the car doors and peel ouselves from the hot pleather seats like the skin off of an orange. The evening air was so welcoming and liberating, we'd enter it with true gratitude.

Thank God for the hotel pools. As soon as we could get in the pool, our tension would slip away and the world would begin to seem lighter. We might be somewhere in godforsaken Kentucky with several days of travel ahead of us, with the smell of dog breath and cat pee burned in our senses, having endured far too much quiet around us and far too much noise in our souls, but for those moments in the pool, life was good. We were closer to Vermont and we were out of the car. Tomorrow would be a new day.

On Sea Glass

2008-09-23T09:29:00.000-04:00

What is it about those little gems on the beach? The weathered pieces of glass that have traveled unknown distances and landed on the sand right where we walk? They seem to call to the sun, asking it to reflect just so for a moment, so that I can notice the tumbled history before me and add it to my collection. Each piece feels like it has a multi-layered story to tell.

Sea glass is fascinating to me because its beauty is dependent on its imperfections. Sea glass wears its experiences and obstacles for all to see. The rougher the seas were, the more sand and grit it encountered, the more beautiful it is.

Are we all like that? Do our difficult journeys add to our beauty? Do they soften us, round us out and make us blend just that much more to our surroundings? Do we speak to those around us without saying a word because of the sculpting, soul-shaping things we've seen?

We have an antique milk bottle filled with sea glass sitting on our kitchen windowsill. I like the connection between the two - the milk bottle tells of times gone by, but it survived its journey fully intact. Each piece of sea glass was broken away from its original form at some point, but it is now more stunning than it ever could have been when it was whole. Its difficult journey turned it in to a more perfect imperfect being.

Missing Moanie

2008-09-16T20:02:00.000-04:00

I can feel him watching me from across the room. It's crowded in here, and there is tension. His eyes bore through the sea of people right to my soul. He wants me. I know it.

I feel awkward and shy. It's been years since I've had this kind of attention. It feels almost invasive. I push my hair away from my face in an attempt to do something. I glance down and pretend I don't see him, but he knows. He knows a lot.

I want to run away from this guy. I don't need him. Or the complications he'll bring with him into my neat and organized life. I want to run. But I just can't escape his goddamn eyes. They are hauntingly beautiful. I am repelled and magnetized all at once. We start to walk towards each other. I have no choice. My soul is leading me to him.

We meet in the middle of the room. I think the room is a gymnasium. Or is it a ballroom? Either way it is where people -- children or adults -- gather for a party. It's crowded. I begin to realize that there was no way I could escape this guy. He knows exactly what he's doing. He does this all the time.

I start to feel an overwhelming sense that perhaps I do know this guy after all. At least he strikes me as viscerally familiar. Like some stranger I had shared an intimate moment with when I thought the world was big. But I can't remember any details about him. Maybe I met him in a dream?

Some piece of me can recognize the telltale odor of his skin and his confident stance. And of course the way I wanted to run but couldn't. I've been here before. Have I heard warnings about this power of his?

"You know, you really should just walk out the door with me. It's no use resisting," he whispers in my ear. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. I'm not scared as much as I am shocked by his narcissism.

"I have a life you know. I can't just walk away from everything." I am play acting though. He and I both know he has me.

"Then just dance. Dance with me and we'll take it slowly." He has adjusted his tone and his body language to meet me. He knows exactly how to manipulate me. He gently pulls me close and the music is so so sad. I'm going to have to surrender to him. I already know it. I'll be leaving with this stranger and trusting him with my life. I am weeping. There's no telling when I'll be back with my family whom I love with all of my heart. I'm leaving with this man.

We are embracing. He leans in so close and says, as if I hadn't gathered, "My name is Grief. I'll let you go when I'm finished with you. For now, let's just dance."

Swap Shed

2008-09-06T20:52:00.000-04:00

I live in a rockin' good town. I love this damn town with all of my heart. It is HOME. It's on the ocean and is lined with beaches rocky and sandy. There are two great locally owned ice cream joints, an art studio for the kids, lobster fishermen, great schools, decent bars, a Revolutionary War Fort where they hold reenactments, and a bike path which runs right down the middle of the whole town. The town is safe and friendly.

Most people in this town will give you that distinctive New England nod when you pass them on the sidewalk. It's not quite a wave, but it's definitely contact in a sort of "I'm reaching out but I don't want to crowd you" sort of way. I love that familiar greeting.

This great town has architectural brilliance from centuries ago, it has people with deep souls and a passion for community, and it has a (sadly unique) lack of big box stores. It is imperfect because it is real, which adds to its perfection for me. I love this damn town.

This, my ideal town, has one other thing that I love secretly. It's our swap shed, located at the town dump. That's right. I said the dump, as in diapers, rotten food, old tires, and crap galore, but stay with me.

I have to preface this with the truthful statement that I am not a hoarder of any kind. I have no problem throwing away my old crap and I see other people's crap for what it is. Yard sales give me a rash.

But, there's this really quirky, tarp covered corner of our dump where you can hand a nice older lady all of the still decent things from your garage or your attic that you're not using anymore, and she'll TAKE them from you so that you can purge without the accompanying guilt that usually attaches itself to you when you throw away something that "someone might be able to use." No matter what. The bike pump you replaced? The slip 'n slide that kills your lawn? The ginormous bin of Lego's that held no fun for the children even though it held several thousand dollars worth of you trying to promote a hobby that didn't involve a screen? Bring them all here and just drop them off.

When I bring my kids to the swap shed, they get all confused and think they've died and gone to heaven. Roller blades, rescue heroes, beanie babies, chalk boards, Simon, and bean bags live here, just waiting to be taken home. My kids actually drool at the swap shed.

I think I may be creating hoarders by allowing my kids to partake in this modern version of dumpster diving, but I'm not sure I care. The stuff is free. Free I say! And we sometimes bring it back for a second (or third or fourth) generation of swap shed living. It's kind of like the animal shelter for toys.

I do love this town. I even love the dump. Is that weird?

What Gives?

2008-09-02T21:06:00.000-04:00

The margin between being bored and being overwhelmed is, for me, about the size of an ant's baby.

In utero.

Why is it that I can't seem to strike that balance? I'm either out of my head bored shitless or I'm over-committed, stressed out and flaking out on all of my obligations.

I start school tomorrow, and I have nineteen shiny new fifth graders who are depending on having me fully present. I'm passionate about curriculum development, so I joined that committee, as well as the admissions committee. I auditioned for, and got a part in, a local theater production. That's a new one for me, but the time commitment is insane. My daughter's in that with me, but her rehearsals and my rehearsals don't line up. Thank god for the pizza joint across the street from the theater. They'll get to know us real well in there. We'll be like their very own Norm.

My son is a budding soccer star, and someone's gotta bring the kid to the field (and cheer for him every once in a while). There's laundry to do ( and yes, it needs to be folded too - rude!) shopping, lunches to pack, papers to grade, marriage to tend, bedtime stories to read, dog to walk, phone calls to return, and SHIT! A girl could lose her mind.

I choose NOW to take on this damn Bloggedy blog that I seem to care about all of the sudden. What the hell is up with that?

My timing is just super.

Skeletons in the Closet

2008-09-01T21:03:00.000-04:00

My husband Peter is the youngest of three. His older brother was an addict and an ass, a middle child smashed between the rocks that are his dashingbrother and his smartsister. I never liked him.

Peter tells stories about having to clean up his older brother's drunken puke when Peter was nine and Dan was twelve. Dan had been babysitting. When their parents returned home from their party, Peter loyally hid and protected his passed out brother from the wrath of their parents. He learned to enable when he was nine.

Dan gave me the creeps because he couldn't look me in the eyes. In my more compassionate moments I could feel his pain and it moved me, but he was so guarded and manipulative and inaccessible that my brain told my heart to not sweat it. "It's not worth the energy, " my brain would whisper. "And besides, you'd better keep your distance because this guy's unpredictable. It could get ugly."

My heart is so easy to sway really, and my brain had its number. It's the heart's greatest fault: all it takes is a whisper and I'm yours. So I swept compassion away, labeled him a loser, and I moved on.

Despite Dan's addictions, he managed to function sort of. He got married and had two kids (poor, poor kids) and was fairly successful at his job. They lived in Florida. I always thought that being around him was something akin to how I picture Purgatory - lots of shouting, undermining, out-of-control behaviors, but he and his family pressed on.

Sometimes he'd show signs of health. He called one night to tell us about watching the shuttle take off from his back yard. He periodically apologized for his bad behavior, having been to some sort of 12 step meetings. These times gave us the tiniest bit of hope for Dan. But it was still the kind of hope you feel when you buy a scratch ticket. That "wouldn't that be so cool if it actually happened" kind of hope.

Our phone rang at 4:30 am.

I can never bring myself to answer the middle of the night calls - I know enough to know that I can't stomach them.

Crying, rocking, yelling.

"Who was there?!" "In the face?!" "All alone..."

His car had been vandalized twice and he thought he knew who had done it. He'd been drinking all day and the cops wouldn't help him and so he was gonna' go get the fucker himself. He rallied some punk friends and decided to go see what he could see. He knocked (pounded?) on the suspected vandal/neighbor's door, and that's the last thing he ever did.

In Florida you're allowed to "protect your castle" if you feel threatened in any way. No need to call for help, just shoot to kill. You're protected.

So Dan died alone with a couple of bullets in his head on his neighbor's porch.

Can you spell e-r-e-c-t-i-o-n?

2008-08-30T20:03:00.000-04:00

Last night, my nine year old daughter and I had a girls' night. It was blissful because she's damn good company. I've been waiting a lifetime to spend time with her in this way. Out together, symbiotically. She is finally at that point: genuinely contributing to our time together, helping me to see things differently, teaching me all kinds of cool stuff. This as opposed to just asking lots of questions and needing me. I love her company, she has a fascinating brain, she has a unique perspective on things, and she teaches me as much, if not more, than I teach her.

So anyway, we went to dinner and a musical. My husband hates musicals and I love their cheesy cheese factor. So does my daughter. So we get a little gussied up (read: brushed our hair and decided against the crocs), said goodbye to the boys in the family, and we were on our way.

My heart was swelling like the Grinch's at the end of that story. I love this kid.

During the musical, The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, there was this funny scene where one of the boy contestants gets distracted by a girl in the audience who he thinks is...well...hot. So of course it's his turn to stand up in front of the crowd and spell some word, but he's got full wood, what with this girl and all, so he doesn't want to. He misspells the word and breaks in to a five minute song about how his erection killed his chances of winning the spelling bee. Very funny scene, but also slightly confusing to my nine year old.

Hmmmn...

Buttons: (During song) Mom? Mom! What happened? Did he pee his pants? What's an erection? Why is everyone laughing? Can you explain it to me? I don't get it.

Me: Umm. Nope. He didn't pee. I'll explain it in a bit, okay? Now isn't really the right time.

Turning back to the show with great hopes of her dropping it. Fat chance.

Buttons: (getting louder) Mom. Can you just explain it now real quick so I can understand what's going on? Geeze. Just tell me what an erection is pleeeease!

Older ladies sitting in front of us turning around and looking at us. Glad they're not in my shoes? Appalled that I brought her to a musical like this? Annoyed by the racket?

Me: Um. No honey. You'll have to wait on this one. Okay sweetie? And, umm, ssshhhh, okay honey?

Buttons: Increased volume and full on begging me. MOM! C'mon! Just tell me! I'm missing something and it's really BOTHERING me! What is an erection?!?

Me: Matching her volume to try to show who's the boss around here. Listen! You'll wait on this. Do you hear me?!? Now do as I say and stop asking me what an erection is so loudly! Your father and I will explain it to you. Later!

Overall, great night at the theater. Poor kid got what she asked for the next morning.

Buttons: Eewww.

Lost Sister

2008-08-28T20:10:00.000-04:00

So my sister, somewhere along the line, was stripped naked of all of her power. When did this happen to my beautiful, strong, supercool, sometimes angry big sister? The one who kicked ass on the soccer field, broke boys' hearts, flung her gorgeous curly blond hair around while she laughed (yes, sometimes at me), told my dad to fuck off, sang out loud, and wasn't afraid of a thing. The one who went to Social Work school, made it almost all the way through, changed her mind and went to Medical School, finished, and became a pediatrician. The creative, independent one with the perfect teeth who taught me how to make tomato sauce from scratch. The one who sent me care packages, even though my own mother never did, when she was in graduate school and I was in college. The one who was so very very powerful. What happened to her?
She did all of that schooly school stuff for so many years that I think she looked up one day and realized that she better take care of some bidniz and find a man to marry - quick. She never was one to fall short of reaching her goal, so she did that too. Only problem was she wasn't very specific when she SET the goal. And she married a tool. A tool named ROLAND.
So she and RoRo play house for a while and have themselves a couple of kids. And these kids and Roland are slowly but surely beating my biggerthanlife supercool sister with the beautiful eyes and hair and laugh into the ground.
For whatever reason, she's decided that everyone's needs are way more important than her own. She is miserable, overlooking herself at every turn. Her kids are horrid to her: screeching and tantruming, and wailing and flailing. She sighs, rolls her eyes, and meets their needs. But never her own. That supercool sister I looked up to so much? She doesn't exist anymore.
And I miss her.