it's my party

Sometimes life just sends you a party. I love it when that happens. At the end of the day, all of those parties just add up to a pretty spectacular life, and I know I am blessed.

It all started when I got on a plane bound for Nashville. I have lots of family in Nashville, and hoped that somehow, despite the business I was here to do, I would be able to carve out some time to visit and reconnect with these people that I love. So I called cousin Marty, knowing that if anyone can turn an ordinary day into a party it's him. And as expected, he delivered. He spread the word that I would be in town and picked out an amazing Mexican restaurant as our meeting place. There was a plan.

After working the convention, I was looking forward to seeing Marty, his Maw, and at least a couple other cousins. But when I arrived at the restaurant, I was so surprised that there were about 20 of the most wonderful people in my life there to say hello and eat. We always eat. Beth came despite the fact that a recent surgery left her temporarily voiceless. Candy was there. Liana and Billy and their kids were there. I talked to Wendy about life and yoga, and Rachel about remodeling her bathroom, and Aunt Anna about her recent rebound from not being well. Every conversation was a delight, and I smiled real smiles and felt totally home in a city hundreds of miles away from Sioux Falls.

I loved my party and it made me realize that no matter how long or how far, family is what really connects us all. Somehow, even when the invitation is late, they show up. How cool is that.

resting

I miss you old friend. You were good with words and wrote compelling things that others might find inspiring, or at least entertaining. I sat with you in the quiet hours of the night, you at the keyboard turning keystrokes into stories and thoughts into poetry. Then one day you were just gone.

I long to see you again, find you somewhere in the back of my head. I wait, not as patiently as I may have done in the past, hoping you'll show up with a flash of inspiration that leads to something bigger.

Occasionally I think I smell your perfume, just enough to make me hope that perhaps you've returned. I pick up a pen and scribble a few words, but they go nowhere, and I know I was wrong. So I will wait.

You were here with me once and I know you have not wandered far. For you are as connected to me as my own fingertips. I think perhaps you need some rest. Your life has been full, and hectic, but such an adventure. Chaos and quiet they are the same to you and are the source of all that you put on the page. And when you're finished resting I will be here. I have time to wait, and no choice really. For without you I am nothing. Without you I cannot breathe.

So when you decide to return I will be waiting still. I will feel you in my soul and know the time for rest has ended, and I must write.

keeping it real

In an effort to keep it real, I have to admit that I had a few hellish weeks. All segments of my life were in a state of severe disarray, and I let the tides sweep me away. I became all of the things that I most dislike. I was irritable, short, unmotivated, awful to be around, and unproductive. Mostly I was sad - for no apparent reason. Nothing had changed in any big way. I could blame this on a lot of different things, people, circumstances...you get the picture. The truth is I was not present to what was happening in my life - my almost-fifty-getting-fat-gray-haired-wrinkled-too-committed life.

And then I got present. I am menopausing. This is not an illness. I am not sick. I have no "symptoms." I am simply growing older. While I do view this as a natural and blessed cronish moment, I also realize that there are ways to ease the transition instead of fighting it and the bad behavior. My answer was at the health food store. After a few trips up and down the supplement aisle, I purchased one little bottle of black cohash, St. John's Wort, and a pineapple fruit twist for Scout.

I fully expected results, but not nearly as quickly as they showed themselves. By the following morning, I felt the monster inside of me shrinking. My patience was returning. I did not dread the day ahead. But mostly, I wasn't sad. Miracle? I think not.

While I do credit my menopause cocktail for relief, I also know that the arrival of warmer temperatures and the fact that I didn't have to drive to work and spend the day fighting copy contributed to my rebounded sense of well-being. More than anything though, I think that the simple fact that I got present and acted instead of reacted made the most difference. Instead of being swept away by my emotions and the events of the day, I made a decision to change things and take back control.

I talk a lot about being present. My menopausal awakening is a testament to the power of presence. Now, I'm not about to give up the black cohash, but I will remember when I get that edgy urge to growl, that I have to get real and find myself in the moment. From that place, I have power. I like it there.

in search of patience

I read this blog post today by a self-proclaimed mommy blogger, who wrote about the fact that throughout history, it was men who told the story of women, and that somehow, "women's work" has always been that which should only be discussed privately. This post totally resonated with me. Perhaps it's because I had one of those days.

You know the sort. You wake up late, but your child is an angel until he breaks the corner off of his chocolate pop tart which signals for him, the end of the world, and for me, the sort of morning I can so do without. When it's finally time to hit the door running, he becomes velcro. It's become a "carry me mommy" morning. I have to peel him off of my neck while he's crying that he wants me to take him to daycare - not daddy. For me, this is not an option, as my carpooling partner and her not-quite-two sidekick are probably waiting. Mommy guilt sets in. I drive off in the truck wondering if I have in fact left my computer in my car. A quick phone call to my husband confirms that I am losing my mind. My computer is not in the car but on my desk at the office. This is good. I am also losing the battery on my cell phone. This makes me feel totally disconnected from the world, and most importantly my daycare provider who I am convinced will call at any minute to tell me about an emergency situation.

I arrive at the carpool meeting site, take a breath and remember that I can't have the cigarette that I desperately want because it would be so off to smoke around a kid, as if it's not off in the first place. Our ride is less than eventful, which is par for our ride, with the exception of an occasional outburst from Greta, the toddler member of our carpool, or a large piece of farm equipment, which often delays our arrival at work in the heart of Iowa.

Work is insane. Deadlines are unreachable at this point because I have more to write today than I can imagine writing in a week. But I write and try to stay centered. Ohmmmm. The day ends as expected, with less done than I had hoped, but my ride ready to make her escape. I'm so on board.

When I get home, things are pretty okay, until dinner time, when my child decides he can't eat because he broke the toy/candy thing my mother sent him for Easter. Trying to be patient, I manage to stop the tears and propose pajamas and a few books. The books I chose are totally wrong. He doesn't like those books that have been favorites since they arrived from Dolly Parton's Imagination Library. I should pick other books he says. I refuse, and tell him to pick his own books. After too much drama, we settle in and read some Wonder Pets find-the-animal-friends book that I have read, with enthusiasm mind you, hundreds of times. Grrrr. I just want a bath.

Bedtime is a struggle, with monsters around every corner and scary things in the shadows. I sit on the floor with my back facing my child, iPod in place, ignoring his pleas for attention, until I can't take it anymore. Finally, he says it's "good" with him if I just sit on the floor in his room until he falls asleep. I just wanted to give you a hug, he says. I love you, Mommy, he says. My heart melts. I hate that I have lost my patience. I want to be the happy mommy with the child who climbs into bed without a fight and peacefully drifts off to sleep. I breathe and remind myself that my story is the story of millions of women who want to be more patient and peaceful. Our story is important and should be told, publicly, as it is the real stuff of life.

He sleeps eventually, as I remind myself to breathe.

being a writer -for always

People always ask kids, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" First of all, it sort of pisses me off that kids are somehow less than "being" because they are not grown up. The suggestion is a little off, no matter what the intention. It is there that the problem begins.

From the time we're very young, we're somehow persuaded that unless we are doing something productive - a job - we are not actually "being." So we plan our whole lives around making a living, which for most of us entails something we simply don't love, but do for the majority of our time to pay our bills.

I'm sure that I was asked this question once or twice, but I don't remember any specifics, except perhaps when I was in high school trying to figure out which college program would be best for my career path. I'm sure I, like all kids, thought about all of the possibilities. Frankly, when you're little, the thought of becoming something specific means much more than punching the clock. When asked, most kids would probably choose ballet dancer, superhero, or astronaut.



I'm not sure I ever had an answer to that question. Someplace in my heart I knew I would write. When I was really being, I was writing, and it had nothing to do with making money or fame. It was like breathing. It is like breathing and sometimes I am short of breath or panting, but I always come to the page when I want to really "be."

Sometimes I follow the work of other writers and wonder what it is that keeps them writing, and why some have had lots of work published and others just write to write, because they have to. I want to be one of the writers who makes a name for herself. I want to say, "yes, I'm a writer." And when they ask what I've published, I want to have a whole list from which to choose an answer. I'm not sure how to get there from here. Maybe it's because I listened and in some way bought into the eternal question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I wish I had screamed, I AM being! Perhaps then I might have taken writing seriously when I was much younger instead of trying to figure out how to make a living. Perhaps then I would have made a life instead of a living. Perhaps then I would have a lot of published work in literary journals and my name on lots of book covers.

In light of this little revelation, I now vow, bleeding ink, before everything divine, that I will never ever ask a child, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Instead I will say, "Who are you?" and I will ask, "What do you love?"

For now I am writing, and I am breathing, and I am being. And that is enough.

worms

There are worms in my house. The are alive and well and living in a ventilated plastic container that once stored thinly sliced deli meat. I think there may be four or five, but I didn't really count them. They were a gift, from my son to me, and I'm not sure what one does with them once they are given and accepted and properly housed in a ventilated plastic container.

I put them on the kitchen counter, but decided that I would prefer they live somewhere else. So I moved them to the counter top in the sun room to share the space with all the living green things that thrive under the skylights. If I were a worm I might feel at home there - at least as at home as a worm could feel after being pulled from his cozy underground home by the curious hands of a three-year-old and transported in a motor vehicle across town to a house that is also home to two cats, two dogs, and three humans. I'm sure the noise level is something they'll have to get used to.

My biggest fear is that I won't be able to keep them alive. This would be a crisis as my son is very proud of his gift. I was assured by my husband that the worm bedding he provided would keep them alive, and that I didn't have to feed the worms because there was food embedded in the bedding. Who would have thought that someone would make it so easy for me? Perhaps only a fisherman who had actually purchased something called worm bedding to grow bait. Still I'm afraid. Is the light too bright? Should they live in a darker spot, like their natural habitat? And if I put them somewhere dark, will they be forgotten? What if the embedded food runs out? Will they shrivel and die and will my son ask for them months from now forcing me to find them and discover they've died?

Perhaps I should put them outside once the weather settles down a bit. They definitely have a good view from their plastic container - but would it be torture for them to know that other worms were free and eating whatever it is that worms eat when they don't have worm bedding, and having babies? How do they do that anyway?

New found fear: They will have lots of babies.

Life with Scout continues to be interesting, and his gifts priceless. I must admit, I do prefer inanimate gifts that don't require so much thought.

divinity

Today I am stuck on the word "divine." It has been used and misused, defined and redefined, and I am still not satisfied that I understand.

When I was growing up, I used the word only with a very big "D" and only when I referred to the big Catholic God. And later, I learned to use this word more frequently about the gentle way Spirit moves through each of us.

Today, I am struck by the thought that virtually everything is infused with divinity - with a capital "D".

Spirit is everywhere, but most of all inside of each of us. It prods and pokes us in one direction or another, aiming us at all that we desire, and yet we close our eyes or look the other way. Perhaps it's a glimmer in the peripheral vision or a shadow that we almost see, and then looking over our shoulder, is gone. I find myself looking up not once, but repeatedly, knowing that I am beckoned to notice something, but because I am disconnected I can't quite see.

And then there are perfect moments that it is only the divine that is there for me. Not the human heart, or mind, or body can pull me away and I am fully present and full and alive and whole. Yet it is fleeting. I long to be in this divine space for more than a few moments. To see the divine glow that surrounds all that is - and stay there, in that spot, eyes fully open. Then it occurs to me that it would be such a beautiful painful eternity that I could not bear it.

On gratitude

They say when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. I feel ready, but no teacher has appeared. I can only ask myself if I am really ready. A wise and intuitive friend once told me that I can pick the brain of a writer and spiritual guide long passed. And so tonight I have been calling on him to make himself known - to guide me through this process of reawakening the sleeping writer within. He smiles from someplace on the other side. With a smirk he reminds me in his own wordless way that I haven't spent enough time in silence, meditating, and asking for true guidance from the source of all creative energy. I got it. I hear you. But can you please give me a little tidbit to satisfy my soul?

He nailed it. My biggest challenge is to find the time and the space to fill a few notebooks and to search my soul for that which must be written. Or rather, that which is already written by must be made manifest. Here's what seems to need made manifest. I hope this is okay with you, Tom.

Blessings are everywhere if we simply open our eyes. As we were sitting at the kitchen table this past weekend, I looked at the table I had been able to set. Chicken sauteed in butter and garlic rice, fresh broccoli and juicy blackberries. The colors were vibrant and the food seemed to glow with a message of its own. How blessed you are, it reminded me. I looked across the table at my little family. We smiled, laughed, enjoyed each other's company, and I was struck by the thought that it was really quite silly to ever question my charmed life.

Somedays, it is easy to worry and wonder how particular things will work out. It is almost natural to spend the day focused on what we don't have instead of all that we do. And there are people on the other side of the world whose houses were swept away by water, whose families are missing, or whose livelihood is threatened daily by corrupt agents of the government or rebellious freedom fighters. One morning they woke up and the world was no longer what they knew. Their truths had been drastically changed by nature, or violence, or economic hardships.

This is not me. I lead a life filled with abundance and thoughtlessly forget gratitude. My home is warm and filled with love. My family is healthy. My fingers still type and my brain still thinks and I am loved beyond reason.

Today I will be gratitude. Thanks, Tom.

signs of life

They're tiny, green, and just lifting there little faces out of the frostbitten dirt. Seems silly that these tiny buds could possibly make such a difference in a life. But today they did in mine. Although it's too early here to do a lot of digging in the dirt and cleaning up after winter, spending time outside today, cleaning out flower beds and sweeping the deck seemed like a sweet way to spend the day.

Steve wasn't enjoying himself nearly as much. I suppose it's because he hates to see winter go - and he was raking up a winter's worth of dog poop. It appears he will have his wish, as the forecast calls for snow, light and variable, again tonight. He will smile watching it fall.

And I am not discouraged. I saw signs of life today, and that has made all the difference. Tomorrow the wind can blow, and the snow can fly and I can remember today, and know that there is an end to winter, it's just not quite here.

scowls and other things

This is South Dakota in winter. It is a place of extremes. It is a place with hard edges at least one half of the year, and this shows on the faces of the people who live here.

When I first arrived here five years ago, spring had not yet arrived and I couldn't understand the scowls on the faces of people I saw at the grocery store or the post office. They seemed reluctant to make eye contact as if they may actually be forced to smile. I thought that people here were just sort of unfriendly. Now they of course would take offense to that. This is after all the upper Midwest, the heartland, where people are supposed to be very friendly.

So now I get it. It's March and spring has yet to make a real appearance. She teases us now and again with a little sunshine, a light breeze, and a cloudless sky. Then she runs away. So people scowl and wish for an end to it now. I desperately need to feel the grass between my toes, the sun on my face and the warmth. So today I scowl like the others.

I do not want to be this person. I always loved winter and the snow, but in this place it is too long, too cold, and too deep. It is this time of year that I dream of Tucson, of Austin, and of sandy beaches. I want to have coffee outside and take a walk to the park.

But I've learned that despite the scowling winter faces, there are soft hearts to be unearthed. I've learned that anywhere is warm where there is love, and that a smile can melt even the most frozen emotional landscape. So when I pass by a mirror, I check in to make sure I am not sporting a frown and furrowed brow that is all the rage these last long days of winter. And at night I dream of firefly evenings and pinks flip flops.

sunday night again

It's relatively quiet in the house. The dogs are in their kennels and the cats are cozied up in the den. Steve is lying down with Scout, as that is our nighttime routine. Tonight seems especially difficult. Scout wants nothing to do with closing his eyes. Like me he knows that Monday is coming. Monday means getting up early, dressing right away, 15 minutes of some silly morning television show, and off to daycare.

As daycare goes, his is as ideal as daycare can be. But it's still daycare, and something about it seems wrong. As a mother, I feel torn each day that I leave him for someone else to care for. I know that right now, working outside my home is the only real option, but I long to stay home with him and just be a mommy.

That sounds crazy coming out of my mouth. For years I couldn't imagine myself doing anything but work. I couldn't imagine being "just" a mommy. Life changes us though. Those things that seemed so important no longer mean anything. While there are things that make my job worthwhile, I'm not sure it's a fair trade off for either of us.

Each night before bed, Steve and Scout and I talk about the best and worst parts of our days. Scout's favorite part is always coming home from daycare to be with us. And while he learns lots of important things and gets "socialized," I think there's a lot he could learn if we had more days at home together.

I love how he says things. I love how he thinks. I love to watch him play on the floor in his pajamas. I love how he doesn't care if I wash my face and how he notices my jewelry. "I love your earrings, Mommy," he says. And, "your skin feels soft, Mommy." There are never enough moments to share.

His sheer joy at discovery is one of the things I like most about spending time with Scout. We grown ups forget the joy of discovery. The time I spend with Scout helps me to remember.

Tomorrow will be Monday again. I will leave Scout at daycare, and wave from my car as he waves from the window. I will think of him often throughout the day, missing the little things he does that make me smile.

away from home

For some people, defining "home" is easy. They've lived in the same town, region, or state their whole lives. Their parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, for the most part, live there too. And there's some sort of invisible, intangible cord that ties them to this place.

In my life, defining "home" isn't nearly as neat and orderly. Tonight, I am away, thinking about home, and wondering how to figure out just where home is for me.

Truth is, Doylestown will always be home in some sense of the word. It's the place with the most big growing up memories. It's the place that I went to school, returned empty pop bottles for pennies, and played Barbies with my sister. It's the place where I went to church every Sunday, ate Gom cookies, and marched in the Homecoming parade. My first kiss, my first date, my first high-heeled shoes. And then, somewhere around the time when I turned 17, I realized it was just the first stop on the journey. That's when I figured out the first rule about home. It isn't the place, it's the family. It's Mom and Dad and my sisters that make it home. As long as they are there, it will be one place I call home.

Houston was home for awhile. While so many people think it must be a horrible place to call home, it worked for me. It's the place I first met myself.

"Hello, You."

"Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

I built a life for myself and my family there. I learned what it was I liked in Houston. Chinese food, yes. Sushi, no. I learned how to do things by myself, write good stories, and how to pick good coffee. I learned that age is a state of mind, and that being a mother has nothing to do with pregnancy. I found a voice, then used it to say, "this place no longer feels like home."

One day, a few years later, I found myself living in a rent house in Sioux Falls. The carpet was ugly, the weather hard to get accustomed to, and the pace of life slow and simple. I found my soul mate and a reason to stay. Soon it was home. Not like Doylestown home, and not like Houston home, but a whole new home, and a whole new life.

Now here I am in a hotel room in California missing home. Most of all I miss Steve and Scout, though I would be lying if I didn't mention that the extra free time is doing me good. I can't say as I miss South Dakota right now. But I miss my boys. I miss their smiles, Scout's sweet voice, and Steve's touch. I don't miss the lists of things to do, or the weather, or the drive to Iowa every morning. But I miss home.

Here's the thing. I'm still not sure that I've made my last move, or where we'll end up. But this I know: (I learned it from my mom and dad at home.) Home is about family. No matter where I go, I have a place in the world. Any city will do, as long as my family is there. Geography is about place. Home is about family.

Scout caught his first fish today, and I wasn't home to see it. That's a shame. But there will be more fishing at home over the next few years, and I'll be home to enjoy it.

hello annabelle

I've been feeling that little tug that says it's time. It happens every time I try to distance myself from the work. For the last few years I have had loads of excuses for not writing. I'm too tired. I'm uninspired. Scout zaps all my energy. There's so much to do around the house. And my favorite...there's no time.

And then it arrives, the need to buy a new journal, get a purple pen, and the urge to stay up after everyone else has gone to bed. Then the words come and they won't leave me alone. It's a phrase that I know is the beginning of something, or a word that begs for a partner and haunts my space.

The tug turns into a pinch, which turns into a brick wall in the face. Get back to work. This is my fate. The pursuit of beautiful nagging words that must be put together to become more than the sum of their parts becomes the very reason I exist. My muse, (hello dear Annabelle), has returned with a vengeance. And she's not leaving anytime soon.

I am here tonight because she made me come. I don't really know how all of this will turn out, except to say that it will turn out. And I will write here, and there, and in that new journal, with a purple pen.

This is just a beginning again.

ice day

Working from home today. The last few days I have been driving to Iowa in dense fog - the entire earth seems shrouded in white. Desolation seems the theme, and then, rising gracefully out of the haze there's this tree. It is stately, tall, and crystallized, and I am amazed at its beauty. I think to myself, this is something I should appreciate. This is something that I should notice. Afraid to stop, I keep driving and wish I had a camera. This will not last, and I will forget when the fog lifts and the sun shines. I will never remember the quiet of this morning. Not sure how to feel about this.

So many of life's special moments are this way. When Scout takes my face in his hands and gently rubs my cheeks, or the way he "reads" his favorite books to me, getting some of the words mixed up, and looking to me for guidance. Will I forget the serious look he gets on his face when he's puzzled, or the joy I see when I surprise him at daycare and he rushes into my arms and says, "Mommy."

While the human brain is amazing, in its imperfection it omits the memories of these little details of life in favor of important dates or deadlines. And I wish the opposite were true. I wish I had a camera in my pocket every day so that I could take the picture that would record these moments. And then I remember that the camera can't record the feelings, the joy, the awe, the silence. Just pictures. Words are in the same way never good enough to help us relive those moments.

And so for me the takeaway is this: Stop, close your eyes, and be - in that moment, in that place, with that feeling. See what there is to see, not just on the surface, but the essence. Hear the silence, feel the joy, touch the magic places and know that they are fleeting. It is in those moments, we are one with what is divine and awesome and perfect. It is in those moments that we are truly alive.

So it's Saturday, and I realize just how long it's been since I sat in front of this screen and tried to write something that's not about education or technology. But that's really okay. As for jobs, I have one of the good ones.

But Steve is working and Scout is sleeping and my Christmas tree is still up - though a bit droopy - and I'm trying to make myself be motivated to take it down. Probably not going to happen.

The sun is shining here in South Dakota, but the snow still reaches the for the top of the windows and cold is the word of the day, and the day before, and the day before that. It reaffirms the extent to which one will go for love. Before meeting Steve, I would never have considered hanging my hat in this state of extremes. But perhaps it is a reflection of me in some ways. I've never been one to take the middle ground, but have always set up shop on one end of an issue or the other, so it is somehow fitting that I now live in a place where temperatures, landscapes, even cornfields are extreme - stretching for miles under the summer sun, or looking like tundra when the snow blankets them.

My mind longs to find time to work on "my stuff" - an unfinished book, a poem or two, and this space where I can write just about anything I want. Now that I've found a few moments, I feel as if there is nothing in me to write.

I could write about the way the snow sparkles in the sun, or the way the drifts rise and fall. I could write about temperatures that are below zero, that make it virtually unihabitable in this place. I could write about missing my people in Ohio and in Texas. Maybe when it's been so long there are too many topics.

Right now the keyboard feels good under my fingertips, but I am being poked to action by unfinished laundry and cats to feed. There is no peace - and that's where the not-writing begins.

Maybe next week, when Steve is fishing on the ice in Minnesota, I will find the peace to write.

quiet

Tonight is weird. Steve is gone fishing for a few days and Scout is in bed. The dogs are with Steve and the house is QUIET. It's never this quiet. The only sounds are my fingers tapping the keyboard and the low hum of the baby monitor. Once in awhile I hear Scout sigh in his sleep. Can't remember a night like this for a very long time. Can't decide if I like it or not. It is peaceful. And my mind is resting. Usually at this time of the night I am rushing around to get things ready for tomorrow. But not tonight. Things seem to have gone very smoothly.

So I'm writing this from my bed and thinking about how much things have changed over the last two weeks.

Steve has been so busy at work and under the weather. With me working full time now, it feels as if we seldom have time together. The job is good. I think it will be really good as time goes on. I'm learning so much and feel blessed to be spending the day with such great people. I'm amazed at how well they all work together. And I think they're actually - genuinely nice. And I love the adult conversation. I didn't realize just how much I'd missed it. So I've switched gears. Now I just miss Scout. Sounds weird, missing such a little boy. But for almost two years, he has been my sun, and I his earth. He shines and I bask in it. And I am what grounds him. The mornings, when I leave him with Miss Jen, are so tough for both of us. We're so glad to see each other when we're reunited each night. I love all the little things he does, like humming the ABC song and actually feeling better when I kiss his injured fingers or toes. I love how he counts everything and the way he says "eleven" and "silly". I love the time we spend right before bedtime reading his favorite books and the way he cuddles up with me and hugs my neck.

How this will all pan out I'm not sure. I feel as if I've lost a part of my life that I love, but in the same breath, a part of me that I thought was gone forever has returned. I'm writing again, which means the world to me, and I'm meeting people and remembering what the world was like pre-Scout. It's all still a little precarious, and I feel as if I'm walking on a tightrope, trying to be sure that everyone and everything in my life remains in balance.

And right now, I miss Steve, and the way he makes little noises when he falls asleep.

the next adventure

I start a new job on Monday, which will be an adventure for the entire family. Ever since I lived in South Dakota I have been working at home. Life has been flexible. While I'm excited, I'm a little anxious. I'm ready to step into the future, but reluctant to leave my old life behind, especially the part where I hear Scout wake up, get him out of bed, open the blinds and we say, "Good Morning, World." Then we cuddle for as long as it takes to feel like starting the day. We play and sing and dance and color pictures. I'm afraid this almost routine will take its new time slot on weekend mornings.

This morning was hard. Scout had his first half day of daycare on Wednesday. He did fine. This morning was his second day. Not so fine. He understands now that I will leave him for awhile, and that he's stuck at Miss Jen's. This morning he didn't want me to leave. His little bottom lip pouched out and he was on the verge of tears when I gave him a hug and walked out the door. I'm not so good with that. Intellectually I know it's good for him to be with other kids and to learn and play without Mommy. Emotionally I'm not so sure. My heart was heavy as I turned the car key in the ignition. I wanted to rescue him and tell him how I didn't want to be apart from him either. I wanted him to know that together we could get through this. But I've read the books and the articles and know that lingering makes it tougher. So I drove away.

Sitting alone now I miss his little voice and his warm little body. But time will pass quickly, and soon I will go and pick him up - and think about Monday, when I have to leave him for an entire day. Ick.

Motherhood hurts today. The house is empty and quiet, and my baby is growing up.

Thursday

The sun is shining this morning and Scout is still asleep. I'm ready to start the day and thrilled with the thought that each day offers time to spend with my littlest friend and fellow traveler in this world. He teaches me so much. When he sings his favorite song, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I think about the universe and its beauty. When he counts I think about the wonders of the way a child learns, and when he smiles I glow. This sort of love is priceless and beautiful. Spending time with him makes me realize just how many things in my world have gone unnoticed for a long time. He opens my eyes and ears. He teaches patience and persistance. He teaches joy and gratitude.

And while all is well here at home, I feel anxious about the job opportunity that has come forward for me. After an awesome interview, I wait. I feel confident that the offer is forthcoming, but now that I've decided that it's what I want, I am ready to move into that new adventure. And so today I am manifesting with my entire soul that the phone will ring and I can set off on this new path very soon. In the meantime I am enjoying each day with Scout.

What is the lesson in the waiting? Patience for sure. Endurance? Living in the moment? In any case, I am present to my feelings and know that divine timing moves us through life. Things happen when they should, as they should. I will be off to work soon, and Scout will be setting off on an adventure of his own, meeting new friends and learning his own lessons.

Scout just hanging out....

Just wanted to share...he's so much fun!

brain surgery

Throughout my whole life I have felt very comfortable that as long as it wasn't "brain surgery" there was nothing to fear, no challenge too fierce, and no road too rocky. And so I took risks and put myself out there on the line, virtually sure that as long as no one's life was in my hands I was good to go. Pretty simple rule to live by, and quite full of adventure.

The next rule was that if I tried something and decided that I wasn't so good at it, I wouldn't do it anymore. The truth is if I wasn't good at it I didn't really like to do it anyway. Another easy choice with the benefit that people believe I'm good at just about anything. What they don't know is that I live by this second rule pretty much all the time so my life looks pretty peachy.

Here's the light bulb moment. I was thinking about why I never wanted to have a baby before I got pregnant with Scout. The answer to this question has lots of facets, but when it comes right down to it, I think that I didn't know if I would be good at it or not. And AFTER having a child would be the wrong time to decide that I might not be so good at it. Additionally, you can't really just choose not to be a parent once your child has been born. I think perhaps that the fear was just too great to take the plunge. This and a number of other little reasons kept me from getting pregnant and having a baby.

Here's the real burn is this...raising a child IS brain surgery! Yikes...and now there's no way to go back. I look at this innocent little cherub and think, "Oh my, I do have his life in my hands." This is quite frightening to me all of a sudden. I suppose it's because I'm contemplating going back to work full time. Is this a good idea? Do I have any options? Can I find enough freelance work to allow me to continue to stay home with Scout and be there any time he needs me? Is this healthy anyway? Enough of that.

Now it seems as if every decision I make must be evaluated and reevaluated with my new found knowledge. There's no more just hanging out and letting him eat ice cream for breakfast. (I've only done it once, seriously.) There's no more giving in so easily because I know it's better to set rules so he knows how to be in this world. There's no more letting him pour water all over the kitchen floor just so he can have fun making a mess. (I've only done this once, seriously...but it was pretty much fun for both of us.)

If it truly is brain surgery...I need to be a little more mindful. Deb says not to worry...just love him unconditionally and he'll be fine. And you know what, that sounds so much easier. I wonder if we have any more ice cream.