Sedum and September 11th

Sedum

I needed to step away from the workers tearing up the house, for which I’m eternally grateful, but whom I just want to go away. The smell of the fire has seeped into everything. The adrenaline is still there from that night and causes me to start at the smallest sound. And yet, my job goes on, with the incessant emails and phone calls and ridiculous problems that only humans can make up.  My kids’ needs go on and with them my neverending ache to fulfill them and ease their pain and longing.

 But I need it to stop just for a minute. The noise of the fans and dehumidifiers and the demolition of the house I worked so hard to keep up with. So I sat down on the rock wall and stared at the sedum. They’re not fully bloomed yet but the dozens of bees on them didn’t seem to care. The almost fully magenta blooms were teaming with activity.  I wonder if they noticed how blue the sky was, or if they’re grateful for the warm sun today because they know it’s just a little while before the shorter days are coming. Or are they just seizing the moment of the ample pollen before the winter famine? They don’t know it’s September 11th. They don’t know my life has been turned upside down this week…again. They don’t care either. But I do. I get to care about these little bees loving my flowers that I water nightly from May to September. I long to stroke the fuzzy bumbles as if they were my own little black and yellow cats. I get to care about the next step in rebuilding my house and whether or not my kids take away from this is a case of PTSD or something that we will be able to laugh at around the dinner table one day. I’m so grateful for the sun-soaked stones seeping through my leggings, warming my tired bones. I’m so very tired. The white noise of the buzzing is the best bee balm there is. Why is the sky always so blue today? 

Same As It Ever Was

     Nothing fully prepares you for the changing of the seasons of your life. Sure, the ever-changing landscape and natural evolution that comes with time, should in theory, ease you into it. But then one day you find yourself in the new season and it feels like someone just dropped you hard and fast and without ceremony, into uncharted territory and you feel like an alien in your own life.

    As I was eating dinner alone for what seems like the millionth time lately, I couldn't help but think of the words of the great David Byrne, "How did I get here?". I mean, it's not actually a surprise to me. This is exactly where I knew that I would be at some point. My kids grown, moving out on their own, pursuing their own passions. I launched them on this trajectory after all. I've done my job and am still doing my job. I've provided and am providing them with a safe home base while encouraging them to find their own futures. If I'm honest though, it's not exactly where I thought that I would be. I didn't plan on being a single mom, largely doing the raising on my own. I didn't know that I'd be carrying the armfuls of firewood into the house alone on a freezing February night covered in splinters, or troubleshooting every broken appliance with the help of YouTube and desperation. When I had little ones I had no idea that one day there would be no one to commiserate with when the angry teenager hated my guts just for breathing in the general vicinity of them. Or that there wouldn't be nights on the couch that I could bounce issues off of them and rehash the daily parenting struggles so that we could rise in a united front. I mean, meh, I've come to terms with it and I'm fine, but it's certainly not what I envisioned. I also never foresaw giving up teaching in the middle of a global pandemic to reinvent my career at the age of 44. Yeah we all have had our own version of that delightful and historical wrench in our plans.

    I suppose a big reason I feel as if I've been dropped off on a deserted island is because my life has been largely filled to the brim with raising 5 kids on my own up until this point. When you are "it", there's no time for reflections, you just keep treading water or you will surely drown. And though they haven't all fully flown, and we spend more time together still than probably a lot of families, things are just different. And I'm not nostalgic about the past when it comes to this. Well, at least not of most of it. I do miss the gifts of sunny yellow dandelions, and maple syrup scented morning snuggles. I miss being called, "Momma" and having that traded in for, "Bruh." But I don't miss the nights of wrangling a squirming toddler for their nebulizer treatments, running the shower as hot as I could while bundling them up to sit out in the cold night air wondering where in the world my partner was in the middle of the night, as the bathroom became a steam room. I don't miss having to figure out transportation for 5 kids at 3 campuses after school while I worked to barely make ends meet. There is no love lost for the 8am games in November where I froze my ass off and wondered how in the world anyone thought that this was a good idea. Or, keeping a baby entertained in the stroller while their older sibling played or danced or sang or....so..many..things...

    I suppose some people would define this as some sort of a midlife crises. However, I remember going through something similar after high school was over. I recall then, that my life was changing so fast and I was feeling out of control and as if I didn't even know who I was. What was my favorite color? What did I even like to do? When you're young you're so hell-bent on fitting in with everyone else that you can lose your own identity and then when that hive-mind is gone, and you suddenly fly away to college, you get to choose a new beginning if you really want to. But, you're still so insecure ( and when I say, "you", clearly I mean, "I/me")and you spend years reading self-help books and books on religion, hell anything that will help you to figure out just who in the world you are. This is not like that. While I definitely don't pretend to be fully self-confident, nor do I exactly know what I want to be when I grow up, I know who I am and I'm comfortable in her skin. Halleluiah for that by the way. It's just that me and this skin of mine are finding themselves in new territory and I'm not really sure how I feel about it yet. There's the ever-looming future that involves words like, "empty nester" and "downsizing". I suppose for some it would also include, "retirement," but I've resigned myself that my circumstances dictate that I will mostly likely die at work..

    Funny how a little thing like not knowing how to cook for one person could trigger so many complex feelings. I used to find much joy in cooking. Preparing the menu, shopping for the ingredients, music on, pots simmering. Funny thing is, that now I realized what I actually enjoyed was serving others. Once, one of my favorite hobbies, has become tedious. I'm not one to wallow in such things so sometimes I'll make a giant pot of soup, pretending for a moment that I'll be serving it to a table full of my own people, their banter filling my ears and soul. I'm able to salvage some of that same joy by bringing it to my neighbors and co-workers now. My pantry has become a holding place for empty soup containers waiting for a sharpie to mark them with , "Thai coconut curry Turkey".

    I'm not wallowing and I'm not sad exactly. I have always been very content doing things on my own. Much to my friends' chagrin, I'm happiest hiking alone in the woods or floating solo in the middle of a large body of water in my kayak. It's the foreign nature of a life that I have never lived before looming real close. Soon to be gone, but thankfully not yet, are the nights of my young adult kids sitting at the foot of my bed, animatedly dumping their entire day on me at 11pm when all I want to do is go to sleep. I'm still so grateful that this part is still here. After the house has been so quiet all day and I crawl into my bed, I almost look forward to hearing the footsteps stomping up the stairs a little too late but I know that they'll be telling me all the things that are so important to the heart of a 17 year-old, or a 19 year-old or a 22 year-old and I know how they feel and I let them think that it really is so important, even though I want to say, "Child, this too shall pass and just you wait and see what wonderful, magnificent, terrible, horrible, lovely things are next." I guess that's what this is. God-willing, 20 years from now a wiser Sara will read this and say (hopefully without rolling her eyes too much), "Silly girl, this too shall pass and just you wait and see what wonderful...magnificent...terrible..horrible and lovely things are next."

                                

Grandma Josie was a list maker. At any given moment you could find either a torn out piece of legal pad paper or even an entire notebook on her kitchen table or counter. Usually the kitchen lists were grocery items she would jot down as she ran out of them or maybe reminders to send out birthday or anniversary or even sympathy cards. Some of these lists were tallies from the nightly card games of Pay the Man played at that same table. Some of her lists were just her thinking out crossword puzzle answers or word jumbles written in the margins of the Bergen Record. Grandma didn’t just believe in making lists, she truly was a historian. She would always tell me when the kids would do something funny, “Sara write that down! So many times I said I should write something down and I didn’t and now I lost the memory.” She also had journals of deeper thoughts and chronicles of life moments both of her own and of her extended family’s history. Unlike my grandma however, I am not a list maker. I’ve tried many times in my life to be one. I mostly succeeded in writing grocery lists that were forgotten on the table or to-do lists that I never glanced at again. It didn’t mean that the items weren’t purchased or the tasks didn’t get done, but I just don’t work well with lists. I believe my grandma wrote things down because there was always so much going on in her brain that she had to sort out and put down in some concrete and tangible way, so as to maybe allow some breathing room in her head. And to that extent of a busy mind, Grandma and I are so alike. Maybe it’s having as many children as we had, after all it is true what they say that once you have children a piece of your heart forever lives outside of your body. I imagine that’s exponentially true and with five (seven in her case) children, my heart is in five different places and subsequently parts of my brain insist on following. It’s why as Grandma got older and her mind would slip, family closest to her would understandably become upset, whereas I felt that it was almost a blessing that her mind started to let go of its encyclopedia’s worth of information. She was still sharp where she needed to be and her wit and sarcasm never dimmed, but at half her age I could see myself at 87 and felt it only natural for my brain to start to have holes where once so much space had been occupied.

I have never felt comfortable with lists because sometimes taking it out of the cosmos of my brain and putting it on paper almost made the task feel foreign to me. Somehow in my crazy thinking when it’s all wrapped up together in the mixing bowl of my brain it feels at home and I know how to manage it better. But as different as we were in that way, I am so my grandmother’s granddaughter. I won’t flatter myself to being as amazing as she was, but I feel like her heart has always made so much sense to me and watching her life has also made sense of parts of my own life. There of course are parts of her that were uniquely hers, but I can hear her voice sometimes when I say something, and feel her in my bones when life feels heavy. One of her favorite exchanges with me always went like this. Her: “Hey, how’s my Sara?” Me: “I’m good Grandma, how are you?” Her: “Good! Aren’t we such good liars?” And I knew what she meant. It’s not that we weren’t “good”, but there was always something weighing heavy on us. It’s the blessing and the curse of the traveling heart and the cosmic brain with entire galaxies swirling endlessly in every direction. I hesitate to speak for her but I think that my grandma, who watched the news daily and raised a huge family struggled with the human condition. Not that she lost sight of the larger picture but that it is often times just so exhausting and seemingly ridiculous. She believed in a better thereafter and didn’t quite see the point of all this nonsense we have to go through before getting there. Don’t get me wrong, she loved life and loved fiercely, but it was that love that sometimes makes life so exhausting. In her 87 years here she created a legacy that was supported by humor, intelligence, understanding, and of course an endless love for her family. It’s so hard to make a list of who my grandma was and not leave out so many important things. However losing her here I felt I needed to try….

 Grandma Josie’s favorite joke was how everyone kept growing taller than she but we all knew what amazing power was in that little woman. She was a force. She had an exponential love that grew with her growing family. It was displayed in her marriage to her Tom and it just trickled down to everyone and everything that had the privilege to come across her. Every new member added whether by marriage, or because they were friends of the family were welcomed at her table. Even the stray cats in town knew that 25 Alden St. was the place they could go for kindness and sustenance. She always had an ear to listen and we all knew it was one not of judgement but of careful understanding. Grandma Josie knew the importance of family. Of the stories and memories that that shared bond created and she made sure to keep journals of them. Nothing escaped her. She was always up on the latest news stories and certainly had her own opinions of them. And no one could eye roll like Josephine. She didn’t hold back her displeasure when she didn’t agree with something and to her credit you always knew where you stood with her. It’s probably a good thing that the Giants’ coach never heard how she felt. And don’t tell Judge Judy but she had fallen out of Josie’s good graces. However, Alex Trebek was forever her favorite and we all knew that.

Grandma created a home base for her family. Travelers could always come back “home” and know that there would be a meal ready for them, a game of cards, a good game on the tv, a warm pair of slippers and an Old Fashioned. She was the glue that held this huge family together whether it was through the marathon games of Pay the Man or keeping our traditions alive with her great grandchildren making pierogi. She was the youngest sister and perhaps that role allowed her a unique vantage point as an observer of many other strong and nurturing female figures. She often spoke fondly of her mother and how she was just a joyful woman. Her smile was echoed in Josie’s and could especially be seen all the way to her blue eyes whenever in the presence of her beloved grandchildren.

She raised her children in the church and could be found belting out “How Great Thou Art” with a fervor that you just KNEW she felt deep in her bones. She used the example of Christ’s love every day that she worked at Felician School with the special needs children. Even, watching some of them in her home. It didn’t matter who you were, she knew how to love you and make you feel like one of her own.

After grandma passed, my mother found a list tucked away in her room that she had made about herself sometime after my grandfather died. It was as follows:

I Was and Am

Daughter

Sister and sister-in-law

Wife

Mother

Grandmother

Great Grandmother

Godmother

Godchild

Daughter-in-law

Mother-in-law

Niece

Aunt

Friend

Neighbor

Girl Scout

Student-graduate-alumni

Cousin

Secretary

Salesperson

Teacher’s Assistant

Widow (ugh)

            If I were ever to try to add to this list it would go on forever. My grandma was all of the things that she listed but she could never truly know just how much more she was to us all. Small in stature as she was she has left giant shoes to fill and we are all richer for having been blessed with her in our lives.

Change: For What It's Worth

 

  I think there's something about this time of year that must unsettle me.  When I opened my notebook to put pen to paper I found a piece that I had written just about the same exact time two years ago. It echoed similar sentiments about the change of the seasons that I am feeling now. I know that change isn't generally easy for most people. I suppose I'm no exception. The irony is that my experience so far has been that nothing about my life ever stays the same for very long. Sometimes by my own choices, but more times than not because of the natural fluidity of the constant changing variables as a mother of five.  I guess I can say that that only real constant in my life is change.

      It's been easy for me to share so many of my experiences in the past. I do so for many reasons; sometimes I hope that I can maybe help someone to know that they're not alone, or maybe just to share a humorous take on life or even sometimes it's because I need someone to say, "Yeah, me too." But I generally write for myself. When something is pushing at my insides, taking up all the extra room in myself, I find writing to be like a release of a pressure valve. But lately sharing what has been going on hasn't been easy for me. As I sat wrestling with it all I could barely put it down on paper. Yet not 24 hours later when I decided to type it out, the weight of it all already feels less.

     You see.....I'm at the end of the summer of my 39th year and I'm exactly where I thought I would be and also no where close to where I thought that I'd be. Does that make any sense? I mean I always knew that I wanted to be a mom and here I am the mother of five amazing children whom I am so proud of. I'm also a newly single mother of five children whom I hope that I am enough for. I work hard to make sure that they have everything they need and some of what they want and that means a balancing act that I will never fully master. This is not exactly where I saw myself at this point in my life. And yet, here I am.

    Most of you know that I have an old farmhouse in the woods, something I dreamt of as a little girl reading Laura Ingalls Wilder. It's more than just a house to me, it's my home where I can feel the love from generations past melding with the stories that my family is writing within its walls. With its 200 years comes constant need of repairs that sometimes pushes me to learn that my limits are further than I ever gave myself credit for. Sometimes it forces me to set aside my pride and to ask for help. Sometimes it takes on a life of its own with the needs that it presents and I don'f feel adequate enough to be its steward. I never once considered that a HOUSE would make me feel inadequate, but again, here I am.

     You know that neat little feature on Facebook that shows you pictures from the day of in years past? Well it keeps reminding me that there's more than just some paint missing on my house but also more than one person missing from my annual back-to-school pictures and I feel their absences acutely. As a parent you're supposed to give your children wings to fly. It's part of the job. It is one of the greatest and yet most painful things in the world when you see them take flight. Navigating this season without a partner can be lonely. There's no one to bounce things off of at the end of the day. No system of checks and balances. And the personal pain of their absence is magnified by the knowledge that there are other little hearts finding their way through that realization too.

     No one ever promised that life would be easy. And most days I'm ok with that, I really do love life. Every single beautiful and broken piece of it. I marvel at how my best-laid intentions are dashed to bits only to come together like the most amazing jig saw puzzle. But some days I feel like I'm sitting in the middle of a dust storm watching all of the broken pieces whip by me, and I can't grasp even a one so I just let them fly around and hold my breath and hope for the dust to settle and that I emerge relatively intact. Powerlessness can be an amazingly empowering phenomena if you don't run away from it.

     So how do I handle the realization that life isn't going exactly to plan? Sometimes I cry, but probably a lot less than one would think. I pray a lot. I find that like the rest of my life, my relationship with God is also ever-changing. Not that He has changed, but my understanding evolves. Sometimes I am so very angry and pray with irony and sarcasm through gritted teeth following suggestions of praise even through trials, hoping that my heart will believe my words. Sometimes I feel completely broken and foolish while praying. There's times I get down on my knees to pray and have absolutely no words left. Some seasons I cannot believe the revelations of His love and providence or how i can see them in the darkest of moments. Although I often forget those moments and think that this faith thing comes so much easier for others.

     At night, especially this time of year, I can hear the changing of the guard outside of my window. The singing chorus of the summer frogs and crickets slowly fade to the eerie echoing calls of the owls and coyotes. To quote the popular verse of Ecclesiastes 3, "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." That may be a commercially overused verse but I won't let that dilute the powerful truth in those words for me. I need to remember each moment that I am in is just a part of a season of my life. Each season has its own defining beauty which is brought on by its own necessary loss. It's meant to be fleeting, to make way for the next one. That much I can count on. It's neither bad nor good, it just is.

The Graduate

     My eldest child is moving away to college this Saturday.  There, I said it. I am equal parts ecstatic and heart-broken.  Talk about conflicting emotions. I am so excited for him to be embarking on this part of his life's journey.  The amazing things he will learn, the experiences he will have..this is what it's all about right?  As a parent, we are supposed to raise these little people into confident, respectable, honest big people and send them out to have their own lives. So why does my heart feel like it's being squeezed by a vice every time I think about leaving him at the University?  I mean, he's only going to be 2 1/2 hours away right?
     The truth is, this entire journey has been an adventure like none other.  We're given this being, to watch and protect.  We spend countless hours making sure that it eats, and sleeps, and stays clean and healthy. I mean we have to keep it ALIVE! We start making every decision in our lives with this person's best interest in mind. Our heart begins to feel things it has never felt before. Like, did you know you could cry from happiness from watching someone else succeed at blowing a bubble? Or riding without training wheels?  How about reading their first word? Or tieing their shoe? Did you realize that you could have moments where you were so afraid that what you had just said/done was going to negatively impact someone's life forever? If you just said, "yes" more....or maybe if you just said, "no" more often...You're in fact laying the foundation for a person's life.
     Then, somewhere along the line you learn that you're not the end all, save all in their life.  That they have free will.  There are outside factors that also will help to mold and shape them.  Things that you have no control over.  At first this is scary, but then you come to realize that this is the first moment of letting go...and it's OK. When you watch them walk into school all alone for the first time, or when they go to a play date without you.  The little strings start to get cut one by one. When they call a friend to tell them about a success before they share it with you.  When the bedroom door is no longer left open all the time.
     In fact, the design of it all eases you into it thankfully. It would definitely be more of a shock if we went from diapers to driver's license in one month. There's a reason that just about the time they start to realize that maybe you don't know everything, they get their first taste of real freedom, and you get a serious dose of powerlesness as about a million strings get cut when you hand over those car keys.
     There's also no coincidence that they begin to be, shall we say, less than the adorable little people they once were. It seems that everytime I start to feel the weight of his moving out, he'll make a comment, say for instance, about my "lady brain" (his term) and the fact that it cant comprehend the mechanics of a winch (which may or may not be true), or he'll send me some hideous candid photo that he took of me to send to his friends (haha look at my mom), and I think, "Bon Voyage Buddy, don't let the door hit you!" Then there's the large loads of laundry, the dirty socks on the floor, the unmade beds, the grumpy mornings, the dirty looks.  Man I'm going to miss all of that terribly!
     I guess it all boils down to mourning the passing of time even when you probably should be rejoicing in it.  The logistics aside, there is a sense of loss when you look back as to how fast time really goes by.  How quickly children go from calling you, "Momma," to "Ma." How the rock or Snapple cap collections turn into music libraries. The little tiny toddler shoes replaced by men's size 11's that you nearly break your neck tripping over daily. The little guy who thought you were the most beautiful, intelligent woman in the world who ends up thinking you're slightly ridiculous.
     You also realize that time hasn't stood still for you.  The terrified first-time mother who has the pediatrician on speed-dial ends up turning into the mother who can correctly diagnose most diseases. Moving from being somewhat uptight and judgemental to emphatic and a lot more laid back because life has brought you to your knees more times than you'd like to admit and you know now exactly who you are and where you stand. Your role in their life has changed so much.  You have grown up alongside them.
     Somehow through all of the temper tantrums, scraped knees, night terrors, calls from the principal, and sarcastic remarks he has become my best friend. Not in the way that the line between parent and child is blurred to allow disrespect, but in the way that he's become the best that I could have ever hoped for.  That the piece of my heart that will forever live outside of me and in him is reflected by an amazing and beautiful young man. Here's to the next part of our journey Jason. I love you.

It's Not the Race.....

     As I was slogging it out on the treadmill this morning before work, I was thinking that perhaps I need a new mantra for my daily run.  That somehow, "I hate running," wasn't motivating me quite enough. And yet there I was, panting my way through the mile-marker chanting in my head to the rhythm of my steps, "I hate running...(inhale)..I hate running." It's not exactly the positive affirmation that I would recommend to my yoga students. "As you inhale think of something positive, like how much sitting in cross-legged pose hurts your ass."
     What is it that I don't like about running?  Oh, there's the fact that I'm not very good at it.  If I run a 10-minute mile it's a particularly speedy day.  Even in my younger years my coaches would all marvel as to how a young, fit girl with legs as long as mine could possibly be one of the slowest on the team.  I remember fondly how coach Renz would yell to me, "Hey Sara!  Move it Gruba Dupa."  That would be my Irish/Italian coach calling me a, "fat ass" in Polish to motivate me to hurry up around the track. A veritable ethnic melange of positive reinforcement. Never worked by the way. Fortunately for me I could hit a ball hard enough that I didn't have to be a fast runner.  I played first base so no big charges were necessary and in volleyball there is a relatively small area that I had to cover.  Thanks to that he tolerated me.
     I also experience exercise-induced panic attacks.  Oh, you didn't know there was such a thing?  ME NEITHER.  That is, until spending various moments of my life with my head between my knees on bathroom floors in the middle of a spin class trying to make my ears stop ringing and my heart from bursting through my chest wall.  After a trip to the hospital and a battery of tests from a cardiologist the diagnosis was, "Exercise-induced panic attacks."  Come again?  I exercise to HELP relieve the stress in my life.  I was so offended at first.  I felt like the Dr. looked at my history and basically said, "Well, you have 5 kids...a mortgage...a job...what did you actually THINK was going to happen?"  But wait, I am a YOGA INSTRUCTOR, I can't possibly have stress right? "Well Mrs. Van Goor after a while the body can only take so much." Fantastic, can you please tell my body that things aren't slowing down anytime soon so it needs to pull itself together and get on board here?
     The previous two reasons aside and the little matter of the fact that I hate to sweat, I still find myself running.  Why?  Why would I put myself through this?  Why engage in an activity that a:  I'm not very good at.  b:  I don't enjoy.  c:  Could cause me to pass out in an act of public humiliation that runs through my head way too often.  It's a little something that I like to call "Faking it, till I make it."  I didn't make up the corny little slogan obviously, but it speaks volumes to me.  You see, I am not naturally inclined to do things that are good for me.  Sometimes my best thinking got me into situations in my life where I would have been much better off avoiding altogether. I run, because I know it's good for me.  And I know that there are a bunch of reasons as to why running ISN'T actually that great for me.  I used to quote them smugly to my running friends as to why I didn't run.  There's the high impact on the joints, particularly the knees.  The risk of an enlarged heart.  Foot issues and muscle wear.  The fact of the matter is that running has become a big part of how I take care of myself...in spite of myself.
     I figure if I keep running, eventually I MIGHT learn to love it...OK like it.  I mean I know it's been almost 3 years but it will grow on me right?  Well regardless, the act of running has had a profound positive effect on me.  The most obvious and tangible has to be my weight.  Thanks to that bout of panic attacks that I previously mentioned, I went on some anti-anxiety medication a few years ago.  I gained 40 lbs because of it.  No matter how much exercise I did or how much I watched what I ate the weight just kept on piling on.  I was taking pills because of the lack of control I had over my body's response to stress and was causing myself stress because of the lack of control I had over my body's response to the medication....you see the vicious cycle here?  I decided that I was going to try a different route to deal with this new friend of mine known as debilitating anxiety.  I looked it right in the face and said, "Screw you."  OK, so it wasn't so big and brave as that.  I was terrified.  The first time I went for a run I think I made it about 100' before my heart rate went up and darkness started to close in on me. I walked the rest of the way shaking in my trainers, but I went back.  Again and again I would lace up those shoes and head out.  Sometimes just the thought of running would cause a panic attack to come on but I would say a prayer and make myself a promise, "Just a quarter mile...just a half mile...just a mile."  Then the promises became, "Just one more mile."  It took a full year but I lost all of that weight and more.
     I began to see a change in how I tackled situations in life.  I had previously sunk into a sort of pattern of procrastination that really wasn't who I was.  Pushing myself with mile markers on the track helped me to motivate myself to achieve other goals in my life.  I started to find a better balance between work and motherhood. I saw my career start to grow.  My self-esteem began to get better as I changed my goals from being the idealistic pictures that I daydreamed about to being small, slow steps that I could actually achieve.  I just felt better.  That's not to say that I don't still feel panic attacks coming on.  Sometimes it's so bad that I have to stop what I'm doing and pray that I make it to my car or a bench before keeling over in public.  Most of the time though, I recognize it for what it is and I have learned to squash it right under my track shoes.
     There are so many times in my life where I have to "fake it till I make it."  Where I do what I know is good for me in spite of what I really would prefer to be doing.  I have forced myself to become a morning person, waking up before 6am even though my internal clock rises at about 10.  My days are easier if I give myself more time to start them off right.  There are also many times where I have to force myself to exude an energy and happiness that I am just...not....feeling.  Whether it's at work or with my kids, sometimes I just have to slap on a grin and put on my best show.  Granted, there are times where I wear it all out there, right on my sleeve and I think that's good and healthy too, but sometimes plastering that fake smile on and making the heart-shaped cookies when I really just want to close my bedroom door and ignore everyone, I find myself actually feeling the joy that I was pretending just a moment ago to have. Maybe some day this rule will apply to the times I eat that kale salad instead of the sub sandwich I really want...maybe I'll actually REALLY enjoy it so much more than I would have enjoyed that sub...although somehow I doubt it.  And maybe one day I will put my fears aside and enter a race, not worrying so much about fainting from fear in front of anyone or the fact that I will probably be running alongside the elderly..or behind them. Maybe one day I will have the guts to take some bigger risks that so far I haven't had the courage to do. For now, I will continue to lace up my Nikes and wog (that's half walk/half jog BTW) my way to the next mile, not because I enjoy it, but because I know it's good for me.  I can only imagine where the journey will take me.
   

In Like a Lion......

 

 March has chosen to arrive as a lion this year; a frozen, white, snowy lion.  I found myself home again with the children yesterday brainstorming busy work to keep the cabin fever at bay.  We were able to get out in the early part of the day before what feels like our 20th snow storm came.  We filled our time knitting, baking, reading, watching some tv and playing games. All the while we watched outside as if someone tipped the snow glob once again.
      I really don't mind the snow.  Don't get me wrong, I don't relish in having to drive in it because of my location on top of a winding, mountain road, but if it's winter then I feel that snow has its rightful place and I am fine with it.  I usually enjoy the crisp, clean whiteness that covers the otherwise drab and dead winter landscape.  There is nothing more beautiful than that dazzling, sparkling whiteness in the sun the next day. It feels almost as if a washing, or a cleansing period before the growth that occurs in Spring can begin again (oh there's an allegory in there isn't there?!).  Somehow the cold, raw elements outdoors make it feel all the more warm and cozy inside.  The house fills with a quiet calm now that the children are older and everyone finds their favorite activities to do. It alleviates the pressure of having to be so productive and makes room for precious moments like reading, "Little House on the Prairie," with my youngest.  An afternoon nap is a somewhat less-guilty pleasure for me while it's snowing outside.
     I will even admit that I enjoy shoveling.  I find it to be very satisfying, almost therapeutic, work. You can see the fruits of your labors right away, adding up in little neat rows. Unlike so many jobs that I find myself doing, where you know that you are working towards an end or a goal, but it may take years or even a lifetime (think parenting), to see the outcome.  So many of the tasks that make up my job as a mother yield little tangible results.  I usually do them knowing that the end justifies the means whether I see the means or not with my own eyes.  That can be satisfying on its own level, and a very important level at that, but there is something to be said about a labor that has instant results.          For a while it's just myself in the dark, with shovel in hand.  I can feel the icy flakes on my cheeks and even hear them as they land on the already snowy surfaces.  It's that peaceful and quiet on a snowy night.  I can see my own breath, and feel my muscles strain as I work methodically to free my driveway.  My thoughts can take their time sorting themselves out until I'm really thinking of nothing but the next row to shovel.  Towards the end of shoveling my youngest appears on the doorstep.  She felt that I might like some company.  Suddenly the silence is filled with her happy 8 year-old chatter as she gladly takes the broom to "help," me sweep the steps clean. We finish our job and go back inside where it feels almost too warm now.  I soon find myself surrounded by a wall of laundry piles, which is one of those jobs that there never seems to be an end.  March is here as a lion but before I know it, it will be going out with Spring sports' practices, followed soon after by prom pictures, graduations and my oldest moving out to college.  I'm OK for now taking in each day, even if it's a snow day, because I know just how fast Spring and Summer and the whirlwind they bring will come.

It's a Matter of Perspective

     "Mommy, why do so many bad things keep happening to us?"  ...Sigh...and as my eight year old throws herself in a fit of gut-wrenching sobs, it takes everything in me not to join her.  This was in the wake of what was probably a scary moment for her as we had a tire blow out while merging onto a busy highway.  As I maneuvered over to the shoulder and the 18-wheelers zoomed by, it seemed to occur to us all , in an unspoken moment of horror, that just recently someone was killed sitting on the shoulder of this same highway only weeks ago.  I took a deep breath and with my hazards blinking in their rhythmic fashion, hobbled back onto the highway to make the few thousand feet to the closest exit ramp where we were able to pull into a gas station, (all the while with three nervous children all telling me how to drive, how helpful).  I put the music on and suggested reading from our library books as we waited for Daddy to come and help us (and as I steadied my shaking hands).  Because nerves weren't tested enough, as the kids were still in the van while it was being jacked up, ("Isn't this fun?!), the van rolled off of the jack and bottomed out onto the concrete.  Ashen-faced children were ushered out and arrangements were made to get us home safely, notwithstanding the fact that the other car available was pulled off of a lift for a much-needed brake job to come and rescue us.  Happily, we're home safe and, well apparently not quite sound.

     Can I be honest?  I feel like some sort of human pinata lately.  I could write a novel about the last decade or so, but most recently it has been a storm of sorts around here.  For whatever reason, there is usually some generous amount of nonsense happening.  Whether it's water leaking from the roof on my bed at night, sliding off the road into a retaining wall with a car full of kids and their presents on Christmas Eve during a sudden snowfall, or more recently the drying up of our well.  These meddlesome adventures are where the name of my blog came from.  Understandably, life with five children pretty much guarantees a rollercoaster ride of not only emotions but of circumstances.  However, my life in and of itself, kids aside, sometimes plays out like the Benny Hill Show; granted more slapstick, less smut.

     While raising a gaggle of kids is definitely a challenge even on the best of days, add a household that barely has running water and you've just kicked the insanity level up a notch.  (Disclaimer alert:  I am aware that for people all over the world clean running water is an unfound luxury and I am in no way forgetting that and therefore read to the end and then feel free to scold me.)  In my busy house I find myself rationing toilet flushing and dish washing, cooking with only bottled water (rich girl problems I know), showering at the houses of generous family members and friends and doing the 3+ loads of laundry (moment of gratitude:  we have enough clothes to constitute that much laundry!) a day at various satellite locations keeping me on my toes more than I really ever wanted to be.  I have spent an incredible amount of time in mental conversation.  Sometimes with God (that's between He and I), but more often with myself and yes I realize I just admitted that I may be going a little nutty.  The conversations with my frustrated-self are often filled with the things that I put in parenthesis, that constant struggling with what I find difficult and yet knowing deep down, that my problems really are high-class.  It has become a mental yoga-class of sorts where I have to force myself to bend and become more flexible in my ability to accept what I am powerless over (I still haven't figured out how to make it rain.), to become more trusting in myself and my situation and that there is a higher plan for me, (making the calls to find out how in the world I am going to come up with the money to drill my well deeper.) and to finally and most importantly keep it all in perspective.  The kind of perspective I shared with my daughter tonight in spite of the real despair that I felt.

     As she stood there with that quiver in her lower lip that signaled an inevitable break down and she asked me that question while the sobs escaped, I was able to ask my little girl, "Charlotte, can you see me?" (nod of the head), "Charlotte can you hear my voice?" (again a tearful nod)  "Charlotte, can you use your legs to walk over to Mommy so that I can give you a big hug?"  As she ran with those healthy little legs over to me and I was able to wrap my strong arms around her and smell her shampoo and feel her warm tears against my skin I began to believe the message that I was about to tell my little girl.  That the things that have been happening are indeed not fun and they are upsetting, but to remember that the most important things in our life, such as the ability to hold each other are still intact.  We know people firsthand who can't hold each other because continents and evil separate them. That we are blessed with bodies that work and not everyone has that luxury. That our love for one another cannot be ruined by broken material things in this world.  Houses may fall apart, wells may dry up, cars come and go and as we age our health begins to fade too but the relationships in our lives are where are true legacy lives.  How we touch one another's hearts can last forever.  No matter where I hang my hat or what I drive or even  if I can see or hear, I can only truly put the value of my life in the love that I choose to be a part of. 

You Can't Get Water From an Empty Well

 

Where the journey begins

 On the last official weekend of summer, I decided to take time to do one of my favorite things and go kayaking  It was kind of ironic that on the day after we realized that due to August's sparse rainfall, our well was dry, and I found myself surrounded by thousands of gallons of water.  Not too long ago, I would have never dreamt of leaving a box of cereal and a bowl of fruit on the kitchen table with a note saying, "Went kayaking, be back by lunch!  Love, Mom."  I would have felt guilty for not being there when the kids woke up.  I most likely would have talked myself out of doing something solely for me.  I've come a long way in that respect.

      Early in my journey of motherhood, taking care of myself was something I wasn't very good at.  When I first became a mom, I worked sixty-hour weeks and was riddled with guilt for not being with my son.  Any spare moment I had I made sure that I spent it with him .  Years later, after having the twins and making the decision to be a stay-at-home mom, I felt that I somehow had to shift proving my self-worth from my paid job, to making sure that I was fully engrossed 100% of the time either in my children or in housework.  It had taken years of being burned out to silence that little voice that told me I was only worth how much I was doing.  I was a walking human-doing, and not a human-being.
     We're surrounded daily by images of supposedly perfect parenting.  Just log into Pinterest if you ever want to feel less-than.  Social media has allowed us to take the picture-perfect moments in our lives and piece together a flawless mosaic for others to see.  I'm not exactly sure when I started to shed this notion that I had to be the "perfect" mom, or when I began to feel like it was OK to start doing things for myself.  It has been a process for sure.  Maybe it began with the once-a-month Twins' Club meetings I went to.  I could rationalize the one night out of a month that I took to meet with other moms of multiples.  Somehow my mommy-guilt allowed me to enjoy those nights mostly guilt-free because I truly felt they were helping me to be a better mother.  There-in lies the absolute truth of it.  Taking a moment for myself, helps me to be a better person for others.  At that time I wasn't aware of it though.  I do remember a defining, "a-ha," moment where I really grasped that notion.  I was twenty-nine, I had just had child number five and we almost immediately moved into the house we now live in.  The year leading up to my youngest's birth was particularly difficult for many reasons and I had just spent the last decade completely absorbed in my children.  I was anxious to lose my baby-weight and saw an ad for a free yoga class in town.  I had started practicing yoga before I got pregnant with Charlotte but hadn't really given it much time.  After struggling through that first class, thinking of nothing other than trying not to fall on my face in front of everyone, I realized that it quite probably was the first time in ten years that I thought of nothing other than where my own two feet were.  No thoughts of what happened in the day preceding the class, no lists of what I had to do after, just a pinpointed focus on where I was at that moment.  It also challenged me to be aware of my physical self.  My breathing, my alignment, my posture, it was all...about...me.  When I came home that evening, I found that the bickering children didn't make my blood pressure rise so high.  The baby's cries seemed less urgent.  The housework even seemed less daunting.  I'm not saying that yoga is for everyone, or that it guarantees a personal epiphany, but it definitely has played a large part in my journey.  Since that class, eight years ago, I find myself enjoying cups of coffee on my porch, taking short trips alone, making time for even just a walk once in awhile.  The old mommy-guilt voice has been mostly quieted because I know that I am a better person for everyone when I have taken even just a short, unapologetic moment to recharge.  I also hope that I am teaching my children something valuable along the way.  I hope by having a better balance in my life, that they still feel loved and important, but not that they are the most important people in the world.  Now don't get me wrong, my children ARE the most important people in MY world, but in any healthy relationship, there needs to be space for each person to be content with themselves first, before they can be good for others.  I hope my kids can learn that balance through my example.

    As I paddle in the morning sun, listening to music and I am surrounded by the peace and serenity that being alone on the lake brings, I can focus on and appreciate the strength of my arms instead of beating myself up for the softness of my middle.  I slow down my paddling and pause to watch the water birds put on a show seemingly just for me and simultaneously feel insignificant in this enormous world and yet completely an intricate part of its miracles.  I push against the wind and feel the light spray of water on my face until I find my favorite spot near the cliffs that for some reason remind me of California and allow myself to float aimlessly with my thoughts while dangling my foot in the cool water.  As I row back towards shore and home, I know I'm bringing back more to my children of me to share than I left with.

Monday Morning Porch Musings in August

 

   Sitting on my porch this Monday morning, I want to slow the clock down.  In one more week the alarm clocks will be set to an un-godly hour and I will resume my position as taskmaster, torturer, and angry cheerleader trying to get all seven of us out the door to school and work.  I will also officially be the mother of a High School Senior, three middle-schoolers and one third-grader.  Where has the time gone?  I know it's not just me who feels that as we get older time goes by so much faster.  Wasn't it just June yesterday after all?
     As a kid, I remember feeling like the days of summer went on forever.  I'd start my day with a healthy breakfast, in front of the TV, of Lucky Charms and Tang.  Magically delicious and NASA-approved.  Thinking back, I probably glowed in the dark a bit those days.  I would then put on my favorite Smurfette tank top and shorts and head outside.  There weren't always other kids to play with and I was the oldest of two by a lot of years but somehow I don't ever remember caring.  I would keep myself busy with adventures I made up for Malibu Barbie and I in the swimming pool or perhaps a Jungle safari for her in the hosta that decorated our property line.  There was ample time for jumping rope, or donning my Strawberry Shortcake roller skates and navigating the uneven and broken sidewalks.  There were walks with my Pop-Pop to Colonial Market for an ice cream treat.  My favorite was the cone you had to peel the paper off of to reveal the crushed-peanut-topping deliciousness. There were indoor memories too of sitting on a towel in the middle of the living room floor because I was still too damp from swimming and I just HAD to get in a game or two of Atari Pinball.  Then I would drive the adults crazy as I talked into the giant window fan practicing  my best Darth Vader impression.  This usually got me sent promptly back outside.  Sometimes the neighbor's grand kids would visit next door and their grandfather would line a large pit in the backyard with a plastic sheet and fill it with water.  Nevermind the fact that I had a perfectly fine pool in my own yard, this make-shift inground pool was the most fun place to swim...ever.
     I remember the smell of charcoal grills in the evenings.  Suppers of burnt hot dogs followed by juicy, red-dripping watermelon.  The adults would venture outside into my world as the sun started to make its way down in the sky.  Sitting in their lawn chairs on the paved driveway, sipping Old-fashions (I can still smell the bittersweet orange peel), listening to the church bells play a familiar song.  We would watch the sky over Passaic's smoke-stack-peppered skyline turn the colors of rainbow sherbet.  Then I would fill plastic cups with as many lightening bugs as I could.  Sometimes sadistically (or just child-like curiosity?) smearing their glow-in-the-dark bodies on my skin to make myself glow.  I actually remember the deliciousness of sinking into the sheets that my mother had hung on the line that day, after an Avon Pink Bubbles, bubble bath.  Nothing in the world, except maybe a newborn, smells as good as line-dried bed sheets.
     I sometimes wonder how my kids' summer memories will measure up for them as they get older.  I have more of an adventurous spirit than my own mother did so I know that we take more day trips to the shore or the lake or to go hiking than I did as a kid.I sometimes wonder if that makes their summer days speed along faster.  There are definitely similarities to our summer experiences.  Sure, their breakfast cereals are a bit less day-glo, they catch lightening bugs in mason jars not plastic cups, and their sunsets aren't watched over the smoke stacks of a crumbling industrial town.  Still, there is swimming, ice cream, and yes, video games.  Do my kids feel like their summer is flying by or do they, like I can remember my little-girl-self, get to August and feel as if summer has gone on forever?  Do they, like I did, welcome the smells of opening a new box of crayons, and hearing those school bells ring?  I know that nostalgia can paint things in a rosier glow than reality  I just hope their summer memories are as warm as mine.
     This last week of summer vacation I'll have the adult ability to try to savor the moments a little more.  To take a conscious mental snapshot of mornings like today, sitting on my porch, surrounded by the chirping of the birds, the busyness of the bugs, the humming of my youngest as she comes out to join me in the dappled sunshine.  When she wraps her tan little arms around my neck in a, "Good morning Mommy," hug and I can smell the sweetness of her sung-bleached hair.  We giggle together at the noisiness of the cicadas.  We'll take the time to point out the spider web shapes from last-night's trap and appreciate how its the prettiest sun-catcher we've ever seen.  There will be no talk of school or work of next week, only plans for trips to Grandma's, giant ice cream cones and sandy toes at the shore.  Hopefully it will be the longest week of our year.

Bed-head Charlotte

Pulp Non-Fiction

     With Mother's Day this coming Sunday, I thought it would be apropo to share about the amazing experience that motherhood has been for me.  My life has been richly blessed and forever altered since that first butterfly flutter in my stomach 17 years ago.  My days have been filled with everything from marveling at the intricate details of my newborn's little fingers, to peanut butter and jelly kisses, to crying as I left my baby at their first day of school, nights laboring over homework together, to yelling at the top of my lungs at sport's functions, cheering on my grown athlete.  And then, and then there are days like today, the kind of day that can't be found in any self-help mothering books.  The type of day that when other, more seasoned mothers say, "Just wait.." are talking about ....

     After a morning at work, and an afternoon weeding the flower garden, fertilizing the vegetable garden, getting the backyard toys out and marinating chicken in preparation for tonight's dinner, I left my house feeling accomplished and ready for the task ahead of me.  I had to pick up 3 of my 5 children, head to my teenager's baseball game and arrange transportation for my middle-schooler from her track meet which was about 10 minutes from NYC and a whole world away from my house in the country.  After much driving, texting (not at the same time, relax) and some playground time, I loaded the 3 into the van and took them to 7-11 where they could fill their MEDIUM Slurpee cup with whatever flavor combination their hearts desired and headed to the teenager's  baseball game.

     I'm a huge sports fan.  I played sports in high school, I love to watch games on tv, and I love watching my kids play (well, relatively...see an older post).  My sophomore "plays" for Varsity.  Basically, as a sophomore that consists of mostly sitting on the bench.  I still love to go to his games and route on the team.  I sit on those splintered benches and gratefully accept the bouquets of weed flowers my 7 year-old brings me.  I wipe the baseball dirt mustaches off of my 8 year-old's upper lip, and dish out many a Goldfish Cracker while celebrating the victories and mourning the losses of the team that my son graces the bench for and I paid $250 for him to do so.  I also take many trips to the bathroom with the little ones.  Today, one of those trips proved epic.

     During the 5th inning, my son Luke informed me that he had to go to the bathroom.  The bathroom is located in the HS building and quite a walk from the ball field so I told him that I'd go with him.  He took off ahead of me like a bullet.  I resigned that he'd be fine without me and followed as far as the outfield where I decided to stand and watch the game while waiting for him to finish his business.  After some time, I realized that 1/2 an inning had just passed and Luke hadn't emerged.  He is prone to long public-restroom visits so I wasn't too alarmed but I decided to check on him.  I stood at the door of the men's room and called his name.  I heard a timid, "Mom?"  And then a panicked, "I need your help!"  Oh boy....  I made sure that the locker room/bathroom was clear of any other men and walked into a mess of Biblical proportions.  There was my little guy with his pants in his hands and, well.... a "mess" all over the place.  Apparently when you weigh 54 lbs. and drink a MEDIUM Slurpee, it can lead to bouts of explosive expressions that may or may not make it into the appropriate receptacles.  The poor kid tried to take care of the mess himself and in doing so managed to grace the sink, floor and top of the commode with his gift.  The remainder of articles of clothing he was still wearing were also decorated.  I had one of those moments where my mind traveled through so many different scenarios that I had a momentary out-of-body experience.  I grabbed the pants, cleaned the sink with locker room paper towels and closed the stall door on my son reassuring him that I'd be back ASAP.  I had no idea what I was going to do.  I ran to my car where I deposited the soiled and soaking-from-"washing" pants on the blacktop and then ran to the bleachers to get my keys.  My 7  year-old was happily rolling down a hill with her little friend and the middle-schooler was chatting with a friend so I quickly went to the van and took stock of my options.  I had a plastic shopping bag....and a rainbow parachute.  Taking said items back to the locker room, I ran into a very surprised older gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.  I made my apologies, mumbled something about my little guy having an accident and proceeded as if I were The Wolf from Pulp Fiction.  I needed to erase all evidence that this bio hazard ever occurred and safely get my now naked son from the crime scene.  I ushered him to the locker room shower where I turned on the ice cold water and handed him a bar of soap.  I stifled any complaints of water temperature with a stern look and headed to the bathroom.  My only options of cleaning supplies were the paper towel dispenser, the hand soap from a pump and the trickle of water from the motion-sensor faucet....Awesome.  I proceeded to pump soap, lever down paper towels and trickle water like a mad woman until the sink shone, the floor no longer looked like a barn and the toilet was as clean as a high school boys' locker room toilet should be.  I forced the boy out of the shower prematurely (he likes long showers like his father) and wrapped him in the only thing I had....the rainbow parachute.  The job was almost done.  I only had to get him through the outfield, to the parking lot and into the van unnoticed, piece of cake?....I started to walk trying to block him with my body, but he was falling behind so I grabbed his neck and held him next to me...a few steps to go and my 7 year-old appeared out of nowhere jumping up and down, holding herself and yelling, "I have to go BATHROOM!!...WAIT,,,WHY IS LUKE IN A PARACHUTE?!!"  I shushed her, ignoring the snickers from a mother sitting near the parking lot, told her to wait a moment, to which she responded with throwing herself on the ground, continuing her potty dance prostrate, and got my naked, rainbow-parachute-wrapped boy safely in the minivan, with his integrity somewhat intact.  I deposited the plastic bag of soiled clothing in the trunk and took the diva to the ladies' room......The rest is a blur...I do know that my middle schooler fell in a ditch, twisting her knee and that the baseball team won.....

     My marinated chicken was forgotten, baseball game was over at 7:00 and pizza was ordered.  The windows were wide open on the ride home to air out the contents of that plastic bag,  and I sat, the matriarch, driving my minivan....my victorious bench warmer to my right, the non-stop-talking diva behind me, kicking the driver's seat the whole way, my ballerina with the twisted knee plugged into her ipod in the back seat, my naked-rainbow-parachuted brainiac discussing his class-trip to the Sterling Cave like he wasn't naked or wrapped in a parachute, and my middle school track runner getting chicken pot pie at a friend's house.

     So tonight, my kids ate pizza instead of the healthy homemade dinner I had planned.  My 1st-grader didn't complete her homework because dinner was finished at her regular bedtime.  I ended up doing an extra load of laundry I hadn't anticipated.  I assured Luke that what happened happens to everyone (doesn't it?) and that even though Mommy seemed like it, she wasn't angry with him.  She was just overwhelmed with the situation.  My teenager, who painted my barn doors this weekend, went to bed early to get a jump on tomorrow.  The twins put away their laundry and are tucked in...and I sit exhausted wearing the $2.00 ring my son bought me today at the souvenir shop from his class trip, knowing that I am the luckiest woman in the world.

    

Baby It's Cold Outside

     Happy New Year!  OK, so it's been a new year for 18 days now and it seems that the last time I posted a blog, I was working on embracing a farewell to summer and a hello to fall.  It's now mid-January and with the holidays behind me, I'm deep in the trenches folks.  Gone are the crisp autumn days with their flirtatious reds, yellows and oranges.  Everything now is either a chilly steal gray or icy white.  Since I last wrote, we've weathered (quite literally actually) a major hurricane that devastated 1/2 of the tri-state area and displaced us for 2 weeks, a car accident on Christmas Eve that totaled our family van and about 2 weeks of the flu that ran through almost the entire household.  Yay winter!

     I really want to love winter.  Truly, I do.  I was actually born in winter so it should be a time to celebrate.  However, I remember many of my birthday parties cancelled due to illness and in many of my childhood birthday pictures I'm sporting a rather bright red mustache from wiping my nose too often.  Having a birthday so close to Christmas also meant the well-intentioned but totally lame Christmas/Birthday present.  I have to say that one year though it really paid off with a Cabbage Patch Kid and a trip to see Annie on Broadway.  Did I mention that I had the best grandparents ever?

                                      Notice the slight red-stache?  Dig the Holly Hobby plates!


     I guess I have a love/hate relationship with winter.  There are some redeeming qualities.  I love the way everything looks covered in newly fallen snow.  I love how silent the world seems as the snow falls.  It's almost as if you can hear each one of the flakes landing.  I love the smell of fireplaces warming my neighbors homes. I love being the only one on the hiking trails and hearing my steps crunching on the frozen path. Also, there is something so satisfying in a cup of hot chocolate or bowl of savory soup after a day of sleigh-riding. 

                                                            Just needs marshmallows

     I remember the excitement of waking up to snow as a kid.  I'd wait in the early morning gloom to hear how many whistles would blow from the fire station.  After the last blessed blast that signaled a snow day I was too excited to possibly fall back to sleep.  My house was always freezing in the morning as my frugal grandmother who controlled the thermostat for the whole house wouldn't turn the heat back on until around 8 am, so I'd wrap myself in an afghan (strategically made by said grandmother) and make my way to the kitchen.  I could always count on a hearty breakfast from my robe-clad mother who would be drinking black tea as if her life depended on it.  As soon as the hissing of the radiators started, that meant that I could start to get my clothes on, huddling as close to the radiator as I could (geez, you think I grew up during the Great Depression!).  Now, I don't know if snow pants didn't exist in the 80's, but if they did, I didn't own a pair.  I'd don my dungarees (oh yes, that's what my mom called them) and my sweater, and the hat, mittens and boots
(generally quite mismatched)  and head outside into the winter wonderland.  There were some snow storms where I could barely make my way through the snow.   I'd drag my Radio Flyer sled (you know with the wooden planks and red metal blades) to the County Park and attempt to steer that thing away from trees and other children all morning. I could play for hours if only my damn dungarees didn't soak through and the frost bite didn't begin to burn my thighs.  That was always my signal to head home.  The burning of my flesh.  I'd strip off  my soaked clothes and lay them by the furnace to thaw and I'd drink Ovaltine in my pajamas until my my clothes were dry and then I'd start the whole process over again.

     As a former frost-bite victim I have acquired an impressive collection of snow gear for my children.  No child of mine has ever played in the snow without at least 4 inches of thermal, water-proof fluff to protect their chicken legs.  I have bins of the stuff.  Bins upon bins.  When friends come over with their kids, I have enough gear for my kids and theirs and some strangers that may show up.  My kids don't have to pull a rusty sled 8 blocks to a county park.  They're blessed with a pretty amazing sledding track in their own backyard.  They also have snow boards and plastic sleds that don't require a perfect snow terrain to whiz them down the hill.  About three years ago I decided to join them and hot-dog it down the hill...threw my back out for 2 months.  I wish I was kidding.  I'm a bit more careful about sleigh riding now.

     That's not to say that I don't get to have my fun.  When I'm not mopping up the mounds of snow my kids track into the house, or drying my 20th load of snow gear, I get to have my own fun.  I love simmering the Dutch cocoa on the stove for my kids knowing that their Rosy-cheeked faces will be looking for it as soon as they come back in.  I get to go ice skating now as an adult and take my kids with me.  This was something that was never an option in my childhood home of non-athletic and pretty much all-the-time-broke parents.  I also get to watch my kids do something that I have never done (and probably never will)...snowboard.  It's exhilarating to see your children master something that you know would put you in traction if you ever tried it.

     Do I love winter?  No.  I can't lie.  I will be doing a dance with the first sign of a crocus popping its head up through the thawing ground.  However, that doesn't stop me from appreciating the beauty of this time of year.  I love the fact that we're all kind of forced to slow down and spend more time together in our home.  We don't participate in organized sports during the winter so we get to play more games with each other.  I am grateful for my cozy house and am happy to say that I've become quite adept at building a mean fire in my wood-burning stove.  I love my heated seats in my "new" mini van.  I absolutely live to see my children's excitement when they wake up to a white world and watch as their imaginations emerge from their electronics and they build forts and igloos and snow people. 

     I have a confession to make.  This year, late at night during one of our snow storms I was, shall we say...moved.  All of the kids were in bed and it was snowing outside.  The glow from our Christmas lights was playing on the falling snowflakes and I couldn't stay inside any longer.  I put my coat on and went outside.  I just stood there and listened to silence and then I did it.  I allowed myself to dance.  Throwing my arms out wide, I gave in to that inner-child-like rapture and twirled around in the snow.  It only lasted a moment, and I laughed at myself, but I didn't feel foolish.  I still don't.  I felt as if winter and I made peace with each other if even for a fleeting moment.

Welcome Fall, albeit begrudgingly....

Did I ever mention that I don't like change?  Perhaps the only time I truly embrace change is when the warm weather rolls in and school comes to a close.  I find myself welcoming the changes of summer easily and with open arms.  It's like a reunion with a long-lost friend.  The older I get, the faster that reunion comes to a close.  When I feel as if I've just sunk my toes into the warm sand, summer waves goodbye and the lists of school supplies wave hello.

Unlike the ecstatic shopping cart-riding parents in the commercials, I do not find this to be the most wonderful time of year.  I love the free days of the summer months where my children and I can explore the dragon flies' flight patterns in our flower garden, where my garden calls to me each day for a visit, where I can sit on my porch and watch the kids catching lightening bugs (fireflies for some of you) and listen to the frogs sing their summer symphony. 

Once September comes I find myself reluctantly thrown into the realm of tight schedules and a break-necked pace of life that comes with a job and five kids.  Suddenly mornings of loafing in our pj's are filled with alarm clocks screaming before dawn, and rushing out the door fueled with too little sleep and too much coffee along with sun-glare and traffic.  Afternoons of sun-bathing are replaced with work, school and errands being run.  Late afternoons of lazy BBQ's give way to rushed dinners, homework, sports and community events. Evenings of porch-sitting give way to driving all over creation to find the right cleats or desperately needed notebooks.  How can I possibly embrace fall like I do summer?

There was a time, during my youth when the sounds of the crowds cheering on the football game down the street meant seeing old friends again. The smell of sharpened pencils and new paint on old high school hallways were a welcome change to the boredom of late summer.  The smell of fall leaves brought a sense of comfort to me.  When the hissing of my parent's radiators and the scratchiness of a sweater worn out of storage made me feel warm and snug.  The promise of the excitement of the upcoming holidays..Halloween candy, Thanksgiving turkey and football games and the pinnacle of all holidays:  Christmas.

I find that anticipation gone.  The excitement that once came with it is replaced by the stress of being an adult responsible for making it all come together for my children.  The driving to the sports events so they can experience the roar of the crowd, the money to purchase the long list of school supplies and the tuition payments for a better school experience than I had.  The beautiful fall leaves need to be raked and composted.  The radiators only radiate heat if we pay the high oil bill.  The sweaters only come out after a week's worth of dragging bins down from the attic and organizing and sorting.  Holidays are exciting still, but also exhausting and expensive.
                                           

However, I refuse to give in to the negativity that the responsibilities of adulthood bring.  It may take me longer to embrace fall, but I find myself harvesting the last of summer's treasures from my garden and jarring them.  Perhaps it's one small way I can have a taste of summer all year long?  I enjoy the pride I feel while watching my children have their successes and in how they handle their failures in their own school and sports experiences.  I love watching them jump in the piles of raked leaves or when they climb the apple trees in the orchards we visit.  I happily bake apple pies and crisps, filling my house with the smells of autumn.  I decorate my house with pumpkins and share in my kids' excitement over their Halloween costume plans.  I make the 8 hour trek to Ohio every year for Thanksgiving so as to give my children the kind of memories that fill my husband's heart and that have made a place in my own.   I excitedly use my Christmas Club money to purchase gifts for my kids, picturing their smiles on Christmas morning.  Even as the lover of summer that I am, I am not immune to the amazing beauty that fall brings.  The crisp, bright colors of the leaves, the soft muting of the garden's grandeur.  The smells of fireplaces and wet, newly fallen leaves.  The sounds of the summer frogs replaced by the hooting of the evening owls or the howling of coyotes. 

 

I find myself pulling on extra layers and my wool-lined boots and make my way to the one place that I always feel at-home, no matter what season...the woods.  I inhale the subtly changed air with a deep breath and although I miss the salt-air of the ocean, I cannot help but be pulled in to the earthiness of the forest's beauty.  I can see summer's last green breath being transformed into the fiery colors of autumn as a fitting send-off to the beauty and peace of my favorite season.  In nature, fall becomes a rich celebration of summer's life.  It's right there for all of us to participate in.  I hope that I always choose to be a participant, even if at first I'm reluctant.