Turn The Page

When the doctor told me that we were having a boy, my heart flipped in excitement and trepidation.

A boy to balance out our little family: one of each.

Greta was five when he was born, and I naively thought I had the "girl thing" down pat. 

But a BOY?  It seemed so foreign to me even though Greta was tomboy-ish; she loved dinosaurs and reptiles and fishing and getting muddy.  She never played with dolls, preferring instead to make up elaborate imaginary games with her Littlest Pet Shops.  Eschewing Polly Pockets and Barbies, she would play vet, or draw pictures bursting with color and story.   I never ceased to wonder at the power of her imagination.

Would a boy be different?  Would we be up to our ears in Legos, trains and toy cars? Would our long afternoons coloring and reading be replaced with building robots and smashing things into bits?

It turns out Finn, just like Greta, defied stereotype.  Thank God.  He is a complex, nuanced little character, full of sharp edges and puffy-heart kindness.

We dutifully purchased a train set, and gratefully accepted armloads of hand-me-down Legos.  They sat in the play room gathering dust for years before I realized they weren't ever going to be played with.  Christmas stockings brought Matchbox cars and action figures that were half-heartedly played with for one afternoon before being discarded.

It took a while to realize the stereotypes of what girls and boys are supposed to love is grossly, even insultingly, simplified.

Finn loves science kits - the grosser the better. He wants to be an artist when he grows up, and spends hours doodling, his tongue sticking out in concentration.  He plays dress up - sometimes in Star Wars costumes, sometimes in Greta's old princess dresses. It never makes any difference to him.

He's pig-headed, as stubborn as the day is long.  Try to correct or criticize him and you're in for a dissertation about all the reasons you're wrong.  When the storm clouds part, he will curl up in your lap like he's still tiny, nuzzle his face into your neck and tell you he loves you.

He wears his heart on his sleeve, this kid. Cruelty of any kind effects him deeply.  He loves playing with girls, he says, because they don't "try to be right all the time".  I refrain from explaining the concept of irony to him.

He loves gleefully, passionately and with reckless abandon.  He's never embarrassed by grand displays of affection.  I try not to dread the day this quality disappears.  Maybe it won't, but I worry it will be pushed down under layers of teenage cool-ness or angst.

He received a little spiral bound notebook as a gift recently, and announced he was going to keep a journal.  He dutifully wrote in it the first night: "this weekend I went skiing at Loon and I had a good time".    After studying his handiwork, he ripped the page out and crinkled it up.

"I'm going to make a journal about you and Dadda," he announced to me.  "Don't look."

The next morning he came downstairs grinning from ear to ear.  "You can read my notebook if you want," he said. "Just wait until I'm at school".

So I waited, impatiently, for the yellow bus to drive away.  I came inside and found this on the cover of the notebook (started on the back, because you can't write on the plastic front):

"Love, Caring, Happy, Nice"

The first page revealed this: 

 "This is just the start turn the page"

This is the first entry:

 

"Today my mom and dad wher being the best mom and dad in the world"

Oh, my heart. 

Raising kids is full of endings and beginnings.  I find I mourn the endings more than I value the beginnings: when he lost his front baby teeth or when he stopped holding my hand in public, for example.  To me these seemed like innocence lost, the beginning of his pulling away from me. 

But they aren't just endings.  They are the beginnings of the next thing.

Turn the page.

Cancer: One Year Later. A Year In Pictures

Almost a year ago, I wrote this about the day I found out I had cancer.

Tomorrow, November 14th, my daughter goes back to school after her tonsillectomy, exactly one year from the day I had my tonsillectomy and the doctors found the tumor.

The Universe has a strange sense of humor, sometimes.

Last November 14th, I had four days left of blissful ignorance of not-knowing.  In my heart, I was pretty sure I knew, but there was still the chance my heart was wrong.

So, a year ago I was living out my last pre-cancer days, and it's got me thinking about how my life has changed.  How I've changed.

I say my last pre-cancer days, because I understand, now, that even if I stay in remission for the rest of my life, that I am forever changed by the diagnosis.  Cancer is no longer a death sentence, thank God, but it is a life sentence, of sorts.  Because once you've had cancer you are never the same again.

I looked back over the past year and a huge part of me didn't understand how we got through it.

Then last week I was searching through some pictures - looking for photos for Finn's birthday video - and I found some memories I had forgotten about. Things that at the time I swore I'd never, ever forget.

There was the one taken the day I had my feeding tube put in:

I was scared and feeling about as low as I had during the whole cancer ordeal that day.  I was on the verge of tears, full of fear, and my cell phone beeped that I had a message.  Heather and some amazing friends had put together this video for me. It arrived - quite literally - just exactly when I needed it




There was a picture taken of my neck at the worst of the radiation:

I remember I chose not to post this at the time it was taken, because even I didn't want to acknowledge how badly I felt (the white bits are pieces of a compress I had on it to cool it down).

As I found myself staring, awestruck, at this picture, I remembered exactly how I got through it.

I was supported by so many people - friends who brought meals, gave rides, the unflagging support of my mother, even in the early months of adjusting to life without my Dad.  Steve's steadfast and loving presence, constantly asking: what can I do? what do you need?  Help from amazing, loving babysitters that took care of my kids just like I would have. Maybe even better.

And then, of course there were the kids.  Their certainty that I would be okay, because I had to be okay, fueled my strength to fight when I could, and let go when I should.  They were constant "you can do it" cheerleaders. Kids have such a pure way of processing difficulty, and it rubbed off on me, helped me fight the battle one moment at a time.

There were some pictures of the little notes Greta would leave me in my prayer box, to lift my spirits and give me strength during the worst of days:

Finn and Greta, with the help of a babysitter (Hi Lindsey if you're reading this!) made a pillow case with their picture on it, and colored it with loving messages and words of hope

Lindsey and the kids also put together a scrapbook to cheer me up:

When Lindsey went back to college, I was scared that everything was going to fall apart, because she left just as my treatments were getting really tough.  But the Universe was still smiling on me, and along came Nikki, who was just as fabulous as Lindsey and cared for the kids every afternoon for weeks:

Nikki and the kids

And then there was "the chart"; a spreadsheet Steve put together (complete with graphics) to track my medications, my mood, my pain scale, my food intake and my, er, regularity (yes, that is a poop giving a thumbs up you see there in the upper right hand corner):

I still have the cards of support and encouragement I received from friends and family.  I read through them every now and then, when I'm having a moment of doubt, or fear, before a doctor's appointment or a scan, and I remember that I didn't get through cancer.

WE did.

That's how cancer changed me the most. I evolved from someone who had to fight all her own battles, be in control of as much of her life as she could (even though I would have sworn to you on a stack of Bibles that I was not this way), to someone who was humbled and grateful for the all the love and support.

I admit, I fought it at first.  I didn't want to be the sick person, who couldn't care for her family, cook a meal or drive herself.

Once the pain and fatigue kicked in full force, though, I was overcome with gratitude.  There is NO WAY I could have gotten through everything without all the support.

One last picture, taken last Thanksgiving. I knew I had cancer when this was taken, but that week we had heard the words "treatable and curable", and so we were filled with hope, despite the underlying fear.  I look into our faces and part of me thinks: thank God we didn't know what was coming.  But another part me looks back and thinks:  you have no idea, yet, how many people love you and your family. You don't appreciate, yet, how lucky you really are.

Today, I do.  I know how lucky we are.  I live more in the moment than I ever have, even though it took a boatload of fear, anxiety and resistance to get there.

I think this quote sums it up well:

Seven - A Birthday Video for Finn

He came running up the driveway yesterday, after getting off the bus, his backpack bouncing behind him.

"MOMMA!"  he yells, a big grin on his face. "I GROWED!"

I embraced him as he chattered on excitedly, "I used to be the second tallest in the class, and now suddenly today I'm TALLEST!"

This doesn't surprise me. At 6 years and 364 days old, he weighs over 50 pounds and is over 4 feet tall. He wears a size 3 shoe.

Long gone are the days of his cute little accent, where Rs were Ws.  We called it his Boston accent.  I miss it.

He is quick with a smile and a joke, and seems to make friends wherever he goes.  It doesn't matter if we're at church, the supermarket, the playground or just any old store, he always whispers to me "look over there, Momma, I know her!"  For all of his gregariousness, he's shy.  Kids rush up to give him a hug, or a hello, and he giggles and hides behind my legs.

Despite his size, he's still a snuggle-bug. He manages to curl up all 50" of himself into my lap and rest his head on my shoulder with regularity.

He inherited his impishness from his Dad, and his love for shortcuts from his Mom.  He is the King of "it wasn't me!".  I can literally catch him in the act of doing something wrong, like putting his feet on the dinner table, and he'll peer at me over his grimy bare toes and say with as much innocence as he can muster, "I'm NOT doing it, Momma!"

He has a huge heart, always looking out for a kid who seems nervous, shy or anxious. He's loyal and reliable, always quick to give people the benefit of the doubt.

He loves to laugh.  This morning I wished him a Happy Birthday, and he told me about a dream he had last night where he opened a huge present and it was a box full of gold.  Then he threw his head back, laughed and said, "but that's not likely to happen, is it?"

Yesterday he said, with a sly grin on his face, "There's some sort of smell situation going on in this house, and I'm trying to get to the bottom of it."

I wondered, when he was born, if I'd be able to raise a boy with as much confidence as I raise Greta. Well, at least I got her, even when my parenting skills feel rusty.

But it turns out I get him, too.  He wears his heart on his sleeve, so quick to love and laugh, and I feel like he's the one teaching me, most of the time. How to take things in stride, not make more of anything than I need to.

He loves to rub my arm and say, "Everything's okay, Momma.  I promise."  I look into his big, grinning face and I know he's right.

Everything is just the way it's supposed to be.

Happy 7th Birthday, Finn.  We love you to pieces:

Owning Well

Summer is entering an easy rhythm.   Our days aren't filled; Greta has a morning camp until noon for two weeks, and Finn does a little golf lesson one morning per week.

That's it.

When I was sick during the winter, I dreamed of long, lazy summer days where I could wallow in my kids, so I didn't over-stuff our schedule.  I wanted the time to piece each day together like a slow, lazy puzzle.

Now those days are here, and while it takes some getting used to, it's such a gift to be with them so much.

Yesterday, Finn scrunched up his nose at me and asked, "Momma?  Do we not have the babysitter every day anymore because you're bettah?"

I felt a cold stone in my stomach as I answered, "Yes, hon. It's because I'm all better now."

He grinned and ran off to play, while I placed a hand over my belly and thought about the cold feeling there.

I need to own being well, I thought.

I don't know why that's difficult, though I'm told it's normal.  I'm learning through therapy and talking to other survivors that it takes time - sometimes a lot of it - to trust the diagnosis of cancer-free. Something about saying it out loud to my children is extra hard - I don't want to promise something that might not be true - but I know that's my fear talking.

Physically, I'm feeling stronger every day. I got the feeding tube out yesterday, and that went a long way towards making me feel like a well person instead of a sick one.

I'm learning to turn the fear around, flip it over to its counterpart: gratitude.  I'm learning to put distance between the thought in my head and my reality: I'm so very lucky. So very blessed.

As we slide into the hot summer days of July - full of beach and friends and fun -  I want to be fully present for the wonderful. For what I longed for during the dark winter of sickness and pain.

I'm okay today.  I'm here now. And it's good.

Dad - One Year Later

Yesterday was a hard day.  Today is too.

A year ago my father died unexpectedly of a blood infection, related to having his spleen removed years before when he successfully beat Lymphoma.  If you are new to this site and you want to read about that day (I can't bring myself to write about it again) click here.  

Instead, I want to write about a conversation I had with my six year old son last night.

I tried not to let them see me cry during the day. I kept unexpectedly breaking out into tears. I'm pretty sure they saw me anyway at times.   We were at the beach; it was a sparkling blue day, and his spirit was everywhere.  This is the same beach I grew up on with him, searching for minnows to use as bait, fishing for flounder out of his trusty aluminum boat, which is now our boat.

I did my best to think about his spirit; his aliveness.  The one year anniversary of his sudden passing is full of little knee dropping moments of something close to horror.  The things I saw that day, the memories I wish I could wipe from the screen.

By 6pm I had had it, though.  I wasn't feeling well, my throat still hurts a lot, I couldn't eat much all day, and I collapsed into my bed in a ball of self-pity and tears.  And missing Dad. Missing him SO MUCH.

I didn't hear the bare feet pad into the room, or sense someone climb into bed next to me; that's how hard I was crying. Only when Finn started to rub my back did I realize someone was there.  I thought it was Steve, so I didn't curb my crying. Then, a couple minutes later I hear his little sing-song voice say, "It's okay, Momma," and I rolled over to see his deep brown eyes staring into mine; my own eyes in this little-boy face looking back at me.  

"Do you miss PopPop?" he asked.

"Yes, Bud.  I do. I miss him a lot."  And, because I couldn't help myself, and I know he's only six and this is unfair but I was so desperate for love and attention I said it anyway:  "It's been a long, hard year, and I'm feeling sad about having to go through all of it without my Dad."

He nodded sagely, his wisdom belied only by the careworn paw print blanket thrown cavalierly over his shoulder.

"Maybe now that da cancer is over, at least for now, it will help," he stated.  Not a question, a statement of fact.

I nodded, rubbing my face with a Kleenex and trying to pull myself together.

"But, PopPop is in heaven, right?  So that's not sad." 

All I could do is nod.

He was quiet for a bit, his head on my shoulder, still rubbing my arm, when he said, "when I go to heaven I'm going to shut my eyes, because I'm afraid of heights."  Another pause.  "But not that it will really matter, though, because it will just be my spirit, right?"

I nodded again.

More silence, and then this bombshell, said in the quietest of quiet voices:  "How do we know heaven is real?  What if it's just dark?"

I sat up, and in my most authoritative voice said, while stroking his hair, "Buddy, we know heaven is real because heaven is love.  Think of all the people that loved PopPop, right?"   

He nodded, listening intently, his blanket now crammed in his mouth for comfort.

"Heaven is being surrounded by all that love. All the people who came before you, and all the people still here on earth who love you.  It's beautiful.  It has to be, because it's LOVE."

He thought for a moment, and said, "And God is dere, right?" 

"Yes," I said. "God is there, and he is love, too."

He nodded again, thinking it through.  "Does God let you down for visits, do you think?  I'm the last in the family, so I'll probably be the last to die, and it will be lonely here without all of you."

"Oh, Finn," I said, pulling him in tight, "by then you'll be a Dad and have a family of your own.  It goes on and on and that's what makes it so beautiful.  There is no end."

He smiled.  "But I still hope dere are visits.  Maybe we don't even know about them.  Maybe he sneaks down in the form of a bird or a butterfly and just watches." 

"Yes," I said, "that would be nice. And sometimes I feel his spirit really strongly, so I know he's here, cheering us on.  It's just hard because I'd rather have him - his body, his person, here.  But you can talk to PopPop whenever you want to.  Just close your eyes, and picture his face and say hello.  I bet he can hear you.  I bet he can."

And with that he scrunched up his eyes and fell back on the pillow, silent, talking to my Dad.

I miss you, Dad, with all my heart.  You are in our hearts and minds all the time.   We love you.

Dad and me, circa 1975.

Love, Fear, Courage and Faith - What Cancer Does to a Family

I never intended this to become a cancer blog, any more than I intended it to become a recovery blog when I first started it to be a jewelry blog four years ago.

It won't always be a cancer blog, but cancer - like active alcoholism - is a totally absorbing, all consuming thing.  Everything in my world - literally everything - revolves around having cancer.  The kids' schedules, my husband's schedule, my schedule - nothing can be set in stone until my treatment logistics are pinned down.

And that's just the practical part of having cancer.

The emotional part is the real all consuming thing - for all of us.  The kids having to make adjustments to my weakened state, learning to be more self-sufficient, being brave about new sitters and going on play dates at school friends' houses they have never been to before.  Getting rides from Mommy friends of mine that they know, but haven't driven with before.  Any one of these things would have been a big deal Before Cancer.   After Cancer they are learning to adjust on the fly, because they don't really have a choice.  I am so proud of both of them, bravely extending their horizons, stepping almost daily outside of their comfort zones, managing their fear of my illness along with all these new things.

My husband is working so hard - both at his job and here at home - he is parenting the kids most of the time, and being a care-taker for me, all while managing the regular day-to-day business of full time job.   He amazes me every day at the patience he shows the kids, even when I know he is stretched to his limits.  He asks me over and over, what do you need?  What can I get you?   He is a strong shoulder for me to cry on when I need to, even as he tucks his own worries away he strokes my back and tells me everything will be okay. He looks out for ways to make my life easier - a laptop table next to my bed, cleaning out cabinets to make things more accessible, finding just the right thing to cheer me up.

Cancer impacts the whole family, on every level.

I struggle to come up with things to write about that aren't cancer related -- but those thing don't exist in my world at the moment.  My thoughts are consumed with managing symptoms, pain, sleep, medications and trying to keep fear at a healthy arms' length away.

I have been stripped down, emotionally, to an almost child-like state.

I think back to where I was a year ago - preparing to fly to the Blissdom Conference in Nashville, meet up with friends, speak on a panel, network and try to spread the word about Crying Out Now.  I had recently met my weight loss goal of 65 lbs, and was generally feeling on top of the world.

These days there is no room for dreams, for ego, for thinking about building my business or networking.  Those days will come again, I believe, but at the moment they feel long gone.

These days it is all about "what did you eat today, hon? Anything?"  "How is the pain?" "When did you last take such-and-such medicine?"

And then my least favorite: "Have you, you know, gone today yet?" (like with children, bowel movements, or lack thereof, are a hot topic.  Sorry if that is over sharing, but the doctors are concerned and I'm concerned, so the whole family is involved in finding foods that will help Momma GO.)

So maybe I'm more like a potty-training toddler.

My thoughts are so centered around me, not in an egotistical way at all, it's just there isn't room for anything else.  I go into the kids' bedrooms at night to kiss their foreheads while they sleep and my heart aches; there is so much I don't know about their day-to-day life right now.  Their worlds are held safely in the hands of my Mom, my friends, and sitters.

I'm still grappling with fear, too, although it is so much better than it was.  Stripping my life down to its barest essentials meant that a lot of my former day-to-day fears were stripped away, too. They almost make me laugh, the things that I worried about Before Cancer. Things like not measuring up, trying to fit in, neuroses about why so-and-so seems upset with me, or so-and-so hasn't called in while.  Those petty concerns about keeping up with the other Moms, being successful in business and raising kids - doing it all, and doing it all well - they seem very, very far away.

These days I live in a nearly constant state of deprivation.

I can't eat, I can't drive anymore, I can't talk easily on the phone (or at all, because of the pain), I don't have the energy to do much of anything.  Deprivation does funny things to your mind. First it drove me nearly insane, as I struggled against it. I fantasized about my old life: about exercising, about biting into a cheeseburger, about going to the grocery store and piling food into my cart, about meeting up with friends for breakfast, or a night out.

Slowly, slowly, I am adjusting to my new normal, and now I don't think much about those things anymore. There isn't any point; it only brings misery.  I have tucked myself into my little nest of a world, and I'm waiting it out.  I know there are things - important life lessons - I will learn through this experience, especially coming on the heels of another tough life change: losing my Dad so suddenly in June.  I had barely begun to process his death when the cancer came along.  I've decided to put all the Major Life Lessons on a shelf, though, for a while. I don't have to figure this all out now. I just have to put one foot in front of the other, keep my heart and mind as open as I can, and get from one end of the day to the other.

And then I have to get up and do it again the next day.  But I'll think about that tomorrow.

And, of course, my "what if I get cancer someday" obsession -- a fear I carried with me my whole life like a nasty, heavy piece of baggage -- now that it's part of my daily world, it isn't nearly as scary as I imagined as I cultivated my fear-fueled obsession with disease.  Because we adapt, we do, in astonishing ways.

There is an issue with the lump on my neck; the one that holds the tumor inside. Last week it got bigger, and then a LOT bigger, and the doctors and nurses tried to downplay it, but I speak fluent non-verbal communication among doctors and nurses now and I knew they were concerned.  There was talk of doing a CT Scan to see what is up, but that wouldn't change the treatment protocol at all, so it was decided to stay the course.  And the lump is getting smaller again, slowly.  Hopefully it will continue in this direction.  The doctor yesterday basically (again, in doctor-speak) prepared me for the idea that I will very likely need surgery to remove the lump after chemo and radiation are done.

"And if we find there are active cancer cells in the lump after we remove it?" I asked.  I am not afraid of answers anymore. I do not stick my head in the sand.  I want to know. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself when I hear myself speak to doctors

"Well, then we celebrate that we took it out and didn't wait to see if it would shrink," was his guarded reply.

I decided not to press it, because I know he doesn't have a crystal ball, he doesn't know why tumors behave the way they do.   He did tell me he had one other case like this, where the tumor just wouldn't shrink, but when they removed it after treatment was done it was just "rubble" - no cancer.

Steve heard "rubble"; I heard "only one other case."   So the fear thing is a work in progress, but I've come a long way.

Tomorrow (thankfully) the feeding tube goes in - I don't know if it will be overnight procedure or not, but they will have to put me under general anesthesia to place it in.  My throat is too far gone for me to be awake, even under conscious sedation.

I am hoping the feeding tube helps me get some strength back - I'm lucky if I get 800 calories (all liquids like Ensure or Carnation Instant Breakfast) into me during the day.  I should be having, in my compromised state, closer to 1800 calories.  So I hope the tube helps with the healing and the energy.

The kids are calling it my "belly button straw", which makes me laugh even as I dread having one at all.

This print can be found in the Etsy shop RococcoLA
I wasn't paid or compensated in any way to promote it. I just love it.

Thank you for being here, reading.  Your comments and support help me SO MUCH.  Being able to write through this has been healing for me.  As hard as they are, I want to remember these cancer days, too, because there are so many moments of breathless beauty and bravery, and I want to capture those, along with the pain and the fear.

It's bringing my family closer, even as I feel like I'm drifting away. Writing helps me not lose sight of how my kids, my husband, my Mom, and my friends - OH my friends - are carrying me when I don't always feel like carrying myself.

So thank you.  Thank you so very much.

Halfway There

I am halfway through.

While I am grateful for this milestone, the halfway mark appears to have brought with it the kind of pain that the doctors and my fellow tonsil cancer survivors have been talking about.

It didn't build gradually, getting a little worse each day. Somehow, the pain slammed in the back door yesterday afternoon, after my radiation treatment, put its feet up and has made itself at home.

It settles over all my emotions, thoughts and words.  It cloaks everything in a kind of prickly haze. It makes me squint my eyes, like I'm looking into the bright sun.  The kids' images and voices come to me through the pain, as if from afar.  I nod and try to smile; I don't want them to know how much I hurt.

Talking is impossible today.  Some days are worse than others, and I'm hoping today is just a bad day and that I will have a good day, soon.

The medication helps some, but there is only so much it can do on days like today.

My world is becoming so small, like a pinprick.  I don't go anywhere anymore; I'm not driving.  I can't speak on the phone comfortably.   My universe revolves around getting to treatment and back.  I walk wide-eyed through the halls of the hospital, marveling at the pace of everything, mutely taking it all in.

I don't feel well enough to read, even.   I think the only reason I can write is that it soothes me, like a balm on a fiery burn.  Writing about the pain makes me feel at arm's length from its bite, at least for a while.

Cancer treatment is such a bizarre thing.  I read a quote that said something like:  "treating cancer is like trying to rid a dog of  fleas by beating it with a stick".    Every day cancer patients willingly, even eagerly, submit to more pain and discomfort, because we know the pain is chasing away the disease.

But on days like today I wonder how on earth I'm going to get radiated 16 more times.

The other odd thing about the pain is that tomorrow I could wake up and it will be lighter, like a fog dissipating in the bright sun.  There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.  It comes and goes as it pleases.

I just realized this is my third post in a row about pain.  Clearly, it dominates my little world at the moment, but it isn't the only thing.

There are moments of such tenderness, too.  Yesterday, I was lying on my side on the couch, spent and exhausted, trying to summon enough energy to go upstairs.  Finn walked up to me and started rubbing my back, ever so gently, and asked, "Does this help, Momma?  Does this make you feel bettah?"  When I told him it did, the smile that burst forth on his face was priceless.

It's hard for the kids to see me sick, but it is bringing out the caregivers in them, teaching them that they can make a difference - a big one - to someone who is suffering.

And after one of the longer, harder afternoons I've had so far, last night there was another message from Greta waiting for me in my Prayer Box:

Storytellers

In the midst of all the new, scary things that are going on in our family these days, nothing makes me smile like my kids' made up stories.

Finn, in particular, is quite the storyteller these days.  Sometimes he recounts his dreams (most of them involving the Elf on the Shelf lately), sometimes straight from his imagination, and lately he has been making picture book stories ....  they tend to run on the long side, so I've spared you about a ten minute chunk and showed you two short highlights from the beginning and the end of the "Apple Spaceship Story".

Here's Finn:



Now imagine this goes on for about ten minutes longer, before we move into the big finish:




Greta has a new story, too - narrated (in her jammies) here for your viewing pleasure.  A very short tale of jellybeans run amok:




It's the simple things that matter most - simple moments, simple stories, simple smiles. These are the gifts my kids give me, every day.

Caterpillars

I was doing okay until we hit the shoe section.

We're back-to-school shopping with the other procrastinators; school starts tomorrow.  We pick through the remains of school supplies, lunch-sized snacks and new outfits.

Greta had a growth spurt over the summer; she grew more than an inch in one month, and she needs
new shoes.  We steer the overflowing cart into the kids' shoe section, and begin hunting through pink sandals and glittery sneakers.

Not one pair of shoes fit.  Not the kid size 3.  Not even the 4s. 

We end up in the women's section - the women's section - and find a pair of size 5 1/2 clogs that fit just right.

Greta sashays up and down the aisle, a hand on one hip, a proud smile plastered across her face.

I feel like an old hand at this back-to-school stuff, so I didn't think I was going to be emotional about school this year.  But somehow, right under my nose, she has blossomed into a striking young woman. 

She flicks her hair over her shoulder and does a little spin.  "What do you think, Mom?"  When did she start calling me Mom?  What happened to Momma?

I manage a smile, and a quick nod. "Perfect," I choke. 

This long-legged beauty, with a hint of a womanly curve in her hip, is my little girl. 

In the car on the way home, she prattles on about the usual things, then grows quiet for a moment before saying, "I'm a little nervous about tomorrow.  Not a  LOT nervous, but I have the caterpillars-in-my-tummy feeling. It's kind of like a happy-nervous, I guess."

I tell her I remember the feeling so well, how the scent of a new pack of pencils made my stomach churn with nervous anticipation. 

We get home, unload the school supplies, and Greta sets about packing her backpack for tomorrow. 

Finn shuffles in the room, dragging his careworn blanket in one hand and his brand new backpack in the other.  "Will you help me wif my backpack too, Momma?"  

Oh my God, I think with a start, my baby is getting on the bus.  Somehow this milestone - my youngest starting Kindergarten - has been relegated to a mental back shelf, lost in the shuffle of Second Child Syndrome.  He curls up on my lap with a contented sigh, and rubs my arm distractedly.

"Are you excited to start big-kid school?" I ask. 

"Sure," he says. 

"Are you nervous?"

He is quiet a moment., "No," he says, "Sissy told me all about it.  And my fwiends will be there. And I have the same teacher Sissy had, and she's willy nice."

I rock him gently in my lap, and I think about how it's another beginning, having both my kids in school.  Sending Greta off to school every year was cushioned by Finn's presence, of having a child around most of the time.

When they were small, I pined for this moment, for the freedom of unencumbered days, for the chance to focus on me again - my goals, my career, my identity.

Now that it is here, I'm ambivalent.  What is this next chapter of life going to look like?  I am contemplating a job that would accommodate mother's hours but get my head back in the working game.  It hasn't been formally offered to me, yet, but the possibility exists that I will re-enter the work force sometime in the near future. 

Closing my arms around Finn, I inhale his earthy boy scent and think about how I feel about it all.

I have the happy-nervous, caterpillars-in-my-tummy feeling, too.  

Roller Coaster

Finn is sitting happily in the tub, splashing bubbles around, and I'm fuming.

"Finn, get out of the tub. NOW," I say with a dangerous edge to my voice.   I've been standing here for about three minutes, holding out a towel like an idiot, waiting for him to do one more thing, Momma.  He loves my irritation; it puts him firmly in control.

I can feel it welling up inside me, a tidal wave of disproportionate rage, and I tremble with the effort to keep it down.

"It's okay, Momma," he says in a singsong voice.  "It's not like I'm going to stay in the tub forevah." 

All day has been a series of fits and starts. This isn't different from any other day, but for whatever reason today I have been on edge, tired and cranky, my emotions slithering dangerously close to the surface.  

"GET. OUT. NOW."  

Finn giggles and plops a handful of bubbles onto his head.

My vision goes white with rage; I'm so tired - so damn tired - of having every simple moment be a struggle:  where are your shoes, why did you take your socks off, sit still, no you can't have another snack, why did you hit your sister, put that down, pick that up, come here, go away.

"AAAGGHHHH!" I scream, throw the towel on the floor and storm out.  I slump down in the hallway, put my face in my hands, and count to ten.   It's such a small thing, but it's the proverbial last straw, and although I know I'm completely out of control I can't help it.

I can hear Finn laughing to himself in the tub.  He's won again, I think.  He invited me to a fight and I came ..  hook, line and sinker.  

It's no big deal if he doesn't get out of the tub right now, of course.  It's just that it's so close to bedtime, so close to silence in the house, my book and a cup of tea.  I can't get there fast enough.  

I take deep breaths, and try to calm down.   Through the bathroom door, I hear muffled singing.

"Momma's fwustawated because I won't get out of the ba -aa- aath.  I just want to play wif the bubbles, they are so fuu-uu-un.  Maybe if Momma played wif more bubbles she wouldn't be so maaa- aa- aad."

Despite myself, I smile.   The rage evaporates in an instant, and I poke my head in the door to see his slippery little naked body covered from head to toe in bubbles.   He grins up at me. 

"You still mad, Momma?"

"Kinda," I reply, with a sigh.  "I'm tired of you not listening to me.  It's very frustrating."

"Yes," he says solemnly.  "That IS fwusterwating. I'll get out now."

I rub his body down with the towel and fluff his hair into a faux-hawk like I've been doing since he was two.  He peeks at his reflection in the steamy mirror and laughs like he has never seen it before.  After he wriggles into his jammies he leans over and gives me a damp, warm hug.  

"I want to tell you a secret, Momma," he says.  He presses his lips right onto my ear and whispers, "I'm sorry."

This is what he does to me, my youngest.  He takes me on a roller coaster ride of emotions, propelling me into the depths of rage and then mere seconds later melting my heart.  He's a little obstinate ball of love, impish and thoughtful, testing limits and then running back into my arms.   On the good days I can maintain balance and some semblance of authority, or at least consistency.  Other days - like today - I'm putty in his hands, exhausted and too worn down to keep an even keel. 

My daughter is so much more like me.  We avoid confrontation, nurture and over-identify.   Parenting a child who is exactly like you comes with its own challenges, of course, but I get her. I can read her next move, understand her reactions, empathize to a fault.  I can count on one hand the number of times I have had to raise my voice to Greta, but Finn won't stop until he hears that magical decibel level; the one that tells him he's got me right where he wants me.

It's amazing, isn't it, how two children from the same genetic pool can be so different?   I have to split my personality to parent them; what works for one inevitably doesn't work at all for the other.  Greta, who hates confrontation of any kind, gets nervous and stressed out when Finn is in trouble, thinking somehow she's in trouble, too.

Finn needs constant discpline, needs to know where the boundaries are, and more often than not some level of irritation or anger is needed from me to get him to understand where the line is.  He loves the line.  He'd live there permanently if he could. 

It's exhausting.  And exhilerating. 

And tomorrow we'll get up and do it all again. 

A Day In My Life, The Movie

I was away all day on Saturday, spending time with a good friend, taking a day off after a long school vacation week.

When I walked in the door late that afternoon the kids were beaming from ear to ear.  

"We made you something, Momma," they smiled.

They ran up to the DVD player, hit play, and settled in on the couch to watch a movie.  A movie they made.  Starring themselves.  About a Day In The Life.  Of me.

I burst out laughing as soon as I saw the first scene, where Greta tries to act exasperated and breaks out in giggles. 

I love it.

The editing is wacky (one scene repeats twice... my apologies; I've tried everything and I can't fix it). And there is something screwy with the last scene, too - there was a better ending but for some reason it won't upload.

But hey - we're not trying to win an Oscar here. 

Greta plays me.   Finn plays, well, himself.   They set out to capture a day in the life of Momma and Finn, and they did a really good job (even down to the detail of fishing through the clean pile of laundry in my laundry room to find Finn clothes in the morning).

It's long-ish - about 13 minutes, I think?   So I totally understand if you don't watch it, or don't watch it all the way through.   But if you've ever wanted a good look at my kitchen, my playroom, my beading studio or my upstairs bathroom, then this is your lucky day.....

Here's the part where I offer an excuse about the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of my house, but I won't.  Let's just say only a husband could have filmed this; I couldn't have resisted the urge to pick up first.  I will say, though, that my jewelry studio is more chaotic than usual - we're storing some furniture we're going to give away, so that explains at least part of the mess.  The rest is just life, warts and all.  

It is what is is, you know?

And so without any further caveats, I bring you A Day In The Life:

On Chickens. And God.

We lost a chicken about a month ago.

She made it through the long, cold winter, but emerged looking weak and sickly. She stopped eating, and one morning Steve found her still body curled in the corner of the coop, dead. She was getting on in years, as chickens go, so it was sad but not unexpected.

The kids didn't know, and we quietly buried her in the woods. I resolved to tell them later that afternoon, but I never felt like telling them, loathe to face the tears that I knew would come. We have five other chickens, and so the kids didn't notice that one went missing. Days turned into weeks, and Steve and I forgot about telling them.

Yesterday afternoon Greta and Finn came up to me with concern in their eyes.

"We counted the chickens, Momma, and there are only five. We think Bubbles is missing! We counted twice, and checked inside the coop. She's GONE!"

My heart skipped a beat - what to say, what to say. I was sorely tempted to play it through - What? She's missing!?!? - but in the end I didn't have the heart for it, so I opted with an edited version of the truth instead.

"Oh," I stammered. "I noticed she was missing recently, but I was hoping she'd come back," I said, my gut churning with guilt. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys; I guess I was hoping it would all turn out okay. But if she's still missing, I'm afraid she's gone."

Their faces crumpled, and the tears flowed freely. Finn, in particular, was devastated. "Why did she have to die?" he wailed. "It's so unfair!"

I rocked him in my lap for a few minutes, brushing his tears away. "I know it's hard, honey," I whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Where is she now?" he asked through hitching sobs. "Is she is heaven with God? And Curly, PeePee, Yellowy, Taily-Tail, Rhino, Goldie the Fish and Coalie?"   Man, we've lost a lost of pets in his short life. 

"Yes," I said. "They are all together in heaven now."

Eventually he calmed down, but the questions kept coming. What started as a circle of life conversation quickly turned choppy; his questions grew more complicated, more detailed. He's been asking a lot of questions about God lately, and they always make me a little itchy. Just like with Santa Claus questions, the more specific they get, the more uncomfortable I become. I want him to believe, but it's never that simple, is it?

"Why does God make people and chickens die?"

"Was God the first person in heaven?"

"When was God born? Did God have to die to get to heaven?"

"Is there a Mrs. God?"

"If God can do anything, why doesn't he let chickens live forevah?"

"Can God hear me now? Does he know I'm sad?"

His questions make me squirm.  I try to give vague answers, saying to most of them that I don't know, that nobody knows the answers to his questions for certain.   He is less than satisfied with this response.
 
"If you don't know, if nobody really knows, then how do you know God is real?"
 
That's the million dollar question, kid. 
 
How to explain faith to an inquisitive five year old?   His questions are good; I don't want him to feel dismissed, or think that his questions are dumb.    I'm fearful of my answers, though, because it feels like there is a lot at stake.   I want our children to be raised with faith, with a sense that there is something out there that is bigger than they are; an all encompassing energy, love and compassion that is at the root of all things.    But I lose street cred if I can't give him some answers, so I stumble my way through.
 
I answer a lot of questions with a question:  "What do you think?  Do you think there is a Mrs. God?"
 
"I'm asking YOU," he replies.  "Don't you KNOW?"
 
Can't we just talk about the circle of life and be done with it? 
 
I try to think like a five year old, because there isn't as much at stake as my adult brain fears.   Right?   So I encourage him as much as I can -  you ask really good questions, honey, lots of people wonder about these things - and try to leave him with a sense of curiosity and wonder about it all.
 
But he wouldn't let that last question go: "if you don't know, if nobody really knows, then how do you know God is real?"

Eventually I stopped trying to change the subject, sat down with him and faced this one head on.

"Do you know that love is real?"  I asked.

He thought for a moment.  "I guess so," he replied.  "I love you and Dadda and Sissy."

"Do you know what love looks like?" 

He smiled at this one. "I've never seen it before, so how would I know what it looks like?"

"Do you know where love is?"

"Yes!" he said immediately.  "Love is in my heart!"

"Well, God is in your heart, too, because God is love."  

He stared thoughtfully at the floor, rubbing his chest with his hand.  "So, God is in my heart, and he is why I love people?"

"Yes," I said, with as much authority as I could muster.  

"Okay," he replied.  "What's for dinner?"

ROAR

"No, you're the Twicewatops, Momma!" Finn yells.  "You're coming to get me!"

I form a low growl in my throat and stomp my feet, "Grrrrrrrr!!" I rumble, and curl my fingers into claws.

Tears spring into Finn's eyes. "Twicewatops don't growl, Momma!" he cries in frustration.  "They ROAR!  Like this!"  He screws up his face and lets out a mighty roar.

"RRRRAAAAAWWRRR!" I shout.  "I'm coming to GET YOU!!"

"NOOOOOOOO!" Finn says, and starts to cry in earnest.  "Twicewatops don't TALK!  You're not good at this at ALL!"

Tell me about it, kid, I think.   We've been going back and forth like this for over twenty minutes, as I struggle to adhere to the ever-changing rules of his imaginary game.

"How about we play a board game," I sigh, my body tense with frustration.  I try to keep my voice bright, but Finn hangs his head and sniffs loudly.

"Now you're mad at me," he says.  "It's not my fault you are so bad at Dinosaur."    He shuffles off, looking forlorn, leaving me with a stone of guilt in my chest.   I'm aching to get back to my studio, work on jewelry.    I cringe at the pang of excitement I feel that the game is over.

I hear the television click on in the next room as I plunk down at my work station.  My fingers mold the wire, and my body calms from the familiar repetition of doing, of creating, but my mind is reeling.

I hate imaginary play, I think.   It's not like I didn't offer to play with him.  

Twist, twist, twist.  My fingers fly over the wire, bending it into whimsical shapes.  I slide a bead on here and there, and hold my blossoming creation up to the light, admiring the way it is taking shape.

"Mooooooom!" I hear from the next room.   "When are we going to da big playgwound?"

"At eleven o'clock," I reply, striving to keep my voice chipper, acting as if I can't wait to go to the playground.   In anticipation of his next four questions I shout, "that's in one hour, which is sixty minutes, which isn't a long time; it's about as long as two television shows".  

Great, now I'm parceling out time in increments of television shows, I think, silently chastising myself.  

I finish the piece, attach it to some sturdy leather cording, and package it up to mail later this afternoon.   It's a logical time to stop and take Finn to the playground, but every cell in my body aches to keep going, to lose myself in creating.    I peek into the next room, where Finn sits on the floor, slack-jawed, watching Phineas and Ferb. 

I tiptoe away, hoping he doesn't turn around and see me and ask to go to the playground again.   I feel a twist of guilt in my gut, an old familiar ache.   I'm sneaking around my own house to avoid playing with my kid; the thoughts come, right on schedule.   What kind of mother does this?

I search for my Gentle Observer, the one who assures me that a busy mother sneaks around her own kid; a mother who is juggling a growing business with the demands of raising young kids.    But She is nowhere to be found.  Her silence unnerves me.

I pick up some more wire and search through a pile of colorful stones I keep in a bowl at my desk.  I run my fingers over their cool, smooth surfaces and marvel at the vast array of colors, of textures.    Under my skilled touch, they transform into art.   They always yield to my wishes.

"Ferb! I know what we're going to do today!" Phineas says from the television in the next room.   I think of Finn sitting cross-legged on the floor, bored, and the guilt comes again, stronger this time.  But he's quiet, I think.   Take advantage of his silence, and keep at it.

I select a pretty green stone, one that catches the light in such a way that it glows.   I begin wrapping it in gold wire, pleased at the contrast, and then I sigh and place it back down onto my desk. 

It's no use.  I face the cold reality that I'm never going to want to stop what I'm doing to play Dinosaur, go to the playground or play a board game.    Finally, my Gentle Observer shows up.   They won't be young forever, she reminds me.   The day is right around the corner when you will ache at the memory of your son's upturned face, asking you to play dinosaur.   You'd be wise not to lose sight of that.   

I get down on my hands and knees, a low roar forming in my throat.   "rrrrrraaaaawwWWRRR!" I shout, and Finn flies around the corner, a broad smile on his face.

"MOMMA!!  You're a WEAL TWICEWATOPS!"  he shouts.   He giggles and runs in place.  "Now, COME GET ME!"

As I chase after him on my hands and knees, roaring at the top of my lungs, I watch his little bare feet fly across the floor.   He laughs, his head thrown back, arms waving madly, and I think:   Right now.  Right here.  This is good.

Smart Ass

Finn seems to have an aversion to wearing pants.  And underwear.    Even on the coldest days, it is a common sight to see him streaking through the kitchen, giggling.

Recently, though, he has been unusually modest.    I wake up to find him already dressed for school (something that is usually an epic battle), he's been ordering me out of the bathroom, and getting his jammies on himself without being asked.  I thought he was on a quest for stars (we have a "star board" and award stars for good behavior - each one is worth a quarter and they're saving up to buy a toy), but I should have known something was up.

We've been busy, too, so it has been a little while since he had a bath.   

In other words, I haven't seen him naked in a couple of days.  

Tonight I found him half dressed on the couch, wearing only a shirt, with a blanket wrapped around his midsection. 

"Time for bed, Buddy," I said.  "Let's get your jammies on."

"Okay," he replied.  "But don't look at my butt."

"Why would I look at your butt?  Let's go, it's late."

He pulled his shirt down to his knees and shuffled over to me.    As he bent down to pick up his jammie bottoms, I saw a little flash of green peeking out from under his pulled-down shirt.

"Finn," I said.  "Please turn around."

He gave me a sly grin.  "I don't think I want to," he said. 

"Please turn around, Finn."

He lifted his shirt and turned around, slowly.

Drawn in green marker, with startling clarity, was a bespectacled face with crazy hair and a big grin drawn around puffy, well, cheeks.      As in butt cheeks.

"Do you know who it is?" Finn asked, giggling.

At a loss for when, why and HOW this figure appeared on my son's derriere, I gave up and simply asked, "No.   Who?"

"Albert Einstein!"**

** I cannot tell you how badly I want to post a picture of Albert Einstein drawn on my son's rear end.   Really, the kid's got talent (and world record flexibility, apparently).     But as I laughed and snapped the picture, he said, "Don't you dare put this on your blog, Momma!"  I'm a woman of my word, so your imagination is going to have to suffice.   You're welcome.

Dream Catcher

Last night Finn padded up to me in his little feety pajamas looking anxious.  It was a big night for him; he was getting his own room.

"I'm a little worried, Momma,"  he says, his eyes wide.   "But I think I'm ready.  You got all da spiderwebs out of da room, right?"

We have an extra bedroom upstairs, but it has been used as a little playroom; the kids have been calling it "the relaxing room".    Greta and Finn have preferred to sleep in the same room, in twin beds, and more often than not I find them curled up together in the same bed when I go to wake them up in the morning.

Greta has been asking for her own room for a little while now, and so we decided it was time for the relaxing room to morph into Finn's room.

We built him up to it, telling him he could decorate it any way he wants.   His choice?  "Spongebob and Buddha."   We're still working on the Buddha decorations, but yesterday we went out and shopped for Spongebob paraphernalia.    He changed his mind at the last minute, and now it's the "Mario Kart and Buddha" room.

As the kids brushed their teeth last night, I brought some of his books and favorite stuffed animals into Finn's room and eavesdropped on their conversation.

"You're going to be fine, Finn," Greta said.   "You're five now, and you will start kindergarten soon.   It's time."

Finn was silent for a moment.  "But I'll miss you, sissy," he replied, solemnly.

"I'll be right across the hall," she said.  "If you need anything at all, just call out and I can be there in two seconds."

I stood listening in the hallway, my arms full of stuffed animals, and my heart swelled.  

We read a story in Finn's new room, the three of us nestled together.    I tucked Finn into his new Mario Kart sheets, and gave him a kiss on the forehead.   "Sweet dreams," I whispered.

Greta's eye lit up.  "OH!"  she said.  "That gives me an idea!"

She scurried across the hall to her room, and came back with one of her favorite belongings:  a dream catcher Steve brought home from a business trip.   

"This will help you if you have bad dreams, Finn," she said.  "It's really special to  me, so you can borrow it until we can get one for you, too.  It totally works."  

She hung the dream catcher carefully from a knob on the bedside table next to Finn's bed.   "It catches any scary thoughts or bad dreams.   So you don't need to worry."

She kissed Finn on the forehead, and he smiled up at her.   "Okay," he said,  "Thank you, Sissy."

As I tucked Greta into her bed, she gave me a knowing smile.   "Do you think he's going to make it all night?  Or do you think we'll find him in his old bed in the morning?"

"I don't know," I admitted.  "How would you feel if he came into his old bed?  Do you want me to tell him not to?"

"NO!" she said, quickly.   "I mean, I'm totally okay with it.   It feels weird not having him here.   Kinda good, but mostly weird."

About half an hour later I tiptoed upstairs to check on them.   I heard murmuring coming from behind the door to Finn's room, which was cracked open about an inch. 

I peeked in, and saw Greta perched on the side of Finn's bed.  Finn's eyes were closed, a little smile played across his face.   Greta was rubbing his back and telling him a made-up story. 

I tiptoed back downstairs.  I was not needed.   They were doing fine all on their own.

Together.

Worry

I lean my face closer to his sleeping form and listen to his breathing.

Even through a mound of blankets I can feel the heat radiating off his back, warming my cheek.

His chest sounds clear, and I sigh in relief.

Finn is sick, and it came on suddenly.   He looked pale and disoriented when I picked him up from school yesterday, and by 4pm he was complaining of a headache and felt warm to the touch.    By 7pm he was passed out on the couch, one little fist clutching his careworn blanket, the other clutching Mr. Pricklepants, his favorite stuffed animal.

I carried him up to bed, his body limp in my arms.    Panic fluttered in my chest, even though we've been through this drill several times over the past couple of months.   

No more, I thought.    I can't do this anymore.

This morning he managed to drink a little Gatorade, and ate one cracker before zonking out on the couch again.

I tick through all I thought I was going to do today.     Figuring out a way to get to everything that needs to be done is like trying to do a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. 

Frustrated, pent-up and anxious, I pace back and forth in my kitchen. 

I'm tired of feeling behind on everything, tired of scraping together meals from the meager offerings in our pantry, tired of sending messages to customers that their orders will be later than I had hoped, tired of cancelling or begging off playdates, appointments, school, activities.  

But most of all, I'm tired of worry.

Just yesterday I was boasting to a friend that we had gone one full week with nobody sick in our house.  

I spoke too soon.

We've battled strep throat, stomach bugs, and now whatever this new illness is - the flu?  Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease?   Strep again?

I perch on the side of the couch and place my hand on Finn's warm head; beads of sweat dot his upper lip even though before he fell asleep he complained that he was freezing.   His lips are bright red, his eyes look sunken into their sockets.

Where is the line?   I wonder.   How do I know how much to worry? 

Finn opens his eyes, and it takes him a moment to focus on my face.   He gives me a half-hearted smile, blinks slowly and whispers, "Thank you for taking care of me, Momma."

I smile and kiss him on the top of his head.   "Don't worry, Bud.  I'm here."

And I am.  I am here.   I think back to days long past, thankfully, when the simple act of being present for a sick child would have sent me into a tailspin.   I'll take the worry, inconvenience, anxiety and frustration.    Even at its worst, it is so much better than hiding from myself, and my family, inside a bottle.

I stroke his hair as he drifts off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that his mother will take care of him as best she can. 

On days like today that doesn't seem like much, but it is everything.

Finding Center

My throat feels raw from yelling. 

I'm outside in the night air, leaning against the side of the house, my breath puffing white in the cold.

I count backwards, trying to calm myself down. 

I get to 2 and the image of Finn's red crying face surfaces.   Guilt crushes me in its unforgiving embrace. 

It's only 6:15pm on a regular old Wednesday, and I'm spent.   My insides feel like cracked glass; I'm one shout away from crumbling.   

There was nothing usual about today.  No great victories or traumas.   It was a series of swells - up, down, up, down.   I tried to ride them out - I did try, didn't I? - but finally my reserves ran dry.   I was already running on fumes when Finn spit at his sister, and it was like a match to gasoline soaked rags.

I stuff my hands deeper into my jacket pockets; I'm shivering, but I'm not ready to go back inside.   I just can't.   I can hear them bickering; Greta's high pitched whine screeches now look what you did!  and something crashes to the floor. 

My Gentle Observer, the one who shows up when I can't get a grip on myself, starts whispering to me:

They feed off your energy, Ellie.   When you go south, it all goes south.   You can't lose it like that.  

But I can't NOT lose it!  I whimper in protest.   The constant push-pull, the endless requests to hurry up, slow down, stop that, come here, do this, don't do that, get in the car, get out of the car, listen to me......     I'm just a nagging shrew.  Nobody listens to me, anyway.  I feel invisible.  Oh, God.   It's always so TEDIOUS.   And IRRITATING. 

It's tedious and irritating right now, the Gentle Observer corrects me, kindly.    It will pass.  Just like all the joyful moments, the surges of love you feel from out of the blue.   It all passes.   Breathe and wait.  

But I yelled at him, I sigh.   I mean I REALLY yelled at him.

So go apologize for over-reacting, but don't let your guilt make you over-apologize.   Not every molehill is a mountain.

I think about this morning - was it only eight hours ago? - when Finn sat bravely in the dentist's chair, one leg crossed demurely over the other, craning his neck as much as he could to keep his eyes on me while the hygienist pecked away at his teeth.

"I am worried, Momma," he had said as he clambered out of the car.   "But if I can see you, I'll be okay."

I think about Greta's eerie silence at breakfast, how I coaxed her to cough up what was bothering her as she pushed pancakes around on her plate.    "Two people want to sit with me on the bus, and yesterday Lisa said if I sit with Janet today she won't be my friend anymore.  Then Janet made me tell her what I was talking to Lisa about, and said she wouldn't be friends with me if I sat with Lisa."   Tears started streaming down her face.  "I don't know what to do," she said through hiccuping sobs, "I like them both and now they are both going to hate me." 

I think about how I held her close and spoke soothing words of encouragement and advice into her ear.   We came up with a plan of action, and then I wiped her tears and flashed her a thumbs up as the bus pulled up at the end of the driveway.   She gave me a confident smile, and squared her shoulders as the bus doors closed shut behind her.

See? says the Gentle Observer.   You're not invisible.  You're the center; the heartbeat of the whole operation.  You can wallow so easily in your mistakes, let them grow like a cancer, and yet you overlook all the goodness.   

Breathing deeply, I start walking back inside, my footsteps crunching in the snow.   I get to the sliding glass door, reach out my hand to open it, and stop dead in my tracks.   Through the glass, I see Greta and Finn lying on their stomachs on the floor, knees bent and crossed ankles swinging back and forth.   Greta is rubbing Finn's back, and he is drawing a picture.   Their heads are bent together, temple to temple.

I slide open the door and step inside.

Swept Away

I woke up Sunday in an inky black mood.

There was no specific reason for my edginess.   I didn't want to be anywhere.    I glared at the dishes piled in the sink, the dog hair matted to the rugs and the toys strewn about the house and I felt downright homicidal.

The sound of my husband chewing his cereal nearly made me apoplectic.  

I knew the problem was me, but I couldn't stop it.  I couldn't find any lightness, gratitude or peace.     The kids were just being, well, kids - full of demands, and "Momma LOOKs" and plaintive pleas to go do something.  

I wanted out of my skin, out of my house, out of my life.

I dropped an open gallon of milk on the floor, and I just stood and watched it glug-glugging out onto the floor, thinking:  well, THAT figures.   I was on a hunt for misery.   I found it everywhere I looked.

Every few minutes one of the kids would say "Momma!" for one reason or another, and my shoulders hunched in irritation.    I wanted to press the button for some magic trap door and drop right through. 

It was a sparkling clear winter day.  After weeks of horrible weather we finally had the perfect snow day.   Steve offered to take the kids sledding, to give me a break.   I grumbled and mumbled about what a giant pain in the you-know-what it is to get the kids all bundled up, they probably would only want to stay a few minutes, what was the point, anyway. 

He gave me a hard look and said, "You need fresh air.  Come with us.   It will be fun."

I stuffed the kids into their snow gear, snapping at them to hurry up, pay attention, hold still, find gloves.    Snap.  Snap.  Snap.    

On the drive to the sledding hill I crossed my arms in silent protest and stared stubbornly out the window.  Steve and the kids pretended they didn't notice, and chatted animatedly the whole way there.   I despised them for their cheeriness.

When we got to the hill the kids tumbled out of the car, squealing in delight.  Steve unloaded the sleds and they ran to the top of the hill.  I sighed, unfolded myself out of the car and slumped after them.

I tipped my face towards the sun, and thought about how long it had been since I felt warm rays on my skin.   Finn whooped as he went over a jump, and Greta laughed.   I opened my eyes, and saw Finn trudging up the hill, pulling his sled and smiling from ear to ear.  "I went ovah da jump, Momma!" he cried.  

The tight coil deep in my gut loosened, just a little.

Greta zoomed down the slope, went over the jump and sailed through the air.   Laughter bubbled up from deep inside me, pushing the misery and irritation up and away.  

I found myself helping them load into the sleds, giggling as I gave them a push.   Finn ditched his sled, deciding he wanted to run down the hill, arms and legs pinwheeling as he raced to the bottom.    I stood in awe at the the lanky, loose-limbed little man he has become.  

Greta flicked her hair over her shoulder as she pulled her sled back up the hill, then gave me a sideways glance and smiled.   "Having fun, Momma?"  she asked.

"Oh, yes."  I replied.  "Yes I am."

I fell into the moment, swept up by the kids' delight of a sunshiney winter day.