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Days Numbered, Not Spent

7/23/2013

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Recently we took a vacation with my parents and siblings. I tried to make it a real break-- from focusing on the uncertainty surrounding our next potential move, from wondering where my kindergartener will be going to school next month, from e-mail, from Facebook and (quite obviously) from writing.

We rested, we played, we ate, we laughed; I read an entire book, cover to cover (and started another). We tried to slow down our time together, as it is never long enough and always too far between. We drank in these visions of our growing daughters, sheer joy and amazement over their new found abilities to swim in a crystal clear sea, to rescue clams and minnows from untimely deaths, to play miniature golf and to make friends with just about any child, anywhere.

Our girls relished unscheduled time with their aunts, uncles and grandparents. I soaked in being known and accepted, regardless of my choices or moods, by people who know me-- who've always known me-- and choose to love me and my little family. We were so very sad to say good-bye. I think one of the worst parts of living far from family is not knowing the next time you'll see each other.

Daniel had to leave mid-week overnight for work and surprised us by making it up to us with an extra day. Instead of heading home Saturday, as planned, we cashed in some of his (copious) hotel points. We wandered along the Gulf coast, stopping wherever we felt like it. I'm not sure why, but we don't have days like that. It was one of my favorite days the four of us have had (aside from Emerie's embarrassing and attention-grabbing meltdown in a densely populated area in Sandestin. I could've done without that).

Coming home has been a bit of a letdown, for everyone but Emerie, our little homebody. The worries are where we left them, only there are fewer days separating us from decisions, those made for us and those we will make.  We couldn't have been more grateful for this respite, the recharging, and the time together. Time away with our loved ones reminds me that these issues are blips. Our location matters, our decisions matter, but they're not everything. We already have all that we need.

Breathing in, breathing out, the salt in my mouth
Gives me hope that I’ll bleed something worth bleeding out

                                                   --The Lone Bellow, Bleeding Out
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Best of What's Around

2/16/2013

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Maybe it’s a little late to talk about Valentine’s Day.  But, it seems, that’s just how I do things.  Yesterday, when we called my mom on her birthday so the girls could sing to her, my youngest yelled, “Sorry it’s late!” at the conclusion of the song. She is unaccustomed to our actually being on time.

Though it’s entirely contrived, we usually celebrate Valentine’s Day, but I can’t remember the last time we did it on the 14th.  Before kids, maybe? The last several years Daniel has been traveling, so it’s usually pre or post, and often at home. Once it was at a Bertucci’s on the Jersey Turnpike. Once it ended in The Great Vaseline Incident of 2011. That was awesome.

So I was pretty surprised when Daniel called from California last week to a) tell me he’d actually be home for Valentine’s Day, and b) ask if I wanted to go on a date, since he had already booked a sitter.  The answer to a question like that, of course, is yes.

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Valentine’s Day, like so many things as my children are getting a little older, is taking on new meaning.  I’ve never really cared for the manipulation of the holiday, but as I discussed it with my five-year-old, I saw it differently.  If it is, as I told her, a day about showing love to our friends and family then what’s not to like? 

We decorated mailboxes for each of us, about a week before, and I set up a station for them to make cards at their leisure.  As a result, this week I have vacuumed the rugs no fewer than four times to try to combat the unintended confetti that results when 3 and 5-year-olds cut construction paper and doilies to make “Valentimes.”  They learned to recognize a raised flag as a sign that they had “mail” and excitedly checked each day. 



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Mirabella and I made heart-shaped crayons for her classmates and she painstakingly signed nearly 40 cards for her friends.  We made olive oil and beeswax lotion for her teachers and placed it in tins she took great care picking out. She got to go on a date the night before with her Daddy, while Emerie and I made heart-shaped sugar cookies and a heart-themed lunch for her. That morning, she couldn’t wait to get to school.  That afternoon, after a morning of running errands, Emerie and I sat down to lunch.  I felt kind of guilty that she wasn’t having a more “special” day, but she said, “Mommy, dis is a GWEAT day. Dank you for coming to lunch with me.” And of course, I melted.

After school we finished presents for Daniel and made chocolate covered strawberries and talked with neighbors who came by to deliver Valentines. We got ready for the babysitter, with heart plates and napkins and homemade pizza, then I rushed off to get dressed.

When the babysitter arrived, she was not the one the girls and I were expecting, thanks to Daniel’s mix up, so we all called her the wrong name, repeatedly.  We gave her flowers and chocolates and a card addressed to our other babysitter. 

A bit embarrassed but excited, we headed out for our date.  Which could hardly have gone worse, from an external perspective.  Though I had done my due diligence, we were surprised by a very limited prix-fixe menu, in which the prix was far too high.  Nearly every option featured shellfish, to which Daniel is allergic. We were not noticed for nearly 15 minutes after we sat down.  After that, all of the courses we were compelled to order were wrong, late, or cold. I lost track of how many times our waitress apologized.  At the tail end of a six-week cycle of sickness that had plagued all of us, I had completely lost my voice.  We both leaned as far as we could across the table in an attempt to communicate, and I resorted to charades motions and sign language.  We found the humor, but it wasn’t easy given the amount of money we were paying and the treat this was  supposed to be.

When we arrived home, toys were still strewn about and the babysitter was nowhere to be found, which could only mean that the children were not asleep.  Upstairs I found them both crying, a diaper the dog had eaten torn to shreds on the bathroom floor, and the mortified babysitter standing in the middle of it all.  “I am so sorry,” I mouthed.

I calmed the kids down, found the lost teddy bear responsible for inciting the meltdown, whispered them a story, and Daniel saw our poor babysitter out. We cleaned up the mess and sat down briefly before just deciding to call it a night.

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I thought back to the weekend.  Before I had known we would be able to go out for Valentine’s Day, I bought a Groupon for a three-course, gourmet meal for two from a food delivery service. We had put the kids to bed early, bought a bottle of fantastic Spanish wine, prepared dinner together and ate off china and crystal by candlelight. I broke our no-shoes-in-the-house rule because sometimes you just have to wear heels.  The food was good and hot.  There was a dog at my feet, toys on the floor in the next room and children upstairs.  And it was perfect.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice and sometimes essential to go out. I’ll never argue otherwise.  Sometimes it’s the easiest way to “see” each other again.  But in this case, we were reminded of something that, in our excitement, we might have forgotten, if but for a moment.  In the wisdom of Dave Matthews, “Turns out not where but who you’re with that really matters.”

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The Luckiest

7/28/2012

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Before our trip we visited our local library, leaving with 26 items, some of which are currently overdue (I am on my way to becoming either the most hated or the most loved library patron in three states now). One of our selections was Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by Dr. Seuss.  That Dr. Seuss gets me every time!  I have yelled reading The Lorax, cried reading Oh, The Places You'll Go, and now been shamed while reading this one.

A sample: 
"And suppose that you lived in that forest in France, where the average young person just hasn't a chance to escape from the perilous pants-eating plants!  But your pants are safe! You're a fortunate guy. And you ought to be shouting, 'How lucky am I?'"

Alas, that's not what I was shouting over the course of the last week.  But since I write from the other side of my epiphany, I will relay the story as if I had, italicizing the reconsidered parts. (Watch out, it's long.)


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Time Out

5/3/2012

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In the midst of turmoil, stress or uncertainty (or in the case of their convergence), lately I'm finding the immeasurable value of hitting pause. Pulling away and focusing elsewhere, even if it means pretending just to avoid focusing on the problem. 

Recently we had a wonderful visit at the end of a horrible week. Daniel's brother Shawn, his fiancee Amy and her two boys came to spend some of their spring break with us. We spent two eventful, perfect days at a crowded breakfast table, on the harbor, around a bonfire, in the blooming yard, at the aquarium, on a speed boat and at a pirate festival. Our girls are taken with their very first cousins and the boys, though much older, couldn't be sweeter or more considerate of them. When they all left a night early the kids were disappointed and the grown-ups were exhausted. Daniel and I found ourselves with unexpected time.  I cooked a real dinner and we ate after the kids went to bed and shared a bottle of sangria. PAUSE. We talked. He had been away for two weeks prior and would be away again the following week.  It was nice to be the only two people in the room.

The next night we went on a previously scheduled (if ill-timed) double date with my brother and sister-in-law to see one of our favorite bands, Needtobreathe, in concert. Daniel had a 6:00 flight the next morning, and the show didn't start until 9:30 an hour away. PAUSE. But we were transported-- we danced and sang.  We forgot.  At least for an hour and a half.

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And then on a hectic Tuesday, I had to take Emerie to her first dental appointment to investigate an injury from the week before. I had a day of big meetings ahead of me, and there was no avoiding being late. As we left the office I said, "Why don't we get some breakfast?"

Emerie said, "Dat sound wike a GOOD IDEA, Mama!" I took her to a coffee shop and she was a perfect doll.  It was a moment in time. We sat in the corner and I drank coffee and shared my bagel sandwich while she drank apple juice and ate an enormous lemon muffin. She refused to sit in a high chair and sat across from me leaning on her still pudgy elbows. "So, Mama," she kept saying, as a conversation starter. It was so precious, and somehow I was so aware of it in the moment that my heart hurt; my eyes hurt from trying to memorize it.

A man walked in with his grade-school daughter. They sat nearby and I could feel him watching us as we talked.  As he left he turned and said, "She's going to keep you company for a long time." I choked up when he said it, and I just did again.

I don't always see the beauty in the every day.  Most moments don't shout significance.  But in all of these cases it was like I packed them up and held them close, wore them under my clothes or tucked in my pocket.  The morning with Emerie carried me through  the rest of my whirlwind day, and it got me thinking. It's not about what big life issues are figured and what aren't, what's the way we want it and what isn't.  Lately more than ever, I am recognizing the value of the lowercase moments that happen in between.

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Good Day, Sunshine

4/5/2012

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Last weekend we celebrated my grandmother's 80th birthday. She requested the party, its date and our attendance, because that's how she rolls.  And I kind of love it.  One of the many things marriage is teaching me is to ask for what I need, so I'm on board.  You have no right to expect to receive if you don't ask, right?  

I am the eldest grandchild, so long ago I got grandparent-naming rights.  I couldn't say grandma, it came out Mau Mau, which my grandmother disliked and my instigating grandfather encouraged.  The name stuck for 25 years.  

So on Saturday Mau's best friend, five children, four children-in-law, ten grandchildren, two grandchildren-in-law, and two great grandchildren showed up, and still the person she wanted to see the most wasn't there.  Doff-- that instigating grandfather-- seven years gone now, was notably absent.  But somehow not.  

Not long after his passing, Mau decided she no longer wanted that name.  "Call me 'Sunshine,'" she said, and started referring to herself as such.  She signed one card "Sunshine, née, Mau." Another time she wrote, "Sunshine AKA Mau AKA Sally AKA I don't care what you call me as long as you love me."    
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From left: My sister, Mom, Sunshine and me
The party was noisy and warm, we ate and drank and laughed.  We went around the room sharing kind words and funny memories.  One of my aunts mentioned she thinks of her mom whenever she smells coffee, and I smiled.  I didn't start drinking coffee daily until a few years ago and, since my parents never did, the smell of coffee has always reminded me of mornings waking up at my grandparents' house.  As children, we used to find Mau's coffee cups all over the house and yard.  I once found one in a garden we used as a hiding place. The cup must have been there since the year before.  On mornings at home now, I find myself carrying my coffee cup all over the house, leaving it on random shelves, reheating it multiple times.  We've taken to  calling that "pulling a Sally."  

My brother John and I both recalled a time Mau was taking care of us when we were small.  She managed to whack me in the head with a 20-foot pole while cleaning the pool (John maintains it was he who was whacked), we both got splinters on the deck, and John was stung by a bee.  When Mau reached for the meat tenderizer, I remember John thinking he might be cooked.  An avid walker, she used to take us on walks around her sprawling neighborhood.  I remember her leaning into me as she talked, pushing me up on the curb.  She told me the latest gossip about the neighbors.  It made me feel like more than a little girl; I felt like a trusted friend.  

Certainly the highlight of the party was the slide show John painstakingly put together.  He compiled photos from all over that beautifully told the story of a life, a love.  He started when she was young-- a teenager.  She had been a dancer, so some photos were of her in costume, dancing.  Emerie, my youngest, pointed at the screen and said, "Mommy, why dat pincess doin' ballet?"  The photos, as assembled, were so dignified, so graceful.  Sally smiling on her wedding day with the man she had really only just met who had initially lied about his age (not unlike my dear husband). Sally in any number of cocktail dresses, dancing and smiling next to Doff. The two of them on cruise ships, on European cobblestones, beside Californian redwoods.  My smirking grandfather with a camera around his neck or horseshoes in his hand. The two of them at their fortieth wedding anniversary, then their fiftieth. The show progressed from her life, to their life, and it seemed there were few dry eyes in the room.   

We laughed and  (and some cringed) as the focus turned to her children.  We saw hairstyles and clothing from a different time, old homes, former pets, all brought back memories. It moved to grandchildren, and eventually great grandchildren.  At this point, I was sitting on the floor while Emerie pirouetted in front of me, inspired by the beautiful princess in the pictures. I saw a photo I'd never seen -- one of me as a two-year-old, with sweaty blond curls not unlike my Emerie's.  I was sleeping on the couch in the crook of my grandfather's arm; the camera seemed to have interrupted his dozing.  When I saw it, I lost my composure.  It was so casual, so loving, so beautiful.  I have to have that photo.  

My grandparents had a love that I don't think I really appreciated fully, maybe not until looking at those pictures.  Maybe being a wife and being a mother have softened me (yes, husband, this is "softened"). Watching that slide show made me realize what a lovely life my grandmother has had thus far, all of the roles she's been able to play, how many people her life has touched. It was a beautiful day.  It made me thankful for the Sunshine in my life, and hopeful that one day, 50 years from now, I might have the privilege of looking back over that kind of a life.  My thoughtful brother included, as the last slide, a photo of Sunshine on a float in the pool at her old house.  Her head thrown back, a half smile on her face, she looked carefree.  The caption read, "To be continued."   

Happy Birthday, Sunshine.  And, whatever we call you, know that we love you.

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Leaving so Soon

8/19/2011

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Twelve years ago tonight, I couldn't sleep.  I was preparing to drive 500 miles with the whole fam, to where I knew no one except Tim, my really Southern recruiter.  I was about to move in with Edie, the randomly selected roommate I had already tried to trade.  I was about to start my life.

That first night, driving to and through the tiny town, I lamented that no one would be like me.  The next day my dad pointed at a girl's meticulously labled boxes and mentioned my tupperware container marked "Nail Polish."  "I think you might not be the only one...like you," he said.  I was not convinced.

Eleven years and fifty-one weeks ago, I met some of the best friends of my life, I just didn't know it yet.  I still haven't figured out how to make friends like I did then.

And this matters because tonight, I am sitting beside my little sister who leaves for her freshman year of college in the morning. We are up too late, having discussed what she should wear while moving in, counseling her that she will not have enough closet space for all the clothes she has chosen to pack, rolling clothes to fit more into any vessel we could find, and having traveled to Walgreens in our jammies for prints to put in her twenty-eight frames, twenty-seven of which she will keep and one that she will give to my three and a half year old who adores her.  When I left, twelve years ago, Sarah was six and I was sad to leave her, scared of the change, excited for the fresh start.

I am scared, sad and excited all over again, and hoping the next fifteen years go a lot slower than the last twelve.

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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