Author: Amy

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What Else?

Yesterday, I had one of those days when I ran around until I crashed.  You know those days?  When you have so much to do, you don’t think you’ll ever get it done?  You finish one thing and ask, “What else is there to do?”

I took a personal day yesterday, and I still woke up at 6am.  By 8, I had emailed my sub plans, completed two projects for church, and showered.  By 10, I had gotten an oil change and picked up groceries.  By noon, I had been to the dump and the post office and the carwash.  My sister’s baby shower is today.  I made the appetizers, cleaned out the cooler, and wrapped the gifts.  I dropped off the bibles at church for our event on Sunday.  I picked up Lee from a friend’s house and stopped by Home Goods to buy a cute little tray for the shrimp.  I finished crocheting my nephew’s baby blanket. 

My husband gets irritated when I rattle off my to-do list to him.  But I when I’m looking at a day like that, I need to walk it through.  I need to think ahead so I’m not driving in circles or wasting time. I need to have a ‘to-do’ list and a shopping list and a plan.  

And sometimes, that’s not even enough.  On my way home from the grocery store yesterday, I was literally giving myself a pep talk.  Out loud.  In the car.  

“It’s gonna be okay.”  “Breathe.”  “Most of this stuff doesn’t even NEED to get done.”  “It’s okay if you don’t get to it all.”  “This is your DAY OFF. Try to enjoy it at least a little.”  

*****

It used to be that ALL of my days felt like that.  Rushing home from work to pick up the kids at daycare.  Dinners, baths, homework, playdates, sports… when the kids were small, I had to actively participate in all of those things.  Now, they make their own plans.  They sometimes need me to drive, but they also walk and ride their bikes and grab a ride with a friend.  They can feed themselves and bathe themselves and wash their own clothes.  It’s a brave new world.  For sure, they need reminders, but my days aren’t as full as they used to be. 

But when those busy days do come, they take me back a couple of years to that constant frenetic pace.  It’s weirdly nostalgic to feel that frantic.  That probably sounds crazy.  It wasn’t that long ago.  I miss it and I don’t. I miss holding their little hands in Target.  I squeeze twice.  They squeeze twice. Two long squeezes.  One short squeeze.  Repeat. They don’t hold my hand in public anymore.  But a few nights ago, we were on the couch.  The kids got me to watch Stranger Things.  And Lee was feeling cuddly.  He flopped across the couch, with his head in my lap and his hand near mine.  I grabbed it and squeezed twice.  He squeezed back. Twice. 

*****

After I put the groceries away, I made myself a cup of coffee and an omelet.  I sat at the dining room table with a napkin and savored the food and the silence at the same time.  A moment of calm.  

When the rain stopped, I pulled the potting soil and my new clay pots onto the porch.  I sat in the sun and repotted my plants, feeling the warmth on my face and the soil on my hands.  A moment of bliss.  

While I assembled the appetizers, I listened to an episode of my favorite podcast and cried over the lives lost in Uvalde. I raged and I mourned.  I said a prayer and I made a donation.  A moment of healing. 

At Home Goods, I rushed in, picked out a tray, and headed for the register.  Lee grabbed my arm.  “Seriously, mom?  Are you okay? I usually have to drag you out of here. What’s the rush? Can we look around?” He was right. I took a deep breath.  We browsed, checking out pet beds and artwork and fancy serving dishes.  We played our usual game, grabbing the ugliest items and proclaiming, “I found it. This is the one you want. I know it!” Giggles and eye rolls.  A moment of connection.  

*****

My life is still so incredibly, beautifully full. The days are busy and the years are flying by.   And here I am, collecting moments. 

What else is there to do? 

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School Shooting

As I parked my car in the school parking lot, a police cruiser pulled in behind me.  We parked and walked in together, making small talk, but avoiding the discussion of why he was in our building today. 

 I walked up to the door, using my keycard to buzz us both in.  I walked him to the office (as protocol dictates), and found the principal and assistant principal there, making small talk with a second officer.  Everyone was smiling and pleasant, trying to pretend it was just another day. 

This morning, I had an email from the Superintendent.  And another from our director of Social Emotional Learning.  But, sadly, the contents were familiar, because we’ve been here before. 

*****

Here’s what we need to do today.  

Reassure students that schools are safe places.  (Are they?)

Talk to students in a developmentally appropriate way.  (When does mass murder become a developmentally appropriate topic?)

Be mindful of your own feelings about school violence.  (Translated as: Don’t cry.  Don’t panic.  Don’t let them know you’re scared, too.)

Empower students to take action. See something, Say something.  (Why can’t the adults take action, so the students don’t have to?)

*****

It’s not just another day, but we all go on as if it is.  Truthfully, most of our students are blissfully unaware.  They spent their evenings playing Fortnite, not watching CNN.  But there are a few who are reeling.  Who are scared.  Who feel vulnerable. 

And when you make eye contact with another adult in the hallway, there is a brief flicker.  We’re not okay.  We’re pretending, and maybe we can convince the kids, but we can’t convince each other.  

*****

We speculate on our lunch breaks.  And we imagine.  What if it were us?  How would it have looked here?  Are our protocols enough?  What would we have done? 

Would we recognize a kid as not being a student?  Would we stop him? Could we stop him?  What would we use to break the window and climb out? 

*****

The kids thought we would do an active shooter drill today.  I promised them we wouldn’t.  It would be too traumatic.  Too insensitive.  Too close to reality.  

But what if I’m wrong?  Or what if something does happen?  Have I told them too much? Am I being too reassuring? 

What’s the balance?  Is there a balance?  Damn it.  

*****

More silent speculation on my prep period.  Have we had students capable of this?  Did we see it?  Did we help them enough?  Did we make it worse? Who might have fallen through the cracks?  Who might be a target?  It’s so much easier to see red flags in hindsight. 

I flip through social media on my break.  Already the posts have become polarized.  Gun control.  More mental health supports.  Police in schools.  

And I can’t argue about it because I feel like screaming.  SOMETHING.  TRY SOMETHING.  And then if it doesn’t work, TRY SOMETHING ELSE.  But stop talking.  Stop posting.  Stop bickering and DO SOMETHING.  

The teachers have done all we can.  We have ID badges and keys and checkpoints and cameras and intercoms to ensure that we know who is in the building.  We have social emotional curriculum and bullying protocols and zero tolerance policies.  We have close connections with community resources so we can refer families for help.  We run active shooter drills.  We practice barricading our doors, hiding, running away, throwing things at an intruder.  

Many of us would literally sacrifice our SELVES for the safety of your children.  

And our elected officials just keep sending thoughts and prayers.  

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Garth Brooks

It’s a little dreary outside, and we’re in for a heat wave today.  I’m sitting in my favorite corner spot on our new sectional, watching the birds through the picture window, sipping coffee, and listening to Garth Brooks’ most recent album.  

My birthday was in April, but I’m getting my gift today.  After 25 years of waiting, I’m finally going to see Garth in concert.  I’m little-kid-at-Christmas excited.  Foolishly excited.  

I bought not only one but TWO new shirts for the occasion.  They both read, “Blame it all on my roots,” because I’m THAT obsessed.  I bought two in case one didn’t fit right, but I’m glad I did because I’ll probably sweat right through the first one before we even get into the stadium.  

I mean, I would prefer it to be 70 degrees, but I’m not going to let a heat wave ruin my good time.  I’ve got a cooler full of water bottles and hard lemonades, and we’ll grab some sandwiches and chips from the local sub shop.  We’ll arrive early with our chairs and our cooler and our Garth playlist.  We’re doing this one right.  

*****

I’m seventeen years old; a newly licensed driver, relishing the freedom that comes with my own car.  I’m perched on the edge of the bed in my best friend’s room, letting her do my makeup.  Country radio is playing in the background, and when Garth comes on, the two of us grab hairbrush microphones and sing “Ain’t Going Down ‘till the Sun Comes Up” at the top of our lungs.  We’re jumping on the bed with the excitement of toddlers, gearing up for a bonfire in the woods.  

*****

I’m a freshman in college, with my fake ID in the back pocket of my low-rise jeans.  My tank top slips off my shoulder as my friends and I embrace and sing along to “Friends in Low Places” at the local bar.  We are young and foolish and full of possibility. 

******

I’m sixteen, in my tiny basement bedroom.  I’m just learning about betrayal, and my emotions are raw.  I’m proud of my new tape/CD player with detachable speakers, and I crank up the volume and play “The Thunder Rolls” on repeat, beating that iconic drum part with my concert band drumsticks on my twin mattress.  

*****

I’m fourteen years old, and mostly clueless about life.  But I’m full of teenage angst and optimism.  “The River” paints a picture of a life well-lived.  It feels like I’m learning a lesson from this song that I don’t fully understand yet.  But I sing along, dreaming of what the future might hold.   

*****

I’m eighteen years old, sitting with my bare feet on the dash of my boyfriend’s pickup truck. We’re sharing a gas station soda and a bag of gummy bears, singing along to “Wrapped Up In You.” I feel the warm wind blow through my hair and I can’t imagine a moment better than this one.

*****

I started dating my first boyfriend in 10th grade.  We were together for nearly three years, and when we broke up during my freshman year in college, “Unanswered Prayers” was the anthem that I used to heal my broken heart.  

*****

Sevens came out during my senior year in High School.  It was one of Garth’s less successful albums, but the heartbreak spoke to me.  The ballads were different than the honkey-tonk music he was famous for, but the track, “You Move Me,” did just that, and I couldn’t stop listening.  “In Another’s Eyes” was heartfelt and brutal and beautiful (and his first duet with Trisha).  To this day, I can sing every word on that album, because I listened to it on repeat for so long. 

*****

I’m a words girl. Lyrics speak to me.  In my teens and twenties, when I bought a new CD, I would slide the sleeve out of the plastic case and listen to the entire album, reading along with the printed words, to make sure I got the full impact of the song.  “Belleau Wood” was the last song on the Sevens album, and the first song that ever brought me to tears.  I played it for everyone I knew, moved by the idea that it was possible to find beauty in the tragedy of war.  

*****

As I started to understand that the world was full of injustice and tragedy, “We Shall Be Free” came out.  It was a social justice anthem that spoke to me before I even knew what social justice meant.  

***** 

I’ve always been attracted to guys with a wild side.  But I’ve mostly been a straight and narrow kind of girl.  “Cowboys and Angels” made me feel understood and seen, and I would blast it on my discman, precariously balanced on the passenger seat of my 1984 Mercury Marquis and plugged into my car speaker.  Every time I hit a pothole, I would have to start it over, and it didn’t even make me mad. 

*****

Garth Brooks wrote the soundtrack to my teens and early twenties.  His music helped me to figure out who I was and imagine who I wanted to be. 

Music.  It changes us.  It speaks to us.  It brings us back.  It helps us dream. 

Tonight, I’m going to drink some hard lemonades and eat potato chips on the tailgate of my husband’s truck.  I’m going to sweat my ass off and sing at the top of my lungs and pack into a stadium with thousands of other people.  I’m going to see Garth Brooks LIVE and make a new memory to add to the list.  

I can’t wait. 

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Lilacs

I love lilacs.  They remind me of my childhood.  In the space between the home where I grew up and my grandma’s house next door, there was a drainage ditch (which we thought was a river) with two lilac bushes nestled beside it.  In between those two bushes, there was a space just small enough that a little girl could sit there with her book and listen to the water trickle by and smell the sweetness of the flowers and disappear into a fictional world.  

When we bought our home, I was delighted to find a beautiful, mature lilac bush in the front corner of the yard.  I don’t hide under the flowers with my book anymore, but I like to cut them in spring and bring them inside… to my living room or my office or my bedroom.  The smell works like a time machine.  

Sometimes I think about that little girl.  Actually, I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.  My therapist likes to talk about her.  So does my mom.  And my sisters.  My stepdad brought her up recently.  

The thing is… I don’t have a lot of memories of her.  Is that weird?  I’ve always had a terrible memory.  My sisters tell me stories that don’t even ring a bell, insisting I was there.  My friends ask me about middle school dances and high school assignments and field trips that everyone else remembers.  I know I was there, but I don’t really recall. That’s not to say I don’t have ANY memories.  I do.  I even have a few pretty vivid ones.  But not a lot.  Not as many as I probably should. 

Is that a personality trait?  Is it biological?  Is it some sort of psychological defense mechanism? 

In a way, I think it’s a blessing.  I rarely hold a grudge, because half the time I can’t even remember what the argument was about.  I’m quick to forgive because I probably won’t remember what I was mad about in the first place.   

A few decades ago, my (then) new roommate and I were just getting to know each other.  We had exchanged a few stories about our childhoods.  Her biological father died when she was a baby.  And I said something along the lines of, “I didn’t really have anything BAD happen in my childhood.”  

Her jaw dropped.  “Are you serious?”  She was looking at me like I was insane.  But I was sincere.  And I was confused.  

“But…  all the divorces?” She asked.

“Yeah, but that’s just what it was.  It wasn’t traumatic.”

“And you practically raised your sisters, right?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And didn’t you say you were kidnapped twice?”

“Only by my parents.  That doesn’t really count.” 

“What about the custody battles?  And when your dad cut you off?  And the times when your mom had you lie for her?  And the cheating and the money stuff and… Jesus, Ame!  No trauma?  You can’t really believe that.” 

But I honestly did.  In a way, I still do.  Thank God for that friend… she’s been calling me out on my delusions for more than twenty years.  

And maybe all of that suppressed family drama (I still resist dubbing it ‘trauma’) is WHY I loved to curl up and escape into somebody else’s world.  I had so many hiding places.  I made a bed in the back of my closet where I could hide and read.  There was a fort in the woods near the house where I would curl up with a paperback.  There was a corner of the basement with a beanbag chair next to the toy box.  

Here’s one of those actual vivid memories.  I must’ve been about 11 or 12 years old.  In our house, we ALL cleaned up after dinner.  And sometimes, I would escape to the bathroom.  After all, you couldn’t get in trouble for having to poop, right? 

Wrong.  I must’ve really been engrossed one night.  I took too long in the bathroom.  My parents called me twice and both times, I snarkily replied, “I’m in the BATHROOM! Can’t a person POOP IN PEACE?” And then I kept reading my book on the toilet.  

Eventually my mom came up and shouted through the locked door.  “There is NO way you’re still using the bathroom.  You’ve got a book in there.”

“I do NOT, Mom.  God.  You’re such a pain.” 

And she stood outside the door, waiting for me to emerge so she could search the bathroom for my book and make a liar out of me.

Another time, she had found my book under the bathroom sink, so I knew that wasn’t a safe place to stash my contraband novel.  What she didn’t know is that I had gotten a lot more creative (and a little bit taller) since the last search mission.  

We had a cabinet over the back of the toilet.  It held towels and toilet paper and was pretty substantial.  The top of it didn’t quite reach the ceiling.  There was a crevice at the top, between the cabinet itself and the decorative piece at the front.  It was just big enough to stash a book, and just small enough to be nearly invisible.  

I finally emerged from the bathroom, and my book stayed safely in that crevice while my mother tore apart the contents of the cabinet.  She pulled out every towel and every roll of toilet paper.  She pulled out every styling tool and bottle of cleaner under the sink.  And she never did find that book.  

Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.  And if it’s any consolation, I’m now parenting my own teens and every snarky remark makes me more grateful for your patience. 

And when I think about that little girl… and that preteen one… and the older, teenage version, I have mostly fond memories.  I love the idea that every version of me is still THERE, within me.  I think I got that idea from Ann Lamont, somewhere along the line, and I think it’s beautiful.  

My love of reading has been inside me forever.  My tendency for caretaking has never left me.  My desire for peace, for connection, for spirituality have been threads that run through my six year-old self, my 12 year-old self, my 26 year-old self, and this current, 42 year-old version of me.   

And those lilacs?  They speak to each one.  

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Mother’s Day Weekend

I’ve been a ball of nerves for two days.  It’s been hard to pinpoint one reason why, because the reasons wouldn’t stop swirling around my head long enough for me to pin them down. 

I think a lot of it was related to my ‘to-do’ list, so I started knocking things off, one by one.  Prepare a children’s message for church.  Fill out the spreadsheet for work.  Write that IEP.  Pay that bill.  Buy the snacks for that event.  Send that email.  Wash those dishes.  

As I get closer to the bottom of that list, the anxiety dissipates a little.  But I’m still a little off-kilter.  In that way that feels like I’m forgetting something. 

I think it happens when my compartmentalizing fails.  

When I left my classroom on Friday afternoon, I knew that I still had some work to do.  I was concerned about two big meetings coming up on Monday.  I still had a little prep to do for that.  And I hadn’t QUITE finished my lesson plans for next week.  There was also some prep to do for MCAS testing, which starts on Wednesday.  But I left my classroom anyway, trying to map out a schedule for how to get it all done.  I still squeezed in a few drinks with some colleagues and a movie with my family.  I knew there was a lot to do, but I didn’t want to give up the things that make me feel whole.  

This weekend, I also had a lot of church stuff going on.  And the church stuff is, quite literally, my second job.  I’m in charge of our Sunday School and Faith Formation, which also means some coordination of special events.  We hosted an event on Saturday, which required some prep and planning.  It was fun, and it went off without a hitch.  PLUS I got most of the work for Monday taken care of, so I was stressed but productive.  And then we had a fun, social event and I had some time to connect with friends and church members who bring me joy. 

This morning, I was in charge of the children’s message and a Sunday school lesson for church, which takes me more time than it probably should.  Yesterday, I had gathered some ideas, but this morning I got up early to work out the details and the kinks.  Mission accomplished. 

But the weekend isn’t over, because it’s also Mother’s Day.  So I’m hosting my husband’s family at my house this evening.  Jack and the kids are doing most of the work, but they still need a little supervision and direction.  I sliced the strawberries and prepped the potatoes and cleaned the upstairs bathroom.  And then I poured myself a glass of wine and headed up to my office.  

And here we are.  I’m writing instead of reviewing the MCAS accommodations one more time.  I’m sipping wine instead of sweeping the floor.  I’m resting instead of checking my work email.  

When I have to focus on all of the things in the short span of a weekend; the family stuff and the work stuff and the church stuff, the busy-ness takes over.  The doing takes over and I forget that it’s okay to just be, well… be-ing.  A human being instead of a human doing. 

But this weekend was good.  I feel like I tried to add balance.  I did some being.  I spent some time with family and friends.  I spent some time in prayer.  I spent some time writing.  I spent some time connecting.  

And now it’s time to spend some time relaxing.  Because, after all, it IS Mother’s Day.  The rest of it can wait.  It will all get done.  It always does. 

Happy Mother’s Day to those who are celebrating.  I hope you get to spend at least some of your day just being.   

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Emotional

It’s 5:30 in the afternoon.  I worked a full day, stayed after school to help a few struggling students, and then spent an hour sitting in the car on the phone with my therapist.  

Now I’m home.  I’ve changed into my leggings and one of my favorite, soft, baggy shirts.  The text on the front reads, “Kindness Matters.”  I’ve got a third of my afternoon Dunkin Donuts coffee left in this plastic cup by my side, and the steak I just sliced for dinner needs to marinate for 30 minutes.  

So I can write.  Or I suppose I could read.  But I need one or the other.  Because words are the thing that can best soothe my soul.  

It all feels a little bit overwhelming right now.  You can tell because I haven’t posted anything in a while.  

What’s new?  Absolutely nothing.  And everything.  Isn’t that the way it always is?  I live the same day; variations on a theme.  I feel trapped.  I liberate myself.  Things get better.  Then worse. 

I get terrible news.  Followed by an inspiring email.  The sun shines.  The sleet falls.  Such is spring in New England.  

I don’t have any insight today.  I just have so many damned feelings.  I’m overflowing with them.  Fear.  Regret.  Joy.  Peace.  Frustration.  Contentment.  In waves, they just keep coming.  They tug me under.  Throw me against the rocks.  Bring me to shore.  

All I can do is roll with them.  Try to feel them instead of analyzing them.  Try to be in the moment instead of above it all.  

My shirt is soft.  My drink is sweet.  My dog is snoring at my feet.  The wind is blowing outside.  

I tell myself to stay here.  To stop following that voice in my head that wants to ruminate or anticipate.  

Notice it all.  Stay in the moment.  My house is warm.  My fridge is full.  The wind is blowing and the sun is shining. 

There is nothing to fear in this moment.  Why do I find it so hard to just stay here?  

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Snowstorm

There’s a shot of Bailey’s in my coffee this morning; a rare treat reserved for the days when I don’t plan on going anywhere.  We’re hunkered down for a snowstorm like the hardy New Englanders we claim to be.  Stocked up on batteries, gas for the generator, and wood for the fireplace.  We’ve got plenty of food in the fridge. While there tends to be a rush for bread and milk during a blizzard, I’m more focused on making sure we have coffee and wine.  And something to simmer in the crockpot all day.  We’re good here.  

I promised myself I would write today.  It’s been way too long.  

When I don’t write, there’s usually a reason.  I like to write something and wrap it up with a little bow at the end.  That’s my style.  I like things to be neat. 

When I’m not publishing, that doesn’t mean I’m not writing.  I’m ALWAYS writing.  It’s how I process things.  It’s how I work through my emotions and talk myself off the edge.  It’s how I think things through and figure things out and make hard decisions.  But when I’m not publishing blogs, it’s usually because I’m still working on it.  I haven’t figured it out.  

But when life is messy and things are ongoing and I can’t find a neat little bow, my writing becomes 18 unfinished, typewritten diary entries sitting on my desktop.  That’s what I’ve got now.  The last three are titled, “Fractured Family,” “Stealth,” and “The things I’ve done wrong.” 

I started them all, hoping to find a happy ending.  I was writing to get to that neat little bow at the end.  And I couldn’t find it.  

*****

Here are some things that keep swirling around in brain and in my writing.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give them neat little bows. 

– Bea is gone.  I may have lost her forever.  For five years, she was part of our home.  To me, she will always be family. But she needs space and she’s disconnected and there’s really nothing I can do about that.  It hurts.  

– My sisters are fighting.  Not just regular ‘sister-drama,’ as my husband calls it.  But real, “We haven’t spoken in a over a year” fighting.  And it’s affecting us all.  My dad is sick.  My other sister is pregnant.  We need our sister connection more than ever and it’s splintered in a way that breaks my heart.  I wish I could fix it, but I can’t.  

– Work is a minefield.  I still love my job.  There are still beautiful moments.  But the joy is hard to find, and the trauma is lingering just below the surface. We are all overwhelmed by new and ever-changing rules.  Mental health is deteriorating and our efforts to build resilience and joy are often met with apathy.  It’s exhausting.

*****

That little list makes it seem like life is awful right now.  But, the thing is, it’s NOT.  Our little family of four is connecting better than ever.  Our home is full of laughter.  The boys are doing well in school and exploring new hobbies and Lee has a job.  I’m using YouTube tutorials to learn how to crochet, and there are moments when we’re all gathered in the living room watching a movie and I’m making a blanket, and there is a log burning in the fireplace and I think, “Hold on to this moment.  It doesn’t get any better.” 

 We’re financially stable in a way that is unfamiliar and entirely liberating.  We’re planning a trip to Florida soon.  My mom has lived there for more than a decade, and we keep saying we’ll save the money to come.  We’re finally doing it.  I can’t wait. 

We have good friends.  We’re so blessed to have friends to celebrate with us and cry with us and share the burdens and the joys.  I don’t take that for granted.  

We have our families.  Our beautiful, complicated, messy, connections that bind us forever, whether we want them or now.  

We are bound. 

We are connected.  

Maybe that’s the neat little bow for this post. 

I reread what I’ve just written.  What’s the theme?  What am I supposed to realize?  What am I meant to learn?

We are interconnected.  We are woven together in a way that is divine and holy and beyond our understanding.  

My student’s anxiety doesn’t just belong to them.  It belongs to all of us.  My sisters’ argument isn’t just theirs.  It radiates through our family.  Bea’s choices aren’t just hers.  They ripple through to touch all of the people who have ever loved her.  But the joy affects us all, too.  My children’s laughter strengthens me… which supports my students.  Our friends hold us up when things get tough; so then we can lift and support others.  That fire in the fireplace and the Bailey’s in my coffee lift my spirits, and there is purpose in that, as well.  Maybe all the time that I spend trying to solve unsolvable problems is better spent seeking joy and strength.

Let go and Let God, right?  You can’t fix it all.  You can’t wrap everything up with a neat little bow.  But you can shift your focus to the things that help you weather the storm.  A fire in the fireplace.  Soft yarn against my fingertips.  A shot of Bailey’s in my coffee.  

May we all be blessed with a little bit of beauty and joy as we weather this storm together.   

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A room of my own

I had my own room for a time in my teens.  I had my own apartment for a few months in my 20s.  But for most of my life, I’ve shared space with various siblings, roommates, and friends.  When Jack and I started dating, I didn’t consciously consider the reality that I just signed up to share a room for the rest of my life. 

I’m a pretty social person.  I enjoy people.  And for the most part, I like sharing space.  I love having someone to talk to, someone to cuddle with, someone to laugh with.  I especially love that that person is my husband.  I want to share a bedroom with him forever.

But I’ve always wanted my own little office.  Since I was a kid, I’ve been slightly obsessed with pretty stationery and pens, post-its and colored paperclips.  I love the feel of a solid stapler in my hand, and the smell of a brand new notebook. The click of my fingers on the keyboard is a calming sort of background music to my thoughts.  An office. A quiet space for working and reading and writing.  Wouldn’t that be lovely? 

Turns out, it is.  It is SO FREAKING LOVELY. 

It’s not entirely finished, but over the past few weeks, I’ve been assembling my office.  With Bea gone, we have an extra little bedroom.  It’s just barely large enough to fit a full size bed, so it wasn’t ideal as a kid’s room.  But it is the perfect size for this.  

*****

When I first started this project, I had a vision in mind.  I wanted a comfy chair.  I wanted lots of shelving.  I wanted calming colors and pretty patterns and knickknacks and tchotchkes that made me smile.  I imagined pretty candles and soothing scents and fabric-covered boxes to hold my memorabilia.  

I have a canvas print of a photo that Cal took on the beach.  The sun is setting and the water is coming in and Lee is a blurred figure in the foreground of the shot.  It’s beautiful.  And I could picture it clearly on the wall in this room in my imagination.  

*****

The first thing I bought for the space was a teal, wire wall hanging shaped like the side of a birdcage.  It came with a few small clothespins on it, and it functions as a pretty sort of corkboard for hanging photos and reminders and business cards.  I bought it at a local antique shop when the office only existed in my imagination.  It felt frivolous.  I was buying something I didn’t need for a room that didn’t exist.  But I LIKED it.  I REALLY liked it.  So I splurged a little.  

A few weeks later, the work began.  We started to empty that little room.  The closet was full of Legos and Light Sabers and Avengers paraphernalia. Cal and I painstakingly sorted it all into piles.  Keep.  Gift.  Donate.  Trash.  To make this new space for me, we had to wade through so many of his memories.  It was bittersweet.  

Once the room was cleared out, I wanted to maximize the space.  The doors came off the closet and Jack removed the built-in shelving.  Now I had a cubby.  The old closet was about 7 feet wide and a little more than 2 feet deep.  I imagined a desk in that space, surrounded by shelves for books and photos and pretty, useless things.    

But if I was planning to sit in that little cubby and create something beautiful, I wanted to look at something beautiful.  Instead of painting the wall, I decided I wanted wallpaper there.  I wanted something that would pop a little.  I wanted something happy and colorful.  

I started at Lowe’s.  Jack and I looked at wallpaper, and while there were some perfectly nice things, I didn’t find anything I loved.  And I wanted to love it.  

That was a new feeling.  I have always shopped for the best deals on the most useful things.  I typically pick the ‘good enough’ version of what I need because it is less expensive or more functional or whatever.  I’m quick to compromise. 

When shopping for new bedding, I chose something with a mandala pattern because Jack didn’t want to sleep in a flowery room.  I went easy on the throw pillows, because he doesn’t share my affinity for decorative fluff.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was choosing; it’s just that everything was a little bit of a compromise. 

The couch that I really loved was crazy expensive, but we found this set in the clearance section that would work just fine.  I don’t love my dining room table, but it is a huge, hefty, functional antique and it was free.  

And so the story goes…

But as I sat there looking at that wallpaper, I thought about my little birdcage.  I love that birdcage.  And I wanted it to sit against wallpaper that made me smile.  

So I didn’t buy wallpaper in Lowe’s that day. I did buy a lovely hanging light covered in crystals to replace the single bare bulb in the closet.  It was sparkly and girly and perfect.  

And then I went home and spent two weeks shopping online for just the right wallpaper.  It was a little expensive.  But it was exactly what I had hoped to find.  A pretty blue and gold floral pattern.  The colors were just right.  The pattern was delicate and light but interesting.  I loved it. 

My canvas print.  My little birdcage.  My sparkly light.  My pretty wallpaper.  I was beginning to gather lovely things.  I was choosing without compromise.  I didn’t have to consider anyone else’s preferences.  I wasn’t limited by a shoestring budget.  

It was a brand-new feeling, and I loved it. 

Jack and I found a chaise lounge in the clearance section at the furniture store, but this time it didn’t feel like a compromise.  It was exactly what I wanted.  A comfy chair with a corner, perfect for reclining and reading and relaxing.  It was the perfect size and shape and color and it was only a hundred bucks.  We loaded it into the truck. 

I found an adorable little clock at a craft store.  I picked it up and put it down and  walked away and came back three times before I finally decided that I needed to have it. I finally bought the paper shredder that I’ve wanted for years. I ordered a cute little spinning organizer for my pens and pencils and paperclips and post-its.  I got candles and fabric covered boxes and pretty throw pillows.  I hung Lee’s paintings and Cal’s photo and filled a basket with yarn for crocheting.  

Lovely things.  All lovely things.  But it’s more than that.  When I sit in this room, I don’t just love it because it’s full of lovely things.  I love it because they’re MY lovely things.  I love it because I had a vision and I made it a reality and I didn’t compromise.  I love it because it is totally and utterly MINE.  

I still haven’t gotten my shelves.  Because I haven’t found ones that are exactly right.  I’m still looking for the perfect curtains.  I want to add some plants.  And all of that will come in time.  

For now, I’m going to sit here and sip my coffee and listen to the ticking of my adorable little clock.  I’m going to breathe in the scent of this candle and admire my kids’ artwork and cuddle up on my chaise lounge with a book and a homemade crocheted blanket. I’m going to pay attention to the feel and the sound of my fingers on the keyboard as I edit this piece and write down my thoughts in a room of my very own.   

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Family

“So, how do you define family?” a friend asked me, as a group of us warmed ourselves by the fire pit.  The air was crisp and the conversation had gotten deep. 

I had just shared a little of my story; how I am an only child with ten siblings, and a parent to five kids with three different moms.  

It seemed like it should be an easy question to answer.  It seemed odd to me that I had never asked myself before.  And yet… I couldn’t come up with a response.  

*****

A few days later, I asked my 15 year old.  “How would you define family?” 

“People who share your DNA,” was his prompt response.   

I pushed back. “Well, by that definition, Bea isn’t our family.  Grandpa Frank wouldn’t count as family.  Your dad wouldn’t be MY family.”

He revised his answer, “Okay, well… how about people you live with?”  

“If that’s your definition, then your brothers aren’t your family.  Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brandon aren’t my family.  My dad isn’t my family. I feel like that doesn’t fit, either.” 

He sighed his exasperated teenaged sigh, “Jeez, mom.  I don’t know.  I’m only fifteen.”  Dramatic pause.  Shrug.  Smirk.  “I actually don’t know much.”  Aaah.  A rare admission of truth. I laughed. 

And then I continued contemplating.  What’s family?  What does it mean to be family?  

*****

Something else has happened recently.  Bea isn’t talking to me.  She’s in her first semester away at college and she won’t return my calls or texts.  I send care packages and get no response.  She’s removed herself from my cellphone plan and hasn’t answered about her plans for Thanksgiving.

It’s breaking my heart. 

*****

And all of that has me thinking about family.  I think of Bea as MY family, but maybe she doesn’t think of me as hers.  

That realization brings me back to my childhood.  My father met his third wife when I was eleven or so.  She had five daughters, which was awesome.  That summer, when my dad went to work, I spent my days with them.  We rode our bikes around the neighborhood, built forts in the living room, and set a fire in the kitchen (that’s a whole other blog post).   We swam in the community pool and played flashlight tag after dark.  The oldest two girls were right around my age.  We became fast friends.  

Eventually, my dad and his wife bought a house together.  They wanted this new house to feel like home to everyone, so I had a bedroom.  It was shared with my stepsister, but it was billed as “our room.”  There was a full sized bed for us to share, and I had my own spot for stuff in the closet. It was a conscious attempt at blending a family, and it felt really nice.  I already liked these girls a lot, and I couldn’t wait to be part of the family.  

It took me far too long to realize that you can’t just make yourself part of someone else’s family.  You can’t show up a few weekends a year and expect to be a sister.  It didn’t matter how much I wanted it.  They had each other 365 days a year.  They had me for maybe 15.  They had their inside jokes and their mutual friends and no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I would always be a visitor there.  

*****

But there was the opposite, too.  My mom and my stepdad got married when I was about four.  I don’t really remember a time before they were together.  When my three younger sisters were born, I never thought of them as my half-sisters.  They were just my sisters.  And Frank was just my dad.  We were a pretty typical family. I was never treated differently.  Dad just had four daughters.   

And in that home, where I lived most of the time, where I knew I was part of it all and accepted and loved… I still never quite fit in.  

I was the only kid who left for long weekends to go see my other dad.  I had to deal with divorce drama that my sisters didn’t understand.  I was the timid one; the neat freak who loved country music and shied away from conflict. I was (and still am) just a little more different from them than they are from each other. 

I have another half-sister, too.  Sarah is nearly a decade younger than me.  Her mom is my dad’s second wife.  Mostly, she grew up with her mom and I grew up with mine.  As kids, we would see each other a couple weekends a year.   Our age gap and our infrequent contact had kept us from really getting to know each other until we were grown.  

And when we started to spend more time together, I realized that this sisterhood was different.  The first time we hung out at the kind of local dive bar that we both love, we ran the pool table against opponents who were obviously surprised that a couple of girls could beat them.  We discovered that we love the same music. We have the same mannerisms.  We like the same food and laugh at the same jokes.  We communicate in the same way.  We both like the rush of riding a motorcycle, but hate the spin of a merry go round.  It was strange to think that I had spent so little time with this sister who was so much like me.  

Genetics are a powerful thing.   

*****

So I circle back.  What is family?  I still don’t know.  I can’t define it.  And if I can’t define it for me, I sure as hell can’t define it for anyone else.  

That’s really hard right now.  I want Bea to PICK ME as part of her family.  But I can’t control that.  I don’t get to say I’m her family and have it be so, just like I couldn’t just become a sister all those years ago.  

All families are complicated.  Mixed and blended families are just another version of complicated.  Attachment, love, loyalty, shared history, genetics, traditions… these things weave us together, and we become entangled.  

Maybe that’s what family is.  Maybe if you spend too much time trying to untangle it, to sort it our or define it or fix it… maybe you’re missing the point. Maybe the beauty lies in the messy, complicated, undefined nature of it.  

That leaves me without a definition.  Instead, I have a plan.  I’m going to stop overthinking it.  I’m going to stop trying to define it and control it.  

Because no matter how you define it, family is a blessing.  Today, I am choosing to just be grateful for it.  

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Seasons

Earlier this week, I was walking around a little lake here in town near the football field where my son was practicing.  I was admiring the foliage and listening to a podcast and stopping every so often to take photos.  At one point, I realized I was smiling.  It was a spontaneous, content, all-by-myself smile.  It struck me as strange.  And sweet. 

It happened again making dinner.  I was listening to music and chopping vegetables and when I felt the corners of my mouth turn up, I didn’t even really know why.  There was just a contentment, a pleasure, a calmness that came over me.  And I smiled, all alone in the kitchen.  

I recently got a new mug.  It’s colorful and textured, and when I sip my coffee in the morning, I love the feel of the grooves under my fingertips.  I love the sound of my fingers against the ceramic.  Somehow, this mug makes me slow down and appreciate my coffee even more. 

The pace of my life is slowing down.  Some of it is work related, for sure.  Compared to the past two frantic school years, this one seems nearly normal.  I’m not reinventing everything.  I can pull from my old files and I can experiment with new activities and I can take a few moments to laugh and joke with my students without worrying about falling further behind.   My own kids are older now, and I can stay a little late to make copies and plan lessons without panicking about child care.  

And sending Bea off to college has certainly made a difference. There’s one less schedule to track and one less mouth to feed.  Of course, I still worry, but it’s less immediate.  I worry about whether she’s making friends and getting her work done and having fun… not when she’s coming home or if she has laundry to do or if she made it safely to her friend’s house.  

The two remaining teens spend most of their time in their rooms or out with friends.  The living room will stay clean for days, with the exception of accumulating dog hair.  Their messes haven’t disappeared; they’re just contained behind closed doors and cloaked in loud music.  Every so often, I yell about the clothes they need to wash, or the stack of dishes on a nightstand.  But I don’t spend my evenings cleaning up after them.  

This year, I’m determined to help them develop a few skills; cooking being on top of my list at the moment.  So they add to my grocery list, and every Tuesday, Lee is in charge of dinner.  On Wednesdays, it’s Cal.  Thursdays belong to my husband.  So my cooking responsibilities have been cut in half.  Which is great, because my driving responsibilities and my church responsibilities have multiplied.  

I’m keeping busy, for sure.  But it just feels different.  I drive my son to football practice, but because someone else is cooking dinner, I can stay and walk around the lake.  I’m hosting and attending church meetings, but I can sit in my upstairs office and sip my tea while I zoom in.  

Mornings used to be frantic.  There was rushing and yelling and missing shoes and barking dogs and I was the only one bearing the weight of the responsibility, because Jack would already be at work.  Now, Lee takes care of the dogs and gets ready quickly, because he knows he might get a ride and breakfast from Dunkin Donuts, if he’s early enough.  Cal gets up as we leave, and he walks to school, so there’s no worry about catching a bus if he’s running a few minutes late.  

I’m cherishing those rides to school with Lee.  I order breakfast on my Dunkin app, and he runs in to grab his bagel and my coffee.  The ride to school is about 15 minutes long, and I’ve learned more about him and his friends and his life in those short rides than in all of our dinner table conversations combined.  Bea leaving has been a reminder of how precious those moments are.  Soon, he’ll be driving himself, and those rides will be a sweet memory.  

I’m trying to be more mindful of those moments when they happen.  I’m trying to be more mindful overall, I guess.  And now, I have the time to do it.  For years, I would try to meditate, or get an exercise schedule going, or just find the time to slow down a little.  I thought something must be wrong with me because I felt so frantic all the time. 

But there was nothing wrong with me.  I was just in the thick of it.  In the thick of parenting young children and building a home and building a life and taking care of all the things that no one else could.  

I feel like this particular season is a well-earned respite.  I have managed to help those small children become young people who are helpful and self-reliant and capable.  They can care for their pets and do their own laundry and arrange their own social lives.  They can cook a few meals and at least one has demonstrated the ability to acquire employment.  For sure, there is a lot of work left to do.  After all, someone still has to teach them the difference between the nightstand and the sink.