Feminine Fuel

When I was in second grade, I met Kristen. I loved everything about her. She was a gymnast, and we would spend our days playing on the school field. She would do back handsprings, and I would skip along side her. We had our own special language; we liked the same sandwich, (peanut butter). She was my first girlfriend.  Up until this point, I had spent a lot of time in the dirt boys. Until one day, she just stopped. She became mean. I would try and talk to her, and she would ignore me.  I couldn't understand how she could turn so quickly.   I remember the feeling of my heart dropping to my stomach when she said she didn't want to be my friend anymore. She moved the next year. Thankfully within a year or so  I met a new best friend whom I am still very close.

What the experience with Kristen created in me is a fear of intimate relationships with women.  I didn't allow a lot of women in my life despite many trying.  I was fine with men. I get men.  Even being a woman, I don't get women, I don't even get myself half the time. In high school and college I picked up a few girlfriends that I remain close with, but more guy friends by far.

Then almost everyone my age got married.  I don't know many women who are okay with their husbands having friendships with other women.  It's confusing; I mean "why would she want to be friends with a married man?"  they ask themselves. Well, because I'm married too, and so the romantic portion of the relationship is spoken for. That doesn't work the same way when guys aren't married.  Needless to say, this hasn't helped my ability to maintain friendships with men or women for that matter.  It left me feeling lonely.

Other than Don, my closest male friendship is with my brother.  Men are a solid yet a soft place to fall into when you need to talk. Throw in a handful of close guy friends and that was my social circle. (I'm still recovering from all of that ESPN exposure.)

But about five years ago I felt like  a crucial substance in my life was missing.  I made an intention to foster more female friendships.  I joined a book club, I created a show that centered around women, I accepted invitations to dinner or drinks with women.  I went on a trip to Australia and met extraordinary women. I read books written by women, watched movies directed by women, went to symphonies conducted by women. I created space in my soul to allow women in.

And something amazing happened.

My feminine fuel was ignited.   Feminine fuel is a fire that women keep lit deep within themselves.  It's a light, that if you are open to it, will guide you when you are weak. Will warm you when you are cold.  Good female friendships will burn together, and the power of collective flames is something you can't extinguish.

There is an indomitable energy when a group of women gathers together.

As most of you know, my family had a tragic accident that rocked our world for the last six weeks.  Which you can read about here. I'm happy to say that things are healing, but there were a few moments where we felt helpless.  This is where the female fire begins to spread.

When another woman is suffering, there is an unvoiced hum that calls out for help, and we answer it.  It as if women weave together and create a tightly woven basket that can surround you and hold you tight, and carry you along as long as you need to be held.

And nothing is too heavy.

I could not have remained as strong as I have without my girlfriends.  What I have learned is that with any intimate friendship, you are a reflection of each other. The highlights and the shadows.  What you admire in the other person are probably thing things you like about yourself.  The faults you see in other's are usually things you can also see in yourself.  That is true with men and women. What I did at a very young age is put a wall between myself and other women to protect me from getting hurt.

I soon realized that there isn't a wall a woman can't climb or bust through to help a friend.
Men can be great listeners when you share things and they and will try their hardest to solve your problems and ease your pain.  But women, we have a way of hearing what is unspoken, and will sit still with you in your pain, and supporting you because deep down, they know you will be able to handle it yourself.

Where Strength is Found

When I was a little girl, my Dad took me to the campus of Notre Dame right around this time of year.  He and I would occasionally go on little excursions.  My mom was a stay at home mom, maybe he was taking me off of her hands for a bit, admittedly I was a handful.  Or maybe he genuinely liked spending time with me. I like to think the latter.  I remember walking down the sidewalk by the Hesburgh library right as the sun was setting and our shadows grew taller as we walked.  I let go of his hand and jumped on his shadow. He fell over in pain like he could feel it.   I did it again and again... and again. Each time his reaction was greater and more dramatic.  I began to wonder if I was actually hurting him, so I stopped.   It was then that he began laughing, scooped me up and put me on his shoulders. He pointed to our shadow, "Look, we're a giant!"  he said.  Now nobody can hurt us; we are unstoppable.

I have never forgotten that.  I work on the same campus, and whenever I walk by the library, I always think of that moment when my Dad and I were one big shadow giant.  Most daughters think their Dad is the strongest man in the world, I knew mine was.

As I grew up, I realized that physical strength is a genetic trait that I was blessed with from both sides.  Crazy strong women who liked getting dirty doing what was considered a man's work.  And the men in our lives have always stepped aside and let us do it, even celebrated it.  Don loves the fact that he doesn't have to call another guy to help him carry a refrigerator into the garage.  Just let me put down that baby, and I'll get it.

After my Dad had an accident about a month ago, he has been mostly paralyzed.  We had to move him to a rehabilitation center in Chicago that specialize spinal cord injuries.  Everyone tells me he is making huge strides.  He can move his right arm now. He can also move his left foot, which is a huge improvement from not being able to move at all.  But what he can't do is swallow, eat, walk, jump, sit up, move his hands... hug.

You don't realize how much you miss something as simple as a hug until you lean in to get one and feel nothing in return.

This is the man who carried me on his shoulders.  This is the man who could do anything and now is left laying in a bed doing nothing.   Even if I were to jump on his shadow, he wouldn't be able to feel it.  All I have left to do is just watch and cry.

But that is not what strong women do, at least not this one.   It took me a couple of weeks to understand that no amount of will or determination was going to make him walk again. At least not right now.

My mom has not left his side.  She is his muscle for now.  But don't get me wrong, he works hard.  Every day he is in physical therapy the same amount of time as my sons are in school .  He has never worked harder in his life for something that used to be done without thought.  The next time you brush your teeth, know that my Dad has been working countless hours to do that same thing and has failed.

So when all of your physical strength is gone, where does the strength come from?   I was right about my Dad; he is the strongest man I know, emotionally and even physically.  My strength, on the other hand,  has atrophied right along with his body, at least my emotional muscle.  But it's not because of lack of use. I have stretched my emotional integrity to its limit.

This kind of situation is hard on a family. When your foundation has a crack in it, the house begins to fall.  One by one my siblings and I have hit our low point.  Outside pressures and elements only add to the crash.  We still have jobs; we still have families to take care of. We still have people who love us that we hope to God forgive us for being "off" the last couple of weeks.   The truth is, when your foundation is cracked, you will do anything you can to fix it because your entire house needs it.

There are several things that lead to emotional strength depletion.  It can be heartbreak. The kind of heartbreak that hurts so deeply that it feels like your heart has been cracked open and exposed for the cold air to fill it and you are so chilled to the core that you don't think it's possible to ever feel the warmth of love again.

There is the death of a loved one.  There is frustration.  There is hopelessness.  Very different situations but all leave you feeling empty.

Not having control of this situation has at one point made me feel all of those things.   One of the things I love to do is exercise and not just a little thirty-minute cardio session.  Like my Grandmother liked to get her tiny hands dirty, I too like to work hard.   The tension and pain  I feel on the outside temporarily alleviates the pain I feel inside.  After one particular workout, I went to my car and cried, so gutturally that my throat hurt. On a different occasion, I went into my co-workers office, shut the door and collapsed into tears.

This was when I realized that I had been successful in letting everything out, but hadn't let anything in.  Friends had offered help, and I hadn't taken it.  I didn't want to admit I was weak.  But the truth was, I was emotionally dehydrated, and I needed to accept help.

Previously I had always relied on my mother or my husband for help, but they are in the same familial house that's foundation is cracked, and they are trying  just as hard not to fall too.

So I decided to lean in.  Accept invitations to go for a run, or have dinner made for us.  To go for a drink or get a coffee or to spend the day after Thanksgiving with people other than family.  It was the first time we had ever done that, and admittedly, I was hesitant.  I doubted why anyone would want to include an additional six people around the table.   But we went.   We played a football game and within moments each of our four boys had fought, cried, gotten hurt and stormed off.   It was just like we were home. I slowly began to feel stronger.

So to answer my question as to where strength can be found when you feel like you are completely out, it is found in friendship. True friendship that doesn't have to be pretty or funny all the time.  Friends that just show up, and lift that burden off your shoulders and carry it for a little while, even if the moment is brief.  Then you realize that when you put it back on your own shoulders, it doesn't feel as heavy.

In fact, if you were to take a walk with that burden on your shoulder's and look at your shadow you might even see an unstoppable giant that can face anything.

Strength is found in family and friends who will let you fall, but help you stand back up when you are ready.

Sometimes We Fall

My Dad broke his neck.   Obviously we hadn't anticipated this happening.  Although I will say, that when life seems too good to be true, I have a bad habit of waiting for something bad lurking around the corner.  I could have never thought it would be something like this.

He fell off of his deck and landed on his head. I received a call from my mom that they were in the emergency room.   I quickly crossed over a single bridge to the hospital, the one that I was born in, the one all of my boys were born in and the one that if I stood on the roof of my house I could see if I wanted to.  I always have joked that I didn't travel too far in life if I can see the hospital where I took my first breath from my house.

When you see someone you love in pain, a shock comes over you, when you see a parent, specifically one whom you have always viewed as the strongest person you have ever known in pain, your world shifts.

He could talk, which was a good thing.  My first instinct was to make a joke, to make them laugh. That is my role in my family. When things get too serious, I make a joke.  There was absolutely nothing funny about this. Nothing. My mom began to cry, and I choked back tears as I asked my Dad what I could do. He told me to hold his hand.  I picked his limp, bloody hand into the mine and held it.  Annoyed, he told me to hold his hand. I told him that I was, and I looked at my mom and quickly realized he couldn't feel it.  I didn't believe him, I dug my nails into his palm, but he felt nothing. That is when it sunk in.  He can't feel anything.

At that moment, all the acting I have ever done came into play.  Their youngest child was going to be the strong one.  I wasn't going to let him see the fear I felt.

The hardest part was seeing him realize this too. He is an artist.  He paints beautiful landscapes and has sculpted things out of clay and plaster that have won awards and sit in people's homes.  How cruel is this?

The next day they did surgery and was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.  This is the floor that people go to when things are really bad.  Only two visitors are allowed in the room at a time, but we stretched the rules on a few occasions because I knew one of the nurses, and strangely my dad wanted a picture of the family.   My mom was the common denominator in the room.  The numerator changed, between first, second and me, third born. And fourth if you count my husband.  When my mom left to use the bathroom or go home for a quick shower, I became the denominator.

The ICU is a place that is hard to remain positive.  The pain of family members is palpable. I sat in the waiting room when things got too personal with my dad. Like when they had to insert a catheter, or change him.  He didn't want me in there, and I didn't want to be in there either.  I observed other people at their lowest.  In situations far worse than ours.  A young girl in a car accident who after a day of her family holding out hope while she was in a coma didn't make it.  Two older gentlemen on either side of my father's room died.   That is pretty common I think. Just three years ago I sat in an ICU when my uncle died.

But. We. Are. Not. Going. To. Go. There.  Nope, we are not.  My brother arrived at 2 a.m.  walked off the stage of an opera in Dallas,  and arrived at the hospital exactly 3 hours later.   There is something about our family that when we are all together we are a force.   We set our differences aside, because really, nothing else matters.

You learn a lot about yourself when you are sitting in a dark hospital room without any windows.   My dad is on morphine, so he is pretty drugged, which shouldn't be funny, but it is.   He had been sleeping, and I was curled up in the tiny recliner in the corner of the room surprised that this position was comfortable to someone who is as inflexible as I am. Out of the blue, he said that he would be able to braid my hair again when he regained feeling in his hands.   He hasn't braided my hair in 30 years. But when you are his age, 30 years can feel like 30 minutes. Especially when your mind is under the influence of major drugs.

To be honest, I had forgotten that he used to braid my hair. I mean, I remember it now, but that was probably the last thought on my mind. Sure I want him to regain his strength, but for practical purposes, like eating. But somehow his mind brought him to a place where I was a child, and he was a father, braiding his daughter's hair.  The next day when I worked out, I wore my hair in a braid just because.

When you get older, you have the general notion that you will be taking care of your parents when they get older, but until you are faced with it, it doesn't seem real.  Last week, he was raking leaves in his massive yard, and today he wouldn't even be able to pick up a leaf.

In the past week, I have done things that I never thought I would do or could do.  I have witnessed the pain of a loved one both emotionally and physically.  And I have also spent hours alone with my Dad because we refuse to leave him alone.  The only regret has been that I can't say that I have spent hours alone with my dad like this in at least a decade.

What is more important in life than really spending time with the people you love?  How in the world could I have been so busy that I couldn't spend just an hour sitting with him, or taking a walk or going for a Sunday drive, or just eating dinner without interruptions?

But as I write this, I have just finished feeding him ice cream, and we sit listening to a classical playlist my brother made for him on his iPad.  The sound of Vivaldi, Beethoven, and my brother's CD mixed in there, in an effort to be funny. At least I hope he was trying to be funny. Maybe not, he just knew what our Dad liked.

Strangely for a few minutes we were at peace.  My Dad has absolutely no concept of time and doesn't know if it's night or day. To be honest, I'm kind of having trouble remembering too.

For someone like me, who likes to be in control of everything I have had to relinquish that.   The only thing we know right now is that we don't know what the future holds for my Dad's mobility.  But what I do know for sure is that you cannot begin to realize the power of the love of friends and family.   The people who have prayed for us, or made us dinner.  Or taken the boys for the night.  That have just given me a hug or words of encouragement.  Friends telling us they love us. I can't think of a better gift of knowing that over the years we have surrounded ourselves with such generous and good people.

And it has taught me about my husband.  I have always known of his big heartedness, but little did I know that when he told me he loved my parents, he really meant it.  He has stepped up and taken care of their home, and our home, spoon fed my Dad when I needed a break and watched me cry without telling me it was okay.  My love for him too has grown.

Despite the bad, there is always good if you are willing to look for it.

When you marry someone, you say the vows in sickness and in health but it is said so often that you don't consider the sickness part. At least I didn't.   My parents are living out that vow at this very moment. And their three kids have the privilege to witness it.

As I have been typing, my Dad asked me if I was writing out my thoughts.  I said yes, hoping this wouldn't be too personal to share.   He said "Good for you, write out your thoughts, you have always been good at that." Always a cheerleader.

It's an uphill battle, but I have no doubt that with time we will be taking his Audi TT convertible out for a ride up to New Buffalo to Oink's  and get some real ice cream, not the crappy hospital kind. And Maybe I'll wear my hair in a braid just because, and maybe this time he will finally let me drive.

The Calm Before the Sh*t Storm

My day had started out with a really nice workout.  I was using an Indo balance board. It looks like a flat wooden sled on top of a foam cylinder.  From what I understand, the idea is to stand on it and not fall on your face.  After several tries, and almost ripping my trainer's thumb off, I got it.  There was a very brief moment when I was balancing when I was completely calm, almost zen-like, and the angels sang and I thought I had found the secret of inner peace that people who meditate brag about all the time. It lasted almost 2 seconds.

I left the gym feeling a bit cocky of the inner peace I had discovered.  I opened the windows and felt the air and thought, today is the day. The day that I can share the love and inner peace with my family and friends.

When I entered the house, I found a child trying to climb out of the refrigerator holding a gallon of milk. My kung-fu-panda-self-caught him just before he and the milk crashed to the floor.  I saw that Don had made coffee, and it was brewing.  There is something about a man who knows exactly what his wife is going to need, and I appreciated that mine knew I needed coffee.  I took a shower and fantasized about wrapping my hands around that warm mug filled with godlike aromatic substance.

I asked the boys to get ready and surprisingly they listened. I was convinced that it was my inner calm was projecting onto my children  and they appeared to have turned into perfect cherubs.
And then... a tidal wave of crap hit. Of course, I'm speaking metaphorically..mostly.

You see, last night my two oldest were playing the longest game of Monopoly ever played.  I'm pretty confident that they choose this game for the specific reason that it was going to prolong bedtime. When they finally made it upstairs to bed, they agreed to finish the game the next day. As I was wrapping myself in a towel,  I heard an argument brewing and by the time I had reached them my oldest son had flipped the board and all the monopoly money on the floor.  As I watched the houses and every other piece fly up into the air, it was only a matter of time before it came to fisticuffs.

Fin threw the first punch; then Parker did a cross right back at him.  I thought a few things.  First, I hope I don't step on a game piece because I'm not wearing shoes. Second, how can nobody even notice I'm only in a towel and dripping wet standing in the middle of the living room? Next, where did they learn to box like that, and lastly,  haven't we explained a million times that they should not hit each other? Clearly, they have been hitting each other for some time because it came about so organically.

By the time I broke it up, there were two ring side assistants commentating.  All of this commotion was upstaged by Wally, who couldn't take the stress and puked up his entire breakfast at that very moment.
Everything stopped, and each of my sons ran to Wally's aid.  They were so concerned, but not concerned enough to clean it up.

I told everyone to get in the car, and I would be there after through on some clothes, slapped some make up on my face and most importantly, I got my solace coffee, my one saving grace to reverse the negativity that had just been thrown at me.  As they made their way out to the garage, I made my way to the coffee.  It was then that I discovered that Don had taken all of it, leaving me a thimble amount to last me the rest of the day.

Trying very hard to not from completely lose my shit, I comforted my bruised soul with the promise of buying myself a coffee once I got to work because I certainly deserved it.  Except, I couldn't find my purse.  I frantically texted Don to 1. thank him for drinking all the coffee and 2. ask him where my purse was.

The boys have now been sitting in the car for 5 minutes when I discover that half of their backpacks were still in the house, and the reason I could see this was because all of the freaking lights were on.  My husband, the one that was on the top of my list had now made his way to the very bottom. I think it would be faster to crawl to his place of work, scratch a message in the sand and wait for him to stumble upon it than to receive a text from him.

I got in the car and said to my oldest heavy-weight champion, that I didn't appreciate the fact that he didn't turn the lights off upstairs.  To which he responded, "that is not my job, it's yours."  And this around the time that any calm or inner peace I may have earned in the morning, was gone and possibly never coming back.

I lost it. Put the car in park, turned off the engine and decided to wait there until someone, anyone, apologized.   The younger boys didn't know what to do, except repent for anything they have done wrong in their life.  "I'm sorry I dropped your toothbrush on the floor," said Oscar.  Wait, when?  Jack chimed in an apologized that he didn't buckle his seat belt. Finegan apologized for winning Monopoly and finally Parker apologized for being born.

I accepted their apologies, turned the car on and began our commute to school.   Yes, even Parker's because he is 12, and he thinks he can shock me, but he has no idea. I can't be shocked.

Once they were all out of the car, and on their way to Grandparents day at school I watched them as they walked into school. You would never know that they almost killed each other this morning.  They looked like they were eager to go to school and move on.

I don't know if it's kids or men, or just not me; that can move over a hurdle and not look back. Don and I can have an argument in the morning and at 5:15 PM I haven't missed a beat and will continue the argument like we hadn't had an 8 hours in between. He won't even know what I'm talking about. In this situation he will pick me up.  Literally. He does that when I'm getting negative-heavy and my emotions start weighing me down. He lifts me off my feet and it's impossible not to laugh.  The boys are used to it, I guess he does it a lot.  He lifted me in the checkout line at Costco once and it was very embarrassing.  But it worked.

There I was, in my car, feeling the aftershocks of anger despite everyone else involved in the exact same situation had clearly moved on.  Clearly there are things to be learned from our children. In this case, the tsunami had hit, washed away all the damage and by all accounts the sea was calm again.  Except within me. Everyone knows in a tsunami, you try and make it to higher ground, to save yourself from being swept away.  I had to make my way up to the higher part of myself that could see past the horrific morning.

Right before I got out of the car, I received a text.  I have friends that will just text a simple Good morning, and rather than responding with a list of why it wasn't, I took inventory as to why it was.  I mean, before it went bad, it was actually quite good. This text was my chance.  I could respond with a generic emoji smiley face or I could respond back with all honesty.  I typed back, Good morning and I decided at that moment to believe it.

What a White Pumpkin Means to Me

I love the Fall.  I live in an area where the season change and the cooler temperatures are welcome. I squeezed every last drop out of the summer and don't get me wrong, I loved it. But there is something about Fall that focuses my attention inward.  A natural compass that points back inside to reflect on things that I have neglected over the past several months.

Without even trying, we have made it a tradition to return to the same corn maze each year.  Like a magnet, it pulls us in. It is a little farm house off of a less traveled road close to Michigan.   As we pull our car onto the dirt driveway, we can see the same goats, and the same hokey wooden scarecrow directing us to the pumpkins.  It's wonderfully cheesy and nostalgic at the same time. In my mind, I can see our boys. At first just one, only about 3 feet tall trying to grab the goat's face.  The next year, there were two boys, and I nervously protected them. Sanitizing their little hands after they touched dirt. In the years to come, we would add two more sons and as if by magic, they all stand in the same spot eager to feed the goats we have named Betty. (All of them).

After the Betties have been properly fed, we collectively take off toward the corn maze.  I have lost several children in that maze, but each year they eventually come out.  This year, I'm less worried than previous years but more anxious than ever to get in the corn maze.

Perhaps it has something to do with growing up in Indiana, but the corn fields have a healing quality about them, especially in the Fall. I have always retreated to nature when I feel overwhelmed.   When I was little, I would walk into the woods next to my house and within minutes feel peaceful. I spent hours trying to get lost, but never could. I always found my way out.

Before long my family of 6 is separated throughout the corn maze, and I can hear the laughter, screams and footsteps of the boys running along hitting the solid dirt. Don likes to hide and scare them around the corners.  I usually just take my time in a soulful stroll, trying, sometimes successfully to get lost. Even though the corn is dead, it is still tall, and the wind blows through the stalks making a hushing sound, that has a natural calm to it.  And just like the trees next to my childhood house had,  the corn has power to untie the anxiety that has been in knots on my insides.  Even though I can't see any of my family, I know they are there, even the ones we have lost.

Returning to this enormous field I feel taken care of. The tall stalks cover me in a big familiar hug. The soil remembers my step and rises to greet me.

October has always surprised me with the unexpected.   Just when I have felt like we are settling into a new routine, a huge gust of wind rises and blows the dust into my eyes and I can't see without a little pain. We have several birthdays in October, but we also have had a few significant deaths.

But in that field at that very moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of wholeness. I already have everything I need.  When I return home to all of my things,  I'm overwhelmed with all the miscellaneous stuff that I have spent the majority of my time working for. All the warranties, contracts and appointments I have to keep.  That is when I feel the knots tighten, sometimes in my stomach, sometimes around my neck.  But, at that moment in the field however, I'm completely isolated from mainstream reality. If I lost all of my material possessions, I would be okay.  I already have more than I need. I would walk home with only the clothes on my back and enough hands between Don and me to hold all that is dear to us.

Within moments, I heard the familiar footsteps of Oscar and without thinking I reached my hand out to have it met with his.  Don jumped out and took a picture at that exact moment.  It was as if someone knew I needed to capture that moment. A rare moment when I was happily lost in my environment, and my heart felt full. I can reflect on it and remember the feeling when I wasn't overwhelmed or consumed with clutter. Clutter of my mind and of possessions.

We exit the maze and like a symphony join in at just the right time together and make our way over to the pumpkins.

We get nine pumpkins.  Each of the boys chooses one that they can lift, they collectively select one for Wally, our dog, one for me and one for Don which equals 7.  The last two are for the two souls that never were born.  The boys don't know, and maybe they never will.  I'm not even sure that Don realizes the significance. People mourn in different ways.   Some people remember the babies they miscarried with tattoos, some with footprints or sonogram photos.  I find comfort in two little pumpkins every year.

Only one miscarriage happened in October, but this is the month I choose to remember both. The entire month, with two little pumpkins that only I know their significance.

When we returned home, I watched as the boys placed them on the front steps.  I watched how they carefully put each of their prized pumpkin in the best possible spot along with Don's, Wally's and mine. And in the foreground, the two little white pumpkins that only I love.

I stood there and looked at the display.  It is complete and whole and brings me more joy than pain. It is a perfect representation that makes me feel more than ever that I already have more than I need.

What a White Pumpkin Means to Me

I love the Fall.  I live in an area where the season change and the cooler temperatures are welcome. I squeezed every last drop out of the summer and don't get me wrong, I loved it. But there is something about Fall that focuses my attention inward.  A natural compass that points back inside to reflect on things that I have neglected over the past several months.

Without even trying, we have made it a tradition to return to the same corn maze each year.  Like a magnet, it pulls us in. It is a little farm house off of a less traveled road close to Michigan.   As we pull our car onto the dirt driveway, we can see the same goats, and the same hokey wooden scarecrow directing us to the pumpkins.  It's wonderfully cheesy and nostalgic at the same time. In my mind, I can see our boys. At first just one, only about 3 feet tall trying to grab the goat's face.  The next year, there were two boys, and I nervously protected them. Sanitizing their little hands after they touched dirt. In the years to come, we would add two more sons and as if by magic, they all stand in the same spot eager to feed the goats we have named Betty. (All of them).

After the Betties have been properly fed, we collectively take off toward the corn maze.  I have lost several children in that maze, but each year they eventually come out.  This year, I'm less worried than previous years but more anxious than ever to get in the corn maze.

Perhaps it has something to do with growing up in Indiana, but the corn fields have a healing quality about them, especially in the Fall. I have always retreated to nature when I feel overwhelmed.   When I was little, I would walk into the woods next to my house and within minutes feel peaceful. I spent hours trying to get lost, but never could. I always found my way out.

Before long my family of 6 is separated throughout the corn maze, and I can hear the laughter, screams and footsteps of the boys running along hitting the solid dirt. Don likes to hide and scare them around the corners.  I usually just take my time in a soulful stroll, trying, sometimes successfully to get lost. Even though the corn is dead, it is still tall, and the wind blows through the stalks making a hushing sound, that has a natural calm to it.  And just like the trees next to my childhood house had,  the corn has power to untie the anxiety that has been in knots on my insides.  Even though I can't see any of my family, I know they are there, even the ones we have lost.

Returning to this enormous field I feel taken care of. The tall stalks cover me in a big familiar hug. The soil remembers my step and rises to greet me.

October has always surprised me with the unexpected.   Just when I have felt like we are settling into a new routine, a huge gust of wind rises and blows the dust into my eyes and I can't see without a little pain. We have several birthdays in October, but we also have had a few significant deaths.

But in that field at that very moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of wholeness. I already have everything I need.  When I return home to all of my things,  I'm overwhelmed with all the miscellaneous stuff that I have spent the majority of my time working for. All the warranties, contracts and appointments I have to keep.  That is when I feel the knots tighten, sometimes in my stomach, sometimes around my neck.  But, at that moment in the field however, I'm completely isolated from mainstream reality. If I lost all of my material possessions, I would be okay.  I already have more than I need. I would walk home with only the clothes on my back and enough hands between Don and me to hold all that is dear to us.

Within moments, I heard the familiar footsteps of Oscar and without thinking I reached my hand out to have it met with his.  Don jumped out and took a picture at that exact moment.  It was as if someone knew I needed to capture that moment. A rare moment when I was happily lost in my environment, and my heart felt full. I can reflect on it and remember the feeling when I wasn't overwhelmed or consumed with clutter. Clutter of my mind and of possessions.

We exit the maze and like a symphony join in at just the right time together and make our way over to the pumpkins.

We get nine pumpkins.  Each of the boys chooses one that they can lift, they collectively select one for Wally, our dog, one for me and one for Don which equals 7.  The last two are for the two souls that never were born.  The boys don't know, and maybe they never will.  I'm not even sure that Don realizes the significance. People mourn in different ways.   Some people remember the babies they miscarried with tattoos, some with footprints or sonogram photos.  I find comfort in two little pumpkins every year.

Only one miscarriage happened in October, but this is the month I choose to remember both. The entire month, with two little pumpkins that only I know their significance.

When we returned home, I watched as the boys placed them on the front steps.  I watched how they carefully put each of their prized pumpkin in the best possible spot along with Don's, Wally's and mine. And in the foreground, the two little white pumpkins that only I love.

I stood there and looked at the display.  It is complete and whole and brings me more joy than pain. It is a perfect representation that makes me feel more than ever that I already have more than I need.

Hello Jealousy

Once in awhile I will be walking down the sidewalk, and a group of college girls will pass me.  I work on a college campus, so this happens often enough.  Their herd usually swallows me up and spits me out as they pass. I walk at a much slower pace than they do.  Mostly because I have been wearing heels all day, and I'm carrying a load of baggage.  Most of it mental.

Sometimes I get so lost in thought that I actually stop walking.  As a writer, these things happen.  I start writing in my head.  Then I think of the perfect song to go along with my thoughts, and I search through my playlist because I have to listen to that song at that exact moment.  As the girls passed, I found Natalie Merchant's album Tiger Lily and hit Jealousy.

It bothers me that these girls probably don't even know who Natalie is, but the sound of her voice can take me back to that very moment, when I was their age.  A college girl in Tucson Arizona, wearing a little sundress and laying out on the U of A quad scribbling in one of my many notebooks filled with all my writings.  That particular summer I was dealing with some jealousy issues.

A boyfriend had cheated on me when he was in Spain for an exchange program.  He had told me about it, and surprisingly I had forgiven him.  Although I would have told you we were serious, I knew he wasn't the man I was going to marry, so it didn't bother me as much as it should have.  What bothered me the most, was the thought that he chose someone over me.  What did she have that I didn't? Was she prettier? Sexier? Skinnier? She was probably smarter. I was convinced that was it. But I became consumed with the idea of a girl that I had never met and never would meet.  Never stopping to consider that he was a 20-year-old guy, alone for the summer.

The amount of time I wasted thinking about this girl is time I can't get back.  She was one of many to light my jealousy flame.  For a green monster I hate so much, I certainly spend a lot of  time feeding it. I have an entire playlist on my phone dedicated to the emotion. With songs like Mr. Brightside from the Killers to Alanis Morriset, (of course). But I'm married, with kids and a house and a job, I shouldn't feel this anymore right?

Wrong. So wrong.

I must feel comfortable in jealousy. It is such a familiar and ugly place that I find myself there often.  As I age, however, the things I find myself jealous of are getting more complicated.  Back then,  when I was jealous of another girl's body I would hit the gym harder. But I find myself getting jealous of things now, that I can't control. For example, I'm jealous of people who are super motivated.  I'm jealous of the amount of money that all the young couples have on House Hunters to buy their first house. I mean, whose range is $800,000 - $1,500,000 to buy a first home?? I'm living in my first home and I have to share my "master" bathroom with a 5-year-old brushing his teeth every morning.

I'm jealous of women who have followed their heart no matter what, and not their brain.  Women who have had the courage to follow their passion where ever that leads.  Do I know any of those women? No. But social media is full of them drinking coffee in a small coffee shop they own in Nantucket while their yellow lab named Hudson, sits in the background.

Maybe I'm even a little jealous of the woman I was going to be and turned out to be something completely different.  I get swallowed in these thoughts as I stare at my computer from my office where I drink Maxwell House and the only dog in the background is in the form of a photograph. But also in that photograph loving the dog are my four boys.

I know how lucky I am, but luck isn't always enough to calm the jealousy.

My second son hates running, in fact, he hates most physical activity.  So this summer, we took a daily walk.  It was going to be a daily run, but we both decided that walking was more fun.  I was preparing him for the Fall, where I planned on signing him up for cross country.  He reluctantly agreed to participate in his school's cross country team.  And by reluctantly, I mean he didn't really agree, he was told he was going.

After the first practice, he came home and said that he was the worst runner there and that he couldn't even finish.  He said he wished he was like every other kid, who could run and not feel like they were going to puke.  He said he was jealous of the kids who were good at sports and he wished he was like them.
I couldn't believe he wished to be anyone other than who he is.  I mean, to me he is perfect, and I told him that.

At his first meet, he came in last.  I mean dead last.  But he crossed the finish line. I wasn't there to see it. I was working, but when we got a chance to talk he was beaming with pride.  He said he started in the front, but during the race little girls passed him, kids with injuries, a kid with one shoe, every single kid in the race, including his brothers, left him in the dust.  He also said he got hungry during the race and picked an apple off a tree.  (The race was on a farm if you were wondering).   He said instead of feeling pain, apparently in all forms, hunger, running cramps, emotional,  he decided to make the most of it, so he did.

The difference between us is that when somebody told him he was perfect just the way he was,  he believed it.  He didn't waste much time being jealous of others.   A lesson that I hope sticks with him.

I have always loved Oscar Wilde, so much so that I named a child after him, yet my favorite quote of his just registered.

Kids just get it.  It just takes some of us longer to figure out.

Butterflies in My Brain

My oldest son starts junior high next week.   While this isn't a huge milestone, it seems to be a new right of passage in our house.  Maybe it is because we have never crossed the junior high threshold yet.  We have indeed seen a glimpse of junior high tendencies, however.

Parker is a good kid. He loves dogs, pigs, football and his brothers. Probably in that order too.  He also likes sarcasm, sucker punches, and Youtube fail videos.

Its not like he is going to a new school. In fact, his junior high classroom is about 25 feet from his 6th-grade classroom.  But as his mom, I feel like he is crossing over to the bridge from boyhood to young manhood.  And I'm going to be honest, I'm nervous.

I have butterflies in my brain.   They haven't reached my stomach yet. That will be in a few years when he crosses the street to the high school.

I suppose my nerves come from the only place they can, my past experiences. Junior high was rough for me.  My body matured faster than my brain.  My feelings have never been more crushed than in those years.  I felt every emotion with a magnitude of 9.9 on the Richter scale.  Sometimes all at the same time.  I hated my parents; then turned right around and loved them. I liked, okay, (loved) boys. Obsessing about them more than I probably should have. I hated my body, my face, my life. I had more friend drama than a Shakespeare tragedy.  I hated my coaches, and teachers, yet cried at the end of the year when I left them.  I knew everything on the outside and nothing on the inside.  I thought that Madonna was the only one who understood me. And not the mother of Jesus Madonna, the other one.

Last night after Parker took a shower and did his hair for the 2nd time that day, he sat next to me on the couch and asked me if I had any advice for him in junior high.

I wanted to tell him all the stuff I wish I had known that took me 25 years to figure out. Like, the first time someone laughs at you or makes fun of you is going to feel like the apocalypse, but it's not. Your body is going to do some really weird things; it's normal.  Your teachers don't hate you.  I don't hate you; your dad doesn't hate you.  Your brothers might hate you, but that will pass when you are older.

But I didn't.  Mainly because his attention span isn't going to tolerate a long story about how his mother dropped a tissue while giving a speech in social studies class that sparked a 3-year rumor that she stuffed her bra.   Which wasn't true, but she obviously couldn't prove it.   Secondly, because talking to my twelve-year-old son about boobs is just going to make things even more awkward.

Instead, I just told him the first word that came to mind. I told him to have pride.   Something I think is lacking in a lot of people.  Take pride in his appearance, his name, his family. His word.   In the environment. Take pride in his reputation.  Take pride in taking the high road.  Take pride in knowing that he already possesses everything he needs to survive and then some.  Be proud enough to not take the easy way out, but humble enough to ask for help.   Be proud enough of his body, to not fill it with junk, the same goes for his brain too.  Be proud of who you are, because you were not an accident.  Take pride in real life achievements and not on the number of "likes" he has. You were deliberately put here for a reason.  Take pride in other's differences, don't shame someone because they are not the same as him.   Have enough pride to shut his mouth and open his ears.

As my critical five minutes of uninterrupted attention was running out I reminded him how proud I was of him, just for everything he has done right and even the things has done wrong.

I wish I could keep him in elementary just a little bit longer. I haven't felt this way since I dropped him off on his first day of daycare. But back then,  I relied on someone else to care for him, now I know he is capable of taking care of himself.

I realized that the same piece of advice I was offering him was just as applicable to my post junior high self.  Especially as I slowly approach the end of my 30's and drag my feet over the threshold known as 40.

We will cross our bridges together.

Mama Mantra

Deep down I know I'm a good Mom.  Way deep down, beneath the layers upon layers of doubt.  Past the scar tissue of insecurities and the almost never ending sea of guilt when I stumble upon my heart.  After I had children it no longer was beating for me, it was all for my boys. Every single beat.

I know I'm a good mom when I look in the review mirror at a tightly secured child in his car seat knowing it may have been a struggle, but I put him there.

I know I'm a good mom when taking a walk, I reach my arm down and extend my hand in a blind reach knowing it will be met with a tiny hand reaching up.

I know I'm a good mom when I know very well that a Happy Meal is not a real meal, but will make someone very very happy.

I know I'm a good mom when my son is the only boy picking dandelions during a soccer game and I take a picture and post it all over on social media because I'm just as proud as if he had scored a goal.

I know I'm a good mom when I check on them long after they have fallen asleep just one more time to make sure they are breathing.

I know I'm a good mom when my son looks both ways when he crosses the street on his own.

I know I'm a good mom when my oldest says I have ruined his life and still kisses me goodnight.

I know I'm good mom when I can sleep with my eyes shut and my ears open.

I know I'm a good mom when my son’s laughter can cause me to smile even when it's not funny.

I know I’m a good mom when I know the difference in a ninja fight between “ wahpicht and paching”

I know I'm a good mom when I get excited to have them away at camp but after the first night I feel like I have an empty nest, and I want them back again.

I know I'm a good mom when my child can wipe himself…thank God.

I know I'm a good mom when I feel like I'm not.

I know I'm a good mom when I not so patiently wait for my son to put his shoes on when we are already 10 minutes late.

I know I'm a good mom when I step out of his way when I know he is going to make a mistake.

I know I'm a good mom because I will wipe his tears whether the cause is physical pain or emotional.

I know I'm a good mom because I will keep telling myself this until I finally believe it.

If you are here, listening to this, you are a good Mom too, or maybe you know one.  You care enough to support another woman who is just as protective, vulnerable and completely head over heals in love with her child. Whether that child is at home, has moved far away, or just spent a short time with you on this Earth.

You are a good mom because you know that when you dig deep down, your heart will always beat loudest for the ones who were once closest to it.

Flying – told from my iPhone

Turbulence. Up next to death, this is by far my biggest fear.  Although turbulence doesn’t lead to death, it could be the beginning of the descent down to your death, therefor; this is why it is by far my biggest fear.

I’m typing this on my phone and if you are reading this, then either I landed and posted it, or I haven’t landed… but please excuse the typos.

It is safe to say I am not a good flyer.  

“ There is a colonial woman on the wing. There is something they’re not telling us. She was out there churning butter. She was churning butter!”

-       Bridesmaids (2011)

That quote is both true and terrifyingly accurate.

I start fearing turbulence weeks before my flight.  I have nightmares about it the night before and then on the plane.  I spend the majority of my time on the flight waiting for it.  The slightest bump on in the air send me into a complete panic grabbing my arm rest and in most cases, we haven’t even taken off yet.

My brother was on a flight once and told me that that the turbulence was SO bad the air masks came down and people were puking and screaming.  I have never been on anything that bad, but thanks to him I now have a vivid description burned into my brain for reference.

My first flight was when I was 15.  There were several occasions that my parents wanted to take me on a flight, but being a child of the 80’s, and having the permission to watch anything on TV my view points on air travel were influenced strongly by the coverage of airplane crashes all over the world.  Meaning, there was no way in hell I was going to get on a plane.

My parents were forced to travel without me. Wait a second….

Anyway the point is that I’m now on a plane and Oprah always said to trust your gut and my gut is now telling me that I’m screwed.  I’m pretty sure this is the end.

Although the clouds look lovely and it is quite scenic there must be an undercurrent, or whatever you call it in the air and it is sucking us under forcing the plane to shift every way its is not suppose to.

If I land I will need to buy a new shirt because I’m confident I have sweat through this one.  I keep looking at the flight attendant who must have had a horrible childhood to choose a profession like this.  She is a beverage serving  masochist.

I wonder if I should wake the man up across from me and tell him we are going down. Is he asleep or did he pass out?  It’s hard to tell.  How can anyone sleep when our lives are entrusted to some guy I don’t even know. Who, if it is the same guy I think it is, looks like he was old enough to be at a Fraternity party last night.

What are pilot’s credentials anyway?  I have a friend who is a pilot and I’m pretty sure he just took an online class. He is always online too. Maybe that is why we are so bumpy. The pilot is looking at pics he has been tagged in last night.

Why aren’t we allowed to ask any questions? I have had my hand in the air for the past  23 minutes and nobody has called on me. She probably knows I’m going to ask the hard questions like, “Are we going to die?”  Or “ Is this the end?”

Maybe if I close my eyes and pray this will get better.

Nope.

I think I’m having a heart attack.

Seriously, why can’t we read up on the pilot before we get on the plane.   It reminds me of the guy at the fair who buckled me in to the zipper ride before propelling me into the air in a steel cage, only to toss me around and make me sick.  I’m not seeing much of a difference, except at the end I don’t get an elephant ear. I don’t get anything. Not even a bag of peanuts or pretzels.

Or maybe, it’s not the pilot, it’s the plane, its’ a lemon!

The lady in front of me seems suspiciously calm. If she wants to read about Bruce, I mean Caitlin Jenner in her final moments then fine by me.  I can read over her shoulder, but I’m not going to like it.

Why did the Wright brothers think this was a good idea? I mean, can you imagine what their mother must have felt when they told her they were going to fly?  Just yesterday Oscar thought it would be a good idea to try and pole vault over a log with a twig. I didn’t encourage that.

Maybe it would have been a good thing if we all stuck to ground transportation.  We would still see regional dialects.  Those are pretty much null. Why? Because of air travel. Disease is spread, How?  Through air travel.

When I was a kid we traveled by motorhome. (Thanks to my obnoxious and paralyzing fear of flying.) And it was safe. Except for the time that we were cruising down the interstate and the Hell’s Angels bike gang surrounded our motorhome. I remember is my mom screaming, “Kids just look straight ahead!” Don’t look them in the eye!” And we all did, and they passed us. Although I gave one grizzly guy the side eye and I swear he winked.

I would do that 100 times again than to be stuck in this coffin in the sky.

Did our pilot just hit the breaks? What. The. Hell.  Are we actually traveling backwards or does it just feel that way?  IS there a drivers Ed program for pilots?  And if so, are we unwilling participants?

Okay, I see land.  It is so beautiful. Well, it’s NJ, but to me it looks like Heaven.

And we are on the ground.

After an eternity trying to get off the plane I have to wonder why people put their luggage behind them in the overhead compartments. I mean, if each person is allowed one bag, then that should mean you put it over your head. Now this guy is forcing everyone to the back of the plane because he has to get his stupid bag.

4 aisles behind where he was.

I’m off.

What every happened to travel companions? I need one.  I’m a mess. I followed an old man into a corner looking for my terminal.  He said he doesn’t like this airport either and that he would help me find my gate.   A senior citizen heading to Florida is helping me find my gate. I need help finding a Starbucks first.

They don’t have a Starbucks, but something that kind of looks like that. Caffeine is probably not what I need, but Phil said he could go for one too.

After a nice conversation and a shuttle ride that only a sign that only a person who can read brail could find, Phil cut the cord.

His Florida gate isn’t close to my Baltimore gate, but he wished me well and dare I say, he looked worried when we parted.   Where is my best friend when I need her?  My mom recently admitted to putting me on a leash when I was a kid as we toured Washington DC. Now I know why I have attachment issues. But I would give anything to be tethered to someone right now that knew where he or she was going.

As I was walking a nice looking middle-aged woman came up to me smiling.  “Where did you find Starbucks?” she desperately asked. I told her it wasn’t Starbucks, but a lackluster imposter, located in a land far away in a place called concourse A.

And now I wait.  Wait to board a plane to go through this all over again.

According to Joe, who just came up to me to ask my name and ask how I was doing, and me answering him asking for the wifi code,  Newark International Airport, along with Laguardia are the only airports in the US without complimentary Wifi. Hence, typing on my phone. And another reason not to fly. 

If you are reading this, I’m still here. But let it be known, that I will never fly again..after my layover. Except on Sunday, when I go back home.. unless I rent a car.  We’ll see.