A letter to my (last) preschool graduate

 

 

Dear Aidan Kai,



You graduated from your little preschool. That's it. No more babies. You were my last one. My mushy, sweet, shy one. Now, you are ready for kindergarten, they tell me. But really, I don't think I am. I can't fathom the idea of you not being there, at your little school, surrounded by those teachers who have watched you grow up.

You started in "Purple Door" when you were only 2. Leaving you there, that first morning, was made so much easier by the fact that your big brother was with you. He was starting his last year there, and you had your first hour together after early morning drop off. I didn't feel like I was leaving you alone. And  your teacher was an angel. She loved you so much. Almost as much as you loved her. I remember that whole first year, there were days when you didn't want to do something: get your hair cut, get dressed, wake up early. And all I would have to say was "Ms. Miranda said she wants to see your eyes, so it's time to cut your hair!" or "Ms. Miranda loves this shirt!" and you were game. Anything for your Ms. Miranda.

And the first time I peeked into your open classroom during lunch time, and saw you sitting in a tiny little chair...sitting! You! You, who would run around the table at dinner and needed to be strapped in extra tight in the high chair! You, who once famously hung from a table at a sushi restaurant and squealed: "Look! I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!" How did she get you to do that?!? "He's playing you..." she would say. "He's a perfect angel here."

You only went twice a week that first year, and you loved it so much that you asked to go to school on your off days. You wanted to know why Ben got to go every day. (And since we weren't about to get into daycare finances with you, we just said that one day you'd be in "Church Door" too and you'd have to go everyday, too.) Each day, you'd come home with a little Note that told us how much you'd eaten out of your lunch box. You were so finicky. And lucky: Ms. Miranda always shared her snacks with you. That's how we found out you liked ranch flavored rice cakes and marshmallows. The first big activity that fall was the school-wide annual "circus," and you were supposed to be part of the human cannonball act (which meant you were supposed to crawl through a tube), but instead, you stayed in Ms. Miranda's lap the whole time. That woman carried you around on one of her hips a lot.

The next year, you went to "Orange Door," the potty-trained classroom. You were (sorta) potty trained. I fretted about that. A lot. And on top of that, your brother had gone on to Kindergarten. Now it was "just you" we were dropping off. I remember feeling like I was leaving you all alone. The first three weeks or so became all about the potty. The director of the school called me to ask if I was "aware" that Orange Door was a no-diaper classroom. After explaining that you were, in fact, (sorta) potty trained, she offered to help. After another week or so of you having accidents and the director (and the office manager, whom you also loved, apparently), changing you when your teacher wasn't available, and cuddling with you when you cried about your accidents, we finally said good-bye to your diapers for good.

We were always being told how wonderful you were, and that even though you were the youngest and only attended 3 days a week, you could keep up just fine. Your teacher told us that you were the best listener in the class and always followed the rules and that you were sweet and gentle and never, ever, ever a problem. And then there was the day she called me at work to tell me that you had mooned the new substitute teacher, Ms. Patti, whom you adored. You didn't even understand why they took you by the hand and led you inside from the playground. You didn't even understand why, after showing your cute little butt to your grandparents and your parents on a regular basis and then squealing in glee as we would chase you around the house to pinch it, bite it, or kiss it, Ms. Patti did not see this gesture as the compliment it was meant to be.

But potty training and mooning weren't the most memorable parts of that year: that was the year you met Lindsey. Your teeny petite little redheaded friend, who adored you as much as you adored her. At the Mother's Day breakfast that year, I was surprised to see her wearing glasses. When I asked her grandmother if they were real or just "for fun," her grandmother smiled and replied: "Oh no, they're for Aidan."

And then came "Church Door:" 5 full days a week. Now I worried about you being there too long. I worried that maybe 9-hour days were way too much for a four-year-old. But once again, as a testament to this little school and its teachers, you loved it. There were days we'd have to drag you out of there.

You started homework. You learned how to write your whole name. You decided you much preferred wearing two (very) different socks. You learned all your letters and how to count to 100 and what Orion's Belt looks like. You finished the year sounding out a handful of sight words, and most importantly, wanting, desperately, to read on your own like your big brother.

And you spent every day with your Lindsey (and sometimes, Bella). It almost became a joke: we'd ask you how your day was and what you did, and you'd always answer: "Good, I played with Lindsey," or "Bad, because Lindsey went to Disney World, I think." That Christmas, you made me take you to Target so you could buy Lindsey and Bella gifts, and you picked them out with absolute certainty ("No, Mama, Bella doesn't wear headbands!" and "No, Mama, Lindsey likes The Little Mermaid."). One morning, when you were unusually clingy and worried about being dropped off, and you started to cry, I watched as Lindsey came over to you immediately, wrapped her skinny little arms around you, and soothed: "It's okay, Aidan. Don't cry."

When we met with your teacher for your mid-year conference, we were ready to ask all sorts of questions: Is he behind? Is he too babyish? Should we keep him an extra year before kindergarten? But it seems that being the youngest boy and appearing particularly babyish and defenseless to your parents means nothing, because we were surprised and proud to hear that you were not only doing okay, you were "exceeding expectations" and "above average" in all the assessments.

Watching you, on graduation night, standing proudly at the very front of the stage as the flag bearer, your dimples in all their glory, your Sponge Bob glasses perched on your little nose, I nearly burst. There is something about you that brings out the mom I'd swore I'd never be: overly sentimental, overly protective, overly in love. And when you walked in with your red cap and gown, a little 2013 tassel hanging right against your still-slightly-chubby cheek, I felt like it was my heart, right out there, walking around. My baby. The last one. The one who still occasionally hides behind my leg when he's unsure. The one who will walk by and casually caress my arm and say "I love you, Mommy" while I'm cleaning up the kitchen. The one who, when I asked him to "please stop growing up," promised: "Don't worry, Mommy. I'm always going to be your baby."

Congratulations, Aidan Kai. We know it's "just preschool," but we couldn't be prouder. We love you.

Mama and Daddy

Why do we need validation from other people about our own parenting skills?

Contrary to what most teachers will declare publicly, we do have favorite students. Before I had my own kids, I had already been teaching for 9 years, and I always fantasized that one day, my kid would be the Secret Favorite Student. I had students whose families I wanted to be "just like." These parents would attend my class activities, come to my Parents' Nights, and I would think: That's how I'm going to be when I'm a parent. I will be one of the ones the teachers silently praise and think: "That's how you raise a great kid."

And then, my oldest went to pre-k, and he started to go through some interesting phases. There was the "Making The Teacher Repeat Herself A Million Times Phase." There was the "I Will Question Everything The Teacher Says Because I Think I Know More Than She Does" phase. And the "I'd Much Rather Roll Around On The Carpet When The Teacher Tells Me To Sit Quietly For Circle Time" phase.  And, my personal favorite: the "Let's Gang Up On That Kid In The Playground And Punch Him For No Reason" phase.

I would drop him off in the morning and one of the very proper morning-duty teachers would stiffly greet him, "Good morning, Ben." I wasn't sure if I imagined the pinched facial expression that accompanied the greeting, but I was pretty sure I could detect dread and judgment in her voice. I remember the morning she complained that the day before, he'd refused to clean up his area, and she'd had to explain to him "very clearly" that he was, in fact, going to pick up because she said so. (Let me note here that I agree with her 100%...it's just that I always got the feeling that she didn't think we were trying to enforce that at home.)

That very same teacher gave a Parents Workshop one evening on behavior and discipline. I attended, of course, not only because it seemed that, just maybe, I did not know everything there was to know after all, but also because I was afraid she (and the rest of the staff) would certainly search the sign-up list for our names and snub their noses if ours weren't there: "See? That's why their kid behaves that way..."  Maybe my husband was right when he insisted to me later that there was no way she was talking specifically about our kid the entire hour (hmmm...maybe THIS is where my son gets his It's-All-About-Me Attitude?), but there were two times when she specifically pointed out some of Ben's "personality traits." One of those times, she even nodded at me, and said the words: "Like in your case, with Ben." So yeah, I wasn't completely, totally, irrationally paranoid.

Fast forward 3 years and one more kid...
Yesterday, Hubby and I attended our littlest one's end-of-year party. We were standing there, taking pictures of him eating a cupcake shaped like a graduation hat, and thinking about how quickly the years went by...Both of our boys had grown up and gotten ready for kindergarten at this sweet, little school, and now it was time to go. After 4 years, we would no longer be taking a little boy to "Purple Door" every day for morning drop off. Where had the years gone? Where had our baby boys gone? And what would we do without the teachers from this little place, who had cared for our boys and taught them their ABC's?

This same teacher must have overheard us, because she walked over and said, "So, this is it, huh? The ending?" Hubby and I responded with melancholic yes's.

"You know," she said, "I've always been very impressed with the two of you."

WHAT? Surely, I had misunderstood?

"I was always so impressed," she continued, "by your parenting...the time you two always dedicate to your boys...the way you've raised them. In fact, I told my daughter that when she has kids, THIS is how I want her to be..."

I was so stunned and so moved, I could barely utter a thank you.

All that time, I had been so worried about what someone else was thinking of my parenting. I was sure that she thought we weren't doing a "good enough" job. And all along she was, in fact, watching and judging, but I was completely wrong in my assumption. Maybe my concern of what she thought had a whole lot more to do with what I was thinking of our parenting (and our kid) back then, than it did about her. But still, why did I care back then?

And why do I still care? Why did it feel so good to hear her say that yesterday? Why should anyone else's opinion serve as proof that we're good parents?


After I left, I cried the whole way to work. I'm not even sure why. I felt so raw, already, this week...so aware of the passing of time...so aware that Life is happening. All the time. And we just shuffle around, trying to do our best. Trying to do everything that needs to be done every day, to be the Best Wife/Friend/Daughter/Teacher/Mother/Self, and to take it all in and savor it as we do so. To really feel life.

Summer Bucket List

 

Recently, I was getting a bikini wax. (I know...quite the opening sentence, huh? And so appropriate for a summer-themed post, no? But really, don't get too excited--I'm not going to get too graphic. It just happened to be the setting of this little anecdote.) My waxing girl (is there a better, more official job title for this?) immediately got into the usual small talk that is certainly a requirement for such awkward and still surprisingly painful appointments.
Her: "So, how've ya' been? School year's almost over, huh?"
Me: "Yeah, just a couple weeks left."
Her: "So what do you do with the boys? Do you put them in a summer camp?"
Me: "Oh, no, they stay home with us, because my husband's a teacher too, so we are all off the whole summer together."
Waxing Girl abruptly stops mid-hot-as-hell-wax-smear and looks at me, eyes wide:  "Oh. My. God. Do you  hate it? Oh. My. God. Are you miserable the whole summer? I'd go crazy."
Me: "Uh, no. I love it. It's great."
Her: "Oh. My. God. I would die."
She went back to her smearing and ripping, and I went back to my wincing and bracing. I'm not sure if it was the prospect of her husband being home all summer with her, or her kids, or both.

In our house, on the other hand, we count down, literally. As of today, it's 5 more school days. And then we are free...temporarily...but totally and completely free. Summer, for us, is Sacred.



 

1. Hang out in my pool.
2. Workout outdoors more than in the gym (no more 4:30 a.m. alarms!!).
3. Run on the beach.
4. Wake up super early, drive to the beach, and show two sleepy little boys their first sunrise. Then take them to breakfast.
5. Spend time with my girlfriends.
6. Help my littlest one get to know his soon-to-be kindergarten friends.
7. Not fret about my littlest one starting kindergarten until (at least) the week before school actually starts.
8. Paint my nails fun, summery colors.
9. Stay up late watching movies and snuggling under a cover with Hubby.
10. Take the boys to a painting class.
11. Drink lots of wine.
12. Drink lots of really cold beer.
13. Try absinthe.
14. 18-day RV Road Trip!!!
15. See Dave Matthews Band in concert for the 6th and 7th time.
16. Spend a lot of time in bathing suits and flip flops.
17. Read.
18. Blog.
19. Watch the night sky with my boys until we see a shooting star.
20. Spend a rainy afternoon doing silly, spiky, colorful hairdos on each other and taking pictures.
21. Organize my photos.
22. Organize my closet.
23. Organize my make-up drawer.
24. Be outdoors...a lot.
25. Run barefoot on the grass.
26. Play Frisbee.
27. Have a post-run fruit popsicle on the beach (and not care that it's dripping down my arm).
28. Go stand-up paddle boarding at least once.
29. Eat at our favorite taco shack on the beach.
30. Go dancing.
31. Try out a new local bar that was featured in a travel magazine.
32. Go to yoga.
33. Go swimming (or just floating) at night in my newly heated pool.
34. Wake up whenever.
35. Go to sleep late.
36. Have lots of sex.
37. Have post-sex waffles.
38. Spontaneously come up with new ideas for this list!

Why your soulmate has got to be yourself

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

~Derek Walcott


I tore that poem out of the back of an Oprah magazine so many years ago, that I can barely remember. I laminated it and taped it up to my bedroom door, right next to my full length mirror. I didn't particularly reread it often; it just kinda stuck there. Every once in a while, I would read the lines: "The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door...". 

When I moved out of that little apartment, the only place I ever lived in by myself, during the most difficult time in my life, I carefully peeled back the tape's edges, packed it up along with some race numbers and quotes that had joined it on what had become my Inspiration Door (if you will), and took it with me.

The poem, once again, was carefully taped back up in my new home: the starter home I was now sharing with The Love of My Life. I was happy. I was fulfilled. Yet, the poem went back up. I didn't read those lines so often anymore, but I couldn't part with them. They needed to be there.

After a few years, one child, more joy, I untaped the laminated page once again, and packed it up to my Corner Lot Home in Suburbia (how the hell did that happen?!?) with my  Still Love of My Life, and up the poem went.

Those words, with me, for so long.

I barely remember the girl who needed the reminder...the girl who I used to be.

So very long ago, I would not have greeted myself at the door. I certainly would not have invited myself to sit and eat and drink.  I'm not really sure why. I just know that I couldn't own up to who I was. I couldn't really be proud of myself because I was too busy worrying about who other people thought I should be.

At some point, when the shit started hitting the fan inside my head, when I could stand the self-imposed repression no longer, I started to break out, little by little. Eventually, my little acts of rebellion turned into full-fledged metaphorical kicking and screaming and clawing. I needed out of that cage. I needed to fly.

I'd love to say that when that moment came, I simply went. But I didn't. I was hesitant and unsure and unsteady. In general, I was a fucking mess. The few people who I was blessed enough to have at my side suffered right along with me. They stood by me. They listened. They advised. They nodded their heads. And, when necessary, they'd shove me out of the cage I would occasionally fly back into to cower.

As rough and tenuous and unstable as that time was, I remember I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Those were the days when I'd read those lines: "The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door" and I actually believed it. I  knew the time would come. I just wasn't there yet. So I'd hang onto that when I felt frustrated or low or dark or worthless.

What happens in our lives that we start to feel that way about ourselves? What combination of events have to happen that some of us get to the point where we do not smile at our reflection in the mirror...that we would rather sit and have wine and bread with anyone else but ourselves...that we look to someone else--a spouse, a boyfriend, a child--to fulfill us, to make us feel whole and worthwhile? We depend on someone else's acceptance because we can't find it for ourselves.

The poem is still there, but I almost never even notice it anymore. It's just one more slip of paper on my closet wall. And certainly, there are days that I don't like myself so much. That I question whether I did the right thing or said the right thing or looked the right way. I second-guess myself. For a moment, I wish I could be more like (fill-in-the-blank-here) or a little less like myself. But on most days, I am able to invite myself in, open a bottle of wine, and feast on my own life. 

On shaky ground with a noisy head

My house was broken into today.
My sister is having another (unexpected) surgery this week.
My friend is trying to repair a broken life.

I am exhausted.

I'm also quite shocked: my instinct has been to look for the good in each of these situations.

The son-of-a-bitch didn't get to steal anything. The alarm and a nosy (wonderful) neighbor scared him off before he could take a single thing.
My sister's surgery will hopefully prevent any further complications.
My friend is being brave and will come out of this better off in the end.

That is what I have concluded in each of these cases.
And anyone who has known me for a long time knows that it is a BIG deal that I even came to those conclusions all on my own...no tears, no hysteria, no panic, no Hubby or Dear Friend calming me down from That Dark Place I can go to in my head.

But I'm exhausted. I feel like life is shifting underneath my feet. Have you ever seen those crazy balance boards they have in gyms that look like skateboards with no wheels? You stand on them and try to balance without letting either side hit the floor? It's like that. Like I'm on one of those lately.

And although I do feel a bit spent lately, I am shocked how, on most days, I am just moving along, doing my thing, preparing dinners, packing lunches, making plans, going to work, fretting about those extra 5 pounds, just going about life. There's definitely been some weight on my shoulders lately, and yet I've managed to carry it at least somewhat gracefully.

And so now I am sitting here in bed, trying to go to sleep early, my body aching for the rest, but my head is spinning...a flurry of thoughts about my sister, my parents, my brother-in-law; my friend and her pain; my home and what could have been lost (not so much material...I have come to the realization today that except for a couple of TVs and a couple of cheap laptops, we have virtually nothing a burglar would want). There it is again: that head of mine...always full of noise. And as evidenced by this post, I have no point, no lesson, or epiphany to share...just a lot of noise drowning out my peace.

All the crazy sh*t running around in my head these days: My Life, in Lists

I am always a little hesitant to post one of my "Lists Series" entries, because over the last few months, Hubby has taken to snarkily smirking: "Let me guess: is it a list?" when I tell him I've blogged. He caught on (pretty much like the rest of you) that as my blogging became more and more sporadic, the List Series became more and more prevalent. It's not a cop-out. I swear. But, yes, it is easier than formulating a poignant but witty post in full prose. And I really do think in lists. I swear. So here it is...sorta stream-of-consciousness writing meets My Life in Lists series.

If you could look inside my head, here's what I've been thinking (or repressing):

1. I need to lose weight.
2. I need to meditate more.
3. I need to talk less.
4. I need to listen more.
5. I need to ask people more questions.
6. Technically, my sister doesn't have cancer anymore, but she's still really, really broken.
7. Will anyone in my family ever feel and act normal again?
8. I need to find another 50 Shades-type of book.
9. I need to read more smart stuff.
10. Why am I not into my blog anymore?
11. How am I going to be able to contain myself from sobbing audibly at my youngest son's preschool graduation next month?
12. Why can't they just stop growing?
13. I am so glad I took a picture of his hand dimples. They are nearly gone.
14. How come when one person goes through some really bad shit, it can bring you closer to them?
15. What if my friend gets a divorce, moves away, and I never see her again?
16. What's up with my suddenly cracked heels? Is this a new "forty-something thing"?
17. How come my 40th birthday trip to Vegas feels sooooo far away?
18. How come my 2 nights of babysitting for my anniversary last week feel sooooo far away?
19. Will I regret wishing my babies would grow up faster when they were little?
20. How can I truly enjoy, savor, relish, live every single second of their little kid-ness that's left?
21. Is it true that mothers of boys grow old alone?
22. Do grown men ever really want to take their mothers out to lunch?
23. Will my daughters-in-law hate me?
24. WTF has come over me as a mother lately?
25. I need to furnish the family room.
26. This cough is driving me fucking insane.
27. I need to be on Facebook less and back in the blogosphere more.
28. Do I drink too much?
29. Does alcohol really cause cancer?
30. Does my deodorant and super fantastic MAC makeup really cause cancer?
31. Does anything NOT cause cancer?
32. I can't believe I'm 40.
33. There are only forty-something days left of school until summer vacation.
34. Am I wasting my life by counting down school days until summer vacation every year?
35. How come I still love him this much after 13 years together? Will that shoe ever fall?
36. How many more "good years" does my dearest friend have left? How will I survive her passing when the time comes?
37. How many more "good years" do my parents have?
38. If I had to have chemo, I think I'd get a crew cut and dye it purple before it fell out.
39. I love my new tattoos.
40. I miss Paris.
41. Is it possible to be The Girl I Was In Paris here at home?
42. I loved that girl.
43. Thank God this winter has been hot as hell here.
44. I can't wear my new bikini until I lose 4 pounds, at least.
45. Fuck the four pounds. Life is too short. And a 31-year-old told me yesterday there was "absolutely no way" she believed I was 40.
46. I will not buy any more black clothing.
47. If it weren't for the FCAT, I'd still love my job.
48. Breathe more.
49. "I am responsible for the energy I bring to this space."
50. I have GOT to get better at being fully present.
51. I absolutely can not end a list like this with #50. It's too cliché.

Where'd the writer go?

 

 

not sure what has happened

 

 

it's been the longest

I think

that I have not written

Here

since Here came to be

 

my friend called me out on it recently

 

Damn

 

I was sorta hoping

no one would notice

 

or maybe

 

I was hoping

everyone would

 

Lord knows there's plenty of stuff

to write about

 

there's so much

maybe

inside my head

 

that's the problem

 

is it?

really?

it's a problem when you have too much to say?

 

I think that might indicate

a Real Problem

 

cause

really

if I'm not coming to talk

Here

then where am I talking?

 

 

This New Year's, I'm ignoring the countdown

New Year's Eve is all about reflecting on the past year and looking ahead to the next. Tonight, in fact, is probably the one night where you are expected to NOT be in the present moment, not be mindful of the Right Now. But the thing is, I'm always looking backwards or looking ahead. I'm never in the Now.

It's a problem. Has been for as long as I can remember.

And really, tonight, of all nights, I don't want to look back (too much) or look ahead. I am trying, once again, to make it a point to be in the Here and Now. As much as possible, although, really, all the time, would be totally stellar.

What does it say about you when the same issue haunts you, over and over again? When you say you're going to work on this, you're going to make it your focus, your goal, when your closest people who know you best in the world tell you it's a problem, and you know it's true, and yet, you're still here, another new year resolving to fix it. Is it like this for everyone? Or am I the only one who has written a blog post about changing something about myself, only to have to write the same post again, the following year, or the one after that, just in different words? But what other choices do we have? Do we give up, then, and shrug our shoulders, and blow it off: "Ah, that's just how I am."?

No. I refuse.

One of my favorite quotes: "When you stop trying to be better, you stop being good."

So here I am, another post reflecting on how I need to be more present, need to focus on the Now, need to stop multi-tasking, stop thinking about everything all the time, worrying about what's coming or what might come or what might not happen, and just Be Here. Now. In this moment. Each moment.

And really, what does all the worrying and the planning and the overthinking help, anyways? Absolutely nothing. It gives me a false sense that if I can plan out every possible scenario and worry about every possible problem, then maybe I can preempt it. But really, 2012 is proof that whatever's gonna happen is gonna happen, and all you can do is raise a toast when it's good, and step up to the plate when it's bad.

2012: What a year. It started out with an entire TV show crew at my house giving my front yard a makeover. (Well, technically, it started with a hangover from our first ever New Year's Eve house party, but that's another story.) We took road trips in our new (old) RV. We went to Paris for our tenth wedding anniversary and realized we were the exact same couple we were when we went the first time on our honeymoon...just more in love and with better outfits. I got my first new car in 12 years. We spent a couple of months passing strep and hand-foot-mouth disease and every virus imaginable back and forth to each other. There were family issues. There were friendship issues. There were money issues. My sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. I turned 40.

It's amazing how many things can be squeezed into 365 days. It's amazing how many lessons there are, sitting there, within the celebrations and the scares, if you look.

So I'm not going to reflect and ponder too much tonight. I'm not going to plan ahead for 2013. I'm not going to spend too much time dramatically looking back at the highs and lows (both of which were quite extreme this past year), either. I'm just going to try to sit  here, in my PJ's, listening to the neighborhood fireworks and my kids' congested snores, snuggle with Hubby under the covers, and be grateful for This Moment, This Night.

Happy New Year's.

Viva Las Vegas: My Life, in Lists

"Let's go to Vegas for my birthday!"

The idea was born, about a year and a half ago, during a drunken afternoon on the beach on one of our babysitting days. Katy Perry's "Waking Up in Vegas" was playing on my iPod. It was a cheesy idea even from the beginning: all based on excess and tackiness and neon and glitter and loudness.

I loved it.

I wanted to wear a fancy dress, some killer stilettos, a tad bit of glitter eyeliner, hold a cocktail, and celebrate my 40th with Hubby and my closest friends in the loudest, brightest place on earth. My mini traveling party leaves tomorrow... A far-fetched idea that was born from a bad pop song and too much sun and booze, and it became reality. I can't wait. It's exactly what I (we) need right now.

So here are some of my birthday wishes for my big "Forty and Fucking Fabulous Birthday Bash:"

1. I want everyone to laugh. A lot.
2. I want to dance. A lot. (It'd be awesome if everyone else did, too, but honestly, I might end up as that girl who is dancing by herself with her eyes closed, oblivious to the rest of her group members.)
3. My heels won't hurt (that much).
4. I will get a lovely Vegas buzz going each night.
5. My lovely Vegas buzz will not turn into a horrid Vegas hangover the next morning.
6. The nightclub crawl tour we bought for Friday night will be more like the Vegas scenes of Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz in the "What Happens in Vegas" movie than like a bad 2012 version of a Chevy Chase vacation movie.
7. My group will do a shot together (or several)...hotel rooftop not required.
8. No one will slip a roofie into any of those shots.
9. I will not lose my camera.
10. I will not fall down.
11. I will not throw up.
12. We will stay up until at least sunrise at least one of the nights.
13. I will have sex. Lots of it.
14. I will remember the sex.
15. We will make it to the places on the itinerary, but I will not be so anal as to continue to insist on sticking to the itinerary.
16. I will enjoy whatever restaurant/bar/club I am currently in, and not worry about whether there's a better one somewhere out there on the strip and I am missing it.
17. I will not complain that my super-cute-but-possibly-too-thin-for-Vegas-winter-weather-coat is not warm enough.
18. I will not worry about my children, my sister, or the bar tab.
19. I will not worry about whether everyone else is having fun.
20. Everyone will have fun.
21. I will not reflect, ponder, wonder, resolve, or over-analyze anything heavy, major, important, or life altering for the duration of my trip.
22. I will not mentally check stuff off this list as they occur.

So raise your glass...here's a toast to my next decade...may it be a blast!
Cheers!

A little out of it

I haven't been here in forever.

I must admit that this time around, it is not just Life, and the usual excuses of being busy or tired. Yes, I am busy. Yes, I am tired (perpetually). But really, the truth is I've been avoiding this place.

I don't have anything to write, I think, because I actually have too much to write about.

Does that make sense to anyone?

There's been too much going in life, and therefore, in my head, lately, and I feel like coming here would be like opening up Pandora's Box. And sometimes, you really gotta get in there: yank that sucker open and delve in. But other times--and I think this is one of those--that I'd rather lock it up and sit on it like an overstuffed suitcase.

I just don't want to Go There. Not yet, anyways. I know the time will come when I will need to ponder, to question, to try to make sense of stuff, and to get it all out. But for now, for just the next few weeks, I would like to practice a little bit of denial. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.

You see, I feel like if I reflect too much, I might have to face some harsh realities: my sister's current situation, the fact that I'm about to hit a major age milestone, and the sudden awareness of the passing of time. (I have not forced myself into such ignorance that I do not realize the obvious link here.)

Since my last post, my sister is healing well. (Thank you to all who have prayed, sent well-wishes, asked about her...) She is still not at the end of her journey (as if any of us ever are), and the family is still struggling day-to-day. There are Big Lessons here. Big. I just don't have the energy to try to figure those out yet.

There is this birthday thing: 40. I will be 40 in just a couple of weeks. That's pretty big, too. And I feel like I'm a little too fragile right now to get all self-reflective and melodramatic and poignant.

My babies are gone. I can't quite come to terms with the deliciousness that is my 4-year-old and my 7-year-old who I feel are growing up so fast, I can't bear it.

And the holidays...this time of year always makes me all pensive.

So I am doing something I usually am not so good at: avoiding. Instead, I am choosing to immerse myself in the busy-ness of this time of year and the excitement of my upcoming birthday trip (Vegas BABY!). There will be plenty of time (and I know myself well enough to know that I don't avoid for very long) to poke around in my subconscious and try to figure out some of the emotions that I've been suppressing...to try to  make sense of or come to terms with or have some sort of epiphany or Something...but for now, I'm just going to put my energies into figuring out which stilettos will look the best and hurt the least in Vegas (as if!), and what Santa is going to bring my little boys. There will be time for heavy stuff. Right now, I just want light.