To tooness

A blog is a funny thing. My blog is anyway. Not funny in the sense that you laugh at it while you read it, (although I have heard some readers do), it's funny in the sense that it helps the author (me) more than it helps the reader (you).

Many years ago, during a very tumultuous time of change and loss, I started writing this blog that has since been, I guess, laid to rest by me (sort of). I have heard many comments over the last 6 years about blogging and my blog in general. That the writer seeks affirmation. That the writer is the ultimate attention seeker. That the writer is depressed. The writer is pent up with frustration with this being the only form to let it out. Of course there have been some positive comments too, so many.

When I began this blog, I really wanted to affirm the general feeling of "me too". Not knowing, of course, that "me too" would garner so much attention as a catch phrase in solidarity in the realm of sexual assault, misconduct, sexual discrimination, etc, (although, wait for it, it's coming), but the "me too" that connected with others and reassured them that they are not alone. As the world sticks our noses into our phones and screens more and more, and we get our self-identifying information and gauge to our own personal wellness from instagram posts and twitter tweets, I wanted to connect with poor grammar and terrible puncuation. Terrible. Puncuation.

And so much more. I wanted to connect with you as a living, breathing, feeling person.

You see, it's about parenting. And friendships. And marriages. And relationships. And sense of self (mack daddy). And illlness. And seperation from the norm. And anxiety. And awkwardness. And growth.  And all of the reasons you shouldn't ever start a sentence with the word "And". Which I love to do.

Most importantly, it was about parenting and be loving and being present during the shit storm. A whole world of shit hail.

For me it was the beginning of change. In a world that can be very unreliable, and in a world that I am still navigating and morphing in, it was about who is coming along for the journey despite that change. Who is my ride or die? How do I do all of this and still make sure my kids turn out all right? And it worked. Well, for me it did anyway. The connections I made with others as they shared my blog post and I heard the "me toos" was awesome. They shared their times of heartbreak and joy. And for brief moments there was that all important human link, which we all crave and need.

My children are my life. Almost to a fault. I started writing my feelings down in this blog in the "tween" years as I wrestled with all that was happening day to day and all that was looming. I am a self professed helicopter parent. I have since coined the term "drone parent" as I am far stealthier than a helicopter.  I don't "hover" as much as I used to, as my kids are now 20 and 18, but I am still, everyday, trying to remind them that I love them, I am here for them and that I support them all while still giving them the soft boot in the ass.

The key note is, it may not have worked in that sense, but it may have. Confusing right? Who the hell knows?  I am an imperfect being. I struggle with what is right and what is wrong, everyday. I never fully, restfully sleep. I obsess. I drive them nuts. And they have failed. They have also succeeded wildly. The tag line in my blog is that I feared my kids would wind up in therapy some day, at my expense. And now I no longer fear that, I encourage them to sit on the couch.

The kicker is: What now? Seriously...what now? Who do I give this to...now. Where does all of this go? The heat beneath my skin that lives in my chest. The miniscule drops of fluid that seep through my pores and whisper into every fiber of my being that I am forever their mother. My identity in a way, is wrapped up there. And to blame myself for letting it get so deep is a great way to make me feel even worse. But would I change it if I could? Not on your life.

The world fails us. Over and over again. We fail oursleves, again, and again and again. Those closest to us will fail us, too, those we love. Many, many times. The ability to pick up the pieces, keep moving, and be loving in the moment is the absolute most incredible thing you can ever do. You, yes, YOU. Do you realize what an incredible thing it is you do? In a world of chaos, you create calm. And perhaps some more chaos, too, but calm, peace, love, light, support for someone else, especially for your child, is a gift.

We are gift givers. Over and over. Am I speaking to women? Well, kind of (sorry, not sorry). We seem to be the emotional back bone of our society. But strictly...no.

As a 14 year old full time worker at my first summer job, I was sexually harrassed by my boss. He was a family friend, a well known figure in my home town and a local business owner in a business that employed mostly men. It was extremely uncomfortable and a few of the guys in the office knew about it. He would call me into his office, with the door open, to talk about my chest. Someone failed me. Not the first time. I did nothing, they did nothing. Would I hope that my daughter would report it now? Yes, definitely. Would I criticize her if she didn't? No way.

Why throw the thing about sexual discrimination and harrassment in here, you ask? Well, because now, if it happened again, I would say something. Of course I would. Because my feelings about myself have changed. My feelings about what is acceptable and what is not, have changed. The powerlessness I felt then, is no more. I just started talking openly about this recently. Unfortuantely, these incidents of sexual harrassement or inappropriateness were not my last in the workplace or in life. My evolution has taken time. The evolution happens through connection. Through the "me toos". If you think it's just a feminist movement, you are off a little. It's about not putting up with BS, regardless of your sex, sexual orientation, religion, level of power, etc. It's about equality and treating others with respect. My whole point of momming to begin with was to teach my children respect for themselves and others. Who would I be if I didn't follow my own guidance? The "me toos" have changed our collective perspective on the world. The "me toos" create change. The "me toos" have changed me.

So, the "me toos" of parenting, of being a woman, of being frustrated, being tired, being worn to the bone, the incredible love, the elation, the prideful moments, it's what this blog and my writing is about. If you don't connect, hit another blog. But if you do and did, thank you. Thank you for your friendship, comraderie, your tears, your laughs, and you just being who you are, warts and all.

Repeatedly, a dear friend of mine calls me out to sit and write. I have put her off many times, but she seems to know when I need the reminder as to how awesomely therapeutic it is and to hit up the connective forces that is the reader. Today is her birthday, and she is a incredible gift. We have shared alot of "me tooness".

And now, again, what to do with all of this? The ache in my chest that never goes away. The hesitation as I begin a new path in life as my youngest heads off to college and makes me an official empty nester (by the way, my darlings, I will ALWAYS feather my nest for you). As I navigate this, mostly alone, I look to you. I look to you for sharing the tough moments. I look to you to not put the smile over the tears, but to let the tears have their day. I will look to you as you reinvent yourself or find the way to your true calling, or...to a bar. Whatever it is, you are my inspiration, my lifeblood, my guide, my me toos.

White Blank Page

"A white blank page, and a swelling rage, you did not think when you sent me to the brink, you desired my attention, but denied my affections. So tell me now where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart"..."***



Well kids, it's been quite a while. I once was a Blogger, with a nice little following. Life certainly does get in the way sometimes. As someone who has never really considered herself a writer, that white blank page can sure be intimidating. The colorless abyss. It sort of just stares back at you and tricks your mind in to believing that you are back in middle school. Sitting in your second floor bedroom, with the rosebud wallpaper and the green shag rug, trying to write a paper for your least favorite class. It's a very important, grade defining project and it's due, like, today.


I have always had a love hate relationship with writing. I have never felt good enough (see the paragraph above where I started a sentence with the word "And"), and...as I have said before, I don't like to follow the rules of grammar and punctuation, although errors that others make in their writing jump off the page at me, I am the biggest offender as I am too impatient to review and edit. I sometimes struggle to find the fluidity with my written words, and I used to worry more about the method of delivery, than the actual message. So, I decided to just kind of make up my own rules as I went along. Being poetic ain't easy. So I don't try to be. I am not smooth. I am very raw and honest, yet shielding, and it sometimes feels like a clogged artery, or blocked system, or even better: a strong, hyperventilating emotion that can't make it's way out of my respitory tract. But, I absolutely know it has to come out. Or I will choke to death.

Call it what you want. I call it fracking frustrating. But necessary.

What needs to come out? Well, today on International Women's Day...alot.

This shit can get frustrating. Life. Relationships. Maintaining good mental health. Wants. Needs. Companionship. Aging. Being that aging woman and looking for a job or finding a new career. Holding together a marriage. Wanting to yell at the top of your lungs but knowing it won't change a damn thing. Aimlessly searching for something in your dreams and waking up in the quiet of 2am, glancing for the hallway light, as you realize that you have fallen asleep on the couch, yet again.

Things happen sometimes. Where we take a step back and look around and add up what is important in this life and what is not and it doesn't always match up with those that are closest to us or the people we love. It's kind of like a life inventory, and all of a sudden, being tolerant is not as easy as it use to be. Words snap like slingshots and thoughts and fears permeate and wear away at the filter between the brain and the mouth, giving the words momentum as they fall to the floor and seep into the cracks, forming a new foundation. One that we walk on with trepidation, like it will give way at any moment and swallow us up. But the floors definitely needed replacing. And the foundation is old, cracked, subpar, and crumbling from a lack of proper care.

So I seek out some form of Zen in order to deal. I want Zen. Zen I say, dammit, now! Unfortunately, what I have come to notice through my search for the elusive Zen by watching others who think they have it, is that no amount of internet born Buddha quotes or reading about how to be more Zen or even meditation is going to get you there if your life in unbalanced, unsettled or unfulfilling. And the more you try to promote Zen outwardly and publicly, the less Zen we actually are. Zen is quiet, not proud and boastful. If you think you are Zen and you talk Zen everyday like its for sale, then you ain't Zen. Be still. Be quiet. Breathe peacefully. I know that I am simply not there, and I probably never will be. I can't be alone with my own thoughts comfortably long enough to be truly Zen. It seems there is some sort of heavy work to do, and I can't rest.

What I am discovering is all of this adds up to one thing. Change. As a woman, who feels at times that if I complain I am a whiner and if I don't than I am not part of the much needed movement, it's hard to know where to hang my hopes and dreams. At one point, I was pretty certain I knew what they were. Boy, they certainly don't look the same as they use to.

I am an evolution. We all are. And evolving hurts. We (replace with "I" if needed as I hate to speak for others, but want to include you if you feel as I do-I'm a pleaser) are the women in the middle. The days between winter and spring, when life blooms, yet one incoming weather pattern can knock you right back to the frigid cold and it always seems to be some degree of muddy.

And sometimes that weather pattern comes in the form of a shaky, repelling, politician, or even a female politician who lies or sold herself out. Or in the form of what is happening to someone like Erin Andrews, a woman and public figure who was filmed naked in her hotel room without her permission by her stalker, and an official at the Marriot decided to show the video to some of his friends while they dined. Just so he could make a point and perhaps punish her in some way.

Many miles my good people, many miles. We are merely in the middle.

The middle is an awkward spot, right smack dab in the halfway point of what will be looked back upon as a long, ping-pongish, dabbling of female life, the plight of the chick, as it were. We like to think it's almost over, but we have barely just begun. Wanting to be wives, mothers, have a career, and still be there for the growth and emotional well being of our kids, take care of our loved ones or maybe to be just a raging hot mess. Drink, swear and have sex like a sailor, because that has value, too. For some strange reason, no matter what the approach, none of it ever seems to be truly validating on the outside, like just when we think we have it, the idea changes. Some degree of everything always feels like it's slightly off or needling you in the side, at your most vulnerable spot. We are the circus clowns of an unbalanced, balancing act. It may, at times seem hopeless but without doing it, the hope for the future of our daughters, well, it's less.

We still have words such as "throw like a girl", "take your skirt off", "boys will be boys". We still have the troublesome statistics of domestic violence. We still have unequal pay, and politicians deciding what a woman can and can not do with her body, and we still have genital mutilation in some countries. If it's an "International" Day, lets worry about all women, not just the ones you come in contact with. This list is a scratch on the glass surface. There are many things we need to change in how we view and treat women. If you don't know what they are, just ask one.

And through this life, the only one we are given, there are so many pitfalls. We study hard, all the while learning, practicing, implementing, drinking wine, eating chocolate, hurrying off to the gym, as we are so close to halfway between the dainty, gleaming, shiny, pure, pearls and what I will call, the plush, velvety, encasement that resembles armor, war, strength, resolve. That is how I envision that the new woman will emerge, and right now, we are the guppies, the little litmus tests...the flower girls.

We are the women that walked the aisle and hoped for more. Our mothers, in one generation, who burned their bras and pioneered sexual freedom, yet still seemed to fall under one set of rules, and then there's us, the new age, the ones who would make a difference. In so many ways the progress is undeniable, yet controlled by some external force. And how much progress can there truly be? How will we be remembered? And where will our daughters go next?

I often cry in the shower. Yup, there it is. I cry there, because my eyes get super puffy and the water helps prevent that crap. Less puffiness makes the day go smoother. I cry because I wake up and pretend there is more progress than there actually is. I don't see equality. There is still an inherent difference between now and what will be. And it's there, in my everyday life. I am a woman in the midst of change, with no road map, no lifeline, no sure path. But I know I want to take that road. I know walking it will feel lovely and scary and I will be anxious and unsure and not always confident, like I feel about writing. Yet, I know it will be worth the risk. I know that I am but a speck under the microscope, of what will be viewed in the future as my daughter recalls the story of her mother, and her grandmother, after we are gone, and hopefully somewhere down the line it will be viewed as progress. I have taught my daughter to not need to be rescued, to not let others speak for her, to use the money to buy a house and not a big sparkly, ridiculous, ring. I have taught her to respect herself and to let no one, NO ONE, disresepct her.

There is a woman, whose time of the month means nothing in relation to her mood, and it will not be acceptable to call her "crazy" when she is upset, (lest ye be ridiculed) and you won't think to even dare to gawk at her in a bathing suit, or dismiss her because of wrinkles, or her fat, or judge her because of her parenting style, or discuss her rate of pay and secretly skim a few dollars off the top. There is a woman who won't settle for anything less than a partnership. There is a time when calling someone a bitch will be a compliment perhaps, or when we don't view a woman's sexuality as a joke in a bar. There is a woman, I know she exists, that will not be abused, or veiled, or expected to clean up after dinner even though she also cooked the meal. This will be a woman that lives her life, one that she comandeers and plans out and quite possibly changes her mind and then gets back on track when she fails, and her limitations will be less noticeable. She will sit down and write a new story, one where she finds solace and understanding in the white blank page and all of it's endless possibilities.

Damn you white blank page. Damn you! There is so much left to be written. Thankfully, the pages that have come before us in this story are courageous, and loud and proud and prolific. Laced with wonderful, strong and incredibly ballsy women. Who would not take no for an answer. And along the way, there have been the men that loved them, who would never look at this filled up page and feel slighted or resentful or turn away from it. Thank God for the men who believed and the ones who still do. And thank you to those of you, male or female, who look at the pages and see glorious vibrant color and value.

And thank you to the white blank page, for you motivate me and others to fill it up. As frustrating as it can be to put down the words, the book, when it finally comes out, will be totally worth the read.





***One of my favorite Mumford & Sons songs. It's actually a really great song. If you haven't listened to it already, than do it if you have time.

Thirty Earth Years

It's been almost a year since I have sat down to write anything. I barely got Christmas Cards out this past year, so sitting down to write more than a paragraph, is a rather sizable accomplishment for me right about now. I don't seem to have the time, or the inclination, or the clarity of thought to do it, as always. But, you see, I have this friend. She draws me out. She knows when it's time for me to sit down and collect my thoughts, more importantly, my emotions and type them up. She always does it under the guise of: "I need a blog from you" as she just messaged me the other day. She's pretty cool.




This year has been particularly challenging for me, and I find myself saying this year after year. I have felt pieces of my old stone foundation start to crack, small little chunks chipping off, in my personal life, my professionally life, and with friendships. It's as if, what was, will never be again. There seems to be something about the forties (MY forties anyway), when you have your children in your twenties and thirties, that lends itself to an evolution of some sort. For me, it resembles a small awakening, of being more aware of the world around me and all it's immeasurable complexities, sadness, joys, fears, rewards. I (and perhaps others - I have a feeling you are out there) are probably more keenly aware of this because we are getting prepared to send our kids out into that world. That's my theory any way.




I just returned home from a long weekend in Connecticut and New York City. My son, my oldest, is currently at the tail end of auditioning for conservatory style acting programs at colleges throughout the northeast. There's been a lot of snow. ALOT. And though I don't mind it at all because I am a die hard New Englander and inherited my grandmothers stoic nature, I just chalk it up to being something that holds beauty, and not as troublesome for me as it is for some, especially when you really look at it and hold 'snow' up against things like world hunger.




However, there is something about being snowed in that causes most of us to hibernate, and I don't mean just being home bound more often. I find myself looking inward more frequently and being riddled with insecurities and questions and so far this winter has proven to be a rather important one in a process of transformation for me. It's the beginning of the actual act of separation that many of us will go through as we watch and feel our children pull away.




While laying in my bed reading (it was US magazine, don't judge) in the hotel in Hartford on the first night of our trip, I watched my son as he drifted off to sleep in the bed next to mine. He was exhausted and surrounded by the white fluffiness of a very cozy comforter with the window behind him revealing a dusky haze of an impending winter blast in the background. The trees looked black and violet and the sky looked baby blue, on a platform of white. It reminded me of some far away memory that I still can't put my finger on. Something angelic. He looked so peaceful. His perfectly shaped almond eyes brought me back to a much smaller version of my boy, when I used to check on him after the bedtime story and the tucking in ritual when he was little. In slow motion, I would carefully open his bedroom door, leaning up against the white colonial woodwork, the hallway light streaming in to break up the darkness and catching flecks of the bright yellow of Saturn's rings that I had painted on his bedroom wall. The softness in which my bundle of spirited energy would just lay there, snuggled in, made my heart melt, and I would kiss his forehead. As I lingered in the doorway at the sight of how auburn his hair was even in the dark, the frays of hair set aglow by his moon shaped night light, I would soak in the sight of him stationary and quiet, and would whisper to myself just how in awe I was at how much I loved that little boy.




He frazzled me at times, but what kid doesn't? He was always moving, always questioning. The week before, he had just challenged his kindergarten teacher because he refused to repeat a sentence in a Planet Project at the end of the year celebration, which they did on a stage with a microphone. He was supposed to say "Saturn has 8 distinct rings", which wouldn't suffice because he knew that Saturn had over 100 sub rings. Each child represented a planet in their "speech" and there was no way he was going to say something that wasn't true, or more importantly, slighting Saturn in his eyes in any way. Especially about Saturn. Saturn rules. I encouraged him to appeal to her in the nicest, most respectful way possible. After checking to make sure he was correct, his preschool teacher agreed that, indeed, Saturn had over 100 sub rings, and she changed it for him.




Saturn's rings.




Earlier that day in Connecticut, I sat in a parent information session at the University of Hartford's conservatory style acting program, The Hartt School, where the head of the department thanked the parents in the room for being brave. He explained that acting students were, in a way, trained as rigorously as Olympic athletes, just more intellectually and emotionally, then physically. His observation was that while an Olympic athlete will quickly grow out of their particular athletic ability, an actor will only grow into theirs. He spoke almost in a whisper and reminded us all just how important our support as parents was to our kids. He congratulated us and commended us for the fortitude. My eyes were not dry.




Later, I sat in a long hallway, while playing the perpetual waiting game during the actual auditions, with a mother I had just met from Philadelphia as she explained that it was so important for her daughter to have a Plan B. She tried everything she knew to try to talk her daughter out of going into Musical Theater. She seemed very uncomfortable with her daughter's career choice. She lamented that her daughter kept pushing back, explaining that she felt there was nothing else out there for her that would come close to measuring up. That this was it. All she wanted and aspired to was being on the stage. She loved and lived for it. Her mother was very nervous. Towards the end of our conversation, she asked me what my son's back up plan was. I explained, somewhat apologetically, as to not hurt her feelings, that my son does not have one. Because I and he, don't want him to use it.



Saturn has 8 distinct rings, but over 100 sub rings. Some say there may be over 1000 sub rings.


Throughout these past 18 years, we have talked about the age of 18 more than a few times. "When you are 18, and you are out of the house, sure you can get a tattoo." "Because we are responsible for you until you are 18...that's why." "When you are an adult, you can do what you want. It's your life. So you'll have to wait until you are 18."


It's his life. It always has been, but we were the keepers of it for a period of time, I guess. I want him to make his way, and go off to wherever he needs and wants to be. We've been practicing this for years. Why would I want my son to do something practical or safe, if he doesn't want to. If he fails, he learns one of life's big lessons, that I could not possible teach him: To go out there and try again. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off. Don't get stuck being something or someone you don't want to be. Find your way, kid. But remember, it's okay to come back. I, we, will always be here for you. It's been done this way for many, many years.


Saturn's rings are believed to be particles of an old moon that orbited the planet and got smashed apart in a collision about 50 million years ago.


I still tell my son when he's being arrogant, or that he has gunk hanging out of his nose and  I still ask him when the last time was that he washed those jeans.


An old moon, orbiting around a planet with a lot of rings that no one could ever possibly really ever count.


I am just another mother watching her son grow into a man, supporting and encouraging him to choose the life he wants to live, no matter how difficult that life may be. Because he gets to call the shots. It's his life.

Spring Eternal

It's April.

I was born in April. So I just celebrated my birthday, which I am totally okay with. If you worry about looking, feeling and being older, you are going to spend ALOT of time, well, just worrying.

April is the first month, where we can see the actual signs of Spring. The air smells different, newer. More earthy. It's the first month of the school year that I can feel the end of it fast approaching. For families with kids it equals planning for dances, school trips, new sports seasons, the closing of the 3rd quarter and the beginning of the last. Report Cards. Planning next year's class schedule. Realizing that your kids are almost a new grade older.

We shake it off. Winter dust, frost, blues and doldrums. Especially if you live in our New England, as April can, in fact, still feel like winter. So any signs of the earth thawing out and coming to life again ignites passion and excitement. We've made it through another winter. Winters used to kill people. Rejoice.

This April feels a bit different. For I am very aware of the fact that, my very next April, my next birthday, my next Spring, I will be preparing for a kid to leave. The transition is markable, like pegs in a cribbage board, or pencil dashes on the door jam to mark a year's growth.

Last night, my son and I had dinner together at a restaurant down the street. My daughter is on a school trip to Washington DC and my husband is in New York on business. We talked, thank God, because sometimes we just pass each other and check in. "How are you, babe?" "Have you eaten?" "How was school?" "Where are you off to?"

We caught up, talked about the important things going on, laughed, he poked fun at me a little, talked about his social life, how he hopes to live in London for a year at some point. How he wants to bring his car to college if possible. He assured me that he is okay. In the world, his world, that I am certain that I know so much about but yet that is still so mysterious to me, he has convinced that he is all right. He is OK. And I have to believe.

It's odd. When children are born, they are these tiny little helpless creatures and you know it's out there. That day that they will leave home. Some days you can't wait for it to get here. But most days, it's just a day that's far away. What startles me the most is the intense, looming feeling of missing someone so much that you're used to seeing everyday, even if it's a morning grunt on the way to the bathroom. Someone who came from you. A part of your family. Someone who you love and live with, who will go live with someone else. And that someone else might just be more important than you. They, of course, will be. Natural, but startling. It's always been there, but it's closer to the surface of the skin. It runs through my veins now instead of just deep within. It's liquid, and I sweat it out.

I remember, hearing about older women having 'empty nest syndrome'. I was cold to it, because it didn't dawn on me that I would be one of them one day. Even when I had children, I thought for sure that I would be immune. Get out. Buh-bye. Don't come back unless you plan to pay rent.  Now I just want to grab all of those women (and men too, if you suffer) and wrap them in a big blanket of sisterhood with apologies and compassion and tears. Tears of both sadness and anticipation. Anticipation for the wonder of what will they become? Who will they love? Who will they hurt? What will they do when someone hurts them? Who will they change?

Dramatic. Pathetic. Boring. Cliché. Ridiculous. Utterly self absorbed and irrational. All of these things. And more. But there is no stopping the flood. Until it happens. And just like every other thing that has come along, it will pass. The crest of the wave will crash and then the cool water will rush and pool and soak into the ground where green will eventually poke and rise from the soil. The petals will unfold, the air will sweeten and I will find myself in the park under the tree he coaxed me to climb last year, reading a book about love and life.

When he goes, I hope he knows that I did my best. When he goes, I hope he feels loved, for that has always been, even on those days that I wished for today to come. When he goes, I hope he remembers to cover his mouth when he sneezes, because, that's obvious, it will reflect on me. When he goes, I hope he's not annoying. I hope he's courteous. I hope he's mindful. I hope he's healthy and strong and I hope he never appears to know too much. I want most for him to be a perpetual student of life.

And he has to face time me at least once a week. He had better face time me.



"No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips it's turn." ~Hal Borland

Don't Let Me Be Lonely

So I read this the other day and I posted it and I shared it, and so did others. Please read if you have time and you haven't already, because it's great, whether you are lonely or not:


http://www.homesanctuary.com/rachelanne/2014/02/dear-lonely-mom-of-older-kids.html


And then, after I read it, I read it 3 more times. And then I decided, that I wasn't lonely. I'm really not. Displaced, maybe. Or chartering new waters perhaps, but I am not lonely. I am reflective, and anxious, and receiving reward and having fun and I am frustrated at times, but not lonely.

I sat down to write a half-assed, response/comment/explanation/story/blog about my take on this 'Lonely Mom of older kids thing'. Knowing it would be full of bad grammar, run on sentences, and incorrect and irritating punctuation, full of thoughts that run all over the place. But that is my life and maybe, in part, that is your life too.

Here is what I noted about this Mom of older kids in particular:

I do have a little more time to myself. My kids go off in different directions and seem to be creating some sort of new civilization within the confines of their room when they are at home, but it's not loneliness that I feel. I feel un-included in a necessary way. For what parent is actually invited into their teenager's room, and once there, really wants to stay?

The reflection part gushes in and out and almost always goes to: Where did I screw up and where did I succeed? Did I not take that romance seriously enough? Did I joke about something hurtful? Did I spend enough time with them? Did I laugh enough? Did they watch too much TV? Did I let one too many F bombs fly?

I fight the feeling more often now. It's that feeling of always wanting to make their lunches and put a napkin in with the words "I love you, kid, have a great day!" written in colorful sharpie. I reflect and re-live those important moments. The moment we took that turn in the road that made him be what he wants to be when he grows up. Sitting in my car, waiting for him to come out from play rehearsal, hearing him talk about how much the story has affected him. The music. How he became a singer. And a God-for-saken football player. She talks about genetics now, and epidemiology (way over my head). Her first season of basketball foreshadowed a not-so-athletic nature, which then exploded into let me play 3 sports and play them really well. And MVP's. And a captain of teams.

Now,

I wonder if they know about the times we had been driving along, me at the wheel, and my eyes would dart over to the other side of the road, watching for any motion or indication of drifting from an oncoming vehicle, so that I could quickly plan a way, in a split second, for me to take the impact, if someone was texting, or not paying attention, sparing them. Or if they know, while we were at the playground, and one of us Mom's got wind of some shady character lurking around, how, with a glance, we could quickly get all operatives into place to form a barrier of Momness around every child in the playground, not just our own.

New waters. The anxiety that surrounds them leaving. And not coming back to stay. It feels very natural, like I am fighting a current. A current of uncertainty, and not being able to see the expression on their faces, so I can figure things out. Not being able to breathe them in. Not being able to hear their voices bounce off the walls of my kitchen.

I plan a few things for my husband and I to do in my head, sans kids, that we haven't done since having children, like vacation alone together. However, I ask the universe, why?. Why now, when my heightened senses are spiked by my newly-licensed-drive of-a-son and my pretty-little-thing-of-a-daughter, that I would be full blown premenopausal? Does that seem fair? Or safe for others around me? I can't plan something without them, not yet. But I will. And maybe it will just have to be Iceland instead of St. John's. The cruelty.

Frustrated. So frustrated, because if I don't step back, my relationship with my two kids may crumble. It's such a balancing act. Knowing how much to be in, and how much to be out. Posting pictures of them on Facebook or Instagram and having them approve is the least of my worries. What pictures might they possibly be posting or looking at through some new fangled app or website, that we haven't even heard of yet? And part of me is really tense about it and the other part says they need to be worldly. And not sheltered. They need to cope and safely navigate, too. They know how we feel. We have taught them about consequences to their actions and their inner voice and now I need to let them listen to it. Or not listen to it.

Can you access or recall that feeling that you had when you watched your kid take a nasty little spill? The pit of your stomach, your heart skipping a little. It's fleeting, because the next mode is a quick jump to your feet and you're picking them up. And not to coddle, or smother them with kisses. But maybe to say "You are all right. Get up, it's not that bad." When my son leaves the house with car keys in hand, or I envision him leaving for college, that is the feeling. The pit of my stomach. My heart skips a beat. And it stays for a little longer than a second. And sometimes it wakes me out of a sound sleep.

The rewards are plentiful. "You have a great kid." Or, you watch them succeed and do well and be happy or handle a difficult situation in a way that makes you proud of them and for them. Or maybe they are chomping at the bit to get on with it. To get away from you or me and go live their life. That's the grand design. Go good luck, my child. But in reality you plan in detail for the date that they are going to come back home, without saying it or feeling it too much, or holding much stake in it.

The other day, while cleaning up the kitchen, my husband and I had a brief exchange about something minutely irritating in my son's tone. I mouthed to my husband: "He thinks I am a thorn in his side." My husband mouthed back: "It's YOU he is going to miss the most." I bit the corner of my lip just a little too hard. So I could focus on that, my lip, instead of the ache in my chest.  Part of me unsure, a piece of me thinking that maybe, just maybe he is right. Remembering a woman who once told me that they 'leave you at 16, they return around 22 or so.'

So loneliness, not quite. Not yet.

Realization, yes. I am where I am, and I don't think I would go back if I could. Because they are people, my two kids. Pretty cool people, that I got to live with every day and potty train, and carpool and bandage and laugh with and fill out forms for and cry over and worry about and love to the deepest depths of my soul. And for that, I will never feel lonely.

Thank You

I couldn't effectively get out of bed this morning. I don't know if it had something to do with Mother Nature introducing our first frost of the season, or if maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the king size, but when I finally got into the steaming hot shower that is my usual salvation, I had to give myself a little pep talk. Getting dressed, blow drying, primping...it just felt like such a set of nearly impossible chores.

My daughter and I grunted at each other in the kitchen. She usually grunts, I try to jazz things up with a hearty "Good morning, babe." But not today. Grunting was it.

I decided, since my daughter had a particularly rough field hockey game the night before, that I would drive her to school today instead of her taking the bus. I just wanted to spend a little more time with her. My son drives himself to his high school, so we hugged and I patted him on the back and I wished him a good day and told him that I loved him. He told me the same.

So at 7:10 am, I dropped my daughter off at her middle school with a flurried kiss, and began my 30 minute drive to work. On my way, as I was listening to the radio, I heard the reports of a nearby local school system, that was shut down for the day and that there was police presence.

7:37 am I arrive at work. Yawn.

At sometime right before lunch, around 12:30 pm, I started to feel jittery. Jumping out of my skin kind of jittery. Like I couldn't sit still. Like I could run, no sprint. I almost did. It wasn't from the pumpkin spiced coffee (2), I swear. I drink that many every day. I am immune.

At my hour long lunch break, I picked up a bite to eat and went back to my office and decided to check up on the news that I had heard earlier in the car, just as officials were arraigning a teenager for allegedly killing a teacher. I just can't fathom it. I can't wrap my brain around any of it. It was heartbreaking.

At 3:15 pm, I punched out and headed to my car to make a quick stop at home to change out of my work clothes and then to meet my daughter at her friend's soccer game. At 3:17 pm, still sitting in my car at the parking lot at work, I got a call from my son's high school. It's a recorded message (our school system does this for alerts, snow days, important meetings, etc), but nonetheless, when you see your kids school on your caller ID, I hardly know a parent that lets it get to a second ring.

And the message went like this as our high school principal first announced himself: "There was an incident this afternoon, where a student brought a weapon to the high school. Two students became aware of the concern and alerted a teacher. The teacher immediately notified administration, who then contacted the police. A member of the administration and a counselor promptly went to the classroom where the student was located. They were soon thereafter joined by the police. The student was isolated and all others were cleared from the classroom and the surrounding hallways. When questioned, the student fully cooperated and admitted to having a weapon. The police took possession of the weapon and then the student was escorted by police to the police station. The police and school personnel are working cooperatively to assure the safety of all of our students. I am very proud of how our students and staff addressed this situation and also how they communicated with each other in order to resolve the situation without incident. Thank you very much and have a good day."

"Have a good day." I said outloud. "Have a good day." I said again outloud.

I put my car in reverse and backed out of my space.

At 3:29 pm I pullover at the recycling center entrance and sent this text my son: "Can you call me after football and before you go to play rehearsal?"

 I drove home and pulled into the driveway. I stopped at the bottom to collect the mail and the emotion welled up in my throat and in my eyes and in my heart, I felt fear. And relief. And gratitude. Sell-your-soul-to-the-devil-type-of-bargaining-followed-with-a-firm-fiery-handshake-kind-of-relief. My knees felt compromised. Through blurry vision, at 3:44 pm, I wrote the following email to our principal:

"B~

Two words: Thank you

It takes incredibly brave human beings to walk up to a classroom, knowing there is a weapon in it, surrounded by the souls of our children, that we all love so much.

What an incredible gift you and your staff of teachers and administrators are to all of our kids.

I am so proud of the students who took action. Wow!

Thank you, thank you, thank you,

~J & L's Mom"

His response, a mere 18 minutes later (I am sure he had more pressing things to tend to) at 4:04pm went like this:

"~Thank you L

I am proud of everyone involved. It took a team effort who acted immediately and within minutes all were safe and out of harms way. I am so proud of our school today.

~B"

I drove to my daughter's school, which is right next door to the high school, after changing into a pair of jeans and an old comfy sweatshirt that seemed medicinal, and I found myself speeding up and slowing down, over and over again. Foot heavy on the gas, foot gently on the brake.

As I walked across the field next to the soccer field, I spotted her from behind sitting with three of her friends. I stopped in my tracks just to stare at her. Just for being there. She has the most beautiful hair. I just stood there, until by some form of mysterious signaling, she turned around and saw me. She yelled my name and then got up and ran over to me. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a big, long squeeze, buried my nose in her hair (to smell her deliciousness, it's just what I do) and asked her how her day was and what was the score of the game.

I convened with some friends and parents on the sidelines after leaving my daughter to do what teenagers do at a sporting event. We commiserated. We, I don't know, we stood in fear and gratitude together. Somewhat numb, I guess. Trying to live life as if it were just a normal, happy, peaceful world out there. Because, sometimes, that's what works best.

After the game ended, my daughter and I walked alone to the car. I asked: "Did you hear what happened at the high school today?" Wide eyed, she responded with a pronounced "Yes!" That's awful, why would someone bring a gun to school, Mom?"

Me: "I don't know. I just don't know. Are you OK?"

Her: "Yes, I am fine."

Me: "Are you hungry."

Her: "Yes."

Me: "Do you mind if we stop at the high school? I want to try to talk with your brother in between football practice and play rehearsal. I just need to see his face."

Her: "Sure, Mom."

We drive down the road, pulled into the parking lot and we happen to catch my son right before he gets into his car, with some of his friends. He looks so grown up. Handsome. He pulls his phone out of his bag and as he sees me pulling into a parking space across the aisle from his car I hear some kid yell "J, your Mom is here!"

I walk over to his friends, we say hello and chat, I notice the sweat soaked t-shirt and mud on his face and decide not to smell this one, and I ask my son if I can speak with him over near where I parked my car. He follows me, and I ask him how his day was and if he is OK."

"What an idiot." he says quietly and solemnly with his head down.

"Do you know him?" I ask.

"No, he's a freshmen. I don't really know who he is."

"How are you? Do you need to talk."

"No Mom, I think I am OK."

Can I buy you and your friends a couple of pizzas?" (Sorry, food is love)

And they love me.

I wish I could say that was all it takes. A Meat lover's pizza and a few sodas. But it's not. They will do what they do every day over and over again, but something tells me, they won't look at school or the world in general the same ever again, because now it has hit close to home. It's real. They are resilient, but we can't go back. We can't un-hear it. Or un-know it. We can't unscramble scrambled eggs.

So maybe there was a reason I couldn't get out of bed easily this morning. Maybe today was one of those days, better spent beneath the covers. But how can I? How could we? They need us. They need to see that we can feel some of the fear without letting it take control. That life, just doesn't stop. It keeps on going.

And all I can say, again, is two words without really choking up. Thank you.

10:24 pm: Thank you, B, thank you teachers, thank you administrators and students and kids and friends and parents. And Thank you God.

Rescue Breaths

** I tried to stay on task with this blog, but of course, my thoughts just don't stay in a single file line, and I no longer try to force them. So if you feel at times like you are bouncing of walls reading this, that's exactly how I feel...

~This morning, for the second time in a year, I was given a gentle nudge by the same dear friend. It's amazing how I don't talk to her for a couple of months and she somehow, somewhere, gets it. She prodded me to post a blog. It has been a while. And I just can't seem to focus long enough to sit down and give it a go. That's what I have been telling myself anyway. So here is my flailing attempt. Which feels lovely and threatening all at the same time.~

Ironically, last week, I started writing the obituary for this blog, because I was pretty convinced that the bitch needed to die.

She had served her purpose, but I had begun to feel that she was coming across as pretentious, preachy, under qualified and underwhelming. As in, I was coming across that way. And I probably am. And, I fantasized that her death should be fantastic.

I began the Domestic Hit Woman blog back in March 2011, shortly after my grandmother passed away. I found it to be a much needed outlet for me. Writing is therapy, for this self professed control junkie. Lately, I have been dealing with a lot more than my usual personality flaws that drive me and those closest to me bloody crazy. I now suffer from a form of anxiety that robs me of my sleep. Making me all that more gnarly (in a totally 80's kind of way). I certainly don't feel as comfortable socially as I used to and I am often on shaky ground with the level that anger and fear can creep up on me, from my blind side. I feel detached. Seeing a therapist is part of my life now. I need her to help me sort shit out. I will admit, those last two sentences, make me feel weak. And it shouldn't. But I am being as honest as I can be.

When I write, I live for sarcasm, bad grammar, and the constant drilling, questioning that I and most women (whether we mother someone or something or not) tend to put ourselves through. That a lot of people in general put themselves through, not just women. The perpetual "Am I doing it right?" "Am I good enough?" "How can I do it better?" So, with a blog, I get to put it all out there. And when I do, I get it back in spades. I get back that most of us, from time to time, feel this way and when we realize that we are not alone, we find comfort in it. At our weakest, I find we can gain strength just from that little ping that there are others out there, somewhere in the endless universe, that feel like we do.

 I find that regularly, the need that I have to express myself gets blocked by big meteor sized emotions that I don't know how to handle, connect with properly or express to others without hiding behind the ambiguity of the Internet. So a blog equals a perfect outlet for me. And I love anyone who reads the words that I write, because you give so much back to me. Just from reading. And maybe laughing. And doing that feeling like you are not the only one thingy. I love the strength in numbers feeling. I love the feeling of a feelings community. And I never used to.

10 years ago, I would have just stopped reading my own blog. The feeling of feelings community? That's syrupy.

But even writing has felt impossible. Not worthy, not good enough.

Yesterday, both of my children did something special. It wasn't a great grade on one of their tests or projects. He didn't get the lead in the school play and she didn't score the most points at her field hockey game. It was much more.

At lunch time, my daughter, her friend Kate and I, were on our way home from a road trip, We stopped to get lunch/dinner. After giving Kate the few extra bucks she needed to buy her Caesar Salad, my daughter said "You do so much for others, ya know that? You need to do something for yourself." and then she hugged me in public and kissed my cheek. Like a great big hug. She's thirteen, just shy of fourteen. Seems like a radical move on her part. And she captivated me. For Christ's sake kid, it was just a couple of bucks. But the eye contact from my daughter, the concern in her voice and my lack of true connection to the outside world and just feeling like I was going through the motions, while standing in line at Panera, caused me to pause. She is so mature and intuitive. It stopped me in my tracks. I am not the actress I think I am. I have been exposed as a fraud. Thank God.

The self doubter in me just got my reward. A caring and insightful kid. The mother in me, felt disheveled and revealed and successful all at once. It felt kind of awkward, the need to be called out. Getting called out by your own kid, and recognizing that it's warranted, is truly precious, if you are humble enough. I am not usually humble, but yesterday I was. A moment of true weakness. Good stuff. And part of me felt ashamed. And lucky. And more drained than ever.

Last night, my son, who I almost never see anymore because he is so busy, came home from work and I attempted to hit him hard with the old Parenting 101. Again, the motions. He is a junior in high school. We (Actually, its "I". I like to pretend my husband and I are both on his tail, but sadly, with my relentless worrying, it's just me) have been talking about the 11th grade since my son was in kindergarten. Of course the 11th grade, because its the year before the college application process. I am in close contact with the teacher of his Spanish 2 class (my son's most challenging class), Senor Sullivan (cracks me up every time I say it), and I had received and email from him earlier in the day, that my son was still missing some work from a few weeks ago. So after pleasantries were exchanged between my son and myself, I asked him to address the missing work before bed, even though it was late. My son, whose usual reaction would have been derived from aggravation with me, came up to me, hugged me ever so softly and said "Ma, you worry too much, you look exhausted, why must you worry so much about everyone else. I think you need to worry more about you."

Oh, this is bad, worse than I thought. Eye contact, concern in their voice and two genuine, unsolicited hugs (Is this a conspiracy!) from my two teenagers later (all in the same day) and...Voila...I got the message. In full. And not in black and white, in full Technicolor. I am in trouble. And they know.

Time for me to slow it down and get back to it. You too, if this fits. And don't pretend it doesn't fit, If it, in fact, does.

I recently saw an interview with a blogger/writer named Glennon Doyle Melton who writes the blog "Momastery". The heading on her blog page is "Truth Tellers and Hope Spreaders". Her and I both believe that blogging and truth make the best bed fellows.

So here is a few simple messages that we all know, but certainly need a reminder from time to time:

1)When we focus some time on ourselves, the people around us, who love and care for us, win. They win big. When you take care of yourself, your kids learn the importance of self love. Because, really, how else can you teach it. You can tell your child to love themselves and to do what makes them happy a zillion and a half times and if you don't practice it, you might as well be talking in Swahili.

2) Being truthful is not always easy, convenient or comfortable. Being truthful opens you up like a big old open wound and makes you vulnerable. But it also helps you heal and gain strength. And momentum to live life to it's absolute fullest.

3) If your only hobby is your kids, it's time to get an actual hobby. Or a massage. Or a hot bath in solitude with a glass of wine or...(See message #1)

4) If you need help get it. The mother lode. Asking for help is one of the toughest things I have ever done. If you see someone else struggling, ask them if they need your help, and then help them if they say yes. In fact, you may have to do it if they say no.

5) A special bonus message that has nothing to do with anything. (Yes, I told you, I am scattered): I post a lot of highlights of my life, like milestones and pictures, on Facebook. Hopefully not in a way that makes people think that my life is all sunshine and flowers, but because I think of it as my moving, long term scrapbook of sorts. I want my kids to look back and be proud of what I put out there, because it can never be truly erased once you put something in print of any kind or if you put something on the Internet. When my children are looking back on it on that day that they have off from work, with coffee in hand, just messing around on their laptop, I don't want them to see low lights, they already know what they are pretty much. I want them to see the highlights. The things I love and admire about them, myself and their Dad. They may be able to also see a beautifully needed cocktail I enjoyed or a tongue in cheek post, but they will never see negativity, smearing, hate, or me dancing on a table top after one too many (It never happened). I post things on Facebook for us, not so much for you. Sorry.

So, me and you should get back to something we love, or at least really, really like, if we have placed it on the back burner. Something that requires no stress, and brings happiness and contentment. If it causes you to go outside of your comfort zone, then that is DEFINITELY a sign that you should do it. Reach for it, nothing feels better than accomplishing something you were afraid of. Then, most importantly, don't forget to kick the guilt and self doubt and the negative head chatter to the curb, on your way there. You won't forget what really matters, either. Everyone will still be there when you get back. They just may be shocked that you were actually gone doing something for you. Let them be.

As for my prodder, she hit the nail on the head. Great timing, my friend. Per your usual. And thanks for pretending it was you that needed a blog post. Suave.

So, long live the Domestic Hit Woman. She was born to fix something that's broken and she ain't done yet. She has many friends and lost a few. Sometimes her family stops speaking to each other, or maybe it's just that they stop speaking to her (oh well). Not everybody gets her or likes her or can deal. She is mouthy and unfiltered at times. She never graduated from college and is not completely sure that deep down she isn't just plain lazy. But she feels deeply for you and what you think and feel. And she's just getting to the point now, half way through life, where she realizes just how much she really does care. She is a truth seeker. If you are honest with her, even if it's not pretty, she will be a loyal follower. And she will listen. She will be there for you in a firestorm even if you don't like her. Her husband and kids encircle her with love and laughs and pride and yes, frustration at times, and even though she finds herself struggling (don't worry, she's scrappy), her life, as much of a maelstrom as it is, is worth living every single day.

Or in bad grammar fashion: Every. Single. Day. (I can just digest it better that way, in bite sized pieces)

Oh, and by the way, thank you, kiddos. You are smarter than your old Ma. XO