The Human Race

My facebook post this morning: "For some reason, going out for my little run today, takes on a whole new meaning."

I have always wanted to be a runner. Not just any kind of runner, but a marathon runner. I tried in college, but my ankles just don't seem strong enough. No really, I have weak ankles. I am currently in the crawling stages of finding my runners stride. I run every other day, trying to build stamina. But it is not easy.

I have always wanted to be a good mother. More than anything that was my goal. To make sure I raised decent kids into adults, a very important job. I always thought that I was pretty good. Lately I feel like I am falling down. Not enough patience. I yell and apologize. I don't always pay attention. I may not say what I need to say, or more likely, in the way I should say it, to show my kids the respect they deserve.

At my job, I just do not connect. I am more rigid instead of accessible with employees. I am not sure if ultimately, I am doing what I am meant to do be doing. I don't always give 100%. For the first time ever, I look towards retirement as an escape and not the 'old farty way out' it used to feel like.

As a wife. I don't know, I just don't know. I am not the putting forth the effort needed I am sure, as sometimes, regretfully, it's just last on the list.

Socially, in the past, I was always a star. I was great at planning fun events, get-togethers, outings, etc.  I was warm and loving and friendly. Lately, my anxiety towards the world around me has taken over. I have pushed some people away. I can't bother with some of the different personalities that used to be in my life, despite the fact that I feel love for those people. I suffer from a type of anxiety that has never plagued me before. It is frustrating, as it feels like the death of someone that I truly am, as a new, less desirable version emerges.

My hometown, a suburb of Boston, was always a source of great pride for me. If you grew up there, you got it. The feeling of brother and sisterhood, like nothing I have ever felt before. I instinctively knew, through my upbringing, just how proud I should be of being where I was from. It was something that rippled out, like a stone sunk in a pond, from the city itself. Bostonians in general have an air about them. If you don't know one, then you don't get it. We are all at once, tough, in your face, ballsy, hard working people, while still being warm, loyal and vulnerable. Our tough accent sets us apart. It can actually make me laugh, living in a bordering New England state, as how crass it can actually sound at times. However, give me a few beers at the local pub, and my own Boston accent  accelerates right back out again, like a dump truck. When you move away from Boston, and you come back, there are dozens of people always in 'the neighborhood' to welcome you home. I miss that.

On Monday April 15th, things began to change for me. Marathon Monday, my nearby hometown capital of Boston, was under a vicious, senseless attack. Athletes, their family members, spectators, volunteers, police, first responders, college students, store owners all in the presence of an extreme evil and in terrible danger. Runners were running for their lives. Those crazy resilient marathon runners, those that I had determined held qualities that were unattainable for myself, were unable to attain the dream of finishing their marathon. And more devastating, was and is the loss of life and the lives changed forever by unfathomable injury and just in seeing what they saw.

In the five days that followed, we relentlessly pursued. Our local, state wide and federal law enforcement are all our heroes, as they always have been. And the public, we Bostonians, stayed vigilant, whether in our homes or out on the streets. Communication and conversation at a high point. Tears, anguish, hurt, hopes, dreams, love, all of it washed over all of us. I believe all people were affected in this country by what took place in Boston. Just as we have been affected by tragedy before.

Today I wake up to a new kind of world, for the transformation that began in me, and in many of us, today is like a culmination, a celebration, a rebirth, so to speak, of emotions, and desires for the future.

It may not be like some quick fix, but the old, dusty, ragged me, knows that whatever "it" is, it is something that I can no longer live without. I can't be here, pretending that others will just get out of my way. I can't rely on the select few that I feel get who I am as a person, I need to open myself up more, similar to how I was as a child, open hearted, fun loving, spontaneous, proud of who I am and who I may be becoming. No matter how uncomfortable or stressful life can get, I can't just slip into a cool, damp, dark cave.

I don't have to love everybody and include them in my day to day life, but if I truly want to embody what I feel right now, I must love and protect our mankindedness (yup, I think I made that up). The love and respect for each person to, well, just be alive. To pursue their happiness, alongside me while I am pursuing mine.

So...I swill down the last of my cold coffee, grab my iPhone, lace up my running shoes and get ready to run the best and most challenging race of my life.

London Calling

I am staring at it. It’s smoky gray with bold black letters in Times New Roman font. The block on my work computer reminding the staff in my office that I leave early today in order to take my son to the shuttle that will take him to the airport for his trip to London.

With the recent horrific attack at the Boston Marathon, so close to home, the thought of travel right now for me is not comfortable. Who am I kidding? I haven’t been on an airplane in 18 years. So it’s never comfortable.

But there is something in me that is keeping my basket case like tendencies at bay. Last night I got a good night sleep. Something rare for me lately. The night before my 16 year old son leaves to put the first ever stamp in his passport to boot? Go figure. The London Marathon is Sunday. And I got a full 7 hours of sleep last night when I have been averaging 4 or 5 per night.

The temperature of the world we live in might not always be warm. It might be scary and unkind and unforgiving. Despite this, my desire for my children to get the most out of life’s experiences is stronger than ever. I want for them to be worldly. To have high tea, to see the Eiffel tower, to travel to multiple continents if they so choose. Something I have never done and quite frankly have feelings of apprehension about. I refuse to pass on any quirky fears I have to them. I hope they live a year abroad. Learn a different language and celebrate the cultures of others. I would love for them to hop on a plane like it is second nature. Plan an African Safari or stand on a volcano.

When he leaves my sight, a deep breath of excitement laced with a tinge of anxiety will leave my body. I know it will, because it’s the same breath I am holding in right now and I can feel it growing inside my chest.

A part of me will be in London for the next week, because where he goes, I go in a way. My heart follows him around, not matter where his is. Waiting for the moment when we reconnect again.

When I leave him today, I will hug him dearly, with all I’ve got. His big broad shoulders just a little bigger than they were at Christmas. I will inhale and exhale as I always do, taking him in and smelling all of the little nuances of him. And I will keep that smell and that feeling inside of my soul until I get to do it again.

I am proud of him. I am nostalgic. I am emotional and slightly sad because I will miss his presence in our family. But most of all I am excited and so thrilled for him. He is lucky enough to have the first of many of his life changing experiences.

My tendency is to shelter. To tuck him under my wing and make sure no harm comes to him. But I am bucking the system. I will not harbor him and keep him from discovering the world around him.

The ‘world around him’ use to mean such things as flowers and trees, birds and animals, books and poetry, music and faith. Today it actually means the world.

To my boy: The world is your oyster kiddo. Go get it. Soak it in, internalize and learn from it. Be tolerant of others, be kind and treat others as you would want to be treated. Love hard, sing loud, walk with confidence and live with passion. Until you return, a little piece of me will be with you and when you come back, my whole heart will welcome you home.

Dear Coward

Dear Coward:

I would have expected by now to have seen your face and know who you are. For the love of your God, your country, your cause, your hatred, or your delusion. For isn’t that why you did what you did? Your utter detest for us must run deep. I am sure this is your ultimate redemption. You must be in between modes of celebration and righteousness. So where are you?

You and I may have walked the same sidewalk, just 48 hours before you did what you did. As I was celebrating, with my family, the talents of my cousin and her classmates at Boston University on Saturday night, and before that, dinner with some dear friends in the North End. We laughed and joked and loved being in each other's company. Where you there? Did I see you? Did I ask you for change for a dollar in quarters for the parking meter?

For years, my mother took my daughter into Boston, from a suburb 12 miles away on the train, to see the Boston Marathon. They stood exactly where you stood. In the same spot, in the same place as those you ripped apart.

But aren’t you proud? Where is your face, your name and your cause?

What you may not know or care about is that Boston has seen blood on it’s streets before in the name of your cause, or one just like it. And we don’t take it lightly, nor do we bow down to it. We are a city and a nation of people who may forget from time to time to outwardly show our love for each other, but fiercely fight for one another when harmed or threatened. We, here, are smack dab in the birthplace of patriotism. That’s what we were honoring yesterday, something that can’t be taken away by a bomb, or words, or actions or even prayer.

What you did was not fight for your cause, but unite in numbers and in concrete form what already exists. Our pure pride for our land and our fellow man, woman, and child. You have no idea how fiercely we will protect our freedom to walk our streets, play with our kids, love our neighbor.

Did you see? Are you watching? There were so many people running into the havoc you caused to help someone. To comfort them, show compassion, cry with them, and bandage them. There are people now, uniting in social media, on street corners, in neighborhoods and across dining room tables to wipe away your evil. We will mourn for the loss of life and help those that have to live what you did to them. We will rebuild our storefronts. And soon what you did won’t be seen any longer, but will continue to be felt, and it will fuel the strength that we pour into our lives and our loves and our world. We will fight against you.

So why not show us who you are? You are certainly now part of our history. We need to know your name, I guess, to add to the books, magazines and certainly Wikipedia. You are now apart of a long history of those that tried to take us down and failed. There are more of us than there are of you and there always will be.

Those that cheered on the sidelines for the ones that ran the ultimate race, show support that you will never truly feel. Those that ran, they ran for lost love, the fight, their ill children, their love of a strong body, mind and spirit. They are already unbeatable. You may have brought them to their knees, temporarily. But this is why we run and cheer and share our lives with one another. This is why we support one another.

Once again, there are more of us than there are of you and there always will be.

So by next week I suspect we will all know who you are as we drag into the spotlight and dissect all of your thoughts, your parents, your religion, your history or your every step. But the week after, you will prove to make us begin to be stronger than ever before.

So why not let us see who you really are?

The Law of the Land

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” Newton’s Law

Half laying, half sitting on the couch. It has become a paralyzing yet satisfying position for me. One that I enjoy without a significant level of guilt/self absorbtion. Call it what you want. Call me a couch potato. I don’t care. I also relish, yet loathe, having quiet coffee and my thoughts to myself. Wrapping a soft crimson blanket around my rounded shoulders at the end of a long winter day, while hiding my face and rubbing my tired eyes. The smell of cinnamon and sweet baked something-or-other still lingering in the air. Walking through fresh grass, pointing out every new flower that beckons spring, as the newly revived, fat bumble bees dart in and out, back and forth. Rocking on the porch as the summer crawls in, waiting for yellow fireflies as night falls and bluebirds with fluttering wings as dawn arrives. Stalking hummingbirds. Noticing the simple changes in the autumn leaves and forming my mouth around a pretend cigarette, blowing rings, just to see my own breath, in the crisp fall air.

I still run a busy house. I still feel like I am the Captain of the Enterprise that is my home, my house, my life. However, at this stage of the game, the ship almost runs itself. The crew is older. The decades old engine still runs, even though there are newer versions with more horse power. My loyal crew is also more self sufficient and experienced. They have been trained and they have earned their seniority. So I sit at the helm, like James T. Kirk. I am soave. I am self confident. I am cute. I can comfortably say that I am still responsible for the health and well being off the crew, but now, I am more at ease. For the crew now gets it. Almost like clockwork.

I have run around, mentally and physically and emotionally for a while now. We all have. From the day my first child was born. My now 16 year old son, who is a just about to topple over into being known as a man. A strong, confident, hairy man. He has such soft brown eyes, just like one of the deer that linger on the outskirts of our property at purple dusk.

As a brand new mom, his introduction into this world was a marathon of body, mind and soul. My baby boy was born 6 weeks early, a healthy 5lbs even. My water broke 7 weeks before his due date in what was supposed to be April. It was a bitterly cold February. Except for the day that he was born, it was an unseasonably 70 degrees, in Boston. Just like a warm spring day, in the middle of winter. A respite, from a chill.

For each of those 6 days while I was hospitalized before he was born, I was told that every day mattered. We were told that his lungs were not fully developed and that 2 rounds of steroid shots would hopefully help, a set of shots that had to be 24 hours apart. My husband did not shower. He did not eat much. My husband slept beside my hospital bed in a cot made for a much smaller person. I went in and out of labor for 5 days. I became irrational amidst my longing, desperately wanting to see my baby. To physically lay eyes on him. Because I was being told repeatedly “One more day. For the welfare of your baby. Give it one more day.” By the time he was born, and those days came and went, I was reduced to toast with crazy jelly spread all over it. On the morning of his birth, my husband wept tears of joy.

By day 3 into our journey, I had abandoned all modesty. If you wanted to see my butt now, I would probably show it to you, from the residual effects of this experience. An entire medical school graduating class from one of the top medical schools on the planet (hey, only the best!), has seen my butt, too.  I was so used to everyone in the room seeing my bottom, there is a secret exhibitionist living inside of me. One that I keep successfully at bay. My labor was induced on day 6. Within 30 minutes of being given the medication, as it dripped into my veins, my son splurted out, after 6 pushes. At my first glimpse of him, my heart burst wide open, in addition to other things, and I couldn’t help but think at the sight of him that he was searching for something to hold onto. Both skinny arms outstretched, his torso wide open. His arms twitched to both sides as his little body tried to find balance. An equal and opposite reaction.

My second child, my daughter, came 2 years and 8 months later. 10 days early and a meatier, 7lbs 5 oz. Sweet and angelic. She seemed to come into the world in a much calmer fashion. Only 4 hours of labor from start to finish, one out of body experience on my part, and the “firing” of one labor and delivery nurse, in the middle of the second quarter (don’t mess with me, during labor). We polished it off with another 6 primal pushes, some scratches on the top of her peach fuzzy head and a broken clavicle (poor thing!) and then there was a second round of tears from my husband (he only cries when I give birth), patting his cheeks with his sleeve to soak up the tears, looking at his hands in an unfamiliar fashion, wondering where the moisture was coming from. My beautiful daughter, who today has the sun in her sweet smelling hair, no matter what time of year it is.

I often refer to my daughter as the grazer when she eats. My little bird, because from the get go, the poor thing has been unaware of what it feels like to have a complete meal. My son, my copper-headed fiery toddler, my buzzing bee, always chose when I sat down to nurse her, as the time to push my buttons. He became the little master. The charade was all his. The jester of the court to the unwilling queen.

We were always on the run.  Filling our days up with nonsense and fun, books, messes and stuffy noses. I can see it still, through a sticky, smeared, crystal pathway, somewhere in my brain. Play groups, Mommy and Me classes. Cute little giggles and songs. Lego’s. Naps. Diapers. Crackers and juice. Walmart escapades. Down right silliness. Leaving a grocery cart full of groceries and apologizing to the store manager. My daughter telling everyone in line at the deli counter that her penis hurt. The whole usual, thing. And, of course, melt downs. For both the kids and the adults.

This gave way, to tae kwon do. Violin. Best friends and enemies. Poor bathroom habits. Dance recitals. Horseback riding. Chores. Football. Smelly Football Equipment. Trampolines. Overnight trips and sleepovers. Popcorn and movies. Make up. And secrets, that only the truest of confidants would know.

Sometimes, the tooth fairy didn’t come for days. A lesson in patience, I rationalized. Sometimes, dinner was ‘eat what you can find’ instead of a home cooked meal. Sometimes, my husband and I barely spoke to each other. Sometimes, my children hated each other. Sometimes, when my son and daughter laugh together alone in the kitchen, my eyes fill with tears. I can see the adults they will become soon in little nuances and facial expressions and body language. And I am truly happy.

Now, we need less and take less. The crew have their own agenda when they are off the clock. We often go our seperate ways, finding solace in our seperate sacred spaces. Coming together at the quiet times to say I love you and give a hug and a kiss. I hold on tighter. I smell them more. As if I have to store the smell in the corners of my soul, for safe keeping. The mail is full of college bound material. The days are danced through with texting and guitar riffs and thuds as the lacrosse ball hits the side of the house followed by the yell from the yard "I'm sorry!"

So I walk around and take it all in. The smell of wood burning from my neighbor's chimney. The creak of the rocking chair from the sudden gust of breeze. The hint of red on the hawks tail flying overhead and above the evergreen. Gray becomes a predominant hue on the color wheel. I give up my chair and let others sit there. I release my grip on the controls of the ship and wait for the equal and opposite reaction.

Here

For the first time since I became a mother, I cried after a phone call with one of my children yesterday. Not an eye well. Not an “I am so proud” type of tear, either. It was a holy hell kind of tear. The one that is the result of the ghostly punch in the gut. Not that I haven’t felt the punch in the gut before. But this one hit me at my most weakened state of motherhood, so therefore, I cried.

I have good kids. Really, really good kids. They do make me proud, and often. They make me laugh. They make me think. They, just being, make me feel vulnerable to the world around me. A world that while beautiful and satisfying, can also add anxiety, just in the mundane to even the King and Queen of laid back parents. And I am not a laid back parent. At all. I wish I could be.

As soon as I hung up the phone I started to cry while in the parking lot at Starbucks. I started to bawl, my tears stinging my winter laced cheeks. My daughter, who was sitting behind me in the back seat of the car, promptly unbuckled her seat belt and jumped onto the center console wrapping her arms around me and tilting her head towards mine she whispered “he’s going to be okay.”

What a God send that she was there. What an ass I am. For it is not very often that I find myself needing comfort. Especially from my 13 year old, as I unravel, latte in hand. I am so thankful that she was there. She made it easier to handle.

My son’s best friend, a few months older than him, got his driver’s license last week. My son slept over his house last night and they planned on going out for pizza and driving to a mutual friend’s house today. Yesterday he called to ask for my permission to do all of those things, including being in the passenger seat of a car of a newly licensed driver. A control freak’s biggest fear.

The mack daddy.

Now in April, he will be going to London. He will be flying in a plane for the first time. I have entrusted my boy’s welfare to others’ many times before, of course, and have gotten used to the fact that he is bordering on an adult and will, in the blink of an eye, be leaving our home to make his own life. But for some reason, none of this compares in the fear factor department to the act of driving with his peers. Not the bus trip to DC. Not the theater workshop in New York. Having him away for a solid week from his family and his home is a piece of cake on my end. Having him spend the weekend with friends, going on vacations with his best buddy, etc, etc.

This feels different. Boy does it feel different. I now must rely on one of his friends for his safety. And what dawned on me in the parking lot of Starbucks, NO, what smacked me in the face, is that there is no turning back. This is it. We have arrived.

I have entered the zone of waiting for him to get home at night and not being able to sleep until he does safely, to answering my phone that much quicker, to wondering if I don’t get the confirmation text back, if everything is okay…or not. To facing front and center the fears that become overwhelmingly, mind numbing.

How crazy am I?

I know.

I could say “No” to all of these things. “Nope, stay home with meeeeee…..”.  It’s tempting.

Why can’t I be the Mom that doesn’t think twice about it? Why can’t I be the one that starts taking the photography class I have always wanted to take? The one that takes place in the late afternoon, that thus far happens right smack dab in the shuffling part of our day, where my kids need to be at other places. Why not let my son be driven around by his buddies wherever he needs to go? In a few months, when my son gets his driver’s license, will he be toting my daughter back and forth to Lacrosse or to her friends’ houses while I catch a movie, have dinner with friends, a drink with my husband? Shouldn’t I be excited about the prospect of hanging up my chauffer’s hat?

Almost the whole of this last paragraph makes me sick to my stomach, my furrow lines just got a little deeper, and the distance between me and my son feels like it just got a little wider.

So, to counteract, we have developed a checking in system, a quick text that says ‘here’ when he reaches his destination. Does this make anybody cringe? Is this a little tidbit for the helicopter mother handbook? Perhaps. Does it make me feel better?

Not really.

What I know instinctively is that I trust him. As much as I can trust any teenager. Especially knowing what history says about teenagers like me. And it feels like pay back time. I didn’t get it. I wanted out and away from my parents as soon as I could. I would  drive around with my friends often, almost biting it a few times. And by biting it I mean careless, dangerously careless. I never, ever knew just how careless I was. I had no clue.

I have to ask myself this: Am I/we the new breed of parents that hover, no BLANKET, our kids? Not just hovering, but COVERING over them with thick, heavy wool as they try to exercise their independence?  I may just be the President of the Covering and Smothering Parents Association. I am surely, at least, the Vice President.

(Big run on sentence time…)

So, when he called me today, after I called him, because I didn’t get my ‘here’ text in the time I had allotted in my own head for him to get from point A to point B and my heart started pounding and I figured I would just call the whole thing off, no more driving with anyone, he immediately called me to put me at ease and we talked about how important the text ‘here’ was.

Here.

I am here.

My son is responsible and he is smart. He is my world as sappy as it is. So this is what I have left:

May fate and destiny and all of the universal mystical crazy things that exist and those that have passed on to the other side (if there is such a thing) protect my boy and his genuine heart and his young body and his sharp mind. Please just do it.

I will bite my lip. I will turn away when I well up. I will run screaming throught the center of town in my dreams.

But I will not turn away from here.

The Father Daughter Dance

I can see that it’s like he’s almost constantly being jabbed with a pin, in the side. Sometimes, he even winces, from some ghostly little ping or pang as if someone is stepping on his toes. This is my husband in reaction to my child. He acts that way every time HIS name is mentioned or she brushes by him without her usual acknowledgement of “Hi Pats” (my daughters nickname for my husband, whom she used to call ‘Pattums’, until it was shortened to ‘Pats’).

Our 13 year old daughter has a boyfriend. Or should I say she is ‘going out’ with someone. Wait…I’m told they are JUST friends (Jeez, Mom!)

Going where you ask? Well absolutely nowhere alone, of course. He lives 7 miles away. All highway. Thank you sweet baby Jesus. They are only 13 years old. But that doesn’t seem to be any consolation.

Let’s call him Rocco. After all, he is Italian, and has a very Italian sounding name. Which I think in some way adds to my husband’s discomfort, as he and Rocco have that in common. And I shouldn’t say that they go nowhere. They attend the same school. They attend school sporting events together. They roller skate on Friday nights. I usually give him a ride home from roller skating. Rocco is very polite. He actually opens the passenger side door to thank me after getting out of the back seat. Which my husband calls being ‘a kiss ass ’. I think it’s sweet. My husband insists that it is a tell tale sign that Rocco is a punk and that I must be going soft. I think Rocco breathing translates to my husband that Rocco is a punk. I am not sure anything would make him happy.

When I was pregnant with Lily, I went for my ultrasound alone to find out if she was a girl or a boy. My then, overly masculine husband, waited at home. What was the big deal? We had already had a son. Which I was extremely grateful for as it took the pressure off. It's not like I was producing an heir to a thrown or something. But my husband wanted a boy first. In fact, he wanted a boy second, too. I was embarrassed and slightly wounded by the emphasis on the boy thing. After all, what the hell was the matter with us chicks, anyway?

My husband claimed he was too rough around the edges for a girl. He thought he would flounder as the parent of a girl and that she would turn into some masculine, I am going to take you down, truck-driver-mouth wench with an overly hairy upper lip. And perhaps an overly hairy upper back as well. (My husband is a very hairy, half Italian, half Armenian wonder of a specimen). We had already agreed that some sort of electrolysis or hair removal would be on the docket for her sixteenth birthday, if we ever had a girl.

Well, she was a she. I was elated. And as I pulled into the driveway he was standing in front of the garage. We made eye contact and I saw him exhale. Deeply. He new just by looking at what I thought was my expressionless face.  

“You’ll be fine!” I said comforting him as he bent (way down) to hug me. I felt him collapse a little onto my shoulder. “Really babe, we should just be focusing on her health, don’t worry about it. You will be a great Dad to her.” He smiled and I could tell he was in the process of adjusting his thinking. Sink or swim. Ah, the joys of my ever evolving husband.

Today, to say “two peas in a pod” is an understatement. She and he are each others best buddy. There were times when I would sneak upstairs just to listen to them playing together when she was little. One day, I opened the door to put away laundry, and there he was, sitting on her bed, my 6’3” burly, mountain man husband, looking sheepish in a pink feathered boa with a jewel encrusted tiara on his head. She was standing in front of him trying to attach the second of two plastic, clip-on earrings, with purple bejeweled dangles. Something you don’t easily forget. It certainly made me fall in love with him all over again.

She was interested in all the same things he was. Fishing, hunting, trapping, sports. In fact, at the age of 4, she used to hang out with him in the garage as he skinned critters (according to him, an art form) to get the pelts ready for sale. My daughter loved it. They hung out and had conversation at times that almost made me jealous. Almost.

But now, it’s complicated. She picks up on the fact that he is leery of anyone who pays her any attention in the romantic department. The other day, at her basketball game, a mutual friend of both Lily and Rocco’s, Andrew, came up to me and my husband in the stands a few minutes before half time. Rocco was sitting at the other end of the bleachers with his friends.

“Hi Mrs. S, can you give Rocco a ride home today after the game.” (For some strange reason, he new best not to address this question to Mr. S)

My husband and I exchanged glances as if we both just tasted something awful.

“Why, yes Andrew, I can give Rocco a ride home today after the game. But Rocco will have to come over here and ask me himself.”

Our friends sitting around us in the bleachers chuckled. We waited. No Rocco.

So as half time ticked down, my husband waited impatiently for Rocco to come skulking over to ask us for a ride. I knew things were getting testy when my husband started tapping his foot on the step next to me. When Rocco didn’t show up, my husband stood up and shouted, as loud as he could:

“Hey Socco, (he had his own nickname for my daughter’s beloved) is there something YOU wanted to ask us?!”  Done, ironically, just as our daughter was entering the gym from the locker room to start the impending third quarter of her game.

Yeah, that went over well. There was laughter from the crowd and a couple of blushing teenagers. Something tells me the line had now officially been drawn in the sand. Get out the tighty whities and the shotgun, dear.

Not too long ago, we decided if you can’t beat ‘em, then join ‘em. And by joining I mean we took Lily and Rocco out to dinner and a movie. A double date so to speak. My husband can’t stand it when I call it that. Weirdly, it was decidedly NOT awkward. I thought it would be, but it wasn’t. And I am pretty sure my husband enjoyed it, too.

Now some may think that this is ridiculous. Why go out to dinner and a movie with your 13 year old daughter and her boyfriend (Mom, were just friends, FOR REAL!!) Well…I figure the more we accept things the way they are, the more likely it is that the lines of communication stay open. Surprisingly, the big guy is on board, still evolving.

We both realize that 13 years old is too young to be in a serious relationship, but by dismissing it, we are doing more harm, than good. All of us know that as of right now, Lily and Rocco are not able to ‘date’ without chaperones. It is understood and respected. We run this ship. Rocco is on board. Lily is on board. I am on board. My husband is standing on the shore, but as least he’s on the beach.

I remember being a little worried about the relationship between my husband and my daughter years ago. Some part of me thought, ‘what if he’s right?’…’what if he sucks as a Dad to her?’ ‘What if years down the road she is in therapy sobbing “My father never loved me!”

Today, I can’t believe it was ever a concern. She is independent, outspoken and shrewd, just like her Dad. And he has softened around the edges. He, who once told me if he had a daughter, he would most definitely screw it up, can’t picture his life without her. He can’t picture life without either of our kids. Isn’t it amazing what the love of a little girl, a child in general, can do?

Job well done, husband. May our daughter be blessed with a partner in life, if she so chooses, that knows when he has met his match, as you have.

Does Your Face Light Up?

As someone who considers herself a writer, (well, a blogger at least) when a unthinkable tragedy strikes, you would think that the desire to sit and hack away at the keyboard would stop me in my tracks. That some force would grab me, pluck me from where I stand and sit me in front of my lap top, no matter where I was or what I was doing, right after providing me with a nice hot cup of coffee/tall glass of wine.

Not now. Not this time.

When the news of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary reached me, I wanted nothing to do with writing. The sadness and fear that enveloped me, paralyzed my need to sincerely communicate with anyone except my children and my husband. I shut down, as I am sure many of us did. I became nothing but an emotional being, but in a warped kind of way. For the last few days I have soaked everything in, reluctantly. The media attention was and still  is mind boggling. And the words “this time of year” began to sting me like a punch in the face. Yeah, it’s Christmas, but any time of year that you lose a loved one, especially a child, is devastating. Why would the time of year matter? I grieved for the adults lost and the parents, not only of the victimized children, but for the children at Sandy Hook who survived, and my brain froze as hard as a glacier. My heart was the only thing working.

As the initial shock started to wain, I like everyone else, searched for answers. I really didn’t feel much like offering my opinion or speculating as to where to place blame. What did it matter? I kept searching for something else.

Round and round we went. Where can we place blame? The are so many choices.  Let’s see…

*Guns. Sure we can talk about guns for a long time. The truth is criminals will always be able to get guns, illegally. We, as a people, in our society as it is, have the right to defend ourselves. Timothy McVeigh used fertilizer, Min Yingjun used a knife, Hitler used a gas chamber. Crazy has no rationale. If they want to kill, they will.

*Diagnosis. Aspergers does not equal a mass murder. Neither does Autism. Neither does any other mental illness or mental handicap. Searching for a reason that someone kills can not be found in a medical coding book. If that is where you decide to conduct your search then you are going back in time instead of forward.

*Parenting. We are not all raised by perfect human beings. Far from it. Blaming a parent for an adult child on a killing spree does not solve the problem. Divorce doesn’t equal killing either, or else more than half of us would be dead.

*God. Or the lack of God. Why bring him into this. It’s not His fault. Divine intervention is not mandatory in massacres like these. Although I wish it was.

Do we really need this?  Does this really help? Does placing blame teach us anything? We should all be expected to take responsibility for our own actions despite our laundry list.

I am a fighter. I will fight with you on anything. I like to refer to it as debating. I am direct. It’s in my DNA. But I no longer want to be a fighter. It feels like spinning my big ol wheels in a big ol mud pit. I want to stop fighting and start fixing.

I so wanted to write something, anything, that would lend sense to it all. I wanted something eloquent that would untangle this mess and make things better. But then this happened. It dawned on me today while driving. In my search to sort it all out, my now thawed out mind and my beating heart kept going back to something. Something I heard a long time ago, 12 or so years ago, that changed the way I go about my daily life. Something said by a woman named Toni Morrison. It was this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Jw0Fu8nhOc

Overly simple, maybe. Utopian, could be. But necessary, I believe so.

Does your face light up? Do your children, any child, get the benefit of you being happy to see them? Are you too critical? Are you wrapped up in so many of life little inconveniences that you can’t light up when you see someone you love. Even those that you see everyday? Do you light up when you see your spouse? Your Mom and Dad? Anyone else?

It may not be the solution to something as big as the Sandy Hook massacre, but what if it was to the future of our children. What if something so simple could be the answer? How would we know? I say let’s try it.

I look at the face of the killer and I see no light. Desolate, barren eyes. He almost looks like an alien on this planet. Void of light. Probably incredibly uncomfortable with the flash used to take his picture. I think he found a friend in darkness. It was all he had.

Light just might be the answer. The light of a child. I say we rejoice in it, provide blaring light to them and encourage it to spread. And maybe the rest, will just take care of itself.

"And God said, let there be light, and there was light"

Genesis1:3.