ahead of me

"Be careful."

I bellow through the trees, watching both kids scramble ahead of me on a trail, each trying to beat the other down the path, into the lush forest.

They are strong and able footed, but I panic when we near the drop off. I am startled when a couple of guys run past me, searching for their lost chocolate Lab. By the ravine. It does nothing for my nerves.

We reach the lower falls and they teeter out to the edge of a mossy rock, searching for crawdads.

"Be careful, be careful, be careful."

I find the words leaping out of my mouth every 20 seconds. How can they grow up, and develop any competence when every thing I say makes the world sound so risky. When I'm paralyzed they will what? Get wet. Twist an ankle?

I bite my tongue. I stop chanting fearful words. I sit on a rock and look up stream, cursing my luck that Greg has the camera with him at the car show.

From behind me creeps a sopping wet Lab; she shakes her coat and the kids rush to the lost dog's aid.

They race ahead of me, again, and my heart starts pounding, again. They fuss over the strange dog, and call her continuously on the trail; I can hear the three of them leading the way. I catch up and they are on a mission, undaunted by the remarks of unkind adults - admonishing us for not having 'our' dog on a leash - until I get ahold of the dog's thankful owner.

And I try, like every mama I know, to be brave, tapdancing in that precarious place somewhere between keeping them safe and letting them soar.

days spent in her kitchen

I wandered into my neighbor's kitchen last weekend during her son's birthday party, her kitchen for two rightful years now and I made myself at home.

It's fraudulent, this familiarity with another woman's space, but in my mind it stills belongs to T, the previous owner.

I used to sit at that very counter nearly every morning after the bus took our bigger kids off to school, and we drank countless cups of coffee. In the corner, I hear faint laughter, the days past with preschoolers underfoot, playing dressup. Running. Skipping.

Lunchtime would approach, and I'd show myself out, another morning spent in the ease of a friend, before I took Zack to school.

Rinse. Repeat. Two years passed.

*****
I never much liked her husband; he seemed overbearing. My gut feelings were on target, but I didn't grasp how deep their troubles ran.

She had been hiding secrets from me, scary secrets about stalking charges, and previous attempts to leave him. He had punched their teenage daughter in the jaw, weeks before we moved in. The police had been involved. He was terrorizing her family, spinning out of control again.

She poured her story out in my lap and then she was gone for a while.

Soon there were restraining orders, and divorce lawyers and coffee at my place.

I wrote a letter, supporting what I knew of the situation to aid in her custody battle.

I kept my heart and door open to her, and her 5 kids.

And then one sunny morning, she came to the bus stop and announced that he had repented. He had repented and she was positively giddy to announce that he was moving back in. To stay.

My mouth dropped open, but there were no words. There was never a single word I said until she packed up and moved, some months later, that made a difference.

I told her we couldn't come to her house. I told her I was concerned. I told her I cared.

I told her that I was consumed with worry for her kids' safety. That when she said he would never hurt my kids, what that implied.

I didn't go outside much that summer. I didn't sleep well.

I would never have another unfiltered conversation with her again. The emails we exchange a couple times of year now are filled with Christianese, praise for her perfect marriage, their perfect reunion.

I wish it was the truth. With all my heart.

And I hope there is someone else, drinking coffee with her the next time she needs a friend when things undoubtedly spin out of control. Again. I hope someone else helps pick up the pieces.

I will never say I told you so. I hope she is safe.

the ups and downs

The week hasn't been full of despair. Yes, I have been sad, and puked on, and I teared up when I asked a sales associate about picking up boxes today but I try to keep it all in perspective. I imagine my new house. Meeting new people. Maybe getting a job. I imagine gussying up a guest room and having company.


I picture my circle getting bigger. An adventure waiting.


Last week, the temperatures went from 53 degrees to 97 in two short days. The rains stopped and I got sunburned. And through it all, I had a low grade headache punctuated by a set of cluster headaches.


(I'm blaming the barometer.)

I discovered, writhing in pain, that laying on my face - no really - makes the pain bearable.

So, I found myself like this last week.

(Except I have hair. And a shirt.)

I left a 4 year-old's birthday party twice, sounding a little too high maintenance for my taste. (The sun. Is too much. I must lie down. Big baby.)
Lexi's choir practice at the senior center? Oh, I struck a pose.
I went to the grocery store in big shades, like some hungover hussy, and narrowly escaped playing yogi. I thought my clutching the floor might bring a little unwanted attention my way.

And I yelled at every car, every light, desperate to get home one evening. (The kids just called me 'Daddy'.)

I couldn't predict when the pain would strike; it was completely random. Last time I checked, the weather does not listen to my voice.

I don't spend my time looking for a higher purpose in pain; it's not my style.

But I couldn't deny it felt like a nudge, this stopping what I was doing and being still when my nerves were shattered and my stress level was soaring.

Or at least I gave someone pause last week. So happy to amuse...

of eagles and puke

Morning came, as mornings do, and with it a question: Would Lexi be ready to go back to school after her umpteenth cough/fever combo? Or would I be ducking out of another field trip with Zack's class, leaving him seven year-old 'this is the worst thing EVER' sad?

Just add rain and no husband and I had the perfect storm.

Lexi had just decided to play it safe and stay home when I sat down quietly next to Zack to explain I wouldn't be able to make it when he yelped the most pathetic little yelp and she changed her mind. Girled up, if you will, with a little Advil and a hot shower.

It reminded me so much of what we Moms do - pushing through, trying not to let someone down - that I got a little choked up at her maturity.

Zack and I rode the bus down to the Water Resource center and learned about floods, and sturgeons and plants while a sweet little classmate turned my direction to heave, splattering his breakfast on my big black Danskos while I rubbed his back.

(A mother's work is never done.)

And we marveled at a Bald Eagle's nest, and soaked up the rainy May day that almost wasn't.

in motion

I have to face reality today: We are getting the house ready to put on the market and we will be moving soon.

There I said it.

Then why do I still feel so sad? I've been trying to hold it together the past few days, but maybe I need a better tactic. I'm thinking: Rent a bunch of sappy movies and cry it out? We'll see.

Meanwhile, there are field trips and potlucks and end-of-the-year everythings to go to. I have to admit that it is good that I can tell the kids something; we aren't teetering back and forth anymore. They can say goodbye to our school and maybe get some closure. (I'm a child of the 80s. I'm versed in psychobabble.)

So, I am cleaning out the place, dividing my belongings into the going, goodwill and trash piles. I'm one crazy gene away from being a bonefide hoarder so I sit on my bed, in a stupor, wishing the task was something more appealing, like sawing off my pinky toe with an emery board. But. It's what needs to be done.

You know what I need? I need your suggestions: Have you listened to any good books on CD lately? Between you and the library, there's hope for me yet.

Please. I'm desperate.

busy as a bee (must be spring)

The sun is out and my windows are open. Can you hear my kids squabbling? It's grating on your nerves, huh?

I'm on it, I swear.

I'm feeling a little lean on the blogside. Lots of ideas; no time to write.

(And not in that 'I'm watching too much crap TV' sort of way.)

We came home from a school event last night and my reader was teeming with posts, ones I'd like to comment on. But then I was lazy and you guessed it, I watched Lost.

I'll eventually get my head above water and stop by your place. I promise.

But my daughter is crying over whether or not Spielberg directed any of the Star Wars movies - or produced or something, wah - and is pondering, aloud, how is he involved, exactly, with the Indiana Jones movie. And she needs to know RIGHTNOW. Pressing, pressing issues for pressing pressing times.

(It's my due, for raising them to be movie freaks like me. Stupid karma.)

So I'm off to solve cinematic debates and then to lunch & a movie with my sister and Mom. (Her mother's day out...)

Hope your weekend is off to a good start.

I didn't catch their take on Lost

I was sitting in a hobbit chair this morning, cutting out laminated book covers for Zack's class when I hear two first grade girls, whispering when they should be reading.

Blonde Piggytails: Um, did you know that An. Ge. Lina. Jol. Lee. is having twins? I think they are gurls.

White Headband: Yeah, but did you know that Jessica Simpson and Ashlee Simpson are sisters?

Blonde Piggytails: How do you know they are sisters?

White Headband: I dunno. Maybe they are entirely different Simpsons. Like Lisa.

Pause. They look over their shoulders at me. Their voices become barely audible.

Blonde Piggytails: Hmmm. I don't know about that. But. I like Ashlee's hair red. It's red now.

White Headband: It's 'cause of the wedding. Brides always do stuff like that.

(And Mrs. Milton wanted to add something about her nosejob, but she thought better of it. The three of us had a lot to do before recess and the sun is finally out.)