New Home Homecoming

Yesterday we went downtown to see the high school homecoming parade. We live in a small mountain town, and our downtown strip is about twenty stores long. It’s actually what we love about this place, the quaintness you seek out on a vacation trip, that we have on a daily basis.

We were alone. Both boys found other activities that interested them more. Even our high schooler decided he didn’t want to be bored to death by a small town parade. He’s still figuring out his place here, so we gave him the room to refuse this obviously high school event. He’s a pretty friendly kid and I predict he will be in the parade next year. But for this year, it was just me and Jeff.

We gave up our folding chairs to a mother and daughter who had come unprepared, and we headed up to the top deck of Little Bear, the old wooden tavern in the middle of town. With no little children in our care there was no need for being close to the potential candy throwing action.

Soon the police cars stopped all traffic and the parade began. The town fire truck came inching down the street, sirens blaring. Little children below us lined up with their newly unpacked Halloween bags, and anxiously waited for the first signs of brightly colored wrappers flying through the air.

They didn’t have to wait long. The parade basically consisted of the school’s marching band, and then a long line of decorated pick up trucks, full of high school kids throwing candy. Every club and team was represented, and each of them came fully loaded with candy. For a half an hour we watched excited little people frantically scurrying around under our second story perch, scooping up handfuls of treats. The funny thing was, the big kids in the parade seemed to be having just as much fun as the little kids on the street. Every handful that flew through the air brought a new round of squeals and delight.

A few times Jeff convinced some of the young men in the truck beds to huck a few treats up our way. He didn’t want the candy. He just wanted to give them a challenge, and most of them accepted it. More than once our group, that lined the top deck rail, got pelted with sugary bullets.

Then it was over. Little kids scooped up the last of their prizes and turned to compare their loot with their siblings and friends. Moms and dads said goodbye to friends they’d found in the crowds and headed back to their cars, arms heavy with lawn chairs.

We’re new in town, so we quietly watched the magic of our small town - friends and neighbors gathering on a sunny day to watch their own, and their friends’ high school kids ride a half a mile down main street, throwing candy to younger siblings and friends.

Everyone went home happy. And Jeff and I wandered off to explore the shops in our new home town.

Letting Loose

It’s been easy to justify not coming to this place. There are lists of things to do, as I’m still setting up insurance and doctors for all six of us, in three different states. There are new deductibles to figure out and paperwork to file. Open Season is on the horizon and, as new folks in this state, there’s even more incentive to review each plan carefully. There’s never an end to the things I could do in a day.

But I had a chance meeting with a blogging mom I’ve never met and her blog inspired me to get back to it. They are in the process of moving too, but she’s been much better about documenting the changes their family is going through. It reminded me of the original point of my blog.

I started my blog as a way to document our life. The adventures we took, the places we discovered, the challenges we met along the way. I also wanted to write down what it’s like, being a mom with a bionic leg. I kept up with this blog for a long time.

Then I started writing the parenting column for the newspaper. It was a ‘real’ deadline, due every Monday. It forced me to think about what was going on in our household, and explain it in an interesting way, in 900 words or less. I started to get lazy, and just relied on the column to be my consistent blog post.

I missed out on writing about a lot of little stuff, stuff that didn’t make it to the paper. I suddenly felt like everything I put on the blog had to be refined and polished. I put off coming here because I felt like I didn’t have time to meet that criteria.

But my new blogging mommy friend reminded me that this is not a formal setting. This is not a column I get paid for. I can write here every day, six times a day, if I want. It can be thoughts off the top of my head, or just an interesting picture. It’s my forum, not a bosses.

So here we go. Back to the original purpose. Today I’m going to write about….hmmmm…..what should I write about?

How about a simple moment that happened last night, in a quiet corner of my son’s bedroom? Sam and I have been reading a book called “Cracker”. It’s about a service dog from the Vietnam War, the kind that were trained to sniff out danger.

Sam picked it from the school library because it had a German Shepherd on the front cover. Oh, and some war scenes. What could be better than dogs and war?

He had saved it for my arrival in Colorado. The first night I was here, back with ‘my boys’, we dove in. It’s a long book, so we’ve been chipping away, chapter by chapter. It’s a wonderful story about a boy who gives his dog to the Army, to be trained as a service dog, and the young soldier who becomes his master. There were many good life lessons in its chapters, as well as history lessons.

The most striking was in the last chapters, that we read last night. The soldier is returning home from war, after almost losing his life in a rice paddy, and the pilot of the plane acknowledges him and his fellow soldiers over the loudspeaker. Then he advises them to change into civilian clothes, before they leave the plane, so as not to stir up conflict.

This was a hard concept for my 10 year old patriotic boy to handle. He lives in a world where people understand that soldiers don’t start the wars, they fight them. His view of the world includes people clapping for men in uniform as they get off planes from far away countries. It was hard for me, emotionally, to read the parts about the reality of a very different time in America. But it was an important thing for my boy to hear about.

During the last battle he had to fight, the young soldier loses his dog in the chaos. He has to live through recovery and rehab, not knowing if his dog survived. It becomes his mission to find him and bring him home.

(Spoiler Alert…) In the last chapters of the book, the dog is found, by a fellow dog handler, and eventually reunited with his own soldier handler. It’s an understatement to say it was an emotional ending.

I generally don’t like to ‘go there’. After my mom died, and I really felt out of control with my emotions, I have held a tighter reign on them. I cry. But not often and rarely in front of my boys. If I let myself analyze it further, it might have something to do with not wanting to start, not knowing how deep the tears might go.

But in recent years I’ve noticed that it’s not just me, and my raw emotions. Most moms are sappy and cry at silly things like book endings and movies. It doesn’t make me out of control. It makes me sensitive and real.

So I plunged on in Sam’s book. I’m embarrassed to say I almost let his dad read him the last few chapters, knowing I could avoid the tears altogether. But dad was helping Sam’s big brother with a biology assignment and the sciences are not my strength.

Within a few pages we were deep in the emotional stuff. But I just took a deep breath and moved on. Then my voice cracked. Sam could see I was feeling the emotions and he was wiping tears from his own eyes. I looked at him and we both broke into laughter, at our weepy selves.

Then we dug through the rest, short chapter after short chapter. I paused when it got hairy and sad, we giggled some at the shared emotions, then we moved on. And we did it. We got to the end and snapped the book closed feeling very satisfied indeed.

I love sharing a deeper book with my boy. There’s a place for Diary of a Wimpy Kid, but sharing a story with fleshed out characters is a real joy. He learned a lot about a part of history he’d never heard about before, a whole legion of dogs who went to the Vietnam War and saved a lot of lives.

And his mama learned to let her hair down a bit, and not be afraid of the tears.

Simple Life

It’s time. I’m back. I have thought about this blog, and how I’ve neglected it, on just about every day that I have ignored it. It’s time to jump back in.

Colorado is wonderful. Just as we knew it would be. The climate. The mountain scenery that greets me when I drive to the small town grocery store. The elk herds that seem to enjoy the grass that grows just outside our back window. The endless list of outdoor activities. The droves of young families I see on trails and in the grocery store, all decked out in Patagonia gear. The high concentration of Jeeps and Subarus, each seeming to be stocked with a token Golden Retriever, Lab, or mix of the two.

My big girl is still back in New York, working two jobs and getting ready to dive back into school. Her brother, my college freshman, is working hard in Utah, loving his aviation program at Westminster College.

So that leaves us with only two kids at home. A fifteen year old who is thrilled that he can get a permit to drive in Colorado, when he would have had to wait until his 16th birthday in New York, and his 10 year old brother, who is counting down the days until he turns 11 next week.

The NY house is still on the market. After almost six months of deep price cuts, we are now over ten grand below what we paid for it. The New York market has tanked, and taken our house with it.

This means we are indefinitely residing in a small temporary condo. It has 800 square feet. Two small bedrooms, a galley kitchen, and a small living/dining area. The boys are surviving in such close quarters because they are seldom home. For hours after school they ride their bikes up the mountain trails nearby, or play with friends from the condo unit. On weekends we explore the Denver area and discover new places to play.

I’ve always said that I’d rather live in a cardboard box with my family near me, than to live in a mansion alone, and I guess I’m being challenged on that proclamation.

And I still say it’s true. I’m practically living it, and it’s true.

All our stuff is still in New York. We are surrounded by only what fit in the minivan on the drive out. Photo boxes, personal files, ski equipment and bikes had to be priority, so that left little room for extras.

Once we got here we bought a lovely, large kitchen table with six chairs at the thrift store. Its top is scratched up (Jeff wisely suggested it had been someone’s craft table) but it does the job. Our home computer is set up on one end of it, we eat dinner and do homework on the other. Best hundred bucks I’ve spent in a long time.

Otherwise, we’re pretty sparse on furniture. We sleep on three mattresses on the floor, and use boxes stacked sideways for a ‘dresser’. The last tenants left an old desk, which works out great for holding the $25 thrift store TV and leaves enough room for Lego building. We found a TV stand by the side of the road and it does the job of a bedside table, separating the boys beds. A small shelving unit, found sitting next to the dumpster, keeps all the kids’ school papers in order.

That’s it. The place is pretty empty, beyond the basic clothes, shoes and little bit of personal effects the boys brought with them. But it’s kind of nice. I have to say, I don’t really miss the stuff yet.

Life is very streamlined. It takes 15 minutes to ‘pick up the house’. The whole house. Vacuuming is finished in 7 minutes. There is virtually no dusting to be done. I have no bookcases full of books, or shelves with knick knacks. Everything in this house is here deliberately. It’s needed and used on a regular basis, or it wouldn’t have made the cut.

I have the luxury of knowing all that junk I care about is still out there. The tub with my mom’s personal effects, that I’ve moved around the country with me since she died. The box of journals from my childhood. The brass musical statues I adore, that have their place on a specific bookshelf. My dozens (hundreds?) of ‘favorite’ books. It all still exists and will be reunited with us some day.

But for now life is really simple. Peacefully and wonderfully simple. To keep the bills low, while we support two house payments, we’ve only signed up for internet service. No land line. No cable. The TV is used for occasional video games and our Friday night Red Box movies (when we stack the two single mattresses against the wall, line it with pillows, and pretend it’s our couch). Hulu gives us occasional episodes of favorite TV shows.

Have I mentioned that despite the temporary-ness of our situation, we’re all really content?

The boys have their basic needs met. Now that mom is back in their time zone, they have regular hot meals and clean laundry continues to show up in their cardboard box dressers. They get lots of fresh air, lots of exercise, lots of new experiences with new friends. There is no lawn to mow, leaves to rake or household chores to take up their free time.

Hubby loves his job. Now that he’s not worried about being the sole parent to two boys adjusting to a new life in a new state, he gets to ‘just’ do his job well. He is making his mark in his new office and seems relaxed when he shares stories of the adventures of his days. It’s really, really good to see.

And me. I have not shaken the feeling that we’re on a perpetual vacation. The slim living conditions remind me of the months we’ve spent living at a Residence Inn, on other cross country moves. Life was always pretty streamlined in those months too. A lot of my ‘mom’ responsibilities were condensed. If it weren’t for the fact the cleaning staff doesn’t show up every morning, I’d almost believe we were back at the Residence Inn.

And how can you not feel like you’re on vacation, when you live in a place where many people do spend their holiday hours and money? Just about every time I’ve driven home from the grocery store, and come over one certain rise in the road, where the valley is laid out beneath you and the mountains rise up in a different majestic fashion depending on the day’s cloud patterns and sunshine, I suck in my breath and think, ‘And I live here…’.

We’ve found amazing bike parks and endless bike paths in several parts of Denver and the surrounding area. We’ve driven mountain roads, pausing for wildlife to slowly cross, in their own time. We’ve laughed a lot, as we’ve had time to be with each other a lot, and share our family sense of humor. We’re moving quickly into ski season, where we hope to get season passes to the small mountain just 30 minutes up the road, and maybe sneak in a few hours on the slope before dinner some weeknights. The list is long, of other areas we want to explore and friends we want to visit all over the state.

Someday we’ll have a house. Someday we’ll have our flat screen TV back on the wall, with football games roaring out of it every Sunday afternoon (boy, do I miss that!) Someday we will all have room to spread out, and be surrounded by the things that we love. But in the meantime, we’re not suffering.

We’re doing everyday life things. Going to school. Going to work. Attending teacher conferences. Buying groceries. Making dinner. Doing laundry.

But it’s all streamlined. It all feels much more simple. I have to admit - I’m really liking this vacation lifestyle.

Finding Home

It all looked very manageable on paper. Once the reality hit, that our ‘recession story’ would include how we couldn’t seem to sell the house in New York, so we could move to Colorado, we knew it was time to make new plans. The school year was looming and our two youngest needed to be out there, in our new hometown, so they could jump in on time. The only answer was that I deposit them in an apartment with dad and fly back to New York to continue selling the house.

The plan made perfect sense in theory.

But theory doesn’t always take into account emotions. Emotions like ten year olds missing their mamas and mamas missing being a part of the family.

A good friend reassured me, back in early August, that it might be a good time for me. With long stretches of time alone in our empty house, I could dig up my old writing projects. I’d have time to scan the 26 boxes of print photos into the computer. I could get to the gym every day, no excuses. I put out of my head the sad parts of leaving my family out west, and concentrated on these optimistic ideas.

Almost three weeks ago I flew back from Colorado and stepped into this quiet life in our vacant house. The first weekend I was home we weathered a major storm named Irene. Her wrath left us with a huge fallen pine tree in the yard and lots of unused, stockpiled flashlight batteries. The tree was cut up and hauled off into the woods by wonderful neighbors, then it was time for real life to start again.

It was weird, being alone, as I thought it would be. I jumped on the to do list, thinking I’d wrap up the not so fun stuff, like organizing bills and getting the house ready for showings, and then I could dive into my personal projects. Day after day went by and the list never seemed to shrink. People kept asking me, ‘So, are you bored?....What do you do all day?’ It was a tough question to answer.

Because it’s not as easy as just crossing things off a list. I’m living a long distance life and it’s more complicated than I ever imagined. I’m staying in touch with a son who is new to college in Utah. I’m doing my best to help him find the resources he needs to get settled in that new life on campus. I’m setting up services, cable, internet, electricity, for my gang, from 2000 miles away. I’m figuring out our new insurance plans, and whether they really will cover all of us, spread out in three states. I’m cleaning out files, so when the moving truck comes later, we won’t be hauling unnecessary paperwork with us. As soon as I cross one thing off the list, two more are added.

And I spend a lot of my time coaching from long distance. I start the day with texts, and sometimes phone calls, from a ten year old who doesn’t like this new set up. He’s loving his school, loving the new friends, loving the fact his front yard is often filled with Elk in the mornings…but not loving the fact his family unit is fractured.

He’s only known a two parent, nuclear family. He’s only known a mom and dad who generally get along pretty well and enjoy being together. He’s only known being the little guy in a big family, living in the center of fun chaos that having teen siblings can bring. Our family has moved four times in his life. People used to ask me how he adapted so well. My standard answer was simple. Sam’s home is where his family is. It has never mattered to him if he woke up in a big house in Utah or a small room at the Motel 6. If the people he loved surrounded him, he was happy. He was home.

These days he’s waking up in a tiny temporary condo in Colorado, by himself. Dad has left early to catch the bus for work down in the valley. Big brother has showered and left for high school. He’s on his own. Oh, he’s old enough to dress himself and make his own oatmeal. He’s old enough to turn off all the lights and lock the door behind him when he leaves for school. He’s old enough. He just doesn’t like it.

For the five years we lived in New York, Sam and I had breakfast together every morning before school. We had a routine. He fed the dog while I made breakfast. We sat on the couch, watching the Today Show as we spooned the warm oatmeal into our mouths. When it was time for the bus we hugged and high fived and he headed down the driveway. I’d stand at the front window and wave to him, and his wonderful bus driver. Then, as the bus pulled away, my day started.

Sam misses that routine stuff so desperately. Dad’s doing the best he can, as a single dad for the first time in his life. He’s loving and patient. He jumps into kid management the second he walks in the door at night. Dinner to make, school stories to be listened to. Papers to sign. Homework to supervise. The only time he gets to himself in the course of a day is the 30 minute bus ride to and from work, hemmed in by strangers. Dad’s doing his best for Sam.

But Dad’s just not Mom.

When the texts started coming late at night, saying, “But mom, I miss you….but mom, I need you…when will I see you again?” and I knew he was texting me under his covers, when he was supposed to be going to sleep, I knew something had to change.

His big brother, the only other child we have left at home at this point, is adapting well. He isn’t crazy about his new school, but only because it’s school, and not anything like riding mountain trails on his bike, which is his first love. He’s made good friends and often texts me pictures of all the wildlife they are surrounded by. If he’s not off on his mountain bike, he’s hanging out at the skate park on his BMX bike. Colorado fits him pretty well.

But once Sam started to struggle, I realized I was struggling a bit inside as well. From the time I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be a mommy. And for the past twenty years I’ve lived out my dream. It’s not always easy and some days they nearly drove me crazy, but down deep, I’m happiest when I’m mothering someone.

As we began to discuss the option of me joining the family in Colorado, and selling the house long distance, it opened up new ideas to me. I started to think more about what I could do there, with them, than all the great projects I could be working on here.

I’m sure they are surviving just fine, as three bachelors on their own. But I miss adding the personal touches that only a mom usually does.

A long time ago I heard Dr. Phil’s wife say she told him, early in their marriage, “If you work hard to make a good living, I’ll work hard to make our living good.” That comment struck something in me. I know it sounds very sexist to a lot of modern women these days. But to me, it’s not about feeling like I have to be barefoot and pregnant while the big strong man takes care of me.

I have my interests and my strengths, outside of this family. I love being in the classroom and I love every one of my writing projects. But the times I’m feeling the most balanced in life is when I have some time for my interests, but also plenty of time to nurture the people I love and these four miracles I’m lucky enough to parent. I actually enjoy keeping this household running smoothly. I love the fact that my children come home to a (mostly) peaceful space because mom’s been there, keeping the balls in the air.

I love making their living good.

What I crave, right now, is a chance to add the mom touches to my boys in Colorado. I want to wipe down that bathroom sink every morning, knowing that if I’m not there, it will be cleaned only when it’s got a week’s worth of toothpaste stuck to the edges. I want to throw a festive autumn tablecloth over the kitchen table, to add a spark of color to the all white space they are living in. I want them to walk up the stairwell to our condo unit, breathe in deeply, and wonder where that amazing smell is coming from, only to open our door to find it’s coming from home. From their home.

I want to sit on the back balcony with them at the end of the day and hear the rambling stories, about how they saw this really sick bike at the skate park or how stupid their English teacher is because he expects them to read (read!) a whole book by next week. I want them to find clean, fresh smelling clothes, in their closets. I want to set up the family calendar spot so we never forget the night we were supposed to go sign up to play in the band or what time the ice cream social is next weekend.

I’m sitting here in New York, missing the good stuff.

Ironically, it’s the stuff that can make a mom feel unappreciated. That thought has not escaped me. How many times have I loaded the dishwasher, grumbling to myself that I wouldn’t have to be doing it if the child in charge of that chore hadn’t left the house and forgotten? How many times have I wished that the never ending stories, especially the ones about dreams, would just finally…end? How many times have I thought to myself, “If I could just get a minute of peace and quiet….’?

Now I have the quiet.

But I don’t have the peace.

Because deep in my heart, I’m a mom. And the dog is getting tired of being my only mothering project. I’m needed by my offspring. One is very aware of his need, the other won’t realize he needs me until I’m out there, making his dinner so he doesn’t have to.

My new goal is to get to my family. Get this house wrapped up and get on the road. It’s time for us to start this new chapter of our life. Together.

It’s time to be a family again.

Trusty Rusty Girl

We had no intention of buying a van. We just weren't 'minivan people'. There was no category of 'crossover' when we welcomed our third child into the family, so we were determined to stick with our trusty Mazda sedan.

It had a wide back seat, after all. And it drove so beautifully. We'd bought it when we were first married and it had many good trip memories associated with it. We had no trouble turning our noses up at the minivan converts and happily strapping three car seats across our one back seat.

Then our third baby got sick. Like weeks in the hospital and they don't know what's wrong sick. And one day, as I rocked him quietly in the corner of his hospital room, his daddy showed up and looked shaken. I thought maybe he'd run into our baby's doctor in the hall, and knew something I didn't about a diagnosis. But it had nothing to do with our son.

It had to do with my husband's drive to the hospital. As he sat at a light, that had just turned green, the van in front of him pulled into the intersection and was immediately T-boned by a red light runner. The damage was extensive. Fortunately no children were in the minivan, but it was a graphic reality check for my husband.

"If there had been a kid in that second seat, he'd probably have been okay," he told me. "But what if I had been the one in that intersection? What if our children had been lined up across our back seat? Whoever's car seat was on that side wouldn't have a chance. They're just too vulnerable."

That night, seeing how shaken my safety conscious husband was, I dropped my reservations and had that discussion with him. Maybe it was time to break down, for the sake of our kids, and take the minivan plunge.

Fortunately, baby was diagnosed and bounced back to health quicker than we could have dreamed would be possible. Four months later, we were on a car lot, pricing vans.

It was the end of the year. Practically the last day of the year. The dealer was ready to unload the last of his old year models. We weren't picky. We just needed something safe and something affordable.

And then we saw Ruby.

Shiny red, the kind of red they put on sports cars. Maybe it was her way of letting us know it was okay to get behind her wheel. She seemed to be promising us a compromise, her sports car color, for our dive into mediocrity.

She had no bells or whistles. She was the last on the lot. No tinted windows. No cruise control. No automatic seats. Not even power windows. She might be the only car our kids have ever seen that has crank windows.

The only perk she had was the second sliding door, which was a brand new idea in 1996. It was something we would have never asked for, but have adored since the day we took her home. It's much easier for hoards of kids to pile out of a minivan, when there are exits on each side.

The first time I drove her I was amazed by how much I could SEE! There were windows everywhere! And I loved how high I sat as we drove down the highway. No more cruising around 'down below'. I could practically see truckers in the eye. She won me over pretty quickly, and that was before I realized just how handy those extra cup holders could be.

And then we were hooked. Our many family trips, especially those that involved crossing many states to see Grammy on the East coast, were so much more comfortable. We never worried about her breaking down. She was our only vehicle for years, as my husband took the bus to work, then the metro, after we moved to Washington D.C.

And now we've owned her for 15 years. She's taken us almost 200K miles. She's been registered in four states. As long as I keep her pampering days down at 'the shop' scheduled, she never lets me down.

Eight years ago we bought her a companion. This time we got a few more upgrades (gotta love those power windows and window tints!) but stuck with the same company, and the same model. We're suckers for reliability, especially when it comes in spite of the hardship of hauling four children around.

Soon I will leave her behind, as I leave NY without her. She's just too elderly to make the trip. I'll find her a nice home before I go. But as much as she's worn out, and doesn't really smell all that great anymore, I have to tell you, it won't be an easy goodbye.

Ruby has seen our family through many stages of life. Her padded ceiling has absorbed our laughter and her cloth seats have been moistened by our tears. She's been privy to serious conversations, the kind that last long after you've parked in the driveway, but aren't quite done yet. She's cradled my children, from car seats to lap belts. Three of them have learned to drive behind her wheel.

And then there's the story that my boys swear is true, about an old Krispy Kreme donut that was placed (NINE years ago) deep in the storage bin behind one of the back seats. They say it was left there,'just to see what would happen to it'. I've never been brave enough to look myself, but I've witnessed several tours, given to my boys' friends, and the "EWWWW....!"s that followed, lead me to believe the story is true.

She's a ragged old beauty. She has a glitch in her electrical system that causes her wipers to come on randomly. You just have to be aware, so it doesn't scare you half to death, on perfectly sunny days. Every so often her interior lights will blink on their own and the 'you left your lights on' bell will ding and ding until she's gotten it out of her system. It's not a problem. Old people can be persnickety sometimes too.

But anyone who's owned an old truck (or a trusty old minivan) will understand. Sometimes love and loyalty comes from years and years of always being there when it mattered. Always taking us to new places, always protecting us on endless highways.

Ruby's seen a whole lot of this country. She is a part of our family, almost as much as our dog. But in just a few weeks I will have to say my goodbye. Just as I've done for a decade and a half, I'll tap her dashboard and tell her what a good girl she is. I'll tell her how much we appreciate her service and how stories will be told for years to come, about adventures that happened because she took us there.

Ruby was the van that wasn't supposed to be. She wasn't flashy or exciting. She wasn't the sports car I think she dreamed of being. But she was just the thing we needed, at just the right time.

Goodbye old girl. We may replace you with something fancier, in our new life in Colorado. But we'll never forget you. You grew up with our family.

You were definitely a part of us.

A Vanload of Birthday

This picture was taken on my husband's birthday. No, it's not gifts for him. In fact, he didn't even get a card this year.

What he did get was a van full of supplies, the kinds of things you buy for your young adult child when they finally get their first apartment. A mop, a broom, laundry detergent, bath soap, a box of plates, a dozen glasses, four towels, two wash cloths, a large box of Cheerios, and six cans of Ravioli.

Oh, and a lot more than that. You might not be able to tell, but there are three children in that van too.

This was the day we signed the lease for the tiny temporary condo my husband and boys will share until our house in NY sells. They had to get set up in something beyond an extended stay hotel, so the boys could qualify to enter school two days later.

We lucked out and found a great, clean little place right across the street from both of the boys' schools. They don't even have to worry about catching a bus.

But the condo came with nothing but a nice back porch and a half a roll of TP in the bathroom. We had to stock it from scratch. Which is hard to do, mentally, when you know you have ALL of those supplies 'back home', in the house that is not selling.

But we sucked it up and grabbed two carts as we walked into our new Colorado Wal Mart. And a few hours later, the condo was ready for life.

The ironic thing about this picture, to me, is that we dropped our oldest son off at college just 24 hours later and never did this kind of shopping trip for him. He's in a tiny dorm room and really didn't need much beyond a few towels and a good desk lamp.

Something just feels backward in the universe, when the big 'stocking the apartment' trip is not for the 18 year old child. It's for his dad.

On his 45th birthday. Happy Birthday to you, sweetie.

Photographic Moments

When I see this picture I feel love. That's my dad, the tall guy on the far right. I've always been confident in how much my dad loved me and it allowed me to feel secure enough to go out into the world and find my own way. I understand that not all girls are so lucky.

When I see this picture I feel awe. Deep inside of me there's still a little girl who dreamed of becoming a mommy. More than planning a dream wedding, or finding my prince, my grown up goals revolved around having little people to love and nurture. Some days it's hard to comprehend that these tall boys are the gift I dreamed of all those years ago. Along with their sister, they have been a joy to raise. I'm in awe of their presence in my life, as well as how quickly they passed me in height.

When I see this picture, as much as I don't want it to be true, I feel longing. The person missing in this picture is my mom. She died when my oldest son was barely a toddler. She never knew about my last two babies, and didn't get to see what incredibly nice kids all four of her grand babies turned out to be. Everyone in her hometown would have known their names. She had just started her campaign to show their pictures to every person she knew, when she was swiftly taken away from us.

When I see this picture I miss her spirit. I miss the excitement she beamed every time I walked in the door. I miss the way she joyously called out my name every time I came home from college for a visit. It was like we hadn't seen each other in years. She rejoiced at my mere presence in the room.

And now I miss hers.

If she had lived she wouldn't be standing next to my dad. She'd be perched in the middle of my sons, who would all be taller than her at this point. Her smile would make a camera's flash unnecessary. She knew how to love with all her heart and she would have showered it on my kids.

My step mother is a wonderful woman. She so kindly took this picture. She takes amazing care of my dad. He'll live an extra decade because she looks after him so well. She couldn't be more loving, to me and to my children. But the reality that she understands, is that she's not my mom. She's my dad's wife, a role she handles quite well.

When I see this picture I see three boys I love being with and a dad I don't see nearly enough. I see myself, smiling for the camera, because I was truly happy to be in that spot, at that moment, surrounded by people I love. But back behind my smile there is a bit of heartache.

Because even after 17 years, when I see a picture like this, she's still missing.