Finding Peace in Sadness

The recent shootings in CT will bring back painful memories to many people. Hundreds of people in Aurora Colorado, just down the hill from my home, will have flashbacks as they relive the horror of the night their movie theater was terrorized, and their friends and neighbors lost their lives. Farther south in my state, many families in Columbine will once again relive the horror of their own high school massacre, 13 years ago, and remember the ones they lost that day. Many others will carry the trauma of their experiences with them for the rest of their days.

Like most moms across the country, I couldn't control the tears when I heard about the room full of kindergartners who died yesterday. It's really too much for a brain to comprehend and my heart goes out to that community, who will be in the process of burying their loved ones for weeks to come. When your child dies, it's already a nightmare. When you have to arrange your child's funeral around those of 17 of her classmates, it's too awful for words.

But the moment I really lost it, the picture that struck my heart with physical pain, was the picture that showed up on the front page of my Denver Post today. I briefly saw it on the news reports yesterday but never let my eye rest on it. It's a picture of a line of children, hands on each other's shoulders, being led across the parking lot by a very calm and composed police officer. Their teachers follow behind, getting directions from another officer. A little girl in a blue shirt seems to be weeping, lost in the anguish of the situation.

This picture hit me so deeply because it took me back to a time when a gun in the community rocked my own world and put my children at risk. We had just moved to the Washington D.C. area and were settling in nicely when the sniper started shooting. For three weeks we heard constant reports about who had been shot and where they thought he might be headed next. Several locations were very close to our house.

We locked ourselves inside, ordering groceries to be delivered, paying the delivery man an extra tip for risking his life. Doctor's appointments were cancelled. There was no fort building in the back yard, which faced the woods. Every errand that was necessary found me sitting at stop lights, eyeing the perimeter, watching for any spot a sniper could be hiding.

But the hardest part of the equation was keeping my children safe. At the time, my children were 10, 9, 6 and almost 2. Three of them attended school. Not knowing how long the sniper attacks would last, they couldn't be kept home from school. Instead we had to adapt. I made them wait until the bus showed up on our street, then let them make a dash for its wide doors. Once they got home, we found indoor games to play, and tried not to let them see the TV news, with the latest report of the sniper's last kill.

In a parent-teacher conference that fall my son's teacher told me something that made me weep when I got home. She told us that she was doing all she could to keep our son safe. His class met in a trailer that required an outside walk to get to the main school. Their playground was surrounded by woods, which officials were telling us was the sniper's favorite hiding place. My son's teacher was a first year teacher and her greatest fear was that one of her kids would be hurt while under her care. She took her job very seriously. So, it turns out, every time she was required to take them on the 30 yard walk from their classroom to the main building, she'd made up a game they could play.

It was called 'Dance Club'. Once in their orderly line, their teacher told them that to get across the courtyard they were all required to bob and weave and do their best dance moves. She presented it like a fun, silly game, to get their wiggles out. In reality she was doing her best to keep them from being shot in the head.

One of the other tips we were getting from officials was 'not to be a good target'. Never stand still outdoors, especially near wooded areas. I later learned my husband often 'danced' around while waiting on his subway platform at certain stations. He never stood still, and most of the commuters around him did the same.

On the ride home from school that day I couldn't stop picturing the line of 9 year olds, my son in the middle, dodging and weaving, every time they had to make the short hike to the lunchroom and music class. The scene that most likely resembled the picture on the front of my newspaper today. And I could almost sense the way their pretty young teacher held her breath, until the last one ducked into the school's back door. 

It reminded me of the pressure she was under to keep a whole classroom of children safe. I sat at home, worried about their safety under my care, thankful when they were 'safe' at school, not taking into account what it took to keep them safe at school. My son's teacher, fresh out of college and eager to make her mark in the world, had the lives and futures of 28 young children on her shoulders every single day. If something happened to one of her students, she would be living with it for the rest of her life.

Throw in a sniper who just might be setting up his gun in the woods behind her classroom and I have to wonder if she ever slept more than two hours during that three week period.

I went home from that teacher conference and wept. I wept for my babies, who deserved to live in a world where they could go outside to play and not fear being executed. I  wept for a school full of professionals who took my child's safety very seriously. Teachers, many with children of their own to worry about, who go to school every day and not only worry about each child's academic level, but is ready to defend his life if necessary. And I wept with gratitude for my son's teacher, who not only made up a clever diversion that could have saved his life, but presented it to him as a game, so he never even knew he was in danger.

Way too many lives were lost yesterday. Teachers, school professionals, and way too many little children who were still counting down the days to Santa's visit. 

But the professionals in that school did everything they could to protect every single life they could. I wouldn't be surprised if we find out soon that individual adults lost their lives solely because they were trying to save the lives of those around them.

Whoever turned on the intercom, so that every teacher, in every classroom, could know there was evil inside the school walls and do whatever they had to, to protect their students, saved countless more lives. The death toll, as horrific as it is, could have been higher.

This is why I will not be afraid to send my children back to school on Monday. Because I know I am sending them into a place filled with teachers and staff who would do anything they had to, to keep them safe. We can talk about making new security rules, installing metal detectors, having more safety meetings...but when it comes down to facts, I believe in the adults who surround my sons when they are in school, and know they care about more than what his GPA happens to be.

There will be another school shooting in the future. That's the reality of this world we live in. It might be soon, it might be in five years. But the odds that my child will be in that school are slim. If I really think about the odds of my child being killed in school, the statistics tell me to worry more about their car ride home from school. If I pair the odds of them being shot by a lone gunman with the fact that they are immersed in a protective environment when they enter those school hallways, I can send them to school with peace in my heart.

Our family has personally felt the terror of a bad guy's gun in our community. Every story of another shooting will touch us deeply. But what I can do today, to keep myself from sitting in another pile of tears, is to pray for the grieving families, maybe send a little more money to the Red Cross, and say a second prayer of thanks, for the teachers who saved lives yesterday and the teachers who would save my sons' lives in an instant, if they were called to action.

Willing Helpers

I was pulling out of the driveway, on my way to take our poodle to Sam’s class for a pet share time. He’d been collecting extra points at school all year, to earn this right to share his fluffy companion with his entire class. We’d spent way too much time the night before, deciding which bandana she should wear around her neck, when she made her big debut.

The time was set and I organized my whole day around being home and ready to load the dog into the van at the correct time.

She hasn’t gone on errands with us in a long time. She’s what I call a ‘Nervous Nelly’. She doesn’t like to be left in the car alone, and the stopping and starting at traffic lights always throws her around a bit too much, making her flash us those pitiful sad eyes. But, for some reason, she still likes the idea of riding in the car, and will often wait by the door if someone in the house seems to be preparing to leave.

She easily crawled in, when I offered her a trip in the middle of the afternoon.



Isaac was just getting off the school bus, at the end of the driveway, so I waited an extra second, to see if my animal loving high schooler might like to join me on the adventure. As usual, he was game, with a quick, “Sure!” and an eager smile.

We made it down to the main stoplight in our tiny town without incident. One of the bucket seats was still in the moving truck, so there was a wide open place right behind the front passenger’s seat. It worked well for Kylie, except for the occasional problem with getting her feet stuck in the deep tracks on the floor, where the seats click into the floor of the van.

The light turned green and I accelerated, in hindsight, maybe a bit too quickly.

Kylie went rolling to the back of the van, coming up to rest against the edge of the back seat. Isaac and I threw apologies at her, with our best, reassuring voices. She tried to come toward us, and once again got her feet briefly stuck in the seat tracks. I looked back to see her in a full squat, relieving herself in a big way.

“Oh Isaac,” I said calmly, “She’s now peeing…”

The tone of my voice threw him off. He casually looked behind his seat, then promptly panicked. “MOM! She’s peeing!”

There was nothing we could do, no place to pull over on our little town road, with rocky cliffs where a shoulder might be. So we just let her finish.

Fortunately, some irresponsible child had left a bath towel in the van a few days earlier, and we threw it over the large wet spot on the carpet, to keep our fluffy poodle from sitting in it, and soaking it up, right before she went to snuggle with 23 fifth graders.

Somewhat seriously, but mostly joking, Isaac turned to me and said, “I am never helping you with one of these projects again..”

We arrived at school and quickly pulled Kylie out of the van. We still had to tie the bandana around her neck, and time was slipping by - we were almost late. I knew Sam would be counting down every second after 3:10 that we were not there.

We made our way across the ice covered parking lot, our old dog working hard to keep up. We made it halfway up the sidewalk in front of the elementary school when she stopped and proceeded to squat. That’s her new geriatric trick - relieving her bowels when she’s scared or nervous. But we just didn’t have time.

“Isaac! Don’t let her squat, and she won’t poop!” I figured that since it wasn’t her normal bathroom time (right after meals), she didn’t really need to go. Maybe we could get her to just walk it off.

It didn’t help the situation at all that there was a large class of second graders coming out one of the side doors, scurrying right toward us, as they made their way to the playground. People generally stop for our dog. She’s old and slow and those fluffy curls that pile up on top of her head tend to grab attention. Almost every one of the seven year olds decided to stop and point. Isaac and I, and our squatting dog, instantly became the center ring circus act.

More and more I was feeling our tardiness and could just imagine a heart broken Sam, staring longingly at the classroom door, wondering if his mom had forgotten his big day with his special show and tell.

I’m ashamed to admit that these words came out of my mouth, “Isaac, just pull her toward you. Maybe it will make her walk..”

But I am apparently not qualified to tell any dog when they do, and do not have to empty their bowels. She was not giving up. His tugging only placed us within 20 feet of the school’s front door, but did not change our situation in the slightest way. She was still determined to squat.

“You stay here, and see if she can just finish, and I’ll go sign us in and see if I can find a plastic bag.”

Again, this time with more seriousness than joking, Isaac repeated, “I am never helping you with one of these projects again…”

I rushed inside, turned the corner, and entered the school’s main office. Of course what I found there was the entire office staff, and assorted parents and their children, crowded around the front window, pointing and asking, “Who’s dog is that, pooping on the sidewalk in front of the school?”

I was briefly thankful that Isaac couldn’t see his audience.

Hoping it was better just to be up front, I raised my hand and announced, “That’s my dog, who is supposed to be in a fifth grade classroom right now. Does anyone have a plastic bag, by chance?”

Colorado is a very dog friendly state (there is one in just about every car you pass on the road), so I was met with mostly sympathetic faces, when the crowd turned around. The secretary came up with a Walmart bag, I signed us in, and then rushed back out to see what progress Isaac (and Kylie) had made.

As it turns out, not much. She had half pooped, meaning the sad little effort that had emerged was just hanging out, causing her to waddle, with her butt almost touching the ground, in even more nervous circles on the sidewalk.

“Just take her in the grass...” I suggested. This was a good plan, if we didn’t still have a foot of snow left on the ground. The only clear place was a tiny spot under a decorative tree in the center of the snow field. Isaac encouraged her verbally, then was forced to (once again) half drag his dog, who was stuck in a permanent squat (this time through snow).

Even from thirty feet away, trying to block our show with my body, from the growing audience in the main office, I swear I could hear Isaac muttering, “I’m never, EVER, going to help her with her projects, ever again…”



Finally, finally, after ten thousand more circles, the entire effort hit the tiny patch of grass. Isaac bravely scooped it up with the plastic bag, and we were on our way.

To get to the main classroom hallway, you have to walk through the office. We bravely burst through the door, said our quick thank yous for the plastic bag donation, and made our way to the fifth grade rooms.

We made it in time. Fortunately, Language Arts time ran long, and Sam never even knew we’d been delayed. Isaac, still somewhat smiling, bless his 15 year old, dog lovin’ heart, got Kylie decked out in a perfectly tied bandana scarf, and we handed her leash over to Sam, who proudly paraded her in front of his class.

In a sign of the times, about 15 cell phones came out of desks, and soon our nervous puppy was basking in a twisted version of fifth grade paparazzi. Sam’s friends asked questions and couldn’t get enough of his curly headed dog. She performed like a trooper (as nervous as she is, she loves attention), and soon the final school bell rang.



At some point, in the middle of Kylie’s big debut, Isaac informed me that he’d dropped the bag of dog poo in the office trash can, as we’d hurried through. I was horrified. It was bad enough we defaced the front of the school, but to leave them our treasure just didn’t seem right.



So on the way back to the car we detoured through the office once again. I stuck my hand into that large metal can, and came up with a heavy plastic bag. One of the secretaries was passing by and, to explain why I was digging in her trash barrel, I told her we were retrieving our treasure, and taking it home with us.

She laughed and said, “Ohh….that explains it! We all started looking around at each other, wondering who’d ‘done it’, a few minutes ago…” Leave it to us to be the catalyst for an office wide secretary finger pointing fest.

We made it to the car, with only a dozen kids stopping us to ask if they could pet our dog. Then we were home, and Isaac got to relive his horrors as he told every family member he could find. He was hoping for any extra points he could get, and instead he got a lot of laughs from his siblings, and yes, even his dad.

Something about the way he glowed that night, as he told his story over and over, convinced me that maybe I still have hope. Someday soon, when I need a helper once again, for one of my crazy projects, Isaac will still say yes.

To my kid who loves to be the family clown, all the extra laughs he got after telling his tale just might be worth something. Hopefully worth more than the humiliation he felt, holding the leash of a squatting dog, in the middle of an elementary school sidewalk, right in front of his brother’s school.

Fragile Hearts

Of course I got the email on Valentine’s Day. I’m sure the person who sent it didn’t mean to stir up a kettle full of emotions. She was just sharing her heart. And it touched mine in one of its deepest places, on this day that revolves around hearts.

Her name is Mrs. Knowles. She pleads with me to call her ‘Marie’, but when I was a child, she was one of the moms in our church. No matter how old I get, it’s hard to address her in such an informal way. I’ve just recently found her, through connections on Facebook, of course. After we became online friends, she offered to read my book manuscript. I’m always open to new eyes, so I promptly sent it to her.

In the course of our conversations about the manuscript, she’s become very special to me. Her encouraging words give me a lift that only a mom’s words can. A long time ago, when I was a very young child, she was one of my mom’s good friends. We all lived on the same street and my mom did normal friends things with her - shared a cup of coffee, talked about their kids.

Then we moved out to the country, about the time I started school, and started taking in foster children. My mom no longer saw her friends beyond waving to them across the aisle at church. There were always weeds to pull in the garden, endless loads of laundry to do for as many as 14 kids at a time. She lost her social circle.

But it turns out they never forgot her. Mrs. Knowles was at the hospital the night my mom was brought in after suffering a stroke. The new pastor of the church had called her for support, since he was still getting to know all of the church’s members. Mrs. Knowles recalls wanting so desperately to try to get across to him how special my mom was.

Because she remembers my mom as a friend first. Not as the woman with the van full of kids.

On Valentine’s Day she sent me an email about the manuscript, and added a paragraph in the middle about my mom. Personal stories and reflections about what a good friend she was, and how heartbroken she was when my mom died.

It touched me deeply. My mom died 17 years ago. It was devastating to me to lose her when I was still in my mid 20s. I wallowed through the grief and life went on, as it tends to do. Now that so many years have passed, I sometimes feel like all I have left are my own scattered memories, which tend to get more fuzzy, the older I get.

Occasionally an old friend who is my own age (usually one I’ve found through Facebook) shares a memory with me. Something my mom did that they remember, or snapshots of her warm, loving character.

But for some reason Mrs. Knowles’s walk down memory lane touched me deeply. I so rarely hear about her from people who knew her as ‘Jane’, not just ‘Mrs. Johnson’. This is someone who knew my mom’s heart at one time. This is someone who had a grown up relationship with her; the kind that I so craved to have once I was a mom myself. But then she was gone.

Mrs. Knowles provide me with something more valuable than gold. She gave me an intimate look back at this woman I longed to know better. The details of her stories are so tender and loving that they force me to go back to that place, the place where I let myself think about the fact she’s gone, and all that I’ve missed in the past 17 years.

One of the memories Mrs. Knowles shares is of how my mom was so creative and crafty. I’d forgotten that side of her. In the years of my growing up she was distracted and busy. But even then she always made a point of having a latch hook rug set up on a card table, for any of us to stop and work on if the mood inspired. She sewed many of our clothes, and year after year taught the kids in our 4-H club about basic sewing techniques. Then, in the few years she had after all of the foster children were gone, and her own had left the nest, she made western style bolos and key chains out of colorful beads.

I have a couple of them, tucked in a box of special memories I have of her. I cradle them in my hands, taking comfort in the fact her hands also touched them, and crafted them, once upon a time.

I read the email from Mrs. Knowles, then a minutes later found myself in my kitchen, gearing up to make dinner. A long chain of construction paper valentines dangled in front of the sliding glass door. Special decorations I made to help my children know how much I love them on this, and every Valentine’s Day. As the sun reflected off the twirling pink paper, tears fell down my cheeks.

She was crafty. I am crafty. It’s yet another way I still carry on her legacy.

My siblings and I each miss her in our own ways, according to our own relationships with her. I sometimes feel like I was the most like her. I have an endlessly deep heart for anyone who is suffering. I would adopt every orphan child on the planet if I had the resources. I love nothing more than being home, taking care of my family. I am so like her that it makes me miss her, in a way that I feel I’m still a part of her - and she of me.

I look for any way I can these days, to feel close to her. It gets harder and harder as the years put so much time between today and the last time I shared her company. But treasures like the single paragraph in a simple email do a world of good. They bring tears, but not unnecessary tears. Large wet droplets of gratitude and love…longing and grief.

Thank you, Mrs. Knowles. Your gift to me on this special Valentine’s Day will be remembered for a very long time. I’ll re-read your words, a hundred more times, and every single time they will bring me relief.

Tears, yes.

But also much, much relief. So much more than you’ll ever know.



.

New Beginnings...Again

It was chaotic. It was crazy. There was one moment, in a Taco Bell bathroom, where I said things into a cell phone that I’d love to take back. But in the end, it all came together and we’re in. We’re finally in a house, a home, a place where we’ll make some wonderful new memories in the years to come.

After almost a year of house selling details and drama, we no longer carry a mortgage. For the first time in a very long time, we don’t own a home. But after all we’ve been through this past year, we’re pretty okay with that.

This place we’ve found is laid out perfectly for our needs. It’s located perfectly for our daily activities. It’s right in the middle of the town we want to call home for the next few decades. And if the water heater breaks at 2 am on a Saturday morning, it’s not our problem.

Everyone has a bedroom. After sharing two tiny bedrooms, in that microscopic 800 sq foot condo for the past seven months, there is finally a chance to be by yourself. It’s something we’ve all craved for a long time. And yet, Jeff and I saw this coming; we will always kind of miss the togetherness that the tiny condo imposed upon us.



Yes, there were more snips and unnecessary comments made to siblings, just because there was too much shared space. But there were also many nights of what I like to call ‘summer camp fun’. Our accommodations felt so much like bunking at summer camp, that the usual antics that arise in such a setting were common.

There were several nights that our patient cat was wrapped in a ‘kitty burrito’, sometimes with a blanket, sometimes with a towel. These swaddling lessons went on for an hour or two, with much giggling and picture taking, and usually ended with the cat being carried around like a baby, in his bundle, the rest of the night.

This kind of thing didn’t happen that often, when we were all spread out in our 2600 sq foot New York house.

There was also a night of coloring. We printed pictures off sites we found online (who knew there were Halo Reach coloring pages out there?). Meredith did a lot of hair braiding…and not just mine. There was even a night (with incriminating pictures) that the dog ended up in a pair of leopard skin print bikini panties (you really don’t want to know details).



Most of it transpired in the Master Bedroom, which had just enough floor space for a double and a single mattress to be laid out on the floor, and a couple of cardboard boxes we used for dressers (our household goods are still in moving storage). There was barely room to walk around the edges of the mattresses, yet many of the pictures of the summer camp antics were taken in that room. All six of us somehow crammed in, or were continuously coming and going from that room, just looking for some boredom busting activity to keep us sane.




And then finally…oh finally…the day came to move into a real house.

If you had told me, a year ago, when we lived comfortably in our big home in NY, the one we owned, that I would be thrilled to move into a rental house, that was 800 less square feet than we’d enjoyed for over five years in New York, I’d have called you nutty.

But life circumstances are funny that way. It’s all perspective. It’s all relative.

Every day, even in the tiny condo, I’m aware that I live in a safe, clean, comfortable home. Especially when compared to a good percentage of the world’s population. I have clean water coming from my pipes and hot water when I need a good cleansing shower. I have appliances that wash my clothes and dishes, and a persnickety one that even sucks the cat hair out of our carpets. I don’t truly want for much.



It’s these thoughts that helped me fall in love with our new rental house. These thoughts, and the reality of six people living under one roof, two of them being legal adults and one of them in the thick of teenager-hood.

The morning of the switch over, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. We had our old landlord coming at 9:30, for the last inspection. All of our belongings had to be moved out. The small glitch was that there was no place to move them to. We couldn’t get into the new rental until later in the day. So there was a bit of juggling, of the fifty or so boxes, four mattresses, a futon and a kitchen table with six chairs. But minimally, they had to be out, and the place had to be spotless, if we wanted our large deposit back.

We’d been doing deep cleaning for a week, in preparation for this day. But final wipe downs and clean ups take time and energy. It was a crazy busy morning. Sam headed off to school, but Isaac stayed home, just to have one more big strong person to help move things out and in.



It’s been a very long time since we’ve had to answer to a landlord. In our early married days I had a few bad apples and the ‘inspection’ process had not gone smoothly, even though the houses had been spotless. I truly believe some landlords see the deposit as a bonus, and not something you actually give back to tenants when the lease is up.

So until that part of the day was over, I could not relax. By the appointed hour, all of our stuff was out, and moved to the long driveway of the new house, waiting for us to pick up keys so we could take it inside.

And of course there were glitches with the landlord. Of course. He’s a nice guy, but there were moments that I was so very glad Jeff had been left as the one in charge of the inspection process. He’s much more diplomatic and professional in those situations. When the landlord wanted to question the broken stick on the mini blind in the bedroom, which was that way when we moved in, and kept me from opening those blinds the whole time we lived there, I would have flown off the handle. It was so tempting to say, “So you wanted me to call you up here, from where you are, down in the valley, to fix the stick on a mini blind, on the day we moved in and discovered it?...” The same situation happened with a missing outlet cover, and a few other minor issues that we never ‘bothered’ to tell him about.



It was such a mental shift, for me, the one who usually cleans out houses for walk throughs before the closing papers are signed. In those situations, our level of spotless cleanliness is appreciated by the new home owner, not picked apart.



But finally, in the middle of a sunny, gorgeous day in Colorado, we had keys in our hand. We’d left the two boys in charge of watching the stuff in the driveway, as we went to the banks and moved money around, and by the time we got back , they had not only moved everything inside, they had unpacked a good chunk of it. Plates were in the kitchen cabinets. The furniture (the little we have) was set up and ready to go. The bathroom had toiletries, the coat closet had coats hanging in it. It was like a dream - walking into a much bigger house, that already had my stuff put away.



There is still unpacking to do, of course. For many boxes, they didn’t know where I’d want the contents. I still need to figure out which toiletries go in which bathroom (we have TWO now!) and where the bed sheets and blankets will be stored. I have to set up our new system, as moms do. Where the tape goes. Where to find scissors. Where the nail clippers will start out, before they get ‘borrowed’ then strewn about the house.

But being able to walk in and start life right away, was as exciting as the fact we all had space to breathe again.

Once Meredith came home from her new job, we all piled up in the downstairs living room, the one we are now calling The Cave. It’s the boys’ dream. A place for our big TV, once it arrives back to us, and a place to hang out with friends, that doesn’t disturb the parents. We ordered pizza, which Michael picked up when he drove to get Sam from school (Sam walked to school for his last time that day, as we no longer live right across the street).

Jeff had rented a Red Box movie earlier in the day, and we all hunkered down, spread out on TWO couches finally, munched our pizza and laughed for two hours at the silliness on the screen. Several times I looked around and tried to mentally soak in those moments, when all four of my kids were there, between me and Jeff, loving life and riding high on the excitement of new beginnings.



After so many months of being crammed in a small living space, we celebrated our new spacious accommodations, by cramming ourselves together again.

A few hours later, as bedtime was approaching for the school kids in our mix, Sam said something funny to Meredith and me, as he was getting ready for bed. I don’t even remember what it was, but it caused us all to share another laugh, which brought Michael sprinting up the stairs.

“What? What did I miss?....that’s not fair! There’s fun stuff going on up here and I’m missing it, way down there in the Cave!”

It reminded me of the first night we spent in our Utah home. We’d been living in a Residence Inn, for almost three months, as we hunted for a new house in our new state. Again, tight living quarters, claustrophobic days for the six of us. But after the closing papers were signed, we happily drove across town, to our big 2500 sq. foot house, and everyone claimed bedrooms. And again, before the sand man had a chance to visit, all four of the kids were sprawled out on the floor around the bed in the master bedroom, needing to be near each other for just one more night, before this new life spread us out again.

We are no perfect family. My kids get angry at each other, swear they hate each other when emotions run high. But watching life unfold, and how they respond to it, still brings me comfort. I know down deep they really do love each other. They really do like to be together. They really do know how to have fun together.

Our family’s sense of humor might not seem funny to outsiders. But we make each other laugh.



After I lost my mom in my mid 20s, I was so thankful that I had four siblings (and some extra foster siblings). It gave me some sort of peace, to know they’d come from that same family, loved that same mom, and would miss her for the rest of their days too. It also gave me people to turn to, when different stages of grief came along.

It was during those months that Jeff and I decided to have four children, not just the two or three that many would stop after. We didn’t think we were up for five, but four seemed like just enough. Just enough to be there for each other as the years passed by. Just enough to have siblings to pick from, if you had a joke to share or a frustration to vent.

When money is tight, I sometimes question our decision to have a larger family. But then nights like our first night in this house, remind me of our reasons. And I’m 100% sure we made the right choice.



Our family will be splintering apart again, very soon. As spring rolls around, Meredith will move down to Denver to start college again. Michael will head off to start his career in the military. And it will be down to just four of us. This new house will suddenly seem very, very big.

But I’m pretty sure of one thing. No matter how much space we have, or don’t have, there will still be many nights where we all end up in the same room. Harassing the pets, watching a movie, or playing another round of Settlers of Catan.

As much as we all crave our own space, there’s been something about this continuous moving process that our children have grown up with, that still draws us all together.


.

X Games- Xtreme Parenting

If I’ve learned anything in my twenty years of being a mom, it’s that parenting is a roller coaster of extremes. When a newborn lives in your house, you vacillate between severe and utter exhaustion and severely incredible awe and joy. The toddler who can’t seem to figure out the potty chair can make you want to scream one minute, then melt your heart the next, when he proclaims, with his most sincere voice, “Oh, I just WUV you, mama!”

It continues into elementary school, then high school. And I guess I thought it would all even out, once they graduated from high school. This week I found out I was wrong.

My last post was about a heart wrenching night I had with my young adult daughter. Our life is in flux right now, and both of us are feeling it in our own way. A series of circumstances left both of us crying ourselves to sleep, until morning light could help us clear the air. The next day we took a trip to Sonic, and as we sipped our Slushees, we hashed it all out. I felt much lighter as we drove back home and dove back into our chaotic temporary living situation.

But it changed me just a little, as every upsetting (and joyful) parenting moment does. The familiar doubts about how I’m failing these children as their mother crept back in. I had to pull out the standard pep talks, to remind myself of the things I’m doing right, and to pull myself back up to get back in the game.

I love parenting older kids, but it’s also very hard. This fact didn’t surprise me, since I’ve been pretty much terrified of raising teenagers from the moment I laid eyes on my first newborn. I’m a toddler/preschooler kind of person. I got a degree in Elementary Education, but only partially because my college guidance counselor wisely reminded me that it would ‘go farther’ than a degree in Early Childhood Education. I’ve never, ever dreamed of teaching any child over the age of 10. Those double digit kids were hard to teach, I was sure, and even harder to parent.



But then my kids started turning double digits and I still liked them. In fact, they got funnier, since they could understand grownup jokes (finally) and the conversations we had went deeper. I could truly discuss things with them, and pour into them life lessons about love and relationships, knowing they might actually remember my words. I quickly learned that if I were flexible enough to adapt my parenting style, to respect their need for independence, there didn’t have to be a lot of yelling and slamming of doors.

But I also learned that the hiccups in our relationship could also go deeper and hurt on a whole new level. I became more vulnerable, as we started to form more friendship- like relationships. I find myself stepping back sometimes, and watching my two older kids, wondering who they are (one of them just turned 20 and the other turns 19 tomorrow). A good chunk of their life is outside my nest. They have friends, experiences, and interactions that I’ll never know about. Their lives are full of inside jokes that I’ll never understand, with people I may never meet.



I used to be in complete control of their play dates, friend choices and daily comings and goings. Now I’m a spectator, sometimes craving a peek inside. I feel like I’m on a tightrope some days, balancing the relationship, as I soak in stories they casually tell (if I don’t pry too much), then turning around and making their dinner and meeting their basic needs, like I did when they were six.

So back to my weekend of extremes. One night I’m crying myself to sleep, wondering how I once again failed my own child, and wondering if we’d ever find our middle ground, and then a mere 24 hours later I’m standing on a sunny hillside, watching three of my children have one of the best days of their lives (because of something *I* pulled off).

That part of the story started a few weeks ago, when I noticed that the Winter X Games were taking place just a few hours from our new home. We are a family of outdoor sports, mostly winter sports, and mostly extreme versions of those sports. Winter X Games is our Academy Awards, especially on years when there are no Winter Olympics to watch. Those athletes are our rock stars.

Last year, as we watched the Games, on our couch in New York, I made a mental note to myself. If the Colorado job came through, and we ended up moving there, we were most definitely going to be attending in person when 2012 rolled around. Then suddenly, the big move had happened, and the X Games were on the horizon.

My youngest was psyched. He is an excellent skier, and a beginning snowboarder. He can ski for six days straight, then want to turn around and ski the seventh. He’s all about the jumps at the terrain park, and dodging trees in the woods. Every event at the X Games makes him excited.

The two older boys were okay with going, but not as thrilled as I had hoped. It’s been a year since we saw the Games on TV and they’ve become involved in their regular lives here in our mountain town. One of them truly preferred to stay here, to be able to hang out with his friends, over driving to Aspen, to see the Games.

I had to go with my gut. I made them go.

I was deeply suspicious that once they got there, it would be a day they’d never forget. Their sister had planned to stay home alone, and have the apartment to herself for a whole day. I had no problem with that. She has her own (girl stuff) world , and the more space I give her, the happier she is. But the boys…I knew the boys needed to see at least one X Games in person, especially since we live so close to them. I had to insist they all attend, even the not so enthusiastic.

Saturday rolled around, cold but sunny. We crawled out of bed very early (terrible mom comments all around - waking up EARLY on a SATURDAY?) and hit the road. Within a half an hour we had to change plans. The highway headed west was bumper to bumper with ski traffic. There was no way we’d make it if we sat in that mess.

So hound dog husband found a smaller, side road, and we spent a few hours winding through the amazing scenery of Western Colorado. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. The sun streaming in the windows, the boys in the back, laughing and joking with each other, and suddenly it started to become one of those once in a lifetime days you never want to forget.



We stopped at the tiny store near South Park to get our favorite fudge. We found it on our house hunting trip to CO, nearly a year ago, and it has become family tradition. We made our way through small mountain towns, where you have to wonder where the residents buy their groceries and gas, and then down long roads with breathtaking views. Eventually we caught up with I-70 once again, and were relieved to see that the ski traffic had all found their resorts and cleared off our path.





The shuttle parking lot was right where the online directions had said it would be, and before noon we were walking under the big banner that graced the big blue X. Ahead of us were the things we’d only seen on TV. The Super Half Pipe. The Big Air jumps, made of ridiculously tall mountains of snow. The rows of vendor booths, giving away every kind of ski and snowboard related trinket you could think of. The awe started to finally sink in for my older boys.



By the end of the day my mommy gratitude tank was topped off. I’d stood at the base of the Boarder Cross race with my little guy, and been sprayed with the snow of the finishing racers, exchanging ‘Can you believe it?!’ glances with him. I’d watched my oldest son, my stoic boy, just at the edge of giddy, as he got a prime spot to watch the skiers fly 100 feet over his head. I was possibly more excited than he was, when my middle boy saw one of his few life heroes (a legend in the BMX world) and raced up to him with a sharpie to get an autograph he’ll probably keep in his possessions until he’s my age.



It was an amazing day. The athletes were awe inspiring. Seeing the X Games up close was a dream. But for me, the mom who is in a constant game of ‘am I doing right by them?’, it was perfect.

There was excited sharing of stories, as we stood in line, waiting for the shuttle bus to take us back to the parking lot. And it continued, as we drove the long dark road home. As we stopped by a Taco Bell halfway home, to feed empty tummies something warm, the magic was still in the air. The easy laughter my children shared, that I’ve seen so many times in the past, when conditions are right, filled up my soul.



I can’t say I ‘m thankful for extremes. When the pendulum swings to the bad side, I’m rarely considering the good parts of parenting. But oh, how sweet. How very, very sweet it is, when it finally swings back…so far back…and once again fills up my tank.


.

A Mother's Anguish

It played out like every stereotype, when it comes to raising a teenage daughter. Even though mine just celebrated the birthday that ushered her into her 20s, the emotions and issues linger. The reason for the falling out isn’t really important. Misunderstandings, hurtful things said, many, many tears. None of it life and death. All of it breaking my heart.

It made me crave a good, deep weeping session. But we’re living in very tight quarters now, and there is just no place to go, at 10 o’clock at night, when one needs to get away. I have an 11 year old, who is very tender hearted, and internalizes everyone else’s stress, to get to bed. Hopefully in peace. Right now he’s even sleeping in the same room as I am, so there was no ‘crying myself to sleep’ to be had.

I go into the bathroom, run the water, and try to quiet the sobs that want to erupt from my core. This girl I adore, my one and only daughter, has the power to cause me such anguish. I’d poured my mothering heart out to her and been stabbed in the back in return.

My patient and wise hubby brushes back my hair and reminds me that she’s going through a tough time herself. Her life is in huge upheaval with no certain landing pad. She acts out of grief and fear herself, so we need to just be patient and love her through this.

He’s right. I know he is. All I can manage is a weary shake of my head, to let him know I hear him, through the tears that run down my face. Then I head off to bed, knowing the sunlight in the morning will help resolve this painful mess.

I settle in next to my baby boy, who is quietly reading his chapter book. I turn to face the wall and pop in my ear buds. Jim Croce is cued up on my phone and I am comforted by his melodies. These are the songs I went to sleep to when I was a fifth grader myself. These are the songs that make my blood pressure go down, in stressful times, because they remind me of childhood. They remind me of my mom, who loved her Jim Croce and his Bad Bad Leroy Brown, even though they didn’t exactly fit into the strict Baptist lifestyle she embraced.

Just as the tears seem to be drying, a fresh batch erupts. It’s times like these that I desperately miss my mom. She’s been gone for 18 years, and I still miss her mothering. I lay on my wet pillow and try to fight the longing, but it does little good.

So I play the logic game. If she were alive today I wouldn’t have necessarily called her when this night turned so sour. That’s not the relationship we had. Or at least that’s not the relationship we were beginning to have, as I had just begun to be a mother in the years before she died.

Instead, I would plow through the hard day, then spill all my frustration out to her, days later, when we’d finally meet up. She’d sympathize, then laugh, as she remembered her own trying days as a new mom. And her laugh would heal me. It reminded me that life went on. New days meant new tries and maybe new frustrations, but always new hope.

And I also realize that I have no idea how she would have reacted to this latest trial with my all-grown-up girl. I don’t have the years between to tell me how our relationship would have evolved and changed. This girl, who I know she would have adored, grew up without that doting grandma, who would have grown and changed with her. They didn’t have the preschool or elementary school years, to get to know each other.

My mom never got to encourage my girl, when she got braces, that she looked beautiful despite the metal in her mouth. And she never got to gush with pride as the braces came off to reveal a suddenly older young lady. She didn’t sit in the bleachers with us, as our girl marched across the stage, long blonde hair falling out of her bright blue graduation cap.

My mom doesn’t know my daughter. That’s a hard pill to swallow. I yearn for her comfort, her guidance in our latest speed bump. But I have no guide wire, no indication as to how it would all play out, if she were still here. She knows nothing of this grown up girl, nothing of our life.

And that fact makes me even more sad. So I do the next logical thing. I text my oldest sister. She’s four states and one time zone away, but thank goodness she replies. She’s the mother to three daughters. One of them was 12 weeks away from being born when we lost our mother. This sister understands my grief, and my anguish, and my occasional frustrations with raising my girl.

She needs no details of the events that led to my text. She just senses my sadness and says the exact right, encouraging words. She reminds me that it’s temporary. This spell will pass, and some day, we will see the fruits of our labor. Not today. But some day.

Fresh tears come, with her compassion. I sense the comfort that my mom used to provide, coming through the device I hold in my hand, a bit of technology that didn’t exist in the days when my mom was still here. We don’t have to call each other anymore, to ‘be there’. A simple text can sometimes do the trick.

And it does. A few tender volleys of words I needed so badly to hear, and I’m able to relax and drift off to sleep. This mothering thing is so complicated. It’s wrapped up in our own mothers, and the mothers that our sisters are to their children.

It’s a network I’ve yet to figure out, but has saved me more than this once.

It’s now a new day. Time for new starts. Time for a chat with my girl, to sort out the mess from last night. Time to build our relationship with one more brick of experience. I find myself hoping that some day, a few decades from now, I can be on the other end, when my girl is in tears, brought on by her own baby girl, and once again the tables are turned.

I want to be there, through text, or skype, or phone call, to remind her that it’s all just a part of mothering.

Why He's Home

The end of January is coming at us like a brisk winter wind. I’m supposed to be taking my college boy back to the dorm. In fact, all of his besties from his first semester of dorm life have already returned. They text him like crazy, with messages along the lines of ‘we miss you, bro!’ (if that’s even the current lingo).

But my boy is still here, crammed into this tiny condo with us. He’s had a change of plans and suddenly it meant I was blessed with a few extra months in his company.

If you’ve gotten lost in the saga of our life this past year, I don’t blame you. I feel like I need Cliff Notes myself, just to remember the craziness we lived through in 2011. But here’s the nutshell (granted, the biggest nut you can think of).

Michael has always loved planes. His bedroom walls and bookcases were filled with posters and books about planes, from every war and every country. He also loves running, especially in the woods. He endured the two other track seasons, so he could be in shape for the only one that mattered, cross country.

He loves math and science (and hates English, books, reading…all the things his mom enjoys). As a child he was constantly figuring things out, taking things apart, putting them back together. When he was seven or eight, he walked through the kitchen and said, ‘Mom, you’re putting the dishes in wrong.’ At a glance, he could see that the way I loaded the plates in the dishwasher was ‘backwards’ from what the designers intended. I rarely load the dishwasher these days, without thinking about that moment. The moment I knew for sure my boy had an engineer’s brain.

It was logical that he would go to school for something plane related. He also wanted, very badly, to get back to that perfect snow in Utah, the place where he’d learned to ski and fell in love with the powder . Soon he found out that one of the top aviation programs in the country was at Westminster College, in Salt Lake City. He had no ‘second choice’, when he applied to colleges. It was Westminster, and their amazing flight program, or nothing.

He was also sure that he wanted to fly in the military. Eventually he might settle for commercial planes, but all the exciting flying happens in the armed forces. We spent a year doing everything necessary to apply for an ROTC scholarship, with no luck. The program has become extremely desired, as college tuitions rise, and the selection process has become very tight.

When the money didn’t come in for his freshman year, but his desire was stronger than ever, we made a deal with him. We’d help him pay for the first year, with the understanding that he’d do everything he could to get the 3 year ROTC scholarship to cover the rest. That one year would cost us the equivalent of four years at our local state school.

We drove him to Utah in early August, and checked him in. He spent the next four months making lifetime friends, the kind you can only create in a dorm situation. As he settled into college, the rest of his family slowly but surely moved from New York to Colorado. It was nice to have him only a day’s drive away, when the Thanksgiving holiday rolled around.

While we were distracted with a million move related details, Michael was doing research. Not just school research (drat, those stupid English papers!), but life plans research. He was talking to recruiters, professors (many who were pilots), and school guidance counselors. He started to realize he needed a new plan for the next four years.

With the military being in a wave of cut backs, those scholarships are becoming more and more rare, especially if you went to an expensive, private school. Even if he finished his four years of college, with an exclusive aviation degree, there were no guarantees he would be able to get a spot in flight school in the military. Some years there are very few openings and you take what you can get. We heard this from so many sources that we started to believe it.

So, as I spent a harried week in NY, organizing the moving truck logistics, trying to get our old house’s heater to turn on before the pipes froze, and doing house sales negotiations over the phone with an assortment of realtors and attorneys, my boy called me from school.

He had changed his life plan and wanted my advice. Because, you know, I had nothing else going on…

Long story short, here’s his new plan. He’s jumping straight into the military. In May he’ll report to boot camp, then one of the longest training programs they have, in the EOD field (explosives). He’ll give them four years. In those four years he’ll get valuable training (which will use his incredible math and science skills, which pleases his mother), then possibly move to a flight related job when the openings come up.

At that point, four years from now, he can choose to stay in the military, if the EOD training agrees with him as much as I think it will, or he finds a flight path that suits him. Or he can choose to get out, and go back to that flight degree, this time with everything paid for. Either way, if he wants, he can be in his mid 20s, with a pilot’s license, and a wide variety of career options.

It was hard to swallow, at first. Especially as I sat in the middle of the chaos of the family relocation. We worked so long and hard to get him into the program and Westminster, and it’s an amazing school. But once we talked about it more, and I talked to the recruiter more, it all did seem to make a lot more sense.

Yes, I worry about his safety. Not only is he signing up for training that involves explosives (you know, stuff that blows up…) but he could very likely be sent overseas, where the locals might not treasure his life as much as his mama does.

But he’s excited. He is confident in his choices, and pumped about his future. Even as hard as it is to see his friends go back to that party- central dorm room without him, he’s stayed focused. He runs every day and lifts weights, to be ready for his next step.

He can’t wait to see other parts of the world, and be that guy who knows which wire you cut when there’s ten seconds before the bomb goes off (is it the red one or the blue one?...I always forget…)

And now that I’ve had some time to digest the new plan, I see other benefits to this timing. His younger brothers have now gone back to school. During the days it’s just me and him, and his older sister who is hunting for a job. We get to hang out, run errands together, and share life stories. I’m loving it.

And, another bonus. This mountain town we’ve moved to is not my son’s hometown. His high school memories will always reside in New York, and other school memories are scattered through the various states we’ve called home. Evergreen Colorado is only a place he visited with his family, back in April, as we took an early house hunting trip.

But now he’s having time to explore this beautiful town. He’s running her trails and running mom’s errands, learning where to find the nearest Red Box and groceries. Every day that passes, he builds more memories here, and it becomes a bigger part of him. I want him to go out into the world with a sense of ‘home’. If he didn’t have these four months, with nothing but time to explore, it would have taken a lot of school breaks and holidays to finally feel like he belonged here.

So that’s why my son is still in my household. It’s why he still shows up in pictures I post on Facebook, when all of my friend’s college aged kids have disappeared from their shots of daily life.

It’s not a life change I saw coming, just a year ago, but neither is our current family life situation. A lot can change in a year. But there’s nothing that says unexpected change can’t end up being a good thing. A new path. New opportunities. Hey, who knows where life will find us just twelve months from now.

I guess we’ll just have to keep our minds open, and patiently wait and see.


.

Thank you, por todo

“Thank you! Thank you! Por todo! Por todo!”

The little man scurried in and out of the crowd of men that surrounded him, saying these words over and over again. Each man nodded in acknowledgement, as they shook each other’s hands. One turned to put the tow rope back in his trunk. Another kicked the small tree limbs to the side of the road, so vehicles could once again pass by.

We happened upon the scene just as it was unfolding. As we rounded a hairpin turn, on the mountain road we’d chosen to explore in our new home state of Colorado, we saw a commotion. Two small SUVs were parked on the right shoulder of the road. They were only half off the road, since the shoulder dropped off to a steep cliff. Huddled in front, between, and behind the vehicles was an assortment of dark skinned women and young children, all dressed in their holiday clothes, since it was Christmas Day.

On the left side of the road was the problem. A group of well dressed young men, in their shiny best shoes, surrounded a small truck, that had fallen off the side of the road, into a deep snow bank. Behind the wheel of the truck was a tiny, elderly Hispanic man. It was not clear which people knew each other, and who had just stopped to be good Samaritans. But it was immediately apparent that few of them spoke English.

We stopped, of course, because our vehicle contained three strong men, who could contribute to the rescue operation. One was my husband, who always seems to be the one to step up when someone needs rescuing, and the other two were my tall teen sons, whose characters are very similar to their dads. They eagerly jumped from our truck and hurried over to the action.

What followed was a series of tries, pushing and pulling that little truck, trying to release it from the grip of a greedy snow bank. With every attempt, it seemed to become more lodged into place. My sons, not understanding most of what the other men were saying, gestured and nodded, as they thought of new ideas, and followed the pantomimed instructions of the people around them. At one point my oldest son decided to hike a bit up the side of the hill, to retrieve some branches to use for traction. The snow bank that had the little truck trapped was thrilled to grab my boy’s legs, and when he sunk up to the top of his thigh with his second step, there were hearty laughs all around, no translation needed.

For almost an hour the effort continued. A group of people, pulled together in a common mission, in the middle of a sunny holiday afternoon. Finally, a truck came around the corner, that had another willing helper, but this time one who owned a tow rope. Our big Suburban had been no help, when there was no way to tie it to the little truck. Within minutes the two vehicles were attached and with one big thrust, the tiny truck was dislodged.

In the middle of the road, finally free from his bondage, the small Hispanic man jumped out of the truck and eagerly thanked the crowd around him. Most of them barely acknowledged his words. Men who choose to be silent heroes are generally not the accolade type. They were just content to pack up their gear and be on their way.

But their effort meant the world to one small man, who only spoke broken English. “Thank you! Por todo! Thank you! Por todo!” It was all he could say.

And I came away from the scene with just as much gratitude. We have tried to raise our children to be open and accepting of all people, no matter the color of their skin or the size of their wallet. For my fifteen year old, who rarely sees the value of his tedious Spanish classes, it was a lesson in how very valuable having language skills can be. And for my maturing teen boys, who both walked away feeling two feet taller that day, it was a great reminder that we’re all put on this earth to help each other out. Even if we don’t share a common language.

Someone needs help. You help them. And it feels good to everyone who comes out the other side.

To the precious little Hispanic man, who was so very grateful for the kindness of strangers, I have a message for you too. Thank you for giving my boys an opportunity to open their hearts on a sunny Christmas day. It’s a memory I know they will carry with them for a very long time. So gracias, for everything.

Thank you, por todo.


.

Home

Home.

It’s a small word. Non assuming. Just four little letters that every kindergartener knows. So simple, and yet it has the potential to make me weep.

I’ll never forget the first time I heard a song by this name, sung by an adorable artist named Michael Buble. Its lyrics cut through my soul and immediately emptied out the reservoir of tears I hold in my heart.

May be surrounded by
A million people, I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home
I miss you, you know.

The first time I heard it, and it’s achingly beautiful tone and melody, I cried for my mom. For almost two decades she was my home. And I miss her, so desperately. She left the planet when I was in my mid 20’s- a new wife, a new mom, a brand new adult. I had planned to know her in a new way, and a sudden stroke took her from me.

With her loss came a loss of home. She was the glue that kept our family together. She’d organized our huge household for decades, and she put the magic in every holiday. I instantly felt at home, with every greeting that met me at her front door. I can still hear her voice, calling out in pure joy, as I’d come home from college. “Ju - deeeee! My Judy’s home!”

They’re three simple words I miss, as much as I miss the home base she embodied.

I envy my friends, who still have their parents, and because of it, their home bases. My dad remarried an amazing woman, who keeps him healthy and happy. But their home together is a place I visit, not a home I return to.

Let me go home
I’m just too far
From where you are
I wanna come home

And so I was forced to move on, and create my own sense of home. For the past decade and a half I’ve thrown myself into making a nest that my children can feel safe in. We’ve changed houses, moved from state to state, but my first priority, even before the moving truck shows up, is making my children feel at home. I want them to remember how my voice was filled with adoration as each one of them walked in the door, whether their bedrooms were unpacked yet or not.

Home. It sometimes takes a while. In our Utah house, the newest house we’ve ever owned, we were settled in quickly. Surrounded by a street full of friendly families, we felt very at home, in a few short months.

Then we bought our fixer upper in New York. It took several years to feel like we belonged there, as we tore down walls, sanded sheetrock, and built a new kitchen from the ground up. All four kids were in school, from kindergarten to ninth grade, and life got crazy. There was little time to do the things that make someone feel like they’re home. Many holidays came and went, and as we built new traditions, surrounded by those specific walls, home started to grow on us.

And here we are again. The New York house now has a new family creating their own memories surrounded by its renovated walls. Our furniture has been cleared out and moved to storage. Our pictures no longer hang on the walls. The only hint that we once lived there is the growth chart scratched in the dining room trim board. It snakes up the wall, a reminder of all the growth that took place there.

Another airplane
Another sunny place
I’m lucky I know
But I wanna go home
Mmm, I got to go home

Home. It’s time to find it again. We’re in a new state, a place that we love, but we still feel like visitors. The skiing is great. The views are amazing. But we don’t feel like we’re home yet. It doesn’t help that we’re stuck in a very small condo, the six of us trying to make do until better arrangements can be made. We were sucked dry by the New York house sale, financially, and it just might make sense to stay put, in this lower cost living situation, as we try to recover. But we’ve already been here since August, and we are all ready to move out, move on, to find our new nest.

Another winter day
Has come and gone away
In even Paris and Rome
And I wanna go home
Just let me go home

We’re still crunching the numbers. Technically we could go ahead and find the rental house we’ll call home, until we recover all the equity we lost in the house sale. But the bite it will take out of our monthly budget could be used, at least for now, to pay down the debts we owe from our nightmare year of 2011. It’s a hard decision to make. Move into a more home-like place, and be in debt forever, or make this arrangement work, and get on top of the finances faster.

We all crave home. I crave it when I’m reminded of things my mother is missing, with every year that my children change and grow. But I also miss it, as my children do, when it applies to our everyday surroundings. Having a place that feels like ‘your own’. Having somewhere that you can let your hair down at the end of a hard day. Having somewhere that’s filled with people who know you well, but love you anyway.

This week we’ll decide. Either we’ll extend our contract on this small condo or we’ll find a more permanent rental house in town. Both decisions come with big implications. But I’m telling you this - if we decide to stay in this place, this lovely small space that has always felt temporary to me, there will have to be some changes made. We will use a bit of money to tweak this place, to personalize it, to turn it into a place that isn’t just a safe place to sleep and eat.

We need, we crave, something that feels like home.

Real Christmas Joy

I write this post, not to brag about its outcome, or to complain about its frustrations. I write it so I can remember.

Christmas 2011 was a very unusual holiday, to say the least. We’ve celebrated in many different houses, and in many different states. We’ve done the Santa thing so many years they all seem to blur together. We’ve never had a lot of money, but somehow it came together every year. That is, until this year.



This year we were more than lean. For the past six months we’ve been supporting two households, in two different states, while we waited for our NY house to sell. Our family’s been broken up, put back together in sections, then hung out to dry. We’ve been living in a tiny temporary condo, until we could figure out what was going to happen with the empty house we owned back East. Every penny we’ve taken in has gone out to some immediate need.



I saw the holiday approaching and had to give myself some quick pep talks. The kids are older, they’ll understand. This is a good life lesson for them. Sometimes crap happens in life and you push forward and make the best of it. It doesn’t mean life’s over, just postponed for a bit. It doesn’t take much money to just be together and make new memories.

We have all of the things that matter most - good health, loving extended families, a roof over our head, grocery money when the cupboards are bare, and a tight knit family who knows how to rally together when times get hard.

My daughter and I swung by the thrift store to get a small artificial tree (all of our holiday decorations are with our ‘stuff’ , in a moving company storage unit). While we were there, we picked up a few games and puzzles for our youngest family member, who, at 11, still needed something under a tree. We strung up some cheap lights and wrapped some garland around the back of the futon. Bring on the holiday!

We swung over to Utah to pick up my college son, one of my best gifts of the season. It felt so good to have all my chickens back in the nest. All six of us squeezed into our limited living space, but I heard very few complaints.

My kids all seemed to be enjoying each other and trying their best to give everyone the space they needed. No one argued when, at the family meeting, I announced that not only would there be no ‘real’ gifts under the tree, but that each of them would have one bath towel for the time being. (It’s the only way to keep my laundry under control and make sure I am not met with a pile of wet towels after every morning’s shower routine). No one complained that sleeping arrangements were going to be ‘snug’, at best. They just jumped in and did what had to be done, to get through the following weeks.

Christmas Eve came and we all looked at each other, thinking, “What do we do now?”

The only answer was to get out of the house. We piled in the car and drove down to a local pub. While jazzy Christmas carols played overhead, we had the pool tables all to ourselves. The pizza was hot and good, the friendly banter between my children was relaxed and comfortable.



I looked around and realized we’d raised some pretty great people. Two of ours are officially adults. So much of the time I can only see the ways I've failed them through the years. On Christmas Eve I had to step back and see them in a different light. They’re nice people. Kind and helpful to not only their friends, but their younger siblings too (most of the time). They are fun to be around and are going to find their way in the world, mistakes and all, in the years to come.



We came home, watched some Christmas clips on Hulu, then called it a night.

The next morning didn’t feel at all like Christmas. No little children rushing to wake us up, excited to see what Santa had left. But instead I found a note on the kitchen table. Next to the cookies and milk that were left out the night before by our way-too-old-for-Santa 11 year old, was a sign that said “Don’t Stop Believin’”. It didn’t take much asking around to figure out which of his older siblings took the Santa bites from the cookies and took the time to write the note.



Then, as we sat around the thrift store tree, so my youngest could unwrap his few token gifts, I noticed presents for the older kids, as well as my husband and myself. My 15 year old was grinning from ear to ear. He’d felt bad that there were so few gifts under the tree, so he’d taken the liberty to wrap up some things from around the house, silly gifts, so that everyone had something to unwrap.

Laughter filled our little condo as we took turns unwrapping our special gifts. My husband couldn’t imagine what could be in his small present, which sounded like rice when he shook the box. It was the box of matches from the kitchen. My oldest son couldn’t help but grin as he unwrapped his one (not two) flip flop. Little guy was very surprised to watch his older sister unwrap ‘her’ gift, which happened to be his ipod. My son whose name means laughter came through again, and made a pretty empty holiday feel rich and full once again.



An hour later all three of my boys were at the kitchen table, playing a board game we’d picked up for my little guy at the thrift store. Even when they figured out that it only had three of the dozens of pieces it needed, they came up with their own rules and played a few rounds.



After that, they set up the little guy’s simple hot wheels track set and had races down the long orange track, to see who could make their car jump and crash into our homemade gingerbread houses. Later they came up with variations to this game, hiding out in their one shared bedroom for hours.



Instead of concentrating on what we didn’t have, we all made do with what we do have. We don’t have much counter space, so we cooked a store bought lasagna and had a yummy non-traditional holiday meal. We don’t have TV service, so we pulled up holiday specials on Hulu. We don’t have room to spread out and have our own space as the afternoon wore on, so took advantage of what we do have - amazing scenery right outside our window. We all piled in the car and took some beautiful drives down snowy country roads.



Along a winding road we came across a family stuck in the ditch. My big strong teen age sons took great pride in jumping in to help dig through snow banks to find logs for traction, then anchoring their weight behind the vehicle, with every attempt to dislodge it. Somewhere on the outskirts of Golden we found an empty parking lot full of wet, slushy snow, and my boys took turns learning how to do the perfect donut with the family Suburban. There were many smiles that day.



It wasn’t the holiday I’d have dreamed of. There was very little Martha Stewart could have lived with. But it was special, so special to his mom who has tried so hard every year, to make it as fun as possible for her kids. For once, they turned the tables and gave back the gift of celebrating. They showed me, the one who usually farms out the pep talks, what the holiday is all about.

It’s about just relaxing and enjoying the people you love. It’s about finding fun in every day, from wrapping up one of your brother’s flip flops, to finding a way to make a board game with few pieces actually work. They were the gift I wanted. To be surrounded by these four people I love so much and their dad, my best friend. But surprise! I ended up with so much more.