Confessions of a Dilettante

A Letter to My Daughter On Her Sixth Birthday

2012-12-04T11:36:00.000Z

Dear Elsbeth,
Today you turn six. SIX! I'm sure it's the kind of thing mothers say every year to their growing children, but I just can't believe how fast the years have passed! It seems like one minute ago you were standing in the second floor kitchen of our town house in Maryland with those corkscrew curls barely crazing your shoulders, wearing a diaper and shouting the lyrics to Queen's We Will Rock You as loudly as you could. MUD ON YOUR FACE! SAY IT! And then I blinked...and you are six.

Ellie, I want you to print this letter out, fold it up and put it somewhere where you can always read it, and if there ever comes a time (and if you turn out to be anything like me, there will be) that you feel misunderstood and wild and rebellious and you think you hate me, pull it out and read it and try to remember this time in your life when everything was so simple and pain was only from falling off your bike, not breaking your heart.

You are wise and rowdy and shy and outspoken all at once. You can't hold still for more than a second and I like to joke that you and your father have the metabolisms of hummingbirds but I think it's true too. I have had to relegate you to the floor more times than I can count for watching TV while doing a handstand...on the sofa. You aren't afraid of anything and even if you were I don't think you would let us know. You got attacked by bees and ate the asphalt with your face after falling off of your bike all in a couple weeks of each other and you were running barefoot through the grass and riding your bike again the very next day. You got moxie, kid. I want to be more like you.

Ellie, my mom has always been my best friend (well, except for those awful years I alluded to earlier) and now you are becoming mine. We have these conversations and I honestly feel as if I am in the presence of a peer. But then again I have never really felt like you were a baby or a kid. When you were born and your father was deployed and it was basically just you and me, I used to peer as deeply as I could into the cavernous expanse of your eyes and I could swear I saw something so profound it scared me. You are an old soul, and I feel as if your body is just slowly catching up to that person who has always been inside of you.

Your reading has really taken off this year and you have subsequently discovered texting from the iPad. Couple this with your kindergarten sized potty mouth and I now have the word "poop" in my phone more times than I care to count. The same goes for Both Grandmas, an aunt and your father, but you find it endlessly hilarious. I told you to cut it out or I would stop texting you and you then notified me that "Poop" means "I love you" in Ellie language. I then told you that apparently the toilet is saying how much it cares because someone forgot to flush. If you don't grow up to full of snarky wit, I'll never know why.

Your cat ran away recently and we all held out hope she would return (well, I only kind of did...she was evil). For nights you prayed that she would come back and even now every time you hear her name or see a picture of her you begin to cry the most heartbreaking cry. It is the greatest pain of your short life so far and as much as I hated that wretched animal, if trudging through the spider infested jungle at midnight would bring her back I would...but please don't ask me to do it. I begged your father to let me get you a kitten for Christmas and he reminded me of how much I dislike the end result of kittens: CATS. I said I didn't care, I couldn't bear to see you cry again, but he still said no. (just remember that when you're sixteen and looking for someone to be mad at.) Ellie, I would get you a whole box overflowing with kittens in every imaginable color if it would take the hurt away, but ultimately I know your daddy is right. So instead I hold you and stroke your hair and try to absorb all the hurt from your heart...and then I promise you a pony one day. One day.

Today you are six and I know in ten years you will be sixteen and I will feel like I just blinked again and POOF! you're grown. But please know this Elsbeth, of all the things I hold dear, more than the shiny things you love to admire on my nightstand, more than anything I possess, I treasure these small moments that turn into days that turn into years and ultimately memories. They are my treasures and I am so thankful that you were added to our lives.

Happy Birthday!
Poop,
Mom

On When To Say When

2012-10-13T13:16:00.002Z

For the past several months I have been consumed with training for the Ko'Ko's Half Marathon. There has been no sleeping in on the weekend, there has only been long, and most often hard miles logged and pavement pounded. More in the last three months than any other time in my life, I have gotten up before anyone else in this house to run and I have loved every minute of it. Eat for running, sleep for running, dream of running.

I've paid for my registration, I've selected my outfit, I've made my play list, and I'm not going. Because...so many reasons. The short list:

My husband has a raging case of pneumonia...the contagious kind.

There is no one to take care of us if I push myself to the point of exhaustion and get sick...(hello, that happened like two days ago)

Making this decision was so, so hard. I have wracked my brain for possible scenarios on how I could make it work, and every potential solution I came up with still left me with the nagging feeling that it just wasn't right (and required a Grandma present). My inner dialogue went something like this:

But, it's just a race!

But it's YOUR race, it's the only thing you've ever trained for in your life!

But, YOU are the one responsible for taking care of everyone now, there is no one else, you're on an island thousands of miles away from your family.

But, but, you paid FIFTY dollars to run this race!

But, but but! All this arguing is making me hungry! Let's have a gluten free brownie while we think about this.

GOOD IDEA! Finally something we can agree upon!

But half a container of gluten free brownies later, there still was no solution that left me with peace.

And so I called it. I made the decision to stay here and take care of my family. I wish I could say I did this with dignity and without throwing a mental temper tantrum. But that just wouldn't be true. My first reaction is usually the most honest, the most human, but it's also usually the most ugly.

I ate too much. I spent too much. I thought too much. I sound like Dave Matthews much?

And then I slapped myself in the brain with my figurative back hand( which is really strong by the way!) and said to myself, "Scarlett O'Hara, -" oh wait, wrong story. I said to myself, "Stop your moping and put your big-girl undies on...you know the ones from when you were pregnant (your literal BIG GIRL undies), the really comfy ones. Pull up your britches and suck it up! This isn't the end of the road for running! The road only ends when YOU say it does (Or when you get to the ocean, but then you can just turn around)! There will be more races, there will be more medals (because honestly that is what I was most excited about...getting a medal. Yeah, I AM mentally seven..so what?)"

And there ARE more races, and I WILL still run. And at the end of my life, when I look back on my time on this planet (versus what...my time on other planets?) I know I will be glad I made this choice. The choice to love someone more than myself. We live in such an era of putting self first. Of making ME happy, that I think (and believe me I am SO guilty of this) we have lost the sense of eventual satisfaction that there is found is giving up what you want for the sake of someone else. "greater love has no man than if he lays down his life for a friend". Easy to say, not always so easy to do. But then again I'm as stubborn as, well, an ass.

To all of my friends running today (stateside) and tomorrow here in Guam, you have been and will continue to be an inspiration to me. We say this after every long run, but really let these words sink in. I could not have come this far without you. YOU. And YOU. And yes, you there, in the back picking your nose, you too. You have made a profound impact on me and I in turn am impacting and inspiring others, and this my friends, is how we change the world. Just like throwing one starfish back into the sea and watching the ripples reach out and pass beyond our sight line.

How It Is

2012-09-16T16:46:00.000Z

I lie in bed for over 45 minutes trying all the tricks I've been told to send myself back sleep, counting backward, clearing my mind, deep breaths, prayer, more wine. I contemplate taking another Ambien and then realize there isn't enough time. I have to be up in three hours to run anyway. So with a sigh I drag my aching body out of bed. I put my phone under my chin and exit my bedroom as quietly as possible while dragging the huge laundry basket behind me; my husband doesn't even stir. I envy those who sleep so effortlessly.

I usually wake up while the rest of the house is silent, deep in their dreams, blissfully unaware of the great expanse of night that stretches before them, black and impenetrable. The cat greets me, this is her witching hour, she rolls onto my foot, playing coy and purring loudly. I notice that she has spared the paper towels and toilet paper rolls their lives this night so I oblige her with a pat. I generally do not like cats, but the darkness is lonely and almost any company will do. It was actually the cat who woke me up on this night, or day rather. She must have been practicing her midnight ninja skills because my bedroom door came flying open and I heard a raspy "meeeeeee-yawr" followed by a thump that was, what I presume, her body hitting the closet door.

Since I have given up the possibility of returning to bed, I make myself a cup of coffee. This, the laundry and the cat will be my companions for the darkest hours. I sit in silence and think about my mother. The distance that separates us is palpable and I can feel my heart being pinched at the thought of merely being able to touch her. I wonder if the pain is worse for mothers than it is for their children. I suppose one day I will know the answer to this question. If my mother were here she would get up with me, she always gets up. As a teenager my parents would attempt to convince me to keep their ridiculously early hours and to have coffee with them. They begged, they yelled up the stairs for me to come down. I covered my head with a pillow and told them where they could go: away! Sleep is precious to the young; it has lost its value as I've aged. Or perhaps we have fallen out of love, sleep and me. I chase it, but it eludes me or merely taunts me with too little time and I am too jaded to pursue it any further this night.

I carefully sort the laundry, load the washing machine, measuring and pouring cups of this and that thing that promise to clean, refresh, protect and soften, and start the machine. I enjoy doing the laundry, unlike sweeping these floors, I get an unnatural sense of satisfaction when I see that where once was a large ketchup stain, now is only pure, spotless cotton. I am the god of laundry and I (with the power of the laundering trinity: Tide, Oxyclean and Downy) have to power to absolve the ugliness from these poor garment's lives. By the power of Oxyclean, I command these stains to COME OUT-AH! And they do. All except the red, red dirt of Guam. The red dirt is a one way street to the abyss of the garbage bin for any careless clothing that may stray from the safety and purity of the grass or higher places. Usually the lost ones are smaller, child's clothing. Not even Oxyclean can save you now little BabyGap top, cute though you may be, you have been marred beyond redemption and are now destined for a short and ultimately very dirty life in the play clothes drawer and then it will be the abyss for you.

After I have finished talking to the laundry, I sit in darkness and contemplate the silence, which is actually very noisy if you've ever taken the time to listen. The air conditioner kicks on and off intermittently but not without a metal buzz and clattering sound each time before the whoosh of air comes. The dehumidifier in the kitchen makes a rhythmic hum that has an almost song-like quality to it and then there's the cat. She is trying her hand, er paw, at various cupboards in the kitchen, opening each one just enough to get her foot in the door (literally) and then releasing it with a smack! I renew my notion that she is evil. If I were brave enough to go outside at this hour (which I am not) I would hear the slight rustle of the palm fronds in the breeze which sounds like rain. There would also be the intermittent thud of a coconut or other small fruit falling from the host of trees surrounding our house. And then there would be the noises coming from the jungle: the snapping of twigs under the weight of large things, the rustle of leaves made by crabs and God knows what else, and in a couple of hours there will be the wake up calls of the roosters, but now, even they still sleep.

As I sit in the deafening silence, I think about the past few weeks of my life. I have travelled half way around the world, leaving my children, husband, and our tiny island home for the second time. I ventured to places I have only ever dreamed about and seen in books. I stood on castle steps and in the shade of the Eiffel tower. I witnessed the sacred vows of two people in love and took part in celebrating that love...it involved a lot of champagne. But most importantly to me, I connected with people everywhere I went and my love and understanding of the human condition...no matter where in the world you are, deepened and made me very happy. It is not the toys or trinkets I brought back with me, but those things that I will keep forever.

In three weeks I will run 13.1 miles...further than I have ever run in my life. I wish so badly I could send myself back in time to the thirteen year old me crying in the locker room after being unable to complete even a mile around the track. "Don't worry", I would say, "this is not how the story ends. One day after you have grown up (more than now anyway) and endured more than you would ever think possible of yourself, you will decide to run. And you will not stop. It will be hard just like it was today, but the strength that you will have gained from the trials that you will face will tell you to keep going. Just a little bit further. And you will. And you will continue to keep going further until the miles you have run amaze everyone who knows you now, especially you. So remember, do not be afraid of the pain that is to come, it will hurt, it always does. But let it in, feel it and then let it out, leaving you stronger and wiser as it goes. Always remember this: When we long for life without difficulties, we should remember that oak trees grow strong in contrary winds; and diamonds are made under pressure. " But then I remember myself at thirteen and doubt I would have listened to me anyway.

The washer clicks off and beeps three times, signalling it's finished. I look at the cat, who is languidly eying me with contempt, she must sense my renewed hatred. I begin to feel the exhaustion creep into my bones and I get up, I must keep moving. Difficult moments are just like running, if you simply keep putting one foot in front of the other, you will get to where you are trying to go. Unless of course you are trying to go to sleep.

This Week in Instagram

2012-02-05T09:11:00.011Z

So this week, I finally joined Instagram. And let me just say I now use my iPhone more than ever before. Jeremy was threatening to ground me off of it (why yes, he does actually act like he's my stern Grandfather ) until I showed him the beautiful pictures I've been making and he was all: Oooooooo! Pretty! I think outside of Shazam, and This American Life, it may be my favorite app ever. So because I'm taking so many photos, I'm thinking of adding a weekly post including some of my favorites.

Here is installment number one.

Sunday Sunset

Tree Children

Sunday Afternoon

Sisters

Date Night

Le Cinema

Feet

The Dude Abides

Guam

Hope you liked. If you're on Instagram, let me know. I'd love to follow you!

Jillian

Paleo Comfort Food: Sweet Potato Fries and Chicken Nuggets

2012-01-31T10:11:00.009Z

It's been three weeks and a few days that our family has been eating a paleo diet. I would be remiss if I wasn't completely honest with you and didn't mention that there was an instance involving pizza. And beer. And maybe some really good brownies, no not those kind of really good brownies, the kind that you could eat at church. We were riding along in the family "wagon", down the Paleo Trail and then we hit a pothole in the road, a pothole called Pizza and everyone fell off the wagon. And I'm not gonna lie when I say it was a dee-lish-us tumble, transcendent even. But then...the next THREE DAYS my stomach was in knots and for almost an entire day I was in bed feeling quite sick. So. Not. Worth. It. But hey, I have always been one to learn things the hard way. And, Lesson learned!

So here we are back at it and I have to tell you, outside of that little bump in the road, we all feel amazing. My skin has gotten super clear, so much so that I barely even have to use any concealer anymore when I put on my makeup. The kids are eating and sleeping better. It was hard at first, for everyone, but I think after a week or so we all adjusted to it.

I am not normally one to try and duplicate all of my favorite non-paleo foods in a paleo friendly manner. I just don't go there. Our usual dinner involves some form of lean meat, usually grilled or baked. If I am cooking seafood, I may saute it in a little olive oil. Then there is a vegetable or two and for the other three I make some form of sweet potato. It's pretty simple really. But tonight I really wanted chicken nuggets. Which is weird because I normally don't crave chicken nuggets. But I knew the rest of my family would eat them well so I decided to try and make a paleo friendly version. Drumroll please...

Here is what you will need:

3-4 skinless boneless chicken breasts (I used organic so I believe they are smaller, if you use conventional, you may need less)
2 large eggs
1 cup of Almond Flour
1/2 cup of Flax Meal
1/2 cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil

I used Bob's Red Mill for both the almond flour and the flax meal because, well, that was the only kind I could find here in Guam. I mixed them together well with a fork (next time I think I may pulse it in the Vitamix to get a finer consistency) At this point I whisked the two eggs in a separate bowl and set up my "dredging line". Chicken, then eggs, then almond and flax mix.

Mmmmmm, slimy chicken boobs. Tasty.

So after I mixed the eggs and the almond mix, I cut the chicken into pieces big enough for a couple bites each. I heated the oil in a cast iron skillet and began the dredging process. When dredging it's easier and less messy if you use one hand for the egg bowl and the other for the crumb mixture. Otherwise you just have two handfuls of really gooey fingers. With the almond flax mixture I kind of gently pressed the chicken into in to make sure I got a good coating on both sides.

Before you put the chicken into the oil it is very important that your oil is hot enough or the coating will stick to the pan and you'll be left with naked chicken and crummy oil. Once the oil is hot, but not smoking, place the chicken pieces in, a few at a time, turning after a couple of minutes on each side. Side note: My oil was REALLY bubbly so it looks like there's more in there than there is, you really only need enough to keep them from sticking but it is essential to fry these otherwise they just taste mushy. Believe me, I tried baking them. Not good. Also, because the flax meal is a dark brown, these will look a bit darker than normal fried chicken pieces. DO NOT BE ALARMED, their awesome healthiness and crunch-tastic flavor will reassure you despite their slightly burnt looking appearance.

I served the chicken with home made sweet potato fries. If you have never made these, stop what you are doing and do it. Now. I like them better than regular fries and they're better for you so hey, everyone's happy! These are simple: Cut, spray with olive oil, salt and pep, bake at 400 for a long time, maybe turn them once, and: voila, you're a chef! Some people prefer to draw out the sweetness of the potato by adding cinnamon or sugar. To that I say: WHAT IS THIS? THANKSGIVING?!?! And since sugar is the devil and I prefer savory flavors anyway, I like to contrast the sweetness and do a garlicky or spicy seasoning.

And just because we like condiments, I whipped up some honey mustard. Why yes, it IS possible! I used raw honey and Grey Poupon. Why Grey Poupon? Because it makes me feel fancy and because it's fun to say and because that's about the cleanest mustard I could find on this island. You simply mix three parts mustard with one part honey, and BOOM, Bob's your uncle. Or if you're not British, there you have it!

Here is the final product. I ate the baked version (which you will not see because not only was it not as tasty, it wasn't very pretty either.) and I did not have the sweet potato fries or the honey mustard (Pardon me...do you have any GREY POUPON...YOUR SHIRT?!?!?!) because I am still participating in the Shakeology challenge and because The Happy Drill Sergeant would yell at me...happily. But I tried a piece of the fried chicken and Oh. Em. Gee. Super good! Everyone loved it and it is a definite keeper for future healthy comfort recipes.

On Living Paleo and the Shakeology Challenge: PART ONE

2012-01-08T08:39:00.012Z

If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you know I like to talk about my health and what new fitness or diet regimes I've tried. Why, you ask? Well, why do I ever do the things I do? Most of us will never know. I can say one thing for certain though, I have learned the hard way that I am no longer 23 and my body just can not hang like it used to. Perhaps all those years of late night shenanigans are catching up with me. Maybe it's all the steroids I've been forced to take in the last few years, maybe it's those two small human looking creatures with giant eyes that I grew and then pushed out of my body that are keeping me up all hours of the night. Whatever the case may be, I have had my share of generally feeling like, well, poop over the last few years. And I have chronicled much of those experiences in this here blog. I have a nagging feeling that one day my kids are going to be teenagers and won't be seen with me in public for shame of some of the things I have shared. Well, TOO BAD. They just better wait until their first boyfriends come over and I begin to recount tales of how they didn't learn to wipe their butts until they were like twelve! I kid, I kid.

In all seriousness though, this path to health, while supported by my family has been a mostly solo journey. Growing up, I never played sports, not even kickball. I got cold sweats when it came time to play co-ed games in gym glass. Because not only was I uncoordinated, but I was also a daydreamer. I read books, I wrote and told stories. Heaven forbid someone asked me to shoot baskets with them, but by God I could recite the presidents, helping verbs, and Robert Frost. I performed in theater. Pronounced thee-ah-tah. I memorized Shakespeare for fun and wore glasses. I was hopeless. It's a wonder I didn't get my head stuck in the toilet. I credit the invention of boobs and contact lenses and quarterly trips to The Gap with saving me from a life as a complete nerd.

To make matters even worse, I ate to fuel my emotions. Who doesn't on occasion? But I had a real lifelong habit of this. For most of my life, at the first signs of stress, I didn't want to stick my face in my pillow and cry, nooooooo, I wanted to bury it in Haagen Dazs until I'd forgotten all about whatever it was that made me upset to begin with. But, like most forms of emotional appeasement, that never really worked. It only created a vicious cycle which at the time I was able to recognize, although dealing with it was another battle. What I didn't realize until more recently though was the physiological effect this was having on my body. It wasn't until I became very sick with my eye and felt worse than I ever have and then learned I had gluten allergies that I realized the cycle of sugar addiction, insulin fluctuations, and internal inflammation I was subjecting myself to.

At the beginning of my Road to Wellville, I begin working out with a good friend of mine, April. Now, outside of donning the occasional eighties leg warmer to play Jane Fonda with my mom as a kid, and being forced by a very manly lady to run a mile in P.E., I had never really "worked out". My method for losing weight had always been to stop eating very much and ingest some chemical "aids". It worked for short periods of time but because I was causing my body to fast, whenever I went back to my regular habits, it all came back. Hello Haagen Dazs.

April and I have very similar physical makeups and so working out together was great because we basically had the same goals. We began following a cardio and weight routine laid out in one of my (now) favorite fitness magazines, Fitness RX. After the first workout, I wanted to throw up, and neither one of us could easily make it down the stairs our legs were so sore. But, we did it again. And again. And after only a few weeks I noticed such amazing changes in the shape of my body that I was forever hooked. I can only credit April's sparkling personality and sordid tales with keeping me motivated, well that and the fact that my dad no longer made beeping sounds when I backed up. No seriously, he did.

So, fast forward a few years. We moved to DC and I found it very difficult to work out without a partner. So, I pretty much just didn't. I lost weight by dieting and walking but found that while I could "pour" my body into a pair of skinny jeans, it just didn't look too good without said jeans. I guess that's what they call "skinny fat". I needed to add muscle and the only thing that was going to work was to do strength training. So I joined a gym close to my house and tried a class called Body Pump that came highly recommended by several people working there. They told me I should take Johanna's class, that it was really good. So I decided to give it a try. I knew that first day that if the line of people waiting to take it was any indication of how it was going to be that I was in for a very difficult treat.

Johanna showed up and let me tell you, if I was a hater, I'd hate her. She is so beautiful and has the most amazingly sculpted body but it is her spirit that won me over the most. In the beginning those classes ( high intensity strength training so it burns like cardio) left me so sore and weak, I could hardly move, but her smiles and words of encouragement during every class helped me to pick myself back up and return. In my head I dubbed her "The Happy Drill Sergeant" . She encouraged me to start taking her cycling class following the body pump class and so I did. I basically just took whatever class she was teaching and in a few weeks time I began to notice great changes again. Don't get me wrong, it was HARD for me. I never walked into the gym and breezed through any of it. But, I did learn to push myself beyond what I thought I was capable of. And then it was time for us to move...to Guam. I panicked a bit and frantically searched the internet for a gym in Guam that taught similar classes, and lo and behold, I FOUND ONE! I was deeply relieved, but in the months between our leaving D.C., staying with family, and living in limbo in Guam hotels, I found some of the weight I had lost. MOM's COOKING! ROOM SERVICE!

And then I got sick again, and we all know this one: STEROIDS! By they time I was finally well enough to start working out again, I was twenty pounds heavier than when I had left D.C. It was hard for me to find the motivation to go in because I was still recovering from my eye and left feeling very weak. So, for lack of a workout partner, I hired a personal trainer. My main reason for doing this really wasn't because I thought I could learn anything new; I mean C'MON, I had gotten myself in great shape before, I could do it again! My reason for hiring a trainer was because I really needed to know someone was there waiting for me at the gym, or else I just wouldn't be able to find the motivation to go. Remember, not only did all that medication effect my body greatly, it wreaked havoc on me emotionally and I was hard pressed to leave the couch on some days.

So I started with my trainer (if you're living in Guam and would like his info, please get in touch with me) two days a week, skeptical that it would work, but Oh em gee, this know it all learned quite a few somethings, mainly how to use the proper form when doing certain exercises like squats and lunges to avoid injury. And since he is a self professed "jock", a lot of the things he makes me do require some modicum of athletic ability, which I admittedly do not possess. But, he made me keep doing them and while I may not be ready for intramural sports any time soon, I increased my skill level a little bit. Which is a lot in my books. Side note: he asked me to throw a really heavy medicine ball with one arm once while rising from a squat and actually laughed out loud at my attempt. But that's OK, I agree, it was totally funny. I have weak wrists! I'm a delicate flower, what can I say?!?! But that's also one of my favorite things about my trainer, we have fun. There's a lot of joking around WHILE working out. Because if I can't be ig'nant, then I just can't BE.

So over the course of the last few months I managed (with the help of my trainer )and living by the rules of The Paleo Diet about 75% of the time, to lose thirteen of those extra pounds I so effortlessly gained in between D.C. and toxoplasmosis. Things were going really well and I had an established weekly routine, and then my trainer announced that he would have to leave for a couple of months. GASP! What would I do now?!?! Working out by myself, while certainly a viable option, just wasn't my favorite option. You see, Jillians do best in the company of others. We(I) need people to thrive and survive. Working out for two hours in silence was a very bleak option and this flower could begin to feel herself wilting. (WOW! A metaphor AND referring to myself in third person! Is that some kind of strange literary record? One can only dream.) So, admittedly I was determined to continue on my journey toward the best me, but I was also discouraged. It seemed like every time I had made any real progress, I had some sort of set back. So I did what I usually do. I prayed. I asked God to fill the gaps where I needed support. I told Him in no uncertain terms that I could not, would not, should not have to do this alone and to please, right away send me some one.

And that's where the awesome fitness minded ladies of Guam come in. When I first got here I had to attend a childcare meeting on base. At that time I knew very little people and hadn't made many friends. But in this meeting I saw a super stylish and adorable lady who I decided was going to be my friend. No one that cute could slip past my clutches! Her name was(is) Becky and after the meeting was over I practically assaulted her and asked for her number informing her that I claimed her as my new friend. The fact that I didn't scare her away right there speaks volumes about her personal fortitude. The day after my trainer left, Becky called me and asked me to come to their running club. And then to run this race, and run that race, and do this triathlon. And on top of all of that, she introduced me to some other amazing ladies who are fun! cute! and just as determined as Becky to make fitness fun and challenging. No, I did not compete in the triathlon (this time) but during that first run, I ran further than I ever have on a continuous basis in my entire life! Yay! And OW! New shoes were in order after that.

I mean, SERIOUSLY, whoever can run 10 miles (JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT!) at 'O Dark Thirty and then pose like a Charlie's Angel is more than OK in my book.

Around that very same time, Johanna (D.C. Johanna, my Happy Drill Sergeant Johanna!) asked some of her Facebook friends to join in on a challenge that she was coaching. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I knew if she was going to be a part of it, then I wanted in! She told me that she was promoting these protein shakes called Shakeology and that the challenge group would replace one meal of the day with a shake and take Bodypump classes three times a week (along with whatever else we normally did to work out). As much as I trusted Johanna, I didn't want to jump blindly into something I hadn't researched so I began googling. I could not find one single negative review of Shakeology. It seemed everyone had something wonderful to say about the taste and the health benefits. So I joined the challenge. My shakes won't arrive until tomorrow but I have already lost 1.5 pounds (OVERNIGHT) following the low carb/Paleo plan again.

Part of the Shakeology Challenge* (which is distributed by Beach Body, the people who brought you P90X and Insanity) is that you have to take pictures of yourself in a bathing suit "before"and "after". I figured that since I'm making it public that I'm doing this, I should also let you watch my physical progress so that it may inspire others too. Jeremy quickly put the ixnay on me posting photos of me in a bikini ( I was all: OH PLEASE! You're acting like there are creepy people trolling the internet! PSHAW!). So you're just going to have to settle for me in workout clothes...believe me, your eyes thank you for not having to see my thighs in all their corpulent glory.

Before I do this, I would like to note that me and myself had a wee going away party (more like a wild frat party with call girls made out of pizza) for all of the foods and drinks (goodbye wine! I shall miss thee!) I will be forgoing for the next thirty days. I pretty much made myself sick. I was so bloated I couldn't take my rings off and along with a major food baby, I developed "pregnant face" overnight. SALT, you delicious devil, you!

Without further ado, your "before" photos:

wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah!

Food baby, 'bout three days gestation. Congratulations! It's aaaaaaa: PIZZA AND A SIX PACK of CORONA!

So there's that, Internet. Hope you aren't scarred for life. I'll update you periodically on my progress and let you know how the shakes are and I will also post the "after" photos after the challenge is over. Good lord, pray for me!

I said all of that to really say this: If I can make these changes in my life, then ANYONE can. And I mean that. I'm poking fun at myself and baring my weathered soul to you in the the hopes (as usual) that maybe, just maybe, there is someone reading this that doesn't know where to start, or feels like there is no hope. Listen. Listen to me. There is ALWAYS hope. You can ALWAYS be a better you. This has been a very long uphill battle for me. On the way I've had to continuously fight my own personal demons and my own body turned against itself several times making me very sick. But one constant remained: No matter how far I fell backward, or how low I felt, I always managed to find a way to keep going. Little by little. And you can too. Don't look at the big picture, look at the little one. Today. Sometimes, one hill at a time is easier to climb than the whole mountain. But if you keep going, one day you will turn around, after climbing all those little hills and see that you have in fact climbed that mountain.

*If you are interested in purchasing Shakeology, you can do so through Johanna on the Beachbody website.

Watch Your Toes, I May Be About to Step on Some

2012-01-05T11:03:00.004Z

"A mind may be likened unto a garden which may be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run wild, but whether cultivated or neglected, it must, and will bring forth."~ Allen

OK. So maybe I shouldn't be getting ready to say what I am about to say, but then again I am the girl who got expelled from eleventh grade for defending someones honor...with a knife...at school. Don't worry, no one got hurt, I just developed one hell of a crazy reputation for being, well, crazy.

I have kept my big mouth quiet on this matter for as long as I can and I here I go about to stir up some ruckus and defend someone, or a lot of someones honor again. Let me just go ahead and take out my earrings and take my shoes off in case this 'bout to get ugly and I step on some toes.

This post is dedicated to all those people I see on a daily basis who complain about this island and its people and its problems. And perhaps I have been there on occasion, and if so, for that I am deeply sorry. But, how dare you. How dare you speak ill of people who welcome you into their home and onto their beautiful island with such hospitality and kindness that it blows this former east coast girl away. That above all the other negative poison I hear daily angers me. You are no better than any other person that walks this Earth, and if you think so, may you have a very humbling experience real soon.

If you are a military member or the spouse of one, you knew what you were signing up for when you joined this club and if you're here and don't like it, I think you should drop to your knees right now and thank God that you are here instead of Afghanistan or some otherwise equally awful place. It's January, get your ungrateful ass out of bed and take a walk on the beach, look at that beautiful water, say to yourself "It's January, and it's eighty degrees and I'm wearing shorts."Be thankful that while all of your other friends on Facebook are complaining about single digit weather, you're drinking out of a coconut, about to throw another shrimp on the barbie.

Maybe it's because I've moved over 30 times that I've learned (the hard way) never to have expectations of a place before I meet it. I left one of the biggest cities in the US, where I had access to just about every amenity you could imagine at my fingertips and I came to this tiny island hoping only for new experiences and with an open mind. Yes, I miss Trader Joe's and Starbucks too, but if that's all we focus on then that's what we allow to grow in our mind.

And grow those thoughts will. Those seeds of negativity will take root, grow stronger and blossom into more poisonous thoughts until you're mind is overrun with them. A mind really is like a garden and we are the gardeners of our minds. So please, grab those thoughts by the root and yank them out, throwing them as far away as you can. And in the big hole that they leave behind, plant some positive seeds. I am experiencing a new place on the other side of the world, something that most people only dream of doing. I am living in a place who's people have a rich cultural heritage that I have an opportunity to learn about and then share with others in the world when my time here is done. I am a guest in this house, I will treat it and the people who it belongs to with respect. Let's say that last one again, cuz it bears repeating. I am a guest in this house, I will treat it and the people who it belongs to with respect. I will lie in the sand, warm water lapping my toes, a plumeria in my hand, and I will be grateful for ALL things.

My friends, while I'm sure I have offended and even pissed off some of you, it's a risk worth taking because if you will only let what I'm saying sink into your hearts, I know you will find that you could be happy even in a shoebox. If you are new to my blog, I won't rehash everything I have experienced in the past five years, but I will tell you that there was devastating event after devastating event. Soul-crushing things happened but because of my steadfast belief that God will work all things together for the good of those that love Him and my conscious effort to remain focused on whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable*, I was knocked down at times but never out. I have been able to remain joyful and hopeful because of the practice of this gardening of my mind.

All righty then, I will now put my soap box back in its home under my bed. I love you all (mean it!) and good night.

*Philipians 4:8-9

ED NOTE: Since many people comment on my blog from Facebook (who makes it much easier to comment than blogger...eh hem) I have decided to upload the comments as photos and add them to each post. Please feel free to add your thoughts, opinions, verbal scourging, etc to this dialogue. If anyone knows a better way of doing this, please let me know.

The Conscious Evolution of a Former Party Girl

2012-01-01T06:22:00.014Z

Piles of dresses littered the floor like rainbow colored, satin shag carpet. Heels in varying degrees of ankle breaking height lay discarded and pairless among the dresses. Castaways. Containers of makeup and brushes lined the bathroom counter leaving little room for anything else. A half drunk vodka and red bull sat on the dresser, party fuel. Liquid courage. But what was there to be afraid of? Only myself. For so long, I was my own worst enemy.

So many parties, so many pretty shoes, and so little time. Walking arm in arm, laughing as our breath hung in vaporous clouds above our heads. Girls in pretty dresses and painful shoes, our eyes heavy under the weight of the layers of beauty we had applied. New Year's Eve. Each night so rife with limitless possibilities and promises of carefree socializing. But in the end so ultimately empty. And so...sad.

And now, so many years and so much happiness later, another year is born. But this time legos and Barbie dolls litter the floor. The theme song to Spongebob plays loudly from the other room as a half drank sippy cup of milk lays discarded on the table next to a two year old who lies heavy lidded on the couch, trying her best to stay awake for the party.

I sit with my husband and older daughter on our lanai. We (the legal aged ones) sip wine and laugh as the cat tries to climb a seven foot screen to catch a gecko on the ceiling. It's eight O'clock.

"Let's have a trampoline party!" My child proposes.

"Awwwww, yeah," I say, and we run barefoot outside, the warm breeze rustling the branches of all the palm trees.

We jump and laugh for what seems like forever, sweat beginning to bead and run down our backs. Exhausted, we take a break and I watch her savor a popsicle the way only a kid can and I say, "This is a fun party, huh?"

"Yeah. The best, " she says.

And everyone falls asleep before the year ends. Happy and content, oblivious to all the other parties. For now at least.

Eight Years

2011-12-26T11:34:00.014Z

Dear Husband,

As of today we have been married for eight years. That's almost ten. It has gone by so quickly and yet the milestones that we have created and the trials that we have forged have somehow cemented us together in such a deeper way that I can't even articulate how deep it feels. Can you believe that?!?! I, meeee, am speechless?!?!

You were and still are an intensely private person and I am learning to respect that...kind of. Maybe. So, instead of airing all of my syrupy and scandalous sentiment for you in front of the whole internet (No, I'll save that embarrassing moment for when we're out in public, even MORE fun!), I thought I would just take us on a little walk down memory lane by way of pictures and my running, snarky narrative. You like me best when I'm being "feisty", after all.

Look! Here is the only surviving picture of my 21st birthday (thank you, Kevin!). That is you I'm talking to on the phone (and what a large and cumbersome piece of technology that thing is!), you called to wish me a happy birthday. Awww, it's our first phone conversation. If only you could have seen then that I had drawn a handlebar mustache on the Pope before that was even a cool thing to do, you may have run for your life then and never looked back. We went on our first date the next day and we've pretty much been stuck like glue ever since. Scary Pope mustaches and all. After we expressed our mutual lurve for one another, I promptly told you in no uncertain terms that you had two years to decide whether you wanted to marry me or not. I wasn't going to waste the best years of my face on someone who was up in the air. And guess what? We all know what happened after that! My threat worked! You took me to the location of one of our first dates, deep in the woods of Brown County, far from public view (and that right there is just another demonstration of how personal and private your displays of undying love are), got on one knee and asked me to be with you forever. And I was all: Forevah evah? And you were all: Word. And then I think I cried. Even though I would have proposed (had I been the proposer ) on a step ladder, with a bull horn, in the midst of a flash mob I had arranged just for that occasion, I appreciated the importance of that place in the history of our relationship. It was the place amidst the trees and the birds where I ran screaming from a bee and almost broke my ankle because I was wearing platform heels in the woods. I thought for sure you wouldn't stick around after that great display of mental instability, but nope, you were laughing so hard I started laughing too. And then when you knelt down two years later, I had to stop you before your knee hit the ground because there was a pile of deer poop right underneath it. More spectacular history to add to the tales we tell our children...but wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. There were no children yet.

And so after that happened, this happened. I planned the bulk of our wedding in just five weeks so my brother could attend. We all thought he was going to be sent to Iraq and since he's my only sibling (you know you've got like seventeen, you could spare one or two) he had to be there. You were so adamant about not seeing me before we met in the church that when my dad drove me over there before the ceremony to drop something off and I saw you coming out of the building as we were pulling up, I screamed and hid as far on the floorboard as I could; my seventy three layers of tulle and organza sticking up like an unrolled roll of toilet paper out of the window. We danced, laughed, drank, and were merry. And then you took me away from my mother and father and I spent a large part of that first night crying, feeling like I had been torn apart from people I loved so completely, never to return. Oh, if only I had known then how many times I would return to that place.

HONEYMOON! We ate too much, drank too much, did too much other stuff and were generally exhausted from our hedonistic glutton-fest. As we lay on the bed on the last day of our honeymoon sharing the worst hangover I can ever recall from a $500 bottle of champagne (you'd think at that price it would leave you feeling like you had super powers and a six pack) we still managed to laugh and decided that if we ever started a band (because that's highly likely, right?!) that we would call it Champagne Hangover and I would play the triangle, or maybe the cow bell and you would wear tight leather pants and just generally be hot. It. Would. Be. Epic.

In true Jeremy and Jill (well maybe more Jill) fashion, we picked up a stray on our honeymoon. But how could you blame me? She was all a lonely, and she was SWEDISH! She stuck with us for most of the night through shenanigans untold and then somewhere in my search for J-lo and P-Diddy or whatever his name is now, we lost her. We will never forget you, Little Blonde Swede, and you are totally an honorary member of Champagne Hangover. You can play tambourine.

After all that excitement we had a couple of relatively quiet years. And then...

This happened. It pretty much shook the foundations of our world, but only momentarily. In the midst and shortly after that, so many dear people were lost. It was like we were being hammered into the Earth, each new blow striking us harder than the last. You never really know what a relationship is made out of until it faces a trial. And in the midst of all of the heartbreak, I learned that outside of God, you are my rock, and I am yours. In the darkest hours of our lives we held on to each other and held each other up. I'm sure that last paragraph was enough to make you mad, OVERSHARING! But, like picking up stray people along the way, it's what I do best. LOVE ME FOR IT, not DESPITE it!

The next couple of years were kind of a hazy, pizza colored blur. In a nutshell: We bought a house, it was so empty that we played rocket ship on the living room floor and laughed like little kids. We decided life was too short and uncertain to wait any longer and so I got pregnant. You helped with that. Thanks, umm, for that. I got really huge and unrecognizable, you still pretended to be attracted to me (LIES!), We had a baby, or rather I had a baby as you watched in horror what the female body is capable of. Yeah, that scarred me for life too, except only it literally did. TAKE THAT! TMI! Then so soon after that, you were deployed and I returned home to my parents...again. I got skinny again, you worked out a lot. And finally after eight long months:Reunited and it feels so good. There is your baby (and dude, she is soooooooo your baby) looking at her daddy for the first time in her memory. Small tears.
We became three instead of two and life changed in a much more solid and responsible kind of way. Funny how kids do that to you. We spent the remainder of our time in Mississippi becoming in large part who we are today: a family. We moved to D.C., and then we moved again to a little apartment the size of a shoe box. We rode the metro all the time and felt like big city kids. We saw the White House, The Smithsonisns, walked the National Mall and stared into the huge stone face of Abraham Blinkington much more than once. We endured blizzards, blindness, and the terrible two's and threes of our first child. And in the middle of it all, I remember laughing with you the most. Because even though after all those years when I look at you, I still find you undeniably attractive, that's not what keeps my heart a flutter (OK, so it is partly) it's the way we laugh together that I love the most. On the couch, making fun of the TV, in bed in the dark, laughing about our children, and in the car on any of the very, very long road trips we are so fond of taking. And somewhere in the midst of all the laughter and metro riding and temper tantrums...
I looked at you kind of like this, and then...

this happened. Our little lion. As I type this she is sitting in time out after she got a spanking for throwing a HUGE tantrum because I wouldn't give her a bowl of shredded cheese for breakfast. The scene resembled something like a patient trying to escape their ward on the floor for mentally ill people in a hospital and I was the orderly prying her fingers off of the fridge door as she kicked and screamed and hurled toddler sized obscenities at me. So sweet and so difficult. The child who made us rethink the prospect of having any more. Yet it's funny how despite all the challenges she presents to us, we still manage to laugh about it, because girl is FUNNY, even if she is so so bad. She does take after her mother, after all.

And now here we are, living on a beautiful island, in the middle of the sea. I will limit my public sap to this, and I will even put it in manly terms you can understand and appreciate: You are my best friend...something, something, grunt grunt, point at my heart. I also think you're hot even after all these years, more grunting, here have a beer. You let me buy you pink shirts and you even wear them! For that I will cook you meat over an open flame and pretend to find football interesting!

Seriously though, I know I get pissed off about your seeming inability to put your dishes in the dishwasher and put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket...I mean, C'mon! It's like two feet away from where you threw them on the ground! But in the big picture and in truth, I will pick your underwear up off the floor gladly for the rest of my life if it means we can keep laughing and sharing in this crazy, unpredictable life together. But...I will NOT empty your pockets before I wash clothes, I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere. Even I have standards.

One day, hopefully a very, very long time from now, we will be gone from this Earth. But because of this, in some way, we will live on through these little people we made. And they will continue to tell The Story of Us after we've gone. That's heavy and yet it gives my soul wings.

Thank you for choosing me to be your travelling companion on this journey. I'll wait until right before you fall asleep and then I'll whisper in your ear all of the other stuff I have to say, because I know just how much you love that. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!

Merry Island Christmas My Loves!

2011-12-25T09:17:00.006Z

As I sat and compiled this slide show and all of its photos, I sifted through the last year of our lives in technicolor freeze-frame. I saw the photographic chronicles of our adventures (and what adventures they have been), and I remembered the phrase: It's not the years in your life, but the life in your years. (I think that was Ye Olde Abraham Blinkington as Ellie would call him.)

The laughter we have shared, the love, the music, and the tears. The depth of this human experience is only quantifiable in guttural pangs of the heart that can only be mutually understood if you've been there yourself. And now, as we stand on the doorstep of a new year, ripe with unknown possibilities and adventures, I can't help but imagine what lies ahead for this merry band of voyagers on the ship of Life. I expect more laughter, more heartbreak and eventually more tears, but in the midst of it all, I pray I remember to stop and soak all of those moments in; tucking them gently into the soft corners of my mind. ( Wow, that last sentence was lengthy enough to impress Faulkner!)

Today was our first Christmas on Guam and as I sat watching my children bounce on their new trampoline in the golden, pink-edged haze of sunset; I felt the temperate breeze on my skin and took several deep and heady breaths. I felt a sense of resounding satisfaction and completeness in my soul and despite the mess of boxes and paper inside, I was intensely happy. Even though I know our time here has an expiration date and tomorrow may be wrought with trials unknown, I am hopeful and excited for whatever lies ahead. Even if it is a wall scribbled in sharpie and crayon mashed into the carpet. (PLEASE remind me of that tomorrow when I'm screaming about the sharpie and the crayon.)

Merry Christmas to all of our friends scattered across this big, beautiful world. And may the coming year find you well and blessed, but whatever trials you may face, may you grow stronger and stand taller in their wake.

"God bless us, every one."

The Dude

2011-12-20T10:09:00.005Z

When we found out we were moving to Guam, one of the only things I could say to my children (read: Ellie) to keep them from fuh-reaking out and melting into a puddle of tears and hysteria on the floor was to yell out: PUPPIES! KITTENS! You can have one of each! And after several moments of describing awesome rainbow, fairy dust sprinkled, and glorious adventures to be had with said puppy and kitty, I could eventually talk her off the preschool aged ledge that leads to: The Tantrum of No Return. Of course these fantasies were perfect and in them everyone was wearing wrinkle-free clothing and had perfectly glistening smiles while we played in slow motion in the afternoon sun with our equally perfect puppy and kitty. Because that's how fantasies work, right? Kind of like what you imagine it will be like to have a baby before you actually have one and then you have that perfect baby you imagined and one day some weeks later in a sleepless haze, wearing a breast milk and poop covered shirt you look in the mirror, don't recognize yourself and go: WHOA. This is not exactly what I had envisioned. And then that adorable ball of eating and pooping and sleeping flesh coos at you and bats its glorious eyelashes and you fall in love again and forget your reflection for at least thirty minutes.

So what did we do when we got to Guam? Plan? Shop? Budget? Make lists about goals for our future? Bahaha! WRONG! Well, I just wouldn't be me if I didn't rush right out and immediately locate all the nearest animal-bearing facilities. I found a pet shop and an animal shelter and I scoured the paper every day for weeks looking for the perfect puppy and kitty. The only SNAFU was that we didn't exactly have a house yet. ONE CAN DREAM AT LEAST! At the very least it was a good diversion for my kids while we spent weeks at the hotel waiting for a house. And it kept me away from the pool bar. Side note: As I just typed that I accidentally spelled poop bar instead of pool bar. I can only imagine what THAT would have been like.

Eventually after looking at several pure bred puppies here we decided to rescue a dog from the local shelter. There are a lot of packs of feral dogs roaming around Guam and often times they're in pretty bad shape. We decided it would be better to save a life than have an overpriced pedigree. So we looked and we looked. I walked up and down rows of cages in the scorching sun, sweat dripping down my back, staring into mournful eyes, many of whom I knew would not live to see the next full moon. It broke my heart and I wanted to take them all home with us, but I knew we were only allowed two animals and by God Ellie was getting that KITTEN! So we looked and we looked, in the sun and in the rain. And then one day...I saw him. A fat black puppy too big for Ari to pick up but still little enough to have all the adorable qualities that puppies possess.

When we talked to him he lowered his head sheepishly and licked his lips. We took him to the play area to "test" him out (but in my heart I already knew). He was so well mannered. He didn't jump up on the kids or act aggressively, he was just so gentle. He followed us all around the yard and before we put him back in his cage, I looked into his face and said: You will be mine, oh yes you WILL be mine. He licked his lips and I think he even blushed a little. He watched us walk away with those sad eyes and all the fantasies we had envisioned played out in my head like clips from an old movie. Rainbows! Fairy dust! Sparkling teeth!

We had to wait for a week before our house was ready and we could pick him up. During that time, we discussed potential names. I voted for Stinky Ass Hippie, which Jeremy promptly vetoed citing improper use of profanity. The kids came up with some good ones that I would have loved to see Jeremy yell out angrily as the dog ran in the opposite direction down the street. Names like: Fluffy Buns and Unicorn Head, Poopy Pants and Fart Smeller. While amusing, they just weren't right, although, I may have agreed upon Dingleberry but no one else was going for that. Eventually it was decided that we would go for an old favorite. Jeffery Lebowski, or The Dude. And so he became... Dude.

Just like that fantastical newborn baby, it was all rainbows, fairy dust, and puppy breath at first. And then somewhere between him eating my favorite flip flops like they were a tasty bit of bacon and having explosive bouts of diarrhea for nights on end which resulted in us caring for him through the night like he was a newborn baby I just lost that lovin feeling. I had to remind myself for several days as I spray cleaned the crap out of his kennel through the night that I, we, wanted this gastrointestinally challenged beast with a voracious appetite for things that are not made for doggies to eat. I will now compile a list of his sins for your amusement. As you read this, please (If you have ever seen The Big Lebowski) affect, in your head, the voice of Maude Lebowski.

Bad, Bad, Very Naughty Things The Dude Has Done Since He Became Our Dog:

Chew the laces out of Jeremy's very overpriced and waterproof hiking shoes. BAD DOG!
Hump my leg in your puberty stricken frenzy while I was trying to take a nap on the couch. BAD, BAD DOG!
Sneak into the pantry and eat the crap out of the car's litter box. I CAN SEE THAT LITTER ON YOUR FACE, JEFFERY! You're not fooling me! BAD DOG!
Chew countless toys that did not belong to him. Pink does not suit you, Jeffery, you should really stick to colors that flatter you best. Like, beige.
Bark incessantly at the creaking of my bed on a Friday, Saturday, or perhaps even a Wednesday night. NO ONE IS GETTING HURT, DUDE. I know it may sound like it, but I assure you, everything is juuuuust fine. BAD BOY!
Run away to say hello to the neighbors dog early in the morning while I was still in my robe, thus causing me to run through the grass barefoot and half-clad screaming: DUUUUUUUUDE! YOU ASS! COME BACK HERE!
You made us think that little patch of missing hair on your ear was just a scratch from your prior, wild life. But, no Jeffery, it turned out to be RINGWORM! Which you gave to my children. What did I tell you? To see my Doctor. He's a good man. And thorough. BAD, BAD, DIRTY BOY, DUDE!

I have since come to terms with this animal, though the initial honeymoon may be over. We have come to an understanding, rather I have come to an understanding of him. He's just a Dude, doing things the way dudes do, and I promise to try my very best to love him. We don't want another Jack Johnson on our hands do we? I might even let him lick my hand. Maybe. As long as he hasn't eaten any cat poop recently.

On Christmas

2011-12-13T09:48:00.002Z

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

~Arthur O'Shaughnessy

I remember myself a child, full of wonder, eyes sparkling like diamonds in the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. In my bed, on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep for all the anticipation inside my little body. It had been building for weeks, Christmas and all of its magic. My brother and I would search the house over for hidden presents before the big day. Our mother became better at hiding and we became better at snooping. I once asked Jeremy if he and his siblings used to look for their Christmas presents before Christmas, he looked at me, seemingly horrified, and said, "No. Why would anyone ever do that?" And that right there folks is a very good example of just how opposite two people can be and still find each other strangely attracted. I blame Pheromones. The armpit ones. Not the pee ones. That would just be gross.

Anywho, I was a kid, getting all jittery about Christmas, slapping my brother around if he didn't do as he was told, which was: let me sleep with him on Christmas Eve, until he was like fourteen. Now, he may end up denying this, and I will say, he put up a good fight, but until he hit his twenties, I could easily have crushed him, and like I've said before, I lorded my seniority and size over him with an iron fist. And yes, if you were wondering, that HAS in fact come back to haunt me. When he picked up and basically tossed me across the room, I pretty much knew it was time to let him be king for awhile.

You see, Christmas Eve was a very special time for us as little kids. My parents, who were perhaps procrastinators, liked to lock us in a room so they could wrap and put together toys. The reason they locked us in was because they were keenly aware of our stealthy ninja-like super human Christmas spying skills and they knew in order to keep Christmas a surprise we would have to be corralled and locked up like tigers pacing in their cages. But, do not be alarmed Dear Readers, (Awwww, wookie there! Did you miss that? I haven't called you that in awhile.) because this room contained more than just padded walls and straight jackets. Oh yes, we had a TV and a bed in which we were supposed to go to sleep. HA! We laughed in the face of sleep! Sleep was for the weak and less excited, not us.

Usually, after we were locked in our cages, er, I mean, sent to bed, we would occupy our time by generally annoying each other. I might tickle him until he threatened to pee himself, and then when I let go he would inevitably elbow me in the face and I might cry and punch him. Then, there would be tent making with our feet and the covers, maybe some shadow puppets with dirty senses of humor. These shenanigans were intermittently interrupted by some Christmas cartoon watching and our father knocking on the door to give us updates of where Santa had been spotted. Apparently he was getting this information from the news. Which is precisely why I don't believe anything I hear on the news to this day. It was probably CNN. Oh, Amanda, I kid, I kid.

"They've spotted something flying over Chicago," He would yell through the door.

"It's probably an airplane!" we would yell back as we grew older.

And then before long he would return, "Looks like he's getting closer, sleigh bells were heard in Gary, IN. You kids better get to sleep or you're not gettin shit tomorrow!"

"Those were probably gun shots! You know all those people are on the naughty list!"

Ok, so that last conversation probably never actually took place, but in my mind it would have been a whole lot funnier if it had.

Oh how my father loved to see us believe in the magic of Christmas. His eyes would sparkle with mirth as he told us about his childhood Christmases. "You kids are spoiled! When I was your age we got an orange in our stocking and our stocking was just that, a SOCK! Now here we are, stuffing toys inside of them. When I was a kid, a piece of fruit in the winter WAS like candy. Now, gimme some of those chocolates."

And yet despite his miserly talk, he never spared any last thing we wanted, whenever he could. He would watch us open our gifts, making us drag it out one at a time so as to prolong the magic when all we wanted to do was tear into them like animals. He was and is one of the best gift givers I know, truly thinking of the person when making his selections. Daddy, if you're reading this, I appreciate that very much. When all the packages were opened and the mess cleaned up, (because he is an artist with OCD tendencies after all, there could be NO MESS. That would ruin the magic of Christmas!) we would play with our toys and he would play with us. And then we would most likely watch a movie. During what I refer to as "My Dark Period" I suggested Scarface or The Godfather. He obliged and my mother would just go to the kitchen and clean something instead of subjecting herself to that debauchery and violence on Christmas. In more recent years we have begun watching Going My Way with Bing Crosby. It makes for a much more festive holiday movie, and yes, my mom stays in the room to watch it.

And now, here we are, here am I. Years and oceans apart from the memories I made, the memories they made for us. Here I am grown, with a husband, a house and a family of my own. The baton has been passed; we are now the music makers and the dreamers of the dreams. I stand on the other side of the curtain, the one pulling the strings and making the magic happen.

We are the secret keepers,

telling them to shut their peepers.

The early morning wrapping sweepers,

and the unbridled childhood -joy reapers.

I watch as the anticipation I once held for this day now runs through my children just as surely as my blood. My anticipation now lies in wait for the looks on their faces as they open their gifts and squeal with delight. I will tell them about my childhood and how once we were so poor all I got was a hamster and Uncle Gordon too ( and he named it King just like he named ALL his other hamsters), but how we were happy because we were together. And one day, many Christmases from now, their father and I will pass the baton and they will do the same for children of their own.

Life...With a Two Year Old.

2011-12-08T10:01:00.005Z

Ariane. Ari. The lion. Serves me right for naming her after a fierce creature. She captivates me with her little rabbit teeth and mischievous glimmer and for a moment or two each day I forget the destruction she is capable of wreaking. She smiles and runs past me, golden corkscrew curls bouncing behind her, little chubby feet pad pad patting past. I am caught up in her adorableness. And then I realize with a sinking feeling that prior to her mad dash through the living room, I had enjoyed a blissful 30 minutes of silence. And with Ari, unless she is asleep, silence is never a good sign. I walk in the opposite direction of where she just ran from and enter the kitchen. There is red candle wax smeared across the dog's food bowl and on the floor. A large cinnamon scented candle sits next to the bowl with deep toddler finger sized rivets running through its wax.

For a moment, I see red, and not just the red all over the floor. I. Just. Mopped. The hell with cleaning while that child lives here! I march through the house and find her crouched down in her room playing with a handful of glow in the dark dinosaurs. They're talking to each other. Apparently they can't decide on a suitable location to have dinner. One wants McDonald's and one wants tacos. I stand over her and ask, "Ari, why is there candle wax all over the floor and dog's bowl?"

She looks up at me, her two front teeth sticking out over her bottom lip. I catch a flash of dastardly mischief cross her eyes and she says, "Coz, Dude was hongwy."

"But Ari, do dogs eat candles?"

"When day hongwy day do."

"Ari, was that your candle?"

She gets up and runs out of the room yelling as she goes, "WHAT? I can't hear you?"

I can't help but laugh.

She wears a pink tutu and matching pink high heels nearly every day and has been known to spontaneously break out in multiple twirling sessions, "I'm a ballet. I'm doin ballet. See, watch me dance." And then she raises her arms and propels herself in a circle on one heeled foot. She catches herself before she hits the ground and smiles. "See! Dat was fun!"

"Let me spin you," I say. And I pick her up and twirl her around and around. I can feel the laughter begin in her belly and make it's way up her throat like bubbles in champagne.

"AGAIN!" And her eyes shine with delight. I spin her over and over until I am dizzy and giddy with her. I fall back on the couch and we breathe heavily in between our giggles. I tickle her and she screams. I can fit my whole hand over her stomach and heart. I love the softness of her toddler skin and how her stomach still sticks out like she just ate Thanksgiving dinner. Every day. I let her go and she runs past me into the playroom. I marvel at her and want to freeze this moment in time. But it keeps ticking, the minutes at times dragging by and the years speeding past.

Later that day we are going through a box of my old photographs and Ellie finds one of me from a dance in High School. "Who is THAT guy?!" She asks with gritted teeth.

"Just some guy I went to a dance with. I can't even remember his name," I tell her.

"Well, I don't like him. He is disgusting."

"Yeah, I totally agree. Daddy is way more handsome"

Ari picks up the photo and as she has a way of doing lately, mimics her sister in words and tone. She points to me in the picture and says, "Dat guy is dis-gus-tin. He is gwoss! I don't wike him!"

"Ari, that one is ME!", I say, but again I can't help laughing. She looks at me, then the picture, then at me again.

She smiles, "Noooooooo, dat is not you Mama."

Oh, boy, I think. I'm never going to break out those awful junior high photos then.

She catches all manner of animals, bugs, and everything else that freaks me out. "Wook, I got a wizard!"

"A wizard?!" I ask, "Will you name him Gandlaf? Or maybe Dumbledore?"

'Noooooo, siwwy, his name is Mr. Wizard."

"Brilliant."

The other day she grabbed a giant black sea cucumber (which happen to look just like a horse penis...if you've never seen that, whatever you do, DO NOT google it. I can't be responsible for any images that pop up and rob you of your innocence) She picked it up and cradled it in her arms and said. "Awwww Mommy, wook, it's my baby pet dolphin. Shhhhhhh, he sweepin." And then she started to carry it towards the car. To. Take. Home. To live with us, wherein she would hug him and pet him and squeeze him and name him George. I could not convince her to let it go, it WAS her baby pet dolphin after all. "Ari, you have to put him back. He can't breathe. He's going to die."

"Awwwww, aw-wight." And she put it back in the water.

I wash her, brush her curls, read Brown Brown Brown Bear or Go dog, Go and put her in bed. I kiss her forehead and tell her I love her. "I wub you too Mama. You is my mommy, and you are my teacher. And I am your baby. Am I your baby, Mama?"

I lean in and whisper into her ear, "Yes, I am your mama, and yes, you are my baby. You are ALWAYS my baby."

"Yeah", she says, "Dats wight, Mama."

And all the sins and markers on the wall and wax on the floor are forgotten, or at least remembered with laughter. Tomorrow will be a new day fraught with new disasters only a two year old can produce. But I am her mama, and she is my baby, and we'll find a way to laugh through them. Well, I'll find a way. She'll already be laughing and running, golden curls bouncing behind her.

,

A Letter to My Daughter On Her Birthday

2011-12-06T09:52:00.006Z

Dear Elsbeth,

Yesterday you turned five years old. That's a whole handful of fingers. Soon you'll have to start using two hands when you tell people how old you are! It's been a long time since I've written to you or about you on this space. Most of your daily quips and witticisms are so succinct they seem perfectly tailored for Facebook, so that's where I share most of the joy, frustration, and laughter you add to our lives.

Just like when I used to stare into your face as an infant and ponder the depth of your soul and question the child you would turn into; I do the same thing now but wonder about the young lady and eventually the woman you will become. There are moments when you laugh or the sun catches your hair just right that I feel like I can almost see you, the grown you. It's at once both beautiful, breathtaking and heartbreaking. I think you will only understand the complexities of emotions a mother can have all at once when you have a child of your own. You want ten by the way. You told me the other day that you were going to be a dentist. For mermaids. When I asked you who would take care of your ten children while you were making all those mermaids have perfect smiles, you replied: My husband. He'll stay home with them. And then you informed me that you would still be living with us because we should never be parted. Ever. In that instant I remembered being your age and the thought of leaving my mother could instantly bring tears to my eyes. Now look at me. Thousands of miles away. But I didn't mention that to you then. I said, of course we'll be together. Forever. Forevah evah.

I hope when you are grown and looking back on your childhood you will not mind that I shared so much of your personal life with the world. I only do it because you are so infinitely precious and precocious. You are a beautiful mystery to me. It is so strange to grow a child, give them life from your own body, your own blood, and then to nourish and sustain them with your own body. It is an intimacy that parallels marriage, except its mysteries of love are more profound. I grew you, my love. We walked, slept, ate, breathed; existed as one for so many months. And after I gave you life, and knew the you that you are now, it mystifies me how utterly different from me you really are. How did we share my body for so long and yet the traits we share are so minimal? You are your father.

I remind your father of this constantly. When you walk past, I say: There you go. You with a vagina. You have his eyes, his skin, the legs that he has always hated, but that I always coveted and the legs I always prayed you would get. Well girlfriend (that's your favorite thing to call me these days), you got those supermodel gams. And yet, you are so innocently unaware of your beauty, it is profound. Your eyes shine like diamonds when you laugh and you tell me you think your voice sounds like a boy. I want to hold you and caress your face and tell you of the beauty you possess, but at the same time I'm afraid. I know the power it will wield one day and I pray that you will use it carefully. Beauty is beguiling, but it is also fleeting. I remind you occasionally that the most beautiful girls are ones that demonstrate kindness. And when you're unkind to your sister or the cat, I pull out some of my southern vernacular and tell you you're being "ugly". Because that's what it is, really.

Recently, I wrapped a gauzy topaz sarong around your slender frame and tied it on your neck. I told you that you were an indian princess You stood in the full length mirror in my room for over five minutes, smiling at your reflection and turning this way and that admiring the dress on yourself. It's one of your favorite things to wear now. And I let you, as often as you want. I let you wear princess dresses out in public still too. And as a matter of fact when we went to the movies yesterday, just you and I, I let you dress me. You picked out the highest heels in my closet and a dress that I had purchased to wear to your Uncle Kyle and Aunt Kirsten's wedding. You wore a floor grazing maxi dress and wrapped yourself in the sarong. I put blush on you and some sparkles on your eyes. It felt decadent and for a minute I envisioned a flash of our future together. The one where I teach you how to coordinate outfits and colors and how to do your makeup. I was so sure I would have boys since your daddy has so many brothers, but I am so thankful that you are a girl.

This post would not be complete without the whole picture of who you are now. At five. Our days are not without their battles. You possess a will to match my own and there are moments when I feel like we are a pair of tigers circling each other, growling. Fortunately, I am still the bigger one so I always win, but I know this may be a temporary thing. That scares me. I have always told you the truth. Some people disagree with me for that, but here is the truth now. I'm scared for you to become a teenager. When you whip your hair around and glare at me, I fear the future. And Ellie, I don't fear things. Sharks, OK. Heights, sure. But life, never. I implicitly trust that God is taking care of us and guiding us. But when see you and the defiance that you can occasionally posses, I see myself at 19 and I am so afraid for you to make the same mistakes that I did. I pray almost every day that you will grow into an adult without following the same self destructive path that I did. I look at you, full of innocence, oblivious to the evils of the world and I see the perils that lay before you. Perils I fell for hook line and sinker. When I see my past with your face on it, I want to cover your eyes and your heart, but I can't.

I was telling your grandma about this the other day. She is so wise Ellie, I hope she lives forever. She reminded me that she prayed the same things for me and that I ultimately still chose the path that I did. But guess what? It made me who I am today. And I wouldn't change that for the world.

My Elsbeth, the other day you told me you wanted to change your name to Megan. I said OK, and started calling you Megan. You paused and asked me why I had named you Elsbeth to begin with. (I had been waiting for this moment. Except it didn't happen the way I had always envisioned. The real scenario occurred just after I got out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and your sister was hopping on that infernal blue thing she endearingly calls "Hopper", so the whole time we were talking, there was this puck, puck, puck sound happening). I said to you: Your name means Consecrated to God. I picked it because you were a beautiful gift that He gave us, and I wanted to promise your care and upbringing right back to him. Elsbeth. It's like Elizabeth, except it's so not. People will never get it right. Expect that for the rest of your life, but relish it. Your name is so unique that most people have never even heard it. After I told you this, you said: Mommy, I want you to call me Ellie again. And so I did. As you wish.

I love you Elsbeth Asher Hayes. I am your mother, the one and only. You are my baby, always and forever. Even when I am buttoning your wedding dress or holding your first child; you are my baby. I love your heart. I love your eyes. I love the little woman residing in your tiny body. Every day with you is a gift and as we cuddled together in my bed today and discussed the character traits of Mother Gothel from the Tangled movie, I tried to capture every detail of that moment in my heart. The way my whole body was the big spoon to your baby spoon; your toes meeting my shins. The way you still can't make the TH sound, but how you still seemed an expert on the subject we were discussing. I brushed your hair with my fingers and it lay upon my chest like a fan. I wondered how many more years of this I had and my heart broke a little at the thought of losing these moments. But such is the beauty and pain of being a mother. You made me this, a mother. Thank you. You took the girl I was and changed her into a woman. I hope I can do such a job with you.

You are five. You are precious. You are loved.

Love,

Mama

How It Is

2011-12-01T09:49:00.003Z

It's Thursday, December first and I have a sunburn from playing too long at the beach yesterday. A beach so beautiful and water so pale blue I don't think I could ever tire of looking at it. But...it's December, and I'm not vacationing on some tropical island. I live here. I. Live. On. An. Island. In. The. Middle. Of. The. Pacific. Was that enough pronounced pauses for you to get my point across? Good. Because I. Like. Doing. That.

It's easy for me to become so swept up in the every day details that I forget to stop and just...be. My life has been so rushed, so seemingly hurried and shuffled from one place to the next for what seems like forever, living in limbo. And then we finally got our house and I got sick. SO sick I had to leave this island almost as soon as I got here. Leave it with boxes yet unpacked and shelves yet unstocked. In limbo again, my health and sight now balancing on an invisible tightrope that only God could see. When I finally came back, I was still recovering and taking huge doses of pills every day...and not the fun kind. Everything became so overwhelming, all the boxes, all the pills, all the children and animals underfoot. I couldn't breathe; I couldn't hear myself think.

All the familiar lifelines I used when my husband was at work were now on the other side of the world, sleeping when I needed to call someone the most. There were a few days when I almost lost what I felt was an already precarious grip on my sanity. I hurt all over; the sadness that I knew was from the prednisone felt crushing and oppressive. I cried and ate a lot of ice cream. And then I cried because I had eaten a lot of ice cream. I felt waves of guilt for taking out my own problems on my family. You always hurt the ones you love. And then...

Slowly, almost unnoticeably, because it was so gradual, I began to feel better. I didn't cry over spilt milk any more, I just went back to yelling about it. I got out of bed and could straighten my back right away. This might sound funny, but you should have seen me before. I looked like your octogenarian grandpa..with teeth. I could go outside again without fear of my skin instantly burning from all of the medicine I was taking.(SIDE NOTE: I so kind of wished I could go out in the burning sun while on that medicine and see my skin begin to smoke under the sun and yell out to a gawking crowd: SEE! Vampires burn, they don't sparkle! We BURRRRRRRRRNNNNNN! What a cruel world, what a world!!!!) Because I wasn't taking it any more. HURRAY!

So often I want things to happen instantly. My house put together. To feel better. To be happy right now. But life just doesn't work that way and it always has a way of teaching me patience. Of taking one day, one step at a time. And so now that's what I'm doing. Just. Being.

I wake up as the sun is rising over the hill, the sky a gradient blue. The breeze blows through the palms and they rustle, sounding like rain. Somewhere in the jungle just outside the fence, a rooster tells the world it's a new day. Nature's alarm clock. I stand on my hill, barefoot, in the yard of my house. My bare feet wet and my robe blowing around my knees. It's December. I have a sunburn. I have a house. I have a yard. I can see out of both of my eyes. There is so much love in my life that my eyes spontaneously leak when I see moments of happiness and demonstrations of kindness. My friend Rachel would call this "small tears".

I think of Rachel, and all the people I love, many of them so very far away. It is the only thing that makes this experience bittersweet. I don't think I know what life could be like without a little pain. I have almost come to appreciate it. I think about my mom, my dad and there is an ache in my heart. The space and water between us seem impossible to breach. And yet there is a peace in my heart right next to the place where it hurts. Because I know this is the place I'm supposed to be. This island. This time. Right now.

They say that living on this island can make or break a marriage. I think it's making mine. We have stood barefoot once again, in the dark, with our arms around each other and our heads bent back gazing at the stars more times than I can count. Together we watch our children, our children, play in a yard we have pined for for so long, and they seem to grow before our very eyes. We catch each other's gaze and the weightiness and beauty of these small moments seem to pass through us simultaneously. We smile at each other, never having to say a word, because we just. Understand. This. Is. It. Our life. The life we sat on the porch and imagined when we were 21. These are the children we wondered about. They have your eyes. This is growing old with you. It's so beautiful it hurts me and any words I could try to summon would fall short of the depth that connects our hearts.

Small tears.

Ye Olde Writing Experiments: A Tale of Two Toys

2011-10-21T04:45:00.005Z

*You might just like it if you press play first, then again, you might not.

today I was looking for something (what, I can't even remember because THAT'S how easily sidetracked I am. For example right now I'm supposed to be cleaning the rest of the house, but I'm NOT.) in a drawer of paper and notebooks and I happened upon my old notebook that I used for the DC Writer's Group. Because I am so easily distracted, I picked it up and a pang of nostalgia plucked at my heart. I remembered putting on my red coat with the fur collar, my black leather opera gloves from the thrift store, grabbing my metro card and walking the three blocks to the Metro from our apartment. I remembered getting off at Dupont Circle amidst the crowds of people, people I could just look at forever with their glasses and their funny shoes and their pretty faces.

In my mind I walked the eight blocks to the little coffee shop above the used furniture store, soaking up the sounds and smells of the city. I walked up the creaking wooden stairs, next to the wall heavy laden with flyer's proudly announcing the latest artistic ventures of all the local creative minds. How I miss those people, how I miss that place in time. And then I opened up the faded black cover of the big Moleskine notebook and began to read my own words in my own scribbled hand from years ago.

I cried, and then I laughed, and then I cried again. It was like reading someone else's book, someone else's thoughts. I felt so distant from the person who wrote all those stories and words, like a best friend who has suddenly stopped being your friend without saying why. And then I realized why. Because I kept pushing her away. I'm busy. I have too much to do. I'm sorry, not today, maybe tomorrow. We'll write tomorrow. Eventually, she just stopped coming around. Where nostalgia had been, I now felt a pang of guilt. I have been so busy taking care of everyone, everyTHING else, I have failed my creative self. So, I put the bucket of cleaning supplies down, right in the middle of the floor. My very own show of rebellion against, THE MAN. Whatever that means. But whatever that meant, I was going to write, dammit! I was going to get my friend back! The friend that IS me. I haven't been a good friend to myself and I vowed to change that.

So, I made myself a cup of coffee, plugged into iTunes, and tried to reconnect with that side of me that I appreciate so much, but is sometimes so hard to find. Nell Harper Lee wrote only one book, but that book was To Kill a Mockingbird. If I only ever do one beautiful thing with my gift, my only hope is that it touches people in the heart, and that it takes hold of them and puts down roots and grows until the beauty spills out and that person shares it with someone else. We've all read books like that, books that we can't forget, that change the way we think, the very essence of what we believe. There is so much ugliness in the world, so much hate; we are bombarded with it every day. My only hope is that I will find a way to use what I have to be a light in the darkness. And that begins with this: me and blank screen.

I vow here and now, publicly, before the faceless masses, to finish what I started and create the work I began before we moved. I vow to take more time for myself to write even if that means that the laundry doesn't get put away for another day or the shoes aren't all lined up (GASP!), or the kids go unbathed (juuuuuuuuust kidding). I guess that means I have to get to it then!

In the meantime, I'd like to share with you over the next week a couple of the writing exercises we worked on that I didn't share previously. The rules for the exercise were to write a story about the props brought in (I brought them this time) and you had fifteen minutes in which to write.

Here are the props:

This one is called: A Tale of Two Toys

A bare leg slid from the edge of the table and hung down, revealing foot with no toes and joints held together with tiny screws. It was followed by another leg, just as plastic as its predecessor.

"Help!" A tiny voice called out. "It's too far of a drop, I'll break if I do it!"

"Honestly," another voice replied, "what do you want me to do? I have no legs, how am I supposed to help you?"

"Well," the little doll said, " you have wings, can't you fly over here or something? I mean, aren't you supposed to have magic powers? You are a mythical beast, albeit a tiny, finger puppet sized one."

"Well, I just left the toy store yesterday and I've never tried," said the Pegasus. "But, OK, let me give it a try." And with that he began to furiously beat his tiny golden wings. He hovered above the table for a second and then he shot straight up and began to spin in circles like a whirly-gig. "Help! I can't control myself, I'm too top heavy!"

"That's what she said!" laughed the doll, for in truth, she was a tartish little thing , her mother having been one of those Barbies with the really short skirts that only cost five dollars and anyone can have.

She reached up from the table and grabbed both sides of the little flying horse. "I have a plan," she said. I'm going to stick my head inside of you (for he was quite a hollow thing, save the mound of cotton fluff packing his muzzle) and hold on to your arms, then you can fly us both down off of the table Just remember, as soon as we hit the ground, we have to run, er, fly as fast as we can back to the playroom. The baby's loose and I don't want her gumming me again. She swallowed my pants and shoes the last time she got a hold of me." And with that the doll plunged her head up the empty space of the Pegasus.

"Ouch! Don't wiggle so much!" he cried as the doll tried to get comfortable without the use of her eyes. Then he flapped his wings and they were airborne. He maneuvered them across the table top and slowly lowered the doll to the ground. She quickly pulled her head out and yelled, "Now...RUN!"

Side note: I could really have kept going with this one, but I ran out of time. It's something I may revisit later. After all, those little dolls belong to my children. And do you want to know something? To this very day, that little doll still has not put any pants or shoes on. Apples don't fall far from their trees, do they?

And I Didn't Even Require Sedation

2011-10-11T09:51:00.021Z

While we try to teach our children all about life,
Our children teach us what life is all about.
~Angela Schwindt

Today I devised a radical experiment in parenting brought about by a desire to stop focusing on things that aren't really important. Please, read and watch on.

Here were the terms:

1) We could do whatever they wanted as long as it didn't jeopardize any one's safety.

2) That's the only rule. Pretty simple, huh?

The following is an account of the day that developed.

Woke up at 6:45

Ate cupcakes for breakfast shortly after 7:00

The girls only ate the icing off of the tops of their cupcakes and fed what remained to the dog, wrappers and all. He ate it, wrappers and all.

It was decided we should go to the playground. A stuffed cat, a wagon, a naked baby doll, and two glasses of orange juice were deemed necessary.

It started raining. Ellie and I played patty cake with our feet while we waited for the rain to stop. That was her idea. My back made funny cracking sounds. I realized I'm getting old.

Someone suggested we look for rainbows. Almost immediately we found one.

It stopped raining. So...

We went to the playground and played hopscotch, rode the tire swing, looked at giant spiders, swung on the swings, and pretended to be pirates.

When sweat started making rivers down my body and black clouds loomed on the horizon, I convinced them to head home to our "Pirate Castle" where glorious treasure awaited.

We made it approximately 10 feet from the playground when they insisted we stop to pick flowers.

Ellie informed me that her stuffed kitty loved those kind of flowers, which just so happened to be called Chameleon Flowers. Apparently they will sneak away and hide if one does not watch them ever so carefully.

Finally made it home where Ari announced she was hungry for eggs. I decided to make frittata. Ellie drew a picture and taped it to the fridge with copious amounts of tape, relishing the freedom of her indulgence.

Ari found a cup and demanded more juice. What could I say? I gave her some.

Ellie wanted to take pictures with her camera. Particularly pictures of the TV.

I still hadn't gotten to the frittata. It was 9:10

At 9:30 while we were waiting for the frittata, it was mutually decided that we should eat a piece of chocolate. Then another. And well, you know where this is headed.

Ate frittata ( approximately three bites each) and decided to make Halloween crafts of spiders fashioned from egg carton and pipe cleaner and pumpkins from toilet paper rolls

Ari ran away to watch cartoons.

Ellie made Jesus out of orange and green construction paper and tacked him to the bulletin board.

We danced in circles.

Ellie ran away to watch cartoons.

Someone decided we should play baseball so we headed back outside. I only kind of cleaned up. You see, I was trying really hard not to worry about that stuff.

While outside, Ari ran away with Ellie's stuffed cat, who had been napping peacefully on a blanket placed on a tree root.

We scolded her.

She threw dirt at us.

We stared into the jungle and pondered how many spiders were in it. Too many, that's how many.

Ari practiced her "Balance Talents" on the roots of a tree.

No one ever played baseball. I was kind of relieved.

At 12:45 it was decided we should all go to Pizza Hut. Dressed as princesses. Yes, even ME. Ellie wanted me to wear my wedding dress since it was the closest thing I had to a real princess dress but I told her I couldn't reach it, so she settled on dressing me in a vintage handkerchief hem sun dress and some rhinestone heels...and a crown.

After they ate pizza, they insisted we go straight to Yogurtland. I obliged even though I was skeptical that they could eat any yogurt, but they ate the whole thing!

In the middle of our Yogurt, Ari screams, I'M ABOUT TO PEE MY PANTS!!! (technically, she wasn't wearing any pants, but I didn't point that out) After a frantic trip to the bathroom where a bladder crisis was narrowly averted, we finished our yogurt.

It was then decided we should go on a search for Ellie's Halloween costume. We ended up at a store that was decorated with some mildy scary creatures. Ari called a Skeleton Pirate "Captain" while protectively holding us all back from said "Captain".

When we walked out the door it set off a rattling skeleton that made all of us jump and Ari scream.

In the car Ari informed us that if we would simply put Jesus in our back packs, then the captain couldn't get us. Noted and filed.

We had a dance party in the car. I think I pulled my neck and I very possibly saw a shoe fly past my head.

Went to one more Halloween store and then meowed like cats all the way home.

They wanted to do my makeup. So I let them. Ellie painted purple eyeliner on my mole calling it a pimple and assuring me that she had now made me "pretty". She did all of this while dressed as a black cat.

There was a "situation" involving glitter.

It wasn't pretty.

The dog came running home from somewhere down the street. I never even knew he was gone.

Ellie rode her scooter down the driveway into the grass. She got hurt and ran inside. Ari followed her screaming: SISTER! DON'T DIE!!!

I taught Ellie the rhyme: Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care. I'll pull down your underwear.

We laughed until we cried and I had a nagging feeling that this was going to come back and haunt me at a most inopportune time.

Ellie then drew a picture of what I think was supposed to be a peacock. It raised many questions in my mind.

Meanwhile, Ari left her baby alone on a table outside, but she assured me she would be fine since she had provided her with plenty of snacks...and lotion.

They watched a movie and demanded libations and macaroni and cheese.

Jeremy came home and informed me I looked like I had been attacked by a posse of clowns.

I ran away to take a shower and while in the bathroom saw my toothbrush with toothpaste still on it and realized I had forgotten to brush my teeth. All day. EW.

When I got out of the shower everyone was crying. Even Jeremy. Just kidding. Everyone ELSE was crying. Ellie renounced her sisterhood with Ari.

Ari ran outside crying. In her underwear.

I walked past a mirror and realized that even though I had washed my face THREE TIMES in the shower, my nose was still covered in hot pink lipstick.

As the girls finished their movie their eyes were heavy and they sunk lower and lower into the sofa. It was 6:30.

I fed them their macaroni and it was unanimously decided that we should make this a regular event.

Jeremy put them to bed with minimal tears. From the kids, not Jeremy.

In the words of Ice Cube: It was a good day.

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that called the young sailors.
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

No, Actually Heather, the Devil Poops Prednisone

2011-10-05T09:38:00.003Z

Moon Face. Buffalo Hump. Truncal Fat. No, I'm not making these words up, they are just a few of the physical side effects of my arch nemesis: Prednisone. What the heck is "Truncal" anyway? I'm guessing it's that cushy little muffin top I've developed in the two and a half weeks I was on Prednisone. I've also got a little moon face and buffalo hump going on. Let's just say I'm not feeling my very best.

This drug is no joke and if it weren't for the seriousness of the circumstances under which it is prescribed to me, I would NEVER take it again. The doses that I am put on initially are higher than anyone I've ever heard of or read about and in those first couple weeks (while I'm on it) I feel great. I have loads of energy, feel pretty happy, and my vision begins to clear up. And then...

When taking Prednisone, you have to be tapered off of it because your body stops making Cortisol (the stress hormone) after two weeks and becomes dependent on it. This is the tricky part. The last time the doctors took longer to taper me off of it and decreased the dosage slowly. This time around it was all done within a week. I didn't think much of it, just following doctors orders, until the first day off of it as I stood in my kitchen and started shaking all over. That was just the beginning of the party.

I think in the course of a couple of hours I had cried, screamed at everyone several times ( probably because their shoes weren't all lined up neatly in a row {wink wink}), had a near panic attack, and then felt more tired than I had years. I lay down at 5:00 and was in bed for the night. Look at me! I'm a party and a half! Throw in some Geritol and I'm your Grandma!

The next day was pretty much the same except that the anger and waves of rage had subsided and were replaced with good old fashioned melancholy. I felt like Eyeore, and I can't stand Eyeore. In the back of my mind I knew it was all from the medicine but it just felt so much more extreme than last time.

But then again, who really knows what happened during that episode. Time is like a rock polisher and my memories are the rocks placed inside the vault of time. It spins and spins and as the memories tumble through time their edges are softened and their surfaces become smooth. A funny little story to tell the children and a page in family lore. I seem to forget all the heartache and pain and everything seems not so bad. Just like child birth. But right now. Right. Now? It sucks.

I went to the doctor to see if there was any other medicine they could give me to offset this awful come down ( which can last months) and he basically told me to suck it up. I'm going to be OK. It will be a gradual process and I won't just all of the sudden wake up one day and magically feel better, but it WILL happen. And while I kind of knew all of this already, it was comforting to hear a professional confirm that I am not losing my mind, that what I've been through is traumatic to my body and that there are serious side effects to some of this medication. Like Buffalo Hump. Or losing your mind.

When did everything become soooooo serious?!?!

I remember lying on the grass outside my friend Jennifer's parent's house in Jackson, Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina. I had no home to return to, no clothes, no stuff. I just was. There was no water and no electricity. So we sat outside on the grass, underneath the scorching Mississippi sun and we laughed. We laughed about nothing and everything. I made shadow puppets on the wall and talked in silly voices and we laughed some more. Because sometimes, that's all you can do. Or else you'll cry.

As I sat on the couch in my pool of sadness, some of it a side effect of the medicine, some of it my own doing, I wondered how I had drifted so far from the girl who laughed and made shadow puppets on the wall. What had changed in me to make me so different? It seemed ironic that as time softened my memories, life's bumps seemed to have hardened my being. But then I remembered something that made me smile and forget about the truncle fat for a little while. I remembered what I already knew. And that's what remembering is really, isn't it? Recalling something we have forgotten. It was this: I may have no control over my circumstances. And often I don't. But I do have control over my attitude. So I choose to be happy.

Even when my body is telling me otherwise: that I'm sad, that I can't get out of bed, that I'm not going to be ok, I will tell it shut it's moon face right up. That doesn't mean I don't listen to the physical things. Yeah, I learned that the hard way the other day when I met with my trainer and did what would have been a fairly easy hour workout pre-this whole mess. Near the end my body started shaking and I began to feel dizzy. I threw up twice and was in bed with nausea and migraines for most of the day afterwards. So, yes I'll listen to my body, just not when it tells me lies about myself.

So I lounged in a hammock with my girls and we laughed about nothing and everything. I talked in silly voices and they made up their own and we laughed some more. A few moments out of time but eternal in the lessons learned from them.

I know this healing process is a slow one. But my hope is that I can remember to take each day and within each day, each challenge, both physical and mental, and overcome them with objective thought. And laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. And maybe some shadow puppets.

You May Henceforth Refer to Me as Bionic Pirate Lass

2011-09-23T11:52:00.003Z

Hello from San Diego! I travelled back in time this week and actually got to experience not one, but TWO Thursday's! An experience I think everyone should have at least once in their lives, Thursday is, after all, a very under appreciated day of the week. It's practically the gatekeeper of the weekend, and I for one think we should show Thursday's a little more respect, mmmmm, kay?

I left Guam in the wee hours of the morning on Thursday the 21st and hopped on a seven and a half hour flight to Honolulu. During that flight I watched several consecutive hours of House AND CSI all while sitting next to a large man who smelled as if he had bathed in a mixture of his own vomit, tequila, and possibly several of those bottles of cologne from Abercrombie. Now, you might not think this so bad, we've all been there, right? Ummmmm, speak for yourself. The combination of all the medication I'm taking plus the fact that I had forgotten to specify gluten free meals for the flight meant this girl was just. on. the. verge. of upchucking on Tequila Guy. Turbulence plus pharmaceutical cocktail plus empty stomach just isn't the party it used to be, folks.

I managed not to spew. WHEW! I had a three hour layover in Hawaii and made a BEE LINE for the Starbucks. The guy behind the counter kept giving me really strange looks because, well, I'm not sure he had ever seen a giddy female pirate before. I understand the whole eye patch thing is a lot more catchy if I scowl, but you know, just not much of a scowler. As I savored every last delicious drop of my overpriced coffee, I became somewhat of an attraction for passing children. I guess smiles and a coffee buzz make for an approachable pirate. And NO, I did not ARGH! at any of them.

After that I have only three words for you: Pulled Pork Nachos.

The flight from Honolulu to San Francisco lasted about five and a half hours and this time I sat next to ANOTHER guy who reeked of his own stew of debauchery and body odors. Maybe the meds make my sense of smell more powerful. Which, by the way, it IS a scientific fact that women DO have a better sense of smell than men. If I were a super hero my emblem could be a giant Schnoz and I could solve crimes related to which Subway employee didn't wash their hands after using the bathroom. On second thought...maybe not. All I'm saying is: GUYS! Cleanse thyselves! Especially before you know you're going to be crammed like sardines in between a bunch of strangers. Once again though, I did not puke. There were some close moments though.

The last flight from San Francisco was only an hour and I had a whole row to myself, which, it turns out, is not as comfortable as it sounds. For the first time in about 17 hours I did sleep for a few minutes. I grabbed my bag and hopped a shuttle to the rental car dealership where I quickly realized I was in NO condition to be driving. I don't know, maybe it was something to do with the combination of sleep deprivation, medicine and the lack of a use able eye, but I was all: DUDE! WHOA! Did you just see that monkey fly past us? No? Whaaaaaa?!?! So I grabbed a cup of coffee and waited for my Mom to come in on the shuttle and take over the driving duties. Really, I prefer to be driven anyway.

Before I go onto to more mildly exciting details, let me just say: I LOVE SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA! I always have, I always will. OK, now that I got that out there to the faceless masses I can stop randomly hugging strangers. I think it's starting to scare them.

So after I scooped up mi Madre, although, I guess technically she scooped me up, (WHICH WAS AWESOME BY THE WAY! MY MOMMY! ALL TO MYSELF! YAY!) we went to the Naval Hospital and waited for a very. long. time. to be seen. Don't get me wrong, I am NOT complaining. I am super thankful that they were able to work an already packed patient load around so that I could be seen. It's just that we looked rather pathetic slumped into each other asleep in the waiting room while all the octogenarians practically ran circles around us. Have I mentioned before that retinal problems are usually the affliction of the aged? No? Well, they are. Consequently, I am almost always the youngest person in the waiting room. So, it kind of goes without saying that I am well versed on all the latest issues of AARP and Birds and Blooms magazines.

When it was my turn to be seen it went kind of like it always does. One doctor had a look and then he was all: Hmmmmmmmm. Which inevitably led to all the other doctors wanting to have a look, which then turned to more hmmmmmm'ing and tilting of my head and bright lights shining into the back of my eye. That was fun!

The retinal specialist was the last to have a look. He confirmed what we already knew (that this is a reactivation of an old infection) and said that basically I have "satellite" infections or scars by the old ones and that the cataract isn't surprising considering the amount of inflammation I've had in my eye in combination with the amount of steroids I've had to take. Geez, you know, I sure do wish I had some muscles to show for all this steroid use, instead all I have is a moody disposition and increased munchies. Speaking of munchies, guess what kind of prescription I've threatened to get while I'm here in CA? I'm unna do, I'm not kidding. Ok, so maybe I am.

After everyone had a look, we discussed some possible treatment options. The retinal doctor added a couple more medications to my already impressive stash and said we needed to give it all a few months to work on the inflammation, because as I already know, that is a slow healing process. He told me that yes, surgery is an option later if the debris in the back of my eye doesn't clear up. A surgery to remove the cataract is also an option, but that would be a separate procedure since they are both pretty serious operations. We talked about our family's desire to have more children and the likelihood of that situation bringing on more infections. He told me that we could seek prophylactic treatment preemptively. And even though I know what the word prophylactic means, I couldn't help but giggle to myself as I pictured my eye with a giant condom dangling from it while I waddled around pregnant. People would be all: WHAT THE?!?! And I'd say: Just providing my eye some "protection" people, nothing to see here. He felt confident that, under normal circumstances, I could be treated in Guam with the standard course of meds in the event I have another reactivation. I guess at this point I'm OK with that as LONG as there WILL be a doctor there who can treat me.

So now he wants me to give the medication a few days to take effect (providing nothing new happens) and see me again on Monday. Which means: LORI AND JILL EAT, I MEAN TAKE SAN DIEGO! We will have three beautiful days to spend together, just my mom and myself (which hasn't happened in I can't even tell you how long). I miss my husband and my kids terribly, that separation, that very far separation is by far the most difficult part of this whole journey. But...this glass IS half full, as a matter of fact, this glass runneth over. And I am happy. Nothing can steal my joy. Because it isn't dependent upon my circumstances; it comes from a deep well within my soul. One that never runs dry. And that's all I got to say about that.

Thank you everyone for all the kindness and love and support over the last few days. I have the greatest friends and family, and I am thankful for ALL of you.

When Life Hands You Lemons

2011-09-19T02:25:00.013Z

Well, truth be told, I had really wanted my first post from our new digs to be about things other than this. But, as it often does, life had other plans.

Saturday night when I washed my face and got ready for bed, I noticed that my right eye seemed awfully red. I've had a head cold and headaches that I had attributed to the cold for the past few days and because of its history of illness, that eye is easily affected by those types of things or allergens in the air. I chalked it up to that and went to bed. When I woke up (WAY too early...THANKS A LOT ELLIE!) the next morning and stumbled sleepily from my dark bedroom into the bathroom; I noticed that everything was very dark and foggy on my right side. I quickly covered my left eye and held up a shampoo bottle to the right side to see if I could read anything. I could barely make out a few letters. Warning bells started going off in my head right away.

I called my friend whose husband is a doctor in the ICU at the Naval hospital here. After I explained to her what was going on I asked her if she would mind describing to her husband (who happened to be at work) what was going on and ask his opinion on whether I should go to the ER. It was Sunday after all and I knew from past experience that going to the ER on a weekend, or any time for that matter, would probably mean that the majority of my day was shot. My friend texted me back quickly and said that both her and her husband thought I should go to the hospital.

I made up excuses in my mind why I shouldn't. It's just the debris in the back of your eye. It's shifted again and that's why you can't see. But it's THE WEEKEND! It's your last day to have your husband around to help you unpack! sigh...not again.

My gut said I'd better go, and so for the third time in three years I grabbed my purse and file full of information on my medical history with Toxoplasmosis and drove myself to the ER. When I walked in, the nice but daft young man at the front desk asked what I was there for. "To check myself in," I replied.

"But, look at you, you're fiiiiiiiiine"

Boy, you better hold up 'fore I take off my shoe and whack you upside the head with it!

But instead I gave him a brief description of my medical history and told him they might want to go ahead and page the Opthamologist on call. They did not.

So, I sat and I waited and I waited and I sat, praying that the debris had just shifted. Finally, it was my turn and I was taken to a room where I waited to see the doctor. When he saw me, we went through my symptoms and he looked at my eye. "I'm going to page the Opthamologist on call, I'll be right back," He said. Yeah, I could've told you that. So I waited in blissful silence under a blanket that came out of a heated cabinet (LUXURIOUS!) and I actually even slept for a few minutes before they came and told me that I could walk upstairs to meet the eye doctor.

It's a strange and guilt-ridden feeling to be in a mostly empty hospital and meet a doctor who looks like you've just pulled him from a beach barbecue where he had been surfing. I sat in the chair that I have grown very familiar with over the last few years and we talked a little bit about my history and my eye. (For those of you who may be new to this here lil blog, you can read about it here and here.) He dilated my eyes and we went through the whole rigmarole of looking into the back of my eye.

He looked into my left eye and quickly said look up, look up and right, look right, look down and right, look down, look down and left until my eye had made a complete circle. Then he moved onto the right eye.

Look up....hmmmmmm

look up and right...long silence and my eye burned from the light he was shining into it.

Look right...more silence

I already know what he's seeing because this scene is all too familiar. It's something most of them read about in textbooks but never actually get to see live and in person. I remember sitting in Bethesda and all of doctors and teachers and parasite textbook writers hovering over me as I cradled a tiny Ari in my lap, waiting for their turn to have a look. I'll never forget one of them said in a thick accent, " It's really quite beautiful...if it wasn't so terrible."

Now here I was again, Except this time I sat alone with a doctor in a mostly empty hospital on a Sunday afternoon on a tiny island in the middle of a great big ocean. He pushed his chair back and looked at the papers on his desk. "Soooooo?" I asked

"It's definitely back, the toxo. And I can see that you have a cataract now forming from the scar tissue leftover from previous infections"

And then, despite my most courageous efforts to the contrary, I began to cry. I started to hold my breath as the edges of fat tears threatened to roll down my face, I knew he was going to want me to talk, that we needed to discuss what would happen now, but if I opened my mouth I wasn't sure what kind of sound was going to burst out of it. Slowly, I let the breath seep out from between my teeth, like a slow leak in a balloon. I filled my lungs again this time through my nose and even though I knew he was talking to me, I didn't hear a word of it.

Sometimes our first reactions are our most visceral, our most human. In those few moments after I heard the words I had dreaded and prayed against, all I could feel were waves of sadness. Why? Was it something I did? Did I not wash my hands enough? Was it all those steaks I ordered medium rare? Was it the mud pies I made when I was three? Was it the cat I had when I was eight? Was it, was it, was it? I don't know, and neither does anyone else.

And then, as I pushed the breath out through my teeth, I let it all go. All the sorrow, all the pain, all the questions, and along with them I let go of my eye. Dear God, be with me right now, I have no one here to hold my hand, so hold all of me in your arms. I'm afraid of gong blind, and I'm repulsed by cataracts in a thirty one year old eye, but... I trust you more than I'm afraid, so take all of it. The fear, the guilt, the sadness, and most importantly take the care of my eye into your hands. You can have them all, because you told me to cast all my cares upon you because you love me, and you told me to come boldly before the throne of grace, so here I am. Thanks. Invisible hugs. *Your favorite child, Jill.

And like always happens in those moments, I was given the strength to go on, but more importantly than that, I had peace in my heart. I asked the doctor what my options were and he told me that he would refer me to the retinal specialist on the island but that he was leaving the island the next day for a week and so I would have to refer to the optometrist in his office from then on. Or...there's the option of Med-evacuating you off the island to seek treatment elsewhere. The closest retinal specialist in San Diego. I then asked him if I could assume that this would continue happening to me. He said YES very matter of factly. I gulped and accepted this new reality.

I left his office armed with a handful of prescriptions, the names of which I was all too familiar. Prednisone, Sulfadiazine, Clindymiacin, and some drops for my eye (WELCOME BACK ROBOT EYE!). After we got them filled I had some blood drawn to monitor my white blood cell counts because two of the prescriptions, which they didn't have in stock in the hospital, can seriously affect my bone marrow. Jeremy came to pick me up because I couldn't see to drive from the dilating drops. I ordered him to drive directly to Yogurtland and don't even think about stopping anywhere else on the way. I then promptly filled the medium size cup (I was going to do the large, but really, why be a glutton, it's not like I have CANCER!) and put myself into a yogurt coma.

When we got home the opthamologist called to inform me that the retinal doc would be off island for one or two months but that he could still treat me when he got back, until then I could be under the care of the optometrist. It didn't take me long to reply to him with an emphatic: MED-EVAC! OK, he said, I'll start filling out the paperwork and the other doc can finish it when you come in tomorrow.

So, this morning I went back to the hospital and began the process of the Med-evac. In the meantime I was told to try and get the other two prescriptions filled somewhere else on the island. I called every. single. pharmacy. on this damn island and not one of them carries it. Can you hear me screaming now: MED-EVAC! I'm told I have a tentative appointment on Monday or Tuesday (states time) with the retinal doc, which means I will have to leave here sometime tomorrow. Jeremy is taking leave to stay with the girls and I hope they have a fun time with their daddy. Although I am leaving instructions for pizza and ice cream no more than twice a week. I have a feeling that I won't be able to get back in the house for all the empty pizza boxes when I return.

My mom is planning on meeting me in San Diego. THANKS MOM! So, that's that. I have accepted my apparent fate and I know that just like we killed it with powerful drugs last time, we'll do it again this time.

And now....a collection of photos chronicling a small portion of this crazy journey:

This is during my first round...I look pretty much the same right now, except I combed my eyebrows today. ;)

SO. SO. Pregnant. And on steroids. Who you calling a pirate?!?!

Now, if that a'int sexy, I just don't know what is. Hey Baby. How's about me, you and those chins get together sometime?

I've given a lot of thought to more children considering the fact that pregnancy seems to be a very opportunistic time for toxo. I look at pics like these and I tell you, even if I got ten cataracts and went totally blind (in ONE eye) it's totally worth it.

I mean seriously, who is this person? Someone very special, that's who!

And the rabbits were worth it and the cats were worth it and the ducks and ponies and doves and all the critters were worth it. The LOVE was worth it.

Sometimes in life (especially at Christmas) you need to just stop and eat the batter. Now just watch me go and get Salmonella, sheesh!

Another Post About My Innards! OH JOY!

2011-08-30T07:45:00.002Z

WARNING: THIS IS GONG TO BE AN UNUSUALLY LONG AND POSSIBLY BORING POST. FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT I WILL BE PROVIDING SOME IN FLIGHT NUTS AND SOME MUZAK. PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT (ONCE AGAIN) I’M OVER-SHARING BECAUSE I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO BELIEVE THAT MY DOING SO MIGHT AFFECT THAT ONE PERSON OUT THERE WHO’S BEEN FEELING THE SAME WAY BUT DOESN’T KNOW WHY OR HOW TO GET HELP. K? NOW SIT BACK AND SHUT UP. OH, AND DON’T FORGET TO NOTE THE LOCATION OF THE EMERGENCY EXITS IN CASE YOU DECIDE TO BAIL.

Somewhere around ten years ago, my dad was diagnosed with Celiac disease. For another several years before that he suffered a host of symptoms that led to his steadily declining health. He saw doctor after doctor and left their offices each time with a different prescription and a different explanation for his symptoms. IBS. Restless Leg Syndrome. Old man-itis. Eat more bananas, they’d say. Take these pills, they’d say. But nothing ever seemed to make it better, and instead he just began to waste away, despite everyone’s best efforts to figure out what the heck was gong on with his body.

Finally, one day as he was talking to a friend about what had been going on with his health for the past several years, he explained some of his symptoms (the likes of which I shall spare you. Believe me, you want me to), the friend mentioned that he had a friend who had just been diagnosed with Celiac disease and WHADDYA KNOW! it sure did sound like the same thing. So, as a last ditch effort to save himself (because by this point he had already convinced himself that he was dying of an undiagnosed cancer) he went to the doctor. One. Last. Time. And the rest, as they say, is history.

And then there’s me. His daughter. We have the same feet. I mean it’s weird how similar they are. And we have the same nose. We also share a slight propensity towards fits of rage that lean more to the side of screaming and object throwing. Trust me. Those of us in the inner circle, they will vouch for it. We see the world in colors and phrases, like scenes from a movie our memories play out before our minds, polished and refined, despite the truth of the events. We make people laugh and shock them with our honesty all in the same sentence. I am pretty confident that there is no one else in the world who understands me like he does and no one who understands his mind quite like I do. Because, well, I am him. He is me. And unfortunately, I also apparently possess his GI tract.

Wow, that’s really a shame, I had to go there and ruin that beautiful sentiment with more talk about poop and food. It really was getting touching, perhaps I’ll come back to that one day. My father and I. But today, not so.

For years I have had stomach problems. Nothing like my father. Nothing debilitating. Annoying and unpleasant, yes, but something that I had just resigned to live with. There were tales of my genetic predecessors suffering from the same problems, but no one ever really knew why. It just was the way it was. Many of you (if you’ve been reading this blog for awhile) will remember this post that I wrote a short while after I had Ari. I had been suffering from intense bouts of (what I thought was) post-partum depression, joint pain, headaches and a load of other yuck. I mean, everyone said: Jill, after everything you’ve been through in the past couple of years, anyone would feel a little depressed. It’s normal. It’s ok. But it just didn’t feel ok. I didn’t feel right.

SO I started taking oodles of supplements and at the same time I went on the South Beach Diet to lose the last of the baby weight. During that period I also stopped eating dairy because I was nursing and Ari was exceptionally fussy. So as a precaution, FOR THE KIDS! I gave up all cheese, milk, and pretty much my heart because I frackin love that stuff. Well, very quickly, Ari stopped being fussy and I began to feel better than I had in years. YEARS. You just don’t know how crappy you’ve been feeling until you start to feel really good and then you’re like: DAMNIT! So that’s what everyone keeps talking about! HAPPY FACE!

At that time I chalked the change up to all the supplements I had been taking, because well, I had tested negative for Celiac and so why would food have anything to do with it? I gradually went back to my previous (moderately) healthy way of eating and even though I was still taking all the supplements, many of my symptoms returned, but this time they were often worse. A Friday night binge of pizza and beer would leave me feeling six months pregnant for several days. It seemed like it took me the entire work week of eating just salads, vegetables,and eggs to undo the hurt I had caused my gut over the weekends.

When you live in a constant state of moderate pain and discomfort, yes, you learn to cope with it, but (at least for me) it irritates the heck out of you because, well, it hurts. It’s annoying, and no one else seems to understand. I turned into this easily irritated person. I snapped at my kids for silly things. No one could sit on my lap for very long because it hurt my legs so badly. And heaven forbid someone hit me in the stomach (playfully). Like my dad, I decided t go back to the doctor. One. More. Time.

This time I had to get a colonoscopy. YAY! WHAT FUN! But seriously, I dreaded that day and that procedure more than I dreaded going in for an amnio at 36 weeks pregnant. (Yeah, I could write a whole other post about THAT one) I dreaded it more than my dress blowing up over my head on a day I wore granny panties. I mean, it’s your BUTT. And they’re going to shove something UP it! A very long something. I don’t care what the cool kids are doing, as far as my body and I are concerned that is a ONE WAY STREET! But (round of applause) I did it. I took one for the team. What team, you ask? TEAM: MY BODY! And you wanna know what I learned (outside of all the medical jargon)? If my team were a man, it is definitely NOT gay!

All jokes aside (and believe me there are plenty...I could keep going. But because I know my Mom is probably reading this, I’ll stop.) it was worth it. I was told I have IBS. Which, I think they tell anyone with chronic upset stomach. But, more importantly, I got the words that I guess I had been waiting to hear for a long time. I’m gluten-intolerant. Gluten-sensitive. They call it a lot of things. What it really means is that even though my blood work says I don’t have Celiac disease, my stomach is screaming: STOP FEEDING ME BREAD, DAMNIT! I’m kind of used to that type of diagnosis though. How many vials of my blood were tested for Toxoplasmosis, and every time they came back negative. And yet, every doctor that looks at my eye calls it Toxoplasmosis. I guess if it walks like a duck...

Here’s the hard part though. I FREAKING LOVE bread. And when I get sick, it’s a gradual, almost Frog In The Frying Pan scenario. So gradual that I don’t notice it until I’m in the fetal position in bed, mentally lambasting myself for being so stupid. Again. My dad has it much worse. Within minutes of eating gluten, he begins to experience flu-like symptoms and well, I’ll spare you the rest. Again, you’re welcome. I almost wish I had it as bad as him, because then it would be easier to give up completely. But instead, I’ve been rationalizing with myself. This pizza is worth the pain. And it’s hard too because when we’re visiting people, I don’t wait to be a party pooper, or a Debbie Downer. So for awhile I was just eating what was there. And when we would go out on the weekends, not wanting to cause a commotion (side note: can you even believe that I, MEEEEEEE, would not want to cause a commotion?!?! I KNOW! CRAZY!) I would just go along with whatever was easiest. Which usually ended up being a bread-laden, carb-fest of a greasy spoon.

And that’s where I’m pretty much at. I’m in a new country, errrrr territory, and I feel worse than I have in a very long time. But, Dear Readers, do not lose hope! Because I know how to read! Yes, this IS going somewhere, I promise. Serendipitously, or Providentially I just so happened to wander into a bookstore on this here little island. And guess what I found? No, not the Twilight Saga. Elizabeth Hasslebeck’s book about living gluten free! And there was this other one about the Paleo diet, which I had heard of several people that I know doing (and which is also a gluten free diet), so I decided to give them a try. Right after I ate a huge pretzel and then cursed myself for the better part of the way home.

I read both books in just a couple of days (which, if you have small children, you’ll know is no small feat) and I decided to try Elizabeth’s method first. She recommends stocking your pantry with G-free snacks so that when you are tempted (BY THE DEVIL!!!) you’ll at least have some junk food options that won’t make you sick. So, that’s what I did. I went out and spent way too much money on every gluten free snack I could find. Some very healthy and some not. Let me just say, these foods are almost twice as expensive as their gluten-laden counterparts and often don’t taste as good. They’re usually made with different types of grains that most often don’t bother Celiac’s, like rice flour or quinoa. Supposedly healthy things.

So a few days into my G-free diet, having eaten some of the g-free snacks and adding non gluten containing grains into our meals, I still felt sick. WHAT THE EFF!!!! Wasn’t this supposed to be making me better? That’s when I had a Come to Jesus with myself and told myself what the Paleo Solution had said, and what I think I’ve unconsciously known for a while now. You’re a freak. No, seriously, I just can’t handle grains of any name. Or starchy foods. I don’t function well on them. They make me sick. Even the ones that don’t contain gluten. That was a tough talk with myself that day as I ate the last of the gluten free cookies as a kind of going away present to myself.

There were tears, because let’s face it. If someone told you you’d have to give up pasta and bread and rice and beer and cake and cookies for pretty much the rest of your life in order to feel well and happy, wouldn’t you cry? No? Well, I don’t think I even know who you are anymore! Right there in my (temporary) kitchen, I made a decision to change my life. For good and for real this time. Except there was a catch. This whole dang family was going to do it with me. Why? Because I’m a wimp, that’s why. Maybe that skinny little Hasslebeck girl can have a pantry full of gluten and not touch it, and if that’s the case, then well, she’s just a bigger person than me. Because I can’t. Nope, no way. I work under the mantra of: If It’s In This House, I Will Eat It. So it all had to go. Now I just had to convince my husband.

Well, that proved to be much harder than I had anticipated, even with my tears and subterfuge. Eventually, he agreed to thirty days, and in turn, I agreed to feed him sweet potatoes like it was nobody’s business. Because, undoubtedly, the rest of this family could use some starch in their lives. We had a small going away party (at least I did) for a lot of the food that was outta here. Where did it go? To Jeremy’s office where I’m sure he is stuffing his face with Snyder’s Pretzels and granola bars in between patients so he can come home and not die from the lack of bread.

We are three days in and I think it’s been hardest on Elsbeth. She nearly cried begging for ice cream last night. And that was like the tenth time that day she had a near breakdown asking for sugar. I held my ground and offered Paleo friendly snacks every time (which she ate). But the crowning moment came last night at dinner, when she Cleaned. Her. Plate. And then had seconds. Those of you that know her know that I call her the Anorexic Four Year Old because she hardly eats unless it’s junk food or a sugar substance. Last night she ate broiled tilapia, roast broccolini with lemon and garlic and mashed sweet potato with some butter and cinnamon. Two plates people. Seeing that was all I needed to know I am not only doing the right thing for myself, but for this whole family.

So, there that is. Getting through the weekend will be the toughest part for all of us, but now that I know we’re all in this together, I think I can make it. I’m feeling a little better already. Today I only look four months pregnant! I know that as the days and weeks go by, I will feel better and better. Stay tuned.

Been Around The World and I I I....

2011-08-03T02:34:00.008Z

As I'm typing this my children are asleep behind me, in separate full size beds under matching white down comforters. I'm sitting at the desk in my hotel room while I listen to a genius mix from our iTunes....It's the Indie Rock mix in case you were wondering. And by the way, whoever thought of that genius mixer was, in fact, a genius and they need to be handed a bucket of gold and given one of those butt pats that football coaches do in the movies.

We have now been living out of our suitcases for 34 days. 25 of those days were in Indiana and the rest have been here. In Paradise Limbo. In case you didn't know this already, I'm a little OCD when it comes to keeping things organized and picked up. If you knew me in High School and you're reading this, you probably just shot milk out of your nose laughing at that last statement. But, all I have to say is: PEOPLE CHANGE. After I got married, I quickly realized that I couldn't handle the collective sloppiness of Jeremy and myself. So I got a little crazy about it. Not quite Mommy Dearest, but don't you go bringing wire hangers into my house. Seriously.

So to cope with this state of indefinite limbo slash quasi celebrity-esque lifestyle that we are living, I have managed to organize the shee-yit out of this room. Twice actually. The second time was today because we had to switch rooms last night when sewage started flooding the bathroom as we drained the tub. Oh hello, Someone Else's Poop! I see you ate your veggies yesterday. So, when we would normally be going to bed, we crammed all of our things back into our bags (for the 45,263,46,278'th time) and schlepped them six floors up to a new room. But hey, BONUS! This room has an EVEN BETTER view of the beach. So, thanks Someone Else's Poop, you had a silver lining after all. Also, this coffee pot can make TWO CUPS OF COFFEE AT ONCE. Boom. How's that for simple pleasures? It's a good thing too because I've been drinking enough caffeine lately to offset my still lingering jet lag that I might as well mainline it. So, a daily dose of double fisting coffee? YESPLEASE!

Anyway, I placed and improvised and stuffed clothes into drawers, hung jackets and lined up shoes. Actually, I just threw all the shoes into the closet. I KNOW, RIGHT?!! Can you believe I did that? Because if you know me now and not then, you know that the lining up of shoes is a pretty big thing for me. Some people have to have spotless counter tops, cough CAROLINE and RACHEL cough, but for me, those shoes better all be facing the same direction in descending order of size. So, the fact that I did that must be a sign that the end is near.

I used the complimentary glasses they leave in your room to put my makeup brushes in one and our toothbrushes in another. The tray that the ice bin sits on I used for the eight thousand cosmetic products I use. And while I'm on that subject, you know what really irritates me? My husband's face. No, seriously. He doesn't put one thing on it. Ever. Not even sunblock. He washes it with a bar of soap every day and he still has not one wrinkle or blemish and he wakes up looking like a 25 year old Johnny Depp. Jerk. Meanwhile, I spend hundreds of dollars on stuff for "transitioning" skin. Because I guess that's what my skin is doing. If you call getting wrinkles and pimples at the same time a transition. Personally, I call it rebellious. My skin is just saying: YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME! And then I'm forced to spank it with glycolic acid and give it a time out.

How was that for the most random paragraph ever? You can blame that on the fact that I think I left a huge chunk of my brain in the overheard luggage bin somewhere in Japan along with our portable DVD player. But hey, WE DIDN'T LOSE THE CHILDREN! And that's all that really matters, right? So, I really wanted to tell you what we've been doing every day, I got sidetracked...by my own self.

Since everyone is back on track sleeping wise, we're back into a pretty normal routine as far as waking up goes. We rented a car when we got here because ours is still on a ship somewhere in the Pacific. HI CAR! I MISS YOUR CUSHY LITTLE SEATS! And they don't expect it to arrive until sometime at the end of this month along with (hopefully) the rest of our things. HI THINGS! I MISS YOU TOO! So, we've been driving around a little white Toyota that does not have keyless entry (THE HORROR!) a car which Ari also promptly drew on with blue crayon. HELLO SPANKING, MEET ARI.

Jeremy wakes up first and gets ready and then the rest of us get up to drive him to work...at six thirty in the morning. Thanks, The Navy, I hope you caught that worm, Early Bird. It's a very beautiful drive along the beach and the view definitely makes up for the hour in which I observe it. Normally we come back to the room and the kids jump from bed to bed for about three hours or until I drink enough coffee to feel motivated enough to go somewhere. But not this morning. This morning I went to the new gym I joined and took a circuit weights class, then promptly almost threw up and passed out at the same time and then came crawling back to the room. Where we ordered room service (again) for lunch. The girls have been BEGGING to order for themselves so I agreed that they could today only AFTER we had agreed what they would be ordering (a grilled cheese and a hot dog). So Ellie gets the phone, orders ice cream and then runs away laughing hysterically meanwhile Ari is hopping up and down on my foot while yelling: IWANNATALKIWANNATALKIWANNATALK! Thank God everyone around here has at least a dozen kids and is quite empathetic or else I'm afraid the lady on the other end of the phone would not have been so gracious.

Now they're sleeping and when they wake up I've promised them we'll go to the beach where they can try to catch more tiny hermit crabs. Oh by the way, EVERY person in this family except me has now stepped on a sea cucumber and been ectoplasmed by it. DUN DUN DUN. It's only a matter of time before it happens to me. And while I'm on the subject of sea creatures: Discovery Channel, I HATE SHARK WEEK EVEN MORE NOW THAT I'M LIVING ON AN ISLAND. Thankyouverymuch.

WE hope to have news about our housing situation by the end of this week so hopefully I'll be able to post on that soon. Until then, goodbye. From the future.

Hafa Adai, From Guam.

2011-07-31T06:27:00.006Z

You know how I like to make this a multisensory experience...so, if you so dare, press play before you begin reading.

Five days ago Jeremy and I gathered our children, ourselves, two car seats, and more luggage than was necessary and headed to Reagan National Airport during the wee hours of the morning. We boarded a flight to Houston that lasted about three and a half hours and then as soon as we landed we booked it to our connecting terminal for our 13 hour flight to Tokyo. This is the part (one of MANY actually) where I'd like to take a minute and give a big shout out to God, my Abba, for helping my children be so wonderful. More wonderful than I could have even imagined during that flight. And I'd also like to thank Him for helping me not to lose my own mind during that flight. Because, truth be told, there were a couple times where I thought that might happen. We were crammed in there so tight, it was very reminiscent of Amistad. Except we had in flight cocktails and DirecTV, you know, minor perks, but still sardines nonetheless.

What made it worse was the fact that I had to stare directly at those A-holes in first class, sitting, no, RECLINING in seats that were practically beds and drinking coffee and tea from china cups. There were some tense moments between me and myself where I wanted to run over and slap them on their mask covered eyes with my Tom's and yell: CHILDREN ARE FORCED TO SLEEP UPRIGHT IN ECONOMY SEATING WHILE YOU SIT THERE AND RECLINE IN A HORIZONTAL POSITION! YOU ANIMAL! But, it was just a fleeting thought and thankfully it passed. Otherwise, I'm afraid we'd all be watching clips of me on the evening news. Not the fifteen minutes of fame I'd envisioned.

When we finally landed in Tokyo we had a few minutes before we boarded our final flight to Guam. This was the part where I learned it was true what I had been told: the Japanese love little blond children. I don't think my children have ever been fussed over so much, especially in a language they didn't comprehend. They were petted and sung to and I think they could have even brought up that whole Nagasaki thing and gotten away with it. We bought our trinkets and boarded our flight. The last flight seemed very brief compared to its predecessor and soon we had landed. In Guam. Our home for the next three years. Weird.

The first things to hit you about a new place are always (at least to me) very sensual and visceral. The smells, the sounds, the way the air feels on your skin. For me, Guam pretty much smelled and sounded the same as the states. But it was the air that struck me as different at first. It was warm and sticky. The kind of air that belongs to the sea. It was in that moment that I knew I wasn't going to have a good hair day for the next three years. I think there might just be a Brazilian Blowout in my future. And no that doesn't involve one of the infamous "massage" parlors here.

We were greeted at the airport by several of the people Jeremy will be working with. The military is good about that, I guess everyone is empathetic since we're all in the same boat, er, island. Unfortunately my mind had been so scrambled from all the travel I'm afraid I wasn't able to form very cohesive sentences and hope those folks don't think I'm "different". This here's Jill, she ain't right. DISCLAIMER: If you're a member of my family, you'll get that, if not, read The Painted House by John Grisham.

We were taken to our hotel where we will be staying until we can find suitable housing. And that is where I have been for the past five days. Waking with my children at two thirty and then three and then four and finally six fifteen. Watching the sun rise over the ocean. An ocean so wide and so vast it scares me to stare out at it for very long. There are so many things about this whole experience that can be scary. The fact that I am so far away from everything I have ever known. The fact that most of the writing where I am is in Japanese, and I don't know what the hell it says. The fact that I am on this piece of rock that is just a speck of dust comparatively to what I have previously lived on. But...it's OK.

Scary is only scary when you let it be. I have resigned myself to dive in headfirst to this place, to the people, to the land. I've said it before and it bears repeating: Every step of my life has prepared me for the next one. Do I consider it coincidence that the last place I lived was predominately Asian? Or that the majority of my friends were foreigners living in a strange land who could advise me on what to expect? Or that I am well versed in living without power and preparing for disasters? The answer is no. This is the part where I tell you a secret. A secret that you probably already know. I believe in God. Not just a god who benignly observes and laughs at the goings on of men. But one whom I call Abba: Daddy. He isn't far away sitting on a cloud shooting thunderbolts from his fingertips. He's here with me. He talks, I listen. I talk, He listens. The reason I'm telling you this is because it's the ONLY reason I could have gone through what I have in the last few years and come out smiling and STRONGER. It is the only reason I can wake up on this piece of rock and stare out into a sea that I have seen first hand the damage it is capable of and say: It is well. Funny, that. But true.

We drove around the island today. I stood on top of a mountain and observed the beauty below me. In an instant the past five years flashed before my mind. So much death and destruction and loss. But like a pair of phoenix, we we have risen from the ashes of our life and soared to higher places and touched greater depths of our souls than I could ever have believed. Funny, that. But true. So true.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I think they're about to begin the Beguine.

Mommy, that one's for you. I love you all the way from around this little ball we're all spinning on.

On Transience and Fantasies That Make it Bearable

2011-05-31T16:37:00.009Z

When I was nine years old my father went to Poland and brought me two traditionally dressed Polish dolls and a bunch of photographs. I still vividly remember my favorite photo of the bunch. It was of a couple of gypsies dressed in full, ground grazing skirts, babushkas, and heavy coats. They had their backs turned away from the camera because for reasons I don't know they didn't want to be photographed.

I spent a great deal of time looking at that picture and making up stories in my head about what kind of lives those people must have lived. To me the word gypsy conjured images of vardos, caravans, and campfires with good drinks and even better music. A life unencumbered by mortgages and electric bills. Where rules didn't always apply and along with the animals that accompanied you, people may be collected along the way and added to the fracas.

Perhaps I identified so much with the gypsies because of all the constant change in my life as a young person. Most likely I glamorized and romanticized their existence like I do most things, but whatever the case was, it was an admiration that never went away. One doesn't really run into too many gypsies in the US, you've got your transient youth, and the travelling salesmen but no gypsies. Fortunately for me, we've got something better. THE CIRCUS.

Four years ago during a trip to my in laws in southern Indiana I went to the circus. It was the first circus I can remember seeing. This was no Ringling brothers. This was a small, family owned operation that performed every show under the big top, in this case it was more like a medium top. I remember vividly standing outside of the tent with it's pennants waving in the wind while children ran by holding sticks of cotton candy bigger than their heads. Next to all of this was a small enclosure containing an elephant. I stood in awe of it all.

As I watched the show, the trapeze artists, the acrobats, the animals, and the clowns, it dawned on me that the circus really embodied so many of the things I loved about gypsies. Except everything was covered in feathers and they had a BEDAZZLER! HOW MUCH COOLER COULD THAT LIFE BE!?!? And thus began another round of fantasies involving people's lives I didn't know very much about, other than BOY DID I WANT IT!

Lucky for me, Water For Elephants came out around that time, further plunging me into the glamorous, imaginary world of circus life. Since then I have often wished someone would make a documentary abut a small circus like the one I had seen and so when I saw this as a suggestion for me on Netflix I was really, really excited. I'm into episode three and it is just SO good.

Recently on a drive home from Indiana, when I was only a few miles from home I saw the points and flags of a big top tent on a hill on the side of the interstate. As soon as I got home we found it online, Cole Brothers Circus and the very next day we got to go. Every single part of that experience was magical for me and I felt so much like a kid again, believing in magic and fairies and dreams as I watched it all. But what was even better was watching my children as the twinkle of the lights reflected in their eyes and they sat, in rapt attention, soaking it all in and believing in the magic with me.

I don't believe in lying about Santa or the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy, and so those childhood experiences aren't as much for me as a parent because of that. But this, this was REAL magic and for a couple of hours we got to believe in it together, pink poodles and all.

I always thought that when I married a dentist he would start a practice somewhere and we would settle down for the rest of our lives...and then The Navy entered our lives, or we entered it. So a life of constant change continues on with its history and we keep adding people to the fracas. But just like I did as a kid, I continue to play the fantasies in my mind to get me through some of the hard parts. Except this time I have other players with me. Maybe now we're circus performers, moving on to the next show. Pack the unicorns and the pink poodles! Make sure you have your fancy costumes. I've got the bull whip and the megaphone, now everyone in the clown car and let's go! The show must go on, no matter where it takes us.

On Saying Goodbye

2011-05-24T14:37:00.011Z

I've done it so many times. I'm so good at it. I can do it without crying...in front of you.

And then there are those moments, like now, when I'm alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my heart. Those are the moments when I allow myself to taste the sorrow of what goodbye really means. And it is such a bitter sweet feeling. At once both drowning my soul with intense pangs of love and grief. Like waves it pulls me back and forth. I swallow the lump that rises in my throat but I let the warmth of the tears fill my eyes and spill out the sides...just a little. I can't give in all the way because it may never stop. So, just a small cry. A silent cry on the outside, but inside my mind is flooded with memories, misty water colored and technicolor, some just a faint remembrance, others as real as if they just happened.

Those memories make up my life. And it's funny the things you remember. It's usually not those moments you went out of the way to make feel special and memorable that you end up remembering. It usually IS the moments that at the time seemed irrelevant, inconsequential. Impromptu dancing in the kitchen while making dinner. Laughing in bed about the things our children said. Saving worms from imminent death on the sidewalk. Playing whiffle ball off the patio. Long talks on the porch. These precious moments all add up to make us who we are and they are the things I treasure most. Because, as most of you know, I've learned to let go of tangible things. They, for the most part, do not matter.

This post was supposed to be about the cat we lost and found after Katrina, Richard Parker. But as I was going through iPhoto looking for pictures of him (I had to go back six years), it was like my life was playing in fast forward before me. All the tears, all the laughter, all the joy. And that is when the beginning of grief began, and the moment I knew this post couldn't just be about Richard Parker, in part yes, but it has to be about letting go. Not of the things we can hold, but of those we can't. It's cathartic. Caressing the memories and moments with your heart and mind, and then letting them slip out of your heart's fingers and fall back into the past.

So here we go...

Goodbye Jack Johnson. I never loved you the way I should have. You annoyed me with your youthful exuberance and your tail that always knocked things off of my coffee table. You were a good dog. You loved us faithfully and I'm sorry I didn't return your love in full. When you were hit by that car I should have just let you go...but I thought I couldn't. I thought I had to keep you alive for Jeremy. I was foolish. Sometimes it's better to think with your head and not your heart, and in that moment of decision I let my heart guide me, and it led me wrong. I'm sorry to both myself and you that I made you undergo surgery after surgery to repair your broken body. You were never the same after that and I know you were always in pain. As if Katrina didn't do a complete enough job, you taught me even more about letting go. Two years after we spent so much time and money to put you back together and make you whole again, we had to let you go forever. I'm sorry. I wish I could have been there to tell you myself that deep down, I really did love you. And even though you were just a dog, I think you would have understood. And I think you would have said that it didn't matter because you loved me all along anyway. So, now, I'm letting you go. Goodbye.

Wow, that hurt more than I thought it would. Ok, next one.

Goodbye Baby Ellie. You were my first baby and BOY did I know nothing about being a parent. But you came into the world so good and quiet (unlike your sister as a baby) and gracious that it made so many of my mistakes seem forgiven. I have held onto so much guilt for some of the things I did to you as a new mother. The fact that I was a failure at my first attempt to breastfeed. My inability to cut your tiny little fingernails successfully, a fact that resulted in you scratching your face until it bled. In so many ways I grew up with you. I was still so much the reckless, wistful spirit of my youth until you came along. And even though I made so many mistakes, you, YOU changed me. You became the most important thing in my life and so many of the things I had once cared about faded away into nothing. A protectiveness so fierce I can only equate it with animals, lions, tigers, and bears, grew inside of me and I knew without second thought that if required I would give my life to save yours. That is a powerful thing; thank you for helping that grow in me. Thank you for letting me make big mistakes and loving me anyway.

You're more five than four now and not a baby anymore. But it hurts me so sweetly to look at pictures of you as a baby because I know I will never have that time with you again. You'll never mispronounce the same words again. You won't waddle into the kitchen in a diaper and ask me for MIWLK. You won't ask to watch Barney and you stopped lining up all your toys a long time ago. Just like your mother, the you then is gone, replaced by an older and wiser you. And so Baby Ellie, I'm letting you go. I will always cherish every moment I've ever been given with you. I will always be thankful that it was you I was given first, for you are forgiving and wise beyond your years. I will tell you now, and as many times as I need to as you grow up and inevitably blame me for things that go wrong in your life. I'm sorry for the mistakes I've made. And I'm sorry for the ones I have yet to make. I know there will be more, but I pray that as it has been in the past, you will continue to teach me how to be a parent as I teach you how to be a better person, and together we'll learn how to love even more.

Goodbye Baby Ellie, I will keep your pictures and your memories, but I will stop holding onto you and the remorse. I am letting you both go.

Ouch. That one hurt even more. I think that's enough catharsis for one day. TO BE CONTINUED...