Embracing Innocence (Happy Fourth Birthday)

Dearest Gracie,

Something very bad happened in the world today.  In a city that I love very much, close to our home, someone committed a senseless, violent act. Lots of people were hurt and many more were frightened. They will spend the foreseeable future glancing over their shoulders, feeling uncertain of their place in the world, unsure of their safety.

I’m sorry to have to bring this up in your birthday letter. A letter that before this afternoon was filled with sweetness and pride, all things I still very much feel.  I wish that I could bottle your innocence, tuck you away from the world.

But I can’t protect you forever.

You are like me in many ways. When tragedies happen, you will want to make sense of it. You will want to dissect it. But that’s the thing about tragedy, my love. There are no answers. There is only the gnawing insistence that you hold on a little bit tighter to those who matter, that you pause for a deep breath of appreciation and marvel for a few minutes longer as sun warms your skin.  Your grandpa often reminds me not to try and apply logic to illogical situations. It’s a lesson I am still working on learning; maybe we can learn it together.

I want you to know that for every “bad” person in the world, there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of genuine people, people who dedicate their lives to rushing in and helping where instinct says to run in the opposite direction. There is lightness to be found everywhere and hope in the darkest situations.

You can be a part of that hope. You can create more lightness.  I have found, in my limited experience, that we are often strongest when the world seems harsh and insurmountable. Give the world the best you’ve got and you might just surprise yourself.

You cannot control what happens in your life or what goes on in the world around you. But you can face it with the same courage, the same open and kind heart that you already approach everything else.

This weekend we celebrated every single piece of you.  And when this horrible thing happened, I couldn’t wait to rush home and celebrate you all over again, to bury my head in your curls and eat a cupcake and laugh until our bellies ached.

When I was pregnant, I spent hours imagining who you might become. I wondered if you would love reading as much as I did, hoped you wouldn’t be as clumsy.

Then, in the midst of this imagining, amid the business of every day life you did something rather shocking. You grew up.  Without even asking my opinion or feelings on the matter.

You transformed from my baby, my tiny little munchkin into a very real and very independent person. With so many thoughts and imaginings of your very own.

You are intuitive and bright. You challenge me with your questions, asking me how my car was built and what happens to our bones when we die.  You’ve perfected your father’s comedic timing and share our love for being outdoors. Strangers frequently compliment you on your politeness and empathy.

By your very existence, you shook me from wanting to doing, from dreaming to living.

Anything that I am proud of in my life, I owe to you.

The past few nights, I’ve been letting you sleep in bed with me.  I know it’s not a great habit to be getting into, but when you asked last night if you could sleep with me, I answered “yes” a little quicker than I normally do.  I needed to feel the stirring of your lanky limbs beside me and feel comforted by your steady breathing in and out.  You laid down and placed your hand on my arm. When I asked what you were doing you said, “I just want to hold on to you, Mama”. And just like that, you knew what I needed most in that moment. 

I promise to do my very best to always give you what you need. I also promise to fiercely protect and embrace your innocence for as long as I can, but I'm starting to believe that I won't be able to keep the world out for very much longer. 

I may not always have the right answers. Sometimes, probably a lot of times, I am going to be scared too. And sad, the kind of sadness that sneaks into your bones and makes putting one foot in front of the other heavy work. 

But you have proven to me, in the last year of your life, that together, kid- you and I can do anything. 

Happy Birthday to my sweet, strong, smart girl. 

Four is going to be even better than either of us can imagine, I just know it. 

Love you to the moon and back, 

Mama

Heavy legs

My legs feel heavy and I am acutely aware of every inch of my body. The bruise that is lingering, yellow and sullen on my right shoulder, just below my collarbone. The rivulet of sweat creeping its way down the nape of my neck. The wisp of hair that won’t be contained. Music is blaring through my headphones, trying to drown out the whine of the old treadmill and the weighty thuds of each step.

My internal dialogue reminds me to keep moving. To will my feet to keep stride, not break the pace that is too fast for my first run in months.

I know you will wake soon. You will call for me, gentle and lilting at first- with your tone becoming increasingly irritated at my inaction. I will urge my body to move up the stairs and I will pick you up from your bed. Sweaty and sweet. I will pause at your door, watching the way your limbs cast shadows in the morning light and savoring the last few moments of quiet. And then our day will begin. Rushing to dress and to eat and to get in the car and to make it to work and to school and to get home and to make dinner and to read books and to get into bed and…

(Recently, crouched on my kitchen floor, I spoke with a friend about his desire to simply do everything. Ringing in his birthday at midnight with popcorn and whiskey, he described all of the things he was certain he needed to achieve. These things appeared insurmountable to me. At least I am reasonable, I mused. Realistic. I wonder now who I was trying to convince)

In the literal sense, I am moving,

My days are full.

But I feel stuck.

Before bed, you become suddenly inconsolable. You ask me in a voice sweeter than I have heard in a while if we could rock for a few minutes. I gather you in my arms and into my lap. My mind meanders back to the hundreds of hours I have spent in that very chair, in motion but unmoving. 

Moments when you were swaddled on my chest, where I was both exhausted and breathless at the beauty of you.  When I read “Llama Llama Red Pajama” for the thirtieth time. It was in this chair we rocked when your body was scorched with fever, when your mind was clouded with nightmares and some nights, when I just needed to be near to you as my own tears fell, hot and shameful.

You have almost outgrown my lap. I quietly begin to sing our lullaby and you sing along, knowing every single word. You reach upwards, almost absent mindedly, to stroke my hair, one arm thrown lazily around my neck. When our song is over, you launch into a dialogue about our life, our friends, how you used to rock in this chair every night when you were a little baby.

Blurring the edges of this soft, subtle moment are my doubts about the choices I have made. A mistake or regret lingers in every corner of my mind. Some are dusty, rusted. Others are shiny and bright and painfully new. I’ve grown tired of learning experiences, tired of keeping tally of the things that could and have and should go wrong.

But if I had to do it all again, to lead me to this moment with you- it is unquestionable that I would.  I make (and have made) so many mistakes. I hurt myself, over and over again, often just to remind myself to feel.It's often I find myself thinking that I spend many of my days moving back and forth, but not forward.

But you. You remind me to savor the seconds I have that are just pure. You are a living, dancing, epic tantrum-throwing reminder that I have been blessed to be a part of something so much bigger. A vastness I can’t truly begin to appreciate, but that I get to glance at through your fearless brilliant blue eyes.

And my face buried into your neck, trying to pour my gratitude onto your skin, I whisper thank you.

A dream is a wish your heart makes. Or something.

Let's talk for a moment about disney princesses, shall we?

I was once a preschool-aged girl myself. And I'm certain that I loved the princess set as is to be expected. In fact, I have a very vivid memory of standing in my grandparent's kitchen and proudly flashing half of my family my brand new Belle underwear. This memory haunted my pre-teen years as being the most mortifying thing I ever brought upon myself. 

I currently have a love/hate relationship with the disney princesses. I'm pretty vocal about the fact I am careful about what Grace watches on TV and how much she watches. Not in a judge-y way, because I am absolutely not above placing her in front of the television during that horrific hour after school and before dinner so I can cook dinner not totally lose my mind. But disney princesses? The messages their fairy tales impart...enchanting, yet terrifying.

In 2010, Disney played a mind trick on me. They released Beauty and the Beast "from the vault". Obviously panic ensued and I rushed out to purchase it BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE (It went back into the vault last April. I'm on to you, Disney). Because Beauty and the Beast is my disney princess kryptonite. 

Cinderella? Glorified maid and full time doormat. Relied on a fairy godmother to fix her problems and then when she lost her shoe (sloppy) just waited around for her prince to find her and put it back on her foot. 

Sleeping Beauty? Literally forced to sleep through her life until her true love "awakened her" at age 16. That's the stuff of all parental nightmares. 

Ariel? Actually changed not only her geographical location but her physical attributes so she could be with her prince. Heidi Montag, I'm guessing The Little Mermaid was totally your favorite. 

Snow White? My mom actually refers to her as a "ho".  Cooked and clean for not ONE but seven little men. 

But Belle, she showed promise. She loved to read (which pleased my nerd girl self). She had goals. Her dad was bat-shit crazy, which is clearly character building. She saw past the superficial stuff and fell in love with a man who was quite literally a beast and always managed to tell the town "hottie" to shove it. 

Now granted, once she realized the Beast was a handsome prince and that giant castle stopped being so doom and gloom and got rid of those walking, talking, singing utensils and household items...she seemed pretty content to embrace that "provincial life". But all and all...Belle is my girl.

Grace also loves Belle. She tells everyone that Belle is her favorite because she reads books. Normally when I hear my words coming out of her mouth, I'm mildly horrified, but that is one statement I whole-heartedly endorse. 

This new adoration of Belle has led to lots of questions. About love. And getting married. We've been to a few weddings lately and the institute of marriage, a mystery to most adults, is an extremely difficult concept to explain to a 3 year old. And it has led me to face the terrifying reality that someday, sooner than I'm ready to admit, my baby is going to want to date. And someone is undoubtedly going to break that little heart that I so laboriously created, crafted to be kind and generous and open. And I'm going to have to resist the urge to break their face. 

I've learned a few lessons about love myself, but honestly, I'm still not 100% clear on the whole thing. My parents, who celebrate their 26th wedding anniversary today have also imported some lessons on me by osmosis. 

So Grace? Take my advice for what it is. Flawed and not foolproof and probably not even something I always take myself. But it comes from a place of love, of wanting the very best for you.  John Steinbeck wrote, in a letter to his teenaged son Thom on the subject of falling in love- "The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it". 

The first time you think you're in love? You probably aren't. But I promise to fluctuate between supporting you and being excited for you and threatening to lock you in your room until you're 30. 

Trust your instincts. There's never been a time that I've had a gut feeling about someone and been super glad I didn't go with it. Treat respect as the minimum, non-negotiable expectation. Everyone that you allow into your life is going to teach you some kind of valuable lesson. Sometimes, it just takes a lot of crying in the shower and Ben and Jerry's to decode it.  Try not to let yourself become too cynical and guarded. You get back what you give out. Not everyone who tells you they love you will mean it- so save it for when it counts, not to make someone feel better or because you feel pressured to do so. When someone loves you, you won't need to hear it because you will feel it, infinitely. Relationships are hard work, but don't confuse hard work with feeling like garbage all the time. 

Steinbeck also wrote "And don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens- the main thing is not to worry. Nothing good gets away" Seems to me that guy really knew what he was talking about.

Nurture your passions. Dream so big that it scares you. My life thus far has been relatively happy. I want yours to be exponentially happier. The person you are meant to be with will encourage you, challenge to grow and be there by your side when you need them to be. Love yourself. Love your friends. Love your family. The rest will all fall into place. 

At least, that's what I'm hoping for. 

On your birthday...

Dear Mum, 

As a little girl, I was unequivocally a Daddy's girl.  I remember (with some horror now, as a parent myself) having this preference. For that, I am sorry. The fact that you even tolerated me, while working the night shift, is an amazing feat. 

And now?

It is unbelievably cheesy to say, but today you are truly my very best friend. There is a point you reach in adulthood where you begin to see your parents as flawed, actual human beings. What I have learned about you and from you as I have grown into my own adult skin has allowed me to appreciate you even more. 

Today is your 50th birthday. I share the number because it's only that- a number.You are vibrant, enthusiastic and far more fashionable than you were 10, 15, 20 years ago (you're welcome). I hope to be one ounce of the woman you are when I meet the half century mark.

You are absurdly funny (occasionally without meaning to be) and unendingly kind.  

When my friends or former boyfriends have met you, they often told me I suddenly made perfect sense in the context of you. My silly sense of humor, my unexpected and sparing snarkiness, my love of books, my abysmal math skills, my increased tolerance for shopping and finding bargains, my attempts at kindness and compassion- it's all you. Who I am, who I strive to be, as a mother- patience, love, resilience- exists because of who you have been for me. 

You have taught me many things in the last 25 years. 

How to quickly calculate what kind of savings a 20% off sale really means. 

How to be unafraid to dream. Unafraid to challenge myself. At 50, you are working towards your Master's degree. We received our bachelors degrees on the same day, after you had already been a nurse for over 20 years. This summer, the girl who failed gym class (seriously) ran her first 5k. I watch you change and grown and continue to push yourself and it reminds me to not ever become too comfortable.

How to create delicious concoctions out of tequila. You make the best margaritas of anyone I know and I am desperate to learn your secrets. 

How to be a better daughter. You expended endless energy taking care of your family, your parents. It is often thankless and always exhausting. But you do it because it is right. And I promise you, should a day come where you need to be taken care of, I will do the very best job. Because I learned how to do it from you.

That working hard and being kind will grant you the most beautiful and honest of successes.

That failure is relative. 

There are countless lessons you have taught me, things I have learned just by watching you. I find myself typing and the words falling short of the gratitude and love inked into my heart. 

I have written often about how grateful I am that you and Grace have a pure and  amazing bond. You have exploded into your somewhat unexpected role of Mimi. My daughter is unbelievably in love with you and I look forward to watching your relationship shift and stretch and strengthen as time moves on. She is so lucky. 

And I am luckier. 

There is so much strength in you that goes unnoticed. But not by me. 

I am prouder each day to be your daughter than I was the day before. 

Ugga Mugga, Mumma..and Happy Birthday, you old broad

Love, always...

Bean

A love letter...

It is so easy to take the most important things in your life for granted. 

We do it every day. Unfortunately, it's rarely a conscious choice.

As I've shifted and stumbled into my mid (hold me) twenties, I've shed friendships like a second skin. Some of them didn't fit within my "new life". Some of them imploded- firey and bright and blisteringly painful. Others just faded away- and one day I  realized it had been weeks, months since I'd heard from that person. 

2012 has been a YEAR. What is that saying? The only thing constant in life is change. My reality, things I thought were concrete and eternally true, splintered and fractured. I'm still trying to figure out exactly how to reset, expanding to fill a new space. 

So, what remained amidst the chaos? Those friends. The ones who didn't self-detonate or disappear. The ones whose presence didn't feel like a itchy wool sweater but fit like a favorite pair of sweatpants and that little black dress that always makes you feel amazing, in equal measure.

They closed ranks. They brought wine. When I cracked jokes and tried so hard to pretend like I had it all together- they played along. They showed up. 

In the midst of personal crisis, you are acutely aware of how much these people mean. You are constantly surprised by the ways they keep getting it right. When you are at your lowest point, when you truly begin to believe that the importance of your existence is equivalent to the dirt underneath the world's fingernails- they find a way to seamlessly integrate into the fabric of your everyday life, quietly but insistently reminding you that in some way- you matter. Filling spaces you didn't even realize felt empty. Anticipating the next backslide.

Eventually, the days get easier. You make the transition from crisis control to basic maintenance. When things are going well, or are simply interesting and mildly entertaining as opposed to catastrophically bad, it becomes easier to take those people for granted.  To place them in a warm and fuzzy, albeit dusty, corner of your mind. Suddenly, you're wrapped up in a new romance or a challenging job or you've shrunk your universe to include only yourself and your priorities.  You forget to be thankful.

So consider this a love letter. 

To those people in my life who love me for who I actually am as opposed to the person that they expect me to be. And not because they are obligated to by blood relation, but because they have gleaned something organically worthy from my presence in their life. To the ones who show up. To the ones who let me keep showing up, no matter how flawed my approach or delivery may be. To the ones who pacify me on the phone for hours, even when they have a million other obligations within their own life to attend to. To the ones who don't reflexively send my calls to voicemail when they register my number on their screen.To the ones who tell me when I'm being an asshole, but in a way that is just subtle enough it feels less like a reproach and more like a compliment. To the ones who share their left-overs and their beds and their secrets. To the ones who are only momentarily mad when you eat their pizza at 2 am on a Saturday. To the ones who watch game shows and don't cringe when I shout at the screen and think nothing of drinking a bottle of wine on a Tuesday night. To the ones who know just what to say, and, more importantly, know when to say nothing at all.  To the ones that encourage you to laugh at yourself because, let's be honest- nothing is that serious. 

I pride myself on being a good friend. Conscious, loyal, present. Lately however, I've realized that isn't always true. Life has a way of disarming you. Lulling you into this peaceful haze where you begin to believe that you'll never see rock bottom again. My personal chaos taught me a lot about the kind of person I am, as well as the kind of person I would like to be. This striking self-awareness walks in step with some amount of self-absorption because, gosh-world... look at how well I'm doing, all on my own.

Truth is...I'm not alone. And haven't ever been.

For that, I should be forever grateful.

So here's to falling in love again, with friendship. Because nothing keeps you quite as warm, quite as self-assured as the glow of an inside joke, a glance across a room that shouts a thousand unspoken things. Nothing makes you feel as safe, as sure as when those you hold closest rally around you, to celebrate success or obliterate disappointments .

I'm making a conscious choice. To be madly, passionately in love with THOSE friends. To nurture those relationships just like I would any other, to value them and not let them lazily acquire rusted edges. To appreciate them, not only in big moments but in the thousands of quiet moments in between. To make sure they understand they (and their perceived problems, issues, downers)  are never an obligation but always a privilege. 

Because unfortunately (fortunately?)  I already know who will show up when my world crashes down.  And you know what? 

They're pretty awesome. 

 So consider this my painfully awkward way of saying thanks. For supporting me, putting up with me..and letting me try to keep up. 

It's always ourselves we find in the sea

I've always had a thing about the ocean.

I spent my 25th birthday with the sun blistering my skin, salt water
caked in my hair and sand finding its way into places it certainly
didn't belong. I had my best girls at my side and a cooler full of
cheese, fruit and water at my feet. It was perfect.

There are many arguments to be made against the beach. I've heard them
all. I've side-eyed people who say "Oh, I just don't really like the
beach. I prefer a pool or a lake". I understand that sand is
annoying...that the water can be cold...and the space can be crowded,
less than tranquil- but it's just not a philosophy that I can get
behind.

My earliest memories are of summer trips to the beach. My grandmother,
my great aunt and my mother would pack up and head to York. We would
spend hours there. Initially, I wouldn't let me feet touch the sand so
I was dutifully carried, from my beach chair into the ocean, where
Nana held my hand and taught me how to jump the waves. My own mother
almost always stayed behind, content with her book and beach chair.

I've been lucky enough to travel a lot. I've swam in the Mediterranean
Ocean, as warm as bath water and in the crystal blue waters of the
Caribbean.

But the Atlantic, the water so cold it leaves you breathless, where
once your toes go numb it's really not so bad....that is the ocean I
like the best.

When I found out I was pregnant, the beach become my refuge. Even in
the winter months, I would drive the coast and find a place to park,
where I would open my window just enough to hear the waves and let the
sound of the saltwater overtake the sound of my own salty tears. It
was this same beach that I paced while urging Grace to make her
appearance into the world.

It is the one place where the sting of existing in a world without my
grandmother is softened. I feel her there always and perhaps that is
why it brings me so much peace. People are afraid of the ocean- of its
depths and imagined dangers. Songs have been written about feeling
small beside the ocean (hello, junior high graduation) but- I
disagree.  By the ocean, I am safe, but not diminished. I am content
in the knowledge, that no matter what, those waves will continue to
break upon the shore.

On vacation in the Cape earlier in the summer, I glanced up from my
own book to see Grace and her Mimi, hand in hand, jumping waves. Waves
she had been petrified of, a day before. I surprised myself with a
quick intake of breath, followed by a warmth that poured into my soul
as I was overcome with memories of moments spent in that very same
way. I then picked up my book and continued reading, intensely
satisfied once again by this natural role reversal.

I can’t say enough about how grateful I am that Grace is getting to
experience the same closeness with her grandmother that I was blessed
enough to share with mine. And if you read the latest guest post on
here you know that the relationship she has with her grampa is more
wonderful than I could have ever imagined

Right now? Grace loves the beach. Our last trip, she was entertained for hours just playing in the sand & "swimming" with Mama in the waves. I can only hope the joy she feels now when she gets her first glimpse of the shoreline is sustaining.

May the beach be where Gracie goes when the world is too crazy, when

her battered heart calls her home. And may she always feel, no matter
where I am, that I’m keeping a watchful eye on her, marveling at her
bravery, from my beach chair on the shore.