Teaching Tuck and Ty

2012-01-31T19:48:00.000-08:00

Teaching Tuck and Ty has a new location.

Please join us at
The Thoughts and Writings of Tricia Lott Williford, www.tricialottwilliford.com.

It's Moving Day!

2012-01-31T10:30:00.000-08:00

You know what today is?

Moving Day.

That's right. After four years at this address, Teaching Tuck and Ty is moving.

There's no big to-do about the transition, no farewell party, no bon voyage (although I'm sure you were tempted to bust out the streamers and champagne). I like to think of this as the end of one chapter, and tomorrow is the start of another. Not even the end of one book. Just the end of a chapter. The turning of a page, if you will.

Stay tuned tomorrow as I invite you to the new address, the new title, the new logo, the new newness.

I should send out postcards or something fantastic.

'Cause this is gonna be great.

I threw up into my Scarf.

2012-01-30T15:39:00.001-08:00

We were at a Chinese restaurant. One with arguably good food but a really loud waitstaff.
It's a toss up, really.

Alli said, "So, my son is really excited about this private school we are looking at. He doesn't even mind the dress code - collared shirt on top and chinos on the bottom."

"Are they uniforms? Or dress code guidelines?"

"Just guidelines. They're allowed seven colors on top, and I think three colors on the bottom."

And then I took a drink of my water. Which turned out to be a perilous mistake. Because just then, my quick-witted mom said, "I would think its difficult to find three-colored pants."

And there was that millisecond when I wondered if I could maintain my composure. And then there was the overwhelming response from my insides: um, no. We aren't keeping the water, the composure, or your dignity. I didn't just hold up one courtesy finger and carefully breathe through the swallowing. I didn't cough just a little. I threw up into my scarf.

It's hard to recover a conversation after a situation like that.

(And I have one question: why are Asian restaurants so stingy with their knives and napkins? Is there some cultural rule against being generous with these meal accessories? I was vomiting. "Could we have some napkins?" They gave us one. One.)

I recovered. As did the scarf.

Green, Yellow, Red.

2012-01-30T07:05:00.000-08:00

One child dropped off; one to go.
Twelve minutes to get him there.
I see a police car nearby.
I watch my speed, mind my habits,
as all of us do when a police car is nearby.
I turn on my blinker.
I change lanes.
The police car doesn't follow me.
Well, that's good to know.
Maybe she's just prowling the area,
keeping us all safe.
She trails me for a couple of miles.
I'm watching the clock, watching my speed, watching traffic.
I know the pattern: I can only make the second light if I'm in the starting position at the first light.
I'm two cars back.
I probably won't make the next green light.
But I might.
The light turns green, and we all make the turn.
The next light is green,
then yellow,
I want to get my son to preschool, and
I slip under.
It turns red over my head.
Red and blue lights flash and spin behind me.
I pull into the middle lane -
maybe she needs around me to catch a real criminal.
She follows me.
Well, it looks like I am today's criminal.
"Ma'am, obviously I pulled you over for running that red light."
"Yes, I see that. I'm sorry about that."
"License, registration and proof of insurance, please."
I retrieve them all from the glove box. Robb has taught me faithfully to keep them at my fingertips when driving (although I don't think Mr. Citizen of the Year ever needed to call upon them at a moment's notice).
"Ma'am, are your plates expired?"
I recall the sticker that came in the mail.
"No, they're current."
"Well, your registration has expired. This form expired in 2011."
(I wanted to say, and we are roughly 23 days into 2012. Happy New Year.)
"Well, my insurance is up to date, but I think I forgot to put the new card in my car."
My husband always did that for me.
"Ma'am, your insurance card is expired as well, but I'm talking about your registration right now."
I can't really listen to what you're talking about right now. Because all I can see is my husband handing me the new insurance card, four months before the old one expired, reminding me to keep both of them in the glove box, just in case.
Oh, how I drove him crazy with my carelessness about such things. "Robb, it's February. I don't need that until April."
"Tricia, put it in there, please. Just... please."
On day three of my forgetting, he would move it from the kitchen counter to my glove box.
Just in case.
"Officer, my husband died one year ago. This is a detail he took care of for me. It, um, this one apparently slipped through the cracks. I assure you - everything is current."
"Well, I will need to make sure of that. Do you know that it is a summonsable offense to drive a car with an expired registration? I take people to jail for this."
I could practically hear Tyler's eyebrows shoot through the ceiling as she walked back to her cruiser.
He was terrified.
He has one parent left, and this police officer just threatened to take me to jail.
I cried.
Not because of the threat,
not because of the pending ticket,
not because I was pulled over at all.
I cried because I missed my husband.
Tyler asked a million questions.
"Mommy, why did she take your stuff with her?
Where did she go?
Is she coming back?
Are you going to jail?
Am I going to school?
Why are you crying?
Are you crying because you're going to jail?"
I'm crying because this is the 'just in case' Robb tried to prepare me for.
The officer returned to my window.
"Ma'am, I called the DMV, and your registration is in fact current."
(I told you it was.) I nod.
"But that phone call is not my job, ma'am. That's your job."
Add it to the list. Everything is my job now.
"Ma'am, what were you thinking when you saw me behind you?"
"I was thinking, I need to get my son to preschool."
"Yes, but I saw you driving patterns change. What were you thinking? Were you thinking you could get away from me? What were you thinking as you ran that red light?"
And now I am under an interrogation.
"I was thinking, I hope the light stays yellow so I can get my son to preschool."
"Ma'am, I am sorry for your loss --"
and before I can thank her, she continues --
"and I'm certain I don't need to explain to you how precious life is."
I look at her. I wish I were not crying.
"Certainly, you, of all people, know how quickly things can change."
Certainly, I assure you that I do.
"Ma'am, drive more safely. Don't run red lights just to get to preschool."
It was yellow.
And it was a mistake.
Add it to the list.

Not Every Mommy

2012-01-29T06:30:00.000-08:00

"Mommy, who is your husband?"

"Daddy is."

Or, wait. Daddy was. Is. Was.

Damn those verb tenses.

"Actually, I don't have a husband anymore. But when Daddy was alive, he was my husband."

Yes, love conquers the grave.

But on a questionnaire, 'Are you married or single?' I'm single. He was my husband.

"Do you think Poppa could be your husband, Mommy?"

"No, he's my dad."

"Do you think I could be your husband?"

"No, kiddo. It just doesn't work that way."

It's okay, buddy. Not every mommy has one.

Names Shmames

2012-01-27T10:05:00.001-08:00

I really don't remember whose name I said. I thought I said Tyler's name. But they heard differently.

Anyway, it went down like this.

"(Insert son's name), would you please get us some napkins for the dinner table?"

"Nope," said Tyler.

I set down my fork. I look at my youngest offspring.

"Tyler, after I fixed this meal for you, it is respectful to say thank you and to do what I ask you to do."

Tyler says, "You asked Tucker to do it."

"No, I asked you to do it."

My mom whispers from her end of table, "I heard you say Tucker."

"You did, Mommy. You said, 'Tuuuuuuccker!'" he mimics in a sing-song voice. I'm most sure I didn't say it that way.

I then notice that Tuck is no longer at the table, but he is getting napkins for each of us. Because apparently I asked him to, and apparently he is obeying.

"Thank you, Tucker. And Tyler, if I had asked you to do it, then you would have obeyed, right?"

"Nope."

Then my point remains.

For crying out loud.

Dancing Over Death

2012-01-26T06:30:00.000-08:00

When I think about the Lord,

how he saved me,

how he raised me,

how he filled me with the Holy Ghost,

he healed me to the uttermost...

When I think about the Lord,

how he picked me up,

turned me around,

how he set my feet on solid ground...

It makes me want to shout:

Alleluia!

Thank you, Jesus.

Lord, You're worthy of all the glory

and all the the praise.

~ Shane and Shane, "When I Think About the Lord"

Luckiest

2012-01-25T06:30:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on a plane. I'm flying back home. Four days away is the perfect amount: I'm in love with my children again. I can't wait to kiss their freckled faces.

Oh, God, I miss my husband.

I turn on my iPod. I listen to Ben Folds sing The Luckiest.

He sings the same song to me.
On repeat, as if he doesn't mind at all.
My mind is a stream of consciousness.

I cry and I cry and I cry.

I don't get many things right the first time.
In fact, I am told that a lot.
Now I know all the wrong turns
and stumbles and falls brought me here.
And where was I before the day
that I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday.

And I know,
that I am the luckiest.

I cry.

What if I'd been born fifty years before you
in a house on the street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike.
Would I know?
And in a wide sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize.
And I know,
that I am the luckiest.

I love you more than I have ever found the way to say to you.

In bold letters, I write on the airline napkin: WIDOW.
If anyone asks why I am weeping, I will not want to talk.
I'll just show them my napkin.
Let the napkin tell the story.

I look out the window, at the horizon line. The plane soars above the clouds.

I think of what so many think of heaven,
that it is just beyond the clouds.
And while I don't believe that's true,
I let my imagination wander as if it were.
If my seat in this airplane is at all closer to the man I love.

I cry, silently. I don't make a sound. I see my reflection in my laptop screen: my eyelashes are bare, my eyelids are puffy. My lipgloss shines.

Tears spill. I spill. I have never realized the depth of the word sadness. It's a warm, soft word.

Some friends attended a funeral this week, honoring the death of an old woman who had been ill and wheelchair-bound for more than two decades. Her husband cared for her every single day, even when her illness stole everything but her smile.

At her funeral, he read a letter to her, and his closing words were, "You loved me enough to last me until I am one hundred. But one day after that, I'm out of here."

Next door, there's an old man
who lived to his nineties
and one day
passed away in his sleep.
And his wife,
she stayed for a couple of days
and passed away.

I'm sorry -
I know that's a strange way to tell you
that I know we belong,

that I know,

that I am the luckiest.

Someone asked me this week, "Where is God in this?"

"He's in the fact that I'm breathing. I'm alive."

She said, "Are you talking about all the life you've found in this, the writing, the blessings? That kind of alive?"

"No. I mean, I am alive. I am breathing. At all. That's where God is in this."

My husband was a good man. God, I miss him.

It was a good gig while we had it, babe.
I know . . . that I am the luckiest.

Words Are Things

2012-01-24T06:00:00.000-08:00

Words are things. I am convinced.

You must be careful about the words you use, or the words you allow to be used in your house.

In the Old Testament, we are told in Genesis that in the beginning was the Word. And the Word was God, and the Word was with God.

That's in Genesis.

Words are things.

We must be careful, careful about calling people out of their names, using racial perjoratives and sexual perjoratives and all that ignorance. Don't do that.

Someday we will be able to measure the power of words.

I think they are things.
I think they get on the walls,
they get in your wallpaper,
they get in your rugs,
in your upholstery,
and finally into you.

~Maya Angelou

Forty Years

2012-01-23T06:30:00.000-08:00

I am visiting my Arkansas girl this week. She introduced me to Thera, a woman in her small town. Thera is lovely, strong and spry. Her eye makeup is flawless, and all of her seems to radiate in shades of lavender and soft blue.

Thera and I have heard of one another, prayed for one another, but we just met for the first time.

She and I are much the same. Widows. My husband died within days of hers. We've each just passed the first anniversary. Our paths are very similar.

It's just that she's forty years older than me.

My hand fit nicely into hers as we chatted. My skin is soft with moisturizer, hers is soft with life.

"I have thought of you so much this year," I told her.

"And I, you. Except I think your journey is harder than mine."

"I'm not sure about that," I rebuttal. I resist the measurement of one grief against another.

"I am sure. You have two small children."

This I cannot disagree with. It's true. I do.

She says, "But, God says his way is perfect, and you can't get much better than that."

Her careful words rest well with me. She isn't offering me a bandage for a broken heart. She is offering me truth that seems safer since she has to lean on it as hard as I do.

"Yes, you're right. You can't get much better than perfect. But..." I pause. I gather myself. "Don't you just miss him sometimes? Just plain miss him?"

Her eyes soften; we mirror one another. Decades mean nothing.

"Oh, honey. In our later years, I began to think about what my life would be like without him. I knew he was going to die before me, and I had time to think about it. But I never imagined the constant, cold, to my core, deep, deep ways that I miss him. That doesn't go away, does it?"

"No, I don't think it does."

Land that Drinks in the Rain

2012-01-22T11:46:00.000-08:00

Land that drinks in the rain
often falling on it
and that produces a crop
useful to those for whom it is farmed
receives the blessing of God.

Hebrews 6:7

"Land that drinks in the rain..." soaking it into its soil, perhaps becoming a soggy, messy mud.

"...often falling on it..." in one rainstorm after another, days and days of rain.

"...that produces a crop..." of fruit underground that cannot be seen for perhaps many seasons to come.

"...useful to those for who it is farmed..." Is the crop useful to the saturated ground? No, but the crop may bring nourishment and healing to others, including those who tend the fields, plow the ground, and wait for the fruit.

"...receives the blessing of God."

With both hands, I await this blessing, this promise.

Holy God, pour down your blessing with the rain.

Fearfully and Wonderfully

2012-01-20T06:30:00.000-08:00

My son is fearfully and wonderfully made,
but this week I learned that he has a learning disability.

What was a delay when he was two,
when my silent boy could not speak,
is a disability when he is six.

Children are most vulnerable to speech and language problems between the ages of 2 and 6. Statistically, the chance of improvement diminishes after this window.

My son is six and a half.

Way back when, way back then,
he couldn't find his words.
The same is true now.
It's called anomia.
We all have it to a certain degree.
It's when you say, "Can you give me that, um, that.... um..." and you snap your fingers until you remember the word pencil.

This happens to my son in his every sentence. For all of his life, he has understood every word anyone has said to him. But he often cannot retrieve the language to reply. He knows what he wants to say, and his words fail him.

He is smart. Every expert has agreed: oh, there is knowledge inside that boy. Deep knowledge.

Yesterday, he said, "Mommy, can you write my name on my football so it doesn't get lost? And can you write it on the red part, because if you write on the black part, then... then... then... (insert long pause)... then the letters will ... will be... (insert second pause) ... be camouflaged."

He is an expert at synonyms. He couldn't think of the phrase "won't show up," so instead he danced around the idea until he found the word 'camouflaged.'

Two days ago, he said, "Mommy, can you please explain to me why I can't hear God's voice?"

My son is a thinker.

If you're patient,
if you listen without distraction,
if he knows he's not rushed,
he'll talk to you.

My son has a long history of learning differently than other children. This week, we enter our second jaunt down the path of the Individualized Education Plan. The experts, the collaboration, the diagnostic testing, the signatures, the puzzle pieces and building blocks to help my son to communicate. I couldn't ask for a better team of advocates who know the laws, the systems, the assessments, and -- most of all -- Tucker.

I've done this before. But there's a difference.

Last time, at the end of the day, when Tuck was nearly two and we learned there was a reason we hadn't heard his voice, Robb said, "Hey, babe? He's smart. We know he's smart. Let's show the world what kind of smart he is."

I miss my partner, the one who knew this boy as well as I do.

I signed my name. Yes. Test my son, in every way you deem best. I trust you. And I know him. And he's about to blow us all away.

My son is fearfully and wonderfully made.

Period.

Ketchup

2012-01-19T06:30:00.000-08:00

The boys played at the McDonald's playland. A family spread their Happy Meals across the table next to mine. They keep pulling up chairs - there seem to be so many of them.

"Where is the ketchup?" the little boy asks.

"Mommy went to get some," his dad responds.

Mommy went to get some.

Why did that sentence make my throat tighten and my eyes sting?

These drive by emotions don't catch me off guard quite so often, but suddenly I was nearly a mess. Over someone else's mommy's ketchup.

I still can't make sense of it.

But I think it has something to do with the husband and wife working as a team.
Something to do with him holding down the fort and passing out napkins while she covered one more detail.
Something to do with him knowing where she was.
Something to do with the fact that young parents call each other Mommy and Daddy.
Something to do with a family on a lunch date, instead of a mom in survival mode.
Something to do with a family intact.

I don't know. But I cried over ketchup.

If You Ever Need to Feel Brave

2012-01-18T06:30:00.000-08:00

"I was brave?" the four-year-old asked.

"You were -- you are brave," Eddie told her.

"What does brave mean?" Ruth asked him.

"It means that you don't cry," Eddie said.

"I cried a little," Ruth pointed out.

"A little is okay," Eddie told her. "Brave means that you accept what happens to you -- you just try to make the best of it."

"Tell me more about the cut," the child said.

"When the doctor took out the stitches, the scar was thin and white and a perfect straight line," Eddie told her. "In the whole rest of your life, if you ever need to feel brave, just look at your scar."

Ruth stared at it. "Will it always be there?" she asked Eddie.

"Always," he told her. "Your hand will grow bigger, and your finger will grow bigger, but the scar will stay the same size. When you're all grown up, the scar will look smaller, but that will be because the rest of you has grown bigger - the scar will always be the same. It will just not be as noticeable, which means that it will become harder and harder to see. You'll have to show it to people in good light, and you'll have to say, 'Can you see my scar?' And they'll have to look really closely; only then will they be able to see it. You'll always be able to see it because you'll know where to look."

"And my scar will always be there?" Ruth asked him again.

"Your scar will be a part of you forever," Eddie promised her.

~ John Irving

I love that the scar will stay the same size, but it's the girl who will grow.
And if she ever feels afraid, she can look at the scar and remember: she was brave.
And I love that she doesn't want the scar to go away.

In This Room

2012-01-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

When we first moved into this home, this room was the first one we changed.

When I was about two weeks pregnant, we redecorated in a soft blue and yellow theme. I painted puffy clouds on the ceiling (with good ventilation so we wouldn't damage the baby's growing neurosystem).

It suited us well. It was Tucker's room, and then it was Tyler's. Until we sold the crib and bought bunkbeds. Then they became roommates down the hall.

Then, what to do with this powdery blue and yellow room that suddenly was so whimsical it made me nauseous?

It became The Office. Earth tones, greens and browns. I think the wall color is something akin to 'butternut toast'. We transformed the room on a dime, borrowing tricks from Trading Spaces. The monstrous oak desk migrated in here. The 'changing table' became a credenza. We made it work. A shared space for the two of us: the filer and the piler.

But now, though, what to do with this space, now?
Now that it's all mine.

I kept the earth tones.
I kept the credenza.
I added bookshelves.
I added a reading corner, complete with a small table, a cozy (red floral) chair, and a reading lamp.
I took out the monstrous desk,
and I replaced it with a streamlined work space
just big enough for my laptop,
a picture frame,
and a bud vase.

With a daisy.

I knelt to the floor tonight, my face to the carpet.
I pictured dozens of clips from the many scenes in this room.
I rocked my babies, when they were sick or well, sleepy or not.
I wrestled many a boy into a fresh diaper.
I worshipped in here,
silently or loudly,
most often late at night.
I have journaled a million words.
I have danced in here,
alone - in praise,
with my boys - in silliness,
with my husband - in love.
I received the call from the coroner's office in this room.
I slipped away to this room many times on the day I became a widow, just to say that word to myself again and again.

Tonight, I dedicated this room once again.
"God, may you fill this space. I give this to you, along with every word and thought that will come through this room. May words land on the page. And may you receive the glory."

Before we changed anything at all when we first moved in, Robb splattered 'R loves T' on the biggest wall, in splashy blue paint. Beneath all these earth tones, there's a love note written to me.

I believe I can work in this room.
I believe I will write a book in this space.

This Competitive Spirit

2012-01-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

How can Tucker hold his fork just like Robb, when he hasn't seem him do that in over a year?

He just looked at me exactly like Robb would have. I just said something to which the answer was obvious. He knows that look already.

We play a marathon of MarioKart; Tucker will take the liberty to not only prepare the game's setup, but also to choose the characters and vehicles he knows we each prefer, so all we must do is pick up the controls he has arranged on the coffee table in player order.

He's pretty sure that he thinks through things more thoroughly than I do. He may be right, on occasion. He raises his eyebrows in the same way that Robb did, the expression that says, "Betchya didn't think about that, didya?"

He is his daddy. Through and through.

And I understand his growing personality because I studied his daddy's so closely, because I loved him so much.

Somehow, each of them is less a puzzle to me as I learn to know them more.

Tucker has a highly competitive spirit. He does not get this from me. I wish I were remotely competitive; I think this may come in handy. But I'm not. Robb was.

This competitive spirit has begun to get the best of Tuck sometimes. A darker side of him emerges when he's losing at something - either against someone else or himself.

I carefully chose my timing to talk about this. I learned when I was married to his dad: timing is everything with such topics.

"Hey, Tuck? How come it's so important to you to win?"

"Because I just like to."

"But what happens if you don't win?"

"I don't like it."

"What if somebody else wins?"

"Then I want to play again so I can win."

"Hey, buddy? You know who else was like that? Daddy. Daddy loved to win. And sometimes he loved it too much. He had to work really hard to be kind when he really wanted to win."

"Daddy liked to win?"

"He did. And sometimes he didn't win."

I didn't go into great detail, especially with regard to the ramifications in our home if his beloved Buckeyes took a hit. But I assure you: Robb had to work really, really hard to be kind when he wanted them to win.

I see Tucker's shoulders soften with this new knowledge of how he is like his dad. It could be easy to memorialize Robb in a shrine of perfection, and the boys could grow up thinking they live in the shadow of a man who had it all figured out.

I just needed Tuck to know: Daddy had a hard time with that too.

Loaded Word

2012-01-15T10:58:00.001-08:00

I completed a registration card for Tyler.

Name.
Birthdate.
Age.
Grade.

But then they swept in with some left fielders at the bottom.

Does the child live with both parents?
If not, then with whom does the child live?
Why? Please explain.

The child lives with one parent.
Me.
I am his mother.
My husband died one year ago.

(This was the first time I had written this sentence.)

I realized too late that such a question really only needs one answer: "Widow."

Such a loaded word answers it all.

There are no custody issues.
There isn't a divorce.
There was a death.
And now it's me.
He lives with me.

So many answers hidden in just one word.

Respect the Artist

2012-01-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

This may come as a surprise, but the industry of words is as varied as any.

There are people who pride in mass production, and there are those who specialize in the handmade tapestry.

There is grape KoolAid, and there is fine wine. There are apples, and there are oranges.

There are dozens of websites that offer a quick frantic look at your paper the night before it is due, making sure your capitalization, punctuation, and grammar meet the minimum standard. You will pay minimally for these.

There are those who can critique your manuscript, think like a publisher, read your story, and guide you to market the words you've given life. This is neither editing nor writing, but it is critiquing. You will pay differently for this.

There are wordsmiths who practice the art of language, who will craft your message in the most effective, efficient verbiage without losing your personal voice in the writing. You will pay more for those.

Proofreading is a practiced science.
Critiquing is an expert opinion.
Writing is a crafted art.

Respect the artist: the craft isn't cheap.

Makes Me Want to Date Myself

2012-01-13T06:00:00.000-08:00

A Girl You Should Date

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality, but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

– Rosemarie Urquico

Everybody Needs An Elizabeth

2012-01-12T06:00:00.000-08:00

Mary was the mother of Jesus. Elizabeth was the mother of John. John and Jesus were cousins, and that in itself intrigues me: Jesus' earliest playmate was likely his buddy John.

I am intrigued by the relationship I deduce and imagine between Mary and Elizabeth. They were important to each other. Through these two women, God changed the course of history.

They spent three months together, living the dailiness of life, walking through a full trimester of shared pregnancy. I imagine their conversations - for sure, the magnitude and the holiness of the journey - but also the quiet discussions women have in daily life together.

They were each pregant, and I imagine them comparing symptoms, encouraging each other, and affirming the path of growing a new person: this is what it's like, you're not alone, and what you're experiencing is normal.

I wonder if they affirmed in each other their motherhood and ultimately their womanhood. I love this little snippet into what I perceive is the truest picture of friendship and community.

In The Road to Daybreak, Henri says, "How can I ever let God's grace fully work in my life unless I live in a community of people who can affirm it, deepen it, and strengthen it?"

An 'Elizabeth' is a refuge of wisdom, comfort, and joy.

Everybody needs an Elizabeth.

***

When Elizabeth heard Mary's greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was with filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb." . . . And Mary remained with her about three months and then returned home.

~ Luke 1:39-41, 56

Dinner Party Girl

2012-01-11T12:57:00.000-08:00

I hosted a dinner party. The first one in 13 months.

(Did you know I'm a dinner party girl? 'Cause I am. I'm a dinner party girl. And I can set a lovely spread on a table, if I may say so myself.)

I **love** hostessing. Name the party, give me the guest list, let's create the menu, and let's do this thing.

My mom is the ultimate hostess; her sisters are the ultimate hostesses; my grandmother was the ultimate hostess. The girls in this family had no choice but to learn the art, because it was instilled as deeply as doing the laundry and changing the sheets.

This. Is What. We do.

Here is what I know, above all else, about hostessing:

There's always room for one more.
There's always room for dessert.
There's simply always room.

And,

My home need not be spotless, but my home must always be gracious.

It's really that simple.

* * *

"... Not that I like Martha Stewart, nobody likes Martha Stewart, I don't even think Martha Stewart likes Martha Stewart. Which actually makes me like her."

~Samantha, in Open House,

by Elizabeth Berg

Meat in Heaven

2012-01-10T09:09:00.000-08:00

"Mommy, is there meat in heaven?"

"Yes, I think there probably is." Probably. I'm not really sure. I instantly think of a dozen arguments either way.

"Will we eat?"

"Yes, all the best foods. The Bible talks a lot about the dinner parties. They're so great in heaven."

"Is there poop?"

"No, I don't think so." I do think the whole idea of waste management in general is a product of the fall.

"Does Daddy have any clothes to wear? Because he left them all here. Like that red shirt that he wore when he died. I liked that shirt."

He was wearing a red shirt. I remember this, too.

"I bet Jesus had all new clothes for him, buddy."

"When will I die?"

"Probably not until you're a very old man."

"Like Poppa?"

"Even older than Poppa." Tyler's eyes grow wide with wonder. Even older than Poppa.

"I don't think Daddy will remember me."

My heart catches. I have worried that the boys wouldn't remember Robb; I had not thought to worry about their worries that he wouldn't remember them. The worries multiply at an astounding rate.

"Oh, Tyler, yes. Yes, he will remember you. No matter how old you are, no matter how old he is, as soon as he sees you, he'll know you. You're his boy."

Tyler smiles his bashful smile, the one that says, I don't really want you to know how happy that made me just now.

"Will I get to do whatever I want in heaven?"

"Well, the good news is that you'll only want to do what God wants you to do, so yes, you'll be allowed to do anything you want."

He smiles bigger. This place sounds better and better and better.

Some Things Right

2012-01-09T08:40:00.000-08:00

Last week, I read Open House, by Elizabeth Berg. (And I'll tell you right now, I'm in for everything she's ever written.) In the first chapter of the book, the heroine is trying to convince her husband to stay, and in the second chapter, we find her on the first morning of their separation. Ultimately, the story tells how she finds herself on the other side of marriage.

Our marriages ended differently, this heroine's and mine, but I identified with her on many levels. Especially when she couldn't set the table without crossing paths with yet another wedding gift from the life she had once lived.

Anyway, she doesn't like her mother. (I assure you, non-lovers of books and therein book reviews, these paragraphs are going somewhere.) Her mother is shallow and ridiculously happy always, never willing to go anywhere near real emotions, and keeps everything an inch deep at all times.

In a fit of rage, the heroine asks her mother, "When did you ever let anyone get close to you? I mean, really close. To the real you."

And in a page of brilliant writing, we see a crack in the mother's facade of happiness, and we readers realize that she has chosen to appear happy all along, thinking it was best for her children to never see her life's pain.

I stare at my mother's carefully made-up face, and suddenly I see that same face many years ago, shortly after my father died, when she came out of the bathroom after having been in there for a very long time.

"Now!" she said. I was sitting in the hall, spinning jacks, and I looked up at her. "I think that style is much better, don't you?" She showed me some modification she'd made to her hairdo, and I nodded, then returned to my jacks.

What occurs to me now is that what my mother had been doing all that time was weeping. With astonishing quiet. And that when she was done, she'd washed her face, fixed her hair, put on lipstick, and then gone out to the kitchen. She turned the radio on low and made dinner so that it would be ready when it always was. And then she smiled and chatted empty-headedly or fussed at her daughters all during dinner, preempting any kind of real conversation, preempting any questions, and then she put her daughters to bed, still smiling, still dispensing random advice about this and that, and her daughters squirmed and rolled their eyes and felt their love lessen year by year, eroded by embarrassment, by a terrible, defeating kind of resignation that told them she would never be different.

But what did she do after she put us to bed? I wonder now.

And I imagine a mother who took a mask off her face, then pushed hard into a pillow to weep for the loss of her husband, for the loss of the life she was supposed to have, for the only man she ever -- I gasp, thinking this now -- loved.

And it comes all at once to me, it comes at this instant, that my mother simply lost too much and repaired herself in the only way she was able; that, in fact, she is continuing to repair herself, hour by hour, the pendulum of the cuckoo clock swinging in the light and the dark of all the days that have passed since my father died at this same brown wooden table.

I found such comfort in these words, in the idea that I'm doing the right thing by looking this in the eye, by talking to my children about the canyon that could have swallowed us whole, that I'm not preempting their questions and mine, that I'm not hiding behind a mask of any kind -- lipstick or otherwise.

I don't show them everything. Because they shouldn't have to see it all. But there's nothing I'm afraid of, no question they could ask that I wouldn't be willing to wade into. And they can mention his name as easily as anyone else's. Because he is as real to us as anyone else is.

It's great to read something and realize I might be on the right track, doing some things right. That my boys won't look back and wonder who I was all these years. That maybe I'm giving them the chance to know me all along.

Nothing to Filter

2012-01-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

Bereavement and depression wear matching clothes, sometimes. A good doctor can see the difference. A good doctor can treat the depression and let the bereavement run its course.

A good doctor has the courage to say, "Yep. That sounds about right. What you're describing is normal. There isn't a drug for that."

So the good news is that I am on track, I'm not regressing, and these hills and valleys are predictable on the invisible map. The bad news is there is no way around this.

I think sadness is beautiful. It's so pure. There is nothing to filter - no anger, jealousy, deceit, insecurity, wrongful hurt. There is simply sadness.

It's a rare day when she travels alone, but the purity is worth the brief visit.

Pillow Talk

2012-01-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

"Tyler, you are so great."

"Mommy, you are so great."

"Tyler, you are so much fun."

"Mommy, you are so much fun."

"Tyler, I'm so glad you're my boy."

"Mommy, I'm so glad you're my girl."

"Tyler, you're a great four-year-old."

"Mommy, you're... a really big four-year-old."

Handkerchief

2012-01-06T10:28:00.000-08:00

Robb carried a handkerchief in his pocket. He rarely needed it; it was largely for me. He married a teary girl.

When I needed it, in church or in a movie, he had one handy for me. I needed one recently. (Tears are fresh and plentiful these days.) I couldn't find it. I groped blindly in my handbag, wishing upon wishes for something to dry these streams of mascara.

And then something prompted my mind to travel down a linear path:

I took it out of my purse when we traveled to Ohio,
I wanted it with me on the plane,
I put it in my red bag,
my computer is in my red bag,
my red bag is sitting at my feet in this coffee shop.

I reached into the big pocket of the red bag. Sure enough: the familiar, worn linen of his handkerchief, monogrammed in the bottom right corner.

It was as if he had handed it to me once more.

"Thanks, honey," I whispered, seemingly to myself, but not to myself really at all.

Backward Encouragement

2012-01-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

Ice skating is our new hobby. We love it. And I promise you, a couple of times now I didn't even have to lace up my own skates - they were on their own. With some ups and downs, naturally.

But, I happen to know that everything is a little more fun when someone wants to do it with you, so sometimes I join them.

"Ha-ha, Tucker's falling down more than me-ee." Tyler says this in that teasing, sing-song voice that seems to be innate to the four-year-old learning curve.

"Tyler, in our family, we are kind and encouraging."

"What is encouraging?"

"It means you say something nice, like good job."

"And what if I'm not encouraging?"

"Then you can hurt someone's feelings."

"I can hurt their heart?"

"Yes."

"And what if I'm not encouraging to myself?"

"Then you can hurt your own heart."

He looks down at the zipper of his snowpants. "Sorry, heart."

"So, I say, 'good job?' That's encouraging?"

"Yes. That's a great start."

"Okay." Pause for thinking. "Tuck, you are really good at falling down. A lot."

I'm Here.

2012-01-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

I lay down next to Tuck sometimes as he's falling asleep. Nighttime gets the best of him sometimes... of both of us, really.

He closes his eyes, almost asleep. Then he opens them slowly, pulling himself awake again, just to make sure I am still here.

I am still here.

He wants to go to sleep; he is so very tired. But his imagination mocks him, telling him that if I am out of sight, then he has lost a second parent.

He starts to roll over with his back to me.

"Mommy, when I say your name, and then I don't say anything else, can you just say you are here?"

"I can do that, buddy."

He rolls over. He tests me. "Mommy?"

And then nothing else. That's my cue.

"I'm here, Tuck."

"Always?"

"Always."

All Exhaustion Is Not Equal

2012-01-03T10:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a rough go. So many things went wrong. And by wrong, I mean they changed unexpectedly. I can vary from a plan, but I like a little notice.

For starters, Tyler didn't have school. I thought he did. This was nearly catastrophic for me, on the emotional realm. All you show-offs who read every bit of paperwork that comes home? This is your moment to shine. I will hide in your shadow.

So, I took them out for coffee. Or, in their case, juice smoothies. I really thought I was going to get some work done, except I forfeited my laptop so they could stream Netflix and I could have a few minutes of silence.

Then I thought we would give Monkey Bizness a try. The one for big kids, the one my boys have been asking for with deep longing. Except we got there and they herded us into this waiting room and put us on their wait list, since the play area was full. I get this, if there is indeed an end to the wait. Forty minutes later, we were still waiting with no movement on said list, I was out of snacks, and we had watched nearly all of The Happy Elf, streamed through Netflix on my phone.

(My Netflix subscription is nearly worth the same to me as my anti-anxiety prescription. They serve different purposes, and yet much the same. Hooray for mobilized technology.)

We went to the mall for lunch. We went to the Lego store for ideas. We went to Apple for the kid Macs. We went to Barnes and Noble for the Lego and train table. Enter stores with kid displays for my children to explore and enjoy endlessly? Guilty as charged.

By the end of the afternoon, I begged my mom to take them to her house for dinner. Please. I'll provide the food, beverages and children, if I can just have a bit of time today. A bit of time to catch my breath.

She said yes. Hours later, she brought them back, fed and in their jammies. 'Cause she's so cool like that. If I am ever a grandmother, I will do many things as she does them.

(While they were gone, I fixed my double chocolate cherry cookies (and by fixed, I mean repaired), I made grilled asparagus for a party of one, and I mapped out my post-graduate course plan. Path for the next three years: Check.

It wasn't exactly wasted time.

There's a reason why I write about all this: to describe the kind of exhaustion.

It was single mom exhaustion. It wasn't widow exhaustion. And there is a difference.

I felt the kind of tired I would have felt if Robb were in the middle of a long business trip and I were on my own for a long, harried day. The kind of tired that would have prompted me to send him some snide text about how great his traveling business life must be, and please bring me something great for managing the homefront in your absence.

But I did not feel the kind of heart weariness that comes from thinking through fog, from wearing the wet blanket of depression, from crying without explanation, from tying a scarf around me just to hold myself together. It wasn't that kind.

I am thankful others can see this difference and speak it into my life.
I am thankful they see victory, when all I can see is tired.

There's a difference. I can feel it.

Linchpins

2012-01-02T12:16:00.000-08:00

The smallest things matter most.

Small signs of friendliness can create so much joy,
while small interpersonal tiffs can cause so much distress.

My friend Henri said, "The great events of the day, the newspaper headlines, the things happening across the world, these things rarely touch me as deeply as the smallest gestures that create my world. An unexpected note from a friend or the passing remark from a neighbor can make or break my day emotionally."

What is easier than writing a thank you note,
sending a card to say hello,
or shooting an email to see how things have been?

Still, every time someone says,
"Thanks for writing that, Tricia,"
"Your words helped me today,"
"Let me tell you something I remember about your husband,"
"I appreciate you,"
it seems that I can feel the sun shining directly onto my broken heart, mending my seams.

How amazing that, in God's grandeur,
he still created the smallest things in life to change my heart so much.

The path to the heart is quiet and gentle, sacred and precious. These are the linchpins of life.

Good morning, 2012.

2012-01-01T08:35:00.000-08:00

I think New Year's Eve is overrated. It's my least favorite holiday. It's possible that I have written about this before in the archives of this blog's five years, but I don't really feel like checking. I just feel like saying I don't like New Year's Eve.

It's so high pressure.

First there's the dating scene. If you're married or with someone, then you're supposed to have some fine, exquisite plan to ring in the new year, something memorable and remarkable. Something to tuck away so you can later say, "Remember New Year's Eve 2007?" And you can knowingly smile and nod.

Then there's the resolution scene. What do you wish you could do better? What do you wish you would do more of, less of, and ultimately what might make you a better person? If you're not the type of person to ask yourself these questions on a daily basis, then really, why wait until it's time to buy a new calendar?

I woke up somewhat cynical this morning. Perhaps you can read it in my tone.

Dear 2011:
You have taught me much. I had no idea how strong I could be, how complete I truly am. I didn't know a heartbreak could last so long, that joy could mean so much. I didn't know. You taught me. Together we learned.

Of all of my years, behind and before, I am confident I will never, ever forget you. Even though now, I barely remember you. I think your pieces will come together in my mind. On the timeline of my life, your numbers will be thick and bold. Remember that year? It was thick and bold.

I finish your last page, but I don't really close your book, because you seamlessly spill into today, a new year. (Plus, I went to bed at 8:15, long before your official farewell.)

And that brings me to you, 2012. Twenty-twelve. Look at you, already with the two names.

I imagine you have a thing or two to teach me. Please don't give me a bulleted, itemized list. No syllabus. It's better if I don't know. Just, please, be kind. And most of all, be patient.

Let's try a million recipes this year. Let's become good friends with Betty Crocker. Let's see what else there is out there besides chicken.

This will be my year of the baked goods. I already have the ingredients for double chocolate chip cookies (with dried cherries in them - how about that? We'll see.), a strawberry pie, and a coconut cream pie. Let's bake. And let's love people with what comes out of the oven.

Maybe we'll write a book together this year, you and me, 2012. I've gotta tell you: 2011 and I have a solid start. But I welcome your insights.

January 1, 2012. Let's do this thing.

Dreamy or Dazed or Simply Absent

2011-12-31T07:00:00.000-08:00

"Mommy, remember when you let us sleep with you sometimes when it's morning and you're not up yet?" asks the little voice standing beside my bed.

I answer without opening my eyes. "Yes. But it's too early, buddy. I need my bed."

"But you let Daddy sleep with you."

"That was... different."

"Please, Mommy? It's scary in there."

I hesitate, gaging my strength to fight this back-to-bed battle.

"Please, Mommy? It's 7-2-1." He reads the digital clock. He knows if that first number isn't 7 or higher, he doesn't stand a chance.

"Okay. You can."

"Yes? Did you say yes? You said yes?"

"I said yes." And this inconsistency is no doubt why we continue to have this battle at all.

He climbs in. His brother follows shortly behind. I am sandwiched between a dozen knees and elbows. There's really nothing settling about this way to start the day. It's just so abrupt.

Tucker peels open my eyelid. "Mommy, are you dead?"

"No, I'm not dead."

"Oh. Because you looked like you were dead."

"I'm not."

They are leaning across me, arguing over something insanely important to them.

"Let's get up. I'm making muffins." I decide.

"But I don't like muffins."

"Then you can have a PopTart."

"I want two PopTarts."

"You never finish two. You may have one."

They pause at the top of the stairs to question if the alarm is on. They are like Pavlov's dogs: they know this trigger, and they are not about to step into the range of the motion sensor unless I can guarantee a controlled environment.

We make the muffins. Half blueberry, half chocolate chip. They help, which really means twice the prep time and twice the dishes. But in the end, the offender decides he'll eat some after all. But only the chocolate chips ones.

They play MarioKart while I pay a stack of bills. I'm tired of receiving anything - anything - in Robb's name. Extra points to anyone who has taken his name off our record in their system.

After much grumbling and complaining, losses and findings of mittens and gloves, we embark on the day. First stop: the bank. I need to get a page notarized, one more detail that involves a death certificate.

The woman behind the counter mistakes it for a marriage certificate. Her eyes light up and she nearly congratulates me. No. It's not that. It's the end.

She had almost been cordial, but now she's afraid to misstep. So instead she becomes entirely procedural. I want to scream inside the bank, stomp my feet and shout like a toddler wanting a lollipop. I want everyone to look and notice. I want to say, "Do you know that he mattered to me? Do you know that he was more than a stack of paperwork and signatures?"

I cry in the car. I do this a lot.

We have packed up their motor scooters, the Christmas gifts from their Chicago grandparents, Robb's mom and dad. We find an empty parking lot, and they do their do. Tucker with amazing balance and tricks, Tyler with careful and slow steadiness.

I take videos and I nickname them Speed Rocket and Blazing Flame. They pretend they are in the circus, a team of daredevils. I teach them how to ride with one leg elegantly extended behind, like a ballerina on wheels. Only I don't use that analogy.

We have lunch. They disobey. They want root beer. I give them apple juice. There is kicking and bickering.

This day is going so slowly.

It is 12:10. Arthur's Christmas begins at 12:20. If we hurry, we can make it. We hurry. We make it.

(Assigned seating is stupid in a movie theater. There's no reason for it, I say. Especially when we have narrowly arrived before the movie starts, the lights are dimmed, the previews are rolling, my children are distracted by the silver screen, and I must diligently look for Row H, seats 3, 4, and 5.)

I bank on the hope that nobody else will arrive later than we do, and I claim three seats in the back row, tippy top. (Hidden motive: if the movie gets too, you know, underwhelming, I can discreetly read the book in my bag.) The boys and I settle in.

By the way, they have spent this day in costume: Spiderman and Optimus Prime. One has a cape, the other has a mask.

The movie ends. It's only 2:00. For real? This is the longest day in the history of mankind. I'm sure of it. Some kind of solstice must be on this day.

I tell them we are going home, I need to rest for a bit, and these are their options while I am sleeping. Tucker whispers, "Yes! We can do whatever we want!" And so I list the options again.

I wait until everyone is captivated by their favorite something, and I fall into bed. I am uncomfortable falling asleep while they are awake, but I simply cannot finish this day without a break. I pray for their safety, and I wonder if I reminded them that they absolutely must stay in the house... but I don't worry too long. Because I am too sleepy.

"Mommy, can I have a popsicle?"

"Yes."

"Mommy, can my brother have a popsicle?"

"Yes."

My phone alarms. My hour is up. Just ten more minutes? Can't I have ten more minutes...

In I-don't-know-how-many minutes, an iPod is blasting on my bedside table. Tyler has awakened me to music. And also, he is standing on my hair.

I don't want to be angry. I wanted to sleep so I could be more patient.

I come downstairs. Spiderman is throwing snowballs into the kitchen, through the open sliding door. There are swimming pool toys all over the living room floor. (Pool toys?) I find a purple popsicle laying (melting) on my coffee table.

I sit at the dining table while they play with bungee cords. I know not where they found them. But they are giggling at their masterful creativity with them, pretending they are go-go-gadget arms.

My parents swoop in and save the day, my children, and me from each other. Tyler and I are scheduled for a date tonight. He opts out. He would rather be with Grandma and Poppa. He makes a reference to me being Miss Hannigan.

That's fine. I don't have much 'date' in me tonight. We'll reschedule for a time when we like each other.

My parents leave with the boys. I leave with no intentions. I drive, drive, drive. I am nearly to the mall before I realize I don't want anything to do with the mall. I drive, drive, drive back from whence I came.

I settle in at Niccolo's, the pizza shop around the corner. (Maybe in another life stage I'll eat things other than pizza.) I sit alone. I wonder if I look dreamy or dazed, or simply absent. I don't really care.

I bring a book with me; Elizabeth Berg makes me want to write. Her storytelling makes for excellent conversation with myself. Just my pace.

I order the alfredo pizza with mushrooms and onions. Robb and I had an honest-to-goodness fight over this pizza when I was pregnant. He hates mushrooms and onions, and I was craving them both. I felt entitled and thereby became irrational. I truly did.

Tonight, I eat it alone.

Lace Up Those Skates

2011-12-30T06:00:00.000-08:00

Let me let you in on a family secret:

My dad taught me to rollerskate when I was five,

and he taught me the magic words that keep you from falling.

Hibbidy. Hobbidy. Hoobidy.

If you say those three words, you won't fall.

It's true.

And it works on ice skates, too.

By the end of the day, the boys were teaching this trick to other little skaters.

Moms were saying to me, "What are those magic words again?"

"You guys are doing a good job getting back up again..."

They are old enough to remember the first time they went ice skating.

Someday, they will know we did this on December 23, 2011,

on that first anniversary.

A lump caught in my throat as I was lacing Tucker's skates.

"Mommy, why are you crying? Oh, wait... I know. I just forgot for one second.

Mommy, just for one second. I know you miss daddy. I know you do."

Someday they will fathom how much I love them.

"Girl, you are hard-core determined to make room for joy in your life."

~ my friend, Melanie O.

(Indeed, I am.)

Twenty Questions

2011-12-29T06:00:00.000-08:00

It was a late night ride to the airport. Jammies on (almost) everybody. I was banking on them falling asleep.

They even warned me as such: "Mommy, we might fall asleep." No worries, kiddo. Rest your weary head.

A few miles down the road, one of my sons asked, "Mommy, why did daddy die?"

"Because he got really sick really fast, and the doctors couldn't save him."

"Yes, I know that part." He has heard this answer before.

"But why, Mommy?"

His brother joined the inquisition with solidarity. "If God is powerful, why didn't he save our daddy? If doctors couldn't heal him, why didn't God save him?"

An important question, my little men. When children have encountered this degree of tragedy, they are not assuaged by simple, pat answers.

"I don't know, guys. I really don't know why God didn't save him."

"Did God want Daddy to die?"

Okay, God. I'm going to give this my best shot. Please speak through me. Only you know the answers. And my kids are asking.

"Honey, God didn't want Daddy to die. I don't think God wants anybody to die. I think he wanted us to live in a perfect place where nobody gets sick or dies. He created a perfect world - do you remember who lived there, in his perfect garden?"

"Mary and Joseph." A good guess. Another biblical couple, much more at the forefront of our minds this time of year.

"No, it was Adam and Eve."

They pipe up to tell the story, their words and impatience tripping over each other. It's hard to differentiate who knows which part of the story.

"And God forgot to tell them they couldn't eat from the tree, and the snake said they could, and all snakes are bad and want us to do bad things, and they ate the apple because Eve said so."

Um, sort of. Give or take a few important details.

"Well, guys, God didn't forget to tell them not to eat from that tree. He told them. And he asked them to obey. But the snake tricked them, and they chose to eat the fruit even though God told them not to."

"They didn't obey, Mommy."

Ah. These are terms we understand.

"Right, kiddo. They didn't obey. And as soon as they took a bite of the apple, God's perfect world wasn't perfect anymore. Sin came into the world when they disobeyed, and sin has been hurting people ever since. Daddy didn't die because he sinned, but he died because there is sin in the world. Sin makes us sick. It makes us sad. It makes people die."

"Did sin make Jesus die?"

Oh, these questions. Where is a theologian when I need one?

"Well, Jesus died to rescue us from sin. But God didn't save Jesus from dying, and he didn't save Daddy from dying. God let it happen."

"And two other men died with him."

"With Daddy?"

"No, with Jesus." Someone has been looking closely at the pictures in Sunday school, I see.

"They did. And one of them said right then, right before he died, that he believed Jesus was saving the world. And Jesus said, 'Okay, then, I'll see you soon. When you die, you'll be with me in heaven.'"

"And so that man is in heaven?"

"Yes."

"And so is Daddy?"

"Yes."

There was silence in the car.

"Okay, Mommy."

Thus concluded twenty questions that countless people invest their lives studying.

(And I had thought the little boys would fall asleep.)

Listen (...again).

2011-12-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

It has been a year since I said these words, spoke them to an audience of hundreds, with my wedding handkerchief in my hand and my brother at my side.

As I listen, I feel like it's someone else talking. Who is that girl?

It's good for me to listen again.
To hear my voice,
to hear the scripture,
to hear the poetry,
to hear the truth.

Perhaps you heard this a year ago.
Or perhaps we have met since then.

I invite you to listen (...again).

Victory: A Whole Year Of It

2011-12-27T06:00:00.000-08:00

I feel tremendously victorious today.

Morning after,
just finished a marathon,
dance the speakers off the wall,
conquer the world,
victorious.

The first year is finished.
I did it.
A whole year of it.

I am not naive to say this next year will be a cake walk.
In fact, I have heard and expect that in some ways the second year is harder because the heart begins to thaw, the soul begins to feel, and one begins to wake up all over again.

But, in the past year, I have woken up each day and wondered how I would do it, get through it, make it back to bed at the end of the day. The year's holidays stockpiled against me, one on stop of another, threatening me with their mocking dates with every turn of the calendar page.

I don't have to worry as much about those, because I've met them once already. Now I know what to expect for Valentine's, birthdays, anniversaries, and seasons. This doesn't mean I love it. It just means I've smelled the dragon's hot breath, and I can withstand the heat.

And now I know that every single day, the best and the worst, only lasts for 24 hours.

Today, I feel victorious. I did it. A whole year of it.

Unnatural, Unspeakable

2011-12-26T06:30:00.000-08:00

I cannot explain it. It is unnatural. Unspeakable. Beyond human logic. Entirely supernatural.

I am doing okay. I really, truly am.

I have delighted in the music, the festivities, the wrapping and the giving. My heart is light and full. I'm smiling.

What is that old adage? "Shared joy is double joy; shared sorrow is half sorrow." I have felt the measure of this equation in my deepest moments this week, when my heart could breathe because someone else (many someones) carried my load.

The anniversary of this week feels dear to my heart, but not crushing to my spirit. In some moments, it has felt as though I walked with someone else through the loss of her husband a year ago, not that I lost my very own.

(Disassociation? Perhaps.
Effective cocktail of meds? Perhaps.
My name on the breaths and prayers of the invisible, anonymous you? Most certainly.
Sheer grace of God? Absolutely.)

"May it be unto me as you have said."

"Emmanuel, Emmanuel. God incarnate, here to dwell."

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Go tell it on the mountain: we have had a Merry Christmas.

Soli Deo Gloria.

Not to be Afraid

2011-12-25T06:00:00.000-08:00

The God of love who gave us life

sent his only Son

to be with us at all times

and in all places,

so that we never have to feel lost in our struggles

but always can trust that he walks with us ....

Christmas is the renewed invitation

not to be afraid and let him --

whose love is greater than our own hearts and minds can comprehend --

be our companion.

~ Henri Nouwen

King David and Joni Mitchell

2011-12-24T09:45:00.000-08:00

Confession: I have been waiting for a Christmas miracle.

I didn't know I had this hope in my heart until I awoke this morning, the day after The One Year, and my heart still hurt.

Shouldn't I be able to think about other things?
Shouldn't I be able to write about something else?
Shouldn't there be more joy, less sadness?

I mean, after all, I made it. I survived the year. And many, many people walked, carried, prayed, and survived it with me.

Isn't there some kind of refreshment on this side of the finish line?

***

It's coming near Christmas,
they're cutting down trees.
They're putting up reindeer,
and singing songs of joy and peace.
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on.
I wish I had a river so long
I could teach my feet to fly.
Oh, I wish I had a river, I could skate away on.

~ Joni Mitchell, River

***

"Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest -
I would flee far away and stay in the desert;
I would hurry to my place of shelter,
far from the tempest and the storm."

~ David, Psalm 55:6-8

***

Joni Mitchell.
King David.
They both wrote songs of lament,
O, to escape it all.

I sing with them both this morning, on Christmas Eve.

Paper and Tags

2011-12-24T09:26:00.000-08:00

This morning after The One Year is also Christmas Eve. In so many ways, this feels like the first Christmas without him.

Did you know Christmas Eve was his favorite day of the year? He most loved being a dad on this day, every year. We stayed up late, putting toys together. We had a gift-wrapping assembly line: he wrapped, I tagged and bowed. He was the practical; I was the pretty.

I haven't wrapped a single gift yet. Wrap without him? I haven't done that in twelve years.

Wrapping without Robb: that is the metaphor for anything good that's lacking the very best part.

And yet, two little boys are sure they've made the Nice List and Santa is bringing some amazing things. Indeed he is.

Mommy needs to wrap them.

And so, it has been a Year.

2011-12-23T06:30:00.000-08:00

Months ago, I began reading Henri Nouwen's book, The Genessee Diary.

It is his published journal from inside a Trappist Monastery; he felt his life had become too mechanized, too secure, too predictable, too busy, too much writing about prayer instead of actually praying, too much thinking about theology and not actually worshipping, so he stepped away for a season. He became a monk. And he wrote about what this was like, what he learned.

In an ironic turn of the pages, he finished his seven months in the monastery just as I am finishing my first year as a widow. Both he and I had sidestepped our lives as we knew them, reluctantly embraced a new season, and now together we embark on the end of the year.

(Never mind that he took his journey in 1981. When I read your writing, your story becomes my present day.)

Henri, as I like to call him since we are now dear friends, wrote in his journal:

"I will have to ask myself what these months have meant to me. I am still in it, but I see the end and the slow moving away to new experiences."

I set down the book with pause. The same is true of me. What has this year meant to me? I am still in it, but I see the end. And I see the turn of 2012 bringing new experiences.

I want to say I have learned nothing. I want to say Robb's death was without meaning, these months have been empty, and I am bitter and angry because I got screwed hard out of everything I had planned for the rest of my life. I want to say these things, boldly, with the strength that only comes from vindication.

But those things are not true. I have learned much; these months have been sacred. I have long said, if I will tell this story, I will tell the truth.

So, here are my thoughts.

I have lived an entire year of winter. There were sunny days that peeked through on occasion, but my heart stayed cold, bundled, protected. Still, there are things to enjoy only in winter: good books, shorter days, enveloping blankets, and isolation. I have relished in these.

In January, when I began speaking to God again, I made a deal with him: if he would just get me out of bed and safely to Starbucks, I would visit with him there. I might not talk, but I would listen. My mornings have been my sacred hours. Starbucks has been my sanctuary.

God has met me there. My journals are filled with schizophrenic psalms, from temper tantrums to triumphant praise. His companionship has been nearly tangible, certainly a presence I could feel strongly enough to know I wanted more. In reading the Psalms, again and again, and again and again, I have let the psalmists cry out on my behalf, when I had no words left.

There's a reason why Psalm 88 made the cut into the final manuscript.

I have learned that there's no one way to be a perfect mother. But there are a million ways to be a good one. And, with God as my witness, his grace as my strength, I have been a damn good mother this year.

I have been willing to learn this year. I have trudged ahead with my eyes open, insistent that this wrenching pain would not be wasted. I have written a million words, unafraid of anything that might show up on the page. I have found honesty and the beauty of saying things out loud.

A friend of Robb's recently wrote to me. He said, "Tricia, when Robb talked about you, he always said you were an amazing woman who could handle anything." My precious husband... he knew me well. I never imagined the strength inside this frame.

I have learned firsthand that love is greater, stronger than the grave. No matter what happens next, no matter the path I take or who walks beside me, I will forever love Robb Williford.

This year has been the closing chapter of our marriage: I honored him, even after death parted us.

I choose to borrow some words from Henri, because great words should be shared, and because I can't say it better.

"For me, this is the end of a most blessed and graceful retreat and the beginning of a new life. A step out of silence into the many sounds of the world, out of the cloister into the unkept garden without hedges or boundaries. In many ways, I feel as though I have received a small, vulnerable child in my arms and have been asked to carry him with me out of the intimacy of [this place and] into a world waiting for light to come.

Why was I here? I don't know fully yet. Probably I will not know fully before the end of the cycle of my life. Still, I can say that I have a most precius memory which keeps unfolding itself in all that I do or plan to do. I no longer can live without being reminded of the glimpse of God's graciousness that I saw in my solitude, of the ray of light that broke through my darkness, of the gentle voice that spoke in my silence, and of the soft breeze that touched me in my stillest hour."

Thank you, Henri. You write my heart.

Thank you, Robb. You hold my heart.

Thank you, God. You heal my heart.

And so, it has been a year.

Changes: Subtle and Profound

2011-12-21T06:30:00.000-08:00

And So I Will Write

2011-12-20T07:38:00.000-08:00

As I write this story, it can take days, weeks, months for me to verbally construct the most important scenes of my story, the moments before and after the hingepoint of my life. A draft of a complete chapter is the product of dozens of hours of writing and - what's more - a thousand vivid revisits to my bedroom on the morning of December 23.

Let me tell you, this process can lay patterns and pictures in a girl's mind that can begin to shape her days.

And so, I've been counseled, advised, and requested to please put such writing on hold. At least until I live this season. Live it, then write about it.

Except in living it, I'm remembering, recalling it, putting words to it. Every single day.

And if I'm remembering it, I can't let it go. It's how artists work: the idea simmers and stirs until it twists and starts, bursting to breathe.

I can't very easily put a lid on this pot.

After and throughout such a tragic crisis, many people have said, "I just needed to get back to work. I needed to do my job, engage the routines of my mind, and do the familiar."

Writing is my work. I am writing this story.

In the early days of this year, people, kindly and wisely, said to me, "You should wait 3-6 months before you see a counselor, before you begin therapy." I guess there is a theory that one's mind should recover from the trauma before healing can truly take place.

And yet I thought, and said to them, "But what do I do until then?" Do I just sit in this until somebody sets me free to start putting the pieces together?

No. I began therapy right away. This has been one of my best decisions this year.

And here I am, faced with the questions: to write or not to write? To revisit the trauma with words or only in my mind? To get through this month or to write through it?

But how do I get through it if I don't write through it?

The final verdict, from the therapist who holds my deepest respect and all of my story:

"Tricia, get writing. Trust that need like you trust your appetites. Just like you eat when you're hungry, please write when you're stirring. When you feel like you've written enough, or if you feel like you're writing too much and pushing too hard, then give yourself a break. If it's helping you, lean into it. Get writing, girl."

And so I will write.

Through sunshine and rain,

Christmas lights and Christmas carols,

silver bells and jingle bells,

holding on and letting go,

I will write. And this is how I will live.

Let Every Heart

2011-12-19T07:34:00.000-08:00

Joy to the world,

the Lord has come.

Let earth receive her king.

Let every heart prepare him room,

and heaven and nature sing.

I am realizing that I always thought of this lyric as my reminder to set aside the wrapping paper, shopping lists and bows, to slow down with the glitter and the ornaments, long enough to make room in my heart - for even a moment - to remember that this season is about so much more.

I know now: sadness will take up every inch it's allowed.

This Christmas could easily pass with my heart wrapped entirely in grief and gray. As I listen to this song, it causes me to think differently.

To make room in my sadness for joy.

To allow my darkness to be soft enough to be aware of the light.

To let sadness step aside sometimes.

To remember - for even a moment - that this season is about so much more than death, loss, and heartache.

(Because I could very easily give my holiday to those three.)

May my broken heart prepare him room.

* * *

"May his light shine in our darkness and may I be ready to receive it with joy and thanksgiving."

~ Henri Nouwen

And They are The Greats.

2011-12-18T10:02:00.000-08:00

Ann Tyler says, "If I waited until I felt like writing, I'd never write at all."

Margaret Atwood says, "If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word."

And so I raise my glass: here's to untimely imperfection.

Cheese Cubes and Orange Jello

2011-12-18T06:30:00.000-08:00

I made an iPhoto slideshow, photos of Robb at Christmas. I paired it with Sarah McLachlan's WinterSong, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and Song for a Winter's Night. These are the lyrics and melodies of my heart this season.

Dozens of pictures.

Robb hugging me in falling snow.
Robb teaching Tucker how to unwind the lights to hang outside.
Robb giving them their Christmas jammies that Santa always brought early.
Robb holding Tucker in the Baby Bjorn while he ironed the red satin bows for our Christmas tree.
The Christmas when Tyler was the bump inside my belly.
Tyler with a big, red bow on his noggin.
Robb teaching Tucker how to run the remote for the Christmas train, the one that circles our tree this year.
A picture of four Starbucks cups lined in a row, our treat last year before we drove around town looking at lights.
Robb playing his trombone at our church's event last Christmas, days before he would die.

I showed it to the boys tonight. I wanted it to matter to them. My expectations were perhaps unfair. They wiggled and squirmed. They had the attention spans of a four-year-old and six-year-old. Imagine that.

"Look, boys. Look. Look. Look!" I became exasperated as I watched pictures go by - one of Robb helping Tucker play the trombone, another one of him wearing matching Santa hats with Tyler.

Please, boys, look. I want you to know that this happened.

"Mommy, are you crying because we were so cute?"

"No, I'm crying because I miss Daddy. I miss him."

"Mommy, I want my hot chocolate."

"Mommy, I want my blanket."

"Boys, I don't want to talk right now. I don't want you to talk. I want you to watch. Please watch."

I wanted them to see the proof. I am terrified they are forgetting. I want them to know it happened. It happened, boys. He was here.

The movie finished. I was furious.
Furious that they didn't watch,
furious that my heart spills into my lungs and makes it hard to breathe,
furious that he isn't here.
Tears streamed down my cheeks.
I held a tissue over my face to hide 'the ugly cry.'

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Tuck."

"I love Daddy. And I miss him."

"Me, too, Tuck."

"But, Mommy?"

"Yes, Tuck."

He whispered, as if he were telling a shameful secret, "I'm just not sad right now."

Well said, my little man. I understand that. "It's okay, buddy. You don't have to be."

Tyler brought to me the painting of the panda Tucker made in kindergarten Art Club. "Here, Mommy. This will cheer you up."

I set it on the coffee table, amidst my wads of tissues.

They didn't need the movie tonight. I did.
They didn't need the reminders. I did.
They are not forgetting him.
We talk about him everyday.
They haven't gone a year without looking at him.
His pictures line our walls.
He is alive in their minds. Very alive in their minds.

And someday that movie will be a keepsake for them. Proof: it really, truly happened. He was really, truly here.

Tyler ate cheese cubes and orange jello for breakfast because I couldn't get out of bed this morning. I couldn't get out of the damn bed.

And tomorrow waits for me. And I'm pretty sure there's another day after that.

One Week Left

2011-12-16T12:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Me on this day in 2010,

You have one week left with him.
Soak it up.
Breathe him in.
Study everything.
Remember, remember, remember.
And go on that morning coffee date.

With love and sadness,

The Changed You in 2011

The One I Learned to Know

2011-12-16T06:30:00.000-08:00

It's great to be known.
There is a dance in knowing - in the pursuit of the dozens of details.

The lyrics that matter,
the way she takes her coffee,
the way he likes his eggs,
what it means when she smirks that way,
what it means when he clears his throat that way,
how she taps the steering wheel with two fingers,
how he gestures when he's most emphatic,
the way her face changes when she doesn't want to cry,
what he's thinking across the room,
when it's time to leave the party,
yellow roses or white daisies,
lemonade or iced tea,
beach vacation or mountain getaway,
when to speak and when to listen,
what matters most and not at all.

I learned to know Robb,
the million lines that connected his dots.
There are a million I never learned.
Our rough patches popped up when we stopped finding each other interesting,
when we thought we had learned it all.
Then it was time to leave town and let a new environment teach us a few new things.
Now, as I wait to see him again,
I feel like I am learning him all over again.
In some ways, he makes more sense to me than ever.

I learned to know Tucker.
As he grew inside me,
folded in half, sitting in my pelvis,
his head bumped into my ribs.
He got hiccups every afternoon.
When he was born,
I knew the roundess of his head,
I knew those hiccups that still came every afternoon.
I had learned to know him.

I learned to know Tyler,
active as a litter of puppies swimming in my stomach.
The pointed chin on the ultrasound screen,
the pointed heels in my sternum.
He folded up when he slept.
When he was born,
I knew that chin, I knew those heels.
I held my folded, sleeping bundle.
I had learned to know him.

Waiting is a period of learning.
Pregnancy,
engagement,
long distance friendship,
Advent.
Waiting is learning.
The longer we wait, the more we learn.

Henri Nouwen writes,
"Just as a mother feels the child grow in her and is not surprised on the day of the birth but joyfully receives the one she learned to know during her waiting,
so Jesus can be born in my life slowly and steadily and be received as the one I learned to know while waiting."

May he be the One I learn to know.

Disassociation in the Final Countdown

2011-12-15T06:00:00.000-08:00

It is the final countdown. Only a matter of days until Robb has been gone for a year, until Christmas will happen around me, until we will wrap a neat and tidy bow on this neat and tidy year.

How do I feel, as the clock ticks?

Afraid.

Afraid of 2012. Afraid that the one-year-mark will somehow lead others to believe I am stronger than I am, that this matters less than it does, that time heals all wounds.

Deceived. Like I'm in the homestretch, the last lap, the end of the journey. Like December 23 is some kind of finish line. I am near none of those things.

My therapist says, "Tricia, time to nestle in for a long winter's nap. Please consider hibernating. Say no to as much as you can, and stop asking yourself why you can't keep up."

My doctor says, "Tricia, you are absolutely normal. And if you wake up tomorrow and you can't get out of bed? That will be absolutely normal."

I find myself thinking and writing in third person. I'm learning that it is far easier to think about how to write about this season than it is to actually live it. It is far easier to think about the story of a widow at Christmas than it is to actually be one.

The professionals call this dissociation, a crucial survival mechanism that protects you during a crisis and afterwards. It helps you stay on task so you can protect yourself. If you are able to function without fully experiencing the emotional impact of an event, you can accomplish tasks until it is safer to face your emotions.

And so I attend Christmas pageants and sing boys to sleep and teach Christmas carols and shop for gifts and hang stockings and fold laundry and live and breathe and do this thing. And perhaps I will think about it - really, truly think about it - later.

How do I feel about this final countdown?

Fine. Fine, I guess.

Always A Parent

2011-12-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

When we stayed in Ohio for Thanksgiving, we became a veritable bed and breakfast, overflowing with cousins, aunts, and uncles. My parents, the boys, and I took over the downstairs rooms, sprawling across a futon, a couch, and a pull-out sofa. We were lined up like a slumber party.

We all do a lot of things in our sleep, we learned. We gave each other a report each morning.

My children wander to find me. They are very momcentric, especially in their sleep.

I stroke my own arms like I'm playing the violin. (This is news to me.)

My dad, a therapist by profession, gives thorough lectures - complete with extensive vocabulary and nearly everything except PowerPoint. "We all want to live exquisite lives," he tells us in his sleep.

Indeed we do, Dad.

In the midst of his midnight ramblings, he said with crystal clarity, "How are you feeling today, Tricia?"

I sat up from my side of the room.

"I'm okay, Dad."

My mom said, "It's okay, honey. He's sleeping."

My sweet dad. In the midst of the sleeping work day and the lectures he's conducting in his dreams, his emerging thought is, "How is my girl?"

Once a parent, always a parent. Even in slumber.

The One with the Frayed Neck

2011-12-13T06:30:00.000-08:00

I dreamt of him.

He was waiting at the top of the escalator at the airport. He wore an Ohio State t-shirt, the gray one required for his college marching band rehearsals, the one with the frayed neck from that pesky five o'clock shadow that came around noon.

I ran to him. I threw myself into him, around him.

He turned into dandelion fluff. I felt like I was hugging the inside of a pillow. He scattered into the air in one powerful exhale.

I had forgotten the rules of dreams. I got too close.

The next night, I slept in his Ohio State t-shirt, the one with the frayed neck. It seemed like it should smell like him, since he had only worn it the night before.

The Algorithm

2011-12-12T08:50:00.000-08:00

I landed in the ER again a couple of weeks ago: severe dehydration.

This was completely unrelated to panic or anxiety. (Dehydration is not the result of my life's season. It's not that I forget to eat or drink because I'm a widow.) In fact, I made it through the entire experience without any dips into the unconscious, without any meds to lower my blood pressure.

It was the flu. I couldn't keep anything inside me. Pardon the graphic details, but in case you discover that your lips are cracking from dryness, you haven't been able to pee in 14 hours, and you vomit from digesting ice chips, head on over to the ER. They'll be waiting for you.

What is my deal this year? I've been in the emergency room more times this year than I have in my entire previous three decades combined. The good news: I think I've met my deductible.

It turns out, the part of my brain that responds to trauma is also the part that manages my immune system. When my mind senses trauma (or a triggered memory of trauma), it throws all of its energy into helping me survive the moment. It is forced to decide which is more important: emotional survival or physical strength. Emotional survival wins this month.

Someday, I will realize the toll on my body as my soul kept pushing forward.

Also, it turns out, this same part of my brain is the control center for all the symptoms of aging. This is why I don't recognize myself in pictures - why those sad, crinkled eyes look unfamiliar to me.

Connect the dots however you like. Trauma is grief is illness is aging.

Condolences

2011-12-11T07:54:00.001-08:00

For a too brief moment in the universe the veil was lifted. The mysterious became known. Questions met answers somewhere behind the stars. Furrowed brows were smoothed and eyelids closed over long unblinking stares.

Your beloved occupied the cosmos. You awoke to sunrays and nestled down to sleep in moonlight. All life was a gift open to you and burgeoning for you. Choirs sang to harps and your feet moved to ancestral drumbeats. For you were sustaining and being sustained by the arms of your beloved.

Now the days stretch before you with the dryness and sameness of desert dunes. And in this season of grief we who love you have become invisible to you. Our words worry the empty air around you and you can sense no meaning in our speech.

Yet, we are here. We are still here. Our hearts ache to support you.

We are always loving you.

You are not alone.

~ Maya Angelou

Distinguished

2011-12-09T06:30:00.001-08:00

Andre Malreaux remarks in his Anti-Memoirs that one day we will realize that we are distinguished as much from each other by the forms our memories take as by our characters.

I am wondering what form my memory is taking. It seems that this depends a great deal on myself.

I have little to say about events, good or bad, creative or destructive, but much about the way I remember them - that is, the way I start giving them form in the story of my life. I am starting to see how important this is in my day-to-day living.

I often say to myself:

"How will I remember this day,
this disappointment,
this conflict,
this misunderstanding,
this sense of accomplishment, joy and satisfaction?
How will they function in my ongoing task of self-interpretation?"

~ Henri Nouwen,

The Genesee Diary

Best Christmas Pageants Ever

2011-12-09T06:30:00.000-08:00

The boys are pros at the Christmas Pageant scene.

Two years ago, we had a cow and a (self proclaimed) pig. Tyler wasn't really in the pageant at age two, but he was convinced he should be. He even stepped up to the microphone afterward and said, "Merry Christmas. I'm Tyler. I'm a pig."

Last year, we had a 'shepherd' and a 'long road.'

Tuck was so delighted to see his daddy sitting with me in the second row - he cried when he saw Robb. "My Daddy!" It was the first time I saw my son cry tears of joy. Robb scooped him up and said, "Of course I'm here, buddy. Of course I'm here."

This year, I cheered for the wiseman. He delivered his line flawlessly.

That's sacred space, next to those Christmas trees.

Well done, little wise men.

It's not just a role to play.

You are my heart's joy.

The Nothing Everything

2011-12-08T06:30:00.000-08:00

"Did you know Jesus was born in a hay house?"

"Yes, and the word for that is 'stable.'"

"Because there was no room at the hotel. No room at the inside."

"No room at the inn, yes."

"I just made a hay house with my cheese."

"Mary and Joseph rode in their car. For real."

"Well, they didn't have cars yet. Do you know how they got there?"

"On a horse. Or a goat."

"Or, a donkey."

"Katie is Mary in the Christmas Pageant. Charlotte is the star."

"Do I have to eat one bite of chicken or two?"

"You can choose: one big or two small."

"We were playing batman. Tucker was the daddy and I was the baby."

"Except it's almost Christmas, so the daddy will die soon."

We flit in and out of these conversations: the nothing and the everything.

Third Culture: A Follow-Up Piece with 5280

2011-12-07T06:30:00.000-08:00

In this month's issue of 5280 magazine, Robert Sanchez highlighted my journey in his article, Wife Interrupted. They received a large response from readers wanting to know more: how to live inside the grief, how to walk alongside someone whose heart is broken. They asked me to write a piece in response, and they have posted this online.

These are my words.

I belong to a third culture. I am neither a whole, healed woman, nor will
I wear black and grieve forever. I belong in this nebulous, in-between
place.

We are a growing demographic, the broken-hearted us. You might
belong on this team roster, or perhaps you are walking alongside
someone who is. If you are wondering how to help someone in this
place, let me tell you what I've learned.

If you don't know what to say, simply say, "I'm so sorry." Or even
better, "I am so sad for you." Don't try to explain or offer a lofty word.
There is no explanation, so free yourself from trying to find one.

When you ask how we are, we may say, "Fine, thank you," or "We are
doing okay." Try with all your might not to press further. The pleading
eyes or the prodding voice that says, "Really? Come on, really? How are
you, really?" We can't answer that question. It is all I can do to speak. I
answered you. Puncture this surface, and I might spill everywhere.

I, personally, have needed acknowledgement that nothing was normal
anymore; that everything has changed for me. I have needed a “free
pass” from anything and everything on anyone's calendar. I have not
been able to step into what was, sit at a table where Robb would have
been, attend a party where he would have been a guest.

It’s natural for anyone who has gone through this to want to proceed
with “life as normal.” We may not want a public display of any kind.
Perhaps the best thing you can do is to be present and patient. When—
and if—we are ready to begin the journey of uncovering the tragedy, we
may remember you were one who was present and patient. And we may
trust you.

This journey brings along a monster named Burden. He whispers dark
secrets that make us think we're exhausting you and your resources. If
you can give without waiting for a wish list, you can slay that dragon for
us. We may not know what we need, but we usually know what we don't want. Respect the word "no."

There is a difference between wanting to give to us and wanting to give
for you. The motives are thinly veiled, and there is grace and space for
both. Try to know why you want to help. Is it because you know this
family well, you see a need, and you can fill it? Or is it because you feel
overwhelming compassion—perhaps even a sense of guilt that your life
hasn't fallen to pieces—and you simply must-must-must respond in a
tangible way?

If you are giving for us, then just do. Step in. Don't wait. It will mean the
world.

If you are giving for you, then give in a spacious way: gift cards, notes,
surprise gifts. It will mean the world.

If you are one of us, stuck in the in-between, third culture of grief, please
let me tell you what I have learned. The rules have changed.

If you are hurting, if you need help, say it. Others don't know what you
need, but so many want to help. If you know what you need, say it. And
if you know what you don't want, say it. Be honest, and don't let pride
exhaust you. Save that energy for getting out of bed in the morning.

Be alone as long as you want, as much as you want. Isolation is normal,
I have definitely learned. In other centuries and cultures, those with a
broken heart and a ruptured world have been sent to live in seclusion for
as long as they needed. Allow yourself the freedom to clear the calendar,
to say no, to be alone.

Check your mailbox. And on the day the mailbox is empty, don't be
deceived: It doesn't mean the world has forgotten about you or the one
you love.

Give yourself a break on the thank-you notes. All the rules are different
now, even the formalities of courtesy.

You can't always predict an emotional toll. What you fear with all your
heart may come more easily than you expected. What you thought you
could conquer may bring you to your knees. Go easy on yourself. Go to
a party if you want, and leave five minutes later if you must. If laughter
finds you, pull up a chair and invite her to stay. Don't worry about what others might think—tell them you're taking the day off from sadness.

God is good and antidepressants aren't bad. Get help.

Under the Wise Man's Robes

2011-12-06T06:30:00.000-08:00

Our mornings are scattered and frenzied, so when the boys opted to flip-flop the routine, I wasn't opposed. We're not exactly a well-oiled machine around here, so maybe an upturned schedule is what we need to make it out the door without mutual frustration. Maybe they're on to something.

Usually they must get dressed before they come down the stairs, but today we decided to start with breakfast. I laid out clothes on the coffee table, flipped the TV on to Dinosaur Train, set the timer to guide them, and reminded them to get dressed as soon as they finished their PopTarts and hot cocoa. The guideline: "Please be dressed by the time I come back downstairs."

Right. Sometimes my optimism gets the best of me.

It didn't happen that way. By the time I learned my lesson, we were running behind without time to recover. One thing remained consistent: I watched the clock and called out reminders and pulled out my hair and scooted them out the door.

I have read "there is no grace in hurrying." And yet I cannot seem to get my children to school without a large measure of both.

When Tyler and I arrived at his morning PreK, the classroom was dark. Oh, that's right: today is the dress rehearsal for Wednesday morning's Christmas pageant. We hung his coat in his cubby and put his boots on the shelf - that's when I realized he wasn't wearing any socks.

(It's two degrees in Denver today, and my son isn't wearing socks. I did not authorize this.)

With bare feet inside his shoes, we scuttled off to the auditorium. We found his classmates in the dressing room, an environment of controlled chaos as they all put on their costumes. The room abounded with cows, sheep, angels, and chickens.

Tyler found his costume: he is a wise man, complete with velvet robes; a braided, golden belt; and a bejeweled crown. As I helped him transform into the Magi, I learned that the missing socks were the least of our problem.

One wise man is commando this morning. (I did not authorize this.)

Tomorrow, we return to our regularly scheduled morning programming. Frenzied though it is, everyone makes it out the door wearing underwear. Generally.

Learned and Yet to Learn

2011-12-05T06:38:00.001-08:00

I find it very difficult to let a friend or beloved go into that country of no return. I answer the heroic question, "Death where is thy sting?" with "It is here in my heart, and my mind, and my memories."

I find relief from the questions only when I concede that I am not obliged to know everything. I remind myself it is sufficient to know what I know, and what I know may not always be true.

When I find myself filling with rage over the loss of a beloved, I try as soon as possible to remember that my concerns and questions should be focused on what I have learned and what I have yet to learn from my departed love. What legacy was left that can help me in the art of living a good life?

Did I learn to be kinder,
To be more patient,
And more generous,
More loving,
More ready to laugh,
And more easy to accept honest tears?
If I accept those legacies of my departed beloveds,
I am able to say,
Thank You to them for their love
and Thank You to God for their lives.

~ Maya Angelou,

Letter To My Daughter

Planting Seeds for their Wives

2011-12-05T06:37:00.001-08:00

The boys and I began our Saturday morning by removing a hair clog from my bath tub. We're talking serious family fun, right there. I earned some significant points for the gross factor and my cartoonish, monstrous sounds as it emerged.

Buzz Lightyear even came to watch. Then he needed to spend the day on the couch to recover, Tyler explained.

The boys thought I was doing them some great favor by letting them watch.

The truth is, they will be husbands someday. And it will be great if they enter marriage with the notion that this task is exceedingly cool.

What Journaling Isn't

2011-12-05T06:22:00.001-08:00

A journal isn't a bound book or a collection of writings. It can be; most of mine are, but not all of them.

I learned recently that the definition of journaling is any act of self expression. Anything that sets free the tightly bound knots in one's heart and mind.

The doctor told me, "You can journal by dancing, painting, singing, writing poetry or composing a song. The rule for journaling is: there are no rules. Just unlock what's in there, in whatever way it wants to be born."

Maybe you're not a writer.

Maybe you're a painter, singer, composer, crafter, dancer, photographer, chef.

Maybe you're one of those and you just don't know it yet.

Start journaling.

Set your heart free.

We Trimmed a Tree

2011-12-04T21:25:00.001-08:00

New tree,

new ornaments,

not a thing we've used before.

Tyler helped put the star on top, since they both remembered Tucker helped Daddy do it last year.

We did it.

Somehow, it seems like our most beautiful tree yet.

Somehow

2011-12-04T09:10:00.001-08:00

Someday soon
we all will be together
If the Lord allows.
Until then, we'll have to muddle through
somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

~

Turn your eyes upon Jesus.
Look full on his wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
in the light of his glory and grace.

It is likely that I never would have wed these two songs.

And yet they are the perfect marriage
of my right hand and my left,
my heart and my mind,
my hurt and my hope.

"Merry Christmas."

2011-12-02T12:18:00.001-08:00

I always loved to say, "Merry Christmas."

To anyone who crossed my path, I wished them this greeting or farewell. They really are beautiful words, melodic every time.

I heard someone say it yesterday, in thanks for his red Starbucks cup.

I thought, 'I'm not saying those words this year.'

Something in me felt entitled to stop saying it, to scratch those words from my vocabulary.

It's perhaps the same root of entitlement that led me to stop talking to God for most of the month of January.

Then and now, I gently realized I was only robbing myself.

So, I said it today. "Thank you, and Merry Christmas."

I've been robbed of enough. No sense in being my own thief.

Merry Christmas to you.

Dozen Hours of White

2011-12-01T09:40:00.001-08:00

It's snowing. "Blizzard conditions," they say. Midnight tonight until noon tomorrow. A dozen hours of white.

I am wearing his sweatshirt tonight. The Rose Bowl souvenir from Ohio State's 1997 season. The one he never let me wear. I'm wearing it tonight.

I turned off all the lights. I read in the dark. I lit the pumpkin buttercream candle. I listened to the freezing rain on the windows.

I felt the draft from the windows he never liked, the ones he planned to replace.

On my way to bed, I looked outside. There's already an inch out there. I'm pretty much in denial over that. I don't think I'll really believe the forecast until the cold nips my nose in the morning on the way to school (provided there isn't a snow day, which I am praying whole-heartedly against).

I rested my forehead against the sliding glass door that leads from the kitchen to the deck. I could see him in my mind, his black snow pants, his subzero wardrobe that left nothing but his eyes exposed. He was prepared for the arctic. If we lived there, I'm pretty sure he would have plowed the driveway everyday.

I remembered how he loved to startle me by throwing a snowball straight at the window. I would watch the ice slide down the glass. He would laugh and make a teasing face, as if he were more my 13-year-old brother than my knight in shining armor.

I remembered his boots, traipsing snow from the back door to the front. I remembered how I felt a little guilty for picking at him about that, since he was doing me an enormous favor of shoveling at all.

I remembered the morning I was to drive with L to visit J in Arkansas, how the snow piled high the night before we were to leave at 6 AM. He got up at 5:30 and shoveled the driveway to ensure we got a solid start at least into the street. And he didn't even pester me about changing my plans because of the weather, since he knew I can get pretty thickheaded when it comes to canceling my plans.

I remembered how I stayed moled away in the house for a week after our first miscarriage, how he begged me to come out and see the sunshine. He called from work to check on me. He encouraged me to go outside and shovel the driveway, promising sunshine and exercise. And I told him to please not ever suggest that again, to please keep in mind that I had had surgery to clean out my uterus and that shoveling wasn't the way to nourish my spirit. And he brought flowers home.

I remembered how he was always willing to bundle up with the boys to go on a snow hike, build a snowman, and engage in the warfare of a snowball fight. He let me stay inside with my book and coffee, which I much preferred over being cold.

It occurred to me that in a few hours, the boys will awake to snow, they will want to rush out to play, and they will want me to be their playmate. And I will miss Robb in a whole new way.

My forehead felt cold on the glass. My heart felt cold in my chest.

His memories dance in my mind.

Holiday Wardrobe

2011-11-30T10:09:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving is a hinge holiday. It's a cornerstone. Round the fourth Thursday in November, and you're in the homestretch to the end of the year.

My city pulled out its holiday wardrobe while I was gone for Thanksgiving. Carols sang through the airport, and as we drove home, the boys played their own frantic version of "I Spy With My Little Eye: Christmas Lights!"

I rode home in a state of numbness, in disbelief over the truth that Christmas is upon me. I wondered how much of my neighborhood would sparkle and twinkle. Robb would have turned our lights on days ago, and he would have 'scrooged' everyone who hadn't lit up yet. He would hate to see our home dark for the holidays, but I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.

"I imagine I can put a wreath on the door. This I can do," I thought to myself.

We drove up our street, and the boys shrieked with the ultimate 'I Spy.'

"Our house! There are lights on our house!"

Sure enough, white icicle lights laced the front of the house. The pillars of the porch are striped like a candy cane. Christmas came to our house, too.

I looked at my mom. "Who did this? What is this?"

Her face was soft, her eyes glistening. "Your Tuesdays. They came over with their husbands, and they hung your lights. They borrowed the lights Robb always hung on our house. They couldn't let you come home to a dark house."

It is perfect. Just enough.
I didn't even know I wanted any decorations.
I cried in my driveway.

Christmas is coming here too.

Giving in the Thanks

2011-11-29T07:20:00.001-08:00

We traveled to Ohio this week for the familiar Thanksgiving traditions deeply rooted in my family tree. Three generations sat around a table, and I am now considered one of the 'adults'. With two children of my own, I suppose this is reasonable, but somehow I felt like I should still sit at the kids' table.

Amy and I commented that we really wanted to sit in the corner and talk, that taking care of all these children really seemed like something 'the moms' should do.

Oh, wait. We are 'the moms.'

And our moms are the grandmas, the beloved matriarchs with treasures in their purses and cookies in their cupboards. The children played in all the rooms we once scattered, mimicking our childhod games and making up their own.

There is a deep knowing in my aunt's house. Her sprawling rooms, her wooden floors, her shelved library, and her perpetual pots of fresh coffee. I grew up here. In this home, I am every age I have ever been.

I have hunted for Easter eggs in the bushes, roasted marshmallows in the ravine, introduced Robb to his new in-laws-to-be. I have been showered with wedding gifts and maternity clothes. I have passed my newborn from one pair of hands to another as my far away family brought him up close. This time, I learned the unwritten family technique for a homemade pie crust, in all its flaky goodness.

We have spent perhaps a decade of Thanksgivings apart, this family crew that now stretches to a list of nearly forty. This week, they showered me with their memories, love, desserts, and laughter. We are not as many as we were, not as many as we will be.

There is giving in the thanks, thanks in the giving.

Your Name?

2011-11-28T06:00:00.000-08:00

My nails were dry and my manicurist was massaging my hands and arms with warmed cream. (I contend that this is worth the price of admission.) As she kneaded my forearms, her thumbs came across the tattoo on the inside of my right wrist.

She paused and looked to me. "Is this your name?"

She is a lovely Vietnamese woman, she will perpetually look 19 years old, she is fluent in broken phrases, and her accent is contagious. After an hour with her, I think in her voice all day long.

"Oh, no, no, that's not my name."

"Someone's name?"

"It says 'betrothed.' It means, 'promised to marry.'"

She smiled, clearly unsure of what I meant.

Her thumbs gently massaged the letters.

"It your name," she said.

Yes, actually, I thought. In a very real way, you are right. It is my name.

Mobility

2011-11-27T06:30:00.000-08:00

"Do you want to be healed?"

These words echo in my mind today. When gifts I have prayed for come to be, I come face to face with whether I really wanted them in the first place.

Jesus asked this before he healed the man who couldn't walk.

I wonder if there were more to the dialogue.

You sure you're in?
Because I can fix this.
But a miracle requires mobility in response.

Sometimes it's easier to expect the worst - and receive it -
than to keep my heart soft enough to acknowledge the healing.

"The Game"

2011-11-26T09:09:00.001-08:00

Beloved Buckeyes,

I regret to inform you that I will not watch the Ohio State game today. I am flooded with annual memories of this game day, even without your fancy footwork on my TV.

I remember when Robb took me to Columbus for Skull Session, how I got chills as the band entered the stadium, and how badly I wished I had known him when he was a man in that plumed uniform.

When we were engaged, and along with the diamond on my hand, he gave me an Ohio State jersey with 'Williford' streamed across the back.

The time we rented a small theater to host a televised Game Day Party. Now that was a great day.

When our son was born on September 10, 2005, in direct conflict with the Ohio Sate game vs. Texas Longhorns. Robb was torn between his allegiance to the delivery room and the waiting room television. (I'm not kidding.)

Your colors ran through his veins.

Today, my children and I are dressed in our scarlet and grey finest, and I hear that band playing on the sidelines. I hear them on the TV in the next room, and I hear them often in my mind. If Robb had ever gotten a tattoo, I'm pretty sure it might have been TBDBITL across his heart.

If anyone in heaven cares about the score today, my husband is at the top of that list. And I promise you: he can cheer the roof off any mansion.

O-H,

Tricia

Details

2011-11-26T06:30:00.000-08:00

This dinner was provided by the following sponsor:
a friend who makes real-deal-for-reals-oh-my-word mac and cheese, and she also makes the same variety of sugar cookies.

Personalized.

Tyler ate his and said, "How did she know our names?"

"Love is in the details, kiddo."

"But how did she know your name?" He paused and then answered himself. "Love is in the details. And I name my turkey Bob the detail."

Lonely Romance

2011-11-25T06:30:00.000-08:00

Wes longed for the winter,
when it was safe to shut oneself away.
He loved waking up and going to school
and coming home in the dark,
the privacy of walking along in a twilit street in the cold,
the lonely romance of winter sounds -
wind whisking at the bare tree branches,
dry leaves scudding along an unswept sidewalk,
the muffling that descends before a snowfall.

What he hated was the summer,
things that were bright and open and shadowless.
He hated waking up in the sunlight,
the skimpy clothes,
the endless hazy twilights
that somehow made you feel less than wholesome
if you wanted to crawl into bed with a book
while there was still a warm, pastel glow in the sky.

~ Jesse Browner,
Everything Happens Today

Wife, Interrupted

2011-11-24T08:22:00.001-08:00

Here is the story by 5280's senior staff writer, Robert Sanchez: Wife, Interrupted.

It has been a beautiful experience, from start to finish. This man gives journalism a good name.

i carry your heart with me

2011-11-24T06:30:00.000-08:00

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

e. e. cummings

5280 Magazine

2011-11-22T18:55:00.001-08:00

When I posted this a few weeks ago, I made a publication faux paus by jumping the gun before the professionals had made their debut. With my sincere apologies to the writers and editors of 5280 magazine, I took down the post. Today, the story hits the shelves.

5280 has been Denver's magazine since 1993. They are a classic Denver read with all the best angles on anything happening in the Mile High.

I spoke at an event last fall, and one of the women in attendance is married to the Senior Staff Writer at 5280. Kristen began following my blog, and when my world ruptured, she shared my story with her husband, Robert Sanchez. Robert contacted me last summer to ask if he could tell our story in the magazine. We have met many times over the last six months, he has studied our family with discretion and integrity, and the December issue of the magazine will feature his words. This has been a 100% positive experience from beginning to end, and I have been honored to work with Robert and his team. They give journalism a great name.

I met this week with 5280's photographer, Jeff Panis. We met at Starbucks for our first impressions, and we talked over coffee and a banana. He said I was a brave woman. He said he had read my story. He said I have a radiant smile. He said the photos would be easy and fun. He raised his coffee cup to life for the living, a mom who gets out of bed because she loves her kids, and a husband who would be proud to see the three of them moving forward, one step at a time.

He diffused my every apprehension.

He asked if I felt comfortable to offer my home as the site for the photo shoot.

My first thought: The sink is filled with dishes, there is a layer of dust on virtually everything, and I haven't run the vacuum since June.

My second thought: If I'm going to tell this story, I'm going to tell the truth. I don't have my act together. My house is loved and lived in.

"Let's do it."

We reconvened in my living room ten minutes later, and I made a quick sweep of the toys and string cheese wrappers from the living room floor before I opened the front door.

Jeff chatted with me as he filled my living room with contraptions and equipment similar to Richard Haney's flight of the balloon boy. He tested the lighting, the angles, the exposure. He said photography is 90% preparation and 10% execution, so he had much to do before he really needed me at all.

He asked if he could slip upstairs into the loft to add the lighting that would shine into the stairwell where I would sit for the photos. (Sure, if you don't mind stepping over the piles of yesterday's unfinished laundry.) While he was upstairs, I gathered the flip-flops, wayward socks, magazines, and washcloths that were strewn on the stairs; I piled them all on the coffee table.

(It's a good thing I never claimed to win any Good Housekeeping Awards. Otherwise I might have been nervous. The good news is when you live the truth, you have no lies to remember.)

When he gave me the thumbs up, I took my place in the setting he had in mind: a casual posture on the carpeted steps, my elbows on my knees, my hands relaxed, and my face looking straight into the lens.

Here's the thing. In family portraits, you want to present your best color scheme and keep everyone still long enough for the shutter to click.

In personal portraits, you want your best smile, your chin up, your eyes engaged, and your best you.

In this article, they seek to capture the authentic me, the genuine posture and heart of a girl whose husband died ten months ago. I'm not down for the count, but neither am I ready to lead a parade.

It took me a while to find my groove, to find myself.

Jeff snapped a dozen pictures, and then he sat down next to me to show me the digital thumbnails.

The lighting was excellent, the angle was smart, and he somehow avoided the smudgy fingerprints on the railing and the crumbs on the carpet. But as I looked at my face on his screen, I was distracted by what he captured.

My eyes were overwhelmingly sad. I've never seen that girl in a picture before.

He said, "I don't think I've found you yet."

"No, I don't think that's really me." And yet, I don't know how to change the spirit of my eyes any more than I know how to change the length of my nose.

"Let's keep trying, Tricia. We'll find you."

Round two. I kept smiling too much or not enough. I wasn't real. I wasn't me.

He looked at me over the camera. "Where is the confident girl? I know she's in there."

Interesting you should ask. I've been looking for her for months.

He was patient. My heart cannot be rushed.

"Look at me," he said. Click.

"Now show me the smile I saw when I walked into Starbucks." Click.

"Now ease it back a bit." Click.

"Now give me that small smile." Click.

"Yes. That's it. That girl right there." Click, click, click. Click.

Two dozen shots later, he sat down next to me again. "Look, Tricia. Look at this one. See?" He beamed with the contentment of sought out discovery.

Photo by Jeff Panis

It was me. Quiet, reserved, casual. Gentle smile with a subtle light in my eyes.

I contend that the algorithm of photography is 90% science and 10% art. But that 10% holds the heart. Without that, it's only a snapshot.

~ ~

If you're near a newsstand, please pick up a copy of 5280 magazine. It's a tremendous publication, from start to finish.

Haunted Forest

2011-11-22T06:30:00.000-08:00

Folded laundry. Unfolded laundry. Lists. Spilling suitcases. Packing for a holiday. I unzip a carry-on bag, and I see remnants of one of Robb's business trips.

Seriously? How have I never opened this suitcase in the last eleven months? How can there be anything still hiding? Does this haunted forest never end?

My breath catches in my throat.

"Oh, honey."

I hear myself talk to him. I almost never talk to him. Not out loud.

I hold his things in my hands. I look at my mess scattered across the living room. Oh, how little of this I have needed to do before. Robb would have had us packed two days ago, batteries charged, DVDs gathered, headphones packed, snacks delineated. It would have bothered him that my laptop wasn't yet charged and stowed. He was so good at this.

I just get it done. Packing is overwhelming. And overrated.

Pandora plays through the speakers above the TV.
"How Great Thou Art."

I make myself listen. I close my eyes. I rock myself, holding my pieces together.

Turkey Lunch

2011-11-21T07:41:00.000-08:00

It was the annual tradition of the elementary school's Turkey Lunch. I packed a lunch for the picky PreK tagalong, and we joined Tucker for a plentiful harvest in his cafeteria.

What a delight to see him in action, to see him making the rounds to gather his food, choosing his place at the table, and socializing with his network of six-year-olds. It's a gift to enter his world.

But I didn't see the blow coming - the families sitting with their students, and the dads, the dads, the dads.

I didn't want to be there alone. I didn't plan to be there alone. Robb would have met us there, his company car in the parking lot, his Farmers Insurance logo on his shirt. He would have folded himself in half to squeeze onto the stool at the little tiny tables. Later, we would have laughed about the yellow gravy, the dry turkey, and the dozens of children eating only the frosted pumpkin cake.

I finished the lunch, deposited my children in their respective classrooms, walked to the car, and fell to pieces in breathless sobbing.

I saw that Tyler had left his jacket in the car. I prayed that God would send sunshine or an extra jacket for my little man, because I couldn't bear to go back inside.

There is no medication for the tearing ache of longing. There are no warning signs for a blow like this.

"Wolf! Wolf!"

2011-11-20T06:30:00.000-08:00

"Tyler, tell me something you learned about at school today."

"We learned about toilets and eyeballs."

"Tyler."

"We really did. For real. In real life." He smiles with that twinkle in his eye, the one that's pressing to see how much I'll believe.

In Tyler's mind, the question, "What did you learn in school today?" translates to, "Please make up a pretend story about anything in the world."

His other answers have included:

"We ate mosquito soup."
"We learned about worms on spaceships. They went to see God. He was wearing a red vest."

And he always caps it off with, "For real. In real life."

I said, "Tyler, let me tell you a story about a boy named... um, what was his name..."

Tucker says, "Tucker? Or Tyler? Did he have our names?"

"No," since I think it's better if they learn a fable about someone else now and then. "His name was Peter. And Peter lived on a farm with many sheep, and it was his job to protect the sheep from the wolves that wanted to eat them. If a wolf came nearby, he could shout, 'Wolf! Wolf!' and his family would come running from everywhere to help him protect the sheep."

The boys listened with rapt attention.

"Well, one day Peter was out in the pasture, and he felt lonely and bored. He remembered the plan that would bring all of his family to him, so he decided to pretend there was a wolf. He cried, 'Wolf! Wolf!' And sure enough, his family came running. They said, 'Peter, Peter! What's happening? Are you safe? Where is the wolf?'

"And Peter laughed and said, 'Just kidding. I was just kidding. There's really no wolf.' And his family went back to what they were doing, but they asked him to only call him if there was really, truly a wolf."

They were listening. They barely even blinked. I continued the traditional story, with round two of the boy's joke, when he cries wolf yet again.

The boys cast knowing glances to each other. Surely nobody in our family would be so foolish.

"Well then, a few minutes later, a real wolf came! And he was growling and snarling and showing his sharp teeth, and Peter became very afraid. He cried, 'Wolf! Wolf!' But because he had not been telling the truth the other times, his family thought he was teasing them again. They didn't believe what he said, and they didn't come to help Peter. And the wolf gobbled up all the sheep."

I pause for dramatic effect.

"Tyler, what do you think we can learn from this story?"

He pauses. For dramatic effect.

"Knock-knock."

"Who's there?" I ask, thinking he may come out with something profound, masked as amateur standup comedy.

"Banana."

"Banana who?"

"Aren't you glad I didn't cry 'wolf'?"

Oh, my word.

A Real Event

2011-11-19T06:00:00.000-08:00

At times, writing becomes a real event.

It is a remarkable sensation to see ideas and words flowing so easily, as if they had always been there but had not been allowed expression.

Meanwhile, I become more and more aware that for me writing is a very powerful way of concentrating and of clarifying for myself many thoughts and feelings. Once I put my pen on paper and write for an hour or two, a real sense of peace and harmony comes to me.

Consequently, I feel much more willing and able to do little routine jobs. After a day without any writing and filled with only reading and manual work, I often have a general feeling of mental constipation and go to bed with the sense that I did not do what I should have done that day.

It is good to become aware of all this. This seems to help me to understand quite a few of my bad moods . . . during the past few years.

~ Henri Nouwen

The Tree Stands Alone

2011-11-18T06:30:00.000-08:00

My Tuesdays packed up Christmas for me last year. As I lay sleeping, wishing to hibernate through the winter, they wrapped each ornament, folded each branch, collected each snowman, and stowed the entirety safely in a corner of the basement.

By their grace, I awoke later that day to find that Christmas had been put away. A silent, profound gift.

I cannot bear to think about those boxes. The colored lights, the star, the strings of silver beads, the red ribbons. The lit greenery Robb hung from our bedroom window and over the loft into the living room. The millions of snowmen. A veritable army.

The ornaments that tell our story.
Our First Christmas.
Our First Home
Baby's First Christmas.
A Family of Three.
A Family of Four.
Dozens of representations, looped with a metal hook.

(I shall go nowhere near the exterior elements. They were his realm entirely. I didn't even give him the decency of a happy, helpful attitude as he asked me to hold his ladder steady.)

All of these will stay tucked away this year. A hibernation of their own.

I bought new. It's the only way to do any of this: to start new.

The boys and I went shopping to take advantage of the early-bird, 50% off, pre-holiday sales.

We bought a tree. Pre-lit. White lights. Branches glazed with faux snow.

I claimed a color scheme of silver, white, and red - shimmers and sparkles, please. And I said yes to everything that caught their eye in the aisle of ornaments. This tree belongs to us, boys. As long as it fits the said criterion and color scheme, put it in the cart.

(Tyler tried with great effort to convince me of his new love for Ariel, The Little Mermaid. A love so deep that he would like a Chistmas stocking decorated exclusively in all things hers. I guided him elsewhere. I'm fairly confident this is a fleeting fancy.)

We chose dozens of ornaments that carry no meaning - except now they will forever be the ornamanets of our first Christmas as a Tricycle. This tree will stand alone, different from all the other decorations that will stay safely hidden this year.

We have decided to put a picture of Daddy on our tree. And I am on the lookout for an ornament that is a tricycle.

It's Not That I Hate It

2011-11-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

I care deeply about the meaning of Christmas. But that has very little to do with the vast majority of how Christmas arrives in every inch of space around me. Perhaps I am ambivalent toward the actual day, December 25. But it's not that I hate it.

This was Robb's favorite time of year. He came alive. If his favorite season were summertime, then I imagine I would have these flashbacks and waves of emotion attached to warm breezes and the scent of suntan lotion. But Robb lit up over Christmas. Everything about it. That man could stretch one holiday in to a full two months: one-sixth of the year.

How beautiful is the irony that there were Christmas trees at his funeral. How beautiful the gift that he got to be in heaven for the real Celebration.

In part, Christmas will forever carry the anniversary of the day everything changed.

And in greater part, the Christmas season will be forever sweeter in my heart because of my husband's full embrace of all things red, green, sparkled, snowy, tagged, and wrapped.

Their Only Parent

2011-11-16T09:50:00.001-08:00

I think I feel most overwhelmed with single parenting when I am worried for my children.

I sit at this coffee shop, and I cry over their hearts, their learning, their impulses, their grief, and their needs. With nobody to say it to, nobody who will carry this quite as deeply as I do, though few come very nearly close.

I am their only parent.

Today, my heart aches for Tucker, who has always learned differently than other children, absorbs silently, and shows little of his knowledge to the people who need to know. I ache for the spirit in his heart, the needs of his mind, the wounds in his soul.

I ache for Tyler differently, on different days. Today, my heart bleeds for Tuck.

And then I am reminded that I am not their only parent.

His Creator knows his heart.
His Counselor knows his worries.
His Father holds him close.

And this is the God to whom I pour my heart today,
that He will allow the world to see my son
only as his gracious Father allows others to see him.

I am his mom.
I am not alone.
Neither is Tucker.

He Throwed Up

2011-11-15T12:00:00.001-08:00

Tuck woke me up around 3:30 AM.

"Mommy, I think I'm going to throw up. Will you watch me?"

Watch isn't the verb I would have chosen. Help? Yes. Pray for? Certainly. Encourage? You betcha. Hug? Repeatedly.

But watch? Especially if you merely suspect it's coming, and we need to wait for the premiere? And it's the middle of the night?

A better mother might have sat beside him and stroked his brow until the sun came up. This mom hooked him up with a glass of water and a bowl to catch his contents, gave him a strong dose of sympathy, and asked him to keep me posted.

An hour later, he came to my bedside with the bowl in his hands. Now filled. (I need not go into further detail.)

He said, "Mommy, look what I have. I throwed up."

I sat up groggily and quickly took the bowl he thrust my way.

"I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, Mommy. I just really had to throw up, and I thought, 'Mommy will be so happy if I throw up in the bowl.' And so aren't you so happy?"

Yes, sweet boy. In a very odd, maternal way, I am so very happy you captured this mess in one self-contained place. If vomit must come our way, you handled it well. Way to be thoughtful, Mr. Top Bunk.

I also told him, since he is now six, that he need not wait for me if he feels like he needs to throw up. He can handle it on his own, especially if he has clues before it happens.

It's a big boy thing, kiddo.

For Starters

2011-11-15T08:27:00.001-08:00

The boys were sprawled out on their tummies, making a mural with highlighters, stamps, and glitter glue. I listened in on their chatter.

Tucker said, "Tyler, I want to draw a picture of you, but I don't know how."

Tyler directed him. "Well, first draw a happy face."

First and above all, Tyler is happy. It's the first thing he wants you to draw.

Please. Don't Say It.

2011-11-14T08:27:00.001-08:00

"It will get better."
"It won't always be this way."
"You won't always feel this."
"I promise this part doesn't last."
"It will get easier."

I'm sure these things are true.
Please. Just don't say it.
This is what I feel today.
The promise of sunshine does not stop the storm.
I have to walk through this.
Walk beside me if you want to.
Walk away if this is too much.

But please don't promise it away.
It's where I am.
And it matters to me.

Warrior's Heart

2011-11-12T06:00:00.000-08:00

I wish I'd known from the beginning that I was born a strong woman.
What a difference it would have made!
I wish I'd known that I was born a courageous woman;
I've spent so much of my life cowering.
How many conversations would I not only have started but finished if I had known I possessed a warrior's heart?
I wish I'd known that I'd been born to take on the world; I wouldn't have run from it for so long,
but run to it with open arms.

~ Sarah Ban Breathnach, Something More

Paper Lanterns and White Lights

2011-11-11T17:57:00.001-08:00

We were a coffee shop couple.
We spent our Friday nights at the same coffee shop, stuck in a very pleasant and predictable rut.
A smoothie, a mocha, and a deck of cards.
I have decided to come here tonight.
I hired a sitter. I have taken myself on a date.
My first Friday night here without him.
At that table, we played Peanuts.
Our standard game.
Two-person solitaire.
He always beat me.
Except when he didn't.
And then he claimed to lose on purpose
just to keep me interested in the game.
At that table, the one in the corner,
we streamed Pandora through his smartphone.
There was a bad signal,
a long delay between songs.
He teased me for humming.
That booth, the one in the back,
that's where we sat on our last date,
the morning before he died.
My feet in his lap.
We texted each other,
things we could have whispered or even said out loud.
He posted on Facebook:
"On a date with a beautiful girl."
That couch,
that's where I sat to receive hundreds -
literally hundreds -
of guests at his calling hours,
his wake.
The night is both vague and vivid to me,
a smattering of images, sounds, and memories.
Tonight there is live music: a guitar and two vocalists.
Playing the best of John Mayer.
Paper lanterns and white lights swoop from the ceiling.
This room is as charming as it has always been.
I ask the baristas if I may give them a picture of us,
my husband and me.
They smile, teary.
They will put it on the mantle.
If ever a room tells our story,
this is the room.

Hot Chocolate and Lego Innards

2011-11-11T08:38:00.001-08:00

It all starts with a good idea.

I bought a Lego set for the boys last week, in reward (two cheers for external motivation!) for their compliance during an impromptu trip to the orthodontist. Hooray! Legos for Everyone!

(I'm not good at Legos. I never intended to be the spatially-aware engineer of the family. But I'm improving.)

This Lego kit involved five (count them: five) characters from Cars 2, plus a giant spaceship. We had put together all of the little guys, saving the spaceship for last.

The box sat in the corner of the kitchen, only enticing the boys with its brilliance when they were either on their way to school or to bed. So I was forever the villain who bought them a toy and now won't let them build it.

This won't do.

I bought a canister of hot chocolate, 'tis the season, and I planned to foster a Lego frenzy after school. Bring on the fun: Mommy took her Xanax.

Except it just didn't come together the way I envisioned it . . . does anything, really?

We served the hot chocolate in the souvenir travel mugs from the springtime trip to Disney World. Someone shook his for extra stirring, or maybe just for emphasis, and it spouted through the top like a blow hole on a whale. Hot chocolate everywhere.

"Please forgive me, Mommy."

"Of course I forgive you, sweet boy. Let's clean it up. Here's a towel."

Another someone took a sip of his, the heat surprised him, and he spit it out on the floor. Here's a towel.

Someone dropped his next to the couch, so it spilled across the floor, under the coffee table and ottoman. Here's a towel.

In the cleaning, I repeatedly set the spilled cup on various surfaces, resulting in brown, wet circles on many a flat surface.

They had very sweet spirits about all these little mishaps. And they were ever ready with the towels, towels, towels.

Just as we had opened all the little bags of Lego parts and scattered them across the kitchen table, we realized someone had misplaced the directions. Now we had a thousand colored doodahs and no map to piece them together. (I am improving with Legos, but I'm not ready for a build-your-own adventure. Especially one that must function as a vehicle and match the picture on the box.)

I put all the Lego pieces in one ZipLoc bag. I secured all the lids on those blasted souvenir mugs. And I popped Polar Express into the DVD player.

All of those mishaps had been as eventful as successfully building a spaceship. Let's call it a day.

Afternoon matinee until dinner.

Snowed-In, Snowy, Snow Day

2011-11-10T10:48:00.001-08:00

I always thought my mom was over-the-top thrilled to have us home from school for an unexpected snow day. In retrospect, maybe my brother and I were just over-the-top thrilled on her behalf.

The boys were certainly over-the-top thrilled when they had their first snowed-in, snowy, snow day last week. I was a little caught off guard. And moving slowly.

I had an apparently romanticized idea of perfectly-shaped chocolate chip pancakes for three. The shape and texture were far from what anyone expected. Everyone was feeling disappointed or under-appreciated . . . until we tasted them. And then all the complaints were silenced by the lull of satisfied tastebuds. Presentation isn't everything.

We managed the morning with pancakes, Netflix, and Lincoln Logs. (This is Robb's childhood collection of Lincoln Logs, and a few of them were broken and taped together from the playing of three decades ago. The boys took turns imagining what Daddy and his brother had done to break them. I suggested that maybe Daddy and Uncle Jay had tried to use them as drumsticks, just as Tucker and Tyler were doing. The boys thought this was bunk. Surely that couldn't be the case.)

My phone rang at 11:15. My orthodontist: my Invisalign retainers were in. "Would you like to come and get them? Let's see... you can come today by noon, or you'll need to wait until the end of next week."

Oh, dear. "Well, I could come today, I think, maybe. I have my children with me, though. They're having a snow day." The presence or absence of my children didn't seem to change her calendar options.

I haven't taken them many places together with me in the last year . . . I can't imagine the orthodontist would be our best debut. We're sort of out of our stride a bit in the mid-day adventure department.

But I'm sort of impatient for straighter teeth.

"By noon you say?" It was 11:17. They were in their jammies. "We'll be there."

I reminded myself of a girl I used to know: up for anything.

I hung up the phone and announced the plan to my little jammie boys. Bless their hearts, they sprung into action.   (This may have had more to do with the joy of walking in the snow with their new boots on.)

Bundled and ready, we left the house at 11:37. I wore a messy bun and no makeup. (If you're going to put your hands in my mouth, I may or may not put on mascara.)

Throughout our slip-sliding drive, I quizzed them on behavior that is appropriate in a doctor's office. I let my mind vaguely wander to the truth that I would be the one in the chair and they would be the ones with free will, but I didn't really explore those ramifications.

Instead, I prayed 'grace and peace' at every stoplight. Please, let the other patients have grace toward them, and please, let there be peace between the two of them.

We arrived at the doctor's office, and they promptly piled their jackets, mittens, hats, and boots in one corner chair. The receptionist said, "Hi, guys. Would you two like a DS to play with?" Are you kidding me? Handheld video games for them? I could have kissed her.

Never mind that they have never played with a DS. Never mind that they don't really know what they're doing and this might actually call for greater dependency. Never mind that. "Yes, we would love to borrow two."

When my name was called, I gave the boys one last pep talk about sitting still, not touching each other, no fighting, and the promise of great rewards. And I started the long walk to a brighter, straighter smile.

I could see them from my dental chair, and I kept snapping my fingers and hissing at them when it looked like they might come anywhere near doing anything I hoped they wouldn't. I'm pretty sure the tech knew I was slightly distracted.

"Oh, he can come back here, if you want."

"Um, there's two of them. Does that change the deal?"

She smiled. Graciously. "Not at all."

Turns out, this hi-tech ortho has TVs planted in the ceiling - the whole distraction sedation movement. She turned on the movie Tangled, and the boys lay squarely on the floor next to my dental chair. Except for the occasional kicking at each other, they were brilliantly quiet and still. Thanks to the provided entertainment from above (and by 'above' I mean the ceiling . . . and heaven).

I have a nine-month plan for orthodontia, and my children have the promise of Legos coming their way.   Well done, little tagalongs.

And to think. They could have built a snowman instead.

All I Needed was a Vacuum. And PopTarts. And Aluminum foil.

2011-11-09T13:58:00.000-08:00

One thing has always been true of my children: if I don't plan their fun, they will plan their fun. And their fun won't be fun for me. I have spent the last five years trying to stay at least one step ahead, or no fewer than two steps behind.

If they get bored, look out. Consider yourself warned.

Last Saturday morning, when I slept for 20 minutes longer than them, the boys broke the vacuum cleaner. It was a mission of exploratory surgery: they were sure Woody's head was hidden inside.

(It wasn't.)

Together and separately, we each tried to put it back together, all to no avail. I gathered all the separate pieces, tossed them in a classy paper bag, looped the handles over the neck of the vacuum, and put a note on it:

"Dear Goodwill shoppers: This works, if you can put it back together. I surrendered."

I went into WalMart today, in search of the new model to keep our floors neat and tidy. Or, you know, livable.

(Robb would have neither purchased this small appliance at Walmart nor made the purchase at all without extensive research into his decade's collection of Consumer Reports. But WalMart's the best I can do, and Consumer Reports isn't literature I can invest my heart in. Believe me, I would love to have his shopping and research in my corner. The best I can do is to have learned from observation. Lots of observation.)

Christmas has exploded in WalMart, by the way. It is November 9, and it is virtually a winter wonderland in there. (I am told the same thing is true at Costco, Home Depot - really anywhere.)

I just wasn't ready. I didn't see this landmine waiting for me. Every aisle held a red and green display, a snowflake montage, or the clustered marketing ingredients for the recipe for a favorite tradition.

And the music followed me everywhere. Chestnuts roasting. Santa Baby. Jingle Bell Rock. Once I found the vacuum cleaner that was 1) within my budget and 2) 'built to last,' I just really needed PopTarts and aluminum foil. That's all.

I left without either.

I have become a force to be reckoned with in situations like this: I am determined not to be bullied away from the places I choose to be. I try to be determined. I keep my head high and put one foot in front of the other. I choose to beat this thing called fear and anxiety. But they are hearty competitors.

Sometimes a girl has to come to terms with defeat.

I made it through the express lane (I contend that it's still 20 items or less, even if that one item is taller than my son), to my car at the end of the aisle, and into my purse for an anti-anxiety pill, all before the holiday tidal wave crashed over my head.

I'm done with this day. But I suspect this day has more for me.

Attached to the Signs

2011-11-08T08:36:00.000-08:00

Being thankful is not telling God
you appreciate the fact that your life is not in shambles.
If that is the basis of your gratitude,
you are on slippery ground.
Every day of your life,
you face the possibility
that a blessing in your life may be taken away.
But blessings are only signs of God's love.
The real blessing, of course, is the love itself.
Whenever we get too attached to the sign,
we lose our grasp on the God who gave it to us.
Churches are filled with widows who can explain this to you.
We are not ultimately grateful that we are still holding our blessings.
We are grateful that we are held by God
even when the blessings
are slipping through our fingers.

~ C. Barnes

Kaleidoscope

2011-11-07T09:55:00.001-08:00

Quantifying is useless.

Unless you can hold it in your hands or see it on a screen, unless you can physically add and subtract, then the concept of more and less is abstract and relative.

You can't measure emotions. Joy and grief are siblings in the same house, but their shades can look like contrasting colors on different people.

Unless the feeling is yours, and unless you can compare this to how you felt on another day or in another season, you really can't compare it at all. And certainly not against someone else.

You can't measure grief. You can't keep score. You can't discount your loss because someone else's may seem greater. Grief is grief, loss is loss, joy is joy. They are not mutually exclusive, and they can't stand tall against one another.

"My husband died 6 days ago."
"My husband died three months ago."
"My husband died ten months ago."

As the last three words change with time, somehow there is an assumption that the first three words might matter less.

So, I have stopped quantifying the timeline.

It's not a bar graph. It's a kaleidoscope.

Downcast

2011-11-06T10:50:00.000-08:00

Sundays seem so happy, so chattery.

"Greet your neighbor. Stand and sing. Take the hand of the person next to you."

Where can I sit if I really don't have that in me today?

"Perhaps your heart is heavy. Perhaps you're struggling today."

Yes. And yes.

I have always loved to worship alongside my family and friends. There is no greater movement than the outpouring of hearts together, I am convinced. But now everything seems so happy, so loud, so overwhelming.

I stay as long as I can. The discipline is good for my spirit, and I have my six-year-old who sits beside me, watching and learning. In teaching him, I hope my heart will learn anew.

I cry easily in worship. In other seasons, I cried from the spilling fullness of my heart. In earlier months, I cried because I could feel the absence of my life's companion beside me, the silence of his voice singing with mine. Now, if I feel enough to cry at all, I cry because I long for the joy of it all. I once cried because Robb is not here; now I cry because I am not there. I no longer want him back. I want to join him where he is.

I know a new kind of worship, and I find it most inviting when I am quiet and alone with the Alone. When I join the throngs, it all feels so hard to keep up.

This morning, I praise the Lord who does not demand a pace.
I praise the Shepherd who will leave the flock to find the lamb who is lost, the one that cannot keep up.

I praise the Lord who has come to me.

~ ~ ~

As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
My tears have been my food day and night,
while men say to me all day long,
"Where is your God?"
These things I remember as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go with the multitude,
leading the procession to the house of God,
with shouts of joy and thanksgiving
among the festive throng.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.

Psalm 42

Annie

2011-11-05T10:50:00.000-07:00

We popped popcorn, filled cups with orange juice, pulled the couch into the middle of the living room, loaded up on pillows and blankets, dimmed the lights, and tapped into Netflix. I introduced the boys to Annie, in all of her curly charm.

Twenty-five years ago, my brother and I watched this movie on a seemingly endless loop. (My mom thinks she may have watched it once in its entirety. This blesses me deeply to realize that she had other things to do while we were watching TV.) The lyrics and dialogue are hidden in my subconscious mind, and they emerged throughout the evening. Thankfully, the boys don't yet believe this kind of commentary takes away from the movie experience. They are simply impressed that I seem to know Annie's friends. And her every word.

We streamed Netflix through the Wii, and the movie sometimes got ahead of the download. So we had to be patient while the screen paused to 'retrieve.' Long about the tenth time we were staring at a still screen, I was the one who became impatient. Surprisingly, the boys were really fine with the wait.

Tyler said, "Mommy, this is not that bad. You know what's bad? Touching hot lava. This isn't that bad."

True. Thank you for the perspective, four-year-old.

The thing about Annie: she brings with her the word 'orphan.' She gives us things to talk about. Questions to ask.

"Annie misses her mom and dad, because they died. She wears that necklace because it reminds her of them."

"She lives in a big house for little girls because she doesn't have anyone else to take care of her. Who would take care of us if Mommy died?"

There is little safety in promising I won't die, since we sure didn't think Robb would. So we talk through Plans B, C, and D.

When your world has been torn, it's hard to believe the seams will stay together for long. It's good to know there's a plan. They can follow the scenario to the darkest path, and they can still know there is a plan.

They were captivated. They woke me the next morning to say, "Mommy, let's talk about Annie." We have been reenacting scenes all week long, and I will purchase the sound track soon. Tyler has been marching around the house singing "It's a Hard Knot Life."

They found their due love for her. Plus, it doesn't hurt that her name is written in the sky with fireworks.

Because I Know What Flowers Look Like

2011-11-04T09:12:00.000-07:00

"You must be Maggie," she said, tilting her head in Maggie's direction. She put one hand on the railing for balance and held out the other one for Maggie to shake. Blind, Maggie realized, and she shook the woman's hand carefully. "I'm Corinne. Come on in," she said, leading the way into a large Victorian house that already seemed scrupulously clean, and precisely organized. In the entryway hall, there was a stark wooden bench to the right and a series of cubbyholes hanging above it and a pair of shoes in each cubbyhole. A raincoat and a winter coat hung on adjoining hooks; an umbrella and hat and mittens were laid neatly on a shelf above them. And next to the empty coat rack was a white cane.

"I don't think you'll find the work too difficult," said Corinne, taking careful birdlike sps from a cup of coffee in a lemon-yellow mug. "The floors need to be swept and mopped," she began, ticking off the tasks on her fingers. "I'd like you to organize the recycling, the glass and the paper in particular. The laundry should be sorted, the dishwasher needs to be emptied, and . . ."

Maggie waited. "Yes?" she finally asked.

"Flowers," said Corinne, and tilted her chin up defiantly. "I'd like you to buy some flowers."

"Okay," said Maggie.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I want them," said Corinne.

Maggie, who hadn't been wondering, said nothing.

"Because I can't see them," said Corinne. "But I know what flowers look like. And I can smell them, too."

~ Jennifer Weiner,

In Her Shoes

Battlegrounds A and B

2011-11-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

Tyler has chosen two battles today:

a. He will not get dressed.

b. He believes our earth is really one of two, and we live on this one because the other one exploded.

He's especially insistent on Point B.

A PreK friend of his has proven this contention, and Tyler is holding fast to it.

"It's true, Mommy. The other earth exploded. In real life. It's true."

Well, I don't think it is. But of the two debates placed before me, I choose to battleground A. It's really the more pressing of the two.

I'm willing to relinquish his ideas of celestial evolution, just for today.

Put on your shirt, kiddo.

The Starbucks Cup is Red

2011-11-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

My Starbucks cup is red and festive this morning. I think that officially means the holidays are upon us.

That makes me nauseous.

I have had a slight reprieve in the six weeks with no major milestones between Tucker's birthday and Halloween. We made the rounds for Trick or Treat, gathering obscene amounts of candy (kudos to the neighbors for very few choking hazards tossed into the pumpkin pails), and I kept my head in the game.

I don't love Halloween. But Robb did.

I took the boys out in the wagon, traipsed up and down sidewalks and driveways, teaching them the etiquette and the code of the porch light.

They told people, "We are Batman and Robin. But we don't punch each other, because we are partners." Excellent to hear that parenting objective voiced aloud.

I guided them when Tucker said, "Yes, but don't you have any peanut butter cups?" (Tuck, don't be choosy.) And when Tyler said, "Want to feel my wet forehead? I'm so sweaty." (Tyler, don't be gross.)

On our most successful stops, they said, "Thank you, and Happy Halloween to you too!" Well done, superheroes.

We counted and sorted their candy loot, and I remembered when Robb scooped Tyler onto his lap, commended him on the excellent stash, and told him this is the one night when he can eat as much candy as he wanted. Eat up, kiddo. The rules are back to normal tomorrow.

At the end of the night, they shed their costumes and fell into bed, the crash after a ridiculously stellar sugar high. And now we have entered November.

This is the day when Robb would load his iPod with Christmas Carols. (I was married to Father Christmas, and he could stretch one holiday into eight weeks, easily.) This is the day when he would begin scouting his exterior decorative plans, strolling the aisles at Costco for something big and obnoxious to add to the lawn. This is the day when I would begin negotiating the value of experiencing one holiday at a time, and he would call me a Scrooge. And he would hang the lights whenever he chose, but I wouldn't concede the actually lighting ceremony until the evening of Thanksgiving Day when Christmas would officially be the next calendar holiday. The beginning of November faithfully marked the start of a playful banter, a pile of lists, a budget for gifts, and a list of traditions.

I'm in a long stretch now. The holidays are upon me.

I feel like I'm at the starting line of a marathon I didn't sign up for. I feel like someone dropped me off the chairlift at the top of a Double Black Diamond slope, and the only way down is bumpy, cold, scary, and out of my league.

There's no way out except through it. I do not know how I will do this.

Why Don't You Cry Anymore?

2011-11-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

In my dream last night, Robb asked me, "Why don't you cry over me anymore?"

We had met briefly in a parking lot. We stood next to the car, and our conversation was easy and casual. Consistent with my every dream of him, I couldn't get close enough to touch him.

Just before he drove away, he rolled down the window and asked me that question.

"Why don't you cry over me anymore?"

In my dream, I stood outside the car with my arms folded, a defensive stance.

I told him, "Do you think I'm not sad? Oh, Robb, I need you to know that I miss you everyday. It's just that I can't cry everyday anymore."

"So you can let me drive away, and you're not going to cry?"

I woke up knowing he would drive away, knowing I couldn't keep him.

Something is happening in my psyche. Some part of me is questioning me, asking if it's okay that I'm not always crying. Something in me feels compelled to take a protective, defensive stance against the question.

I have to remind myself that Robb isn't really the one asking.

I Have Texture Issues

2011-10-31T09:36:00.000-07:00

If ever there were a project that requires sunglasses,
I would agree it is the carving of pumpkins.

"I'll hold your nose for you, Mommy."

Tyler returned repeatedly to my kitchen drawers in search of more carving tools. His suggestions included a potato scrubber and a melon baller.

I held out for as long as I could before I busted out the rubber gloves.

I post the following picture because Tyler and I are wearing the same facial expression, and because I am apparently washing my hands --

with rubber gloves on.

Drum roll, please.

These are our pumpkins:

'Bob the Potato' and 'Mindy.'

Robb has done the goopy parts for the last twelve years.

I showed tremendous courage.

Happy Halloween.

Love,

Batman, Robin and WonderWoman

State of Preparedness

2011-10-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

The question is not, "Do I have time to prepare?"
but "Do I live in a state of preparedness?"
When God is my only concern,
when God is the center of my interest,
when all my prayers,
my reading,
my studying,
my speaking,
and writing
serve only to know God better
and to make him known better,
then there is no basis for anxiety or stage fright.
Then I can live
in such a state of preparedness and trust
that speaking from the heart
is also speaking to the heart.

~ H. Nouwen