The Zookeeper's Wife: A Movie for Our Times

Never in my life have I feared war coming to America. Not during the second peak of Cold War hysteria in the 1980s; not after 9/11. Until recently. The 2016 Presidential election changed that. So much vitriol and hate from both sides. People vowing to take up arms if Hillary Clinton were elected. Attacks on black churches, synagogues, Jewish Community Centers. Indian software engineers being shot and murdered while out enjoying happy hour after work because someone mistook them for being Muslim. Muslim girls who are afraid to wear their hijab in public because of being spat upon or worse. Sometimes, the fear and anxiety the news causes me makes me feel as if I cannot breathe. In fact, I have literally stopped consuming news at the level I did prior to the election. It's too overwhelming.

Still...as a Catholic I cannot look away. I was called to become Catholic because of the Church's focus on social justice. I had never seen a church so reflective of Christ's love and compassion for the outsider, the poor, the lonely and broken. Not to say there haven't been missteps and wrongs committed by the Catholic Church. However, it seems each successive Pope has worked to right many of those wrongs, with Pope Francis going farthest of all. In fact, the Jesuit parish of St. Agnes, recently announced that it is a sanctuary parish, working to uphold the dignity of immigrants. Jesuits are an order of Catholic priests who are called to live out their relationship with Jesus in the real world.

Blessing of the doors at St. Agnes parish in San Francisco: 

Give us the courage to open these doors and the doors of our hearts to all who knock and seek refuge.

It is from that frame of reference for my personal faith, that I often wonder if I would have the courage to stand up and defend my black, brown, gay, lesbian, or trans brothers and sisters who might be attacked publicly? Am I willing to sacrifice my freedom to take in friends who might be undocumented or accused of some crime (that isn't really a crime) if ICE came for them? Am I willing to put myself between a peaceful protester and someone trying to attack him or her? If things got really bad and our government sought to deport, imprison, or slaughter a particular group of people for their religious beliefs how far would I go to fight for their lives?

These are the very questions at the heart of the new Focus Features movie The Zookeeper's Wife, starring Jessica Chastain. It opens on Friday, March 31 and I am eager to see it. Set in Warsaw, Poland during World War II, this is the true story of Antonia and Jan Zabinski. The young couple, only recently appointed to run the Warsaw Zoo soon face the realities of the bombing of Warsaw by the Nazis. Without giving anything away, I can tell you that the Zabinskis very quickly have to choose between the safety of their family and helping Polish Jews who are being captured and sent to concentration camps.

You can see the trailer here.

This is a compelling story for me right now. I have imagined what I would do in a similar situation and the choices are bleak. Obviously, as a Christian – no wait – as a decent human being – I hope I would maintain the courage to act on my convictions and protect anyone in jeopardy. But what if I were faced with someone murdering my child because of what I did. Could I do the right thing then? What if I were killed and my children left alone to fend for themselves? What then?

I fear we may all face these choices at some point, all the while praying we do not. This movie provides a lightsource to allow viewers to examine those hidden places in our hearts where our deepest fears battle for space with our mustard-seed faith. Like any radical act of love in our lives, sometimes doing the right thing means blindly stepping out in faith, trusting that no matter the outcome, by making the right choice, by acting courageously in love of mankind or for an individual or in your love for Christ, you are doing what you are meant and called to do.

I encourage you to check this movie out and to make that a little easier for one lucky reader, I have a $25 Fandango gift card to give away! If you need more convincing to see the movie, check out this review by NBC commentator Hugh Hewitt.

To be eligible to win, please comment below and tell me what you think about the trailer. Does it look good? What are your thoughts on faith and fear? I'd love to hear your thoughts! If you have not already liked my Facebook page, go do that and you'll get a second entry! A winner will be randomly selected on Sunday, April 2, 2017!

Now...Decide what to be and go be it! 

Shine: Doing What Makes You Sparkle

I am so ready to sparkle, y'all!

And by that I don't mean I'm ready to put on my shiniest party dress and dance all night, although that might help me accomplish my true aim.

No, what I mean when I say that is that I'm ready to really and truly be me and do the things I love and to do even the things I don't love in such a way that I can feel good about the effort I made. I want to live in such a way that other people feel better when they're around me. I want to be enthusiastic and joyful. I want to sparkle. One of the greatest compliments I ever received was from a man at my high school reunion. He said that he had "always admired my zest for life." That's what I want people to see: an enthusiastic embrace and gratefulness for all that life gives me and a constant desire for more. More. Of. All. Of. It.

I have felt as if I were in limbo for the last month and a half. Hell. Let's be honest. I've felt like I was in limbo since January when my husband high-tailed it for Chattanooga and his new job and got started living what is supposed to be our new life. Meanwhile, I was back in Atlanta elbow-deep in the drudgery of packing, purging, and selling our home while keeping the kids and the dog and the cat alive, getting the young humans through the school year, then figuring out what the hell we were going to do for the two months between closings. And did I mention the emotions? Oh – not mine – but my 13-year old's. Sweet Mother of Mercy! This child has been beside himself. For the first month, all I heard was a litany of how much he hates Chattanooga, how his new school is the WORST(!), his life is ruined, and IT'S ALL MOM'S FAULT!!!

After a month of travels that have included the beach, Atlanta, Houston, New Orleans,  back to Atlanta (hometown with our homies), and now, Birmingham, Alabama, I think he's too tired to fight. Or I'd like to think that. The Angry Teenager does rear his head every now and then, but mostly he's back to being my sweet kid who, like me and his younger brother, just wants to be home. You know, home? That place where the heart is and all that jazz. That place you get to stay in for more than a week at a time? We're almost there. This is the home stretch. One week and two days until we close and can move in.

So, naturally, after keeping it together all summer during what I thought would be the hard part, it's time for me to lose my ish. I've been obsessively reading Marie Kondo's book, Spark Joy: An Illustrated Master Class on the Art of Organizing and Tidying Up. I've been obsessively comparing prices and styles of area rugs and sofas. Reading Consumer Reports articles about washers and dryers and vacuum cleaners and floor sweepers. Scouring Bed, Bath, and Beyond and HomeGoods for the perfect bedding for my bed, our guest room, and the kids' rooms. New mattresses for two beds. A new bed for one kid. All of it has consumed every free moment for the last two weeks, I think. And to what end?

I mean, part of it is legitimate. I purged a lot. Hence my son needing a new bed and a new mattress. I took Kondo's advice about getting rid of the things that don't bring you joy and I'm willing to replace the items that need replacing with things that make my heart sing. And I am truly committed to running a cleaner, calmer, more organized household in our new home.

But some of this obsessively comparing products or styles or colors until I am locked in some sort of analysis paralysis is just me being mental and avoiding the things I'm really worried about. I feel like there is little of importance that is truly within my control right now. I am consumed by "what ifs." What if after living apart for seven months, my husband realizes he hates me? What if he hates our new house? What if my kids aren't accepted in their new school? What if I don't find a writing job?What if no one likes me and I can't make new friends? What if none of this works out? What if...

Somehow, my lizard brain seems to believe that if I can just find the perfect rug, perfect sofa, perfect EVERYTHING that screams "She's made it!" or maybe it's more like, "Wow! Check out this super-together, creative chick," I will win the hearts and minds of Chattanoogans at large and God-so-help-me, I'll never be lonely again – or some other Scarlett O'Hara bullshit.

So, yeah...That. I'm browsing design sites and analyzing every review of every product I'm considering as if my life depended on it so I can more or less hide from my real fears – loneliness and rejection. Don't judge.

Now that I've recognized what's going on, I'm trying to focus on solving the real problems. I've been running and am trying to commit to a regular schedule. Yesterday I made a list of ways I can meet people in Chattanooga and by posting that on Instagram, I actually did connect with someone there. Baby steps. But moving, ever forward with my eye on all the shiny things that will help me sparkle.

(Wo)Man in the Mirror: On Self-Esteem and Positive Change

One of the hardest things to do when you grow up hating your body is to learn to look at it without cringing, crying, thinking horrible things about yourself, or just turning away in shame.

Today, for the first time in my life of 45 years, I let myself take a long – and for once – loving look at myself in the mirror during a yoga class. I almost couldn't help it, ending up on the front row in a classroom with a mirrored wall.

When we began the class, doing pranayama, or yogic breathing exercises, I caught a few glimpses of myself and my first thought was "Oh my goodness! Am I really that big? Are my shoulders that broad? My boobs that large? My thighs that thick? Really? I want to die."

But then, I told myself that a yoga class was the worst place to indulge in such negative thinking. If you can't let go of stinkin' thinkin' in a yoga class, where can you free yourself from such useless ideas?

So, as we began moving through our flow I started using the mirror to correct my alignment and form and I realized that maybe I was wrong. I mean, yes, I am bigger than the ideal I hold in my head. But suddenly, I realized the girl, the woman, I was looking at wasn't fat. She wasn't grotesque or someone I needed to shield my eyes from. She was actually kind of beautiful, kind of strong looking. As I moved into cobra, I noticed the strong and defined muscles in her shoulders and the smooth tanned skin.

Moving into pigeon pose, I was aware of how seamlessly I transitioned from downward dog with an extended leg right into pigeon, my favorite pose. I love the way it stretches and opens my hips. Then, the teacher said we could do pigeon with arms extended overhead if we felt strong enough. Asking if I'm strong enough to do something is a challenge I can never resist. I don't know why, but when I hear that phrase I am compelled to try. I often fail, but so what? So, sitting in pigeon I straightened my spine and slowly and carefully raised both arms over my head and balanced myself. I looked straight in the mirror and smiled. I was doing it! And it was easy! Well, sort of. It wasn't easy, but it felt amazing. And I looked strong as fuck doing it and I was also the first one in class to try it! Yay me! And yay for the other women who tried it when we switched to the other leg.

In another pose, balanced on one knee and one hand with the opposite leg and arm extended, I did catch sight of my abdomen curving underneath me and for a split second my heart sank and I felt myself falling into the rabbit hole of despair and self-hatred. Suddenly, though, there was another voice calling to me to pull me up and out of that hole. She said, look how strong you are, look at that balance! And look, when you contract your muscles like you're supposed to that belly vanishes. And it's way smaller than it was a few weeks ago.

This inner dialogue continued off and on throughout the class. While I know the goal with yoga is to push the thoughts away completely, I simply tried to replace bad thoughts with good ones, a feat for me. At one point, toward the end of our vinyasa flow, standing in mountain pose with arms reaching up toward Heaven – embracing the Universe as our teacher called it – I looked at that woman in the mirror and in that moment I felt strong and beautiful and confident, perfectly imperfect with strong legs to carry me, a heart strong enough to keep on loving, a mind capable of change, and arms ready to take in and love all the world including myself.

It's a journey. I didn't get here overnight or without working to become the woman I want to be. I work out 3-5 times a week, eat healthy, and try to surround myself with positive influences. More importantly on this journey to self-esteem, I stopped comparing myself to others and I've stopped listening when others want to compare me or put me down.

And you should to... Are you trying to learn to love yourself? Then remember this: tune out the negative voices, whether they're your own, your partner's, your mean sister, your mom or your dad, or the queen bee who thinks her shit smells like rose petals. Every time one of those negative voices tries to get inside your head, just take your thoughts somewhere else. Find one positive thought or idea to hold onto. Look in the mirror and find one thing you love about yourself. Your friendly smile. Your gorgeous grey eyes (or brown or blue, you get the idea). Your shiny hair. Your strong arms. Your fast legs. And every day, look yourself in the eye and remind yourself that you are awesome and lovely and perfect in all your imperfections right now. If you want to change, that's great and I will cheer you on and support you in your efforts. Just be sure you're doing it for you and not those ugly voices.

Now...go love yourself. Do great things for yourself and others. Be mighty. Be you!

Music Monday: Tatooine

No, I didn't fall off the face of the Earth. I've just been busy with Life... looking for a steady job, taking care of sick kids, some volunteer work, starting pee-wee flag football with my youngest, and various and sundry other projects.

Sadly, I did fall off the 31DBBB wagon somewhere around Day 19. So close! Maybe I can pick it up again.

Anyway, I just very quickly in the last hours of the day wanted to squeeze in this amazing video. I love this song by Jeremy Messersmith so much and the video by artist Eric Power really, truly brings joy to my heart each time I see it!

Enjoy!

You'll Have Time

Do you have those days? You know...Those days?


The ones where your head and heart are wrapped around some family drama, some slight, or minor heartbreak. Hell, maybe it's even a major heartbreak, but certainly not one worthy of consuming you heart, mind, and soul. Yet, there you go, deep in the spiral of fear, worry, anxiety, anger, frustration, and utter annoyance. And then when you least expect it there's one. more. thing. That thing. The thing. The straw that breaks the camel's back thing. And when it happens you lose it, bursting into tears or shouting in rage. Naturally whatever that thing is, it's something that you normally wouldn't waste the energy to bat an eyelash at. But there you go... all red-faced and weepy, face wrenched in torment and anger.


I had one of those days last week. I'd received a phone call from a friend that put me on edge and had me feeling anxious and worried. Cooper came down with vestibular disease and I was afeared for his life*, Scott was out of the country for work and I was single-parenting it for the week and feeling a little lonesome, too. I felt like I was going to come out of my skin, had a million and one things I wanted to accomplish, was feeling angry and frustrated by the redistricting situation in my county, and was teetering on the edge.


When Beckett decided to fingerpaint on the kitchen table with his yogurt and dipped his brother's Field Day ribbons (which were on the table because I was cleaning out our kitchen closet!) in the yogurt, I was annoyed and told him he had to clean it up. I walked over to the sink to gather the cleaning supplies. When I turned around, Beckett was perched on the table, right smack dab in the middle of his strawberry yogurt masterpiece. Naturally, as one is wont to do on a bad day, I burst into tears thinking "Why does everything have to suck for me right now?"


That's the moment when everything changed... when I saw through knowing eyes and heard through truthful ears. Beckett looked at me with the sweetest, most quizzical smile, and said, "It's okay, Mommy. I'm not dying."


And so, from the mouth of my babe, Wisdom. Beautiful, profound, simple truth. "I'm not dying." What could be worse than that? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My sweetest little one is healthy and happy and so is his brother. Their dad, my partner and friend, the man I love is home, safe, from the other side of the world and he is loved beyond measure. Maybe there are things I'd change in my life, but the fundamentals, the stuff that really matters is all pretty awesome.


As I fell to the kitchen floor laughing, a prayer of thanksgiving in my heart, I reminded myself that yes, Life is truly good.




*Cooper's bloodwork came back showing he has a low thyroid which can cause Vestibular Disease in dogs. He started the medicine on Tuesday and by Thursday could walk on his own without my help and by today, one week from its onset is able to go up and down steps without help although he's still a bit shaky and still has a slight head tilt. He's definitely doing much better.

Oh, Sister: Thank Goodness for Siblings

All this week National Public Radio has been doing a series on siblings and sibling relationships. I've really enjoyed listening to these segments. As an only child, I often find myself baffled by the interactions of siblings, especially my own two sons. And I'm fascinated by birth order. Am I more like a baby or a first-born seeing as how I am both? And what about twins and the siblings of twins? How does birth order work for them? It's all endlessly fascinating to me, but at the end of the day, I still feel like I've missed out on one of the most amazing relationships in the world by not having a sibling.

When I see my girlfriends going off to do things with their sisters, like shopping or baking during the holidays, I always feel a pang of envy. How lucky are they! As I child I was addicted to the Trixie Belden books. I longed to have a big family like Trixie's with a wise and sensible older brother to look out for me like Trixie's older brother Brian.

In reality, I was very lonely as a child, so when it came time for us to decide whether or not we wanted an only, in my heart the decision was already made. Yes, by having an only we could give him much more in terms of material possessions and opportunities in life. But what would all that be worth if our son walked through life all alone, without the ties that a sibling can give you.

I don't know that anything can compare to the shared experience siblings, especially those who are close in age, have.

My father chose not to be a part of my life and unless he's dead, he's out there. Somewhere. And somewhere out there, I most likely have siblings. Or half-siblings. Sisters or brothers who might look like me. Think like me. Sound like me. But unlike me, I hope they had, not only the love of our father and their mother, but the love of each other.

If you have a sibling, this Thanksgiving let them know how much they mean to you. If you're not close, work a little harder to get to know them. Once your parents are gone, you will only ever truly have each other and you'll be thankful then to have someone who shares the same memories and life experiences as you. Someone who can always help you remember.

Grandma's Hands

As anyone who might still be reading my blog since I haven't posted in months may have noticed, I've been writing a lot about food. Tweeting about it as well.

Being that I never intended this as a food blog, it seems a might strange.

In actuality, I'm just getting back to the roots of who I am. This journey of parenting made me lose myself in a lot of ways for a long, long time. It has changed me. And now I discover that it has carried me back to who I am and who I was.

I joined a CSA back in June. At the time I had just read The Omnivore's Dilemma and watched King Corn and I was thinking even more than usual about the foods we eat and the damage done to our environment by conventional agriculture. I thought I was joining the CSA for political reasons as much as to provide my family with healthy, locally-grown real food. And, to be honest, at $25 a week for a huge box of vegetables, it was a cost-saving initiative as well.

What I've discovered of late, as the bounty of beautiful autumn vegetables has rolled in each week, is that I really did this for myself. Okay. Maybe at the time I didn't know that. But now, this endeavor is solely for my own awakening as a cook.

Before having children, cooking was a passion for me. I loved trying new recipes, trying new foods I'd never cooked or even tasted before, and playing in the kitchen. Having children turned my once relaxing and leisurely cooking sessions into frantic, chaotic, rushed hours of crazy-making where I would burn things, cook things my children would refuse to eat, and left me in despair that I would never be able to cook a decent meal again.

Then, my children got a little older. Right around the time I joined the CSA, my kids began to be able to entertain themselves long enough for me to get a meal on the table or plan a week's worth of meals without being interrupted 27 times. My oldest also began to ask questions about what he was eating and both boys love going with me to pick up our box of veg each week. They can't wait to see what's in there. And of course, they're more excited about the grits and apples, but I know I'm making progress when my baby says of a lovely red and green striped bell pepper, "That's a beauty."

This week as I washed and chopped collard greens to freeze and sliced fresh beets to roast for dinner, I thought of my grandmother. I thought of her again as I poured freshly ground cornmeal from our farm into a bowl to make corn muffins using her recipe. These were the foods she cooked and served when I was child. Her techniques may have been different than my own, but cooking and eating these foods makes me feel close to her. I carry her in my DNA, in my heart, and in the love of cooking she instilled in me as a little girl. I learned to cook at her hand. And while she grew most of her vegetables in her own garden or bought them from farmer friends she knew personally, I still feel happy that I can teach my kids how to enjoy foods that are in season, grown nearby if not by my hand, and in the slightest way pass some of my love for my Mammy on to them.

I don't let myself think of her often. She died when I was 16 and to this day I still miss her.

Who knew a box of vegetables would help me find a way to reconnect with some of my favorite memories of her and let me find a way to celebrate her life without feeling my heart break all over again?

Whoever did, whatever power led me here, thank you for giving me back one of my favorite outlets for creating and showing love and for letting me feel so close to someone I loved so much.

Satellite: Please Visit We Aren't Perfect's PPD Confessional

Those of you who have read my blog for a while might remember my own experience with PPD. After my son Beckett was born, I had a really rough time. After months of feeling like I was the worst mother and wife in the world, feeling unloved, terrified, anxious, and sometimes as if I would literally burst free of my own skin, I ended up very ill physically. My kind and loving mother-in-law convinced me to talk to my who told me my immune system was shutting down due to sleep deprivation and the stress of having a newborn. But it wasn't until a few weeks later when I called him from my car, sobbing because I felt worthless and didn't think I could be a mother any more that he diagnosed me with post-partum depression and put me on Zoloft. That changed everything and in a few weeks I felt like myself again.

Crystal, over at the blog We Aren't Perfect, has also had her own experience of PPD and to help shine the light on this debilitating condition that affects anywhere from five to 25% of new mothers, she is hosting a PPD Confessional to allow other women to share their experiences with this disease. Between now and July 31, you can e-mail Crystal your story to help other women who might find themselves in your shoes.

Let your story shine a light of hope for others who walk through that dark night as you once did.

Getting Better

A Facebook friend, a woman with whom I attended college, started a Facebook group called, "Everyday I Wake Up Happy No Matter What."

I overcame my fear of joining such a group and dove in. Whether it's true at this moment or not, I want it to be. Because I'll be damned if Life isn't pretty good.

No, it's not perfect. Yet. And it never will be. It's just a journey, with bumps and broken bridges, but with lots of gorgeous scenery and laughter and love to be shared along the way.

I have two amazing sons and a wonderful, sexy and handsome, devoted husband who takes amazing care of his family. And he's also hella talented.

Then there's the fact that I've had two wonderful projects come along lately. One creating a web site for local pet sitter. The other writing an article about a friend's company.

My boys and I spent the afternoon at the pool with some friends. I spent last evening playing Bunco with girlfriends from the neighborhood. Yesterday morning, I took my boys and my friend Lucy-Loo's two sons to the playground and we had a blast.

If I just get out of my head and stop dwelling on what's wrong with Life, what's wrong with me, or what's wrong with those around me, I am able to open my eyes to see all the amazing wonder that is, just waiting for me to acknowledge and appreciate it. And so, as I do, I find more and more good stuff to revel in!

I think it may have taken me several years, struggling with who I am and who I want to be and trying to become SOMEONE THAT MATTERED, to realize that who I am is okay. To know that I do matter.

I'm a passionate and loving wife who works every day to make herself better in some way. A steadfast mother who sees her faults and works hard to overcome them. A loyal friend who longs to grow closer to those in my life. A writer who has once and for all decided to embrace the thing I love and to pursue it with all my passion. I'm flawed, but I'm getting better all the time. Like a fine wine, appreciating my pressurized surroundings and constantly improving with age.

The Perfect Space

Returning from a hiatus as long as the one I've taken from this blog is difficult. There's much I want to say and more that I don't care to mention. And so it is.

I choose to move forward without looking back, steadily moving into my future and all the blessings it holds.

For years I have feared certain aspects of myself. I live my life, much of the time, as if I am two people. Conservative housewife and former businesswoman Dawn and artistic, creative, dreamer, spiritual Dawn. I haven't ever really figured out how to merge those two. And it seems to me that the people who embrace one of those aspects aren't the same who would embrace the other.

What to do?

This past weekend I had an experience – several actually – that I hope have opened the door to my being able to fully integrate all aspects of my being. I hope I find myself free to be whoever it is I feel like being no matter whom I am around. Smart and sensible or Beautiful Dreamer creating a new reality for myself and those I love.

On Friday, Scott and I flew to NYC to help celebrate with our friends Christopher and Yasuko the re-opening of The Center for Remembering and Sharing, an arts and healing center the two of them run together. As Yasuko put it in her speech on Saturday night, her healing work and the artistic endeavors of those who teach and perform there are meant to help us "remember who we are and to share ourselves with others."

To celebrate the opening and highlight some of the extremely talented performers who work with CRS, the evening's performances included two delightful dancers, an acclaimed violinist who was whisked away to perform with the NY Philharmonic immediately following her performance, and Scott, playing a 10-song set.

The crowd attending the event was made up of some of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure of talking to in years. Artists of all types, including visual artists, singers, dancers, actors, and composers. There were healers. There were healers who were also artists. There were yogis and yoginis, many of whom were also artists. It was a very inspiring group of people.

I loved hearing their stories.

There was, of course, Yasuko, who founded CRS and with Chris has helped hundreds of individuals connect with their passions and grow in their art. I loved hearing how she found herself alone in the U.S. with no job and no idea of what she was meant to do, but the strong knowledge that she was meant to be right where she was and how her searching led her to her life's work. I loved it when she told me that at 49 she took her first ballet lesson to support a friend of hers who had just resumed teaching ballet after her husband left her and then, a few days, after turning 50, Yasuko had her first dance recital, pink tutu and all.

I enjoyed talking to the man from New Jersey who teaches aikido and who took up copywriting after retiring from a completely different career.

There was the woman who had a friend sing a traditional Japanese song about the ghost of a scorned woman who comes back to seek revenge on her filandering husband, at her wedding. And of course, there was the woman who sang the song at the wedding, who as it turns out, is a Japanese woman who sings gospel music.

There were also the Chinese accupuncturist/yogini, the writer from London, the Swedish painter, and the Eastern European woman who didn't know anyone and escaped before I could chat with her, but who came to the event just because she was curious what the place was all about.

I wish I could still be there talking to all the fascinating people I didn't get to meet. What I plan to do is to hold onto as much of that intoxicating energy and inspiration as I can.

There's much more to share, especially about my fascinating healing experience with Doña Leova, a traditional Nauahtl shaman, who was the healer to Yogi Bhajan, originator of Kundalini Yoga in the U.S. My experience meeting her was amazing and I can't wait to share it with you tomorrow.

Peace and Light.

Life is a Highway: Happy Birthday, Beckett!

"Happy Birthday to You! Happy Birthday to You!" we sang.

"Me?" Beckett squealed delightedly as we sang, 15 or so smiling faces showering him with love and affection.

He genuinely sounded surprised and delighted, his James cake that I baked and decorated just for him, sitting before him.

It is that sweetness, that sense of wonder and delight and joy in everything he does that makes my sweet Beckett so special. Perhaps because he has been such an easy baby and toddler when compared to his beautiful, intelligent, sensitive, stubborn, Dyspraxic brother who questions everything and pushes every button, that these three years have all but flown by. Or maybe it was the distractions of a life lived more fully this time. Whatever the cause, I want my baby back. (Okay... Am I the only one who just heard that Chili's commercial in my head? Okay. Good.)



Seriously. Where did all the time go? How did he get to be so big and strong and tough. He talks constantly and makes up funny stories. He says the funniest things. He has a delightful sense of humor. He's just like his big bro in his love for all things Thomas. But he also loves animals. Especially elephants. He does the cutest impersonation of a baby elephant and insists that I be the mommy elephant.

He just moved to a big boy bed on Monday night. I got a fantastic deal on a great mattress on craigslist from an interior decorator who does model homes. And I bought his cute, old-fashioned solid wood bed at a yard sale last summer for $5. I plan to paint it, but he was eager to have his own bed like his brother instead of the crib he was still in with the side removed.

He helped me pick out dinosaur bedding for it, which I haven't ordered yet, but plan to do later this week. It will be part of his Christmas presents. The bed was his birthday gift from Mom and Dad. His brother gave him the James train (which he had already) as his gift. We encourage Brendan to give Beckett one of his toys that he has outgrown as a gift each birthday and Christmas. How long that can last, I don't know. But I love how Brendan has embraced and really gives it a lot of consideration.

All of this rumination is really, quite simply, about how much I hate the passage of time. I would have liked to have had more children. I still long for a daughter and find myself increasingly resentful of friends and acquaintances who are expecting who tell me they are having girls. Not all of them, of course. But some. I know that I don't feel like I could do the whole pregnancy thing again. Not because I feel old physically. I actually feel fantastic. But, I am regaining my body. I am more physically fit than I ever have been in my life because I started working out pretty consistently after Beckett, dropping out from time to time because of my schedule or sickness or whatever. But the idea of taking 9 months off, of getting stretched out again. I can't do it. Call me selfish. Call me vain. (You're so vain! I bet you think this post is about you, don't you, don't you?) Whatever. I am turning 40 in January. I want to own my body for once and love it.

Beckett's birthday is just another mile marker on Life's Highway that reminds me to embrace and enjoy every day, every moment. I spend way too much time locked up in sorrow and worry, anxiety and grief over my failings or loss or the failings and loss of others. All I have is now. All any of us have is now. I want to be thankful for the beautiful gifts – Scott, Brendan, Beckett, Courtney (my bestest friend) my friends, extended family, my talents, my home, my health, my faith – and let the rest of the chaff flow on down the river.

And I want my sons to live their lives filled with gratitude and joy. How can they do that if their parents don't embrace that attitude?

So, what is the best gift I can give my Beckett? A life lived fully, in love, in faith, in joy.

Happy Birthday, Little One.

The Greatest Dog Ever

This isn't the post I thought I'd be writing today, but it is the one in my heart. The one I need to write.

Thirteen years ago this month, Scott, who was my boyfriend at the time, called me up and told me he had a surprise for me.

I could not imagine what it might be. We had been dating about seven months at the time. The 1996 Summer Olympics had just ended, so it wasn't tickets to an Olympic event. The only thing I could think of was tickets to a show. I just had no idea.

So, I hopped in my car and drove over to his house. He led me up to his bedroom and there, sitting on a bath towel in the middle of his bed, was the cutest, sweetest, most adorable little floppy-eared puppy I had ever seen. He was tiny and black and tan and he had the cutest little pink tongue that was eager with the kisses.

Instantly, I fell in love.

We named him Cooper. Special Agent Dale Cooper, actually, after Kyle MacLachlan's character in Twin Peaks. Even as a six-week old pup, our Cooper had something of a sage and mysterious nature.

He came to live with me in my apartment which had just been burgled a few weeks prior and soon he was a fine guard dog without our having to train him at all. He also quickly learned to go outdoors to do his business and in my recollection only had a few indoor accidents.

The one place he lacked self-discipline, it seemed, was his love for chewing shoes and books. But, with a little tough love, he soon outgrew those habits and became, by our reckoning and that of others, one of the best behaved dogs you could ever hope for.

Cooper is an amazing dog. And he has been well-loved from the day Scott found him hanging around a neighbor's yard hoping to get in the fence to be with her two Basset hounds.

I credit him with saving my life on at least two occasions. Maybe more. The first time came when he was just one year old, a long and lanky pup whose ears had finally decided to stand up.

Scott and I had just moved in together. It was going to be our first night in our first home together, but Scott had been invited to a wedding in Baltimore that weekend. I spent a stormy Friday night unpacking boxes and setting up our bedroom. Around midnight, I was so tired, I went to bed with Cooper asleep on the bed beside me. I had just drifted off, it seemed, when Cooper began growling, deep in his belly, and awoke me. I then heard two male voices right under my bedroom window, discussing the best way to get into the house. Cooper began barking and I called 911. The two men were gone by the time police arrived, but I believe that's only thanks to my sweet and protective boy.

About two years later, he pulled me away from our mailbox just seconds before a drunk driver crashed into it, right at the spot where I would have been standing.

At 13 years old, he still barks when he sees someone walking down the street or a strange car in front of our house. And since the day they got old enough to throw a temper tantrum, Cooper has come to stand between me and a screaming crying boy as though he wants to protect me from them.

All of this, and really, Scott is his Alpha, his master. Scott who used to feed Cooper the crusts off his Pop-Tarts. Who made sure I indulged Cooper with pig ears and dog toys.

Still, I don't know that I have ever been loved as unconditionally as I have by Cooper. And my heart breaks as I see him changing and becoming less and less himself, day by day.

It began when he started having separation anxiety. And then he stopped coming to greet us when we came home. Soon, even rain showers were making him shake, cry, and follow me around the house the way the most severe thunderstorms once did.

On Friday, he wandered two doors down to a neighbor's house. When I went to shepherd him back home, he didn't recognize me and almost got hit by a car as he tried to run to the other side of the street to avoid me. As he trotted toward our house, he kept looking over his shoulder fearfully at the strange woman who was trying to get him.

A fair amount of reading has led me to conclude that he has Cognitive Dysfunction Syndrome. He has almost all of the symptoms. The worst, aside from his not recognizing briefly on Friday, has been his inability to sleep at night. It seems it has gotten worse the last few days, too.

I know that it is inevitable that he will die. He has already exceeded the life expectancy for a dog his size by about three years. And, for the most part, I'd say he has had a good life. Although, I keep reliving the moment when I knelt beside him at five a.m., in our foyer, the morning I went into labor with Brendan. My water had broken a few hours earlier and as we ran around the house making phone calls, packing last minute items into bags, loading things into the car, Cooper followed me and kept an eye on all that was happening. He knew something was up, if not what.

I knelt beside him and hugged him and I couldn't hold back my tears as I told him I was sorry that his life was about to change. I knew it would never be the same for him again.

But, the day we brought Brendan home and sat him down in his carrier in the living room, Cooper checked him out and added him to the pack. Moments later, when our orange tabby Mao walked over to check the baby out, Cooper instantly jumped up, barked and nudged the cat away with his nose.

Still, I go back and wish there had been enough of me to go around. To keep up the daily outdoor play time of throwing the tennis ball or a stick. I hope the walks, the tummy rubs, the special treats, the love the kids have shown him have made up for some of the joys in life he lost when the kids came into the picture.

I don't know how much time he will have left with us and us with him. I do hope I can make each of those days as great as possible and that in the moments when he recognizes us and his life that he knows he is, always has been, and will continue to be loved and known as the greatest dog ever.

Trouble

I've spent the last 24 hours or so trying hard not to worry about my mother-in-law.

She's in ICU with sepsis, the result of a kidney infection left untreated. She's diabetic, and although no one has said this, I think her diabetes combined with recurring kidney stones ultimately led to this infection which has now spread to her bloodstream.

We got a call yesterday morning form my sister-in-law to let us know and have been in wait, pray, and see mode ever since.

I'm terrified. She's like a mother to me. I love her. I can't imagine what it would do to Scott to lose his mom, to my sons to lose the grandmother they adore. Beckett walks around the house asking for her; gets out my cell phone and pretends he's calling her or asks me to call her so he can talk to her.

72 hours. That's how long the doctor said it could take for the antibiotic to work. And I can't help but wonder if a small city doctor has the resources and the knowledge a doctor at a major medical facility in a large city would. Is that weird?

My mother died of sepsis in a small town hospital. I didn't even know what it was when they told me she had it. Today, I have a general idea of exactly what the doctor should be doing thanks to Google. Of course, I'm not there to ask all the questions and I think I pissed my brother-in-law off or he just thinks I'm a freak because I sent him a link to the Surviving Sepsis Campaign's guidelines for treating sepsis and asked him to discuss it with the doctor. I guess my attitude is that I may piss off the doctor, but what if I piss her off and she reconsiders her course of action and my loved one lives as a result. It would be worth it.

I'm rambling. Thankfully, I've had lots of distractions today with the boys.

I think I'll turn in now, say a few prayers, and believe that when I awake tomorrow she'll be better.

Hope

As I've mentioned before, Brendan has an uncanny way of mis-hearing or misstating things that cuts closer to the depth and essence of something than the actual word he intended or the word that is actually used.

One word he used to use and that I allowed to some extent because I loved it was rainbrella.

Several times recently, a new one has cropped up. And it's actually so accurate in its heartbreaking truth that I get teary-eyed every time he says it.

Our neighborhood is situated so that there are several different ways to access the various Interstate highways that intersect nearby. And each of those exits, we are seeing an increase in the homeless as they are pushed out of Downtown Atlanta. Brendan has recently begun to notice them and ask questions. So, Scott and I have both had opportunities to talk to him about homelessness and what that means.

What he has heard instead of home-less is Hope-less.

Mommy, he will ask, how did they get hopeless?

And I am left to explain the heartbreak and tragedies of this world while trying to hold out hope as a shiny, never-fading reality to my own child.

When he asks if we will ever be hopeless, I tell him no because we have a wide and extended family and friends who love us and who would help us if something bad ever happened to us. I tell him that this is why family is important and that he and Beckett will always have one another and they should always help and honor and support one another. I tell him nothing is more important than his family.

I tell him, and I pray that it is true, that when you have family and you love one another and treat each other with respect that you will always have a home. And you will always have hope.

The Real Slim Shady

For a lot of folks, I'm sure going to a high school reunion is a chance to relive past glories, an opportunity to be hailed as the football hero or gorgeous and popular homecoming queen. When I attended my 20-year reunion a few weeks ago, I saw the possibility of resolution. For me, it was a chance to lay to rest old insecurities and see myself as an equal to the many people whom I thought of as superior to me because of the distinctions of class and clique that plagued my school. I wasn't some miserable slob that everyone mocked or anything. But I never felt as good as everyone else. I never felt like I belonged. I knew I'd never be on the homecoming court or go to cotillion or do any of the things the rich and popular girls did, but I was a smart kid which gave me some good standing. Everyone knew me and although back then I thought everyone hated me or thought they were better than me, most everyone (with a few notable exceptions) was at the very least polite. Still, I really didn't know what to expect at the reunion. I imagined that everyone would fall back into their same little cliques and that I'd hang out with my closest friends the whole night.

Thank God for Facebook. My friend Daryl created a FB group for alumni of our high school and over the course of several weeks before the reunion, several folks from my class found each other. By virtue of space, time, and goodness of the Internet gods, we were able to connect and soon I found myself interacting with people whom I never imagined I had any common ground.

At the reunion I found myself flattered and surprised by how many people remembered me and talked to me. In fact, I was only a little disappointed that people recognized me. I think I've changed dramatically enough that more people should have been surprised, but that's okay.

I didn't exactly get the resolution I was seeking. I got something both better and slightly more disturbing.

I found out that people liked me and I only wish I'd realized it then instead of wasting my time, energy, and emotions thinking no one did. I've also been surprised by the ways in which people remember me and disappointed in myself for not living up to the expectations I had for myself and for not retaining more of the girl I used to be.

My old friend Tim commented after the reunion that he was glad to see I still had "the same zest for life," that I had back then. It was only when I read those words and thought about how – even though I may have thought I was an outcast and felt unloved, unattractive, and unfinished – I still found a way to live my life with joy and verve. I used to be a totally different person.

When did she go away? Is she dead? I think not, but I think I repressed her. I think at some point after college I realized that it was not cool to be happy and to enjoy your life. All the cool kids were darkly cynical and judgmental of those who just wanted to be and to be happy. It seems like everyone I knew had to overanalyze and critique everything and everyone and sadly I let myself fall into that trap. And I got stuck there. And then I got bogged down in the workplace and got married and lost babies and had babies and somewhere along the way forgot all about the real me.

I feel so angry all the time and I rarely express it. But back when I was happy, I let myself be angry if I needed to be. There was balance.

I am so thankful I went to that reunion (I almost didn't.). I felt really proud of my classmates and genuinely happy to see how well they have all turned out. There were at least three moms with 4 kids who homeschool and I am in awe of them. There was an Air Force Lt. Col. with a beautiful wife and two young kids. Lots of teachers and lots of moms just like me. It was really great to see everyone looking so happy and beautiful. And I am grateful to have gotten to see myself in the slightest way as others have seen me, to know that I was liked despite what I thought back then.

I hope I haven't hidden that old me away too long or too deeply. I want to bring her back. I don't know what that will mean to my husband. I don't know if he ever knew me in that way or remembers me that way. I just know I have to find a way to make myself happy again. I can't resign myself to a life of feeling hurt, angry, sad, and inauthentic.

We're All In This Thing Together

I spent a much-needed evening with my girlfriends last night, playing Bunco, laughing, talking, eating delicious food, and drinking rum punch.

I got a little of that patchwork mothering and gave some myself. Today, I feel as if a reset button has been punched and all is right with the world. At least my tiny piece of it. Sadly, that much can't be said of the world at large. I am saddened about what a tragic week or two it has been in the world at large.

Here, though, on this tiny plot of earth, for this moment at least, I feel safe, happy, loved, and loving.

I'm done acting like a spoiled brat.

All the kids who got into that class deserve to be there. Maybe especially the more challenging ones like E., the jumping-bean of a boy who can't sit still.

I thought a lot about the fact that just a few months ago I didn't even want to apply because I was worried that it would harm Brendan socially because he'd have the same classmates for the next six years. I thought about the fact that his best friend, Kush, also didn't get in and I hope they'll get to be in the same class next year.

Like I said, we all end up where we're meant to be. Somehow.

Brendan's teacher reaffirmed this belief this morning when she said that no matter what class he's in he will succeed and do well. It made me very proud and happy to hear the confidence in her voice when she said that. And looking across the room at E., as he climbed into the middle of the table where his classmates were trying to draw, I hoped that he, too, would thrive and find success where he lands.

Motherless Child

I just stumbled on an extremely powerful and moving article over on CNN. It actually complements the post I wrote for Jen over at SemiCharmed Wife rather nicely.

It's about how to create a new mother for yourself if you feel like you haven't received the mothering you need. The article originally appeared in O Magazine. Author Martha Beck starts off by saying to change the way you think about the word mother so that you see it as a verb rather than a noun. Solid advice, I think.

Ultimately she goes on to suggest four lines of thought to determine if and where you still need mothering. I've listed her thought provoking statements below and follow each with my own initial reaction:

1) I feel useless, unlovable, and disgusting when ...
I lose my temper with my children and when I lose control over my domestic duties.

2) I feel empty and needy when ...
I am tired and sleep-deprived and feel like I have more to do than I can accomplish.

3) I feel stupid and ignorant when ....
I am late for appointments or forget events.

4) I feel helpless and incapable when ...
I have to ask for help completing a task that is my responsibility.

Basically, says Beck, if you had an immediate response for each of those, you need your mommy. Or at least the verisimilitude of a mother in your life. She suggests a patchwork mother.

It seems I already have a patchwork mommy, an amalgam of friends, family, and people I've never even met. Over the last month, I have received and am grateful for the mothering I received from certain friends ....

Stacey metaphorically held my hand via e-mail two weeks ago when I had freak out as a result of coming off the Zoloft I've been taking for the last year.

Courtney, my best friend for the last 14 years or so, gave me wonderful and sound advice about child psychology.

Fran and Jen both expressed belief in me and my writing skills.

Scott has helped me more with the house and kids the last couple of weeks and has been extremely encouraging of me as a writer and as a promoter of his music.

A.,Leila, Aleta, Just Me, and Jeremy all had good advice about our food battles.

And suddenly, I feel so loved and connected and at peace. For all my bitching and moaning about feeling alone and like a motherless child, I have been getting all the mothering I need.

The Scientist

What did you dream of being when you were a child? Did you give up that dream or is it still in your heart and head somewhere? If so, are you pursuing it in some way?

I'm thinking about all of this, because, as you probably have figured out by now, I'm still trying to figure out how to make my dreams happen. Some I have achieved, but thankfully, I still have others that I'm working on.

And now, my son is old enough to start telling me about some of his dreams. It's wonderful to get a peek inside that head and hear what he thinks about, to see some of the places his imagination carries him....

Brendan has been saying recently that he wants to be a scientist. And a vegetarian. Sometimes he gets confused. He told me last week that scientists don't eat meat. We fixed that one pretty quickly. Still, he wants to be a non-carnivorous scientist. I'm good with that.

On Sunday, as we were driving home from his soccer game, he told me he wants to have his own TV network that broadcasts all his favorite shows. It will also broadcast The Brendan Show. As he described it, it sounds a lot like Late Night with Conan O'Brien, my favorite late-night chat show. He said that he would be on the show and he'd have his friends on and they'd do funny tricks and they'd talk to other people about what they did and what they like. He's never watched a show like that at home, although I guess he could have seen something similar at his grandmother's. I'm not entirely sure where he came up with the idea.

Later that night as I was tucking him in, he told me that he would also like to have his own laboratory so that he could conduct experiments and make potions and he wants to be a TV actor. He'd also like to have all his toys talk so they can be his friends. And he wants a goldfish.

Big dreams.

I support them all. Except for the talking toys.

It's noisy enough in this house.

Anniversary Song

Last night Scott and I celebrated our eighth anniversary. Eight years isn't a new marriage, but when I think about the kind of enduring love I dream of, it seems so young and fresh.

So much has changed in such a brief time. As I mentioned earlier, and as so many of you know, it's so easy to misplace your feelings for one another, to lose your passion for your (soul)mate once you have children. Shoot, even without kids. I'm sure we've all sadly watched couples we thought were made for one another drift apart over time regardless of whether or not they had kids. Kids just become one more means of hiding out and not really communicating with your partner, whether you intend for that to happen or not.

Anyway, it was really wonderful to spend a perfect, romantic evening with my husband. For the two of us to slow down, to do nothing of consequence, but something profound. To just be together, enjoying one another, and remembering how and why and when and where we fell in love.

Scott completely took charge of the evening. At some point yesterday I suggested that we do what we'd done on our honeymoon. For our honeymoon, we booked tickets to London and two nights lodging. We planned to be in England and Ireland for two weeks. We played everything by ear and at times, it was a little stressful, like when we arrived in Dublin on a Friday afternoon and couldn't find a hotel room. Our delightfully charming cabbie got on his cell phone and found us a room at a friend's B & B for one night only and recommended a lovely little Italian restaurant.

So, we sort of played it by ear, although Scott had a general plan in mind. As it turned out, it was almost exactly what I had been envisioning. Almost right down to the neighborhood. I was only off by about three miles.

When he came home, we had a drink before we left and then drove around for a while just listening to a podcast of This American Life from Valentine's Day about love and relationships when they're no longer new. It was really beautiful. We took the long way to get where we were going.

So, we took the long way to drive from our house to Decatur. We drove past my alma mater and admired how beautiful the campus looks in the spring, then we drove over to Oakhurst, which is a little neighborhood in Decatur where there are lots of beautiful old Victorian style homes and cute shops and restaurants. We ate at a little Mexican place and it was delicious. We haven't been out for Mexican in a really, really long time and it's one of my favorites.

Then, we walked across the street to Kavarna. It's a coffee and wine bar that Scott's going to be playing in July. We had cappuccino and split some baklava. Then we drove around and finished listening to the podcast and drove to places we used to go to when we were dating and before we even knew each other. It was really nice.

Then we came home at 11 p.m. to two boys awake, the baby crying. Both wheezing from all the pollen. But it was a good night and I felt very loved and in love.

Perfect.

Happy

What a busy weekend we had around here!

On Friday, our friend J. and his son, E., who were passing through Atlanta on their way to visit an ailing grandparent, stopped by for a visit. They went with Beckett and me to my MOMS Club Easter egg hunt and we all had a great time.

After visiting with their family in another town that afternoon, J. and E., came back to spend the night with us. More friends came over and we ended up going out to buy curtains for our basement and installing them that night. Brendan and E. played amazingly well together, with baby brother Beckett tagging along as best he could, and had a wonderful time. We all ate pizza and laughed and talked and had a wonderfully relaxing night.

On Saturday morning, we had Brendan's soccer game at 9 a.m. and J. and E. came along with us to that. Brendan's team lost, but he played really well and had fun.

After the game, we all relaxed back at the ranch, had some lunch, then J. and E. headed up to J.'s in-laws house to meet his wife and daughter for the rest of Easter weekend. Scott, Brendan, Beckett, and I hung out at home, watching the Duke game (boo-hoo! I am very sad the team lost because they seem like a great group of kids.) and packing for our Easter trip to Montgomery. After the game we hit the road and got there in time for dinner. We were all so exhausted though, that within, 2 1/2 hours of getting there, we all fell asleep.

I was up at 5:30 on Sunday though, getting my Easter Bunny groove on, stuffing the baskets I bought last year at 70% off the markdown price (making the baskets that were originally $10 each, just $1.50 each!). By 6:30, I had stuffed both baskets, made a pot of coffee, put together a casserole for later in the day, and laid out both boys' Easter attire. And for once, we were all dressed and in the pew before Easter services began.

After church, we all headed over to Scott's brothers for a wonderful Easter dinner and egg hunt. The kids had fun. I enjoyed being with our family and just felt really close to both my sisters-in-law and all the kids. It was a really great day, I thought!

We were home by 8:30 p.m. with happy boys and leftovers for dinner. Brendan grew up it seemed and cheerfully offered to help Scott unpack the car. He ate well the whole weekend (a big concern for me is his poor appetite and picky palate).

He went to bed without a fuss and the weekend ended with all of us tired, but reasonably content.