change is a comin'

Well, who knew, eh? Who knew that this day would finally, finally arrive? This day where the focus, the hope, the crux of all my dreams and desires from the past two years would unfold itself in one neat little package? For those of you following along, this is where I would obviously and convincingly say, "Well, I did. I knew it was coming." And though there were days when I lost patience (but never hope!), I believed this day would come. Truly. And yet, it's still so amazing to know that it is finally here....

Last week, I went to yoga. A mom's night out. No boys, no distractions. The decision just made and final that although I believe in long shots and miracles, my current place of employment simply had not been able to keep me -- the hours? the pay? doesn't matter -- the decision finally final and done. And although I was so very excited about my new part-time job (read it again, PART-TIME JOB...ok, now shout it to the rooftops), I had, in fact, been holding out more than a little bit of hope that my long shot of being able stay would come through. It did not. And frankly, I was more than a little disappointed. Ok, that's an understatement. I was sad. Supremely let down. Broken-hearted. Scared too at the thought of leaving this very comfortable place I had created for myself as writer, editor, brainstormer, concepter, valued employee, friend.....and that's when I realized that I had let myself lose sight of the most important part. That. My. Dream. Had. Finally. Fully. Absolutely. Perfectly. Come. TRUE!

So, yoga. Arriving in sadness made me angry. And those are two things that just don't belong there. At my hot yoga practice, I find it easy, natural even, to really be able to focus on and deliver the deep, deep breathing that is so critical to every yoga practice, but even more so when it's 110 degrees in your studio. And I always use two words to inhale and exhale throughout my practice there -- a mantra of sorts, depending on my mood. Usually some sort of reminder. Often a wish....any one of these my focus for the past year....Inhale (when?). Exhale (soon)....Inhale (peace). Exhale (hope)....Inhale (strength). Exhale (hope).

Last week, last Thursday, with my somewhat broken, fearful, anxious heart in hand, I lay there on my mat before class trying to relax and focus. And I suddenly realized how ungrateful I was, how my expectations had overshadowed the most important part -- that my wish, my dream, my want had come true. Entirely. How easy to forget in the mess of all the crazy details that had just that day worked themselves out. And now how critical it was to put them all aside and embrace, believe, remember what was truly, truly important.

Somewhat contrite, I put all that hurt and disappointment aside. I had just been handed the thing I wanted most in life -- a place to do what I enjoyed (writing and editing) and the amazing gift of two extra days to spend with both of my boys (without compromising too much of my overall funds). More time. More time with Grif. More time with Jim. More, more, more. Time, time, time. How amazing. And so I dedicated that practice to being uncompromisingly, totally overflowing with gratitude and joy. To thanking everyone who worked so hard to make this come true for me. To not just saying thanks, but fully feeling it. To being full to overflowing with joy and thanks. Fully reaping the rewards from the sheer amazingness of it all. To being overwhelmed at this amazing gift -- this gift that sometimes goes by the name of Grif, but so often is just my good, good life.

And so I inhaled (joy). And exhaled (thanks).

Repeat. Infinitely.

seeing, listening, believing

And somehow, another month (plus) has passed, a new year has begun, and the craziness of the holidays has come and gone without a word here. Instead of apologizing, vowing to change, or wishing that I could do something different, I'm trying -- no, doing -- something new. Slightly different. Instead, right now, I'm simply thankful that I'm able to carve out these few minutes now to be here. To do this. And that you're here along with me. Everything as it should be. Kind of an interesting twist on looking at things, no?

I've been listening to the universe a lot lately. Both the universe at large, and the universe as it speaks through a favorite source. Even better, not just listening to the universe, but really hearing it. I saw a sign the other day while driving -- one of those digital road signs that usually blinkingly proclaim "road work ahead 2 miles, proceed with caution" -- only this one actually said, "You are blessed. Be thankful for this good life." Ok, I thought, I'm listening. I get it. And I think it's awesome.

Another day, I got a note from the universe, telling me to "ask my question, feel the answer. Ask, feel, ask, feel. It's that easy." It is that easy, isn't it? My question was of course, "when?" (can I find the right job that will let me spend more time with my husband and boy and still be financially viable) and the soothing, believable, obvious answer was immediately, overwhelmingly, absolutely "soon." Ask. Feel. When? Soon. Ask...feel...when...soon. WHEN? SOON! Even more striking, I believed it. Truly believed it. Still do. It's become my mantra, especially during yoga. Inhale when. Exhale soon. It's perfect, really.

For the new year, I was tempted to do the same-old start over, wipe the slate clean, set new goals thing. But again, at a suggestion, instead I'm looking at it this way....I'm giving thanks that life is just as it is (and always has been). Knowing that what I want is already mine by divine law (and I'm not worrying about how I'll get there) and just focusing on the ownership, the absoluteness of this and letting the rest take care of it itself. I'm following my impulses and instincts, and above all, I know that 2011 is going to be my year (more to the point, it already is).

I even had my tarot cards read the other night, out of curiosity and compulsion, to know if everything I was thinking and feeling already this year would shine through somehow with a turn of a card. Suffice it to say, much of it did. And although I didn't need confirmation to know that the path I'm on is unequivocally the right one, the best one, it certainly was comforting and lovely to hear a voice of resounding agreement.

I've started wearing a yoga charm made by the fabulous Rachel at The Yoga Bar, which reads "Salutations to Ganesha" -- remover of obstacles and the symbol for new beginnings. I'd even go so far as to say it called to me. I love what it represents -- the hope, the knowledge, the certainty. It just seemed too perfectly right.

So -- this may seem a wee bit more mystical than usual, and much of this I've shared with some of you already via email, coffee or conversation, but it simply had to be the first post of this wonderful new year. And even though we all have those same dreams and aspirations and hopes for change and discovery as a new season begins, the difference -- the one I believe and know and feel with utter happiness and certainty and peace -- is knowing (not just believing) that everything will work out as it should. Oh, yes, it will. That I will move mountains (and they will say, "thank you, dude!). And that there is simply no such thing as thinking too big.

Wow. Pretty cool, no?

Small enough to hold

Griffin is tall. Really tall, especially for a two-year-old. Just over three feet already. And although he's not a baby anymore, he is still very much a little boy. And one who is still small enough to hold in my arms.

I've been noticing that lately. Paying very close, quiet attention to the moments (sometimes brief as they are) that he is trusting and content and still in my arms. "Up, Mama," seems to be his mantra of choice these days. He always wants me to pick him up. Sometimes so he can see what I'm doing -- cooking, chopping, cleaning, whatever -- sometimes I think just because he's missed me throughout the day and wants to be spoiled and cuddled and held. I'm always happy (breathless, thankful, overwhelmed) to oblige.

It's funny, when he was a baby, we actually were worried for a time because he didn't seem to be all that cuddly. He always seemed to be going, going, going...only sitting still for seconds at a time. That, of course, has changed quite a bit. He'll sit in your lap for book after book (Go Dog Go, Goodnight Moon, Polar Bear Polar Bear and The Eye Book being just a smattering of his current favs -- in Grif speak, Woof, Moon, Roar and Eye). He wants to be held after every bump and scrape (some bigger than others, but always running to be lifted up and consoled -- as if the power of my arms can make all the hurt go away). He'll run to me to be held when he's frightened or hesitant. He runs to me with a resounding "MAma!" and a huge smile when I come into his room at daycare at the end of the day...all but throwing himself into my arms. Sometimes, he'll walk right up to me, hold my face in his hands, and give me a big (slightly sloppy) Grif kiss. Or he'll sit on my lap, facing me, and just lean his forehead in til it touches mine. Full of easy, innocent wonder and love. These simple things overwhelm me.

Lately too, after bathtime, he likes to be cuddled while still wrapped up in his the towel, head on my shoulder. Which is one of the most amazing, startling, poignant times, since we are always in front of the bathroom mirror, where I can actually see his full weight -- his full trust and love -- as he collapses his whole body in my arms. I hold him up -- I hold him close -- physically and in so many other ways, in my heart, in my mind, down deep in my soul. Oftentimes here, I get the smallest, slightest twinge of envy, as I wish I was small enough still to be held so fully, so totally by someone else. I wish I could remember that feeling of being lifted up, and surrendering so completely. What an amazing thing.

And if he wakes up too early, either from a nap or in the morning, we will sit in his chair in his room, with his head on my shoulder, and his little long body still small enough to fill my lap. In silence, we'll just stay there, neither of us ready to get moving just yet. Me, holding him. Him, being held. And I'll look down at his sweet face, holding him close, and just reveling in, marveling in, wondering at the amazing, miraculous, natural thing it is to hold my child in my arms.

Without direction

I feel my shoulders creeping up around my ears. My anxiety level building, filling me up with this weird restless feeling that has me wanting to just walk away from this job (that I need to be at right now). Near tears that I can't do this today (anymore)(just yet). And lunchtime yoga is still two hours away.....I feel like I'm literally about to boil over...with what, I'm not sure, but I know that maybe this is the best way to get it out and under control.

I had a hard night last night with Griffin. He was a tired, unhappy, fit-throwing monster last night (for lack of a better description). No nap at daycare. Two-year-old "wants" that he wants NOW. It made for a very un-fun and stressful (and again tearful) evening. And I felt so frustrated at him, and myself. Are we raising him the right way? Not giving in to the tantrums that if we do, will only lead to more? Nurturing him enough for him to know that some days it's ok to lose your cool (cuz it happens to us all)? Funny, I think about his name a lot these days...and those are the things I want him to be. Powerful like a lion. Free like an eagle. Right now though, he's just a cub who doesn't always know the difference between playtime and serious time -- a fledgling who's just starting to spread his wings and test the air. He was a lion for Halloween this year. And that (and this pic) captured him so perfectly -- his innocence, his youth, his playfulness, his sweetness, his trust, his potential....

My mind is racing so fast with emotions and wishes and sadness and hope that I can barely keep up here, let alone actually concentrate so that I can get the work done that I need to do here today. I don't want to write silly home page copy for a client that I'm working with now. I just don't want to (sound like a tantrum?). And if I can't do it (if I get anxious and upset and distracted every time like this) then how am I supposed to do this on a freelance basis? If I can't even concentrate here, if I can't motivate here, will it be worse when I don't have a timesheet and a boss to answer to? How can I teach my fierce little lion of a boy to be as peaceful as an eagle if I'm having so much trouble doing the same? I just want to go home and take a bath and a nap and maybe cry for a bit....I want to run away for a bit. But instead I have to hold it together. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

And just like that, this crazy stream-of-consciousness-not-really-like-me-jumble-of-craziness has done some semblance of its job, as a slight sense of calm and purpose has returned. Amy Seeley below helped -- I listened to these seven songs while writing this (and will probably just keep re-starting them throughout today). I have to breathe. I have to let all the frustrations -- from last night, from this job, from everything -- go. Just breathe. Be calm. Celebrate in my health. My breath. My strength. My beauty. My fortune. My life. I have to focus again here. On this day. On this paragraph. On this one inhale...and let the rest go.

 

I once was

So, I've been quiet here recently. Procrastinating really. The date since my last post grows further and further into the past, and instead of doing something about it (like perhaps write, as a writer should do, does), I've let it simply haunt me and remain unchanged.

Sometimes I use time as an excuse, as in, I have no time to do that today (sometimes this is acceptable...most times, well, not really). Most of the time I think it's because I  feel I should have something so prosaic, so profound, so paramount to write about that I can't fulfill my own expectation....and instead choose not to write at all.

Very recently, however, a good friend of me reminded me that this is not what this blog is about (thanks, Sue). Although public and with a small "readership" (one that I would love to expand of course), really this space is all about me -- who I am, who I want to be, and where I'm going. (Yes, I stole that directly from you, Sue. Thanks for that as well.) I start writing "half-blog" entries in my head so often, but then the workday comes and both they and the time fade away before I grab onto them firmly and set them down here. So instead of always feeling like this blog has to be lofty, or perfect, or moving, or targeted, or newsworthy, or readworthy, or even "good" (whatever that means), I'm going to try more to just write. And not judge. And not hesitate. And not over-think. And not procrastinate. Just write.

So this morning I was thinking about when I used be a skydiver. Distinction -- not when I went skydiving, but when I considered myself a skydiver. The short story is that my sister and I did it together -- I gave it to her as a Christmas gift certificate and told her that when she was ready to redeem it, I would go with her. We decided to do it the "real" way -- no, I'm not talking about tandem, nor about static line. We went hard-core all they way -- it's called AFF, Accelerated Freefall. What it means is that after 12 hours of class, one rain delay and another four-hour review, my sister and I went up to 13,000 feet, hung from the wing of the plane, and with ONLY an instructor holding on to our jumpsuits -- a mere handful of fabric, no straps, no safety net, just a hand-hold more to steady us in flight than as any kind of assistance -- we jumped out, freefell, pulled our own cord, and floated down all completely solo. This is one of those points where even years later, words don't really describe it....

But that's not the point of the story. Nor is the point that my sister left her evil monster husband after that first jump day (although it could be, given the point of this post -- she'd been married to him for 20, yes, 20 years, and leaving him after that jump? No coincidence I think). Nor is it that we went back for a second jump and did it all again (only this time we did maneuvers in mid-air). The point is that I thought myself a skydiver. A fearless, jeep-driving, wild woman, cool-girl skydiver. Not just someone who jumped out of planes, but a skydiver. The word had weight. I did things like that back then -- weighty, somewhat crazy things like driving solo across the western half of the country in my jeep (pre-cell days, remember). Hiking the Grand Canyon. Playing rugby. Going rock-climbing for four hours before my shift at a crazy restaurant where I would spend the following 10 hours absolutely running my tail off. Writing poetry. Painting watercolor scenes at the pond by my house. Driving by airports and dreaming of flying...the energy I had, the romantic notions, the ideas...

My memory of that girl I was is jaded -- on the surface, she seems so confident, so daring, so free and fearless. And for the most part, I was (dare I say, still am?). But the truth is that I was also alone way back then. Lonely. Achingly, terribly, horribly so. And although I miss those days somewhat -- truly, who doesn't miss the crazy, carefreeness of their youth? -- I'm no longer that fly-solo-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl. I have a husband who is my whole heart (and who, ironically, is a pilot -- my oldest of friends find that hilarious), I have a son (a child, a wee boy, the ultimate light of my life, the center of my soul), and a life with them that I love so very much and that I waited so very long for. I have so much. So very, very much.

I want to remember these things for the good that they were. I want Grif to know that I drove a blue jeep for 17 years (still miss ya, Big Blue). That I was the captain of my college rugby team (and we were good), that the only times I've been to the Grand Canyon have been by myself. That I once spent a month crewing a 34-foot sailboat and sailing around the Virgin Islands. That I bought a harmonica determined to spend every day playing it but never did. That I've started two different books, but not yet finished either. That all these things made me the woman, wife, mother, writer I am today. And that I wasn't afraid to do any of them. To try them. Or to leave them in the past where, for now, they belong as good, wonderful, gotta-smile-at-that memories that remind me I'm still beautiful, strong and free. I can't wait to tell him that I wasn't afraid to step out of that plane....and let go. And fall.

Five years ago....

Five years ago today....there was a full moon. And the day began with an early morning bath and a cup of coffee that upset my stomach. And then we laughed the entire rest of that glorious day and night away....

Five years ago today, I had my hair and makeup done -- my hair turning out not so great, but my makeup...I remember looking in the mirror and thinking I had never looked so beautiful. And my dress, well, I still am in love with it. Five years ago, the only time I cried was when I saw my mother come out of the hotel as we picked her up in the limo. I had never seen her look so utterly lovely and radiant.

Five years ago, I looked at Jim down the aisle of a church, he and I alone, as he turned around and saw me for the first time in my dress. And I laughed when I thought of how nervous I had been in the car ride over. I'm still blaming the coffee.

Five years ago, my sweet dad walked me down the aisle surrounded by the best of our friends, companions, family. Five years ago, we read Walt Whitman, and played Verdi and the Marriage of Figaro, and spoke from our hearts when we gave each other our rings. Five years ago, we took time out to thank my girl Mary, for all she had done for us. And Father Keyes made everyone laugh, and cry, and think that if there were more priests like him, more people would be returning to the Church.

Five years ago, we took pictures outside, boarding these gorgeous brick-red chris-craft boats with a glorious blue blue metallic sky above to match my "something blue" shoes. Five years ago, my mother gave a Spanish toast, my father blessed us all in tears, and my dear friend Lark gave a speech to end all speeches about love and life and living and thanks.

Five years ago, we did things just a little differently than everyone else (said lovely planner Susan, who we will miss and remember just as much as Father Keyes on this day), from the music, lights and the setup to the food, fun and flowers. Five years ago, we were each other's Shining Star, with a silly Dancing Bear pinata and Spanish cava and chocolate fondant cake. Five years ago, we danced our feet off, broke the bar (so to speak)(or not, depending on if you ask my father about the bar bill), ate like kings and had a vivid and glorious day, one I remember in fine detail even these years later.

Five years ago, I married the love of my life. My soulmate. My best friend. My lover. My pilot. My husband.

Five years ago, we had a blast. And although every day since then hasn't been as magical and perfect and carefree and fun as our wedding day, I wouldn't change a single day. People are still talking about how fun and amazing our wedding was -- we can't get together with anyone who was there on the lake that night of the full moon without retelling a story, a favorite moment, a salute to a great getaway and an over-the-top occasion. I'm inclined to agree.

Here's to the next five, and all the rest to come. I love you, Jim. With all my heart yes.

When did I become a hippie?

I grew up in the 70s and 80s. Came of age (in my mind anyway) in the mid-90s. My music repertoire had its roots in Styx (I blame my then-teenage neighbor), then later in Rush, the Fixx, the Alarm (I blame pals Rick and Joe) and other similar bands like the Clash, Joe Satriani, the Cult. Post-college brought me into contact (as I fell in love) with Pearl Jam and the Dave Matthews Band. And then there were the Frank years, and all things ladies of blues, Etta, Ella and Nina. But I never would've called myself a hippie or anything even slightly related. Slightly boho-gal, yes. All-out Jeep outdoorsy cool chick, probably. But hippie? I had one tie-dye shirt (that I made). Didn't go to festivals (didn't even know such a thing existed besides Woodstock). Never saw the Grateful Dead on tour (never even knew much of their music). Would not have known what a drum circle was. Nor a jam band. Phish grew to fame in the east while I was there, and I missed that too entirely. And then, somehow that all changed.

I remember the first song that my husband played for me -- the first one that he really wanted me to hear. It was by the Jerry Garcia Band, and it was a cover of Shining Star by Earth, Wind and Fire. And it was good. Really good. I instantly fell in love (your guess here whether I'm talking about the song or Jim). He had told a friend of his years before that he would play that song for the woman he was going to marry, so in a way, it was a mini-audition for the wife and lover and friend and companion that I was already well on my way to becoming. Come forward to our engagement, which began when he asked me to marry him at Bonnaroo, during the Dead show while they played Morning Dew (a sweet, soulful, classic folk melody)...and then keep on going to our wedding, which featured both significant songs, a reception introduction orchestrated by Phish's First Tube, and filled with Jerry Garcia wine, Jerry art on all the place cards, and a Dancing Bear pinata. Oh yes, I'm serious. It was a blast....

I credit my lovely (hippie) pilot of a hubby with all this music discovery. Music is amazing, I think. How one song can change your entire day, mood, life sometimes. How one song can take you back 20 years, and surprise you by the fact that you still know all the words. And the words -- ahhh, the writer in me is always so focused on, so moved by, so inspired with what the songs actually say and how they say it, most times more than the music itself (although also a critical part). That's one of our big differences -- for Jim, it's all about the music, and the words are secondary, sometimes unimportant. It's the absolute opposite for me. To this day, I still print out words to songs that strike me -- songs where the words could stand alone, but are brought to such an amazing life with their accompanying chords and notes and voices. Songs where the words alone bring a tear to my eye, make me smile, cry, wish, hope....

I'm now a huge fan of both the Grateful Dead and Phish, and find myself sorry that I missed some of the "golden years" when touring with the bands was an experience and not just another show. I've been to Bonnaroo twice. A number of smaller festivals like the Hangout and two and three-day shows galore from Red Rocks to Alpine Valley and back. In fact, much of our vacation schedule is crafted around festival season. I just got back from a two-day Phish run at Deer Creek. Funny, how music can change a life, no?

So in the spirit of the hippie I've become -- loved becoming, become through love -- I leave you with my latest favorite song. A good DJ "friend" played it to end his run on my favorite local radio station, and it seemed to me to be the perfect send-off, the perfect goodbye, the perfect so long for now. It's a sweet, slightly sad tune, but as always, it was the words that hooked me, with the music sealing the deal. So from one hippie to another, I hope you enjoy it....both the words and the music.....and think of the "many worlds I've come since I first left home"....and that you'll "listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock my soul."

Home

I'm dreaming of home today. Strange, too, that at this minute, Pandora is playing "Home" by Jack Johnson as well. It's a slow song, not sad, somehow a happy melancholy little ditty. And that's exactly how I'm feeling (again?) today -- somehow happy yet melancholy.

Home -- it used to mean my little farm in the woods. I had a hard time leaving that home -- that home that I had almost totally rebuilt from the inside out, and poured every bit of my energy and heart and soul into -- even though leaving it behind meant starting a new home with my husband. The last time I left the farm -- only a  few weeks ago -- I'd never felt so relieved to get back home to our house in Cincy. It was oddly sad yet some how a relief to realize that. To realize that the house in the woods was no longer really my home -- at least not the home where everything was brilliantly familiar and warm and settled. The farm has this sense now of a home since passed -- still there, still chock full of good, good memories and pretty tokens that I still want in my life, but no longer the place where I can let everything go and truly relax. It's a place in transition now -- ready to become someone else's home, or one that I can only call my own during holidays.

In many ways, I still think of Kansas City as home -- but more in the sense of that's where my roots are. It's where I'm from. It's where I'll always be from, I think (originally, that is).  My sisters still live there; the farm and my parents are close -- that area will always be in the most literal sense, where everything began and therefore, home in that sense.

I dream too of the time when Colorado might be our home. It always seems just another two years away that we could find a new home out there in those clean mountains, where peaceful, giving, green living seem just a bit more important and easy and real than they do here. A new home where Grif could grow, and where Jim and I could live the next chapter of our lives as a couple, as a family. 

But home these days in my heart is so very much simply the boy and my pilot. I'm missing them both today. Missing that feeling of home when we are all together. The boy was not himself today either -- my only thought all morning was how I wished, wished so very hard, that I could have stayed home with him today. And although that might yet come true (daycare could call and homeward bound we would both be), I think it's more the fact that my responsibilities at my full-time job got in the way of staying home -- of being home -- with the not-so-sick boy who was just not acting like himself this morning.


Home -- I want to be home more. For both the boy and the pilot -- but for me too. Work and all things not "home" seem so much less important these days. I feel like if I could just be home more, everything would fall into place a little bit neater, a little bit easier, and more importantly, a little bit happier. And although I know that may not be entirely the truth, there's a small part of that that is true -- the hopefulness that comes with the ability to just be home more.

I'm thankful that I even have a home to call my own -- and a wonderful family and life in which to nurture and grow and love a home with. And I think our home is lovely -- located in a honestly great neighborhood with truly generous neighbors -- friends who've helped make it a good home for us and each other too. Because of all this, I have a happy place to come home to. To be home at. "So Damn Lucky" -- that's what's on Pandora now. Too, too true.

I miss home today -- and all that it entails, from farm to cities to boys and more -- home is where I want to be.

No comparisons, no opinions.

No judgments, no opinions. This what my yoga teachers always remind us throughout class. That's not why we are there -- we're there to do yoga (and all the things that entails), not spend 75 minutes focusing on what's wrong with our body or that pose or make mental comments about we look or how far we can push....That's not the point at all. But it's hard not to do that -- both in yoga (in front of a huge mirror) and in everyday life. It's so easy to look at someone else's work schedule/job/hair/weight/body/house/children/life and not hold up your own examples in comparison...even easier to find your own somewhat lacking, easy to think how much better your own whatever would be if you could have just a little bit of what they have.

I've been making those comparisons a lot lately. Too much, frankly. And I've been letting myself come up short. Which is not only unhelpful, but truly just silly. I was looking at a friend's hair the other day and thinking to myself how great it looked (do I have to say also that I was wishing my hair looked that good all the time?). About an hour after we met, my friend sent me an email and mentioned how much she loved my hair and wished hers was more like mine. I thought that was hilarious -- how telling, a sign from the universe? a reminder? whatever, it was hilarious.

I have lots of other friends that post pictures of their kids all the time -- on blogs, on Facebook -- taking the time and effort to honor this progress (to catch it on film) and I find myself wishing I could do -- had done -- more of that with Grif. It's hard for me not to listen to my stay-at-home neighbor when she goes on (and on) about what her 2 year old can do...then worrying about things that Grif hasn't yet mastered, or isn't ready for, or doesn't know....how hard it is not to take all her praising and pride for her own brood and put Grif up next to them...hard to not think he's not measuring up in small ways within my strange mommy brain and somehow blaming myself for these "lacks" because I'm working full-time. Because, of course, if I could work part-time or freelance from home (like so many of my friends do) all these things that I find troublesome in life would magically fix themselves and Grif would be reading Shakespeare next week, right? And my hair would be perfect too, and my weight where I want it and my house clean and....funny how completely ridiculous these comparisons (and the thoughts that lead to them and away from them) seem in print....

I've been on vacation twice now in the past month with two lovely friends (in locales that required swimsuits, so that didn't help with the no-comparisons-no-opinions thing). Both thin, thin, stay-at-home moms. Hard not to draw comparisons there, right? And yet, as much as I found myself envying their time with their kids, their time to workout, their time to do things other than juggle work and daycare with groceries and cleaning and laundry and life, I realized that I didn't want their lives. Not even a piece of them (ok, well, living in the UK would be nice, but not something I'm dying for). I love my life -- I'm ready for it to change, change radically, and working hard to make that come true, both in my work situation and therefore the time and life I have with both the pilot and the boy, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten to be soo thankful for everything I have. Because I am -- so very thankful. I have so much -- and that's not to say more than anyone or better than everyone, but just enough today, for me. And my life. Comparisons be damned.

So, I'm done comparing my weight with that of the females in my life. I'm done comparing my current work requirements and schedule with all the people in my life who are doing it differently (or not at all). I'm done comparing my car, my hair, my dog, my kitchen, my beauty, my wardrobe, my pictures, my blog entries, my legs, my eating habits, my looks, my style, my everything with the people in my life. I'm done finding all these things not quite good enough or sad that I feel like they could be (should be) better, more, most. I'm most especially done comparing my sweet boy Grif to all the other kids on the block, or in his school, or with those of my friends. I think we both deserve better than that. No, I know we deserve better than that.

No judgments, no opinions, no comparisons. Done and done.

My Dad

This past weekend, I was away with my boys on the Cape, enjoying a sweet mini-break with some lovely old friends (who are, in fact, quite British now with their four sweet children, so forgive if my writing sounds a bit more clipped and UK-accented than usual). And although I didn't altogether forget it was Father's Day -- in fact, I had carefully planned a gift and a card from the boy for Jim, and then made special mention of the day to my friend's dad who was visiting as well -- I had to be reminded by my husband to actually call my dad on Sunday. And of course, my response was a wee bit reticent -- I recall saying something to the effect like, "But I already sent a gift and a card..." Bad daughter. For the record, I did call. And had to leave a message since my parents were out. And then, yes, ignored their call back about a half hour later (we were on vacation...at the Cape -- and my friend had company, I didn't want to be rude). Yes again, bad daughter. At least somewhat anyway...

So, it occurs to me today after reading Boho Girl, that I could once again "borrow" from her loveliness of spirit yet again to pay tribute -- in writing this time -- to my oh-so-lovely-and-loving Dad. My favorite, fondest memories of my childhood include my Dad (and a surprising amount of them revolve around food as well). My dad used to bring home small plain cheesecakes from his restaurant, and I vividly remember sitting in our avocado green kitchen and simply digging in, just the two of us. No plates. Me on my stool. Dad in a chair. Two forks and away we went.

Longjohn donuts at John's Spaceage on Saturday mornings, Dad making huge breakfasts on Sunday morning, always exactly ready when Mom and I got home from church. As a wee child, I remember summer Dairy Queen outings every Sunday night -- Dad always got the "daddy-size" hot fudge sundae, and I always had the small one (usually in one of those upside-down plastic baseball caps they used to have). I literally almost shed a tear these days when I drive by the spot where that old Dairy Queen used to be. So vivid those memories are.

I remember a "boys" fishing trip that me and my dad went on in Destin when I was in college. I was the only female onboard, and dad and I got stuck in Florida while a huge tropical storm moved in. We caught a fair number of fish. Just the two of us.

I remember hot summer nights at our old house sitting outside on our patio, with Dad listening to the baseball game on this shoddy little radio, a beer in one hand and a cap on his head. The smell of Coors still brings back those humid nights so clearly.

I remember the first time that Dad cooked at the American Royal BBQ contest -- what a night of good food, late music and general craziness. Once again, just dad and me. We were laughing so hard at how huge the whole night was.

Only one time during high school did I get officially grounded. And to get me out of my mother's range, we decided to take a drive. Four hours later, we came back with the blue Jeep for me (which, for the record, I owned for 17 years). My sweet father shooed me out of the house to go enjoy my new car while my mother was literally screaming in the background, "I ground her and you go out and buy her a f***ing car?!?!?" That's simply one of my favorite dad stories of all time.

I've only ever really seen my dad mad -- fully angry, embarrassed and near fury -- once. And that was following a crazy tequila night involving my then boyfriend (now hubby), my mother and my eldest sister. I still don't know exactly what when down (I was working), but it involved my dad being mad at my mom and sis for well over a week. And the only time I've ever seen my dad lose his cool was on the plane to Switzerland, when he thought he'd lost the passports, and ended up finding them in the sleeve of his parka. He's always so calm. So centered. So even-keeled. And always with a half-smile on his face.

I remember my wedding -- and all the plans that led up to it -- and how my dad made sure that the whole affair was so very much about Jim and me, and not anything, or anyone else. I also remember him figuring out the bar bill the day after. The memory of his sudden exclamation, out of nowhere, of "That's like 10 drinks apiece!" still makes me giggle a bit. And my favorite shot of my dad, with his dark glasses and a cigar in his mouth and this silly grin on his face...we call this pic the Godfather. My sweet dad.

I remember overhearing him talking to a friend of his one day, who couldn't understand, couldn't fathom why I didn't want to take over my dad's million-dollar corporation, the family biz, just step right in a career and go, and hearing my dad telling him, "Because that's the easy way out for her. And she's not like that."

There was the time when I was living (struggling, floundering) in Boston, and he called me up and just said, "Come home." Armed with excuses -- my internship, my job, my apartment lease, my roommate -- he interrupted and just repeated, "What are you doing up there? Come home." And I did. And, of course, father did know best in this particular case.

I remember my dad and I gardening, cleaning, taking care of cows and chickens and trees and fences and such on the farm we basically built together. The farm I had to leave behind. The farm he still takes care of cuz he knows I can't bear to let it go just yet. 

And now I look around and see all the pictures of my dad as a grandpa. Popo to Grif. And he's been so easy and comfortable and good with the boy from the very beginning. My favorite memory is of my dad asleep on the couch, head back, mouth open, with Grif, asleep on his chest, head back, mouth open....

My dad. I know he won't ever get to read this himself, but I'll tell him about it. And we'll laugh and talk again about all the silly things we used to do -- the good memories. The crazy stories. The good, good, goodness that is all things my dad. Happy Father's day, dad. With all my heart.