ONE YEAR LATER

A year ago, I paced around my driveway, perhaps half-mad with the question of what exactly I should or could be doing with my life. Where was I going, I wondered, and if I wasn’t going anywhere at all, then why was that? I needed to try something new – something I always thought that I might but convinced myself that I couldn’t. At a glacial pace – both slow and equally terrifying in its actuality, I vowed to take an honest look inside and struggle though I might, write it all down. Sometimes that was one thousand word dispatches, other times I wept out two sentences before I published it.
I made mistakes, mostly in the form of punctuation and misspellings, but also by way of speaking my truth and inadvertently shining a light on things that others felt most comfortable stowing away in their own mental closets. I vowed to write every day for one year and the not-so-secret secret is this; I never thought I actually could do it. Truths and realities are hard won it seems, and like sobriety or any other wanted endeavor, it was easier to wake up and commit only to the “now” of achieving it.
I sat at a desk looking at a blank screen and mentally unpacked my baggage, toggling between the sweet escape of my most blissful memories and the unsettling discomfort of the weightier times that have stalked me in my sleep. The truth may set you free and all but somewhere in the dredging, before the dust settles and you sweep it up and pitch the garbage, it lingers for a moment in the air – all floating particles and cloudlike over everything around you. It would make sense to run through this part as quickly as possible, patch up the holes and repaint it – get back to the humor because the rest is a bummer. I found though, that in my haste, I would simply collect what irked me and soon I saw it settling in around me, sometimes in the form of gaining weight or a nagging sense of separateness or other damage.
I spent a lot of time – far too much, focused on how far off the mark I managed to get, accidently building an altar for my shortcomings, then anointing it and lighting candles around it and keeping it in tact on my quest for being less me. I got exactly what I asked for and then wandered around somewhat puzzled while ensconced in my pettiness or my dissatisfaction with my number one ally – myself. I had started out thinking I would keep a metal list of my shortcomings so that I could identify what I needed to change to be happy, but the list grew longer shifting my focus away from solutions and toward excavating everything that made me flawed. And they stacked up mercilessly, unyielding to my mental cries that this was not what I wanted… The universe is a seeker too, of course, and answered me by echoing back with more of what I didn’t want.
Somewhere in all that dark, I started doing what came naturally; seeking out the light. My mission changed to finding the funny, cataloging the sweet and miraculous minutiae that made a day which folded into a week, which happened in a month that was part of a year. I received both praise and admonishment and though I am a life-long collector (boarding on hoarder) of both, this time around my head was in the clouds of possibility and hope and neither had the same effect on me as it had it years past.
Professionally, I thought it might take a year to write the blog and amass a following and find at least one freelance project. Personally, I thought it would take a year to figure out if as a family we would need to move in order to feel at home and settled. One happened and the other didn’t. It would appear, for the time being, that we don’t need to be in a different house to be our best. But for the first time ever, in changing and dismantling and building on to ours, I worried less about when that time would come and recognized that every day we spent here was the opportunity to make it beautiful and memorable.

As for writing, I am still at it, running down my dream and looking for the opportunity to continue to working. I can assure you that I still take stock of what I am doing, where I am going and how I will get there – sometimes hourly and on the most confident of times every few weeks. I highly doubt that there will ever be a time that I am not doing that outside at night, under a billion (probably more) stars where anything is possible.
My name is Marilyn though I have at least one magazine subscription that believes it’s Manlyn. I have loads of people who believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself and have yet to give up on me thought I am abhorrent at returning their phone calls. I was lucky enough to have had parents that read to me and let me read whatever I wanted though it was hardly age appropriate and I have siblings who think I am amazing but keep it under wraps lest I get too full of myself. There are people who wander in and out of my life and I am thrilled to have them stop by for whatever time they can but one person, in particular changed my life eighteen years ago. I met a boy who showed up every single day and hasn’t stopped since and though he is my husband and father to my children he is something far more extraordinary – he is my friend who changed everything not because he mended my brokenness but because he saw me as whole to begin with. I say it begins and ends with him not because I cling to him or our life is perfect but because I have learned to be my own advocate by listening to him and being totally myself with another person. I have struggled with chasing down perfection and much like trying to catch your shadow it has disappointed me approximately EVERY SINGLE TIME. I am the kind of person who cried as I wrote this because the equator between ending and beginnings is where I am at and I have so much love in my heart it feels too big for my chest. I have come to the conclusion that sometimes it all takes longer than a year and I am at peace with that. Thank you. Happy. More please.

On Father’s Day cards

This week I bought four Father’s Day cards. I bought one for my own Dad, one for my Father in law, one from the kids to my husband and one for my husband. Yes, I know my husband isn’t my father – but he is an excellent one who admire deeply.

The thing about it was how disgusted I felt reading what sells. Judging by the sentiments alone, Dads fall into one of several categories: Beer drinking /golf playing, ATM machine, lover of sports and grilling meats, or fart jokes/ gross-out humor. There is the occasional card that has a sentiment along the lines of gratitude and respect – those cards usually cost $6.99 to say (no joke) “I love you Dad and I appreciate you”. Reading no less than 25 cards – I had a real WTF moment.

Dads, the real ones, who encourage us and inspire us and make us repeat that we are fearless, unique, smart, gifted and a wealth of other empowering things should be celebrated fully, not reduced to some silly stereotype. I carefully and thoughtfully made purchases that sat well with me and that took a good thirty minutes. Often times I have written cards out to those I feel closest to, not because I feel superior to card writers – but I feel that the recipient was so much better than whoever that writer had in mind.

In a very stripped down sense, any one of us could be reduced to a stereotype, but then again it serves exactly none of us. I wanted to say a huge thank you to the incredible men who have committed to being fathers. There is no one size fits all for them but they all share a common bond – they see their children in the best possible light – as the purest and most hopeful version of themselves and stayed open and silly and encouraging in the process. Let’s hear it for the Dads.

Blogging for one year EVERY SINGLE DAY

Here it is – 59 minutes to midnight on the East Coast and I have one thing on my mind: I HAVE A JOB TO DO. I can’t tell you exactly what it has meant o me to meet this deadline every single day. I have made something new and somehow produced it no matter what came in my path – hurricanes, separation anxiety, weight gain, and general dissatisfaction with how I am running my life… you get my drift, and it feels amazing – it feels empowering.

Today was a solid Win. Little Sister made it through soccer without a single tear, without a single tug on my arm – just fully participated. (Yes, this is normal behavior and should be expected, but for us this is CAUSE FOR A CELEBRATION). Tonight, we got together with our friends who happen to be our neighbors and we made quesadillas, and memories as we played cards and the kids played among their selves.

A year ago, I had the craziest idea – that if I sat down to write that maybe someone would read it and maybe in some way or another they would feel a connection to it. I can tell you that it happened quicker and for a longer duration than I ever thought possible. So thank you, thank you for tuning in and checking your email box, or Facebook or feed and listening to what I have thought or worried out or dreamed of. At a little over two weeks left, I haven’t given up or given in – I have just gotten started.

The production

Earlier on in the week, as Big Sister tucked herself beside her keyboard, she asked if she and Little Sister could put on a concert for their father and me. I have to admit that I didn’t give it too much thought, initially, as we have owned that keyboard for almost as many years as she has been alive and her interest in it has burned out quickly as she approached the ten minute mark each time. Something was different this time, though. I watched her as she read the instruction booklet more carefully and as she painstakingly wrote out programs, concert tickets, theater signage and a set list. I marveled tonight as I took photos of the display and the notification that there would be a short intermission where the musicians would be collecting money for the charity of their choice, The March of Dimes.

Little Sister took her part equally as serious, rehearsing the different speeds in which she might sing her first number, and discussing wardrobe options that could best accommodate her desire to “act out” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” while being attached to her microphone. They made sure to tape reminders of the show (complete with the date and time) on any surface they thought my husband or I might come in contact with and simultaneously we knew that seeing them posted and being heard commenting on the excitement that we were building was far more important than the brief irritation of tape residue on the mirrors, the fridge and the television.

They used industrial extension cords to plug in both their karaoke machine and keyboard in the living room and pulled the window bench seats from the entranceway to create a platform for their instruments. There was multiple outfit changes and minimal bickering. Though the performance was adorable, what we witnessed as they interacted with one another before, during and after the show was incredible. They coached each other and worked together and seemed almost in their own little world as they cleaned up the props and dismantled the stage, excitedly discussing the highlights of each song and their own take on each scene.

I can be very very good at noticing all the parenting fails I have – all the missed connections, all the things I let fall the cracks and every way I could have improved. But tonight, I saw the best of it too – just the two of us, the very most import people in our kids’ lives fully soaking up their presence. And they reflected back that they heard the message with genuine delight. These little people sincerely thanked us for our time and attendance of the performance and double checked to be certain we would be able to get the proceeds into the hands of the March of Dimes Charity. We could not have been more proud of their tenacity, generosity and grace. It was a great moment in family-ing and for once I wasn’t trying to pinpoint exactly who to thank for it, or how exactly it came about, or anything else; I was fully there.

If you, yourself, missed out on the incredibly limited opportunity to view “Lights, Camera, Distraction” (it was only in one city, for one night and the tickets were limited to two), do not despair – I don’t believe it’s the last chance you will have to view an original work by the producing company.

Movie Theater Madness

My husband isn’t a big fan of going out to the movies. With a large, reclining sectional (complete with armrests and cup holders) and the option of blacking out the entire living room while we watch near-theater quality movies on a large screen, I can see his point. We could rent a movie from the Redbox for just over a dollar or stream from hundreds of options on Netflix with the ability to pause it at any point, he suggests, while having custom made snacks or drinks in the comfort of our own home. There is no traffic to contend with, no parking lots to navigate, or lines to wait in.

But at my heart I am a movie-goer (emphasis on the GO). I loved the theater; I loved the experience, the buttered popcorn, the ticket stub…ahhh. What I realized, after going to the movies today, is that I love the memory of the movies.

I spent what I consider an obscene amount of money at the movies today, $42.00. That tally was three tickets to an afternoon showing of “Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Long Haul”. It was overcast again today, with the omnipresent forecast of afternoon thunderstorms. I was riding high from a sweet morning walk with the kids and our dog, then a successful well-visit for both of the girls where I watched their ever high tracking for height and health and was reminded of how lucky and fortunate we are as a family. We came home and made lunch together and out of seemingly nowhere Big Sister asked if there was any chance we could go to a movie. She has read the entire Wimpy Kid series, taking time to relay and read aloud her favorite parts for her sister either from memory or from copies of the books from the library, though this year we did order her own from Amazon for her birthday.

It seemed like a nice summer time treat and I felt almost frugal mentally calculating the “savings” of not having to buy a ticket for my reluctant movie-going better half who was on shift. After almost eight dollars for a “regular” popcorn and five and change for a “regular” soda though, I had to reconsider my position. No, a popcorn and drink aren’t necessary but they were requested and candy was helpfully never mentioned – so I indulged.

There were highlights – when the kids laughed that full head back hearty laugh at some gags in the movie and some lows – like when the movie didn’t start for twenty minutes and I tracked down a manager to get it rolling and while I don’t necessarily regret going, I am not in a rush to get back there either. The magic, it seems, isn’t in the lines or the walls or the credits on the big screen. It exists in the relationship you make with the film and the people you are experiencing it with. This is why I am going to the movies tonight. Right in the middle of our home, with my two best girls and as much popcorn as we see fit to make.

The (second to the)Last day of school

Today was the SECOND TO THE LAST day of school. My kids somehow believe I have failed them as I haven’t handed out teacher appreciation gifts or said my final goodbye to the team of people who just about propped me up every time I peeled out of the carline, sobbing and maniacal while I squeezed my eyes tight and wondered when the REAL GROWNUPS would have mercy on me and show up…. Around campus today (I delivered pizzas – that was a blog post in itself) I had teachers waving me off and wishing me well – because, of course, who would go to school on Monday – a half day and all…

Umm. My kids. And a whole bunch of other kids too.

I am not knocking anyone who is done today. I get it, I swear that I do. But I like to take stock of the whole year (and this one was a doozy) and write people an actual letter and send one to the principal in support of people who made a difference in my kids’ lives and frankly, I HAVEN’T DONE THAT YET BECAUSE SWEET LORD I THOUGHT I HAD UNTIL MONDAY.

“The kids are just watching movies”, “The grades are in”, “They already did the awards ceremony” … I get it. But being there after all the fanfare::that is part of the fun, I would wager. Hearing the teacher or coach’s rallying remarks about life, leadership and lost yards (football, amIrite?!)has always held a soft spot in my heart and I want the kids to have those same memories. I want them to see the humans who have dedicated their lives to teaching them and inspiring them and want them to see the qualities that it took to answer a calling like that.

Maybe I am a mean mom, trudging forward until the last few seconds on the clock wind down, but my girls want to spend those few remaining hours with a group of their peers who were once just indistinguishable unfamiliar faces and now feel like family to them. You never know who will leave their lives – career opportunities pop up, or family situations change and the people who seem like they will always be around slowly fade into the background before moving in the direction that suits them best. Through Monday morning the cast of characters remains the same and they all take the stage one more time. Maybe it’s a curtain call and the work is already done, but it’s an experience that I for one can’t replicate on my own for them and one that I want them to add to the stories of their lives.

My girls

This is not about my two daughters… They would be my obvious “girls”. This is for the village that never let me give up. Of course, first and foremost is my husband – demonstrably not a girl. It all begins and ends with him as my sun rises and sets with him (outdated, old fashioned, I don’t care, I will take all the terms: this is my truth and I can handle any labels stuck to it). But then there are my girls. The ladies who forced me to show up, to shut up, to grow up and who made me the mother I became this year.

Alex. You have fur babies but I have so many mothering instincts because of your demeanor around my kids. You are amazing and I love you. And seriously?! Nail stickers? Who knew?

Allison. This girl cut straight through my soul. She is cool, calm and collected and I was terrified of her until she smiled the first time and it was almost like the sun came out behind the clouds. I rose to the occasion because she made me feel like that was the best representation of who I could possibly be. Girl, THANK YOU.

Amy. I can’t even fit all the words to encompass this soul. She made me get up, she made me show up. She showed me who she saw me to be so many times that I actually believed her vision. Thank you.

April. Hey, girl, hey. Thank you for every time you called me. Every time you called the kids to sing happy birthday. Every time we became sisters on our own terms.

Auntie M. Every text, every call, it meant something to me.

B. The Queen B, Miss Diana’s mom. I prayed to you so many times and you came through each time. Thank you and you are missed. So much.

Brittany. You always land on your feet and it made me believe that I could too. You are 100 percent who you are and you apologize for none of it. I confused this with defiance but I see this as freedom. You do you girl.

Catherine and Christine. My cousins. I have modeled everything I want for my girls’ future based on your lives. I love you and your free spirits and your unblemished view of life. You are doing great.

Coco. You took the world by storm by redefining who you are. I will never forget your kindness when I was a new fragile mom and the mean girls circled tight.

Diana. Your snack backpack. Your unbiased view of the world. Your fervent love of your family. You will never stop inspiring me.

Jen S. – You complete me. You make me want to be a better me. You make me want to be a Blanche, or any golden Girl really. I cry when I talk to you and that is always okay with you. You set me free.

Jenny-enny-dot. I hold you in my heart to be the pinnacle. I miss you.

Kaarin. My soulmate. The Fork to my spoon. You held Little Sister just after she was born and you were her spirit animal ever since. You have loved me unconditionally and whole heartedly made me believe that I am the second best mom ever (just behind your own) and I put on the armor of trusting you on that.

Maryl. Thank you. I looked at your handwritten notes to me and it felt like home. I can’t explain it and I DON’T HAVE TO. Thank you.

Mom. Oh my GAWD. Every single phone call I make: you take. You were calm, you were angry. YOU WERE THERE. Thank you, Mom.

Nana. I always pray to you and ask for guidance. You always tell me I am doing the right thing. But you always did. I love how you love me.

Stephanie. It started with a car seat. When you told me (so calmly) to STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW AND LISTEN when I was trying to install a car seat in the car, that babies bounce – when my big rolled off the bed and I thought she was brain damaged for sure, I fell in love with you right there.

There are SO MANY girls I am missing, so many people who saw me through on my worst days that strung together to make a year. But I promise you that if you were kind to me, if you were helpful in ANY way in meant something to me. I couldn’t have done it without you.

A deep look into your heritage

Every year the topic of culture is broached at school with the kids. There is usually a lesson that extends to unity and inclusiveness and geography and I completely applaud the ingenious teachers who work tirelessly to point out that despite our seeming differences, we are all in fact, one. There are tales of extraordinary meetings – children who have parents of far flung heritage, where, when it is mapped out looks nearly impossible to have ever had the chance to meet, let alone overcome language barriers and fait difference in order to raise a family together.

I have read paragraphs written in careful phonetic detail about a single parent’s lineage that who rival most epic novels. Then there is the question/answer scenario that our children get… “Both of your parents were both born in the same County, in Florida, located in the United States of America. No one believes us when we tell them that and they look at us real suspicious-like and say where are you from ORIGINALLY…and then we say, FLORIDA”. I still have their attention until we get to the second question. This is where even more students branch off. “All four of your Grandparents were born in the United States as well”. Quickly followed by, “Six of your eight Great-grandparents were born in the United States and the other two were born in Italy”.

At this point, the other students have a practical lattice work of transcontinental travel, representing the journey just a few generations have made in order to land in the U.S. The rest of the project asks the students to “determine which culture you identify with the most, describe some local customs, mention local cuisines, holidays, methods of attire and popular sports”. I got jazzy this time around with “I would have to say our culture is firmly American – as the last four generations predominately were born here – Baseball is a pretty popular American sport 😊 I would have to say the most popular clothing in our (Florida) culture is flip-flops and maybe crocs! The fourth of July is probably the most famous of the holidays we celebrate in America! Again, Florida has a sub-culture of fresh seafood, grilled vegetables, sweet strawberries and watermelon – but most American fare includes: steaks, hamburgers, chicken, fruits, veggies, and of course Apple Pie!” (Let the exclamation point stand in for (WHAT DO I WRITE?!??!?!?!?!?).

When my daughter was practicing what she would lead in with, I could hear my steady and hospitality infused voice echo through her sweet words as she picked up steam. Stacked against kids who spoke of diversity and overcoming thousands of miles to come in to being, my little girl stands strong as she says “I am a proud Florida Native; both of my parents are too…” Apple and Key Lime pies all around….

So happy-sad

Am I the only one who gets like this? Right now, maybe it’s the moon phase or hormones or the light at the end of the tunnel (WHAAAAA? Nine days of drop off left before SCHOOL IS OUT FOR SUMMER!) but I am in this weird funk where I love to hate everything or hate loving it? I am not sure which it is. What I can tell you is that I watched this Chris Cornell cover of “Nothing Compares 2 U” over and over feeling sad and buoyed at the same time (how can a song that beautifully written seem even more incredibly in Mr. Cornell’s delivery? – because Life is amazing…). You can watch it here,
Nothing Compares2U but truth be told I just set my phone down and listen without looking.

Maybe it’s because I am a child of the 90’s and my heart is rooted in the Sad FM stylings of alternative music and the general distemperment of the time, but there is something oddly soothing about my current state of brooding. Then again, I am a mom and I realize that I am being looked at to encourage a positive way of tackling life. So I leave you with this even more satisfying clip of “the Back pack Kid” dancing onstage with Katy Perry this weekend – which I have watched almost as many times as the first video – but only makes me happy…SwishSwish

Thank you for Participating

On the soccer field today, the littlest nuggets were hanging back. Their attention was elsewhere, more interested in belly-bumping and kicking up dirt clouds than running drills with one another. Yes, it was hot out and sunny – but most of the kids were born in Florida and arguably acclimated to the heat. Sweat trickled down their hairlines, their temples and in tiny beads under their eyes. Water breaks were given almost every five minutes – and with it a chance to hide out under their parents’ umbrellas – or in certain cases – full on pop-up canopies were used.

A few players had just gotten over the stomach flu, or Flu A or Flu B at the chagrin of parents who had been vigilant in handwashing and signed their kids up for a preventative Flu shot and they seemed to wilt further in their jerseys as the minutes inched by. Despite two coaches on the field and active parents on the sidelines calling our cheerful urgings, the players were mostly unmoved. It’s the weather, we reasoned, and they’ve been sick enough to miss school a few days, we continued, in an effort to excuse their unanimous disinterest.
The coach rallied once more after warm up before the game started – asking players to dig deep, go after the ball, work together, go for goals. Their response was swift and stinging. They’d won the last three games, they’d already secured multiple MVP medals, and they’d scored LAST week. It hurt to hear.

I remember playing sports differently, and I know I am not alone. The triumph of a hard fought win, the agony of defeat. The mental scoreboard I had always updated made it known exactly what it would take to tie or win or even be outscored. Often times, in this league, the kids will quizzically ask if they are winning, and when it’s confirmed that they are, they take satisfaction and have no desire to know any more about it. Somehow we had it twisted that it somehow spoke to our kids’ abilities to play for fun, or the love of the game by not needing to know the score, but lately it seems a lot more like apathy.
Team sports, I have long believed are an essential part of childhood. No matter if it’s an informal game of horse with kids in the neighborhood around a basketball hoop, or a paid league – I think there are invaluable lessons to be learned while working with people toward a common goal. But I don’t know now if my memories are softer than the reality of kids sports that I spectate.

Today’s game ended in a tie: the first non-win for them. When the coach asked how the players thought they did, one boy raised his hand and said “we were terrible” but with a satisfactory smile on his face because he knew he had given “the right answer”. There was no other player who countered him and no one that suggested they would try harder next time around. The general consensus was that “they’d showed up”.

Because of my own battle in the arena of “please JUST GO (to school without sobbing and clinging on to me)” I feel like a complete hypocrite when I say – maybe that is not enough. Our kids (mine included) felt that they had somehow effectively “done their part” by just being there as they knew that someone would be collecting a medal no matter the input or effort. While I understand incentivizing doing hard or unpleasant things I have found that even the fun and easy things that kids have the privilege of doing are being packaged and sold to them under the banner of “free gift with purchase” and it’s having the opposite effect. In our attempt to rally our kids and buoy their self-esteem, we have seemingly thwarted their ability to do it on their own.