My Mother is an Amethyst

 My mother is an amethyst.

No flighty lavender or pale pinks for her.

She is rich and deep and smells of cookies. Always.

and slightly of the tang of warm grapes whose vine

crawled up the half fencepost in the backyard of our childhood home

next to the puzzle-piece garden beds my father built.

My father is the deepest calmest blue of an ocean

after a storm has passed and silt has settled.

He is steady and self-assured and speaks from his core.

He is lemon pound cake and clean grout and straight lines 

and the booming laugh that the older of my two brothers inherited.

And they make me wonder what color I will be when I am them

and they are gone

and my children stop to think of me in snatches of memories.

10.28.25

A Married Woman... again

I have been married for one full month.

Married.

Let's just let that sink in for a moment, shall we?

It seems impossible to me, on some days, that I've actually found someone who willingly puts up with the unadulterated chaos that is my life.

I have three tweenagers running amok upstairs as I type this, at least two of whom will not answer when I call because they have fallen into their technology and buried themselves between two headphones for the foreseeable future. It is absolutely certain that at least two of them will be fighting within the next 15 minutes, one will refuse to eat her dinner, and all three will be preventing us from getting an entire conversation in at a single go.

I am messy.

And unorganized.

And often late.

(which seems to be, by all accounts, the absolute bane of existence for a pilot).

I hate cleaning the bathrooms.

I often leave laundry IN the dryer for a day or so until it has to be folded and distributed.

I often think a bowl of cereal is an acceptable dinner item.

I am not an easy person to love.

Somehow. Someway. He does it anyway.

Don't mistake me - The Captain isn't always a peach to live with either.

No one is.

But we're here anyway.

One full month in to this whole married thing - which if we're being truthful - I didn't think I'd ever willingly walk back into.

I guess I'm just saying that I've lucked out.

Even on the days when we're both cranky, and work is hard, and one of us is stuck in a crappy hotel half a continent away for work...

I've lucked out.

Why I run...

People ask me sometimes why I run.

And I wish I could show them the snapshot of this morning now, each time they ask.

It was warm in the house, and Bon Iver was rolling out in waves over the Bluetooth speaker in the front room. I was turning pancakes on the griddle and the kids were crafting on the island - making slime from toothpaste and glue and hot gluing tiny pieces of cardboard together...

It was hard taking that first step outside. It's like waking up - that first blast of cold air that hits. The pup was high-stepping in the cold, re-smelling all his spots. And we started out slowly, slowly into the woods. But as we ran, we slid into a steady rhythm: step step step breathe step step step breathe, my muscles starting to ease into the movements.  And a mile or so out it starts to snow. Big fat fairy snowflakes are coming down and catching in my eyelashes and the dog's fur. And the pup is stopping every 50 feet to jump up and try to catch the flakes in the air. And he's smiling. Don't tell me dogs don't smile. This pup, with his tongue hanging half out of his face, with that slightly maniacal gleam in his eye as he runs, he smiles. And we run on, our breath coming harder in deep gulps of freezing air. And as we forge on, in fits and starts, the snow turns harder, icier. And we're being pelted with small ice flakes. and we RuN. Don't let that dog fool you - he's a runner. That dog might just be my spirit animal - slow and lazy most days, but a runner at heart, when his feet hit the trail.

And the ice-snow comes down harder and my thighs start to burn we're running so hard - leaping fallen branches and dodging trees on the trail, and I swear to you that dog is still smiling, his tongue trailing back behind him like a slobbery banner. And as the house is in sight he pulls up hard, for no reason. And I stumble, barely catching myself, and sit hard on the packed, hollow-sounding earth of the trail. And we sit, silently, side by side, for the space of time it takes for the cold to completely seep into my running tights and my skin and deep into my sit bones. And we breathe and watch the ice-snow fall between the tangled branches above us. And we breathe slower and softer as we sit, not quite ready to stop, to return to the warmth and the tepid coffee and the half-eaten bone that await us. Not quite ready to give up the cathedral of the run just yet.

I run because something inside me tells me I need to.

I run because I feel more alive when I do.

Sixth-grade girls are rough

It is heart-breaking to watch cracks appear in your daughter's armor because of the harsh words of others.

Sixth grade girls are assholes.

The Biz is at that age where I know I need to back off and let her find herself. I have to remind myself daily that I have raised her to be a strong, independent thinker; a young woman with a sense of self; an empathetic girl who thinks of others first. She is imaginative and creative. She's a reader and a dreamer. But it absolutely kills me to see her cry when sixth-grade girls act like...well...sixth grade girls.

Bitches be crazy catty, yo.

Feeling helpless is an inherent part of being a parent. So much of The Munchkins' day is spent out from under my protection as they grow up and out. And when their small spirit is broken on someone else's watch? Somewhere I can't be? There is an impotent fury that cannot be quelled.

Some days you just can't fix it all. Hell, some days you don't even find out about an incident until days later. And some days? The only solution to a tearful girl now questioning herself due to the cruel comments of other girls is to simply  curl up in bed together crying and whispering and telling stories until tears start to dry and smiles cautiously peek out.

Your kids are going to be hurt. Tomorrow, next week, next year. It's going to happen. It's a part of the journey. And you'll have to trust that you've instilled in them all the strengths that will see them through to the next day after they've had a good cry.

That's not to say that I can't secretly think terrible thoughts about the little turd that made my daughter cry. Because I definitely am. Right now. RIGHT. NOW.
But The Biz is strong. And she's starting to figure out who she is. And she'll be stronger for this... eventually.

zippered case

Sweet little handmade pencil case for The Biz... who has been begging for one since the first day of school...

Vacation Logs: Heading Home

The worst part about road trips?
The inevitable long trek home...

A part of me is desperate for this amazing  week to never end. The rest of me just misses my bed.

Vacation Logs: First View of the Ocean

Today, The Munchkins saw the ocean for the first time.

We are salty, sand-covered, and full of hand-dipped waffle cone ice cream cones. We played old timey arcade games, strolled the Hampton Beach Boardwalk, and lounged on the beach. We dove into waves and built an epic sand castle complex.

What a day...

Vacation Logs: Tuesday Pool Day

Some days you just need a lazy day poolside.

And by lazy, I mean so full of sun, diving, jumping, floating, and playing that the kids fall asleep in their dinner plates, bellies full of kielbasa from the grill...

Vacations Logs: Mt. Mansfield

Who hikes the highest summit in all of Vermont with three kids, two babes in backpacks, and a ten-week old puppy?

We do.

With the Adirondacks to the west of us and the White Mountains to the east, we trekked up Monday for breathtaking views of Stowe. The Munchkins bounded from boulder to boulder, ecstatic just to spend a day out of the car.

Sister was in her element, hiking boots on, on of the twins rigged up on her back, pointing out landmarks and keeping up a constant patter of back & forth with the Luke on her back. I am im awe of her strength. Not even twins can slow that woman down. She has a new serenity about her that I don't remember from before the twins Nothing seems to rattle the half smile from her face.  It's hard having her live so far away, but seeing her so stunningly happy eases that a bit.

This is the best version of you, Jane. The most YOU you will ever be; despite past conversations to the contrary.

Love you.

Vacation Logs: Holiday Road

Surviving an entire day in the car together? Check.

Surviving an entire night with three kids and a puppy all in the same hotel room? Check.

Standing awestuck together on the viewing bridge of Niagara Falls? Check.

Sometimes it's good for the soul to stand in the presence of something immense. With the roar of the Falls in the background, The Munchkins running with the pup in a shady spot, herds of people passing back & forth with cameras and phones attached to their faces, it felt good to just stand for a moment and breathe.

I'm fairly certain this trip has the potential to be the making or breaking of this little group. So far so good.

Not a bad morning, kids. Not bad at all...

Vacation Logs: Two States at Once!

When i was a kid, road trips meant car bingo and counting cows for points and seeing how many truckers you could get to blow their horns from the ultra-awesome rear facing bench seat in the family station wagon.

Just now, as we crossed from never-ending Ohio into Pennsylvania, and I stretched my arms out Air Jordan Wingspan style into the backseat, and proudly proclaimed "Two states at Once!!"  I recieved a masterful eyeroll and whole body shrug from the eldest, deeply involved with her movie. Electronics rule this car. And don't get me wrong, this vehicle has been blissfully quiet for the past six hours... but couldn't they at least humor me about the crossing state lines? It's kind of my thing.

In other news, the puppy has slept almost the entire trip, and The Captain is rocking out to Danger Zone. We're survivng, folks!
Onward & upward.

...Until next time...

Vacation Logs: The Beginning

So...this is happening...

As if a blended family relationship isn't fraught with enough daily pitfalls & perils & joys & challlenges & opportunities to annoy the everloving crap out of one another, we thought we'd add a cross-country road trip to the mix.

And? We're bringing the 10-week-old puppy too...

Indy --> New York Niagara Falls --> Stowe, Vermont --> Boston, Massachusetts or BUST!!!

Believing in Santa

 And so it's begun.

The eldest Munchkin approached me earlier this week, in the midst of struggling to get a sweater that's long belonged in the 'donate' box over my head. We were late for school and I rushed the answer to a question I have been preparing for since my kids were born.

"Mom, is there really a Santa?"

oh god. my heart bottomed out somewhere around my colon. What a terrifying string of words. Christmas is far and away one of my favorite holidays. Not just for the presents, but for the lights, the baking, the family; the way everyone lights up with a  soft inner glow every evening as we wrap presents and arrange ornaments.

And I botched the answer. I stuttered and stammered and asked if she really wanted to know? And then we had a sit down on the floor of my closet and talked about Santa. and I walked away feeling like I'd failed on a conversation I'd had in my head a million times.

This letter is my attempt to fix that.

Hello, Sweet girl:

I wanted to clear up a few things about our conversation the other day.

You asked a very good question – and you are old enough to deserve a very good answer. I was just so surprised that I’m afraid I didn’t give you a very good answer.
Is Santa real?

Yes.

Am I the one that puts the presents under the tree and in your stocking at Christmas?

Yes.

Let me explain: I have always told you kids that I think it is important to believe in something bigger than  yourself. Santa is no exception. Santa is bigger than any one person. And his magic has gone on longer than you or I.  Yes, Your dad and I and Pat and Penny are responsible for your gifts on Christmas morning. Just like my parents were responsible for my presents when I was your age, and their parents were responsible for their presents when they were your age. (Yes, your grandparents were all once your age too).  

But Santa isn’t about presents. Christmas isn’t truly about presents either. Christmas is about celebrating the birth of Jesus, and about displaying your love and appreciation for others. And Santa is about teaching people, especially children, to believe in something they can’t see or touch. Santa was your first lesson in believing in something bigger than yourself.

Believing is a big job. And it’s a hard one, beautiful girl. There are so many times in your life that I won’t be right there next to you, and you’ll need to believe in yourself for both of us. You’ll need to trust and believe in your friends and your family…you’ll need to put your faith in someone outside of yourself. And that’s a hard thing to do, but you’ve had practice. You’ll be all right.

So, now you know the whole truth.
 

I’m not Santa, but I’m on his team. And now? You are too.

Pay attention this year. Watch how your sister’s face lights up when you’re crowding around the tree Christmas morning. Watch how my face lights up to see you all so excited. How we all glow a little brighter when we turn the tree lights on every evening. I didn’t even know it was possible when I was a kid, but Christmas gets better the older you get.

I’m so proud of you for asking hard questions. I want you to keep asking hard questions. And I want you to keep accepting the answers with the calm smile that you did the other day. Your heart already knew the answer. Trust your heart.  I do.

Love always,

 
Mom

Off its Hinges

And then...this happened...

 

And while it was, physically, easier to remove a door from its hinges than I thought it might be? Mentally it was like arming up for battle.

 

 

 

Sometimes? You've just got to stand your ground...

Hard Nights

Tonight was a hard night.

Nine-year-old boys are an entire species unto themselves, I’ve decided. They are at the same time hard and soft, decisive and indecisive, all arms and legs and emotions at once. And? There is no one right way to deal with them. Except to love them. Especially when they are unlovable.

Tonight? I backed myself into a verbal corner.

I saw it happening and was powerless to stop it.

The boychild had been pushing buttons since the word bedtime first left my lips. He wanted a snack but didn’t know what. He wanted a drink but nothing we had. He wanted a smore (no). He wanted a popsicle (no). He wanted cake (heck no). And when the 15 minute snack window had come and gone and he hadn’t fixed himself something he was furious. He was furious he had no snack. He was furious we didn’t have time to watch his movie. He was furious he has to live in a house full of girls. He was furious for every reason and no reason at all.

 AND then? He slammed the door.
AND he locked it.
AFTER removing the lockpick from atop his door lintel.
AND when I picked the lock anyway (because I’m badass like that.)? He screamed at me.
And it was the well-planned, long-rehearsed-in-his-head screamed rant guaranteed to break a mother's heart in a thousand pieces.

Now. I remember being young, and scared, and angry. But I also remembering thinking it was a cardinal sin to scream at my parents. So I’m unsure where I screwed things up along the way for this kid to think he was perfectly justified in screaming at me? But there it was. And there was nine-year-old hate in his eyes. And my heart broke. And I lashed out. The more he screamed, the calmer I became, and the more I started taking away. First? Minecraft. Two weeks (is there any greater punishment to a boy than this?). Second? Grounded from playdates and sleepovers for those same two weeks.  And he Kept. On. Arguing. And screaming. So next? His door. I mean, honestly, that was a given. Slammed and locked? Ohhh...that sucker was coming off. Just you wait...

And here, folks, is where I’d clearly bitten off more than I could chew. As soon as it was out of my mouth I knew I’d goofed. Because, kids? I’m not strong OR tall enough to remove the door from this kid’s bedroom. So I informed him it would happen in the morning (because I’m also assuming that these things take time and no small amount of noise to complete).

And he burst into tears. Still in the midst of telling me he hated me and I was the worst mother that ever existing, he was sobbing and hiccupping. And I was too bone-weary to fight any longer. I very quietly told him that he had made me very sad and that I was done arguing for the night. I closed the door and walked away. 

And I held strong.

I did.

For about 15-20 minutes.

The entire time, I was hiding out downstairs, consuming vast quantities of guilt-ridden Reeses that were on the top shelf of the pantry. I was wracking my brain wondering how much ground I’d lost as a parent…or if perhaps I’d won ground since I hadn’t dissolved into tears or yelling myself? Did I get points for staying calm? Did those points contribute to my overall ‘good parent’ quota? Or had HE, in fact, won that particular battle because I had to walk away with the door still on its hinges??

And after nearly 20 minutes and five Reeses, I realized that NEITHER of us had won that particular encounter.

NEITHER of us had gotten what we wanted out of that.

And so, I decided to swallow my pride and head back upstairs to my still-sobbing son.

 Because at this point neither of us were sleeping without a resolution. And sleep was worth more than my pride in the end (apparently).

So I crawled under his loft and laid down next to him.
And we breathed.

A lot of parenting manuals I’ve read (and trust me, I’ve read a few) will instruct you to have calm, rational conversations with your children in order to root out the source of their confusion or discord. And still other books will insist that you need to hold a hard line on rules and not go back on your word in order to maintain boundaries. And still others will insist that you need to allow your children the physical space to learn to process their emotions on their own. But sometimes? As people? We just need to know someone else is there. Sometimes we just need someone to breathe with us when we can't quite manage to do it on our own.

I didn’t apologize.

Neither did he.

I figure that can all come later, when we’ve calmed down.

But for tonight, just squeezing into his tiny loft area and curling up in a giant tangle of arms and legs was enough to get back on solid ground together...to get our heartbeats back in sync.

Kids, I've never once pretended to have all the answers.

In fact, most parents I know are sort of bumbling through the whole process like me, just praying to god we haven't screwed up our babies irrevocably along the way.
But I know that going back up there tonight was not a sign of weakness. It was not going back on my word. It was not giving up. Discipline is only part of my job as a parent. It's not my whole job. And in a house where I frequently have to play both good cop & bad cop simultaneously, sometimes you have to choose. And friends? Choose love. You'll sleep better at night. I promise.