Reality Writes

Paradigm

2010-09-28T12:49:00.000-06:00

par·a·digm

[par-uh-dahym]

Definition: A set of forms all of which contain a particular element, esp. the set of all inflected forms based on a single stem or theme. A display in fixed arrangement of such a set, as boy, boy's, boys, boys'. An example serving as a model or pattern. A mold, standard, ideal, paragon, touchstone.

I have come to the conclusion that RealityWritesCollective is lacking a paradigm. Perhaps that is why we have become less interested in posting our thoughts. I thought that all being women with children who would like to write would be enough of a paradigm, but I was wrong. We are all so different and have different motivations for being in Reality Writes. It is what I both LOVE about RWC and what prevents us from becoming more than what we are.

But maybe, what we are is enough. We are a workspace where we can post story ideas, thoughts, and inspirations. We are a group that can encourage and support each other. We can review, critique, or bounce an idea around.

Maybe lack of paradigm is not our problem – maybe we just all have a little too much work to do right now.

NEXT MEETING October 16.

Parental Judgement

2010-09-15T09:14:00.000-06:00

Is it parental judgment or parental frustration that we get so annoyed with other peoples kids?

When I came across this article this morning titled Message to Parents Getting Louder: No Screaming Babies Allowed, I was sorta flabbergasted and laughing. Yes, kids can be challenging to be around when you don't have any, but most people will one day. And I would like to see any company financially survive a ban on kids.

People in the comments section of the article were blaming parents for being too checked out and ignoring their obnoxious little people. As if these people were perfect little angels all the time when they were children. It is shocking how many people are for such things as banning kids, can't wait for them to be in the nursing home circuit while the kids they were annoyed by are running things.

Are we just getting awfully grumpy in society today? Do we have little patience for the people in our lives and especially little patience for the people not in our immediate lives?

I thought I was above these sort of judgments of course. We often all think we aren't like that.

Then I went to an party. That had lots and lots and lots of kiddos in attendance.

I got frustrated I tell you. And I might seem like an overprotective nincompoop. I am not, I will fight for your kids too if I see injustice. (Well I am overprotective, but because I love my babies and you can't fault me for loving my babies)

But here is what gets my goat, a group of kids, whether at a party a park a play date are left to their own devices. Everyone seems to stop paying attention to their kids and lets them run willy-nilly when other kids appear.

I get it. Many times on play dates I will let my kids know that I am talking to the grown up now and I will be with them in a minute. Play dates are for Mom's as much as they are for kids, no matter what anyone says otherwise. But it is usually me and one Mom. I can hear or see any crisis or extreme misbehavior as it happens.

So often at outings, or groups, kids are rude. They push in front of each other, they find one kid to pick on and start doing just that in very subtle ways, sometimes not so subtle and there is an all out fight. But there is nobody there as far as the eye can see to look at these little people and let them know that that treatment of their friends is entirely unacceptable.

Um...if we aren't letting our kids know that what they are doing is wrong...who are we hoping is going to do that?

Are we hoping that their peers will say, "Hey, don't push that kid out of the way! It is his turn!"

I may have been judging for a moment, but I am not dumb, parenting is the hardest thing I have ever done and assume that is the case with every parent. I think more it is sheer frustration. It does take a village to raise kids, and not just directly to help us raise our own kids, like a babysitter or two that you might have available, but to be examples to our kids. One kid to another.

I don't want my kids to be bullies, the world has enough grown-up bullies in it running the joint. Our kids will one day be the ones running the world. Shouldn't we help them to understand how we treat people? Or should we leave them on their own to learn from other little kids who hit and push and bully how they should behave?

The way they will run the world starts with what they learn on the playground.

Trust me, I am no way near to being a perfect Mom. I wouldn't bother making such a ludicrous and far from the truth statement. My kids annoy me some days. Mostly it is the fighting between them that really gets under my skin, which includes hitting and pushing, which for some reason they never seem to bring to play with friends. And don't get me started on the status of their room, a tornado would actually help it out a little.

Am I judgmental? Often, yet I am trying to work on that.

Am I frustrated? Yes. I am tired of being the one standing there responding to your kids behavior while you relax and enjoy yourself.

A new hat to juggle

2010-09-02T14:32:00.003-06:00

Well, I think I can finally come up for air now. I have two weeks of classes under my belt. It’s hard to be a student after so many years, but I have wanted to get my MPH for a long time and now I am taking the first steps. Here are some of my first impressions:

1. I am OLD – as I walk around campus I am very aware of how stinkin’ old I am! These kids look like BABIES and in fact some of them could be my babies.
2. An hour is not very long – I remember getting antsy after an hour of class time but now it is pretty easy to sit and listen and do nothing. It is a nice break from running around, cleaning, picking and dropping off kids.
3. I have learned a lot. It is amazing to hear what some of the young students think and how naïve they are about certain things. Thank goodness I have actually learned something.
4. I have become good at multitasking. I was worried about keeping up with everything, but it is true that the more you have to do, the more that gets done.
5. It’s nice (and hard) to be able to use your brain on a daily basis. Thinking makes you feel alive.

I am on to week three. I hope I remember how to write a paper and take a test… I think I will be fine... if I just remember to breathe.

Live and Learn

2010-08-24T09:41:00.001-06:00

Who would have thought that my own personal advice would come back and bite me in the ass. A few years ago, I wrote about how we as artists shouldn’t fall prey to spec design. Spec design is quite simply, doing the work before you’re compensated for it. I have always been confused by this ongoing problem with graphic designers, but it seems to be a common problem in my field.

This baffles me.

I won’t jump on my soap box just yet. What I wrote about a few years back in 2008 still holds true for me. Unfortunately, given my recent vulnerability due to my unemployment status, I figured I’ll do a little bit of work just to make sure the client knows what they’re getting from me is not only good work, but so they’ll ultimately be 'wowed' with the finished product.

I was recently contacted via email about a company wanting to hire me to design some pop art images for their soon-to-be opening boutique in Florida. This company sells couture designer items that have been pre-owned and at a much cheaper cost than buying them brand new.

The owner loved my pop art pieces of Louis Vuitton and Chanel handbags, and wanted me to stick with this same concept of using designer items to hang throughout his boutique with a pop art twist. The only difference between my original designs and the ones he wanted for his boutique are a change of colors to reflect the colors in his logo and more designer items to add to their overwhelming assortment of items for sale.

When I spoke to his partner on the phone, he said he wanted me to come up with some designs to send his way, and if they like them, they will then allow me to “go to town” with whatever designs I wanted.

I made it very clear that typically I don't do spec work without some sort of compensation beforehand, and as he started to say he was OK with that—me like the weak person that I am, went ahead and said I would send him a design or two without an upfront deposit.

What was I thinking? Because I got tongue-tied in the process, I assured him that I will only do a few pieces to send his way as jpegs. Ugh!

Here is where the frustration begins.

Naturally, I went ahead and created a few designs—which thankfully didn’t take too long of my time—and immediately emailed to him.

Next day—nothing.

Day after—nothing.

Day after that—nothing, so I decided to get proactive and I contacted him to let him know that if either of the designs that I sent him were not acceptable, to please let me know and I’m happy to change whatever colors or designs he wanted.

Still, nothing.

It has now been almost a week and I have yet to hear from either of them.

Yes, again I was screwed over. For whatever reason, I don’t know. All I do know is I didn’t get compensated for my time, nor did they even have the courtesy to get back to me to say yay or nay. Nothing!

Like we always say—“live and learn.” If only I had followed my own advice (as well as many others in my field) and not accepted it without a deposit up front.

So even though I didn’t get compensated, nor did I get to “go to town” with designs with this particular businessman, I will now learn by this mistake and move forward and hope that whatever business venture or client comes my way, I will continue to present a contract to them and require my typical 30–50% deposit up front before I start the work.

I'm mad, and I could kick myself, but at this point, you just have to learn from your mistakes and move on.

Suzanne

http://www.no-spec.com/

Louis Vuitton Speedy

Louis Vuitton Mini-Noé

Varying shades of green

2010-08-19T13:20:00.000-06:00

As a child growing up in the 60's, my mom taught me to reuse and recycle. Even back then I have memories of my mom bundling up newspapers with string and having them recycled. I can also remember reusing every scrap of paper and bag we had for art projects and household use. We had never heard of the word "green" back then to describe what we were doing. It is just what we did. We didn't waste a lot of resources, but I think it was primarily for economic reasons rather than any grandiose plan to save the earth. My mom had a garden and we had a compost pile. It wasn't some fancy composting bin like they sell now at Home Depot. It was simply a pile in the corner of the yard where we threw grass clippings and organic material. I remember how bad it smelled on hot summer days. We were "green" before it was cool to be "green".   We were just of a different mindset back then. We didn't waste things.

Fast forward forty years.   My kids preach to me about how we need to conserve resources, save the planet, save the whales, and all good things like that. I couldn't agree more. I have been doing my part for many many years. My mom did her part by teaching me to be thrifty and practical with what I had. What I find interesting is that I would call my kids' commitment "light green". They are all talk. When it comes down to actually participating in what they preach, they only do it when it's convenient for them.

Case in point: High school senior leaves for school in the morning. She has taken AP Environmental Science, so she is enlightened about all subjects environmental and has told me about how we Americans are wrecking the planet. As she goes out the door to her gas-powered car, she leaves her bedroom light on and the stereo blaring. So much for conservation of energy. What happened to simply turning off the power?

Second case in point: Middle school kid who wants to save all living things has decided that this year it will be better if I drive him to school rather than him taking the bus. So, each morning we are burning extra gas to go back and forth. Hmmm, that is not very earth-friendly, is it?

Third case in point: I clean out the backpacks from the prior year. There are about a dozen half-used spiral notebooks in perfectly good shape. But do my kids want to reuse these? No! They would like new notebooks and would like to throw the old notebooks away.   What do I do? I salvage all of their half used notebooks for my own personal use to write my rantings in. The paper is perfectly fine. I am the one who is saving the trees, not them.

I could go on and on.

I would like to believe that they will one day change their ways when they become a bit older and wiser. I'm not saying that I'm perfect. I drive an SUV and probably use more than my fair share of gas. But I do know that I am doing my small part, and I think I am actually living in a brighter shade of "green" than a lot of the young people in the world.

I hope I can pass on some of these values to them like my mom did to me, but sometimes it feels hopeless.

Every time they begin talking about the gigantic subject of saving the earth I just smile and keep doing what I'm doing. Maybe one day they will get it. It's all the small things on a daily basis that really make a difference.

Peggy McNeal

Climbing Quandary

2010-08-16T10:47:00.025-06:00

On Saturday I disappeared into thin air. Well I didn't disappear, but anyone on the trail thousands of feet below would have seen nothing more than an ant trudging up a giant anthill. Anyway at 14,265 feet up, the air is indeed thin, and the views breathtaking. Or should I say breath-catching!

Here I am celebrating an arduous climb to the summit of Quandary Peak, my first 14er, those tallest kings among mountains that Colorado is famous for. I and six girlfriends left the trailhead in the valley at 7am and 5-1/2 hours later this was our reward.

I'd expected to do the whole hike, up and back, in that amount of time! Some of our husbands had done it a month ago in 5 hours. But unfortunately two of our group suffered bad altitude sickness requiring a slow pace and frequent rest stops on the ascent. (One did feel a little better after throwing up. That bad.)

Around the same time I took the above photo looking up and the summit felt sooo far away, I turned around and looked down to the highway where I'd come from. Wow. It really boosted my mood and confidence when fatigue was taking a toll.

I also contemplated the golden value of such friends I have. No one had an ego to show off. No one was trying to prove anything. There was nothing but patience and encouragement for those who were lagging. (Little did I know that would be me on the way down, running out of water two hours early and bad knees screaming their displeasure at the steep rocks.) I realized that I myself was far more flexible and patient than I used to be, willing to stay with my friends at the end of the line or offering to share my hiking poles. That's big for me, someone who has always been highly competetive. This was just not the time for that.

I love my girlfriends, their strength, humor, complete support and solidarity. Only recently have our friendships gone deep like this, and it's like drinking cool water from a deep clear mountain spring. I will take care of them. Frienships like this should be nurtured. As a Nigerian proverb says, "Hold a true friend with both your hands."

But my friends weren't the only ones that amazed me. And I'm not talking about the guy who passed us early on wearing a kilt. (We asked if it was a skirt or a kilt and he said, "It's only a skirt if you have something under it." Eeek.) I was truly inspired by a Chinese grandfather and his seven year old grandson who held hands most of the way up the mountain. Their pace was slow like ours, so they passed us, we passed them, repeat, and it wasn't until the final and steepest stretch that they went up without us. This photo shows the two of them resting a moment (with mom) and you can see how steep the trail gets. I just accidentally typed "trial" but maybe that really isn't a typo after all.

The high elevation made me far more emotional than I generally am. I nearly cried when I heard other hikers talking about an accident on the top involving a two year old girl in a child backpack that we had seen leave the trailhead on her father's back just before we did. Apparently he had set down the pack with her inside and she kicked her legs enough to topple over forward, hitting her face on the rocks. I didn't see them coming down (I believe I was squatting behind a big rock, he he) but my friends said she had bandaids and blood across her forehead. That was it, tears in my eyes. I have kids. I hate it when kids get hurt. I honestly felt like scurrying back down the trail to see if she was alright. I also got teary watching a big black dog of all things. The poor animal looked disoriented and thirsty and had run ahead of its owner down the mountain. It kept running ahead of us and behind us looking for a familiar face.

By the time we got back to the car it had been an 8-1/2 hour trek. I took some time to reflect on observations about myself. Right there in the back seat I wrote a list, so might as well share it that way.

I'm easily obsessive. I spent more time on 14ers.com than facebook the week prior, reading trip reports from Quandary and other peaks and searching for advice. I memorized the driving directions even though I wasn't driving. I printed a trail map even though it would be impossible to get lost with weekend crowds. I packed extra clothes, first aid, rain gear, and twice the food I needed. I spent two hours loading my backpack just right.

My exercise classes all summer have paid off! I felt much better than I expected. On the other hand, I still have far to go to be as fit as I want to. This was good motivation to stick with it.

I still have a sense of wild adventure and spontaneity even though I haven't been able to live it out for many years. I hope this is just the beginning of rebirthing that aspect of my heart.

I've lost my fear of indecent exposure when nature calls. There was a time when I probably would have chosen extreme bladder discomfort rather than crouching behind rocks and trees without worrying about what people think. It's liberating.

Lastly, I observed that I tend to be a bit self-promoting and I need to learn to listen and engage others without talking up myself. It seemed that so often when one of my friends was telling a story, I would push my own similar stories into the conversation. I'm not as good a listener as I want to be. As I think about it, I realize I frequently do the same thing when commenting on blogs or facebook. That's kind of hard to admit, but it's something to work on.

Saturday was a special day - my first 14er and the first time I ever spent a whole day with girlfriends. We climbed a mountain together, and I climbed a personal mountain, that of bonding with a spectacular group of women. We scaled so many rocks that we all called each other rock stars! Our next adventure will be awesome, I am sure.

A dream and a goal.

2010-08-12T08:15:00.001-06:00

My goal. I actually have one. But will it ever come to fruition? I have no idea. But for now, it will remain both my dream, and my goal.

Currently I am an unemployed graphic designer. During regular economic times, this would be considered a cliché since as an artist, it almost goes hand-in-hand, but in this day and age of recessions, extended unemployment, etc. it’s just plain sad.

I love what I do, and I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life, but within the past few months, I’ve had nothing but time on my hands. Enough time to sit back and contemplate what I would want to do with my life if given the opportunity of NOT getting a job in my field. What would/could I do?

Well, there’s the common response—work at Starbucks or places of similar environments, but ultimately, would I be fulfilled? Probably not.

I don’t expect to make much money, but I do expect some sort of happiness in my life, and if it involves a job, then why not? Is this so much to ask for after spending many years in college to learn my ‘craft?’

No, it isn’t.

But after much contemplation and soul searching, I have come to the realization that what makes me happy are equally combined—teaching and art. Combine the two, and the answer should be simply, an art teacher. But again, in this economic downturn, is that the smartest move since most art and music teachers are losing their jobs due to budget cuts within the school system? Add to the continuation of my education to obtain either an MFA or a teaching certificate.

Well, since I am still paying back my school loans, this might not be the most practical solution given that the end result will most likely not be a lucrative one, or worse—still remain unemployed with even a higher balance to my never-ending school loans.

Now what do I do?

Well, after living in Ft. Collins for twenty years, I also notice a lack of culture and art appreciation here. Yes, it has gotten much better since I first arrived here in August 1990 from New York City, but it does still need a significant amount of improvement considering how the population has increased throughout the years. I’ve always enjoyed walking through my daughter’s school so I can admire the artwork on display within the walls of each quad, and appreciate their naiveté as the children each create their individual masterpieces.

Then it hits me—why not open an art school for children? Something I could take charge of and be proud of and gain that feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day.

I realize there are a few here in town, but they’re small and expensive. I would want to make it available to children of all income levels, not just the rich or upper middle class. All children, doing nothing but creating their art and enjoying it along the way.

Of course, the space would have to be perfect. I dream of a large, open space loft—something with a rustic and urban feel to it. Lots and lots of art supplies enriched with splashes of color and ease of use. No intimidation allowed at this school!

But it wouldn’t stop there.

One thing that I always learned throughout art school myself is that in order to be a successful artist, you must go back in time and learn where and how art came from. Learning about art history—even at such a young age—can not only give each child an enrichment for art, but an appreciation as well.

But, this all costs money. Lots of money. Something I just don’t have at this point in my life. I also wonder in this economy if opening a business such as an art school for children, would be a risky move. I wish I could take the step needed to go forth with this objective, but for now, I will have to sit back and continue to fantasize about this ambition and see what happens. Maybe it’s something I will have to save for, but for now, it’ll remain a dream and a goal.

Suzanne

Stolen Minutes

2010-08-09T09:14:00.001-06:00

I wake up with the rooster to go for a run, way before the kids are wiggling in their beds. I have time for a shower, unloading the dishwasher and starting the breakfast before I bounce my feet up the stairs for morning hugs and kisses (yes I do have this kind of energy in the mornings). We have breakfast together… well at least until the food is on the floor instead of in their bellies. I start cleaning up, I let them “brush” their teeth at the table (with non fluoride toothpaste) while I brush the girls’ hair and put in girly hair clips. Then I brush their teeth.

I check my email and do other to do “stuff” while the kids’ pour everything out of the dress up bin. And as the mess continues I prep snacks and lunch (especially if we’re heading out), even mine otherwise I never eat.

Sometimes we all play together and it’s lots of fun and exhausting, in a good way. And sometimes the three of them play amazingly together and I can get more “stuff” done. If it’s not laundry or cleaning, it’s drawing, painting, writing, reading, or creating adorable troll Waldorf dolls. I love it all, but it does get a little overwhelming at times.

During naps/rest time I continue, doing my best to cross out things on my to do list, never sitting or taking a break. In the afternoon we usually stay home or run an errand to a store. I like to slow down a little because at this point I’m pretty tired.

At bath time my husband and me split up the kids. I always have one in our bathtub and he has two in their bathtub (we rotate kids so they all have get a bath alone). I like to use this time to chat and play since I want to give them as much one on one as I can. But sometimes I end up folding the laundry on the bathroom floor.

Lately I feel like I have been stealing minutes throughout the day. Stealing them from my “me time” and from my “me and my kids time”. I’m trying to do little here and there so I can get more things done in one day (more than is possible sometimes). I try not to steal to many of those minutes from my kids, I love hanging out with them. But sometimes I simply have to.

Home Is Where the Heart Is!

2010-08-06T13:46:00.002-06:00

I've been sitting cross-legged on my couch in my living room as my little girl sleeps soundly in her bedroom, thinking, I love my home. I rent an old 1200 square foot Old Town home with my husband and 2 year old daughter. It's small and needs a million and one repairs (which includes a new roof), but it's cozy, with big windows facing every direction, so that there is always available light and fresh air, a fun kitchen with plenty of room for socializing in while cooking, a front porch perfect for sitting out on with a glass of wine in the summer evenings... It's got everything I need to be content. But these past several months, as I have emptied the dishwasher, done yoga poses on the living room floor, cooked a pot of black beans on the stove, or danced to "Hey Soul Sister" around the rooms with my little girl, my mind has wandered over to the reality that I might have to part with these everyday experiences soon. And it's breaking my heart. I love everything about my life... except for one thing - my marriage. As I have done all that is in my control to save it, which includes counseling, prayer, being as nice as an emotionally abused woman can be, etc., I have come to terms with the fact that, unfortunately, it takes two, and there is nothing that I can do to change the other's heart. My husband has no desire to make this marriage work. Rejected. Ouch. So what do I do? What is an unemployed mom of a two year old supposed to do? Every time I log onto a website for some type of social services I get this incredible fog and sense of fatigue over my mind, which brings me to put it off until another day. Because hey, maybe tonight he'll come home from work and give me a hug! Hell, maybe he'll look at me! But the days go by and I am left wondering again what in the world I am supposed to do. So I go about my days as usual, as if nothing is wrong, taking care of my daughter and my home, cooking, cleaning, running errands, spending money that now feels wrong for me to spend, since I am not the one making it... But still, I pray. I pray a lot. God, I know that You're here, but are You just watching me? Are you just hangin out, thinking, "This is the result of all your mistakes over the years"? Okay, I don't really believe that. But good grief, I am at a total loss. Either my husband's heart must change drastically, or sooner than later I am going to have to make the choice to build myself a new life, with my daughter. I know that I can do it... Women do it all the time. But never in a million years, growing up, did I imagine myself possibly having to experience a divorce, seek out welfare and be a single mom one day. Speaking of mom... If only she were alive. Isn't that what moms are for? Wouldn't life be so much easier if she were still here? Oh, the "what-if's". The "should've's". Those'll kill a person. I can't go there. Maybe this season of my life is a blessing in disguise. Maybe God is actually sitting next to me saying, "Oh, just you wait... I've got a 3000 square foot house full of open doors ready for you to walk through!"

Firsts and Lasts

2010-08-04T09:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, just as I have done each year for four years, I drove to the high school to turn in the athletic paperwork required to clear my soon-to-be senior daughter for the softball season. It hit me as I drove away from the school: this year is the last time I will do this for her. I won't be here next August doing this. I will instead be driving her to some still to be determined college campus and sending her on her way in life. I've already done this once before with my oldest daughter, but the thought of doing it again doesn't get any easier.

When our kids are little we celebrate all of their "firsts": first tooth, first steps, first word. This year I find myself thinking of all of the upcoming "lasts": last softball season, last homecoming, last prom. My middle daughter and I have had a challenging relationship and at times I have thought that it would be best for both of us if she went to college far away. Now that the time is growing nearer for college applications and the next step in her life, I find myself hoping that she stays closer to home. I'm ready to see her celebrate some new "firsts": first dorm room, first year of college, first sense of responsibility.

I think back to that first year of kindergarten many years ago and I can't believe that the little blonde girl that I dropped off that day is already starting her last year of high school. She grew up way too fast. Now, two daughters will be gone into the world and only my son will still be at home.

I know there will be a lot of "lasts" this year which will bring tears to my eyes. I just have to keep reminding myself that there are many more "firsts" to come. I know that the next round of "firsts" will be worth waiting for.

Peggy McNeal

My So Called Life

2010-08-02T09:26:00.001-06:00

OK, so I was bored. The kids were monopolizing the TV to play Wii, and now that you can watch almost any TV on line for free I “googled” an old favorite, My So Called Life. For those of you who are too young, this was a show about a 15 year-old-girl, Angela, and her trials and tribulations in high school. However, it was filmed in that super self-aware style of Thirty Something (you are also probably too young to remember that show as well). I remembered that show as being one giant sentimental tear inducing dream that always left me feeling like a moody teenager who had everything to live for. I would just crawl into Angela’s soul and be her for an hour – remembering how important each look, gesture, or word could be when you were that age. Ah, the self-absorption and self-importance of being a teenager.

As I watched episode 1, I was surprised to find that the connection that I had once felt for Angela was replaced by the alliance I now seem to have with her mother. I literally got chills when the mom character says to her husband “It is so hard to look at her – she looks like a stranger” when speaking of her daughter. Oh, did that strike close to home. The mother also struggles with feeling left out – the dinner conversation is limited – no one wants to go ice skating with her. She complains to her husband that she always has to be the bad guy when he gets to be the fun parent, the one to say yes.

Then there is the moment when Angela comes home after a particularly hard night and she cries to her mother and lays with her until she falls asleep. A rare break from the constant estrangement that they both feel. The look on the mom’s face when she feels that connection and knows that her teenage daughter is still in there… well, it was a real tearjerker for me.

Still crying through this old TV show, but now for completely different reasons.

I guess I am not quite there yet, my 10-year-old isn’t sneaking out to go to raves, but she is dying her hair blue (with my help) and I already can envision the struggle that will probably occur when she will actively try to assert her independence and break away from my control. I am both envious of the journey that she is about to embark on but also fearful for what it might do to us. But mostly, I am curious to see whom she will become and what choices she will make. I will try to be there when she needs me. I will try to be her home.

Confessions of Imperfection

2010-07-29T11:19:00.008-06:00

"Mom!" I heard fear in my daughter's voice as I unbuckled my middle kid. Suddenly my giggling baby was flying "wheee" toward me on a stolen tricycle across the OUAC parking lot and that's not all, a car had to brake for him. Later I knew I should have apologized and lavishly thanked the driver for taking care. In the moment I felt too embarrassed and incompetent to even make eye contact. I snatched up the baby (unhappy to relinquish the tricycle) and held him tight.

My daughter was supposed to be holding the baby's hand. But at six, she isn't responsible for a one-year-old in front of a toy store. The baby brother is strong, fast and capricious. From now on, he will always be the last one removed from the car.

Why is it that I take comfort in the fact that I'm not the only mama who suffers significant lapses in parenting finesse? Wouldn't it be better for children everywhere if I really was the only recurrently maladroit mother out there? Yet as I read "get born" facebook confessions of moms who left safety seats unbuckled, forgot to feed a toddler, spaced the daycare pickup, or can't remember children's birthdays at the doctor, I know we share a bond of imperfection. My neighbor's daughter drank cough syrup. A friend's son choked down coins and she had to recover them from subsequent diapers.

I once arrived at a MOPS meeting and discovered in the parking lot that I had only two kids with me and my week-old newborn was still at home, sleeping in his carrier just inside the door. Can anybody I know outdo that? I HOPE NOT, but I wouldn't doubt it. I'm tempted to scrutinize other moms when they're having a good day, convince myself they are always full of beauty, wisdom and eternal patience, and measure myself inadequate. I begin to fantasize that they never fall from grace and there must be something seriously wrong with me, living in such blatant humanity.

Those reminders that I'm not alone help curb the tendency to indulge in a classic guilt-ridden pity party probably involving excessive chocolate or corn chips. Well that and looking in my children's endlessly loving and forbearing faces. I really don't expect my middle son to harbor ill feelings about the preventable tantrum scar on his eyebrow, or the fact that his bike helmet is tough to fit on his misshapen skull forever flat on one side and pointy on top because I neglected to rotate his sleeping head in his first four months of life. No, he will forgive and love me just as my daughter has after being accidentally locked in the garage for ten terrified minutes when she was three - and just as the baby brother will if he ever finds out his mama let him loose in front of traffic.

Time

2010-07-28T08:18:00.004-06:00

Time. It's one of those words that you don't necessarily pay attention to. You take it for granted. You go about your daily day and routines without a thought or a care in the world. You just continue on everyday.

But within the past few weeks, I quickly realized how time has taken a toll in my life, my world, my family.

Over a year ago, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. As anybody could imagine, we were scared of the inevitable. But my father's oncologist assured my parents that it was in the early stages and with treatments, he would be fine.

Fast-forward to now and yes, although he is currently 'cancer-free,' the chemo treatments have taken a toll on his 74 year-old body, thus affecting his health. He had been complaining of lack of energy and exhaustion for several weeks, to the point that he would fall because he couldn't walk properly. As their home physical therapist was working with my him, she noticed he wasn't breathing properly, so they called 911 to ask their advice on what they should do.

First stop—a trip to the hospital.

Turns out, my father was in the early stages of pneumonia. Thankfully because they caught it early, it hadn't escalated to the point of threatening his life. Regardless, they admitted him and kept a watch on him only to be released a few days later.

Next stop—rehabilitation.

This was very difficult for my father to comprehend. Not because he is delirious or suffering from dementia, but because he's a stubborn Italian man. Always has been, most likely always will be. Like any patient would be, he was reluctant to go, but knew it was one of those necessary evils in life. If he didn't, it could potentially get worse.

My mother assures me that he is fine and well taken care of at the rehab center. They don't anticipate releasing him until they feel he is 100% capable of walking on his own, and doing—what we consider to be mundane—activities by himself everyday without the aid of my mother. It could take a week, it could take a month, but either way, I know he is in good hands with 2–3 hours of physical therapy everyday.

Even though my father and I have always had a tumultuous relationship, I still love him more than I did as a child. He's my daddy, and I'm his little girl—his 45 year-old little girl. So a part of me wants to fly out there immediately and comfort him, let him know that we are there to support him, but my mother says not to come as of yet. He wants to be healthy enough to enjoy the company of his daughter and granddaughter.

As any daughter or son could imagine, I am scared. I have always looked upon my father as a pillar of strength, so to hear these events occur, is distressing, but for the most part, shocking. My father was the leader of our family. He was the voice of reason—albeit a loud voice—but the 'voice,' nevertheless. I have never considered myself a mature person, which for me, is just fine. But to see how time has marched on and we have all gotten older in our years, I realize that not only are my parents getting older, so am I. So is my daughter. So is my husband.

But it happens. Unfortunately, it happens.

So, I will wait, wait to hear from my mother and wait to hop on the next plane out to Las Vegas to visit them and enjoy their company.

Last stop—home.

Suzanne

Haunted by the inevitable

2010-07-27T06:44:00.001-06:00

At some point, we are all going to die.

Not like this is ground breaking news that we all didn't realize before, but it's a fact I never really focused on until becoming a mom. Maybe it's because before starting a family, I really didn't care if I met my demise anytime soon. Maybe it's because I feel like I now have something to lose. Whatever the case, I feel like I'm constantly haunted by the inevitable.

Now that my boys are growing a little bit older, my husband and I have more freedom to go out on our own leaving them behind with a sitter. We are enjoying date nights at concerts at The Aggie and Mishawaka and have even started to do some overnight stays at hotels in Denver. The freedom to enjoy these moments with my husband is amazing. Long gone are the days of being home-bound and bored with limits and restrictions that revolve around diaper changes, nap schedules and feeding regimens. Through time, the shackles of babyhood have been broken, leaving us to run free.

On our last kid-free adventure, we drove up to The Mish with friends for a concert. Music blaring, friends laughing, the warm wind blowing through our hair as we rode the twists and turns of the road hugging the beautiful Poudre River while driving up the canyon. Our kids at home with the sitter and safely tucked in their beds, I couldn't help but think how dangerous this trip was. At a moments notice, we could be in a head-on collision, swerve off the road and into the river, or a true reality, hit a deer.

My biggest fear is not knowing what would happen to my kids if both my husband and I were to die at the same time.

Most families are fairly normal. When you have your first baby, one of the most important steps in becoming a parent is drawing up a Will, laying out a plan of care for your children if you should expire earlier than you hoped. Normal families have Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, or some trusted adults named to take over and keep your kids safe. We do not. Without going into a long list of specifics, there is nobody I trust enough with my kids if I should die.

This fact recently hit me like a ton of bricks a few weeks ago after reading the news story in The Coloradoan. The one about the parents who made some very poor decisions, speeding and driving drunk down Lemay, only to end up in a fatal and gory car accident at the insurance office building. They left behind children with no plans for their care. Friends and family rallied to raise money to take care of the mourning children and their future was uncertain.

I can't even begin to explain how disturbing this was to me. Not that my husband and I make stupid decisions like speeding while driving drunk, but life is unpredictable. Anything can happen at any time. My boys could easily be in the same situation, parent-less and bouncing from house to house, or in foster care, while people manage the mess of the aftermath.

These thoughts are often buried deep within the halls of my mind, but every so often a door is opened and I'm tormented by what has surfaced. I don't care about an afterlife, meeting a maker or simply returning to dust. I care immensely about what happens to my children after I'm gone. And until they are able to care for themselves, I will always be haunted by the inevitable.

Kristin Mastre

YES mom NO mom

2010-07-26T07:33:00.005-06:00

As you all have heard before, I want to be the mom to say YES. I want to be cool and fun. I want my kids to like me. Don’t we all. But alas, this is not the way it has to be…

I have an iPhone. AND as one of the “urban Amish” (a term I stole from Peggy but perfectly describes me as well), it is underused. By me. For me, it is a phone, and a way to check e-mail, and texts, but Apps are not my thing. I do have a few to be sure, a movie clock, a pregnancy wheel, etc. but not pages and pages of them.

One of my biggest “YES” mistakes was to let my 10-year-old daughter “buy” some free games. Now when we drive around she drains my battery playing silly games with names like Jelly car.

Yesterday after coming back from a run, she was waiting for me outside. I felt happy that she had missed me and was excited to see me back. It turned out that what she really wanted was to buy a game for my phone that cost $10.00. “NO” was my immediate answer and my reward was that pouty sulky face that makes me feel like I am the meanest worst mother in the whole entire world. This really pissed me off. Not only did it ruin my endorphin high, but also I realized that I should have just been strong enough to not have ever let her use my phone in the first place.

I told her that I was really disappointed in her attitude especially since I have been so generous with my phone and that that could change at any moment in time if she didn’t change her attitude. And then I said ”sorry mommy” to which she said “sorry mommy” in that somewhat insincere and mocking voice and then I made a forced smile showing all my teeth and then she did too and walked away.

Needless to say, her adolescence has officially started in my mind and I should probably get a prescription for Xanax at my next check up. I am also going to have to say “NO” more frequently and more easily and without the nagging guilt that comes with it. Next time, the “NO” may be more important.

Victoria's Secret secret?

2010-07-21T09:57:00.000-06:00

I'm a pretty open-minded mom, and I have allowed my kids a lot of freedom growing up. Now that I look back on it, I was probably too liberal at times, but it's too late to change courses now. What's done is done. Along with this open-mindedness comes dialogue like the following, which occurred on Mother's Day this year:

Twenty year-old college student daughter: "Hey mom, remember those thong underwear you bought me at Victoria's Secret? Boyfriend (name being withheld to protect his privacy) really liked them."

Me: "Great! - I'm glad to hear that!"

Actually, I'm not quite sure of my exact reaction. I know that it was one of those moments of hearing just a little too much information for a mom and wanting to hold my fingers in my ears and shout "LALALALALA" at the same time to drown out the details.

Considering she is twenty and living on her own, I really don't have a huge problem with this, but it's one of those topics that maybe should stay secret and not be shared between mother and daughter. On the one hand, I'm glad she feels so free to tell me this. On the other hand, however, there are some things best left out of the conversation with Mom on Mother's Day.

Somehow I imagined Mother's Day to be calm and tranquil with my darling older kids cooking a wonderful meal for me and none of the kids swearing at each other, and definitely not telling me about their boyfriend's approval of the underwear purchase.

Then I was jolted back to reality with the fact that I have teenagers and twenty-year olds, and somehow things just aren't the same anymore. I cooked them a wonderful meal while they sat on the couch and watched TV, frantically texting the friends they couldn't be with that day.

Ahh, the joys of Motherhood.

Peggy McNeal

I hate you

2010-07-19T12:39:00.001-06:00

My 10-year-old daughter and my 5-year-old son have a love-hate relationship. He loves her and she hates him. Well, at least some of the time. She oftentimes plays with him especially if she can set the terms. She is a skilled negotiator (a.k.a. manipulator) who can usually get people to see things her way. However, she loses her patience with him which results in crying followed by “I wish we never adopted him. Let’s send him back.”

The other day, this whole pattern cycled through but this time she said “I want to kill myself.” Time out.... In the medical world this is a statement that is not to be taken lightly. It generally means a trip to the emergency room and a psych consult. That further tempered with a suicide in a relative from someone at my daughter’s school made me sit up and pay attention. Should I be taking her to the ER? Calling her pediatrician?

I sat with her and listened to her complaints and stroked her hair while she cried. She was fine yesterday. I wanted to take her seriously, yet it was hard to when she has never shown signs of depression before.

I kept a close eye on her the entire day. I encouraged (forced) her to go on a family bike ride thinking that between the exercise and the sun exposure that would help her sullen mood. And it did. Where the Spring Creek trail merges into the Poudre trail we pulled over to throw rocks into the water and everyone was in good spirits again. She even played with the boy that night despite my repeatedly saying that she really didn’t have to.

Luckily this episode was a false alarm. Girl drama. But I will remain super alert as she inches towards puberty, as I know the risk of depression increases during this developmental period. At least I know where to find a good therapist…

Blue Highlights

2010-07-15T11:44:00.002-06:00

I know it was indulgent, but there I was sitting in Studio Be Salon in Old Town as my ten-year-old daughter was getting her highlights dyed blue. Indulgent because it is an unnecessary and over-the-top expense for a ten year old. Indulgent because it makes me feel like a cool mom. And it’s not like a tattoo or a piercing; it will grow out. I am tired of being the good mother and restricting the sugared cereal and the TV time. It is summer and I want to be able to say YES….

I pat myself on the back. I am so cool to break this taboo. It is something that my mom (and mother-in-law) would never approve of. And therefore, it became a little dirty and sinful as if I was rebelling against them. Living vicariously through my daughter I could almost reenact all the crazy things that I wanted to do as a teenager but didn’t have the guts to do for fear of my mother’s disapproving comments.

She sits comfortably in the chair, chatting with the stylist, confident and carefree. When asked if she would like something to drink she says “maybe a glass of water.” How is it that she can enjoy this totally self-indulgent treat while I have not cut or colored my hair since October? I want her to be able to do nice things for herself. To think herself worthy of a full hour of pampering will be a minor victory for me.

In return for my "rebellious" splurge, my ten year old teaches me to say yes to my own needs. She is in love with her mother and helps reverse some of the insecurities I still carry from my own mother’s constant disapproval. She teaches me that I am worthy and beautiful.

No, I will not be dying blue streaks into my hair, but I will get it colored and cover up the gray. Maybe bangs? Maybe some layers? I might even accept a beverage when my stylist offers. Small victories perhaps, but freeing never the less. It is finally time to let go.

So, I guess we finally have it right after all these years of not

2010-07-14T01:52:00.001-06:00

A few weeks ago, I was able to join my husband in an all day Life Plan meeting that was set up by his workplace. I know, it sounds new-agey, which I'm not. And when I heard the words "life" and "plan" put together, I thought to myself, well, this is going to be interesting because everything I try to plan in my life never quite works out the way I intend.

My husband works for Otterbox, an amazing local company here in Fort Collins that is growing at a massive rate. His employment there has drastically changed our life for the better. This is just another example of that betterment. Otterbox really cares about their employees and everyone is given the chance to sit down with a life coach to develop this master Life Plan to figure out where they want to go in the company and how their skill sets will be best utilized. It's a fantastic tool for a business, but this plan also touches on personal and family life aspects...

The Life Plan experience, designed by Tom Patterson, is an intense two-day meeting that designs your total life strategy. It is heavily rooted in Christian beliefs where "God has a plan for you", which I don't buy for a second (says the Atheist in me.) However, I do believe in the importance of planning, having direction and focus in all aspects of your life. That's just common sense.

The first day is spent entirely on gaining perspective and understanding your story - where you've come from and why. You look for behavioral patterns and themes with life decisions you make. It's all about delving into who you are and what you do. I missed this day, but would have loved to experience it. I'm kind of a geek for insightful moments and gaining perspective.

The second day is nothing but planing and figuring out how parts of your life fit together. It's such a complicated, multidimensional experience with lists, circles, colors and 17 large sheets of flip chart papers covering the room from all four walls and to floor to ceiling. It all seems to flow along flawlessly. Each aspect of your life (Personal, Family, and Professional) is rated with a color: green = good, yellow = needs some work, and red = poor. It's just like a traffic light.

When we were going over the family aspect of Bill's life, every point was green, meaning that we had perfect balance. In our discussion, we concluded that our family life and our marriage is incredibly positive, strong and balanced, if I dare say near "perfect". It's never been better.

What an incredibly powerful moment for me. To see without a shadow of a doubt, right there on paper full of green circles, that all of the many years of hard work we've put into our relationship has paid off. We've reached our goal of a harmonious house and an amazing marriage. It hasn't always been this way, in fact, we've always been insanely imperfect and there were times we didn't think we were going to make it. It took many, many years of tears, stress, strife and counseling to get here. But we did it and only just recently. We couldn't be more proud of each other.

While this Life Plan was enormously beneficial and literally life changing for my husband when it came to his professional life at Otterbox, it was such a huge gift for me to be able to experience the second half and recognize the effort we've put into us and our family life. I don't believe God has a master plan already mapped out, but I do believe in us and the tremendous amount of work we've accomplished to get here.

So, I guess we finally have it right after all these years of not.

Kristin Mastre

Compassion?

2010-07-09T09:01:00.007-06:00

On Facebook this morning the Dalai Lama had posted this:

"A mind committed to compassion is like an overflowing reservoir - a constant source of energy, determination and kindness. This mind can also be likened to a seed; when cultivated, it gives rise to many other qualities, such as forgiveness, tolerance, inner strength, and the confidence to overcome fear and insecurity."

I love starting my day with his inspiring ideas about the world.

Of course there is a standard order to my web viewing in the morning. First I check my personal emails, then I post a blog to my site, then I head to Facebook, then I head over to my Google Homepage to check my favorite blogs I RSS Feed to, then it is over to Yahoo. I hate to admit it, but I peruse the 'news', mostly trash articles about celebrities and sports, in which the once in a while actual news article takes me off guard, at the top of the screen before I wander into my Yahoo Mail to check my 'everything else' email box.

I cam across this little article today, NBC Changes Rules to Allow Gay 'Today' Wedding. Reading the article it seemed pretty straightforward, what I found offensive was many of the comments.

I was immediately brought back to the Dalai Lama's quote I had read a few moments before, ironically, about compassion. Why is it so hard for us as human beings to have compassion for one another? Regardless of our beliefs about one thing or other?

Lately I have found that holds true for Mom's. Someone, somewhere is always judging the way other Mom's are doing it. Whether on Facebook, blogs, or articles. I am pained when I see light remarks made that reflect a quick judgment upon another, who is also just trying to do her best. Parenting is so dang hard, no matter how you look at it. Let us show compassion instead of assumptions toward each other. Each of us could use all the support we can get.

I am not immune from my own snap snarkiness. I was in line at Target last night getting a birthday present for my little boy. In front of me was a woman who looked utterly terrified as she gazed at all of the food items the cashier was ringing up. She had cash in one hand and a credit card in the other. Her teenage daughter was loading the bags into the cart. The fear was seeping from her pores. Instead of compassion, I looked at her clothes and thought to myself, "If it is that bad, why do you look so darn cute in an adorable outfit?"

Ouch.

I quickly realized my rash arrogance. I decided to imagine the gazillion things that could have gone wrong in her life recently. Her husband could be unemployed, she could have lost her job, her husband or one of her children may be going through a medical crisis, she could have just gotten a divorce, maybe someone in her family passed away and they had unexpected travel expenses, maybe one of her kids has a huge talent the family spends a lot of money supporting, maybe...maybe...maybe...

Who are we to know? What was I to know?

Compassion allows us to see the humanity in us all. The fragile, scary, joyous humaness we each posses. If we just try to put ourselves in each others shoes, instead of being so quick to judge, we could offer another human the most amazing gift of all...simple compassion.

A rainy day is a good day

2010-07-07T14:42:00.003-06:00

It’s rainy and grey outside today. I like rainy days as long as there are lots of sunny ones in between. It cozy, lazy and you have an excuse to bake. Today we baked a birthday cake. It’s my husband’s birthday today and he loves days like this, it’s perfect.

In the car this morning we turned the explosive children’s music off and just listened to the rain and the windshield wipers, pitter patter, swoosh swoosh. The sound of rain hitting the window is almost healing, it forces me to take a break, even if it’s just for a minute.

I dropped my preschooler off at the farm for her little “Pee Wee Farmer” class. I pictured them spending the next hour and a half up on the loft, playing in the hay with the kitty cats and telling stories. I wanted to stay too. But, instead I walked my two toddlers back to the car where they hopped and splashed in some puddles until my daughter hopped right out of her shoe and her sock got wet, and that was the end of that. When we returned to the farm all the Pee Wee Farmers pulled up sitting on hay behind a tractor, smiles all around.

It’s naptime now and the entire house sounds like it does in my kids bedrooms, it’s just like the rain sound from their sound machines. My twin toddlers are sleeping, even my preschooler decided to nap (she never decides to nap). It’s has to be this rainy day, I might cuddle up on the couch too.

I think rainy days are good for the soul.

Time

2010-06-28T13:20:00.000-06:00

We recently visited friends whose eldest is off to college in the fall. He is a boy-man at 6’5” and over 200 pounds. He is beautiful like a J. Crew model. He lazes around looking like he is waiting. Waiting for his life to begin, waiting for the adventure of college. My husband and his friend sat drinking and recalling those days. Stories were told. Memories of a different place revisited.

How is it possible that our children are grown when it feels like I am still a child? And how would I feel to be his mother? Looking at him, almost too big to hug. How did my mother feel when I went off to college? Was it relief or an unbearable separation? I was scared but felt free. Excited at the possibility of beginning.

But now, time is playing tricks on me. I know she does not stand still, yet I am always surprised when I look in the mirror – expecting to see someone else. I never would have plastic surgery I used to say, but now the idea is beginning to tempt. My daughter grows more beautiful and I more ugly. Did the women who came before me feel the same? Were they jealous or did they find comfort in the knowledge of all that came before?

I cannot slow it down or make it stop. I can only embrace and appreciate all that life has given me. I will learn to love myself the way I am today.

The Realities of Reality

2010-06-24T09:01:00.004-06:00

Let me preface this by saying that I admit, I am a reality show junkie. That being said, I felt compelled to write about this recent phenomenon not with rose-colored glasses, but objectively as a viewer myself.

When this whole reality show excursion bursted onto the scene, I was very skeptical and apprehensive to take part in what I call “train wreck television.” And for the most part, I actually held up my convictions until recently. In the past year or so, I have become addicted to (insert embarrassment here) many of the reality shows and competitions on the cable network, BravoTV.

I have never watched Survivor, American Idol or The Amazing Race (or whatever it’s called), but when Bravo premiered Project Runway several years ago, I just had to watch.

Since my first major in college was fashion design, I have always had a keen interest in fashion and how it comes to fruition. For me, Project Runway was a perfect gateway to fulfill that fixation. Since I hadn’t started watching it from the beginning, I rented the first few seasons to play catch up so I can immediately capture the current moments of each Project Runway season.

I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of hearing Heidi Klum utter the words each week to the failing contestant—“you’re out.” It was exhilarating.

Then came Top Chef. Since I loathe cooking and get quite bored with it, it provided that escapism aspect that I needed. Even though I had no idea how they were creating their dishes, I enjoyed watching the narcissistic attitudes of each chef that was provided for us—the viewing audience—each week.

Then came The Real Housewives of Orange County. Please understand, that when this show first came on the scene, it wasn’t the train wreck television that we see now with any of the Real Housewives’ franchise (i.e. Orange County, New York City, Atlanta, New Jersey and soon-to-come, Washington, D.C.). No, just the opposite—it provided a glimpse in the life of the rich and affluent lifestyles of these Orange County housewives and their daily interactions with one another, frequent shopping sprees to boutiques I can only dream of, unlimited travel to exotic locations, and a close-up glimpse of the inside of their beloved McMansions.

I loved it.

Again, it provided the escapism that I needed in my life.

Fast forward to 2010, and what we see now is a compilation of catty and faux rich women who each have their own skeletons in their large walk-in closets. With each of these Real Housewives shows, they provided the curiosity syndrome that most of us “real folk” only dreamed about.

Until recently.

It seems that with the combination of on-camera evictions, recent bankruptcy filings, sex tapes abound, et al—instead, what Bravo provided was nothing but a sham to the viewing audience. Out of all of these ‘characters’ from these shows, it seems that only a handful (and I’m being generous here) are who they say they are—meaning, they’re actually wealthy in real life. The rest? Not so much.

I have come to learn that most reality shows (if not all) that are out there, are not considered ‘reality.,’ but just the opposite. They’re scripted like any other show with real actors, only they want you to believe that what you’re seeing is real. But is it? In this Photoshop-ladened era, it really doesn't surprise me that most of what we're seeing, is fake or scripted.

Nowadays these networks have the viewers believing they are in fact, reality. So even though reality shows have evolved since the popular MTV series Real World came onto the scene back in the 90s, or veteran reality show inaugurate, The Osbournes, I believe we have grown as an audience, as well.

Either way, I know it seems trite and quite mind-numbing to watch the majority of these shows, so why does the American public continue to watch them?

One answer: because it’s like a car accident, as macabre as it may seem, you just HAVE to look.

Suzanne

Decisions decisions

2010-06-24T07:48:00.003-06:00

Source

I nervously dropped off job applications at the mall. I didn’t want to. I did it because it’d be nice to have some extra money this summer (for the kids) and because I might need some time away. Some time to not worry about house and kids, some time just to be me. Working at the mall was the only place I could think of where I could still be a “full time” mom working only evenings and weekend and I even have retail experience from my collage years.

I don’t know if I will get hired or even go on an interview, still I can’t help feeling nervous. I have been home with my kids for almost 4 1/2 years (their whole lives). I know I need time away from them sometimes but the thought of leaving them for many hours at a time a few days a week to work makes me sick in the stomach. I feel silly thinking that because so many moms have to work, or want to work and not only part time, but full time. I guess I’m so used to being with them that I know nothing else, my home, husband and kids are my comfort zone.

Sometimes I feel like I forget how to socialize; I talk to kids all day long. When I do go out I feel weird sometimes because I don’t have much to say. And then I worry; I’m not nice enough, funny enough or the least bit interesting (even though I know I am those things, at least at home). How will that work out at a job?

Do I even know how to work anymore? I know how to be a mom; well at least I try. Is giving my kids choices to solve a problem similar to bringing a customer a few different outfits to try on? Is folding laundry, dealing with a tantrum and trying to get my husbands attention for help similar to working the cash register, dealing with an unsatisfied customer while smiling?

I love being home with my kids. I want to be there for them and I don’t want to miss anything. I want them to be happy. But maybe we’ll all be even happier with some time apart and some extra money to take them places this summer.

Leaving my kids to work is something I have no clue to what it would be like, it’s unknown and unfamiliar. So here I am worrying about something that might never happen? And I don’t know if I should try harder to make it happen. Who knows, it could be amazing, for them and me.

The Sunrise Yurt

2010-06-21T10:13:00.024-06:00

"What's a yurt?" Common question. It's a hut-shaped canvas tent on a wooden frame and deck, equipped with bunk beds, a table and chairs, and a skylight. We camped in one for the first time a week ago at Bear Creek Lake Park west of Denver. The campsite came with the usual fire pit, grill, picnic table, and mosquitos.

Although I grew up tent camping every summer at secluded lakes surrounded by lush lodgepole pine forests in the Oregon Cascades, my Singapore-raised husband is a greenhorn. Our only previous kid camping experience was in 2007 with a 3-yr-old and a 4-mo baby. The 3-yr got bored, scraped her knee on a rock, and woke at 4am jabbering on and on about the stars and how stinky the tent was. Good thing we only planned an overnight trip. The baby was totally easy, hanging out on a blanket during the day and waking once to nurse at night. Well he did have a very inconvenient diaper blowout but hey, it's not like outhouses are all that convenient either!

With a 6-yr, 3-yr, and 16-mo baby this summer, we thought we'd have another go. Not owning a large tent, the yurt was perfect. And the campground, though not the private and pristine wonderland of my childhood memories, was a big hit when all the kids saw not one but two playgrounds, a horse barn, and a swim beach selling ice cream bars by Big Soda Lake. We spent hours at the playgrounds and splashing in the water, when the kids weren't collecting rocks in plastic cups or tossing the frisbee or playing house in the 2-man backpacking tent we set up just for fun. I gave them an inflatable chair inside the tent and they kept pretending it was a potty.

But what's a camping trip without some little mishaps? I bought plastic spatulas at the thrift store for my camp frypan and didn't think about a flipper for hamburgers on the charcoal grill. Ok, drag out the grilling cage we registered for when we got married and have never ever used. The burgers hung out of the edges but still cooked up great under my husband's grilling expertise. Next challenge: pancakes for breakfast. Sounds easy, but I forgot to bring *any* butter, syrup, jam, honey, anything remotely resembling pancake toppings, and the pancake batter itself was an unsweetened biscuit-style mix. In fact the only significantly sweet item in the food chest besides whole fruit was marshmallows for the s'mores we'd enjoyed by the fire the night before. Out came the roasting sticks, and marshmallow-filled pancakes soon graced the picnic table.

Comforting a crying 3-yr-old at 1am who didn't want to walk a quarter mile to the toilet and kept insisting we go home right away was distinctly the low point of the trip. He woke the baby in the portacrib, who Daddy cuddled back to sleep and shared his bunk with until morning. And tropical-blooded Daddy needs to remember a heavy blanket next time! Again, good thing it was just one night. We concluded that our family is still quite young for full fledged camping and maybe we should stick to day trips for a while.

At least that's what we thought on the way home... but with all the fun we shared as a family, here we are a few days later thinking about how to plan the next camping adventure. It's surprising how easy it was to minimize the bad and crave a repeat of the good. All we need is a family tent and some kind of cargo solution for the gear...

...and another destination with a playground and flushing toilets wouldn't be a bad idea! I can survive this kind of "camping" - views of RVs through thin trees, Home Depot perched on the hill, suburban lights flanking the night skyline - for a few more years. My first camping memories were around age 7 or 8 and continued until I left home, so perhaps I'm not really ripping off my kids by not exposing them to truly rugged and hard-core camping at the preschool stage. Although I feel their childhood flying by so fast, I have to remember that they really are still little and there is still time for dozens of quiet and remote family camping memories to be made. And dozens more s'mores to be eaten.

Confused

2010-06-14T12:48:00.002-06:00

Up, then Down.
Sideways. Falling Backward. Bolting Forward.
Running in Circles without reaching anywhere.
Regrouping every morning to set off on the mission.
Stumbling by the end of the day.
Going to bed with all of the "didn't do's" trapped in my head on the pillow.

Watch the news.
War, oil spills, isn't there any good news?

Start over again tomorrow.
Wake up.
Get inspirational quote from the computer.
Today is the day.
It's all going to come together.
No one will complain. No one will cry. No one will be disappointed in me.
I will be the perfect mom and wife.
What is perfect anyway?

When did life get this hard?
I think I need a vacation.

Peggy McNeal

Anxiety and Excitement

2010-06-11T08:56:00.007-06:00

These past few weeks have been hectic for our family. Nothing serious of course, just a motley mix of pure adrenaline, excitement, anxiety and nervousness.

My daughter has been playing soccer since kindergarten, at the young age of five years old. When she started, it was more for something to do without being too competitive, but healthy at the same time.

Fast forward to five years later, and that has all changed dramatically.

Her intermediate soccer season just ended literally less than a week ago, and even though we were so ready to hang up her cleats for the summer, we knew that couldn’t happen just yet. Due to the Arsenal tryouts for the upcoming U11 season, she had to be in full gear and practice mode.

At her age, this shouldn’t be a competitive, scary time, but about playing with friends on play dates and swimming, climbing trees and monkey bars. But with sports—even at such a young age—it becomes a blur in our daily lives. She knew it was something she wanted to do since she started playing at the intermediate level, so naturally we supported her venture 100%. She loved going out on the soccer field 3 times a week and learning new moves, new plays, and scoring goals, so the fact that she told us she wanted to take it a step further and tryout for Arsenal, was not a surprise for either of us.

We were indifferent about it at first. We had always heard how competitive (and expensive) playing soccer at the Arsenal level would be, and we were very apprehensive to go along with this knowing what lies up ahead. But how do you tell your child who loves and breathes soccer that she can’t try out?

You don’t. You let her be the judge and you let her make the decision for herself.

Watching her give 110% at every try out, and seeing how tired and anxious she was, helped us make this decision for her. We knew it’s what she wanted more than anything at this point in her life.

Then the next question comes to our mind—what if she doesn’t make a team? How do we handle that disappointment? We played it by ear, and allowed her to try her hardest at every tryout and camp and see how things played out regardless of the outcome.

After each tryout, she’d walk off the field after 2 hours in the sun with the look of pure exhaustion and sweat running down her face—regardless, she was still motivated and positive about her experience.

On the evening of the last tryout, her intermediate team hosted an end-of-season pool party at the Country Club. It was sublime. The clouds were scattered, but the warmth in the air was perfect for a day filled with swimming and congratulatory cake. Disappointed that my daughter hadn’t heard from the highest, most coveted team—the Gold team—she wasn’t sure how to feel considering two of her teammates had already received those phone calls from the Gold coach prior to the party.

I thought to myself, "wow, they’re fast." It was only a matter of an hour or two after the tryouts ended once these girls received their much anticipated phone calls.

At this point, without my daughter realizing, I was nervous for her. Worried that she wouldn’t make any of the teams knowing she worked so hard for three long, laborious days in hopes of becoming a player for the 'prestigious' Arsenal Soccer Team. The anticipation was killing me.

My husband and I felt the need to intervene and explain to her that regardless of the outcome, she was a talented and hard-working soccer player. She WILL make a team, we just didn’t know which one.

After a long tiresome day, my daughter was anxious to wind down and relax for the evening, until the phone rang. It was 8:00 and when I looked at the caller ID, I knew.

This was the phone call we’ve been waiting for.

I answered. She immediately announced she was the Arsenal coach and asked to speak with my daughter.

I handed the phone to my daughter, and to her bewilderment, was invited to play for the Arsenal Royal team. For us, this was nothing shy of excitement and glee. Her hard work had paid off. Watching my daughter’s enthusiasm while she was on the phone proved to us that this was it. Soccer was HER sport.

So even though the anxiety and butterflies were filled in her stomach throughout the day, it ended with a 10 year-old girl beaming with pride and happiness.

Congratulations, Emma. We’re proud of you!

Soccer is over for the summer, so for now, we'll hang up her cleats and enjoy the summer with pool-filled days and sunshine ahead.

Time for tennis...

Suzanne

Just Like Mom

2010-06-07T07:37:00.004-06:00

Before I divorced him completely, he said, “The problem is that you’re hostile toward me.”
“I don’t feel hostile. How am I hostile?”
“You don’t act hostile, but I know you feel it.”
“I don’t feel even a little bit hostile.”
“Yeah, but I know you are hostile inside like your mom. I think you’re always guarding against that same hostility. I think you have to be careful not to become like her.”

THERE! Right there is where I want the conversation back. Right there where I sunk into myself and believed him that I had to work even harder to be nice, or I might become Mom.

Her name was Donna, named after her father. She was a recluse and she struggled with demons I never understood. Food, God, family, marriage, then diabetes. She raged at Dad when her blood sugar dropped, several times a day, and that’s what I needed to watch out for.

That’s what all of us need to watch out for. Mothers who failed to heed Dr. Sears and Foster Cline. Mothers who yelled so the whole neighborhood could hear. Mothers who were quick with a sandal across the butt. Mothers who sabotaged our diets with M&M cookies. Who picked us up late from ballet and didn’t notice we were stealing their cigarettes. Mothers who scoffed when we asked for therapy.

But mainly, Mothers whose lives added up to nothing.

I left that man after 16 years. The same number of years I’d lived with Mom.

Now it’s 2010. I spent April of this year in her room, cleaning; I filled two dumpsters, and I replaced her food-crusted keyboard, but kept the computer there for now. At night, I’d read her old notebooks or work her logic puzzles. I’d lie in the spot where she died, while my sister, home from her job, logged in as donna and played Bejeweled a few feet away.
With the door closed, we traded secrets about Mom. Then, Barbara told me what it was like to be there in those last months. It was gross, and it was moving. The anger and sadness could take you at the oddest times. Barbara said, “It was such a pain in the ass, and then after she was gone, all I could remember is the good stuff.”
I know.

Mom was all those things I said before. At the same time, she fought overeating and its guilt every single day of her life. Those demons just pummeled her. They pummeled her. But they also made her generous and compassionate. She knew what it was like for other people to fight inside, and she saw it in them quickly. She kept my heroin addict boyfriend in the family years after I dumped him. She took in all the lost friends, hungry immigrants, and incontinent dogs. She forgave me for so many nasty things. Too bad she never forgave herself. Her demons won in the end, and the diabetes shut her body down, one organ at a time. From her, I learned that every one of us gets some set of demons. And every one of us makes a life of living and dying with them. Mom fought hers from inside that room, hidden from the world at a game of Bejeweled. Only now do I understand that nobody’s life adds up to more or less than anybody else’s. That’s what I figured out lying in her bed a month after she had gone.

It’s 2010, and I can’t remember anymore why I ever agreed to the idea that I must not be like my mother. Give me that conversation back so I can say this one thing more:

“Fuck you. I plan to be just like her.”

Cat

The Good Kind of Sore

2010-06-03T10:19:00.001-06:00

Last month I took my first "Spin and Tone" class twice a week at Aztlan. After three pregnancies (my final baby now 15 months old) I have no abs, unless you count belly fat hidden by loose fitting t-shirts. Technically I've reached my pre-pregnancy weight... so why are my favorite blue shorts still tight? As it turns out, pre-pregnancy SHAPE is an entirely different endeavor! While I'm not optimistic about certain body parts (like the ones that nursed three infants), I am determined to get in shape this summer and shed the final five pounds to my long-elusive goal. My simple motive: to energetically enjoy Colorado's beautiful hiking, biking, and camping with my family, and maybe even learn to snow board this year.

So I took the class. We rode spin bikes for 45 minutes in a guided workout of sprints and hills, standing runs and hovering climbs. Then we grabbed free weights, floor mats and fit balls for another 15 minutes of toning. Though a step up from biking my daughter to school every day, I could handle the spin section alright. The combination of Pilates, plyometrics and weight training, however, truly wore me out. I tried to take it easy the first night, but the next day I was unmistakeably sore - the good kind of sore.

I spent most of May feeling the good kind of sore. Though weight loss has been negligible, in just one month my energy and endurance are rising and the belly is beginning to shrink. I graduated from knee pushups to regular ones on my toes and I no longer roll off a bosu ball backwards. I even wore those blue shorts last week.

The best thing, though, has been to enjoy family bike rides more and more. On Mother's Day we rode the greenbelt trails north of our neighborhood, me pulling the two boys in a trailer and my recent kindergarten graduate chasing Daddy on her own bike. The next week Mama took the kids out alone. On Memorial Day we all rode the Poudre River Trail (photo) through the hot afternoon and to my amazement, I was hardly tired at the end.

I love these family excursions. My husband and I like to dream about the hiking and biking adventures we will have when the kids are all old enough to keep up. Yesterday I put training wheels on the three-year-old's black and yellow 12-inch garage sale bike. Soon there will be one less for me to pull behind!

This month my self-selected torture is 7 a.m. "Shreadmill" with a treadmill workout followed by circuit training. My first class was yesterday and I'm feeling sore yet again. The good kind of sore.

Friday is coming closer

2010-06-02T10:28:00.002-06:00

This Friday my ex-husband and the father of my three kids is having major cancer surgery. He has already undergone three rounds of chemo, lost his hair and his energy, and has a long road ahead of him. The surgery will be followed by six weeks of radiation and who knows what else. This is something that came out of the blue. One day life was normal, the next day everything changed.

We've been divorced for more than ten years, but our lives have always been intertwined due to co-parenting three kids. We have fought and argued over the years and at times hated each other, but we never let these emotions carry over to our kids. I think we did a pretty good job of keeping their lives normal as "kids of divorced parents". I hate the term "broken home" - and I refuse to ever call my home "broken". We have also come to some sort of a place of peace and understanding as the years have gone by. I am happily remarried. He has been married and divorced again, and now has rekindled a relationship with his high school girlfriend, who I am ironically friends with. Seems that his life came full circle. Then the cancer diagnosis.

My kids are dealing with the stress of their dad's impending surgery. I don't know exactly what they are thinking because they don't say much about it. I don't think they know how to react as they have never been through anything so traumatic in their lives, except for our divorce. As the ex-wife, I don't really know how to react either, although I can't shake the overwhelming feeling of concern and sadness that I have for him, our kids, and his family. I am thankful that my current (and forever) husband is extremely supportive and that the lines of divorce have blurred for all of us. He was the first person to offer help to drive my ex to the hospital for a biopsy early on in this saga. What a generous person he is.

As the hours tick closer to Friday, I find myself getting more scared. I plan to take my 12 year old and 17 year old on a hike that morning. There is nothing they can do by sitting at the hospital all day waiting and I think it will do us all good to hit the trail. He will be in the ICU for several days. I'm not sure if they can visit or if that will be good for them to see or not. So many unknowns. My daughter, who just turned 20 last week, will be there, and we will stop by in the afternoon and keep her company, along with other family members, all of them "ex's" to me. Ex or not, they are part of my history and my story.

Please keep our family in your thoughts.

Peggy McNeal

Scraped up knees and bare feet

2010-05-31T06:59:00.001-06:00

I remember being off from school during the summer as kid. Whenever I think about it, my mind wanders off to a different place. Summer was always a fun time. The worst part was when it ended and school started over again in the fall.

I remember running barefoot on the rocks (it didn’t hurt the way it does now), my scraped up knees and our scary, but fun clown sprinkler in the backyard. Everyone was tan and covered in mosquito bites except for me; I was covered in freckles (mosquitoes never liked me). Pretty much every breakfast we sat on the porch and had milk and strawberries from the garden. For some reason I remember the strawberries tasting much sweeter than they taste to me now; maybe Swedish strawberries are sweeter.

My mom always came up with fun summer games for us to be busy with. My dad would barbeque every evening with a beer in hand. The sun never went down long enough for me to get too scared during camp nights.

We spent many days in my cousins pool, learning how to swim, jump and dive. We wore those old school floats that looked like scuba diving gear. My brother stayed in so long that we used to call him dolphin. And when the summer rain started falling we went out in the yard in our bathing suits to catch raindrops in our mouths.

My neighbor friend and me would hang a string between our bedroom windows with a basket attached to it. We used it to send each other “highly secret” information; too secret for our younger siblings to see. Together we also made perfume out of water and mashed up flowers that I wasn’t supposed to pick, and sometimes even some real perfume from our moms stash (another thing I wasn’t supposed to do). It was also really fun to watch dandelions stems curl up after we made strings out of them and put them in water.

My siblings and I collected all sorts of things too. We filled buckets to the top with snails, put nail polish on their shells to mark them and made them race each other towards lettuce leafs. One time we put them in my parents’ bed while they were still asleep, I won’t mention how upset they got.

We would go sailing for weeks at a time; stopping at “our” traditional stops in the Swedish archipelago. I felt so grown up when I was able to help my dad navigate. I even got to steer once in a while. My siblings and I used to explore the islands, We would jump off the boat,it always took me the longest to jump into that cold dark ocean, and we played taxi with our little jolly. Something always went wrong during our sailing trips, but that just made them that more special.

I have nothing but fun things to remember from this time; the list goes on and on. Now having children of my own I have to wonder how my parents did it, how did they create this feeling I get when I think about it? My fear is that I’m not going to be able to fill their summers with as much joy as they did. My oldest is 4 and she might be able to keep memories from now on (I have a few memories from that age), and I want nothing more than for them to have the same feeling of summer and memories like I have.

It’s starts today. My preschooler is off for the summer and she’ll be spending everyday with my twin toddlers and me. I will do my best to make this a summer of sprinklers, strawberries, pool splashing and trips to the lake (since there is no archipelago here). I will make sure my preschooler gets to have a lot of silly time with friends, exploring and brewing.

I’m ready for scraped up knees and bare feet… and hopefully, so much more.

Hard Times

2010-05-27T10:06:00.001-06:00

My sister-in-law’s mother-in-law (don’t think too hard about it) is dying. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer last year and is now is at the end of her life. She is in hospice with her family gathered. She is not responsive. Everyone is waiting. It is hard to think about. How can you be here alive one minute and gone the next. Everyone is waiting for that moment when she lets go.

Even though I am not close to this person I have been thinking about her everyday. Her consciousness is gone but her family suffers still. Not wanting to leave her alone for a minute but essentially sitting with someone who is already dead. They are waiting until she no longer takes a breath and her heart no longer beats. I feel so much sympathy for them. The waiting is hard.

It makes me think about my own mother’s death. Hers seemed to be much quicker. Once she was in the hospital she began to sleep more and more until she just slipped away without a word. I sat with my brother. Waiting together. Making small talk and thinking about the past. When she took her last breath I disconnected the oxygen mask as then the room was quiet. I touched her hand and smoothed her hair. I waited for a few minutes and then went to tell the nurse that my mother had died.

There was much business after that. Phone calls to be made. Possessions to be gathered. Forms to be signed. We left the hospital with her things and drove home.

It still seems unreal. I still feel like when the phone rings it will be her. I still think I have to call her to share some new story about my kids. In a way she is still alive.

I don’t know why I write this – only to let my sister-in-law know that we are thinking of her. I know there is nothing anyone can do, but I share this experience with her now. And that I know it is hard.

Bubbles

2010-05-26T14:17:00.012-06:00

------------------------------------------------
----------------------bubb----------------------
-------------------les pop in-------------------
-----------------the children's-----------------
-----------------faces as hands-----------------
-----------------reach for floa-----------------
-------------------ting shiny-------------------
---------les------ ---circ----------------------
-------bobbing---------------------------------
-------in warm---------------------------------
---------sun--------- ----- ----ny---------------
------------------------- --schoolyard-----------
------------------------- -skies filled----------
------------------------- --with kinde-----------
-------------arte----------- ---rg---------------
-----------n laught-----------------------------
-----------er while-----------------------------
-----------goodbyes-----------------------------
-------------wait-------------------------------
--------------------- ----for--------------------
---------------------- -the bel------------------
--------------------- -l to ring-----------------
--------------------- -on the ve-----------------
---------------------- -ry last------------------
----------------------- --day--------------------
------------------------------------------------

Summer

2010-05-24T08:46:00.002-06:00

Only 3 ½ more days of school until summer… here we go… I look forward to it with both excitement and dread. Excitement because of the weather, the absence of jackets and boots and the task of rushing to find paired mittens. Being able to run in the early morning before the kids are awake and going. Not having to worry about driving to Denver in the snow. Having kids sleep late and watching their tan healthy bodies play in the park. Not having to rush everyone off to school whether they feel like it or not.

Dread because of the loss of my free time. Dread because another year has passed and my kids are closer to being grown and leaving me. Dread because the garden needs weeding.

This summer I will try to slow down and enjoy the moments. Remind myself of all that is good in my life. Enjoy the slower pace. I will read a book in the hammock and drink a cold beer in the backyard sitting beside the fie pit with my husband. I will let the kids stay up past their bedtimes and sleep until they wake up.

The weeds in the garden can wait.

Life of a Soccer Mom

2010-05-20T10:12:00.003-06:00

I never thought in a million years that I would ever consider myself a soccer mom. We all have that quintessential picture in our minds of what we envision as a typical soccer mom. But me? Not so much.

For starters, I don’t drive a mini-van. Isn’t that a pre-requisite to be a soccer mom?

I don’t drive to and from practice or games with 10 kids in tow—just my daughter.

When I arrive at her games, I wear glitter encrusted flip-flops in lieu of sneakers and a team shirt.

After 5 years of watching my daughter play soccer, I still don’t know the rules and know what’s going on half the time, so when i see an off-sides call, I have no idea how it happened.

I actually do take the time to put makeup on as an attempt to not appear tired or bored.

I’m really not your typical soccer mom in any sense of the word.

Conventional stereotypes aside, I am still a soccer mom.

My day really isn’t that hectic given my current unemployed status, but once my daughter arrives home from school, everything goes into fast forward and we’re off.

She immediately runs to her bedroom and changes for that evening’s practice session. grabs a water and we’re out the door. And that is just on Tuesdays and Fridays.

On Thursdays there is a required scrimmage for all intermediate level players to participate for an hour and a half, and Friday evenings after their regular practice, they have pre-tryout arsenal camp. And of course, they still have their scheduled games every Saturday—sometimes early mornings, and sometimes mid-afternoon—but inevitably, it ends up being a day filled with running around and exhaustion afterwards.

In addition to their 3-day scheduled tryouts for Arsenal in early June, they will participate in the Choice City Soccer Tournament all in the same week—and of course, there will be practices to coincide with that as well.

Pretty much our soccer-filled lives have become 5-6 days a week.

Recently, we have braved the games in not-so-ideal weather conditions, but overall as we enjoyed watching the camaraderie between the girls and their coaches and our socializing with the parents while we root our girls on for a win over the years, it has become quite refreshing.

Complaints aside, we have come to accept that soccer is a big part of our lives, and may be in the future as well, but we do know that as we continue to support our daughter’s chosen sport, we will continue to enjoy watching her compete and watch with awe and amazement as she and her teammates grow, mature and excel. Because honestly, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Suzanne

I need solitude

2010-05-17T09:52:00.002-06:00

Am I the only one in the world who doesn't want to be plugged in to electrical devices at every moment? Today I find myself not being able to stir up the creative juices to write. After pondering my dilemna for the last hour and searching my soul for something insightful to write about, I've come to the conclusion that I can only write when I have had some quality "alone time". I need time to gather my thoughts. It doesn't work to try to invent something that I am not feeling from my heart and soul.

I need solitude.

I need reflection time.

I need some uninterrupted time from the chime of the text messages, email notifications, and cell phones. Sometimes I can't decide if our constant communication in this world is worth it. We barely allow ourselves time to think.

I've always been a person who needed more solitude than others. I used to sit in my bedroom as a child for hours and write and read and ponder life. I find that it is still the same for me. I need to sit outside and read a book, listen to the birds chirp in the trees, and go into that place in my head that only I know. Then, and only then, will I be able to write today.

So, I am heading outside. We have our glorious Colorado sunshine back. The grass is green, the sky is blue, and my lounge chair awaits.

Peggy McNeal

Why Write?

2010-05-13T09:40:00.002-06:00

I write because I am socially inept.

Or maybe I choose to be a loner.

Of course, it could be that I am just your run of the mill narcissist who thinks they have something brilliant to say, that everyone must read.

Sometimes it is therapy.

Other times, writing reminds me why I need therapy.

Writing reflects my true colors, while meeting me in person highlights my insecurities.

When I write I am able to complete my thoughts around something…at least for the time being…

While I write, I try to notice the minute details of things I may never have noticed if I wasn’t trying to describe it to someone with mere words on a page.

The beauty of life is reflected back to me, as I put my thoughts on paper…ahem…computer screen, because I am learning to look at every moment in search of gems worth passing on to others. And there are a surprising number of diamonds in a life that may seem, on the outside, rather mundane.

Writing in some ways takes a load off of my shoulders, while I can’t explain why or which topics succeed, there is a sigh of relief when I have released the burden I wasn’t even aware of, free.

The written word has long allowed us to see that not a one of us is alone, even if sometimes we feel like we are.

My fingers dancing across the black keyboard of my laptop have allowed the permanent laryngitis in my throat to slowly loosen; my voice is heard even if it’s not with ears.

Why write?

Because it is all there is for me to do.

Inspirational softball girls

2010-05-12T09:34:00.003-06:00

Mother's Day...ahh...for me, another day spent at the ballpark. I am a softball and baseball mom and I give up almost all of my spring and summer weekends to spend time watching my kids play ball. I enjoy it. I know that these days won't last forever, so every weekend we travel to fields far and wide at ungodly hours to play the game. I also know that playing sports and being part of a team has taught my kids a lot about hard work, perseverence, and dedication. This past weekend showed me the good work that youth sports does in shaping the lives of our kids.

Inronically, the tournament we were playing in was called "Flowers for Mother's Day". For one mother, it could have turned into a nightmare. Our team was playing at a different part of the complex, so this story comes to me second hand, but it still made a lasting impression on me. Evidently a player was hit by a ball and knocked unconscious. While she was being transported to the hospital, all of the other teams of girls playing at the complex gathered together on the field on their knees, joined hands, and prayed for her. Moments before they had all been competing, and now they realized that this was just a game. It was no longer important who won or who lost, who struck out or who hit a home run. When I saw the picture of the girls all holding hands and kneeling, it was an inspiration for me on Mother's Day. I am glad to report that the injured player will be okay.

All I could think of was her mother and the agony that she had gone through, as I had gone through similar agony just a few months ago with my daughter's snowboard accident. I was so proud of the group of girls that day, and the great job that all of their mothers had done in raising them, and thankful for the coaches who instill solid values in them on the playing field every day.

Peggy McNeal

Mother's Half Day

2010-05-10T12:57:00.003-06:00

My Mother’s Day started out well enough. I heard the five-year-old tip toe downstairs to watch TV – as per my explicit instructions after the day before when he made so much noise –on purpose - trying to wake everyone up, including the ten year old. That’s nice I thought. Maybe there is hope for him.

I cooked a delicious breakfast – baked eggs over spinach and tomatoes with prosciutto and toast. Mmmmmm it was good. And of course, a double espresso from the over-the-top espresso machine that my husband bought years ago.

I got flowers and cards and read the Sunday NYT – it was delightful…. But of course too good to last… Maybe we should call it mother’s half-day. We decided to walk to Cold Stone to get ice cream. My daughter heard that Mom’s got a free “like it” ice cream on mother’s day. So off we went, adults and dog on foot, kids on scooters.

We made the three block walk without any problems. But I should have known that the peaceful day was soon going to come to an end. It was approaching 7pm – the bewitching hour for five-year-old boys. And there was a huge line, probably because it was a beautiful evening for a walk. The five year old decided he wanted an ice cream sandwich, but when it finally came time to ordering he could not decide what kind of cookie (Oreo or chocolate chip) or what flavor ice cream he wanted. Instead of deciding he became completely overwhelmed and threw himself on the floor and began to cry. I took him outside at which point he was so frustrated and mad at himself he said, “I am so stupid” and kicked at the brick outside of the building with his foot repeatedly. Then as I walked with him to the front of the store to wait for his sister and his dad he picked up his scooter and threw it. At which point I told him he was not getting any ice cream. He sulked all the way home. Can you blame him? But at the same time I couldn’t help being irritated at him for ruining our nice outing and just being a killjoy in general.

When we got home I broke down and gave him some strawberry ice cream and put him to bed. I figured he didn’t need a big long lecture – he seems to be harder on himself than I could ever be on him. Tomorrow will be better I told him as I tucked him into his bed. He nodded in agreement and gave be a kiss goodnight. Tomorrow I will try to be better too.

Becoming a mother is like...

2010-05-05T06:20:00.006-06:00

Becoming a mother is like joining the circus.

No formal education is needed but clown school might be helpful. Necessary skill set includes stamina, energy, and humor. You get to wear funny clothes and act like a goof ball.

But circus life is not always as glamorous as it appears – it involves a lot of hard work and sacrifice. You will be asked to work odd hours, weekends, and holidays. You will need to perform even when tired, sick, or in a bad mood. Oh, did I mention that the pay sucks.

Yet despite all the hard work and sacrifice, being part of a family and making people happy is the ultimate reward. You live to laugh and entertain and love.

On Mother's Day, go to www.getbornmag.com/blog for a special message about becoming a mother from editor Heather Janssen AND be entered for free, fabulous schwag to splurge your fabulous self from participating get born advertisers.

I can do this

2010-05-04T03:29:00.001-06:00

I can do this, I thought to myself as I was getting ready for the day. The morning went on as usual, making breakfast for the kids, jumping into the shower, getting everyone dressed and The Preschooler ready for school, making sure a diaper bag was fully stocked because The Toddler was coming with me to our monthly MOMS Club meeting.

I can do this, I thought to myself as I started the car, driving down the street and pulling into the school parking lot, waving "Hi!" to other moms dropping of their 4 year old kids dressed in dinosaur t-shirts and wearing princess backpacks. The Preschooler safe in class and ready to learn about bugs, I made my way to the meeting.

I can do this, I thought to myself.

I walked into the meeting, putting my business side first, conducting the meeting as the chapter president. I completely turned off the side of my brain that was thinking about what was soon to happen. I went over the upcoming activities that were planned for our group, park days, ice cream shop tours, a craft that my boys and I would probably skip because I can't stand glitter and glue. I went over the service project details, one where we were working on raising money for a non-profit that helps single moms gain independence and survive without the help of welfare.

I can do this, I thought to myself as our guest speaker was introduced to the group.

A sweet woman dressed in a chic purple sweater and cute high heeled boots smiled nicely as she talked about her job as a Forensic Interviewer for the Child Advocacy Center. She explained that she would talk about ways to help prevent sexual assault and talk with our kids about their body parts and safety.

I can do this, I thought to myself.

She talked about statistics, ways to talk to our kids about privacy and what to do in situations like sleep-overs. She was humorous with an intense topic, easing the room into more difficult questions. The wall that I had built going in slowly started to wear as she described the steps that happened after an assault was reported. Pieces began to fall after she talked about children sitting with her in a therapy room video taping their accusations of abuse for evidence in court.

I can do this quickly turned into Why? and How?

While some moms struggled with ways they were going to talk to their kids about body parts, unable to utter the words "penis" and "vagina" due to unbelievably strict Catholic upbringing, I struggled with ways to keep the wall up as it crumbled inside of me. The words "forensic interview" and "video taped accusations" caused a complete earthquake inside my soul.

Keeping a thinly veiled appearance of stability, I had an uncontrollable urge to ask, why? and how?

After the speaker completed her presentation and lingering people had been satisfied with their private questions afterward, I had tunnel vision. Watching her pack up her things and begin to make her way out of the room, I brushed off people asking me about business details on for the service project and what to do about trivial little things that I had no interest in caring about at the moment. Ignoring them much like I do with my children when they have questions at inappropriate times, I made the b-line to ask, why? and how?

"What are the steps that happen after a child reports an incident of abuse? How does it exactly work after the forensic interview"?

She rambled off the steps as if she were reading the text from a human resources manual.

"Oh, Ok." I said quietly. "Because my perpetrator is still out there and was never jailed".

Her demeanor quickly softened as she asked questions. The wall completely destroyed, tears welled up in my eyes as that old pain of why? and how? came to the surface. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this", I apologized.

Excusing myself from the room, she followed to talk. I told her about my story, about my own forensic interview and how it never went to trial. How my perpetrator violated me without consequence, moving on to enjoy exotic vacations in Mexico and build a thriving business. Meanwhile, I spent years in therapy asking why didn't I have anyone to protect me? and how did he get away with this? and repeating to myself, I can do this. I can survive.

I wiped away tears as she sympathized shaking her head saying "It never ends. It's a roller coaster where sometimes you're fine and other times you're not". Indeed. I was fine before today, the happiest I'd ever been in my life with a wonderful husband and two great kids, a rewarding job and a full social schedule. Then, in a matter of 45 minutes, a crying mess with old wound ripping open again.

Handing her card to me, she said she would email me. I thanked her and put myself back together again. Quickly building that wall back up, I thought to myself, once again, I can do this, promptly ignoring the unanswerable why? and how?, the questions I realized for the one millionth time that I'd never get solid answers to. I walked back into the meeting room assuming the role of chapter president again, finishing up loose ends before having to run out the door to pick up The Preschooler from school. I can do this, I thought to myself.

For the rest of the day, emotionally exhausted while my kids needed me for things; for lunch, for entertainment, for love, I thought to myself, I can do this. I can survive.

Skydiving Souvenir (or, Becoming A Mother)

2010-05-03T12:59:00.007-06:00

Becoming a mother is like being dropped from a small aircraft into the ocean from 12000 feet. You prepare for it by putting on a parachute and a life jacket, but when you hold up your ticket with two pink lines, board the plane and take off, you're struck with horrible air sickness. What were you thinking? Then the plane hits some altitude and you cruise for a while enjoying the ride. But fear strikes again as you near the point of departure. That first leap - the squeezing tightness in your belly - there's no turning back. You get a surge of adrenaline and fear and joy and craziness. When the parachute opens you begin to enjoy the ride down. But not for long. You begin to spin, to flail, to realize how quickly the ocean is approaching, and with great pain you and the ocean collide. You take a gasp of air and hold your breath. This is it, the moment of becoming. Push through! Under the water you are rolled and swayed dizzy. Your arms find a soft object and hug it close. Finally you struggle to the surface where you realize, for the first time, that the life jacket you carefully packed along does not fit you at all but it's just the perfect size for the seven-pound person you found there under the ocean and dragged with you up to the wave-tossed top.

And there you are, treading water in the middle of a vast sea. It's very disorienting, the constant buffeting of the waves, endless straining, incessant protection of that precious gift you hold. But in time, as days and weeks pass, you find you are able to swim with increasing skill, guard with greater confidence, and navigate with clearer direction. Eventually your feet find solid ground and you emerge bedraggled on the shore. Gazing down again at the perfect souvenir of your skydiving adventure cradled carefully in your arms, you know it was worth it, and you will never be the same.

On Mother's Day, visit Get Born Magazine at www.getbornmag.com for a special message from editor Heather Janssen AND to be entered for great prizes!

Baby Girl

2010-04-29T09:41:00.002-06:00

Every Tuesday evening, my daughter’s elementary school hosts a party at the local rollerskating rink. Since she has only been to a few in recent months, I was surprised when she came home a few weeks ago elated that one of the boys in her class has asked her to accompany him to the upcoming themed Sock Hop at the rollerskating rink.

To her, this was a date. An actual date because a boy had asked her. Both my husband and myself knew that this was just a 10 year old’s attempt at feeling like a teenager. Although we never thought we’d have to deal with such an issue at such a young age, we knew that in only a matter of a few short years, she won’t be asked to the Sock Hop at the rollerskating rink, but to her Senior Prom.

As she prepared to meet her “boy” friend at the rollerskating rink, she seemed more excited to glance around in hopes of seeing her friends, as well. Since I have never dropped her off at a public place without knowing beforehand the parents that would be in attendance, I reluctantly drove away after ensuring she had her rollerskates for the upcoming festivities regardless.

As I was driving home, knowing in just a few hours she would call me to pick her up, it was a difficult period for me to enjoy. A part of me was so happy for her because I know this meant so much to her, then there’s a part of me who was sad that she was no longer my baby girl that I once held as she cried because she lost her favorite Barbie. This was different. This was my little girl en route to adolescence soon followed by womanhood.

Even though on paper, it only seems I am getting ahead of myself, but I know years seem shorter and shorter as we get older, and memories like these should not only be treasured, but enjoyed at the same time.

At 8:30 sharp, I called her cell phone wanting to make sure that everything was OK and if she was ready for me to pick her up. Luckily, she was.

When she got in the car, I couldn’t wait to hear the details of her evening. Her evening without me or my husband in tow. As I had imagined, she had a wonderful time with her friends and her “boy” friend. They rollerskated and played video games while they ate pizza for dinner and candy for dessert.

As she was telling me the details of her evening, my mind couldn’t help but wander to the soon-to-be events of when she’ll tell me about her first one-on-one date at a movie, or her first dance, or even when she'll tell me she’s getting married. All I kept thinking was even though she is no longer a 3 year-old toddler, or a a 5 year-old starting her first day of kindergarten—either way, she will always be my baby girl.

Suzanne

The cabinet of life

2010-04-28T08:07:00.003-06:00

I open my kitchen cabinet this morning. What do I see? I see a Pocahontas glass we got from Burger King at least ten years ago, so faded that only her long black hair is still visible if you look hard. I see a Seattle Seahawks glass, which was a gas station give-away twenty years ago when gas stations gave away things like that with a fill-up. I see a Crown Royal glass, courtesy of a gift box which paired Crown Royal and a glass together as a set. Alongside these glasses, there are many more...souvenirs of Brewery visits, events attended, and some summery plastic cups from Target that I bought just because they were bright and bold. My cabinet is a virtual hodge-podge of life.

When I was little, I remember telling my mom that when I grew up, everything in my house was going to match. I also remember her trying to tell me something to the effect of "it doesn't always work that way".

Sure, I could go out and buy all new glasses. There is something stopping me. All of these glasses tell a story and hold part of my past. I lived in Seattle for many years so the Seahawk glass is a reminder of the green and rainy coast that I miss so much. The Pocahontas glass takes me back to all of those trips to Burger King when my kids were small when I would watch them play in the "playplace" and pass the time as a single mom. I could go on and on with each glass and how it came to be in our cabinet.

I realize now that there is more to life than "making everything match". I would rather have my assorted glass collection,all with a story, than a beautifully matched set of glasses with no history.

My life is not always perfect, just like my cabinet. It is interesting and diverse, filled with heartache and happiness, struggles and victories. It is perfect for me.

Organic Credo

2010-04-26T13:00:00.003-06:00

Smooth showers...
Morning... The walk was - is -
espresso
Thoughts of him
[revolutionaries...
change]
One streaming tear
drains into his sweet cheek
[true image]
forever sketched in his mind
sweet, complex mind
That tear -
[mine?]

I hear her... [That bird - that one bird -
... only heard...]
I am here!
And he is my gift [rich fudge and peppermint -
layered -
chilled -
perfect]
She says

Remember?
Your favorite

My gift is he [He?]
This is not about...

Us.

I love him. [Him!]
I love us.

Creations are watered
[Dance with me]

into eternity.....

My First True Love...Earth

2010-04-22T07:11:00.004-06:00

My first true love might surprise you. It wasn't Johnny Depp, even though I had a plethora of 21 Jump Street posters decorating my walls. It wasn't Judd Nelson with his bad ass attitude in Breakfast Club. Jon Bon Jovi? Close, especially after I shook his hand at a concert when I was like twelve, but no cigar...

It was my mother. My earth mother that is.

I loved everything that was part of the natural world as a child. I spent many weekends and summer days in solitude floating on a lake which started out man-made, then quickly got filled by a hurricane. Mama was just reminding us who was boss.

We would take walks to an uninhabited point that was covered in blinding bunches of daffodils. Thousands of them...there wasn't a year gone by after that discovery that I wasn't standing at the door ready to go to 'the point' every spring.

I was appalled at the treatment of animals, at an incredibly young age. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs when I saw an animal testing report for the first time on T.V., my fragile heart was devastated. I was a vegetarian by the time I was eighteen, it would have been sooner if I had anything to say about it.

I cried the first time I saw the majestic mountains of Colorado. A place I moved to on a whim, yet had never been to. I couldn't possibly have prepared myself for such beauty and the amazing show of strength Gaea had put forth.

I was pissed while writing a paper in college about the mountain gorilla and finding out how there were only 300 left in the wild. What?

I learned to search for birds incessantly after reading Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams. Now I am blessed every day with at least one hawk sighting, by me or my children.

The earth never ceases to amaze and inspire me. I wish I had more time to just lay in her arms, float in her rivers, roll in her grass, smell her trees. I wish I had more time to rally on her behalf, drive less, lobby our representatives, who often seem just not to get it, and pay tribute beyond the political realm.

It isn't just about economics. It is about justice. It is about sanity. My sanity and that of the worlds. It is about humanity's bigger role as part of the system it relies on for life. It is about responsibility and love, passion and our truest purposes on this human journey.

The blue planet has a heartbeat all it's own, so today I pay homage to her. Mother Earth. Sending my gratitude far and wide for her many gifts. The air that fills my lungs, the dirt that cakes under my fingernails as I work in the garden, the snow that blankets the range to the west, her mountain streams and desert wonderlands, her tapestry in blooms and her painted sunsets. I am awestruck by the size of the giant redwoods while equally so for the green canopy of the earth's many rain forests. I rejoice in the oceans full of life that cleanse our spirits, and the peaceful solitude that exists in the song of a bird. I take a moment of pause to feel the wind on my neck, understanding in my soul the billions of processes a day that must happen for me to merely exist.

Oh my Mother, my mother, may we ever fully understand your grace...

Random Acts of Kindness

2010-04-19T07:42:00.001-06:00

I love to run. I am not a competitive runner by any means, but it is my alone/me time. I have been doing really well this year – even running through the winter days over ice and slush even taking the dog. Until… Thursday.

Last Thursday, my foot got caught on a crack in the road and I fell twisting my ankle. At first I was just stunned. Lying in the street I wasn’t even sure what had happened. I tried to stand but couldn’t and literally crawled to the curb. Trying to stand again I felt dizzy. Nate, my poor dog started licking me on the face.

My first thought was that my running season was over. So unfair – one misstep could ruin running for me – and just when the weather was becoming nice. My second thought was how the hell was I going to get home in time to pick up kids from school.

A few people must have seen my spectacular fall but none stopped. Of course, I didn’t have my cell phone with me. Finally a young woman stopped to see if I was OK. Although mortified at my situation, my ankle immediately started swelling and I knew I would not be able to walk home. She let me use her phone, but I couldn’t reach my husband. Finally she told me that she was driving me home.

OMG. How nice of her. What would I have done without her? As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed her help. Crawling home just wouldn’t have been an option. I thanked her one hundred times.

And the help that I needed didn’t stop there. Everything is so hard when you can’t stand or walk. My husband ran out for an ace bandage and crutches. My daughter has been helping me carry and get things. A friend drove me to a meeting. My arms ache and I am forced to elevate and ice my foot for hours each day.

I am worried about the week to come – I have meetings scheduled – chores – play dates… I will have to accept that some of these things may need to be cancelled or rescheduled. But all in all it is a good reminder that we are human. That our busy lives should be able to accommodate a slow down every once in a while. That I am lucky it is just a sprain and nothing life threatening.

And now I can tell people that I sprained my ankle while running… away from a bear…

Escape

2010-04-15T07:45:00.000-06:00

The phone rang after breakfast. "Let me just start by saying this is an emergency," my friend spoke in a hushed, urgent tone. Her accent is heavy when she is shaken. "I found out that there's a chance that…" He what? "So I took her for a special interview and they think it's true…" She's six. "We didn't sleep at the house last night. He's coming back home tomorrow morning. The police told me to take out all my important documents and anything with sentimental value…"

I brought boxes. I rode her new bicycle to my garage and went back. Thinking about my daughter's playmate since birth – her world severely upended – my stomach churned ill and my body trembled with adrenaline. Three days prior we'd made plans to play at her house next week. It's on the calendar.

He is ominous, the man who did this. Five and a half years now I've been listening to the retelling of horrors going on behind closed doors. Verbal abuse, threat letters, bold lies, power games, extreme intimidation. Shoving and slapping. Why didn't she leave? Of course she never imagined that their precious only child wasn't safe. The girl adored her daddy on the occasions he was home. And then there was the money. She had no income apart from his. But the main thing was the fear of starting over in middle age without direction in a foreign land.

More friends came. I photographed an inventory of every room. She sorted, we packed, that's mine, that's his, and in a matter of hours we ransacked the house – certain prints missing from the walls, old clothes and unessential toys littering the floor, kitchen chairs without a table, clouds of dusty dog hair in corners where furniture had stood, no more kindergarten artwork displayed from every angle. Somewhere a 10x10 storage unit contains all that is left of her life: hope for a new one.

I don't want to be involved in this. I don't want her bank statements, baby photos, and Picasso from Germany stashed in my basement. Even so, it's an honor to be entrusted with the things most dear.

With shrieking pledges of divorce ringing in her ears, she's been getting dental work done on his insurance, getting aptitude testing and career counseling, and making sure her foreign visa was renewed even though it wasn't due for another two years. Last year she went through the "what if" scenarios with a lawyer. Yet as bad as things were, she was tolerating it and hoping that those papers wouldn't come too soon, not until she'd started some classes, not until she had a plan for the afterlife, maybe not at all. Certainly she didn't want to make the first move.

She cashed out the checking account and we locked up and left. She got a new cell phone that he couldn't trace. The police wanted her at the station to record a call accusing him of the crime. I returned home feeling I'd lived a twisted day in a tv melodrama. Unreal - if only it were.

A bittersweet day

2010-04-12T12:20:00.000-06:00

When my oldest daughter went off to college two Augusts ago, her bedroom at our house stayed pretty much the same. She was living in a tiny dorm room and being in school only 40 minutes from us, she came home almost every weekend to escape her roommate. She moved home for the summer and nothing changed too much.

When she went away this past August, she moved into an apartment with a friend. Suddenly she needed furniture and so we were able to give them some of our discards for their apartment. Still, her bedroom at our house stayed almost intact. Her bed was in her room at our house, always waiting for those days when came back. The days became fewer and fewer as fall turned to winter.

Yesterday was the day when her bed at our house finally moved to her apartment. She decided that the bed she was using there was too small, and so she asked for her queen size bed from our house. Simultaneously I decided that now might be the time to ask her about her room. It is the largest bedroom in our house, and I thought that if she could move her bedroom to a spare room in our basement, I can take over her room with my home office.

I thought this would be an emotional question and I actually dreaded asking her, but I really wanted the larger bedroom for my use. At the same time, this was the only bedroom she had known almost her whole life. It was the room where she grew up, and there are still teddy bears and pictures on the wall, and her high school yearbooks are on the shelves. When I am in it, her presence is surrounding me. She is still a little girl to me when I'm in that room.

When I asked her about dismantling her room, she didn't mind at all. She really didn't care too much. Maybe this is harder on me than it is on her. I know that this signals probably the last time she has lived in our house as a child. When she comes home now, she will be staying in her new bedroom, which will be more like a guest room to her. Her apartment has now become more of a home to her.

I knew this day would come eventually, and over the past few years when I thought about it, I imagined I was looking forward to it. One kid out of the nest, two more to go. Then freedom. It is really a lot harder than that. While my greatest wish for my children has always been for them to launch into the real world, when it actually happens, it is tough to let go.

Peggy McNeal

And She Sang

2010-04-08T10:52:00.000-06:00

It was 1958 in Bronx, New York. Amateur night at The Apollo, which was a regular Wednesday night event. At the young age of 21, and ready to make her debut, she reluctantly wandered onto the stage with nothing but courage and anxiety as she attempted to fulfill her lifelong aspiration—to sing at The Apollo.

It wasn’t a painless task to defeat, but singing at a venue other than The Apollo could have been an easier endeavor to complete, but not amateur night. This was a night that if the audience didn’t like you, not only do they boo you and throw vegetables at you in unison, they pull you off the grandstand with a giant hook to ensure you’re off the stage and out of view of the well-known patronizing audience.

Young and platinum blonde, she started to sing in front of an all-black audience who were used to listening to nothing but Motown and the blues. Even though her stomach was fluttering with butterflies, it didn’t stop her from walking out onto that stage to continue her hopes and dreams of becoming a professional singer.

As she opened her mouth, the beautiful sound of her voice came ringing out and filled the amphitheater as the audience looked on with awe. Who was this white woman singing the song “And This is My Beloved” with such talent and grace?

My mom.

I have always heard this story while growing up, but at the time when it was initially told, I could never really fathom the magnitude to which it should have been appreciated and understood.

Don’t get me wrong, I always looked at my mother with awe and admiration, but since I wasn’t blessed with a beautiful voice like hers, I never fully grasped the extent of her dreams.

At the time that she sang at The Apollo, she was a young bride filled with naiveté and a yearning to perform. After her singing debut, it wasn’t long after that she was approached to sing professionally as a backup singer with Harry Belafonte. As anyone could imagine or hope for, this was a dream come true. But for my mom, it couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time in her life. She was a few months pregnant with my brother, and really had no desire to tour and live her life on the road, all while she was about to embark on a new dream of her own—motherhood.

I love my mom and I have witnessed her talent firsthand, so I know that even though she chose to give up her dream to be a singer and performer to be a wife and a mother, I will always look at my mom and her accomplishments with acclaim and applause.

I am proud of you mom, and in my eyes, you are the most talented and brilliant woman in the world!

I love you - Suzanne

wedding photo of my parents, Al and Barbara Maestri - August 10, 1958

Bark, Rings, Roots

2010-04-07T08:16:00.000-06:00

Quick, think of someone you really don’t like. Visualize them in your minds eye, take in their entire being, feel them, smell them, and then tell me…what kind of tree would they be?

I was driving home from an event not too far in the distant past, wondering about judgments and exactly how it is people come to the conclusions they do about others. I like you, I don’t like you, you annoy me, you’re too loud, you’re too meek, I love you, you drive me bonkers, I have no patience for you, I have compassion for you…you get the picture.

On that particular spring day, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the myriad of naked trees I was passing on country roads and in farm fields. As I beheld their majesty and strength, their ability to stand strong against so many forces, and at the solitary nature of their existence, I started to see them as people.

A tree reaches its branches to the sky in longing. It hopes and dreams of reaching maturation, extending itself toward the heavens, the sun, the rain, all the things it needs to survive. Not so different than any of us, I think. In our more hopeful moments, our more open times, we too extend our arms with expectations, hopes, and aspirations, wondering if we will survive through the seasons, all the ups and downs of life, while still keeping our arms reaching toward optimism.

The tree is covered in bark. It has a shell, a hard, protective mechanism to help it on its way to maturation, protecting the inner soft, vulnerable core. You might not see our bark at first, our rough spots around the edges, but you will. And sometimes you will spot it right away because it is impossible to hide. Our bark is our bite, coming out in our behaviors, sometimes in ways we least expect. Our lies, our truths, the protection of ourselves from others, our not striving for our dreams in fear of the hurts that might come along with that, our addictions, our disorders, our failures, our mistakes, our emotions, our reactions…here is where you find our armor.

Ah, and now we scratch the surface, digging deeper into the core, where there is no refuge, only flesh and the rings of our life. What are the rings that make up your life? What do those circles of years really mean? Were they hard fought or joyous? Do those rings represent pain? Sadness? Deep reverence for life? Love? All of the above? Every ring is a mark around our souls; they each played a sacred part in the dance of who we are today.

Our roots are in search of nutrients and sustenance, they are the foundation for the potential that we are. Do we water our roots? Do we tend to them, and fertilize them; letting them stretch and send shooters out in all of the directions they feel drawn to often enough? Or do we stand on them, neglecting our deepest essence, hoping beyond hope that it is strong enough to hold firm regardless of our inattention?

Yes, I think each and every one of us share our marrow with that of a tree; a maple, an aspen, a weeping willow…and you know, it is pretty easy to find compassion for a tree.

New Strength

2010-04-05T06:51:00.000-06:00

Life with a preschooler and toddler twins has been challenging and amazing. I have forgotten the twins first year of life, probably on purpose. I have found myself feeling guilty, as I lay awake at night (even when I’m exhausted). I think about all the yelling I have done. Seeing my kids so frustrated and upset is plain sad. Why can’t they just be happy, I do everything for them? I have dug myself in a negative hole and I want out.

I fear my kids growing up and remembering a loud crazy home. I fear them turning into uncontrollable teens that get in trouble and don’t respect me. We definitely have good weeks and great days filled with laughter, creativity and fun. There is always love. It just seems like some days I run out of energy and strength to enjoy and interact with my kids. I truly don’t want a life like that.

Now I have a new strength. I got it from conversations with dear friends and a parenting book (Parenting with love and logic). I’m going to change things around in this home. I’m going to have more patience, I’m not going to yell, I’m going to set limits and we are going to enjoy life. Amazing how much stronger and energized I feel after some new insight and knowledge. I can do this. I will try. Changes won’t be easy or happen over night but they will happen. I feel relieved to know that I can do things differently. I’m excited.

I believe I am a good mom, but I want to be better. I believe my kids are having a great childhood, but the everyday craziness is unnecessary and need to stop before it takes over. I need to learn and let go, everything doesn’t have to be done my way. My kids want to make decisions of their own, not just what color paper they want to draw on or which pajama they would like to wear to bed. They have to learn to make good decisions to prepare themselves for the future. I’m going to let them think and to learn by their mistakes. I’m not going to do everything for them because they are amazing and capable of doing things (some) for themselves. Imagine how much more time we’ll have left over for happy family time!

I love you Kiddos!

Soap Box

2010-04-01T10:15:00.000-06:00

Really?

Was this so shocking that it was worth being headline news? I’m talking about Erykah Badu’s new video. For those of you who haven’t seen it yet, you can Google it or you tube it (although it may now be blocked).

There seem to be two controversial parts to the video. The first, which I find more interesting, Ms. Badu is walking down the street to her new single Window Seat and is shedding her clothes, garment by garment until she ends up naked. It is supposed to represent the shedding of fears, societal norms, baggage.

I found this quote from Badu online:

"'Window Seat' is about liberating yourself from layers and layers of skin or demons that are a hindrance to your growth or freedom, or evolution. I wanted to do something that said just that, so I started to think about shedding, nudity, taking things off in a very artful way.”

She takes off very “normal” clothes; a raincoat, hoodie, t shirt, basic black underwear and when she ends up naked (for about 5 seconds) she seems to have a beautiful if not average body of a woman who is a mother of three children. I think she is very natural and I find nothing disturbing or indecent about it. She is wearing little makeup and doesn’t look like a diva – just a regular Jane – even her crazy hair is hidden away under a wrap. She is relatable. She is definitely not portraying an image of an idealized sexualized black video vixen woman but of an introspective woman lost deep in thought. In this crazy sexualized fashionista world, I think she has consistently given women and girls and alternative model of what it means to be a woman.

A lot of the criticism seems to be centered on the fact that the video was filmed “guerilla” style in one take and without a permit or warning subjecting women and children to the horrors of the naked female body. She may have been a little insensitive to the community and broken a few laws, but isn’t that what artists do? Push you to feeling uncomfortable – push you to think about things in a different way – challenging the status quo? Plus, if she is telling the truth, her intentions were to get an important idea across and not to cause harm. She is also partaking in the technology that is readily available to all of us - anyone can film anything anywhere wihout explicit permission. I find that the amateur quality of the video adds to it soulful down to earth feel of the video.

The second issue seems to be one of place of video. At the end of the video she falls down as if she were shot at the same spot that President Kennedy was assassinated. Blue letters appear to come out of her head that say groupthink. Basically we are lead to believe that groupthink will tell us that she is bad for walking around naked and being a free thinker and that is what gets her killed. Many have expressed that they are offended by this image and that it is disrespectful to a fallen American president. I think the connection to President Kennedy is poignant – didn’t he die for his beliefs?

Whatever you believe or how you interpret it, Ms. Badu has certainly drawn some attention to herself and her new album. I am sure we can all agree that in this Facebook, twitter, texting world – that is exactly what you need to promote yourself. You can take the road travelled by cynics and believe that is was all for publicity or the road travelled by the artists that she is just pushing the envelope. The truth is probably somewhere in between. I personally like the video and will continue to be a fan of Erykah Badu.

Really...

On the other side of the fence

2010-03-31T12:16:00.001-06:00

I have a long family history of depression. My grandparents on both sides suffered with serious cases of depression and one from each side were severe alcoholics. My parents suffered the same crippling depression as well as alcoholism and drug addiction. Aunts, uncles, cousins -all have some level of depression. My sisters have dealt with it as well, on top of anxiety disorders and eating disorders. Every single person in my family, including myself, have dealt with it one way or another.

My first experiences with depression were the years that I lived in absolute hell in an abusive home when I was a pre-teen. It resulted with me running away twice my freshman year of high school, where my mom called the police to drag me back home, and then two suicide attempts after that. I eventually moved out when I was 15 to live with cousins I'd never met before.

After I graduated high school, got married and lived with my husband, my depression seemed to disappear. I had cut-off my mom to never speak to her again and helped my sisters through early escapes of their own. My depression was situational rather than a chemical imbalance (unlike so many other people in my family), so if life was "normal" then I felt "normal". While life certainly had it's ups and downs, I was depression-free until I became a mom.

After my first pregnancy, I had a pretty bad case of (untreated) post-partum depression. The combination of post-pregnancy hormones and disrespectful in-laws lead me into months of pain. Pain that I hadn't felt since those early teen years; anxiety and deep sadness that is almost unexplainable. It felt as though my heart was literally breaking to pieces inside my chest and every cell in my body dripped aching tears. After my second pregnancy, the post-partum depression was less, but still fragile in complicated family interactions. I was able to manage it, over come post-traumatic stress disorder and have since become depression-free once again.

I felt like my many years of personal experience with depression made me an expert in some kind of way. Years of therapy, a few (unsuccessful) trials with medications, and a lot of introspective writing were all my weapons. It was a monster I fought and won. Which is why is was so shocked and caught off guard when my husband began battling his own fight with depression and I felt like a failure, completely unsure of how to help him.

His depression is the general type that most of us deal with. One day sitting on the couch he told me how he felt. He should be the happiest person in the world; he has a great job that pays more than the bills, a happy home and marriage - everything he could ever want. But he had an unexplainable sadness. I had no idea what to do other than hug him, listen and assure him that it would be alright. There were always reasons behind my bouts with depression and thus, there was always a way to "fix" it. I frantically searched my mind for ways to fix the problem and after realizing there was nothing to fix, I felt lost.

I didn't like being on the other side of the fence. It was actually easier for me to be dealing with depression than somebody else. I knew I was a strong person and could win the battle, but watching someone go through their own fight was unnerving. I love him more than any other person on the face of the Earth, which makes this voyeuristic position almost unbearable. At this point, I realized how lonely depression was on all sides, not just for the depressed.

He is overcoming that darkness that haunted me for years. With some tools of his own, he's not just sitting there suffering. But it is so incredibly uncomfortable for me to sit by and watch from the other side of the fence feeling helpless. Knowing that it's not a battle I can fight for him, grabbing a sword to get a few stabs in myself, all I can do is sit and listen. I don't feel like it's enough. I'd rather be the one fighting the fight.

Moving On

2010-03-30T01:43:00.000-06:00

I moved to Fort Collins from Chicago in 1997, desperate for a new life. I was 19 years old, had one year of college behind me, and a trunk full of baggage. Or rather, a trunk full of journals and letters. My plan was to find healing and a new me in the mountains. My plan was to forget that I had an eating disorder and to escape the pain of losing my mom.

The trunk was ancient and weighed at least 75 pounds empty. My uncle gave it to me in 1995, right after my mom died, because it was a gift to him when he was in college, painted by her. She had painted it a rustic, army green with his initials "WST" (for Wright Sutherland Travis) on it in beautiful calligraphy. I cherished this trunk and used it to store every keep sake I'd accumulated throughout my childhood, particularly all my old journals and letters. Leaving this trunk and everything in it back in Chicago was not an option. It moved to Colorado with me.

Funny, but my plans didn't exactly pan out the way I had hoped. I found it impossible to find this "new me" in the mountains. I didn't forget about my eating disorder, because it continued to control my life. I didn't escape the pain of losing my mom, because every now and then the anger deep in my heart would spurt out of me like vomit. But I continued to write about my demons - all of the anger, fears, hurts, loneliness, depression. Every thought and feeling I had was ravenously recorded in journals and letters to God over the years, and stored in that old, green trunk - locked up, out of sight, saved for a purpose.

I have moved 17 times in the 13 years that I've been living here in Fort Collins, which I view as typical for a single college student, and eventually a newly wed. And I'll tell ya, moving that damn trunk everywhere I've relocated has been a true pain in the ass. With the dozens of journals and other memorabilia hiding inside it, the thing weighs a ton. But it's the one thing I've refused to leave behind anywhere or let go of.

Last week, during my daughter's nap, I crept into our guest room, nerves attacking my stomach. I had this overwhelming urge to spend the time I had alone rereading these journals, in hopes of finding answers to why I am continuing to battle certain battles these days. And what I read was all so sad. It was just pages and pages of loneliness and crying out for freedom. They were like my own psalms. I sat on the floor of our guest room mourning for the girl I used to be. In all honesty, I was hoping to find suppressed memories of some sort - black and white excuses for what I still deal with in my life these days. But no such luck.

Today I went in to see my therapist and shared with her my little endeavor, as well as little blips from various journals. She was shocked that I had saved every one of them, trekking them around with me everywhere I relocated to. She asked me why I held onto them. I had never even questioned this myself. Getting rid of them has never once crossed my mind. But as I sat there thinking, my answer was, "Because Fiona will need to know who her mom was." And she replied, "But you can tell her yourself." That was a true revelation to me. Tell her myself? But won't I be dead? Aren't I going to die before she's 17? This lie that was planted in me 15 years ago has, unbeknownst to me, completely controlled my subconscious. My mom didn't leave me anything that told me what she struggled with, or even who she was. I didn't think to ask her, at age 17, what her fears were growing up, or even what her dreams were. I never asked her what her pregnancy with me was like, how long she breast fed me, or how old I was when I started using the potty. So many things I will never know about her, and I have feared that Fiona would one day also be left without answers as to whom her mom was. But maybe that won't be true after all. Maybe, just maybe, I will have all the time in the world to share with my daughter everything about me over endless cups of coffee in the future.

At the end of our session, my therapist asked what I would think of getting rid of my journals once and for all.... Even making it into a celebration of some sort. At first this thought terrified me... But then it was like the most amazing idea I'd ever heard! It occurred to me then that to burn every old hurt and fear I'd recorded throughout my life might just be a huge step towards letting go and finding that true freedom that I've hungered for so long. When I walked out of that office today I felt like a feather. I felt like I was floating! I was giddy with excitement!

I'm plannin a party, and it's going to have a big bonfire!

Fragile - Handle With Care

2010-03-25T12:35:00.001-06:00

If I had to pick one word for my state of mind right now, that word would be "fragile". I am stuck in what I would call a "funk" bordering on melancholy and I need to do something to dig myself out of it.

Part of it has to do with my daughter's snowboard accident last week. It threw my world out of rhythm and I am suddenly worried about everything and everyone. I can't feel happiness and optimism right now and I'm finding it hard to smile. I'm not sure why. Maybe it is some sort of post-traumatic accident syndrome. I dealt with the horrific moments of anxiety of not knowing what was wrong with her, to the great relief that she would be ok. Somewhere in that wild mood swing, I got stuck at the bottom.

As long as I have had something to keep me occupied, I have been able to cope. First came several doctor's appointments, the missed days of school, and the horrible thoughts of how bad the accident could have been. I have always been the one who is strong through any crisis and keeps a brave face on for the world. I am always the calm and level-headed "go-to" person. I usually don't dwell on the what-ifs. I was under control when I was dealing with the science and facts of the accident; the who, what, when, where.

However, I found myself in the high school counselor's office this week working on a plan to get my daughter caught back up at school, and I quite literally fell apart. No warning. I began describing what I knew of the accident to her, and suddenly I was sobbing uncontrollably. It started with watery eyes and ended up with black mascara running down my face, and numerous kleenex being thrust into my hands. It was like the release of all of the strain I had bottled up inside of me suddenly burst out. I had not wanted anyone to see how hard this had been on me, so I hid the stress of it all, until the dam broke. What better place to break down than a counselor's office? The counselor was wonderful through this episode but I walked out feeling like I had failed myself. I showed myself to be weak.

When it comes to emotions, I realized that I am fragile. Usually when life kicks me down, I get right up and dust myself back off, but this time I am slow to get back up. There have been a few worries and sadness in my life recently, and they are taking a toll on my ability to stay positive. For me, that is unusual. I feel vulnerable and scared that something else will happen to someone I love.

I am trying to focus on a few positive things each day until I climb out of this valley and feel like myself again. Today while driving I turned a corner and came upon a herd of buffalo grazing in a field, with the snow-covered mountains as a backdrop, and the sun shining brightly above them.
That made me smile.

Peggy McNeal

Vacation

2010-03-24T06:30:00.000-06:00

Ahhhh vacation. Mexico. Sun. Sand. Surf. Margaritas. Sounds like heaven – except for the boy.

We know we were lucky to be able to have a family vacation in Mexico this spring break and leave Fort Collins for five days. And, we had fun. I certainly don’t want to sound ungrateful. BUT we also had the boy. Our son is five and that alone makes a travel vacation risky. The boy is beautiful and smart and energetic but can sometimes be a real downer. He is a pessimist. He always finds something negative about every situation. We could be walking along the beach at sunset and he can complain that it is too windy. We could be looking at whales on a sunset cruise and he can complain that the water smells too fishy. He can complain about anything.

I never really thought about it before, but if you know an adult like this, one who is very negative, they were probably negative as a child as well. My mom was like that – and my husband says that the boy is channeling her. I try to talk to him about it in the most simple well-chosen mommy words that I can muster. I try to ask him about his feelings but I am usually only met by a stony silence and pouty lips. What to do?

One of the worst consequences of this negativity comes from my daughter who loves to say ,“I wish we never adopted him” followed by “he is ruining our vacation”. I mean, he can really be a killjoy but I worry she is picking up this message from me.

We try to work around him and his sullenness, but it can be draining especially when all you want to do is kick back and escape your problems. Travelling as a family means that most of your problems come too.

I try not to let his moods get to me. Sometimes I tell him to sulk somewhere else so he doesn’t ruin everyone’s good time. We try to have alone time with each child hoping that they will feel special and also get a break from each other. I suppose I will REconsult with the child psychologist again - to just check in and see if he has any useful parenting advice. I try to check the things I say out loud so both kids don’t get “permission” to think similar thoughts.

And then there are moments when everyone is happy and we all just click. The dinner has been to everyone’s satisfaction. There has been laughing and free flowing conversation. I have a slight buzz from my Pacifica. Those are the moments I will try to hold on to and remember.

Until the next family vacation.

Gun In Hand, Going To My Head

2010-03-22T23:11:00.001-06:00

One by one I pushed shiny bullets into the cartridge. Ten of them. Slammed it up the grip of the black Taurus 9mm. Aimed straight at the heart from some twenty feet away, and…

Missed.

A week ago I spent an afternoon at the Front Range Gun Club with some Singaporeans, one of whom owns two firearms. The last and only other time I'd been shooting was fifteen years ago in Oregon woods with friends (including my husband – before we were even dating). I don't remember it being as intimidating, or as thrilling, as the gun club. Yes I said thrilling. I came home thinking there must be something wrong with me that firing a deadly weapon gave me such a high. At a law enforcement human-silhouette target nonetheless.

At first that was kinda creepy, aiming at a life-size profile of a person. Everyone else on the shooting deck was firing at innocuous round bullseye targets. I never could bring myself to aim at the head. But I did hit the heart a couple of times. (Honesty may require mention that I entirely missed the target a few times too.) Turns out that my husband is a very good marksman, thanks to his service in the Singapore Armed Forces. Especially with the rifle.

As for me, the rifle was a different story. M16. Target 60 feet back. Heavy gun, loud, awkward, frightening actually. Still thrilling, but not like the hand gun. That was almost addictive. For days I floated in a giddy afterglow. Am I twisted in the head?

I couldn't stop thinking about the whole experience: the dim, cave-like atmosphere – spotlights on the target line – noise thudding beyond ear plugs – metallic weight in my palms – pressure of the trigger in the crook of my finger – shells flipping upward – excitement of discharging a deadly weapon – eerie target… I had trouble sleeping, replaying the events. By the next day I was seriously contemplating getting real lessons in how to shoot a hand gun. Is it wrong to say that shooting a gun was thrilling? I feel like I shouldn't have enjoyed it so much – pressing the smooth bullets into the cartridge one by one, slamming the cartridge up the handle, cocking, locking, aim, unlock, fire… oh I am getting carried away again…

Okay, the tough thing was getting home and explaining to the 5-yr what we'd been up to. I had told her just the day before not to build a “shooter” with her tinker toys to chase her brothers, we don't play shooting people. I wasn't going to tell her at all where we had been but Daddy cheerfully spilled the beans before I could intercept. So I had to explain it all. I wish I had a picture of the completely disconcerted, confounded look on her face – huge saucer eyes and hanging jaw – when I said yes they were real guns, and when she saw the life-size shadow-person target riddled with bullet holes. She was mortified!

In the City

2010-03-18T10:59:00.000-06:00

It was the end of 1989, and I had decided that I wanted to move to Colorado. I was an art student at the prestigious Parsons School of Design in New York City, so believe me, this was a huge decision to walk away from such a prestigious institution. Two years prior, when I first applied immediately after I arrived in Manhattan, I wasn’t accepted. Needless to say, I was devastated. But I immediately picked myself back up and attended a reputable trade school to hone my design skills in the interim. After attending this trade school for a year and building up my portfolio, I applied to Parsons yet again. This time, I was accepted into their graphic design program.

I was thrilled. I couldn’t believe that in just a few short months, I would be attending the ‘Harvard’ of art schools.

After a full year of learning everything I could, from art history to graphic design, I knew that this is what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Studying at the best museums in the world, learning from the best instructors in the city—it was stressful, but I was like a sponge and soaked it all up.

Throughout all of this, I was still a skier at heart. I was obsessed with it. All I wanted to do was ski! Even my boyfriend at the time was annoyed by my obsession since he unfortunately didn’t ski himself.

What was I to do? I lived in the middle of Manhattan without a car, and as a struggling student without money to afford a single lift ticket, let alone transportation to get there and back, my skiing expeditions would soon be a faint memory.

Not long after, I saw an ad in the Village Voice looking for local ski guides. No pay, no money, just free skiing throughout the northeast. My job only involved making sure the skiers were properly fitted for their gear and they were equipped with their lift tickets. That’s it. Free lift tickets, free transportation and free hotel stays. It was the perfect solution to a poor skier’s plight.

Even though this afforded me my much needed skiing-fix that I desired, something was still amiss in my heart. Maybe it was the cold, icy conditions that seemed to grow tiresome throughout the northeast, but I knew, after living in New York City for two years, I wanted to make a change.

But where? How?

So where do skiers go?

That’s an easy one—Colorado. So I made up my mind. Colorado would soon be my next destination.

Once I made up my mind as to where, I needed to figure out the how and what school would I transfer to. I went to the nearest bookstore and immediately purchased a book that outlined all art schools throughout the country. Afterwards, I purchased a map of Colorado to show me where all of the ski resorts were located (it was important that I could be as accessible to them as possible). I took out a red pen and circled every ski resort located in the state of Colorado. It was apparent that the majority of the ski resorts are located in the northern Colorado region, thus narrowing down my search for my next university destination.

Once I figured out which school I would be applying to, the rest would be easy.

Or so I thought.

Immediately after receiving my acceptance to CSU, it was recommended that I quickly find my next living arrangement. I was told from someone in the admissions office that at the time, housing was a rare commodity in the Ft. Collins area, and I had better come out as soon as possible to find a place to live.

Great! It was easy up until this point, so I was happy to finally visit my soon-to-be new home and look for an apartment to prepare me for my upcoming transfer for the fall 1990 semester.

After my arrival to Stapleton Airport in Denver, I rented a car and headed north up the interstate towards Ft. Collins.

The excitement was building up inside of me as I approached the Ft. Collins area, only to be disappointed once I headed west on Hwy. 14.

I couldn’t believe it. I thought to myself, “what did I get myself into?” I was a city girl, arriving to an agricultural town in the middle of nowhere. How could this be where a thriving university resides? I felt sadness and disappointment all at once. I thought there would be mountains all around me, snow everywhere on the ground (even though it was the middle of May)—like what everybody imagines Colorado to be.

Only to experience none of this.

The mountains consisted of the foothills to the west which didn’t impress me, and when you look east, it was just flat plains heading towards Kansas.

I expected a plethora of trees, but there were none. How could this be? I realize coming from the northeast and being born in Connecticut, I was used to trees all around me, but in Colorado I didn’t expect to see so few.

I headed towards the university campus so I could receive the proper paperwork to get me started on my search for a place to live, only to be disappointed again.

As soon as I found my apartment (4 miles from campus), I headed back to New York feeling nothing shy of dissatisfaction.

Was it too late to back out? Should I just stay in the city and stay at Parsons until I graduated? At this point, I was living in New Jersey with a roommate and had already given her notice, basically rendering me homeless had I chosen to stay.

OK, I’ll do it. I’ll move to Colorado—what I thought would be temporary—and ski and study. Not necessarily in that order, of course.

Fast-forward 20 years later, and I’m still living in Ft. Collins.

I’m married now, with a 10 year old daughter. Even though I have grown to love Colorado, there is that part of me that misses the city life so much. I miss the arts, the culture, the easy walks to grocery stores, coffee shops, pizza shops, etc. all within an easy grasp. I miss everything about the city, and I miss the east coast way of life. So even though I occasionally look back and miss New York City a great deal, I know that for now, this is the best situation for our family.

But, there is this other side of me that loves living in Colorado and loves the laid back way of life, and I can feel confident raising my daughter here and know that she will receive an excellent education.

And in the meantime, I will continue to watch Sex and the City reruns and reminisce about how my life once was.

Suzanne

An Invitation Home

2010-03-17T06:45:00.000-06:00

It’s been almost 15 years since I arrived in Florida and saw a palm tree for the first time. I was 15 years old. I have spent exactly half of my life in Sweden and the other half here. I have always thought of myself as a Swede not realizing that one day my days in Sweden would be less then here.

It’s been 12 years since I was in Sweden last. Not by choice, life just happened. Once my dad changed from the company who brought us here to a new job at a different company we lost our included trips back home. Weeks turned into months, months turned into years, school, college graduation, career job (with one week vacation unlike Sweden’s 5 week vacation), then came the boy, the marriage and the baby carriage. Meanwhile my adorable family and friends back home continued their lives. They finished school and got jobs, got or lost boy/girl friends, got married and had babies, switched jobs and moved. Thanks to facebook I can at least keep up with the basics.

I meet my husband 13 years ago during his college spring break vacation in Fort Lauderdale. When we got married six years ago some family and my seven best girls came to be apart of it. When I had my kids a few of them came to visit.

For years I’ve said I want to go home to visit. Two days ago my husband said he missed going to weddings (there was a time when we went often). Today I got an invitation to my cousins upcoming summertime wedding. An invitation back home.

First of all, my older cousin is finally getting married which in itself makes me ecstatic. Second of all there is no better time to go home then now. Besides I owe my cousin, he came to my wedding in New York City. I could hug all my family and friends, show my husband and my kids my old world and go to a typical Swedish wedding to top it all off.
I have daydreamed of a trip like this for a long time. It’s strange but it feels like my husband won’t know me entirely until I take him home (he would argue differently). I would want nothing more than for my kids to have a piece of Sweden in them like I have (not just be half Swedish), and this could be the first of many trips to create that.

I told my husband about the invitation and his eyes lit up; I know he wants this too, the trip, for us, for me. We never have busy weekends of family gatherings, and I envy the people around me that do. I have missed so many years of birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries and family barbeques. It would be nice to make up for some lost time. The question is not if we want to go, it is can we go? It’s not the easiest or cheapest trip.

At this point I can only hope. I can keep daydreaming. I can save as much money as I possibly can. I want to go, I need to go. I miss my family and I miss my friends. I want to meet the new people in my loved ones lives, like my cousins’ wife to be and their baby. I need to show my husband what my life was like before he bumped me in the head with a volleyball as a high school kid. I need to let my half Swedish kids create Swedish memories of their own.

I have an invitation home and I hope I can attend.

Sacred Spaces

2010-03-15T09:18:00.000-06:00

Wake up naked drinking coffee, making plans to change the world, while the world is changing us... ~Dave Matthews Band, ‘Stay or Leave’

I was on my way home from dropping my son off at school today, when I noticed tire tracks of mud coming onto the road. “What’s that?” I said aloud to myself and my daughter. I glanced down the little dirt track as we passed by and I was shocked.

Piles and piles, enormous piles, of upended earth still moist from that latest snow as far as the eye could see. It took my breath away.

We had been watching for the last week or so, as a construction company has laid claim to farm land just down the street from us. First there were small rocks put down, as we later learned, for a parking lot for the crew. This was followed closely by graders, bulldozers, and of course, porta-potties.

First they cut down and pulled up these ancient amazing trees I spent everyday gazing at, in the fog, in the rain, blanketed by snow, standing strong facing the sun, reminding me of the landscape of New England. Both of my children and I were stunned into silence that day. At least until my daughter pipes up “Those guys are mean.”

The last couple of days, I have seen them digging at the earth. Manipulating it to their desires, but today when I saw that newly created dirt road over a mile away from the makeshift parking lot and all the soil in enormous piles, I just wanted to cry.

It felt as if my heart was being broken, but in a much more important way then when a love says goodbye for the final time. No, this was deeper. It struck a cord in the far corners of my soul; a nerve somewhere in my being that knows when we have gone too far.

The kids and I have driven that same route every single day for two years. It felt as if we were in the country. We watched hawks do fly by’s, sometimes with swallows hot on their tails. Our official barometer of the season changes were the flocks of geese on that land, which would come every fall to eat bits of corn and seeds, and leave every spring as the weather warmed. We loved the swallows feasting on mosquitoes all summer long over the tiny creek. Swarms of them darting and flying this way and that, ensuring one less mosquito with West Nile was on the loose. A month ago we even spotted a fox, sitting tall amongst the mowed down corn stalks from last summer.

God I am sad.

It was a completely sacred space to me, a tiny bit of peace in the middle of suburbia. So while I usually talk about my hopes to change the world. The world has changed me today…deeply, and permanently.

...and counting...

2010-03-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

Today is my birthday. I have been plagued all day about a question someone asked me last night at our monthly women’s circle. “What are your hopes for this year?” she wondered. I was taken aback. Not by the question, but by my neglect in taking into account what my wishes for myself would be for the next year. Had I not even considered that I should have any?

Needless to say, I did spend quite a bit of time today, wondering and deeply thinking about what it is I really want for myself. And wow, is that hard, in so many ways. But wow, when you actually give yourself time and permission to think about it, how amazingly easy you feel the answers rising up from the well of your being.

So, at 11:45 on my birthday I sit here brainstorming wishes for this year, my 37th year on planet earth, having this profoundly amazing human experience…

1. I wish to run. I wish to run not because I like it, because I don’t, at all. In fact I have to talk myself into getting onto the treadmill more often than not. I like to sweat; it is kind of like a wet stinky reward for your efforts. I am just not a fan of self inflicted pain. Which running totally is; self inflicted pain. The shining light for me though, is how I feel afterwards, and for the next few days, and how I am happier somehow. I feel full of possibilities, secure that those possibilities will even bear fruit. I will run for the sake of sanity.

2. Trust my spiritual path. Trusting only in myself, leads to so much more confusion than is necessary.

3. Find Mother Nature. I have lost her these years as a Mom of small babes. I miss hiking, in the sun, smelling the dirt, the pine needles, and the trees with each inhalation of my breath. I need that for me. I am keenly aware of the nature that goes on around me, in the suburbs, on a daily basis, yet I miss feeling part of it. The feeling of oneness with all that is, as you take that final step to the top of a mountain. Yeah, I need more of that.

4. Oh God. Truth be told, I must do something about my sugar habit. I want to be able to just accept what is and know that I reach for sugar for all things healing. But I also know how bad that little addiction is for me, and how not good for my mood, focus, anxiety it is…I will need to come to some honest terms with the monkey on my back this year…not just for the remorse I thrust upon myself, but for my all around health.

5. I will cease to try and make myself feel guilty for who I am not, the mother, wife, athlete, etc, and I will fall in utter and complete love with all of who I am…

6. I will indulge in road trips. Even ones in which I am not alone. Even ones in which I am alone. Even the ones that only last a few hours. I am relearning I desperately need them to feel rejuvenated and ready to face the monotonous aspects of daily life with a gracious heart.

7. I will take more risks. Life is only getting shorter by the minute. That sense of fully living, in the depth of your being, from a place of excitement and wonder, which I know is there somewhere, needs to come out and play at this dang party.

8. I want to write madly and passionately, because it works for me, it is a friend beyond that of which I ever could have imagined.

9. I will continue to learn about gardening. I suck at it. Royally. But I love it. The peace, the solace, my amazement at the creativity of the universe reflected in what actually does manage to survive in my yard. It fills a real primordial need in me of connection.

10. Simple, simple, simple living. Fresh food, homemade gifts when possible, becoming more resourceful and creative; enjoying the simple pleasures life offers in abundance. Presence. Delicious.

11. I commit this year to my family. I know this list seems overall awfully narcissistic, being all about my dreams and all. But I am startlingly aware that my cup needs to be fuller as I continue to pour from it to so many others. So my hope too, would be to create a life with my husband and my children, full of passions and new discoveries made together. Dreams we once spoke about often then let go of on the breeze as our children took center stage. We also had dreams for the example we would be for our children in simple living, at least I did, and we have yet to focus on those well. I will leave some space for those dreams that have yet to take root…

Big list. I am not intimidated. And hey, it’s my friggin’ birthday. It is allowed to be mostly about me.

A Look Back

2010-03-10T08:44:00.000-07:00

Sitting here, as I attempt to write this, the difficulty is still plentiful. Nothing profound, you see, just memories in my mind of my daughter when she was an infant, a toddler, a vivacious 5 year old—those memories sadden me more than please me.

When my daughter was born, I was in a state of postpartum depression. At first, I didn’t know what I was feeling, just that I wasn’t immediately feeling the love and joy that a new mother typically experiences. I was overwhelmed and confused. What was I to do? How am I supposed to raise this innocent tiny human being as my own? I didn’t have a clue and she didn’t come with a manual, just my husband to guide me.

As I look back, I look at my husband with awe and appreciation. I don’t know where I would be if it weren’t for him to be there and recognize the depression that I was experiencing. It was he that helped me through it all when I thought I was going to lose my composure and my mind. It was he that raced home from work within 5 minutes because he knew I was on the edge. At the time, I felt like my world was caving in.

But as the years passed, I grew to be the mother that I have always wanted to be, and as we glided into parenthood without a glimpse of guidance from anybody but each other, we realized that she is our world, our life, our everything. Even though I struggled with postpartum depression during those early months, I quickly grew to love her and understand that what I had experienced wasn’t emotional, but physiological.

Years later, I would have a diagnosis that was a wakeup call for myself and my family. Realizing that during that stage, it was a cocktail for disaster. But I got through it and now that our daughter is an energetic and active 10 year-old, and even though we have many more years with her, I still look back with wonderment and amazement at how I escaped the odds of my physiological state.

All I can do now is look back and reminisce about those days and remember them as much as I can; look at photographs to remind me of her innocence and how the tiniest little smile ruled our world. And at the age of 5 months, remember how she would look up at me from her stroller with the biggest smile on her face, and how it brightened my day. Her first word, her first meal outside of formula and breast milk. When she learned to crawl at 11 months old while I was waiting for a business flight to Chicago during a 10 hour delay, and not long thereafter, when she took her first steps. Her first day of kindergarten and how I watched and cried from afar.

The memories are endless.

I want to remember it all, but I fear that someday, those memories will fade and I will only remember the bigger milestones in her life. I often ask myself, where has the time gone? The memories might die, but the experiences won't.

All I can do is keep my mind and memories fresh, because as I look back, I look on with a sense of pride and accomplishment. It’s time to move forward now and experience new memories for years to come. So even though those new memories might be filled with sadness, they'll be my memories, nevertheless.

Suzanne

Secrets

2010-03-08T09:01:00.000-07:00

“I have a secret”, she said.

My stomach lurched as I stood to leave the room. She was laying on the couch cigarette in hand, the room lit by the glow of the television.

“Please don’t tell me if I don’t want to know,” I said standing in the kitchen where she couldn’t see my face. My heart was pounding. A sense of De Ja Vu washed over me. I have been here before I thought. Standing in the tiny apartment kitchen I grew up in my mother lay in the living room wasting away from cancer. She was too thin and needed help getting up from the couch. In the past when she would tell me some secret confession it was because she was manic. During those times I learned many things about her past that I shouldn’t have. It occurred to me that she might be manic now despite the fact that the cancer didn’t allow her to stay up all night or rearrange furniture.

“I am going to tell you anyway,” she said. I listened from the kitchen refusing to come out to look at her, ears alert nevertheless. “I have had a lover for many years.” She told me who it was.

“But mom, he’s married.” I heard my words as I spoke them sounding like a prudish 13 year old. She was unapologetic.

I remembered the time that I was 12 and she insisted on sleeping in my bed with me. She woke me often throughout the night to tell me something else. She told me that she was married before she married my father and that she had an abortion. She told me that when she was in a car accident she heard her aborted child cry out for her.

I knew she was sick the previous March. When she came for a visit I could see she had lost weight. She looked old. But then when we saw her in June, she seemed better and we went to the Natural History Museum with the kids and to China Town for dinner. Now it was September and she lay dying on the couch. Did she know she was dying? If she did, she did not bring it up. She did not offer any goodbyes. She did not tell me she was proud of me or that she loved me. Instead she told me about her lover.

I wasn’t sure that I believed the story to be true. I called my brother who was equally suspicious. She dropped her cigarette on the couch. I snuffed it out and tried to get her to go to bed.

The next day we had her admitted to the hospital. I was unable to keep up with her increasing demands and thought that we would be able to set up some help during the admission. She was reluctant to go but finally agreed. I thought that she would return home. Did she know that she would never return to her apartment? Did she know that she smoked her last cigarette across the street from the hospital?

Days later my brother and I watched her take her last breath. I touched her hand and smoothed her hair. Her fingers were swollen with death. I ached to feel more, know more about her, feel closer to her. My brother cried quietly sitting in the chair.

Her death left us exactly as I knew it would. I knew she would just slip away without any emotional final words or goodbyes. She left no will, no letters to us. She just floated quietly away. It was as if there was still unfinished business, words never said, feelings unresolved. Had we failed her or had she failed us?

I replay that last week over and over in my head as I lie in bed trying to sleep. I miss her so much, yet I am not sure why. Years of confusion, upheaval, anger, and fear all brought to a sudden end. Who will fill her void?

During the days and weeks that followed while cleaning out her apartment we found the evidence that she was telling the truth. We called to tell him that she had died unsure of what to do. Her final secret exposed by her own hand.

Elisabeth

sitting here in the rain

2010-03-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

sitting here in the rain
I cannot see
your wind-wild eyes
watching me
somehow time stopped
long ago
only moths and mysteries
remember when
but now
water like a flood
pours into my flesh
my vision fails
and I look out upon
rain-beaten worlds
twisting and floating
down they fall
hard to concrete
like the empty green bottle
I smashed yesterday
under the dock

---

I wrote a lot of stuff like this when I was seventeen. I kept a notebook by the bed and tried to write a poem a day. Most of them were more troubled than profound. I recall that puzzled me then, as it does now, since my teen years were essentially stable and secure. Only my best friend saw my writings, and she shared her secret writings with me. At the time, we thought our stuff was brilliant :)

Deck With A View

2010-03-03T12:28:00.001-07:00

Yesterday afternoon we decided it was finally warm enough to drag our patio chairs to our front deck for the season. Sitting on our front deck every afternoon in the summer for a glass of wine or beer is a tradition which my husband and I enjoy.

When I first moved to this rural country house 16 years ago, there was no deck on the front of the house, only ugly junipers taking over the front yard. I felt like it was a tragedy considering the majestic mountain view that we have to the west. I used to sit on my concrete front step and look at the distant mountains, making for a short and uncomfortable few minutes, but always hopeful that one day I could have a permanent sitting place out front. As a single mom, it was impossible to take on a project like that. So I continued to sit on my concrete step and used the welcome mat as a cushion.

When I married my husband several years ago and he moved in with me and my kids, he also saw the potential for a front deck. One of the best Mother's Day gifts I ever received was the year that I told my husband I wanted a new patio set for Mother's Day, and he replied, "How would you like a deck to go along with it?" I jumped for joy. He is like the energizer bunny with boundless energy, and he soon had our deck built.

From our deck we see Long's Peak and Mount Meeker every day. We see violent summer storms approach with unbelievable lightning shows. We greet our neighbors as they walk up and down the road with their dogs and kids. Many times they stop at our deck for a visit.

For me, the deck represents family. It is on this deck where I have sat for hours with my husband and kids, talking about our days and sharing our dreams. It is where I always find a peaceful calm even on the hardest days.

So today I am celebrating the return of the deck chairs. I'm looking forward to filling them with family, neighbors and friends often.

Peggy McNeal

I'm not the "fun mom"

2010-02-25T03:23:00.001-07:00

There are all types of moms out there - the crafty mom who makes the kids' Halloween costumes and Christmas Stockings every year, the gourmet mom who makes homemade meals from scratch, the cool mom who is up to date on the latest trends and then there's the fun mom who does silly things like puppet plays and making tents from couch cushions.

I'm not sure what type of mom I am, but I know for sure that I am not the "fun mom". In the four years that I've been a pseudo stay-at-home-mom (a working mom that has the hours and responsibility of a stay at home mom?), I've never enjoyed imaginary play with dinosaurs and cars or crafted little creations from Play-doh. I've enjoyed reading to them and cuddling, for sure, and we have lots of laughs tickling and making funny faces, but the fun and silly part of parenthood has been left up to my husband.

I often wonder if the daily grind of diaper changes, potty training, tantrums and discipline have zapped me of all my "fun mom" material. Maybe that's why it's easy for my husband to be the fun parent; he's been gone all day and hasn't had to deal with any of the insanity. He comes home to kids excitedly running to the door yelling "DADDY IS HOME!", snuggles and video games, bed time stories...the fun stuff.

I also often wonder what type of mom my boys will think of me as when they are grown. Will I be the constant nag always telling them to pick up their toys? Will I be the neglectful mom because of the work I do? Maybe the tough mom because I have high expectations.

Whatever the case, I can't help but feel a bit guilty that I'm not the "fun mom".

Kristin Mastre

Fear of the Unknown

2010-02-24T09:06:00.000-07:00

Fear. If you think about it, it’s an unusual word; almost ubiquitous.

The dictionary defines it as:

Noun

An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.

Verb

Be afraid of (someone or something) as likely to be dangerous, painful, or threatening.

This one little word evokes so much—so much meaning, so much to think about, and simply, so much. But for me, it identifies something that has always been problematic—fear of interacting in a social environment.

Most that know me would ask “You? Afraid of being social?”

Let me make this a little more clear. I’m not necessarily afraid of interacting with others or the idea of being social, because I admit, I do enjoy the occasional solitude, but what has always been frightening for me was the enigmatic party atmosphere—where you walk around and mingle with the unknown; a stranger.

Will they think I’m foolish when I open my mouth and start speaking? Will they judge me because I like to wear black nail polish? Am I too outspoken for their not-so abrupt personalities? Perhaps. Although I typically don’t become concerned about what other’s think of me, there’s this little part of me that is fearful of that abyss we call socialization.

When I’m at a party and I’m surrounded by people I don’t really know, I notice there are others effortlessly mingling about and meeting new people, finding out what they’re all about, what they do for a living, how many kids do they have—the inquiries are infinite. How do they do this? For me, this has always been an extremely uncomfortable environment. I don’t like to be quizzed on where I’m from or grew up, I don’t like to be asked how many kids do I have, and inevitably everyone’s favorite—“what do you do for a living?” Now don’t get me wrong, I love what I do and I’m not ashamed of it, but when approached on the subject, I become uncomfortable and insecure.

I often ask myself, why does it matter? Do you honestly care to know what I do for a living? Because to be honest, discussing what I do the entire evening is boring and trite. Aren’t we there to enjoy ourselves and get away from our work atmosphere to begin with? For most, it’s an ice breaker, but for me, it’s an intrusion on my privacy. For the most part, by asking me this one simple question, they are putting me in the spotlight.

Sometimes I find it unbearable walking around a party while trying to find the ideal subject with whom I can converse with, only to emerge in the same banter of what school my daughter attends, or what grade she is in.

Pleasantries aside, there are the select few whom I do enjoy meeting and getting to know, and although I feel like I’m attending a Jr. High dance for the first time, standing in a corner, waiting to be asked to dance by that one special boy, I typically leave that party enjoying myself. So while I get off of my fearful horse if only for that one special evening, I know in the end, I will leave with a sense of accomplishment and pride. And maybe a few phone numbers and email addresses to engage with my new friend(s) who ultimately, just a little bit, helped me escape from my fear of the unknown.

Suzanne

Will It Even Matter?

2010-02-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

I swear I must have been one of the last people on the planet to see Avatar. I know I wasn’t the very last, because my friend who I went with hadn’t sent it yet either. At the very least we tied for last place.

I wasn’t planning on seeing it. In fact, I hadn’t even heard of it until like two days before it opened and my husband happened to be watching Jay Leno one night when Sam Worthington (Jake Sully) was on. I have a pretty strong affinity for Australia, so my ears definitely perked up when he started talking. Let’s just say I love my DVR, I don’t read news, and don’t listen to the radio. So I was actually the last person on the planet to hear about it.

Soon after my minister at Unity Church started to tout it saying it was the best movie ever.

“Really?” I thought to myself, “That weird thing with the blue people on Leno the other night?” Hmmm…

The following week he gave an entire talk on Avatar, and I cried during the meditation afterwards. It was a story that was very familiar to me from my work for the Colorado Run for Congo Women. Outsiders come into ones land, raping the earth for its resources, and raping the women and children too, just to secure their ability to rape the land indefinitely. The war in the Democratic Republic of Congo has killed over 5.4 million people, injured women and girls physically and psychologically; all for the sake of natural resources. Natural resources we rely on everyday for use in cell phones, laptops, and Wii’s, just to name a few.

Yes. It was a story very dear to my heart; I decided I would see the movie.

I loved every minute of it. The effects were awesome. The story line was fascinating. The planet Pandora was breathtaking. I mean seriously, tell me who wouldn’t want to live there? Although, I might actually be able to do without all the big mammals with extremely large teeth. Avatar had everything that makes up a true Hollywood blockbuster.

Yet, I have found myself in the few days post Avatar in a haze, feeling somewhat despondent, frustrated, and left wondering; wondering if the movie would make any difference at all.

I was in Australia, some ten years ago, at a hippy, earth festival listening to speakers passionate about the planet. That evening I said, “Well, they are speaking to the masses. The problem is how to get others who don’t have that view to listen.” I felt awful at the time, and many times since for speaking my thoughts aloud, but can’t help thinking about that now.

Will Avatar change anything?

I know from the people I have already talked to, people who inspire me from their works to help those around the world, that it mattered to them. What I am left pondering is if there was any conversion of the non-believers, those that think it is every man for himself. That there is no reason to live in harmony with our mother, the system we rely on for life, that what matters is how much money you make by any means necessary. Were they just entertained by a tree being blown up?

Only time will tell.

But I hope. I hope beyond hope, that the story will be taken to heart, because that story is playing out today, on our planet, to real human beings.

Angels and Demons

2010-02-18T11:10:00.000-07:00

I've been struggling with some relationships lately, and it's forcing me to look more within myself, with a humble heart, and question where it's all stemming from. Granted, I can't solely blame myself for all of the issues that are swirling around through conversations, emails, phone calls, thoughts, assumptions, energy, feelings and what not.... But I am willing to own my part. What I thought was the most important relationship to focus on and deal with was the one I share with my husband. However, after several weeks of attempting, failing, attempting, failing, it finally occurred to me... It's my relationship with God that first needs my attention, time, energy, heart, soul, blood and guts. I know through years of experience that in my own life, if my spiritual health is suffering, everything in my life suffers: my focus turns to food and exercise, I have to clean my house more, I wash my hands when they don't need it, my weight drops, my relationships falter, and my self-loathing intensifies.... It can get ugly. And in all honesty, when I look back over my life - my patterns, vulnerabilities, triggers - I am fully convinced that I have been knee-deep in a spiritual battle since the day I was born. Now, this belief isn't a cop-out, a crutch, or an excuse to say "It hasn't been my fault that I am the way I am." But it is as if I have been a threat to this enemy that lingers around us all, ready to pounce on either an easy target or a severe threat to his purpose. Hell, maybe I have great things to offer this world... Maybe deep down, I am POWERFUL! And yet, I have not gained the strength to end this battle once and for all and be all that I can be - all that I was meant to be. But I refuse to give up. I've come close, but it's not gonna happen. Every day I am closer to the freedom that awaits me - the woman I long to be. Some days I take five steps forward and other days I take two steps back... But over all, I'm in the lead. I am 31 years old, and sometimes I feel like it's too late - like I'm too far into my life for a drastic, permanent transformation. But then I recognize that this thought comes from no where else but my inner demons.

I see my life as an onion - layers being peeled away, bit by bit, causing some tears, but resulting in satisfying flavors along the way. And I remember to ask myself, what's more painful - changing or remaining the same? I'm willing to give change a shot. But not to say that I suck -that I've always sucked... I've never been a bad person. I can even say that I've liked a lot of things about myself throughout my life. It's just been particularly difficult for me to surrender and let go of fears and anger. I've denied living with pain, and so the wounds have grown deeper by the minute, causing me to turn to a life of imprisonment, in some ways. But now that I'm finally choosing to recognize and accept this truth, I am better equipped to humble myself, reach out to God with open arms, and say, "Okay, I'm ready to grasp this love You've been pursuing me with for so long and allow You to heal my broken heart." At least, today I am.

My Pampered Princess and her Trusty Steed

2010-02-18T08:55:00.000-07:00

I grew up in the Bronx. I used to like to say I was “from the block” (like J Lo) which of course made my mother cringe. We lived in an apartment building, took the city bus to school, and played kick ball during “gym”. So, I am very surprised to find myself hauling my daughter to horseback riding lessons once a week. I know nothing of horses. I don’t even really like them – they are big, dangerous, expensive, and they smell. But, my daughter loves them. She always has. So, I drive her 20 minutes out of town each Wednesday night and sit a freezing cold room reading while she grooms, rides, grooms again, and then drive 20 minutes back into town.

She always leaves pretty happy, except for the time when she fell off the horse and was crying. She tried to be brave but I could tell she was scared and wounded and she couldn’t stop the tears. But as cliché as it sounds, she just got right back into the saddle again and I was proud of her.

Horseback riding seems totally out of character for my little 10-year-old princess. She usually doesn’t like to exert herself too much, get dirty, or be cold. She will even describe herself as one who likes to be “pampered”. During her time at the horse barn she uncharacteristically pushes a giant horse around, throws on its saddle and gets the horse to put the bit in its mouth (excuse me if I have confused you in any way – I don’t speak horse).

Horseback has shown me that she is far more competent than I give her credit for. It also shows me that all this “pampered” talk is baloney and perhaps I should push her a little harder into some other activities, like skiing, snowboarding, or soccer. But most importantly, horseback has given her a way to be good at something without competing with anyone else in the family. It is hers alone.

And so I stuff food into her body earlier than our usual time and disrupt the evening rhythm for the rest of us so that she can have her time at the barn. I will let go of my roots so that she can plant her own. She is her own person and I want her to feel strong and brave and independent. That is until we are safely back into the car, seatbelts fastened, and she can tell me all about it.

words fail

2010-02-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

She died at six days old. I attended her funeral this morning. I've been out of touch with the couple for some time and didn't even know they were expecting until she was born. She wasn't breathing at birth, had some seizures, and was rushed to the children's hospital. I saw pictures of her at three days with a tube in her mouth and a cold-cap on her head to control brain swelling. Assorted tubes, wires, machines everywhere. More pictures, lots of beautiful black hair. Glowing baby skin, bright eyes, round cheeks, arms stretched above her head. Then the news last Wednesday.

My heart aches for my friends. They tried for three years to conceive and she was their miracle firstborn. Seeing the father cry as he spoke of the blessing she was... words fail...

I was almost afraid to look at her, but I did; my heart needed closure. Another swell of tears. That sweet little girl, sleeping peacefully in a pale pink dress in a lace-covered white bassinet, will live on. Her heart and kidneys will give two more children hope for life. I will never know the full purpose of her short time on earth, but when I think about the impact of that one act of love... again, words fail...

Refusing to hide behind anonymity

2010-02-10T13:38:00.001-07:00

I've been blogging/writing for years, starting with our family blog that began when I was pregnant with my first son over four years ago. From the beginning, I've always been an honest writer. I regularly wrote about my fears as a new mom, the horrible childhood I had growing up, the challenges I faced in dealing with my in-laws, and my evolution as a woman during motherhood. Nothing was off limits to me and I put it all out there for the world to read (tastefully, of course).

I continued that same controversial honesty on my personal training blog that I started, writing about fitness myths, useless supplements and time-wasting exercises. It was a natural progression when I began my restaurant review blog, keeping up the honesty about the quality of food we were being served, even if declaring the Best Breakfast Spot in town to be mediocre was blasphemous.

One thing I've noticed with all of my blogs is that some people don't like to hear the truth, whatever it may be. I've had my fair share of hate mail from my honest writing. After writing about my traumatic childhood and the issues with my in-laws, I had to install comment moderation on my family blog due to the hate mail calling me names and ripping my experiences apart. It got ugly from people who stood behind the title "Anonymous".

I kept comment moderation on my personal training blog, learning my lesson from my family blog. It was a good call when I started receiving hate mail from people after writing about my dislike for the time-wasting abductor/adductor machines in the gym (seriously!). I did not install comment moderation on my restaurant review blog and I've already had one restaurant owner send an e-newsletter to their customer base telling them to comment on my blog after my honest and less-than-glowing review of the salty sandwich I ate there. I've also had a name-calling heckler, leaving me insulting comments on a review that I wrote because they didn't share the same opinion.

I've learned to let these anonymous comments roll off my back (sort of), even if it took me years to do so. I've never understood why someone would hide behind their computer screen to tear someone apart, someone they've never met and only know from their writing. I've never been motivated to leave nasty remarks on someone elses writing, even if I didn't agree with it. What is it about truth and honesty in my own life that makes others so uncomfortable? Is it touching on a nerve? Does the truth hurt, no matter where it comes from and no matter who it's for?

Despite the hate mail I've received, I know I can never keep the truth from myself and my readers. It's a core issue for me after living many years reeling from the aftermath of the dishonesty of others. Being less honest, only telling half of the story, isn't how I roll. This is my life, as imperfect as it is. Pretending otherwise doesn't change it. I may get hate mail, I may lose friends or readers from it, but at least I won't lose myself.

Kristin Mastre

Mom's moment of silence

2010-02-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

January 28 has come and gone, and for the past twenty years I have silently celebrated this day each year. No one in my family knows the significance of the day for me and the bittersweet memories I feel each year when this day arrives. I have kept it to myself for all of these years for risk of being misunderstood or made fun of.

January 28 was the expected due date in 1990 of my first baby. It was my first pregnancy and with it came the excitement and expectation of a new life and everything that comes along with first time motherhood. I was excited and exhilarated at the thought of becoming a mom. Around the third month of pregnancy, I began having complications, and the baby did not survive. I was devastated and heartbroken and felt like all my dreams had been crushed. Shortly thereafter I became pregnant again. This time I was cautious and worried all of the time. The previous miscarriage had robbed me of my ability to feel optimism about my pregnancy. It should have been a joyous time, but I just kept wondering when it was going to go all wrong again and when I was going to lose this baby. I didn’t allow myself to get emotionally attached until I was six months pregnant and was definitely convinced that I had a baby growing inside of me.

I delivered a healthy and beautiful baby girl, my wonderful daughter Rachel. It was love at first sight. I know that she was meant to be mine, and if I didn’t have the miscarriage, I wouldn’t have her. I went on to have two more healthy babies, Alicia and Colton. Each child is unique and precious. They all have their strong points and their challenges. I love them very much and I believe each one of them was chosen specifically for me. There is no separation between them and me. We are one.

But on January 28 each year, I also celebrate that first baby and what that life would have been. I always wonder if it was a boy or a girl, and what he or she would have been like. I stop and pause for a few moments of silence, think about what might have been, and then I go on with my day. This year would have been his or her 20^th birthday. Yes, the years have gone by and the pain has faded, but I will always privately remember that day. Then I smile and hug my kids.

Peggy McNeal

Lab Rat

2010-02-03T08:30:00.000-07:00

I work in a hospital and as such I am the recipient of mass e-mailings, many of which are looking for volunteers for particular studies. I fully support the pursuit of research and scientific knowledge and therefore feel I should volunteer whenever possible to be helpful and contribute my small part towards the advancement of science. Usually after reading the exclusion characteristics I cannot participate in the study (things like medications, too little/too much exercise, overnight visits, need to take experimental drugs, too old/too young) but this time I wasn’t able to exclude myself, so away I went.

I responded to a study investigating chronic neck pain. I do have some mild neck pain that is worsened with certain activities like driving or sitting at my computer all day. I pretty much ignore it or try to go to yoga and stretch it out when it gets really tense. This study was looking at people with neck pain and only required two visits. I answered the e-mail and was told that I qualified for the study.

The most difficult part of day one of the study was finding the office in which to meet the investigators. Once found, I was greeted by a very pleasant graduate student who took me through the informed consent and had me fill out several questionnaires about my mood, descriptions of my neck pain, and informed consent. Then a physical therapist gave me a mini physical exam focused around my pain. Ironically, my pain on that day was pretty minimal and so I felt a little sheepish about volunteering for the study at all. Perhaps I was just a big whiner.

Day 2 of the study was for the actual study. I was placed in a chair (similar to a dentist’s chair) in front of a large computer screen and had several monitors attached. There was a band around my head, one around my rib cage, and a blood pressure cuff. Then I was given a “stimulation” to my head with another probe which caused a click followed by my right arm twitching. No, it didn’t hurt, but it was really odd. The two researchers recorded the blips on the screen that were made after various pulses on my head and after asking me to tense and relax. My blood pressure was also recorded. I was given the same questionnaires as on day one. Well enough…

Then they were to repeat the experiments while I was engaged in a mental activity, i.e. counting backwards by ten silently without moving while the probe continued to “stimulate” my scalp and my right arm continued to twitch. OK, this may seem easy while reading this, but let me tell you, I would be counting and then I would hear the click and then I would wait for the twitch and then I would lose track of the counting…. My back began to sweat. We did this a few more times and I began to get the hang of it.

Then, the biggest surprise of all. The researchers said, “the Doctor will come in now to administer the real test”. This was not discussed in the informed consent, which is odd – because usually these consents are exhaustive, as they have to follow strict research guidelines to protect the subjects. She came in with a serious scowl and an attitude to match. Now I had to subtract by SEVENS and had to be “fast and accurate” and she would check halfway through and if I was wrong I would have to start over. My brain fell apart. I couldn’t do more than a few subtractions between the sevens and the twitching and the clicking. My blood pressure recordings rose as did my pulse. Then I had to subtract by twos and fours and fives until my neck really began to hurt…. And more questionnaires were handed to me that began to show that mood was changing as well.

Phew… When it was over, the Doctor apologized for her attitude telling me it was part of the study to stress me out and that was when I knew that I had been had. Yes, it was a study about neck pain, but I am sure that a big part of it was how stress contributes to neck pain. I will not know all the details or what they were really testing until the study is published but I learned a lot about myself that day.

I collected my $100 for participating in the study and drove home. My neck was hurting for real now, but now I knew that I brought this upon myself. I laughed at myself about how I had become angry that I hadn’t been smart enough to see through the study. I was a little embarrassed that I couldn’t successfully subtract by sevens. Then I realized that I am just another human. Another nameless person in the study and that my behavior was typical – human. I shrugged my shoulders repeatedly and tried to relax them as I drove home.

No Title

2010-02-03T02:25:00.000-07:00

There are few things worse than a sleepless night... when your mind just won't shut off, when you go back and forth between your bed and the couch countless times throughout the night, when you see the clock go from 1:30 Am to 2:45 AM to 4:10 AM, until, right when you think you can drift off, the baby is up. This is one of those nights... Although, right now the clock says 2:28 AM. I have about 3 hours until Little Miss Fi awakes. Until then, well, I shall choose to use this quiet time alone to do some serious thinking and praying about the things that she easily distracts me from, as well as attempt some writing. Hmmm.... That can be a scary idea, though. I'm not sure who all reads/follows "Reality Writes" other than the writers themselves, but I'm going to go out on a limb and ramble away anyway. And at 2:31 AM, I'm not concerned much about grammar or punctuation. My writing has been so out of practice for at least two years now that I can't even consider myself a writer anymore.... Although, I'm striving to get back there. It was always a happy place for me. So, okay, here goes.... Today my husband and I met with our marriage counselor, as we have been weekly for about six months now. We had an exceptionally ugly fight yesterday morning, wounding one another pretty badly. So in our session today, I said in all seriousness, "We're done. I'm done. I want out. The idea of being free from this marriage makes me giddy with excitement, makes me feel lighter than a feather. I am so done. I'll get a job and move out, but my daughter stays with me." My husband sat there quietly, as he always does. (Although he did say that I wouldn't get our daughter.) It's been bad for a few years now, but getting worse and worse. He's been so angry and resentful towards me, because of this eating disorder that he married four years ago, and I'm so angry and hurt, because he can't love me despite it. All I've wanted is to know that I am loved and accepted today, as is, not as can be or will be. I'll admit, I've treated him like shit. I don't know how to show a man respect or honor. I don't know how to share control. I have a lot to learn. I do need to change in some big ways. I need to stop judging. I need to let down my ugly pride. I need to learn how to trust others. I need to say no to fear. I need to let go of my addiction to being alone. But this all sounds so incredibly overwhelming to me. How do you change after being a certain way for over twenty years? I'm thirty one years old and I've survived on my own - on my own terms - most of that time. And then I think, what kind of an example is that to my little girl??? Do I want her to turn out like me? Hell no! But okay, Emily... What do you like about yourself? Maybe that can be a first step in actually changing the negative? Focusing on the positive? If you're reading this, you may be thinking how painful it must be to be me. I would. But I will honestly say, I do love my life. I love so much about it. I love, of course, my daughter, more than life itself. I love, love, love Colorado. I love my girlfriends. I love my home. I love Fort Collins. I love my yoga classes. I love the possibilities that lie before me! What I don't love is my fear. I don't love that I can't just be - just allow myself to feel the joy of being alive. Change. What does that look like? How does that happen? What specific black and white steps does one take to become more of a free spirit???

It's 2:53 AM now and I am praying that no one actually ends up reading this post. It has no point - no beginning or end. It's me, Emily, sleep-deprived, stressed, scared, lonely, confused, angry and rambling. A new friend asked me earlier tonight, "Could you be pushing Nate away because he wants to take something from you that you don't want to let go of?" At that moment, I hated her. She figured me out. I've known her for maybe a month. Am I that obvious??? I have a lot of work ahead of me. Where do I start? A good night's sleep would probably help.

When babies bring out the crazies

2010-01-26T08:54:00.001-07:00

Sitting on couches in comfortable living rooms, children laughing and playing, coffee from the closest coffee house in hand, playgroup conversation is fairly predictable. There's talk about diapers and discipline, what's going on around town, the upcoming preschool and kindergarten registration panic of OH MY GOD! What school are you taking your kids to!? There's chit chat about the next cooking club and what dish we'll bring for Mexican Night. Eventually, someone mentions family members, usually their Mother-in-Law.

This is about the time I wish my coffee had been spiked with some Baileys. While some people exclaim that they have the best mother-in-law ever, always helping out around the house, spoiling their kids with gifts and sugar, watching their children on the weekend so that they can spend some adult time with their husbands, I sit back nodding with a smile thinking about how lucky they are. How absolutely, incredibly lucky they are to have a normal family. The family where everyone gets along, where everyone helps out and there are unicorns, rainbows and bright rays of sunshine. We got stuck with a twisted Brothers Grimm fairy tale with poisonous apples and gold spinning dwarfs trying to steal first born children.

I don't know what it is, but babies bring out the crazies in some people. It certainly happened in my family. I never had a great relationship with my Mother-in-Law after her hurtful words many years ago, but it never mattered since we were in different states and I was fine with pretending that things were decent during holiday visits. They were short visits, after all. Then during my first pregnancy, also the first grandchild in the family, it got worse and all hell broke loose. The crazies came out, and it wasn't by my post-pregnancy hormones, either.

There was baby snatching and passive aggressive comments about breast-feeding and my post-pregnancy weight, name-calling and Grandma calling herself "Mommy" to my kids. Basically her world was falling apart because the expectations she had as a Grandmother were not quite the expectations I had as my child's mother. It's been an ongoing monster-in-law mess.

I often sit back and wonder how all of this happened. Knowing others that have less-than-fabulous in-laws and are in similar situations, I catch myself questioning if it's a generational difference. Are the mothers of today too independent for the mothers of yesterday? Is there really a power struggle between the two women because older generations were used to their mothers and grandmothers taking over? Why on Earth would the birth of my children bring out such insanity? Whatever the case, it is what it is, the damage is done. All I know now is what kind of Mother-in-Law I will not be and not to have those same expectations. I will not go crazy over someone else's baby and hope that I will not be thought of as the fairy tale villain when everyone else is living happily ever after.

Kristin Mastre

Good Mornings

2010-01-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

On most mornings my alarm clock isn’t what you’d call peaceful. Rather it’s loud and it makes me jump and sit straight up in bed. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. One minute the sound of rain comes from a sound machine threw the monitor, the next it’s replaced by a scream at 5:30am in the morning; for no reason. My almost two-year-old daughter has done this almost every morning since she could sleep threw the night. If she doesn’t stop I regretfully give her a pacifier so she doesn’t wake up her twin brother in the crib next to hers or her big sister in the room next door. She’s quiet then and waits for her brother to wake up so they can chat a bit before I come and get them.

Then there are those very rare mornings (maybe once a month) where I wake up a little after 6am and hear nothing, nothing but the rain. I have to admit it worries me every time. Why isn’t she screaming? Is she okay? Do I need to go check? I wait staring at the video monitor. I wait patiently.

Moments later I hear my son calling her name. “Kilee up” he says. I smile. It usually takes him a few minutes of calling her name and throwing stuffed animals at her until she picks her head up. And the chatting begins. I lie back down on my pillow and listen. These are my favorite rare mornings. I’m not woken up by screams. I’m not jumping out of bed to stop it. I can enjoy it. It’s so amazing to hear them interact with each other. Two the same age, talking the same way and understanding each other better than anyone else.

I wish I could lay there forever, just listening to their secret babbles. The parts I understand are simple back and forth conversations about who wants what toy and who can reach the dropped toy between their close together cribs. “I’ll get it,” one of them would say. “Aha” says the other one.

At a reasonable hour (usually close to 7:00am) I get out of bed and get myself ready for the day, still listening to their sweet voices and their big sisters soft breathing. Then I turn on the light in the hallway outside their bedroom, and in that same moment I hear them in sync say “MOMMY!” I open the door and see two very happy kids. My older daughter hears us and comes to join us with morning hugs.

I still haven’t been able to figure out the cause of these good mornings when my youngest daughter decides to sleep in (if you can call 6:30am a sleep in). But when she does everyone gets a better sleep and wake up happier, especially me.

Nine Years

2010-01-20T13:55:00.000-07:00

Nine years ago today I lost my life. I gave it up, gave it away. On January 20, 2001 I married Richard Wei Tjan Lim. How many times have I regretted that act? Literally screamed out loud my anger against God? Slumped in despair before pastors and counselors, my heart bleeding into a wad of kleenex?

I could sling a lot of mud right here but that wouldn't be appropriate. Nobody cheated or broke the law, nothing like that. Nobody drained the bank. No violence, no filth. I won't publicly post all the problems we faced, but I will tell you how I felt: Unloved. Deceived. Trapped.

And it all started nine years ago today. I cried on our honeymoon in Maui and slipped into the night for a walk on the beach to wrestle with my heart and my loneliness. By our first anniversary I had sunk into lasting depression. In the shadow of Aspen trees in a little yellow house on a quiet culdesac, I suffered the deepest wounds my heart had ever borne.

Eventually we did try counseling. (Talk isn't cheap, by the way.) When a seasoned marriage counselor told us that our situation was rather unique, I felt lost. No wonder our premarital workbook hadn't prepared us. No wonder marriage help books weren't helping at all. No wonder all that therapy did little to improve our love life.

My heart went numb for years blocking out feelings of rejection and isolation. We had three babies. We quit counseling. We smiled in public. I got over my depression and focused on the kids. As any couple does, we went through good times and bad times, but it seemed the bad always eclipsed the good and I always returned to regret when I allowed my heart a moment to breathe. I didn't do that too often. Without my faith in God, tenacity in honoring my marriage covenant, and my duty to the children, we might not still be together.

But I am so glad that we are! Last summer it all changed. One random day in August we went from our worst year together to beginning our best one. I wish I could understand what precipitated the shift but I have no idea. My husband's behavior simply changed. Drastically. It took a while for me to trust that it wouldn't be temporary, but things remain just as good five months later. Forgiveness flows, hope lives again. There is love and desire in his eyes when he looks at me, and I feel an intimacy we've never shared before. We talked about it just a few days ago and he couldn't figure it out either. In fact, he wasn't even aware of the depth of the revolution at the time – definitely not some great act of willpower to make things different. Believe me, we have been there and done that with less than satisfactory results.

Let's not figure it out then, let's just enjoy it! No I don't get butterflies in my stomach when Richard holds my hand. My heart doesn't race when I catch his eye and we aren't having some passionate honeymoon that we missed out on before. But we are finally a normal couple with normal challenges, and “normal” is a big step up. “Normal” feels wonderful! I can live with normal.

Today is my first truly Happy Anniversary!

Runner's High

2010-01-17T16:15:00.000-07:00

My World... [His World...] I run...

My Life... [His Life...] I run...

Through the colors of daybreak

Searching for the Familiar

Yet facing another

[Strange New Existence]

My dreams awaken me... Every single mourning...

[A New Day]

And there he lies... So I run.

Some days... [Other days...]

Seemingly endless...

A portion of my life... Poured from his open hand

Yet I crawl back inside and weep

To my ear... His words reflecting mendacity of myself

This measure I understand [The measure of him]

To simply trounce on mystery...

I know where to begin -

[I know where to run.]

by Emily Prince

We've had a face lift!

2010-01-15T15:25:00.000-07:00

Well, our blog has had a face lift. As Elisabeth wrote in the last post, our writing group celebrated our first year anniversary this month. With this milestone, we're also growing. We're growing as writers and as friends. We are working hard to accomplish our writing goals and hope that 2010 is full of published works!

You'll notice that the blog has a new header. Thanks to Sara, who is not only an aspiring children's writer but also a talented graphic artist, we have a very nice logo up top. We thank her so much for all of her hard work in putting that together. It's perfect!

We also have our facebook fan page up and running. This is where we will share news related to our work, where we are submitting and announcements of when someone has been published. It's a forum where we can interact with and better share our writing with the community of Fort Collins and beyond.

Thank you for reading and your support of Reality Writes!

Kristin Mastre

Cheap is not always good

2010-01-13T12:47:00.000-07:00

I have come to the realization that it is not always wise for me to make all the decisions in our family. I tend to be frugal and downright cheap. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn’t. A couple weeks ago my husband and I had a Monday without kids, and we decided to visit the Denver Museum of Nature and Science in order to see the exhibit on Genghis Khan. Checking the online information before we left home, I saw that we could either purchase our tickets online (which was recommended by the website) or we could purchase them when we arrived. Admittance was in 15 minute increments until 4:00 pm. I noticed that purchasing online tickets cost an additional $2.00 per ticket and I scoffed at the additional $4.00 that it would cost us. I wasn’t willing to pay the extra $4.00 due to my thrifty tendencies.

My first indication that we should have purchased online came as we entered the parking lot, a chaotic scene of cars complicated by large snow icebergs in various locations blocking the normal flow of traffic. After circling the parking lot for awhile, we gave up, parked at the zoo and make the walk to the museum, only to be shocked at the waiting line to purchase exhibition tickets. As we stood in line at approximately 11:30 am, the available entrance times began dwindling (they actually show this on a screen in the lobby, like a countdown). By the time we got our tickets, we were assigned the 2:45 pm entrance time. Great, we have almost three hours to kill in the museum. Normally that might not be too bad, but we picked the Monday after Christmas and virtually every kid in Denver and their parents thought a trip to the museum would be a great way to spend the day. As we wandered through the exhibits, mind you, with no kids of our own with us, we were pushed and shoved by every other kid there. My husband even had a little girl put her hand in his back jeans pocket, evidently mistaking him for her own dad for a moment. Or maybe she was a three-year-old pickpocket in training? Either way, our “day without kids” was full of other people’s kids screaming and crying.

By the time the clock struck 2:45 and we were ready to see Genghis Khan, we both looked like we could barely walk or hear ourselves think anymore. We had viewed more stuffed buffalo and mountain lions and polar bears in dioramas than anyone should have to look at in a lifetime. We had at least taken a short break in the museum café so we could nourish our tired bodies and minds (if a pizza slice, trail mix, and a diet coke count as nourishing). It’s too bad they don’t serve beer and wine there. We entered the exhibit in less than prime form and spent an hour learning about Genghis Khan and looking at Mongolian artifacts.

I enjoyed the exhibit, even if all I could think about near the end was going home and lying on my bed in complete silence and darkness. I skipped making a cool Genghis Khan Souvenir hat because I was just so tired of it all. The hat was just slightly better than a Burger King crown anyway. I figured I could live without it.

Next time we decide to do something like this, I will let my husband plan the day. I won’t even ask how much he paid for anything. I’ve learned frugality has its limits.

Peggy McNeal

Happy Anniversary

2010-01-11T09:56:00.000-07:00

I am pleased to announce the one-year anniversary of this blog. The reason why I can clearly remember the date is that the first meeting was at The Bean Cycle on January 8th, my mother’s Birthday. At the time I felt it was symbolic to have the meeting on her Birthday. She also was a writer. Although never published, I have a folder of some of her essays. One of my favorites is “Buttons” (see below). I love how it is a reflection of a time past as well as what binds the generations together. Just like the buttons, my mom and I share a love of writing.

Looking back to that first meeting I was terrified. My heart was pounding and my armpits were sweating. I feared that no one would show up or that I would have nothing to say or that no one would want to join my group. Em showed up – adorable, excited, full of energy and talk, ready to trust and jump in. Another woman showed up as well, a poet with long wild hair who was still nursing a baby. I allowed myself to imagine that this might have been a step towards a belonging. Finding some women in town who I could relate to.

Our writers have had a busy year. We have a food blogger (Feasting Fort Collins), an aspiring children’s book author, bloggers, and a poet. I feel like as a group we are now getting into a good groove. People are getting excited about the blog and there are many essays to read and critique.

This year I am hoping to see more of our work getting published. If anyone else is reading this and you are interested in contributing to our blog or have writing assignments, please let us know.

Happy Writing!

Buttons
Leonie W. Aron
Saturday, we talked about buttons. “Do you have any of those pearl baby buttons? Save them,” she said. “They’re impossible to get, nowadays.” She was asking about my daughter. She was planning to knit the coming home sweater for a baby that had yet to be conceived. I have all the buttons, Aunt Gerry. Buttons form my mother’s dress the day she got married. Not the kind of buttons that you would expect. Navy buttons from a green wool dress. In 1934, my parents eloped to far-off White Plains, to be married by a Judge. They had been introduced at a little lunch, cooked up by Aunt Gerry. Once Aunt Gerry took you into her heart, that’s where you remained forever.

Aunt Gerry taught herself to sew. She even took tailoring courses. She made me a hound’s tooth check suit with a pleated skirt. I have the buttons. She made me pajamas with red buttons like raspberries. I have the buttons. She knitted sweaters, made dresses, made handkerchiefs with drawn work. She made beaded bags and crocheted hats, Afghans with roses, and shawls for romantic summer nights. She even made beautiful aprons, some of which I still have. The aprons have buttons too.

In my house, no one left for work or school with a loose or missing button. Grandma sewed the buttons on men’s shirts and kid’s coats. When a new winter coat was purchased, buttons were resewn before they were ever worn, just to make sure. Crystal buttons would be sewn on a blouse to make it more festive. When shopping for clothes my mother would say, “That’s a good dress just look at the buttons.” We never carried safety pins, buttons never fell off.

When Grandma died I was old enough to sew on my own buttons. I hate to sew buttons, though I’ve sewn enough of them. Buttons moved make waists smaller, and years later, looser. Buttons mysteriously popped off baby’s corduroys, boy’s shirts and hand smocked dresses, were livingly replaced. I remember searching through an old dusty button store to t to find sets of toggles for matching kid’s coats. They must have hated those loden jackets, always destroying the buttons. I once had a coat with frogs, I closed them gently.

Brass blazer buttons large and small, some with eagles, buttons with anchors, even buttons with American flags, from a more patriotic era, remain in my collection. Rhinestone buttons, buttons set like garnets or emeralds. Jet buttons both faceted and plain, tear drop mother-of-pearls, I treasure them all. I have a set of buttons that are little brass bells and satin buttons in white, pink, red, and black. “If you are going to get rid of that, save the buttons,” my mother would say. Now every button holds a memory.

When my mother died, all my daughter wanted was the buttons. To this day she doesn’t know why and laughs at herself. She took boxes of them. Aunt Gerry died on Monday. I went looking for the mother of pearl baby buttons. Don’t worry, Aunt Gerry, I have enough for the next generation.

Stepping Up

2010-01-06T21:17:00.000-07:00

My husband took the picture. I wouldn't have. Had I witnessed the scene unfolding, I would have promptly scooped up my two-year-old, scolded him, and sent him dragging all those step stools back from whence they came. But for better or worse, I arrived too late.

He is a persistent little guy, and as self-sufficient as can be. He needed a shirt. So he collected step stools from two bathrooms and started stacking. Thank God he is sure-footed and has a good sense of balance. In the end, he did get the shirt he was after, nothing crashed to the ground, and we have a great visual reminder of his ingenuity.

Although I'm not an over-protective mom, I still don't think I'm ready for the challenge of raising this vivacious toddler and his tumbly baby brother. My careful, cautious girl never did stuff like this, and probably never will. But I'm learning that risk is inherent in raising boys. To tell the truth, when I saw what my son had accomplished, I was actually kind of proud of him. Good thing I wasn't there to ruin it at the start.

Next Meeting!

2010-01-04T09:16:00.001-07:00

Just a reminder that our next meeting is this Saturday at the Wild Boar Cafe (1510 South College). There is parking. It is across from CSU just North of Prospect on the East side of the street. I wasn't sure that we came to an agreement on the time, so let's do 9:30am and people can come and go as they need to.

See you then!
Elisabeth