Sassafrass

Taking leaps

 

 

I love this photo so much. It's difficult sometimes to take a step back and see, really see, how much he is growing. I can tell by the pants, which seem to shrink on him in one week, one little trip through the wash. I can see it in his face when he sleeps, the outlines of the man he will grow into. I can feel it in his gangly legs and the quick kisses where he used to linger and cuddle and curl into me. But then I see a photo of him as a baby and think, "He was so tiny and he's so big now!" and then see him alongside older kids and think, "He's so tiny still!" It's hard to know. I'm his mama, so my vision is blurred.

There on the sidewalk while we walk, side by side, I see how he is stretching. And then he took this jump, what seemed like a huge leap but was really not that far at all, and he was taller than I am, even in heels. 

It will come too soon, I am sure. I see what's ahead in these shadows. Clearer than in the mirror or face-to-face.

Put down the Doritos and read this

I've written many, many health posts over the years and it all began with one little post about how a seemingly endless Ayurvedic cleanse was making me unbearably crabby and in need of one -- JUST ONE! -- real cracker. That post got me a gig at AOL's That's Fit, which led to a weekly feature, which led to an editorial position at another site and so on and so on. Subsisting on ghee and plain tea for more than a month did more than unlock my organs toxins, it created a new career path for me. Today, I eat crackers. But I also am still writing lots about women feeling better in their own bodies. 

I am thrilled to be contributing to a cause-related site over at MSN called TakePart.com. They produce beautiful magazine-style issues centered on topics we all care about at heart but don't see enough of on our screens. Here's what I've been working on for TakePart lately. Won't you raise your raw, unprocessed, gluten-free, vegan fake cracker as a toast and read some of my posts at TakePart?

 

10 Myths of therapy - I've written many times about my fear that my therapist will set sail on a Meditteranean cruise and never return, leaving me sitting on the leather couch in her office twice a month by myself with a box of Kleenex and tiny bottle of water. Because I see how much therapy and a therapist who is a great fit for me has helped me be stronger, more centered and strategize in the most trying of situations, I was very excited to contribute to TakePart's edition on mental health. And why wouldn't I? I got to ask some very sage experts all about client-therapists relationships and no one charged me a co=pay.  

 

Health breakthroughs that changed women's lives - I was tasked with writing about advancements that have directly impacted women's well-being in the last 50 years. That's a huge undertaking. Of course, there's the pill and vaccinations. But when I interviewed doctors, like the director of preventative medicine efforts at Mayo Clinic, the list became overwhelmingly long. There was no way to write about every single breakthrough, but I loved pondering how fortifying cereals and milk with vitamins, the HPV shot and smoking bans have made American women's lives better. This one's up in the women's health issue.

 

8 Tests women must get - With mammo guidelines shifting and the ack! of just considering things like colon-cancer screenings, I get why people -- and, hello, WOMEN -- would much rather focus on making sure the kids get to the pediatrician and dentist in a timely manner and ignore-ignore-ignore what could possibly involve taking blood/inserting tubes/flattening boobs. I talked to a lot of medical experts for this one and it soothed me to hear which screenings will do me good and which ones I can hold off on for now (and maybe forever). This post is no pressure, just empowering, I promise. Find it also in the edition on women's health.

Summer: almost there

This was all I needed yesterday, to see this flower mid-bloom and blood red. Big, swollen heart leaves in-waiting all around it.

OK, I needed this and some extra hugs from my boy, who barely wrapped his arms around me, then ran off down the street. He was so free in his body, legs getting longer every single day and arms flailing in the air. I loved watching him from so many steps behind. 

When I bent to take a picture of this peony -- is that right? -- he ran back, stopped when his shins were touching mine and leaned in to see my view from behind the camera.

"Pretty," he said matter-of-factly. "Get that one, too."

He pointed ahead at another. Then waved his hands toward a tidy row of pansies.

"A few of those,  too."

This is how I like my summer evenings. Even if it means a stressful day, my head full of mama worries and money concerns and questions about how we will spend our vacation and if I am all caught up on that project and where my tax paperwork is hiding, I am happy with a summer evening that ends like this. Business and busyness interrupted as we make our way through the neighborhood at our own pace, talking about the day, standing in silence over a row of flowers, waiting patiently for the full bloom.

My son's home(s)

I am always interested to hear -- or overhear -- how Lil E talks about where he lives. There's a lot behind an address, more behind the explanation from a kid who has only a few memories of when his dad and he and I all lived together. 

He used to say he had three homes -- with me, with his father and with my parents, where we lived for seven months and where he often spends Sunday afternoons or the night when he needs time alone with his grandma and grandpa. Even though he is comfortable and happy at his dad's place, he always calls it just that -- "Daddy's house." It has bins of toys and he hauls Nerf guns and Legos and light sabers in an overstuffed backpack from there to here -- "our home." It's not something I've pushed or ever corrected. It's just how he talks about the places where his bed and books and each parent is.

Perhaps he flips the language when he is with his father. I don't know. He may very well refer to "Mommy's house" around him and call their apartment a few minutes away "their home" on alternate weekends and Wednesday nights. 

Whatever he says, I hope it feels like the Star Wars fitted sheet that somehow stays snug even during fitful nights and wrestling matches and meltdowns and pillow fights and quiet afternoons stretched out with a chapter book. I hope it feels right and cozy and good to call it whatever he does or will or has.

I thought of this all a few weeks ago during parent-teacher conferences. I sat on a tiny chair outside my son's first-grade classroom reading pages from his portfolio. His notes from an inquiry project on the planets, reactions to poems the class memorized, stories, and a self-assessment about how he felt about school were all bound in a notebook charting Lil E's progress over this part of the school year. There was also this, the last page of a story he chose for one of the publishing parties his class puts on. 

Here he is, I thought, as I read the two lines over and over. Here's where he is right now.

 

 

How does your child talk about the home or homes where they live? 

Who I am as a mother: Not just PRITTY. Also, ASSOM

We joke about how pretty and young I am. It's something silly between Lil E and me. He's developed enough sarcasm in his seven+ years to know there's more to being a mother than hot pink lipstick and clicky heels. But he's lived with me long enough to know those things are a part of the mama-equation. At least for the mama he has. 

We talk about things -- politics, autopsies, our governor going to prison for extortion, war, bullies in school, how body parts work, why some jokes are hilarious and others are hurtful, how to add change quickly and figure out the tip on bill. But I go in faith, as every parent before and beside me, that he will remember some bits and pieces of those conversations. I hope hard he won't come back to me in ten or twenty years after a super-session with his therapist and say, "Remember how important it was to you that you were pretty?", wiping out the silliness and smartypants conversations completely from his childhood memory.

And then there's this. Proof in the form of a Mother's Day card and book of poems that tell me, "Of course he gets it." And also, if he doesn't, I have the papers to prove otherwise.

 

 

There's "Mom, Mom, POW!", set to the tune of "Boom Boom Pow". There's a host of smiley faces and stars and hearts and thankfulnessand BUETY.

 

On this Mother's Day, I hear him saying he gets the lipstick part. But the rest is still there, too, calling him, comforting him, reminding him I am...ASSOM.

OK, we have work to do. But today, I am happy and full of all he's told me and shown me and that he's letting down his already-burgeoning tween pride to let me cover his dimpled cheeks in a few hot pink kisses. 

Single moms on Mother's Day: It's still happening Monday

We put a lot of pressure on Mother's Day, don't we? Even if we don't intend to, even if past experience tells us to relax our expectations, we end up on the couch with a cup of cold coffee and the sounds of "Big Time Rush" blaring on the TV and wish we could blink and be back in bed for a few extra hours, on a massage table, maybe just showered and dressed and out the door with the kids in less than an hour (or two). We wish for a card, a kind gesture, an offer to make it a bigger and better and easier day than the others. And even if we get all of that, we could very well be sitting on the couch with that twice-reheated coffee and wondering where the glitter and balloons and magical feelings are.

But what if they don't have to come on Mother's Day? What if they could arrive on Monday after? What if we let go of the pressure of Mother's Day itself simply by scheduling some time later in the week/month/year to celebrate the way we really want to?

My Mother's Days have mostly been lovely and wonderful and full of enough cuddle time and sweet cards. But I've also found they feel even nice if I take care of myself on the days after Mother's Day. As a single mama, I have a support system that includes my parents and good friends and other single parents. I also have a child who is a great gift-giver and loves a celebration. Mother's Day, though, is about celebrating the mother I am and the place where my son and I are on this journey together. And I take that celebration on myself after the roses go back to regular price and the cards at the grocery store are sold out.

This year, I am cashing in some gift certificates the week after Mother's Day. I am purposefully assigning some time alone to luxuriate in all I am and want to be and have been through as a mother, releasing and renewing. Without the small child around. This is paramount as a single mom, this is what gets me through the five minutes when I just want to run the trash out or have someone else make dinner or not be the disciplinarian or talk on the phone without fourteen interruptions from one kid. I can get through those moments of head-screamy solo-parenting because I know tomorrow or last week or whenever, I am celebrating myself on my own terms. It's a mind game that works wonders for this single mama. 

I've outlined my favorite five ways to take care of myself on Mother's Day/Week/Month/Summer over at The Happiest Mom. Pop over and ssee if any of these strategies work for you, no matter what kind of mom you are. And please, share your tips for making Mother's Day happier and healthier, particularly if you are a single mom who has developed good self-care habits! We are all still learning.

Need more incentive to click over? One of my strategies involves ruffled panties. I promise.

 

Happy Mother's Day to you all, single, partnered, wishing, wanting, waiting, blissed out, stressed out, figuring it out.xo

Happy walk on a dreary day

Skin that's still 25? Maybe. Just maybe (+ a super-fab skincare deal)

A few weekends ago, just after my 40th birthday, a mom I talk to regularly looked at me quizzically after we were discussing the year I got married, when I got divorced. 

 “You must have been very young when you had Lil E,” she said, looking at me sideways. “How old are you?”

 I told her and she laughed. 

“I thought you were 25. Seriously. I thought you must have had him so young.” Then I laughed.

 This mom is my new best friend. She is actually younger than I am, but you know how this goes -- we all have our skewed perspectives on how other people, particularly women, and even more particularly, moms, look. She thought I looked  fetal, and I love hearing that, but of course I don’t. 

Happy? Healthy? Hilarious? Slathering on the lipstick? All yes. But, ummmm, so not 25. 

Click here to read the rest of this post!

Essential weekend reading: Should your kids see "The Avengers"? and other critical questions

 

Should you take your child to see "The Avengers"? Lil E has been talking about this movie like crazy. And his fire is further fueled by the Lego Club magazine cover with "Avenger guyyyyys". If only the move was PG-7-1/2. Kristen at Rage Against the Minivan says the "13" didn't keep her from taking her boy (who is E's age) and from giving it a thumbs-up. Read on for her super-thorough, super-trustworthy superhero review.

 

Want to be more productive during the weekday and declutter the weekend? The Boston Mamas are sharing their tried-and-true methods for taming the madness of paperwork, email, Pinterestimesuckage.

Wondering if they always be little bugs curled up on your chest to you? This post goes back a few weeks, but it has stayed with me. Maggie May's description of her teenaged son made me tear up to think of the boy I think is already leggy and letting go. This is pure honesty and loveliness.

Or if it's just enough to have a son - a silent, questioning son - on the other side of a camera? Rebecca Woolf at Girl's Gone Child writes about all the leaving and coming back of her boy. And I get it.

Have you felt the ache of infertility, even after having kids? This post by Allison really burrowed in to my own longings to have more children and worries about if and how that will all work. The definition of infertility seems to be much wider than we often even consider.

Did you love Eat, Pray, Love? It really doesn't matter whether you soaked up every word, as I did, or thought it was oversold and..and...whatever made you hate a lady talking about eating loads of pasta and learning to love sex. No matter. Elizabeth Gilbert's TED talk on a new-old way of thinking of creativity that is nourishing rather than self-destructing is completely engaging and inspiring and wonderful. Even if you didn't make it past chapter one of any of her books, this 20 minutes is worth your time. I swear on the last plate of bolognese I inhaled.

Did the Beastie Boys play on every decade of your life soundtrack? We say a sad farewell to Adam Yauch, MCA from BB, who ended his battle with cancer today. I am holding on to the memory of "Girls" playing over and over during the hours-long bus ride for my eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C. That was back in the days of pressing play-stop-rewind-play. That's a long shared history. I think it's time to hit repeat on some of the classics for Lil E. 

Here's how I'll make the appeal to the kid. (Legos + Beastie Boys?! Come. On. Genius.)

 

 

Where all the coolest things are

Here's what I brought Lil E back from Washington, D.C. It's a little cheapy statue of the Lincoln Memorial. He loves Abraham Lincoln and can even quote him after studying freedom fighters in school this year. He also has a collection of cheapy landmark statues from my travels elsewhere -- a Statue of Liberty, a Golden Gate Bridge, and other souvenirs that mark where I've been and he'd like to go, too.

The Abraham Lincoln has weight and he cradled it in his palm, smiling. But only for a few seconds. 

Then he flipped it over and asked excitedly, "Why are ALL THE COOLEST THINGS made in China?!"

It wasn't asked to be answered. He was already gone, placing the Abe carefully at the exact corner of his dresser, next to a little laughing Buddha, Pokemon cards, a collection of stuff picked up from the sidewalk and latered emptied from his pocket. All those treasures, plastic and worth pennies, make up one kid's center, dreams, markers on a 7-year-old life map.

7 things I love about Washington, D.C.

The Not Boyfriend has been caught in a vortex of National Guard training and workouts and schedules that begin in the wee hours and end in exhaustion before many small children are asleep. After meeting my family, he was anxious to slip away, even for just a night, and told me he wanted to take me to D.C.

It's not far. Traffic in the nation's capital is horrendous and parking is scarce. But it's hard to complain too much when you're maneuvering through streets lined with memorials and historic buildings and incredible museums and other matters of importance. It is easier to complain when you just want to get there, though, when you're longing to luxuriate in a comfortable bed stacked high with pillows, to see sites you haven't seen in ages or ever, and to do it all with someone you don't see nearly enough.

It was the Not Boyfriend's first trip to D.C., which is funny for a man as well=traveled as he is, for someone who has lived in as many cities as he has. I've been there many times, but not since I was a teenager. We hadn't spoken much in the two weeks he's been in training. It all made for much anticipation of 24 hours together right there where decisions are made and people are honored and Sigourney Weaver was standing in the lobby of our hotel.

Here are the five things I loved most about this time around Washington, D.C.

1. The Lincoln Memorial. It does me good to stand silent and in awe of this enormous seated man, surrounded by his second inaugural speech engraved on the walls, massive columns and and crowds of people looking small and humbled. It's long been my favorite memorial, confident and quiet and peering out over the reflecting pool toward the Washington Monument. It's the first place I wanted to go, like a reset on all the things I think are important in my life now. 

While we were there, we met entrepreneurs who asked us to model their t-shirts for their business Facebook page. We loved the message, that they were from Milwaukee, and that we were meeting up there for just a few moments in agreement about what should be next for this country.

 

 

2. Quaint neighborhoods. We stayed in a hotel tucked in Georgetown and took some time to walk down sidestreets, take pictures of the canal and winding wisteria and brilliant-painted brick, to admire the architectural details we both notice and adore. We packed a lot into our short visit and so veering off and away from the cars and foot traffic felt like the right balance.

 

3. Cobblestone. Rich with history, perfect for pictures, terrible for heels. Of course, I teetered over the cobblestone in platform sandals to dinner. But everywhere else, I wore flats and carried an arsenal of blister band-aids in my bag. 

4. Vietnam War Memorial. I'm not sure I could ever capture what this war meant to the generations who witnessed it, protested against it, served in it, grieved it. Standing in the center where the two walls of this memorial meet, where the names of those who died or are missing in action both begin and end, is powerful, emotional, silencing. The design is simple, the names are overwhelming, and all of it, burrowed into the side of a hill makes it a place where even the most removed of us should feel the experience of that war. 

 

 

5. The White House. Why does it matter where, as Lil E says, "Broccoli Obama" lives? Because standing in front of it, with crowds of people pressed to the surrounding gates and Secret Service at attention, has an energy. It feels alive and buzzy like things are happening there. Sometimes those things are silly pictures taken by freezing cold people in the rain in an attempt to feel like they are a matter of feet away from the president while signing international decrees or snacking on cashews and Diet Coke or somesuch, but still, it's alive.

6. Silly photo ops. There's a lot of staunchness and seriousness and contemplation and history here, yes. So it is good to laugh about why the  Thomas Jefferson sculpture is caged or why so many men in their 60s are dining with models in their 20s, why the service is consistently bad at cafes and hot-spot restaurants, how the secrets of the city are kept by the door men and cabbies. Of course, it's also important to recreate the classic funny-ish photos of all the phallic places you will see along the footpath from memorial to memorial.

7. There's always more. We stopped into one Smithsonian museum, a place we'd normally spend hours walking around and absorbing as much as we can. But the admission is free (I'd forgotten that), which meant we could leave when we were ready, knowing we could always return for a second glance or longer stay. We only saw the new MLK Jr. memorial from the cab as we whipped back to our hotel. And I'd love to tour the U.S. Mint again, see some art, maybe take a walking tour. We didn't have time for everything we wanted to see, but we also didn't feel pressure to do it all. It's right there, not far. And it will be waiting for us, in all its glory and stoicism and silliness and cobblestones, to return. Soon? I hope so. With tennies that time. Plus, a small, curious child. And better recommendations for eateries with good service. Just a short drive and lots of honking and swearing at pedestrians away.

 

Easy is good

Aside from the introductions and polite questions about work and the military, someone listening in to the dinner and brunch the Not Boyfriend and I shared with my brother and his family would have not guessed it was the first time we were all together. It was easy and calm and all the things you hope when men you adore have an inaugural hand-shake. 

I chimed in to the conversation here and there, but it was hard to take my eyes and attention and tickling fingers away from my nephew. 

"I need lipstick!" he called out, running to me in tiny-sized New Balance tennies while I put gloss on my own lips.

And even though he refused to add his own feet to our traditional shoe photos, later he decided it was time. 

"Aunt Jessie," he said emphatically, holding his sneakers up toward me, "now take picture of my shoooooes."

Oh, how I love being called Aunt Jessie.

While my brother and the Not Boyfriend discussed my brother's complicated engineering projects, my nephew and I donned ladies' sunglasses and lip gloss, posed for silly-faced pictures, practiced the word "disgusting" over and over, and snuggled in a booth until he absolutely, positively had to sit on his mommy's lap to lick the ketchup off of his hamburger bun. 

The next day, when he defied my many attempts to take his picture while he was already pouting, I just loved on him more. The four of us -- my brother, his wife, the Not Boyfriend and me == laughed at the orneriness we all relate to, gave hugs and said goodbye too soon.

I wasn't sure what to hope for this meeting. But it was as it should be and I happy there will be more of this as our lives wind together in the months ahead. Next time, though, Lil E will make the whole scene complete.

 

 

Closing up the little kitchen

I put the little kitchen away. I was sad to lug it, what felt like a hundred pounds of solid wood and plastic food clanking around in the cabinets, down the stairs to the storage space in the basement.

We have a three-room storage space, obscenely large and packed-full of the last apartment. I promised Lil E more than a year ago that as I cleaned out, we'd make space for a play area down there. We'd make a corner where his plastic tools and workbench would be set up, where all those stuffed animals and little cars we cleaned out of his bedroom could be displayed, loved and held on to rather than sold or trashed for good. I swore that knowing that the play area would probably never be set up, and even if it was, the toys would not be touched down there either. It was more of a strategic way to purge a messy boy-room rather than a promise. Instead, it is all piled down there among wedding china, grad school text books, bins and bins of baby clothes. It's our old life, absorbing a musty smell and dust the more time goes by.

Now the little kitchen lives down there, too. It is the one toy that makes me sad to leave abandoned near the laundry and my bike with two flat tires and a flower basket.

Santa delivered that kitchen three Christmases ago. And the littlest elf's grandpa and mommy spent six hours using incomprehensibly tiny Allen wrenches to secure each shelf and burner into place. It was the first Christmas in our own place and an exhausting joy to be the parent in charge of such a big and laborious gift. 

It was a hit, right down to the baker's hat and apron. No one has played with there for quite some time. While I loved the shiny red lacquer, the kitschy style, the way kids couldn't help but answer the little phone every time they passed it when we had parties and playdates, it was well past the time to close up the little kitchen.

Minutes before the cleaning lady arrived to prep for my birthday party, I hoisted it up partially on my shoulder, rested the refrigerator against one thigh and hobbled down three flights of stairs to the dark corner where animal-sound puzzles and Tonka trucks live. I've been used to climbing over kid stuff since I first brought home the vibrating bouncy seat, stored the stroller on a one-person-sized landing and pushed the dining room table aside for that crazy-loud-spinny saucer seat babies adore and parents abhor. But that day, the kitchen seemed really in the way.  We didn't need to step around it, no more Legos needed to live on top of it, anymore. That kitchen had outgrown us.

Lil E didn't even notice how big the hallway looks now that it is gone, hasn't once let out an "aww" that the half-doen tiny wooden eggs will stay cool below ground from now on. But I miss it. And that kid who whisked up air pancake batter and called for take-out on the fake phone.

That chef is retired, I guess. He's moved on to Power Rangers and squishy little robots and zombie games that suck the life out of my phone. He's bigger, toys are smaller, and there's no need for a hundred-pound miniature kitchen in the hallway anymore.

Meeting of the men

Today, I fly to see my love.

The early-ish days, hiking 

New Year's Eve, not quite 2012

 

And my brother who happens to live 20 minutes from where the Not Boyfriend is in training.

1979

Last summer at the zoo

And my sweet nephew.

Earlier this year, clearly loving me best of all

Last weekend, waiting patiently to share his cake with me

 

And they will all meet for the very first time.

Ohhh, how will this go? How will I divvy up all those hugs? I'm selfish about my time and squeezes with all three of them.

 

Last summer

Lil E's not happy with me for going while he is at his dad's house for the weekend, not pleased this will all happen without him. 

"What do you think Uncle Seth and the Not Boyfriend will think of each other?" I asked this to distract him from his disappointment.

"Well, they both have glasses," he reasoned. "And they both are smart."

"Yes," I answered, expecting more. "There's that."

And that's all there is. Until I touch down and run out to see these guys, waiting for me in the humidity and sunshine.

So I guess that's exactly where we'll begin.

Crossing borders

My passport expired eight years ago. How in the world did that happen?

It happened because of grad school and having $20 in my bank account for several years in a row and then meeting someone and being in love and even more broke, then having a baby and not being able to conceptualize how in the world to get us all somewhere anything other than a drivers license might be needed. These would have all horrified the 22-year old who applied for her first passport just in time to backpack across Europe with her best friend after college graduation. My passport was supposed to be a living, breathing document of all I was learning and doing and seeing on my own, all of my big and humbling experiences. 

But then, I also swore my hostel card would be used many, many more times after that trip. I haven't since slept in one of those foldover sheets on a disgusting mattress in a room full of people I hope don't steal that passport off my body in my fitful sleep. I haven't ever again bought a beer from a vending machine in a hostel lobby or thanked goodness I was eligible for the under-26 places to stay.

My world, on that European trip, exploded. And when I went to graduate school, it got bigger still. And maybe when I met my ex-husband, it zeroed in on him. It shrunk for good reasons of happiness and faith and belief in the expansiveness of love. I wanted an enormous life. I just didn't see at the time how small I was making myself in it.

But that has changed. Last month, I asked my parents to dig out my old passport from my file. I was apprehensive to open it, remembering it hadn't actually been stamped in each country whose borders I crossed, and that I hated the picture, taken in haste to get the application downtown in time. 

It was as bad as I thought. But now that I am 40 and will be dyeing my hair monthly until I am a fire-engine-redhead wheeling through the nursing home, I have a hard time judging that lady too harshly for the moussed up layered bob. And God help any of us who were hitting our stride in the early 90s -- please don't make your mind up about me based on that embroidered vest (with a tank top and most likely, an ankle-lenth wrap skirt with granny boots. 

But the boozy look and Lucky Charms cheeks? Go right ahead and snicker at those. I did. Good lawd.

That year was 1994. And now, 18 years later, I've surrendered the whole passport for something new. It's time to cross into new territory.

This time, I am taking a trip with two girlfriends. This trip, we're celebrating being 40. Our tolerance is lower and there won't be hostels or late-night lingering with men with accents from those hostels. There won't be hiking across ancient cities and -- thank you, Jesus -- I will be rolling my suitcase instead of heaving it on my back. 

No mix-tapes and Walkmen to make the transport there go more quickly. Nary a sleeping bag. No strategy about how to see the world on $50 a day.

This trip I am rushing off to will only involve settling into beach chairs in the sand and lingering over dinner, laughing hard about how happy we are to be where we are in our lives. Oh, and People Magazine. We will be laughing over whatever is in People Magazine. 

You know what will be the same, though? My new passport pictures are terrible, too. 

This time, I care even less. This time, I probably won't get stamped. This trip, I will probably come home sunburned and loaded down in cheapy souvenirs rather than inspired to change the world and tour every single castle in Ireland. No vests with tank tops, either. I promise.

I am just so ready to get back out there again. To show that girl that this way of traveling, all this time in between passports, isn't so tragic after all.

What happened when I told the boy

The Not Boyfriend and I have been discussing these plans for him to move to Chicago for some time, vaguely at first and then in more detail. We'll take it slow, we've agreed again and again. He will move here and we will learn what it is like to date in the same city. Eventually, we'd like to share a home (but not closets). First, we'll tend to the transition.

I told a few of my friends. Shared the information with my parents and brother. But I kept the news casual, in that vague space until it was time to share it all with Lil E. When he knew, I knew it would all be crystallized and real.

No more one days and maybes. Stuff that we could mark on the dry-erase calendar propped on our kitchen floor. I knew the conversation was coming but I couldn't plan it.

Then one night a couple of weeks ago, we were eating dinner and talking lightly about something that happened during the day.

"I have something to tell you," I said. He looked up. He loves news. "The Not Boyfriend has decided to move here. To be closer to us."

The light in his eyes turned up. His half-smile shot out to the corners his dimples make on his face. 

"OH! This is so great!," he blurt out. "Because you will be happier and I will be happier and he can get to know Grandpa and Grandma more and it's going to be so great!"

I couldn't cry. I was smiling too wide myself.It was time for him to talk.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because...we're all going to be happier. And he can stay here sometimes and we can stay at his house sometimes. And you can have someone to be with when I am at Daddy's and we can all hang out together."

He was saying all the words. The ones that may have been prompted. The responses he may have thought I wanted to hear if I asked more questions. But he was saying them all on his own.

"So while he is at his training for the National Guard, you and I have a very important responsibility to help him in his move. We need to find him an apartment. Can you help me with that?"

He was quiet for a moment, so I took my turn. 

"He asked that you help me because your opinion is important."

"Oh YEAH," he interrupted excitedly. "Like maybe his place can have room for some of my Legos. Or a room where I can spend the night if I want to."

How had he known this was the discussion? We were in sync.

"Would you like to do that?" I put it back to him.

"Yes. And like, maybe sometimes, we can hang out there or here," he went on. "Either place."

"And he'd like an apartment that can fit a big dining room table," I told him. "Where we can have dinners and invite our friends."

"Maybe some of my friends, too?" he asked. "And their parents?"

"Yes, of course," I answered.

"Yeah," he said, and spooned another bite of mac-and-cheese into his mouth.

The next day, we visited my parents. The sun was bright in the living room and Lil E dumped a bag of soft blocks he has loved since he was a toddler out on to the floor. He pulled Lego Clone Troopers out of my purse to play in the foam structures he built.

"Tell Grandma the news about the Not Boyfriend," I whispered.

His head popped up.

"He's moving here! And Mommy and I are going to find him an apartment with a big dining room so we can have dinners there and he can cook. And Mommy will be happy and so I will be happier, too."

My mom squealed like she hadn't known.

"This is so great for all of us," she said. Lil E nodded at her, then turned to me and flashed me the face he uses for private, across-the-room communication -- a closed-mouth smile, eyes soft, then a wink.

It is all coming together, I thought. 

It won't all be easy. The fear still resides in there. Tough moments and trying talks are ahead, I am quite sure. But I will hold on to that private smile, that "You will be happier. And I will be happier..." tightly, and with two hands. 

This summer we will be seeking a new apartment together. Not one that he and I will live in more than a night or two at a time. But one that will hold more than a bin of toys or a few stray Legos, a lipstick and a hair band. Our hearts will be there, gathered around with the Not Boyfriend's and our friend's and all those beats of hopefulness for this next place we meet.

This getting to know the Not Boyfriend thing is not easy

The Not Boyfriend is exiled for the National Guard training for four months, which is grueling for him and tough for me and a strange limbo between coasts and visits. To help, I keep telling myself when he can't return texts or is exhausted mid-Skype that is just a pause.

It's a pause of 12 weeks before we hit play in a big way. In September, the Not Boyfriend is moving here, to our city. 

It's big news. Huge news. A major commitment that I've wanted and asked for since we hit the year mark and decided that maybe, probably, yes, this was something serious. 

And now that it is a reality, I am terrified. I am thrilled but I am also scared, not about the Not Boyfriend. About The Boy. 

We have a good gig, Lil E and me. We have a routine, a way of being together happily and with lots of laughter, dance parties, inside jokes, quiet times to snuggle and read, ways of arguing and apologizing and being stubborn that all seem to work out into a home we are very comfortable in. The Not Boyfriend wants in and oh, how I want him to be closer as well as nearer.

Lil E feels the shift and turns clingy and sensitive and talks in a baby voice I don't recognize him as ever using. The Not Boyfriend pulls back and I try desperately to make everything OK for everyone. And in my head, I am grabbing my son and running far and hard and justifying the thoughts like, "I don't need to be with someone. It can just be Lil E and me. It will be fine. I will be fine."

It's ridiculous to think like that. Being in a happy, healthy relationship (even one that's hard sometimes, too) serves Lil E as well as me. I get to have that kind of big-time gooby love. I choose this man, this Not Boyfriend, not only because of who he is and who he is to me and with me, but who he is with my child.

And it's good for my son to see what that actually looks like. He says he doesn't remember his father and I being together at all and I see the truth in that when he looks at photos of the three of us like it is a map to a foreign country. Lil E has very few models of what happy couples are like together, and I am aware of this. I point out when I see parents who are affectionate and silly and supportive, make little notes in conversations about how those families work -- "I love it that that mom and dad take time to go out and enjoy each other every Friday," I have said. "That means the kids get to have a fun babysitter and the parents get grown-up time." Sometimes he joins in, asks questions, nods in agreement. Other times, he's quiet and I wonder if he'll bring it up months later, as is often his way.

The Not Boyfriend is very different from Lil E's dad. This is a choice and also a blessing. His dad will always be his dad, and they have a gig none of us wants to interrupt. And having a different kind of man in his life will help my son to see new ways of being and to be parented from a different perspective. Nobody can engage in full Nerf Gun warfare like the Not Boyfriend. No one else can speak to Lil E's Buddhist curiosities or teach him to roll pizza dough in the ways this new(ish) man can. He's disciplined, meticulous and has definitive rules -- all qualities my Virgo son needs soothed. 

The Not Boyfriend's own childhood has some similar threads to Lil E's life in three homes. He gets where Lil E has been and he sees where situations like this can go. I hold that tenderly. 

The Not Boyfriend has things to learn from my boy, too. Like that a messy room can be a wonderful space to retreat to and that "Penguins of Madagascar" is hilarious, that not much can interrupt a mama during the bedtime ritual, that parenting is exhausting and blissful and worth it.

There's much more to discover, of course. These two are complicated, layered, sensitive, intense. It will take time and ice cream and colluding and many more Nerf darts. 

Other single moms have wrapped their arms and experiences and understanding around me while I've told them about the quick weekends the Not Boyfriend has been in town that I've tried to pack full of FUN! AWESOME! activities and Lil E has gotten whiny and quiet or rolled in the grass being goofy or charged off to his room for some miniscule reason. They already know this will make the Not Boyfriend pull back and me frantic. They've related when I've told them I feel caught in the middle of these two, not knowing where to give my focus or sympathy or hand. All of them have said it takes one thing: time.

And another thing: stepping out of the middle.

They've said over and over I must let them figure it out on their own, sending them off on missions or walking away for a few hours. One told me to simply say, "I'm going to let you two decide together" or declare it Guy Day and hand over the wheel to the little sticky hands and the bigger sticky hands.

They've assured me it will come. One day, walking home from school together or planning a snack or watching a Penguins marathon, the love will wash over them. 

There have already been some of those moments. The Not Boyfriend visited us several months in a row, forgoing my trips to SF because it was simply time to involve E more. When he couldn't be here for my birthday, he engaged Lil E in a secret texted mission to find out what I'd like for my birthday. Lil E took that so seriously, and the Not Boyfriend nudged that along while making me laugh in the process. It was a delight. There will be more of that, right? Less planned, longer=ranged but still man-moments that call on the best of each of them to meet secretly, laughing and conspiring and having fun?

I hope so. I love each of them so much. I know both of them so well. Now it is time for them to find their way to each other. 

To be honest, I am scared for that to work as much as I am scared for it to fail.That seems ridiculous but it is the truth. I know that I can handle it if this relationship or these hopes for the life ahead don't work out as I'd like -- I've survived all that before. But I can't handle one more man breaking my son's heart. I can't protect him from that, of course, but the thought is unbearable.

Can there be great excitement, big love, huge news and no fear? I don't think so. At least not yet.

It's going to take more than weekends every couple of months for the Not Boyfriend and Lil E to see around me to trust and know each other. It could just be that we are all trying so hard, too hard, because we see what could be.  Or that we're lovingly, wonderfully protective of each other's hearts. Maybe it helps that we're all a little apprehensive, that it is new for every one of us, that we're all scared and squinting and tentatively holding hands as we chart his foreign land we're standing in.

 

 

Essential weekend reading (and listening)

I won't even pretend that this weekend is going to be cushy with time to sit around and ponder Rumi or even make it through one (as my grandmother used to say) gol-dang chapter of the book I loved for the first 243 pages and am really struggling through paragraph by paragraph just trying to make it to the last word. I imagine you relate. So why I don't I just tell you what I loved on our old friend the internets this week, so you won't have to have any of your own reading trials and tribulations? Good. Done.

A note on friendship - Whit Honea is not only a fabulous writer, he's a hilarious texter who will get you in all kinds of trouble during solemn Oprah-revering moments at blog conferences and can kill it in Drawsome with scribbled pictures of sharks devouring bloody stick figures. So why wouldn't he write one of the best blog posts of all time on children's friendship break-ups and apologies? It's wonderful. 

Olympian, working mother, feminist hero -- Pat Summit is one of basketball's most legendary coaches. MamaPundit's Katie Granju writes that you don't have to be a fan of the game to idolize her, and I get that. I'm a non-sports fan who loves a great sports stor. Read every word of this as I did and you'll see, this incredible woman has one.

Not another mommy war -- I am so proud of my friend Joanne Bamberger. Not only is she whip-smart, CNN and a gazillion other people know it. Check out her assessment of this whole crazy business with Ann Romney, Hilary Rosen and every person in the world who loves to fluff up a nonexistant war between womenfolk.

Is it time for a financial tune-up? -- Duh, yes. Meagan Francis gets honest about money money money at The Happiest Mom and I was even inspired to wait on hold with the freaking insurance people for 32 minutes to get my own stuffs in order. Not lying.

A chord of sad -- In only a few days, Joy Unexpected's Yvonne will say goodbye to her military-enlisted son. I can't even imagine. Read this and make sure a flood of loving thoughts fill her living room while he's still playing his guitar in it and after they've said their farewells. 

 

And now some music to fill up your own busy, over-scheduled, too-talkative spaces. I'm totally digging this band. Did you laugh out loud reading this bit in Jezebel about "Somebody That I Used to Know lyrics seeming to be like a really crappy email from a duder you once dated? This cover will make it all better. I promise. It's a lovely guitar-fingering orgy of goodness and light. Plus, I love that the stare-y guy looks so much like Trent Reznor and maybe that's Robin Williams on the end.

 

 

Then "Someone Like You" in a non-American Idol cover version. And that smokin' hot blond lady at the center is really making me give some thought to my hairdresser's plan to make me go totally blonde as her summer project. Too much to process? Just listen then. 

 

Holy HuffPo!

I am just giddy-thrilled that a post featured here was picked up by Huffington Post last night! I've wanted to see my words in the Divorce section for ages, wanted to see my byline on the site's pages for much longer. 

This isn't a big deal for many people. But for me, it's big and I'm feeling like I can maybe highlight that item in my gratitude journal scrapbook inspiration board post-it note pile of "things to get done already, gaw."

Click here to read it there. 

 

I am also so honored to be included in these posts by the ever-lovely Mommyfriend over on Babble:

• Bloggers share their proudest moments. And I'm guessing I am the only one all chest-puffy about silver hair

• How to avoid blog burn=out. Hint: my tip involves fancy ladies.

I've been writing like crazy, so look for more of my posts to be sprinkled around soon!

 

 

No more talking about being 40. OK, maybe just a few words

I woke up to a small voice in the other room.

"Mommy, may I get up? Happy birthday!" 

He rushed in as soon as I said yes, the gift bag in his hand rustling. He snuck under the covers and got close.

"I'm sorry I wouldn't admit I made a mistake," he was referring to a meltdown he'd had the night before. It was emotional and exhausting and I told him there wouldn't be birthday celebrations unless he was able to apologize. I'd been worried for hours after he finally fell asleep I'd have to stand my ground. Stubborn feels even worse on birthdays. For both of us. I sighed deeply.

"Now will you open your presents?!"

"YES!" I squealed it. I couldn't help it. He is a wonderful, thoughtful gift-giver -- opinionated and careful about his choices and keeping them a well-guarded surprise.

I lingered over the card but he was anxious for me to open each gift wrapped in white tissue paper. A floral scarf ('you've been wearing scarves a lot lately and daddy and I noticed"), pink and purple earrings ("dangly, like you like them"), pink and purple wooden bangles ("you can wear them like a bracelet sandwich!") and purple sunglasses ("fancy like you!"). 

I squealed more. He often chooses pink and purple gifts for me. 

"Will you wear them today?" he asked. He seemed tentative.

"OF COURSE!" And I showed them all off during my photo shoot on our way to a breakfast date.

He adjusted the tiara on my head, leaned in close and whispered, "I can see your halo."

I would have teared up but then he laughed. He was making a pop song joke more than a compliment. But I took it as both.

After breakfast, we went to parent-teacher conferences and looked through book after book of class photos and his stories and the pages of his research notebook. There was a birthday song from my brother and happy wishes from my nephew ("Love. You. Aunt. Jessie. Hap. Birday. Aunt. Jessie."). I beamed even brighter.

My next wish was to paint pottery. I didn't take a single photo because we were each so intent on the details of our piece. He painted a gnome figurine ("to stand next to the laughing Buddha I painted last time") and I made a mug with our mugs drawn on == his, mine, and the Not Boyfriend's. 

And then it was time for dinner. No arguments about dressing in church clothes, no fussing about what might be on the menu that he'd want to eat. Just confidence that it would be great because "all day has been so fun, so dinner will have to be fun, too!"

 

I chose Le Bouchon, a recommendation of the Not Boyfriend's and a perfect, cozy little spot to sit in the sunlight with my parents over an early dinner of Wagyu steaks with a rich cognac peppercorn sauce and a cocktail with St. Germain (my new favorite) and creme brulee (my old favorite) and chocolate mousse for dessert.

There were lovely and generous gifts and it all ended too soon when it was time for Lil E to go to his dad's house for the night. He kissed me goodbye and I dialed up the Not Boyfriend on Skype.

He's nearer in miles while he's in a specialization training for the National Guard for four months, but his schedule and phone reception and the rigorousness of this temporary life makes it feel like he's in a different country altogether. I ached to see his smile at the end of my big day and when I did, it made it all settle in.

He'd sent an astounding gift in a delightful card days before. What was inside each will stay between us but the outside...well, I think he should stick around for this decade. Perhaps longer. Yes, definitely longer.

Nothing magical needed to happen. Unless you count that light radiating from deep within, just to be with all my loves, just to breathe easy and enjoy so many good things. Even the apology and achy parts felt OK. I have a long, long time to iron all of that out and lots of pink and purple to wear while we do it.